First by bike: It was 63 degrees this morning. On my bike, it felt quite cool to me, almost cold, and I wondered how much of that feeling almost cold was due to the general trend up into summer temperatures- 90 makes 63 almost cold in comparison. Or perhaps it is that I really am that much of a Florida child who gets chilly easily. As I biked to work, I enjoyed the motion of my legs and feet as they pushed the pedals down and around. I notice that White Kitty was on her spot on a park bench in a neighbor’s yard.

Next by bookmobile: We drove out to the east side of the county. It was a gorgeous day for a drive on country roads. One of the things I noticed were the wildflowers. They were flocks and black-eyed susans and all sorts of lovely wildflowers that I do not know by name. In Lake Alto, a woman in a bathing suit mowing her yard waved to us as her dog ran around her. The intersection of SR 26 and 301 has two gas stations, an empty building for rent and an adult movie rental store. In Windsor, an old man pulled over to take pictures of a rusty, old tractor.

Next by bike: At the end of work, as I unlocked my bike, I noticed the softness of the light, a promise of long summer days ending in gentle light. I biked through the Duck Pond. I passed a middled aged couple walking hand in hand in the street. A jogger came close to running into me even though I almost out of the the intersection that he was running into. A father with extremely long, warm brown hair tied back in by more than a few hair bands rolled his daughter down the grass beside the duck pond. She was clambering out of the stroller’s seat as it rolled down the grass.

A couple of days ago I received an eflux announcment about N S Harsha’s show Tamasha at Berliner Kunstlerprogramm/DAAD. Reading the promotional copy, the show sounds fascinating, referencing Indian and German religious and folk traditions/myths as well as the current problem of “the plague of monkeys in real everyday life in India.” From the description in the announcement, Tamasha is a bunch of monkey sculptures installed all over the outside of the building.

“Forty little monkeys jumping on a building.”

“‘Tamasha’ in Hindi, Urdu or Marathi is a common term that refers colloquially to a large show, performance, or celebration, as well as to commotion, tumult, or bustle (from the eflux announcement).” But as wonderful as that show sounds, as much as I would like to see it and won’t be able to, that is not why I am writing about.

“One fell off and broke my head.”

Sometimes it is hard to be honest with myself. Sometimes it is hard to be honest with each other. One of the things that it is hard to be honest about is how racism warps my thoughts. It helps that I don’t take it personally. I have been shaped by my culture, my race, my family and my experiences. I have less choice than I like to think about what I think and how I think. This is true for all of us. We have less choice than we like to think. This does not absolve me of responsibility for my actions in the world, but make it easier for me to deal with ugly thoughts. Realizing that I am not evil just because racism shapes some of my thinking makes it easier for me to look carefully at how racism and my position of privilege as a white person infuses my understand of and some of my action in our world.

“The momma called the doctor and ”

I saw the image on the eflux announcement for Tamasha, a sculpture of a monkey sitting on the edge of a metal balcony with its left arm raised straight up, most of its fingers curled in but its index finger pointing to the sky above. Its arm is raised to the sky, but its eyes look forward. It is a wonderful sculpture. At first I thought it was a photograph of a monkey invading a human space. What distressed me was that when I saw this photo my brain immediately associated it with images of triumphant black athletes. Now I could spend time feeling guilty about that ugly thought, but what I am interested in is why that thought comes so easily. So I sat with it for a bit. I’ve kept the announcement in my overfull email inbox and returned to it every few days. I have held with compassion my racist thought. And I have used this moment to think deeply about the ways that racism is embedded in our culture.

“The doctor said, ‘No more monkeys jumping on the building!’”

There is no way I can completely escape thinking racist thoughts. The monkey mind takes advantage of all the crap- anger, fear, racism, etc.  But I can use those moments to carefully reflect on racism and my part in perpetuating it. When I saw the sculpture I didn’t think about India or Germany, I thought about the United States and our painful history. I thought about black culture. I thought about white culture. I thought a lot about the complicated ways that white culture uses and abuses the work and talents of African American people.

In N S Harsha’s installation the long tails of the monkeys stretch over the façade of the building like a net and are intertwined with each other and tangled up at the ends . . . The image of society that is implied by Harsha is based on social groups that publicly manifest themselves through play and group dynamics as a collective force resulting from spatial and geographic dependencies, entanglements, power struggles and tumult (from eflux announcement for Tamasha).

