Out early, of course I am. I managed to get a large amount of paperwork and errands done today - all preliminary proceedings to my upcoming departure. Bureaucracy like a nightmare, a ridiculous amount of work work work from all angles - including working more, but that is a whisper compared to all of this. I had been out all day, procuring documents and in communication online. The like a gun shot, I read the BBC headline on my iGoogle homepage. Both hands clamp over my mouth as a mangled "NOOOOOH" gushes forth. Despair and denial all rolled into one childish word. I knew it was coming. I know him every day. I know him - logistically, statistically, creatively, beautifully, intimately. I knew JD Salinger was 91, but he is infinite, don't you see? He is infinity. He is a galaxy. I was so productive today, that I feel anger toward my sobbing stupour as I sit here unable to do absolutely anything after reading this news. I want a strong heady toast in his name. Days and nights of revelry and tribute. He is one among many of the episteme of my love.
Fucking pissed off. If you read with pretentious disdain oeuvres that are championed and infamous before you could say that they were then you are the largest of all fools.
"Rose my colour is and white, pretty mouth and green my eyes" is the best biography ever written about me. I have told you.
Thank the fucking lint on a fly's wings that Kerouac died before I was living. Unless you want to see the true slick gaping bloody terror that would have flown out of me for having my lovers ripped away from me like this. "Oh, I think he's over-rated. I just don't like his chaotic style." Great, you louse, and I add perhaps redundantly, "And?" You know I like that the world evolves to be an organism that takes care of itself. I'm glad that you hereby declare your blindness, because we could hardly have the movement led by you. Thanks for making it clear.
I want to smack the mouths of journalists and casual readers the world over. The people who recall the words "Catcher in the Rye" with a sluggish glint of recognition. The people who faintly recall the story that they possibly once had to read in High School but never quite grasped what the big deal was about. I throw a bomb at your idiot face: 'Every time I'd get to the end of a block I'd make believe I was talking to my brother Allie. I'd say to him,'Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Please, Allie.' And then when I'd reach the other side of the street without disappearing, I'd thank him.' - page 178
and if I only had the book in front of me - and not boxed away in my mother's basement with the rest of my possessions - I could throw grenades at you all night, and you'd never even know it. You'd think they were feathers, or simply not hear or see a thing at all. And I would know that your were made of simply dust. Time ----> Us. Δ
Franny Zooey Raise High the Roof beam, Carpenters Seymour, an Introduction = my favourite works from the man. Oh HOW I have stated the words, "Raise high the roof beam, carpenters," to every man that has mentioned he was getting married - or every groom I have seen on his wedding day - waiting to see just the smallest stall of recognition, a searching question, why is it familiar. Nope. Dust. These 4 short books will put you in the grave, the galaxy, and you will roll happily to death with them.
Franny Zooey "There is a great and ancient tree in the shadowest blue midnight forest that weeps for all eternity and the only thing to embark from its lips is the word "Glass"." I would sit right down on a sewer-gaping winter-chill desolate street corner and cry a childish open-mouthed endless sobbing into my clawed hand at this most delicate breath of life Salinger breathed into this life form, this place, this event: The Glass Family. On par with The Endless, this is where time does not exist, it has been ruled over. Glass, and I shatter. This post-carnaval genius-wise lovery that is a family. They are a vault, filled with dusty ripe relics, gnarled wood moldings, and a wide open sky. Grace, I do not know well, but I adore. If she wore a locket, the Glass Family would be inside. One day I will bounce a little Franny and a little Zooey on my knee and throw stars at their faces until they forget everything but dazzle and dream.
I'm not pissed because he has been and gone. I'm pissed because you did not throw him a parade and you fail to see the tragedy in that. Oh gosh. Passion. I'm either scared or so dead inside that it causes me to roll my eyes. Oh no wait, that's you. It is with great pleasure that I slice those sorts of people from my life. The dream rolls on, the band continues to play, the tree grows, the dreaming thickens, all to my temporal tap of the shoe.
Mezzle head of unearthly fog. A witchcraft faelight-blue tree has sprouted up between the ribcage. Fog cloaks its roots, a tangle where it comes from. The sparkling moist earth blends indecipherably with the black galaxy of night. Leafy branches fall heavy with fir, these are my eyelids these days. Jade lash slashes. Icy fog whirls thickly around, and under the huge branched canopy I am warm. The whole scene moist with life in every fold, every dark corner. This treedream pushes a tall trunk, growing daily, and its branches fill my head, twist spindly arms out of my ears, I cough and catch an escaping leaf with my teeth. The dreaming swirls its fog through every spiral tendril of my mind and here it sits, pulses, shifts, and lives.
