Note from Cindy Sheehan

I met Cindy Sheehan on a rickety old bus during a blizzard. She was stumping for Bush's impeachment back in March and I was vlogging her visit to VT.

After spending a day with her, my impression was that she is a complex, single-minded individual. She never once stopped talking politics, even when she looked ready to drop. She was on a mission.

Her affect on other people was also interesting to watch first hand. People had to touch her, hug her and tell her their stories. She left a trail of fans everywhere she went. If they didn't love her, they hated her and called her an "insult to the word mother." She was anything but mediocre.

Now she is selling Camp Casey and taking a break from the mad media malestrom she has been caught up in since 2005. We are MySpace pals and that is where this bulletin (below) came from.

Her departure from politics makes me sad even if I understand and sympathize with her decision. It isn't easy being America's Most Reviled/Adored. As she joked on the bus, Michael Moore once thanked her for taking the pressure off of him.

And even though I know Cindy is no angel, I also know she did the absolute best she could to make this world a better place as best as she knew how. Thanks Cindy, peace out!

Jun 19, 2007 4:18 AM
Subject	Turn, Turn, Turn by Cindy Sheehan
	To everything there is a season. A time for war, a time for peace. Ecclesiastes, Hebrew Scriptures I wish I could say I thought of something profound as I saw the president and his wife’s picture on that billboard on Hwy 317 in my rear view mirror on my way out of Crawford today. I will be back for the final weekend farewell to Camp Casey on July 6th, but I won’t be back as the owner of property there, or as a leader of the American peace movement. The protests that were Camp Casey I and II that evolved into the five acres on Hwy 317 (Lone Star Parkway), which was known as Camp Casey III, definitely were effective and served a relevant purpose in the national discourse of the pros and cons of the war. In an occupation that was and still is kept far from apathetic American eyes, summer ’05 was one of the first times the cost of BushCo’s Iraq fiasco was made public and many people sympathized and resonated with and some even traveled for miles to be with the Mom in the ditch. When I announced that I was going to put my five acres up for sale in Texas, the horrible anti-peace; anti-American group, Move America Forward announced that they would buy it to erect a “Memorial.” This group still cheer-leads and supports a war where our troops are clearly being misused and mal-treated by their civilian leadership and celebrates each death as a sacrifice for the neo-con, obscene, and Orwellian idea of “freedom.” Move America Forward is still collecting money for their memorial, which will never be built on my old property and if they really wanted to buy it, they wouldn’t have sent out a press release---they just wanted a few more minutes of fame off of my misery! Into all of the drama, radio talk show host Bree Walker enters. She could not bear the thought of Move America Forward or any other right-wing fascist group buying Camp Casey, so she cashed in her corporate buy-ins and bought my land to leave as a legacy to peace---and a true memorial to our children and the people of Iraq who have been killed for corporate and political greed. Bree is putting her money where her mouth is, too, and we Camp Casey-ites were relieved and overjoyed when she purchased it! I was in Crawford this past week to transfer the deed to Bree and to take care of some last minute business. Selling my land and kicking the Crawford dirt off of my flip-flops was bittersweet. I have had some of my highest-highs in that ½ horse town, but also some of my lowest lows. August ’05 was the happiest, yet the 2nd most stressful time of my life. The people who saw my sunburned face, wild hair and chapped lips every time they turned on their TV never saw me tossing and turning in my tent or trailer on a nightly basis totally stressed out about the Rovian smear campaign and worrying about what lies were going to be told about me, or what attack was coming next. It seemed like everyone with an agenda from “Israel is the culprit” to “9-11 was an inside job” flocked to Crawford to have a moment in the blazing hot sun with me. Soldiers came from Ft. Hood to secretly be in solidarity with me and parents of live and dead soldiers also came: Mostly to stand in solidarity with me, but some to try and take Camp Casey over to mold it to their own agendas. I fell in love at Camp Casey and had my heart broken again there. I found true friends and learned how to distinguish between true friends and people who only pretend to be your friends until your usefulness to them is over. I smiled more than I frowned; I laughed more than I cried; I danced badly and sang out of tune; I received more love than animosity and I think thousands of us were given renewed hope and energy because Camp Casey existed. I will always be grateful for this experience that did have an intense and positive effect on the world but I am also content I have chosen a new direction and can rest easily in the fact that we did do good. It’s time for someone else and something else to manifest itself in Crawford and time for some of us to ride into the beautiful Texas sunsets that I definitely will miss. I think when one is heading in the wrong direction, it is always prudent to change direction---even if you have to pull over and ask the way to go, and very imprudent to stay a ridiculous and mistaken course. I want to thank everyone for the outpouring of love, support, and financial support that has come my way since my resignation from the peace movement. My medical bills will be paid off and because of Bree’s generosity, I have a financial cushion to help me on to the next phase: helping humans who have been hurt by US corporate imperialism. I want to also thank everyone who has helped me along the way so far and encourage people to stay their courses if they think they are being productive and supported. The millennia old season of war is getting tiresome and while never good, is growing in evilness as the people who run the wars become more corrupt, callous and as far removed from their conflicts as they can possibly get. There is a season for peace---I hope for all of our sakes we reach it soon. Cindy would like to invite everyone to her 50th Birthday Party and Camp Casey final celebration the weekend of July 6 to 8 at Camp Casey in Crawford, Tx. RSVP to CampCaseyMom@yahoo.com or Tiggerloli@aol.com

