Creeping Depression

Well, this morning I put in a call to my shrink for an appointment. So I wait for a call-back to set up a time. I seem to be slipping into a depression like a warm bath on a cold day. Yes, sometimes sleepiness feels good, especially if you have nothing pressing to do. Taking care of Cyrus is one job I don't neglect, but Cyrus, if he had a shrink, would probably be categorized as a depressed dog. And why not? Cyrus spent his first 9 years in a "shelter" mostly kenneled with a dog run. This would account for his inclination to always pee in one place and poop in one place not far from where he pees. I have never seen this behavior in another dog, so I'm speculating the kennel and dog run were his world. According to what Cyrus' Vet and I can tell from his behavior (completely content to doze beside my bed most of the day) he is happy here. But if this is happy, sad must have been terrible. He is now living on borrowed time, as am I. We seem to be two peas in a pod.

I plan to let myself do what I'm inclined to do--nap. A nap for the depressed could be round the clock sleep, waking only to go to the bathroom. I've had my usual two big mugs of coffee and milk. It has not made the slightest difference in my inclination to go back to sleep. And yard work is out of the question for me today. I just don't care that I have plenty to do. It's plenty to do that will either get done this year or will wait till next year.

When I met Ricardo I wanted to have a birthday party to introduce him to friends. But since Ms M has no interest in getting to know him, other than money, I have nothing to offer him. He doesn't seem to be terribly motivated by money. He seems far more interested in getting to know Ms M. I think it would be hard to find a better man, but romance is a mysterious emotion. You either feel it or you don't.

Now I have no interest in a birthday party. I've decided to pass. I've also decided to go back to bed. I have no appetite. That's nice. No appetite means no effort to come up with something tasty. I ate a banana. I will not starve. I'll take some vitamins and call it good.

And I won't be doing much visiting blogs today, since I hear the sirens call of sleep.

Bea Arthur is Now Singing With Rock Hudson, If There Is A God

Like a thief in the night I've gone creeping about reading. And though I too will miss Bea Arthur I hadn't found just the thing I wanted to post to note her passing. And then I stopped by E's at StarSpangledHaggis, and found this:



And if you know me, you know why this is one of my favorites. And like E says, it's "So Retro"

Cal, I'm Sorry

I have done something so casually cruel and careless that I can barely stand to be in the same room with myself. I have tossed off what I hope will be the last bitch slap of my entire life. I often do this with remarks about rightwing fundamentalists or other political types with whom I disagree. I think of this as snark, but maybe now is the time for me to give up snark as a form of expression. Since I have taken snark from the political to the very personal and in a most shallow and careless way, I have injured a man who did nothing more than attempt to befriend me. In this instance I have become my mother, and the feeling of having been possessed of my mother's lack of sensitivity for the feelings of others is almost too awful to bear. Cal, I'm sorry, and I know it's too late to take anything back. What I have said and done stands out starkly for me. I see the bitch who lives inside of me. It will require some very difficult work for me to exorcise this creature. She is not a woman I wish to be, much less live with. I am embarrassed and ashamed of myself. I need to work very hard at learning the delicate art of friendship before I can trust myself to be kind and considerate enough to offer friendship to anyone. As it is, savage was truer a name for me than I ever realized before.

Seeing With Old Eyes

I have always known that none of us sees things exactly the same way. I'm not speaking of having a different point of view, I'm talking about the literal act of seeing. I discovered this when I was six or seven. My mother had a friend she only saw once or twice a year. I thought this woman was lovely. She had red hair and pink cheeks. She almost always wore green. And warmth was what radiated from her eyes. I told my mother after this woman left our house one day that I thought she was pretty. My mother said, "My god, you've got bad taste. She's gaudy and cheap looking." It was in this moment that I knew my mother and I did not see the world the same way--that what was pretty to me was gaudy to her.

I have since noticed with my friends that what I choose to photograph or paint is not something they usually see as beautiful. I have one friend who works hard to make herself appear invisible. I have another friend who works very hard to make herself seen.

As for point of view, I believe there is nothing that can't be talked about, examined, and therefore "seen." My two friends both think most personal things should remain personal. This means to me that there are things they think should be secret--the dirty laundry of their lives. I think nothing cleans dirty laundry faster than a good airing. So in this metaphorical sense we do not see the world the same way.

