Posts
Well, I made a quick list yesterday of the ten most enjoyable and interesting non-fiction books I have read so far this year. Instead of boring you all with the list I will just post a link to my book blog so any interested folks can take a look for themselves.
Anyway, enough talk from me. Feel free to check out Maphead's book blog if you wanna see more.
Sleepy Hollow, Northern California. “What a perfect place for a writer to live,” I thought, when I moved here almost five years ago. And I did get a lot of writing done, when I wasn’t in my garden, that is.
Our house is surrounded by woods and high hills, with a seasonal creek dancing along the right edge of our property, lined by a sentinel of three giant rocks. “We’re butt up against nature here,” is what my husband likes to say.
When I saw it, apart from thinking about the quaint name of the area and of its street names, like “Van Winkle Drive,” and “Ichabod Lane,” I also imagined that I could, at long last, have a garden. Having lived all my life in small flats in a city or by the sea, I’d made do with potted flowers on my windowsills and balconies. Now I had almost a full acre of dirt to plant and I couldn’t wait to get started.
Testing the soil, mapping the sunny and shady areas of the ground, I bought containers and containers of colourful blooms and planted them with enthusiasm and care. I toiled in that garden daily, my nails turning jagged and brown as I dug in eggshells and coffee grinds to fertilize the earth, picked off caterpillars and crinkled dead stems from each plant, watered and weeded carefully and methodically. Week after week, month after month I worked, until my garden was rich and full and I could revel in the vibrancy of it.
Then the deer came. Dozens of them, grown and small, with antlers and without; they came down from the rise of trees behind our house. To someone who’d never seen them up close before, they looked splendid, graceful and gentle. A gift from nature, a blessing, even.
Until I woke up one morning and wandered out into my garden to discover it no longer existed. I could see only the remnants of it left by a savage marauder who thought every blossom, every leaf I’d lovingly attended, was nothing more than dinner salad. The deer had eaten their way through bougainvillea, geraniums, lobelia, impatiens, petunias, pansies, azalea bushes, rose bushes, and when nothing else was left, even ivy vines. I stood in horrified dismay looking down at the concrete and the grass where scattered specks of green, blue, red, pink, purple, and yellow, which had once been my beloved, beautiful flowers, lay strewn and still, as though they’d tried to run and escape from a terrible siege, but had perished in their efforts, anyway.
The deer became my enemy then, and my war with them was on. Armed with powdered blood meal, deer netting, and a foul smelling spray made of garlic and eggs, I attacked. They retreated for a while. Then I woke up one morning again to discover that during the night, the hungry deer had somehow managed to nibbled under the netting. They’d also concluded that both powdered blood meal and rotten egg/garlic spray made delightful salad dressings. My flowers were murdered a second time. Not only did this make me cry, it made me furious.
My husband could not understand my perspective. Growing up on a farm and living in rural areas all his life, he’d shared space with various wild animals since he’d been born. To him, the presence of deer in our garden had the same feeling about it you get when you shrug on an old coat. It wasn’t necessarily attractive, but it felt familiar and comfortable. But in just the way I splashed delightedly into the sea in Greece while he stood there shivering and thinking of sharks; or slid easily between passengers on a New York City subway while he thought of pickpockets, the deer were as alien to me as those experiences were to him. Somehow, he'd missed that.
“Why not just plant things they won’t eat?” he asked pragmatically, not even trying to hide his impatience with me.
“What, you mean lavender?” I replied, sardonically, not even trying to hide my annoyance with him.
To me, just having purple buds in the garden looked dull. Judging by the preponderance of lavender and oleander in the area, everyone else had surrendered to the deer. But I wouldn’t. I didn’t even like oleander, although the fact that it was poisonous and that the deer just might get hungry enough to eat it, was an entertaining thought by that time.
My focus on the deer and their activities in our garden became a bone of contention between my husband and me. Now I’d graduated to running outdoors whenever I saw one, to clap my hands at it and “shoo” it away, spraying them with the hose when I was out watering in my garden, hovering by the windows whenever I heard any suspicious rustling outside, and even throwing small pebbles at their feet so they’d flee. But though they’d scramble away, they’d only come back again when they knew I wasn’t looking. Those devils.
