122. The Wall by Anita Endrezze
My friend Deborah Miranda sent me this poem by her friend Anita Endrezze, which says a lot of the things that have been struggling in me to get said lately, and makes me cry, and rejoices my heart. I asked Anita if I could post the poem here, and asked her to write a little about herself and about it. Here it is.
3 February 2017
Anita Endrezze is from Native American (Yaqui) and European heritage. She has ten published books plus is included in numerous literary magazines and anthologies.
Her most recent book is A Thousand Branches (Red Bird Press), which is a book of poems and art. Her book of short stories, Butterfly Moon, is available from University of Arizona Press. She was given the Governor’s Writers award for Washington State and has received other awards as well. She has a M.A from Eastern Washington University. Her art has been in international exhibitions. One of her projects was a collaborative altered book which is now at the Smithsonian. Her next exhibit is in Seattle in February. It’s a collaborative work about Don Quixote and migration.
She has Secondary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis and is mainly housebound.
More info can be found at her website: Anitaendrezze.weebly.com
About the poem:
I asked myself, what should the Wall be made of? Since I'm a poet, I work with imagery and symbols. The Wall itself is a symbol. But I’m a visual artist also so I like to see. A wall of taco trucks, a wall of solar panels. The humorous, the utilitarian, the inventive. And layers of messages. What could be freer than sunshine and renewable energy as opposed to millions of dollars to build a wall? Or tacos, a blend of cultures, to nourish people. I took some images from social networking posts, like the solar panel and Lego ideas in order to connect with the current situation. I also wove my own creative ideas into the poem. The poem seems to resonate with many people because of those techniques.
by Anita Endrezze (Yaqui)
Build a wall of saguaros,
butterflies, and bones
of those who perished
in the desert. A wall of worn shoes,
dry water bottles, poinsettias.
Construct it of gilded or crazy house
mirrors so some can see their true faces.
Build a wall of revolving doors
or revolutionary abuelas.
Make it as high as the sun, strong as tequila.
Boulders of sugar skulls. Adobe or ghosts.
A Lego wall or bubble wrap. A wall of hands
holding hands, hair braided from one woman
to another, one country to another.
A wall made of Berlin. A wall made for tunneling.
A beautiful wall of taco trucks.
A wall of silent stars and migratory songs.
This wall of solar panels and holy light,
panels of compressed cheetos,
topped not by barbed wire but sprouting
avocado seeds, those Aztec testicles.
A wall to keep Us in and Them out.It will have faces and heartbeats.
Dreams will be terrorists. The Wall will divide
towns, homes, mountains,
the sky that airplanes fly through
with their potential illegals.
Our wallets will be on life support
to pay for it. Let it be built
of guacamole so we can have a bigly block party.
Mortar it with xocoatl, chocolate. Build it from coyote howls
and wild horses drumming across the plains of Texas,
from the memories
of hummingbird warriors and healers.
Stack it thick as blood, which has mingled
for centuries, la vida. Dig the foundation deep.
Create a 2,000 mile altar, lit with votive candles
for those who have crossed over
defending freedom under spangled stars
and drape it with rebozos,and sweet grass.
Make it from two way windows:
the wind will interrogate us,
the rivers will judge us, for they know how to separate
and divide to become whole.
Pink Floyd will inaugurate it.
Ex-Presidente Fox will give it the middle finger salute.
Wiley Coyote will run headlong into it,
and survive long after history forgets us.
Bees will find sand-scoured holes and fill it
with honey. Heroin will cover it in blood.
But it will be a beautiful wall. A huge wall.
Remember to put a rose-strewn doorway in Nogales
where my grandmother crossed over,
pistols on her hips. Make it a gallery of graffiti art,
a refuge for tumbleweeds,
a border of stories we already know by heart.
