So in my absence, I will leave you with a bit of Utah trivia. Utah is the number one consumer of antidepressant medications in the nation. Yes, the happy valley isn't so very happy. I wonder why the Mormon life isn't as satisfying as it's cracked up to be? That's a rhetorical question.
Another little factoid. I have a friend who has a friend who is the oldest of forty children. Yes, you read that right--forty fucking children! His father only needed three wives to reach this startling number of offspring. Two of his three wives had sixteen each. Yes, dears, each of these two women bore sixteen children the old fashioned way--one at a time, out her vagina. Now think of the number of cousins this man must have.
I have a friend who grew up in a modest sized polygamist family, but her daughter has thousands of cousins. Yes, thousands as in many thousands. Three or four I believe, but this is kind of like billions of dollars, after you get to the b for billion, what's a few hundred b and s for billions more?
I have had to postpone my date with Cal for a day. He was perfectly charming about it. I have a plumbing problem. Of course this plumbing problem would be in my sparkling and probably sterile as an operating theatre bathroom. The rooter guys will tromp in with their wet muddy boots and stand in my tub to root that drain, and I will have to start over. I'll need all day Tuesday to clean up after them if I'm lucky enough to get scheduled for Tuesday. And so far in the big room, the one I live in, the one with the big brass bed in the middle of it, I have only gotten around to the cupboard and drawer cleaning. I've had two dogs full time as the snow melts and the mud gets a little squishier. It comes into the house caked between their toes. The rugs and the floor will have to be cleaned after Melea gets home tomorrow night from her vacation. Then I won't have Roscoe for a day and will have a better chance of actually getting the floor clean and possibly having it remain that way for maybe 24 hrs with minor paw cleaning. And I'll be changing the bed at the last minute just because. Wipe that smirk off your face. He might feel faint and want to lie down. I am cooking you know.
Then there is the cooking. Since I have postponed my date with Cal for another day, I will need to shop again. By Wednesday, the strawberries will have wilted and so will my lilies. I may change the menu anyway. Not everyone loves eggplant.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Blog Rolling Paul Krugman
I have done it, so can you. But if you haven't read this, from Conscience of a Liberal--check it out. As I'm sure you can tell Krugman is my economics go-to guy, plus, I think he's sexy. Smart, outspoken men are a turn on.
From "The Pen"
One of the most important recommendations by John Conyers in his 487
page recent report "Reining In The Imperial Presidency" was to extend
the statute of limitations on the crimes of Bush and Cheney, to allow
a fair opportunity for them to be actually investigated by a real
prosecutor. Of course the Justice Department was entirely derelict in
enforcing the law as to them while they were still in office. To
fully preserve and protect the rule of law, the statute of
limitations must be extended now.
And sure enough, just the other day Cheney was out there gloating
about how the statute of limitations was expiring on some of their
most egregious offenses. For example, the midnight putsch to
institute a regime of illegal wiretapping occurred in early March of
2004, not quite 5 years ago. We certainly did not expect Alberto
Gonzales, who conspired in all of this, to enforce the law when he
was attorney general, did we?
Extend Statute of Limitations Action Page:
And while we're on the subject of Dick Cheney shooting off his
unwelcome mouth again, we never expected you to "make nice with
terrorists", Dick, as you so contemptuously smear any alternative to
a policy of slaughtering thousands of innocent civilians in foreign
countries and destroying their cities. No, Dick, we expected you to
NOT stoop to beneath their level, which has made us all decidely less
safe for the future.
In truth, if we count all our senseless casualties in Iraq, Dick,
more died on your watch since than died on 9/11, which you dismally
failed to protect us from in the first place in your arrogant
insolence. Or was it deliberate treason, so you could justify your
war to seize Iraq's oil fields? No, Dick, we were never expecting
everyone in the world to "love" us, but we sure could do without a
couple extra generations of millions of people bent on mortal
revenge.
By, the way, did anyone else catch the story of Cheney throwing out
his back moving his OWN boxes? What is a former vice president doing
playing his own moving man, unless all those boxes contained
incriminating evidence he would not allow anyone else to even touch?
Must have been a lot of such evidence to throw his back out like
that.
On a happier note, we are pleased to report that Thursday we
completed the latest round of shipping of the new "Convict Dick & W"
caps, the ones with a little embroidered cowboy hat hung on the "W",
intended to ridicule the original cowboy from Connecticut himself,
who always looked about as at home on that fake Crawford ranch as Zsa
Zsa looked on Green Acres. So if you have not requested yours yet,
you can get one from the return page after you submit the statute of
limitations extension action page.
Extend Statute of Limitations Action Page:
http://www.peaceteam.net/action/pnum933.php
And on the same return page from the action page above, you can also
find the new local county prosecutor lookup, which we are using to
call, write and email local district attorneys, asking them to bring
murder charges against George Bush and Dick Cheney as urged by Vince
Bugliosi. If any resident of your county was killed a war based on
false pretenses, Bugliosi says that district attorney has grounds to
bring murder charges. At the top of all these pages, there is a link
to a terrific YouTube video you can watch on this of Bugliosi's House
testimony.
The local prosecutor initiative is an important long term back up
action, intended to keep the heat on at the same time for a special
prosecutor at the federal level.
IMPORTANT NOTE: We are not asking anyone to file a "formal" criminal
complaint yourself. Common sense tells us that a state prosecutor
will only act, in the exercise of their OWN discretion, if they
believe there is a non-frivolous case to bring. But by speaking out,
we can let them know there is community support for them to do so.
Please take action NOW, so we can win all victories that are supposed
to be ours, and forward this alert as widely as possible.
page recent report "Reining In The Imperial Presidency" was to extend
the statute of limitations on the crimes of Bush and Cheney, to allow
a fair opportunity for them to be actually investigated by a real
prosecutor. Of course the Justice Department was entirely derelict in
enforcing the law as to them while they were still in office. To
fully preserve and protect the rule of law, the statute of
limitations must be extended now.
And sure enough, just the other day Cheney was out there gloating
about how the statute of limitations was expiring on some of their
most egregious offenses. For example, the midnight putsch to
institute a regime of illegal wiretapping occurred in early March of
2004, not quite 5 years ago. We certainly did not expect Alberto
Gonzales, who conspired in all of this, to enforce the law when he
was attorney general, did we?
Extend Statute of Limitations Action Page:
And while we're on the subject of Dick Cheney shooting off his
unwelcome mouth again, we never expected you to "make nice with
terrorists", Dick, as you so contemptuously smear any alternative to
a policy of slaughtering thousands of innocent civilians in foreign
countries and destroying their cities. No, Dick, we expected you to
NOT stoop to beneath their level, which has made us all decidely less
safe for the future.
In truth, if we count all our senseless casualties in Iraq, Dick,
more died on your watch since than died on 9/11, which you dismally
failed to protect us from in the first place in your arrogant
insolence. Or was it deliberate treason, so you could justify your
war to seize Iraq's oil fields? No, Dick, we were never expecting
everyone in the world to "love" us, but we sure could do without a
couple extra generations of millions of people bent on mortal
revenge.
By, the way, did anyone else catch the story of Cheney throwing out
his back moving his OWN boxes? What is a former vice president doing
playing his own moving man, unless all those boxes contained
incriminating evidence he would not allow anyone else to even touch?
Must have been a lot of such evidence to throw his back out like
that.
On a happier note, we are pleased to report that Thursday we
completed the latest round of shipping of the new "Convict Dick & W"
caps, the ones with a little embroidered cowboy hat hung on the "W",
intended to ridicule the original cowboy from Connecticut himself,
who always looked about as at home on that fake Crawford ranch as Zsa
Zsa looked on Green Acres. So if you have not requested yours yet,
you can get one from the return page after you submit the statute of
limitations extension action page.
Extend Statute of Limitations Action Page:
http://www.peaceteam.net/action/pnum933.php
And on the same return page from the action page above, you can also
find the new local county prosecutor lookup, which we are using to
call, write and email local district attorneys, asking them to bring
murder charges against George Bush and Dick Cheney as urged by Vince
Bugliosi. If any resident of your county was killed a war based on
false pretenses, Bugliosi says that district attorney has grounds to
bring murder charges. At the top of all these pages, there is a link
to a terrific YouTube video you can watch on this of Bugliosi's House
testimony.
The local prosecutor initiative is an important long term back up
action, intended to keep the heat on at the same time for a special
prosecutor at the federal level.
IMPORTANT NOTE: We are not asking anyone to file a "formal" criminal
complaint yourself. Common sense tells us that a state prosecutor
will only act, in the exercise of their OWN discretion, if they
believe there is a non-frivolous case to bring. But by speaking out,
we can let them know there is community support for them to do so.
Please take action NOW, so we can win all victories that are supposed
to be ours, and forward this alert as widely as possible.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Imagine a Woman
Late yesterday I visited the Ageless Hippy Chick where I found this:
IMAGINE A WOMAN by Patricia Lynn Reilly
Imagine a woman who believes it is right and good she is a woman.
A woman who honors her experience and tells her stories.
Who refuses to carry the sins of others within her body and life.
Imagine a woman who trusts and respects herself.
A woman who listens to her needs and desires.
Who meets them with tenderness and grace.
Imagine a woman who acknowledges the past's influence on the present.
A woman who has walked through her past.
Who has healed into the present.
Imagine a woman who authors her own life.
A woman who exerts, initiates, and moves on her own behalf.
Who refuses to surrender except to her truest self and wisest voice.
Imagine a woman who names her own gods.
A woman who imagines the divine in her image and likeness.
Who designs a personal spirituality to inform her daily life.
Imagine a woman in love with her own body.
A woman who believes her body is enough, just as it is.
Who celebrates its rhythms and cycles as an exquisite resource.
Imagine a woman who honors the body of the Goddess in her changing body.
A woman who celebrates the accumulation of her years and her wisdom.
Who refuses to use her life-energy disguising the changes in her body and life.
Imagine a woman who values the women in her life.
A woman who sits in circles of women.
Who is reminded of the truth about herself when she forgets.
Imagine yourself as this woman.
“Imagine a Woman” © Patricia Lynn Reilly, 1995
IMAGINE A WOMAN II
Imagine a woman who is interested in her own life.
A woman who embraces her life as teacher, healer, and challenge.
Who is grateful for the ordinary moments of beauty and grace.
Imagine a woman who participates in her own life.
A woman who meets each challenge with creativity.
Who takes action on her own behalf with clarity and strength.
Imagine a woman who has crafted a fully-formed solitude.
A woman who is available to herself.
Who chooses friends and lovers with the capacity to respect her solitude.
Imagine a woman who acknowledges the full range of human emotion.
A woman who expresses her feelings clearly and directly.
Who allows them to pass through her as naturally as the breath.
Imagine a woman who tells the truth.
A woman who trusts her experience of the world and expresses it.
Who refuses to defer to the thoughts, perceptions, and responses of others.
Imagine a woman who follows her creative impulses.
A woman who produces original creations.
Who refuses to color inside someone else’s lines.
Imagine a woman who has relinquished the desire for intellectual safety and approval.
A woman who makes a powerful statement with every action she takes.
Who asserts to herself the right to reorder the world.
Imagine a woman who has grown in knowledge and love of herself.
A woman who has vowed faithfulness to her own life.
Who remains loyal to herself. Regardless.
Imagine yourself as this woman.
“Imagine a Woman II” © Patricia Lynn Reilly, 1995
IMAGINE A WOMAN by Patricia Lynn Reilly
Imagine a woman who believes it is right and good she is a woman.
A woman who honors her experience and tells her stories.