And when I’d complain that they’d managed to foil me again, my husband would say, “It’s not personal, dammit. Stop planting deer food and they won’t come.”
I despised the deer for not being discouraged by my efforts to thwart them, and I was hurt and irritated with my husband for not knowing what was at stake for me.
Then, two years ago, on Father’s Day, I was out in my garden and heard a strange bleating sound, just up the hill behind the house on the other side of the creek. As I began to walk across our lawn towards the creek to investigate, a doe stepped out from behind a tree on the hill where she’d been hiding, and looked down at me in a way I’d never seen a deer look. Her ears and head were actually bent foward in an aggressive position and she was staring directly at me. A head-on stare was an unusual pose for a deer, as they ordinarily looked out at me from the sides of their eyes. Not only that, but she was making a peculiar, snorting sound I’d never heard a deer make, either. It was as though she were growling a warning. I stopped still and looked up at her as the bleating continued, much closer this time. That’s when I realised: She was guarding her fawn. The cry I was hearing was the sound of her newborn. I stepped back and nodded. A mother looking out for her baby. Fair enough. I wasn’t about to chase them, that was for sure.
But as I stepped back, the doe did an odd thing. She began to sway on her feet. Then, in the most ungraceful way I’d ever seen a deer move, she seemed to stagger across the hill, directly across from where I stood on the lawn, and away from her baby. She stumbled dizzily, and then ---God help me--- her knees gave way and she collapsed. I gasped in shock as she began sliding down the hill towards me, unable to stop her fall. I knew any moment she would come tumbling over the retaining wall and onto the lawn where I stood.
It was a pile of logs gathered at the base of the fence that prevented her complete tumble over the wall. Now, as I watched in horror, she was lying on her side, thrashing, her legs tangled up in logs, desperately trying, but unable to get her footing back on the hill. After a few moments, she sank down and gave up. Laying her head back on the dirt she twisted around, and from her lying position, feebly but determinedly, she lifted her back head up and looked at me.
She wore that startled look one always sees on a deer. The look of prey that knows they are prey. You might think she was fearing for herself in her look, afraid of me, because she knew I’d always chased her kind away.
No. ... There was something else… I felt something else in that look. It was the look of one mother to another. It went straight through my heart as surely as if she’d spoken to me. And, as though I were reading that mother’s look from my spirit instead of my brain, I looked back at her, too, directly into her eyes, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll find your baby. I promise. And I promise she won’t be harmed.”
She held my look as though she were listening and understanding my words, my English words, which I’d said out loud to an animal, a wild creature that couldn’t speak. Then with one weak nod, she lay her head back one final time, looked up at the sky and... I saw her die. Hoping I was wrong in everything I was witnessing, I stayed to see if she might move. But as I stayed and watched her, those brown doe eyes slowly filmed over white. For sure, she was gone.
I turned and ran into the house, calling for my husband. He was on the phone with Tim, one of our sons, who’d called to wish him a “Happy Father’s Day.” He asked Tim to hold on a moment as he listened to my agitated words. Then he said into the phone, “Tim, I’ll have to let you go. We’ve got another deer emergency.”
And with that smart aleck remark, my husband followed me as I pointed out to where the doe lay, and then to where I knew I’d heard her fawn.
That remark to our son about ‘another’ deer emergency hadn’t done it, but what he said next did. “She’s not dead. She’s probably just resting. And I’m fairly certain there is no fawn.”
I turned on him. “I may not have been raised on a farm, but I’m not an idiot, “I snapped. “That deer is as dead as you can get, and her fawn is over there, on the other side of our creek.”
He could tell I meant business then, so with sigh, he climbed up over the retaining wall and gingerly approached that poor doe. Peering at her, he confirmed what I knew. “Yeah. She’s gone, alright.” Then standing he turned to me and asked, “Where did you hear the fawn?” When I pointed in the direction again, he said, “We’ll have to approach very quietly, or we might scare it.”
I followed him across the creek. I couldn’t see anything, but a moment later, he lifted his arm and whispered, “there.”
Sure enough, sitting comfortably in a bed of leaves, her front legs crossed, looking directly at us, with curiosity and no fear whatsoever, was the tiniest fawn I’d ever seen.