Copyright © 2017 by Anita Endrezze
123. Constructing the Golem
The legend of the golem varies according to the teller, but I will follow the version that tells how in a time of persecution a rabbi made a mighty giant out of mud, a golem, and wrote a sacred word on its forehead — “Truth” — that gave it life. With its frightening size and enormous strength, the golem was to defend and safeguard the Jews. But the golem was not rational, not controllable. It was a danger in itself. So the rabbi removed a single letter from the word on its forehead, which then read “Death,” and the life went out of the giant, leaving only mud.
Sometimes it seems lately that most of the emails I get from my friends are about Donald Trump. Some are laments, confessions of despair; many are witty parodies of him, funny imitations of him, scathing cartoons about him. He is the subject, the object, of all of them.
He is also the subject of most lead stories in most newspapers, which is expectable for a new president, and of endless editorials. I gather that he fills the political news on TV even more thoroughly and is exhaustively, continually discussed, attacked, defended, parodied, etc. on the social media, not to mention his own nightly fits of twittering. I don’t know this firsthand because I rarely watch or listen to any media news any more, don’t follow or read social media at all (though occasionally have posted something from my website), and don’t have a smart phone. If this makes you feel that I am disqualified to comment on modern life and politics, I can’t argue.
As a science fiction writer, I will, however, say that sometimes the view of Earth from another planet can give insights otherwise unattainable.
Looking at the New World from the ancient one I inhabit, I am appalled at the constant, obsessive attention paid to Trump.
He appears to be exactly what he wants to be: addictive.
He is a true, great master of the great game of this age, the Celebrity Game. Attention is what he lives on. Celebrity without substance. His “reality” is “virtual” — i.e. non-existent — but he used this almost-reality to disguise a successful bid for real power. Every witty parody, hateful gibe, clever takeoff, etc., merely plays his game, and therefore plays into his hands.
Reagan was the master of TV, but this guy has a nation full of people with their eyes and ears already glued 18 hours a day to screens and speakers, already habituated to a stream of disparate, disconnected “information” (news/entertainment/commercials mashup) which cannot be fact-checked, cannot be organized into understanding, because it’s so huge, so incessant, and goes by so fast. Exactly the way Trump thinks and talks.
It’s how he won the campaign: keeping in the limelight, flummoxing his Republican rivals, outshouting poor, rational Clinton, silencing thought with a flood of incessant, bullying, meaningless words.
It’s no use wishing the media would stop hanging on him and the press would stop reporting every tweet, but it may be worth saying that they’d do less of it if we stopped watching and listening to him — if we weren’t so literally fascinated by him.
He’s the snake and we’re the chickens.
When he does something weird (which he does constantly in order to keep media attention on him), look not at him but at the people whom his irresponsible acts or words affect — the Republicans who try to collaborate with him (like collaborating with a loose cannon), the Democrats and Government employees he bullies, the statesmen from friendly countries he offends, the ordinary people he uses, insults, and hurts. Look away from him, and at the people who are working desperately to save what they can save of our Republic and our hope of avoiding nuclear catastrophe. Look away from him, and at reality, and things begin to get back into proportion.
I honestly believe the best thing to do is turn whatever it is OFF whenever he’s on it, in any way.
He is entirely a creature of the media. He is a media golem. If you take the camera and mike off him, if you take your attention off him, nothing is left — mud.
21 February 2017
124. Refusing to be Bullied
The manic speed and vindictiveness of the Republican attack on American core values and institutions make it all too easy for us, the majority opposition, to feel defeated — hopeless. This article is a good antidote.
It’s appropriate that the city of Santa Ana, with its long, deep Mexican-American heritage, its fourth and fifth-generation Mexican-American families, and its sympathetic State government, achieved this genuine victory over prejudice, this refusal of obedience to a hateful, cruel federal policy.
But don’t think it was easy, even there, to do so. Becoming a Sanctuary City isn’t just a matter of words, it takes real commitment, long and steady resolve, and determined hope, to resist and keep resisting the politicians and interests that seek power by supporting those shameful policies, and the misguided citizens who imagine they will gain profit or status from them.
