Be brave, Chose Love

I had a talk with a colored woman the other day. She's older and seems very comfortable with talking about the obvious differences between people. I'd never really thought of Oregon as a racist place, seems I might be a little off the mark.

She could tell me little stories that obvious showed her witnessing or being the subject of racism. She seemed to look at it as being a minority rather than just being black, and had grown up in DC. It was really upsetting to listen to, and left me thinking about what really is the difference between white and anything else, really? (I happen to be white so of course my mind starts there as self centered a point to take as it maybe.)

Before we ended our conversation I told her about how I'd grown up in a very small town and never really knew anyone of color until middle school. I then told her how I'd always been fascinated with people with darker skin colors and tightly curled hair. To me those are beautiful traits, and if I could design myself I would at the lest have hair more like a colored person than my own. (I didn't say that I would like to have hair like her's but we did talk about the difference in her hair and my own. In fact we started talking because she had complimented my hair cut and I had in turn told her how lovely I found her hair to be.) 

But I digress, I was telling her about having not grown up around people of color and then there being a young girl of my age  who moved into town. Luck even had it that we shared a home-room class, and even more lucky that this young girl was Jennifer Cartwright. I can still remember approaching her with little tact and much gusto, telling her that I thought she was really beautiful and asking if I could please touch her skin. Jennifer was nice enough to let me, and just smiled. I was very, very excited, and obviously it has stayed with me. 

The lady I was talking to smiled at the story and said she was glad I'd had that experience. When we went to part ways I told her "Thank you for talking with me, I don't often get this chance and I really enjoyed it." She seemed a bit embarrassed but squeezed my hand warmly, telling me that she had enjoyed our talk as well. I look forward to seeing here again at Temple, and getting to know her, and the other people I'm meeting there.

The point I want to make is that for me it seems silly that there is racism going on here in Oregon. We aren't the south who must still struggle with what we were raised with, or are we? Most my friends have been fairly open minded and at lest openly accepting of people of all races. Every time I have encountered racism in someone I love or care about it has caused me great pause, and in some cases to completely change my opinion of a person.

I know that this is a part of the culture that I belong to, and yet my heart rebels at the mere thought. To think that just the color of a person's skin, the shape of their eyes, their genetic disposition to grow facial hair or to have dark hair could influence so greatly their personality and their innate morals as to make them a subject of ridicule is just something that I cannot understand. I can understand not liking some of the cultural practices of other peoples, but not liking an entire race? I just don't understand.

People are people. We all want and need the same basic things in life. Why must we give into the reptilian parts of our brain and continue in this small minded endeavor? Love, while often harder, is the more rewarding path. 

Be brave, Chose Love.

Remembering Hana-sama

Hana-sama 1 1/2

Hana-sama the first, passed away Sunday April the 11th of 2010. He will be greatly missed by all who knew him. Most especially by myself who loved him best of all. The world will be less special without his clever, silly, and harmless antics. Though there will surely be more yogis in the world. I know that where he is now he will never want for them, surely there are limitless amounts of yogis in heaven.

He was roughly three years old, a respectable age for a rat. It was likely his heart that gave out while I was gone. The sturdy rat was showing signs of his age, he had put on a lovely amount of fat, and had calmed down a very great deal.

Hana-sama was no ordinary rat, as his name well implies. No he was a Rat-Lord, noble and gentle of spirit. He was a very special creature with the ability to cause joy and laughter with hardly any effort at all. Chewing anything and everything that came into his cage to pieces was one of his very favorite past times, along with nesting, and being a ridiculous rat-fink and or Rattie McRaterson.

Hana means flower and nose in Japanese

This wonderful little Rat-Lord was my first pet. I was lucky enough to hear a co-worker say she had a rat that needed a new home. I went home after work that day and started researching, trying to teach myself how to be a good caretaker for such a friend. When I was able to take him home I continued to learn. I learned that caring for another, person or animal, is rewarding, but that being the soul caretaker for such a wonderful little friend is more fulfilling then I could have ever imagined. Hana-kun, as he was known to his friends, taught me the joys of pet ownership with more grace then I thought possible.

A privet service will be held later today at the Apple Tree Graveyard in Dallas Oregon. Many generations of Noyes pets rest there, though Hana-sama will be the first of his species to retire there. I know that all of you will be with us in spirit.

He is survived by myself, his caretaker, friend, accomplice, and yogi purveyor. He is also survived by James Proestos, his friend and chief admirer, Erin Quirk, friend and namer, Kabo-kun and Choblet-kun his worthy adversaries, and many admirers through out the Willamette Valley of Oregon, and even across the nation.

A prim example of 'Rat-Lord'

Letter to self

    When I look in the mirror I'm not sure what I see. I look as I did the day before, but I feel different. Everyday, I feel that things are changing. And it is just too soon to tell if it is for better or worse. I want to stand up and make a difference, if not for someone else then at lest for me. I want to be my own hero. I'm tired of leaning on someone else. But I' so afraid of what I see in the mirror.