My husband’s tone was very different now. “Listen, if that doe died after giving birth, she probably was too old or too sick to survive it. That might mean she wasn’t able to feed this little thing, either. And that’s not good. If Animal Services can’t get any milk into her, she won’t make it.”
I was beside myself at those words. I’d made a promise and I was already trying to figure out, if my husband’s verdict were true, how I, a woman who’d spent the last three years chasing deer from her garden, was going to save this one.
Animal Services estimation was not so bleak, however. It took two of their vans to our home --- one for the live animal and one for the dead --- but they determined that the fawn would survive. She’d been fed one last time by her mother, and in fact still had a belly full of milk. She’d be cared for, then released when she was able to survive on her own. She’d probably live to eat my flowers another day.
As for her mother, I watched the man from Animal Services gently close her eyes. Then he and my husband wrapped her in a sheet and carried her down the hill into the back of the second waiting transport van. I watched as it drove away.
I am not a Hindu. But, the Anahata is the fourth primary chakra according to Hindi Yogic and Tantric traditions. It symbolises the consciousness of love, empathy, selflessness and devotion. On the psychic level, this centre of force inspires the human being to love, be compassionate, altruistic, devoted and to accept the things that happen in a divine way.
And wouldn’t you know it? The animal it is represented by is the deer.
I am not a Hindu, I'll say again. But I know what I felt and I know what I experienced. That mother doe and I communicated that day. And by our bond of motherhood, we became more than two different species on opposites sides of an issue. We became more than predator and prey. With her dying breath, she looked at me, her enemy, and saw something in me that was like her. She knew she could ask me for help with the one thing left for her here to take care of, her one last, most precious thing.
I didn’t let her down.
My garden is very different now. I keep one giant pot of red geraniums up high on a porch where no animals can reach, as a reminder that beauty can never excuse arrogance. Now my yard is flooded with lavender.
And you know, it smells wonderful. What’s even more wonderful is seeing the deer there. We’re at peace with each other now.
I wish it were that easy to make peace within our species.
banner of Three Goddesses by Thalia Took
In 2002, the man I love lost his 19-year-old son to a car crash. Six months later, I had to face the growing evidence that yet another beloved family member was suffering from a mental condition which was causing him and those who loved him a great deal of emotional pain, but for which he was adamantly not going to seek treatment. Two minutes after that, I had still another falling out with my parents; regarding their obsessive control issues that dogged me right up to my mother’s death. A few months later, my 14-year-old son began his rebellion stage with a vengeance. Not to mention that throughout all this turmoil, I was making the slow and unbelievable discovery that a woman who I thought had been my friend for the past twenty years was simply…not. And then, of course, there was the Bush administration’s decision to invade Afghanistan and Iraq.
Some people might wonder how I could possibly include that last sentence in my list of personal woes. But I do, because since I’ve been in my early twenties, I’ve had what some call the annoying propensity to read the newspapers and use my God-given strategic thinking skills to analyse the information therein. And I don’t just read American newspapers. There are all kinds of news reports one can find online, many in English, but if not, I find that if I use a dictionary, I can read the newspapers in a few different languages. And being able to do that gives me a bit of an edge, because world reports are markedly and sometimes, scarily different than American reports.
The reason I go to all this trouble to read whatever I can and think about all of it is simple - I want to know when policy-makers are lying to me. I don’t care what party they belong to, nor what country they’re heading. I don’t join teams and stick with them doggedly to the bitter end, no matter what ‘my’ team does or says, when it comes to politics. In fact, after the dirty play I witnessed by the Italian team during the last World Cup, a team I’ve been cheering for since I was a little girl watching European football with my uncles, I don’t even do it with sports any more. Because I know that whenever anyone who’s been put in power opens his mouth, whether in sports or politics, sh*t happens. And that sh*t usually gets dumped with a heavy hand on the littlest guy.
But reading the newspapers and analysing the news led me to having to face the final personal trauma of the many personal traumas between the years 2002 and 2003, which was that my country was going to attack another country for a reason that I knew to be an absolute LIE.
Five years and countless deaths (of humans and civil liberties) later, I’m proven right. Oddly enough, that doesn’t make me feel one bit better about it.
But I digress.
Regarding every harrowing incident I lived through between 2002 and 2003, well-meaning supporters said, “There’s nothing you can do.”
