30 June 2009

Enough about you

I've been in a really positive place lately because everything is going so well, and I am on schedule for my move to Colorado. It's 33 more days!! Yea! Things are going my way, and if you are a regular reader, you know that it's cause for celebration. Anyway, just because I'm in a good space, doesn't mean i don't still notice some of those little niggling things that operate like a tack in my shoe.

Here's a niggling niggler: when you are on the phone with someone, many times over a series of
days or weeks, and they never think to ask anything about you; what's going on in YOUR life, how YOU'RE doing...and when you bait them by saying, "Sorry I didn't get your call. I was busy on this new project--"

They don't say, "Oh, what was that?" they say, "Anyway, I was calling because blah blah effing blah." Me me me. You realize you are merely a sounding board for the sweet echo of their own voice. It's a monologue delivered to a live, but silent audience. Conversational masturbation.

Don't get me wrong. I can be a talker, and I pride myself in being able to intelligently discuss a long list of subjects; and I can get on a roll and not only debate, but usurp a conversation if I get all excited about the subject...but I never forget that other people have things to add, and I always give them a chance to do that, especially after I feel compelled to expound on something at length. I apologize for my loquaciousness, and invite them to do the same. And I always ask people about what's going on with them; give them an opportunity to share, and ask questions where clarity is needed, all in an effort to show them that I care about them, and what they have to say.

Thus, when I come across a person who keeps calling and talking about themselves, but never appears to have any interest in me or my life...well, that's just patently self absorbed. And I find that I am not keen on answering the phone.

Grateful, now, for caller ID.


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26 June 2009

Jae-Walking


My new exercise program consists primarily of walking, (and sometimes Jumping to Conclusions). I prefer walking the golf course for several reasons:


  • aesthetics (Not many parks around here--the golf course is the "parkiest" place,
  • convenience--it's just down the hill,
  • the winding, undulating path gives variety to the muscle-workout, and
  • I guess I have a secret desire to be beaned with a golf ball.

There's a little old man on a golf cart who patrols the area; he's more like the Hall Monitor than a Security Guard.
My first encounter with him went something like this:

He whirs up next to me and stops, saying, "You shouldn't be walking here."

Obligingly, I play along. "Why not?"

"You could get hit by a golf ball."

"Interesting you should bring that up," I say, proud of my forethought in doing a little Googling, just on the off-chance I might have this exact encounter. "There is a zero point 1 percent chance of that happening. Odds are higher that I'll be struck by lightning. I think I'll take my chances."
I have a moment of abject fear when i hear thunder in the distance, but just decided that this irony would be too profound to consider, and was instead the slurry of bad comedies. "I think I'll take my chances," I add, knowing that the odds of getting struck by lighting while golfing were much higher, but i wasn't golfing. I was walking. Jaywalking, apparently. (Jae, walking. snort snort).

He rubs his chin and squints into the sun, mumbling, "Well...still...we wouldn't want to be responsible if it did happen, you know..."


"I'd be happy to sign a waiver," I say, smiling.

He moves something around inside his mouth and offers, "Well, okay... but keep your eyes peeled." And he whirs away on the little cart.
Peeling eyes. Eye peeling. Colloquialisms from hell.

The next day, we cross paths again and he smiles and greets me like we're friends. I pause and say, "Aren't you going to offer me a ride?"


His caterpillar eyebrows squirmed high on his forehead. "I thought you were walking for exercise."


"Still, it's only proper to offer. It's really hot today."


"Would you like a ride?" he asked agreeably.

"No thanks. I'm trying to get my exercise." I walked away, smiling, and heard him chuckle behind me. I don't know why I feel the need to fuck with people so much.

After a midnight run through Wal-Mart, I decided that my earlier walk and the shopping still was not enough to make up for the cheese sticks I indulged in for lunch, so I decided to go one more round on the golf course. It was one in the morning....
No golf ball hazards, I told myself. No whirring, Golfing Police with caterpillar eyebrows and a concern for my well-being and the liability of the country club. And perhaps more important for my winter-loving ass, no blazing noonday sunshine.

So, I'm walking around the dark course, realizing that although I had the presence of mind to bring a flashlight, it's still spooky in the pitch dark outside with all that greenspace. Night time critters, doncha know. Or the errant serial killer. I stopped after getting about 100 yards into it...had one of those moments.
Should I go back? Did i think this through properly?

Luckily, any continued distress was alleviated by the fact that I had a pistol in my kangaroo pouch (no, i don't have a flap of skin on my belly...on second thought, maybe I do..I have lost some weight. Anyway...) I pulled the diminutive .25 out of the pouch and held it, redirected the flashlight and started walking again. What event, I mused, would justify me firing this gun? I had a quick image of a rabid raccoon hugging my legs and gnawing a hole in my kneecap. Not likely, but dramatic enough to entertain me. Then I had an image of a buck deer, trying to impale me with his antlers. Why would he do that? I was in his territory and he mistook me for another buck deer? Ridiculous, even though I do have quite a rack.

The only wildlife I did see was either a raccoon or a possum, and all I could really make out was two glowing eyes as he begrudgingly moved toward the taller grass. I finally made my way around the other side, realizing I could put my pistol back in the pouch, as it was unlikely I'd need to use it, and if I did, it would not be a quick draw.

Feeling like those cheese sticks had magically increased my Body Mass Index to 62%, I headed for the footbridge, vowing to eat only fruit and drink only water tomorrow. Then I saw the headlights. Headlights pointed toward the golf course. Toward ME. I thought,
ah, there's that serial killer, now, my hand moving to the opening of the pouch, locating the handle of the .25. Admittedly, it was the type of firearm that would only piss off any attacker, and distract him long enough for me to escape, but it was better than just a flashlight and a kangaroo pouch. I continued moving toward my Blazer and he got out and said, "Hello!" Maybe it's the Caterpillar Eyebrows dude. When the beam of a Maglite caught me in the face, I realized who it was. A cop. Now, I had a quick hope for something like this::


But what I got was this:


I could now see the white car, with the stripe on the side and those precious twirling blue lights on the top, thankfully not in use at the moment. I understood that he was checking out who the oddball was walking on the golf course in the pitch dark with a flashlight. "Everything okay?" he asked.