Who refuses to carry the sins of others within her body and life.
Imagine a woman who trusts and respects herself.
A woman who listens to her needs and desires.
Who meets them with tenderness and grace.
Imagine a woman who acknowledges the past's influence on the present.
A woman who has walked through her past.
Who has healed into the present.
Imagine a woman who authors her own life.
A woman who exerts, initiates, and moves on her own behalf.
Who refuses to surrender except to her truest self and wisest voice.
Imagine a woman who names her own gods.
A woman who imagines the divine in her image and likeness.
Who designs a personal spirituality to inform her daily life.
Imagine a woman in love with her own body.
A woman who believes her body is enough, just as it is.
Who celebrates its rhythms and cycles as an exquisite resource.
Imagine a woman who honors the body of the Goddess in her changing body.
A woman who celebrates the accumulation of her years and her wisdom.
Who refuses to use her life-energy disguising the changes in her body and life.
Imagine a woman who values the women in her life.
A woman who sits in circles of women.
Who is reminded of the truth about herself when she forgets.
Imagine yourself as this woman.
“Imagine a Woman” © Patricia Lynn Reilly, 1995
IMAGINE A WOMAN II
Imagine a woman who is interested in her own life.
A woman who embraces her life as teacher, healer, and challenge.
Who is grateful for the ordinary moments of beauty and grace.
Imagine a woman who participates in her own life.
A woman who meets each challenge with creativity.
Who takes action on her own behalf with clarity and strength.
Imagine a woman who has crafted a fully-formed solitude.
A woman who is available to herself.
Who chooses friends and lovers with the capacity to respect her solitude.
Imagine a woman who acknowledges the full range of human emotion.
A woman who expresses her feelings clearly and directly.
Who allows them to pass through her as naturally as the breath.
Imagine a woman who tells the truth.
A woman who trusts her experience of the world and expresses it.
Who refuses to defer to the thoughts, perceptions, and responses of others.
Imagine a woman who follows her creative impulses.
A woman who produces original creations.
Who refuses to color inside someone else’s lines.
Imagine a woman who has relinquished the desire for intellectual safety and approval.
A woman who makes a powerful statement with every action she takes.
Who asserts to herself the right to reorder the world.
Imagine a woman who has grown in knowledge and love of herself.
A woman who has vowed faithfulness to her own life.
Who remains loyal to herself. Regardless.
Imagine yourself as this woman.
“Imagine a Woman II” © Patricia Lynn Reilly, 1995
Saturday Song
Yes it's true, I have a worrisome heart, and troubling ways. Do I need a man who can love me the way that I am? I've never known one who could...
Friday, February 6, 2009
The Republicans Have a RNC Chairman To Make Them Proud
This from the Washington Post:
Michael S. Steele, the newly elected chairman of the Republican National Committee, arranged for his 2006 Senate campaign to pay a defunct company run by his sister for services that were never performed, his finance chairman from that campaign has told federal prosecutors.
Federal agents in recent days contacted Steele's sister, a spokesman for Steele said yesterday.
The claim about the payment, one of several allegations by Alan B. Fabian, is outlined in a confidential court document. Fabian offered the information last March as he was seeking leniency for himself during plea negotiations on unrelated fraud charges. It is unclear how extensively his claims have been pursued. Prosecutors gave him no credit for cooperation when he was sentenced in October.
Fabian's claims emerge as Steele begins his new role at the RNC, where he oversees the raising and spending of hundreds of millions of dollars in party money. The former Maryland lieutenant governor has faced questions about his handling of campaign money in prior elections and was twice fined for missing filing deadlines.Reported by Washington post staff reporter Henri E. Cauvin
Don't Know Why
This is a song that reminds me of the girl/woman I was. The girl who always left. I was always on the run one way or another. I sure hope I've stopped running.
I'm a bit melancholy today. Don't know why. This is the ugliest time of year here. Where snow hasn't quite melted, it's covered with bits of dirt and debris. Walkways are filthy with winter-fall--the bit's and pieces that continue to drift down from the canopy of trees during winter storms but are hidden until most of the snow melts. And all my walk ways sink a little deeper into the ground each year so that now they are a boggy trail--wet and muddy. It was just like this when I moved back here from Santa Barbara. I cried as I drove into Salt Lake and then got to the house. Compared to Santa Barbara this is a very ugly city and this is it's very ugliest season. It's overcast today, and I'm tired.
I feel kind of sad. Don't know why... Maybe it's just the anger and helplessness I feel about the mess we're in and the idiocy of the party out of power, working so damned hard to make sure we can't climb out of the hole they dug for us. I'm not sure why I feel this way.
I'm a bit melancholy today. Don't know why. This is the ugliest time of year here. Where snow hasn't quite melted, it's covered with bits of dirt and debris. Walkways are filthy with winter-fall--the bit's and pieces that continue to drift down from the canopy of trees during winter storms but are hidden until most of the snow melts. And all my walk ways sink a little deeper into the ground each year so that now they are a boggy trail--wet and muddy. It was just like this when I moved back here from Santa Barbara. I cried as I drove into Salt Lake and then got to the house. Compared to Santa Barbara this is a very ugly city and this is it's very ugliest season. It's overcast today, and I'm tired.
I feel kind of sad. Don't know why... Maybe it's just the anger and helplessness I feel about the mess we're in and the idiocy of the party out of power, working so damned hard to make sure we can't climb out of the hole they dug for us. I'm not sure why I feel this way.
Paul Krugman: My Favorite Blogging Economist
Today in his blog at the New York Times Krugman says:
Appeasing the centrists
Atrios is right, though I’d put it a bit differently: centrism is a pose rather than a philosophy. And to support that pose, the centrists are demanding $100 billion in cuts in the economic stimulus plan — not because they have any coherent argument saying that the plan is $100 billion too big, not because they can identify $100 billion of stuff that should not be done, but in order to be able to say that they forced Obama to move to the center.
Which raises the obvious question: shouldn’t Obama have made a much bigger plan, say $1.3 trillion, his opening gambit? If he had, he could have conceded to the centrists by cutting it to $1.2 trillion, and still have had a plan with a good chance of really controlling this slump. Instead he made preemptive concessions, only to find the centrists demanding another pound of flesh as proof of their centrist power.Thursday, February 5, 2009
Dickhead in a Wheel Chair
What I want to know is, what he was really doing that made this kind of apparent helplessness possible? How can we assist in making sure this injury puts him in the home until we can put him in the big house where he can regale his fellow inmates with tales of the time he water-boarded that friend of his who apologized for getting his face in the way of Dick's shotgun? And who is the poor woman in attendance? How helpless he looks. Smacking his gums together. Waiting for her to put his foot rest down. What a prick. Shut the fuck up Dick. We don't want to hear what you think. We just want to watch you wither and die, you evil old bastard.
Romance Among The Bipolar Set
There are many triggers and symptoms of bipolar disorder. If you're one of the older bipolar patients, say over forty, you've been living with the disorder for a long time and probably know what to watch for. Not the least of which is falling in love. There is a swing we notice where libido is either a trigger or a symptom. And "inappropriate sexual behavior" is on all the lists of triggers and symptoms. So is compulsive shopping.
So I watch myself carefully and avoid department stores like I was a recovering alcoholic and the department store was my favorite watering hole. I take my libidinous pulse now and then and find that my romantic heart is barely beating. And for many reasons I have not been shopping for anything more lovely than a used pair of jeans at a thrift store . I have been flirted with by a younger man with a quick wit and charming email style. I was tempted, but found myself believing that this attraction was more than likely the acting up or out of my bipolar disorder and nothing more. So my heart has remained in the deep freeze.
Life goes on. And 49 years later this boy is now an old man who has reappeared in my life. It was not his sexual aggression at eighteen that got us into bed, it was my sixteen year old self that did the aggressing. I was the sexual predator. I took what I wanted and left him without a word, without a backward glance. Oh, I thought about him, but I did not call, I did not return to explain my behavior, my moving on, my craziness. I did not look back and wonder if my carelessness hurt him. It seems to have left him whole and healthy. And my crazy life went from wild and free to a long string of failed romances, failed marriages. He on the other hand did all the things one would expect of a good man. He joined the Army and served in Germany. He traveled, he married, he raised two sons. He married again and raised two other children. He has a relationship with his grown up children. He seems to carry with him into old age the same kindness and gentleness he had as a boy.
Now he has found me again. His family is raised, his children grown. He lives alone in his house 60 miles from my house. And my libido is revived and revving. And I wonder is it love or lust or just bipolar disorder?
So I watch myself carefully and avoid department stores like I was a recovering alcoholic and the department store was my favorite watering hole. I take my libidinous pulse now and then and find that my romantic heart is barely beating. And for many reasons I have not been shopping for anything more lovely than a used pair of jeans at a thrift store . I have been flirted with by a younger man with a quick wit and charming email style. I was tempted, but found myself believing that this attraction was more than likely the acting up or out of my bipolar disorder and nothing more. So my heart has remained in the deep freeze.
Life goes on. And 49 years later this boy is now an old man who has reappeared in my life. It was not his sexual aggression at eighteen that got us into bed, it was my sixteen year old self that did the aggressing. I was the sexual predator. I took what I wanted and left him without a word, without a backward glance. Oh, I thought about him, but I did not call, I did not return to explain my behavior, my moving on, my craziness. I did not look back and wonder if my carelessness hurt him. It seems to have left him whole and healthy. And my crazy life went from wild and free to a long string of failed romances, failed marriages. He on the other hand did all the things one would expect of a good man. He joined the Army and served in Germany. He traveled, he married, he raised two sons. He married again and raised two other children. He has a relationship with his grown up children. He seems to carry with him into old age the same kindness and gentleness he had as a boy.
Now he has found me again. His family is raised, his children grown. He lives alone in his house 60 miles from my house. And my libido is revived and revving. And I wonder is it love or lust or just bipolar disorder?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
A gift from YellowDogGranny
"Moving On Up! To The East Side ! To That Deluxe Apartment In The Sky-y-y , , , , , "
INSTEAD HOW ABOUT A LITTLE RESPECT!
The Devil's In The Details
There is unrest amongst the natives. We are growing impatient with the republicans gaming this stimulus package or spending package, depending on you viewpoint. Dear Mr. President, it's time to tell the people what is in the package and let us start screaming for passage of changes or pass it. But make congress get off their asses and do something. We will damn well call our congress persons. We will fire off the email to Nancy and Harry. Oh yes we will. But tell us what you're doing. And while you're at it, will you please explain the weak spot in the vetting process that does not enquire into ones tax difficulties? I'm guessing Caroline, who seemed stunned that she would be required to do this if appointed Senator from New York. This is getting embarrassing, but will no doubt delight the audiences of SNL, Jon Stewart, and Stephen Colbert, of whom I'm one. I'm rooting for you. I'll do anything you ask, but please, Mr President, talk to us. You're really good at it. We need to keep our hope alive.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
It's A Fairy Tale Romance
I've told you bits and pieces in posts and comments about Cal, the boy I met at his brother's coffee house in 1960. I was barely sixteen, he was barely eighteen. It was his older brother (married and with children) who hit on me, but it was Cal who I chose to drag home to my parent's empty house for the purpose of having sex with a very sweet real boy. He was gentle, kind, patient, willing and in the end probably in a great deal of pain, if the stories of blue balls are true. I was the first girl he'd been naked in bed with. He was the first boy I'd been naked in bed with. (My daddy did not count and it was because of my experience with my daddy that I so wanted to have a normal experience of sex with a real boy) I was not the first girl Cal had sex with, but the first girl who really wanted to have sex with him but who wasn't able to have sex with him.
