How I met and why I meet Stacy C

Several years ago--and I guess I could dig up the original emails to find the exact date--I heard from Chicana writer/novelist/poeta Sandra Cisneros, asking if I would be interested in or willing to take some time to meet and possibly mentor a north Texas friend and young(er) writer.  This person, Stacy C, a high school teacher who works with "spec" (she pronounces it like "speck") kids and also writes poetry, is the daughter (well, actually, one of several) of a teacher friend of Sandra.  This teacher friend was a huge fan and became quite close friends with Sandra, even visiting her at her casita morada (purple) in San Antonio.  Unfortunately and sadly, Mama Campbell passed away about 10 years ago, and daughter Stacy has been challenging herself to draft and polish countless unfinished poems in the memory of and to honor her dear mother.

Sandra herself didn't have time to mentor Stacy, but she recommended me because I live in north Texas and she believed me to have the sensitivity and nurturing willingness to meet w/ Stacy.  Well, it did work out: I contacted Stacy, she seemed receptive, and we occasioned to schedule de vez en cuando (now and again) lunch/brunch meetings at local restaurants within bicycling distance of my home.  This became a cherished tradition, where we would get together at least seasonally, bringing backpacks of fotos, recuerdos, books, and ideas to share with one another at a table (public, mind you) over which we laughed, dined, drank, and cried.  It got to be that we couldn't show up empty-handed; we needed ephemera and documents, framed images and poem copies to show and tell about.  And now, even though the sped-up nature of time in the second decade of the 21st century has kept us from meeting more than once or twice a year, it becomes even more imperative, even urgent to bring the right things, the palpable proof of the life we've lived since our previous sharing session.

It had been over a year since our last meeting, and Stacy and I didn't dare put it off any longer, so we met at Rodeo Goat ("because it sounds like a fun place," she'd written as we mulled over a location to convene) this past Wednesday.  I stuffed a  Texas Beat Festival t-shirt, bag of chocolate mint leaves (thank you, Kelley), and a few other small gifts in my new messenger bag and pedaled over to meet Stacy.  Once we embraced and took our place at the backlot picnic table and placed our order, we immediately launched into chat about writing and music and ideas and future and current projects.  We exchanged our gifts and shared our minds.  This time, I didn't get to read any of her latest poetry pieces in progress.  She's on a hiatus from writing, but misses it desperately, as we all do when life interrupts with its myriad requests, demands, tantrums.  I tried to reassure her that the light in her room of writing will turn back on again.  And I felt my words resonating internally in consideration of my own stumbling blocks, writing blocks, boxing matches with procrastination.  I hope to benefit from the advice I offer others by applying it to my self.  Ultimately, all it takes is applying thoughtful pressure to the keys, one letter at a time.  Like t-h-i-s.

Born September 3rd, 1937

I love my Daddy, born Aristeo Gomez, but known as "Ted Gomez" over the years. Born and raised in west Texas, in the Stamford-Anson region near Abilene. They were pretty poor--it was during the Depression, after all, that he was born--but things got even rougher when his mother (Dominga) left her husband (Jesus) and all the young kids to go chasing after another life, maybe another man--as I've heard. As the second-oldest child, Daddy had to quit school (after 6th grade) to stay home and help Jesus with work in the pastures (Daddy drove a tractor at the age of 12) and raising his siblings (Wendell, Paul, Adela, Lorenza, Stella, Ray, Martin, and Wally). He was gentle and creative, I imagine, because he certainly was by the time he got to raise me, my brother Ted, and sister Miranda. As a father, he was consistently very attentive, nurturing, and patient.

We heard that he once caught a baby raccoon (or two?) and gave it to his sisters for a pet. And for Christmas, all Jesus was able to provide was a paper sack with peanuts and maybe an orange or apple in it.

By the time Daddy was in his early 20s, he was a seasoned hard worker, enough so to have saved earnings to buy himself a new car. He dressed in the coolest threads, Levis and sports shirts and penny loafers. Or in a Western style, cowboy boots and snap-button Western shirt, again with the Levi jeans. And always, the well-coifed hair, with the help of the ever-present Three Flowers Brilliantine styling gel. (To this day, Mama says that whenever she has a chance to take a whiff of Three Flowers it reminds her of Daddy.) Daddy was definitely something to look at. Which is why I often refer to him--when describing him to my friends--as the "Mexican or Chicano James Dean." I really hope that he was happy and had great adventures in the years after he was done raising his siblings and before he had a family of his own.

Love you forever, Daddy.

My daddy as Buddha

Some of us are lucky enough to be able to look back on our fathers as "heroic" but I'll go a bit further and add that, for over a decade now, I've also thought of him as a "Buddha." Strong but silent, patient and enduring, and always kind and helpful. In this early picture, taken in the 1960s, he looks to me like the James West character of the tv series "Wild, Wild West." But instead of a gun-slinging Secret Service agent, Daddy was a ranch hand and field worker who could do everything from shearing sheep and branding and herding cattle to picking cotton and other agricultural products. Because he loved cars, he became a self-taught auto mechanic and he worked on all of our cars--especially near inspection time.

He and Mama loved to dance and she tells us that together they once won a jitterbug dance contest. If only I could have seen that. She and Daddy would sometimes travel to the Mexican town of Acuna to see the bullfights, and to go dancing. The photos we've saved from those trips show a quite stylish couple, looking glamorous and happy. My parents truly loved and cared for one another. I would say that Mama is still in love with him--even after two decades of him being gone. That's enduring love.

21 years ago today: December 12, 1990

Daddy wrote me one letter after I left for college in Maryland. It was the first time I'd been so far from the family on my own for more than a weekend away. It's a precious letter, which I'll keep for rereading for the rest of my life. In it, Daddy wrote how quiet the household was without me and how, when he arrived home from his night job--and i wasn't there doing my homework or up to greet him--that is when he missed me most of all.

There are many many things that could be written about Daddy: what i have heard about his life before my birth and what i remember about him from his years as my father. Those complete and detailed accounts will come in time. For today, suffice to say: he was an amazing man and father, husband and sibling. He left us way too soon, way too young.

On December 12th, 1981--on Virgen de Guadalupe Day--he was overtaken by a brain tumor that had probably been a sinister invader growing since before i'd left for my first semester at college. The next day, December 13th, i received a fateful call from Texas that Daddy was going to have emergency surgery to remove the just-detected tumor, but not soon enough to save the vision in his left eye. Things went on a sometimes-nightmarish freefall from there for Daddy. (He was diagnosed with adult-onset diabetes and eventually lost complete eyesight in his right eye, becoming completely blind.)



