Gazing outward at the windowed sky,
she knew she’d never bear a child her own
because her body, held in hand, felt false despite
her breasts were hammers, harder than a mother’s charged.

Thankfully, her head was soft–so sensibly devoid of hope
in that cheerful hollow where the roots are sown in.
Her smile would always please, just so it never faltered.

Apparent pride turned out her weakest point of all–
there at the neck, her head popped off. Her arms and legs,
too often tested, they too, too easily went awry.
She knew it was too late to ponder now, these past slights
or time or fate or which part once made her most complete.

Her face had not changed except in hue, her hair–all but gone.
This began the year she was discarded. It was then she knew
her impermanent worth. Forlorn, these weather stains remained,
and that fade will not rejuvinate, nor if it could, no, not to new.

And so now she rests against her will and wastes interminable hours
remembering the joy of usefulness, feeling an echo of inappropriate love–
too passionate kisses once forced upon her: peck, peck, peck,
tapped against her heart like a bare branch against a closed window,
like an unsatisfied woodpecker at the sill.

Grandpa Ira–shy-eyed farmer under bowler hat–wears black,
but bright seersucker, blue-eyed Claude–trolley-runner–sports his
straw hat tilted back, sideways cigar tucked into a grinning maw.
Claude’s tall, out of knickerbockers, both legs well in the long pants now.

Grandma Edna–fancy-hatted, long of dress–rides the chair sidesaddle
in her high-laced boots. Hands rest on lap, she’s glanced demurely to the side.
Annie–Mona Lisa under lace–sits rigid-backed, ankles-shown and legs too wide,
front-faced to the post-card making guy behind his newfangled camera box.
Her eager eyes look amused and wild as if to say, “What’s next? Let’s go.”

Your eyes are the stairs I’d never again go down,
not even when the light was on.
Grasping, before the hidden switch was found,
safe, from the stairtop I’d peer down to where world-light
streamed through dusty darkness from some glassy cinder-blocks.
The light stopped far short of the old oak cask lording the unturned dirt
floor, long ago soaked and soaked again with bourbon–still there,
its brine souring the gloom up to the floorboards with a vintage musk of neglect.
Your vacant eyes remind me of the silent poverty of that place
and its aberrant hole in the far wall I’d once ventured too near.
I’d stood before it assaulted by the stench of age
from the crumbling crawlspace. Where did it lead to?
If I’d sunk my hands down in that dank,
forbidden earth, would rotting hands have
reached back to snatch and pull me through?
I might have tried it just to know the rest but you rescued me
with your scoldings and Grampa followed with his threats
of fetching a good switch to teach me a lesson
not to go down there again. You said
you were convinced I didn’t need it yet. Instead,
you sat me in a chair with a cup of beer and stroked my hair
’til I forgot. It chokes me now to see you lost.
You’ve gone in and shouldn’t you know better?
Isn’t this the lesson that you kept me from?
I watch you absent there and wonder if
now I should be saving you
but no answer comes and so 
I press your withered hand in mine and
pray I find a switch.

“How loud do the alarms have to get? There is an economic emergency in the country with millions upon millions of Americans riddled with fear and anxiety as they struggle with long-term joblessness, home foreclosures, personal bankruptcies and dwindling opportunities for themselves and their children.

The door is being slammed on the American dream and the politicians, including the president and his Democratic allies on Capitol Hill, seem not just helpless to deal with the crisis, but completely out of touch with the hardships that have fallen on so many.

While the nation was suffering through the worst economy since the Depression, the Democrats wasted a year squabbling like unruly toddlers over health insurance legislation. No one in his or her right mind could have believed that a workable, efficient, cost-effective system could come out of the monstrously ugly plan that finally emerged from the Senate after long months of shady alliances, disgraceful back-room deals, outlandish payoffs and abject capitulation to the insurance companies and giant pharmaceutical outfits.

The public interest? Forget about it.

With the power elite consumed with its incessant, discordant fiddling over health care, the economic plight of ordinary Americans, from the middle class to the very poor, got pathetically short shrift. And there is no evidence, even now, that leaders of either party fully grasp the depth of the crisis, which began long before the official start of the Great Recession in December 2007.”

