Honest running playlist

This might be completely boring. I apologize. This is what I ran to this morning, along with a play-by-blay of my run.

1. E-pro, Beck

This one gets the job done, but I think it was a mistake putting it first. I started out running too fast and then I had to walk after the first km. That is when I noticed something really great. The male pollen structures are falling to the ground, spent. What are these things called? Stamens? Anyway, its a good thing. It means the pollen is almost done!!

2. Try, Pink

picked up the pace to pass an old man walking on the road. Yeah, I was flying. lol.

3. Fly Away, Lenny Kravitz

Finally getting into a good rhythm.

4. Ho Hey, The Lumineers

Got on the greenway on Linden, the dog keeps seeing squirrels

5. The Middle, Jimmy Eat World

Still on Linden

6. D,yer Mak'er, Led Zeplin

Crossed the road to avoid a guy walking two dogs. My dog is such a dummy. She's small but she thinks she can tell everyone what to do.

7. Bad Day, Daniel Powter

Merla (the dog) thought she was going to get a squirrel, yanked my arm, then crossed in front of me, tripping me and getting us tangled in her leash. This is why I hate running with my dog. She loves it though. So.

8. Bad Girls, M.I.A.

Love this song, I've worn it out a couple times. Its back on for like the 5th time. Ran through the village, passed a pack of girls running, ran faster.

9. Thrift Shop, Macklemore

hmmm. yeah. Running uphill. I hate this part. Started walking at the top of the hill. But not for too long. After the hill is the police and fire station. I always run faster. You know. In  case there is an emergency or something. Thats it. Also, that is really close to where I turn around.

10. Ttylxox, Bella Thorne

Cut me some slack, okay? This is an honest playlist. And... I have kids. Meh. I can't help it if I like some of their dumb songs! Running past the police/fire station again.

11. It's Only Fear, Alexi Murdoch

This is a slow song, but I love it. And I put it in to remind me to stretch. Two weeks ago I stretched before crossing the crosswalk here and almost got run down. Now I make sure to cross the road first. lol.

12. Party in the USA, Miley Cyrus

Uhhh. Yeah. Can't explain this one. Whatever. Uphill again into the village.

13. All My Days, Alexi Murdoch

I'm having a little Alexi Murdoch crush right now. It isn't really running music but the lyrics slay me. I'm slain.

14. Tonight, Tonight, Hot Chelle Rae

Back on Linden

15. Holla at the DJ, Coco Jones

In the home stretch!

16. Blue Mind, Alexi Murdoch

In the last km, back on my road. Passed a husband/wife running. That always makes me smile. And so does this song. Love. Love. Love.


Home! Pretty slow pace today. 59:07 minutes 9:29/mn miles. Oh well. Got it done.


I wear out my running playlist pretty fast. I have to change it up pretty often. What do you listen to when you run?

Spotlight: Craig Wallwork and how he changed the way I think.

So, I thought it could be fun to spotlight one of my facebook friends every once in a while? Every Thursday? I haven't decided. But I like it. I picked Mr. Wallwork first because he's been on my mind for a while now.

Brief Bio
I stole this from his blog:

Craig Wallwork lives in West Yorkshire, England.  He is the author of the short story collection Quintessence of Dust (KUBOA), and the novels To Die Upon a Kiss (Snubnose Press) and The Sound of Loneliness (Perfect Edge Books).  His fiction has appeared in various anthologies, journals and magazines.  He is the fiction editor at Menacing Hedge Magazine.  *Author Page on Amazon, yo!

*I added that. Read on, you might want to pick up some of his work. :)

How I know him

I don't really know him, know him. As with Facebook friends sometimes there is a tenuous connection. I've never actually met this guy face to face. He belongs in my friends list because I somehow stumbled into this really cool group of writers when I begged my friend Pela Via to let me join Write Club in 2010. ;) It's an uber-cool writer's workshop that I'm not supposed to talk about or something. Anyway, I found myself in this group with a bunch of writers way out of my league who were writing way cool stuff. I didn't get past chapter 2 of my "novel" lol. Meanwhile, Craig and I think everyone else in that group have published several books.

September of that year my husband died. I found myself turning to this group to talk about a lot of stuff. Raw things. Things I don't think I would read now. *shudder* They are some amazing human beings, that group.