These changes affected the entire family, of course, and imposed hardships too painful to detail even decades after their occurrence. But i must mention that the Virgen de Guadalupe has figured quite significantly in our family as well. It was on her celebration day (December 12th, 1981) that Daddy was diagnosed to have the brain tumor. It was on Virgen de Guadalupe day that he passed quietly away (December 12th, 1990) after almost ten long years of illness and neglect. Gone but never forgetton, as they say.

So, once again, another Virgen de Guadalupe day to commemorate and remember. It's been twenty-one years without Daddy as i first knew and loved him. But our relationship is stronger than ever, existing on another, more ethereal and spiritual, plane, which sometimes manifests in the most mysterious and miraculous ways. I'll leave those details and explanations for a future date.

Rest in eternal peace, Daddy. And thank you for the gentle surprises and welcomed gifts that you continue to bestow upon me. I love you forever.

Hanging out with Green Tara for New Year's Eve

I spent the evening last night with the Green Tara.

What I mean is that my friend Shara and I participated in an all-night New Year's Eve meditation retreat at the Kadampa Meditation Center in Arlington, Texas. It was both the first time for us to visit this Buddhist center and the first time for us to try doing a spiritual retreat to ring in the new year.

The focus for the retreat was the Green Tara, the Buddhist symbol of universal compassion and empathic practice. So, Shara and I arrived at the Center just in time for the potluck celebration meal, which had followed the first chanting/meditation session. Not to worry, there were many more such sessions to come, scheduled at 3-4 hour intervals. We had been (according to an email invite I'd received) encouraged to bring sleeping bags so that we might nap in between the sessions. And we did just that.

After eating, we washed our dishes in the communal kitchen and chatted with a few acquaintances that happened to be there for the first time as well. We removed our shoes (a Center requirement) before entering the sanctuary, which was a spacious bright room with plush white carpet and comfy cushioned chairs. I took advantage of the ample space in the back area to stretch my aching neck and shoulders, and soon noticed a guy over to my right doing some yoga work too. It was very quiet and peaceful, though the sound of laughter would break out regularly, as folks of the community chatted in the dining area and outside vestibule.

It soon came to be obvious when the 11pm chant/meditation session was to begin. Shara and I had been apprised as to the procedure of the sessions by a friendly practitioner named Tom. While others chanted and sang the prayers from memory,
the apparent newbies such as myself read directly from the booklet provided for use. I found my mouth getting drier and drier, as the lines we sang were rapid and wordy, in English peppered with Sanskrit and Tibetan words. Staring at the beautiful array of deity statues and ornamentations, and the offering table covered with lit candles, I felt content to bring in the new year in a humble, introspective fashion rather than in the loud, smoky din of a bar or music venue. (Last year, I spent the entire new year's eve night alone, sicker than ever, watching almost the entire BBC mini-series adapted from a Charles Dickens novel.)

By 1am, the chanting was done and the Geshe (teacher) called out "Happy New Year," which prompted everyone to stand and share New Year's hugs and greetings. My friends Be and D'Zyne stepped over to chat and embrace; it was wonderful to see them here--also as first-timers to this Center.

Folks began laying their blankets and sleeping bags along the back wall and also near the front of the sanctuary, and the lights were soon dimmed for this sleep break. Shara and I went out to the car to retrieve our sleeping things and soon joined the others, bedded down for a few hours until the next chanting session, which was to start at 3am.

A gentle whispered wake-up call was issued near my head. "We start in 10 minutes," spoke one of the community members. I roused myself, feeling my mouth all chalky inside, wishing that I'd remembered to bring a toothbrush. In a beautiful wordless choreography, all the once-sleeping people were now up, lighting candles, turning up the sanctuary lights, and finding theirs seats on the floor or on the ample-seated chairs. Shara kindly brought over two blankets, so we could each cover our shivering legs.

Once the session at 3am began, my mind stopped drifting and became attuned to the communal intention, as well as my specific and personal goals. To be clear-minded (not merely sober, but also keenly aware) and thoughtful, with a dedication to rouse what needs to be roused, but to tame, regulate, and simmer the sorrows, doubts, and worries that distract. It was a tough session, staying awake to repeat prayers in a melodic chant, and my thirst seemed a huge obstacle to getting through this experience. But I've been thirsty before, and obstacles are usually temporary, so I plowed through, sometimes merely whispering occasional words rather than forcing myself to keep up forcefully strong. For inspiration, I let my eyes wander over the visage of the Tara statue. Her outstretched right leg, the mudra (spiritual gesture) formed by her fingers, and the shiny headdress on her slightly-bowed head.

Such practice brings out hope in me--a hope to somehow emulate and radiate the characteristics and internal features of spiritual strength and engaged Buddhistic persona. My striving is gentle, as I realize I am not perfect and that I don't have to be "done" or transcendent today.

I am just grateful that I have successfully turned the corner to a new year and will work intentionally to use every day of the next 365 that I might be blessed to live to accomplish good works for the benefit of all and for the betterment of my internal self.

Before the 6am session started, Shara and I rolled up our sleeping bags and blankets, put on our shoes, and headed out into the dawn and into 2011. Searching for pancakes and coffee, having found a most beautiful serenity at the Kadampa Center, lit on the inside.

Chi Kung is making me move some energy - creative impulse is surging now

I am in a burst of creativity now, and feel boosted by the Chi Kung (!) and Tai Chi class i am taking on Thursdays at the Acupuncture Wellness Center located right in my 'hood--Fairmount of Fort Worth, which even has its own website.

The instructor, Martha Fiddes, is so great to focus on the Chi Kung, which has been my favorite internal martial art so far in life. (I took a coupla classes in the 1990s in Austin, and somehow felt i couldn't afford to stick with it. Now I know I cannot
afford to NOT stick with it.)

We are breathing into our internal organs and practicing the Sun form of Tai Chi which is so elegant and beautiful to me.
It's considered the most "flowing" form.

More relaxed in my body and ready to focus on some new writing, I've started on a collection of poems about the border (Texas-Mexico border as well as the borders within) and hope to have them finished by next week. For a competition deadline.

I am not now as socially-available as before, but am choosing to enjoy my new focuses (foci) at home. Have been marbleizing glass holiday ornaments, a new experiment and expression for me. I was brought to this because of a request by the folks at the offices of State Rep. Lon Burnam. They gave me the task of decorating a large transparent glass orb which, when I've finished with it, will be mailed to Austin and hung on a holiday tree in the State Capitol. How's that for a poet who doesn't do much visual art?

Will show the results when I'm finished working on it.

Eulogy for Grace: an appreciation-in-progress

THANKS and MUCH APPRECIATION for all the generous expressions of love, sympathy, and kindness that have been extended to me via Facebook, Myspace, phone calls, email, and person-to-person moments. Without you, my beautiful tribe and family of friends, I would be nowhere and nothing...
____________________

Quite suddenly, I lost my young little Grace,
a cat who chose me about five years ago. It was
one unmemorable day that she showed up at my front door,
eager and trusting--
with one ear partly clipped to show that she'd been
a recipient of the "catch, neuter, release" program
of the neighborhood association. We took to one
another with the greatest of ease.

