Pages

Monday, August 30, 2010

Another Modest Proposal

by Susan Cameron

Just because I was laughing when I wrote this does not mean I don't mean every word...


While perusing the usual litany of crimes against women in the Los Angeles Times the other day, I ran across a particularly appalling statistic. If a woman lives in Los Angeles County her entire life, her chances of being raped are better than one in three. I gave that figure some serious thought. If I had a one-in-three chance of winning big money in the lottery, I’d sell my house to buy tickets. If I had a one-in-three chance of winning big money at the racetrack, I’d sell my car and hit the bettor’s window. A better than 33 percent chance of being raped is, statistically speaking, a pretty good bet.

This led me to wonder: What if the average man had a one-in-three chance of being sodomized by the winners of the Mike Tyson and Hulk Hogan lookalike contests? Would any man ever leave his house without a gun at his side? In fact, since so many rapes take place within the home, would any man live without a gun in his house in the face of these terrible odds? I think not. Therefore, is it reasonable for women to remain unarmed and unprotected under these dangerous circumstances, which amount to a state of undeclared war? I think not.

So, I would like to make the following modest proposal: Every woman should be required, by law, to carry a gun; to take shooting and weapon safety classes; to practice at a firing range at least twice a month; and to serve and protect the other members of her community. In short, every woman should be armed.

I believe there is ample philosophical and legal evidence to defend my proposal. The Declaration of Independence states that all men have certain inalienable rights, including life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The founding fathers used the word “men” in the generic sense, as was the custom at the time. Women like me also have these rights, and our rights are being violated by criminal terrorists and a judicial system that is unable or unwilling to stop them. Our right to life? Criminals shoot us, stab us, rape us, torture us, mutilate us. They kill us quickly; they kill us slowly. Our right to liberty? The threat of victimization keeps us locked up in our homes and cars, restricts our movements, restrains our schedules; we don’t even have the liberty to wear certain hairstyles, makeup, or clothes for fear of drawing the attention of some misogynistic bastard. Our right to pursue happiness? We do the best we can, in spite of our restricted lives as meat for the predators; but I believe my proposal would facilitate our pursuit of happiness by empowering us to fight the criminals pursuing us. The Second Amendment to the Constitution guarantees the right of the people to keep and bear arms. I am suggesting that we do exactly that.

Now, in contrast to the existing situation, imagine every adult female citizen ready, willing, and able to kill criminals in self-defense! Imagine a woman being able to walk in her own neighborhood unafraid – not calculating whether or not she can return before dusk falls, not concerned if her friends can’t walk with her, not worried about some rapist jumping her – because she has a .357 Magnum in a holster on her hip and she’s capable of defending herself! Imagine armed women everywhere – offices, banks, grocery stores, shopping malls – jogging anywhere they want, anytime they want; striding through parking lots without fear; using public restrooms without dragging their girlfriends along! Imagine women and children congregating at parks and beaches, playing and laughing, unconcerned about child molesters; after all, if any pervert were to touch a child, the mommies would rise as one and blast him into ground beef!

I realize my proposal will strike some people as too radical, and potentially dangerous. What if some women take unfair advantage of their power, and start behaving like bullies? What if some women start swaggering around with guns at their sides, awash in a sea of hormones, arrogant, belligerent and rude, utterly contemptuous of the rights of other human beings, in love with their power to destroy and their own massive egos? In other words, what if women start behaving like male criminals (or some male non-criminals, for that matter?) I believe any woman inclined to behave that way is doing so already. The vast majority of women would simply feel relief at having a legal, effective means of self-defense. Women need to start carrying guns now, before the Los Angeles Times calculates our odds of being rape victims at fifty-fifty.

copyright 1993, Susan Cameron

Monday, August 23, 2010

At the Festival

I push through the Personnel Only gate at 5:30 and walk over to Gary’s photography exhibit. Grabbing the dust rag, I spruce up the display. I’m straightening the big sign that says Joshua Tree National Park, when a man comes up behind me.

“Is this the Alabama Hills?” he asks.

“No,” I say, pointing to the sign. “Joshua Tree National Park.”

“Oh,” he says. “Sure looks like the Alabama Hills.” He shrugs and turns away.