That's when it occurred to me that having a gun in your kangaroo pouch with an inquisitive cop a few yards away, was not one of my better situations. I knew I could not give him any reason to be suspicious. My creative, novel-writing mind kicked in. So I lied. I told him I had dropped my cell phone earlier and had to come back and look for it.


He immediately accepted that, and I thanked him for asking, and said it was good to know that the Bella Vista Police Department was out and about, keeping everyone safe. Considering the zero crime rate in this little retirement village, that was such an overstatement, it bordered on sarcasm, so I decided to zip it. He wished me a good evening and pulled away to investigate some other menace. Like a buck deer goring a raccoon on another golf course.



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25 June 2009

Somewhere Else (excerpt)



1
The Color of Confusion

Cornelius paused with vermilion up on his brush, about to make a bold swath across the canvas, when he noticed Daelah. Placing the loaded brush in his teeth, he reached down and readjusted the position of his wheelchair so he could see her better.

At the end of the long corridor leading to the kitchen, she stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the ceiling, and down at her hands, and touching her own face.

Cornelius frowned, a drop of vermilion free falling from the end of his brush onto a dried spot of cobalt blue on his sweats. A tapping grew louder and he twisted toward the back hallway leading out of the living room as Jubal made his way toward Cornelius, seated at his easel. Jubal moved the white-tipped cane back and forth in front of him. Tap. Tap. Tap, Tap.

Cornelius took the brush from his mouth and caught his attention. "Psst!"

Jubal paused, one hand on the saxophone dangling from a cord around his pale neck, the other on the cane. His lifting of eyebrows at the sound made his wraparound sunglasses bob upward on his nose. "What?" he whispered back.

Keeping his voice in a whisper, still, Cornelius said, "Have you noticed anything strange about Daelah today?"

"How would I notice anything about Daelah?" The blind man smirked.

He swiped a hand down his face, to smooth his Van Dyke style goatee. "You know what I mean."

"Well, yes. . ." He took a few steps forward, sliding the tip of the cane along the wood floor in front of him. "She smells different."

"Smells different?"

"Yeah."

"New perfume?"

"Nope. Individual, natural scent is different."

"Okay, weirdness." Cornelius turned back to watch Daelah who was now reaching toward the ceiling, stretching like a cat, and moaning with pleasure.

Jubal cocked his head toward her sounds. "What the hell is she doing? Playing with herself?"

"Just stretching. . .but weird, like she's never stretched before. She seems to be enjoying it too much."

Jubal took measured steps forward, made a left face, and then moved quietly down the hall, holding his cane against his chest. He paused not three feet behind her, and put the saxophone to his lips, blowing a rude honk at her.

She jumped, stumbled against the wall and stared at him.

Feigning ignorance, he said, "Oh, is someone there?" He lifted his cane and swept it side to side, comically searching for her.

In the living room threshold, Cornelius let out a humorous huff. His friend Jubal enjoyed playing the blind man all the way to the bone. He had embraced his disability with unusual flair.

Daelah looked at the tall, angular blind man. Almost-flawless skin, paled from a lack of sunshine. She knew better than to say, who are you? She was aware of several things she suspected she shouldn't know at this point, but precisely who this blind man was, she wasn't sure about. "You scared me," she offered instead.

"Oh. Sorry." He lowered the cane.

"How can you sneak up like that when—"

He knew she meant to add, when you're blind. "I have sonar like a dolphin. I can sense the walls and obstacles. . .I can feel the ions in the air, parting for my passage."

"Right," came the snide remark a short distance behind Jubal.

Cornelius rolled down the hall toward them and watched Daelah lean out to see past Jubal toward the approaching wheelchair.

Jubal cocked his head. "Are you okay, Daelah? You smell funny."

"What?"

"Huh?" he responded, just as confused about her misunderstanding as she was about his statement. She knew he had a keen sense of smell. The subject had come up many times before. She knew he noticed the minutiae most people missed.

Daelah frowned again as the man in the wheelchair stopped beside the blind man. Jubal released his hold on the saxophone to sweep his hand at waist level, toward Cornelius, catching him in the face. "Oh, there you are," Jubal said.

"Stop it!" Cornelius reprimanded him, slapping his hand away. His antics could be so aggravating.

Addressing the still-baffled looking woman in front of him, Cornelius said, "You seem weird today, Daelah."

"I do?"

"Yes."

"I. . ." She glanced to her right, up the staircase. "I think I'll go up and lie down for awhile." She turned and climbed the steps, showing interest in the photos on the stairway wall, and glancing back at them as if they were friendly house-spiders, but spiders, just the same.

As she disappeared around the landing, the two men waited in silence for a moment, then Cornelius spun his chair and rolled back down the hallway toward the living room, the vermilion-loaded brush in his teeth again.

Jubal followed him, and took a seat in a chair to play his sax.

#

Upstairs, Daelah sank down on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her eyes and considered her own confusion.

For the last few minutes, she had been trying to assimilate the volumes of information that had seemingly been downloaded into her brain. Everything from how to tie her shoes, to the relative merits of clean underwear.

She was Daelah Murdock. She felt like herself. But something had changed. That much was clear, if only by the reaction of these two housemates. The blind man and the cripple. They seemed familiar, but she didn't know them, as odd as that contradiction was.

Then, she recalled the dream that had played out in her mind just before she emerged from nocturnal bliss that morning.

