Poetic License Horoscopes, May 17-24

(Made-Up and Always Taking Requests)

Taurus: Write a letter to your younger self, the longer-ago, the better, asking for their advice. Then disregard about 80% of that advice, because really, what do they know? The other 20%, follow it to the letter. Better yet, strew that advice like rose petals around every doorway you enter. Walk around presiding like a benevolent, naïve god.

Gemini: It’s lilac time in Upstate New York! At the Rochester Lilac Festival, (So, not this year…) you can buy a bottle of Highland Lilac perfume to save for the dead of winter. That’s what they don’t tell you, those who would have you wring your hands about the passage of time! (Like me.) Just in case, take care to delicately strain the sweet-smelling essence from today—someday you’ll need it!

Cancer: Last summer, my driving-home-from-the-beach-music was the jazzy little tune that Lawfair played to indicate direct quotes from The Mueller Report. Its gentle brush-taps were as soothing as salty hair and as skin full of solar energy. They were as kind as having a friend to drive you home from Aunt Patti’s when you’re tired from swimming. The truth is like that! Go ahead and cozy in.

Leo: Like Midsommar, but nice. Heap up a pyramid of flowers around you, no matter where the heck they’re being grown. So many colors! So many kinds! Sew sunflowers onto lovely places, like apron pockets and star maps. It’s bright out, but it won’t disrupt your rhythms. There’s absolutely nothing untoward in the lemonade or the individual pot pies. The dancing is real, though, and so are the bears; both are friendly, full, and ready for hugs.

Virgo: “Grief is praise because it is the natural way love honors what it misses.”—Martin Prechtel, The Smell of Rain on Dust: Grief and Praise. (by way of my yoga teacher) Spill out your jar or grief-gems and warm them in your hands. Charm them and hold them up to the light. Someday, you’ll be able to stock up again on Hope Diamond postcards, but for now, see what else sparkles.

Libra: You are a collage of wedding cards, cut precisely into colors, shapes, and patterns, a horizon of bright flowers, a gleefully interrupted sky. You are the infinite gift of watercolors, spilling swirls of aliveness onto everything. You are a protective circle when the dance floor gets threatening—wordless, loyal, absolute. You are a 3 AM kiss that butterflies into friendship, fluttering to the stars.

Scorpio: You know that feeling when you’re a lady who hasn’t seen your gay high-school boyfriend for like thirty years (Except for at that one family funeral.) and then you meet up at The Brooklyn Museum to catch up and see Frida Kahlo’s dresses? And then you find yourself standing in front of Judy Chicago’s The Dinner Party contemplating the elaborate and beautiful vagina-themed place-settings? And like good Catholic kids, you notice the names of the saints written in gold script on the tile floor? No? Just me? Well, look for something just as magical and weird, and greet it with aplomb.

Sagittarius: Marie Kondo says that if something doesn’t spark joy but you can’t bring yourself to part with it, keep it with confidence. I’ll go one more and say love it with confidence. The churning papers, the infinitely doubling photo roll, the sticky note whereupon a cute person returning your Bon Iver CD said you were amazing. Even keep the pictures you only took so you’d remember where you parked, if you want to. Don’t partition it off into neat little boxes! Sit at the top of your hoard like a dragon.

Capricorn: I’m here for you. I’ll document every blossom and change of light in your old neighborhood, and make sure you see. I’ll check the board games to make sure they have all the pieces for the next time you come over. While you nap, I’ll collect the light from your windows and store it in jars for then you wake up. I’ll pour you the drink of your choice, crack a Hi-Biscus La Croix and we can sit in the yard. The flowers may be fluttering away to other things, but there’s something else coming if we wait quietly: leaves! They surprise me every time.

Aquarius: “i like serendipity, I guess.”—Sarah Rose Etter. Sarah was talking about auspicious peach roses, but you can make any wish. Well, not any—these sort of things don’t work for million-dollarses or universal healthcare, just modest, fanciful, idiosyncratic wishes. But yes, open your eyes and gather, check off synchronicities like bird-sightings. Bring home your pareidolia bouquet and place it at the center of everything, because it is.

Pisces: Tidy out this week all of your bad muses, the ones you think you have to ask for permission, the ones that ask you (You THINK they ask you, you haven’t actually spoken in years.) to move slower or smaller or not at all. Throw them like bad books against the wall, cancel them like Firefly (Except they’ll deserve it.) blow them into the wind like they’re dandelions, but not as effective.

Aries: The first quarantine book my dad asked for was Walden, so remember how bad Thoreau was at being alone. It’s easy to be monkish when your mom is making you muffins, but your job is to find your muffin-equivalents, any taste of closeness and care. Take a shamanic journey via Zoom or start long Instagram conversations with other people’s pets. Remember how you got close before you could go anywhere. Remember how you first fed yourself. Remember alone, but don’t forget to call.

Screaming at the Supreme Court, A Love Story (Part Two)

We weren’t just headed to the Capitol for us. As always, I was aware that being able to express my political anger is a privilege and a gift. My check-in person, the friend and neighbor who has my mom’s phone number and the keys to come in and feed the cats if she doesn’t hear from me after protests, had said “Thanks for marching. I’ll be at work, seething.” I’d reached out to my mom directly for support this time, even though I knew this would worry her, and she said: “I’m confident you’ll be fine…you’re sensible and strong. Don’t be afraid.” My sister, the kindest and most conflict-averse person I know, posted on my facebook that morning: “Be safe, and loud!! Love to you and Amy—thanks for fighting the evil!” It was an honor to look forward to yelling on behalf of the women who don’t have the luxury of unabashed anger.

