Fox News Update.

Shortly after the last time I posted about the vixen and her fox kits living under my porch, the entire family became mobile enough for the vixen to move them. Considering how destructive the five kits had become, I imagine she probably wanted a den better-suited for her family - not to mention less human-y smelling.


Here's a video to refresh your memory:

As you can see from this video, these little kits are quite invested in chewing on anything they are curious about. That means the garden hose, my rosebush, tools, any shoes left outside - the list goes on and on. Clearly they had been getting too rambunctious and accustomed to the world of humans, and the vixen made the wise choice to move the family further away from the cabin.

(The fact that I like to listen to a lot of Cream might also have contributed to the move. Foxes don't seem to share my love of Clapton.)

The last time I spotted the family of foxes, it was in the distance, and the mother was leading away four of her kits. Only four. I have no idea what happened to the fifth one, but not seeing it take off with its family made me fear the worst.

I was also sad because I thought the family had gone for good. Days went by after that last sighting, and I didn’t see or hear any sign of the foxes.

Then last Saturday, I spotted this little one lounging on the deck in the sun, as if he or she had never left.

This kit hung around all weekend - but no sign of its mother or siblings.

And now I haven't seen this one, either, for a week.

I don’t want to believe the worst. Instead, I tell myself that it’s possible that this single fox is the fifth kit. The runt of the litter who wasn’t strong enough to range away from under the deck along with its mother and four siblings, and who has been sustained all of this time by the vixen. I picture her returning quietly, night after night, with a mouse or a mole for this little straggler. I’ve even managed to convince myself that, after dark, I can hear critters on the porch making a fox-like rumpus.

But while I don’t want to believe the worst, I fear it. Is the simpler, more horrible explanation the likelier truth? Top predators are my neighbors (not to mention large, unfriendly dogs), and a little fox kit is a trifle for any one of them. So I must face the likelier possibility that this fox the only one in the litter to survive. If it has survived at all.


And having to face that fact is pretty damn awful.

But owls, hawks, bobcats and cougars have to eat, too.


Besides, I've said it once, and I'll say it again: Nature isn't cruel; just indifferent.

POST SCRIPT:

Look who just showed up outside of my window as I was preparing to post this missive to my blog...

This little one just popped out from under the deck for a drink of water from a bowl I had left out and kept full - even as my hopes had dimmed that any of the fox kits still survived.


The moral of this story? Well, there are a few...

1. The world of foxes is a mysterious one.

2. When you have no way of knowing what is going on, assuming the worst rather than the best is a bad strategy. After all, if you have no way of knowing the answer, then assuming the best is just as valid as assuming the worst. So, if both assumptions are equally-valid, then why not smile over thoughts of a positive outcome - rather than obsess over an outcome that makes you anxious and sad?

3. Embrace with gratitude moments of real happiness. My heart sang when this little one reappeared.




I want to live in this moment forever.

Fireworks.

The warming Golden State

Is not at Liberty

To celebrate Independence

With sulfur.

The eternally blazing sun

Independent by Nature

Celebrates nothing

By setting.

Happy Independence Day.

Foxes For Bloomsday.

From James Joyce's Ulysses

"Nestor" 

The cock crew

The sky was blue:

The bells in heaven

Were striking eleven.

Tis time for this poor soul

To go to heaven.

-- What is that?

-- What, sir?

-- Again, sir. We didn't hear.

Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence Cochrane said:

-- What is it, sir? We give it up.

Stephen, his throat itching, answered:

--- The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

One Bloomsday, roses bloomed on a bush in my yard that hadn't had flowers for many years. Another Bloomsday, it was a mountain flower riot of rhododendrons. 

This year, it’s a skulk of foxes.

Not under a hollybush - under my front porch, right next to my door.

YES.  

A Bad Woman Is Hard To Miss.

I’ve written here before about my friend, Melinda. 

In addition to working as a counselor for the children of sex workers in impoverished areas of India, she also directs, choreographs, and dances in Les Filles Rouge - an amazing local burlesque troupe.

I’m a recent addition to this troupe.

“Why would you agree to dance in front of the entire town in your underwear?” you might be asking.

And I might reply, “Because all of the proceeds go to charity.”

Or maybe, “Because Melinda’s my friend and it was a way to spend time with her doing something she loves.”

