I’m torn between trying to keep positive and send messages that reflect my values, not dogma, not hatred, anger and vitriol, but it feels almost impossible to avoid. Watching the dismantling of democracy as the legislative branch and Judicial branch are dismissed and even insulted for following the rule of law, while the primary sufferers are the middle class and poor, voices that are one by one, being silenced. Tariffs are sending prices soaring while 401k’s tank. So many directions to look in, because the gravity of consequence is indeed, dire. But as someone who served, let me mention another thing: for some of us, the oath wasn’t a given. It took lots of thought and consideration. I agonized for weeks, because if I couldn’t give my word, I wouldn’t be going in. As a pacifist, I was reluctant but it turned out, that pacifism was a small part of the problem. Soldiers aren’t all good guys. There is an entire unit called MST dedicated to addressing the issues. MST stands for military sexual trauma. That’s right—it’s so ubiquitous, whole agencies are set up to deal with the fallout. People don’t just join to serve country, they also join to be violent, to purchase women, harm them, harm foreigners, because they had no better opportunities waiting. There are also people who joined because they felt a sense of duty, believed they owed something for all the freedoms they received so effortlessly. My point is, not all soldiers are the same to say the least. But the oath—the oath itself is very clear—we do not ever serve a man—we served country, the constitution. Generally, that’s done at the behest of the Commander in Chief, the president. So, what happens when the oath you took to the constitution, is being destroyed by the person who gives the ultimate order? That’s where our country is today. Extremely vulnerable with an untrustworthy Commander in Chief and a Secretary of Defense who believes fighting diversity is defending the pillars of Western civilization. He apparently did not spend much time in the service.
But for those of us who ducked and dodged our own troops so that other women could have a safer place to serve, and for those of us who put up with untold trivializing of our intelligence and rightful place in hopes that glass ceilings would be a thing of the past, all this feels like a personal weight. Concrete shoes in a watery world. Fascism’s boney hand keeps springing out of the darkness with its exploding vanities and expectations of unearned respect. But above (or below depending on point of view) all else, they took an oath to the people. For all the bells and whistles, the distractions, the violations, etc. Trump, Vance, MTG, Loren Bobbit, Hegseth, Bondi, Mace—they took an oath to serve the people of the US. You don’t get to pick and choose, that’s not how oaths work. Bankrupting, depriving health care, taking away food programs, Friedrich Engels called it Social Murder. I’m not a subscriber to Communism, but the term and proverbial shoe fit.
From Shakespeare—Weigh what loss your honor can sustain
Prologue for Black Dragonfish
A Ciel Downing book
With one foot on the floor and the bed quilt puckering under the weight of his folded leg, Dad's cigar cherry brightened in the dusk of my childhood bedroom as he swung his hands to emphasize the story, the air perfumed by cherry tobacco and his wool shirt. A former navy man, he cherished everything ocean related. When I confessed fear of the dark, he’d tell me about the five zones in the ocean. Always starting with the Sunlight Zone where light could reach down over six hundred feet. Then the Twilight Zone where adjustment was possible, but limited. But the Midnight Zone knew a darkness so impenetrable, it was divided two more times: the Abyss and finally the darkest places on earth: the Trenches going down nearly thirty-six thousand feet. In the Trenches, there is no light, no adjustment; an impermeable black. Very few creatures can survive, but one excels: the black dragonfish. It can live in absolute darkness because it makes its own light.
"You have to be a black dragonfish, kid," he'd say.
Years later, my hitch in the service would push that skill to a breaking point.
Chapter 1-Runways
The buzz of boarding announcements, luggage wheels, and people rushing did nothing to ease my tension. I scanned for my gate in the smoke infused airport as I walked. I’d told myself that this was the part where I got to exhale but a big part of me couldn’t let go—like waiting to see where a hurtling meteor was going to land.
By rights, I should feel relieved. The nightmare of the last six months was behind me—well, that’s not fair—the first three were just challenging, it was the last three overflowing with chronic threat that nearly broke me. Nearly, being the operative word—I wouldn’t give those sons of bitches the satisfaction. But instead of relief, I felt like a compression chamber where the relief valve wouldn’t open. I could deal with an unknown like South Korea as my next duty station, the real issue amounted to whether I’d have to deal with being someone’s prey again. This assignment lasted far longer but at least I was armed with how they operate and wouldn’t be taken by surprise again.
