Mouse Poop

Ironic, Isn't It?

Brigit — Sat, 25 May 2013 03:09:36 GMT

And this, my friends, few as you may be here nowadays--are why sites like this one are important.... http://mobile.slate.com/blogs/xx_factor/2013/05/22/teenagers_hate_facebook_a_pew_study_says_that_94_percent_of_teens_use_facebook.html

For the Month of May

Brigit — Sat, 11 May 2013 05:15:44 GMT

The Enigma We Answer by Living Einstein didn't speak as a child waiting till a sentence formed and emerged full-blown from his head. I do the thing, he later wrote, which nature drives me to do. Does a fish know the water in which he swims? This came up in conversation with a man I met by chance, friend of a friend of a friend, who passed through town carrying three specimen boxes of insects he'd collected in the Grand Canyon— one for mosquitoes, one for honeybees, one for butterflies and skippers, each lined up in a row, pinned and labeled, tiny morphologic differences revealing how adaptation happened over time. The deeper down he hiked, the older the rock and the younger the strategy for living in that place. And in my dining room the universe found its way into this man bent on cataloguing each innovation, though he knows it will all disappear— the labels, the skippers, the canyon. We agreed then, the old friends and the new, that it's wrong to think people are a thing apart from the whole, as if we'd sprung from an idea out in space, rather than emerging from the sequenced larval mess of creation that binds us with the others, all playing the endgame of a beautiful planet that's made us want to name each thing and try to tell its story against the vanishing. ~ Alison Hawthorne Deming

For April

Brigit — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 19:42:44 GMT

The Wish to Be Generous All that I serve will die, all my delights, the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field, the silent lilies standing in the woods, the woods, the hill, the whole earth, all will burn in man's evil, or dwindle in its own age. Let the world bring on me the sleep of darkness without stars, so I may know my little light taken from me into the seed of the beginning and the end, so I may bow to mystery, and take my stand on the earth like a tree in a field, passing without haste or regret toward what will be, my life a patient willing descent into the grass. ~ Wendell Berry

For March--A few days late

Brigit — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 04:44:33 GMT

Evidence I. Where do I live? If I had no address, as many people do not, I could nevertheless say that I lived in the same town as the lilies of the field, and the still waters. Spring, and all through the neighborhood now there are strong men tending flowers. Beauty without purpose is beauty without virtue. But all beautiful things, inherently, have this function - to excite the viewers toward sublime thought. Glory to the world, that good teacher. Among the swans there is none called the least, or the greatest. I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed. As for the body, it is solid and strong and curious and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in the world that can hold, in a a mix of power and sweetness: words, song, gesture, passion, ideas, ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue. Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable. --Mary Oliver

For February the Month of Love

Brigit — Sat, 02 Feb 2013 07:07:39 GMT

Tie Your Heart At Night To Mine, Love, Tie your heart at night to mine, love, and both will defeat the darkness like twin drums beating in the forest against the heavy wall of wet leaves. Night crossing: black coal of dream that cuts the thread of earthly orbs with the punctuality of a headlong train that pulls cold stone and shadow endlessly. Love, because of it, tie me to a purer movement, to the grip on life that beats in your breast, with the wings of a submerged swan, So that our dream might reply to the sky's questioning stars with one key, one door closed to shadow. --Pablo Neruda

For January

Brigit — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 01:35:01 GMT

Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me Last night the rain spoke to me slowly, saying, what joy to come falling out of the brisk cloud, to be happy again in a new way on the earth! That’s what it said as it dropped, smelling of iron, and vanished like a dream of the ocean into the branches and the grass below. Then it was over. The sky cleared. I was standing under a tree. The tree was a tree with happy leaves, and I was myself, and there were stars in the sky that were also themselves at the moment at which moment my right hand was holding my left hand which was holding the tree which was filled with stars and the soft rain – imagine! imagine! the long and wondrous journeys still to be ours. --Mary Oliver

Christmas!

Brigit — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 02:45:17 GMT

The Merriest of Christmases to those of you stalwarts still here on our beloved Tribe. Hoping it is peaceful, joyful and yes, even merry!

