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Tag Archives: don’t give up

Fourth Of Us….. ?

03 Sunday Jul 2022

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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America, Dissent, don't give up, Fireworks, mac n cheese, My Country, neighbors, USA

It wasn’t the first voicemail I left for my senator. Usually they answer and I tell them a piece of my mind, or I just mail postcards with my specific desire. This time I left a voicemail for my senator giving him a piece of my mind and I said you don’t have to call me back but man you have to do something about this that and the other. My senator’s staffperson called me back. I pictured him wearing a flak jacket and an M1 helmet. He had no idea what he was walking into, but man, he did call me back. He said he heard my message and shared what my senator is doing to try and protect abortion rights. I told that poor young man that I write, I call, I march, I DONATE and after years, OVERNIGHT it’s all gone. It’s not his fault. He asked me to vote when it comes up on the local ballot which I will of course do, as I have always done.

I have a vision for what I want my country, the place I love and want to be. What it looks like. I want people to hold jobs. That they don’t have to work 200 jobs to afford an apartment or buy a home. I want people to send their kids to learn, to grow, to learn how to learn, most importantly.

Tonight the locals are setting off fireworks early. I expected that. Only a douchebag would call the cops on folks trying to have some fun. I’m pretty sure 300 million of us are normal. I’ve been disappointed lately by you all. I’m not sure how long I will see the next election cycle, and I’m not sure how much I want to give my energy. All I know is that my neighbors are going to have a little get together on the Fourth, I’m going to bring some spicy mac and cheese, I love my country, it’s worth fighting for, and I’m really tired.

DON’T. GIVE. UP.

Jim Nabors

01 Friday Dec 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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childhood, choir, don't give up, holy, Jim Nabors, memory, mother, music, passion, poem, power, sing, tears, voice

Jim Nabors has left us. I am glad he is in peace. I can’t say that he’s the reason I wanted to be a Marine. It’s too complicated for that. (It’s certainly more complicated than the unyielding call of the jets flying over the warehouse where I toiled.)  His most recognizable character, Gomer Pyle, was simple in nature, kind of heart, which seems antithetical to being part of the war machine. He was part of my childhood thanks to Mom and his voice… oh. Jim Nabors’ voice.  I learned about passion by his voice alongside Andy Williams, Johnny Cash, Cher, Barbra Streisand, so many more. I heard his voice sing the hymnals I recognized from church, and it moved me, a girl of impressionable age.   Jim moved on, and I am grateful to the internet for sharing his performance of Impossible Dream (The Quest).  I dare you to listen and not be moved and reminded that the world is the life and we are stewards of it all, and our voices are holy. Our voices are holy.  (don’t waste it all.)   He is with my mother now, who introduced me to black and white TV. Shazam, and Golly, and Surprise.

Oh, by the way.  Tell me how you feel after reading the lyrics to this song. How does one bear it, how will you learn to bear it, where does your strength come from to sing those notes he sings effortlessly the power of that poem, to find the will, and the will, and the will to do anything at all, in those years that I didn’t know I had any power at all, little girl? Jim’s song seems effortless. I will never write or live or be as effortless as the victory of his voice… but it sure does give me something to strive for.

I may or may not stop weeping on the sound and the voice of his memory. And that’s just okay.

Feeling Cold In A Warm Sun

02 Monday Oct 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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death, don't give up, dream, guns, hope, life, peace

The underground building and garage is labyrinthine, sharing arteries, paths, walkways like conjoined twins. Some shortcut paths we (the workers) weren’t allowed to take, those were designated for certain people only (perhaps the kind that wear heels instead black, tarry workboots.)  The building is brand new, the cement floors painted clean gray and bright yellow. It is loud and echoey in here. I’m the only woman in here, and the men aren’t nice to work with.  At my right shoulder is a man I used to work with.  He stuffed five pages of faxed copies of his records in my hand, and he’s appointed me the task to help him with pointing, grunting, and broken English.  He is Asian, his name hard to pronounce. (Mister H?)  No one wants to help him.  He follows me through the long halls that seem to lead nowhere, through bright tunnels where workers are laughing, smoking, fooling around, and definitely not helping.  He points to a name and phone number and wants me to call this man (the top man, the boss) and get Mister H help.  Most of the dream is me on a cellphone making a series of phone calls until I can get as high as “they” will let me to demand medical care for Mister H who was hurt on the job. He is out of work, no one will help him, it says he’s eligible right here on the forms, YOU signed it, what’s the problem, then?

It’s past sunrise and I awakened to a messy room.  I stand up, wobbly, because my right hip grumbles at me when my body is still for too long. I drink a cup of cold water from a Starbucks Seattle mug a friend gave me. I wonder how her night went, knowing, but still hopeful.  And then I read the news that comes from Las Vegas.

I can’t believe my eyes, and my heart cycles through broken, angry, sad, who cares, looking for fault, finding a reason, then starts all over again.  I light a sage-scented candle, something strong and clean to try and purge the sickness from my two little rooms. I’m too warm but my bare feet are cold, and it’s an October morning for sure. Another day I don’t understand and I know I’m not asking the right questions or speaking the right words. For now.  Someone posted a terrible verse from Isaiah on Twitter to the effect that god don’t care for your thoughts and prayers because your hands have blood on them.  Well okay, then.  While I wash the blood and shit and dirt from my hands, I will look for ways to be a vessel of peace, an instrument of giving, a la St. Francis.

If I close my heart, I’ve already failed.

Congressman Brat asked his constituents

22 Wednesday Feb 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

compromise, don't give up, politics, scream, wisdom, Women's March

when pressed on overturning EPA regulations,  “Do you want to be poor or do you want to be rich?”   I sent him this message:  Are you okay with drinking oil?

the_scream

Recent Posts

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  • Fourth Of Us….. ?
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