Some of you may be too young to understand the name of my dish as you have neither served on a navy ship or had a relative who liked to relive the magic of a life at sea, but I'm pretty sure that's where the name comes from. No don't go there, I'm not talking about sea sickness at all. I'm talking food that is cheap and filling. Comfort food, if you will. The stick to your ribs kind. Maybe it's prison food, too.
Once when I was visiting one of my lefty friends in New Orleans, I found a small bookstore in the Quarter that had a copy of a book called White Trash Cooking. I'm not kidding. Of course I bought that overpriced paperback, and worth every penny it was. So valuable in fact that when my house was broken into, the bastard stole my copy of White Trash Cooking. Have you noticed that final g on cooking? Wonder if it was a phony? No, I know white trash cooking, and this was the real deal. Every ingredient can be found at your local convenience store alone with your Kools. Unless we're talking crawdads, or frogs for instance. One of my favorite recipes was the sugar sandwich. I swear I never made one, but damn it was tempting. Take two slices of Wonderbread. Spread with one of four greases: butter, margarine, Crisco, or lard. Sprinkle generously with granulated white sugar and eat. Yup, that's it.
I wish I still had that book, but I did memorize a few recipes and have added my own flourishes. Any recipe with a cream sauce I'm good with. Add a salty dried beef, finely cut into small pieces to spread that salt around. A bunch of frozen peas. Buttered toast. Pour the "chipped beef" mixture on the buttered toast and hunch yourself down at the table with a cheap beer. Heaven on earth some days. Delicious enough to make me moan. But it doesn't take much to make me moan. It's a very versatile dish as it can be served at any meal. Scramble a couple of eggs and dump them on the toast and then spread the shit on it and you've got yourself a hearty rib sticking breakfast.
I just checked and yup, it's still on the market. I'm gonna order one as soon as my social security check clears.
Well, all it takes to know that I have been manic is a look at the number of rambling, incoherent, and entirely unworthy posts I've written or assembled over the past couple of days. To you it's the weekend. To me it's just Saturday and Sunday, no different from Monday, let's say. One can only go that fast so long without eventually crashing. Oh, I still have the boundless energy, but having refused to use it to some necessary good, like dusting for instance, I am still sitting here typing away. So, now it's time to apologize to those insomniacs who have been following this oncoming crash.
It is amazing to me that I can have so much fun, sitting here in my bunker typing away into the wee small hours (oh Sinatra, must YouTube that) of the morning entertaining myself immensely. But then to awaken with a sore throat and a crashing headache and still refuse to see the dust. But not any more. No, now I will dust, dammit. But just in case you're dying for some Chairman of the Board, here it comes...
There may be trouble ahead, but while there's moonlight and music and love and romance, let's face the music and dance...
This is my real musical alter ego. And she almost sings in my register, so I can almost sing along with her. But this music comes to me out of my childhood, from watching movies like these in black and white in front of my grandmother's TV, from places like this, with dancers like this, and this time Nat King Cole sings it for us...
Which all came from this brilliant songwriter composer, Irving Berlin.
I'm giving Blue Gal credit for turning me on to Zappadan. Truth is I was stoned at the time and I could have been anywhere, but Blue Gal had just befrended me on Twitter.
I have hated the "Holiday Season" all my life. It's better now that I'm the last of my family alive. Cuts down on the unnecessary shopping. But I'm not averse to some general rowdy solitary fucktardery at home alone, just me my dog, and my new bong. It was my first Zappadan gift to myself. So all together now, light up the night. It's the season of Zappadan and will be until Chimpy is gone and my close personal friend Barack is in charge. So until then, celebrate like your life depends on it, preferably alone, so no one gets hurt.
Ghost Dansing introduced me to this artist just the other day. Now I can't get enough of her. Much of it has to do with the artistry of her videos. I'm not quite so fond of her live performances but Monsieur Randal would like her French pieces, yes, those parts too. She is a pleasing bit of eye-candy for us all.
Now go to church children, while Nanna stays in the garden of Eden and loads her bong.
Arkum hums with a high electric whine, a noise that is like tinnitus to the nth. The man with the monocle who was so strangely dressed coughed on me as the bus lurched to a stop. I hope it wasn't the virus. Now I hunch my shoulders against the freezing wind that hugs the frozen ground. I have two cloptomiters to go before I'm home and it's dark but for the purple neon gloom, looking like a distant nuclear disaster but is merely low light bouncing off the distant metropolis along with the nearly unbearable high whine. And then the wind blows it back upon itself and for a few moments of relief I almost hear silence. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet.