    I'm getting older now. And I'm starting to feel it. Not in my bones, but in the fabric and tissue of my being. I have to stop and think now, instead of simply dashing across the street. And colors, they seem so blurred, pink and red so much the same. I've gotten uncomfortably used to my short comings. And am terrified of the need to change. What if I can't? What if this is the best that I can do? What will become of me then?

    I don't want to lose. Now more then ever I have something to lose. I have him. Wonderful, understanding, kind, considerate, brave, determined, hilarious, tender, him. What if I can never become more then this mere outline of a woman? Could he love that? Can I love that? I'm so afraid of what I see in the mirror.

    It's so hard to look, to see myself beneath all the things I keep up. And it's frightening to confront that little girl, her long wheaten hair falling about her face in feather light curls. She was so beautiful with her chubby, rosie cheeks and her big blue eyes. What happened to her? How did she ever end up so far from where she wanted to be? Why is she hiding underneath all these silly facades? Every glimpse of her is tragic. A painful twist of a blade scraping down my spine. Tears run down my face, down the cheeks that I only just now feel as though I've grown into.

    I'm afraid to look in the mirror. What if I hate me? What if I really hate me? I've made so many bad choices. What if the out come is that I hate who I have become? I just want to have worth. I no longer have any dreams. If I could have a book shelf, and somehow be worth the love and adoration I see in his eyes, that would be enough.

    But what if I'm just too much of a coward? What if I'm just too late? I'm so very afraid to look in the mirror. I want there to be a reason for all the foolish things I've done. I want to know what the lesson is from all the pain I've lead myself into. If I can understand how it makes me stronger, better, then I can embrace it. But all I know is that I'm afraid to look in the mirror.

Raiding

>< I guess there is nothing for it. I should have seen this coming. And there is really nothing for it. James should be able to raid. He is going to be really busy when school starts, and he should be free to have as much fun doing what he wants before then. I can use that time to read, and to write. He and I will have time together Monday and Friday, as well as the weekends. Just venting.

L. Ron Hubbard is a hack!

HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE!Ah, that helps.

 Everyone is free to write whatever they like when it comes to fiction, good, bad, or indifferent. But when it comes to spirituality, and guidance a person should take a care. Hubbard is a man that created a very insidious movement, a cult, that has out lived him, and will continue to do so. Even when I hear people championing his fiction I feel a bit annoyed. Don't they realize who this man was? Don't they know that he was outcast among his fellow authors? It really pains me. So here I vent, and wish that Issac Asimov was still alive, so that he could tell these fools what real science fiction is. I'll have to look and see if I can find anything written by him about Hubbard . . . .

A notebook

I have a notebook, or binder really. Now I need some notebook paper. I've started to read articles about writing and getting published, and how self publishing might work to my advantage in this new day and age. It is exciting.

James has said that he would very much like to write with me, and has started to pick my brain about my Searching Saga. It's truly wonderful to feel it going some place after so very many years.

Is this where my life is going? Will I really pursue this? Could I go back to school and just study literature like I've always dreamed? I might.

Worshiped

If I think about you, and close my eyes, I cannot help but smile. I can see you, I can hear you, and if I hold my breath just for a moment, I can feel you.

Even when you are away, your presence is always with me. You're ever in my thoughts, bringing me joy when I tend toward tears.

When I feel small and useless you hold me, turning it around. In your arms its good to be small, and I have a use, I cause that wide warm grin to slide across your beloved features.

I marvel at your easy going nature, you kind spirit, and your nearly endless patience. Knowing you is like knowing gentle joy. Being the object of your affection is to be worshiped.

And being so blessed I struggle constantly. How can I be worthy, how can I deserve such wonders as you bestow on me? Your eyes tell me the answer, they whisper it, "Love me."

Cut

Why do I still bother to think of you? What is the purpose of such unfulfilling thoughts and feelings? Why do I fallow you, and put up such flimsy walls? The block button is a useless shield.

The fact is you stopped caring before you'd ever gotten around to telling me it was over. Such a short little romance. Your feelings so trite, so simple.

You were always talking about what you are. Passionate came up over and over again. So passionate that you burned out in just over a month. Used up and dry.

There is little purpose in this futile exercise I'm in engaging in. You'll never read this. You couldn't care less. And I do. Why?

Because it hurts to know that I was so completely fooled. I would have loved you. I would have tried to be a different me just to please you. And you never cared.

Not even for a moment. Not when you kissed me, or held me, or pitifully fucked me. You never cared that I would have turned myself inside out and upside down to be what you needed.

I look at you picture on the glaring screen and wonder why I cared? I look at the man sleeping next to me, his face barely seen, and it is even harder to understand.

When there was such love as this, as the one next to me in this instant, how could I ever have cared for you? Why am I still bothered?

Because you fooled me. Because you got me to lie to myself. Because you used me up and threw me away. And it cuts deep. As deep as love.