I cannot tell you how much Gene Simmon's hair vexes me. It just looks all sorts of wrong. I mean, what is it supposed to be doing? It's kind of helmetish, like it just sits there. It's too frizzy but it ain't quite.

Dude should just get those nappies relaxed or something. It looks like a bird's nest. Or am I supposed to read that situation happening in the front of his skull as plugs gone rogue? Somebody needs to help me here because my eyes are a-bleeding.

And don't even get me started with how awkward is just his whole face and skin. I mean, he's never "read" to me as being "white". His looks confuse me. I expect him to break out on a hard rock rendition of "Am black and proud". 

There's got to be some mandingo love hiding in the background of this guy's family tree and I don't care how white you say his hassidim family is. The hair will set the truth free my friend and that is as nappy a hair as the one covering my negritude.
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Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

---Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day”
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The town of Roscoe sits at the confluence of the Willomec Creek and the Beaverkill River. It is tucked into a niche in the Catskills, a valley through which the Beaverkill traipses like a dancer. Unlike the Mississippi, say, or the Columbia, there is no sense that this is a river of broad, burly shoulders, pushing aside huge mounds of dirt on its way to the sea. No, this is a gentle river, home to thousands of lazy trout, and eventually, the river flows into the Delaware and eventually, Chesapeake Bay.
But back in late June, central New York state and northern Pennsylvania were drenched in ten inches of rain. And the tiny little Beaverkill became leviathan. Roscoe, Walton, Livingston Manor were under eight feet of water. People drowned. Houses were carried downstream. Roads were washed away.

The past two days, I walked along the river. It had returned to its pre-flood daintiness, and in fact, I was told that the river was now so shallow that you couldn’t take a canoe down it. You’d have to portage the canoe through the shallows.

The signs of the destruction were everywhere. Part of the motel where I stayed, a motel I’ve stayed at several times now because it sits on the banks of the river, had washed away. People told me how they’d watched the building run into the bridge, and then, smashed by the torrent, watched as it was carried miles downstream.

On the door to my room was a dark mark a foot or so above the door handle. It was the waterline. Inside the room, only the bare essentials had been restored. There wasn’t even a phone. Just a bed, and a couple of pieces of furniture that looked the worse for wear. The bathroom had been scrubbed clean, but the smell of bleach and mold was overpowering, sickening. In the corner of the bathroom grew a fungus that looked like kelp, something neolithic, as if it belonged on the sea floor.

So, I did a lot of walking. The sky was a shade of blue that would break your heart—so much deeper than forget-me-not, but not as dark as the indigo indications of an encroaching storm.

How to describe the ripple of water over stone? As I walked along the Beaverkill yesterday, the sun on the back of my neck, its warmth on my shoulders as if someone had draped his arm there, the water moved. The movement is subtle in most places; your senses tell you that it’s in fact, still, but the water moving across the stones dispels the notion of stillness. The sun glints in such a way off the angles of the water, the disruption on the surface as the water moves over stones. And the stones are testament to motion. The stones are not jagged. There is not a rough edge left on any of them. They are ovoid, softened by the caress of water.

I’ve noticed these changes in my face of late. My face is softening, like a baby’s face, the skin that used to cling so tautly to the bones beneath are letting go, sliding. Maybe I have smiled too much in my life. Perhaps I’ve focused on too many things out of my reach. The furrow in my brow now is a gorge, a chasm in the otherwise smooth plain of my forehead.

Shortly before I underwent a hysterectomy in November, I received an anonymous letter via e-mail. I had not been shy about my need for surgery. I am more than aware that my uterus is a political organ. I fear that just as SCOTUS has recently ruled that there's no need for a "knock-knock" before violating civil rights, so too, it will soon be permissible to enter a woman's vagina without her consent. Or, as the case is more likely to be, to tell a woman that she can't make decisions about what may or may not enter and lodge inside her uterus.

And so, knowing that the personal is political, to quote what was once a revolutionary statement but which seems to have lost its meaning, I chose to write about my decision, and my fear, in undergoing this procedure.

Thus, someone out in the blogosphere decided to send me a letter, under a pseudonym, in which they denounced my decision to be public about what I was about to undergo. In the letter, the person described to me how I'd been duped by the male medical establishment, how six months after my surgery I would begin to suffer the horrible effects of various blood vessels dying in my pelvic region, how I would feel like shit. And worse, this person pointed out, I would be responsible for the positive push I may have given other women to have the same operation done. That by talking positively about my decision to have my uterus removed, I was contributing to the ruin of other women.
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