She grew to be very memorable.

She was smart and full of vitality, and today
she is gone. The vet said that she died of
an allergic reaction, which made her throat close
and she could not breathe.

I am devastated.

I truly valued this little animal friend who showed
such an affinity for my homebody writer lifestyle,
and didn't seem to like it when I had to leave for
appointments. Indeed, she had recently started brave
attempts at following me to the bus stop as I rushed to
work.

I had just bought a collar/harness for her in hopes of
working with her comfort level to be able to someday
take long walks together. And take her to Spiral Diner
or another street cafe nearby.

A brilliant, fun cat, she took to tree- and roof-climbing
as well as sidewalk rolling with equal gusto. I admired
her keen insights and instincts; cats have these in general,
I know. But Grace was particularly dog-like, coming to
me when I called and even bringing her little puffball
toys to my feet--in exchange for Whisker Lickin treats.

I could go on, but you get the idea. She was very special
to me, and I am going to revere and miss her forever.


Sometimes Grace would squint her eyes as she lay in bed,
seemingly wanting to ask: "It's way past midnight and you're
still on that computer. Can't you at least dim the lights?"
One night, I got up from the desk and gently placed my
sunglasses over her eyes. She seemed to appreciate that.


Thanks for listening, dear friends and family.
Thoughts of our kinship are helping to keep me comforted.

Love,

Tammy


Extra note:

As i recall, these are the pet names/nicknames i used for Grace in all the time we were together:

Grace - Kitty - Pookety - Ani (short for Animal) - Ahn-i-mahl - Kitty of the City (pronounced "kittay of the citay") -
Autonomy Cat - Pookety of the City -
and Sunshine Cat (when i would find her, mostly in the mornings, luxuriating in the patches of sunlight beaming through
the eastside windows onto the floor)

Goodbye and good life, Grace (Sept. 14, 2009)

My heart is broken...

How i've labored since i was 15 years old

However you commemorate Labor Day, I hope that you consider the protesting, stalwart activists who made sure that legislative and institutional changes were made to ensure and protect laborers in this country--young and old, male and female, white and otherwise. Cheers for labor unionists, labor organizers, and we the workers ourselves. More protections and considerations need to be brought to eventuality in terms of our comrades and counterparts from and in other countries. And lastly, I would ask that we remember that when we purchase goods manufactured by the hands of exploited laborers we are supporting bad/unfair/often illegal labor practices. Let's do the better thing, as often as we can.

And now, a list. I thought it would be--here on Labor Day 2009--an interesting exercise to list all the jobs i could remember ever having worked. So here it is, from my fast-food inaugural work experience to my current job. For what it was worth...


Wendy's - Fort Worth - front counter, food prep, dining room cleaning, drive-up window

General Cinema - Seminary South Theater - Fort Worth - concessions, ticket sale, popcorn maker

Texas Grain & Feed Association - Fort Worth - general office assistant

Minyard's Grocery Store - Fort Worth - bakery clerk

Black-Eyed Pea Restaurant - Fort Worth - waitress/host

Goucher College - Towson, Maryland - Office of Public Relations - work-study position

Gander's Restaurant - downtown Baltimore - waitress

Southwestern Petroleum Co. - Fort Worth - clerk/typist, data entry

Union Equity Cooperative Grain Exchange - Fort Worth - general office assistant, data entry

Goucher College - Towson, Maryland - Office of Dance-Movement Therapy - work-study position

University of Texas-Austin - Journalism Department - phone survey - data collection

University of Texas-Austin - General Libraries - Administrative office - receptionist/office clerk

University of Texas-Austin - University Inter-scholastic League (UIL) - Administrative office - assistant to three directors

Tarrant County Mental Health Mental Retardation Services - mental health therapist tech and manager of three-quarter-way facility for chronically mentally ill adults

Boys and Girls Club - Eastside branch, Fort Worth - Cultural Enrichment Director

Chinese restaurant - downtown Fort Worth

Warehouse - Boulder, Colorado - shipping/receiving assistant

Frying Pan - Basalt, Colorado - waitress (one day only)

Live-in nanny on Buttermilk Mountain - Aspen, Colorado - cooking, cleaning, childcare, food shopping

Poetry consultant (for musician Jimmy Ibbotsen) - Aspen, Colorado - one-shot thing

Tesuque Village Market - Tesuque, New Mexico - cashier/waitress

Tia's Tex-Mex restaurant - Fort Worth - waitress

Nokoa-The Observer - African-American Progressive weekly newspaper - Austin, TX - office assistant, reporter

Boys and Girls Club - Montopolis (adjacent to Austin) - summer instructor

University of Texas-Austin - Natural Fibers Research & Information Center - research assistant

Website development consultant - Fort Worth

Booker T. Sparks Performing Arts Program - Fort Worth - afterschool arts educator

University of North Texas Health Science Center - Lewis Medical Library - Fort Worth - library assistant

Latin Arts Association (Artes de la Rosa) - Fort Worth - afterschool arts educator

Veterans for Peace - 2005 National Convention - Irving, Texas - convention coordinator

Fort Worth Independent School District - substitute teacher - middle school and high school levels


(Plus various temp job assignments through temporary employment agencies
and
commissioned art assignments (performing, teaching, mentoring youth, and writing)
and
paid artist residencies in Nebraska, California, Massachusetts, Wisconsin, and Texas.)


Volunteer positions - the following list is about 15% complete
(Women as volunteers contribute most of the world's unpaid labor, which is not considered as part of the gdp (gross domestic product).

St. Andrew's Catholic Church - Fort Worth - youth lector, liturgical performing artist/director
ACLU - Fort Worth - student intern
Texas Civil Liberties Project - Austin, TX - free legal clinic - administrative assistant
The Other Screen - founder/director and coordinator of this monthly independent film/video series in 1980s Fort Worth
Rocky Mountain Permaculture Institute (and organic farm) - Basalt, Colorado - intern
KO.OP (91.7 FM) Radio - Austin, TX - producer/programmer, outreach coordinator, and elected member of the Community Board

My personal Nepal anniversary

This week, this precise week, marks the 10th year anniversary of my FIRST (yes, someday i WILL return) journey to and in Nepal. I long-ago started a blog which was designed to depict at least a few of my experiences and impressions while there in the summer of 1999. So, you can go there if you want to read more details about that. For here and now, let's just enjoy these two images and some elevation stats. Yeah, I trekked up to see Everest, and yes, it rocked my world.