It was the very early trauma of those years of sex with daddy that made sex with Cal impossible. I eventually had to get medical help for the problem for the clamped down muscles that would not allow me to even use a tampon. My body did not want to be penetrated by anything. My body had a mind of it's own and was determined to remain virginal if not technically a virgin.
Now, 49 years later the boy is an old man and the girl is an old woman. He has been married twice, raised two of his own children, and two of his second wife's children. He's lived in the same house for thirty years. Prior to that he lived within a few blocks of me and used to see my photos in the newspaper modeling. He recognized me. This in itself amazes me. So close and yet so far.
Then a year ago he read my letter to the editor in the newspaper and googled me where he found my blog. He started reading and read for a full year before he emailed me. That is a patient man. That is a loyal man. And of all the men I've ever known, he is the first to read my novel. And at breakneck speed. He finished it the day I took it off the blog.
We have been talking on the phone now for weeks. I am again the aggressor in this odd relationship. But he seems fine with that. I ask very personal questions and he answers without thinking for the answer I might most want to hear. He says he can't lie to me. I'm hoping that's true. I believe that intimacy is impossible where honesty is withheld.
I thought I was through with men. I thought I was again impervious, sexless, disinterested, over it all. I might be wrong about that. There might be a bit of romance left in this old woman's heart. I'll keep you posted.
It was the very early trauma of those years of sex with daddy that made sex with Cal impossible. I eventually had to get medical help for the problem for the clamped down muscles that would not allow me to even use a tampon. My body did not want to be penetrated by anything. My body had a mind of it's own and was determined to remain virginal if not technically a virgin.
Now, 49 years later the boy is an old man and the girl is an old woman. He has been married twice, raised two of his own children, and two of his second wife's children. He's lived in the same house for thirty years. Prior to that he lived within a few blocks of me and used to see my photos in the newspaper modeling. He recognized me. This in itself amazes me. So close and yet so far.
Then a year ago he read my letter to the editor in the newspaper and googled me where he found my blog. He started reading and read for a full year before he emailed me. That is a patient man. That is a loyal man. And of all the men I've ever known, he is the first to read my novel. And at breakneck speed. He finished it the day I took it off the blog.
We have been talking on the phone now for weeks. I am again the aggressor in this odd relationship. But he seems fine with that. I ask very personal questions and he answers without thinking for the answer I might most want to hear. He says he can't lie to me. I'm hoping that's true. I believe that intimacy is impossible where honesty is withheld.
I thought I was through with men. I thought I was again impervious, sexless, disinterested, over it all. I might be wrong about that. There might be a bit of romance left in this old woman's heart. I'll keep you posted.
Monday, February 2, 2009
I've Gone And Done It Now
I'm now officially entered in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. I could not have done this without Phillip. Just the technical part of the entry form, all the small details of getting every part of the submission process right would have flummoxed me. For Phillip it was easy, despite the disorganization of my "files"--that may be too generous to me to call what I'm storing files. Phillip is one hell of an editor. Too bad he doesn't want to do it, but then I'm amazed anyone wants to do it, since I'm so bad at it.
My little nervous breakdown is coming. There is the period of extreme stress buildup when a deadline is looming. This chance to publish means a lot to me. It's a long shot I know, but I have one goal, one resolution for this year and it's to get published. It may just be a short story. Maybe a poem. But something. So something is now out there. Odd that it's the pitch I have least interest or skill in writing which is the part that will end up determining whether or not the first three chapters are even read. See how awkward and convoluted that sentence is? Is it even a sentence? Oh god. Now I'm filled with fear. Everything depends on the pitch.
I will now collapse on my fainting couch and weep and carry on. Then I'll vacuum. Then I'll come and visit you.
Kathleen, thank you for telling me about his contest and urging me to enter it. Thank you for helping me with my pitch. So many of you have been helping me, I can't name you all, but in the beginning it was Stella who made me think I just might be a writer. It was Vig who took me seriously enough to correct my grammar and spelling. It was Lisa and Lib, Linda and Diva, Naj and Freida. Then it was my friend Susu who read and left me email comments, and the notes of a good copy editor. Then it was LeeAnn who left me emailed notes of an editorial nature, and Larry for a million reasons. God bless the editor in every one of you. I was amazed how many of you read the book and left helpful and encouraging comments. There are so many men who read and left touching and thoughtful comments. I'm talking about you Unconventional Conventionist and you Randal, and you Beach, and you Steve, and you MRMacrum. I'm sure I'm leaving some of you out. I know I am. But I so exhausted I'm shaking. My fingers are jumpy. I've got the jitters.
And you Cal. You, who finished reading just as I took it off the blog. It has been ruthlessly edited--four chapters cut, chunks here and there, the occasional word like "that." Thanks again Phillip for pointing "that" out to me.
Don't feel bad if I haven't mentioned your help.
My little nervous breakdown is coming. There is the period of extreme stress buildup when a deadline is looming. This chance to publish means a lot to me. It's a long shot I know, but I have one goal, one resolution for this year and it's to get published. It may just be a short story. Maybe a poem. But something. So something is now out there. Odd that it's the pitch I have least interest or skill in writing which is the part that will end up determining whether or not the first three chapters are even read. See how awkward and convoluted that sentence is? Is it even a sentence? Oh god. Now I'm filled with fear. Everything depends on the pitch.
I will now collapse on my fainting couch and weep and carry on. Then I'll vacuum. Then I'll come and visit you.
Kathleen, thank you for telling me about his contest and urging me to enter it. Thank you for helping me with my pitch. So many of you have been helping me, I can't name you all, but in the beginning it was Stella who made me think I just might be a writer. It was Vig who took me seriously enough to correct my grammar and spelling. It was Lisa and Lib, Linda and Diva, Naj and Freida. Then it was my friend Susu who read and left me email comments, and the notes of a good copy editor. Then it was LeeAnn who left me emailed notes of an editorial nature, and Larry for a million reasons. God bless the editor in every one of you. I was amazed how many of you read the book and left helpful and encouraging comments. There are so many men who read and left touching and thoughtful comments. I'm talking about you Unconventional Conventionist and you Randal, and you Beach, and you Steve, and you MRMacrum. I'm sure I'm leaving some of you out. I know I am. But I so exhausted I'm shaking. My fingers are jumpy. I've got the jitters.
And you Cal. You, who finished reading just as I took it off the blog. It has been ruthlessly edited--four chapters cut, chunks here and there, the occasional word like "that." Thanks again Phillip for pointing "that" out to me.
Don't feel bad if I haven't mentioned your help.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
I Could Write A Book
I wish I could edit one quickly and cleanly. Oh well. The work goes on. Obsessive as ever.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Gift That Keeps On Giving
From Cal or Cal's Cat. I'm not sure, but thank you.
=
Admit it, he did give us a lot of laughs.Farewell, George Bush'The vast majority of our imports come from outside the country.' - George W. Bush'If we don't succeed, we run the risk of failure.' - George W. Bush
'One word sums up probably the responsibility of any Governor, and that one word is 'to be prepared'.' -George W. Bush
'I have made good judgments in the past. I have made good judgments in the future.' - George W. Bush
'The future will be better tomorrow.' - George W. Bush
'We're going to have the best educated American people in the world.' - George W. Bush
'I stand by all the misstatements that I've made.' - George W Bush
'We have a firm commitment to NATO, we are a part of NATO. We have a firm commitment to Europe. We are a part of Europe ' - George W. Bush
'Public speaking is very easy.' - George W. Bush
'A low voter turnout is an indication of fewer people going to the polls.' - George W. Bush
'I have opinions of my own -- strong opinions -- but I don't always agree with them.' -George Bush
'We are ready for any unforeseen event that may or may not occur.' - George W. Bush
'For NASA, space is still a high priority.' -George W. Bush
'Quite frankly, teachers are the only profession that teach our children.' -George W. Bush
'It isn't pollution that's harming the environment. It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it.' - George W. Bush
=
The Masochism Tango
I am deep in the weeds of the details of fulfilling the requirements for entering this contest. Please forgive my neglect. It will be slim pickings for the next few days. Bear with me. I'll be here working away, wondering why I wait till the last minute to do my homework. God I'm lazy. What a masochist.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Speaking of Cats
Cal, the boy I seduced so long ago, has a cat who sent me an email. Cal's cat is very saucy and she actually talks. See Cal's cat talk to me.
Tagged and Bagged by Susan
Susan of Phantsythat has tagged me for a simple meme. Good thing this is a simple one, as I'm up to my eyeballs in contest falderal. For a woman who writes many hundreds of words a day with no thought at all about the need to put my best foot forward, I'm now paralyzed with insecurity.
But this just might be the palatte cleanser I need to clear my head. So, thanks Susan. I probably really needed this.
The Rules:
1. Go to the 4th folder in your computer where you store your pictures.
2. Pick the 4th picture in that folder.
3. Explain the picture.
4. Tag 4 people to do the same.
This is a photo of my cat Rianna. I know, it's a horrible name for an animal, but she was given to me by a little girl named Rianna, and Rianna named the kitten before she gave her to me. So, Rianna it was. She was barely weened when I got her. A tiny red puffball. She followed me everywhere, like a very tiny dog that looked like a very tiny fox. Rianna was the daughter of a Santa Barbara feral mountain cat--these are the descendants of cats that have been abandoned in the mountains above Santa Barbara where I lived for a blissful while. I used to get phone calls from neighbors that a fox was following me.
Rianna was always a loyal and bonded cat, but she never lost her fiercely independent streak which expressed itself in an aversion to being held in certain ways. She was not a particularly affectionate cat, but when she wanted to be petted she sat on my lap and let me pet her. I say she let me, because petting when not sitting on my lap might elicit a warning claw-retracted slap, and if that warning slap was not enough to discourage the unwanted petting the next slap came with one extended claw and always drew blood. My friends who tried to pet her didn't get the kind warning--they got the one claw treatment. This was how she came to be known as Mean Kitty.
Mean Kitty bossed all the dogs. She was never afraid of a dog, no matter the size of the dog. Where did she get that confidence? My big dog Lucy was so cowed by Rianna that if Rianna was sprawled at the top of the stairs, Lucy could not go either up or down the stairs, and would either whine loudly for my help, or would find me to move Rianna. Rianna was a tyrant. Who could imagine such ferocity in a lovely little red cat? I once saw her chase a large yellow Labrador, that she must had taken a dislike to, out of our front yard. Where did she get that self-confidence?
She lived over twenty years--past twenty I lost count. She moved four times with me in that twenty some years. When we moved from Santa Barbara to Salt Lake she followed close on my heels as I unloaded the car and moved into the little house, trip after trip. She did not settle until I did. What a loyal companion she was. Rianna outlived three of my dogs. She didn't seem to ever like anyone but me.
She was never ill, never injured, always had a hearty appetite and never grew fat. The only reason I knew it was close to the end for her was a dramatic change in morning behavior. The last three or four mornings of her life she waited for me to awake, get my coffee and smoke, crawl back into bed to watch morning news, and then Rianna would crawl into my lap, settle deeply, and then pee on me. This change in behavior was so dramatic I called our House-Call Vet and asked him what he thought it meant. He told me it was a symptom of dementia in a cat. So after days of having to strip my bed every morning and wash all my bedding, I decided to let her go. The Vet came and we put her to sleep, and then into a very peaceful death. She seemed ready to go. But I have missed her terribly. Just looking at the picture of her makes me cry.