A glowing white essence, shaped somewhat like an elongated teardrop, had told her, telepathically, "Thank you." Daelah had no way of knowing what she, herself, looked like in the dream, but sensed she was also a glowing essence. She had reached out to grasp the wrist that emerged from the glowing essence—a human wrist, that clenched her own in farewell.

When the Teardrop Essence vanished, her dreamself noticed a tattoo
of a strange symbol on her inner forearm. Then she woke, and the tattoo was not on her skin, and she sat up to draw the symbol on the pad of paper on the nightstand. Then she had found the bathroom and hurried to look in the mirror, stunned by the sensation that the face looking back at her in the glass was not her own. Then she had not recognized the room, and had gone downstairs to look around.

Now, frowning down at the paper, she sensed that the symbol was important, but wasn't quite sure why. The shape resembled an ankh, the universal symbol of eternal life, but it was like a blending of two ankhs, one upright, the other upside down, and joined at the stems.

Daelah spent the next few hours roaming around the bedroom, seeking clues to her befuddlement. The bedspread was an aggravating shade of pink, and there was a pink dust ruffle made of lace around the bed. She hated it. Likewise, the matching horridly pink lampshade on the nightstand, had engendered more repulsion. Though the walls were a standard eggshell color, they were festooned with all things pink.

This could not possibly be her own room, though she had awakened there. Peering down at herself, she noticed she was wearing a hideous pink nightgown with lace around the collar. She pulled it off her like it was on fire, and hurried to the closet.

Inside the wardrobe nook, her efforts to find more agreeable attire had met with a nightmarish array of pink, salmon, lavender, and fuchsia. The singular exception was a black T-Shirt, banished to the far end of the clothes rod. She turned it toward her to look at it. A depiction of a bread-like ring bejeweled with fruit and nuts graced the front, and below it in white letters was the word Fruitcake. No doubt this was a gift from someone with a sense of humor who was making a veiled suggestion about the pink-woman's mental status.

The Pink Woman. She had framed it as though the pink woman was not her. But it wasn't her. Yet here she was, being her.

As she pulled the black fruitcake T-Shirt over her head, snatched a pair of jeans and pulled them on, and added some atrocious pink sneakers to her–no surprise—pink socks, she felt a little more like herself. Whoever that was.

Emerging from the closet, she stood in the middle of the room and thought about it all. She wasn't herself. Couldn't be. What did that mean?

Her trip downstairs a few minutes ago, did not garner her much information. The house was like a familiar place from long ago, yet almost erased from her memory. When the blind man and the cripple appeared, things became even more confusing.

Sitting back down on the bed, she listened for a moment to the blind man playing saxophone downstairs. She recognized the tune as Patsy Cline's "Crazy." It was a little crazy that she recognized the song, but not the guy who played it—a guy who obviously lived in her house. . .or she in his.

She picked up the wretched pink purse, and pulled out the aggravating pink wallet. The driver's license read,

Daelah Murdock
72 North Tapioca
Cedar City, Utah.

Tapioca? Who the hell would live on a street called Tapioca? Was Pudding Circle all full-up?

Daelah perused the license again. She was apparently female, and 36 years old.

#

Downstairs, Jubal stopped playing the sax and tilted his head toward Cornelius' painting sounds. "Maybe we should encourage her to go back to the doctor."

"That's what I'm thinking."

"They told her she would be fine, but a knock on the head like that can sometimes do some damage that doesn't show up until later."

"Yeah, just like it did with you," Cornelius quipped.

"I only lost my sight, I didn't lose my mind."

"Jury's still out on that one," he said, wiping his brush on a paint smattered towel.

Jubal tossed his cane in the painter's direction, and it hit the arm of the wheelchair and clattered to the floor.

Cornelius looked down at it, lying next to the left wheel.

Jubal said, "I dropped my cane, could you hand it back to me?"

Cornelius rolled his eyes and leaned to pick it up, poking the blind man in the leg with it. Jubal grabbed it and placed it over his lap again.

#

Daelah dug through the pukey pink purse and in a side pocket, found a folded bulletin from the Church of Latter Day Saints. What was that, Saints that weren't quite here, but would be, tomorrow? The newsletter had a mailing label addressed to her, which meant she might actually be a card-carrying member of the Polygamy Pack.

Suddenly, she wondered if the two men downstairs were her husbands. Although why she would have chosen a blind man and a cripple for her spouses, was unclear. No. wait. . .it didn't work that way. . .it was the men who got to have numerous wives. . .that's certainly not fair. Unless this was another planet or an alternate reality where there was a matriarchy in place. That would be cool.

Glancing around at her obvious pink fetish, the answer to that was a little easier to guess. She had a screw loose, and they were the only two Mormon men left who would have her stupid pink ass.

Also in the handbag was a tube of lipstick the color of—again, no surprise—Passion Pink.

She thought she would hurl if she had to look at all this pink much longer. Her gut was queasy.

Moving into the bathroom, she fully expected to see the medicine cabinet lined with bottles of Pepto Bismol, if only by the fetish of its color. When she opened it, there was only one bottle of it, yet she was not encouraged by that paltry representation. She grabbed it, screwed off the lid and took a slug of it.

When she put it back, she saw a prescription. Alprazolam. A generic form of Xanax. This told her she had some sort of anxiety disorder, though the only anxiety she felt now stemmed from her confused, Swiss-cheese memory and the proliferation of pink in her bedroom. A plastic bottle of Tums resided next to the Pepto, its contents graced by periodic pink tablets as well. What was up with this woman? Why was she so obsessed with pink? This woman. Me. Not me. Hell's bells.

Closing the cabinet, she caught sight of her hair in the mirror. She looked like the Flying Freaking Nun, her crowning glory more a hat than a head of hair, if the amount of hairspray was any indication. She opened several drawers until she found a hairbrush, and stroked it through the glue-like texture on each side, yelping when the bristles hit a sore spot. Reaching up, she felt a huge lump at the back of her skull. Ahhh. . .that explains it. She'd bumped her head.