Full op-ed:  http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/23/opinion/23herbert.html

It’s revolting to watch them start out with benignly helping folks and quickly lead into to tanks and killing, given the recent history of military propaganda and the climate of fear fomented by politicians in league with the corporate media post 9/11. I remember the lip service given to freedom and our fine ideals and the insistence by those who voted for more warfare that we were going there to help and do good. I remember the justification of liberating the people, most especially the women who, in reality, had a greater likelihood of being starved, killed, raped, or now may have children with birth defects due to the “Happy Liberation” gift we left of Radioactive Uranium Dust, making Saddam Hussein’s exploits look small by comparison.

Shiny buttons and fancy swords (as shown in the recruiting video) can’t hide the shame brought on the uniform by engaging in illegal preemptive warfare on premise of lies wrought through means of torture to jumpstart the Bush Dynasty Wars, Part Deux. Military service is no longer an honorable profession so long as war follows a corporate profit motive. Some of the idiots that signed up for a paycheck, while claiming to be patriots, were too dense to catch on even when the neocons spelled it out for them in an acronym: Operation Iraqi Liberation= OIL. For years they still denied the stupidity. Years. Even after watching the military stand over the oil field while Iraqs museums were ransacked and the women were raped…er, “liberated”. Even after the Abu-Ghraib documented evils, even after finding out how much Halliburton profited.http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=544476389136766337#
But hardly anyone denies the stupidity of Iraq now. Yet people still sign up to go over there and kill people in some other area nearby and continue to fuel the military industrial complex chasing a boogieman Al Queda that didn’t even exist before we called it that? We can’t kill the idea that is morally reprehensible to some Muslims, we’re only giving it fuel by attacking them and occupying their lands. http://www.archive.org/details/ThePowerOfNightmares

If we’re going to blow money over there instead of at home, common sense says forgo weapons, invest, and give the Iraqis jobs that don’t involve killing Americans. But that would be *common* sense, which serves the commoner. The military is not serving the common person by going over there, they’re serving (albeit indirectly) profiteering corporations that are milking the taxpayers…and they’re consigning us, our children, and grandchildren in a national debt to foreign interests.

Corporations are amoral. By and large, they exist, bottom-line, for profit. That’s why we must resist their influence in politics and pop culture and public opinion if we wish to preserve some semblance of morality. Even now, with Bush & Co. out of the picture, the corporations continue to gain ground. The problem is much bigger than punishing a guilty figurehead such as Bush or Cheney (though that would be a welcome start). The corruption is firmly entrenched in America but who can and will root it out? What’s it going to take when corporations own nearly everything, have the most money and power, and will get each other’s back but not the average American’s? Who’s looking out for the poor chump that’s lured to his/her death by this video?

RESOURCES FOR RESISTERS:

http://www.veteransforpeace.org/Resources_resisters.vp.html

I like Lakoff, don’t get me wrong. He’s been helpful in understanding the need to frame political issues to appeal to a large audience.

The problem I have with Lakoff is that what he has to say about what language moves conservatives is much more insightful than what he suggests will move liberals. IMO, he’s not much help in crafting effective jargon. The conservative selling points work because they only aspire to sell to their base. Liberals try to be everything to everyone. They try to appeal to the heart and intellect as it applies to government. Conservatives appeal to the gut. The gut reaction is always more powerful than appeals to compassion or thoughtfulness.

I mean think about it, when you see someone begging in the street, do you rush up and see what you can do to help? Do you offer them the shirt off your back? Do you offer to take them anywhere they want to go or let them stay in your place? Someone somewhere probably does but it’s far from the norm. This is the image that the empathy message implies and it ends where it runs up against the hard reality that we’re NOT all in it together and that’s just bullshit.

Liberals need to come up with some new material and don’t look to Lakoff, he just doesn’t get human nature, he’s projecting his personality type onto the rest of us. Not all liberals respond to the touchy-feely response. Look at how effective Obama was, was it because he was making appeals for empathy? No, he proposed fairness and direct action. He promised results. Action is what liberals want to see. They’re sick of being sold out by lame-ass stand-for-nothing Democrats. Liberals want justice. They want results.

Don’t wait for something worthwhile to happen, liberals. Be it now, make it happen. Learn from Obama’s failure and the conservative’s success. Don’t play to the middle, speak to the gut, shoot from the hip, shoot straight, pitch in and lend a hand. These cliches are about action and they still pay out. Craft your message about action and integrity, that will appeal to liberals at this point, IMO. And maybe even some centrists and conservatives too but don’t count on it and don’t aim for them, they are not your audience.