We weren’t sure the protest would go inside the Capitol, but I hoped that it would. I’d seen so many amazing C-Span videos (Just let the phrase “amazing C-span videos” sink in and think about how much has changed in the past two years!) of protesters occupying the Capitol for healthcare, for DACA, against the Muslim bans. I felt proud and brave to be part of that tradition, and my bitter heart was buoyed a little.

When we arrived, the protest was in three different places—one crowd in front of the Capitol, one crowd on the lawn between the Capitol and the Supreme Court getting civil action training with the Women’s March, and one group chanting in front of the Supreme Court itself. I almost immediately lost my cool when I saw a pregnant Info Wars “reporter” interviewing a protester. I almost jumped into the shot and screamed, but for Info Wars, where would I even start? I power-posed with my sign in front of the Capitol and that was the last time I felt festive, felt normal, for a long time.

There was a MAGA-hatted couple in the crowd, sanguine and smug, bothering the protestors and being bothered back. Seriously, who thinks “You know what we should do with our Saturday? Go show a bunch of rape survivors who’s boss!” WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? (Also, I know they could have been paid trolls. Somehow that would be comforting.) Having been on the protest grounds for all of five minutes, I forgot my whole put-the-kids-first-don’t-get-arrested plan. I turned around and started following the couple, sign held high, a beyond-grim expression on my face. This is where I started to scare myself.

I screamed at them. Not in a crowd, not in a chant that would soon be followed by an impromptu singing of “This Little Light of Mine.” I screamed at people, at strangers, at a (it goes without saying they were white and presented as hetero) man and a woman. I wish I could promise that I was at all articulate. The man started filming me with his phone and I screamed “That’s right, get it on tape. Share it with all of your racist, misogynist, rape apologist friends, they need to hear it.” (At least I hope I was that coherent. My memory slips a little here and there in this story.)

The woman, who looked about my age, said “I am not a racist. You don’t know my heart.” She said calmly.

“I can see your heart, it’s there on your fucking HEAD. Grow some fucking empathy.”

“Grow some fucking empathy” is what I pretty much always want to be screaming. But on some level, she’s right. I don’t know her heart. I shouldn’t assume it’s sadism or Stockholm Syndrome that’s inspiring her to act so DEEPLY against her own interest, against the interest of human beings in general, against LIFE ITSELF. The politically self-immolating white woman captured my imagination that day. I have been railing (RIGHTLY) for two years against over-empathizing with the white people who voted their hatred in 2016. But that day at the Capitol I grew a new empathy of my own, one that I didn’t entirely welcome. By the end of the day and in the discussions that followed, I would realize that #metoo isn’t a partisan effort at all, and that every woman, even the horrible ones, would have my loyalty from here on out.

My Wonderful, Magical Day of Yelling at Nazis, Part One

I spent a good chunk of last week working on my protest sign and panicking. I had terrible dreams. My best friend/ex-wife can’t walk very fast and I dreamed that we got separated in a crowd—I have recurring dreams of us getting separated and me screaming out “Amy! Amy!” because she’s lost, then getting in trouble for screaming. So you can see that as much as I tend to drag people for being afraid to protest, I was scared of this one.

For anyone who might have missed it, a group of white nationalists planned a rally for Unite the Right II on in Washington, DC on Sunday the 12^th, the anniversary of last year’s tiki-torch hatefest. On the anniversary of a white supremacist murdering Heather Heyer with his car. When I heard that facebook was taking down some of the counter-protesters’ event pages, I sought out a couple that hadn’t been taken down and RSVPed YES. My BFF agreed to go with me and I made her promise not to get lost or murdered. I asked a favorite neighbor to be my check-in person so someone could feed the cats and call my mom if anything happened to me—since the March for Out Lives, this has been my routine, and I’m grateful to have a neighbor who doesn’t mind!

Aside from my #sayhername series, (http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2018/06/say-her-name-street-art-abolish-police.html) this was probably the saddest protest art I ever painted. I had to put it in the closet for the second half of the week to stem the rolling panic attacks it inspired.

The other side was cheerier, and I was happy to devote some time to my favorite new (to me) cause:

(For more info and the other unratified states, check here: https://www.equalrightsamendment.org/states.htm)

I sproinged out of bed at 4:30 AM on the 12^th, but only so I could read my book for a while before getting ready to go. Amy and I packed water, snacks, and sunscreen. She packed more phone batteries than we could ever need, that’s a very comforting thing about Amy.

Next: Soothing Art and Pondering Antifa

The Stupidest Thing That Ever Happened to Me, Part Two

The tiny altar of my old desk: Dexter the Emotional Support Peacock, "Oprah Rules" on a light-up marquee, a baby eevee that a student drew, a paper snowflake another student made me, Garnet being made of love, My Little Ponies saying "Friendship is magic," the times I met Cecile Richards, John Lewis, Hillary Clinton. Dear Prudence is on the monitor, as he always was when I had a spare moment.

My coworker and I went outside for a while and decided we would just lock up the store until Amy got there, but when I went in to lock up, 7-10 members of the security staff and the maintenance staff had formed a concerned circle alongside the fire chief. A member of the public safety staff, a young woman I’d never met before, said “Miss, you can’t talk to the chief like that.”