I wish with all my heart that my city, Portland, Oregon, would follow the lead of Santa Ana — stand by its hard-working Mexican-American population, and let all its citizens share the honor of refusing to be bullied into bowing to the orders of a bigoted administration.
¡Nadie es ilegal!
6 March 2017
P.S. I was unfair in this final paragraph. Portland did declare itself a sanctuary city a while back, as our new mayor, Ted Wheeler, reminded us in an editorial in The Oregonian, Jan. 29, 2017
I took this declaration as well-intentioned but little else. To be more than a feel-good announcement, it must be implemented with effective instructions to the police, effective provisions for actual sanctuary for people whose documentation is in question, and so forth — a very big commitment, that will inevitably rouse loud and angry opposition. But I was wrong to assume that my city had not made that commitment, and truly hope that it will make and keep it.
March 8, 2017.
125. A Work in Progress: Earthsea Sketches by Charles Vess
Here are a few more of Charles Vess’ preliminary sketches for the illustrations for the one-volume Earthsea next year, along with excerpts from our correspondence about the pictures and their subjects.
As you see, the dragons of Earthsea are now very splendid creatures. The people, the islands, the towns, the houses and ships and forests and goats of Earthsea are all coming to visible life. The pages of the book will be thronged and vivid with them.
These are first-draft, rough-draft sketches in pencil, alterable in every detail. Charles will not finish them in ink until we have got every roofbeam and wine glass right. But I love the freedom of the pencil sketches, the energetic lines and vigorous composition that give the sense of motion in open space.
Collaboration between two arts is an exciting business!
I. Inside An Imaginary House
(March 17, 2017)
. . . I also discovered that the Mage’s home in Re Albi had a wooden floor. Good to know, perhaps?
The wooden floor also came as a surprise to me when young Ogion insisted on laying it for Dulse (and I hope there is nothing in the earlier books that contradicts it).
How do you see the roof of the house? The Overfell is a windy place much exposed to weather, and I think I vaguely imagined slate or tile rather than thatch; but all I am sure of is that it’s not ceiled, inside the house one sees the beams and rafters.
I’d been doodling a floor plan (which I don’t know if I’ll ever use . . .) and had a stone floor in mind. But wooden planks makes much more sense.
Roof: It would certainly be shingled with either wood or slate because in that high place thatch would just blow away in the wind.
Also, I discovered after carefully reading through the first 4 books that the one, small window is facing west and in the alcove. Good to know.
I will doodle the floor plan in my head and try to scan and send it. I realized that the way I describe the interior of the house in A Wizard is a bit different from the way I later worked it out, and I want to see if I can make it consistent.
That’s what I thought about thatch.
The conformation of Gont Mountain/Island certainly suggests volcanic; therefore probably not much slate around. But lots of forest. Therefore wood shingles?
I sent Charles this floor plan of the house, with the following note:
Very scrawly, sorry.
Proportions not to be taken as accurate! I was just trying to work out roughly where things are in relation to each other.
The alcove is more or less opposite the fireplace, and only large enough for a pallet bed (young Ged’s, later Therru’s)
I think the other bed (Ogion’s, later Tenar’s, then Ged and Tenar’s) is described in Wizard as being “at the back” of the house, but by now I know it’s in the back room but more in the middle of the house. Its head is against the room-divider, which is all that is left of what was the inner dividing wall between the hearthplace and the barn or byre part of the house.
Dulse’s teacher Ard (Bones of the Earth) exiled all animals from the house, built a goat house as a lean-to against the East wall, and took out much of the original divider wall (which was 4 or 5 feet high — did not reach to roof).
So the house is spoken of in Wizard as “one large room,” but it is semi-divided, with the old byre serving as bedroom-workshop-storage closets or shelves. The back door, a sliding door as in a barn, is now unused except in emergency.
I think when Ogion reintroduced goats, he moved the goat house farther from the house and took down the lean-to, so I did not draw it.
The goat house, chicken house, cow-barn (I am sure Tenar had a cow) etc. can be anywhere you please in relation to the house.
