Month: May 2025

Another Poet Mindfuck

Someone just left this comment on one of my pieces on Facebook:

This kind of writing has poetry and genius and many legit things to say but, I have to say, that while it may be therapeutic for you, it’s deeply disturbing for me and I don’t need that at this point in my life. Maybe you should think about that. If you see your writing as a struggle against emotional/ mental issues, maybe you should keep in mind our struggles as well and what you’re saying to us. Some kinds of therapy should be gone through with a professional trained to deal with personal hells. Rather than FB. It’s not too late to find a way of writing that’s healthier for all of us. I hope you will take this for what it is and not take it the wrong way. I feel it has to be said.

Well, he said it.

I’ve blocked him, since he doesn’t have the agency to stop reading what he states he doesn’t want to be reading.

The odd thing is, he recently solicited my work for a chapbook. He said my writing was lyrical and eloquent, and he’d love to showcase excellent work like mine in a collection he curated. What a mindfuck.

The piece he was responding to in his comment above wasn’t about death or dying. It was about life and living, and it was based on a dream, which is where a lot of my creative work originates. The piece wasn’t therapy, nor is any of my writing. It wasn’t me foisting anything on anyone or trying to make anyone uncomfortable. But I do talk about things in my poetry and prose, even in my discussion of political issues that are important to me, that aren’t always easy.

Nobody has to friend me or follow me or read me. This is my writing space, my discovery space, and a space that’s important because it allows me to connect with other people who are creative, insightful, compassionate, complicated, interesting, delightful, and more.

I don’t need anyone telling me what I should think about, write about, say, or do in this world, certainly not someone I don’t know who appears to be projecting his own issues onto me, my writing, and whatever dynamic he thinks exists between us. (There is none.)

And the mandate that I find a way of writing that’s healthier FOR ALL OF US? Please. That would be a misguided, Sisyphean task, and that’s assuming there’s an all of us who’s reading my work. (There isn’t, and he doesn’t speak for the few who do.)

Memory Presists

I’m toying with the idea that people are beings who live and die every moment, and any sense of continuity between moments is similar to the way our eyes smooth out what we see through a combination of physical and perceptual processes, such as saccades.

Memory persists to some degree between these deaths and births, though imperfectly and sometimes as complete fabrications that allow this or that narrative to earn its wings so it can soar across momentary lifetimes in order to either free us or whisk us away to ruin.

I don’t mean bodily birth or bodily death. I mean birth and death of self and of the worlds available to the self at any given time.

I don’t expect anyone other than Matt Jasper to understand this or see anything of value in it. What this means, for me, is that I can only take people as they are in the moment—a moment that’s passed before I can even perceive it. It’s the best I can do.

We are flame and ash, flame and ash. Who we are today is not who we were yesterday or who we will be tomorrow. These are fictions. Even time is a fiction.

You are a person doing a thing in a place. I’ll meet you there to the best of my ability. Tomorrow, same. The day after that, same.

Is this nonsense? Maybe. Certainly. What isn’t.

Frisson

Yesterday, as an associate at the Washington County Library scanned each poetry collection I’d put on hold and laid them one by one in front of me in an ever-growing stack, I got all-over body chills. This happened not once, but each time a collection was added to the stack and I saw the author and title upside down, the cover design, the colors, the typography, the book’s size and thickness, and the way they each looked—as if they’d never been opened.

I could be their first reader, I thought, chills continuing to wash over my skin. The first to touch their pages, not just their covers. The first to want to know what they had to say as opposed to simply cataloging them or shelving them or facing them when it was time to tidy up the stacks.

I’m getting chills again just writing this. I knew I loved books, but I had no idea until yesterday how much poetry curated in the form of a printed collection could affect me.

Free Poem Fodder

Before the churn of factories and the tang of coal smoke came to dominate modern life during and after the Industrial Revolution, the smells of daily life were intensely organic, shaped by proximity to animals, bodies, plants, and decay. Urban and rural environments offered distinct olfactory experiences, but both were pungent, earthy, and changed with the seasons.

Once industrialization and modern sanitation systems had taken hold in the industrialized world by the mid-1800s (following a transformation that lasted about a century), the smells of waste, sewage, manure, and other organic materials were significantly less common, even in rural areas. Changes in agriculture, the decline of small cottage industries, and advances in chemistry also pushed scents away from earthy and toward synthetic. But understanding these historical odors offers a visceral glimpse into how people once experienced the world — as they say, “the nose knows.”

A Birdless Island

My husband says the use of AI is inevitable. He tells me he uses it all day at work. It’s built into coding platforms now. It’s getting really smart really fast, he says. It can figure out context even when no context is provided.

It’s a requirement for software developers to use it. They’re all using it. Prompt engineering, he calls it.

But he’s using it as someone who knows how to think, not as someone who’s never learned to think, I say. What about those who never learn to form an argument, do their own research, make their own discoveries and assertions?

