Strangers in a Strange Land

Nipples and Studs and Limberdicks and Cocks

We imagine ourselves to be space travelers landing on a populated planet. We encounter living organisms with a well-developed culture. We wonder at their strange ways. As we work alongside them, we make an effort to adopt the culture, to fit in as best we can. In other ways we reject it, picking our battles. We are few and isolated, powerless, so we must become careful observers in order to protect ourselves.

In this culture competition is valued over cooperation. Its central tenet seems to involve establishing a pecking order, as with chickens. Woe to the one who falls to the bottom, who becomes the relentlessly picked on. Of course, our strategy is to stay under the radar and try to avoid the pecking order arrangement altogether. This is not always possible, but our differentness sometimes works to our advantage. It confuses them when they can’t immediately find a slot for us.

We speak the same language, but the words have different meanings. Topics of conversation seem designed to enable the game of one-upmanship. Slurs referring to another’s ethnic origins appear to be some sort of rite of passage. Or this may be associated with establishment of the pecking order. Weapons and war-like games assume great importance especially in the seasons when these games are played publicly. Boasting of ownership of machines, especially big ones, appears to be a way to increase position in the pecking order.

They name things after genitals and sex organs. There are nipples and studs and dicks and limberdicks, screwing and shut off cocks, male and female fittings, king studs, glory holes, screws and nuts, double hung, slab penetrations and butt joints and erection, base shaft and tip. We begin to think that nearly every word in our shared language contains a double meaning, often also referring to their own genitals or to the sex act. 

Size matters in this culture. Although displaying genitals is taboo, the topic of genital size is paramount. Body size seems to contribute to pecking order status and is afforded much more importance than skill or especially intellectual capacity. In fact, intellectual prowess must be hidden in this culture to avoid low pecking order status. Presumably, the smart figure this out quickly and become proficient at pretending to be dumb. 

While smartness can be covered up, small size cannot, and so the small are particularly prone to being picked on. The small have devised many strategies to avoid low pecking order status, but bonding together to form their own sub-group, an obvious possibility that we might employ, has not been one. Perhaps this indicates that the small also accept the dominant paradigm that their size makes them inferior. The typical response by the small is to develop what they call a “thick skin” and a pugnacious demeanor. Their insecurity makes them particularly difficult for us to work with, especially when we are the larger.

An important communication medium seems to be the walls of the elimination shacks. The creatures carry markers for drawing pictures and messages there. One often-depicted image is of their genitals. We try to understand what impulse might drive this primitive art. It appears to be a method of marking territory, as with dogs. We try to imagine ourselves painting our genitals on walls but find no equivalent in our own culture. We wonder at this practice, and think it may be intended to distress. To counter the practice, we follow behind with our own markers, making the genitals into faces with eyes and noses.

In our observations we look to find comparisons with other cultures. This species’ lifestyle bears more than a passing resemblance to canine culture. We notice that while they may exhibit friendly behavior when encountered alone, when they organize into packs they often become dangerously unfriendly. They see threats everywhere and might attack even when not threatened, just for the fun of it. The killing of other animals has acquired the level of a sport and is much discussed. We labor to avoid being seen as animals.

We begin to understand that we are not the only ones isolated here. Each member of this culture is, by design, alone in competition with the others. We wonder if anyone has ever taught them an alternative, that cooperation can be a marker of strength rather than weakness. We wonder if it’s too late.

Matariki: New Zealand’s Solstice Celebration

My Regular Pagan Holiday Post

Summer (and Winter) Solstice will be June 20, 2025

For years, these pagan holiday letters have followed the rhythm of the Northern Hemisphere. So it’s about time we turned our gaze south. What is the summer solstice for us in the north is, of course, the winter solstice down under.

In Aotearoa (the Māori name for New Zealand, often translated as “Land of the Long White Cloud”), the winter solstice is marked by Matariki, a celebration that signals the Māori New Year. In 2022, Matariki was officially recognized as New Zealand’s first indigenous national holiday — a milestone in honoring the traditions of the land’s first people.

Rooted in ancient Māori astronomy and storytelling, Matariki revolves around the reappearance of a small but powerful star cluster in the early morning sky — known in Māori as Matariki, and in Western astronomy as the Pleiades or the Seven Sisters. Its rising marks a time of renewal, remembrance, and reconnection — with ancestors, the earth, and each other.