Why I've been thinking about him

Don't worry, Mrs. Wallwork! Not that way. I have reached this point, post trauma, that I am trying to piece together the stand-out moments, people, events that galvanized that whole experience for me. And this one was a biggie.

Some background information: My husband died very unexpectedly while we were on vacation. We had just announced to our parents that I was expecting our fifth baby. Just barely pregnant, before you generally announce it. Anyway, it was dark days. Long, cold, blue nights of not being able to sleep. Standing up to hug a million people at the viewing... not being able to eat. And all the while, shouldering this horrible reality, trying to make life as easy for my children as I could, and trying to come to grips that this was actually really happening. After the funeral, I was too exhausted to get out of bed. And then I started cramping. I was sure I was miscarrying. And I felt, at that time, if that happened. I would die. I felt like the baby was the only string holding me to earth. I'm not saying it was rational. And I definitely wouldn't say that my four existing children weren't enough of a connection, I didn't want to die. I just thought that if I lost one more part of BJay just then I would literally stop breathing.

I had to check with him to make sure this happened, because my memory is very wishy washy. I was just a tiny bit worried this was a hallucination. It wasn't!

I got a message from Mr. Wallwork that said something about how he was not a religious person, he hadn't prayed in years, but for some reason he stopped while he was at the gym and said a prayer for me.

I know for a fact lots of people were praying for me. But that prayer seemed like the "Yop" that made all the difference. That gesture felt so big, so incredibly kind. I can't even describe what it felt like. I remember thinking it was all going to be okay. All of it. And that is what it is, right folks? That is why we exist on this planet. For those tiny, but amazing moments when we stretch outside ourselves for a second, beyond all barriers, all the blocks we stack up to make the world make sense to us to reach out and do something that means something to someone else.

I think about that a lot now. In my system of belief, if I'm willing to meet other people where they are. Am I willing to set aside whatever I believe to meet someone in the place that makes sense to them. To really be there in a way that matters to them. I think about it when I know someone is going through a hard time. I don't have to know how to cure cancer to be there for someone who is going through it. I just have to be there. Genuinely, be there.

Along with this non-hallucination came another impression that has stuck with me. I mentioned this at the funeral, I think, and I'm surprised no one put me in an institution. For several days before BJay was buried, I felt like I could still hear him. One of the things he said was that "it is so much bigger than you can imagine." I feel like he meant God's capacity to know and understand all things, as well as the breadth of the whole human experience. THIS. This thing we are a part of, is so much bigger than where we narrowly exist most of the time. It is bigger than we can imagine.

It must be. Because somehow in the web of human existence, I got to form a connection to this fantastic writer and genuinely kind human being who lives all the way across the ocean. Lucky me! And if I never said it before, THANK YOU, Craig. So much.

A letter to feminists on boobs.

Dear Feminists,

We have never been friends. You scare me a little. Honestly, I just don't think we see eye to eye on very much. But I want to have a candid conversation about something we have in common: Boobs. Creepy weirdos, you can move along. I'm not talking to you. Seriously, get out.

Okay, here's the thing. Topless protests? They bug me. I don't understand the rationale. I mean, sure, it is the fastest way to get attention, but is this what you want? Really? You want to besmirch the proud title of Feminism with your bare breasts? Because I'm not sure that is the attention you are looking for. There is a huge industry that makes billions on breasts, and I think we're both annoyed about that.

Recently, I read a facebook post that made a NC Bill that seeks to classify breasts in the same category as sexual organs sound like we were moving backward into the dark days of sexual repression of women. And you were there, we argued, you told me that "the man" was trying to make women ashamed of their bodies. That it isn't fair that men can go topless and women can't. And, what was that? Something about how men are making up these laws so they can feel better about raping us. Yes you did. You said that. Okay, it wasn't a direct quote. But you did suggest that the ability to feel better about raping women was behind laws like this. And that is just... insane. I'm sorry. It is.

