It’s a Monday morning here, and beautiful — slow blue filling the sky, and I keep my eye out for the deer that like to stroll along the hill behind our apt building, munching on grass and weeds, keeping a kind of watch.
Thanks to all who came out for this month’s Writing the Flood! We had a fantastic gathering of folks in a new, gorgeous, peaceful space over in Berkeley — I’m imagining, for a time, that maybe we’ll move back and forth between San Francisco and the East Bay for this workshop. Our April Writing the Flood meets on the 9th, which is the second Saturday of the month — on the third Saturday, I’ll be celebrating good friends getting married, then will head south for the Body Heat: Queer Femme Tour!
I had a dream this morning of a performance, a play, a musical, and I was helping, but thinking that I could take voice classes, I wanted to be in the play. At one point I stopped and looked out the window at a double rainbow, at first I thought it was a triple, like, there were two rainbows in usual double rainbow form and then a third, sharper angle and twisted, like someone had taken the third rainbow at the midpoint and pulled and twisted and puffed and then I realized it was an airplane trail right there in the midst of the rainbows. The song had been Hey Big Spender, and then someone was doing a singy monologue in the middle of it, a man, the big spender, he was down in the audience, right close to everyone, and projecting like he was still on stage. People didn’t want to look at the rainbows because of the performance.
I woke up feeling ok and feeling sad. And I woke up still thinking about what I wrote last night and this weekend, about ceremonies, about that enormous tragedy of loss, about how most of us have no ceremonies to bring us back into our larger families or communities after we are raped or after our mothers or fathers abuse us or after we come out as queer (or…): instead, we are the ones outcast. The ceremony is our silence. The ceremony is our dismissal, our excommunication from community of blood and earth. We are the sacrificed, the center of their ceremonies to continue to pretend at normalcy. Was it always this way? Has it really always and everywhere been this way?