Val D. Phillips

A Special Gift From Creator

2010-03-11T14:55:00.000-07:00

Bald Eagle, the road from Sheridan back to Jentel

The Only Indians I Ever Saw in Sheridan, Wyoming

2010-03-11T14:51:00.000-07:00

Safely encased in bronze:

Bird Woman (Above) and Sacajawea (Below)

Sheridan, Wyoming

2010-03-11T14:45:00.001-07:00

"I am sorry for that evil man. I feel shame that he came from my country. I am sorry for that Sheridan."--Damien Dempsey, "Choctaw Nation"

Public Reading in Alamosa

2010-03-10T18:23:00.001-07:00

On February 5th I had the privilege of reading before a lively crowd of 50 folks in the Alamosa, Colorado City Council Chambers.

The reading and reception heralded the advent of Alamosa's new literary journal, Messages from the Hidden Lake, founded by the Friends of the Southern Peaks Public Library.

The Friends threw the authors, artists, and photographers represented in the beautiful, thick tome a lovely reception replete with plenty of food and an awards ceremony emceed by the Mayor!

Below are photographs of yours truly with said Mayor, receiving the "Best Adult Fiction" award, and with head librarian Salai Taylor, our dear friend and a vital part of our extended community on the land, and spousal unit/head cheerleader, Mark Schneider.

To purchase a copy of Messages from the Hidden Lake, please go to http://www.alamosalibrary.org/. Please note that they are also currently accepting submissions of poetry, short fiction, photographs and other artwork for Volume 2. They accept work from children and teens, as well as adults.

"I" of the Hurricane

2010-03-10T18:06:00.004-07:00

The eye of a hurricane is seen by some as the absence of the storm, but the eye is integral to the storm. The hurricane is characterized by the eye. The eye is usually calm and free of clouds, yet the sea beneath it can be extremely violent.

The eyewall between the eye and the storm is a place of ferocious energy, creative potential, destructive force. The eyewall is a circle of strong thunderstorms that surrounds the eye; here is where the greatest wind speeds are found, where clouds reach the highest, and precipitation is the heaviest.

If one is stuck in the eye of a hurricane, one must travel with the hurricane until it is no more. The only other way out of the storm is through that wall where the storm and eye meet, through the storm itself.

So it is with the eye in the hurricane of story. All story is autobiographical. But part of writing's allure is the illusion of safety and control. The story is the storm, the writer a mere safe observer, the "I" of the hurricane (you'll note that in the word "hurricane" "I" is literally smack dab in the middle). It is our job, like those mythical objective journalists, merely to see, to document, to translate, to transcribe, but not to participate, never to act within the story itself.

And so writing an interesting narrator or POV character becomes a challenge. Because to the writer, looking out through the narrator's eyes--if she is--that character cannot be seen. We see only the water of our goldfish bowl, invisible, normal.

To tell a truthful story then, a story of integrity and beauty, the "I" must be seen by the writer, be made manifest in his or her mind, as a distinct entity and interacting part of the storm. The story doesn't have to be all about her explicitly, so long as the writer sees and understands the story is always all about her implicitly. Her pain, her prejudice, her ignorance, her struggles.

The writer can only do this, can only gain this perspective on the I/eye, by crossing that terrible wall and immersing herself in the storm. The storm is one's actual personal history, the muck of one's true biography, and until one starts messing around in it, one's stories will ring hollow, will be the worst thing fiction can be: untrue.

Fortunately, writing is a craft designed specifically for weathering this storm, provided the writer has the courage to get into the craft, and go where it takes her. This courage is the necessary first step for making all art.

Writer's Block

2010-03-10T15:15:00.000-07:00

Three days left here at Jentel and I've a torrent of emotions swirling around inside. I don't want to leave this amazing place, but I really miss my husband, my community, and our land; I'm proud of what I've accomplished but feel I could do so much more if only I stayed longer; I am rested but exhausted, wanting a break from writing yet slightly terrified about re-entering society and the workload we face on the land this warm season.

Into this maelstrom yesterday strode Writer's Block. The cow.

Yesterday, sometime mid-afternoon, I hit the wall. You know, the one you hit after you've been running too hard for too long, or biking too hard for too long, or strawbale-house building too hard for too long? At least that was my story, and I stuck to it for a good 12 hours. "I have senioritis," I moaned to Danielle, my sister in community. She wrote back, "Do you really miss emptying humanure buckets?"

Um, no. Thanks for the reminder.

This morning, whilst journaling, knowing I had to get back in the saddle this morning and not waste my precious remaining time here it occurred to me that the wall I hit was not THE wall I thought I'd hit, the "you've been going at this too hard; you need to go watch Firefly for two hours" wall. Nope, I hit the eyewall: the wall that separates the eye of the hurricane from the main part of the storm. I finally figured out, if you're stuck in the eye of a hurricane (which all writers are because the hurricanes are, of course, of our own making) there's only one way out. You guessed it: through the eyewall, and from there, through the rest of that miserable storm.

In other words, "no one here gets out alive."

For me to move forward, I have to quit with the bs, and move from that clear, blue skied place where I sat and witnessed all the muck through the eyewall (where the most violent winds live) and get deep into it again. I'm not looking forward to this, but I know it's the only way out.

I've got a piece I'm working on in which I try to explain this a bit better. If I get it done soon, I'll post it.

Love to you all. Back to work now. Best go find my galoshes.

Required Reading Part 2: White Readers Meet Black Authors

2010-03-10T14:57:00.000-07:00

A few Decembers back my friend Carleen Brice (Orange Mint & Honey, Children of the Waters) started "Give a Book By a Black Author to Someone Who is Not Black" Month. Her rationale was simple: there's a tremendous amount of great writing out there by black authors, and everybody should be reading it...not just black folks. But, with a few notable exceptions, black writers are not well-known to white and other non-black readers. Gosh, I wonder why that might be...?

Out of this has grown Carleen's phenomenal blog "White Readers Meet Black Authors" which is simply one of the best literary blogs out there. It's well-maintained, multimedia, always interesting...you'll have a great time when you stop by while expanding your mind and your world. Click on the title of this post to get you there, or just go to http://www.welcomewhitefolks.blogspot.com/ (best URL EVER!).

So get your butt on over there right now! Go on. I'll wait.

Required Reading: Nancy Stohlman's Searching for Suzi

2010-03-10T14:42:00.000-07:00

From the Mid-West Book Review, which gave it 5 stars!

“The exploitation has to be turned around on itself at some point. "Searching for Suzi" tells the story of Natalie, an ex-stripper who reflects on her life as she returns to Omaha Nebraska where she grew up. Discussing the obsession with appearance and the concept of sexy that ranges from the glamour and stripping industry down to childhood beauty pageants, "Searching for Suzi" is a fascinating and very highly recommended read.”

Click on the the title of this post for information on how to order from Monkey Puzzle Press. Support small presses!

The View From My Bedroom Porch

2010-03-06T20:12:00.000-07:00

Moonrise, Moonset

2010-03-06T20:03:00.001-07:00

The Artist Studios at Jentel

2010-03-06T19:55:00.001-07:00

For all you artists out there thinking of applying to Jentel .......

...you get your own kitchen, dining room, and bathroom, in addition to the one in the house........

Each studio comes with it's own bed, desk, sink, and window.....

.......plenty of workspace and plenty of good lighting for work at all hours of the day or night....

....a printer for you print-makers (and dancing elves), and a drying rack thingie for drying your prints

(Fanny is not included. Sorry.)....

....and all this makes for.....

....happy productive artists, like Gail Grinnell, Elizabeth Emery, Yann Novak, and Fanny Retsek!

Update from Jentel

2010-03-06T18:37:00.001-07:00

Hi Everybody,

Sorry to take so long to write. I've actually been busy...writing! Now, there's a concept! Writing at a writing residency--who knew?

I've been making good progress editing, editing, and re-editing stories; now I'm in the throes of constructing first drafts of the long pieces that will complete my collection, hopefully by the fall. I've submitted stories to a few a journals, both paper and online, and one longer piece to a Glimmer Train contest. Please keep your fingers crossed for me!

Big news on the steepening of my bloggatista learning curve: I finally figured out how to make pages. Very exciting. See all those things in the upper right hand corner, where it says "about the writer"? Those are my pages. One of the great blessings of being here is exposure to artists further along in their careers than I. They've had lots of good advice for me, including the radical notion that I apparently need a website. Well, perhaps some day when this blog grows up, it will become a website. But for now, my geeky adolescent can at least afford the rudimentary furniture necessary (supposedly) for a working artist's internet studio.
My dear friend Kim (Transier) was asking how "Jentel Presents" went. Well, I'm so glad you asked! It went great, and I've heard rumor that Yann Novak, one of my brother artists here, has photos of me reading, though I've yet to see evidence of this. If they are terrible he has promised to delete them without showing me, bless him.

The evening was beautiful and a lot of fun. The good folks here at Jentel put out a nice spread at the reception they hosted for us at Sheridan Community College, and I thoroughly enjoyed visiting with some of the artists, writers, patrons and other assorted glitterati that make up the Northeastern Wyoming art scene.

Folks proved a kind and receptive audience. I read "Negative Space," which I think I am done reading publicly now, eventhough it's the only story I have that works for a ten minute slot. I didn't realize until that night that I published it ten years ago! Time to update the portfolio, n'est-ce pas?