Swiftly, she felt a sense of panic. What if the Teardrop Essence dream and the downloaded brain matter was the result of a head injury? What if she had forgotten everything about herself and it never reappeared in her brain? Maybe not such a bad thing, she reassured herself, considering what she had discovered so far.

She looked back at her reflection and in lieu of an answer to the head injury question, resolved to let her hair grow out, and get some real body in it, to avoid the churchy look.

She reentered the bedroom and began searching through it for more clues.

In the nightstand, she found the obligatory pink diary. This time, she could ignore the color she had only today come to loathe, because the contents of the diary might provide all the answers she sought. There was no guilt in the action, as she reminded herself that she couldn't be blamed for invading her own privacy.



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20 June 2009

On the Heels of...



I had a marathon conversation last night with an ex from 10 years ago; and reconnected with her (Terra), via something she came across in my blog. The last half of the conversation created a feeling of great
discomfort for me--both then, and this morning. My dreams were filled with people from the past, and anxiety tinted the start of my day.

I was aware that in this phone conversation, I had slipped back into old habits and patterns of response and emotion. Our conversation was triggering
me like a pack of firecrackers. She is, at the moment, inextricably attached to so many painful memories. She is attached to that battle with the Government/VA, that pain, disability, depression, ostracization, helplessness, and sense of generalized abandonment. While I know she was not responsible for all of that, she was still attached to that time period, and there remains a strong association in that regard.

She has an association also with my first and second bands, and with the only woman who broke my heart; the one I was recovering from, when Terra came along. Terra gave me back that feeling that I was valuable and worth loving.

Last night, I didn't even realize I still carried all that emotion from my life 10 years ago. The way I somehow became the villain, the scapegoat for everyone concerned. I thought I had healed and left it all behind. (These are the lies we tell ourselves). I guess I had merely buried it, ignored it and got on with my life as best I could. But you musn't bury something that isn't dead, or you run the risk of something along the lines of Pet Cemetery...specters raised from the dead to terrorize you. But how do you kill something without a MEANS of killing it? I never got closure in that situation. So I buried it alive.

A lot can happen to people in ten years. I had hoped that talking to Terra might allow me to reposition her in my life--not as that person a decade ago, but as someone familiar, yet new. Obviously, that's going to be more challenging than I thought. I have a great deal more self-work to do when I get settled into my new life.

This re-connection came on the heels of recovering from the ruptured disc for 8 stressful and difficult weeks, much of which included the most excruciating pain I've ever had, being bed-bound, (while my computer crashed twice, by the way); coupled with this renewed realization of how truly isolated my life has become, and how there are few people for me to turn to, here. And nothing that interests me in the least. It all became vividly clear to me during this recovery period. I was even more resolved to move and start fresh. More convinced of my own brilliance in simply identifying the problem and taking steps to repair it, and reach for that happiness I have always so vehemently sought.

This reconnection with Terra also came on the heels of a series of betrayals by a few people in my life--who, in one way or another, showed themselves to be disingenuous, two-faced, and sometimes just plain mentally delusional or downright crazy. (I know most of my readers can relate). When Terra and I got on the topic of various social "Friends lists" I had such a caustic, strained and bitter response to it. No one REALLY has a hundred friends, I argued. That's just a way for people to create some artificial self-confidence. They are only pictures. And very few actually understand the definition of what being a friend IS. One of those friends abandoned me in my greatest hour of need, after promising to be there for me in exchange for living here rent free. I had two relapses because I was forced to do things physically I should not have done, that she had promised to take care of. Not only was she a no-show, but she stopped calling for weeks, when I was in the middle of needing her help so desperately. And this person had done this sort of thing to me about 4 other times, and I had always forgiven and taken her back when she begged forgiveness and made new promises. So that was another trigger. Friends.

Terra's mention of my previous bandmates, and other "musical people" topic in general, to include looking at professional photos on the Internet she had taken of them, also triggered me. I have always felt betrayed by them. After I was the one who did the bookings, the management, the publications and marketing, provided the van to carry the equipment, which was purchased on MY credit, and never got reimbursed or compensated for the wear and tear on, and gas for my vehicle, and also being the principal song writer...it was doubly hurtful to be pushed out of both bands. On top of performing with my ex (the one who broke my heart) and being mistreated and insulted by her at every turn...I had to walk away from something that was very much like a marriage to a person I was still in love with; while still being in love with that person still in the band. Now, I see these musical people from my past doing the music again, and enjoying that process and being respected, accepted and admired, and those feelings of betrayal and unfairness well up again. Why didn't I get to have that? It wasn't like I didn't work hard enough for it.

This reconnection is also coming on the heels of a complete and utter dismantling of my own personal worldview, which has been a two year process of letting go of all I used to believe about the existence of a god and what my purpose was in this life. Until you have walked down that road, you have no idea how completely devastating it can be at first. I embraced my atheism, and of course found that the Bible Belt is a terrible place to do that. Especially if you're also a lesbian. This (currently) 630 page book about it ("Supernatural Hypocrisy: The Cognitive Dissonance of a God Cosmology") was draining to write, but had to be done. Yet, facing my own personal truth with raw honesty also took its toll and I know that it will still be some time before I am completely at peace about it.

This reconnection with Terra also came on the heels of me finding myself isolated again, while those in my life moved, took other jobs elsewhere, found relationships, had children, and generally moved on with their lives, leaving me in the floodlights of waning purpose. Yes, I worked on my self and tried to be the most ethical and honest person i could be, even when it hurt like hell. Yes, I have written 13 books. And yes, I am proud of that. Yes, I recorded more songs and shared them, and yes, I created all kinds of art that was also something about which i was proud. But none of those things engaged me in a healthy interaction with other people on a daily basis. I kept exemplifying the definition of stupidity that I always counseled others about when they sought my advice: doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. I had moved from place to place, thinking that it would alleviate the broken parts of my life, and then finally it dawned on me. My mistake wasn't in moving place to place, seeking the life I wanted, it was moving to the SAME types of places, in the same region, and expecting things to change.