So, it was fine for him to come in reprimanding a grown-up citizen and to have to be cajoled into doing his actual job, but I was a serious problem for cursing. And it was more important to soothe this dude’s dignity than to make sure that the other dudes’ mistake had been fixed. Confronting this many uniformed people at once about this cascade of lunacy was too much. My coworker and I left the store with the ego-soothers and went to breakfast, which we admittedly should have done in the first place.

My wonderful treasure of a coworker took this opportunity to direct me to a nearby old-timey diner she’d been wanting me to try. While we ate a big, bacony breakfast and waited for Amy to arrive, my friend gave me some insight about the workings of the campus. She explained that campus public safety often tried to limit and even suppress calls to emergency services outside of campus, including in cases of sexual assault. In other words, the college was completely willing to put their students at risk if that meant fewer official incidents to report. The students and their families were paying thousands of dollars for students to live on a campus that prized its reputation over their safety. Including, it seemed, being willing to sacrifice their own property.

It has taken me a long time to write this down, partly because institutional horrors like this are hard for me to process. Anxiety brain connects the dots, and somehow, the whole world is conspiring against bodily safety for the stupidest of reasons: money, men who are scared to admit they’re wrong, preserving ancient gender, race, and class oppressions and most of all, protecting the institution itself.

In times when I tangle with authority, I tend to self-gaslight, so at the diner, my friend reassured me again and again that I wasn’t crazy, that there hadn’t been a better course of action, that it wasn’t my fault. Amy agreed as she sat down with us and ordered, but the (Rush Limbaugh listener) campus liaison had been on the phone and things didn’t seem good. I knew that Amy wouldn’t want to fire me, but I knew I was probably in trouble. Isn’t it weird as an adult, feeling the same in-trouble feelings you might have felt when you were seven or sixteen? The emotions of a traumatized kid never really leave me, they just find different ways to fight.

            The three of us finished our breakfast and went back to the store, where public safety was guarding the door I hadn’t been able to lock. The smoke smell had dissipated so I guess there wasn’t a fire. But that didn’t make me feel safer on a campus where I now knew that calling for emergency services was restricted, and, as I was about to find out, punishable.

I made some detox tea and turned to Dear Prudence for a few minutes, happy that after that I could finally turn to the online orders and other first-thing-in-the morning tasks, but soon, the Rush Limbaugh listening campus liaison was on the phone again. “I want her off campus,” he said, “Now.”

Amy couldn’t do anything about it. Security would be on the way soon. I lingered for a while, in denial, finishing my tea, my coworker determined to cheer me up with surprisingly hilarious old Veggie Tales episodes. (Rhyming “manatee” with “humanity”!! I can’t even!)

I packed up my pen cup, took some of my favorite employee art and customer thank-you cards off the wall. I left the sticky notes with happy faces and spangle-heart emojis. I’d posted one for each time I snuck some art or writing into my work days. There were so many sticky notes, in rainbow colors. When the store was packed up a few months later for Amy-swears-unrelated reasons, the ladies just left all the sticky notes there.

I wrapped up my archetypical work coffee cup, (Charlie Brown saying “Good grief!”) and all of my brightly colored pens. I would miss (until my next store) checking off purchase orders and dispositions in neon pink and light blue, writing thank-you’s on the online orders so we could all feel (okay, so I could feel) less like cogs in a heartless corporate machine.

The head of security, whom I’d known only as kind and helpful, was there to escort me off campus. I was afraid to tell anyone the story because I was worried that it seemed implausible—it still kind of does. I didn’t want anyone to know (and also I wanted EVERYONE to know) how poorly I was getting along with others, how I hadn’t been able to stop myself from letting a stupid mean man take away yet another thing I liked.

What scared me most, and still does, was that in the moment I called the unwilling fire chief a sexist piece of shit, it didn’t feel like a conscious decision. It felt like a pulse from deeper inside, from all the way in the center of the earth, like it was bigger than me and also totally stupid and mundane. I want to give myself a little time before the next installment, to think about what this all really means.

Love Letter to Another Bookstore

Today, a team of corporate folks and bookstore pals are helping my BFF/ex-wife pack up what’s left of the Rosemont College Bookstore so the company that took it over can move in. That doesn’t sound like a situation that should feel personal, wrenching, and melancholy/beautiful, but it is.

Three summers ago, when Amy was offered the job and it turned out she needed an assistant, I was recovering from Philadelphia School District induced Acute Stress Disorder and panicking  my way through a fun but demanding summer camp job, realizing that I wouldn’t be equipped to handle long, loud days with kids any time soon. I knew the assistant job was for me, so I expressed my regrets to the camp and took what turned out to be one of the most happy-making jobs I’ve ever had.

I worried that it was CRAZY to work with my ex-wife, even though we’d already morphed into being best friends. I dreamed we were stuck on the Lost island together, bought myself a necklace with a little airplane charm so I knew I could escape. I worried that proximity to the snack section would make me fatter, and it totally did, but who cares?

Even though it was a corporate bookstore, letting me use all of the deliciously tedious and emotionally neutral skills I’d gained in twelve years of day-jobbing at different colleges, the Rosemont store meant so much more that that. The time spent grumbling about politics with my best friend, the time we helped register young voters during the 2016 election, all of the deep conversations in the back room, (okay, and also at the register, when I couldn’t help myself) it all reminded me of the old-fashioned Seventies feminist term consciousness-raising. Amy, with her bajillion years as a philosophy major, is much more equipped to handle disagreement, so she was able to form an even deeper bond with our brilliant student employees, almost all of them young women poised to take over the world in their own precious, unique ways. I learned so much from those young women,and will continue to treasure them as beacons of hope in my social feeds.

