Picket Signs
There have been many times over the years that I have told people that I am not one to carry a picket sign. Instead, I have been one to nudge the heavy rock of rutted rules and routines up the rocky hill by walking the boundaried road against the wind's wall. Women on job sites working with tools. Women building their own homes. Women choosing to lean into that wily wind.
Always peaceful, as it is in over 600 marches across the world today, this gathering of diverse races and ages and genders sings softly as people funnel onto Osos St and move towards downtown SLO. Store clerks wave their own supportive signs from the doorways where they are working today. Rain falls onto our slickers and pickets. We are brought together in one action and one voice—strangers and friends holding hearts against the chill wind of regression upcoming.
A Requiem Sung Too Soon From an Old Friend
"Death is just change, and it doesn't matter if you have blood running through your veins and I have oil running through mine. I've only and always been in service, first a slight warm up to others, but always knowing it was you in my destiny. I waited. You found me. You cared for me, I protected and transported and served you. We were in it together—a team. It was all in a day.
But we both knew our time together would not last, and I am the one to go first. Of course, I didn't mind taking the bullet in the back. Without regret, I was able to hold you so you could walk away. My death is just change. I will be stripped and crushed, cremated to rise again from the ashes into some new metallic form, reincarnated for a different good. This is how it works. You will have your time too, but not now, not for awhile. This pleases me.
I want you to know I felt your gentle hands touch my hood the next morning, warm against the previous evening's chill, and your lips gently say goodbye to our long friendship. I feel your tears even now, a memorial to all the stories and adventures we shared. Roads journeyed into the mountain passes and wild desert lands. Sights seen along horizon-pulled highways. Friends helped with available cargo storage. Money made transporting lumber and plywood and resulting cabinetry and furniture. We were in it together—you were always kind and I did my best to protect you.
But now we are both free — me to rest, no longer holding together the rust that takes its toll in my joints, and you, to let go of those worry lines that keep you from becoming young again. You need the youth of new energy, a new spirit of adventure, so let me go gracefully. The time for letting go of the old and embracing the new has come — "Fate and Circumstance" resigned. I gave of my life to give you this gift— so—goodbye."
Without the bungee cords holding the tailgate bottom into the bed, it no longer matters if it closes easily. I unhook the cables and let the gate drop into my arms, then place it on the CDX plywood covering the bottom of the bed liner. I've already removed the bins holding my life together on this road journey. I've unscrewed the hooks that held hats and brooms, water bottles and bike lock. Curtains down and packed away, the clips I had used for their hanging were tossed into my small road toolbox that sits in the back of M. and S's car. I leave the owner's manual in the glovebox, but remove the CD residing in the dashboard player and place it in the plastic case—Bonnie Raitt's "Nick of Time". How appropriate—the memory of my foot thrusting onto the accelerator pedal—the forward lunge to avoid any impact—the nick of time to walk away. I want just one more chance to move the curtain aside and see thousands of stars twinkling from a desert sky, or to swerve around BLM roads riddled with rocks. Perhaps caravan amongst RV's, like pioneer wagons, overnight in some Walmart parking lot. Smile at the Blue Moon Saloon sticker on the truck's side window glass as I climb out of the driver's seat in the cab and dance a Zydeco step in memory of our time in Louisiana. I bow my head low in gratitude to our togetherness through thick and thin. Then, without looking back, I turn and climb into the back seat of M.'s SUV. How can I leave her behind? And yet, we knew from the beginning that our time together would not last. It's "all in the day", and all in the word that "stops and steals the time": Goodbye.
The Revelation Caught Inside Pluto's Carnage
Planets dance in the blackness beyond the minute cares of this earthly orb. Light spins it's tornado-twist from eons past to wreak havoc with the unsuspecting future of complacent movement along this limited plane. Reality bleeds from my gut in response to what my spirit wishes to let fly into the sunshine to dissipate. How do we balance these fragmented realities? Are we all schizophrenic in trying to hack our way through the jungle of illusion? I have always, always been in grace during these last 60 years. Perspective slices through the thick, dense vegetation of life to open the view towards a panorama shining star-points as stage lights offering free will decisions. Like a wheel, we grab a point and spin it within some cosmic game board. Ride shotgun down some avalanche of time and space. But we hold on tight in the wild path of broken glass racing downhill behind us. It has been said that Pluto will break apart conventions, force the hand of those not riding the wave. Carnage. Even in knowing this, I brace myself up against a wall to steady my step when stability, security, and sanity are all challenged. I dig deep for my root and fire up the burner to melt the lead into gold— it's all I can do now: simmer the grief until it glows inside some unknown future. Then there is alchemy as an umbrella against the showering broken glass tinkling onto the ground around my feet. Capricorn-willpower helps me cautiously step through the shards to move my life forward, to purge any imprint left in Pluto's wake, to squeeze out any remnants of bubbling grief.
"Fate and Circumstance Resigned"
The California skies beam bright and blue somewhere above the gray fluff layer stretching up and over the hills surrounding Ojai. Like a fleece blanket holding down the heated breath of the Valley, the clouds reflect a certain reluctance for light to break through. My sigh is heavy from this prioritized searching of online listings and action needs to propel me through my circumstance and into my future fate. There isn't much around to replace the specific requirements of my travel journey and impending return to work life. California's road history, as if in constant rebellion to snowy, icy conditions in the north and eastern states, holds time still in the breakdown of metals. Like Botoxed Hollywood bodies, older cars flaunt pristine chasses devoid of the rust that slowly eats out the life force of frames. Is this the gift of lost worry lines in my face? 2003 again? 2004? 2005? Has time stood so still that a model year no longer has any longevity relevance? I look now at miles driven, CarFax histories, bed lengths. Even if I wanted to, could I simply replace my old friend with a less stressed version of itself? I cannot seem to go back, and I am cornered into letting go of holding firm to my own steps from behind. I roll the dice of variation in favor of inviting Fate to show me a new step forward. No Botox. No airbrushing. And a solid foundation under me as I drive north and east throughout the rest of the trip: new wheels rolling me into Change.