So begins another night at the Laguna Beach Festival of Arts.

It’s Thursday - soft jazz, wine and chocolate night. Out on the grass people eat picnic dinners at tables with checkered tablecloths. A cool breeze rustles the tablecloths as the late afternoon sun glows on surrounding walls of art. While picnickers talk softly, a trio plays “The Girl from Ipanema”.

Last night the band played the Star Spangled Banner while we all stood at attention, hands to hearts.

I get a sausage flatbread pizza at Gina’s and sit on the concrete planter wall behind Gary’s booth to eat it. Bill the security guard plops down next to me and starts talking. Tonight I hear about how he used to work at Home Depot where they treated the lumber with a poisonous powder and cut it with a power saw and people inhaled the dust and got sick. On any given night he might tell you about his daughter in law school, his wife’s job search, living in Michigan or another job he used to have. He’s had a lot of jobs.

“Gotta see if those folks want to buy a print,” I tell Bill, even though the people are already walking past Gary’s exhibit. I jump up and leave Bill on the wall.

Across the way from Gary’s desert pictures are Elizabeth’s pastels and Margo’s photos. Cynthia’s prints are behind me. Carol’s pottery is around the corner and Mitch’s Colorado photographs are just past Gary’s on the same wall. I sit at one end; Mitch’s chair is way at the other end. So far I’m the only one here tonight.

People come in tour buses. Men in polo shirts with binoculars around their necks carry blankets and jackets to keep warm during the pageant later. Bald men with white beards and potbellies sport Hawaiian shirts, shorts, socks and sandals. Their wives wear white cotton pants, colorful blouses and New Balance walking shoes. Some have canes. Some are in wheel chairs and seem concerned about how they’re going to maneuver through the narrow passage between my chair and Cynthia’s table.

Margo arrives and says she feels like a sale tonight. We all wish for sales, but that’s not everything. It’s also about connecting with people. Elizabeth likes when someone feels her soul in her art. She has trouble parting with her creations, pieces of her soul.

A teenage boy with a serious camera around his neck studies Gary’s photos for a long time. Other people walk by with only a quick glance toward the desert photos. One of them is a lady in aqua head to toe – aqua sandals, slacks, shirt, purse, jewelry. We have no aqua pictures, so she probably isn’t interested in stopping at our booth.

It’s funny the way people look at art. They stand up close to Gary’s photos, examining them carefully. I’m not sure what they are looking for. Some people turn their backs on Gary’s pictures and look at Elizabeth’s. Others turn their backs on Elizabeth’s and look at Gary’s. If people are drawn to Mitch’s colorful photos, they’re not interested in Gary’s black and whites. And vice versa.

Margo takes pictures of people in mid air, falling onto a trampoline. The backgrounds are dark and the falling subjects are lit from above with a single light. To view her art, people tend to lean sideways, usually to the right. Margo sets up a camera in her booth and takes a video of all the people leaning sideways to look at her mid-air people. She has a wry smile as she watches the people looking at her work.

We decide we could give each other’s spiel.

“They’re falling onto a trampoline,” I’d say.

“Joshua Tree National Park,” she’d say.

“Taken in a studio, lighted from above,” I’d say.

“High dynamic range digital photography,” she’d say.

Lots of the women carry big black purses slung over their shoulders, and when it’s crowded and their backs are to the artwork, I suck in my breath and hope the purses don’t scratch the glass. The women don’t notice where their purses are. Carol’s husband, Wes, holds his breath, too, because one swing of a big black purse could send Carol’s teacups crashing to the concrete.

A thirtysomething man is talking intently to Margo. I think they must be good friends, but when he leaves she says she has no idea who he is. She’s glad he’s gone.

A woman in a sparkly leopard print top and matching ballet slippers wants to know how she can buy one of Elizabeth’s pictures. I direct her to the Sales Booth. Elizabeth will be happy to have the sale, but there goes another bit of her soul.

Mitch arrives, sits in his chair and assumes a stern lifeguard face.

“Where were these pictures taken?” asks a man whose shirt says United We Stand and has an American flag on the sleeve. He should have been here last night for the Star Spangled Banner.