I love the way feminism and politics merged with pop culture joy at our store. I love the way we were able to revel in the brilliance of Hamilton ( R.I.P. Hamilton Wednesdays, which really were to sweary for work…) and also talk about what a rapey colonizer Thomas Jefferson was. I love that I know everybody’s Harry Potter house and that they’re who I was with when I took the Pottermore quiz and finally admitted I’m a Griffindor. It sounds braggy, I know, but the quiz said! I loved fangirling my way to the Gilmore Girls reboot and disagreeing with a favorite customer whether Jess was trash or not. (They all are. Glad that (spoiler alert) Rory’s true love was her writing.)

I loved parking my little red Yaris next to Amy’s (formerly our) little blue Yaris, with our matching rainbow Hillary stickers. I loved making us coffee maybe too many times a day. I loved our matching purple Rosemont travel mugs, which I hope we’ll use for road trips. I loved when, because a mean lady made fun of the Matthew Shepherd Foundation charity bracelets, Amy and I immediately bought ourselves matching ones. I loved watching each year as the campus’s flock of baby Canada geese waddled their way fuzzily to adulthood.

I loved having Pheobe Robinson’s You Can’t Touch My Hair and Other Things I Still Have to Explain at the register, giving me an excuse to lecture snide undergrad guys about consent. I love the day I convinced a curious young woman to buy Nasty Women: Feminism, Resistance, and Revolution in Trump's America (Which I just discovered you can get for $2.25! OMG! )https://www.barnesandnoble.com/p/nasty-women-samhita-mukhopadhyay/1125780108/2679971094578?st=PLA&sid=BNB_DRS_Core+Catch-All,+Low_00000000&2sid=Google_&sourceId=PLGoP212586&gclid=Cj0KCQjwjtLZBRDLARIsAKT6fXxXhlKJgubXV_KosqoiJ-jtT9de69XyUct_4KTwFifgFOv198sfJE0aAnPkEALw_wcB)

On the day I was banned from campus, (A Nasty Woman story in itself, which I will someday have the strength to put into words even though it is the stupidest thing that ever happened to me. I’m assured it’s not why our contract wasn’t renewed…) we had a Student Walkout poster on the door, and I feel grateful to have made such a small gesture in support of students who wanted to walk out. (You can read about my own Walkout experience here: http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2018/04/activist-kids-rule.html)

Not long after I was banned, I found out the store was changing companies, and I feel really sad that I won’t be calling Amy at that store anymore, that I won’t hear the voices of those wonderful coworkers in the background. But I’ve realized something about happiness, about college bookstores. Although, like all institutions, colleges can be very stupid and sometimes terrifying, I need the combination of exquisite boredom, mundane-to-miraculous chitchat, and walks past lovely architecture that college bookstores can provide. My new bookstore home doesn’t have an intersectional feminist book section, but it does have heart, and beauty, and the lively workout of carrying heavy books. This line of work is one of the great loves of my life, and I am so grateful.

From “Bi” to “Pan”—Prefixes and Progress

I'm sorry her accent mark is missing!!!!!!!

 “(I) initially identified as bisexual, she clarifies, “but then later I read about pansexuality and was like, ‘Oh, these are things that I identify with, too.’ I’m open to learning more about who I am.” – Janelle Monàe comes out in Rolling Stone, as quoted in this article. https://www.colorlines.com/articles/fans-celebrate-janelle-monae-coming-out-pansexual

Janelle Monàe’s new album is so good I can barely listen to it. Coming from her, the sentiment “I’m not crazy, I’m American” is enough to start me car-sobbing. Hearing The Way You Make Me Feel on the way home from work the other night, on the day she came out and what felt like the first day of spring, led me to an epiphany—it’s way past time to change my prefix.

When I came out as bi (http://indiefeedpp.libsyn.com/jane-cassady-in-1992-all-of-a-sudden-it-got-better) TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO (!!!) (A whole Kurt Cobain lifetime ago!), it felt like such a freeing relief to my sixteen-year-old self. I couldn’t make heads or tails of men (Sorry, sixteen-year-old me, that hasn’t changed AT ALL.) and it made the world seem open and easier now that I had what I thought at the time was one other gender option.

One of the things that gives me the most hope for progress is the difference between my coming out in 1992 and the coming out of my present-day favorite pansexual middle-schooler, an honorary niece. The fact that her adolescence offers a spectrum of options, a vast catalog of identities, and a deeper (but by no means perfect) freedom from assigned gender roles fills me with joy. I think I’m ready to claim some of that freedom, both for my current self and for my sixteen-year-old self who is always still with me and always ready for more hope.

Technically, I could still be bi—by the current definition, it just means you’re attracted to more than one gender. I’ll still attend Bi Visibility Day, (Last year, the mayor came! Reason a million why Philly is the best!) I’ll still do my part to combat bi-erasure (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bisexual_erasure) in whatever ways I can, I’ll still be mad at Dan Savage for that time he said we’re the only sexual orientation he hates. (That’s when I’m not being mad at him for the hostile work environment he created for Lindy West… https://www.thestranger.com/slog/archives/2011/02/11/hello-i-am-fat ) (Or being grateful for the beautifulness he created with It Gets Better, which seems to want to be a running theme here…)

ANYWAY, the “bi” prefix hasn’t been sitting right with me. Even though the word doesn’t want to, “bisexual” still sounds like “two” to me, and it’s been a long time since I A. Thought there were two genders or B. Was only attracted to two genders. About ten years ago, a crush on a handsome New York performance poet sent me down a giddy rabbit hole of trans-infatuation (I’m pretty sure I totally fetishized and objectified him, and I’m really, REALLY sorry.) that has lead me into some of my favorite friendships and communities. I am NEVER surprised when someone I am drawn to later transitions—even my favorite writer in the world is headed down that road. (https://www.thecut.com/2018/03/daniel-mallory-ortberg-interview-heather-havrilesky.html )

So it has felt increasingly weird to have a label that sounds like two, even though I know that isn’t what “bisexual” actually means.