Okay taggees get ready:
Dusty
PENolan
YellowDogGranny
La Bellete Rouge
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Tuesday Night Movie: Good Dick
Revolutionary Road has three Oscar worthy performances in Winslet, DiCaprio, and Michael Shannon as the truth teller. It is not a bad movie. It's an Oscar movie. It didn't seem like anything new or interesting to me, though.As a counter balance to good movies of that ilk may I suggest Good Dick. Written and directed by and starring Marianna Palka, it's one of the best American indie flicks I've seen in a long time—not "shot on a cell phone" indie, it's got good production values. It's edgy, smart, and very funny. And a little painful. It also stars John Ritter's spittin' image son Jason. It has a cameo by Charles Durning that is pure money and one of the best "guitar riffing with effects" soundtracks EVAR. The first fifteen minutes of the movie have one song, three different musical interludes, and about three paragraphs of dialog. I think I prefer that to people saying stupid things trying to provide character development. Gran Torino I'm looking at you.
When the boy and girl sit down to watch an Annie Sprinkle video together. Priceless.
I will watch Good Dick again just for the soundtrack and to freak out on the 250 pound Carson Daly look-alike. Some kind of optical illusion, I think.
Now, about the name ....
Tuesday Matinee Movie
This is the best movie I've seen in a long time. Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio are perfectly cast in this story of 1950's alienation and suburban angst. It might have been written by John Cheever. It was actually written by Richard Yates and competed against Catch 22, by Joseph Heller, and The Moviegoer, by Walker Percy for the National Book Award in 1962 . I read both those books in the 60s and was bowled over by their brilliance. I've never heard of Richard Yeats. This was his first book. It was chosen by Time as one of the 100 best English Language books written since the 1920s. I've read everything by both Percy and Heller. I'm astounded I haven't read Yates.
The move is luscious, and drab. There is this New York landscape inhabited by men in gray suits and hats carrying briefcases. At home in Connecticut there is a discontented wife with a lovely home and two lovely children. DiCaprio plays Frank Wheeler who works for the same company where his father worked unhappily all his life. Winslet, as April Wheeler, has dreams of life in France. She will work and he can "discover" himself. She has done the research. She puts this dream into action and just as they are about to leap free she is trapped by an unwanted pregnancy and her husband's need for safety, normalcy, conformity.
One of the things I remember about the 50's and mid 60s was that in most states contraception was unavailable and abortions were illegal. And mental illness was a very shameful family secret. Kathy Bates has a lovely part as a real estate agent and the mother of a man who is likely bipolar. He was a mathematician before all the shock treatments. He plays the part of the truth teller. I know that role. It doesn't make one popular.
Phillip didn't like the movie. So maybe it's great and maybe it's just another Oscar Movie. But Nick and I loved it. I think remembering the 1950s helps.
I forgot Nick told me when I got in his car that John Updike died today. He was a writer in a class with Cheever, Heller, Percy, Yates.
Biographical Information? Me? Couldn't Possibly!
I have got my pitch together with a lot of help from some of you. I have finally come to the conclusion that there isn't much more I can say in 300 words or less about the novel. I know I'm supposed to be selling a product. I think I've gotten into the spirit of the thing. I think I might have a handle on it now. It's only taken me a couple of weeks. I started out with 750 words or so and cut and cut and cut. Kathleen Maher has been most generous getting me through the worst of it, now under 300 words and just a bit juicy, not too scary, and hopefully intriguing.
But now my task is to write about myself. As myself. Oh god, no! You might think this is funny since I do little else these days, but this has to be focused on me as the writer of this particular book which I am selling as fiction. Can I pull this rabbit out of this hat?
So what are my credentials? Really? Credentials? I have none. This is so sad. I might be one of the best read women in the world, but I have no credentials. I took classes at two universities from the age of 17 to 29 and virtually spoon fed my third husband all the reading he had to do to get his PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Denver. I typed his collection of short stories, and edited them in the process. I read Peyps Diaries to him as we drove back and forth across the country. I swear to god I carried him on my back as we made those endless trips from Arkansas to Colorado over and over while reading aloud from sunup to sundown day after day. But he got the PhD. And happily for me, and sadly for him, he is now still an academic and I write. Ha!
But now my task is to write about myself. As myself. Oh god, no! You might think this is funny since I do little else these days, but this has to be focused on me as the writer of this particular book which I am selling as fiction. Can I pull this rabbit out of this hat?
So what are my credentials? Really? Credentials? I have none. This is so sad. I might be one of the best read women in the world, but I have no credentials. I took classes at two universities from the age of 17 to 29 and virtually spoon fed my third husband all the reading he had to do to get his PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Denver. I typed his collection of short stories, and edited them in the process. I read Peyps Diaries to him as we drove back and forth across the country. I swear to god I carried him on my back as we made those endless trips from Arkansas to Colorado over and over while reading aloud from sunup to sundown day after day. But he got the PhD. And happily for me, and sadly for him, he is now still an academic and I write. Ha!
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Little Things You Do That Can Drive Your Mate Crazy
I use the word "mate" here rather loosely. Really it could be anyone who lives with you. But you do things that you don't even know about that can make the person sitting across from you at the breakfast table want to run screaming from the room. Or merely endure it silently while adding it to that mental list of annoying things you do that will one day reach the breaking point, the last straw, the final outrage.
I have TMJ. I've always had it. My jaw pops just talking sometimes. It certainly annoys me, but it annoys me most kissing. And it seemed to annoy past mates most at mealtime. This is just for starters. Are you sure you still like me?
My first husband, Lyle, was appalled that I didn't know how to saute fresh mushrooms. I used my grandmother's wedding present The Joy of Cooking as my source. Irma Rombauer was, according to my grandmother, the only source, the best source, the bible of cookbook gurus. Lyle said the mushrooms tasted like they'd been cooked in scouring powder. I cried. I was nineteen and had never cooked a fresh mushroom before. So to this day, I have never thought of myself as a good cook. But I've never killed anyone with my dreadful cooking, yet.
Lyle was also the first person (but not the last) to accuse me of popping my jaw at the breakfast table (chewing cereal) on purpose just to annoy him. On purpose. Hell, he thought he got a bad deal? I was horrified to find that I was expected to have sex with him. I married him because he was my boss, he was gay, and we partied at the gay bars. We were friends. He was talented and fun and gay. And his Boss hated gay men. Most especially I married Lyle because he was gay. Safely gay. Do I need to stress that again? And he had a good job. And so did I. But that sex thing really ruined it for me.
I can't begin to list the many annoying things that I do, but I'm sure I've slept peacefully next to men who wanted to smash a grapefruit in my face in the morning over poached eggs, toast and coffee.
The last table-atrocity I heard about was from a woman. Her name was Eleanor, I'd known her ages ago, but she needed a place to rent and I needed someone to share the house with. I used four of the eight rooms. She was welcome to the rest of them. She moved some heavy furniture into the house, had her bedroom wired for her vast electronic, computing life. I cooked while she supervised the Comcast guys.
I fed her clam spaghetti, garlic bread, a salad and white wine. Simple enough, not so white trashy as I can sometimes get. But tasty. I was shoveling it in, in my usual fashion and she stopped, wine glass in hand rising to her mouth, and said, rather dramatically, one eyebrow cocked, "This will never work."
"Why?"
"Because you make sexual sounds when you eat."
"What kind of sexual sounds?"
"You moan."
She moved out by the end of the week.
I bet in certain cultures an appreciative moan at the table is considered a compliment to the host.
I have TMJ. I've always had it. My jaw pops just talking sometimes. It certainly annoys me, but it annoys me most kissing. And it seemed to annoy past mates most at mealtime. This is just for starters. Are you sure you still like me?
My first husband, Lyle, was appalled that I didn't know how to saute fresh mushrooms. I used my grandmother's wedding present The Joy of Cooking as my source. Irma Rombauer was, according to my grandmother, the only source, the best source, the bible of cookbook gurus. Lyle said the mushrooms tasted like they'd been cooked in scouring powder. I cried. I was nineteen and had never cooked a fresh mushroom before. So to this day, I have never thought of myself as a good cook. But I've never killed anyone with my dreadful cooking, yet.
Lyle was also the first person (but not the last) to accuse me of popping my jaw at the breakfast table (chewing cereal) on purpose just to annoy him. On purpose. Hell, he thought he got a bad deal? I was horrified to find that I was expected to have sex with him. I married him because he was my boss, he was gay, and we partied at the gay bars. We were friends. He was talented and fun and gay. And his Boss hated gay men. Most especially I married Lyle because he was gay. Safely gay. Do I need to stress that again? And he had a good job. And so did I. But that sex thing really ruined it for me.
I can't begin to list the many annoying things that I do, but I'm sure I've slept peacefully next to men who wanted to smash a grapefruit in my face in the morning over poached eggs, toast and coffee.
The last table-atrocity I heard about was from a woman. Her name was Eleanor, I'd known her ages ago, but she needed a place to rent and I needed someone to share the house with. I used four of the eight rooms. She was welcome to the rest of them. She moved some heavy furniture into the house, had her bedroom wired for her vast electronic, computing life. I cooked while she supervised the Comcast guys.
I fed her clam spaghetti, garlic bread, a salad and white wine. Simple enough, not so white trashy as I can sometimes get. But tasty. I was shoveling it in, in my usual fashion and she stopped, wine glass in hand rising to her mouth, and said, rather dramatically, one eyebrow cocked, "This will never work."
"Why?"
"Because you make sexual sounds when you eat."
"What kind of sexual sounds?"
"You moan."
She moved out by the end of the week.
I bet in certain cultures an appreciative moan at the table is considered a compliment to the host.
Skin Hunger
Here's the reason so many old people who live alone have dogs. Cats, too. It's skin hunger. We need touch and we aren't likely to receive touch from another person, so we enjoy the touching comfort of a dog or cat. I have had both pets at the same time and whereas a cat lets you pet her if she feels like it, a dog will lie there endlessly and revel in being petted. And I envy my dog that pleasure. I too would like to be stroked just that way, without need for reciprocation, just for the pleasure of the toucher: kind touch, gentle touch, firm touch, absent minded touch, a hand resting on my head, playing with the strands of hair with no worry that it will turn from a comfort to a need that wants being turned into something more than just touch. Or that I might get up to get a drink of water and in the getting up and walking away insult the person that pets this old cat. I want touch that doesn't require a thank you or come with an IOU.
This isn't just a new thought, or a new need, or something that just occurred to me on a whim. It's something I knew when my last lover and I lived together years ago. He was the dog in that relationship. He loved to be touched just the way I absentmindedly touch Roscoe when I'm baby-sitting him at night when he curls up next to me as I watch TV. I massage his face muscles and gently stroke his neck and soft ears, I rub the loose skin behind his ears and he just soaks it in. When I get tired of this or want him to move, I say, "move." He stands up on the bed, does a quick turn and lies down. There is nothing pushy in his acceptance of my touch or huffy or sulky at my desire to stop. With my ex, touch was almost always prelude to sex. If I were touching him, maybe not. But if he touched me with tenderness and a gentle hand it would almost always be about his desire for sex. I could ask for non-sexual touch, and he might agree, but it was as if he were watching his clock for the minimum ten minutes to pass so he could stop.
I'm probably dreaming. I doubt many men would want to lie in bed next to a woman and stroke her like she were a purring cat and leave it at that. But it's a nice dream.