Uhm, some folks got me to do an interview for an August 1999 edition of the Sandhiya Times (a Nepal Bhasa-language daily that's distributed in Kathmandu). Pretty unexpected thing to happen to a Chicana from Tejas, que no?

Kathmandu, 4500 ft. elevation

Lukla, 9380 ft. elevation

(Oh, that's right: I flew into Lukla, at the "most dangerous airport in the world". Glad I didn't know this back then. You gotta watch the embedded video footage of a SAFE landing into Lukla on this site. No wonder all the passengers and flight personnel break into excited (and relieved) applause whenever this plane lands in one piece..)

Namche Bazaar, 11,300 ft. elevation

Khumjung 12,400 ft. elevation

Tengboche 12,670 ft. elevation

Pangboche 12,800 ft. elevation

Back to the garden(ing).

Sometimes I fret that I am spending (my all-too-precious) time doing the wrong things. I often double up by listening to some interesting radio (KERA's Think or This American Life or Radio 360) as I move to and fro cleaning, arranging, blogging, cooking, cat-bonding, etc. Today, I decided--with utmost intent--to push everything aside so that I could finally make fresh herb bundles to share with neighbors and friends who live in my very walkable neighborhood. It was a gorgeous sunny day, with a mild cool breeze blowing, and so I knew that a walk could do me some good. As I listened to Middle Eastern students and young professionals interpret and analyze President Obama's recent speech in Cairo, I carefully arranged and tied together short cuttings of fresh rosemary and oregano from my garden. It was a little bit of a fight that I had to wage, within my mind, to keep myself from labeling this activity as frivolous and dashing back to the internet for online browsing, researching, bulletin posting, whatever, whatever. Seems that, more and more, it becomes harder to justify spending time OFF-line. This concerns me greatly. And so, I am trying to liberate myself from the cyber-hood by doing things that really matter. Er, because they deal with actual matter. Hence, I have been gardening (i.e., growing things in dirt, specifically in the dirt around my house). So far, I have the following new little lovelies soaking up sun (and water) and stretching up, millimeter by millimeter, every day--much to my delight and unwavering fascination: basil, cabbage (c'mon, little guy, you can do it!), onion, carrots, collard greens (from seed, mind you), chili peppers, squash, pole beans, mint, and parsley. I am so protective of my little growing project that I cannot imagine the pain I am likely to inflict on anyone caught trying to heist my garden edibles.

I wanna say some words about my experience of the ABC network special "Earth 2100", which I caught on the telly this past Tuesday. But all I can manage to share about this right now is that 1) the info and narrative of this program was very sobering; 2) I'm glad i've been living my "economic downturn" lifestyle for over 15 years already; and 3) we really need to grow a solid mentality and practice of living the aphorism that "we're all in this together."

If you want some fresh-cut rosemary or oregano, just let me know. I'll be happy to share the harvest.

Recommended reading

Peak-Oil Prophet James Howard Kunstler on Food, Fuel and Why He Became an Almost Vegan

* By Kerry Trueman
Alternet, May 7, 2009
Straight to the Source

I grew up in Woodland Hills, Calif., a nominally pastoral, petrocentric Los Angeles suburb, so peak oil prognosticator James Howard Kunstler's dim view of our car-crazed culture really resonates with me.

Kunstler's relentless skewering of suburbia, and his penchant for apocalyptic predictions have landed him a reputation as a cranky Cassandra. But as Ben McGrath observed while strolling around Saratoga Springs with Kunstler for a recent New Yorker piece, "Far from the image of the stereotypical Chicken Little, he was more like an amiable town crier whom the citizenry regarded fondly, if a bit skeptically."

So, when a friend and I found ourselves headed to Kunstler's neck of the woods for a conference recently, we arranged to have dinner with Saratoga Springs' resident soothsayer. Contrary to his contrarian reputation, Kunstler proved to be an affable, upbeat guy.

We chatted about food, politics, urban planning, gardening and a dozen other topics, but I'm not much of a note-taker; I'd rather eat than tweet. So our dinner conversation was off the record, including, mercifully, his ribald remarks about Alice Waters and Martha Stewart, which decency should preclude me from even alluding to.

However, he graciously agreed to answer my questions via e-mail about his conversion from carnivore to (mostly) vegan and other foodish and fuelish topics.

Kerry Trueman: Let's get right to the meat of the matter -- or, rather, the lack thereof. You used to enjoy eating "lots of meat, duck fat, butter by the firkin." What made you decide to go more or less vegan in recent months? Was it hard to make the transition to a plant-based diet?

James Howard Kunstler: It was as simple as a trip to the doctor's office. My cholesterol and blood pressure were too high. I had to take some radical action. I've enjoyed the challenge of cooking with a very different range of ingredients. But I like cooking and am pretty good at it -- I worked in many restaurant kitchens when I was a starving bohemian -- and I figured a lot of things out.

For instance, that you can make stocks and sauces by braising onions and aromatics without oil or butter. The only thing I really miss is making really bravura dishes for company, like chicken pie with a butter-saturated crust, duck-and-sausage gumbo, brownies ... you get the picture. ... I'm still excited by the challenge of vegan (or nearly vegan -- I use skim milk) cookery.

There are some excellent cookbooks out there, by the way, like Vegan With a Vengeance by Isa Chandra Moskowitz, The Accidental Vegan by Devra Gartenstein, and the Candle Cafe Cookbook by Joy Pierson and Bart Potenza.

KT: A study has just come out showing that although the French spend two hours eating each day -- roughly twice as long as we do -- they're among the slimmest of the 18 nations in the study. Americans were the fattest, with more than 1 in 3 Americans qualifying as obese. How would you explain this phenomenon? What compels Americans to eat so many of our meals in our cars?

JHK: Americans eat so many meals in cars because: 1) The infrastructure of daily life is engineered for extreme car dependency, and 2) because the paucity of decent quality public space and so-called third places (gathering places) for the working classes (and lower) -- and remember, it is the working classes and poor who are way disproportionately obese. The people portrayed in Vanity Fair magazine are not fat. I suspect that the amount of time Americans spend in their cars is roughly proportionate to the amount of time French people spend at the table.

Fast food is not a new phenomenon in the USA, however. Frances Trollope's sensational travel book of the 1830s, The Domestic Manners of the Americans dwells on the horrifying spectacle of our hotel dining rooms, where people bolted their food with disgusting manners. Americans have been in a tearing rush for 200 years.

KT: In The Long Emergency, published in 2005, you predicted with astounding accuracy how the subprime mortgage meltdown would unfold. Your latest novel, World Made By Hand, takes place in the near future after a massive flu outbreak that originated in Mexico. Um, what should we start worrying about next?