I guess it’s total dork-o-rama to change my prefix because Dirty Computer was finally released, but it’s WAAAAY more dignified than choosing the name “Jane” because a character on Blossom said she thought it was cool. (Thanks Jane’s Addiction and Jane Eyre for providing cover all these years, it’s good to let the secret out!) I’m sad to (sort of) let my old category go—twenty-seven years of anything is a long time—but I want my prefix to reflect my heart. Though I tend to go for those who present as masculine these days, I’m not sure assigned gender is an important factor. I want my prefix to reflect the world I want to see, a gorgeous, free spectrum where self-expression and self-determination trump prefabricated roles and expectations.

There’s a mantra that often floats through my head when I’m uneasy, especially in spring: Let Things Change. It feels vulnerable and maybe even silly to have a new word, but I know it’s right.

Next in the process will be figuring out where I am on the asexual spectrum these days, and I expect there’s a prefix to contend with there too. One thing at a time though. One syllable at a time.

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Script and Call List for Standing Rock--You Can Help!

I got this script and call list from  the wonderful poet/activist Tatyana S. Brown and I'm planning to do the calls this morning--join me if you can!

"The situation is urgent at Standing Rock. Please show up by making phone calls. I've written a script for anyone who needs it (at the bottom) and am reposting this call for action from last evening:

They're shooting our unarmed people again at Standing Rock with tear gas, rubber bullets, and water cannons, in 24-degree bitter weather. Cops are breaking the law! Call 202-761-7690. Please share! Asap. I just did and left a message without yelling or swearing it wasn't easy.

Act now! Demand they stop this!! Contact Army Corp of Engineers 202-761-8700, National Guard 701-333-2000, White House 202-456-1414, ND Governor 701-328-2200, Amnesty International 212-807-8400
Call now. - This shouldn't be happening. #NoDAPL.

If you need a script to feel comfortable calling, use this:

My name is _________ and I am a US Citizen calling to demand that your institution enforce humane treatment of the Water Protectors at Standing Rock and actually stop all further construction on the Dakota Access Pipeline. Morton County Police and DAPL officials are putting lives at risk by aiming water cannons at peaceful protectors in below freezing conditions. The Water Protectors are simply trying to ensure clean drinking water for over 18 million Americans and further protection for our planet. Stand with them over big oil."

Life-Changing Summer, Part Three

I want to note that as I write these cheery posts, the death toll of the summer is sticking with me and I am seriously considering taking anti-depressants for the first time in my life. The best way through still seems to be acknowledging the magic parts, though.

The Room Where it Happens! I was there when Bernie Sanders moved to nominate Hillary Clinton for our FIRST FEMALE MAJOR PARTY NOMINEE! Well, I was outside eating a salad because Amy was having a leg cramp and we couldn’t find a chair inside, but still.

The most moving moment of the convention for me, though, was when the Mothers of the Movement spoke. Their courage puts every single other thing in perspective. To experience the worst loss, the worst injustice, and still have the hope and power to get on stage and fight for change—how do they do it?! The entire convention broke out into a chant of “Black Live Matter.” I couldn’t see the stage from the entrance we were guarding, but I peeked behind the curtain and watched the crowd chant. It was one of the most galvanizing things I’ve experienced. Our country and our party has a long way to go toward being as inclusive, fair, and humane as I’d prefer, but to me that day looked like concrete evidence that progress had been made.

And although, during other parts of the day, I was irritated by the boo-y Bernie delegates, I can’t help but take comfort in the fact that they were chanting for peace, even as we disagreed on the best ways to get peace. When I was fourteen and the first Gulf War started, I ached to have been alive for the peace protests of the Sixties. I’m sure there were protests, but from where I stood it was flags and yellow ribbons as far as the eye could see. I wore a white ribbon for peace and refused to stand for the pledge of allegiance at school, cried when I was called anti-American. My mom was so awesome because she marched through the suburban streets with me, two of my friends, and a boombox playing Beatles songs. My friend Lynn even knocked on a few doors. Now, in 2016, delegates are chanting for peace and I can join a march every day if I wanted to. So much better than my teenage dream of the 60s.

My Brother’s Wedding: I thought it might be sad to go to a wedding with my ex-wife as my plus-one, but this was an unequivocally joyful day, an oasis of beauty and peace that showed me just how far my family has come. Plus, this happened:

The Disarm Hate Rally: It seemed pretty crazy to drive down to D.C. in the middle of a heat wave. It was one. Billion. Degrees. on August 13, but I thought it was important to have a positive catharsis about the truly alarming parts of the summer, so we packed up all of the water and went.

As we walked across the field near the Lincoln Memorial, it felt like crossing the dessert. A few people were standing in front of the stage and many others huddling in cooling tents. A couple of handsome young men came over and gave us Hillary stickers. Code Pink was there being right about gun control and super-bummer-youth-voter-suppression-wrong about the election. (It’s a weird year when I feel at odds with Code Pink.)