I was saved only by the information from my best friend who had returned from Colorado to inform me that change had come to that area too, in the form of affordability and an even wider variety of experiences waiting to be had. And then I researched again and found that every single thing I was missing in my life, was to be had there. That's when I gained another caveat about life: Just because you have made a decision previously, it does not mean it still applies now. Things change, people change, and you have to look at the facts all over again and see if that decision you made
still applies. Fortunately, I discovered mine didn't and this opened up other possibilities for me.

So I began the goal of relocating, and it has taken me a solid year to get within 6 weeks of actually getting out of here. Setback after setback, betrayals, disappointments, misfortune, new health issues, and loneliness all colored the fabric of that scratchy cloak, but I wore it. I wore it and I vowed I would be free of it as soon as humanly possible.

And after coming out of a process in which a neurologist told me I had no choice, I created a choice, and having proved that prediction wrong, I was hopeful again. Laughing. Feeling my real self emerging once more.

Then a blast from
the past unearthed my tenuous bomb shelter. And I was reminded with as much shock and ferocity, that I never really did have a grip on all of it. I had merely chosen to ignore it until it appeared to move away.

But I'm not done. I refuse to let go of this dream. I will not let this be my life. I will create another one. Again. And while I am weary and struggling to keep my chin up, I'll push through this obstacle too, because this pinpoint of light shining in a dark place is searing my eyes, and it's all I have.




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17 June 2009

News from the Front Lines

Four of my books are live on Amazon and four more will be, by next week, probably. Then another five will follow within a month. Then I can start working on the books I've had to put on the back burner to do all those final edits. I've also gotten out of my groove with the writing because of everything else that required my full attention. I'm anxious to get back to it. It's such a part of me, that when I don't write, I start to feel a little empty.

Am on schedule for my relocation to Colorado. My disc is almost healed--no thanks to the stupid neurologist who told me I absolutely had to have surgery.
As usual, i question authority, so I did my own research. It is common knowledge among 98% of other doctors, that surgery is an absolute last resort, and those who have it are messed up for life. More scar tissue, more surgery, more alignment issues because your spine does not function well with metal plates in it. Conservative treatments are always the first choice, but he tried to railroad me into scheduling surgery....(he didn't show me the MRI or the x-rays and even talked down to me as if I could not possibly understand the situation. He sorely underestimated me). I know now, this could have ruined my life. I don't have anyone to help during something like that anyway. Not to mention that they would have gone in from the front of my neck, which would likely damage my vocal cords--no more singing.... It could have been a nightmare....and so I smell the pungent odor of malpractice. I'm going to file a complaint and hope they investigate how many lives he's ruined--he should NOT have a license. I have fantasies of waltzing into his office and doing a jig on his desk and then telling him I'm going to ruin him, and kicking him in the nuts on my way out.

{okay, deep breath, and back to my happy space....}

I am so excited about moving. I've had good luck selling stuff and will have a yard sale too in the next few weeks. My house is becoming more and more empty....less and less to load and move. Yea! Oh, and i have a possible volunteer situation to load the trailer (can't do anything like that anymore)--and I have a backup guy that I will pay to do it if the other thing falls through. Just trying to stay under budget.

I've already made some friends there I'm going to hang out with. Erin will be meeting me upon my arrival to help me, though I plan to have someone hired by then to unload. I did promise to take her to dinner, though, because she was so supportive while I was here alone with this crippling neck injury. She's very sweet. I'll try not to take advantage of her. hehe.
Okay, maybe a little.






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04 June 2009

Wishbonehead

It was old and brittle, many months forgotten, on top of the spice rack. A wishbone,liberated from some poultry which sustained me and then became a memory removed with the flossing of my teeth.

I picked it up and entertained the first thought that always comes to mind for most people: Make a wish. I am not superstitious and I don't believe in magical chicken bones. But if I did, I told myself, what would my wish me? I knew I would have a hard time choosing just one. So I wished two wishes. I wished for complete healing and a successful, smooth relocation to Colorado at the first of this August.

Then I pulled the two bone apart to
seal the wishes, wondering which one the bone would choose for me with its longer side. But the bones had broken in precisely the same location on each side, partway down, and the top of the wishbone, where those two bones intersected into a larger joint, popped off, torpedoed me on the forehead, and fell to the floor.

Life can't ever be simple, I thought.

So what did that mean? That I got both my wishes? But what of the other joining bone? What was the symbolism of it hitting me in the forehead?

It struck my "third eye" where things are seen? And that, because the big bone
-- the mechanism which would provide those wishes--hit that spot, would I also also SEE something important from it?

Or does it simply mean I was being a bonehead?







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03 June 2009

Slippity Doo Dah


(or, "I Don't Love my OTHER Shoes")

I've always known that certain footwear was dangerous. The most common culprit in my mind is the high heel-pump-stiletto family of shoes. Aside from the usual hazard of balancing on something so precarious as a shoe with a peg under it (although Pirate-amputees seemed to have mastered it), or in the case of a stiletto, (essentially walking on a PENCIL), there is a profound discomfort to be had in the awkward position of the foot, and the disfiguration that takes place as a woman gets older while partaking of t
his footwear. Have you looked at 50 or 60 year old woman's foot after she's worn high heels her whole life? It looks like pointy shoes with skin on it, or like her feet have been stricken with a genetic defect. It is beyond comprehension that a woman will do this to herself, often only to make her legs look attractive for men. Not only is it a health hazard for what it does to one's knees, but it doesn't allow a woman to run...and i feel that this is something that women ought to be able to do, for many reasons, which i won't get into here.