Who Owns It?

Brigit — Tue, 04 Dec 2012 06:14:51 GMT

Does anyone know who owns Tribe now? Any idea what the stats are on actual usage?

For December

Brigit — Sun, 02 Dec 2012 02:08:18 GMT

Our ancestors knew the best use of stormy, winter nights...wine, poetry and making love! Now Winter Nights Enlarge Now winter nights enlarge The number of their hours, And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze, And cups o’erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love, While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep’s leaden spells remove. This time doth well dispense With lovers’ long discourse; Much speech hath some defence, Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well; Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. The summer hath his joys And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights. Thomas Campion (1617)

A Bit Late-For November (I was in Hawaii, after all)

Brigit — Tue, 13 Nov 2012 00:16:40 GMT

This is for all the Phenomenal Women I have known! You are legion! Phenomenal Woman Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. --Maya Angelou

October

Brigit — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 03:13:46 GMT

Merry Autumn It's all a farce,—these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and dell, Because the year is dying. Such principles are most absurd,— I care not who first taught 'em; There's nothing known to beast or bird To make a solemn autumn. In solemn times, when grief holds sway With countenance distressing, You'll note the more of black and gray Will then be used in dressing. Now purple tints are all around; The sky is blue and mellow; And e'en the grasses turn the ground From modest green to yellow. The seed burs all with laughter crack On featherweed and jimson; And leaves that should be dressed in black Are all decked out in crimson. A butterfly goes winging by; A singing bird comes after; And Nature, all from earth to sky, Is bubbling o'er with laughter. The ripples wimple on the rills, Like sparkling little lasses; The sunlight runs along the hills, And laughs among the grasses. The earth is just so full of fun It really can't contain it; And streams of mirth so freely run The heavens seem to rain it. Don't talk to me of solemn days In autumn's time of splendor, Because the sun shows fewer rays, And these grow slant and slender. Why, it's the climax of the year,— The highest time of living!— Till naturally its bursting cheer Just melts into thanksgiving. ---Paul Laurence Dunbar

For September

Brigit — Mon, 03 Sep 2012 04:36:53 GMT

Our True Heritage The cosmos is filled with precious gems. I want to offer a handful of them to you this morning. Each moment you are alive is a gem, shining through and containing earth and sky, water and clouds. It needs you to breathe gently for the miracles to be displayed. Suddenly you hear the birds singing, the pines chanting, see the flowers blooming, the blue sky, the white clouds, the smile and the marvelous look of your beloved. You, the richest person on Earth, who have been going around begging for a living, stop being the destitute child. Come back and claim your heritage. We should enjoy our happiness and offer it to everyone. Cherish this very moment. Let go of the stream of distress and embrace life fully in your arms. from "Call Me By My True Names" The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh.