While I would have preferred not to think a racist thought when I first saw the photo of the sculpture, I find it oddly appropriate when considering the ideas behind Mr. Harsha’s show. All of the ism and obias (racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, etc.) tangle us together. But we are not just tangled together by those ugly cultural and political practices.

“39 monkeys jumping on a building.”

We are tangled together. We all are less free than we think. My movement in the world is constrained in bad and good ways by the tails and tales tangled with mine.

“One fell off and broke my head.”

I probably never will completely untangle myself from the tale that told me to equate African Americans with monkeys, pretty much all of us in the US have been tangled up by that tail, but I can loosen its hold on my tale.

“Momma called the doctor, and ”

I can tangle myself up with the tails that counter the racist ones. I can loosen the bad tails hold on my tail, stretch away from them, move closer to the tales I want to tell and be told. But it good to be reminded that I cannot escape the tail of racism. Many do-gooder whites like to believe they have escaped  because they believe the “right” things. Racism is entrenched in our culture and in our behavior. We all are entangled. We are entailed. We are entaled. I am less concerned about individual racist actions, though it is important to call ourselves on our shit. I think our focus should be on undermining structural racism- like fighting against financial institutions redlining of black neighborhoods or working to overhaul the criminal justice system, which is painfully racist in its sentencing.

“The doctor said, ‘You can’t stop the monkeys jumping, but you could catch them with a net.”

I would have preferred not to think a racist thought when I first saw the photo from Mr. Harsha’s show. A few years ago, I would have spent days hating myself for the bad thoughts (ah the joys of disordered thinking). Ten years ago, I would have wanted to die because of that thought. A week later, I am grateful for that moment. It allowed me to think carefully about racism. That may not  have been Mr. Harsha’s intention, but I am grateful that my electronic encounter with his work give me a different perspective on some of the things jumping around in my head. My encounter with his work through an eflux announcement helped me get clearer on what is most important to me when faced with one of the “isms and obias.” And it reminded me that once I start getting pay checks from full time work that I start next week that I want to budget money to send to organizations fighting against structural racism. I want to tangle my tail with their work.

I did see things. I saw a bird with a worm struggling in its beak take a hopping leap from the path into the shade of the trees. I made eye contact as I jogged past or around people. But thinking back to this morning, my visual memories are more likely to be generalized from past walks. My aural memories are more specific to my movement through the neighborhood today. Since I plan to be moving with more speed as I move through my vicinage, it will be interesting to see if I stay as aural fixated as I jog amok.

I offer this goofy little challenge to my faithful and faithless followers, see what sense you most focus on when you walk versus when you jog/run. Small experiments like are surprisingly rewarding. Goofy little tests like this help you attune your senses; they help you deepen your understanding of how you see/hear/feel/taste the world. That is worthwhile knowledge, but more importantly, it is just plain fun.

Today, I give thanks for:

1. The way the light shines on my cat’s black fur, creating spots of silvery brightness and browner spots that contrast with the deep black of her coat.

2. Cooking hoppin john from scratch. I soaked the black eyed peas overnight. My husband and I chopped up celery and onions and garlic and a wee bit of ham. I sauted the onions, celery, ham and garlic, then added a quart of broth, a bowl full of spices and three bay leaves, brought it to a boil and then let it simmer for 40 minutes. Ate the black eyed peas over couscous. Delicious and pretty dang nutritious. We will have hoppin john two nights this week and three weeks’ worth are freezing up. Our labor today will nourish weeks from now.

3. Getting a promotion at my pay the bills, day job. I will be driving the bookmobile around Alachua County. It is good work and while I am intimidated by the big vehicles I will learn to drive, I also am excited. I will move from part time to full time work with a five dollars (plus) an hour increase in pay. In an ideal world, I would have part time work at this pay level, leaving me enough time for my art making and producing, but I will take this job and enjoy it. I want to make money so I can fund my own projects and as importantly so I can help fund causes and projects- social, political and cultural.

4. Days of rain followed by a gorgeous sunny day.

5. Biking to church despite not wanting to go. I was rewarded by running into a few of my favorite people, people who make my heart burst with joy, and being told by someone that recently saw some of my non-Bishop Bishop work at a conference in San Francisco that my video truly was art (this was not an art conference).