It was true that there was nothing I could do to prevent the series of events that led to my stepson’s death. Nor could I stop the deluge of grief that followed and that will trickle forever. I couldn’t force my family member to seek counselling, nor my parents to be anything other than what they were. And, like everything else my son does, he did his rebelling so well, that nothing I, his father and his stepfather managed to come up with, would alter his course until he was damn good and ready to alter it himself. As far as my long-held acquaintanceship…well, I thought about it long and hard, and at the end of the day, I saw I was pretty much powerless there, too.
Powerlessness is terrible. It leads to hopelessness. Even though I coped as best I could with these events, I admit to feeling hopeless more than once during them.
But when the President of the United States starting talking about invading Iraq, I heard, “There’s nothing you can do,” once too often. I wasn’t powerless in this situation. I could at least have my voice heard. And so I began writing, writing, writing. I wrote essays, articles and satires. I wrote emails and letters to Congress.
What difference can the voice of one woman make? Maybe not much, but add it to another voice and now you have harmony. Add ten more and it’s a chorus.
There are a growing number of us who are less and less afraid of singing against the norm. We are tired of the different factions sniping at each other and pointing fingers. It doesn’t matter who was playing the fiddle when Rome started burning, it's time for us all to step up and begin to put the fire out.
I haven’t written about the presidential campaign because I am disgusted by it. I am sickened that this past week alone there was devastation in China and Myramar and none of the candidates - one of whom is to be the future leader of the free world - could stop his or her own personal crusade for self-aggrandisement long enough to bring these up in any real context. If I thought that any of the three could sincerely care about anything other than, “I want to be the next president of the United States,” just for a single moment, that in itself just might give that person the one precious vote that is still mine to give.
When I lived in Greece, there was a devastating earthquake in nearby Turkey that rivalled the one China has just suffered. Greek television is not like the television here in the United States. Reality TV in Greece is not who gets picked by the bachelor, reality TV is seeing your Turkish neighbour clawing through the rubble of his village, screaming in agony because he hears his family crying beneath the stone, and he has no tools save his bare hands to free them. When you see the tears and the blood of your neighbour, does it matter then if he is Muslim or Christian, friend or enemy? It shouldn’t and it didn’t to the Greeks. Long time foes of the Turks, with centuries of ill-will between them, the Greeks were the first outsiders to step on Turkish soil to help.
I remember being in my little bookshop in Athens, crying with relief as my business partner and I watched on our telly downstairs, Greek police, Greek firemen, Greek doctors, Greek nurses, Greek university students, all doing their damnedest to help their sworn enemies save their children, their spouses, their parents and whatever was left of their homes. And when just the following month, Greece had its own earthquake, the Turks were there in a show of solidarity that should make every self-proclaimed follower of God or any kind of spirituality here in my country hang his head in shame.
When I asked one Greek why he was able to help so wholeheartedly a people who have been at war off and on again with Greece practically since the beginning of time, his answer made me think. He said, “It’s not the Turkish people we Greeks dislike. It’s their government.”
We are all citizens of the same country here and yet we don’t show the respect for each other that those centuries-sworn enemies did. And don’t think for one moment just because you assume you are on the ‘correct’ side of the “Republican/Democrat, Christian/Non” debate, that it gives you the right to slander anyone else, or feel smug and superior to anyone else.
First off, it’s not helping. What it does is keep us occupied while all politicians- all - screw us. All. We are all in this crappy economy together, we are all in this war together, we are all suffering under the same antiquated health care system, school system, and electoral system. We may all have different opinions on how it should be changed, but the point is we all agree it should be different and the only ones who are benefiting from it as it stands are the ones who set us squabbling about it in the first place.-the politicians.
Here are three thoughts for both liberals and conservatives both in and out of the United States:
1) How is political protest “anti-American” when it was what the country was founded on? There would be no United States of America without someone - or once again, that small chorus of people, who said, “This isn’t working. Time to start over. Let’s start by having a tea party.”
2) Did it ever occur to anyone who criticises those who believed George Bush unequivocally, that they should have been able to believe him? George W. Bush is like my mechanic. He’s hired to fix my car. If my mechanic tells me my transmission is out of whack, how can I argue, unless I take a course in car repair? I have to trust him. And I do. I hired him to do a job. How can a person who believes in the office of the president be criticised for that same trust? It’s this president who violated that trust. It’s this president who should be blamed, not every Republican. Are you telling me there are no lying Democrats?