I hope this is helpful. If you see anything missing or anomalous please let me know.
March 20, 2017
I take back what I said about Tenar keeping a cow. If she did it would be mentioned in the books. She made goat cheese, but bought her cow’s milk and butter from a farm just outside Re Albi.
(It was just because I have always wanted to keep a cow, a Jersey.)
II. Outside An Imaginary House
(April 11, 2017)
Now, don’t panic, I haven’t sketched out any of the other planned drawings for this book yet. I just thought that I’d do the last one first so that it wouldn’t be quite so sad when I got to it. That is, sad for me, not Ged & Tenar who are well content to spend their remaining lives peaceably & together but conceptually, I’ll be almost done with this lovely project.
Anyway . . .
Here are Ged and Tenar sitting in front of their home, glasses of wine in hand, attended by a goat (or goats ?) with the sunset bathing them in its color (I wish that this was to be in color but alas, it is not . . .). I wanted to run this by you in this very rough stage just to make sure that I have all the elements orientated in the correct manner, ie: what’s facing west is supposed to be there.
This is lovely. Mood perfect. Compass orientation correct. Old Mage’s House perhaps a little more imposing than I had imagined it: perhaps the stones would be less perfectly faced? the general impression a little messier & humbler? — but all in all, I am simply glad to see it realized.
I had no idea there was a tree at the NW corner! What kind of tree is it?
I can’t make out the wine glasses. I was just worried that they might be stemmed. They wouldn’t be. In fact, would they be glass? I guess so. Everybody who can put their wine in a glass does so, don’t they.
A couple of hens maybe? I do think hens are good company
The tree would be a Peach Tree, growing there in the protective corner of the house wall.
They would be holding simple crockery to drink their wine out of wouldn’t they?
Certainly, I’ll put some hens pecking about their feet. That will be fun.
And, I’ll make the house a bit more humble.
(April 12, 2017)
Here’s that drawing put onto paper a bit more carefully.
Also, its summer? I say that because Ged has just been watering the cabbages. So are there then peaches on the Peach Tree?
If so I must laden those branches . . .
A few peaches, not ripe yet . . . ?
The house is perfect.
I don’t know if expressions come into it at this stage? Tenar looks a bit timid or downcast to me — it’s partly her posture, which suggests to me that she is looking to him for reassurance (but not vice versa). Tenar is a strong woman with a courageous, independent, and (by now) essentially serene spirit. I just don’t want to see her looking the least bit weak!
The chickens are a joy.
III. A Foolish Consistency is the Hobgoblin of Little Minds
(April 24, 2017)
Charles and I both detest discrepancies or contradictions between text and illustration and strive very hard for consistency. Nobody might ever have noticed the problem we discuss here. But I feel like confessing it, because in this case, deciding that consistency would be foolish, we called on magic to bail us out.
I have a question. When I was rereading this section with Alder walking up from the Gont Port I came to a short sentence that gave me pause, especially after having drawn the house at Re Albi twice and worked out its floor plan with you. Right on page #5 you describe the small house as “wooden”. Yikes! I don’t remember it ever being described that way before. Is it? Maybe I’m just catching that aspect now. Please let me know, because if it is I’ll need to redraw those other two images.
Arghh! Gont Mountain is all forested, plenty of timber, & so I saw the house as wood.
But I was so convinced by the house you drew that I never gave it a thought.
Now I wish I could go back and take the word “wooden” out of the text!
I hate to think of you having to take that handsome stone cottage down and rebuild it all with a pencil.
We could just ignore the discrepancy for once?
After all a wizard’s house might be capable of unexpected transformations….
The floor plan is unchanged.
Double bubble, toil and trouble. By the magic that is invested in these fingers and this pencil I transform thee, wood into stone.
(April 2017, 2017)
This sketch is still just roughed out in many respects, but I wanted to post it here so you can see how our dragons have developed, and also see Charles drawing a physical transformation as it happens, which is not really possible.