Lets just break this down a little. The man behind this law, is Republican Representative Rayne Brown. She's a she. And the reason boobs are on her radar is because of this topless protest that happens in Asheville. And this is the proposed law, right here. Currently, there is no law that governs breasts in NC. Boobs are tricky, aren't they? Because they are this bonus we get as ladies. They feed babies AND are part of what defines our sexuality. So, we don't want to throw breastfeeding moms in the slammer. That would be idiotic. As it is written, this law is clarifying that breasts--and specifically the areola and nipple are included in the same category as sexual organs. So you can't whip them out in public where there are children around use them for sexual gratification. That is what the proposed law says. Now. That should be a no-brainer. Feeding babies, yes. Sexual gratification in the presence of children, no. Isn't that just clarifying the law to hold women to the same standard as men? Seems reasonable to me.


What doesn't seem reasonable to me is the idea that participating in a topless protest is somehow liberating, or empowering. Ever had one of those super empowering dreams where you show up to school and you're naked? And you're like, heck yeah everybody! I'm totally cool with this and I'm not embarrassed at all. No? Me either. 


I want you to look at this feminists. Ladies: this is the Asheville topless protest. I'm sad. I don't think those ladies really felt empowered about having their tops off. Did you notice the girl with the scarf? And the sloping posture and arms crossed over the boobs? It kind of didn't look like they were having a lot of fun under the camera's glare there. And you know who organized that protest? This clown. I'm hearing song lyrics right now, excuse me: "I call THAT getting swindled and pimped. I call THAT getting tricked by a BIZness." I'm not just being rude because I'm disgusted that he's a dude. He really did work part-time as a clown. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I'm more concerned that his WIFE is not cool with him organizing topless protests a couple of states away. Oh yeah, he's from Alabama. And you were having a fit because Rep. Brown lives 2 hours away from Asheville and it isn't her district. 


Now... I wonder if this conversation is even necessary. Is it? Have we really come to the point in our society where we need to legislate self-respect? Maybe not. Because, it turns out this Asheville protest organized by a dude who is so concerned about equality he's willing to face the disapproval of his wife to make sure ladies can take their tops off in public did not have a very high attendance last year. According to this article, attendance was way down. Let me venture a guess as to why. Was it harassment from the city of Asheville? Or was it that topless protests in August are a thing you just do once? Maybe it wasn't all it was cracked up to be? This is how I think it would go: you showed up ready to make a difference, ready to make a point that it isn't fair that women have to wear shirts and men don't. You took off your shirt. People stared at you. It was hot. Sweat started forming in uncomfortable places that are usually mitigated by the fabric of your clothes. Then you didn't quite know what to do with yourself. It was actually kind of lame. Maybe you got a sunburn. And then you decided you didn't want to do this again next year. Right? 


I've had this stuff swimming in my head for a month or so. I pulled the trigger because I got a blast on my twitter feed about the Iranian topless protests. I started following an Iranian activist after seeing the death of Neda Agha and it broke my heart. There is a world-wide topless protest in solidarity for Amina Tyler, a Tunsinian high school student who posted a topless photo of herself in protest Islamic oppression of women on her Facebook. This is a little more serious than pulling off your top in Asheville, NC. The stakes are higher for this girl than jail time. And, apparently, Amina has been kidnapped and cut off from all communication. This is horrifying. And sad. Firstly, teenage brains literally are not developed enough to understand the repercussions of their actions. And secondly, because FEMEN has taken hold of this story and essentially made it a thousand times worse by holding topless protests and burning Islamic flags in front of Mosques. I am afraid they are sealing Amina's fate as a martyr. And that makes me sad. When trying to further the cause of women I think there are two rules you should always follow, feminists. 1. Don't take your lead from teenage girls. 2. Be aware of the culture, lifestyle and needs of the women you are trying to help. Muslim women are intelligent and they know what's up.

Moroccan pro-democracy activist Zineb Belmkaddem maintained that using a woman's naked body to change policy is simply bad for women.

"Exposing the woman's body ... reinforces the image that objectifies women actually, no matter how FEMEN would like to think that the action frees them somehow," she said. "I tell FEMEN, `call me when exposing your breasts gets you to break the glass ceiling.'

Okay, I'm sorry for getting serious at the end there. I meant to keep this light and sweet. I just want you to see the contrast. We don't have to agree on everything. Or very much. But please, can we just agree on this one? There is still work to be done to ensure women's rights. But we can do this with our shirts on. Mmkay? Smooches.