6. Playing dress up with neighbor girls. Two sisters, one seven and one ten, came over one rainy night this past week. I was a little blue and very lonely, but I let them come in, and we did each other’s hair in wildly bizarre ways and put on lots of temporary tattoos. While it did not completely rid me of sad feelings, for a while, I focused on the simple joys of having my hair done and doing other people’s hair. I was reminded that we are primate and are comforted by grooming one another.

7. Going on a walk with my spouse.

8. The delightful acting of Sarah Snook and Ryan Kwanten in Not Suitable for Children.

9. The wonderful cast- Anna Marie K., Katie K., Cheslea C., and Keri P.- who gave so generously of their time to help make Felling Time by Thunderclock, a short piece I wrote in a non-Bishop Bishop persona, such a success at both 4 play and the May Day festivities. It was a great joy to direct them and to watch my words come to life through their particular voices and filters.

10. Moments of connection over coffee, over breakfast, at May Day, at work, at church, online. Sometimes it lasts only a few seconds, sometimes for long stretches. But every time it happens, I am grateful.

It shouldn’t happen anywhere. Perhaps it is good that people are reminding us of the other places where bombs have gone off this week. But too often, it feels like an attempt to cut the legs from underneath people’s less pleasant emotional responses to the week’s events. Feeling angry and a desire for revenge are completely understandable responses to the events of this week. Other understanding feelings: mourning, being numb, getting irritated that this fucked up violence is going to keep on giving horrible gifts- like the beating of brown skinned people and racial profiling, like the use of this tragedy to justify normalizing the police state- a state that doesn’t really keep us safe, especially since most violence happens in the home.

Between 2005 and 2010, 60% of all violent injuries in this country were inflicted by loved ones or acquaintances. And 60% of the time those victimizations happened in the home. In 2011, 79% of murders reported to the FBI (in which the victim-offender relationship was known) were committed by friends, loved ones, or acquaintances. Of the 3.5 million assaults and murders against family members between 1998 and 2002 (the last time such a study was done), almost half were crimes against spouses. Eleven percent were against children. But the majority of violent deaths are self-imposed. Suicide is the leading cause of violent death in the U.S., and most of those self-killings happen at home. Erika Eichelberger, “House of Horrors: Violence on the Home Front“

Any and all of those feelings are understandable, though all of them are unpleasant. Part of the misery of a week like this is sitting in the mess. I have been sad, angry, irritated that I even have to think about it during a week when I just do not have time. I have felt grateful that I am not living in Boston, which was a possibility a few years ago. I have felt apathetic. There is little that I personally can do to alleviate the suffering or catch the perpetrators. I have even had horribly judgmental thoughts like “now we know what it is like other places” and “maybe the US deserves it.” Those particular feelings and thoughts are craptastic, because I do not want to think or feel them. They are not what I want to feel in response to this week’s violence, but they, even though they only last for a few seconds here and there, are part of what I feel.

A feeling cannot be “right” or “wrong.” It is how we act out our feelings that is moral or immoral. A feeling on its own is not more right or wrong than a needle on a gauge, pointing to how much fuel you have in your tank. We might feel like annihilating someone but it is only the acting out of that feeling that is indicative of dubious morality. Philippa Perry, How to Stay Sane

We need the space to feel the ugly feelings, especially in response to violence and terror. “The ability to observe and listen to feelings and bodily sensations is essential to staying sane. We need to be able to use our feelings but not be used by them” (Perry). There is a difference between feeling angry/wanting revenge (and sharing that you feel that way) and acting out those feelings in ways that are harmful to others. We should condemn ugly actions in response to those feelings. There are more skillful ways of expressing our ugly feelings, and unfortunately there are ways of expressing our feelings that help incite more violence. “There is a difference between saying ‘I am angry’ and saying ‘I feel angry.’ The first statement is a description that appears closed. The second is an acknowledgement of a feeling, and does not define the whole self” (Perry).

But despite my offering of words, I mostly am unsure of how to respond or how to hold this week’s share of violence and terror. It impacts me, but through several layers of information. It is not immediate. My body is not currently in danger, at least not the particular dangers found in Boston. It mainly feels unreal; like the violence in a movie. And that is part of what I get to sit with this week.

