Rage. Sorrow. Frustration.

Baldwin was on the Dick Cavett show in 1969. I used to watch Cavett. I can't imagine how I understood Baldwin at that age. You can watch it on YouTube. He is talking about race. Of course. Cavett is listening earnestly. At one point Cavett says I don't understand. Gotta give him props for that. He wants Baldwin to acknowledge that things are better and there are good cops. Baldwin says of course there are good cops (and now I am going to paraphrase) but he isn't talking about individuals. He's talking about systems of oppression. He say the cops aren't there to serve and protect Black people. They're there to protect White property.
In a recent New Yorker Jelani Cobb wrote: Policing is inescapably a metaphor for governmental power.
Think about the number of years between those articulations of the same problem. The weeks and months of the Black Lives Matter. People in the streets. The same thing over and over and over and the same violence from the police. Are there good cops? Of course there are. It is beside the point. Policing is an out growth of slave patrols. It's a system in need of reform.
In 1969 I would have been like Cavett. Earnest. Wanting things to be OK. Not wanting to feel the daily terror in Black life. Wanting to be understood as a ... good ... White person.
Right after the George Floyd murder I was worried about my feelings. I didn't want to talk about them too much. I didn't want anyone trying to comfort me. I felt rage, sorrow, frustration. And I still do. Some things are changing but not enough. Not fast enough. Not deeply enough.
My friend George Kelly writes for the East Bay Times. One of his recent articles was about a couple painting over a BLM sign. There was a video in which the woman is painting over the letters and the man is walking around saying there is no racism. It's just leftest propaganda. I mean.
Rage.
Sorrow.
Frustration. 
They were charged with a hate crime. 
On July fifth. I saw a video of a Black man pushed up against a tree by a group of White men and women and someone was calling for a rope. Again. Again. The FBI is investigating the case. I'm not sure what there is to investigate. There's a video. There were witnesses. They pulled out chunks of his hair and banged on him. He had a mild concussion. They should be charged with assault and attempted murder. NOW.
I want the cops who killed Breonna Taylor to be charged. NOW.
I watched the movie Marshall the other day. (spoiler alert) (or maybe a reason to watch). At the end of the movie Marshall is getting off a train to meet another family in need of his work. A Black boy, a child, needs a lawyer in Mississippi. Marshall was doing this early work in 1940. Before I was born. The local family lawyer is played by Benjamin Crump. The parents are played by Trayvon Martin's parents. It was a short scene. 
I burst into tears. 

Reading Deep

Ezra Klein had a conversation with Nicholas Carr on Ezra's podcast. Carr wrote a book about what the Internet is doing to your brain:The Shallows. They talked about that book. They also talked about the value of deep reading and what it does for your brain. When I say I love to read I mean deep reading. I love when a book pulls you under into the deep.
When I started reading the Library of America Baldwin books I didn't think about how many books I'd be reading. Two volumes but seven or eight books. There is third volume, which I intended to order but am sort of glad I didn't. Yet. I need time to digest. When I got to Another Country I thought I might take a break. But first I thought I'd just read a page. Yeah. I was in really deep. Really fast. The last book was Going to Meet the Man, which I did not read well. It's not a long book. He uses some of the names of characters from Another Country and I couldn't adjust. I was still emotionally involved with them. Still am. 
Both Ezra and Nicholas talked about needing to put the phone across the room so that they could sink into the read. I get that. I pick my phone up in the middle of every other page. Not every time but more often than I care to admit.
I have a thing that happens. Usually when I'm reading magazines or on line. I can't take the words in. I know in a few moments if I'm going to be able to settle. Sometimes I push and some times I'm glad I do. Usually I flip the page. I have always loved magazines and have had deep reading experiences with them. Right now I just want books.
I haven't been buying things. Not even books. It's OK. Since I usually do over buy books, I have a supply. But I didn't get any books for my birthday, which actually made me cry. Big baby that I am. So I bought myself Eddie Glaude's new book. Begin Again: James Baldwin's America and Its Urgent Lessons For our Own. Perfect. It's helping me to feel through everything I just read. It is also making me want to reread a lot of it.
For me, when you get deep into a book you're still sort of in it even when you put the book down.