Eva Goes to Cali

Well, this week has been mad for a number of reasons which I will not bore you with today. Instead, I will say that if you are my friend and live in California, please call me. You know the #. I am going to be in your fine state for 7 short days and I want to see each and every one of you. Tea, drinks, coffee? You name it!

Who am I kidding? No one in California reads my blog EXCEPT for the most fabulous Junk Thief. I think when we meet in person, angels will sing, buildings will collapse and monkeys will fly out of my butt. Junk thieves and deadbeats, you can never know enough of 'em!

My home in the Fantastic Fillmore will not have a TV or a computer so I will be trolling around for internet access at various unsavory spots. This blog will no doubt, get rather dusty in my absence. Will post if I can.

Will also eat LOTS of sushi, burritos and crepes, visit the hot springs often, NOT buy any more clothes and chill the fuck out. Things have been too crazy here for too long. See you later deadbeat!

Hats, Goodbyes and Letting Go

“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.”
Pericles

About 2 years ago, when I first started working at the Flynn, I got a strange phone call. At that time, I was still moderately terrified of answering my phone. It rang constantly and I rarely knew how to answer the myriad of questions thrown at me.

I was still trying to understand the intricacies of the Flynn (and two years later, I almost get them!). The caller was an older woman who wanted to drop off some items for us to use in our theater classes.

As usual, I was not sure how to handle this. Not sure who I needed to clear this with and if we even accepted donations of old clothing. She told me that her husband had died years ago. She had kept his treasured military hats safe and sound all that time. She was finally ready to give them away so other people could make us of them.


She sounded unsure of herself. Most likely a part of her wanted to keep these hats a little bit longer. They must have meant so much to him. And for her, they must have been like a piece of him, the last piece she had left.

After all, they sat on his head day after day, they probably still smelled of his shampoo. It must have been so awful for her to part with them. But maybe it was a necessary part of moving on.

“The key to change... is to let go of fear.”
Rosanne Cash

I have always had problems with moving on. I used to squeeze my stuffed animals so hard at night that their stuffing would fall out too soon. I had literally loved them TO DEATH. But I wouldn't let my mother throw my beloved animals in the trash. Oh no!

They meant something to me! I insisted we save them forever and ever for sentimental reasons. There is probably a big bag of love-worn stuffed animals rotting away in the attic at this very moment.

A week or so after our phone call, the lady dropped off two boxes of her deceased husband's possessions. Her daughter waited in the car and I ran down to take them from her. I thanked her profusely and made sure she was ready to part with them. She lingered for a moment and then said that it was the right thing to do.

I wonder if she got home that night and regretted it instantly? If she wanted to snatch back her husband's precious belongings to hold closely until the day she joined him? Or if somehow she felt lighter, as though a great weight had been lifted? Perhaps she was finally released from some sad state of purgatory caused by years of loss and suffering?


I took the boxes up to my office and proceeded to forget about them. I had many boxes littering my floor and they fit in fine amidst the mess. I never bothered to bring them up to the studio closets so the kids could enjoy them. It was part laziness and part selfishness that kept those boxes in my office over the next two years.