What was I thinking when I dressed for the day? My feet are freezing. Thank the dog for the electric eye. I can see the faintly pink glow of my signature footprint along this well trod strip of stone. But it seems eerily empty for now. Odd. This time of night is usually humming with voices coming out of the dark. All I hear is the high city hum and the wind. Several layers of skirts fly up from a gust of wind and I almost topple backward. These tall rubber boots on their platforms are wonderful in a crowd, extend the stride, and strengthen the buttocks, lifting its heft of weight into the air like a pillow. But skirts?
I hear the dog once and know I will turn left half way up the lane to my bunker. His voice always rings out once when I reach this spot and even without the eye I turn left, arm raised, palm flattened upward to make contact with the wire of the compound. I trail my gloved fingers along the fence until I feel the gate. Here I must remove my glove and place my naked palm against the freezing surface of the palm ID pad. And it slides open almost silently. I enter and hear it slide shut behind me. It locks with a hollow sound that makes me shudder with pleasure. Now small photocell lights flank the path like little pale full moons.
I have a single bunker. I am gifted in certain arts. I can talk to the mad and read their minds. I can smell danger. And I am old. No small accomplishment in these times. So the dog, as he calls himself, and I live together in a cube of concrete with a pyramid roof alone, in silence, but for the sound of my own voice softly talking to myself and his rare great bark or low growl.
He doesn't rise when I come in. But I hear him panting softly in his dark corner. The room is only warmed with his body heat. All the fuel was burned long ago. But food will be brought for both of us. He could so warm me better if we slept together but he will not. So I wear all my clothes trying to keep from shivering. I would never ask to sleep in his bed but have invited him into mine. Often. No luck.
And now before my fingers stiffen in the cold I must answer the questions sent to me by the mad. Only the mad understand the mad, but not all the mad have my gift to hear their inner voices. We are all somewhat gifted. Some of us have visions, hear voices, but I can only listen to the inner voice, the one that never says aloud what it most fears.
One of my three female friends lives a few houses away. On Thanksgiving morning one of her Bunko girlfriends' husband died. It turned a quiet, peaceful Thanksgiving into a deep wound. And so this past couple of weeks she has been doing the hard things a good female friend does at a time like that. He was too young to have died of "natural" causes though he had a heart attack and then a stroke in the past, survived all that, then went into multi system organ failure unexpectedly and died quickly. So an autopsy was performed and my friend was the one given the task of officially identifying his body. She was the one to tell the mortician that "No, they did not need a $1,000 urn for his ashes, not they did not want him embalmed for washed for the crematorium. Still the cost was shocking. Then it was my friend's job to scoop the ashes from the cardboard box into a container she'd found at a discount store. Then she helped write the obituary. And before the "celebration" of his life at her friend's house, she poop scooped the back yard of their condo. Now that's a friend.
But she needed a break. And I'm the only one of her friends out of this loop. One of the many advantages of being a voluntary shut-in, is the ability to avoid all this expensive and traumatic life. Oh yes, I do know that the rituals surrounding death just might be very important for the living, but not for me. I worked hard to ensure that no one will have to spend a penny or a moment's attention to my untimely death--it should have happened thirty years ago or so... But here I am, still as strange and self destructive as ever. Me and Amy Winehouse--we're gonna live forever.
Anyway, my friend is the queen of speed shopping. And we had things to do and places to go today. Odd that either of us would actually choose to leave home on a day we both call the "amateur shopper's day." But we had a list and a treat at the end, so off we went in her recently serviced minivan to what we used to call Fred Meyers, but is now really the Smith's Superstore. We still call it Fred Meyers, even though it's been the Smith's Superstore for years. She knows this monster like the back of her hand, or so she said. But the bastards have rearranged the store so nobody can find what they came in for and now we're all pissed off and looking at overpriced shit we had no idea we needed. My friend heads right for the poor college graduate who's stocking cereal and has him take us to the new place they sell electric kettles. I find the one I want and we're off to the hardware department to get a duplicate key made. And we're out of there, heading south toward the smoke shop on 39th South and 3rd East. This place is a find. It sits in a tiny strip mall and I stand outside in the sun, sucking down a Marlboro Menthol light 100 while she sits in her minivan and sucks down a beer disguised as a pepsi.