Only one person sat at my gate in the orange plastic-caste chairs, a grandmotherly type in a tweed coat. I held off firing up a cigarette seeing her dab at her eyes with a hanky, as I couldn’t tell if it was emotion or the wreaths of smoke affecting her. I would never see anyone here again—if I wanted to vent, I had full anonymity and I needed to release some pressure.
Her manner and clothing screamed decorum, so I reined in my foul mouth. After some pleasantries where I learned she too had served, words flew from my mouth. I told of being pressured and blackmailed by a sergeant to sleep with him; that he wouldn’t take no for an answer, that he pinned me against a wall. She listened without speaking and I wondered if I should’ve been more delicate. Then she smiled and scoffed. Undoing the giant wooden buttons on her coat, she shifted to get comfortable. Announcements for boarding emanated from other gates. She stared toward the wall of glass a few feet in front of us, leaning in confidentially, saying, "I thought 1982 would be different. When I was a WAC my mother told me to keep a nickel between my knees. I poo-pooed it at the time.” She paused, kneading the gold clasp of her purse, adding, “She should’ve told me to carry a billy club.”
We laughed lightly in common understanding.
“How long were you harassed before you gave in?” She asked quietly.
“I didn’t. I just found new ways to escape. I graduated last weekend and can finally breathe for the first time in months, I shit you not,” I said without thinking. Wanting to quickly cover my crudeness, I added, “It seems like it’s only now really hitting me—like that ugliness has tines or something, clawing at me.
“I’m surprised you didn’t quit,” she said, opening her purse and rummaging.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” I said.
She produced a roll of Lifesavers, asking, “Spearmint? Yes, I know it’s AWOL, but there were extenuating circumstances.”
Retrieving the spearmint gratefully I clacked it around on my teeth, moving it with my tongue until I could talk. “No, I mean I really couldn’t. I joined because I wanted to do something honorable and pay back what I’ve taken. But also, because I was about to go homeless for a second time. I couldn't live through a second round. Anyway—I have to finish this enlistment. I mean, I’m a patriot; I just loathe violence.”
“Oh dear—are you sure the military’s the right place for you?” she asked with a crease in her brow.
“I beat every guy in Basic to win Outstanding Soldier. The contempt and disrespect for women at my training base in Virginia was the problem. I'm hoping my next place isn't like that. With the kill training over, I just have to duck and dodge to the end and not get broken,” I said exhaling firmly.
Looking into her lap, she said, “May I make an observation?” Overhead announcements called her flight, saying, ‘prepare for boarding.’
“You outwitted a sexual predator and escaped with your self-respect. You my dear, will be absolutely fine.” She took the handle of her small rose-colored carry-on.
“That means a lot coming from someone who served in wartime—I can’t believe you think that.”
She extended the bar handle to pull the small bag on wheels as she strode away, smiling sweetly before she turned, saying, “I shit you not.”
I laughed and stood, smoothing out my Class A’s, my foot twisting in the shiny black heels. Jerking my head up, I called after her, “What’s your name?” But the overhead fans and speakers drowned me out.
“I’m Ciel,” I mumbled to no one. Shrugging into my overcoat, I knew I'd omitted the ugly parts—it felt like that could somehow contaminate her, like it did me. We were cut off before the subject of me possibly being gay was broached. I didn't know if her heart could've have handled it; I knew mine still had trouble with the concept.
My duffel already checked, I sighed. Even after talking, that sensation of a meteor hurtling in my direction still loomed. I told myself that was due to what was behind me. Turned out that the impact of that meteor was a runway away in front of me.
Spending time with one’s tribe is especially cool when it’s with native tribal folks. That’s what I did recently and it reminded me of so many things—ceremony, nature, connection, communal strength, love & support—and song. I met with Two Spirit elders, rural trans folks and those who live unafraid and support us. I returned rejuvenated. Also, with a reminder tucked away that all of us evolve from survival to thriving when positive energy is all around. When we told stories, the emphasis was not about all we’d endured and been through, rather that our innate resilience, our ability to reach for light, not fear the dark, and allow Spirit to engage, kept us chronically rising, no matter who tried to push us down. The saying, “They tried to bury us, but they did not know we were seeds,” is just a hint of that deep driven aspect of survival. When I returned to the coast, it was densely blanketed in marine mist. I wrote this piece for all who wait for, try for, and embrace authenticity.