Fever Dream

A really really long time ago I saw Tim Buckley at the Cellar Door in D.C.. We had a table right in front of the stage. I stared up at him with, I am sure, shining eyes. At one point he gave me a crooked smile. I swoon just thinking about it. He was singing a rambling kind of song. It might have been Sweet Surrender. He sang something about "licking those stretch marks" and looked at me through narrow eyes.
Honestly. As I write this I feel like I'm making it up. Maybe I am. I was fat and already had some stretch marks. Was he singing that to me? It felt like he was. He also spat on me. Not intentionally. He was just singing ... vigorously.  To my very young and enamored self it was holy water. No Covid to worry about then.
I feel like I might have gotten shy and some of confused energy was exchanged and things kind of soured. I'm just not sure what really happened. I can see it all in my mind eye as if it happened yesterday.
For no obvious reason I remembered it last night just as I was trying to sleep. I remembered it and imagined a different ending in which he came out of the club and we were standing there flirting. This memory and reinventing went on for about four hours. I'd sort of dose off and wake up stoking the story like it was the heat keeping me alive. Over and over.
It's one of my favorite memories but it doesn't come up that often.
He's gone.
He's been gone a long time.
If I was going to start believing in heaven I would chose a place where he greets me and says, yes baby. I was singing to you. And smiles that crooked smile and those narrow eyes would shine.

Elijah McClain

I added Rayshard Brooks to my list of names. Really. That list is so incomplete. It's just my attempt to remember what my aging brain can not seem to remember. I can't add Elijah McClain. At least not yet. His death is burning in my heart. He was a young man, twenty three. But I'm feeling my age and he feels so tender and so young. So childlike. He was murdered in August of last year. Last year. He was walking home with a bag in his hand. He was listening to music and moving his arms. Someone called to say he looked suspicious because he was wearing a ski mask. The police body cams ... fell off. There is some video of the cops approaching him aggressively. He reacts with fear and confusion.
I thought I read that he was autistic but I've tried to find that again and can't. He did apparently have some social anxiety. 
My cousin is five years older than I am and is Autistic. He is very tall and has eye problems that cause him to move his head in odd ways. He sometimes has tantrums, although I don't think he's had them in public. He is never dangerous. He stammers and stutters.
A few years ago he had to call an ambulance. It was the beginning of an ongoing health saga. He called his brother to meet him at the hospital. When his brother arrived one of the admitting people asked if my Autistic cousin was on drugs. A health professional didn't have the training to identify Autism. Nothing about his behavior resembles drug or alcohol use. Nothing.
My cousin is white.
Elijah McClain was coming home from buying tea for his cousin.
Trayvon Martin was shot coming home from buying tea.
As far as I know the police officers who MURDERED Elijah McClain were cleared of any wrong doing. There seems to be a resurgence of interest in the case.
My heart is burning.
One of the problems with being a white person writing about having a burning heart because of all the fucking MURDERS of black men and women is that friends and family want you to feel better.
I have no intention of feeling better.
People say ... take a break from the news. Read a book. Since I'm reading Baldwin there is no break there. And I'm not looking for a break.
I can hear the stories and be upset and go on with my life. I don't have to worry every time a relative walks to a convenience store to buy tea. White privilege means my Autistic cousin might be thought of as weird and on drugs but he probably won't be MURDERED by the police.
I feel rage and grief and horror. Of course I do. What else should I feel? Are those things unhealthy? I think it might be more unhealthy to not feel those thing in light of this on going nightmare. This two hundred year old nightmare. Body after body.
Elijah McClain used to play violin for kittens in the shelter. He thought it calmed them
He was murdered.

Some Times

I wrote a post for Juneteenth. Worked on for a few days prior. Deleted it. I just wasn't saying anything useful or interesting.
I wrote a post for my birthday. Worked on it for a few days prior. Deleted it.
Father's day is always hard for me. Long story. Actually more than one story. I didn't even try to write about it. I mean. I wrote a whole book about it. It's in a box in my closet.
I knew going into my birthday that I wasn't up for it. There's just too much going on in the world. Too many nooses. Too much hate. Too much nonsense about mask wearing. Too many numbers.
Since I've been in the Hood I've had nicer birthdays than I usually do. I swim. Get a massage. Eat at a specific restaurant. There's no swimming now. My massage guy has been out of commission since even before the pandemic. My restaurant wasn't open and I would not have wanted to go anyway.
My birthday and its proximity to Father's day is problematic. It's a day that jams me into my psychological structures. All of which I have thought deeply about and feel like I understand. I even have a sense of humor about it all some times. But there are other times ...

There are wounds that stir up the force of gravity. 
A cold that will wipe the hope from your eyes.  -Rickie Lee Jones.