This isn't just a new thought, or a new need, or something that just occurred to me on a whim. It's something I knew when my last lover and I lived together years ago. He was the dog in that relationship. He loved to be touched just the way I absentmindedly touch Roscoe when I'm baby-sitting him at night when he curls up next to me as I watch TV. I massage his face muscles and gently stroke his neck and soft ears, I rub the loose skin behind his ears and he just soaks it in. When I get tired of this or want him to move, I say, "move." He stands up on the bed, does a quick turn and lies down. There is nothing pushy in his acceptance of my touch or huffy or sulky at my desire to stop. With my ex, touch was almost always prelude to sex. If I were touching him, maybe not. But if he touched me with tenderness and a gentle hand it would almost always be about his desire for sex. I could ask for non-sexual touch, and he might agree, but it was as if he were watching his clock for the minimum ten minutes to pass so he could stop.
I'm probably dreaming. I doubt many men would want to lie in bed next to a woman and stroke her like she were a purring cat and leave it at that. But it's a nice dream.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Ever Since The Inauguration
I can't get this song out of my mind. And it started with the Inauguration. There were exact lyrics from this song said in the inaugural speech. And in trying to find the song on You Tube I was unable to find a decent recording. I googled it and found that both Nat and Natalie Cole had recorded it, but then saw the name DIANA KRALL and that did it for me. I can't embed it because it's a recording session and isn't out yet. Sorry, Tengrain, I know she's not your favorite, so I know what a kindness it was for you to post a clip of her for me. You are indeed a generous man. But for those of you too young to have heard this song, here it is. I knew the lyrics from about age nine or ten. It was a favorite of mine, as well as the Whippenpoof Song.
YouTube doesn't have a clip of Natalie or Nat performing the song, so you'll have to make due with the link. I hope you like it. I'm now going to go see if Itunes has it. Have a lovely Sunday afternoon. It's snowing here, and though I didn't get very far with my cleaning project yesterday, and I'm really inclined to go to bed with a book and then nap the afternoon away, I will clean that last shelf in my food cupboard because this song inspires me rise above my lazy assed instincts and get busy.
YouTube doesn't have a clip of Natalie or Nat performing the song, so you'll have to make due with the link. I hope you like it. I'm now going to go see if Itunes has it. Have a lovely Sunday afternoon. It's snowing here, and though I didn't get very far with my cleaning project yesterday, and I'm really inclined to go to bed with a book and then nap the afternoon away, I will clean that last shelf in my food cupboard because this song inspires me rise above my lazy assed instincts and get busy.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
I Have A Question
I get in trouble now and then for making assumptions about men. I say things like "Men do this..." Or, "Men think that..." And when I do, my friend Phillip calls bullshit on me. Maybe I should say, "Men my age think this or say that..." But I am a woman with a considerable amount of experience with men, though unsuccessful and mostly unhappy, this experience does form my impressions of men. I know not all men are alike, and that the men I've loved and lived with do not represent all men, but they do all seem to have something in common with men in general. I can hear Phillip groan clear from San Francisco, since he finds such generalizations absurd. And I do admit, Phillip does not fit neatly into any of my male pigeonholes. So perhaps it's time I stopped making statement about men in general and started asking questions instead. Maybe I can say, "it seems to me that the men I have known..." Or, "Is it true that men...?"
Yesterday I wrote about bipolar disorder from my point of view, as a woman with bipolar disorder, and a visitor who always has something stupid and obnoxious to say, commented that it's only women who get bipolar disorder. I cannot quote him precisely, since I almost always delete his comments as fast as he posts them--I have no time or interest in debating anyone that ignorant. But his assumption that bipolar disorder is a female thing raised a point worth exploring. It isn't that bipolar disorder is more prevalent in women than men, (it's an equal opportunity genetic crap shoot) but it is true that men are reluctant to admit to needing help. It is obvious in my group therapy experiences that it's mostly women who are seeking help. It might be that their families have forced this help upon them, and it might be that women are more comfortable than men sharing their feelings in a group, since women are more open about their feelings with their own friends and family than men seem to be--especially men my age.
These men were raised in a time of rigid roles for men and women. Men my age had trouble finding solid footing during the early years of the women's movement, and feminism is still mostly a dirty word to them. Feminism forced many changes on these men. And they did not like what seemed to them a loss of power and control. Rigid rolls are easy to understand. The shifting ground of new ways of thinking and feeling made them uncomfortable, left them off balance, and pissed off about it. Often women in an attempt to rescue a marriage that isn't keeping pace with her needs suggests couples therapy (I've done it myself) and often the answer is a loud and emphatic "NO! You're the crazy one, not me." The reasoning is usually that if a woman is unhappy in the marriage the problem is hers, not his. If therapy can "fix" her, no harm. But if therapy leads her to the conclusion that her marriage is stifling and not meeting her needs, she will probably decide to bail on the marriage. So to a lot of men, therapy ruined their marriages. The fault is not theirs, but the therapists.
So why then do so few men with bipolar disorder seek help? Why are the waiting rooms of psychiatrists around the country filled with women and not men? My theory is that for a man to admit that he is ill or needs help is still seen as weak by other men. Especially if the illness is considered a mental illness. And there is still a large part of the population that has this stereotype about men. Men are still supposed to be strong and stoic, impervious to pain of any kind--physical or emotional.
So tell me you men, what is your reason for not seeking therapeutic help? Are you without problems, without psychic pain, mentally healthy? If you have sought help, has it helped? Inquiring minds want to know.
Yesterday I wrote about bipolar disorder from my point of view, as a woman with bipolar disorder, and a visitor who always has something stupid and obnoxious to say, commented that it's only women who get bipolar disorder. I cannot quote him precisely, since I almost always delete his comments as fast as he posts them--I have no time or interest in debating anyone that ignorant. But his assumption that bipolar disorder is a female thing raised a point worth exploring. It isn't that bipolar disorder is more prevalent in women than men, (it's an equal opportunity genetic crap shoot) but it is true that men are reluctant to admit to needing help. It is obvious in my group therapy experiences that it's mostly women who are seeking help. It might be that their families have forced this help upon them, and it might be that women are more comfortable than men sharing their feelings in a group, since women are more open about their feelings with their own friends and family than men seem to be--especially men my age.
These men were raised in a time of rigid roles for men and women. Men my age had trouble finding solid footing during the early years of the women's movement, and feminism is still mostly a dirty word to them. Feminism forced many changes on these men. And they did not like what seemed to them a loss of power and control. Rigid rolls are easy to understand. The shifting ground of new ways of thinking and feeling made them uncomfortable, left them off balance, and pissed off about it. Often women in an attempt to rescue a marriage that isn't keeping pace with her needs suggests couples therapy (I've done it myself) and often the answer is a loud and emphatic "NO! You're the crazy one, not me." The reasoning is usually that if a woman is unhappy in the marriage the problem is hers, not his. If therapy can "fix" her, no harm. But if therapy leads her to the conclusion that her marriage is stifling and not meeting her needs, she will probably decide to bail on the marriage. So to a lot of men, therapy ruined their marriages. The fault is not theirs, but the therapists.
So why then do so few men with bipolar disorder seek help? Why are the waiting rooms of psychiatrists around the country filled with women and not men? My theory is that for a man to admit that he is ill or needs help is still seen as weak by other men. Especially if the illness is considered a mental illness. And there is still a large part of the population that has this stereotype about men. Men are still supposed to be strong and stoic, impervious to pain of any kind--physical or emotional.
So tell me you men, what is your reason for not seeking therapeutic help? Are you without problems, without psychic pain, mentally healthy? If you have sought help, has it helped? Inquiring minds want to know.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Crazy Talk
I've mentioned in the past that I'm bipolar. I'd have to research my own blog to find out what I've said, but I want to talk a bit about the symptoms, the treatment, and family. I use the term family loosely because who ever you love is your family as far as I'm concerned. And family is where I want to start.
Bipolar disorder is very hard for a family member who is not bipolar to deal with. Sometimes it's awfully hard to know what is personality and what is disorder and what's PMS. "Normal" is a hard psychological trait to measure. Too normal and we're dull as dust. But crazy has a big fat book with symptoms and graphs, and the weight of both law and medicine to measure how just how crazy is too crazy to function in the "normal" world. I'm so crazy I'm disabled. Legally disabled.
But you say, "You seem able to write every day. How can you do that if your disabled?" And I say, I always wrote. I just didn't have a blog. Sometimes I couldn't read the scribble that was my writing, but even bat-shit crazy I wrote, documenting every little thing, taking notes as if life were a class and there would be a test. I also read like it was a full time job and I was getting paid by the page. Both those occupations allowed me to be alone a lot. And the thing about being alone is the relief of not having to pay attention to someone else and their needs.
Another symptom is "inappropriate" sexual behavior. I think the word "inappropriate" means with someone too young, or too old, or just met. It also applies to what some call "sex addiction."
We tend to self-medicate. For most that means alcohol (legal and easy to get) for others it might be pot or heroine or meth. For others it means, a plethora of other drugs, but the one drug most Shrinks don't blink at is cigarettes. Nicotine is a good antidepressant and plays well with other bipolar drugs. I found it interesting that in the Bin, we were all sent out into the open air to puff away on our cigarettes. Mormons with bipolar disorder in the Bin with us were given nicotine gum.
The one symptom of my illness that isn't fairly well managed with two drugs twice a day, is my intense need to isolate. It is also what makes it possible to write and read to the exclusion of all else. I also engage in obsessive news watching, and then there is need for food cooking and cleaning up after cooking and foraging for food and feeding Cyrus. But, whereas most of you work full time, raise children, have a social life, keep your pets alive, and your spouse or lover happy enough to stay, I do none of those things. I make no room for anyone else. I keep all but one or two friends at arms length. I might be good for a visit from a close friend for an hour or two, but that's my limit. I can attend to the needs of another only that long. This makes me a big selfish asshole. But did you ever think it might be for your own safety? Maybe I'm doing you a big fat favor.
If my bipolar disorder where not well managed I would be signing up for every credit card company dumb enough to send me the invite. Then I'd go shopping. Compulsive shopping is a huge symptom. I was once a woman who really loved to shop, a woman who bought what she didn't need or even want, just because it was a great buy or on a whim I thought I loved it. All these shopping sprees create another problem that is common to those with bipolar disorder. DEBT. And in the end, in a bad economy, crushing debt leads to bankruptcy. This is not to say that all these things aren't done by perfectly normal healthy people, but add another symptom or two and Bingo! You might have a family member who is bipolar, and if you have one family member with bipolar disorder there are probably more. Moody? Life of the party one minute and sobbing the next? It could be PMS, or the boss, or the guy who dumped you, or it could be bipolar disorder. A child who everyone says is too sensitive? That was me. Too tired to get out of bed and feeling like you've been lobotomized? Could be a hangover or the flue unless it lasts for weeks or months or years. Occasionally having fits of rage? Dramatic and angry, exciting and too happy, too exciting? Finding life too hard to live? Well, welcome to my world. Do I enjoy this? Not that part. I do enjoy the fire in brain that keeps my fingers dancing on the keyboard. I do enjoy the complete and utter focus of the mind's creation. There is magic in the creative act no matter what the medium. But is it art? Who the hell knows? Probably not. It might just be a necessity. But the medical journals are full of histories and great stories of very famous creative types who were/are bipolar. We tend to be very creative people. We also tend to be very difficult. And finally we tend to commit suicide.
The really bad news for us and our families is that this disorder is incurable and genetic. It runs in families. Often undiagnosed or misdiagnosed. Most genetic diseases have one DNA marker. Bipolar disorder has two. It gets worse with age. And though there are some very good drugs, there comes a point when the good old drug no longer works and you have to experiment with something new. It's hit or miss. And all the drugs have side effects. I'm currently on a drug that adds 20 to 40 pounds of drug weight. If I were to switch to Zoloft I'd lose some of the drug weight. But then I wouldn't be able to dream. The weight gain of so many of the bipolar drugs keeps a lot of women from compliance with taking their medicine. There are also problems with lowered sex drive (I say good riddance) but for many people this is a serious problem. And a big (pardon the pun) reason for men to be noncompliant with taking their medicine.
