Connecting the past with the present

I had underlined these sentences in Robert Graves’ introduction to The Greek Myths, when I was a freshman at Columbia College in 1964-65. Graves’ book was a secondary resource for making sense of ancient stories studied in the Humanities course that was required to be taken by every College student. I’m not sure Graves’ narrative has stood the test of time among anthropologists, even mythologists–it may be, in itself, myth not science. But for an eighteen year old (boy) from a small town in mid-America, this speculation certainly opened my mind to wondering about gender and culture in a way I never imagined. Here I am today wondering whether or not an epochal transformation is once again going to happen in the cultural/social relations of the sexes. Fortunately for me, too, I had enjoyed a wondrous summer of sexual play with the first woman I ever loved before I encountered university studies about the matter. I recalled, when I read these sentences, the power of the female over me, the male.

“Ancient Europe had no gods. The Great Goddess was regarded as immortal, changeless and omnipotent; and the concept of fatherhood had not been introduced into religious thought. She took lovers, but for pleasure, not to provide her children with a father. Men feared, adored and obeyed the matriarch: the hearth which she tended in a cave or hut being their earliest social centre, and motherhood their prime mystery…. There is however, no evidence that, even when women were sovereign in religious matters, men were denied fields in which they might act without female supervision, though it may well be thought that they adopted many of the ‘weaker-sex’ characteristics hitherto thought to be entrusted to man. They could be trusted to hunt, fish, gather certain foods, mind flocks and herds, and help defend the tribal territory against intruders, so long as they did not transgress matriarchal law.”

My intention is to live the remainder of my life as a loving man who wants nothing more than to witness the world become more sustainable and justly inclusive because wonderful, powerful, and loving women lead in transforming it.

a waking mind aware of being here nor there

(or, mental amusement before seeing the light of day)

I am older than the selves of life leap-frogging along the making of time and place.

I am before the restless generations of becoming and dying and becoming. Before the chaos, the watery womanly demos of unthinking flesh and bone generating the moon time. Before the history of fallings from the womb and returnings to its vaginal elections. Before the breeding laying beneath the seeing of me alone unpartnered, uncoupled from the frenzy of fucking before corpses of stone deadly silence.

No music without the knowing nothing drumming, knowing everything in the dance. The eros of engorging, the nippled firming of magical wands, then seed spewing and lactation. Who understands the middle churning between the alpha and omega, the bearing of souls from wet wombs spasming the vibrating stream of being in and out of touching its accordian stops and starts. Attuning done by ear in darkness, not seeing measurement in light.

What withstands the onslaught of viral memories of how to suck the energy out of nothing and be being begun. Rosy redness sainted nick clauses of coded connection, spitting of flakes of blood frozen in falling from night sky of the womb, here and not here, there and not there. Which is it after all?

return to poetic stuff

Howard Zinn on education and activism

I just started reading Howard Zinn’s You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train: A Personal History of Our Times (1994) and stumbled upon a couple of paragraphs that raise questions in my mind about teaching and activism. Here are those paragraphs copied from page 7:

When I became a teacher I could not possibly keep out of the classroom my own experiences. I have often wondered how so many teachers manage to spend a year with a group of students and never reveal who they are, what kind of lives they have led, where their ideas come from, what they believe in, or what they want for themselves, for their students, and for the world.

Does not the very fact of that concealment teach something terrible–that you can separate the study of literature, history, philosophy, politics, the arts, from your life, your deepest convictions about right and wrong?

In my teaching I never concealed my political views: my detestation of war and militarism [Zinn was a bombardier in WW2.], my anger at racial inequality, my belief in a democratic socialism, in a rational and just distribution of the world’s wealth. I made clear my abhorrence of any kind of bullying, whether by powerful nations over weaker ones, governments over their citizens, employers over employees, or by anyone, on the Right or the Left, who thinks they have a monopoly on the truth.

This mixing of activism and teaching, this insistence that education cannot be neutral on the crucial issues of our time, this movement back and forth from the classroom to the struggles outside by teachers who hope their students will do the same, has always frightened the guardians of traditional education. They prefer that education simply prepare the new generation to take its proper place in the old order, not to question that order.

Are these paragraphs and Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States (1980, 2003), “the only volume to tell America’s story from the point of view of–and in the words of–America’s women, factory workers, African Americans, Native Americans, working poor, and immigrant laborers,” as unpatriotic, subversive, and dangerous as jingoists claim that they are? And if not, where does that leave us as teachers of our (American) history?

just momentary dreams

(written on Sunday, July 8, 2007–immediately after “time plays no reverse”; revised on Sunday, September 19, 2010)

Where river cuts a bend
through rock that’s lifted
by the rise of land below,
there is no turning back
to primal where or when.
No tale of home-bound comfort to be told.
Only re-mattering–
irrepressible, endless–
the harsh disgracing of all
Nature once elected.

We stand at canyon’s edge,
hand in hand, keeping promises,
while all is still beneath our feet.
We bask that our completions will surely stay.
But in the sleep of land rises
and rushing water cutting through them,
we are just momentary dreams.
.

return to poetic stuff