JHK: Worry about the "recovery" that never comes and the insidious collapse of our institutions and arrangements that will proceed from this. Worry about lost incomes and vocations that will never come back (e.g. marketing exec for Target, Inc.) and the need to find new ways to be useful to your fellow human beings (and incidentally perhaps earn a living). Worry about finding a community to live in that is cohesive enough to stave off anarchy at the local level. Worry about building the best garden you can and making good compost. Worry about how difficult it is to learn how to play a musical instrument at age 47.

KT: You recently wrote "there's no way we can continue the petro-agriculture system of farming and the Cheez Doodle and Pepsi Cola diet that it services. The public is absolutely zombified in the face of this problem -- perhaps a result of the diet itself." OK, so how will we stock our post-peak-oil pantries? Do we really need to start hoarding rice and beans?

JHK: Get some kind of a hand-cranked home grain mill. Personally, I think it is indeed a good idea to lay in a supply of beans, lentils, rice, oats, other grains and don't forget salt, boullion (soups can sustain us with any number of ingredients), dried onion flakes, spices (chilies and curries especially). Our just-in-time, three-day's-worth-of-inventory supermarket system is very susceptible to disruption. And we're very far from establishing workable local food networks in this country.

The fragility of petro-ag is being aggravated by the collapse of bank lending now. Farmers need borrowed money desperately. Capital is as important an "input" as methane-based fertilizers. I think we could see problems with food production and distribution anytime from here on.

KT: You're an avid gardener -- do you grow much of your own food? Do you worry that you'll have to guard your greens with a gun if our collapsing economy sends the mall rats outdoors to forage after the food courts run out of pretzel nuggets?

JHK: I don't grow any grains. I have successfully grown potatoes, but won't this year (I'm renting my current house and its accompanying property). This year, I'll be planting mostly leafy greens -- collards, kale, chard, lettuces, plus some peppers and tomatoes (pure frivolity). It is not hard to imagine that food theft will become a problem. The trouble, though, is that the sort of people liable to do the thieving are exactly those with the poorest skills in cooking. You have to know what to do with kale to make it worth stealing. It may be more like kitchen theft: "... what's that you got on the stove, pal?"

KT: You evidently enjoy cooking and entertaining. Who would your dream dinner guests be (limiting your guest list to those folks who are currently among the living)?

JHK: I have a pretty good revolving cast of characters among my friends locally who make regular visits to my table. This week, a farming couple who are renting 20 acres off a wealthy land-truster (and doing a great job of market gardening) are coming over, along with the Rolling Stone environmental reporter and his wife, who is writing a gardening book. I don't need no steenkin' outatown celebrities.

Spring Issue, YELLOW MEDICINE REVIEW - now released

There is nothing like capping off an amazing afternoon of backyard gardening (also lit my firepit as it was actually cool enough outside to deal with that) with a great mail delivery. I received my contributor's copies of the latest issue of the
YELLOW MEDICINE REVIEW yesterday and put the huge yellow envelope aside 'til I was done in the backyard. Then, I took a quick bath, put on some fresh clothes, and walked--with envelope under my arm--to the Chatroom for a celebratory pint. It's my tradition to toast myself whenever a new publication credit comes to pass; typically, I've ended up at the thinks-it's-schmancy-but it's actually pretty laidback upstairs bar at the Worthington Hotel downtown. I once dragged a box of books and a box cutter up there, plopped down on a leatheresque settee and ordered a Bombay gin and tonic. Never mind trying to get a friend to join you; they're usually at work or otherwise occupied. And, what I've come to realize is that this celebration is really about you, the writer, and your book. Ain't no one else really gonna understand the import and necessity of unpacking the book from its delivery wrap with great anticipation, and the delicious feeling of first seeing the book design and cover art, and turning the book over and over in your hands--knowing that your own written words have contributed to its weight and value. Then, when you open the book to see where your poems have been placed, you marvel at how your work seems to hold its own settled in among poems written by people you have never heard of before. I try to read my poems with the eyes of a new reader, imagining what they might find or appreciate most in my words. All these gestures and rituals of welcoming a new book are a quite personal experience for the published writer. If you as friend or family member don't really understand but applaud me from afar, that's cool. Me and my new book will continue to celebrate over at the corner table, glistening with pride and good humor.

My cabbies

The forthcoming issue of Yellow Medicine Review will be featuring three of my poems based generally on the theme of education, including one about my international cab drivers--they're immigrant men about 99% of the time--and we share fascinating conversations as they drive me to my destination. As we all know, "it's the journey, not the..." I learn so much from these men, as they are often well-educated with colorful histories which are encapsulated in six minutes (or so) of time talking together. I often--especially in the past three months--begin to feel a particular kinship with these men, as if these drivers are long-lost brothers who need to hurriedly catch me up on the lives they've been living.

In some cases, I have tracked their journeys, before even knowing them personally: A Nepali driver seemed to appreciate that I exhibited more than a passing awareness of the current political situation in Nepal. And, when my driver this past Wednesday told me that he'd been born in Cuba and hoped to travel there someday--his parents were from Sudan--I put two and two together and realized that this young man was of "diplomat family stock". He confirmed what I'd thought, telling me that his parents were only briefly based in Cuba, and thereafter returned to Sudan where this man was raised. He told me that he could not now return to Sudan, for he is a "wanted man" and I chimed in, "like one of those 'Lost Boys' of Sudan", to which he smiled--not every Fort Worthian is gonna have a clue, after all--and nodded, "yes I am like them."

There are many "lost boys" wandering our streets as taxicab drivers in the night. I hope that they at least occasionally meet other passengers who care to hear their stories and arrive, full stop, at heartening and enlightening conclusions together.

follow me on Twitter at twitter.com/trappedNcloset

i'm re-enacting my closet ordeal,
via twitter only. it's a 2.5 day finite experimental performance work.

don't worry, i'm not actually IN the closet physically, just a little bit emotionally, psychologically, and artistically.

one friend DID panic, thinking i was actually trapped (again), and drove over to check on me yesterday evening.
sorry, Lindsey.

another thing i'm doing to celebrate my 1-year anniversary of the struggle to carve a hole in the door to get out of the closet, is that i'm EATING and DRINKING as much as i want for 2.5 days. i'm having a cup of Wild Berry Zinger tea at the moment, whereas this time last year i was enjoying (barely) "essence of saliva."

be in the moment, wherever you are!

Festival Internacional de Poesia de Quetzaltenango - this wk. in Guatemala

Ramsey, our friend studying Spanish in Guatemala, sent word about an international poetry festival taking place there all this week (May 9-15). He's gonna be checking it out, which I'm happy he's doing. For more info on the fest, click here.

And, to read his online travel notes--which are remarkably nuanced and detailed at times--check out
RAMSEY'S TRAVEL BLOG. I recommend the additional reading implements of a strong cup of coffee and a well-cushioned desk chair.

