Wednesday, September 24, 2003

From 8 February, 2003

Maybe it won't. But in the meantime, there will be fewer to do further damage.

And, though I may be wrong about everything, living with good intent seems preferable to strapping explosives on to destroy myself and others. However, if our Deity (if there be a Deity) is not as I imagine, perhaps explosive destruction is a correct tribute.

Inhabiting a world which I imagine means that I can imagine it the way I prefer it, in a way becoming godlike by inventing my own universe. And, reality being a perceptual thing, isn't that what we all do? Absolute Reality: the greatest myth of all.

xox, C.

"G" wrote:

Here's a scary thought, what if reducing our numbers doesn't change
human nature? Oh well, we'll keep walking in lovingkindness anyway. :-)



And to play devil's advocate and put a bit of historic, or even geologic perspective on the whole issue, #1: There's no shortage of human beings on the planet, so losing a few hundred thousand or even several million will create little to no adverse global impact, and #2: War has always been a very effective method of population control.

We cannot destroy this planet. We can only make it uninhabitable for ourselves. The ruins of our bodies and civilizations may yet prove a resource to future species.

To create a new reality, we must begin by changing our minds. Where Understanding and Kindness are more highly valued than Power and Being Right, peace has arrived already. Let it begin here, with me.

And yet, my patience with the human race wears thin. Perhaps the future belongs to sharks cockroaches vultures crocodiles, virtually unchanged for millions of years, perfectly poised to exist for millions more. If humans can't play nice with other creatures, or indeed one another, let them perish from the earth.

Donald Rumsfeld lies. War is always an easy answer.

Michele Allioy-Marie is mistaken. We have not yet begun to evolve.

Oil may be the reason, George Bush may be the agent, but perhaps war can do what AIDS and old age and Ebola and premature birth and severe weather and natural disasters have failed to do: Reduce our numbers so that we may learn to be a tolerant, loving, harmonious flower on the face of the planet, rather than a shortsightedly destructive blight.

What is, is. What will be, will be. Let me walk steadily in the present with lovingkindness, good intent, and the everpresent awareness that I may be wrong about everything.

Thank you for thinking of me today.

xox, Cybele

"G." wrote:

I understand why we can't admit that we're fighting for the diesel which makes our trucking/shipping/entire infrastructure function. Oil is rarely mentioned in the popular media for good reason. Fear (of WMD in this case) is always the most powerful motivator of human action (or inaction). If our 18 - 21 year old soldiers were told that they're fighting for oil, their fingers might hesitate on their triggers, or pause above their bomb release buttons. But tell them this is for the Trade Center, this is for 9/11, and you've got Baghdad in ruins. ..G.

From CNN:

MUNICH, Germany (CNN) -- U.S. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld says momentum is building towards military action in Iraq, but Washington still hopes war will not be necessary. "Let me be clear, no one wants war. War is never a first or an easy choice, but the risks of war to be balanced against the risks of doing nothing, while Iraq pursues the tools of mass destruction."

French media quoted French Defence Minister Michele Alliot-Marie as saying: "We are no longer in prehistoric times when whoever had the biggest club would try to knock the other guy out so he could steal his mammoth skin."

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

Life is short, short.

And we are here to love each other, love as an action verb, caring and devotion in motion. We are here to build a web of connections, one to another to another to the next, all encompassing, wrapping around the whole world, the Universe, becoming the God-thing that each of us is part of but forgets so very often.

Aunt Helen, who spent three decades trying, just succeded in drinking herself to death.

Life is short, short. Even eighty-eight years is short. When you make it to your eighty-eighth birthday, only to draw your last breath and exit without kissing your sisters, eighty-eight years is somehow years, months, days...perhaps only minutes...too short.

And if I should exit the planet in the next few years, months, days, minutes, will everyone who knows me know that I love them with all the fullness of my heart, with all the power of the Universe, with all the depth of the divine, and all the breadth of diversity? I hope. I hope.

Friday, September 12, 2003

6 September 2003

Home again, badly in need of another shower.


She remembers the knife, finds it, and we slowly make our way out of the parking lot. A very drunk man careens at us, dodging Cory's pants, saying "Girl, you got some shit goin' on there." Nod and smile. Onto 66, with all the other joyful souls. The drive home is quieter, punctuated by Eighties songs, which we sing to.

And U say, "Baby, have U got enough gas?"
Oh yeah

Little red corvette
Baby you're much 2 fast, yes U r
Little red corvette
U need 2 find a love that's gonna last

A body like yours
Oughta be in jail
'Cuz it's on the verge of bein' obscene (Prince)


Her name is Rio, and she dances on the sand
just like that river running through a dusty land (DuranDuran)

Cory will have driven over two hundred miles today, many of them on my behalf. Why don't we spend more time together? Because, she says, you have children, and I have a life. The two, apparantly, are mutually exclusive. She says no, she doesn't need me to drive, no, she isn't hungry and no, she doesn't kick in her sleep. Fine, she can share the waterbed, if she likes.