The smoke shop is a fine place to shop. I replace my recently broken pipes, get some pipe cleaners and a carton of Marlboro Menthol Light 100's A new-fangeled cigarette holder and we're off to this little restaurant for good cheap Mexican food in a small mall called Ivy Place. We are so pleased with the success of our trip out. We have not spoken of death. Success at every turn, despite the presence of other people. The food is good and the place is full of Mexican men nursing hangovers--early afternoon breakfast and a beer. We eat vast quantities of good Mexican food and listen to a Mexican language station on TV and loud Mexican music on the jukebox. Just like a vacation and It's all delicious. While she waits for a take-out order for her husband, I go out for a smoke and spot the Spoons and Spices across the parking lot. I head inside, elbow my way politely to the counter, to ask for directions for the stove-top espresso makers. A young women leads the way. They have one twelve cup left but no box. I say it's for me, I don't need or want a box. She wraps it up and bags it, takes my money and I'm out of there in minutes. Then we are heading home and very pleased with ourselves.
It was always the same, this dream. I am a little girl sitting in a kitchen chair. And I notice I have small hole in my arm. It is not bleeding, but I notice a small bone poking out. I touch it and it slides right out of my arm and into my hand. I look at it carefully enough to notice that there is no blood, no meat clings to it. And when I look back at the hole I notice that there is another bone poking out. And so I begin the deboning of myself. In the end I become a blob of boneless flesh. Now I know I'm in trouble. I open my mouth to call for help and my teeth crumble and fall from my mouth. And then I know I am helpless.
I had this dream for several years. Probably from the age of seven to maybe ten or eleven. It is always the same. Exactly the same. No variation at all. Never. Years later when I told my therapist about this dream I didn't like the interpretation. She believed it was a sexual dream about what my daddy did to me. I would say, "But I was alone." She would say, "What does the hole symbolize? What does the bone symbolize?" I would cry. Now I turn it into something of mine. I claim it's power. I give it a bit of form and wonder what you see? What is the hole? What is the bone? Why do the teeth crumble and fall?
There is a small hole in my arm I pull the bones out one by one Until I am empty, my fingers limp and Useless, I open my mouth to call for help My teeth crumble and fall from my mouth My head a shapeless blob and now I know At last that I am helpless, and you will never love me
From the dictionary of dream symbolism Bones To see bones in your dream, suggests the discovery of your personal, family, or cultural secrets. It is also symbolic of your underlying strengths that you have not yet recognized. Consider the symbolism of getting to the "bare bones" or the significance of "having a bone to pick with someone."
To dream that your teeth is lose, signifies failures and bad news.
To see a hole in the ground, denotes hidden aspects of your activities. On the other hand, it may mean that you are feeling hollow or empty inside. This dream may be an awakening for you in that you need to get out and expose your self to new interests and activities.
To dream that you fall into a hole, signifies a pitfall in a situation in your life or that you are stuck in a hole. Perhaps, you have dug yourself into a hole and can not get out of it.
I've been watching the auto industry executives trying to bullshit their way to a several billion dollar bailout for them. And they're trying to make it real, compared to what? They haven't a clue how we live, and how their decisions caused the cascade of shit that trickled down on us compared to what? Ever get your car repo'd Mr Executive? So now that you didn't fly in on your corporate jets we're just supposed to write you a check and make your dreams real? Compared to what? Seven years ago when the Iraq war started, did you go into the business of making up-armored Humvees for our troops, or did you make bright yellow Hummers for little men with big wallets and small... Compared to what! And when little man Bush, stood (puffed up with his own importance) before us and pronounced his plan to put us on the path to security against the terrors, he said "Go Shopping." What??!! What did you say? "Buy a Hummer and we'll give you a big tax break." I screamed, "Compared to What?"
When I was a child, my dreams were often filled with terror. I have looked closely at the content of those dreams in therapy, and they are fairly obvious. I was always being chased by some kind of bully. I was never really bullied by other children. It was only in my dreams and the bullies were never children. They were not always male, in fact, often female. Even as a child I knew who those bullies represented. But only in my dreams was it so clear that they were out to kill me. But once I left home at seventeen, those dreams ended. Case closed. Yes, my parents could still make my life hell in one way or another, but I was no longer dependent on them, and so they could no longer kill me in quite the same way. And it was in this period of my life that I began to try to kill myself, and not in my dreams, but in real life, in real ways--nothing passive about it. As you can see I failed.
But in my adult life, no matter how awful certain periods of that adult life was, my dreams were my refuge. Because my early life was so intensely bad, and yet looked so good from the outside, my distress was not noticed by anyone who could or would have been able to help me. So I grew up crazy but looked quite sane. And into my early twenties (for the most part) I kept my mouth shut about the early family abuse. It took the suicide of my favorite cousin to shake the truth out, to spill my guts and confront both my parents. My father disowned me, and his father disowned me, so I was written out of their wills and never spoken to again. My mother put her fingers in her ears and screamed lalalalala as loud as she could and ran from the room, metaphorically speaking.