But, regardless, I was convinced that a MAN invented the high heel, and as i Googled it to find out, i discovered that this was true, but they invented them for MEN. It seems they needed a shoe that wouldn't slip in the stirrups while riding horseback. Then the style became more of a fashion statement for royalty in the 1500's. Then a female member of royalty adopted the style and women began to wear heels after that. Women discovered that wearing heels made their gate and calves more alluring and s
ensualized...for the benefit of admiring males.

But even high hells have nothing on the footwear that graces the tootsies of homebodies nation-wide. Nothing is more treac
herous than that unassuming pair of footwear that can be found in every household…often they exude comfort, they are the very essence of comfort and repose, but secretly, this footwear is an accident waiting to happen.

I speak of the open heeled house slipper. They don't call it a "slipper" for nothing. Don't be fooled
by the padded faux lambs wool, and the cushiness of its sole. Any number of things can go awry with these hideous houseshoes, these sinister slippers. There is absolutely nothing holding them on your feet except your good intentions. You can be taking a step and one of them will slip off, fold over, and crinkle your toes. They can slide off kilter and make you twist your ankle; it's even worse if you're on uneven terrain. Many homes are one-level, and one can scoot along without lifting one's feet, enjoying the gleeful combination of static electricity and unsuspecting cats, (Here kitty kitty…ZZZZZAP!) but this just lulls you into a false sense of security. For eventually, you will lift a foot and it will all be over. You'll find yourself stumbling, mashing the cat's tail, dropping your fresh cup of coffee, banging your head on a railing and cracking every toe-knuckle you have. And squishing your cream cheese bagel into your right ear. It can be even worse than that.

For instance, I am writing this at the foot of my staircase.


I'm going to need a few more minutes before attempting to get up. And when I do, I'm going to put on some sneakers, and use my open-heeled house slippers as cat toys. Maybe they can put their little arms inside them when the basement gets too chilly. Or maybe I'll put them in my lap and use them for hand warmers, myself. But they will never again go on my feet. Especially not right now, since I can't bend over without aggravating those seven slipped discs in my back.


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Gynepsychology


You ever wonder who the gynecologist for famous actresses is? Can you imagine? Most men dream of even seeing a female star; this guy gets to put his fingers in their coochies, and put his face right up there in it. All in the name of medicine. Sanctioned by reputable institutions of higher learning. But they're still men, and I can't imagine they wouldn't be just a little thrilled with their career choice.

I've always been suspicious of male gynecologists, anyway. I mean, what kind of guy is in med school and decides he wants to look at vagina's all day long for a living? Has to be a perv, i tell ya. It can't be because he is passionate about solving gynecological issues. Unless he's gay. Then maybe it would be okay. Having a fag GYN might actually be fun, because he'd say scandalous things like, "Oooo, girl! what pretty pubic topiary, you've designed, there!" Or maybe he'd hum altered Broadway tunes like, "If i were a straight man, doobee doobee DOOO be DOO be doobe doobe doooo!"

Some women freak out about seeing a female GYN, and i can't tell if more of them who feel that way are straight or gay, because i hear the argument for both sides. The straight women say, "I could never let another woman diddle around with my vagina. That would be creepy, because i don't have sex with women." The gay ones say, "I would never let another woman diddle around with my vagina, unless she was my lover. Otherwise, that might be embarrassing, because i might get aroused."

But then a similar protest might be heard for male gynecologists. Gay women would say,
"I could never let a man diddle around with my vagina. That would be creepy, because i don't have sex with men." The straight ones say, "I would never let a man diddle around with my vagina, unless he was my lover. Otherwise, that might be embarrassing, because i might get aroused."


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The Bitch & Stumble

Myself and two friends are all fired up about getting our bodies back in shape. We're realizing, that just as all the sages warned, we aren't getting any younger. (dammit). I'm also going organic and making all my personal care and household products, but that's another blog...

Anyway, so the three of us are doing the
6x30 routine on a Gazelle. That was the invention of my friend, Justi, who began to work out on the Gazelle six times per day for 30 minutes, and has seen fantastic results. Now, not everyone works at home and can do this, but it just so happens that me and Georgie have that kind of access all day, just like Justi does. So we're doing it too, because Justi has lost 12 pounds in 7 days. And she feels wonderful, and is also hiking all over the place. She just told me she's going to do a 4.7 mile run event, and she's all jacked up about it...

She said, "I wish you could do it too."

"I don't know about a run. Do they have a 'Bitch and Stumble' event?

(laughter)

"...or a '200 Yard Whine.' Now THAT, I can do," I said.

She showed me the website about the event and enthused: "Doesn't that look like fun?"

"Um, no."

"You wouldn't like to do that?"

"Only if we were invaded by a foreign army who hated gay people," I said, "and I were being chased by Muslim Nazi's."

Laughter. "Oh, and in that case, it would be fun."

"No," I said. "in that case, it would be necessary."

Always game for exploring the labyrinths of the human psyche, she countered, "What if someone gave you a thousand dollars, just to finish the course?"

I thought for a moment. "I'd do it then, yeah."

"So you are motivated by money."

"Yeah, I can see how that's a stark contrast to everyone else in the world."


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Shopping for Banishment


My friend Georgie said, "I thought about you in HEB the other night -- shopping with you. Made myself giggle."

"Oh I'm sure we'd get kicked out of a store."

"Just a little kick."

"No, banished."

"
Why?"

"Because I tend to steal other people's shopping carts, after they've filled them up and then I argue with them--that they haven't paid for it yet, it's not theirs, and I like it, so I'm taking it."

She's laughing.

"But I haven't done that in a long time," I added.

"I'm gonna have to wear some Depends," Georgie said.

"Yeah! Maybe I'll steal a cart with those in it...although, I don't usually terrorize old people, or the incontinent."

"Stop! I almost choked--"

Now I'm laughing at her.

She
started name-calling: "REtard." And then, provided a visual: "Cottage cheese curds sweeping down my wind pipe..."

"Well you've got to get your calcium somehow."