It seemed like synchronicity that a group of teenage poets from my neighborhood spoke just after we arrived. The family next to us had rainbow signs quoting The Lorax:

I was given a sign to wear that said this:

And I’m doing my best to believe it.

We met Gays Against Guns and signed a poster to Orlando from the Newtown Alliance. Pro-gun control groups have been such a source of inspiration and strength for me this summer, and I hope to work more closely with them in the coming years.

After wards, we walked to the Lincoln Memorial and the Martin Luther King memorial:

I thought a lot about why these edifices are there. What we are really trying to accomplish as a nation, what America is truly supposed to be—I don’t know. If, as Lin-Manuel Miranda would have us believe, history has its eyes on us, how are we doing?

Pokémon Go: It saved my life. No really. At the beginning of the summer, I was afraid to cross the street. The world was full of bloodthirsty cars and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get back to my usual taking-long-walks self. But then the Pokéstops went in and I forgot to be scared. Since the day I was hit by a car, people have not-so-helpfully reminded me to be careful crossing the street, but I had more than enough (maybe way too much) vigilance in my life BEFORE the accident—I wasn’t interested in forming new fear-patterns in my brain. Collecting Pokémons tricked the fear into not becoming permanent, and it got me moving again. Plus, there are few things more happy-making than strolling down to the neighborhood gym and chitchatting with strangers about really ridiculous things. The perfect counterpoint to a way-too serious life.

Now the air smells like turning leaves and the morning glories are blooming. I can feel my body relaxing into fall, ready for kids and mums and art projects and WINNING THE DAMN ELECTION already. Thanks, life-changing summer—I hope to keep planting those seeds.

Meditation Mondays: Plant Flower Beds at the Boundaries

I made this painting for a friend who told me that she wants her life to be more boundaryful, but then I realized that I don’t really know from boundaries either. From etiquette podcasts to Cuddle Parties, I’ve studied the subtleties of yesses and nos for years, but I still have trouble knowing the difference between what I am and what others expect me to be. When I heard this episode of Invisibilia, I wondered if I might just have too many mirror neurons, but I don’t know how one gets tested for that.

Mirror neurons or not, I want to take responsibility for building stronger boundaries. In friendship, I tend to ignore differences or slights or do a lot of one-sided giving until I explode from resentment and become scary to the person—those are my ugliest and most shameful times. In dating, I ignore red flags because every man feels like my last chance to learn to be “more flexible” (Read: more lovable) and then I end up in lots of yucky situations that confirm my darkest fears about the world. This isn’t to say it’s my fault that guys (or friends or churches) are creeps sometimes, only that I want the self-love to walk away more easily when the warning signs come rather than ending up in panic-inducing scenarios over and over.

I’ve always wanted to do whatever someone I liked thought I should do. My sixth grade best friend Jill gave me the nickname “Doormat.” She would ask me to do all kinds of little tasks for her and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from doing them. Once at a sleepover at her house, I stayed up all night because I didn’t have the courage to ask her to turn off the Enuf Z’ Nuff CD that was on repeat.

I’ve sometimes found positive ways to view and express my tendency toward servitude, most recently by vowing service thorough teaching, but in the end, I always end up in the same place—  feeling spent, worthless, ashamed, invisible, alone.

I think a lot of people, women especially, are raised to feel guilty for taking up space in the world, for having a point of view. So my task now is to notice the little boundaries, to push back in tactful, constructive ways, to say no to the things I don’t like when I can so that my life has room to fill up with what I really want. I have to guard against seeing every friendship, community or date as My Last Chance. I want to teach myself that I don’t have to fight for a space in this world, but I do have to find out what my own space authentically looks like. 

About Leaving Church and What Comes Next

Before I try and do my best with the spiritual/community questions I’ve been wrestling, I want to spend a little time acknowledging the personal heartbreak that happened around the same time. There was, as I’ve written a couple of times, a guy I really liked, and there was a morning he’d planned to come to church with me. I was so excited and I told all my friends, but we reached a dealbreaker in the night and he couldn’t come. I felt sad at the loss of him and hurt by his rejection, but I also felt ashamed for getting my hopes up so much, for getting so excited, for telling my friends he was coming and then having to tell them I was wrong. It was humiliating, and it goes along with the fear that comes from leaving the church, that every time I feel like I really belong somewhere, every time I go all in and let my guard down, the rug will be pulled out from under me.

Also there is the simple shame of this: I’m embarrassed about how long everyone knows I have been looking for my guy, how wholeheartedly I’ve tried and come up empty, how many OKCupid questions I’ve racked up over the years, how easily everyone else seems to pair up and slot into their lives and how I just never seem to fit. That pain is too much right now, just part of heartbreak, I guess. It’s relevant and not relevant but mostly I just have to get it out.

Every Wednesday at the library we have Lego Club. The only rules are that you have to make something awesome, and you have to take it apart at the end—no KraGl for us. It’s a beautiful way to look at creativity, but sometimes I wonder if my life isn’t a little bit too much like Lego Club—leaving the Unitarian Society that had been my spiritual home on and off for eight years feels like taking apart a beautiful, bright thing that it took time to build, and I don’t know when the next Lego Club of the Soul will come along. (And let’s not even think about the Lego Club of the Heart!)