The old woman had left almost all of her possessions behind and now found herself walking alone through the worst part of town. She tried not to look out-of-place as she passed under a bridge and past bundled figures warming hands around a barrel fire. She saw a tiny, three-legged dog tied to a signpost, attempting to warm or comfort itself against its master–a dead vagrant curled up over a steamy sewage grate. On impulse, she risked stopping, long enough to free it. Weak from hunger, the creature was docile and grateful upon release, so she took pity and tucked it into her jacket, out of view. She tarried just long enough to offer it some bread from her satchel. The dog gobbled the bread greedily in surprisingly few bites. She continued on her way, unnoticed by the barrel-warmed silhouettes or anyone else, keeping to the shadows where possible, careful not to let her footsteps resound too loudly off the empty streets and abandoned warehouses.

Two young men waited for her. They were standing on the shoreline beside a small boat. This part of the river reeked of raw sewage. They’d chosen it to lessen the odds of encounter. There was also a young woman and a boy, already waiting in the boat. When the old woman arrived, she was recognized and helped into the boat by the larger man, who could not resist letting slip a punitive, “You’re late.” The smaller man stepped directly into the boat, careful not to step into the filthy water. The larger one dislodged the boat from the bank. He had no choice but to get into the water, which was up to his waist before he got in and proceeded to quietly row them away from the shore, into the liquid darkness that stretched endlessly away from the city lights.

No one glanced behind to see the cityline fade from view. The quietude of the sleeping goliath they’d left behind was oppressive; every inch of its quiet–fraught with the possibility of exposure and capture, and yet, they were resigned to their lot either way. Their silence was more a gesture of solemnity than a result of fear. They moved along now, out of necessity, leaving behind a place that was once their home but that now rejected them to their peril, worse, would soon prey upon them. No, they did not look back or even say goodbye in their hearts.

The man (who’d pushed the boat) rowed until they’d reached a safe distance from shore, then he gave the other a nod and that one started the engine. They’d departed in the early evening so the most perilous leg of the trip would be hidden in darkness. As they moved away from the land mass, the sky overhead became clearer and the stars and moon shone brighter, reflecting off the water. When the engine started with its loud hum, it startled them, even though they’d heard the man pulling the cord to start. Now the water that parted for the bow of their rickety, little craft, rejoined behind them in crashing confusion, splashing against the small raft of supplies that trailed behind, secured by ropes.

Showing confidence at this distance, the larger man (the one who’d pushed and rowed and smelled the worst of them), lit a lamp and they were a beacon out on the vast, black sea. They warmed their hands against the lamp. “The worst is over,” he said, but their looks told, they were not convinced. “Don’t look so glum,” he exclaimed, “We are off to find our destinies. How many can say they know for certain where it’s not to be found?” He laughed. The young mother smiled. He saw that the boy was not smiling and touched the boy’s chin and smiled at him purposefully. “Smile Boy. For your mum. We men must be brave.” Boy smiled, half-heartedly, and glanced sheepishly over at the smaller man, who nodded in agreement.

***
The sun was up now and the old woman was awakened by gulls calling to each other. Boy was the first to notice the dog. “What’s its name,” he asked, scratching its head as it lay cradled against her breast, just inside her jacket.

“I don’t know its name, I just found it on the way,” she said, smiling. “Do you want to name it? He seems to like you.” Boy warmed at the notion and sat back now, thinking up a good one.

“Is it a boy or a girl,” he asked.

“I don’t know, actually,” she said, and opened her jacket slightly to let in the morning light. “It’s a boy.”

“Oh, what happened to its leg,” asked Boy.

“I can’t imagine,” she assured him. “He seems fine. I don’t think it hurts him.”

“Oh, good,” he replied, somewhat relieved.

“Have you thought of a name yet,” Old Woman asked.

“No, not just yet,” he said. “Can I hold him?”

She consented but added, “Be careful he doesn’t fall or jump into the water,” as she handed the tiny, three-legged dog over to Boy.

The smaller man was awake now. “What’s that you have there,” he asked Boy.

“It’s hers but she said I could hold him. She said I could name him too.”