This is my state these days. Head of dreaming, alive in dark romance forest. I lay a sleeping cheek on the warm fur belly of some delicate antlered beast; wolf tongues licking my cheeks to wakefulness. By day I run with strange deerlings, my step seamlessly matching their own. I swing backwards from black storytime trapeeze trees. I bathe in blue midnight waters, singing the swans a lullaby by firefly light.
It's where I am when I'm talking to you, because being sucked into your desolation only makes the forest unfurl larger and more alive.
Oyate is a Native organization working to see that our lives and histories are portrayed honestly, and so that all people will know our stories belong to us. For Indian children, it is as important as it has ever been for them to know who they are and what they come from. For all children, it is time to know and acknowledge the truths of history. Only then will they come to have the understanding and respect for each other that now, more than ever, will be necessary for life to continue.
The great Lakota leader, Tatanka Iotanka—Sitting Bull—said, “Let us put our minds together and see what life we will make for our children.” The great Cuban revolutionary, José Martí, said, “We work for children because children know how to love, because children are the hope of the world.” Our work is to nurture in our children a sense of self and community. Our hope is that they will grow up healthy and whole.
Our work includes critical evaluation of books and curricula with Indian themes, conducting of “Teaching Respect for Native Peoples” workshops and institutes; administration of a small resource center and reference library; and distribution of children’s, young adult, and teacher books and materials, with an emphasis on writing and illustration by Native people.
Our hope is that by making many excellent books available to encourage many more, especially from Native writers and artists. Oyate, our organiztion’s name, is the Dakota word for people. It was given to us by a Dakota friend.
My father's side of the tree is part Lakota. Oddly enough, many of the points stressed here have been gravely on my mind recently. I encourage everyone to donate or repost.
I am at peace near the sea. The blood that pumps through my heart does so with an ocean crash. Press your ear to my chest and you can hear the sea. My body responds profoundly to water, and I worship it in all its forms. 9 hours at sea to get to Santorini sounded as smooth as silk to me. I sat at a table on the highest deck, sometimes alone, sometimes with Leah, and let the current meet up with the movement in my chest.
Poseidon crash, a love affair. I know your strength. The sea is a woman, just as woman is a flood, tidal, ocean behind the eyes, veins of blood crash and sea foam, sea weed tangled teeth and hair, pale shell eyes and water grace, ocean depths, lunar pull. The sea is woman’s home. Blue is another home to me. I sit watching its expert currents glide. Only a fool questions the sea, and it is only a fool who thinks he is stronger. In the Aegean Sea, the blue meets the rocky crest of an island with a kiss. The islands are scattered and plentiful here; there is always another approaching within view. Visions of Santorini come to mind with a sigh for as long as I can remember. I have looked into countless photos of the blue-domed white washed cliffs and found an unfailing peace and stillness. It has replaced anything else as the seamless image of Greece in my mind. I have always known I would come here. I have always been pointing in this direction.