When I signed the membership book at the Unitarian Society of Germantown in 2009, it was a huge deal to me—I had found a lot of spirituality in secular life, but I’d been without a steady and official faith since the age of ten, at the moment that I sat in Catholic Church and realized that it was just stories, and moreover, that it was stories that didn’t make sense to me. (Side note: My dad once told me that he stopped believing in Catholicism when we kids were born—he just couldn’t see how a baby could be born with sin. Aw, that’s nice.) For a long time, I thought not making it as a Catholic meant that I wasn’t entitled to a relationship with God, that I couldn’t really be safe in a religion, and maybe that is still true.

Every so often, when I felt like I wanted to make more of a commitment to Unitarianism, I even made a monetary pledge, just a token amount, but similar to the way that my wedding ring kept getting not-worn, my pledge checks went unpaid more often than not. Similarly, although we were supposed to wear nametags to be more approachable to the other attendees, I never could bring myself to wear one. You can either see that as keeping things at arms’ length or liking to be free, maybe both are true.

The first time I left the Unitarian Society of Germantown, about three years ago, it was because of something that happened in Small Group Ministry. One of the women in the group had struck up a friendship with a married guy from the congregation, I guess what might be called an emotional affair, and he got a crush on her. The lady felt upset and constrained by this, said it made her not want to come to church anymore. Without the man’s side of the story, the group instantly united against him. They closed ranks in a way that terrified me, the leader even offering to tell the minister on the man.

I got angry all the way down to my guts that they would gang up on him so quickly, that they wouldn’t show him compassion—I mean, who hasn’t had a crush before, for god’s sake? As a poly person, I became deeply aware that though they claimed to welcome all expressions of sexuality, the church still existed for the old reasons: To jealously guard the boundaries of heteronormative marriage, even uniting against errant feelings. My voice came all the way up from my belly and I said “It’s LOVE, the most powerful thing in the universe, and who do you think you are to control it?”

I took that as my cue to leave the group and the church and delve deeply into love research, which was scary and fruitful and well-documented.

I found my way back to USG, though, and though I could never really settle into a Small Group again, I did have long conversations with the minister about love and poly—I felt like I could be a voice for the organic side spirituality and the unpredictable nature of love. Without really noticing, I built an entire circle of friends from the USG community, whom I loved very dearly.

Then the pope came. I’ve already said that the way the pope’s visit impeded traffic felt like a citywide metaphor for the way they’d colonized and oppressed so many bodies, including my own. It felt like there was no place safe from the grip of paternalism, that there wasn’t room to be ourselves and grow. I am so grateful to that feeling for helping me realize how much the Catholic Church still lived in me, and how much I wanted it out.

When USG announced that they would be televising the papal mass, I was at first shocked, but I realized it could be comforting—who wouldn’t want to be surrounded by thoughtful, liberal friends who, like me, believed in fighting for equality and justice?

But then, the Monday morning of Pope Week, I passed my church on the way to work like I always do and saw the sign: “Welcome, Pope Francis.” I sobbed all the way to work. I tried to share my dismay with the pastors and via the church facebook groups, but people’s responses let me know that as a congregation, we were not doing what I thought we were doing. In their rush to embrace this “more liberal” pope, they forgot women. They forgot GLBT equality. They forgot thousands of raped children. They forgot to stand up for those who need it. Just as in that small group meeting, they closed ranks, and the only way for me to stay sane was to walk away.

I was angry, scared, and lonely, but also curious. I got in the car and drove over to the other Unitarian Society in my neighborhood to see what was on their sign. It said “Building Beloved Community.” I took note of the other denominations’ signs around town that week, and no other church said “Welcome Pope Francis”—They had their own sermon topics and their own lives. They had backbone, and I decided that I would too. In that moment, I felt kinship with my Catholic aunts, who were angry at the pope for being too liberal—from waaaaaaay over here other end of the political spectrum, I could see their point—let’s believe in what we believe in.

Just like with the guy, there’s sadness and shame and loss in letting USG go. Just like him, it wasn’t a mistake to try, but it ended up a bad match, and I can only keep trying and keep hoping for something more fitting to come along.

Right at this moment, I can’t really believe there is such a thing as liberal religion, or maybe liberal isn’t good enough. I want radical, wild religion, the Earth’s religion, something deeper that can’t be contained in the same rituals, the same creepy group dynamics that have oppressed us for all of our thinking lives. Maybe that isn’t religion at all, maybe it’s just connection to the deep, sometimes dark, wild spirituality within. I’m going to look for chances to touch that divinity any way I can, mostly by just being here, loving nature, loving love, and making stuff.

Friday Love Poem: Daniel McGinn!

Daniel, fourth from left with his deardear wife Lori, back when I lived blessedly near them.

This week's poet is a favorite influence, a wonderful friend, and one of the best all around humans there is. He and Lori just celebrated their 39th anniversary, so it seems a little odd to mark the occasion with a poem about me--but who could resist?

Explaining Jane

“Jane Cassady has been informed that you cannot be a post-modernist and call
yourself a post-modernist at the same time, so she now refers to herself
as post- structuralist.”

-Ben Trig, Poetry Host

1.

Open to her eyes peering out the mail slot—

the sound of one pink polished nail

tap tap tapping in the brass lip.

Let us assume she is on her knees,

Holy Mother of God, she wonders aloud

When will the postman arrive?

Jane knows what she means to say

but today

she is closed like a door

with a mouthful of letters.

2.

What shall I say?

My lips are just meat.

My heart but a subject

open for interpretation.

The state of my soul?