“What’s that, a dog?” chimed in the larger man, visibly annoyed. “Who said you could bring a dog along? You don’t even own a dog, Old Woman.” She replied nothing, but sank back into her place. “Look, it’s only got three legs, how will it swim,” he chided. “You may have condemned this dog to death, you know.” She again, did not reply. The boy hugged the dog to his chest and pet its back, whispering in its ear to ignore the mean man. “Don’t feed the dog our food,” said the man, looking each of them in the eye before glancing down at the dog. “And where will it go? It will have to go to the toilet sometime. It already stinks.”

“You stink,” boldly countered the boy, telling the truth. The mean man raised his hand as if to strike and the boy recoiled. Everyone was looking at the man differently now. He was half-standing up in the boat and it rocked agitatedly. He sat back down and fumed, unsure what he was so annoyed about, he knew there should be enough food.

“It’s the principle,” he replied out loud. “You should have asked me, Old Woman,” he fumed, “This is my boat. I say who or what comes along.” She tried not to glare back at him in response. She knew his name all too well but in her heart she would always call him “The Brute” as she had thought secretly since he was just a small child, once he’d grown large enough to bully someone smaller, he often did.

“I will take care of everything, don’t worry about the dog,” said Old Woman now, finally finding her voice. “See, it makes the boy happy. Don’t make the boy cry now.” Boy was near tears.

“Eh! Don’t even start Boy. I can’t abide crying,” he said, leaning back now and looking away, toward their destination. Seeing The Brute was through, Boy did not cry, instead he moved closer to Old Woman and they shared affection for the dog between them, which now had been made even more precious by the man’s condemnation. The Brute leaned over the boat’s edge and rested his chin on one hand, the other dragged through the water like an oar, pushing and pulling the water against the side of the boat. In this way he fell back asleep, as it was still very early in the morning. He dreamed of vast schools of fish and a sea of stars.

***
On the third evening, the rope to the extra supply raft, came loose. The younger man swam out to retrieve the raft, but capsized it and everything was lost except the water jugs, which were tied around the raft edges. Although he succeeded in retrieving and tying the rope back onto the boat, he  became tangled in a fishing net that had fallen into the water, weighted down with supplies. It pulled him down with purpose, to sink him and the tangled mess to the ocean floor like cement shoes. After a few minutes of frantic struggle to reach the hands reaching out to save him and with the raft and boat mere feet away on either side of him, he succumbed to exhaustion and sank beneath the dark waves. The young mother and Boy were devastated by his loss. Old Woman seemed to be in a state of shock for some time afterward. The Brute, however, just shrugged it off. Of more concern to him, the majority of their supplies were lost and the fishing net could have made all the difference, especially if they should drift off course. Fortunately, they’d had some food in the boat with them but it would not last long enough. He divided the smaller man’s food between them. “He won’t need it,” he said.

Boy was crying, and of course, The Brute could not abide it so he tried to distract him.

“Hey now,” he said, “He would not want you to cry, Boy. Listen, I have a riddle for you that he once told me when we were just boys ourselves. Maybe you can solve this one, eh?”

“The Moon is my father,
the Sea is my mother;
I have a million brothers,
I die when I reach land.”

The boy thought hard, glad to be distracted from his sadness, but he didn’t know the answer and the last line, I die when I reach land, was too real of a possibility to give much thought.

“A wave,” replied the mother, sensing the boy’s growing distress. She glared at The Brute for his callousness.

“Yes,” exclaimed The Brute, laughing. Boy and his mother managed a smile but Old Woman watched him dully in the lamplight, her eyes–black chips reflecting the lamp flame.

***
Old Woman had fed the dog her food and rationed herself a more meager share than as planned. She grew fainter by the day, while the dog grew stronger. As promised, she’d tended to it and it had proved to be no inconvenience to anyone. Shortly after her food had run out, The Brute’s food ran out as well. Accustomed to robust meals, he’d been reluctant to ration and ate as he felt he deserved. He grew meaner with the slightest onset of hunger, saw Old Woman weakening and refused to follow. “You should throw that dog overboard, Old Woman,” he said cruelly, “Or I may eat it tomorrow.” Boy cried out and protested but The Brute simply slapped him to shut him up. No one had expected it but now it was done and over with. Boy whimpered quietly while his mother shushed him and stroked his hair.