They close with a sizable final set, the first song of which contains the following lyrics:

Realize I don't want to be a miser
Confide wisely you'll be the wiser
Young blood is the lovin' upriser
How come everybody wanna keep it like the kaiser

Give it away give it away give it away now
Give it away give it away give it away now
Give it away give it away give it away now
I can't tell if I'm a king pin or a pauper

Greedy little people in a sea of distress
Keep your more to receive your less
Unimpressed by material excess
Love is free love me say hell yes

Also included is Under The Bridge Downtown, which I have always loved.

the city she loves me, she kisses me windy
I never worry
now that is a lie


When we make our way to the gate, we are checked by an Asian girl, who makes Cory get rid of the tiny pocket knife she carries with her keys. Cory hides it near a trash can, hoping she'll remember to look for it on the way out. We check out the absurd prices and decide to share a beer, some local microbrew. I have learned to drink at least a few sips of any nasty brew that happens to come my way, and I make a face at the first sip of this one, but after two more, quite like it. Cory compares it to a Sierra Nevada Amber, with more body. Nod and smile. In the beer line, someone says my name, greets me, remembers me from Motion Fest. I don't recognize her; her name is Ann and she does rope work, tight and slack. Nod and smile. Pretend to remember. Pleasantries are exchanged.

When the band starts, I wonder if the members are having an Ugly Shirt contest, and Flea refused to play, since he appears without one. Looks like the lead singer, Anthony, with the grunge hairstyle, won, as he gets to remove his ugly shirt after the first number. The seventies-haired guitarist with the lovely backup voice wears some longsleeved western-styled monstrosity. I wonder if he has particularly ugly tattoos, or arms and chest. Scars? Bad skin? But no, halfway through the show, he opens the shirt, leaving it that way the rest of the night. His chest and belly are perfect. Not okay, or pretty good, perfect. When he does a solo, does he make love to the guitar, or is it part of his body? With Flea, the bass is not only part of his body, it's his favorite part. We are on our feet at the start of the first song, and remain there, dancing, until the lights come up. I sweat more than I did working all day at the Faire. Good; I've needed to dance for so long, I hope I pull a muscle doing it. I will hurt tomorrow, in a good way.

Security firmly squelches cigarette smoking, so it's surprising to smell pot burning. Who would risk? Someone. Later during the show, the Sheriff and others show up nearby to eject a young man from the venue, and his friends as well. It may not have been a drug bust, but we don't smell marajuana anymore.


Cory arrives just as I am ready to strip, wearing unreasonably loud pants. Orange and yellow daisies on a black ground. Almost, but not quite, tacky. Loud, very loud. After a quick shower and a hastily prepared dinner (that I take in the car), we are ready to at least go for coffee. Her, not me. We talk about dating and ages, and she says something that I find very funny. "I could never even consider dating someone young enough that I could have babysat him."

The drive down to Nissan pavillion is pleasant. Cory opens the moonroof. The sky is three dimensional, and the clouds are phantasmagoric. Some formations look like flocks of fish, schools of birds. By the time we get stuck in traffic on Route 66, there is a smashing sunset going on, plus Songs of the Seventies on the radio:

Gonna keep on dancin' to the
rock and roll
On Saturday night, Saturday night
Dancin' to the rhythm in our
heart and soul
On Saturday Night, Saturday night
I,I,I,I,I just can't wait,
I,I,I,I got a date (BayCity Rollers)

The sunset is brilliantly pink. Ahead, clouds that appear to have been furrowed by a rake. Beside us, streaked clouds of pink and gold, resemble (oddly) surf and sand.


Leaving Garrett with Ginny, I help Ginny fix the tent (again!), then race home. Yes, a gorgeous day, still glad to get out quickly. I will stay late tomorrow, if all goes well. And for dinner with John and his wife Jen. I let out the dogs, and the dogs next door


The day is gorgeous, and the bubble solution is particularly pliable. The storms during the week have smashed flat our tent, so we fix it. The grounds are beyond greasy into spongy and treacherous. We go out anyway. The new pink stiltpants are a hit, to judge by audience reaction. We have fallen into a rhythm, a pattern. There is structure to our days. Again, I miss seeing Ken. His assistant assures me that Ken's still here, having lunch somewhere. The crowds are large and friendly. David VanDervere, whose name rings with d's and v's, is performing in our village again, after being elsewhere for more than ten years. Funny. He looks the same to me. The mudshow folk are here, fresh from Canada, as is Tom, Canada's director, married to Mary Ann, who for as many years as I can remember, has portrayed one queen or another. Still, I do recall her, when I first started, as the Hawk Lady. Many years ago, many. Even the site was different all those years ago. It is such a joy to be alive in the village today that in no time at all, it's four thirty. Hurry home to meet Cory, to trek to Virginia, to see The Red Hot Chili Peppers. Bliss