Santorini. The peace I found in images of Santorini jumped right out of the frame and spread out across the sphere, stretching to blue infinity. There were moments when I would round a bend on the cliffside caldera and stop fast in my tracks, struck silent and still by the beauty. A sigh would rush out of me and my whole body bristled at this, this splendour. Each turn and the wind was knocked out of me and Santorini beat a slow steady beat, the beauty into me. The pulse at your wrists will threaten to explode forth, baptizing this remarkable place, a dedication in blood. The blue church dome matching with the sea and the silence of the white walls is the reflected incarnated image of my deepest sigh. The calm gets under my nails, blends with the whites of my eyes, stretches out and luxuriates over the length of my bones. Grecian vines tangle my toes, cradle my heels, and circle my legs, claiming me, but I’ve been forever yours. In life I have been loath to hang anything on the walls of my home. Such framed obnoxiousness seemed to try to contest with the ocean crash of thoughts inside. Santorini is my crash against perfect pure white canvas mind, myself splayed out, readable, reachable. No doors to close on unwanted clutter or riffraff. I seep into everything. She is a fresco. I threw myself into the sea, a guttural gasp, she was freezing. Clear to the crystal bottom I could see through the icy waters. I wrote Forever into a notebook on a volcanic black sand beach. Forever. I rubbed the dark grains to soften my skin. Forever. I laid full flesh offered clear up to the blazing sun. Forever! Forever it was before I left that spot, tanned and beaten calm by the sun. Don’t even ask. I put myself in Oia. Oia, paradise is jealous. I sat on the roof terrace to take my breakfast each morning. Jutting like a fang from the deep, piercing my heart, the sunset is viewable from virtually anywhere in Oia. I sat with new friends on the steps of the caldera and watched the pink bleed down the canvas and into the sea. Crowds of others were gathered, as it should be at each sunset. The colour nearly drips out of the vibrant flowers, threatening to stain that perfect white. I reach for one expecting to come away with soaking petal purple fingertips. I wandered the entire stair-lined footpath down to where Oia’s rocky edge meets the water. Like a water sprite, I ducked behind a jutting rock, and emerged transformed, water ready and clothes in hand. I found a small clearing made of tiny volcanic rocks at the edge of a path. I turned and found a beautiful man behind me, a tiger stretched in ink across his torso. Of course was his presence. My eyes and appetite landed on the huge rock several yards out from us. I lowered myself veeeeeeeery slowly into the water, waiting for my body to acclimate to the cold. It was shockingly icy, but I was determined to swim to the rock. Even the warning of sea urchins could not fully extinguish this desire. I pushed off, stroking, and riding the ripples. In no time I was on the other side and, with extreme caution, pulling myself from the cold onto a small rock. I perched, shivering, and looking back at the side that I’d just left. Those on the shore waved to me. The tiger swam by in a wet suit and commented that I must be too freezing to move on. We chatted for a bit and I explained that it was more the urchins that had me frozen. The Kindly Tiger, he offered me hid flippers and his eye mask to make the swim with less anxiety. Sometimes my eyes bulge at people's generosity and kindness. I heard his taut tiger body splashing into the sea from a high ledge of the rock, sea foam speckling my flesh. We sat and chatted at length once we were both back on the main island. Some time later I rose to depart, smiling to make each other's acquaintance, and forever another soul is carried with me. the walk back, lava red and turquoise blue, I ran into 2 women from the residence with whom I chatted the previous night. We made plans for a spectacular sunset and a late dinner that evening. Souls in the circle, forever. Santorini, I will never let you go. I want to swan dive from the sharpest highest peak of the caldera. A wailing perfect note accompanying my flight through the air, embedding with me into the sea, a greeting to the sirens I will join, eternity, forever. Santorini, I fold you into a locket. At night I open the little charm door and dive forever into a labyrinth of pristine white and profundity blue, bleeding flowers, and honey heat. A mysterious disappearance some will say, but a soprano snicker will echo from that tiny charm. Santorini, you are tidal. Oh I am dizzy, lost forever. Forever is my hymn to you. I am yours.
Red Lava and Turquoise Blue, it's all true.
You are never alone on the road, and after 2 weeks in Morocco with many wonderful travelling companions, I was craving more solitary steps. I managed to politely refrain from joining other travellers for about 2 days of my time on the island. The rest of the time I was with others and had a lovely time. I wandered alone in pure blissful delight that first day in Santorini. I had a dizzy astonished grin on my face at the fruition of my own tireless driving, these obsessions, the magnetism I feel toward certain things. Santoini was a goal, a beautiful delicate ivory goal, something that I dreamed of one day doing for myself, and there I was. Forgive me. Gravity. I was a bit selfish that day and wandered and took myself where I pleased. In the middle of the day I treated myself to what would be the most delicious meal I had in Greece. My palate rejoiced to be home and I ordered a spring fresh Greek salad drowned in olive oil and herbs, topped with a brick of Feta. I ordered dalmas 3 times in Greece, but the serving here, with the bold Tzatziki sauce was by far the best and I sang the café's praises to many other travellers. I consumed an entire loaf of fresh baked bread and followed it all up with strong Greek coffee complete with the thick sludge at the bottom. On a caldera-side terrace, completely deserted of other patrons, a million sighs of pure pleasure and contentment heaved from my chest.
Perissa and Aegean Sea, can you hear my gasp when a slightly larger ripple came in and smacked me with its icy blast?