Me

Letting Go

It has been a really long time since I felt like writing. About three years, according to the record. In September it will be three years since I lost my husband. That is such a funny thing to say. I didn't lose him. Not like I keep losing my jewelry anyway. Seriously, I have about twenty widowed earrings. And I currently can't find the ring I had made to replace my wedding ring that I lost. I don't know why I can't keep track of shiny things. I digress, My husband died two and a half years ago and since then I've evolved a bit. A lot, I think. And that is what has me thinking today and why I wanted to resurrect the blog. Someone in my LDS widows group on Facebook posted this poem written by a friend of his:

Clean State

 Let your grief be clean.
Let it be wise and warm,
Bereft of bitterness and blame,
And hollow of all harm.
And when it dies, don’t mourn.

Jonathon Penny

I really like this poem. It is short, succinct. And more importantly it addresses the part of grief that nobody ever explained to me before I experienced it. The part where active mourning ends. And then you have to let it go. You have to move on with your life, and be this wholly redefined person. When, you come to the point where you can't take comfort in your sorrow anymore. I'm pretty sure this part hurts as much as the original pain of loss. Because it means you are finally you again, completely stripped down. It means saying "I" instead of "we". It is the final de-coupling, an acceptance and comfort with loneliness. I don't know that it is ever comfortable to be alone. But I think in this letting-go process, you get to a place where you are comfortable in your own head. With who you are, and where you want to go.

Part of grieving, for me, has meant not being able to read books. And I love books. There is an association that I may have to work out in therapy... or it will work itself out in time. Anyway, last winter I went to see Life of Pi with a friend. I hadn't read the book, so I had no idea what it was about. I literally cried like a baby when Pi said he cried like a baby when the tiger Richard Parker walked out of his life. The tiger was a metaphor for grief. I didn't realize going in to the movie that the tiger is a fairly common metaphor for grief. After I watched the movie, I searched the internet for this poem:

For Jane

 225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

Charles Bukowski

I think "For Jane" describes a part of the grieving process that comes right before letting go. The finality of loss. The idea that even if you used exactly the same molecules and organized them the exact same way, you could never recreate the person you lost. You can never get back what you had. In the movie Pi Patel's journey of grief means surviving in a small boat across the ocean with a tiger that means to destroy him. He has suffered the most profound loss, his entire family is gone. During that phase, that journey, nobody could help him. He had to figure it out on his own. And when he finally reaches the end of his journey, and is being carried off the beach, THAT was the moment he broke down. The moment he had to let it go. And he says, "I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye." Yes! That is exactly it. Maybe because you don't want to hear it, or you can't imagine it ever happening. But nobody ever explains this part to you when you are on this lonely road of hurt. That there will come a point where you're done with grief. And you have to let it go: The desire to put things back the way they were, the fear that if you stop mourning, it means you didn't love hard enough or deep enough. Letting go doesn't mean that you stop loving. It means you know you loved enough, and that love will always exist. It doesn't need tears or sadness to survive. It is waiting for you, whole and complete on the other side.

Poetry Contest and Review of Telling Tales of Dusk

Erickson's book is available at Amazon, Barns And Noble, and Press 53.

Spring in North Carolina came on this year like a tiger pouncing on its prey. There was no comfortable easing-in to the warm weather. The pine trees have come alive in this heat, blanketing everything with a fluorescent yellow coat of pollen. Pine tree sex happens in the air we breath, and the evidence is everywhere. Walking down the driveway to my mailbox, a ghostly trail of yellow-lined foot prints appears in my wake.

This is my home; poetry exists in the air. I have the privilege of being the new poetry editor here, and every time I hear someone talk disparagingly about poetry, a little bit of me is always surprised. I usually say, “You just haven’t found a poet who speaks to you yet.” I have been lucky enough to stumble on quite a few poets who speak to me.

Poet Terri Kirby Erickson is no exception. I was introduced to her work through a mutual friend, and I’ve had the pleasure of reading her latest book, Telling Tales of Dusk. This collection of poetry feels like being around people I’ve known. Maybe because Erickson is a North Carolinian as well, but I suspect it is more than that. Telling Tales of Dusk is a warm, sensuous stroll through memories and conventions on the verge of slipping away into the darkness of time.