During this part of my life I began to succumb to long episodes of depression. Sleep became my best friend. Because in sleep I dreamed a lovely life. Or an interesting life that might be disturbingly strange, but not frightening. I had recurring dreams of my ability to jump free of gravity and float and fly. These were euphoric dreams of such joyous freedom. During the waning days of my third marriage, I dreamed repeatedly that I would get on a plane as a passenger to find that in reality I was the pilot and the runway was a city street. And in every one of these strange dreams, I was successful at dodging cars and threading the electrical lines that crisscrossed city streets and take off to eventually land under similar circumstances.
I've had the baby dreams. I dreamed of the NFL Baby Farm run by Rosie Greer. I dreamed I went to the grocery store and they were having a special on babies--two for the price of one. What a deal. I got one of each, and they were wrapped in newspaper like a bouquet of flowers then placed in a large grocery bag. I carried my groceries to my car, placed all my purchases in the trunk like always, slammed the trunk shut and drove home. Once at home I placed the babies on the floor, left them kitty kibble and water and went to work. I dreamed I gave birth to a litter of puppies. And so on. I think lots of women have strange baby dreams. I'd bet men do not.
And so my dream life went on until I had my bout with a major psychosis. The hallucinating kind. The kind of event even I could not ignore. I called 911 on myself and after two weeks in the looney bin I came out feeling lobotomized by the antipsychotic drugs and all dreaming ended. For many years. Oh perhaps I did dream, but could not ever remember the experience. I felt cut off from my subconscious self. Sleep was a black hole I fell into. I did not wake refreshed, and never woke delighted with the workings of my sleeping mind.
But as I stabilize these days, post Maggy's death, my dream life is returning. And I awoke from a dream of such loveliness this morning I was sad to have to wake up. My bladder was the culprit in ending this dream. But the gist of the dream was that I was helping a friend who was a wedding planner. We had an appointment with a client who lived in a castle--not the fairy tale kind, but the house as big as a large city kind. And this dream location was in Denver. I've lived in Denver, so I know this wasn't the Denver of reality. I'd call this house style Tudor, but do not think English castle, think big country mansion the size of a large town. I expected the clients to be asses, as I have a prejudice against the very rich (my father's parents were rich as were all their friends--a thoroughly awful bunch of snobs) so I was very surprised to find that every person I met (all family members of the one to be married) were not only charming, but desirable as well, gender had nothing to do with it. And they seemed to want to adopt me. This is where the full bladder ends the dream. But the melody lingers on.
1. Five names you go by: A. Piglet B. Judy, Judy, Judy C. Peg D. Margaret E. That savage bitch!!!
2. Three things you are wearing right now: A. black thong B. black lace bustier C. steel toed construction boots, if they come in black. Oh, this is supposed to be about what I'm really wearing? How boring. I have on 7 articles of clothing, all grey. I slept in this get-up last night, have worn it all day, and will sleep in it again tonight. Would you like a description of the food stains?
3. Two things you want very badly at the moment: A. A few million dollars so I could bail out my friends B. Pie
4. Three people who will probably fill this out: A. Gail B. LeeAnn C. Linda (No pressure, whenever you feel like it, and it won't hurt anyone's feelings if you're not up to it or are too busy. I didn't get to be called That Savage Bitch without developing a callused hide. I can handle rejection. Unless Phillip is the one rejecting me. That I could not handle).
5. Two things you did last night: A. Shredded my mother's paper life B. Shredded my sordid past
6. Two things you ate today: A. Ham B. eggs
7. Two people you last talked to on the phone: A. They'd have to kill me if I told you their names
8. Two things you are going to do tomorrow: A. Go to the doctor to have my clotting factor tested B. Grocery shop
9. Two longest car rides: A. From New York to Salt Lake B. Five minutes in a car going anywhere with my mother
10. Two of your favorite beverages: A. A home-made latte B. Earl Grey Tea, with sugar and milk
I had to pay, or more accurately partially pay my property taxes yesterday. But since I am never able to pay my property taxes all at one time, every year I ask for information about tax relief. Every year I get the form that tells me what documentation I need for application for tax relief, and the dates during which it is possible to apply for tax relief. And every year I forget the dates, can't understand the instructions, and/or find and gather the necessary documentation for tax relief. I blame bipolar disorder and the drugs I take for it for this befuddlement regarding the whole mess. But this year by god, I'm going to find a way to get what I qualify for and desperately need. And this year for the first time you could actually apply for tax relief at the same time you pay your taxes, or in my case partially pay my taxes.