Seagulls passed over head unaware of the drama in the tiny boat, which was nothing but a speck on a vast sea, teeming with life, all oblivious to their despair.

***
The Brute did not eat the dog the next day. He watched it sullenly, jealous of the attention it received, but the other three had joined together in solidarity, daring him to strike any one of them. This was not communicated to him directly. They three passed the dog around, petted and fed it, in spite of him. Whether they cared for the dog or not, none of them wanted to see the dog harmed in any way, much less eaten, and in truth, neither did The Brute. He felt he was still a long way from that point but the nagging pain and constant aggravation of hunger wore at his sense of propriety.

***
“We are nearly there,” he declared some days later, as darkness fell. He lit his lamp again as he always did for an hour or two at nightfall. They were all encouraged, even Old Woman, who was now near death. The young mother and Boy doted on her, trying to make her more comfortable and shared the last of their food with her.

The Brute sat upright, leaned into the lamplight, and said in his usual, menacing tone, “I expect you all to repay me for this favor I have done for you, saving you from the oppressors and from your own stupidity. You would have died back there on your own. You must realize that I have saved all of your lives and so now, I own each of you. Remember this when I ask something of you. I should never have to remind you. You see me, you remember what I did for you, what I risked and endured so that you could live and be free, start a new life here. Remember that a good man died so that you may live.” They all nodded. He made sure Boy knew he meant him too. Boy had a long life ahead of him, many favors may be extorted. Cowing the others was merely staging for Boy’s benefit. If he saw they did not question, Boy would not question, at least, not entirely.

The water grew choppier now and although it was too dark to see it, they could feel they were approaching the new shore. On impulse, Boy blew out the lamp. Their eyes adjusted to the darkness slowly, but soon they saw the shadowy outline of the new land against the sky. “There,” said Boy, pointing. “I see a town. That must be a town.” The little dog barked. It was the first they’d heard it bark and they all laughed, excited now to be so near the end of their journey.

The Brute lit a match to relight the lamp, but before he’d succeeded in doing so, he was quite suddenly torn from the boat and drug down into the water, by what, they did not know. Somewhere out there, he buoyed back up and gasped for breath. The lamp toppled and fell. Oil spilled out and caught fire from the match ember, where it had fallen. The three of them and their dog, moved to the far end of the boat where the mother splashed water over the side to put out the fire. The Brute was struggling in the water, now somewhere off the bow. Voices, shouts, and splashes of impact. Confusion, all looking wildly around, straining the vision to readjust to darkness, seeing retinal-burn spots instead, from the recent flames. The Brute’s voice was occasionally interrupted as his head must have plunged under the water. Drawing on dim recollection of the language she’d known in her youth, Old Woman made out, “[Curse] you foul foreigners! Damn you! You are not welcome here. Go back to the hell you came from!” Then it quieted and those who were left in the boat, they knew now that The Brute had succumbed to the depths. It was too calm now, too good to be true, to believe the aggressors had gone, left them to finish the last of the journey to freedom, unhindered. Was one life enough payment for passage to this new shore?

No, now the boat tipped, violently, and capsized. All their possessions sank away. They could not see each other. They dared not cry out. Old Woman went under first, as she could not swim. She released the dog, which proved that with only three legs, it could swim better than she–well enough to keep its head above water and moving along slowly. It headed toward shore. The mother grabbed hold of Boy and pulled him in the direction of the shore and they swam toward it, after the dog and passed it by. When they’d dragged themselves out of the water, trying not to cough up inhaled water, they ran toward some brush and waited to let their eyes adjust to the darkness further. They had to be sure the aggressors were not around. The mother then started in the town they’d seen from the boat. Boy pulled her back and whispered, “But the dog, ma! Anima. I named him Anima.”

“He’s alright, honey, he can find us but he’ll be alright anyway. Dogs do fine on their own,” she whispered back.

“But ma, I didn’t tell him his new name, how will he know when I call him? And Nanna! Where’s Nanna? I named him after her,” he whispered again but too loudly. He wouldn’t take another step.

The mother shushed him and pulled him to her in a hug. “Honey, Nanna went the other way. She’ll meet up with us later. That was the plan, if we got separated, we all meet in town. They will both find us. Just come and shush before they catch us. I know the way.” He consented, believing her unquestioningly, and let her lead the way.