Trans Communion
A white wall rides shotgun over the south side of the ocean
intent on shrouding the shore with marine mist—
hushing in like a prayer, purling over headlands
painting them cloud-capped.
Creeping further inland, sacred & quiet as falling snow
fog opaques the forest erasing distance from vocabulary,
gently nudging one into the near and immediate:
pinheads of dew on the downy hair of my forearms glisten,
a train whistly bounces off the bay, singing hymns through the density,
elms and alders transform soft as watercolors dripping
into their treed and foliaged canvas.
Layers of the coastal morning peel back
soundless—
save for the lowing of the sea
calling out its soulful name;
making me long to clear the fog,
peel back my gender
and speak my own—
my own true name,
not the one guided by the compass of public opinion,
the one of True North.
Sometimes it’s world overload, sometimes politics, often it’s the anger that gets to me. Currently, am balancing health issues, injuries, & three untimely losses. If winds are high, I cannot go to my trusty woods, and if the tides are high it’s difficult to navigate the beach— but there’s always the sacred dunes. There’s a line in Hamlet from Laertes where he says, “Do not as some good pastors do, show me the steep and thorny path to heaven”—meaning, if you don’t suffer, there’s no good to be found or ultimately arrive at. I agree—it’s all moments—albeit good ones and genuinely crappy ones, but each moment is like passing midnight over and over for yet again, another chance. This is what I found when I went out looking for one of those chances. And though I use the term “god”—my conjuring does not include a singular deity who’s Caucasian with a smooth beard & mustache (despite being from the Middle East!). I write ‘god’ in the voice of the world.
Heaven’s Seascape
A billion fountain sprays of upright strands
made glittering gold by sun
birth themselves from the sandy soil
of the dunes earthen floor,
interrupted by lazing driftwood,
wild strawberry, and the worn path
forged by elk and by me.
Miles of undulating risers and troughs
unfurl to the North.
My footfalls silenced by the cush of sand,
the soughing of pantlegs,
tiny accents to the howl of the Pacific.
Massive myrtle bushes house wrens & sparrows
who startle as I pass
scattering to the air in a flurry of flapping
like musical notes rising.
The sweet dunes waft pungent coastal grasses
like fresh cut hay, and salt—
gentle ramparts to the sea,
surely rivaling Eden’s Garden.
’The steep and thorny path”
portion of my life, spent and paid for.
Dollops of shore pines sprawl the sandscape—
like stingy sprinkles of garnish
On a main course meal.
And this is my course, my lot, my fortune—
to live out the winter of my life
where god can be heard from every direction.
My mother was a beauty, but primarily on the outside. My father on the other hand, was an unadulterated character both inside and out. A back slapping, scotch slamming, larger-than-life man, with a penchant for good cigars, old dogs, things that explode and unlocked doors. He never stole anything in his life, declaring the word itself, ‘ugly.’ But he liberated anything he thought deserved a better home and that usually meant his. My sister and I took care of him during his final months of life and it wasn’t easy having someone bedridden who doesn’t want to be contained. Many folks my age, or unfortunately, younger, will learn this cycle. I wrote a piece after he passed and perhaps it will speak to you.
Slo-Mo Farewell
He left in increments—
Mobility first, then appetite—
Savoring his cantankerousness
Like an aged brandy for as long
as it held out.
After he lost the power of speech
his skin grew cool to the touch,
his body stiffening.
By the time his heart stopped,
he’d been mostly gone—
off to where ever people go
where there is no pain.
One arm locked in position
like a broken wing.
The men who pick up the bodies
on this sort of occasion
tried to unbend it
and I had to look away.
Seconds passed…or was it minutes?
before the rubbery black bag
was slipped beneath him
getting ready to be zipped.
I stared as though he were
someone else’s father.
Mine was robust, outrageous,
backslapping and hard drinking.
I recall thinking, “Don’t zip it all the way—-
he won’t be able to breathe.”
I had no grief to tap into—
I’d spent it all in those increments
when the parts of him sloughed away,
the gurney clattering.