Utah State employees have gone on a four day work week. This is groovy for so many reasons, but hard to remember when you put off until the last possible moment doing something that must be done by the end of the month. In years past that would have been Friday. But Friday was the fifth day of the week, so no state employees working to take your property taxes.
So Monday, we, the desperate and harried taxpayers, head for tax offices, grim faced and desperate looking, every one of us. There was a lot of grumbling about the overvaluation of property in a time of deflating actual value. We are all squeezed and it shows. And there are long, slow moving lines. And it's a work day for almost everybody in line. Then there is the line for those of us seeking a reduction in property taxes because we're old and/or ill and living on fixed incomes, which lose a little buying power every month.
But like a Thanksgiving miracle, this year they were actually taking requests for tax relief. But this was the last day, and they closed at five. It was 2:15. By the time I got home it was 2:45. I opened the drawer of my file cabinet that holds the sort of documentation and nearly weep at the stuffed file folders. I grab the one supposedly containing bank statements and instead of the hour or so I imagined it would take me, the second batch of statements contained the one statement I needed. I had to write a "hardship letter." That was easy. And so I raced back to the Tax Office with my papers, planning to fill out their lengthy form while waiting for the next available grief counselor. It was 4:00. There was no line. I signed in and was immediately taken back to a very sweet woman's desk. I say she was sweet because she actually did all the filling out of the form for me. All I had to do was sign it. Done. Now I wait for the ruling. But I'm fairly certain I will qualify for tax relief.
And the best part of all of this was that I asked her how she felt about the presidential election. I know, it's not exactly the smartest thing to do, but have I ever claimed to be particularly smart? Turns out she was a Hillary supporter, who did indeed vote for Barack. I started crying. It is only kindness, generosity and warmth that can reduce me to tears.
Now I'm actually tackling the task of cleaning out my file cabinet. I am giving the paper shredder a real work out. And the one file I'm happiest to shred is the one containing all of my mother's medical records and bank statements. We''re talking about fifty pounds of paper.
Linked to the title is an LATimes piece. I have mixed feelings about the Meet the Press Job. I'm hoping it means he gives up 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. I am not fond of Gregory at all. I liked him in the White House Press Corps because he seemed to annoy Bush and whomever had the job of Press Secretary, but I hated him hosting a show in prime time, five nights a week.
I have linked the information on this topic to the title. The quiet privatization of Medicare is very carefully spelled out in the linked article. But I want to tell you how this effects a disabled person receiving Medicare parts A B and D.
For an American with a disability that eventually makes working impossible, the process of applying for State Disability Benefits is arduous, expensive and slow--very very slow. It took two years for my application to work its way through the Byzantine bureaucracy that is the disability maze. Their policy is to deny benefits on all first applications. Six months after my first application, I got my first denial. And, in the end, the only way to make it successfully through this process requires a disability attorney, but nobody tells you this ever at any point in the process. Yes, Dorothy, they do require an attorney to accept your application, and even then a judge can say, "Sorry, I'm not feeling the love today, and so, fuck you and the attorney you walked in with, waited hours with, and besides that I hate the look on your pathetic face anyway. Try again next year." It is humiliating, demeaning, and expensive. By the time you do get through the process successfully, you are bankrupt anyway. I sold my mother's antique furniture to stay afloat at the end, just to be able to eat and pay utilities.
My attorney was very skilled. And it was my lucky day that the judge seeing my case was filling in for the usual judge, who was out of town. The judge who saw my case lived in Las Vegas. I think it was his experience with crazies even worse than I that made him compassionate toward me. And once you do make it through that part of the process, you must then deal with your local Medicare and Medicaid offices. There you will face long lines and, once you get to the little window, you find the real obstructionists at the heart of any bureaucracy. They do not tell you over the phone what documentation you will need. But once you get to the little window, you will no doubt be missing one small bit of crucial documentation.
So, finally, two and a half years after my first application for Social Security Disability, I'm in the system and have received my first piddling little check. I have my Medicare Card. I have been referred to Valley Mental Health, and I have a good Psychiatrist. I've been tested and placed in a group of other women with bipolar disorder. And for several years that was as complicated as it got. But not so fast. We now have a new wrinkle in the Medicare system and guess what, you fine upstanding tax payers? Congress has quietly been doling out contracts to private insurance companies to give you less for more. And not only do they give the hapless senior or disabled person less service for more money and add another layer of bureaucracy on top of the one that has existed for a very long time, they also charge you guys a bit more because they are in the business of making money.