I've been thinking about seeing because I've been taking photographs again. Looking at the photos from my past life that I've chosen to frame and put on the wall. They are all photos of small architectural details from places I've lived and loved. But the person I lived with in those places is absent. I have no family photos anywhere in my house except in old dusty albums tucked in the closet. I have so few memories of my family that are free of pain that I have chosen not to look at them anymore. But it was only after years of minute examination of their impact on my life and the truth and validity of my memories and feelings that I was able to put them away.

Nude with Pottery

Santa Barbara Pottery from Tom

This is a pot I loved the moment I saw it, and it hurt a little because after I moved out Tom did all the things I wanted him to do when I lived there. I like a space of my own. I wanted him to remodel the outbuilding at the Santa Barbara mountain top house so I'd have a little house of my own. When I returned years later, he'd done everything in his elegant and muscular way. I loved many of the elements he brought into the main house to warm it up. And this was one of those things. When he moved to Costa Rica he gave it to me. So this is the pot now. Next up will be the pot earlier with female torso. Obviously, I like this pot a lot.

It sits above the closet of the little house with other largish things I like and brought with me from the big house.

Saw Horse

I'm starting to take photos again but always examining the small things within my eyes sight. I like the human form and face but when you aim a camera at anyone who knows your doing it you do not get the picture you wanted and they begin to grouse about their lack of make-up or the clothes they're wearing and it turns into something else. I also like the architectural element, the simple things. We almost miss seeing this beauty of form and texture since these are lowly useful tools or structures.

Unadorned Bare Feet

First there was the cropped detail, a bit of thigh, then there is the long shot of the bare feet, and the distance between the two is missing. I experiment with flesh and inside light at night, no flash and photographing parts of my own body, because no one else will pose for me. This also used to be my problem as an artist. So I looked into a mirror and painted a woman, who, once painted, was no longer me. Self-portrait after self- portrait. Experimenting with learning to drawing, then pen and ink, then water color. I'm now trying to see what my digital camera and the computer can do without photoshopping the photos. And the self portrait is not possible with a camera. I hold the camera to my eye. I don't have to, but a lifetime of holding a 35mm camera to my eye, keeps me from using a camera any other way. If I had a tripod and knew how to set the timer I could take the photos. Maybe someday I will become a visual artist again studying the minutia of my tiny world.

What Is This?

Is it a landscape? Is it a painting? Is it a photograph? Is it animal, vegetable, mineral? Is it bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a sand dune? Is it sunrise, sunset, or artificial light?

Auto Tune the News direct from Rachel Maddow

This is a must see. I can't embed this link but if you didn't see it live it's a must see. Trust me on this one.

Jay S Bybee and Monica Goodling: Both Products of a Religious Education

Born 1953 in Oakland, CA Federal Judicial Service: Judge, U. S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit Nominated by George W. Bush on January 7, 2003, to a seat vacated by Proctor R. Hug, Jr.; Confirmed by the Senate on March 13, 2003, and received commission on March 21, 2003. Education: Brigham Young University, B.A., 1977 Brigham Young University, J. Reuben Clark Law School, J.D., 1980

Assistant attorney general, Office of Legal Counsel, U.S. Department of Justice, 2001-2002

I post this because this is a such a lack luster education (Brigham Young University is owned by the Mormon Church) for a man with the power to write the justification for torture. I misunderstood the importance of a religious education or a mid-life conversion ( G W Bush) for those looking for the power to implement a policy of ideological indoctrination for all government employees at every level, and to turn us into into a nation with a torture program. It's hard to imagine that a religious education relieves a man of scruples and the capacity to know right from wrong. Or that a conversion mid-life isn't accompanied by a strong commitment to doing the work of Jesus, which is all about love, acceptance and forgiveness.

A boy from Oakland would go to a school like BYU for a couple of reasons: Either he didn't get offered scholarship money anywhere else, or he's a true believer. It's about as well known for it's law school as Regent University, Pat Robertson's law school. And we all know how well Monica Goodling (the best known graduate of Regent) did in her short legal career. It's okay, I guess, so long as you have no real curiosity and no serious ambition. That is unless you hitch your wagon to an administration looking for those who are not terribly well educated but have a fundamentalist background and a lack of ethics. This was a hallmark of the Bush Administration. From top to bottom, they are the most vociferous proponents of "Christian Values" ( wanting to find a way to force their version of them on all of us) yet the least ethical public servants of any I've seen in my long life. They happily trample the rule of law and seem without any discernible ethics or conscience.

Impeach and Charge Judge Jay Bybee

Judge Jay Bybee of the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals (he is also a completely amoral Mormon) was the author of the Torture Memos.