He is nowhere to be seen,
And all around me in everything.
Politically Speaking
April 5th, 2024
I keep hearing variations of “Don’t talk politics” or “Politics shouldn’t ruin a friendship.” I think we can all agree that politics has changed, but more than that, it’s cloaking something sinister. And statements like the above, keep the exposure limited. Politics are indeed how a person votes and what on, at least in this context.
In 1988, I was newly out and a measure came up, that would determine whether I could be fired from a job or ousted from a rental for the temerity of being gay. The promoters insisted that they did not hate gay people, it wasn’t personal. I call horseshit. I cannot say with certainty how they felt, but I can assure you, such acts, such measures are hateful and it dang sure is personal. It was heavily promoted by the Foursquare Fundamentalist church. Many of the same folks who stood in a gauntlet line outside the Christmas performance of the Gay Men’s Chorus at Arlene Schnitzer concert hall, pelting people as they exited with gravel, rotten fruit, and screaming filthy names. I was one of those people. It stirred up fear and false issues—the “gay agenda” of taking over—over what?? Broadway musicals? The flannel shirt industry? This fear escalated to violence. I was emptying trash outside a gay bar one night and saw some litter on the ground. As I bent over to pick up, a bottle zoomed just over me and exploded on the brick wall. Had I been standing, that would have been my head. Unfortunately, I have about 20 more anecdotes, but gay stories aren’t the point.
Politics means schools, education, and teachers. Funding them cannot be the sole harbinger of democrats. “Tax and spend” is a republican battle cry that has worked so well our schools are defunded down to skeletal standards with teacher pay grossly disproportionate to the demand. Wake up—without adequate education, people don’t learn about critical thinking, then don’t believe scientists who’ve labored for years. Literally millions of people died. In part, because most people are not taught WHAT to look for in research and depend on unreliable sensationalism for their information. They didn’t learn that in our underfunded schools and now it’s too late to teach them, because they don’t want to appear foolish. They’ll defend their incorrect position.
Minimum wage stagnated in the Reagan Bush era. Disparity grew from there. Currently, a CEO on average, earns 344 times the amount of the average worker and no—that is not how “It’s always been.” It has not always been this way. This is a generational phenomenon. When I was a child, CEO’s made approximately twice what the average worker made. In the last quarter of 2023 the Corporate Profit Index rose to an all time high to 3,314—but some are being told it’s inflation. MacDonald’s CEO makes $8,543. an hour if you break it down. Yet, fights continue over minimum wage being raised.
Immigration was great when it was white Europeans, but complaints grew in earnest when brown and black folks immigrated (also escaping wars and violence). When folks came over post WWII, no one complained about immigrants. My neighbors came from Britain, Germany, & Hungary. The numbers have not significantly changed. Nearly 46 percent of all immigrants resident in the United States in 2022 arrived prior to 2000, including more than 26 percent who entered before 1990 and 19 percent who came between 1990 and 1999. This is from the immigration status report from migrationpolicy.org. To hear conservatives talk, it’s a full scale take-over (that scare line is used for all manner of supposed evils). Crime statistics show that crimes committed by immigrants are statistically lower in proportion to the numbers in the population. The other argument that they are taking food stamps and welfare, hmmm—how does that jibe with them stealing all “our” jobs?
“Politics” is all these things and more. It’s rights, it’s responsibility. It’s education, environment, wages, immigration, & more. Is there anyone who wants to publicly declare that they supported the John Birch Society, were a member of the moral majority, were rooting for McCarthy to ferret out the communists? How about supporters of Hitler? There must have been thousands, but I don’t hear them announcing it. All of history shows that conservative scare movements (“all your taxes are going to support freeloaders”) are shameful when seen in later years. They fall on the wrong side of history every time, yet the cycle repeats with new variations. It boils down to Corporations and wealthy lobbyists trying to keep the rich wealthier. Stop. Enough. Homeless have increased ten fold, but the focus is how unsafe YOU are around them or how unsightly they are. NOT on the fact we have families living in the streets like Dickensian England. Yes, I’ve lost friends, but it isn’t over politics: it’s about values, autonomy, & searching my heart to know if I have enough and someone else does not, I should share. Basic childhood teachings. These historic mistakes occur because we’ve elevated “Politics” to untouchable, when it’s ME—it’s whether I can work, rent an apartment, adopt a child, be compensated for being poisoned. There are human faces behind every policy and they are being dismissed and forgotten. Politics has become a euphemism intended to turn living breathing beings who've been hurt by policies & turn them into inanimate words so we can live with ourselves. Don’t let it. Talk about politics.