From Butter Mints “She wore floral patterned dresses with buttons white and round as moons…” I remember full boxes of buttons in my great-grandmothers house, counting and examining each one. Button collections like that belong back in a time when women wore floral dresses every day. In Queen Anne’s Lace “Queen Anne’s lace dandies up a ditch, like embroidered hankies in a farmer’s pocket.” I love that, and it reminds me of how my grandfather still carries an actual handkerchief in his pocket. Who does that anymore? I wouldn’t know how to blow my nose on an actual hankie. It would feel irreverent, somehow. From Salesman “Maybe death is like a door to door salesman. Not the eager boy with spit-shined shoes, but a middle-aged man in a brown Derby hat. His tie is egg-stained and crooked, shirt frayed at the cuffs.” The door to door salesman has long since given way to television infomercials and 24/7 Internet retailers. It adds to the defeated image of a middle-aged salesman of death. “Taking note of how tired he looks, face droopy and creased as an old hound dog’s, you feel kind of sorry for him, for what he’s there to do, but sorrier for yourself—unless you’re very sick or in pain, which makes it easier on both of you.”

There is a sense of security (for me) in having these images preserved so beautifully. There were also scenes, hauntingly familiar. In Grandaddy’s Ghost, I was reminded of a late night phone call when my own mother found out that her father had died, the line “Her knees hit the floor, loud as gunshots.” brings me to tears every time I think of it. And in Time I could relate to the feeling of desperate elation at finding a lost child, “I found you at the playground, You were laughing, your feet so high in the air, God could have grabbed you easily, by your loose sandal. Instead it was me pulling your off the swing, my arms holding you so tight, you came out the other side of me, grown.”

I loved this collection of poetry. It was beautiful and comforting and it made me feel at home. Now it is your turn to tell me about what feels like home to you. How do you know you’re home? What takes you back there when you’re away? What part of your home do you miss? What sensory elements remind you of home?. Is home a place or an idea for you? Terri Kirby Erickson has generously provided me with a copy of Telling Tales of Dusk to give away for a little poetry contest. The subject is home, whatever that means to you. First place will receive Erickson’s book. Second and third place will receive embroidered handkerchiefs. There will be no limit to the number of entries.

Email entries via the OWC poetry submission email address with the subject line “home, poetry contest” and the title of your poem. The deadline for this contest will be April 29th. Thank you for participating!

This article can be found at:

http://www.outsiderwriters.org/archives/5452

Black A poem, by Asher Smith

Asher asked me if we could write poetry for journals today. How could I refuse? I don't know where it came from, but I'll take it. This was Asher's poem:

Black is good
Black you can't see.
Black is weird.

I am going to encourage poetry from now on. This was the first time I've ever gotten him to compose something on his own without feeling like I was pulling teeth.

Who would you like to trade places with right now?

A few months ago, maybe a year actually, my dad pointed me to an article by journalist Michael Yon. I loved it. Black gloves? Of course. If I were going to trade places with anyone in the world right now, I believe it would be Michael Yon. It would have to be "Being John Malkovich" style though, a female journalist just wouldn't cut it, unfortunately. My favorite line from Pedros, the first article I read of Yon's, was "Afghanistan is the land of a million Alamos." He was referring to the fact that Afghans build walls first and then they build their homes inside. Little compounds can be found in the middle of nowhere, miles from anything. This kind of first-hand observation is the kind of thing I envy more than anything. I am happy with my life, the choices I've made. But If I were to trade places, even for a short while, I would give anything to observe the kinds of things Yon is observing.

A few weeks ago, I started following Yon on Twitter. Some of my favorite pictures of the past few weeks:



Seedy little smile, I've seen that before.



Camel Viagara? The plant observations are the most interesting to me. I wouldn't notice, or think to ask about them. It seems Afghanistan is still a place where people know the medicinal value of plants.



Nice. English spelling rules are a pain.



Look at that place.



Look at that photography.

Sometimes in the middle of doing the dishes, or folding the laundry I'm thousands of miles away in my mind. Walking through desert terrain through the night, Staring at the moon over Afghanistan and wondering about the local plant life. I'm thinking about foreign faces, tiny Henna stained hands and feet, dusty little curious faces. I'm taking it all in through a camera lens. I'm making poetic observations a long way from home...