So I just saw Blue Gold, a 2006 documentary. It opened my eyes to the epidemics of desertification and privitization of water. Even though it is 2012 now, I want to review it or rather to spread the good information it brrought to me. I am a bit afraid I might get my facts a bit wrong, since I am no scientist.

I used to talk about empire in the United States as if we might fall someday soon and another country like China would take over. The truth is Corporations are already taking over something horrible.

In the United States of America, it is easy to forget where our water comes, what watershed we are a part of, and where our water goes after we dirty it. Did you know you cannot get drinking water in Africa outside a Dasani water bottle (that's Coke's product)? Did you know that there are companies in nearly every part of the world that OWN the water? And when people cannot pay for it, they hurt and make do. Most of the water in the world is salt water. 3 percent is fresh, and less is clean. Well, a large portion of that water is owned by companies. In parts of Latin America, there are laws that prohibit people from COLLECTING RAIN WATER. Yes, folks! It is an injustice.

Desertification, in my simplistic understanding, is the drying up of groundwater. This happens for a number of reasons. Two big ones are industrial use and agriculture. Desertification is happening all accross the world, and we have no real way of knowing to what degree because it has to do with underground aquifers.

I liked the documentary because it presented the world as elastic and durrable and said that change is possible and we can restore the world.

When a company tried to come in and offer money for control of Bolivia's water, the people put up a big enough resistance that the company gave up. Something similar happened in Uruguay.

Water is something we all need to drink and to water our food. Having access to clean and drinkable water should be a human right.

Over one fifth of the world's population lack the water that they need.

It's a personal goal to educate myself more about water this year.

There is something about rain that intrigued me for the whole semester when I took Poetry Writing at Emory and Henry. I wrote about rain and how it made me happy to know that our Appalachian area is wet like a rainforest. Some of my favorite bits of writing have been of water. Joey wrote about the dripping of Wartroot farm and Anna of her waterworld in her Virginia home. Water is the first element in the equation of life.

I don't have much else to say today. But I am following Joey's example of saying something.

I just found a Poetry Book in the used bookstore and I thought to myself, "I used to have one just exactly like this. It's a pity I don't have it now." So I bought the Poetry Book and then I looked in it and there was my handwriting!

I accidentally threw Tobin's fox toy into his water dish. He refused to retrieve it. But Mom pulled it out, and then Tobin licked it off.

Pickle is becoming quite the lap cat. Mom is overcoming her fear of claws.

Young and idealistic
Drives a pickup truck
Eats chocolate peanut butter cups for breakfast
Loves Alanis Morissette.
You still there?

Found myself listening to Dalila up on the way back to my Kentucky home. I have been sorting out my soul this winter, organizing New Years resolutions in advance so I have room for course syllabuses written on the wall. I can use integrity in my daily life. I can not use integrity in my life. Highway 58 is zipping along. Somehow my Honda makes this movement when I press down on the gas pedal. Dalila has a woman on who loves her fiance. Dalila is all about match making and love. There is a small stretch here that always has organ music on NPR and Fox on the country station. An evening with Dalila is not so bad. She is charmingly bubbly. Not really the best listener sometimes - a small miscommunication earlier tonight. Tonight though this woman is lecturing on love, and I don't want to turn the radio off right now, so I listen. "Love," she says "for me and my husband is not a feeling, it is a choice. I am choosing to be with him no matter what, in sickness and in health, until death." Her words resonate with my New Years resolution. I am not going to magically become a better person. When my feeling of hope for compassion closes like a door, I need to stop, and wait it out until that metaphorical door opens again. So I turn off the radio and I am organizing my life a bit. I run through my course schedule in my mind, and think of what might happen. I often feel at odds with my classmates and or professors. Ideas and expressions of ideas can be terrible for me. I think I have been very decisive in my classes. I certainly am vocal about differences of opinion. Again and again I find myself preaching Quaker ideals, environmental ideas, and studious ideals, while living a vulgar, wasteful, and bored class life. We spend a lot of time in class. I do. And that is why class comes to mind as a good place to change my behavior as far as groups are concerned. Otherwise I have pretty much avoided groups other than occasional friend's parties. When I switch back on Dalila I hope I am ready to be the change, cause I never know what she is going to say next. All I can do is prepare myself and chose to be as kind and thoughtful as I can be. But for now, I think I will listen to the bumpy road for a bit longer.

But after some contemplation, I am pretty sure I've always wanted to be a woman. So how about putting it this way: I want to look into working for the US Postal service as a City Carrier. According to my Dad, a big part of the exam is intelligence, so I should do well. If I do apply I also will research and look into the preparation book.