On the subject of traveling abroad and witnessing poetry festivals, I am reminded of my own three months spent--quite often--hanging out in Kathmandu with some of the contemporary Nepali "stars" of poetry. Once word got out that a poet from America was wandering their streets, many KTM literary scholars and poets invited me to teas, lunches, and some--at times--quite pompous literary events, the likes of which I'd never experienced before. (Imagine sitting in an un-air conditioned windowless lecture hall for five hours, watching dignitary after dignitary walk up to the podium for his 10-minute honoring ceremonial introduction--now this is before you even get to hear one poem. When an actual poet is introduced, his (though there are noted and recognized women poets and authors, the great majority are men) brief reading is preceded by hugely long sonorous commentaries by a panel of (who designates them as such, I never found out) critics. Torture, I tell you.{

However, one bold shining exception to all the pomp and pretension I experienced at Nepali literary events, was getting to spend quality time--in his home, no less--with the nationally-revered poet Megh Raj Manjul, known to most as simply 'Manjul." Ah, now the memories are really flooding in. Now I have to drop everything, maybe tonight, and find that old audio cassette which contains my brief interview with Manjul (circa August 1999), and, most importantly, the poems and song that he performed for me and my tape recorder. (Dang, I hate that my minidisc battery was spent by the time I got to meet Manjul...)

Until today, it hadn't even occurred to me that my Nepali literary comrade might have a web presence this century. I guess, because Nepal didn't even get digital pagers until the late 1990s, I didn't think that folks there would even be bothering with website development and html authoring. Oh well, more the surprise and pleasure for me now, as I am finding a cornucopia of sites that are feeding my current re-fascination with all things Nepal.

You can read more about Manjul, as one of the many Personalities of Literature from Nepal on the Spiny Babbler website. Spiny B is a veritable production house of activity for all things literary in Nepal. I myself own archival copies of the "Spiny Babbler", the English-language poetry journal founded by Nepali publisher/writer Pallav Ranjan. I suppose that the print journal was only the beginning for Pallav, as the online website now evidences.

As I keep browsing, I find more sites leading me to my past. Wow, even my former meditation teacher, Wayne Amtzis, is online! I remember doing walking meditation on his rooftop one humid Kathmandu afternoon, and meeting him for Buddhist teaching sessions at a study center every so often during my summer there. Wayne is also established, as expatriate from the U.S., as a writer and translator, having played an instrumental role in the publication of dozens and dozens of poems written in both Nepali and Nepal Bhasa (one of many ethnic languages) over the years. I think I'll send him an email, and start a reconnection in earnest with the living poets of that nation.

Here's to literary expression, anywhere--be it Guatemala or Nepal, Mexicio or the U.S.--and everywhere, and to all the contemporary writers who forge bonds beyond borders.

Dawning Poem - Inauguration Day, Jan. 20, 2009

6:57 a.m.

there are some mornings, in the course of human life,
when the body will not sleep. will no longer lie prone.
as if by invisible fishing line, i too have been pulled from rest.
when my body knows, it is time, why do you lie there,
there is a new day to be dawned, a new day to be alive,
a new day to get started the work of a new day.

today is such a day.

my body has stirred, perhaps from the bark of a yard dog,
perhaps from the sound of cars moving in unison.
just like everyday, those sounds have sounded in my midst.
but today, my body yearns for a beacon, a bugle call,
to remind me that this is a day to not linger with sleep.

i have had such mornings before.

when i was in nepal, high up in the mountains of Himalaya,
my body would be roused by 5am, my mind briskly churning
with anticipation for the views i could see as soon as
the morning sun would deign to start warming, start shining.
to be in bed was impossible, as my spirit rushed ahead of me,
pulling on clothes, lighting a morning candle,
drawing open the curtains, peeling open a fresh day.

so, too, when i was trapped in my own bedroom closet last year.
at the first sign of dawn, the possibility of renewed light
through the opening beneath the door that miserably confined me,
this light had surely been worth waiting for, but in due time,
the waiting is over. the light starts beaming through,
the body surges with energy, and reserves of ambition you never
thought you could have now push you to get up,
wipe the sleep from your eyes, and get to work chiseling,
get back with increased fervor to the work of carving
one's way out of darkness.

i am excited. heart beating fast, i am thrilled.
it is 7:01 a.m.

and i am not a morning person.

though i am a quick-thinking, hard-working woman,
i have a penchant for deep-sleeping well past sunrise.

but here, in my 4th decade, i am awake
like the most exhuberant child:

hours before the holiday parade,
the first one awake on christmas day,
blinking in bed on birthday morning, wondering
whether the cake will be chocolate or not,
the first day of school with the smell of my new shoes
and freshly sharpened #2 pencils ready for use.

it is dark yet in this room, i could lay back down,
it is not too late to get some more sleep,
i could sneak in a cat nap and be up again later.
i could shut down this awakened state,
and resume dormancy in bed.

but it is now 7:05, and there are people on a lawn,
the hugest green belt in d.c. they have been there for hours,
standing and singing. i think i can hear their song.
their heartbeats have wakened me, and my own pulse is
now racing in unison with theirs.

as well, there are whispers of greeting in family hallways,
footsteps to the the kitchen, as households pull them selves
together for not just an ordinary day.
somehow, the coffee is perkier, more aromatic,
almost jumping out of the pot into our cups,
and we will drink of the morning like we haven't
in so many many a year.

a baby is being born.
a birthday is to be celebrated.
a party is happening soon.
friends just called from the airport.
grandmas coming for the weekend.
you're starting a new job.
today you close on the house.
your son is coming back from iraq.
you fly out in an hour to pick up your adopted daughter.

this is the day that
the hisbiscus blooms,
new software gets released,
a desired email arrives from your lover,
you will be handed a diploma,
you are honored with a medal of service,
you are toasted at a banquet

it is all happening at once,
the anticipation and the rush
towards that sunlight of the day,

and you are there with it, basking in its brilliance,
dispelling all shadows and feeling the promise
and beauty of today.

sleep is for the weary, and weariness is in that bed
and not your body. you feel like jumping on your bike
and breathing in a fresh air, you want to grab the chalk
and draw a huge 'good morning' in the middle of the road
or string balloons from your tree to your neighbor's tree
across the street, you want to wear something special
or you want to hold up a sign--standing in the median
of a busy boulevard--that says something bold,
or grab pots and pans and bang them in a parade or
ask the funny man down the street to please play his bugle
or invite all the children to join you for ice cream,
or sing a loud song and share the words with your friends
or honk your car horn like you're leaving a wedding,
or running running fast
like there's someone waiting with their arms to receive you--
or releasing hundreds of doves in a peace ceremony.

that is our work for this day.
get up and join the others.
feel your excitement, enjoy the surge.
hold hands with everybody, even if just in your mind,
and smile a radiant smile that adds to the light.

we have our hearts on the same page, so let's begin
to cajole a fresh change.
we will work together, alongside like family.

i cannot wait to join you and that is why, dear people,
i am now fully awake.





by Tammy Melody Gomez

scene from "Good Morning, U.S.A." (a dream and call to action)

Latina in black braids to her waist, stands amidst daytime traffic,
holding a sign which reads on one side:
"will NOT work for petty change"
and on the other:
"WILL work for RADICAL change!"