I think we're a pain in the ass to live with. I do not chose other people with bipolar disorder to hang out with. We're either too much fun or a real drag. Sobbing for no reason or hysterical laughter. Always out of sync. Would you chose to hang out with someone like that? I once asked Tom why he hung in there for so long. He said it was an interesting challenge. He could have just said he loved me.
Bipolar disorder is very hard for a family member who is not bipolar to deal with. Sometimes it's awfully hard to know what is personality and what is disorder and what's PMS. "Normal" is a hard psychological trait to measure. Too normal and we're dull as dust. But crazy has a big fat book with symptoms and graphs, and the weight of both law and medicine to measure how just how crazy is too crazy to function in the "normal" world. I'm so crazy I'm disabled. Legally disabled.
But you say, "You seem able to write every day. How can you do that if your disabled?" And I say, I always wrote. I just didn't have a blog. Sometimes I couldn't read the scribble that was my writing, but even bat-shit crazy I wrote, documenting every little thing, taking notes as if life were a class and there would be a test. I also read like it was a full time job and I was getting paid by the page. Both those occupations allowed me to be alone a lot. And the thing about being alone is the relief of not having to pay attention to someone else and their needs.
Another symptom is "inappropriate" sexual behavior. I think the word "inappropriate" means with someone too young, or too old, or just met. It also applies to what some call "sex addiction."
We tend to self-medicate. For most that means alcohol (legal and easy to get) for others it might be pot or heroine or meth. For others it means, a plethora of other drugs, but the one drug most Shrinks don't blink at is cigarettes. Nicotine is a good antidepressant and plays well with other bipolar drugs. I found it interesting that in the Bin, we were all sent out into the open air to puff away on our cigarettes. Mormons with bipolar disorder in the Bin with us were given nicotine gum.
The one symptom of my illness that isn't fairly well managed with two drugs twice a day, is my intense need to isolate. It is also what makes it possible to write and read to the exclusion of all else. I also engage in obsessive news watching, and then there is need for food cooking and cleaning up after cooking and foraging for food and feeding Cyrus. But, whereas most of you work full time, raise children, have a social life, keep your pets alive, and your spouse or lover happy enough to stay, I do none of those things. I make no room for anyone else. I keep all but one or two friends at arms length. I might be good for a visit from a close friend for an hour or two, but that's my limit. I can attend to the needs of another only that long. This makes me a big selfish asshole. But did you ever think it might be for your own safety? Maybe I'm doing you a big fat favor.
If my bipolar disorder where not well managed I would be signing up for every credit card company dumb enough to send me the invite. Then I'd go shopping. Compulsive shopping is a huge symptom. I was once a woman who really loved to shop, a woman who bought what she didn't need or even want, just because it was a great buy or on a whim I thought I loved it. All these shopping sprees create another problem that is common to those with bipolar disorder. DEBT. And in the end, in a bad economy, crushing debt leads to bankruptcy. This is not to say that all these things aren't done by perfectly normal healthy people, but add another symptom or two and Bingo! You might have a family member who is bipolar, and if you have one family member with bipolar disorder there are probably more. Moody? Life of the party one minute and sobbing the next? It could be PMS, or the boss, or the guy who dumped you, or it could be bipolar disorder. A child who everyone says is too sensitive? That was me. Too tired to get out of bed and feeling like you've been lobotomized? Could be a hangover or the flue unless it lasts for weeks or months or years. Occasionally having fits of rage? Dramatic and angry, exciting and too happy, too exciting? Finding life too hard to live? Well, welcome to my world. Do I enjoy this? Not that part. I do enjoy the fire in brain that keeps my fingers dancing on the keyboard. I do enjoy the complete and utter focus of the mind's creation. There is magic in the creative act no matter what the medium. But is it art? Who the hell knows? Probably not. It might just be a necessity. But the medical journals are full of histories and great stories of very famous creative types who were/are bipolar. We tend to be very creative people. We also tend to be very difficult. And finally we tend to commit suicide.
The really bad news for us and our families is that this disorder is incurable and genetic. It runs in families. Often undiagnosed or misdiagnosed. Most genetic diseases have one DNA marker. Bipolar disorder has two. It gets worse with age. And though there are some very good drugs, there comes a point when the good old drug no longer works and you have to experiment with something new. It's hit or miss. And all the drugs have side effects. I'm currently on a drug that adds 20 to 40 pounds of drug weight. If I were to switch to Zoloft I'd lose some of the drug weight. But then I wouldn't be able to dream. The weight gain of so many of the bipolar drugs keeps a lot of women from compliance with taking their medicine. There are also problems with lowered sex drive (I say good riddance) but for many people this is a serious problem. And a big (pardon the pun) reason for men to be noncompliant with taking their medicine.
I think we're a pain in the ass to live with. I do not chose other people with bipolar disorder to hang out with. We're either too much fun or a real drag. Sobbing for no reason or hysterical laughter. Always out of sync. Would you chose to hang out with someone like that? I once asked Tom why he hung in there for so long. He said it was an interesting challenge. He could have just said he loved me.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
You Thought You Knew Me
Even I thought I knew me. But I was wrong. Quizzie knows me and I am Ben Franklin. I'm a little bit insulted. I think of Ben as the practical one, not the brilliant, inspired one. Oh well, we can't have everything we want, can we?
Your result for The Great Minds Advice Test...
Do Something Worth Doing
33% Franklin, 0% Freud, 25% Teresa, 17% Wilde and 25% Leonardo!
"If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth the writing." ~ B. Franklin
Your life advisor is Benjamin Franklin.
Franklin was definitely a doer. He believed that life should be lived to the fullest and that a person should never stop striving to learn. Once you have learned everything your life was over.
So, you should move. Get up and do something. Discover something new. Let your mind work to it's fullest and experience life.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Impenetrable
I mentioned somewhere, sometime that there was a boy.... A boy in my long distant past... A boy I grabbed and dragged home and undressed and spent a day with, rolling around skin to skin in my parent's bed... Oh yes I did. I tried to seduce a boy. We tried to have real grown up sex. He was willing and able. I was eager and more than willing. My recollection is that we tried almost all day. And it was I who dragged him home with me. But despite my wanting and trying, I was not able. We were young and inexperienced in the other ways one might have sex without the actual penetration. I didn't understand anything about sex. Oh yeah, there were the years of Daddy rolling around in bed with me, with his erection and my child's body, but despite all those years of trying, even Daddy was unable to penetrate me in the vaginal way. I was impenetrable. I was a fortress. And anything Daddy did, I did not want to do with this boy. I wanted it to be new and mine, I wanted it to be ours alone.
Now I live as if I were a prisoner in my own well-constructed cell. I call it "The Bunker" or "The Cottage" depending on the season and my mood. It is guarded by locked gates and scary dogs. And I invite so few in. My cell is large for a prison, but small for a home. Yesterday my friends from New York were here. She is tiny, but he is very tall. I notice most how small my space is when a man stands in my small cell.
When I moved into the little house two years ago I planned to die here. I wanted to finish the book, Maggy, and then.... I saw my life as leading nowhere. I saw myself choosing to leave life in my own time, in my own way. I had no room in my small life for men. Even the husbands of women I know have little importance in my real life. They are, to be honest, little more than minor annoyances to me. He says he needs her today, so she can't come over. He is either her excuse or an impediment to some fun we want to have. Oh yes, he is a real man, who is probably interesting in his own way, but for me he is only an impediment. I think of men as needy. In my past with men they have been that. They have wanted me for one reason or another but in the end I have become little more than the cleaning woman and a captive audience. I don't like to clean house for just me. Why would I want to be anyone else's cleaning lady? Now I have no time to be the audience of one for a man who wants my undivided time and attention. I'd rather read. And yet...
The boy is now an old man. He has lived almost all his life near to me in one way or another. We have lived in far flung places now and then yet near to one another, not knowing. During the years my photograph graced the pages of the Newspaper and ads and catalogues, he lived a few blocks from me. He married twice and raised two sons he had with his first wife, and then the two daughters his second wife brought with her into their marriage. He loves his children and keeps in touch with them. Isn't life mysterious?
He read my letter to the editor in the early days of the Presidential Primary. He googled me and found my blog. He read for almost a year and then he emailed me. We now talk on the phone. He started a blog so he can comment. He joined twitter. He read the novel. I think I'm being courted. So what do I want now? Am I willing to even explore the possibilities? The question for me is, am I still impenetrable?
Now I live as if I were a prisoner in my own well-constructed cell. I call it "The Bunker" or "The Cottage" depending on the season and my mood. It is guarded by locked gates and scary dogs. And I invite so few in. My cell is large for a prison, but small for a home. Yesterday my friends from New York were here. She is tiny, but he is very tall. I notice most how small my space is when a man stands in my small cell.
When I moved into the little house two years ago I planned to die here. I wanted to finish the book, Maggy, and then.... I saw my life as leading nowhere. I saw myself choosing to leave life in my own time, in my own way. I had no room in my small life for men. Even the husbands of women I know have little importance in my real life. They are, to be honest, little more than minor annoyances to me. He says he needs her today, so she can't come over. He is either her excuse or an impediment to some fun we want to have. Oh yes, he is a real man, who is probably interesting in his own way, but for me he is only an impediment. I think of men as needy. In my past with men they have been that. They have wanted me for one reason or another but in the end I have become little more than the cleaning woman and a captive audience. I don't like to clean house for just me. Why would I want to be anyone else's cleaning lady? Now I have no time to be the audience of one for a man who wants my undivided time and attention. I'd rather read. And yet...
The boy is now an old man. He has lived almost all his life near to me in one way or another. We have lived in far flung places now and then yet near to one another, not knowing. During the years my photograph graced the pages of the Newspaper and ads and catalogues, he lived a few blocks from me. He married twice and raised two sons he had with his first wife, and then the two daughters his second wife brought with her into their marriage. He loves his children and keeps in touch with them. Isn't life mysterious?
He read my letter to the editor in the early days of the Presidential Primary. He googled me and found my blog. He read for almost a year and then he emailed me. We now talk on the phone. He started a blog so he can comment. He joined twitter. He read the novel. I think I'm being courted. So what do I want now? Am I willing to even explore the possibilities? The question for me is, am I still impenetrable?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Well, One Thing Led to Another...
I was trying to find a few of my favorite songs by Etta James and this one, You Can Leave Your Hat On, has always been a favorite of mine. I met Joe Cocker in Santa Barbara--he was friends with a friend of... I like Joe Cocker, but I like Etta's version of You Can Leave Your Hat On better.
But then in the searching For Etta's version, I came across this. And it reminded me that I am a woman who likes hats. Yes I do. I like women and men who wear hats. This might account for the few number of friends of either sex I have. It isn't a requirement that everybody wear hats, but if you live in a place with snowy, freezing winters, and blistering hot summers and you don't wear a hat now and the, will you're just stupid. And you probably look nothing like Cary Grant. Damn.
But then in the searching For Etta's version, I came across this. And it reminded me that I am a woman who likes hats. Yes I do. I like women and men who wear hats. This might account for the few number of friends of either sex I have. It isn't a requirement that everybody wear hats, but if you live in a place with snowy, freezing winters, and blistering hot summers and you don't wear a hat now and the, will you're just stupid. And you probably look nothing like Cary Grant. Damn.
