twistedground

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For the first time, the government takes accountability for damage done from dams--

"When federal dams altered the natural flow of the river, inundated hundreds of thousands of acres of land, and affected ecosystem functions, the Tribes were disproportionately harmed. The federal and non-federal dams on the Columbia River and lower Snake River transformed the river functions from those the Tribes rely on to those serving other economic ends, transferring wealth away from the Tribes. This transformation followed decades of significant degradation of the rivers and their resources by the Basin’s burgeoning industries. Together with commercial activities and other consequences from settlement of the region by non-Indigenous people, the construction and operation of federal dams impacted salmon, steelhead, and other species in the Columbia River Basin, thus impeding the Tribes’ ability to realize the benefits of their reserved rights, including treaty-reserved rights to harvest salmon at usual and accustomed places, on unoccupied lands, or within reservations. The devastation of once-abundant salmon, steelhead, and other species in the Columbia River Basin adversely and inequitably impacted Tribes’ spiritual, cultural, physical, and economic health as well. Because these impacts continue today and face new threats from climate change, upholding the federal government’s treaty and trust responsibilities to the Tribes includes working to protect these reserved rights and restore associated resources; improving the spiritual, cultural, physical, and economic well-being of Tribes; and advancing environmental justice."

Might just be more false promises.

"...it remains 'hopes and promises' until funding for salmon restoration and renewable power projects comes through Congress. 'With these agreements, there is hope. We feel like this is a moment in time. If it doesn’t happen now, it will be too late.

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a summer solstice and full moon is such a romantic cosmic event

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Tradeswomen, 1982

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Girl in telephone booth, 1994

Jochen Lempert

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born to love forced to grieve

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High winds at the perfect time of day created a rare Rainbow Waterfall in Yosemite National Park

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mental health day.

i can catch the waves… it’s just timing, it’s effort and choice, it’s paddling over pain.

but the challenge is standing. committing to it, letting go… trusting it. have always feared the fall, resisted relinquishing control, never believed i was enough… for the journey… for reaching the end.

to stand is to be free.

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a life filled with unexpected & beautiful homes.

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tiny mini beach breathin’ happy & easy

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Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Abiah Root (August 1851)

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Taylor Byas, from I Done Clicked My Heels Three Times: Poems; “The Therapist Asks Me, “What Are You Afraid Of?””

[Text ID: “The remembering hurt / more than the living because shame dials / in. You hearing me? I was naive enough / to think I could control a life. Even mine.”]

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Anne Carson, from "Tag"

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Take me back (Castro Street Fair, San Francisco)

Photographs by Crawford Wayne Barton, courtesy of the GLBT Historical Society

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mālama ka 'aina

there's a beach not on our list that has spoken to me from the start. little mini special beach, so unassuming and small. when i find myself there, i tend to linger and lean my knees into the little mini stone wall that frames it, gazing out and down and around. never sure exactly why or understanding the pull.

today, as my crew works next door, i am drawn again. this time, i stumble down the stone-spilled ledge, sinking into its sand for the first time. doesn't seem too bad. some urgency, in the sense of racing against the rising tide, but otherwise, there is calm, there is control, there is a rhythm here.

bathing suits. so many scattered bathing suits, tangled and torn and weighed down with soaked sand. nothing too burned, just a mess. pulling them each up slowly, trying not to rip and lose the frail lead. there was a shop nearby, before. each mangled mess acts as a classic sand bag which i drag heavily back to the wall and lift one by one over my head.

metal. old ballasts, crinkled sheet roofs (small chunks). cumbersome rusted hinges and screws, hundreds and hundreds of nails. long lengthy pipes shying away under sand and rock, so long... i trace each one far down the beach until i find the ends. bleeding orange puddles ooze once i pry them up, free from where they've stubbornly snugged for almost an entire year. the pipes run deep.

i pull the pipes out and my pile grows. the sand hides so much. (my therapist is worried about my self-esteem, so here we are).

ocean nudges me, forces me more awake. i realize i need to stop, that i've been shoveling the same hole fruitlessly, each shoveled heap i toss back being immediately replaced with more waves and new sand. i am salty and dirty and wet. the tide wins. it gleefully envelops the corner of metal i was after that begrudgingly sticks between two stubborn pumices stones. might have to leave it a while longer. there is time.

it is a good day when my body hurts like this. i welcome this hurt. i enjoy this unfamiliar pride. it's a special, special spot.