There is a growing call to Impeach Judge Bybee. It's about damn time. Then charge and convict him. Then do all the little things he dreamed up in his fevered and tiny brain to drive prisoners insane, brain dead, broken--do all these things to him. Do them all once at least and supervised by trained professionals from Gitmo with a doctor present to make sure, if he's really unable to breathe, he gets a tracheotomy. Oh yeah, give him the full panoply of tortures of which he seemed so fond. Then ask him if he's been tortured. And then ask him if this treatment of prisoners should be legal.

This is the the very ordinary face of evil. This clean cut, well educated, Mormon asshole wrote the torture memos and then was rewarded for it with a seat on the bench of the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals. I'm surprised he didn't get a Medal of Honor too.

Where The Hell Did This Fat Come From?

I eat two meals a day and I'm not a snacker unless it's after midnight and I can't get the chocolate out of my mind. But even then I only let myself have two squares of the Special Dark, or the Breyer's all natural chocolate ice cream. I like an ice cream cone once in awhile, but not every night. I eat brunch which usually consists of cantaloupe and toast or whole grain unsweetened Cheerios and frozen blue berries with 2% organic milk. I might have a banana sometime in the afternoon, or I might have nothing. And then a modest meal around eight or nine. I do drink a lot of very milky espresso with a tablespoon of sugar. Two big mugs full. I drink very good tea that I order from Special Teas and I either drink it sweet and iced or milky and hot. I'm trying to force myself to drink more water, but I watched Frontline last night and now I'm afraid of tap water and any water that's in plastic is full of PCBs. Where was the plastic made and how toxic is it? And how much more money can I spend on water for Christ's sake? So I take it straight from the tap. I guess I could make it more palatable if I squeezed some lemon in it, but I can't afford lemons. I'm complaining about water to avoid something. I'm avoiding the fat. Can you tell? Still, you should be very nervous about your water supply.

This long and harsh Winter and long slow wet Spring have kept me inside. I have turned into the Venus of Willendorf over night, or so it seems to me. There have been weeks I haven't bothered to look in a mirror because it's just too painful. So my eyes slide past without ever focusing on the blur that is my rather large moving form. I was outside yesterday cleaning the gazebo and had my camera with me. Walking to the tool shed I looked down to take the two steps down from the porch to the deck and saw my Wellingtons, and then my shadow. I turned and twisted trying to get the light just right to slim the figure in shadow and could never quite find the woman I once knew.

Rachel Maddow Tweeted This To Me (okay and some others...)

Rachel Maddow and I are now tweeting at my place. I just woke up at noonish, got my coffee, took the dogs outside, fed them, and then checked twitter. I may have died and gone to heaven. My first visible tweet of the day is Ms Maddow's and it's amazing. Check this out. I know you've seen Jonathan Mann on The Daily Show or Colbert, and various news shows, but now he's hit his stride and todays song is...?
Waterboarding.

After linking to the song, she links us to the lyrics. Ms Maddow knows how to get the facts straight and even when you're crying about the lyrics, you're amazed at the talent of the singer and then horrified at what the Bush Administration gave us, and how very much Crazy Unka Dick loves, loves, loves justifying his torture program and how very very very effective it was. Keep talking Unka Dick. Maybe you'll get tortured someday. Well, I can dream, can't I?

Megan McCain's Terrible Twitter Tantrum

Yes, I know, it's hard to believe, but Megan is a chip off the old block. She swears, she blusters, she puffs up with her own delusions of relevance and gets her rage on in tweets. Andrew Malcome (my favorite LA times blogger and big time twitteratti) tells the tawdry details in yesterdays news. That's how I like this kind of news. Stale. And with a link about Megan not only going apeshit but prevaricating while doing it. See what I mean? She's a real chip off the old block.

For the actual transcript of the terrible twitter tantrum follow this trail to The Wonkette. For Andrew Malcome's blog and more of the little details see the excerpt below or check out my side bar. I have my morning coffee with Andrew.

Using her Twitter account, which limits users to 140-character messages, McCain produced a lengthy series of angry Tweets -- some using the #$%&!* word.

They detailed her numerous life activities starting with volunteer tutoring at 16 and helping receive flowers at a hospital desk and internships and moving up through writing a children's book and founding "my multi-award-winning website mccainblogette.com, which is officially the first blog in history to document a presidential campaign." (Her father's, of course.)

Because Andrew Gives Great News

The last thing any fun-loving politics blog would ever do would be to cheapen itself on a slow weekday by publishing a couple of color photographs of some hunky guy who works out every day and happens to be president of the United States, just to prompt thousands of readers -- all right, lookers -- to click on its pages.