The date of Matariki shifts slightly each year, determined by both the lunar calendar and careful observation of the stars. Māori astronomers and iwi (tribal) experts consult mātauranga Māori — traditional Māori knowledge systems — to ensure the timing reflects ancestral wisdom. In precolonial times, the clarity and brightness of each star helped forecast the year’s weather, harvest, and overall wellbeing.

Unlike the linear passage of time in the Gregorian calendar, Māori time is circular — woven from moon phases, tides, seasons, and stars. Matariki is not just a new year, but a return point. A moment to pause, reflect on what has been, and plan how to move forward in harmony with the natural world.

At the heart of Matariki is kaitiakitanga — the ethic of guardianship. It’s the understanding that humans are not owners of the earth, but caretakers. We are part of the land, sea, and sky, and we carry the responsibility to protect and sustain them.

When Matariki rises just before dawn, it opens a space for both grief and celebration: to mourn those who’ve passed, give thanks for what we have, and set intentions for the year ahead. It reminds us of the interconnectedness of whānau(family), whakapapa (genealogy), and whenua (land).

The name Matariki is often translated as “the eyes of the chief,” from mata (eyes) and ariki (chief). According to one well-known Māori legend, the stars are the eyes of Tāwhirimātea, the god of winds and weather. In grief over the separation of his parents — Ranginui (Sky Father) and Papatūānuku (Earth Mother) — Tāwhirimātea tore out his own eyes and cast them into the heavens.

In a world that often values speed over stillness, Matariki offers a different rhythm. It’s a celestial breath — a reminder that time moves in cycles. That rest and reflection are just as important as action. That the sky still holds stories if we remember to look up.

The 9 Stars of Matariki

Each star in the Matariki cluster has its own role and significance:

  1. Matariki – Health and wellbeing
  2. Tupuānuku – Food from the earth
  3. Tupuārangi – Food from the sky (birds, fruits)
  4. Waitī – Freshwater and the life within it
  5. Waitā – The ocean and saltwater life
  6. Waipuna-ā-Rangi – Rain and weather patterns
  7. Ururangi – Winds and the atmosphere
  8. Pōhutukawa – Remembrance of those who have passed
  9. Hiwa-i-te-Rangi – Aspirations, goals, and wishes for the future

For Māori, these stars are not just celestial objects — they are guardians. They watch over the land, sea, and sky, and in doing so, remind us of our responsibility to them.

As global conversations about climate change and sustainability grow more urgent, the values of Matariki — care, reverence, reflection, and renewal — feel especially resonant. It’s a time to return to what matters, to honor the past, and to move forward in a way that honors both our roots and our shared future on this earth.

North Bay Rising

In Santa Rosa and across the North Bay, we’re mad as hell—and we’ve taken to the streets. From the Hands Off! protest in April that brought 5,000 people to downtown Santa Rosa, to thousands more mobilizing in surrounding towns, resistance to the rise of fascism in the U.S. is fierce and growing.

Some of the signs from our protests

Here in Sonoma County, protests are a near-daily occurrence. Demonstrators are targeting a wide range of issues: U.S. complicity in the genocide of Palestinians, Avelo Airline’s role in deportation flights, Elon Musk’s attacks on federal institutions like Social Security and Medicare/Medicaid, the gutting of the Veterans Administration, the criminalization of immigrants, assaults on free speech, and—by us tradeswomen—the dismantling of affirmative action and DEI initiatives.

The Palestinian community and its allies have been gathering every Sunday at the Santa Rosa town square since October 2023.

Weekly actions include:

  • ThursdaysWe the People protest in Petaluma.
  • Fridays: Veteran-focused rallies protesting VA budget cuts.
  • Fridays/SaturdaysPetalumans Saving Democracy actions.
  • SaturdaysTesla Takedown at the Santa Rosa showroom, and a vigil for Palestine in Petaluma.
  • Sundays: Protest at the Santa Rosa Airport against Avelo Airlines, and a Stand with Palestine demonstration in town.
  • TuesdaysResist and Reform in Sebastopol.
  • Ongoing: In Cotati, a weekly Resist Fascism picket line.