So, about four months ago, I got a packet in the mail about medicare coverage. This packet claimed it marked a change in the way medicare would be provided and that my account would now be covered by a plan called Evercare. I do not do well with reading the small print, but I should have called Medicare to check it out. This was the first salvo in the privatizing of Medicare. It duplicates what Medicare does, adds a new layer of bureaucracy, an enormous amount of paper--all very high quality glossy lists of this and that to confuse the elderly and disabled who often have a bit of trouble dealing with one layer of bureaucracy, let alone layer upon layer. It's smoke and mirrors. And it isn't continuous coverage. So when I go to my doctor's office with my new "medicare" card that now says Evercare, and the doctor's office makes a note of that, I start getting bills that have not been partially paid by medicare, and when I call Evercare, after going through phone mail hell, I get some jackass who tells me that on the billing date I was covered by traditional medicare. "Yessss? So you aren't medicare?" "Yes, we're your new medicare provider." "Well, I liked my old medicare provider better." "Just tell your doctor's office to bill medicare this time. Then they can bill us next time, and you'll be covered then."
What the Fuck? Is this what is meant by a ponzi scheme? I called medicare and asked why I was no longer on traditional medicare, and was told that I could indeed keep my traditional medicare, pay less and get more coverage. That it was the Bush administration's early work with a republican majority in the House and Senate to gradually, quietly privatize medicare. Holy mother of god! Just the paperwork alone must have cost millions. You should see the five pounds of booklets and formularies, and drug coverage, and exclusions, and networks, and favored hospitals, and on and on just to switch from what worked perfectly to what did not work at all.
The nice young woman at medicare spent almost an hour on the phone with me finding the best possible medicare part D drug package for me by having me give her a list of all my drugs and then checking them with all the insurance company options and found that Eatna covered all my drugs, even the diazipam and triazilam, drugs not covered by my old part D carrier. So next time you hear someone talking shit about the government bureaucracy making you have to see their doctors and how you'll get terrible care, tell them to talk to me. Bureaucracy is bureaucracy whether it's run by the government or a private, for-profit corporation with K Street lobbyists.
If I had any dignity at all, I'd stop now. But I'm deep in the weeds of my own delusion. Ahhh. The guilty pleasure of inappropriate behavior. I keep thinking of lines from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. And find myself blushing that I identify with a character that a boy, only twenty two, created long ago. But truth be told, I also Identified with Aschenbach, Thomas Mann's character from Death in Venice. Only now, at the other end of my life, can I know I feel something akin to the longing, the foolishness one will engage in to follow the sound of a voice, or the very young man who moves so beautifully you blush to feel your lust and know you are invisible now at last. Only here in my words do I exist. You have real lives. Jobs you need to keep, families to feed, husbands, wives, lovers, children. I have friends who have lives, too. But aside from the occasional visit from a female friend or two, and the weekday matinee movie date with Nick, I have no life. A strange old dog and I share a small but comfy space. I'm crazy enough to be disabled, but not too crazy to live on my own. And though I am difficult, the people who love me, love me well and for a long, long time.
But still I am a fierce bitch now and then. Since I'm crazy and have been long enough to know one when I see one, I have a friend who is approaching her fifties and really needs some therapy. She is claiming to be too busy to squeeze it in, too poor. But she's also one of the most extravagantly generous women I know, and I've known her a long time. Extravagant with her time, loading herself with social obligations and wants that must be met, yet repeats a terribly dysfunctional dynamic of the same attraction to just the same kind of wrong man. She has plenty of time for the wrong man. Really the wrong man. Three wrong men in her past and one in her present. See what I mean about being difficult? Would you want me in your real life? I have high standards for everyone. Yet I am something of a cyber slut. I have no real life in which to misbehave, so I misbehave here and hope it's harmless fun. However if I were acting like this in the real world, I'd be making an appointment to talk it out with my therapist. I'd be seeing my shrink to get a med check. Anytime I'm having too much fun, I think I might just be crazy instead.
I knew this guy was dangerous in a sweet and seemingly harmless way, but I only noticed him when he was commenting on other people's blogs. And he lives "abroad" shall we say. There is no chance in hell I'm ever going to meet him, or so I hope. Because not only is he too young, he really is the wrong kind of man for me.