Such transformations are so easy faked visually on film that we may cease to realise how truly strange it would be to see a dragon descend and become a woman in flesh and blood. The unmoving picture, defying possibility, saves that radical strangeness from the banality of the filmic anything-is-possible.
And look at the movement in the unmoving pencil lines — the dragon towering like a great hawk among the castle towers, the girl startled and amused to find herself again diminished — grounded — standing on only two feet…
1 May 2017
126. Cause to Celebrate
July 5, 2017. Tonight, after the ironic fireworks of a peculiarly anxious Independence Day, I want to celebrate two good things that have happened in my state.
First: Last week the Oregon Court of Appeals affirmed a ruling that bars the Port of Portland, manager of the Portland Airport, from banning an ad from Oregon Wild in partnership with ACLU of Oregon. The poster, a photograph of a totally barren mountain wasteland of rocks and gravel, says “Welcome to Oregon, Home of the Clearcut.” The state has long been under the thumb of the timber industry, and its feeble laws protecting public health and the environment must be strengthened. (You can find out more at ClearCutOregon.com.)
And: Today the state legislature voted for the Reproductive Health Equity Act, which codifies the legal right to abortion and protects and increases health care including contraception, abortion, and postpartum care to all Oregonians regardless of income, gender, or citizenship status. NARAL Pro-choice Oregon announced this under the banner, “Abortion is Healthcare.”
These local actions won’t get attention the way weird presidential twitterings do. But they make me feel my Republic can and will survive the mindless destructivism of misled Republicans and the frightened apathy of an opposition without leadership. Two cheers for Oregon!
5 July 2017
127. The Jaguar
the ghost of a jaguar walks through the fence
the jaguar is our freedom
a friend gave me a precious thing
a little fragment of the Berlin wall
but this wall they are building
straight across my heartland
with our flag draped across it
is the coffin of my country
hands reach through the gaps
to clasp, until the gaps are sealed
and even music
cannot get through
but only the ghosts
of all we have betrayed
this is the wall of lamentation
the grave of the jaguar
17 July 2017
by Erica Berenstein and Fernanda Santos
The New York Times
128. Pard: An Interrupted Nap
Linda Long, photographer.
Marilyn Reaves, distracter.
U.K. Le Guin, skritcher
24 July 2017
The Annals of Pard: XXIII
129. Pard and the Time Machine
In an earlier blog post (#59, Annals of Pard III) I described my cat’s relationship to the Time Machine that sits on my desk keeping tabs on what goes on in my computer. When both Pard and the Time Machine were younger, it often made faint clickety buzzing noises, which convinced him that it it contained beetles. A reasonable assumption, since our house swarmed with box-elder beetles that year, and they did get into everything. He enjoyed hunting them. But eating them always appeared to be more a duty than a reward. Presently he gave it up. Then he gave up beetle-hunting altogether, as a boring juvenile pastime beneath the dignity of a mature cat.
He no longer tried to pry the sleek plastic box of the Time Machine open with tooth and claw to reveal beetles; but he still worked at it from time to time — evidently because it was shut. Pard has a strong conviction that what is closed ought to be opened. A box, a bag, a cabinet door, a room door, a drawer, a chest, a steamer trunk. The mandate is clear: you get it open, you go through it, or enter into it; and then after a while you come out again, leaving it open behind you.
Enough cats obey this mandate that I think there must be some survival value in it, perhaps that of knowing the local shelters and hiding places that you can get into at need. People think of cats as predators, but of course for any larger predator they are easy prey. Just ask the neighborhood owl or coyote.
Pard’s desire to insert himself entirely into small enclosed spaces doesn’t approach the genius for it of the great Maru, star of Youtube; but it is fascinating to watch him patiently prying at a latch, or working to coax a heavy pull-drawer open, or pushing open any door left ajar with one gracefully lifted paw and then sauntering through it, as if cats and doors were coeval.