The other artists' presentations were fascinating--I will devote a separate post or set of posts to them--and my brother-writer Zachary Watterson read his magnificent essay about teaching in prisons, the basis of his forthcoming memoir. It was a beautiful evening.

I also wanted to update you on the "to-do list fast," which is officially over. It was like going to a resort. I think I feel more refreshed than after a real fast. I got deep into a blissed out place with my writing, while simultaneously taking whatever time was needed to rest, run, walk in the sunshine, and nosh. I've done some fun cooking, including participating in a delicious potluck dinner party with the other artists last weekend, where we first shared our work with one another. I've also begun designing a teeny, tiny strawbale studio I hope someday soon to build on the land.

I managed not to feel neurotic at all without a to-do list, which shocked me (given that it's pretty rare I don't feel neurotic about something), but that is probably how it should be at a residency where one theoretically has no responsibilities whatsoever. But now, it's the last week, finals week, the time of all-nighters and knuckle-downers, and cleaning the bathroom for no apparent reason, and I've a list as long as my arm and twice as fat.

I'm going to download some photos now and see if I can figure out how to post them without making a complete mess of them. Thanks for reading!

Yuxweluptun draws the line

2010-02-24T11:53:00.000-07:00

Check out this article from the Vancouver Sun about this bad-assed Coast Salish artist who hasn't compromised his vision to make it in the world of modern art!

I was particularly impressed with his take on Guernica!

"Jentel Presents" March 2 in Sheridan, WY

2010-02-24T11:21:00.001-07:00

Hey Everybody!

On March 2 I'll be presenting my work in Sheridan at a public reading/art show. Please click on the title of this post to see a nice photo of my fellow artists and me (okay, I look tired and needed some makeup and a blowdryer), and the info about the event.

If you happen to be in Sheridan, please stop by!

The Residency at Jentel

2010-02-21T16:52:00.001-07:00

Big Horn Mountains

2010-02-21T16:41:00.000-07:00

Big Horn Mountains in the Distance

The view from the front of the residence

Fasting from the To-Do List

2010-02-21T16:16:00.003-07:00

All my life I've striven to be as efficient and productive as possible. I judge myself, relentlessly, by what I accomplish, produce, have to show for myself at the end of the day to justify taking up space on the planet. This has never made me happy, and really, has probably made me more neurotic and less efficient than most every other mental illness I possess.

So I've decided that one of my goals during my Jentel residency is to be inefficient, for one reason if none other: inefficient people don't commit genocide. To paraphrase Eddie Izzard, to succeed in committing genocide one must get up very early in the morning.

I haven't been getting up early, and today, I napped. I didn't mean to, didn't want to (I don't nap well as a general rule--never have--I'm afraid I'm missing something). But after lunch I was feeling woozy, rather dizzy and ill, so I lay down. I was well-caffeinated, as I always am by that point in the day, so I was certain I wouldn't fall asleep. I promptly did.

I woke 90 minutes later feeling guilty as hell. For what you ask? Well, resting. And in the middle of the day no less, when there's work to be done. I mean who do I think I am, Mrs Astor or something? (Oh my God; I'm channeling my mother).

I think I am a tired woman fighting a bug. Unfortunately, in the minefield that is my mind, that's not good enough. Not for napping in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. Not when there's work to be done.

Now, there is a part of my brain that is sufficiently not crazy that I recognize that maybe this is kind of a little bit crazy. And that part of my brain notices something else: it is winter.

In our new life on the land, we have been trying to live more seasonally, which is to say in the warm seasons you bust your ass, you work crazy hours all day and very hard, and in the winter you rest, in no small part so that you will actually have a self to work hard when the earth thaws.

This is the last month of deep rest I can expect till November. The fine folks who host this residency have already told us we should feel no pressure here to produce or perform, essentially that we should view our residency as a time to rest, recuperate, dream, play, do whatever we please, within the limits of decorum of course. Or at least, if we're going to go outside the limits of decorum we should "keep it in town." These good people recognize that creativity is an expression of play and imagination and does not follow a 9-5 schedule.

I told myself when I got up this morning (after putting in 12 hours yesterday) that today was a day off. Unfortunately, the working definition of "day off" in our culture is, of course, a day to get everything else done that you didn't get done during the week.

Enter my class politics. "Oh, how nice for you, Ms. Privileged, Ms. You-Call-Yourself-Working-Class? YOU don't have to work all day on your days off because YOU are being spoiled rotten for contributing no more to the planet than your stupid imaginary characters, your words. You're not sweating, not breaking your back for your family, or the people, or some evil master. Why are YOU entitled to rest?"

It's fun, isn't it, being me?

So, I've decided to fast. Not from food of course (hello, it's me). And certainly not from caffeine. From to-do lists. For the next week I am not permitted to make or follow a to-do list (of course, I have plenty of them hanging from the bulletin board--overall, general, organized by category, organized by day, yadda, yadda, yadda...really, it's impressive). The two to-do lists I have for today, sitting to my left, are getting crumpled up and thrown away even though most of what is on them hasn't been done yet.

I can't tell you how much anxiety this causes me. You see, I have a terrible memory. Have my entire life. My mother said it was because my head was in the clouds, my husband says it's because I have too much on my plate, a physician who hasn't known me long would probably say it's because I'm approaching menopause. I don't know what it is, just that it is. To-do lists give me the illusion that I will not get in trouble for forgetting to do something.

Since at age 42 an unemployed feminist without children should not, in my opinion, feel fear about the possible repercussions of forgetting to do something, I'm trying out this little decolonization step.

My theory is this: if it's important, if it's something I want to do, something I need to do, I'll do it. If it fits those categories and I don't do it, maybe it's because I'm exhausted, or sick, or ran out of time, and not because I'm inherently defective.

It's partly about trying to live in the moment, to be a more natural person, "out of my head" in a good way. And it's partly about trying to accept myself for being rather than doing.

I also have a theory that, sans to-do list, I will actually be very productive. I just won't remember from one moment to the next what I've been producing.

As for those things I don't want to do? Well, if I've given my word, I'll do it, mostly because I really dislike the person I am--a person I can't trust, and neither can you--when I give my word and I don't do it. But someday, in the next year or two, I hope to be a mother as well as the caregiver of dairy goats and laying hens. I will have other breathing beings dependent upon me for survival. This may be the last time in my life I can ever not do something because I don't want to. I think I need to take advantage of that.

Wish me luck.

Margaret Petrosky Gabrelcik - April 1, 1929-February 20, 1996

2010-02-20T12:03:00.000-07:00

It's the 14th anniversary today of my Mom, Maggie's, death. She was 66. She died too young of poverty, lack of access to decent health care, stress, loneliness, and a broken heart.

The doctors would say otherwise. They would say she drank too much, smoked too much, worked too hard, didn't get enough R & R. And they'd be right. All those things are true. But they miss the entire context of my mother's alcoholism, workaholism, and rageaholism. And those diagnoses utterly fail to capture the complex beauty of my mother.

My mom grew up the youngest of 9 children in a small Peabody Coal Mining town during the Great Depression. Both her parents were immigrants from Eastern Europe, folks who, until the 1920s, when my mother was born, were not considered "white" in US culture.

My grandfather was a coal-miner who helped organize and found the United Mine Workers in rural Western Pennsylvania. My grandmother was a farmer who raised nine children and also managed to get arrested in support of my grandfather.

My mother grew up during the Great Depression, and lived to tell those stories--of begging for shoes, of hunger, despite my grandparents' incessant hard work. She dropped out of school and went to work for the phone company when she was 17, lying about her age, so she could bring some income into the family.

She married around 20 or 21--there's no wedding photos, as it was all done quietly, and the dates of the marriage in relation to the births of my brother and eldest sister are a subject we don't discuss. Her marriage lasted 12 years, long enough to produce another daughter.

The version of history my mother told me quite late in her life is that her husband physically abused her, and she threw him out. There was a lot of drinking in their home. He became involved with a much younger woman, whom he eventually married and with whom he had four children, before succumbing to a heart attack in his early 40s.

My mom used to cry on some nights when she drank, telling me how she lost custody of her children to her ex-husband and his wife through ignorance of the legal system. I suspect my sisters and brother might have a different story, but that was my mom's to me.

By the time I came along, my mother had moved to Southern California and was waiting tables to support herself. My brother, Kuk, and eldest sister Diane, were both grown. Kuk had married and was working at the steel mill in Youngstown; Diane was living in Northern California putting herself through college. Sam (Saundra) my youngest sister (12 years my senior) was living with my brother and his wife in Ohio.

My father, different from siblings' dad, was separated from his wife when I was conceived. The family folklore holds that he told my mother he was sterile and so no birth control was used. I look quite a bit like my dad, so clearly the gentleman wasn't sterile. But by the time my mom learned she was pregnant with me, his relationship with my mother had ended (according to my dad because of my mother's rage which he could not handle) and he had reconciled with his wife, to whom he remained married the rest of his life.

My mother then was left unwed and pregnant, 38 years old and divorced, with no high school diploma, 2500 miles from her family, and damned lonely, in 1967. I'm 42 now, four years older than my mother was then, and I have to say, it's not hard for me to imagine why she would drink.