Spirit Keepers
March 4th, 2024
There are Four Spirit Keepers, each representing a Direction. Fours in Native lore are what Twelves are to Christianity. The Four Spirit Keepers are Waboose the Buffalo overseeing the North Direction. Wabun, the Eagle over the East Direction, Shawnodese, the Coyote over the South Direction, and Mudjekeewis, the Grizzly Bear oversees the West. How do each of these four handle conflict? Buffalo stands ground, using gentle strength, but is ready to charge if necessary. Eagle can fly off, but when pressed will use talons. Coyote uses quick wit, the ability to duck & dodge; in a corner, snarling & baring teeth, but seldom does Coyote get there. Grizzly will use voice with that overwhelming growl first, then go for claws and teeth. These all assume a Spirit Keeper in balance. Out of balance, Buffalo might charge indiscriminately mowing people down. Eagle can fly to avoid. Coyote can use those wits for trickery and deception. Grizzly can kill without provocation. Each of them represent the you that the outside world sees: the public, your workplace, gatherings. They represent the season as well: Buffalo for winter, Eagle for spring, Coyote for summer, and Grizzly for autumn. All of them are slightly tempered by what your totem is—each Spirit Keeper oversees three totems. Picture a compass—in the North Direction Buffalo keeps the winter totems: Snow Goose, Otter, & Cougar. In the East, Eagle keeps the spring totems: Red Hawk, Beaver, & Deer. Coyote in the South keeps the summer totems of Flicker, Sturgeon, & Brown Bear. In the West, Grizzly keeps the autumn totems of Raven, Snake, & Elk. Totems represent the you that moves through the world, plus the parts known primarily by family and close friends. More on totems next time.
Buffalo Spirit
Feb 10th, 2024
Waboose the buffalo, is the Spirt Keeper for the North Direction. People born from late December to the third week of March. They are all children of the North Direction. Where we come from may not dictate where we will travel to, but it matters. A Spirit Keeper such as Waboose, says I will practice gentle strength, hold my ground firmly if in balance. Out of balance, Buffalo may charge and ram. My totem is the third totem of the North Direction, Cougar—also called Shadow Walker. Cougar may never settle as their nomadic ways are a part of them, but in balance a territory can be found. They are solitary animals who generally do not bother others; but out of balance or backed into a corner, cougars are dangerous and unpredictable. Cougars are easy to know on the surface, but only a few will ever know them through and through.
The other two totems under Waboose are Snow Goose and Otter. Everything about the totems and the Spirit Keepers amounts to balance. A Snow Goose—someone born in late December to the late teens of January, is usually traditional, doesn’t mind a little drama, a fair amount of attention. Out of balance, tradition can turn into locked-in positions, fun drama can become theatrics. People generally like Snow Geese, but you’ll never fully know one. Otter totem loves to play—most people love otters & those under their totem. In balance, otter is productive, playful, a good parent. Out of balance, Otter is irresponsible, neglectful and highly prone to substance abuse. They are born from the twenties of January to the third week in February.
We are now in the time of the North Direction. To Walk it, means to take into account your Spirit Keeper, your totem, where you came from, where is it you want to go. It is the time of greatest introspection and security of self. Use the gentle strength of Waboose to stand—hold yourself in the moment. Walk the North Direction.
For Outrage, Press Two
Feb. 4th, 2024
Tiny registers of rage archive themselves
The bots who can’t answer my question
A slow driver in the passing lane
The toaster going mortal when I most need it
Demands, emails, time constraints,
Algo-rhythms tracking every purchase,
For English, press one, your call is important to us,
Fires, fires everywhere you turn—
The world is aflame
And we human extinguishers
Are running out of fire retardant.
I spied a bumper sticker that said,
“Make Orwell fiction again”
And I laughed & laughed
But when I stopped
The silence landed like a lobbed grenade.
