• Little girls, no matter where they live, no matter their station … even when they’re skipping rope, sun flashing on their small shoulders … carry the prescience of sorrow.
• A young woman’s star dims if she forgets to celebrate the light of others.
• A mother is a fierce reckoning; a child is the blood in her heart.
• Beauty does not reside in the structure of a face or the silhouette of a body.
• Wisdom is only found by searching along the bottom of deep facial crevices.
• A man stays helpless all his life at just the sight of an apron.

This looks like the wind of change, blowing on the back of That One, spooling his scarf out like the Hope he speaks of.

Whatever your personal political wind, let it take you to the polls to vote your heart, your mind, your convictions.

My favorite new song by Alanis Morrisette. The scenes remind me of the Oregon coast, which I miss so much.

Behold, my body!  It is resilient, malleable.  It thrums within a universe of fluids, cells, structures, generosity.

It breaks and mends.  It is scarred and perfect.  This is my body.  It’s been opened … fingers have touched my brain.  Cells have gathered into tumors like black holes revealing themselves only after growing large enough to interrupt nearby stars — my uterus, the round planets of my breasts, the deep reaches of my brain.

My body lives.  It’s been subtracted from.  It’s been added to:  A piece of metal here, some screws there, scooped out places rebuilt with plastic pouches filled with a liquidy substance.  Imperfect bridges to a perfect past have been installed inside this hollowed-out body.

The body looks nearly right.  Nearly original.

Even on its own, my body changes like the sky changes every day at dusk.  It is filled with red sunsets and the deep shudder of a rising sun.  It is alive with streams and rivers that bubble from its wellspring of hope.  It is filled with mystery and majesty.  With every breath, it celebrates itself.

It drinks in wine … and lattes … and doesn’t worry how long it will live, but rather how well it will serve.  Inside its wall of crumbling skin, it tumbles and twirls like a girl.

It’s me.  It’s my body; its hair now generously graying, its skin puckering into itself.  Still, It sparkles like a bright star over the desert.

It’s my body.  MY body.  My body.

Writing Scared

This is how it goes:

You inch onto the edge of the earth

And with nothing more than

A kite of words

You step into thin air

And you write things that desperately need

More than cloth strips tied together,

And string … and a triangle of

Color in a tumbling, falling world

Do you hear it?  Pffft … Pffft.  That’s the sound of my hands as they brush together, signifying the completion of my illustrious career as a journalist.  It’s been a great gig!  Thanks, HuffingtonPost for kindly publishing my humble submissions.  If you want to get all political and read my opinion pieces, you can go Here.  (There’s actually one more to be printed, but it’s a collaborative effort so I won’t claim ownership.)  A week ago I attended a telephone conference with the nice HuffPo folks.  When Arianna Huffington came on the line to thank us for our hard work as election correspondents, I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming into the phone … ARRIANNNNNA!!!  I LOVE YOU, ARIANNA!

In a way, it’s comforting to return to obscurity.  To once more engage in the business of all things make-believe.  The reality of the world is hard for we sensitives at this time.  Politics is tough!  It’s easier to be that pasty curmudgeon, languidly pouring over a new writing of poetry or fleshing out a particularly complicated character description.  It’s like tasting the first spoonful of a giant scoop of mashed potatoes to return to my beloved fiction.  To agonize over plot, pace, structure and premise.  Better to find scorn within the character of my antagonist rather than locate the weaknesses of those who would have blind ambition to lead us.

So I’m thankfully now complete as a human being by having gained a teensy weensy bit of notoriety as a political writer.  But as someone most famously said, “Thanks but no thanks for that bridge to [political] nowhere.”  As Ms. Palin has perhaps discovered (even while wrapped in $150,000 worth of make-up and clothes) I’ve also discovered that politics is fun … but you have to know something.

And what I know?  I know I don’t love journalism.

I love fiction.  I love poetry.  I love words, but not so much the must-be-meticulously-quoted words of others.

So once more, listen closely … Pffft.  Pffft.  Ahhhhh.

P.S.  Please see reader, Dave McChesney’s excellent article here.  He stepped away from his comfort zone and wrote this at my wheedling urging.  Thank you, Dave.  You should be very proud for speaking your opinion.

It’s nearly over — this madness that calls itself, for a better word, an election.  My frantic, migraine-producing work for HuffingtonPost has calmed down to a more manageable dull ache behind the eyes.  It’s now hard-hitting, on-the-ground , microphone-in-the-face reporting for them — something I still can’t do even though I’ve graduated to a walking boot and crutches.  I don’t really know why this contraption is called a “walking” boot since there’s really not much walking going on in the traditional sense of the word.  Its rounded sole creates more of a rocking motion than a sense of actually walking.  Nevertheless, I’m seeing the finish line on these three simultaneous journeys of late.  The election is nearly over, my short stint as a journalist is all but done, and I’ve almost learned to walk again.

Life is sweet … and bumpy!

My friend, Dave McChesney, at his LiveJournal, kindly mentioned DancingBirds.com.  (Thanks, Dave!)  After much wheedling on my part, he agreed to write some political reflections from his Navy-man perspective — something of great interest and importance.  But then HuffPo changed to a more hard-line starboard tack (notice the nice seamanship term?) and moved from reflective articles to straight reporting.  I was more than disappointed, but maybe Dave will publish his excellent and polished piece on the pages of his journal. (Hint.  Hint.)