In Sonoma Plaza, there’s a weekly vigil to resist Trump. Sebastopol hosts a Gaza solidarity vigil, along with Sitting for Survival, an environmental justice action.

Beyond the regular schedule, spontaneous and planned actions continue:

  • A march to raise awareness of missing and murdered Indigenous women.
  • In Windsor, women-led organizing for immigrant rights.
  • A multi-faith rally at the town square on April 16.
  • Protest musicians and singers are coming together to strengthen the movement with art.

Trump’s goons are jailing citizens, and fear runs deep, especially among the undocumented and documented Latinx population—who make up roughly a third of Santa Rosa. But fear hasn’t silenced them. They continue to show up and speak out.

I’ve joined the North Bay Rapid Response Network, which mobilizes to defend our immigrant neighbors from ICE raids.

Meanwhile, our school systems are in crisis. Sonoma State University is slashing classes and programs in the name of austerity. Students and faculty are fighting back with protests, including a Gaza sit-in that nearly resulted in a breakthrough agreement with the administration.

Between all this, Holly and I made it to the Santa Rosa Rose Parade. The high school bands looked and sounded great—spirited and proud. Then, our Gay Day here on May 31, while clouded by conflict about participation by cops, still celebrated us queers.

And soon, I’ll hit the road heading to Yellowstone with a friend. On June 14, we’ll join protesting park rangers in Jackson, Wyoming as part of the No Kings! national day of action—a protest coordinated by Indivisible and partners taking place in hundreds of cities across the country. 

On the Solstice, June 20 in the Northern Hemisphere, we expect to be in Winnemucca, Nevada, on the way home.

Happy Solstice to all—Winter and Summer!

Photo of the Pleiades: Digitized Sky Survey

MUNI Stories: I Said, What Are You?

“Are your parents here in this country?” asked the garrulous drunk of the Chinese boys. The drunk, a florid, swarthy, affable man holding a big beer can, sat in the back of the 14 Mission bus. I sat to the left of the boys in seats with our backs to the side of the bus. We looked across to people sitting on the other side. It was a little like sitting around a dinner table but without the table.

“Yes,” said one boy. “We’re from here.”

I’d been swapping stories with the boys. They were clearly all-American. We had started assessing taco places as the bus sped up Mission Street on Sunday. A long line waited outside La Taqueria at 25th Street.

“It’s good, but not that good,” I said.

“Yeah,” said one of the boys. “I live in the Excelsior and there’s a great taco place out by Onondaga. The line is shorter. But my favorite is El Farolito.”

I could see this kid was a regular taco aficionado.

“No, really,” said the drunk. “When did you come from China?”

After that, the boys stopped interacting with him. But I couldn’t restrain myself, even though I could see others on the bus would prefer to ignore him. We continued to chat loudly about ethnicities.

“I’m Mexican,” he announced.

“I’m Scandinavian, but way back there,” I said, waving my arm toward ancestors in the distance.

I looked around at the others at our “table.” A young dark-skinned black man with a thin nose sat in the corner on the back bench frowning as he read Dale Carnegie’s How to Develop Self-Confidence and Influence People by Public Speaking. He looked so serious, I wanted to hug him. A young pale woman sitting across from me pretended to float in another universe, looking past me out the window with half-closed eyes. Next to her a beautiful well-dressed Latinx adjusted his ear buds and consulted his phone, multitasking. I knew he was paying nearly as much attention to us as he had to the product on his glossy, curly black mane, but he tried not to look up. He was enjoying the conversation. I kind of wanted to hug him too.

An old Mexican man sitting on my left was the only rider as obviously entertained by the drunk as I was. The drunk had been mostly talking to himself in Spanish and periodically the man on my left would translate for my benefit, then giggle. But the drunk also spoke fluent English. He wanted us to know that he was more than just Mexican. His family was Spanish.

“My grandmother in Spain had blue eyes and everything,” he announced.

“My Swedish grandmother had brown eyes,” I said. “I guess that’s where I got them. The purple hair is all mine, though. None of my people had purple hair.”

The drunk grinned, the Latinx smiled, the old guy sitting on my left giggled. The boys were still quiet, but as I got off at my stop, I thought I could see them smirking.