To the people of Boston, to the marathon runners, I send my hopes for healing and peace and justice. And to the people in other places in the world where violence reigns, I also send hopes for peace and healing and justice. To the police departments and to the thugs on the street, I send the hope that they find the wisdom to not let anger and prejudice cause them to perpetuate more violence. To the politicians and the pundits, I send the hope that they will modulate their words; that they will carefully consider how they help calm or incite people. And to the rest of us, those of us watching from a distance, not knowing how to respond, I send the permission to not know and the patience to sit in the mess, even the ugliness. May we all take the time to find a response that reflects our best values without denying that part of what we feel is angry and vengeful.

Ms. Howard is a delight to watch. And the rest of the band is damn fine. So Hold on as Alabama Shakes (and maybe soothes) you.

I wanted to think deep thoughts. One of the carrots for going on the walk was that I was going to use the time to think about the problems of sexism and activism against it. I did think about it a bit. Lately, I’ve been turning over the notion that the way for me, and perhaps others, to not burn out when confronted with all the horrible sexism in the world is to make it into a game of sorts. How can I creatively combat sexism? How can I look at the crap that sexism causes as opportunities for innovative problem solving? How can I get enough distance, without become apathetic, from its impact to better see it? I do not know the answer, but I do not that, for me, I need ways to be engaged without always being angry.

As I walked, I did dive into the depths, but mainly I floated on the surface. I looked at and listened to the world. I delighted in glimpses of two neighborhood cats, Crouchy and White Kitty. The piercing call of a bird competed with the muted roar of an airplane. I looked closely at the raggedy blue flowers, treated as weeds to be mowed down, that are everywhere right now. As I walked the rails to trail path, I noticed the granite rocks leftover from when the train tracks still occupied the same space. I miss the sounds of the trains rolling through the neighborhood.

Thoughts of the train turned to thoughts of my childhood. My childhood was full of abuse, but it was not near as bad as my parents’ childhoods. Much of it fell in a no child’s land between hell, purgatory and heaven. One leg was in hell, most of it was in purgatory and one arm, and often enough the head were in heaven. My childhood was full of intense joy as well as horrible pain. I have come to find out that reminding myself of the joy does not negate the truth of the pain. But re-telling the pain over and over without the joy is untrue as well. I sometimes wonder, as I did on my walk today, how this particular personal truth could be extrapolated into a larger social and political truth. How can we better understands the ways the institution of the family is riddled with sexism and perpetuates the heterosexual norm in often violent ways but also understand that the institution of family transmits and transforms necessary and helpful social norms. It is not just violence. It is not just repression. My childhood and the institution of the family both contain joy and beauty.

As I was thinking all of this, a woman driving in a large SUV pulled up too close beside me. She startled me out of my thoughts. She needed help with directions. I did not want to help her. I was not especially friendly, but I did help her. It took a bit of back and forth, and I had to have her hand over her handwritten instructions to figure out that she had taken a left turn instead of a right turn. I did not want to help her. I wanted to keep walking. I wanted to keep following particular trains of thought. I didn’t want to, but I helped her. Doing my duty is not always immediately rewarding. I did not resume my walk happy. I was annoyed, yet satisfied. After the fact, I often have obsessed about my interactions with others, even strangers like this woman in the SUV. I have tried to weed out all the ugly, irritated, selfish and angry ways that I respond to the world. And while it is important to cultivate the mind, to not let these weeds take over the whole plot, there is a place for the raggedy weeds with blue flowers. I can let my weedy ways be. I don’t need to prune it all out. I do not have to perfectly kind. I can be helpful and irritated.

I want to wrap up this bit of writing, to somehow make the comparison between my letting the weedy blue flowers of my mind grow with the ways we deal with the rougher parts of our culture, but I need to think more before I decide that the comparison has any truth. Perhaps on my next walk I will think on it. Maybe it will become clearer, and maybe it won’t.

Until next time, take care and keep on keeping on.

1. A cool, overcast day
2. A sudden chill that raised goosebumps on my arms and legs and made my nipples tighten
3. The lingering cool, taste of water
4. A freshly dusted and swept living room
5. The tight freshness of brand new socks
6. Being almost done with a project
7. Spending time with three of the handful of wonderful people who can make me cackle with laughter- E & B, and my spouse.
8. Getting a fair amount of work done and finding time to relax and rec-create.
9. The quality of the early afternoon sun as it fills the living room with soft light and soft shadows.
10. My cat’s decision to curl up on my chest for a good long while (see photo below).