fly away home

"To whom shall I speak today?
One lacks an intimate,
One resorts to an unknown to complain.

To whom shall I speak today?
I am burdened with grief
For lack of an intimate."

When I was little, my Aunt Liz lived with us, and she represented a mode of kindness and open intimacy that I could not learn from anyone else involved in my upbringing. There was a sort of standing welcome with her, a ready smile, a basic and whimsical sweetness.
Aunt Liz taught me about how things can smell purple or green, about fish and rivers, about laughter, and about believing in your own kind of beauty. She had red hair and an interesting nose and wore a lot of purple. She loved fishing and art and wondering about things, and she was my favorite, I think, of all my extended family, because I think she was one of very few who got me, and I never forgot that. She was a good woman, and brave, and nurtured and protected beauty in this world.
We haven't spoken in years, because of this circumstance or that, and I haven't seen her in even more.

She died yesterday of a broken heart.

Aunt Liz, I'm sorry I didn't know how much you were hurting, and I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry you had to know so much pain. I'm sorry things never worked out like you planned. I never met anyone who knew you and didn't adore you. Whatever distance happened, you were always family to me, and I was looking forward to seeing you at my wedding, and catching up someday.
I hope it's okay now. I hope you make it where you're going and it's better than anything you ever had here.
You will be missed by a lot of people, and one of them is a loving niece who will always be grateful she had you in her life, even just for a little while. Rest well.

"Death is before me today,
Like a sick one's recovery,
Like going outdoors after confinement.

...

Death is before me today,
Like the clearing of the sky,
As when a person discovers what she ignored.

Death is before me today,
Like someone's longing to see her home
When she has spent many years in captivity."
--The Dispute of the Man With His Ba, unknown Middle Kingdom Egyptian author, tr. Lichtheim with a couple of pronoun edits.

here's some pride for you

Hell yeah.

I generally don't weigh in on the specific situation this badass sister is starting from--Michfest--as I think I've said my piece, and have found it more productive for myself to work on the generalities right now. But I have watched so many people I respect--and people I came of age looking up to--defend its policies, or choose to perform there (you disappoint me, Dar Williams, after making a younger me cry so hard hearing "When I Was a Boy" the first time), or shrug and say, yeah, it sucks, but I have a good time...
And you know what? It's a fucking music festival, you might want to say. One I never intend to go to, because I have better ways to emotionally abuse myself. But it is also a symbol. It is a touchstone. And it sends a message, a message that some of its organizers and proponents are proud to send, and others are just plain willing to be complicit in:

Stay Out. Stop Existing. Accept That You Are Unacceptable. Just Shut Your Damn Mouth And Stop Begging For Scraps. Remember, At All Times, That You Are A Lie.

I said, a while back, hell no. I will not swallow all that. I will not choke down my status as an abomination. I will stop letting you make me afraid, and join voices and hands until we can all raise them up.

And this sister? She's preaching that song in a way that makes me proud to have this thing in common with her. Proud to share a city. Proud to share a people.

This is a letter by one woman to another about a specific situation. And it's also a bright-shining "Ain't I A Woman" heir that hits truth hard and doesn't slow down.

Keep on preaching, woman. Hasta la victoria siempre.