I Used to be a Pitcher
I've written a book. I did it long ago and let it sit. Then, ten years ago or so, I pulled it out, dusted it off and started again. Then my mother's life unraveled, then mine, and now finally having dusted it of again I'm getting ready to send it off into the world to be more than likely rejected--it's the literary way. It is a longstanding tradition. Such is life. I know the odds are not in my favor. It probably doesn't help that I am not the hot young thing with the hip new thing. Enough of you have read it and left your comments that I believe my book has a certain universal appeal, if reliving your terrible childhood can be said to be appealing. Some of you have reached a certain point and been unable to read farther. I would so have wished that you could have told me what it was, exactly, that made you stop just then. Why there and not another place I wonder?
Now comes the very most difficult part of the project for me--the pitch. I have to sell a reader on picking up a chunk of the book and getting started. I have to do this quickly. 300 words or less. I have to say something about myself. Why did I write this novel? Oh yes, I am calling it a novel. It is a novel! Who are you to say it isn't? Did you lead my life? No? Well then...
Don't we all draw from life to form our characters? Did the real woman Madame Bovary exist? Did Flaubert know her, of her? Is Roskolnikov not based on a real man? Are you sure? Did you ask Dostoevsky?
I have removed the book called Maggy from this blog now. It may come back, but if and when it does, it will be tighter, and with fewer typo and grammar errors. It will be a bit shorter too. And almost everyone gets a new name. Isn't that festive? If you were reading it... and want more... Let's barter.
Now comes the very most difficult part of the project for me--the pitch. I have to sell a reader on picking up a chunk of the book and getting started. I have to do this quickly. 300 words or less. I have to say something about myself. Why did I write this novel? Oh yes, I am calling it a novel. It is a novel! Who are you to say it isn't? Did you lead my life? No? Well then...
Don't we all draw from life to form our characters? Did the real woman Madame Bovary exist? Did Flaubert know her, of her? Is Roskolnikov not based on a real man? Are you sure? Did you ask Dostoevsky?
I have removed the book called Maggy from this blog now. It may come back, but if and when it does, it will be tighter, and with fewer typo and grammar errors. It will be a bit shorter too. And almost everyone gets a new name. Isn't that festive? If you were reading it... and want more... Let's barter.
At Last
For the first dance at The Neighborhood Ball tonight (the first of all the balls tonight) the song chosen to begin The Neighborhood Ball is the song At Last. I'm most familiar with the Ette James version of this song, but for the Neighborhood Ball it is Beyonce who is performing it. But I'm a purist, and it is Ette James' song as far as I'm concerned. And what a choice. There is, of course, so much symbolism in the title of the song.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Oh Yes I will Party
I have to go to bed early tonight as there will be an early party at my little house. My friends from New York are in town and ready to be with me when we see President Obama sworn in the morning. I'm providing the espresso, the organic milk, an ashtray, and two screens from which to watch. They'll bring something to eat. We'll party here all day long. And we'll probably talk about it here and there and on twitter as the day goes on. See you tomorrow.
Chandeliers on My Ears
I am amazed at the generosity of bloggers. I received a lovely package on Saturday from my dear friend Ms Soairse who is a jewelery designer among many other things. She sent me a couple of lovely pair of earrings at Christmas and now again, for no reason that I can see, two more. I never feel deserving of gifts. I always wonder how I can ever repay such generosity. But these fears are the little remnants of a difficult childhood, and I need to learn that it is fun to give and fun to receive. Now what can I do for Soairse?
These earrings are the ones I think of as chandeliers for the ears, and I love the feel of enough weight to remind me that I am packing glamour. So it's taken me three days to get ready to model them for you. And all I had to do was peel my jammies off, take a shower, wash my hair and dry it, and add a bit of eye to make these earrings pop on the page.
Pair number two another day.
Thank you darling.
PS, she sells these lovely earrings from her site, visit and take a look. They are lovely gifts and Valentines Day approaches.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Roses and Other Fragile Flowers
No that anyone asked, but I don't like roses. Well, I don't like scentless hothouse roses that always seem to die in a day or two. I like to walk down an alley in late Spring or early Summer and come across the scent of roses. I like other's people's roses, but I'm not a big fan of flowers that have special needs. I have dogs with special needs. I have special needs myself. So if it's not hardy and capable of blooming in a less that ideal environment, if it's prone to attracting pests like mites and aphids, I'm not such a fan. The Vinca or Periwincle and bulbs do well here with no encouragement at all. The forsythia and mock orange do well with little fuss. I have one good spot for Halls Honeysuckel right outside my door; it always blooms.
Some years the fruit trees don't bear fruit, some years the Wisteria doesn't bloom. These are usually the years Spring comes early, and just as all the fruit trees are budding, or have just bloomed, it freezes.
It is beginning to feel as if this might be one of those years of early thaw. Or maybe it's just me thawing.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
For Cal
Something unusual has happened. I'm getting sweet emails from a man I only knew briefly as a boy. I was the aggressor in my brief pursuit of this boy. He was sweet and obliging. Tender and willing. But I was too young and too damaged to know what a treasure he might have been had I the wisdom of age. And then the experience that might have matched my very youthful rebellious ardor. But he has found me. And I am, in this strange almost imagined relationship, like a character from a TS Elliott poem, ...when the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon the table...
I have laid bare my life with all it's challenges and deficits for anyone to see. I have not been shy or hiding here. I do tell all. And then there is a novel. There are short stories, and poems. They say much about who I am. Are these stories real or fiction? Some combination of the two I suspect. Like most writers, I write about the things I know and tell my version of the truth.
However, it may not be true to you if you find yourself the character in someone else's fiction. So caution is in order. Because I don't know enough about you.
I have laid bare my life with all it's challenges and deficits for anyone to see. I have not been shy or hiding here. I do tell all. And then there is a novel. There are short stories, and poems. They say much about who I am. Are these stories real or fiction? Some combination of the two I suspect. Like most writers, I write about the things I know and tell my version of the truth.
However, it may not be true to you if you find yourself the character in someone else's fiction. So caution is in order. Because I don't know enough about you.
May I Borrow Your Man Today?
It's not a good idea to borrow a man to fix a pipe. But sometimes it's a necessity. Fortunately she doesn't need him today, and he's willing. I fixed a late breakfast and he gave me the running commentary on how each step worked, explaining as he worked, never realizing that I was really listening to the train ride from Pennsylvania to Washington DC. It's the beginning of a new era, and I'm not about to stop paying attention to it to learn a little about teh plumbing. Truth is I never will learn anything about teh plumbing. I am willfully ignorant about so many things. I do not need to know it all. My knowledege is speciallized too. I do not expect him to either follow what I'm doing or have any interest in having it explained to him in great detail. I know, he isn't asking for my help, but if he were--and I could write something for him, I'd do it. I did fix lunch. I fed him. I fixed him coffee. I looked for rags and tools, I pretended to understand. It's the best I can do. It's also the least I can do.
So the kitchen sink faucet no longer drips. And now you can turn off the water at the back of the area beneath the sink, instead of at the street in front of the main house.
And tomorrow we will tackle the same problem under the bathroom sink. And from there who knows?
My girlfriend, his paramour, called twice while he was here--she did not talk to me. I always worry about the insecurities and needs that go into relationships and make them mine-fields. I try to stay out of the lives of the men who populate the lives of women I love. It's just too tricky. But David offered, and my need was great, and he fixed the leak, and I'm glad.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Hiding Out
Darkblack has put one of those mysterious links in a comment on my tag of him for the current meme. I figured Darkblack might not want to play, but a woman can dream can't she? Here is the piece from the link and it is quite eloquent. Thank you Darkblack. I now officially have a blog crush on you. So are you male or female--not that it really matters? I have a girl crush on Freida of the Bees and an abiding love for Lisa. I've lusted after Tengrain, and even got a thrill or two from the attention of Kelso and his nuts. The one blogger who used to scare me when he left a comment was Fairlane, and he seems to have taken a long vacation. I hope he returns soon. I liked Jonestown a lot, especially when Fairlane was posting and especially when Scarlet Blue made an appearance. I swear he's kidnapped her and has her locked up somewhere, so hiding out might be a good thing for him.
For now, I'm going to be hiding out trying to finish the final edit on the novel, Maggy. Hang in there with me. I obviously like teh blogging or I'd shut the hell up and get to work.
For now, I'm going to be hiding out trying to finish the final edit on the novel, Maggy. Hang in there with me. I obviously like teh blogging or I'd shut the hell up and get to work.
Gran Torino: Eastwood's Swan Song
If you liked Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry, you'll probably love Gran Torino. If the Spaghetti Westerns that started him acting with the snarl as a permanent expression on his face, you like Grand Torino. After seeing Gran Torino I'm hoping this is Eastwood's last staring movie role. I never liked stereotypes. Never liked the snarling male as icon. And this is a film about that stereotype and stereotypes in general.
Phillip of Sitenoise wrote a partial review of the film but hated the beginning half hour of the movie so much he couldn't finish watching it. It's received some good reviews but I'm betting these are reviewers who just loved the Dirty Harry snarling male stereotype.
I didn't become an Eastwood fan until he began directing. He made a couple very good films as a director--his western The Unforgiven was worth watching. It wasn't the best western I'd ever seen, but it was pretty good. But it was Million Dollar Baby was so good I was prepared to believe that he would continue to make great movies. I figured he'd learned something about getting nuanced, sensitive performances from the other actors he was directing as well as from himself.
If Eastwood continues to make movies I hope it's in the capacity of Director. Think Letters from Iwo Jima. I wouldn't mind seeing him in a small cameo role with a bit more nuance than the snarling old bastard he plays in Gran Torino. But I think his days as central leading character are, and should be, over.
All of that said, I did begin crying toward the end of the movie and wondered what is was about the character at the end that made me weep. Nick and I talked about that, and Nick said, "You're affected and moved by almost everything right now." And maybe it's as simple as that. But this portrait of a man at the end of his life who views everything through the prism of prejudice, cynicism, and alienation is so very sad and not in a heart warming way.
I'm guessing there were clues to Eastwood's career in things like the 1972 cherry Ford Gran Torino that is his baby in the movie. High Plains Drifter came out in 1973, so there might be a bit of symbolism that he was making that film when Gran Torino's mean old bastard character was supposedly working on the assembly line for Ford the year the Gran Torino auto of the film refers to was made, but I'm stretching to give it a reason to have been made at all.
It is only the Hmong characters who form the core of his changing neighborhood, his changing world, the world he does not recognize and has such disdain for, who give really good performances.
I'd only give this film 2 stars at best, and that's a stretch.
Phillip of Sitenoise wrote a partial review of the film but hated the beginning half hour of the movie so much he couldn't finish watching it. It's received some good reviews but I'm betting these are reviewers who just loved the Dirty Harry snarling male stereotype.
I didn't become an Eastwood fan until he began directing. He made a couple very good films as a director--his western The Unforgiven was worth watching. It wasn't the best western I'd ever seen, but it was pretty good. But it was Million Dollar Baby was so good I was prepared to believe that he would continue to make great movies. I figured he'd learned something about getting nuanced, sensitive performances from the other actors he was directing as well as from himself.
If Eastwood continues to make movies I hope it's in the capacity of Director. Think Letters from Iwo Jima. I wouldn't mind seeing him in a small cameo role with a bit more nuance than the snarling old bastard he plays in Gran Torino. But I think his days as central leading character are, and should be, over.
All of that said, I did begin crying toward the end of the movie and wondered what is was about the character at the end that made me weep. Nick and I talked about that, and Nick said, "You're affected and moved by almost everything right now." And maybe it's as simple as that. But this portrait of a man at the end of his life who views everything through the prism of prejudice, cynicism, and alienation is so very sad and not in a heart warming way.