Yeah, Andrew and my blog wouldn't stoop to stealing from your blog to link back to your blog so we can all drool about our very hot, hot, hot president, shirtless and ripped, oh yeah. I'm drooling on my keyboard.

Please Take Action Now!

Dear MoveOn member,
On Thursday, President Obama released memos that describe, in horrific detail, the torture techniques authorized by the Bush administration. The memos make clear that top Bush officials didn't just condone torture—they encouraged it.

So far there's been no accountability for the architects of Bush's torture program—the top officials who justified keeping detainees awake for 11 days straight, waterboarding them repeatedly, and forcing prisoners into coffin-like boxes with insects.1

We need real consequences for those responsible—it's the only way to keep this from happening again. Attorney General Holder can open an investigation into the torture program—but he most likely won't unless people everywhere speak up and demand it.

Can you sign our petition to Attorney General Eric Holder asking him to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate the torture program? If we can reach 200,000 signatures, we'll deliver the petition to Holder by the end of the week. Clicking here will sign your name:

http://pol.moveon.org/torture/o.pl?id=15951-8978383-qfr31Px&t=3

The petition says: "No one is above the law. It's time to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate and prosecute the architects of the Bush-era torture program."

Calls for action, from the United Nations, the ACLU, Amnesty International,2 Senators Leahy and Feingold, and others, are gathering steam. The New York Times made the case for accountability in an editorial:3


"...[Obama] has an obligation to pursue what is clear evidence of a government policy sanctioning the torture and abuse of prisoners—in violation of international law and the Constitution.
"

This isn't about retribution or politics. It's about accountability. If hundreds of thousands of us speak up, we can make sure Holder hears this loud and clear.
http://pol.moveon.org/torture/o.pl?id=15951-8978383-qfr31Px&t=4

Thanks for all you do.

–Nita, Kat, Peter, Ilyse, and the rest of the team

P.S. You can see all the Bush administration memos here.

Someone is Reading Me in Costa Rica

It must be Tom. Last time I talked to him, he was calling me from an Airport somewhere like Dallas or Miami sitting on the plane to Costa Rica. It was only the flight attendant's last announcement that got him to hang up. Oh the miracle of the Cell Phone! I may yet go to my grave never having owned one. I will be the last hold out. I do not want to be always available, always accessible, always on call. For awhile, when I was still hot as a talent, my agent insisted I needed either a cell phone or a pager. I opted for the pager.

When Tom last called he said he was going to Costa Rica for a month. That was at least six months ago or more. But with the birthday season approaching; if he's alive, he'll call. For two months, I'm older than he is. He seems to like that two month period when he is a younger old man. I hope the reason he's stayed so long in Costa Rica this time is Love with a capital L. Tom is a man who seems to need a woman in his life. It would be a shame if he chose to spend his time traipsing through the lives of the wives and lovers of his past. It's nice he still seems fond of us, but it would be better for him to actually live with a woman who loves him. I like to see him with another woman, one he really loves, one he can risk introducing to the rest of us.

My childhood seems to have made me immune to reciprocal romantic love. I might be in love, but I could never afford to weather the bad times and make it work. I ran at the slightest provocation. I left every man I ever loved.

But I Feel So Bla...

I worked myself into a frenzy, sweating enough to strip down to the wife-beater T shirt, yoga pants and Wellington's. I worked hard outside and in. I drank water as I worked. Now I ache in every bone and muscle. And though it's gorgeous outside I'm filled with lassitude. Is it me or is it bipolar disorder? It would be awful to slip into depression now, just when it's safe to go outside again. I'm just short of wanting to slip into a cottony sleep. And it just might be that the last three months of feeling sickish, are really the usual first symptoms of a mood swing. So many times after a long period of feeling good, I started feeling like I had a strength sucking virus. Tests would be done, even going so far as to an endocrinologist for a work up. And after months of tracking down the culprit, the final verdict would be depression. This is not the right season for depression. I don't want depression. I will not be depressed. But it creeps in on tiny cottony feet and saps your strength. It confuses you and makes you drift off course. I start one project and then notice another and am finally convinced before I do this big a job I will have to have a nap. But I yearn to be outside....

The Rat, The Cat, and the Dog

This is one of the many things I love about Santa Barbara. There are people and sights like this all along State Street. Not only are they allowed to entertain everyone on State Street as street entertainers, they are actually beloved members of the community even if they hail from Colorado.

Thanks YDG