Spammers have found us here at the Bloggybirdery (Hi spammers!) and someone stole my credit card number and had quite a spending spree before it was discovered (Hi thief!).  With our economy melting faster than the Wicked Witch of the West doused with cold water, we might have to get used to a lot more of these fools and idjuts.  (Hi fools and idjuts!)

Hey, we all may need to buckle up for what may be one big giant Betty Davis Bumpy Ride.  Remember the Davis character, Margo Channing, in the 1950 movie, All About Eve, who said, “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night”?  Famous Line.  She said it at the beginning of a party. There were a lot of undercurrents. A lot going on between people at the party.

I’d say we may be having our own worldwide Margo Channing moment here.

Whoever wins this election is going to have to pilot through some pretty turbulent times … and I suppose all we little guys can do is buckle up nice and tight and keep that barf bag handy.  That is, if we can afford to even grab a seat on this wild party ride.

So Spammers, Thiefs, Fools and Idjuts — Stop bumping me!  You’re gonna spill my wine … and you know how mama hates it when you spill her wine.

I love Sundays.  Do you love Sundays?  I LOVE Sundays.  It’s all about the coffee.  The newspaper.  The soft and languid pace.  A visceral remembrance of a church pew, scented with wood polish and prayers.  Songs that make you cry.  The Body of Christ.  The Blood of Christ.  Another cup of coffee.  Bacon and eggs, over medium.  Dogs sleeping at your feet.  Brushing against your husband’s hand.  An unhurried smile.

I love Sundays.

Today I went to TV church.  It’s the only way I’ll go to Mass these days.  I can mute the Priest, which sadly feels empowering.  Very sadly so.  I’ll probably go straight to hell for muting a Priest.

Before it got hot, we took Scarlett and Wilson to the doggie park.  You never know what you’re going to get there.  Today’s gang of greeters were large and boisterous.  Butt sniffers, every last one of them.  I managed to make it to the shade in my wheelchair where I was promptly peed on by a Boxer.  Nice.

Afternoon football.

Long-legged dogs stretched out on the floor.

Evening wine.

Tomorrow is Monday and back at it.  Work in the morning, physical therapy in the afternoon.  I’m getting better practicing with my crutches.  I haven’t tipped over yet today.

And what a week!  We’re officially in a Big R recession now and some are even worried that we’re headed toward a Big D depression.  It’s worldwide.  All our little middle class boats are stuck in a waning tide and folks are pretty scared.  We’ve just had our final presidential debate where at one point John McCain air quoted women’s health, as if it’s some kind of ridiculous notion that we should want to keep our very private uteruses away from his very outdated hands.  He’s like my priest who wants to return the faithful to 1952, with his celibate back turned to us and Latin once again spilling from his lips.  Back to mantillas bobbypinned to women’s heads and no one understanding anything anymore.

I’ve spent the week writing political articles for HuffingtonPost.  It’s unpaid work, but the good news is that I’ve joined the ranks of nearly a million other unpaid and unemployed people.  I’m in good company.  (Hi unpaid everyone else!)  Not to worry, as soon as the election is over, I’ll be unemployed too.

My broken leg is healed enough for me to stand on it once again … but, just a little bit.  I’m learning the nuance of crutches and how tricky those suckers really are!  Steps are whoopsiedoodle crazy.  It would seem all our retirement accounts are also all whoopsiedoodle crazy-gone.

Wilson got a haircut and Joe the Plumber isn’t a plumber after all.  Turns out he’s deep in debt to the IRS and wants to pal around with John the Senator.  Republicans are showing up at McCain and Palin rallies carrying toilet plungers around as if that’ll flush all the Dems out of sight.  They’re all screaming that ACORN is evidence of that Chicken Little falling sky … and if only Obama would admit to the lies they tell about him, everything would be swell.

As soon as the election is over, I’ll go back to schlepping my books around to agents once again.  This time, though, I have the label, “Nationally-prominent Election Correspondent,” added to my resume.

I think you’ll all be glad when I stop being all political and snarky … and return once again to writing my normal Bloggybirdery-style of poetic prose.  Bear with me, though.  Only 17 more days of this politicking remains.  I only hope our fragile American psyche survives and we come out of this a stronger, safer, more loving nation.

If I may practice one particular Latin word I love, I’ll leave you with that word … “Pace.”  Loosely translated — be at peace, everyone!

Officially … as of today … I finally get to walk again.  Look out, left leg!  You’re gonna have to walk again … starting today, this moment, this very lovely day!

Of course, walking with a broken leg means having a big fat boot that comes almost to your knees.  The boot weighs as much as your fright about walking on it.  Wait a minute — we’re talking standing up tall again.  Weight on the old foot again.  It also means freedom.  Driving the car again.  SHOPPING again!

Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned the shopping thing.  Dan is hiding my wallet.  Hey.  HEY!  Where are you going with my wallet, mister?  You touch my plastic and you’re a dead man!