He doesn’t seem concerned. I worry that I’m losing him, that we’re shifting like tectonic plates only faster: me into the organic and him into the artificial.

He tells me to use AI, to give it a try. Have it write a poem for you, he says. You’d be surprised what it can come up with.

He doesn’t understand. I don’t care what AI can come up with where creativity and expression are concerned. I care what I come up with, what moves through me and what I’m moving through.

We grind past one another as we continue in our respective directions. I spend the rest of the day in bed alone, like a birdless island in a forgotten past.

A Birdless Island

My husband says the use of AI is inevitable. He tells me he uses it all day at work. It’s built into coding platforms now. It’s getting really smart really fast, he says. It can figure out context even when no context is provided.

It’s a requirement for software developers to use it. They’re all using it. Prompt engineering, he calls it.

But he’s using it as someone who knows how to think, not as someone who’s never learned to think, I say. What about those who never learn to form an argument, do their own research, make their own discoveries and assertions?

He doesn’t seem concerned. I worry that I’m losing him, that we’re shifting like tectonic plates only faster: me into the organic and him into the artificial.

He tells me to use AI, to give it a try. Have it write a poem for you, he says. You’d be surprised what it can come up with.

He doesn’t understand. I don’t care what AI can come up with where creativity and expression are concerned. I care what I come up with, what moves through me and what I’m moving through.

We grind past one another as we continue in our respective directions. I spend the rest of the day in bed alone, like a birdless island in a forgotten past.

T4 Centers

Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s language about people with autism in some ways parallels what Nazis said about Germans with physical disabilities and mental-health issues in 1939. Useless eaters was how the Nazis referred to this group. More than 70,000 asylum patients were killed in gas chambers called T4 centers before the death camps were in operation. These centers served as a model for the camps that were built later. Though the T4 program, as it was known, formally ended in 1941, the murders directed at this group didn’t stop. By the end of the war, 230,000 people with physical disabilities and mental-health issues had been killed between the T4 centers and the death camps.

Their gold teeth were extracted. Their brains were removed and sent to German physicians to study their “congenital idiocy.” Their ashes were sent to family members without regard for whose ashes were whose, along with notes that covered up what had happened. Murder was never the cause of death. Being gassed, often by one’s own doctor, was never the cause of death. Families were told the cause of death was something physical, unavoidable, like pneumonia or pulmonary tuberculosis. Some families weren’t notified at all and continued sending money to pay for their loved one’s expenses.

One of the main factors in deciding who lived and who died was how many hours a patient was capable of working each week. Think about that as you consider Kennedy’s comments about those with autism never holding a job or paying taxes. Think about that when you consider the implications of a database that’s tracking those with autism and potentially using information those patients and their families haven’t provided consent to use. Think about that when you decide if he’s really trying to help those who have autism or if he has darker motives, not just misguided ones.

The Nazis kept a record called The Hartheim Statistics as part of their T4 program. It was an account of the money saved by killing those 70,000 patients as opposed to maintaining their lives for one decade.

Think about that. Think about how much money this country would save if people like me didn’t exist and how little concern some people would have about our no longer existing.

Am I saying that’s where we’re headed today in America? Extermination? No. But I am saying we’re seeing the same dangerous collective mindset now, here in the United States, that we saw in the 1930s and 1940s in Germany.

People are not worthless if they don’t work or work enough or do the right work in this world. (I would argue that much of the right work to be done in this world is unpaid, and that those with physical disabilities and mental-health issues do that work in spades every day. The healing work. The loving work. The accepting work. The teaching work. The work of helping people see what it means to be human, which allows everyone to be more humane.)

People are not entries on a balance sheet or a way of saving money. We should not have treatment forced on us or be refused treatments we need. We are not things to be catalogued and monitored and followed and corralled into health camps (i.e., institutions we may never emerge from) or whatever else Kennedy conceives of. We are not participants in one big experiment that we didn’t even ask to be part of.

Kenney’s language is dangerous. His ideas are dangerous. His actions are dangerous. His power is dangerous.

The first people killed in the T4 centers were children. A father wrote to Hitler asking him to kill his deformed infant. That’s what inspired Hitler to start T4. I’ll repeat: He started with children.

We must protect our children. We must protect our adolescents. We must protect our adults. We must protect our seniors.

We must all protect each other. We must not look away.

Intergenerational

Family trauma is passed down genetically and epigenetically, through family stories and family preoccupations, through family experiences, through details like tones and inflections and mannerisms, through what’s focused on and what’s omitted, through place and what place means and has meant to the family, through hand-me-down memories, through objects and their cultural contexts—what they are and what they represent. And more.

Trauma isn’t the only thing passed down in these ways. Beliefs, values, biases, violences, and more move from one generation to another in this manner. We are haunted. The ghosts are inside us. The shadows, as Jung would say. Long shadows. Dark shadows. Shadows inside of shadows. But also light. Light, too.