She raised me alone, and despite the anger, the abuse--emotional and physical, the scars of which I'm still healing from--the beery nights, the financial instability of our lives, she did a good job. I'm here. I'm educated, happily married to a fantastic man, I have great friends, loving siblings, awesome nieces and nephews, I'm in good health. I've traveled the world, published stories and articles, worked at the UN, studied astronomy in Puerto Rico, gotten arrested for my beliefs, continuing the family tradition, built a strawbale house, learned to farm, and begun a life of simplicity and sustainability of which I'm really quite proud, though it certainly has its challenges.

All this is possible because of my mom. My dad provided child support for 21 years, and I'm grateful, but it was my mom who was there for me, who taught me about social justice, about economic and political repression, about lipstick, and through it all, who loved me unconditionally with her whole heart. For all her faults--on which I generally choose to focus--my mom was a good, strong, intelligent, extremely funny, generous, hard-working woman, and I love her. And I miss her something awful. I hope wherever she is she is enjoying the peace, love, ease and luxury she knew so little of in this life.

Greetings from Wyoming!

2010-02-16T20:31:00.000-07:00

Hello Everyone,

Well, here I am at writing residency #2 of winter 2010, the insanely gorgeous Jentel Center for the Arts in the Lower Piney Creek valley, under the watchful gaze of the Big Horn Mountains. I feel like I won the lottery. First wonderful Kimmel Nelson Harding and now this?!?! I'm in a dream--please don't pinch me!

My beloved Marcos drove me the 600 miles up here so I could spend a month writing, reading, napping, walking, getting grounded in the rural West as a writer, and hopefully getting close to finishing my collection of short stories. We arrived yesterday to a warm welcome, a breathtaking residency house for artists, and an idyllic studio. The residency, and all its buildings, were designed by the benefactor/founder, Neltje. I haven't had the chance to meet her yet, but it's clear from the design and interior decoration of the buildings that she is an artist of consummate skill and vision. I have taken and will continue to take photos while I'm here, but they can't begin to do the place justice. The colors, the textures, the quality of light, the use of geometry, the melding with place...I am just in love with this woman's style.

She and the other fine folks here have created a space that is simutaneously peaceful and energizing, which provides sanctuary from the elements yet keeps one connected to the outdoors, in a truly beautiful setting. I feel hugely honored and privileged to be here.

There are five other artists here: one other writer, Zachary, and four other artists, three visual and one sound, Gail, Fannie, Elizabeth and Yann. I'll definitely share more about them, including links to their websites, as we get to know each other better. They seem like fabulous, brilliant people so far.

We had a lovely time together last night eating a delicious supper prepared for us by program director Lynn Reeves (who accommodated both mine and another artists' dietary restrictions with a grace and culinary talent reminding me of my sister-in-law, Jenn) and a HUGE bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, which we all delightfully finished together. Everyone here, I think, is a coffee drinker, several are runners, all are gourmands. I look forward to sharing stories of this blossoming, albeit temporary, community of artists.

In the meantime, enjoy the photos. I'll work on getting more up soon, and more reflections as things progress.

I always appreciate snail mail as well as email. You can drop me a line at

Val Phillips
Jentel Center for the Arts
132 Lower Piney Creek Rd.
Banner, WY 82832

Greetings from Nebraska!

2010-01-25T16:01:00.000-07:00

Well, my lovely, glorious, incomparable time here at the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts in Nebraska City is sadly coming to a close soon. This is my last week here, and unfortunately, I'm spending the first day of my last five rather ill. I'm hoping it's just a weird bout of food poisoning (my own, not Nebraska City's lovely restaurants).

I've had a splendid time here and feel so incredibly blessed to have been given this opportunity. I've met and been befriended by three beautiful, extremely talented, smart and kind visual artists, and two brave, exciting, lovely writers. All women, all amazing.

My writing has benefited enormously from the combination of solace and the community of other artists. Janice Baker, my roommie, is a one-woman band of supportive, encouraging energy, positive spirit, playfulness, compassion and fun! Her art is so cool! I'll send some pictures. Every day Janice gets up happy, and she's so excited to get in the studio--she's like a little kid getting to go out and play. No drama, all joy. She's my inspiration.

Nadine Stefan, a visual artist from British Columbia, makes these tender, arresting, understated but completely captivating installations using local flora and paint and wood. Her work is completely grounded in the natural world, and she seeks to celebrate balance between the masculine and feminine, and other so-called opposites. She's Miss Power Tools. If there's some weird loud noise reminiscent of our home-building efforts in Gardner coming from the studios, nine times out of ten, it's Nadine (the other time it's Janice and her power sander). Nadine is funny, and smart, and super sweet, and--like Janice--a delicious conversationalist (I'm the quiet one in the group, if you can imagine). Oh, and like every other woman here, she's also drop-dead gorgeous.

Skye Gilkerson grew up on a dairy farm in South Dakota. Her work has this delicate brilliance about it that I just love and that kind of reminds me of the stark, quiet beauty of the Plains (our Northerner calls them "Prairies"). There's a grace, a subtlety of form and thought there, with rods of steel running through the middle of it...I don't know how to explain it, but Skye's work just takes my breath away. I am floored to be in the midst of such amazing talent. If she doesn't mind I'll post some photos of her work.

Skye is a wonderful cook, and is really smart. She is as lovely a woman as her work, and she seems to me feverishly, fantastically dedicated to her craft--actually all three women are. I haven't gotten to know Skye as well as Janice and Nadine because she's not always decadently parking herself in front of the boob tube at night, like we are, but it's been a real privilege to spend the time with her I have.

My sister writers, Stephanie and Suzanne, have each been here only 2 weeks, in succession. My time with them was precious, but too short. Stephanie is this delicate, stylish, genteel-seeming beauty from Missouri with a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for dive bars prone to fights. I love her. I was so grateful to be able to hear her read some of her poetry while she was here--she's exceedingly gifted, and very, very skilled. Her poems really touched me, landing as they did on several important social themes with lyric use of language, syntax and metaphor.

I've really enjoyed my short conversations with Suzanne so far, in which we relish in sharing our stories of wailing and gnashing our teeth (metaphorically of course; we're writers--everything we do is a metaphor!). I look forward to hearing her read tomorrow night.

Pat Friedli and Denise Brady, the staff here, are super competent, friendly, down-to-earth women who have done a tremendous job of making this place work so well, and also of endearing KHN to the wider community such that we are welcomed with open arms and kind smiles everywhere we go in town. They're also just really interesting, smart women to talk with, and both are artists themselves. We got to see some of the gorgeous printmaking work Denise has done a few weeks ago, and I'm hoping we'll get to see some of Pat's work in fiber arts before we leave.

Well, that's my update for now. I had hoped to find some photos to post with this, but will have to look around and find them first. Next time!

Hello from Too Long Away!

2009-11-20T21:23:00.001-07:00

I'm sorry I've been away so long. For the past two years my life has been focused almost exclusively on getting this intentional community in Gardner off the ground (for more info, see my new blog, which is still in training pants: www.ourcommunityingardner.blogspot.com).

I'm still writing, though, when I can manage, and wanted to update you all on my news.

*In 2008 my short story "Hidad" was published in Fast Forward, a literary journal of flash fiction.

*Next month my story "The Old Man of Al-Muwassi" will be published in the premier issue of Messages from the Hidden Lake, and new literary journal out of Alamosa, Colorado.

*In October I was awarded a juried residency at the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts in Nebraska City, Nebraska. I will spend the month of January, 2010 at KHN completing short stories for my collection, Stepping Into the Kingdom.

*In November I was awarded a juried residency at Jentel Center for the Arts near Buffalo, Wyoming. I will (insha'allah) complete Stepping Into the Kingdom during my time at Jentel, February 15-March 13, 2010.

*Last week I was named one of 50 finalists in Glimmer Train's September 2009 "Best Start" contest for the beginning of my short story, "Sanctuary."

Okay, that's the update for the brag book. Hopefully some proper, thoughtful writing coming soon!

Thanks so much for reading!

In Memoriam: Ron S. "Doc" Rosen, Medic, Activist, Warrior for the People

2007-07-22T17:05:00.000-06:00

"He live[d] inside his heart, and that's a really big place."
--Sling Blade

In Memoriam: Jonathan A. Cohen, 1940-2007

2007-05-14T10:40:00.000-06:00

I learned on Friday that my dear friend and therapist Jonathan Cohen died on May 5. He was 66 years old.

Those are the facts. Beneath the facts are more facts, and a swirling torment of emotions and questions. Jon was a beautiful, brilliant man: warm, funny, insightful, caring, extraordinarily intelligent, fiercely opinionated, but questioning of everything, in others and the world.
He was a very accomplished professional psychiatrist, politically astute and active, a talented and enamored sailor,a gifted writer, an intellectual of tremendous caliber, a generous and fun person who sank his teeth deeply into life. He was a beloved father of two beautiful, smart, healthy, worldly, caring children now grown into adults, and a challenging companion to a gorgeous galaxy of a woman. He had loads of friends whom he loved and who thought the world of him.

