Election Day 2020

 No matter what happens today, or tomorrow, or any day after, I will keep fighting. 

Because during these past months, I have found my tribe on the streets of Santa Rosa. I don’t know most of their names, but I feel connected. Most of them don’t know me at all, but I feel respected and cared for. When I am with them, I feel safe, even in the face of danger. Most of them are half my age or younger. They are young. They are angry. They are fed up with the mess we made of this world. They are determined. They are kind. They give a fuck. They keep us safe. WE KEEP US SAFE. They are out on the streets standing up against injustice, and caring for each other. They fight for those who are most vulnerable. They build pop-up food pantries, over and over again, even if they get torn down. They make street art. They play the drums. They are ready with a smile and a hug. They get tear gassed and they wash tear gas out of children's eyes. They put bandages on wounds caused by rubber bullets. They go to jail for social and racial justice. They wear masks and protect each other against COVID-19. They hand out masks and water and energy bars to anyone in need. They use their cars and their bodies to prevent yahoos from plowing into protesters. They secure busy intersections so we can take a knee for Breonna Taylor. SAY HER NAME. They wait for those who walk more slowly. They ride alongside me on their bike to make sure I get home safely at night. They sing happy birthday to Andy Lopez. They build altars and tie bright ribbons to their car antennas. They spend hours making phone calls and send texts to pass Measure P for better civilian oversight of local law enforcement. They speak eloquently at City Council and Board of Supervisor meetings. They march, they shout, they fight, they dance, they sing, they paint, they hug, they laugh, they cry, they write, they vote.

No matter what happens today, tomorrow, or any day after, our fight is far from over. But I can go on because of my tribe. They are the youth of Santa Rosa. They are our future. They give me hope.

WE KEEP US SAFE. NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE.

On the Laguna Trail

Fall used to be my favorite season. It still is, but now it terrifies me. The rustling of the leaves means that the wind is picking up. The sudden heat of Indian Summer means that something is about to catch on fire.  The rust and brown colors of the hills look like burn scars. The sweet heavy smoke from my neighbor's fireplace sends me into a panic attack. And yet I will not let fear and trauma steal away my love for this season. You can love what you fear, and fear what you love. Love and fear are dark twin goddesses of the heart.

The Randomness of What Remains (The Thing and the Image of the Thing)

This painting began as an homage to random found objects. Pieces I'd found at a yard sale, an "artist stimulus giveaway." I took pictures of them and printed them out. I envisioned this piece as an homage to THE THING and THE IMAGE OF THE THING. But that wasn't enough. I lived with it like that for a while. The juxtaposition of THE THING and THE IMAGE OF THE THING. It was interesting but also a little boring. Too safe. Too obvious. Then I started adding and changing. Made it actually even more obvious. I didn't like it. I realized I needed to cover it up. Cover it in tissue paper, paint it black, and start fresh by uncovering. 

When I look at it now, after covering and uncovering, slashing open the tissue paper skin with an Exacto knife over and over again, I can see what I didn't expect:

After the latest fire, our backyard was covered in ash and soot. Not just fine powdery ash but chunks of charred THINGS, clusters of pine-needles turned to coal, blackened skeletons of bay leaves (so many bay leaves!), and a random piece of a burned page from some technical manual.

This is an homage to the THINGS WE LOST. THINGS WE LOST TO THE FIRE. Covered and uncovered under layers of soot and ash. The thing and the image of the thing. The randomness of what remains.

10.14.20

Pandemic Diaries, August

 8.18.20

So here’s the thing about COVID. 

All the shit that’s been fucking up your life before COVID is still there. It’s just amplified now. COVID makes the shitty things even shittier than before. 

I can feel a commercial coming on: 

“Feeling a little blue? Just add COVID! You’ll be on top of the world in no time (aka standing on top of a parking garage.)” 

“Down in the dumps? Just add COVID! You’ll be cruising before you know it (aka down a highway to hell.)”

Depression. Racism. Inequity. Climate change. Addiction. Cancer. Wildfires. 

The whole shit show, still shitty. Going strong. Just add COVID and shit’s gonna go big. 

***

Cloudfaced

I know you are

But what am I?

I see you hiding

Bitter seeds

Between your teeth

Nobody travels further

And yet

We remain

cloudfaced

Slow journeys home

between thicket and thorn

among the rushes

silvery spiders of light

unsung memories

weaving

their slow journeys home

Commitment

I will treasure my sadness like a rare bird. A bird with dark feathers and a sharp beak. My sadness flies with the crows. I will treasure my sadness like a crow. I am huddled inside its dark soft cool wings. My sadness casts a mighty shadow. The other day, I heard the sound of crow’s wings for the first time. I was in a forest so silent as if on another planet. A murder of crows was gathered across from me on the other side of a small creek. They were a beautiful shiny black. Suddenly they took flight, one after the other.  I could hear the air rushing through the filigrane bones and thick weave of feathers that made up their mighty wings. It was a hushed and powerful sound. I now know it was the sound that my sadness makes when it takes flight. 

I will walk with my sadness and hold it close to my heart. I will not abandon it. I will cherish its quiet solemn beauty. I will hold its salty hand. I will caress it delicately with the soothing ebb and flow of my breath. I will keep it safe and sound inside my aching heart. I will carry my sadness with me like a talisman, a treasured gift protected by my rib cage. My sadness will never be alone. 

I will not fear my sadness any longer. I will love it unconditionally, the way I love my child. I will not try to change it. I will plant it in the fertile black soil of my heart and wait patiently as it grows.

7.25.20