Since I have a cat and a Time Machine, people naturally ask if the cat uses the Time Machine. He does; but not to transport him to a different part of the continuum. Cats can do that by themselves. Anybody who lives with a cat knows that at one time the cat is here; at another time, he is not. The transition from there to not there is imperceptible. (This transition may in fact have been what Schroedinger was trying to investigate in his famous thought experiment involving a cat and a box; but if so, the gun was a fundamental mistake.) Feline transilience does not require machinery. Possibly it involves paws, doors, and small places, but we can’t be sure. All we know is, we call kitty, kitty, and there is no cat; we do not call kitty, kitty, and there is.
Having no use for the Time Machine for transportation, and having given up on it as a beetle container and as an openable box, Pard discovered its true function. My study, a small corner room with a wall and a half of windows, gets as cold in winter as it gets hot in summer. Pard likes to be on the desk not far from me, like the Time Machine. Its sleek white plastic box is reliably warm, day and night. Cats approve of reliable warmth. Though very small as Time Machines go (nothing compared to H.G.Wells’s), its surface can support an average-sized cat, or at least some of the cat, with some bits lopping over. The hum it still sometimes emits is less chitinous than it used to be, more like a purr.
It’s warm, and it purrs? What more can you ask?
Here is Pard using the Time Machine for its true purpose.
130. Poem Written in 1991
When the Soviet Union Was Disintegrating
by Ursula K. Le Guin
The reason why I’m learning Spanish
by reading Neruda one word at a time
looking most of them up in the dictionary
and the reason why I’m reading
Dickinson one poem at a time
and still not understanding
or liking much, and the reason
why I keep thinking about
what might be a story
and the reason why I’m sitting
here writing this, is that I’m trying
to make this thing.
I am shy to name it.
My father didn’t like words like “soul.”
He shaved with Occam’s razor.
Why make up stuff
when there’s enough already?
But I do fiction. I make up.
There is never enough stuff.
So I guess I can call it what I want to.
Anyhow it isn’t made yet.
I am trying one way and another
all words — So it’s made out of words, is it?
No. I think the best ones
must be made out of brave and kind acts,
and belong to people who look after things
with all their heart,
and include the ocean at twilight.
That’s the highest quality
of this thing I am making:
kindness, courage, twilight, and the ocean.
That kind is pure silk.
Mine’s only rayon. Words won’t wash.
It won’t wear long.
But then I haven’t long to wear it.
At my age I should have made it
long ago, it should be me,
clapping and singing at every tatter,
like Willy said. But the “mortal dress,”
man, that’s me. That’s not clothes.
That is me tattered.
That is me mortal.
This thing I am making is my clothing soul.
I’d like it to be immortal armor,
sure, but I haven’t got the makings.
I just have scraps of rayon.
I know I’ll end up naked
in the ground or on the wind.
So, why learn Spanish?
Because of the beauty of the words of poets,
and if I don’t know Spanish
I can’t read them. Because praise
may be the thing I’m making.
And when I’m unmade
I’d like it to be what’s left,
a wisp of cheap cloth,
a color in the earth,
a whisper on the wind.
Una palabra, un aliento.
So now I’ll turn right round
and unburden an embittered mind
that would rejoice to rejoice
in the second Revolution in Russia
but can’t, because it has got old
and wise and mean and womanly
and says: So. The men
having spent seventy years in the name of something
killing men, women, and children,
torturing, running slave camps,
telling lies and making profits,
have now decided
that that something wasn’t the right one,
so they’ll do something else the same way.
Seventy years for nothing.
And the dream that came before the betrayal,
the justice glimpsed before the murders,
the truth that shone before the lies,
all that is thrown away.
It didn’t matter anyway
because all that matters
is who has the sayso.
Once I sang freedom, freedom,
sweet as a mockingbird.
But I have learned Real Politics.
No freedom for our children
in the world of the sayso.
Only the listening.
The silence all around the sayso.
The never stopping listening.
So I will listen
to women and our children
and powerless men,
my people. And I will honor only
my people, the powerless.
–Ursula K. Le Guin