Space Invader

It started out with me on my way to the grocery store, having awakened with no coffee in the house-a tragedy all on its own. I thought of that little coffeeshop down the street and thought maybe I'd stop in to check it out, so I brought what i lovingly refer to as my Tippi Tap Typer just in case.

Roscoe's Music and Espresso Café was a tiny establishment, but intriguing. It was time I tried to get out of the house a little and use my new toy in a different environment. I ordered a White Chocolate cappuccino and chatted with the owner for a few minutes, and then a young woman walked in. The first thing I noticed was that she immediately invaded my space. We exchanged pleasantries. The tiny coffeeshop was no bigger than most people's kitchens, and I tried to move aside, but she hemmed me right in, ordering his house blend.

The proprietor, Roscoe, informed her that he was just now making a new pot. She asked how long it would take, and he said just long enough for the water to run through.

"Could you give me some sort of idea, then?"

"Two point 3 minutes."

"Jolly Good," she exclaimed.

Jolly good? That's when it dawned on me that she had a British accent.

Roscoe started the brew and the Space Invader waited, turning a bit to examine a painting on the wall. She then would not let me get past her to sit down out of the way, so I just turned back around and stayed where I was. I don't think it was intentional. I noticed the Bible she was holding behind her, clutching it almost fiercely, standing erect, as if a recruit at attention. My first reaction was Oh great, a religious zealot. I was afraid she'd try to witness to me. Faith is a wonderful thing, but those who wander around with little else other than a Bible, are bound to launch into some religious tirade or hackneyed effort to save my soul. I had already noticed that my communication skills were suffering from caffeine withdrawals, so I didn't feel up to the challenge.

Then she did the inevitable witnessing. Thankfully, to Roscoe. "Have you ever read the Bible?

I understood him to say yes, but heard him counter with another book he had read, asking her if she had read it. She said no, there was much too much in her head right now… But she had realized that the Bible had everything in it she needed, about life and love and so on, and that we should read it, because it answers so many questions… I asked her if she had read The Seat of the soul for the same reasons. She said no, as he poured her cup and handed it to her. She carried her House Blend out to the patio and sat, lighting a Camel filter right next to the sign that read Thank you For Not Smoking.

Roscoe gave me a knowing look, and whispered, "She comes in here a lot…she's been in and out of institutions…she's staying at the halfway house up here…doing pretty well now…except that today, she seems to be British." I was surprised and intrigued. It was clear what the implication was, now. HE motioned me to follow and pointed out the front window. "See that tower, right over there between that building and the water tower is a halfway house for people who are…"

"Halfway?" I offered.

He smiled.

Three people come in, and I comment, "oh look out, you're getting a rush."

He laughs. The people order, one of them a lady who says she misses her coffee, as she is from "Coffee country." I engage her…ask if it's Seattle…she says another town in Washington, above Seattle and I tell her I'm thinking of moving to that area in May. She says what she doesn't miss is the dismal weather and I confess I love weather like that.

I put a five dollar bill on the counter, so that I won't forget to pay.

The Space Invader Zealot returns asking for a refill, saying, "I should think that this much coffee cannot possibly be good for the stomach." She takes her refill back out.

I carried my coffee and Typer out to the deck for a little fresh air and maybe morbid curiosity, so that I could be within earshot and eyeshot of her. She comments on what a lovely day it is, and I agree. Shortly, I hear her chuckle. I look up and she is smoking, smiling, and whispering a few words to some unseen table companion. I know then, she really is certifiable. She sucks on her camel filters, and makes properly British faces, laughing, obviously enjoying the repartee of the voices in her head.

I am intrigued enough to want to talk to her, but intimidated enough not to. How does one talk to a crazy person without sufficient psychological experience? What if I say something that screws up this reality she has created for herself? What if that little swim in the cerebral fluid garners me a proper British drowning? I move to the smoking section, situated at a picnic table behind her, lighting a cigarette of my own, and bend back to my writing.

A moment later, I notice Birkenstock knockoffs a few feet from my table and look up.

"Excuse me, " she says. "I am out of smokes…can I give you 50 cents for one, or something?"

"Oh, no, here," I give her two. "It's awful to run out when you're addicted."

"Isn't it though?" She returns to her table and lights up.

A young man approaches, asking about my typing gadget and I give him the sales pitch and he seems interested, then wanders back into the café. I wondered why he came outside just to ask me about my Typer. After he leaves, Space Invader turns around and says, "These are delicious cigarettes."

Delicious? "I'm glad you like them. Most people don't because they're menthol and lighter."

"Oh no, there's just enough menthol, and it doesn't last long, and there's this fruity aftertaste…"

"Yes," I say, while thinking, funny she would say Fruity.

Later, I go inside the café for a refill and while I wait, admire a portrait of a man who is playing harmonica. I comment on how good the painting is. Roscoe tells me it's by a local artist, and he knows the guy in the painting, played music with him for years. I see an old photo of Roscoe on the wall, jeans, no gray beard, but still a mustache, wearing one of those poofy down slicker vests, and a newsboy cap. "This is you, right?" I ask.

"Yes, a long time ago."

"I can see it's you. You have the Jack Kerouac look to you in this…you have this face that seems familiar…were you famous at one point?" I smile. "--maybe in a movie you might not claim?"

"No..." He laughs. "-- but I was in the movie they made here recently..."

"Oh, Billy Bob Thornton's movie?"

"Yeah, I got to play banjo a little."

Space Invader comes in and announces she is finished with coffee, and wanders back toward the halfway house. I finish my third cup, and settle the rest of my tab and tip him two dollars. He dubs me Customer of the Day.