I like the idea of wearing long pants (so the dog bites don't get too bad) and good walking shoes and a uniform. I have long been saying that I don't want to write for money. For me, that puts an excessive strain on my writing, creating the closest thing I know to as writers block. I figure as a city carrier, I would walk a good bit which would give me a lot to consider and a lot of time to consider it in.

About five years ago, I told this to my friend who followed his father's steps in rural mail delivery and is now retired. He said I should really put some thought into it. I am thinking still. My therapist said it is a hard job to get. But my Dad says my IQ should help that, (though he adds that military veterans get a 10 percent bonus.)

I really am more attracted to the job because of the walking and sorting and contemplative nature of the menial work rather than the good pay and health insurance and so forth. Realistically speaking, it is a hard job to get, and I might have to have a broad scope as far as where I apply to work, or even I might take a job other than City Carrier, with hopes of promotion.

I hope I am not lying when I say Maggie the mail man is coming soon to a city near you.

Mixing teaspoon
after teaspoon
of Autumn
Gold honey

In my
half cup
of lemon
zinger tea.

Refilling each
six times
from my
small pot

To coat
My itchy voice
Reading Utopia
Out loud.

I have been attending Meeting and thinking of myself as a Friend (off and on) for over ten years. This was an odd Meeting that occurred today. Of course, I experience things uniquely, and possibly even with a slanted understanding. This is what I experienced in Meeting. The beauty of Quakerism, though, is that the individual experience is so important and honored that everyone's perspective is worth considering.

I came into Meeting ready for some silence. Last time, I came in feeling chatty and got hushed. Someone hushed another young adult there, and I empathized with her briefly. Then moved on because she pretty much has a good life/ it made. Laughing is ok here.

So I wanted to savor the silence for a bit. I was not interrupted when the old man spoke. But my centering was not that successful. Probably wouldn't have been in a silent meeting either. So this Sweet Old Man tells us these personal things that I am horribly posting for the world to see: 1 he is 76. 2 his mother died at 91 3 his father at 86. His closest friends in his life have been three dogs. He has written six (unpublished) books.

This Sweet Old Man went on to say his third dog, Sammy, is in his car. He thinks about that dog, that the dog might die after him. Might outlive him. The sweet old man thinks he has "an estimate of ten to fifteen years left".

He touched my heart. I think I said something rough and unfeeling in afterthoughts. I left immediately after signing the lobbying post cards.

Only right now, in writing this am I realizing that this moment right now and this day of denial and numbness is a critical day for me. The message of this sweet old man was the most important message for me spiritually that I ever have heard in my life.

When people get old they talk about death and preparing for death. My inner spiritually wimpy juvenile laughs at this message, but it is just the way things are. Listening to an old man tell his story, a sad, depressing, and lonely tale finally after denial and numbness is opening me to compassion and caring.

We need to listen to old people. My father. My mother. People who really are more likely to die soon. What are they saying? Are your ears opened?

Are their words sticking even if we temporarily block out that Daddy is dying soon, or that Mom is also mortal, morbid even.

I am sorry I haven't been a better listener. To the old.

Don't die yet.

I went to bed at 7 and now I am up at 11:20 P for a spell. I have a virus which I had before Christmas. I thought I was over it, but it came back. I also asked the doctor about some scabs on my stomach, and she said "It's not scabies!" Reassuring, right!?

I saw the first sheet of wind swept snow. An inch by morning they say.

Coughing and class does not mix. So I am eating tons of cough drops a day. I find myself saying, "I am eating cough drops" when I should say "I am taking cough drops." How a person speaks has a serious influence on their other treatment of the world.

Comments are why I write. Not just here, but everywhere, but certainly here too.

Will you comment, please?

I just wrote this email to my good therapist here.

Sue,

The other day I had a thought that I might think about quitting. But my next thought went like this: "Nobody ever helps me quit. I always decide to come back. It is hard work coming back. It sucks when I have to go through the coming back week of making up work and stuff. Yeah, I am not even thinking about quitting!"

Maggie

Once I lived
with very
old trees.

Somebody said, "what is a blog?" Why write a blog if you already are writing private poems (erotica and not), private journals, shared essays for class that only your teacher will see (or class), fifteen minute scribbles of every bit of conversation you hear in the room before class begins (interesting!), lots of emails, letters to the editor (published and not), grocery lists, lists of people in Berea who are my friends as a reason to stay here after I graduate, notes in my planner, secretary style notes from class (or not), essays for my Creative Nonfiction Writing class that are not even requested or required; with all of that, why write a blog? Why write a blog instead of putting all of my writing in one single place where it would be more powerful?

People often do that. They say why before they ask what. I do it. I did it.