A part of me didn't want those careless kids to go ripping through her husband's prized possessions, unaware of their history or origin: heedlessly pulling out his white dress gloves with nary a scratch and instantly covering them in dirt; tossing his immaculate gold-braided hats around the room and denting their perfect shapes; roughly twisting the suspenders and plaid cumberbun that he once held so dear; instantly sullying his brighter than white Navy cap.

I didn't know what to do with this dead man's things. Part of me wanted to put them on display in a museum somewhere. They were so pristine and perfect, they needed to be admired and worshipped. He needed to be remembered! There had to be some way to hold on to him through these items that once mattered so much to him?

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Why do I hold on to things so tightly? It probably has something to do with the fact that I have never belonged anywhere. Never had a real "home" in the traditional sense of the word.

We left my childhood home when I was 3 years old and never alighted anyplace solid again. Like a family of hummingbirds, we flitted from haven to haven, never stopping long.

In 33 years I have moved almost 20 times; lived in 20 different homes, apartments, dorm rooms and hovels; carried my crap around from place to place and state to state like a hobo with a stick.

You would think that I would be really good at traveling light by now. Perhaps my tendency to hold on to things too tightly is some sort of an adverse reaction to this nomad lifestyle. It is like that scene in The Jerk where Steve Martin is being kicked out of his mansion:

Navin R. Johnson: Well I'm gonna to go then. And I don't need any of this. I don't need this stuff, and I don't need you. I don't need anything except this. [picks up an ashtray]

Navin R. Johnson: And that's it and that's the only thing I need, is this. I don't need this or this. Just this ashtray. And this paddle game, the ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need. And this remote control. The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that's all I need. And these matches. The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control and the paddle ball. And this lamp. The ashtray, this paddle game and the remote control and the lamp and that's all I need. And that's all I need too. I don't need one other thing, not one - I need this. The paddle game, and the chair, and the remote control, and the matches, for sure. And this. And that's all I need. The ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, this magazine and the chair. [walking outside]

Navin R. Johnson: And I don't need one other thing, except my dog. [dog barks]

Navin R. Johnson: I don't need my dog.


Years later, Suzanne and I were switching offices in preparation for my departure from the Flynn. Once again, I had to face this man's boxes and decide what to do with them.

Suzanne advised me to take them home and use them in my shows. I longed to kidnap them and hang the hats on my bedroom walls. Create a shrine for this dead man that I never met. His hats were so perfect, so artful, and they held so much meaning.

Lately I have been trying to force myself to let go of things. Leaving the Flynn, releasing ghosts and moving forward instead of back. As nice as it is to wallow in sweet memories and drain them of every last bit of their tasty nectar, this activity soon grows stale. And in letting go of the past and the parts of it that I have been clinging too tightly to, I feel a great weight lifting off my shoulders.

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”
Dr. Seuss

In this spirit, I am finally going to release this man's possessions to the kids. At long last, I'll honor his widow's wishes (I know, I know, what took me so long!?).

This summer the rambunctious children will no doubt rip through them and bend, dirty and crumple his perfect hats, gloves, suspenders and cumberbun.

But I think the old lady knew then what it took me 2 years to realize, you can't hold on to someone too tightly. You have to let go of them and accept that they are gone.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art; to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tomorrow is my last day of work at the Flynn and as of Friday I am OFFICIALLY an unemployed deadbeat! It will take a while for this BIG life change to seem real to me.

Between classes, rehearsals, creative meetings, vlogs, blogs, matinees, editing and script readings, I have a ton to do next week. I am guessing it will take a while for the full force of this shift from full-time worker bee to student bee to take effect.

Too many people are thinking of security instead of opportunity. They seem to be more afraid of life than death.
James F. Bymes

But in the meantime, I am looking forward to my goodbye party tomorrow night when I can take the time to relax, unwind and get liquored up with a grand group of people that have become like a family to me over the past two years.

Someone asked me today if I was sad to go. I am sad. So sad. But it is time to stop holding on so tightly. It is time to put on my fancy military hat one last time and then prepare to release my grip...

“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.”
Gilda Radner