This is California, you say

but it is never the same to you.

We communicate alone, don’t we?

One does not even understand odd.

Knowing people is a matter of time

and space. Consider space.

Who among us is able to do the math?

3.

Lesson One, says the teacher,

is that there is no Lesson One.

Maybe it’s raining out.

Maybe the teacher is crying.

But hey, who are we to judge the teacher?

Jane raises her hand,

waving it like a flag on a minivan,

a silent hand but important,

like a white flag

snapping smartly over a massacre.

Jane says to the teacher,

What about the post??

The teacher sees lumber

And tries to build his argument.

No, Jane says,

it’s not about the male men anymore,

it’s about the postal persons.

The teacher sees machine guns.

Jane sees love letters.

Daniel McGinn's work has appeared numerous anthologies and publications. His full length collection of poems, 1000 Black Umbrellas was released by Write Bloody Press. He had five chapbooks published as part of the Laguna Poets chapbook series. Daniel has an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. He and his wife, poet Lori McGinn, are natives of Southern California. They have 3 children, 6 grandchildren and a very good dog.

Friday Like Poem: The Longwood Gardens Nightscape is Not a Place for Rational Decisions.

Haven't posted one of my own in a long while, kind of excited and super-vulnerable! Be gentle.

And remember, you can submit Friday Love Poems any time! http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2015/07/call-for-submissions-friday-love-poems.html

The Longwood Gardens Nightscape is Not a Place for Rational Decisions.

You will spend the early part of the evening in an Impressionist painting,

nothing but natural light on trees.

You will experiment with all kinds of sitting—

first-kiss-in-two-weeks under a paradigmatic tree sitting,

on the lawn in front of a froggy lake sitting

trying to stay awake while your hair is played with sitting,

all before it even gets dark. You will half-look for the beer garden

and give it up as lost.

Next, you will forget all you know about constellations,

you’ll forget all you ever knew, and

every configuration of stars will look like a present

waiting to be unwrapped, or having been unwrapped.

And oh, the fountains, you’ll forget what you know about water,

about class struggle and conservation, and wonder

how anyone gets anything done

in a world that has all this pretty water

arcing toward the sky.

When you get to the piped-in fireflies,

lavender and blue, you’ll realize you

were both once saved by suburban lightning bugs

one summer apart but in the same fields, in the same story,

give or take a misery.

This is right around the time you’ll remember

that you were once really good at dropping acid,

when the conservatory lights dim

and the flowers are at their most neon,

and the kids everywhere have glow bracelets

and you want one. (A glow bracelet, that is.)

Someone thought to project

vertigo patterns and supernatural music

onto the topiary garden

and what is left to dream of, after this?

When trees are lit up as blue jewels,

as those silver fireworks that look like bees,

as a phoenix taking flight,

and you are lit up with soft touch

which you usually don’t prefer

but in this case hits the spot,

with a beard brushing against your forehead, your neck,

you’ll forget to even judge the Apple watch

when its soft interruptions become a gentle heartbeat.

Yoko Ono said you should listen to a heartbeat

and Yoko Ono would never do anything to hurt you.

Once you have learned every bench,

you will both regret and find yourself glad that there are

neither couches nor beds.

You’ll decline a dewy hillside,

but agree to a shove against a tree trunk

suddenly and with all your strength.

You will not be able to resist mentioning

your dahlia colored underpants.

You’ll burn bright with the same lights

that confuse and awaken the trees.

You will forget your compass, your shoes, your water.

You will find and then lose

your nasturtium seeds from the gift shop.

Extravagant like the flowers, you’ll spend everything, all at once.

Friday Love Poems: Zipora Schultz!

Gold star to another member of my poetry class! Don't forget, I'm always taking submissions for Friday Love Poems, any and all forms of love are welcome. 

Love Poem to my Ollie

by Zipora Schulz, July 9, 2015

I knew I was in love

the minute I saw him cross that busy street in Brooklyn.

Unafraid, waddling, a shining aura around his little round body.

The cars shot around him, both ways. No one stopped.

•••

He crossed over and beelined it to me, miraculously unscathed.

He stood on his back legs and 

I swear

gave me a “High Five”.

I looked around, thinking there was some sort of mistake.

Why me?

What was I to do?

He was young, he was soft, he was yellow-tan

His ears flopped as he moved his head

He licked every finger on my hands.

What was I to do?

You know what they say: (was it Goethe?)

that when the purpose is clear (I’m paraphrasing)

all the doors will open?

The purpose became clear that, although I didn’t need another dog,

 I had been chosen by this one.

•••

Folks came out of the woodwork to help.

One person brought some string to tie around his neck.

One person brought a cup of water for him to lap up.

One person hugged me because they said he had been tied up and left outside 

in all kinds of weather by the garage down the street

sometimes without  water for the last few months. 

They asked if I was going to return him (my little escapee).

Why would I return him to that, I said. I was already in love.

I looked and saw he had long outgrown his metal-linked collar.

It dug into his soft neck like a vice. No one thought to upgrade him as he grew.

•••

I called him Ollie, after Oliver Twist: 

the orphan who makes good by simply asking for “More”. 

By escaping his fate and finding me on a busy street, Ollie asked me for more. 

I gave that to him for fifteen years with complete devotion and heart. 

And he returned the favor.

My soul-mate dog-friend, my furry son. 

I can still feel the outline of his perfect ears and the texture of his snubby nose, 

although he passed six years ago.

Love? Yes, the truest of loves, my friend.