What is a blog? Tessa said that. I think I now am clear on what it means to me. A blog is all about audience. It is open for literally anyone. It often seems like I have one reader, but it gets churned into a family site where at least five people read it regularly. I have the url on the bottom of my emails because it is a way of getting to know me better. When I email people and they respond that they've read something on my blog, I know they find me interesting. And that's a big thing.

(new title)

The Joneses

Once I lived
with very
old trees.

Today Kaleigh said she loves my "determination to communicate the truth." That is the best thing anyone has ever said of me.

Today Kaleigh said I am a difficult person to be around. I guess I should have gotten more sleep last night.

I entered Berea College with a New Place Resolution of listening more. Hanging out with friends, even studying, I diverged from that as a goal for my life. In this last semester, I have decided to repeat that goal, to listen more, in hopes that I might learn something soft and needing highly skilled ears.

My mood is so up since hiking in the woods for four hours although my body is exhausted.

Seems tree girth and a person's belt size are similar. For one, size usually increases in increments over time. Scientists don't usually core dead people for age approximation, but maybe that's because so many of us (at least in the United States) have medical records. Phillip Lopate says "the mental image of one's body changes slower than one's body" and that is something I can really relate to. I have gained lots of weight at once, and thought of myself as still relatively slender. I am much happier now that my mind has caught up to this. For trees, some years they grow an inch all around, while other years they only grow a miniscule amount. I suppose circumstances of rot could be comparable to weight loss or anorexia. Whether in trees or jogging pants, a decrees in girth is more rare. People rarely put on 100 pounds in a single year like I did when I started taking medicine, but I am certain even fewer of us loose those layers at our waste.

Not sure where my phone is. Hoping no one snagged it. Email me if you find out anything or receive a funny call.

I picked up a hitchhiker yesterday and drove her to Corbin. She was nice. I thought she stole my phone, but it really was under the junk in the back seat. It was an exhausting day, but I still collected water from a holy spring in Mount Vernon, Kentucky, on that sun shiny day.

Beneath the rocks
a silence roars;
above the stream
a tame
snacking
bunch of hikers
hums a gorpy
chord.

Fortunately there really aren't times in my writing when my words go entirely gone. But I go through these cyclic phases of feeling unappreciated and unloved. The trick is convincing my emotions to keep on hoping. Ultimately life is a test of faith. In these situations, I just have to keep working and trying and pray that the blog will live up to a really good title.

I was drawn to the large painting like a hummingbird to a bee balm flower, strolling past the shelves of mugs and bowls and other pottery on the front porch where the artists were selling their works. I found myself standing on a hill, overlooking a rolling field and expanse of forests. The painting in front of me mimicked its surroundings. I noticed there were some boys on the back porch lighting up something to smoke, but my own exhilaration was fabricated entirely from the painting I saw. I remembered C.S. Lewis’s Narnia series, lost the people I came there with, stepping for a moment in through the frame of this painting. It looked like Vincent Van Gogh returned for a day in the body of some Appalachian and painted what I know as home: Appalachian hills, a field, and hay bales, and a sky thick with oily swirls of blue and white. For a long time, I just stood there in the world of the painting, grieving reality, breaking a damp feverishness that won me over in a contest of creative brilliance. I don’t remember what Jeff Enge said to me, except that it was alluring only through being hesitant and unassuming. Something simple like asking if I liked his painting and a soft agreement when I said I liked it very much and was it a Van Gogh? And oh, it couldn’t be “just 300 dollars?” I wanted to tell him about my artist sister, but he walked away as if he didn’t want me to buy the painting at all. Like, he would have sold it to anyone but me. I drifted around the art show, but nothing else spoke to me at all. It was by no means a necessity that I purchased something. I certainly wouldn’t have bought the painting at all and I definitely wasn’t pressured, but I couldn’t find a way not to leave without it.

Like human beings,
clay is a resilient substance.
It can be recycled back into art time and again,
wetting it down and spinning it up
or the simple act of photographing
the pieces on the ground,
lining it up on a table or a window sill.
Even shattered art is still art,
vibrant, purposeful, and with a story of its own.

Inside, there was a selection of free food, which usually is more alluring to me than just about anything. But when I went in, my goal in mind was to run my debit card and buy the painting. I didn’t even try the hot cider. I have been in love, and this feeling I had of not being hungry, was a similar kind of giddiness. Though I must emphasize it was not for the artist but the art itself, like reading some literature that brings me to places I never could have elsewhere gone. The artist gave me a beautiful large pot that fit my character. He said something unreal about it, like that it was his first ever piece of pottery. He also said this was the first painting he ever had sold. I don’t even remember if I thanked him. I was in such a place of wonder. So a cast of artists, my friends, and guys passing around a pipe, loaded the painting in the back seat of Kaleigh’s Honda. The painting rode down the gravel road, leaving Jeff and the other painting he did something like it behind.