[slow pan across the horizon of the planet, as it breathes a huge sigh of relief]

what i feel @ once on this night of hope & optimism

hugs to all
from the north texas prairie,
feeling blissfully hopeful and lucky
(having just sidestepped two patrolling sqwad car chotas
as i sped happily away from my mama's home down
the avenue listening to steve miller 80s on the music radio,
for i suddenly somehow feel that i get to have the 80s back
as i lost them in 84 with the reagan years).
you can only know this bliss as a person of color
who has felt devalued through the haphazardly
implemented and foisted systemic devaluation of her
fellow brethren and sistren of color through the
decades of her life.
to have a black and a white family cheered on at the
podium at Grants Park on a night of ultimate hope
is the most amazing moment to witness in this ever-evolving
life of mine.

redefinition,
inversion, AND flipping of da quintessential
script are now mandates of the moment.

be loved, wherever you feel yourself to be:
atop a mountain, smiling in a valley,
cresting on the heart of hope.

peace be unto you, my dear comrade!

love,

T

TODAY is a good day to thank the beautiful people in my life--it's my birthday!

275 Reasons to Celebrate

1. Margie Gomez
2. Aristeo Gomez (QEPD)
3. Miranda Gomez
4. Ted Gomez
5. Breanna Herrera
6. Cecilia Epstein
7. Michelle Krupkin
8. Denise Douce
9. Debbie Reighn
10. David Kendall
11. Kendra Bochner
12. Liz Belile
13. Lorna Dee Cervantes
14. Patrisia Gonzalez
15. Roberto Rodriguez
16. Richard Loranger
17. Cecilia Gonzalez
18. Donna Hoffman
19. Ginger Webb (John too!)
20. Elaine Wolff
21. Ari Chagoya
22. Chandra Washington
23. Ernest Garcia
24. Sheelah Murthy
25. Patricia Greene
26. Rose Imperato
27. Nicholas Schriber
28. Rene Renteria
29. Raul R. Salinas
30. Radames Ortiz
31. Ray Santisteban
32. Tonantzin Canestaro-Garcia
33. Teresa Taylor
34. Diana Garcia
35. Allyson Lipkin
36. Irma Andrade
37. Andrea “Gaia” Melendez
38. Lydia Armendariz
39 Enrique Cabrera
40. Cesar Hernandez (Dulce too!)
41. BC Harrison
42. Jennifer Cardenas
43. Tamara Ford (Stan too!)
44. Frieda Werden
45. Julia Apodaca (Dani too!)
46. Lourdes Perez
47. Annette D’armata
48. Amanda Plaisance
49. Emily Kenyon
50. Brackin Firecracker
51. Aida Salazar (John too!)
52. Claudia Martinez
53. Maria Elena Fernandez
54. Diana Delgado
55. Cheri Popoff
56. Rod Lindsey
57. Mark Gee
58. Dave Haller
59. Danny Solis
60. Robert Karimi
61. Lisa Gill
62. Sarah West
63. Darryl Cropper
64. Astrid Zometa
65. Leticia Llinares Hernandez
66. Richard Ray Whitman
67. Kathianne Osborne
68. Tony Gilchriest
69. Mitch Rayes
70. Kenn Rodriguez
71. Mary Mier (Ron too!)
72. Eugene Jaceldo (and the other bros. Jaceldo)
73. Mariposa
74. SXIP
75. Andrew Baron
76. Sheila Contreras
77. Kamala Platt
78. Zeek Kruzich
79. Jordan Green
80. Teresa Marrero
81. Carol Pankratz
82. Kim DeLozier
83. Crystal Dozier
84. Greg Johnson
85. Rose Ann Meredith
86. Shani Abell
87. Jason Eklund
88. Kathy & Dani O’Brien
89. Kat Thornton (Ken too!)
90. Lisa Feather Wheeler
91. Violet Ramirez & family
92. Raul Avila
93. Clebo Rainey (Naomi too!)
94. Ricardo Garza
95. Gerald Youngblood
96. Da’Shade Moonbeam
97. Zell Miller
98. Rich Perin
99. Vicki Grise
100. Ana Sisnett
101. Bronmin Shumway (Kirk too!)
102. Chris & Tamitha Curiel
103. Karen X
104. Kelsie Torres Pelham (Derek too!)
105. Mitch Torres Parker (Bysshe too!)
106. Gabriela Lomonaco
107. Claudia Acosta
108. Natasha Carrizosa
109. Wendy Vestal
110. Devin Adams (QEPD)
111. Linda Curcio
112. ir’ene lara silva
113. Moises Silva
114. Diana Puma
115. Linus Strekfus
116. Andrea Griemel
117. Eduardo Garza
118. Irma Mayorga
119. Sandra Cisneros
120. Lisa Suarez
121. Rosie Gonzalez
122. Robert Tatum
123. Amalia Ortiz
124. Amelia Montes
125. Marisela Barrera
126. Laura Varela
127. Jane Madrigal
128. Rene Valdez
129. Jackie Cuevas (Jen too!)
130. Tony Diaz
131. Maria Limon
132. Anel Flores
133. Vicente Lozano
134. Anthony Flores
135. Anthony Douglas
136. AJ Houston
137. Gracey Tune
138. Will Richey
139. Zack Prince
140. Melissa Kane
141. Ruben Salazar
142. Jose Vargas
143. Ronald Shannon Jackson
144. Rajendra Narendra
145. Geetha Patil
146. Andrea Gonzalez
147. Bryce Milligan
148. Tim Cloward
149. Jennifer Hill
150. Lori Thomson
151. Junanne Peck
152. Kendall McCook (Ginny too!)
153. Kell Robertson
154. Marcos Flores (Sadanid too!)
155. Dagoberto Gilb
156. Shawn Truitt
157. Arleen Polite
158. Akwasi Evans
159. Mary Krenek
160. Doug Zachary
161. Carl Webb
162. Firesong
163. P.O. W. (Poet on Watch)
164. Peter Ortiz
165. Nailah Sankofa
166. Eva Lindsey
167. R.V. Adams
168. Valerie Bridgman-Davis
169. Phil West
170. Tchiya Amet
171. Torrence Gettrell
172. Pat Payne
173. Logan Phillips
174. Liliana Valenzuela
175. Shermakaye Bass
176. Luis Tames
177. Ben Olguin
178. Anita Pantin
179. Sherry Milam
180. Victoria Zapata Klein
181. Randy Koch
182. Sashua Muniz (where are you?)
183. David Moorman
184. Amanda Winters
185. Hillary Thomas
186. Debbie Ursini
187. Viola Valdez
188. Angelique (Jason too!)
189. Yvonne Duque
190. Natalia Dominguez
191. Rupert Gloria
192. Patricia Urbina (Donald too!)
193. Lupe Mendez
194. Yolanda Reyes
195. Alvaro Rios
196. Marco Iniguez (Brenda too!)
197. Manolo Callahan (Monica too!)
198. Rodney Garza (Dava too!)
199. Eli & Maria (the entire Madmedia crew)
200. Haldun Morgan
201. Jose Ruben de Leon
202. Pilar Rodriguez
203. Laney Yarber
204. Mav McNabb
205. Zoe Pardee
206. Judy Gordon
207. Christina Byrnes
208. m.m. harris
209. Machete
210. J.P. Markarian
211. Cri Rivera
212. Ramsey Sprague
213. Sahai
214. Gren
215. Rachella Parks Washington
216. Vik Bahl
217. Matt Stringer
218. Samira
219. Susan Libby
220. Mary Porter
221. Vicky Meek
222. Babs & Lama Tamang
223. Janne Bryan
224. Martha Whitehouse
225. Diane Wood
226. Karen Foley
227. John Singleton
228. Octavio Solis
229. W. Joe Hoppe
230. Norma Cantu
231. Heriberto G
232. Luis J. Rodriguez
233. Kazuko (where are you?)
234. Nadja Hamilton
235. Sylvia Orozco
236. Herlinda Zamora
237. Sonia Santana (Tom too!)
238. Robyn Medina Winnett
239. JoAnne Reyes-Boitel
240. Maria Solano
241. Clint Niosi
242. Rachel Loera
243. Nathan Kite
244. “big” Jerry of Tesuque Village Market
245. Lupe Cedillos
246. Lee Daniel
247. Rick Linklater
248. Bill Daniel
249. Emily (from Headlands Center for the Arts)
250. Ron (from UNL-Nebraska)
251. Quincy Miller
252. Emmet Campos
253. Isabella Russell-Ides
254. Al Santangelo (where are you?)
255. Vicki Monks
256. Joe Dale
257. Paul S. Flores
258. Marc Pinate
259. Brecht Andersch
260. Levi Romero
261. Pasha Allsup (QEPD)
262. David Zamora Casas
263. Sandra & Victor Payan
264. Francisco Aragon
265. Ken Hunt (QEPD)
266. She: Bike/Spoke/Love cast & crew
267. Dunya Dianne McPherson
268. Beatriz Terrazas
269. Michael “MD” Meyer (QEPD)
270. Rodrigo Pessoa
271. Layne Calabro
272. Lorenzo Thomas (QEPD)
273. Oscar Escalante
274. Michael Nye (Naomi too!)
275. Charles Dreyfus (Lila too!)