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Conversations With my Cats--#1 in a series

So i sat down in my desk chair, and biscuit comes up, with her feather-duster tail conducting some silent orchestra, and i pet her. She lets me do that now, more than she did before. But then she eventually pulls away.

"See?' I say to her. "You realize it's not so bad to have that affection, but you still can't help it. I don't know where that comes from because I've had you since you were an itty bitty kitty, and you've always been safe and nothing bad has ever happened to you. So i guess it's about that nature versus nurture thing, huh, Biscuit? Your genetics make you just a little fucked up. And that's okay, because you're not my biological child."

She made a sound that was like "yeah" and strolled away.

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Witty Segues: Pariahs, Torches, Movies & Sex Toys




[this is a writing exercise I do, wherein I take a list of unrelated subjects and phrases in my files (or through suggestions from readers) and try to connect them in prose...and it's usually humorous. It also teaches you how to construct segues. The items in this list are, Pariahs, Torches, Movies & Sex Toys.] so...here we go....


I am a pariah. I know this, though the usual response from my friends to this proclamation is a dismissive, "No you're not...you're just rare and wonderful." Like a good steak. So I'm only good for a food source.

One of my biggest fears is that I'm going to die alone in my home, and my cats will eat me because I am too dead to open their food cans. I have three (cats, not food cans...this is The Crazy Cat Lady Starter Kit). I might have a chance to avoid that fate, because one of my cats, Monkey, happens to be polydactyl--she has 22 fingers--to include thumbs. As in Opposable Thumbs. A higher life form. Who can, perhaps, manipulate things like can openers.

If I am lucky enough to avoid the death-by-cat-consumption, it's a distinct possibility that I might be ostracized by my community...I keep waiting for a bunch of torch-carrying village people to come get me...I don't mean VILLAGE PEOPLE...like [singing] Yyyyyyy--M--C--Aaaaaa. I don't know what those guys might carry. KY, perhaps [singing: Kaaaaaay---yyy-------] okay, not enough letters for that to fit the timing of the song.... Anyway, no, Not Village People, Villagers. Torch-carrying Villagers. Hillary Clinton said it takes a village. But nothing is said of the Villagers themselves. Do they all carry torches? Or just the ones who are intolerant pyromaniacs?

I ha
ve been guilty of intolerance myself, when it's warranted. But I don't pursue pariahs with a burning torch in my hand. I can live vicariously through books and movies. Though, perhaps my reticence to be part of the torching mob is because I don't much like horror movies. Like, Nightmare on the Village People Street. Must be about hate crimes, not sure.

I just finished reviewing that horror flick, The Descent, and I liked it in spite of its horribleness, though I didn't envy those women who had to
defend themselves against subterranean carnivorous humanoids. I usually enjoy tamer fare. Like Sleepless in Seattle, or You've Got Mail.


Speaking of which, I just got some mail that made my day. It was a gadget called the Eroscillator. I've asked it to marry me. I told my best friend about it, but she wasn't quite clear what eroscillating might be. She said, "Is it like an oscillating heater?"

"Well, maybe more like an Oscillating Peter. But yeah, it does create some heat."


Oscillating Peter sounds like a Sundance film. 'Oscillating Peter...coming to a theater near you.'

I don't think I want an Oscillating Peter in a theater near me.



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Movie Review: The Descent


The basic premise is that a group of women go spelunking, and find themselves in grave danger (or, in danger of a grave) from a cave-in, followed by the presence of mysterious subterranean creatures who seek to make a meal of them.

This was not what I would deem a "b" movie, though it might appear to be so at first glance. It is within the horror genre, but leaning heavily toward thriller/suspense, as any gore or violence is not merely gratuitous but integral to the plot.

There are spoilers in this review, so if you don't want to know these details, stop reading, watch the movie and return here to see if you agree with my assessment, or offer your own. (Comments welcome).

I won't belabor this review with details of actress names or character names, and just cut to the chase, except when needed for clarity. There was some initial character development with the women, and past tragedies which figured into part of the plot, so I was please d to see this aspect. The British actresses were all good, and few things are hotter than a tough, beautiful woman with an accent. I'm sure that was for the benefit of straight males and lesbians. I must offer my thanks, since I am a member of one of those groups.

With proper foreshadowing that caves are pitch black and can play tricks on the mind, the Juno character admonishes the others to remember that they might see things that aren't there, become disoriented, or have other adverse reactions.
Once the women have hiked to the cave, and descended into the abyss of it to explore, they traverse various tunnels and crawlspaces until there is a sudden cave-in which blocks their escape the way they came in. At this point, it comes to light that the leader of the women (Juno) had taken them to a cave other than the one they thought they were in. There was no map to refer to for an alternate exit, as the cave had not been explored and she wanted them all to be the first to do so, and have the honor of conquering it and naming it. Thus, they are in a pickle, and Juno is not quite their favorite person anymore. They resolve to move ahead and seek a route out of the cave, as they cannot remain where they are without suffocating or risking another cave-in.

sidebar: I was already chewing my nails up to this point because I had to watch these women wriggle through these tiny tunnels the size of a paper towel tube--okay, not that small, but suffice to say, this inspired great phobic shivers in me. This is the last thing in the world I would do "for fun." I'd sooner perform an appendectomy on myself with a spoon. One of the women got stuck, and panicked just before the cave-in, and that would have been my reaction. Panic. First, I would not have crawled in that tunnel if I had the leas t propensity to panic in confined spaces. Which I do. So I wouldn't do it to begin with. I would not have rappelled into the cave either. I would not have gone on the trip at all. But if for some mistaken reason I did go on that expedition, I would have taken one look at those tiny tunnels and said. "I'll be up-top at the campsite, sucking on my electronic cigarette. See you later." Then I would have climbed my frantic ass back up to open air. So anyway, it did make me wonder why the writer had that character there in the first place. I guess for extra tension, so she could freak out. IF that character were me, it would not be for extra tension, it would have been for comic relief. I've been laughed at frequently for my responses to uncomfortable situations.