The bodies of women
and men are not the only thing cut and ruined by sickness,
mutilation, and suicide.
I have said many times with pride
that I have never been suicidal
but at the same time,
I have quit so many things so many times,
emotionally, giving up on myself,
hating who I am, who I am becoming.
If I had not have dropped out,
I never would be right here,
plugging along.

Henry was contorted in the back seat. As we rode down the crooked road, I thought of Henry’s back, hoping he wouldn’t develop some late onset form of scoliosis. On the way to the art show, Henry had pointed out a turnip field to Kaleigh who was driving. He said the owners were some friends of his and they wouldn’t mind it if we harvested some turnips. I had had so many turnips in my life, up until that point, that I thought I knew the vegetable. But lo and behold and leave it to Henry to pull out his pocket knife as we loaded back into the car. He whittled the root of the turnip, carving off the outer peeling. When he handed it to me, one big chunk of turnip skewered on the blade, probably because I had never before had raw turnip, I took the round hunk of roughage and took a bite. Raw turnip in late fall is a delicious nutty sweet and crunchy food. As we drove on, I began to emote, my puritan guilt emitting from my pours like turnip pheromone. Did I really just spend 300 dollars on a painting? Sure I had 300 dollars. Yes it was a beautiful painting and sure I got a lovely “Winnie the Pooh” pot to go with it. But I never have spent that kind of money all at once on something so unpractical. Except for the kayak… Henry piped up then. He said I needed to shut my mouth and be grateful and stop beating myself up and enjoy the day. What a mantra!

Art makes art like my beautiful 68 year old mother,
and the beautiful wrinkles on her face.
Art is the wrinkles.
Art is in favor of the exorbitant painting.
My mother has a baggy, beautiful face.
She has wrinkles from crying when my grandmother was dying,
and when my grandfather died,
and more for me when I was a blue baby.
I can only dream of enduring my struggle so gracefully.

After, Kaleigh dropped off Henry, I asked her to drop me off at my car, to go with me back to where I lived, and finally to help me unload the painting and carry it down to the basement where I dwelled. I put the Winnie the Pooh pot in the back seat of my Honda, turned on my engine, turned around my car because of the dead end road, and followed Kaleigh to the house where I lived. I wasn’t certain if I should open the garage door to get in the painting more easily and I certainly wasn’t thinking about the potter’s prized first pot when I opened my back door to unload, and it rolled out and shattered on the pavement. I stopped for a couple minutes just to breathe in the day and to take in what was happening. I did this. More guilt. The sun was going down with much beauty. Kaleigh, being the good friend she is, asked if the pot was broken. I felt around the dimly lit pavement, in my attempt of salvaging every bit of this artwork. I knew Kaleigh wanted to bring the painting in and get home. But my floating mood broke with the pot, and I was determined to get some grounding before I carried expensive artwork down a steep set of stairs. What grief. My hands shook. For a few more moments I felt much like a popped balloon, and then I swallowed it down with some joke. And with the joke, I began to forget.

The Joneses
Once I lived
with very
old trees.

I have a memory of one of my first conversations with Libby Jones. “The other incoming students are so strong. I am 27 and already crying because I miss my Mom.” I distinctly remember what Libby responded. “I thought you were the more strong.” Did she mean I was stronger because I was weeping my heart out? Because I was allowing my vulnerability to do what it does? Is it a sign of strength when people wail uncontrollably more than being able to hide our tears?

What I see in these four pieces of broken
pottery is a caste of women.
We work for 75 cents on the dollar.
Our bodies might have aged quickly.
But light rises off our skin
like evaporating moisture,
like auras, like fields of energy,
or white blobs on a photograph
because of the shaky hands of the photographer.
Blame it on her clitoris.

When Roger Jones saw the shattered pottery on the Redwood bench, just outside the basement door, he went towards it thinking he would clean it up. But there was a note on a piece of paper that I had written. “Please leave this here. I will get it soon!” After a busy week, Roger asked me if it would help if he tried to glue it back together. Roger saw a point of sadness, shattered pottery, art, a girl sniffling out in the cold, moving around pieces of broken pottery, snapping these images with her camera, the last drops of rain slipping through the cracks in the upstairs porch. People all see everything through their personal distorted lenses. The next morning, I woke up with the stars. December 19th, 2011. Bundled up in wool and flannel, I grabbed my red camera and a bottle of water. It was five AM when I settled down at the bench to wait on the sun to float over the horizon. Impatiently I clicked my camera.

What is the purpose of art?
I look at these photographs
of carefully positioned
fractured pottery.
I had played with them on the
Redwood picnic table.
Though they were broken,
I still saw the beauty in them.

Maggie Hess