writing

sometimes i have wild impulses. i’m sure you do, too. they just wash over me and more often than not, i follow them. last month for example, a wild impulse led me to wade into and out of a freezing cold river.

I’m watching our new pup, lil’ Bebe, chase her own tail, round and round and round, then she stops. Starts again, gleefully, round and round, then she stops. Sound familiar? That’s definitely my pattern these days, perhaps minus the glee. Covid-19 is surging, round and round, while the transfer of presidential pomp and circumstance

what I've been thinking about lately involves systems of oppression; money systems, prison systems, racist systems, how to dismantle them and what's needed to do that. organizing, teaching, making art, protesting, voting, donating, studying, resting, discussing, unlearning, relearning. that’s a few ideas. can movement be included? and don't think I am squeezing that word,

To see clearly in this life is to know how to grieve, to feel sorrow right down to the marrow.  I’m struck, I’m stuck, on how this dominant heteronormative, military/prison industrial complex, this late-stage capitalistic culture, with its sexism, ableism, ageism, and all the other -isms, sucks us dry. It feeds on selling us

the acupuncturist put a heat lamp over my inner thighs this morning. sweet, steamy heat. pretty sure some of it went to my brain. it just rained, after saying no rain. now the sun is out and everything is dripping and lush, curly willow branches, viburnum, lime green and purple echinacea. they are all