“Joshua Tree National Park,” I say.

“Did you put those round rocks there?” he asks.

“No, that’s just they way they are.”

“How big are they?”

“Huge.” I stand up and circle my arms above my head, though I have no idea how big the rocks really are.

Margo’s got some interested people now. She’s telling them about the trampoline and the studio and the single light above. Maybe this is her sale.

A trio of women pulls out the print of “Desert Surreal” featuring a lone tree caught between two boulders. They prop the print up against the wall and stare at it. This looks promising, so I mosey over there.

“It’s a great photo,” I say.

“Yes,” says the middle lady in a dreamy voice. She caresses the print, sighs and puts it back. They are gone before I realize I’ve forgotten to give them one of Gary’s cards. I’ve fallen down on the job. No sale for me tonight.

A young couple wants to play pool with the boulders in “The Billiard Table”. We all laugh and wonder how big the pool cue would have to be.

A lady all in gauzy white says she just went camping in Joshua Tree. “Amazing place. Amazing photos,” she says and smiles as she walks away.

A peal of laughter erupts behind me and I turn to see a whole tour group sitting on the concrete planter wall. They’re having a good time at the Festival.

Margo’s people don’t buy and the guy who was hitting on her is back.

“Don’t you want my phone number?” he says.

“No,” she replies.

He keeps on talking, leaning toward her, hanging on the side of her chair. When people walk up to her booth, she slips out of the chair and turns her back on him.

A middle-aged couple turns the corner behind my chair and stops to look at Gary’s photos.

“Rocks,” the man says.

“Yes,” his wife says.

“Rocks and sky,” he says.

“Yes,” she says and they move on to Margo’s booth where they both lean to the right.

At the other end Mitch is smiling now, because a woman with a big belly, a pearly necklace and a USC tote bag likes his photos. He retrieves the skinny little sales box he has tucked under the shelf and writes up the sale. The lady has two chins and a really nice smile. Her mother has white hair, a white pantsuit and a purse in primary colors with rhinestones. She’s smiling, too.

It’s almost 8:30, almost time to go. Before I leave, I put out more business cards, straighten the pictures and tidy up the prints in the bin. A couple, chewing gum in unison, approaches the wall and together they stick their noses within inches of the bottom two photos.

“It’s the Alabama Hills, right?” he says

One more time I say, “Joshua Tree National Park.”

“Ah,” they both say. “Beautiful work.”

On that note I call it a night.

Monday, August 16, 2010

The Weight of Water



They call me flatlander here in this high Sierra town.
They call me flatlander from LA, from la-la land
where the lunatic fringe holds center stage.
They call LA “down below” in this frontier town
            of crusted hardtack ranchers and farmers.
They say, “Down below where flatlanders stole our water
to build mega-mansions and cartoon houses
in the so-called city of angels.”
They ask, “What happened to the damned angels?”

They call me flatlander from down below.
They say it with scorn,
tempered a bit with shame.
They don’t like it, but they need our fat wads of cash,
pieces of silver exchanged
for this valley town’s pastures, once fertile and green,
for its rivers and streams that once overflowed banks,
for its lakes that glistened with sun-cut diamonds,
for its towering cottonwoods, now shriveled and dead,
that line only the river banks of memory.
Dust storms bedevil the town today,
rising from empty lakebeds and dried up rivers,
veiling legendary blue skies with yellow-brown gauze.

The water flows south in concrete aqueducts
            built by big-city rustlers  made rich by stolen water.
They say they fought the flatlanders with posses of armed men.
They say they blew up construction sites, 
            sabotaged equipment, vandalized vehicles,
harassed work crews, destroyed makeshift lodgings.         
Still, the water flows south as flatlanders head north
flooding this town by the thousands,
            searching for back-country quiet,
            seeking a respite from lives down below
that churn and surge in a city afloat on troubled waters.
When we open our wallets,
            they are grateful, cordial, and smile their thanks,
            but their guarded eyes shoot blanks.
They call me flatlander in this dried-out town.


Susan Matthewson

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Cell Intelligence

Cell Intelligence

According to my mother’s scale, I have lost maybe ½ to ¾ of a pound in a period of two weeks. This wondrous success is attributable to the book 10 Years Thinner: 6 Weeks to a Leaner, Younger-Looking You.