We are intergenerational beings. Our becoming grows out of pasts we never lived but that we know, ones that lie beyond language and personal memory. We feel this. We struggle to understand it. We can lose ourselves to and in it. This is eternity, the feeling of eternity, of ongoingness, of neverendingness. Our neverending family and what it’s experienced, what it’s done. The hand we raise that is the father’s hand, the grandfather’s hand, the great grandfather’s hand. What we do. How we move. The who what where when why of us. What we’re from. What we’re for.

And what we’re against, up against, not only now but in those layered pasts. What we want and need to break free from. Those histories that riddle us like lead ammunition that can kill us quickly and also kill us slowly. Those wounds. Those poisons.

Dana for Mayor

My day hasn’t gone as planned. I went to get lab work done early this morning only to find out the orders were never placed, which means I won’t have results in time for my appointment with the specialist who (should have) ordered them. This is the doctor who, in part, is following my cancer status, so the labs are important.

I came home to an attempted identity-theft scam that Jon and I both had to deal with immediately. Things like this are happening more frequently, and they’re harder to identify. Someone tried to hack one of my online shopping accounts just three days ago.

I commented on a story in The Salt Lake Tribune in support of a gay mayor in one of Utah’s cities. Someone else in the queer community, another Utahn, saw my comment and thought I was saying the opposite of what I was saying. Their response was to tell me that I’m attacking the mayor based on his sexuality, that I’m not being Christlike, and that I’m so ugly-looking that they’d never live in a city where I was the mayor. Humph. I have many grumpies around that set of assertions.

My Fitbit died. I have no data whatsoever, and I rely on that data for my health and mental health.

I drove half an hour each way to see my therapist, where I hoped to talk about the parts involved in my strong feelings about the SLT commenter calling me an unattractive, unkind homophobe, but the therapist forgot my appointment, which means I drove for an hour for no reason and have three exiles I need to deal with on my own now rather than in therapy. (Exiles are a type of part in the Internal Family Systems framework. It’s not ideal to be exploring them alone.)

These are all small problems in the larger scheme of things, and they’re counterbalanced by an incredible conversation and connection I had with a fellow poet today. We talked about organization, one of my favorite topics, and poetry and community and dogs and mountains. I mean, it was good stuff.

Also on the plus side, there’s my sweet dog. And my relative ability to handle all these relatively small problems. And my view of the laccolith, which I can see now that the clouds have started to dissipate or move on or whatever clouds do.

Oh, and someone ran over a raccoon in our neighborhood, so there’s also that sad occurrence. That’s another item for the negative side of today’s +/- list. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t been making that fruitless round-trip drive to see the therapist.

You can file this under grumpy with a lower-case g or grumpy with a capital g or dumpy if you also think I’m so unattractive you would never live in a city where I’m the mayor. The last part of that sentence was written by one of the exiles. She was called ugly by her classmates almost every day of her life from preschool until she was well into puberty. We’re working through it.

Fundamentally Defective

I got a notification from Ancestry that information about my brother had been added to the site. Of course, I followed the trail to the information because that’s what I’ve always done where my brother is concerned, even now that we’re not in contact (see Marie Howe’s poem “The Boy” for an explanation of what I’m talking about).

What I found about my brother wasn’t interesting, but there were dozens of new pieces of information linking numerous relatives on my father’s side of the family to the Civil War, where they fought for the Confederate States of America. One of them was a prisoner of war and died inside the camp where he was held.

My lips are numb. I don’t know how to process all of this. This awful history is in my family, in my epigenetics. It’s been handed down and down and down to me. This is only four generations from me.

It didn’t stop with the war. My grandparents on my father’s side were racist, as was my father. One of my most traumatizing and painful moments occurred when I was very young and witnessed my grandmother and my great aunt treating a Black woman with extreme disrespect before turning away from her and calling her a racial slur. They didn’t know I was in the room where it happened and that I saw everything they said and did to the woman.

I think that experience was more painful than the sexual abuse that occurred later. There’s an exiled part of me who’s still in that room feeling shock and terror and sadness all at once. That’s when the feeling of being part of an evil family started, of being from a family that was more monster than human. It started that day, not the day my father began abusing me. What he did only reified those feelings, setting them like grout in tile that’s already been laid.

Those are the feelings I would eventually turn inward on myself, believing that I was a monster, that I was evil. Or, put a more sanitized way, that I was fundamentally defective. Fundamentally meaning essentially, systemically, absolutely, irreparably flawed.

It wasn’t just my father who made me feel that way. It was his whole side of the family. I was of them. I was of all of them. Who they were and what they did ripped through me like lead bullets, like death, like the only thing worse than death, which is pure hatred.

Family can bite me. That half of my family can bite me.