About a year ago, after a night-time shift at the library, I sat down to relax with a bottle of Heinecken and started a list of all the good friends and companions and colleagues who've stuck with me and supported me & encouraged me & partied with me & created with me through the decades of my life.

I started this list as a sort of meditation, to remind myself of the wonderful gift of friendship that I have had with so many amazing people. Today, on my birthday (9/30), I am feeling so blessed and lucky to have had all of you in my life.

With many of these folks: I've traveled or hiked or biked; shared tables & conversation until the wee hours of the morning; collaborated and performed on stages from Madison to San Francisco; distilled life's lessons and exchanged recipes for survival; and corresponded via chapbooks, mixtapes, cd demos, long philosophical emails, and cut-up collages. I have spent the night in the homes of 74 of you folks, indulging in your amazing libraries of music and literature, and having curious adventures in your hood.

When I broke my left foot in February, some of you mailed me care packages (Jen and Jackie--thanks!); brought over home-cooked meals and wine (Kat & Ken--thanks!); carried me to and from work when I couldn't drive (Ramsey, Lila, Dani O--thanks!).

When I emerged from my 2.5 day bedroom closet ordeal in May, many of you emailed and phoned me with messages of concern, love, and disbelief. (I'm still sorting through the impact of that closeted experience--stay tuned for a book, movie, or stage show about this...definitely)

So, on this anniversay day of my birth, I want to say that I love you for caring, and I thank you for being my friend, colleague, and companion. You are my tribe.

And finally, cuz I AM a POET--a short poem:


FOR YOU HAIKU


friend power is strong

i have no need for candle

you have lit my path



LOVE AND PEACE to all, Tammy

map of an online excursion

1. My friend, Ruben P. Salazar (not to be confused with Ruben Salazar, the journalist who was murdered by the L.A. Sheriff's Department on August 29th, 1970) is about to open a solo art exhibit in Waco, and has asked me to collaborate with him on a few of his visual works. I have submitted a few original poems with environmental themes, per his request. This morning, I finished a draft of a new poem, entitled "Steps on the Earth", which alludes to carbon footprinting.

2. The first draft of "Steps on the Earth" includes my slapdash use of the word "fractious," so I decide to look it up in an online dictionary to see if I misused it or not. I decide to keep the word in my poem, but tweaked the line it's in.

3. I notice, while googling "fractious," that there's an independent publisher called FRACTIOUS PRESS, so I decide to investigate who or what this press is about. I click on the NEWS link and become intrigued by the mention of something called BOOKSLUT, which turns out to be an online lit magazine. I meander over to their BOOKSLUT BLOG and devour many of the recent postings, enjoying myself immensely.

4. In a sidebar to the blog, I see that HOA NGUYEN has been interviewed by BOOKSLUT, so their stock value hits the ceiling. I really like Hoa, who--together with her husband and critic/writer Dale Smith--edits the SKANKY POSSUM, a literary journal and press. They live in Austin, so I get to occasionally see Hoa when I'm down there; I think she came up to Dallas in 2007 to read for a WordSpace event, but I was busy and had to miss her. Of course, I chow down on the interview and feel happy for her recent literary accomplishments, and suddenly long to visit her. (She is also one of about 5 or so editor/publishers who have, over the last 10 years, asked to see some of my work for possible publication. Why have I been holding back, holding out? In 2008, I will follow through...)

5. I now decide to soon send a greeting to Hoa, along with a few of my poems. We will see what goes after that. But, for now, it's time to sleep. It's 5:44 a.m.

Point of this exercise: to show that online browsing--even as I meander and indulge--ultimately gets me back on task, focusing on my literary (and otherwise) goals.