He hated lies, moral cowardice, easy answers. He wouldn't settle for any of them, at least that appeared the case to me. I had long sought a therapist I could work with who wouldn't let me get away with my shit, who was at least as smart as me (in the way I'm smart), who knew how to play the game and could beat me at it. Jon was so far beyond me in so many of these areas he was able truly to support me in finding my path. We didn't always get along in therapy. I didn't always agree with him, and he occasionally really pissed me off. But I could tell him that, and he would hear me, and work to change the way he approached our work together. So often I left his office more hopeful, able to continue a few days longer. He saved my life, quite literally, on more than one occasion.

I wish I could have returned the favor. Even in our friendship, which grew around and out of our professional relationship, Jon did almost all the listening and questioning. I was very bad at this. When an amazing man, full of energy, thoughtfulness, deep and diverse life experience wants to hear what I have to say (this doesn't happen that often) it's hard for me to shut up. I wish I had done so more. I wish I had made more space for him to speak about his demons, fears, moral questioning, depression, suffering.

Jonathan's suffering got the better of him last week, and this beautiful man who gave me so much, who worked so hard to heal others, took his own life. I was shocked but strangely not surprised. I was aware that he and his partner, another dear friend of mine, had separated, and that some choices of Jon's--inconsistent, from my perspective, with his strong moral compass--were involved in that separation. I had not known of his depression, although he had spoken a bit with me of his childhood and his relationship with his father. What I did know, though, was that Jon was a person of character--whatever his mistakes or failings--of decisiveness and courage. He was the kind of person capable of making such a difficult, final choice and carrying it out.

His reasons are his own. I may never fully understand them. Yesterday, at the gathering of remembrance his partner and children organized for him in the foothills of Boulder, I gained further insights into his mental state before he killed himself. He had been struggling with depression for a long time. He was unhappy in his new home in Washington state. He had never fully recovered from the trauma and injuries of his childhood. And he may not have believed or known when he died that he had been forgiven for the hurtful choices he had made.

I wonder too to what extent the political situation in the world may have influenced his decisions. Jon had a very strong moral political compass and could not abide anything he considered unjust, inhumane, dishonest. He could not excuse such behavior. As head psychiatrist on Paris Island during the Vietnam war, he tried to help U.S. servicemen come to grips with the crimes and atrocities they committed, as well as the horror they'd witnessed and grief they'd endured, to become as mentally strong, healthy, and honest as a human beings so damaged could become. His son yesterday referenced Jon's testimony in Congress against the Marines, and Mark and I wondered if Jon wasn't one of the "winter soldiers" who did so much to bring to light the evil of that "police action" and war in general.

Jon and I first met through his involvement in the Colorado Campaign for Middle East Peace, initially in the work to end economic sanctions against Iraq. I remember like it was yesterday he and his partner, sitting on a couch in the old American Friends Service Committee offices. I remember thinking, "my God, who is this beautiful, strong, stylish couple here to join in our struggle?" We all three fell in love with each other during that meeting, and our friendships grew in earnest shortly afterwards.

Later, Jon served as our volunteer on-call psychiatrist when CCMEP sent delegations to Palestine, and some found themselves literally under fire during Israel's massive invasion of the West Bank in 2002. I'll never forget how he was there to speak with Nancy Stohlman, as bombs were falling around her, and help her decide whether to be evacuated or remain with the people. Most psychiastrists, I think, would have thought Nancy--then a young single mother--crazy for even having gone to Palestine. They would have insisted she get out of there as soon as possible. Not Jon. Jon understood why she was there, and, more than that, he understood the terrible impact her leaving might have on her psyche, the damage such guilt could inflict. He encouraged her to stay, bombs and all. He understood that survivor guilt can be unbearable, and helps no one.

I don't know that Jon believed in the spirit world, but I do, and I pray his spirit can yet provide solace and wisdom to his children. They now seem haunted by what they didn't see, what they didn't do to help him. Carrying the grief of such loss, a good dad who died too young, is more than enough; I pray they can be freed of survivor guilt, and live their lives with all the passionate engagement their father did, without his suffering.

There are lessons in this for them, and for all of us. At the risk of simplifying a tragedy of unspeakable pain, imposing meaning or pattern that isn't there because the human mind so needs them, the immediate lessons for me are of compassion, forgiveness, honesty and self-healing. I want the sense of priority and perspective I felt in the immediate aftermath of learning of his death to be what stays with me. In the past six months I too have had suicidal thoughts, on a number of occasions. I have never gotten to the point Jon did, and for that I have the love and compassion of my immediate circle to thank. I want to heal myself enough that I can provide that compassion and understanding to others. I'm not there yet, but that is my path.

At the time of his death I was extremely angry with, and felt somewhat betrayed, by Jon. All of that is still true, but it is so far from the sum total of my relationship with him. I wish I could have spoken with him, met with him, heard his reasoning, his side of the story, so I could have forgiven him while he was alive, and he could have known that he was still loved and appreciated, that his demons were understood. I assumed there would be time--time to heal, to resolve old wounds, to figure things out. And I counted on Jonathan's seemingly mountainous strength to withstand what plagued his heart.

I am not at all convinced that suicide is always a bad choice, always something to be prevented. I still don't know what to think of Jon's choice. But it is hard to see someone of such gifts, such extraordinary heart and mind and spirit, dissolve into his own grief such that it seems the best choice for him.

I do not know how to finish this, except to stop. Perhaps, sometimes, that is the only ending one can write.

The Power of Refusal

2007-04-05T11:10:00.001-06:00

In all fairness to Lauranna, I can't write this as well as she can, because she's the one who taught me about this. I can say, however, that the more I put her wise teachings into practice, the happier and more liberated I feel.

Lauranna calls it the power of refusal. Gandhi and King called it nonviolent non-cooperation. I call it liberation.

I've become, of late, an enormous fan of the concept and power of refusal. I have spent so much of my life over-spending my energies, sapping my strength trying to change people and institutions. Let me just clarify: I'm a fan of work, and of trying to change institutions for the better (or do away with them altogether). I'm a fan of living one's life in service to others, particularly one's community. I'm a fan of giving one's life for one's community.

I'm not a fan of being used, abused, ignored, disrespected, lied to, lied about, manipulated, dominated or controlled, or having my time and energy wasted on a project which cannot succeed, and which is at best an expression of ego, delusion or fear. When I talk about withdrawing my energies, it is from projects and people who promote the latter behavior, instead of--or, as well as--the former.

I discovered something recently (you know, discovered like Columbus did...something that everyone who was paying attention already knew was there). If you don't like the way you're being treated in a relationship, and you don't see hope for that changing, it's a good idea to leave. It's okay to remove yourself from that relationship. It's also okay, if you decide to stay in the relationship, to decide the terms of your engagement, the how, the when, the why, the where. Lauranna's very good at this. She's a student of the Tao of War, which can also serve one well as a Tao of Love.

Little by little I've been figuring out, mostly because I reach a point where either I end (literally) my life, or I let go of what is killing me, that I not only can but must refuse to participate in relationships that are destructive to my psyche and spirit, and--on a political level--the planet and her people. It's gotten that bad at times. It's gotten that bad a lot.

I've resisted this for years partly because I'm staggeringly co-dependent and keep thinking I can change people. I can't change people. Intellectually I know that, but co-dependency is a hard habit to break. I can be true to myself, speak my truth or live my truth, and others can decide what they want to do in the face of that. But neither through persuasion, manipulation, nor brutalization can I change people at their core. I can hurt them really, really badly. I know that. And that brutalization is certainly a kind of power, but it's not a kind of power I ultimately see producing any good.

When I get to a place of deeper honesty, I realize it's all about power and responsibility. It's truly frightening to me to realize how much of a victim I've let myself believe I am. I am nobody's victim. I'm a smart, powerful woman, who has and can make a difference in the lives of people she touches. I've been loved far more than I wish to admit, and I've hurt people who've loved me far more than I can bear to acknowledge sometimes.

But this truth doesn't jive with my self-image as victim. It requires that I really own how much I've been hurt and how much I've hurt, both give and ask for forgiveness. It requires that I risk and act far more than I do. And it requires, at core, that I change, and heal what is broken in me, what has victimized me and in turn causes me to hurt others.

That's the paradox for me, of why I've resisted the power of refusal. On the one hand, I keep thinking if I just give more energy to a relationship--with a person, an organization, a corporation, the state--I can change them from what they fundamentally are to something else. On the other hand, I refuse to acknowledge how much power I really do have to affect change if I just take responsibility for that power and use it wisely, instead of wasting it and my hope and heart on efforts which I know can't work.

I've resisted refusal precisely because it can work. There is nothing more galling to an oppressive person or institution than being ignored, made irrelevant, redundant.

Why am I wasting all your time with this navel-gazing? I'm trying to understand what we're doing wrong here, in our efforts to improve our lot. There are absolutely times we have no choice but to engage and resist. Prisoners are held captive, tortured, denied their freedom--the state must be engaged to obtain their release. Immigrants are abused, exploited, oppressed. Whatever legal rights can be obtained for them must be fought for and won. The average lifespan for an American Indian man living on a reservation is still under 50 years. That's unacceptable. Suffering must be alleviated; the people can't wait until the revolution is over to eat.

Not having to resist the corporate-state directly in order to survive is a position of tremendous privilege. I know that, and God help the next white male who tries to tell me otherwise. But in addition to our necessary resistance, the power of refusal must be engaged more. Not a refusal to acknowledge state power--a refusal to acknowledge its legitimacy.