3) And lastly, there are three hundred million people who live in the US. Can we all be alike? Do we all have the same levels of exposure to the outside world or the same education? I just met a man recently, a good man, who believes fervently that we need to “stop the terrorists.” He is a stone mason, he is out of work, and my guess is he has no clue that the reason he is out of work goes back to Alan Greenspan’s incompetent, partisan fiscal policies and George W. Bush’s invasion of Iraq. How could he know if he never had an economics class, maybe never even graduated from high school?
Granted, not everyone who is ‘pro-invasion’ is this man. And many people on both sides of this equation are just not nice people who have their own agenda, their own desire for personal gain. And then there are those who simply see things differently.
I see things differently than most people. I believe that we should all be able to learn from each other and that the differences amongst us should not be a threat to any of us, but an opportunity to grow and learn as a species. I want to know how the people in India came to believe in a God with an elephant face, and the ones in Italy believe in a God who was born again as Himself. I’m not alarmed by either of these beliefs, nor do I mock them. I’m intrigued by them. How did they start, and what can I learn from them? Most importantly, what do I believe myself, as an individual, when I gather these facts? Am I strong enough to stand alone if I have to, when my beliefs are different than those around me? Can I also use what I learn to help build a better world?
That is the purpose of my life. To learn and to teach. To help leave the planet just a little bit better than it was before I got here. It will most likely make only a small difference, really, one woman’s voice. But if I can add a chorus to it, well…you never know.
And that’s how I’ll introduce you today to my new online magazine and podcast, Harlots’ Sauce Radio. It still only has a small voice, but the sound is unique and beautiful to me, because the chorus is comprised of people from all different parts of the world, coming from all different perspectives. Yes, we can do that without snarling at each other.
I’ve sent this post as an invitation to everyone in my VOX neighbourhood and in my VOX groups today. Not only do I invite you to read Harlots’ Sauce Radio and listen to our podcast interviews of many extraordinary people who make up this planet, I urge you to add YOUR own voice. There is a wealth of talent here on VOX - writers, humorists, musicians, poets, photographers, and deep thinkers. Please go to the submissions guidelines page and offer up your talents. Then, enjoy the talents of your fellow human beings who have already been published there. If nothing else, we make a pleasant change from Yahoo’s home page daily reports on who got thrown off American Idol.
I hope you will take me up on this invitation. If we sing loudly enough, sooner or later, our song will be heard.
When I was in sixth grade, none of these words/phrases existed. Now, every sixth-grader with access to a television or laptop knows their meanings. In case you’re still confused - don’t worry - I’m here to help. Using the expertise afforded me by my self-proclaimed Ph.D Degree in Patrochism, I’ve painstakingly compiled these definitions to get you up to speed. Words (in alphabetical order, of course) are in bold text, with their definitions beneath them:
Blog
What you are currently reading. Duh.
Bushism
There was an oil man from Texas
Who needed more fuel for his Lexus
He started a war
tried explaining what for, but
on what he meant to say, we’re still taking guesses!
Celebrity Rehab
The attempt of washed-up actors, singers and musicians to rehabilitate their careers by generating the sympathy and voracity of the tabloids.
Cyber-bullying
A method of intimidation applied by parents to their teenage children in order to get them to switch off their computers.
Docutainment
Half facts, half entertainment, sort of like the 2008 United States Presidential Campaign.
Egg Harvesting
A scientific system of producing greater quantities of chicken eggs developed by the Easter Bunny, that will probably get him in deep shit with PETA.
Enhanced Interrogation Techniques
This term is a bit confusing to some, because it sounds a lot harsher than it actually is. You see, ‘interrogation’ is just another way of saying ‘interview’ and ‘enhance’ means ‘to make improved, or more attractive.’ So ‘enhanced interrogation techniques' are not as bad as the relentless questions your mother asks you about stuff that’s none of her business, but more like a give-and-take dialogue, a 'conference,' if you will, at which they serve extra-special tea and biscuits.