Goin' Home

Brigit — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 20:04:40 GMT

I wrote this last year and like it so much I'm posting it again. I leave for the Burn this Thursday Aug. 23rd and will return Sunday Sept. 2. What is it that so obsesses us about Burning Man? What is it that motivates 50,000 people to spend often thousands of dollars to go out into the Nevada desert every year? To a place without running water that is sometimes hot as hell, sometimes freezing cold and nearly always dusty? I know what it is for me, personally, that keeps me going back for more. This will be my 5th year. After waiting to go for 11 years, I finally got to in 2007. I was hooked immediately. What does it for me? A number of things. The wonder I experience there is perhaps the biggest draw for me. Riding across deep playa late at night and looking back at the city--the lights--the sounds--the colors. I never grow tired of looking at it like that. Or the wonder of wandering through a neighborhood, no particular one and rounding a corner to run into a camp where everyone is dressed in tux and ball gowns, waltzing gracefully to music in the mid-day sun. Or seeing a troupe of women AND men dressed as french maids merrily passing by, "dusting" everything in sight and laughing endlessly. The glee that I often see on people's face. The merriment. The wonder. Burning Man allows us, allows me, to let loose the child inside that can still find delight in an artcar that looks like a giant birthday cake. Or in riding on a giant teeter-totter. Or just running pell-mell across the dry lake bed, to fall in a heap, laughing. There is an innocence to Burning Man still, despite what some would say. A vast and deep innocence. We are all there to experience joy together, to share with each other, to play. We hug each other though we are often times complete strangers. We cuddle together in piles and heaps, in large groups and in tiny clumps. We joke and laugh with people we've never seen before. We paint our faces and bodies, dress in costumes as wild as the desert winds so that we all have something fun to look at as we pass each other by. We dance, we sing, we cry and shout and dance some more. Burning Man is the most imaginative place I have ever been. Theme camps of astounding creativity and artistry line the streets. People with amazing talents sing, dance, play instruments, do acrobatics, perform theater, juggle, spin fire and mesmerize. I am awe-struck every year by the art that people pour their heart, soul and hard-earned cash into and bring out to the desert, only to burn it a week later. So many things fascinate and pull me back, year after year. If I get tired of one thing, I need only explore or try something else. New experiences wait around each corner. And then there are the people. The citizens of BRC, my fellow Burners. Amazing, frustrating, wonderful, twisted, creative, maddening and endearing. The community of BRC is real, and can change lives. It's changed mine. I've met some of the best people I've ever known because of Burning Man, both on and off the Playa. I don't know how many years I will return to Black Rock City but I feel blessed to have been able take part in this experience even once in my lifetime. And I can't wait to go Home.

Meditation

Brigit — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 02:34:40 GMT

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide. Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none. When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision. When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home. ----Chief Tecumseh 1768-1813 Shawnee Nation

Tired of Speaking Sweetly (For August)

Brigit — Sun, 29 Jul 2012 05:32:05 GMT

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us, Break all our teacup talk of God. If you had the courage and Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights, He would just drag you around the room By your hair, Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world That bring you no joy. Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly And wants to rip to shreds All your erroneous notions of truth That make you fight within yourself, dear one, And with others, Causing the world to weep On too many fine days. God wants to manhandle us, Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself And practice His dropkick. The Beloved sometimes wants To do us a great favor: Hold us upside down And shake all the nonsense out. But when we hear He is in such a "playful drunken mood" Most everyone I know Quickly packs their bags and hightails it Out of town. From: 'The Gift' by Hafiz Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

Placed!

Brigit — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 01:27:29 GMT

The Dusty Swan is placed! We are further out this year by a long shot, 4:45 and Hyacinth. Don't let that stop you coming by for a cold beer and hot Irish tunes!

July--and Pablo

Brigit — Sat, 30 Jun 2012 22:49:27 GMT

Keeping Quiet Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still. This one time upon the earth, let's not speak any language, let's stop for one second, and not move our arms so much. It would be a delicious moment, without hurry, without locomotives, all of us would be together in a sudden uneasiness. The fishermen in the cold sea would do no harm to the whales and the peasant gathering salt would look at his torn hands. Those who prepare green wars, wars of gas, wars of fire, victories without survivors, would put on clean clothing and would walk alongside their brothers in the shade, without doing a thing. What I want shouldn't be confused with final inactivity: life alone is what matters, I want nothing to do with death. If we weren't unanimous about keeping our lives so much in motion, if we could do nothing for once, perhaps a great silence would interrupt this sadness, this never understanding ourselves and threatening ourselves with death, perhaps the earth is teaching us when everything seems to be dead and then everything is alive. Now I will count to twelve and you keep quiet and I'll go. -from Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon Translated by Stephen Mitchell

It's That Time Again!