I look to the work in our community of Shareef Aleem and Larry Hales, two brave and brilliant African-American activists, who inspire me in this regard. These two men seem to me to very clear, both about what needs to change and can be made to change, and what never will. Rather than begging the state for a police review board, or other form of governmental accountability of a governmental institution, they're working to create civilian review, civilian-controlled accountability. They're not asking the state's permission; they're going to the people, where power is supposed to--and actually does--reside.

The bloggers also do this. By creating an alternative to the so-called journalism of the mainstream newspapers, as accessible to many, they create a public space for truth which cannot be silenced by dollars and threats.

The folks who keep trying to reform the Democratic Party do not do this. I understand the efforts of those trying to stem the bloodshed of their people--a bandage will not stop a hemorrhage, but maybe it will slow it a little? But many who keep betting on that donkey do not do so with any recognition that it's an ass, not a horse. It will never be a horse; don't bet on it to win a horserace. Such folks are engaged in a tragically co-dependent, deluded dance with an institution that was not designed to serve the people, or justice, or the planet. That's not its purpose for being; that isn't what it is. Yes, you can expend all your energy trying to get Daddy to be nice to you today, or pay the rent this month, or keep from beating Mom this afternoon. You may succeed today, and maybe in the short term it's a good thing not to be homeless, or hungry, or in the emergency room. But tomorrow he's still going to be a patriarchal, violent, alcoholic bastard, and Mom's still going to be defending him.

Kick Dad's ass out, buy guns and barricade the windows, or move yourself and your loved ones out of the fucking house. Those, to me, are the options. Take away Dad's power over your life. Organize your siblings to resist him and to build a better house. Liberate Mom if you can; pray for her if you can't.

You know how you know when an alcoholic's lying? Their lips are moving.

Refuse to believe them. Refuse to listen to them. Refuse to take care of them, and clean up their messes. Refuse to make it okay for them to keep lying to themselves and others. Refuse to support them in their abusive behavior. Don't give them your time and energy, even in critique. Refuse to give them your power, and soon they will have no power at all.

Personal Imperialism: Sometimes It's Not All About You

2007-04-05T10:58:00.000-06:00

There's this disease perfected in the last five centuries by white males called imperialism which has seeped into the groundwater we all drink, and now unfortunately affects far too many white women, and even sometimes people of color as well. Imperialism is both a personal and political pathology. It's a pathology which I for one am really over being victimized by; unfortunately I'm sure I still have a long way to go with regard to my victimization of others.

We all know what political imperialism looks like. But personal?

Not being a personal imperialist basically means approaching relationships with other people thus:

"This is my stuff. That's your stuff. I keep my stuff on my side of the relationship, you keep your stuff on your side of the relationship. You do not expect me or order me to carry your stuff, and you don't offer to carry mine. Ever. Under any circumstances."

The thing that the most die-hard codependents like myself refuse to acknowledge is that no one can liberate another person from their stuff. It's not the way the game of life is played. You can try to get other people to carry your stuff, and you can offer to carry other people's stuff. You can succeed on this front. You can impose your stuff on others, and you can drag their stuff along with yours. What you can't do, however, is lessen the amount of one's own stuff in the process. In the end, only the person who owns the stuff can do that.

No matter much you spew your shit in all directions, when you open up your rucksack at the end of the day, all your shit is still going to be there. It's a very weird physical law which pertains only to psychological/emotional stuff, but it pertains absolutely.

So, knowing that, it's very important that you neither offer to take, nor allow to have sneaked into your rucksack, anyone else's shit. It does no one any good. No one is helped by this, but the over-burdened carrier is hurt, which then hurts her/his relationship with the person whose shit they're pointlessly carrying. Pretty soon everyone's pissed off and suffering. Al-Anon 101.

Why is this imperialist? Because it's about taking up more space--in a room, relationship, country, planet--than you are entitled to. Spreading out in all directions, colonizing other people, taking their spiritual or material resources back to you--the father country. My rucksack is not a piece of real estate to which you are entitled. Neither is my mind, my body, my spirit, or my back. My rucksack is full to overflowing with my stuff. I don't have room for yours, and the previous stuff of others that was piled into to my rucksack has been breaking my back (and spirit) for years.

So what does this have to do with my title, "Sometimes, It's Not All About You"? Have you ever had the experience of someone walking into a room, conversation, life, and trying very hard to make it all about them? That's emotional imperialism.

There are those people who literally cannot stand the notion that people can have relationships, social engagements, conversations, dates with other people, even internal dialogues, and not include them. Such encounters represent a liberated zone, a space this person has not yet been able to colonize, control and dominate. It is part of the white male disease that they go mental at the thought of such a space existing in the universe. "There is no place I cannot be!!" This is the white male mantra, which far too much of the rest of the planet now chants.

Other forms of emotional and psychological imperialism:

1. Triangulation. This is, tragically, a favorite of women, particularly mothers. Many mothers cannot stand the idea of their children having relationships with each other which do not go through them. So they triangulate, they pit siblings and friends against each other, to keep themselves in the dead center of power. It's a very negative power, and doesn't usually serve to make their situation any better. Nevertheless it's very common. These people literally can't stand the fact that it's not all about them.

2. Passive-aggression. Why communicate directly what you're feeling when you can be totally dishonest and still punish the person you're mad at by stuffing their rucksack while they're not looking?

3. Drama Kings & Queens. Oh, I'm so over this one. "The world is not the world. The world is my personal stage, I am the star and director, and the rest of you are but bit players and scenery."

These folks can't bear the thought that there could be a drama (or god-forbid comedy or romance) in which they do not have the starring (and directing) role. To prevent this from happening, they keep churning out schlock dramas, dominating and controlling the theatre, sets, costumes, and make-up for years. Unfortunately, this also tends to totally occupy most of the actors, who--like desperate out-of-work actors everywhere--think this is the only game in town and they'd better get in on it. "Oh, there's a play going on. I've been given a role and this is such a nice theatre. How marvelous. Guess I'd better get into make-up," instead of "Who the fuck wrote this lousy play? I hate this fucking role--I've played it all my life and it was bad when times were good. Whaddya say we get the hell out of here and do Twelfth Night in the parking lot, audience and revenue be damned?!"

4. Occupation of Space and Belongings. You create a little space in your shared home for yourself. It's might be a desk, a chair, an altar, a closet. In various direct and indirect ways, you say, "it's mine. My little piece of the world, my refuge." The imperialist invades it, sometimes not even consciously. Because there cannot be any place the imperialist cannot be.

I write this as a recovering and repentant drama queen, passive-aggressive, co-dependent, triangulating imperialist. I am truly sorry. The world and all my relations deserved, and continues to deserve, better.

Sometimes, it's just not all about me, or you--can you grasp that? And sometimes, people need to have a space which one cannot and does not violate by entering.

Women need a space you cannot violate by entering--not physically, not intellectually, not spiritually. We need this like breathing. Trans/Queer folk need it. Indians need it. Black folks need it. Immigrants need it. Teenagers need it. God knows, the Palestinians, Iraqis and Afghans need it. Every writer I know needs it. Every person I know needs it.

If you don't like war, stop invading other people's space, taking what doesn't belong to you, and packing other people's rucksacks with your shit. Liberation begins at home. Begin now.

Be Human as God is Human

2007-03-18T14:50:00.000-06:00

Today I sat in Meeting for Worship (Quaker Meeting) and as I tried to center down I found myself feeling anxious and tried to determine the source of the anxiety. It didn't take long to figure out what it was: I feared being judged by my fellow members of Meeting. Judged and found unworthy. There wasn't anything in particular I feared being judged about--just my existence in general--and I had no reason to suspect my fellow Quakers, of all people, of judging me in such a way. That's the irritating thing about generalized anxiety--it doesn't usually have a specific point one can isolate and treat, or even a rational beginning and end.

Once I realized this, though, my heart opened pretty quickly and I began to feel a great deal lighter. As I tried to quiet my mind in the silence, I talked to myself, and reminded myself that no one in that room is perfect, that we are all quite fallible humans, and all probably carrying around a similar set of anxieties. We all afraid of so much: afraid of being wrong, afraid of making the wrong decision, of doing too much or not enough, afraid of not doing the right thing, at the right time, afraid of being cowardly, weak, or just not plain good enough, afraid of needing help, money, understanding, afraid of not being totally emotionally, physically, and psychologically self-sufficient--the terrible crime that is in our society. The vice grip of anxiety this society keeps so many of us in, without our even realizing it much of the time.

Whence does this fear of being imperfect come?

My initial thought went to the heart of early Euro-American culture: Puritanism, and a quotation from the Bible (even quoted by Friends sometimes): Be perfect as God is perfect.

I've never really liked that quotation, but the more I deconstruct it, the more oppressive I find it. If we're all so busy being perfect as God is perfect all the time, where is the room for being human? I'm not a huge believer in the whole Jesus-as-God-incarnate bit of Christianity, but for a moment, let's just take for given that's true. Was not God also human then, as well as perfect? What would a society look like where we accepted and even celebrated our own and one another's simple humanity? Maybe if we weren't so busy trying to live up to some insane ideal which no human can achieve--physical, intellectual, professional, personal--we'd have a lot more compassion for the frailty of our fellow human beings. We wouldn't judge each other so harshly for being late, fat, old or young, insolvent, dishonest on occasion, inconsiderate on others, boring, ignorant, or silly. I suspect our humanity which actually take a quantum leap forward if we could overcome this self-and-communal-flaggelating assumption of the necessity of perfection.

