I'm making trisklelions again. They are once again inspired by the man who first inspired me to start spinning them 21 years ago. Eventually they became like a visual diary, so that inspiration was a real gift. I've also picked up my feather again, dancing the night away in my little suite. Did you know you can feather dance a triskel as long as it is all one line? These spirals became magic to me - a form of prayer, a way to scry my own soul. I've drawn hundreds of them. They weave their way out of my psyche, like they have a mind of their own. And sometimes they take me to entire new perspectives. Life is pretty exciting and scary right now.

City Woman

My dad is an old school urbanist and I too have the bug. For some reason both of us seem to think that it is our responsibility to make sure our City is OK. I drew this picture for him for his birthday.

Disillusionment

There are people from whom I expect some level of deception - politicians, sales people, PR people. When I listen to people in those positions, I do so with a grain of salt. In some cases, with a truckload. When I hear deception on their tongues, I am neither hurt nor surprised.

But recently I've discovered that even people I thought were trustworthy are actually just as deceptive, and maybe even more so. I've always thought of the leaders of the online community as somehow above the spin common to those who are paid to produce a public opinion. I was wrong. And strangely, I am both hurt and surprised.

Somewhere the championing of the truth turned into the championing of a cause. The importance of transparency became just another tool in the spin kit, a way to discredit, instead of revealing. Telling a good story became more important than finding the facts. The important feeling of being in the center of attention became more seductive than the message itself.

What stings most of all is that the cause is one that I hold incredibly dear. We stand on the verge of losing something that I love, and I am mourning. When I hear the slick propaganda I feel sickened, as if what is precious to me is being pissed on, by the very people I trusted to protect it. Even if we win this one, it will be a bitter tasting win, rank with the smell of lies and character defamation, a wound in our greater community that will take a long time to heal, if ever.

I'm disillusioned. I sit by the sidelines and watch both the truth and the public being manipulated. I can't speak out, or dare challenge the misinformation. If I publish a critique on a "friendly" forum, any deviation from the narrative being created by people I once admired will be ruthlessly attacked by those that follow them. If I publish a critique in any of the alternative venues available to me I will be further damaging both the cause and my friendships. I'm left with my private blog, with it's reassuring readership of three. No keywords that google could pick up. Everything vague.

So, lesson learned. Even the leaders of the online community are politicians, PR people, sales people. Nothing better. Nothing nobler. What a shame.

Harvest Moon and the Death of the Bogeyman.

My own personal bogeyman is dead!

When I heard the news it was as if a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders, something I've been carrying so long, I forgot it was not part of me. A sickening sense of responsibility, a dark shadow of fear... all lifted so quickly I had to sit down and catch my breath.

20 years, and it is now over. So much pain, and shame and rage. The legacy of a rape and a trial, over and done forever, with Death as the guarantee.

Julia and I walked down to the water and tossed something old and ugly out to sea - a symbol of all that we were releasing. It was a casual ritual. No casting of circles or conjuring of witnesses. Just a discarding.

And then we walked away.

Summertime...

The summer heat wave reminds me of my journeys to hotter places.

I remember travelling the length of beautiful Vietnam, the silk of my Au Dai like a gentle breeze against my flesh, the sharp smell of eucalyptus oil on my temples and aching muscles.

I remember passing through the Three Furnaces of China on a crowded river boat on the Yangtze, drinking cup after cup of hot tea from the omnipresent red thermos, and glorying in the privacy under the cold showers piped up from the river below.

And I remember settling in to a beautiful log house with a sweet man in Georgia for a Southern Summer romance.

They are all body memories, slipping over my lethargic limbs like honey, taking advantage of the mental fragmentation caused by this amazing heat. These are memories of incredible beauty, and resilience, of love and pleasure, of the bone weariness of travellers, and the fantastic weight of history, of exotic flavours in my mouth, and strong hands on my skin.

"Those lazy crazy hazy days of summer..."

I'm a part of the water cycle again... sweat pouring off, clean, cold, water pouring in. The little pink office where I am due during the hottest part of the day is an oven, and we are all baking there together.

And I love it.

My skin has turned brown, my feet are bare and leathery against the thirsty soil. I'm delighting in fresh food, and dappled garden light, in warm thundershowers, and all that goes with it. With just the screens on the patio door, it is as if I am sleeping under the stars. I think I will go do that now.

Sweet Dreams Mister Sun, see you tomorrow!

River of Protest

From Iran, a river of protest in their Green revolution. I find this so moving, not the least because of the role that social media has taken in bringing this momentous piece of history to the world. Following this river of protest is an ocean of support coming from all over the world, streaming through twitter feeds, blogs comments, and every other facet of the internet. Comments like "You all take my breath away and make me appreciate what we have here so much more. Don't let up - the world is with you!" are streaming in from all over the world.

Angry Mother Owl

For me, the apocalypse happened pretty much on schedule. Almost a decade later, the war is still on, apparently. I'm not always the angry mother owl though. Dispassion comes with experience.

I wrote this on New Year's Eve, 2000, at the Studio...

Inside me

an angry mother owl

rears

at least 40 feet high

my boys within her wing.

I can see at night

and pierce the darkness with my cries.

I can heal and

can destroy

My eyes never blink

and my head turns all the way around

Heroin and Cocaine have left

all I loved smouldering ruins

I am going to take them back

One by One

from hell.

How can this hate rise so strong

against something so ambiguous

as addiction?

How can this love rise so strong?

My nostrils flare into a beak

and my shoulders become winged

and fierce.

Battle cries rend the air

Smoke obscures the ruins

One by one, my enemies

are reclaimed under my wing

safe from the war

by my side.