Recently Randal (who lives in Cincinnati (or so he says) and not abroad, (not to say I don't adore him, but he's married with children and I don't go there, so shut up), wrote about his fondness for the Baroque Italian composers and snowy weather. I'd have to go back to Randals to look to tell you the composers name, and it's late and I'm lazy. Vivaldi was a favorite of mine, and I didn't look much farther, but I did live in Italy in the mid 1060's and I was modeling in Milan, hanging out with famous artists and the world seemed to want to be my oyster, but I didn't believe I deserved it. So, other than the Italian bassist, who was so poor he didn't have his own apartment, the men I spent time with were very well off. And eventually I ran like hell. Happiness for me? No. Not in the cards. My crazy mother wanted me to come home. She needed me.
Well, she's dead now so I can finally live my own life. And I don't really like to travel anymore. Once train travel was replaced with flying sardine cans, and then they retired the old luxury liners with cruise ships, I stopped liking to travel. I lost my sense of adventure once they started strip searching me at the airport.
Anyway, to get back to my infatuations. I knew he was potential trouble. But now I find myself stalking his site. But he isn't my first virtual crush. My first crush was Scarlet Blue. I was very sad when she dismantled her site. And now and then I find her at Fairlane's place, and notice I'm a little jealous she talks to him but not to me. Oh well, love seldom runs smooth.
I've had a thing for the Unconventional Conventionist who is a sweet and snarky peach and nothing at all like the Progressive Traditionalist who is a troll, and a pompous ass as well. No UC pierced my heart one day by letting me know he was reading my novel and had left me a musical message of a very personal sort on a certain chapter. It was sweet, lovely UC sitting at this baby grand piano playing the Whippenpoof Song of the notorious Skull and Bones fraternity.
What can I say, my daddy taught it to me. And in the chapter called Body Warmth, little eight or nine year old Judy is doing dinner dishes as she warbles the Whippenpoof song. The very real, real time, virtual man, UC, was there in my novel, at the bottom of the page, playing accompaniment to my little reedy voice as I sang the lyrics. That my dears is nothing short of magic. And it both ripped me asunder, and healed me as well. So, UC isn't really a crush at all. I really love him. I love him like a... There are no words.
But there are other virtual men I have had the occasional crush on. I now have two crushes going on simultaneously. Only two you say? Well, Dr. Ziaus has Germaine, Mathman has Dcup. Probably the rest of the men and women I have lusted after had mates of their own as well, not even imaginary mates, but real flesh and blood mates. I trust Randal's claim that he is married. Besides, he doesn't ever flirt with me, and he does flirt. Oh yes he does. Just not with me. But there are bloggers who may not really be flirting who leave such provocative comments I find my heart going pitty patter at the thought of them. Take Fairlane for instance. I ran across Fairlane at Scarlet's and then of course followed him home. (She was probably posting there.) But I found Fairlane very interesting. He is one of the funniest bloggers around. Thoughtful and smart as well. So I kept going back like a bad habit I couldn't quite break. Then every once in a while, Fairlane would visit me and commit what amounts to a virtual hit and run. He would leave a comment like "Well what about Sartre!" Like I was some dumb shit and had completely left out the main ingredient. When what I was posting about had nothing to do with the Existentialists or the early twentieth century or... What the Fuck! And I would obsess like mad trying to solve that riddle. Pure nonsense. Not exactly a crush--more like fear and insecurity.
But now I loves me some Tengrain. And I'm hungry as well. But I only have white bread. How sad.
Oh yeah, there's Kelso and his nuts. I'm overly fond of him too. He's so easy. All you have to do with Kelso is smile and nod and say, Ummmhummm? And he'll go on and on like a top sent spinning. So very satisfying.
Susan, she of the Crow with the beautiful voice, and the two sites, Phantsythat, and Adventures Ink is a talented artist, and not just with the words, though there is no denying her talents there. She is a visual artist too. Randal asked for a new painting from her and she painted a Heart Mandala. I studied Buddhism and had an old hippie friend who made several of those fashionable trips to India in the 60's along with the Beatles and every other musical type with an eye to a trend. One of my friends in that category came home with a guru and some Indian friends and she and her partner opened a little shop in Brentwood called Sat Purush, where they sold beautiful handmade Indian clothes for men and women with means, and some very fancy concert get-ups for the big name rockers. A friend of hers came back from India with a side trip through Tangiers and brought back one suitcase full of hashish and another full of Bedouin wedding dresses. I got one of the dresses and smoked my fair share of the hash. None of this is very Buddhist, more like some amalgamation of Krishna consciousness and Buddhism with a little hippie hashish thrown in along with the beautiful Bedouin dresses. And out of all of this, the hash smuggler--a life long painter, began to paint Mandalas. Extravagantly beautiful Mandalas. The lower chakras were her specialty. Nuff said.