We are all living through multiple traumas. It's hard to even know how these things are impacting us. We might need to unpack it later. I think I will. At random moments I find myself overwhelmed with fear. Not because of something I'm watching or hearing or reading. Random. My eyes fill with tears. My heart pounds.
I've been reading James Baldwin. Library of America has put together three compilations, two fiction and one non fiction. I have two of them and have been bouncing back and forth. I just finished Giovanni's Room, which I read a long time ago. I remember that it confused me. I was younger and thought complexity was confusion. I was frustrated by stories that didn't resolve. It is such a beautiful and heart breaking book. Reading Baldwin now is wrenching. Some of this writing was done in the fifties and sixties. All of it could have been written yesterday. Reading Giovanni's Room during a Pride month somewhat overshadowed by ... everything else ... was wrenching. I'm not even sure why.
I just scratched my arm. Not that hard. It started to bleed. It happens all the time. I've talked to my doctor. She says my skin is old.
My skin is old.

7 Years In

Isn't seven supposed to be a lucky number? I feel lucky. At least in terms of the nest. I still love it and enjoy it and appreciate it. Which is good because I've been spending a lot of time here lately.
I am still ambivalent about Hood River but watching all the little shops on Oak street work hard to survive Covid shut downs has had an impact on me. I'm not likely to shop in them. There is a really expensive clothing shop that doesn't have my size. It was interesting to see people come and go to pick up things. Not trying anything on. Not hanging out. The flower shop on Mother's day. Meeting people at the curb with masks on. The Italian place making a take out window and coming up with special dinners. It felt like a community. I may not be a complete part of it but I live here.
It doesn't really matter how I feel about the Hood. I didn't go out much before the virus.
After a month or so of not swimming my right knee, the more painful of the two, started locking up. It was extremely painful. Is extremely painful. I think it might be pain from a pinched nerve in my back. I think that because the pain starts in my hip and goes through my knee and down the front of my calf. Something similar happened last year in my left knee and after a lot of rest it settled down. I'm laying around with a heating pad on my back. An ice pad on my knee. Getting old ain't for sissies.
Last year was the year I began using my dishwasher. I had used it from time to time but never regularly. I don't really use a lot of dishes. I'm not even sure what started it. I think it was one time when I used a lot of pots, pans and dishes for a meal. And then it just became a habit. It takes me a week to fill it up. It's not that big.
I haven't been to the grocery store in months. My friends bring me food. I can't do a lot of food prep because of the knee but it works out.
It doesn't feel like seven years. It feels like much less but also much more. The mommie time was a lifetime. I remember the first year. The mommie had come to visit and then I went back to NC to spend a few months with her. When I came back the nest didn't smell like me. It didn't smell like anything. Now it smells like me. Some times it smells like her. So much of her stuff is here. When I open her jewelry box I smell her. It smells like detergent and candles and what ever is in the fruit bowl.
These days I'm just looking up from my book, out the window. The view is summer green. This is where I live. My little nest.

Property

In the movie Reds John Reed has a sign on his door saying - property is theft. It's a famous Marxist saying. His door is unlocked.
My doors have almost always been unlocked but really ... there was not much to take.
We had a little incident here in the Hood. One night a message went out - mostly through social media but through the sheriff and police departments. There was a "credible" threat. People were coming here to loot and set fires. My first reaction was ... loot Hood River? Why?
On Oak Street there are a lot of little shops selling very expensive jewelry and clothes and what not. I mean. I guess they're loot-able but looters usually go for televisions and tennis shoes. They were (maybe) going to target the Walmart. Which would make more sense but you would probably drive past a few big box stores before you got here. That's the thing. We are way down the Gorge. You have to drive to get here.
But. We live in uncertain times. I was alone. I felt a little nervous. My building is brick and glass and metal. It would be hard to start a fire. Possible I suppose but not easy. And we have alarms and sprinklers everywhere.
I imagined losing all my stuff. None of which is worth much. It's all worth a lot to me but on the open market ... not so much. For years I moved from place to place with one box. Partly full of books. Any furniture I had was old. I either gave it all away or tried to sell it. Now I have furniture. Some of which was the mommie's and my grandma's. I have dishes and salt and pepper shakers and art. I have things. I love my things. It would hurt if I lost them.
The night went by. There was a nice sized demo. Very peaceful. There were vigilantes WITH GUNS hanging around. One old guy was stopping people and demanding IDs. With full knowledge of the police and sheriff. All that was scarier than buses full of looters.
I've been thinking about my stuff. I was always so ready to let it all go. I'm older now. I guess.
Life is a bit of a shell game. I try to pay attention.
There's a Buddhist version of property is theft. It begins with the first noble truth. Life is suffering.  The next three noble truths talk about why we suffer. We suffer because we want stuff. I'm paraphrasing here.
I don't actually want stuff. Well. More books. Always. But I don't suffer from want. I am lucky.
I have to ask myself if I could lose it all and ... not suffer. I know (from experience) that my stuff doesn't make me who I am. Could I find a cell in a convent or a monastery and live out my life?
Maybe.
If there was a pool and a library.
Heh.
Kind hope I don't even find out.