But then again, I tell myself, muscle weighs more than fat!

I got up this morning and sneaked off to exercise without my motivational music. The house was still filled with gentle snoring, but I could no longer stay prone. I will gently pound my body into shape using the miracle of lunges, squats, crunches and push-ups both forward and backward. My knees and ankles are not exactly happy, but they’re not screaming that loudly, and I do feel good having done them, and I am promised a leaner, younger-looking me if I do these things, so who am I to argue?

For the last 10 weeks I have given up sugar, grains – all of them, dairy, and everything else that has assisted me in building up my substantial bulk over the last five years. I am also taking vitamins, drinking a ton of water – well, not a ton – let’s not exaggerate – maybe 70-90 ounces a day, and of course, doing my exercise routine at least 4 times a week (and to be fair, I’ve only been doing those exercises for about 5 out of the 11-12 weeks).

So how come things aren’t moving more quickly? I’d be okay with the scale if the zippered opening of the pants from the past would close more easily telling me that my lean muscles are taking the place of my not so lean rolls of what I lovingly call my protective covering.

I’ve spoken to people who have wowed themselves with results from this book – but, oh yeah, they’re not 57 and 40 pounds over-weight. But I had hoped to experience more success than I have been, and frankly, I’m stymied. Why am I literally FIGHTING this battle of the bulge? I am doing everything I need to be doing, at least according to the book.

Part of me (oh those damned parts) feels like all I’ve been doing is taking a magic pill and sitting on the couch waiting for the miracle, but I haven’t; I’ve been doing the work. Or at least the outer work.

Frankly, I’m not so sure that we humans really have the weight thing figured out. It should be calories in – calories out = success or failure, but that doesn’t take into consideration our considerable inner world which has its own agenda – believe me I’ve been working with its agenda for years and you would be very surprised at what some of the inner intentions are. And those intentions are the ones that matter. Those are the ones that will sabotage and create the anti-miracle. So you think that doing X should produce Y, just ask the inner saboteur or the inner judge or the inner joker. They get their way; the laws of man are not restrictions to them. Just as they can assist in the creation of miracles – getting things to happen as they shouldn’t be able to according to the laws of man – they can seemingly work their opposite magic or I guess that would be anti-magic.

Every pound I created, I created with the help of anxiety, anger, frustration, unconsciousness, fear, judgment, hatred, self-flagellation, hiding, and I could go on. If that is true, then stored in those many new cells are all the things that built them. I built them with junk and the junk has to come out – but I don’t want to look at the junk, I just want to look at my size 12 pants and wish they would button (or the size 10s). So my next weeks will be spent in dialoging with the keepers of the pounds in order to figure out what it is they want from me now in order to let go and release their hold on my at-their-mercy-figure. I will report back with results in four weeks. Wish me luck.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Divorce

by Susan Cameron

I said, "Hell will freeze over before our love will die."
The young say stupid things like that. We don't know it's a lie.
Now I’m one successful lawyer; you’re a high-priced lawyer too,
So when our marriage fell apart we knew just what to do.

Our troops assemble in the courts when we call reveille –
The Hessians on the left are yours, the others stand for me.
Our bloody little skirmishes, our combat hand-to-hand,
Has escalated to this point. We take our final stand.

We snarl and scream our orders, and before this war is done,
Our napalm burns our daughter and our shrapnel maims our son.
But we’re blinded by the smoke and we’re deafened by the noise,
And the casualties of war are often little girls and boys.

With murder pounding in my heart I roar a battle cry
And watch the life we’d had blow up as fireworks light the sky.
You call in an air strike, and then I take my turn,
With hands on hips, triumphantly, we watch our bridges burn.

Direct hit on the ammo dump! A satisfying roar –
What we had built went up in smoke. No chance of getting more.
I call in the coordinates – before my rockets land,
Belatedly, I realize Ground Zero’s where I stand.

A sickly light illuminates the ghostly, smoky pall.
The windswept ash floats through the air – I watch hell's snowflakes fall.

copyright 2010 - Susan Cameron