Gay Marriage
‘gay’ is synonym for ‘happy,’ so ‘gay marriage’ means ‘happy marriage.’ Because 'happy marriage’ is an oxymoron for many people, ‘gay marriage’ is still deemed implausible in most states.
Global Warming
Global warming is a wonderful happenstance. Due to internet blogging (see definition above) people from all over the world can communicate much more easily. As a result, we’re getting friendlier with each other, we can even say ‘warming up’ to each other. As a result, the globe is a chummier, ’warmer’ place to live than it used to be.
Googled
Past-tense of the verb 'to google,' which means 'to get very familiar with,' as in, “I googled him last night for over an hour.”
Homophobia
Fear of homeless people sleeping on subways. But in today’s economy, a secondary meaning is ‘fear of becoming a homeless person.’
Oprahesque
An adjective that describes anything that is showy, warm and generous. Synonym (UK)- DameEdnaesque, Antonym (International) - Cheneyesque
Reality TV
The difference in level of entertainment between watching Lucy and Ethel stuff chocolates in their mouths and a scowling Brit with bad hair insulting stars-in-their-eyes wannabes.
Reproductive Rights
The Xerox Corporation’s ongoing civil rights struggle to overcome the English-speaking world’s discrimination that “xerox” should be used as a synonym for “photocopy.”
Social Media
In this instance, ‘social’ is a synonym for ‘sociable,’ meaning we see emerging from our television nightly newscasts, our newspapers and our internet web hosts a happier, more upbeat and positive reporting of current events. This is accomplished by leaving out of the headlines anything ‘disturbing’ and filling our pretty little heads with fluffy pieces of drivel, instead.
Speed Dating
An unusual, serendipic circumstance whereby a female gets on a bus to go to work and on jumps a very handsome policeman, who tells her there's a hidden bomb onboard which he has to find and detonate while she drives the bus. After this is accomplished, they go out together for a coffee. ‘Speed dating’ occurs so rarely that when it does, a film is made about it.
Video Beatings
Described by cynics and bleeding hearts alike, as 'the pitiful cry of some teens who, in today’s uncaring, harsh society, are desperate to display their sociopathic, self-absorbed, shallow tendencies, in order to get help against such.' Described by realists as 'parents reaping what they sow.'
Truthiness
Pretty much everything you’ve read here.
I know my dictionary is not complete. I welcome assistance in making it so. Anyone who contributes a word and definition could be eligible for an honourary BS degree in Patrochism.
Are we ready?
There is a very good book to read to learn about the history of Islam
- Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1854)
- Charles Darwin, The Expression of Emotions in Man and Animals (1872)
A book is about to come out that will forever change how your view yourself and children. This book is not only for children who struggle, but for children and parents of every age. The hope of this book is that it will revolutionize the way our communities work with young people and the way our schools work. Please excuse me while I promote the ideas in this book. I want very much for them to take hold and really help young people. I am available to speak to your groups free of charge.
For all this, a better understanding of Pakistani politics and a deeper insight into the cultural milieu of subcontinental Islam, My Feudal Lord is a good read. However, I found that the last quarter of the book dragged on forever, and for some reason Durrani has attempted to detail all sorts of vagaries in the political situation which are neither particularly interesting nor material to her story. Also, her storytelling degenerates after the first half of the book into what sounds like a loud whinge. There were times when I (and I completely understand her frustration and desperate need for independence) got very annoyed and wished she'd just get to the point and stop dramatising so much along the way.
In the final run this is an inspiring story, though. Ridding herself of Mustafa Khar after over 15 years of marriage and 4 children was a hugely courageous step and one that is even more laudable in the light of Durrani's cultural background.
The QotD a couple of days ago was about my favorite breed of dog. Today I was looking through a book I had checked out and found another amazing photo of a Tervuren.
And I thought it was a cookbook. Written by renowned English author George Ornwell, this book tells the story behind philosophical idealism that was held by the big power since the Great War. It is divided into four different sections, each with its own critical review. Patriotism, Nationalism, Communism, Pacifism were deeply elaborated to clarify its stand in the society. He also discusses the impact of restriction on freedom of expression, democracy and totalitarianism. Ironically, in the final section, he discusses on why English cooking were not as popular as those of France and other western powers.
A good book for those who like philosophy, politics and psychology. And of course, for English.