If one spends huge amounts of time, energy and money trying to fix, hide, or deny one's own imperfections, it seems only rational that one would resent imperfection in others (we tend to resent near-perfection as well, but not quite as much since it's what we aspire to). How dare you allow yourself to be seen in that bathing suit with those thighs? How dare you dress in that shabby way, or wear your hair in that outdated style? How dare you engage in any kind of physical activity when you look ridiculous in workout clothes, sweat profusely, and suck at anything requiring any exertion? How dare you be late? How dare you bounce a check, miss that phone call, fail to return those 1,400 email messages promptly? How dare you write less than perfect prose or poetry and actually think of showing it to someone? How dare you misunderstand me? How dare you fail to confront all the evil within shouting distance? How dare you ask for help or money or hospitality? How dare you not know everything you need to know about everything and everyone you might encounter before you walk out the door in the morning? How dare you drink? How dare you eat? How dare you sing? How dare you dance? How dare you love that person?

It's a dangerous business, Frodo, walking out your door! With so much judgment from ourselves, let alone our sister humans, waiting to leap on us like a mountain lion in wait each day, it's a wonder we risk getting out of bed in the morning!

There is a feeling in my body I associate with this kind of thinking: PAIN. A severe tightness in the shoulders and neck, disquiet in the belly, joint pain, headaches. The body half of the body-mind does not like this, and is entirely clear on that point. I'm trying to listen more to my body, and what my body tells me quite clearly is this: You're human. Get over it, or die trying. Because you're going to die one way or the other, you imperfect little shit.

And yet...I moved on from these thoughts, once they'd quieted my mind and spirit, to some phrases of wisdom I've been gifted with from people I've been blessed to count among my friends.

Two of my husband's favorite phrases are "I'm just not satisfied," and "Mercy." The two seem incompatible, in a way, and it is my experience of Mark that he tends to be much more merciful towards others than towards himself. He will accept a quality and quantity of work from others which he would never accept from himself. If I'm beating up on myself, rather than join the fray, he will hold me and say "mercy, mercy." But God help him when he makes a mistake with our finances, or forgets to do something he'd planned, or doesn't conduct himself perfectly in an argument or meeting. He has a much harder time receiving mercy than dispensing it.

Which isn't to say he isn't critical of others. We both are, so much so that we've given ourselves the nicknames "Statler & Waldorf," the two crochety muppet elders who used to sit in the balcony during the Muppet Show and heckle the principle players. We've made their names into a verb, as we Statler & Waldorf everything: movies, protests, meetings, what-have-you. But we Statler & Waldorf ourselves the harshest of all.

Usually one or the other of us will try to find the positives in an otherwise depressing and disappointing scenario. It's how we've gotten through our lives to this point. But at some point the words will come out of Mark's mouth, in one form or another, "I'm just not satisfied." He has very high standards for himself and the planet, and he can't condone either being so morally or physically lazy as to not keep trying to live up to them. I have the same high standards. A friend at VSC, Yoon-Soo, tried to explain to me that I should expect people will always disappoint me because I expect them to be good, rational, sensible, generous, kind, open, compassionate and fair, and, well, frankly, most of us just don't have it that together yet, yours truly included.

It seems to me, though, that we can only really deal with our dissatisfaction in a way that doesn't kill us if we come at it from a deeply compassionate, merciful place. I had this image in Meeting of the Earth cradling me like the mother she is. Yes, I accept you with all your failings. Yes, I still love you. Yes, I'll still feed you. Yes, I'll stay with you, always. And, no, my beloved child, that's not good enough. You can do better and you must.

John Gottman, marriage survival expert, says that one of the greatest ironies in life, as in marriage, is that you must accept someone exactly as they are if you are to have any hope of them ever changing into the person you want them to be. When we are afraid, or feel unloved or judged or unaccepted, it's the most natural thing in the world for us to put up defenses. And a defensiving posture weakens and exhausts us. All our energy goes into self-protection. Self-awareness and self-critique requires the strength and power to open ourselves and shine a light in. Bring able to look with a loving but honest and critical eye at ourselves requires tremendous self-love and self-confidence, and though some can do it, it is tough to manage this in the face of the judgment and criticism and blame and shaming of our nearest and dearest. Their love and mercy, however, can empower us in ways we can scarcely imagine until that light shines on us.

I know this to be true, but acting on it is SO HARD! I want everyone to accept me as human, while I demand of them perfection!

I found myself thinking then of something my friend Lauranna taught me. Lauranna is a person of tremendous wisdom who has taught me so many good things. One of these is the power of refusal, the incredible importance of the judicious use of the word no. But I'm going to save that for next time. I have some short stories to finish. Love to you all.

Next Steps Post-VSC

2007-03-07T14:06:00.000-07:00

Well, as Samwise Gamgee says at the end of the Lord of the Rings, I'm back.

Back in Denver. Back to the ferocious, fabulous light, and the dry, dry air, and the smog, and burgeoning city, back to the activist scene and our beloved friends and family.

And, after a crazy month spent starting two jobs at 6th Avenue United Church of Christ, and moving into a bright little basement apartment in same, I'm finally getting back to writing. I'll get together tonight with Nancy Stohlman's group of novelists workshopping their writing, and have begun editing and revising some of the stories I began in Vermont. I am still waiting to hear back from Howard Norman (our visiting writer) with his critique of the story I asked him to read. Hopefully that will be forthcoming soon. Today I'm writing Hugh to check in and see how I should send him my work for him to share with his agent.

I hope to get more writing up on the blog soon, as my writerly "insight" are seeming rather drab and dull even to me. Thanks for checking in and staying with me!

Bonding with a Fellow Reno Junkie in the Burlington Airport

2007-03-07T13:40:00.000-07:00

This post goes out to all Reno-911 junkies. You know who you are.

I think all of us were really ready to head home by today. Folks started packing up in their minds early in the week. I was struggling to fit everything--the papers, the $1 sweaters and 25 cent paperbacks I picked up at the Johnson Church Thrift store, but managed just barely to get it all in without busting up my suitcases.

Because I had a wee bit more luggage than we were asked to bring (and for any of you future VSC attendees, the vans are SMALL so take them SERIOUSLY at their luggage limit), I asked to leave on the earlier van. As a result I had lots of time to hang around the Burlington Airport with a sister writer.

First we spent a few hours reviewing our frustrations with the issues mentioned in an earlier post at VSC. My sister writer also detailed for me her experience of tremendous heterosexism at VSC, and how she just didn't feel anyone there really got her as a queer woman. Once she put a name to it, the creeping feeling I'd been developing while there--that I really don't like most straight men--finally made sense to me. She said, after this experience, she really has no interest in the future going to residencies which aren't women-only. Some of the people of color I talked to before leaving expressed a similar statement.

Once we'd finished venting, we moved on to a far more important topic: Our just-discovered and shared love of Reno: 911. For those of you unfamiliar with this Comedy Central gem, Reno is satire. I mention this because a lot of folks don't get that. It's brilliant, very smart improv satirizing the police, and racism, sexism, and heterosexism in this country. If you don't get satire, you won't get Reno. If you do, but you don't have cable, run--do not walk--to your nearest independently owned video rental joint and get the first three seasons on DVD. It's the antidote to the horrors of daily life everyone needs. Trust me.

The Free Palestine Brigade at VSC!

2007-03-07T13:31:00.000-07:00

I have found open and caring people here who have responded with heart and mind to these stories from Palestine, and that is no small thing; it has given me courage and the will to continue. There is also a phenomenal painter and performance artist here named Kendall who worked as a human shield in Rafah (Gaza) in 2003. He has done some gorgeously in-your-face pieces, including several self-portraits of "artist as martyr"--imagine it about as radical as you can and go a step farther! Phenomenal man!

One of my new friends here, Hugh, has even asked me to send him some of my longer pieces, offering to show them to his agent. Any of you writers out there know this is a tremendous gift, and a real testament to Hugh's self-respect and lack of competitiveness (he has no reason to be jealous of me anyway...he is a phenomenally gifted and skilled writer and poet). Of course, I'm terrified of doing this, but it would be self-sabotage not to do so. I hadn't really thought my work was ready for an agent, but he seems to think so, and that is encouraging.

Hugh and I share a political sensibility about writing which he can articulate far better than I.
Finding him, or rather, him finding me, was such a gift. And I had the privilege of meeting his partner, Maynard, yesterday, who came up from their home a few hours away to hear Hugh read. They are both part of a progressive community working on issues of sustainable energy; I hope and intend that Mark and I should stay in touch with them over time.

There have been some truly wonderful and inspiring people here, and I will take cherished memories of them with me. I can never thank them enough for the support and safety they've provided me here.

Still more Thank Yous!

2007-02-02T13:34:00.000-07:00

The contributions towards my residency continue to come in! Thanks to all of you, I have raised almost all the money I needed to fulfill my obligations to VSC without going further in debt.

A shout out and much love to Gary Anderson of Denver & Ramallah, Gabriela Flora and Jim Walsh of Denver, Remy Kachadourian of Denver, Leona Cohen of Denver, and Ben Scribner of Boston. Your love and faith means so much. Thank you!