Pondering the Light & Dark
January 28, 2024
Do you ever feel like the world’s collective pulse is on the equivalent of windshield wipers on double-speed? I’ve heard several friends say, “I can’t keep up with email; there’re just legions of it overpouring,” and “By the time I go to bed, my brain won’t turn off because I’m slammed with a billion details on any given day.” People are seeking out ways to chill, declutter, find their zen place, or just survive. Someone once asked me, “What does that mean, anyway? ‘To take care of yourself’?”
Not that I’m (who is high strung) any zen master, but I’ve survived working on an emergency child abuse hotline, a men’s prison, not to mention a fair amount of disasters (see the About page for the natural disasters that have claimed homes) and my BP is low. A world of asphalt and greed is a dark place—many choose to live in the shadows of grief or victimization because then darkness cannot take you by surprise—you’re already there. I sure wouldn’t blame anybody for it; just be careful not to define yourself by it. But there’s a good darkness too. The seed waiting to husk surrounded by earth, the child living in the womb, the closed eyes with a savored kiss, beautiful dreams when sleeping, stars only shining at night, and the tick and hum of the night world. Listen to it. Really listen. Step out on your porch (if you’ve got one, you’re already lucky)—dare to walk out from your home and listen to it. It’s a slower and quieter world. That world of the occasional instead of the chronic. Let that seep into your skin until it becomes flesh.
And when the light returns, reclaim some of it just for you. Give yourself a couple hours a week—fill it with forest time, wine, drawing, writing, journaling, painting, read a great book, watch a comedy, take a bath with good smelling stuff, get on the floor, listen to music until it lifts your heart and forces your feet to JAM! We cannot give in to demands to the point we only answer and produce. That’s the stopping point. Dostoevsky said, “Comparison is the killer of joy.” It will reel you right back into dark places.
Too much to do? Stop it. The world won’t end. Take a moment for you. Even if it’s just that—a moment. How long has it been since you gave your partner a passionate kiss just for the sake of love, not lovemaking? How long since you did that thing that made you feel courageous & brave for having tried? If you are in darkness, are you comparing to others’ lives? I lived in poverty for many years & it’s a tough trap to avoid. Ask the obvious question: am I comparing my life to others?
Embrace the dark, love the light, stay connected to the earth and good spirits. The rest is just fodder for pharmaceuticals.
No Stone Left Unturned
From the book To Walk The North Direction
January 26th, 2024
Oh my reckless life—it sings to me off-key
in melodious yarns that weave
the atrocious & foolish into the palatable & rational,
convincing me every risk taken actually
a calculated turn toward maturity,
not the pin-pulling random explosive
It often appeared to be.
Ah, my reckless life—it wooed me with
flowers, forests, & paths not taken;
walking into fires, double-dog-daring danger,
cavorting at the door of its lair.
Gambles & hazards seducing me to the edges of chance,
narrowly dodging mayhem & peril,
leaving me hungry for just a taste more
of the forbidden, the tender,
Of the I-didn’t-know-any-better.
Oh, my reckless life—the soul of a
Romani Traveler in the days of spring & summer,
now, the spinning wheel of winter spins tales
of misspent youth and unbridled daring
in the warp and weft of the loom—
delicious lovers and dances laced with sin,
a tapestry of my life’s rhythms.
The overturned stones beckon me to listen, whispering,
“Well done.”
Excerpt
January 25th, 2024
Sitting on the edge of my bed quilt, my dad waved his arms to emphasize the story, his cigar cherry shining in the dusk of my childhood bedroom. The musty room emanated the smell of cherry tobacco and the warmth of his wool work shirt. A former navy man, he cherished all things ocean-related. When I became discouraged or afraid of the dark, he’d tell me about the five zones in the ocean. It always started with the Sunlight zone, where light could reach as far as it could. Then came the Twilight zone where adjustment is possible, but limited. But the Midnight zone knew a darkness so impenetrable, it was divided two more times into the Abyss and finally, the darkest place on earth—the Trenches. There, no light, no adjustment, just complete blackness. Very few creatures can survive, but one creature excels—the black dragonfish. It can live in absolute darkness because it makes its own light.
“You have to be a black dragonfish, kid,” he’d say. And I’d try.
The above is the prologue to Black Dragonfish—a memoir.