Anyway. I was already freaked out and expecting the tension to increase, because I hadn't yet seen any monsters and I knew they were just around a rocky corner. This was accurate. Juno warned the others to be mindful (mine-full?) that their batteries were going to run out in the flashlights at some point, and they needed to make haste to find an exit from the cave.

Sidebar: if I were going spelunking, I would not rely on the batteries of a flashlight. I would have invented an illumination device that ran on human fear. That visibility would have been celestial. Like a Hollywood Searchlight, or a Supernova. A Quasar, even. Barring that, I would have brought several of those crank-up flashlights that don't rely on batteries, but on manual turning of a handle. I would have just walked through those caverns, cranking like an organ grinder's monkey. (Wikipedia defines "Organ Grinder" well, but adds, "The grinder would crank his organ in a public place..." I'm not sure I should align myself with something like that, but I was just trying to make a point.).

Back to The Descent: Shortly, one of the women was squinting into the darkness with her paltry flashlight, sure she was seeing a strange man lurking there. Any man who would be down there would naturally be strange. Her friends, of course, told her that her mind was playing tricks on her. I'm sure I'm not the only viewer who knew better, and yelled at the TV "She is NOT imagining the man in the dark! And it isn't a man!" The woman who saw the creature said that maybe he could help them get out. Yeah. In the stomachs of subterranean monkey-men (there's that monkey reference again..although these creatures were pale, I wouldn't label them White-Headed Capuchins.).

Sidebar:
I think I just might have been more frightened by the idea of me being trapped in one of those paper-towel-tube tunnels, than by the subterranean humanoids...at least I could have some control over fighting them. And
just like the flashlight issue, I would not be reduced to only pick axes. I would have brought an M-16, some tasers, blasting caps, and a machete. Throwing battery acid on them wouldn't have worked, because the fuckers were already blind, having adapted to living underground through some corrupted evolutionary process. (Perhaps the first humans to explore the cave evolved into these creatures...mmm...sequel).

Anyway, if you're stuck in a tunnel, you're stuck. And if there's a cave-in, you're stuck and squished. But if you have weapons and can move, there's a much better chance of survival. I'd rather go out in hand-to-hand combat, than being crushed in between a rock and a hard place.

One problem I had with the movie, like so many of its kind, is that it seems to be filmed too dark. My friend told me she saw all the details I missed. But she has a plasma TV. I reminded her that not everyone has a fancy-schmancy plasma TV, and they ought to make films for people like me, who can't throw their money around....Most of what I saw in this movie was figures with flashlights moving in the dark, and what I heard was screaming, and echo-location clicking, heavy breathing and grunting, slurping, and gnawing sounds. I might have to watch the movie again after I adjust the contrast on my television.

My first thought, after the movie ended, was that I would love to see a sequel about what took place after the
horror of what happened is shared with proper authorities and a special investigations team returns to that cave to gather information. All kinds of possibilities there.

So, Overall, I would rate this film highly, if you enjoy movies that keep you mercilessly pinned down until it's over, while periodically shivering and choking on your soda and spewing popcorn.

UPDATE: okay, I looked at it again with adjusted settings on my not-a-plasma-TV TV, and I saw things I wish I hadn't seen. The movie is even scarier if you can actually see what's happening. Maybe I'm better off without a Plasma TV.




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Texting Texting One, Two, 9...oops


It's not that I don't enjoy getting and sending text messages. I just don't enjoy TYPING them. It reminds me of the days when I had to use a manual typewriter and it took so long, and if you made a mistake, there was no backspace, no delete, no cut and paste, no spell check.

My current cell phone is a Pantech C3b--"the smallest camera phone with a
flash on the market." (the perfect thing for an aging writer who over-uses her eyeballs). I do like being able to stick it in my pocket and go, since before I had to have a holster for my cell phone and that could be a little butch. Plus, I kept dropping it out of the holster at odd intervals, and cursing as the faceplate would go whizzing across the floor that was inevitably made of some material like concrete. My Pantech never gets dropped, now. And it takes pretty good pictures. And it also has a flashlight on it. Great for helping other people find their cellphone face plates in dark bar floors.

So while I love my phone for normal phone-like usage, I can't say I enjoy using a minuscule screen with minuscule keys to type a message. It's as frustrating as writing a novel on that Old Royal
typewriter I used when I was a beginning writer, still wet behind the adjectives.

This contraption was like trying to compose on a machine gun, and just as noisy. Quaint, But noisy. Lord God, I'm dating myself. (good thing, because no one ELSE will date me. badda bing.)


So, keying in a text message in the modern era takes me back to those good old days. (the Stone Age Era, I believe it was called, but my memory's fuzzy.) The Good Old Days that really weren't all that good. Maybe just charming, but it was damn hard to get anything done.

Text messaging is equally frustrating. Especially since each key holds the image for at least three letters or numbers or symbols. That means that if I don't hit one of them three times instead of two, I will get the wrong letter, and have to start over. And if you have either smaller than normal keys, or fat fingers, you can just forget about it. You have to snag 4th graders to do your text messages for you. I find grocery stores and playgrounds are good spots to get some of that texting done....

Add this issue to the fact that sometimes I'm DRIVING when I get a text message, and right there you have a recipe for disaster. I can't even READ the messages I get when I drive because I usually wear my contacts when I leave the house, and they simply aren't calibrated to view close up; especially not suited to the magnification I need to even read my cell phone screen.


Sometimes wish I had a cell phone the size of my PC keyboard. That way I could text message without having a wreck or getting eyestrain. But I would no longer be able to carry it in my pocket, and that would cause some concern with security guards at malls everywhere.

Alas, technology always has a down side.

Excuse me, I have to answer my keyboard.
Hello?






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