More from VSC: Community and Its Discontents

2007-01-30T13:28:00.000-07:00

The community of artists here is an extraordinary group, and being among them has helped me in another crucial way I did not foresee. Looking at myself through their eyes, and sharing this experience with them, I am reminded of something I've believed for years politically, but as a white woman never really experienced, or experience only in limited ways, such as among activists. It's something I've never experienced so fully as a writer: that one's identity, to be healthy and whole, cannot be just an individual thing. We are social animals, we are a communal people, and we understand who we are in the world, to a large extent, by knowing we are not alone, and by constructing our identities in part from those with whom we surround ourselves. Culture and communal experience/identity are not luxuries, but necessities.

I have been blessed with some microcosms of such community in Denver: the women who have befriended me and with whom I've shared stories and craft through my dear friend Karen Sbrockey, and, before them, my classmates at UCD, including Nancy Stohlman; and the first regular workshop group I belonged to, organized by wondrous poet-activist Laura Hershey. Nancy has continued to be a great source of writing community for me, as has wonderful Rikki Ducornet, whose support, friendship and mentorship are a large part of what got me to VSC.

But there are 75 people here, and--in fact--no one who doesn't identify as an artist. We eat every single meal together. We support each other's work. We are each other's social life, to the extent we choose to be. We share houses and studio buildings. Our little bubble is ridiculously self-contained, but sometimes one needs that space, however temporary.

It is not paradise, despite the amazing food, and people can be assholes and jerks here just like anywhere else. Not everyone respects a certain "code of honor among thieves."

And there have been infuriating issues of sexism, racism and agism here, which some of the women have been working to resolve, with seemingly little effect. The sexually predatory behavior of some of the over 50 crowd of men has been focused exclusively on the 30 year-old-and-under crowd of women. A 39 year-old fart like me, with gray hair, a wedding ring, and interest in very little besides my work, doesn't seem to interest them anymore, thank God (finally, something to love about aging!).

The younger women have been really thrown emotionally off-kilter by some of this crap, and continue to be victimized by it. Because I haven't witnessed these events, I hear about them after the fact, mostly from young of women of color, to whom I offer my listening, solidarity, and rage. They're unfortunately satisfied with the former; I keep asking what we should do together with the latter, or what they would like me to do as their ally. Sometimes it seems to help them just to have an older woman validate their experience and reassure them what's happening to them is unacceptable, can and should be fought.

They've confronted some of the people involved, and taken some of the issues to the staff; not everything has been taken to the staff, and there is little they can do if they're not aware this is going on. But the staff should be aware, because I'm sure this is not the first group in which this has happened, and there needs to be a much stronger discussion or training at the beginning of each session, and with each visiting (faculty) artist, regarding what constitutes sexist and sexual, as well as racial, assault since so many people seem so unclear on it.

I am particularly unimpressed with the lack of solidarity from younger men here. Independent of the women of color artists, I hope to have my own conversations with the staff here, and I doubt strongly that I will try to come back here unless things change dramatically. As much as I got out of it, the apparent apathy of the staff in response to these problems is really damning. These are not little problems. This should be a safe space for all people, and young women should not have to deal with sexist and sexual verbal assault, as well as young women of color dealing with racism as well.

Update from VSC

2007-01-29T13:26:00.000-07:00

My time here at the Vermont Studio Center is coming to an end on Friday, three days from now. I'm sorry I have really not updated you, but not sorry for the reason: Every moment that I possibly could, I've written, or edited, or re-read work to figure out where to take it, and since you all sent me here to do that, I feel good that that is where my time has gone.

I have gotten a great deal done. I have finished four stories from the short story collection based on my time in Palestine, and have begun five new stories. I'm hoping to have very rough first drafts of three done before I leave. The collection of my work I intend to send all my donors by the end of February will include the completed stories, and as many of the new ones as seem fit for distribution at that point.

I spent a fair bit of time reviewing all of the half-done writing I have been working on for the past ten years. I was shocked to realize just how much there is. One of the pieces I revisited is a novel I began several years ago and then laid aside. I had convinced myself it was one of those first novels which is just grist for the mill, and not sophisticated enough to be worth finishing.

But when I re-read what I have--about one-half of a first draft--I was surprised and happy to realize that I'd put in some real effort developing story and character. I've gotten enough distance from it now, too, to be able to look more critically at the arc of the story, and the characters, where the piece wants to go and should go to speak to its best self.

The question for me always is, is my skill up to the ambition of the piece? I worry about that, but if nothing else, this residency has been very good for teaching me that I can't critique or improve a work I haven't written, and that my fear is no excuse for not doing the writing. I carry such a ridiculous fear about doing things badly that I have kept myself from doing so many things I've wanted to do in my life--or, I've intentionally done them in a half-assed way, setting myself up to fail, because I feared giving something my all and failing anyway.

My time here has not healed me from my fear, but it has reminded me that courage means showing up and doing the work even-though you're scared shitless, which I am. It has helped tremendously being surrounded by a bunch of artists who are just as scared, and many who are not.

So, this novel...I was talking with an artist here who is also a psychic and he said, "Yes, you must finish it." Helpful. It needs a great deal of work, but there's enough of a body there--and a good premise, I think--so once I complete my story collection, that one's next up on the list.

Working on the short stories has been a very intense process. I've gotten thrown a few times by other writers' stuff, manifesting itself at times as a demand that I categorize the work unequivocally ("Is this memoir or fiction? What is it?"). However, I've also gotten tremendous support for ignoring the cartesian impulse and just doing the writing, waiting for it to tell me what it is. Interestingly, these two groups of people have fallen down almost exclusively along gender lines (I'll let you guess which gender espoused which position).

Also, especially the past week or so, I get so deeply into the space I was in while in Palestine that I begin to re-traumatize myself a bit, and it is hard to pull out when, say I have to go work in the cafeteria, or sit down to a meal, or go to a reading. I remember something Gina Huett told me about playwright Eugene O'Neill, how he would go into his study to call up all his old demons and write those amazing plays, but when he came out of his study hours later he would look ten years older. In O'Neill's case, the drink may have had something to do with that (smile). But being here, I've begun to feel a sense of what she means. It's almost like I'm in a trance state, and it's very, very hard to resurface.

The last week especially, I talk to myself--in public--constantly. I'm dialoguing with characters, with ideas, with possibilities and with history. Anywhere else I'd be hauled away by men in white coats, but here no one really thinks twice--if they notice at all. We're all "crazy" here--it's refreshing.

On the positive side, though, I feel for the first time in a long while like I'm involved with Palestine again, like I'm doing what little I feel I can right now, for those I love, and those whom I do not love but also do not wish to kill, as Adrienne Rich might say. Of course I write for me, I write because I'm a writer and because I love to write--because I can't not write. I can't write assuming or even hoping, necessarily, that my stories might make a difference--that can be crippling and also poisonous to the integrity of the work, not to mention lead to painfully self-righteous prose. All I can do is try to bear witness, as authentically as possible, to what I saw and lived, which is what I promised myself I would do when I went to Palestine all those years ago, and work to produce something which hopefully does not offend one's sensibilities with its awfulness.

Incomprehensible

2007-01-20T18:03:00.000-07:00

Incomprehensible

words, in this order:
truck full of body parts.
child without a head.
calling myself human, after this.

your survival. why we die,
breath by breath, apart.

what we are doing there. what
we aren’t doing, here. how
we rise each morning, find
our wrists in tact come twilight.

Day One

2007-01-08T18:20:00.000-07:00

"It's a cold rain./It's a hard rain./Like the kind you find in songs.
I guess that makes me/the jerk with the heartache/here to sing about how I've been done wrong." --Ani DiFranco, "Done Wrong"

It's Day One at the Vermont Studio Center, the rain (and brief sleet of the early morning) has stopped temporarily. The sky is pregnant with more water, and I am nervous. Open the computer. Yikes--now I actually have to use the damned thing.

So here I finally am, my own studio, still smelling toxically of fresh paint (need to open the window before I pass out), new desk, new lamps, bare and clean bulletin board above my desk on which I'll put a photo of Mark once I buy some push-pins. The river outside my window is running really high. I haven't decided yet whether to move my desk under the window (currently to my right). If I do so, I'll have the sky and trees and houses on the opposite bank of the river for my constant visual companions. But because of the height of the desk, I may lose the river. I'm not sure it's worth that.

Hmm. No success opening the window. Need to ask maintenance for help. I opened my door (it opens to a hallway) instead. Doesn't help much because the whole hallway was also just painted. Good thing United lost the suitcase with all my clothes in it, otherwise I'd probably be wearing my snow boots, which reek of water protectant way worse than the paint. I'd have brain cancer by tomorrow.

I'm not avoiding writing, just warming up. My writing muscles are cold and stiff from disuse.

The community of people here is interesting and impressive. I am trying hard not to be intimidated by them. So far I've met one woman I like a lot--Yoon-Soo, of Massachusetts (originally from Korea). Like me, she's at least in her late 30s if not 40s, and she was here once before as a writer doing prose-poems about her relationship with her mother. When she asked me how I got started writing, I laughed and said, "Well, you could say it's how I survived my mother as well!"