Brigit — Mon, 25 Jun 2012 16:20:22 GMT

Every year at this time, Burners participate in a strange ritual called "Fundraising." This ritual requires that attendees at this event pass money back and forth, sort of like playing volleyball, only with cash. Never being ones to be left out of all the fun, the Dusty Swan, "Your Real Irish Pub on the Playa" (TM) is joining in and asking you to lob your cash over the net in our direction. The swag, you ask? The niftiest caribiner cups around (this year engraved with YOUR NAME to end that embarrasing "sorry I drank out of your cup" problem), or a t-shirt/cami, or both---or several other less tangible but equally interesting incentives! So come on, Burners!!! Partake in the time-honored ritual and send us your money!! Thanks.... http://www.indiegogo.com/TheDustySwan

Morning Poem (for June)

Brigit — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 05:51:31 GMT

My complete adoration of the poetry of Mary Oliver continues..... Morning Poem Every morning the world is created. Under the orange sticks of the sun the heaped ashes of the night turn into leaves again and fasten themselves to the high branches --- and the ponds appear like black cloth on which are painted islands of summer lilies. If it is your nature to be happy you will swim away along the soft trails for hours, your imagination alighting everywhere. And if your spirit carries within it the thorn that is heavier than lead --- if it's all you can do to keep on trudging --- there is still somewhere deep within you a beast shouting that the earth is exactly what it wanted --- each pond with its blazing lilies is a prayer heard and answered lavishly, every morning, whether or not you have ever dared to be happy, whether or not you have ever dared to pray. --from Dream Work (1986) by Mary Oliver

One More Story

Brigit — Sun, 13 May 2012 03:58:33 GMT

One More Story Who is this old man, trousers rolled, Tottering about the home of my father? My father, vigorous, strong, who carried me on his shoulders, and Told me stories of tigers and rocketships. Now I reach out and take this old man’s arm so he does not stumble And fret when he descends a set of stairs. I see my father still, hidden behind those eyes. A flash of defiance at the passage of time that has rendered him Fearful and forgetting of his own children’s names. “I barely recognized you,” he says to me With wonder in his voice. It has been Sixteen years since he was any more than a voice On the telephone and my hair is now red And my cheekbones could cut paper. He talks, more monologue than dialogue Telling stories of his life I have never heard before As if he can see the darkness that comes for him And rushes to speak the story of his life Before the door closes and there is silence. I would reach out and take that trembling hand To keep him from crossing that threshold just yet. “Tell me about how you met Mother,” I say and then, “Tell me about the time…” for I fear that silence also, when my Storyteller, the One who carried me to bed and tucked me in with words falls silent. Tell me one more story. Brigit Thomas—May, 2012

R.I.P. AnyBeat

Brigit — Sat, 12 May 2012 17:07:41 GMT

Too bad. It had potential. But I figured the handwriting was on the wall when it's founder got a job with Google+. They also never had advertising. Much as I hate advertising, it IS what pays the bills at these sites. Tribe, clunky old Tribe, remains. Hopefully for a good long while yet.

For Bountious May

Brigit — Tue, 01 May 2012 20:48:53 GMT

Flower God, God Of The Spring FLOWER god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful, Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles, Here I wander in April Cold, grey-headed; and still to my Heart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer, Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant; Spring, flower-planter in meadows, Child-conductor in willowy Fields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses: Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity: O child, happy are children! She still smiles on their innocence, She, dear mother in God, fostering violets, Fills earth full of her scents, voices and violins: Thus one cunning in music Wakes old chords in the memory: Thus fair earth in the Spring leads her performances. One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal Green - one more, and my bosom Feels new life with an ecstasy. -- Robert Louis Stevenson

For Sweet, Sweet April...

Brigit — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 02:19:02 GMT

How Will You Kiss? Lilt me your lips, our lost breath intermingling. Synchronize our silence as lazy hours ease by. Waft cocoa, hazelnut, cinnamon, scents around me. Tremble with me in paralyzing pauses. I may no longer breathe without breathing you. - Judith Pordon

For March

Brigit — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 17:37:36 GMT

Lost Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known. The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you, If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here. No two trees are the same to Raven. No two branches are the same to Wren. If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows Where you are. You must let it find you. David Wagoner

Hope for the Ticketless

Brigit — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 03:04:24 GMT

If you are part of an established theme camp: http://blog.burningman.com/2012/02/news/ticket-update-rebuilding-black-rock-city-2012/