I'm guessing there were clues to Eastwood's career in things like the 1972 cherry Ford Gran Torino that is his baby in the movie. High Plains Drifter came out in 1973, so there might be a bit of symbolism that he was making that film when Gran Torino's mean old bastard character was supposedly working on the assembly line for Ford the year the Gran Torino auto of the film refers to was made, but I'm stretching to give it a reason to have been made at all.
It is only the Hmong characters who form the core of his changing neighborhood, his changing world, the world he does not recognize and has such disdain for, who give really good performances.
I'd only give this film 2 stars at best, and that's a stretch.
Darkblack Says This Is My Obamicon, Too
But why don't I recognize myself? I thought that this was Darkblack's Obmaican and that Darkblack is a nice looking younger woman. Humm. I liked her looks a lot. So this can't be me. But even if this isn't me, and is a trick Darkblack is playing on me, a through the looking glass experience like the early acid years, I don't care.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
These Are The Rules
The Rules
1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
Random things. Humm. My whole life is random. Only six--this should be easy.
Kulkuri is the guy who tagged me. That Yooper in Crackerland. Link that! I'm very fond of Kulkuri, but he's a tease. One of his random facts is the tease that English is not his native language. Yes? Well? Does he tell us what his native language is/was? No. He does not. Now I have to research Yooper. Ok, that's done. Pennsylvania Dutch? So where in America does this transplanted Yooper live now? Sunbelt, I'm thinking. His avatar has him in a Hawaiian shirt sitting in a beach chair, reading. Clues everywhere, but no real answers. Shall I just give you clues? No random facts, just clues? That doesn't seem fair or in keeping with the whole idea of learning more about the someone through random things. So, here goes.
Random Things About Me:
1. I'm very emotional, a very difficult woman. That could count as two random things, but they are so interwoven that I think of them as one thing--the intensity of my emotionality makes me a difficult woman to be around. I do everything too passionately. I'm easy to anger, too.
2. I was raised by a woman who had mastered the resounding verbal "bitch slap" to such an extent that living with her made it impossible to avoid learning this nasty habit. So, given the right circumstances, I can deliver a verbal "bitch slap" effortlessly and with no thought at all--like a reflex. Impossible to stop once begun. I have lost friends over this dubious skill. I have gone one bitch slap too far more often than is seemly.
3. I have missed out on the love of a man with the strength and patience to keep me from running, make me want to stay. I know this deep in my core. It's a wound so deep I see myself as essentially unlovable. Maybe I make myself that way on purpose. But I have tried at times too hard and for too long to make myself lovable when I had chosen a man so shallow he wasn't worth more than a tumble.
4. I will miss lamb chops when I have to give up eating meat. I know this day is coming. It's the right thing to do. It may also be the economically necessary thing to do. That said, I just picked up a five pack of rib eye steaks in the reduced meat department, brought it home, individually wrapped each steak and frozen all but one. I'm having steak and beans, and salad for dinner tonight.
5. I'm a political news junky. And I'm proud of my girlfriend, Freida of the Bees, for becoming a regular contributer to one of the really good news sources, The Daily Kos. Go Freida! Politics and journalism are a sexy combo. And Math too? You're unstoppable. You're on fire.
6. I got an email yesterday from a boy I tried to have sex with when I was fourteen years old. (I probably looked closer to twenty when I decided I wanted him to be the boy who deflowered me, so to speak). He read my letter to the editor after Obama's primary win in North Carolina. He says he's been reading my blog since then. He left his phone number in his email. I called him. I like the idea of him. There is a short story in that early encounter. I remember it in great detail. Poor boy. I took him into my parent's bed when they were up at the cabin. I have to admit I have thought of him now and then over the long years of my life. What if...?
Well, I've shocked myself. Now I'm hoping you're going to shock me a bit back. I want these random things to give me real insight into who you are. Oh, there are those of you I think I know, Lisa. But some of you are real mysteries. I know that Randal will be tagged and bagged quickly so no point tagging Randal. There are a lot of men out there unwilling to play. Too bad. You're missing an opportunity for a little self expression and introspection. But you have your dignity at least.
1. Beach, because he has the soul of a writer and will engage and think more introspectively than any other man I've encountered out here in this bloggy world. Is that a bitch slap I hear landing on some unnamed man? If you felt it, you know who you are.
2. La Belette Rouge, because she is ingaged in the search for answers to the mysteries in her life. She has inspired me to buy myself a bouquet of lilies today. I thought of her when I saw then and remembered her unraveling of the symbolism that accompanies the lillie. It's a good omen.
3. TheMom, because she gave me my Obamicon without request and I'm delighted with it. She has been ill, but is indeed TheMom as she insisted I bundle up for the Thursday Matinee Movie date today. Baby it's cold out there. God bless nurturing woman. I lost mine somewhere.
4. Giggles, who I envision as a young woman, but really it's just an impression. Giggles appeared as a very good commenter without a real blog. Thanks to the generosity and encouragement of Lisa and others, she now has a blog. I hope this is your first meme, Giggles. Tell all, darling, in six random things. Or leave us in the dark--your choice.
5. Darkblack, photoshopper to rival... Well I shall not say. Just this. Darkblack is very talented, and another complete mystery to me. I went to look at Darkblack's Obamicon and it's a poster of a good looking young woman. Did you know? Do you know? Is Darkblack a man or a woman? Does it matter? Only to inquiring minds I guess.
6. Comrade Kevin, because for the longest time I thought Comrade Kevin was a woman. And so I spoke to Comrade Kevin as a woman. Despite the podcasts of Comrade Kevin playing the guitar and singing his original songs, I thought that was Comrade Kevin's boy friend. Gawd. I'm so dense sometimes.
No rush. I do not wish to stress anyone or put you in a spotlight you do not seek at a personal level, but I am curious.
1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
Random things. Humm. My whole life is random. Only six--this should be easy.
Kulkuri is the guy who tagged me. That Yooper in Crackerland. Link that! I'm very fond of Kulkuri, but he's a tease. One of his random facts is the tease that English is not his native language. Yes? Well? Does he tell us what his native language is/was? No. He does not. Now I have to research Yooper. Ok, that's done. Pennsylvania Dutch? So where in America does this transplanted Yooper live now? Sunbelt, I'm thinking. His avatar has him in a Hawaiian shirt sitting in a beach chair, reading. Clues everywhere, but no real answers. Shall I just give you clues? No random facts, just clues? That doesn't seem fair or in keeping with the whole idea of learning more about the someone through random things. So, here goes.
Random Things About Me:
1. I'm very emotional, a very difficult woman. That could count as two random things, but they are so interwoven that I think of them as one thing--the intensity of my emotionality makes me a difficult woman to be around. I do everything too passionately. I'm easy to anger, too.
2. I was raised by a woman who had mastered the resounding verbal "bitch slap" to such an extent that living with her made it impossible to avoid learning this nasty habit. So, given the right circumstances, I can deliver a verbal "bitch slap" effortlessly and with no thought at all--like a reflex. Impossible to stop once begun. I have lost friends over this dubious skill. I have gone one bitch slap too far more often than is seemly.
3. I have missed out on the love of a man with the strength and patience to keep me from running, make me want to stay. I know this deep in my core. It's a wound so deep I see myself as essentially unlovable. Maybe I make myself that way on purpose. But I have tried at times too hard and for too long to make myself lovable when I had chosen a man so shallow he wasn't worth more than a tumble.
4. I will miss lamb chops when I have to give up eating meat. I know this day is coming. It's the right thing to do. It may also be the economically necessary thing to do. That said, I just picked up a five pack of rib eye steaks in the reduced meat department, brought it home, individually wrapped each steak and frozen all but one. I'm having steak and beans, and salad for dinner tonight.
5. I'm a political news junky. And I'm proud of my girlfriend, Freida of the Bees, for becoming a regular contributer to one of the really good news sources, The Daily Kos. Go Freida! Politics and journalism are a sexy combo. And Math too? You're unstoppable. You're on fire.
6. I got an email yesterday from a boy I tried to have sex with when I was fourteen years old. (I probably looked closer to twenty when I decided I wanted him to be the boy who deflowered me, so to speak). He read my letter to the editor after Obama's primary win in North Carolina. He says he's been reading my blog since then. He left his phone number in his email. I called him. I like the idea of him. There is a short story in that early encounter. I remember it in great detail. Poor boy. I took him into my parent's bed when they were up at the cabin. I have to admit I have thought of him now and then over the long years of my life. What if...?
Well, I've shocked myself. Now I'm hoping you're going to shock me a bit back. I want these random things to give me real insight into who you are. Oh, there are those of you I think I know, Lisa. But some of you are real mysteries. I know that Randal will be tagged and bagged quickly so no point tagging Randal. There are a lot of men out there unwilling to play. Too bad. You're missing an opportunity for a little self expression and introspection. But you have your dignity at least.
1. Beach, because he has the soul of a writer and will engage and think more introspectively than any other man I've encountered out here in this bloggy world. Is that a bitch slap I hear landing on some unnamed man? If you felt it, you know who you are.
2. La Belette Rouge, because she is ingaged in the search for answers to the mysteries in her life. She has inspired me to buy myself a bouquet of lilies today. I thought of her when I saw then and remembered her unraveling of the symbolism that accompanies the lillie. It's a good omen.
3. TheMom, because she gave me my Obamicon without request and I'm delighted with it. She has been ill, but is indeed TheMom as she insisted I bundle up for the Thursday Matinee Movie date today. Baby it's cold out there. God bless nurturing woman. I lost mine somewhere.
4. Giggles, who I envision as a young woman, but really it's just an impression. Giggles appeared as a very good commenter without a real blog. Thanks to the generosity and encouragement of Lisa and others, she now has a blog. I hope this is your first meme, Giggles. Tell all, darling, in six random things. Or leave us in the dark--your choice.
5. Darkblack, photoshopper to rival... Well I shall not say. Just this. Darkblack is very talented, and another complete mystery to me. I went to look at Darkblack's Obamicon and it's a poster of a good looking young woman. Did you know? Do you know? Is Darkblack a man or a woman? Does it matter? Only to inquiring minds I guess.
6. Comrade Kevin, because for the longest time I thought Comrade Kevin was a woman. And so I spoke to Comrade Kevin as a woman. Despite the podcasts of Comrade Kevin playing the guitar and singing his original songs, I thought that was Comrade Kevin's boy friend. Gawd. I'm so dense sometimes.
No rush. I do not wish to stress anyone or put you in a spotlight you do not seek at a personal level, but I am curious.
It's Thursday matinee Movie Day and Then Meme Time
Today Nick and I go to see Gran Torino. I love the title of the movie since in one of my stories, I drive a Gran Torino that pings when I turn off the engine. I called it a Grand Torino. Now I know I have to go back and fix that in the story. I'm sure the old bastard in this movie takes better care of his Gran Torino than I did of mine. Men sure do seem to lavish love on their cars.
Kulkuri that Yooper in Crackerland has tagged me. I thought I'd be able to duck and cover and miss this one, but no. Kulkuri, I'll get to you later. For now I have to get my huge dog to get out of his bed and go outside to pee so I can feed him. He's so neurotic he makes me look sane.
Here is your Gran Torino tease:
Kulkuri that Yooper in Crackerland has tagged me. I thought I'd be able to duck and cover and miss this one, but no. Kulkuri, I'll get to you later. For now I have to get my huge dog to get out of his bed and go outside to pee so I can feed him. He's so neurotic he makes me look sane.
Here is your Gran Torino tease:
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