I woke at 6 this morning, immediately turned my alarm off and went back to sleep. Woke an hour later, feeling like I could sleep all day, but wanting to get off to a good start, so I got dressed, went and had breakfast (oatmeal with peanut butter), then packed up all my stuff in my room needed for writing and hiked the very short distance to the studio building. Need to run a request over to maintenance to ask their help opening the window--I'm starting to get rather sick, and no it's not just anxiety about being alone with the page.

I started here at 8:30. I'm now going to run my maintenance request over to the Red Mill Building (our cafeteria, the offices, the lounge, and gallery) and see if maybe United brought my bag. And go get my water bottle.

I'm not avoiding my writing, I just can't breathe.

More later.

Still more VSC Rockstars!

2006-12-28T11:25:00.000-07:00

Still more of you dear, generous people, have given me support for my work at the Vermont Studio Center. I thank with a heart overflowing with gratitude, Betty Anderson, Wendy Binder, Sarah Gill, Karen Sbrockey, Michael and Sam Kolendowicz, Brian Perko and Tim Minear, Rebecca Lay, and Hilary Rantisi.

To my nephew, Daniel, I am indebted for listening to me, for being my ally in the struggle to live a just life, and for your compassionate generosity. It thrills me that, at so young an age, you understand so well the circular nature of things.

As always, my beloved comrade Mark is my rock.

I can't express in words what the support of each of you who have contributed to this project has meant to me. As I'm sure you can imagine, it is very, very hard for me to ask for money. I was raised below the poverty line, and taught from a very young age that if one wants something, one works for it--that it is wrong and shameful to "expect a handout."

But over the years, I have been blessed to develop a circle of friends, comrades, fellow artists who understand and share the communitarian spirit Mark and I feel, who understand how we live our lives and why, and who have expressed repeatedly that it is not shameful for me to ask for help, who have been unflagging in their support for me and my work. As the old year ends, and the new year begins, I am more grateful for this faith, trust, acceptance and generosity than you can imagine.

Not everyone I asked appreciated my requests for help. It was quite painful and shocking to me, to realize that some of those whom I'm closest to and most expected would want to help me, not only would not, but attempted to shame me for even asking. I certainly will look with a very critical eye at what I asked, who I asked and how. However, what's particularly weird about all this is that I've received such incredibly loving and supportive messages from others, even strong praise for the manner in which I requested support. There have several long, dark tea-times of the soul of late, during which such kindnesses have kept me going.

I look forward to doing some serious written reflecting on our cultural and individual beliefs about money, fundraising, gift-giving, community vs. individual resources, and what constitutes legitimate work. This process has truly been an education.

Let me close by saying what I think is perhaps the most important lesson I have learned: No one should be shamed for asking for money. I am a practicing Quaker, and I have always taken to heart Jesus' admonition that if someone asks you for one thing, you give him or her two. But that does not mean I have always lived up to that call for compassion and respect. I feel like I understand now, in a much deeper way, why Jesus said what he did. In first century Palestine, as in 21st century America, to ask for help is deeply humbling, and very hard. There is much shame associated with it, particularly asking for financial help. This experience and the shame it has brought me have forced me to look at the times in my life--more than I would ever want to see--that I have judged those, friends and strangers, who have asked my assistance: judged their motives, judged their worth, judged their financial acumen, bank accounts and spending patterns, judged their values. I am ashamed, not of asking those I love and trust for help, but of the numerous times I did not give that dollar to the homeless man who asked, or thought, "yes, but he's just going to use it to buy beer," of the times I judged a friend harshly when he or she asked for help, making all sorts of assumptions as to why he or she shouldn't need help, or shouldn't ask. I was wrong, and I hope never to make that mistake again.

And so to all you struggling and emerging artists out there, wondering who supports you, I say this: Write to me. Ask for help. If I can give money, I will. If I can't give money, I'll give something else. Even if I have nothing left to give (and we all have something), I will give you moral support. I will praise you for trying, for risking being an artist in a country which prizes the production of dead things over the creative life. I will thank you for believing enough in yourself and your community to ask their support for what you are doing, for what you are doing is a gift back to your community.

Never be ashamed to ask for help, but do try to understand and respect why others may not wish to give it. And if folks do not share your values or support your cause, accept that--not everyone will, and that doesn't make them bad people.

You are not wrong or evil or ill-mannered to hold out your hand. Here, give it to me. Let us walk this difficult path together.

VSC Hall of Fame: Thank you donor-partners!

2006-12-18T11:09:00.000-07:00

Many heartfelt thanks to David Baird and Danielle Short of Denver, Carleen Brice of Denver, and Esther and Robert Griswold of Denver, the first donor-partners to respond to my request, following, of course, the Ghost of Neruda!

I couldn't do this without your spiritual, emotional, and financial support. Thank you so much!

BTW, Carleen's a brilliant writer, who now has both her own website and a blog. Check them out on the links at right!

Val

Writing in January--Your Partnership is Needed!

2006-11-29T23:13:00.000-07:00

Ah, the beauty of winter! It's finally made it's way to Denver, and as Mark and I hike to the grocery store across the snow-covered city-slickness, tentatively feeling for black ice, I realize I need to figure out something to cover my face with. Ten degrees is cold. Thanks to global warming, and our winter at the Hilligoss's off-the-grid cabin in Utah last winter, it's been a while since I've experienced ten degrees! Come to think of it, it's been a while since I've experienced winter!

According to the good people at Vermont Studio Center, temperatures in the village of Johnson range from -30 to 40. You read that right: negative 30. For the record, my body has never been anywhere near -30. I grew up in Southern California. I'd be intimidated, but weather doesn't intimidate me, despite the best efforts of TV weather people ("It's the storm of the century!"--whatever). I love weather. Southern California is the most climate-controlled place on the planet--boring as hell. Almost as hot. I'm looking for cheap winter boots, and trying to hunt down used snow shoes! I can't wait!

Vermont Studio Center, for any of you unfamiliar with it, is an awesome place.
www.vermontstudiocenter.org. Someday I'll figure out how to edit the links to the right of this message of put a hyperlink to it. I was referred to VSC by the illustrious and delicious Rikki Ducornet, who, to the great sorrow of Denver writers, has abadoned us for the rain shade of Port Townsend, Washington. VSC provides studio space, housing, uninterrupted work time, critique from more advanced colleagues in one's field of creative endeavor, and perhaps most importantly, community for sculptors, painters, and writers from around the world, throughout the year. I was blessed to receive a partial scholarship to VSC for the month of January, and so will be there from Jan 7 to Feb 2 this year, working on my collection of short stories, "Stepping into the Kingdom" (inspired by my experiences in Palestine), the new novel I started this month, and a poetry chapbook I've been trying to finish for a few years now.

Howard Norman and John Yau will be the fiction writer and poet in residence, respectively. In addition to critiquing writers' work, they will give craft talks and readings while we're there. I can't wait.

Although I received a partial fellowship and work-study grant, and Mark and I are paying quite a bit of the rest, I still need to raise money to make up the difference. The cost for the residency, plus airfare, comes to $3800. Mountain View Friends Meeting gave me a $500 scholarship. I still have to raise $900 though. If you would like to make a donation, please send your check or money order to

Val Phillips
VSC Fund
P.O. Box 300062
Denver, Colorado 80203

While your donations are not tax-deductible, during the time I'm at VSC writing I will not be contributing MORE taxes to the war machine! It's a good thing.

All donors will be gratefully acknowledged on this website, in print when my work is published, and at public readings in Denver. Additionally, for a donation of $25 or more, you will receive a hand-bound, autographed copy of the stories and poetry I complete at VSC. Support radical artists! Please! Partner with me in envisioning and creating a better world.

Many, many thanks!

The End of NaNoWriMo

2006-11-28T17:13:00.000-07:00

No, it's not a Orkan greeting. It's National Novel Writers Month, and it comes to an end tomorrow. In addition to writers extraordinaires, Nancy Stohlman and Carleen Brice, I helped represent Denver in this insane undertaking. For more info, see:

www.nanowrimo.org

Sorry I haven't figured out hyperlinks yet. Another project for my cold month in front of a computer screen in Vermont.

NaNoWriMo, which I would recommend to any writer (which means to anyone), is this crazy "contest" in which thousands of writers globally--linked through the NaNoWriMo website, and local write-ins and groups--endeavor to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. It's not only acceptable but expected that much of what one will write will be rubbish, but a lot of it can also be quite brilliant. Writing with the Muse turned way up and the Critic turned way down (as they must be if one is to produce prose so prolifically) is a fantastic antidote to writer's block and the fake humility known as ego.

Last I'd heard, Nancy was closing in on 50,000 words of what will no doubt be a brilliant 3rd novel of hers. I can't wait to read it. Hell, for that matter I can't wait to read mine!

NaNoWriMo has been a positive, but bittersweet experience for me. I spent most of the month making excuses rather than writing, although the very beginning and very end were productive, exciting and revelatory. Thanks to Nancy and some gorgeous shared writing time together in a mountain cabin last weekend, I've gotten reinvigorated and have been writing every day this week. Thanks to NaNoWriMo, I've started a brand new novel, with brand new characters, who are fascinating me and going in directions I never expected. The totally tentative title of the book is "See." It will be my first completed novel.

And this is my first completed blog entry, neither as profound nor eloquent as I had hoped for my premiere entry, but, as with NaNoWriMo, sometimes it's just about showing up and getting the words down on the page.

Write on!