Or perhaps this: “To try something outside of my comfort zone.”

All of these things would be true. But there’s really more to it than that.

The truth is, I want to be a “bad” woman.

There. I said it. Now it’s out there, and I’m glad.

Because here’s the sad reality. In our culture, the Madonna / Whore-Complex is alive and well. You know. The whole “Ginger or Mary Ann” debate. There are lots of examples of this powerful cultural dichotomy, but a recent one is the Sandra Fluke incident in which a female law student was called a “slut” by a radio personality because she spoke publically about birth control. You can also see the effect in those organized events where fathers make pledges with their teenage daughters - complete with the symbolic exchange of rings - that the teenage daughters will abstain from sex until they marry. Yet another powerful demonstration of this dichotomy can be seen in our society’s tendency to blame the victim in a sexual assault if the victim was dressed “promiscuously.”

And when I look at all of these examples, I reach the same conclusion time and time again. If I have to choose between the camp of the Madonnas or the camp of the whores, then I pick the whores.

(Note to self: “Whore Camp” is an amazing name for a ‘B’ movie.)

It’s kind of like how I feel about NOT wanting to go to “heaven.” I don’t want to go to heaven because the people who insist that they’re going to be in heaven seem like people I wouldn’t get along with. Further, all of the people who are supposedly going to “hell” are people I kinda like and agree with. So, hell it is, as far as I’m concerned.

Hell and whores.

I bet there will be champagne, at least.

Because when I look at all of the women throughout history who have led thoroughly interesting lives, very few of them followed conventional doctrine, or did the things that society told them a “good woman” should be doing. When I think about Joan of Ark or Aphra Behn or Hillary Clinton, the phrase “well-behaved” isn’t the first thing that leaps to my mind.    

So for these reasons, I’ve decided that I have no interest in being a “good” woman. I don’t want to behave myself. I don’t want to talk quietly or sneeze daintily or giggle coyly. I don’t want to avoid talking about thoughtful topics because someone might be offended by my opinions.

I want to misbehave.

So. Burlesque.

I don’t know if Les Filles Rouge is unique, as far as burlesque troupes go - I’ve never belonged to a burlesque troupe before. However, my instinct tells me that it is. The women in the troupe cover a range of ages and body-types, but one thing we all share is an enjoyment of living within the skin we are in. And by enjoyment, I mean loving and respecting our bodies, but also treating our bodies with a sense of humor.

We are normal women who have to squeeze in rehearsal time in between day jobs and families, so a sense of humor is pretty much essential. Our dance steps aren’t perfect. Our “stripteases” contain a wide range of nakedness combined with silliness. We stop in the middle of a song to laugh outrageously at one another, or at something someone offstage has done, or at a person in the audience who’s giggling has infected us all.

As Melinda puts it: “What is titillating about burlesque is only partially the skin; most of the allure comes from the slightly scandalous feeling one gets from watching women have way too much fun.  The promise of nudity helps to draw the crowd, undoubtedly, but the ebullient, infectious enjoyment we get from dancing around in our underwear is what keeps the crowd in their seats.”

And I say if dancing around in my underwear with a bunch of other beautiful, hilarious, smart ladies makes me a “bad” woman…

Well then…

GOOD.

Our last show is Saturday, June 9, at the Gualala Arts Center. 

Proceeds go to an education fund for Melinda's girls in India. 

If you’re going to be in the wilds of Northern California, click here for tickets!

Les Filles Rouge photographs by © CYoung Photography.

Blinding Enlightenment.

When they tell you not to look directly at the eclipse without solar glasses, it’s probably wise to listen.

I tried to look at the eclipse, but I couldn’t. Turns out, the sun’s pretty bright. I thought maybe once the moon was over the top of the sun, enough of the sun would be covered so that looking at the ring of fire wouldn’t sear my eyeballs.

But no.

No lasting damage or anything like that. Just short-term flash blindness. Still, I would have liked to have seen the eclipse. 

And as cool as the shadows and the pin cards are, it’s just not the same.

I thought if I saw the eclipse, things would be revealed to me. That viewing this cosmic event would make me look at things in my own life from a different perspective.

But no.

I suppose that the fact that my attempt at enlightenment only made me MORE blind is, in itself, pretty revealing.

I feel wound-up.

I need to unfurl.