But Susan has painted a Heart Mandala, and if anyone needed an opening of the heart it is I. Susan must have sensed this to address my heart's need for opening, and so Randal, the Boarder Explorer and I were the first recipients of this lovely art to become a new Award. I do not remember if there were instructions or suggestions for the passing of this award, but I believe that this award needs to be passed to those whose hearts have been wounded and yet manage to remain open and honest about their wounds and the ways they work on healing. Or perhaps it is the bloggers with hearts so open they can read your heart and know what you need and are only too happy to ask for your address to send it to you. Imagine all the trust in that?
At any rate the first blogger I wish to award this Heart Mandala is SaoirseDaily2 for her incredible generosity of heart. If you've missed the earring post, go back and look. If you missed yesterday's Jenna Mamnina clip. Well, you're hopeless, keep up.
Next to Liberality who gave me my first Award ever in my entire life, ever, and I had only been blogging a short while. Well, it thrilled me no end. I had so little skill it took weeks to get it home and "Link?" What is this link of which you speak? It only took me six or eight months to give her credit for the gift. That takes a lot of patience on her part. But I give this to her because... Well, she knows why.
And to Linda Sama The Ageless Hippie Chick who gave me The Rebel Grrrl Award. Now that goes right to my badass image of myself. Pretty funny when you think how old I am. But Linda IS a Buddhist and she does indeed collect Mandalas. Who better to get one than one who loves them so. Besides that she teaches Yoga and could probably teach me how to open mine.
And to Dcup whose hearts as big as her cup size, and as open as her mind. I love you dear. Have you figured it out yet, that my heart belongs to Dcup, no matter my deep and heartfelt flirtation with Tengrain, and Kelso and his nuts, and Fairlane, who never even noticed, and yes, Dcup even Mathman.
And to D.K. Read, because with hair that red, her heart is shining right through her hair. Can anyone deny it? Because when Stella doesn't take the silly Anonymous commenters on, DK does. My fierce protectors.
And to Stella who posted the very first comment on my blog and then told me I reminded her of Dorothy Parker. What better reason could there be?
This comes with no strings attached. No rules that I know of. So hang on to your heart or pass it around. It's your heart after all. The only thing I ask is that you post your Mandala on your sidebar and link it back to Susan.
Ms Saoirse Daily2 sends not only handmade earrings I'm now calling my "Lobe Jewels" just precisely because it does sound a tiny bit nasty, and I'm that kind of woman, but she sent me a CD. Now, I have to confess something and I know it makes me sound like an asshole to admit this, but I have a hard time visiting sites where there is music playing the moment the site pops up. Often my speakers are turned up too loud because I might have been listening to my favorite Diana Krall last night and now, I'm just not expecting music I didn't chose, to come blaring at me from anyone's peaceful space but mine (which might not be exactly peaceful, but has my own soundtrack playing, if anythings playing at all). This might mean I'm a snob, or closed to the tastes of others, and that could be true. I wouldn't argue with you if you said that about me. But it's more that I feel oddly assaulted by waves of sound not of my choosing. Again, those words--"of my choosing." There are many of you who have turned me on to music I didn't know existed, and now that I do, I spend at least 99cents a week buying music you led me to. So it isn't just that I hate new stuff, but I do hate most of what you guys have playing on your sites like it was goddamned elevator music. Sorry, I had to say it. But what you like and wish to listen to is very personal. If I post a music clip and you cruise right past it without a pretense of a listen, I completely understand. I do the same thing. I may say something like, "Lovely music. So what did you think about the stampede at WallMart at FIVE FUCKIN' AM this morning?"
Ms Saoirse is the loveliest of women. She is talented and generous too. Why after giving me gifts must she listen for a moment to what I have to say about the music playing at her place? Because it explains the time it took me to open the CD cover and slip that baby into the slot and crank up the volume. And what I heard brought tears to my eyes from almost the opening notes, but all through the whole CD did I weep. Because Ms Saoirse has been paying close attention to my taste, and she has the magic of the true gift giver--she gives, not from her own desire, but for mine, or yours, or to whomever she gives. So, I can't tell you how much I love this gift of terrific new jazz, now I will be pulling up the YouTube clips almost everyday to not only listen to, but to watch as well. If you don't like it, put your fingers in your ears and go lalalalallala as loud as you can, but I'll be here either dancing or singing along, or crying, because it's just all so damn poignant and touching, and it swings.
I am a self-published writer of short stories, poetry, and politics. I'm a rescuer of dogs and stray cats. I believe everything is political—especially sex and religion.