Old Woman drifted beneath the waves, drug back by the undertow. Somewhere near, The Brute also tossed about. As they left their bodies, they found each other in the ether and embraced. The Brute was still angry, confused, and found expression in the raging wind. Old Woman quieted and comforted him. She was the water lapping against the shore, now ebbing, now flowing back. She was forgetting Old Woman and remembering something she’d forgotten long ago. She was transfixed by it.

The little dog made its way to the shore eventually and collapsed on the sand. It whimpered, as it was now alone and afraid.

“I’m sorry,” said The Brute to the dog. It could not hear his voice, only the wind. It lay down and waited for Old Woman or Boy to join him. Old Woman was growing fainter as each wave washed against the sand and now she became the sound of foam sinking and being absorbed by the sand. The Brute sensed her leaving and was afraid. He called her from where the dog lay. She remembered Old Woman and came to him.

“This dog will sit here and wait for you until it starves,” he said.

“Yes, you’re probably right,” she replied.

“We should urge it along.”

“Alright,” she said. She comforted the dog, warming the air around him. The Brute became a fish briefly, that threw itself onto the shore and so the dog ate.

“We should follow the boy,” said The Brute.

“Yes,” said Old Woman. And The Brute made the wind down the beach sound like voices. The dog, thinking he heard Boy, followed them. He hopped along on his three legs and tired easily. It had been a long journey. He wanted to sleep but something kept urging him along and finally, he found himself at a door in a small town, and heard voices now, coming from inside. He scratched at the door. The voices quieted and it opened. An unfamiliar woman stood at the door.

“Whoa fella, who are you? What a funny-looking animal,” said the new woman. The little dog barked and Boy burst toward the door and hugged the dog.

“Anima,” he exclaimed. “I forgot to tell you your name, ‘Anima’” Boy and the dog were happy now.

The Brute was still there. He said, “I’m sorry,” to Boy but he did not hear him.

Old Woman was there and she said, “I love you,” to Boy and he didn’t hear her either.

“We should watch after him,” said The Brute.

“For a while,” said Old Woman and she warmed the coals in the fireplace. The Brute curled into the toilet for a nap.

“I’m Going In”

When my lifetime had just ended
And my death had just begun
I told you I’d never leave you
But I knew this day would come

Give me blood for my blood wedding
I am ready to be born
I feel new
As if this body were the first I’d ever worn

I need straw for the straw fire
I need hard earth for the plow
Don’t ask me to reconsider
I am ready to go now

I’m going in I’m going in
This is how it starts
I can see in so far
But afterwards we always forget
Who we are

I’m going in I’m going in
I can stand the pain
And the blinding heat
‘Cause I won’t remember you
The next time we meet

You’ll be making the arrangements
You’ll be trying to set me free
Not a moment for the meeting
I’ll be busy as a bee

You’ll be talking to me
But I just won’t understand
I’ll be falling by the wayside
You’ll be holding out your hand

Don’t you tempt me with perfection
I have other things to do
I didn’t burrow this far in
Just to come right back to you

I’m going in I’m going in
I have never been so ugly
I have never been so slow
These prison walls get closer now
The further in I go

I’m going in I’m going in
I like to see you from a distance
And just barely believe
And think that
Even lost and blind
I still invented love

I’m going in
I’m going in
I’m going in

“Josmar Trujillo is trying to cross the bridge
from Reactionary to Revolutionary.”

And what of them! Those rarefied American Elms
Ulmus americana, the White Elms that boomed large,
clustered and towering, condemning the new and young
with damning shade after all these many years of
enjoying their grace and wealth of sun.

They complain of us yet see how in winter they don’t mind
the young fodder or whatever’s down there that works and dies–
our corpses hide their tender roots all day and night.
Do the poor saps warm from obligation or is it fate
where in shade the progeny fell and when?

Tree of Heaven, Josmar Trujillo exclaims (in hate),
What of this old forest? Fuck this usury, I say good firewood.
Though these sprouts are lost, so what, they would have been.
When the smoke clears, there at the base, generations
of diversity to live free amid the blessed sun!

So say we all, as Josmar echoes Che, “Vive la Revolución!”
Come lightning, come wind, spark! Bring it all down in flames
and the young leaves of the cultivar, American Liberty
will be the first of us to dance amid the ash
and stretch to face the sun again.