Outside, I hear the now familiar laughter of the Space Invader. She is nearby, toward the road, probably standing there waiting to cross, and having a pleasant conversation with no one.

Space Invader

Passerby

(Published in the Arkansas Women's Journal)

I had begun the trek to my Expository Writing class that January afternoon, taking the high walkway in front of the campus bookstore, when my eyes flickered to the woman coming toward me. She was a frosted blond, middle aged, dressed professionally, and carried a soft side attaché. She held an ugly green umbrella over her head to stave off the light drizzle; the edge of the umbrella tilted just enough so that I couldn't see her face clearly.

These details swept into my brain along with a numbing suggestion that she was not a stranger, but someone I have known all my life. I looked away so quickly, caught up in my practiced apathy, that I was unable to get another look at her face, for fear she would notice me and that eye contact would result in a dreaded confrontation. My brain whirled away in a fantasy that she would see me and rush over to me, pulling at my sleeve, and tell me how very proud she was of my success at school, and of my courage in going back for a degree, and how sorry she was for the awful letter she had written when she excused herself from my life. And the fantasy evaporated abruptly when she passed by, and my heart thumped back into operation, and the veins in my neck seemed to swell, forcing the blood into my head.

I tried to catch my breath before I turned around to examine her as she moved away from me without pause across the red brick square below. Like a traumatized child, I stood there in the mist, trying to focus on her form before it moved too far away. It had to be her. But the green umbrella-- she would not carry a green umbrella. And the walk she never hobbled like that unless something happened. Unless she's had an accident of some sort since--I continued to watch her move under the canopy at the entrance of the student union, and beyond toward the parking lot, analyzing the reasons why it could not be her. She might have looked at me, but it was not for very long. I know, even though I was busy looking away. Maybe she didn't recognize me after two years. Have I changed that much? Maybe she didn't look at me at all, and that's why she kept walking. That's why she didn't react.

I stood there in my long, dark raincoat, the mist caressing my face, and wondered why it mattered at all. I wondered why I would risk being late for class for someone like her, who could not give me the time of day, nor acknowledge me as a valuable human being. How can a mother ignore her only daughter?

I checked my watch, and turned toward my destination again, refusing to take that additional glance my heart ached for. She's no longer part of my life.

If it was her.

Which I'm sure it wasn't.

Passerby

Hangbags

I have this quirk that remains indefinable in psychological intelligentsia. I can be so picky about where something goes, and how it goes there, and get upset when it is misplaced. But then I'll throw empty file folders on the floor. Odd. Like a wannabe Obsessive Compulsive who never quite embraces the illness, but flirts with contracting it.

But since two of my big irritants is hunting for something i need, or moving something out of the way so i can use a space, I was so happy when i found a clever solution. I had lots of various items in the bathroom that had no "nest"--no place to be until i needed them. These bags are meant for shoes, but another of my quirks is finding another use for a common object. (That's why i consider Reader's Digest Practical Problem Solver one of the most useful and interesting books ever to hit the press).

Now i even use the bags for my socks and underwear in the bedroom.

I love my organizational hanging bags.

Hangbags

SHOES

A short time back, I offered a blog entry on what could only have been a hallucination. The little black kitty I saw by the side of a dark road. Perhaps it was a waking dream…a precognitive waking dream, at that. This month, I adopted a tiny black kitten from the Humane Society. I was going to get another kitten, but she was too sick to adopt out and all her siblings had already died. On whim, I stopped in days later to check on her and decided I would check and see if there might be another kitten I liked that was healthier. I went in the cat room and immediately saw the minute black furball in the first cage. I went over and spoke to her and she pressed herself to the bars, purring, mewing softly, flipping over on her back and writhing in an impressive display.

I opened the cage and she jumped out onto my shoulder and began snuggling up under my hair and nuzzling my neck. It was not likely at this point, that I would leave without her. And I didn't. I loaded her in the van passenger floorboard next to the heating vent, sequestered in a cardboard box with holes punched in the sides. She didn't like the box much and made continuous efforts to free herself from the hole between the top flaps. My journey home was not conducive to dealing with a frightened cat, since the roads in my area are hilly and curvy and safe drivers never take their eyes from the blacktop. That's why I put her in the box. But she would have none of it, finally struggled free and scampered up to my shoulder, leaving the first of what would be many claw marks and punctures in my skin. But she rode there happily, forgoing the natural inclination to wrap herself around my face like that creature on Alien.

She looked out the window, watched the road, purred in my ear and waited for me to pull into my parking space at home. LS was asleep in my bed when I got home (she has, of late managed to get her insomniac self on the opposite schedule from me) I placed the kitten on her chest and she awoke to the joy only a new kitten can bring--she being a cat-lover herself. Soon, we were discussing names for the new family member. She suggested "Frodo" although I'm not sure she was being anything but a smart ass. The kitten had little white markings on each of her feet, but I refused to name her "Socks" or "Boots." So when she crawled into my shoes and looked up at me mewing, she named herself. Shoes.

SHOES

Novel Navel Tangents Before Bed

I was just lying there reading, and my hands wandered absently, scratching invisible itches, examining a rough patch of skin, worrying with the blemish on my chin. At some point, my finger found it's way into my navel, and some suction was created when I pulled it out-odd-- It had been a little moist in there. And I came away with a prize, an infinitesimal little wad of something that looked rather like a dust bunny.

This was sufficient distraction from the article I was reading, and I dug around inside my navel again, quickly aware of the irritation I was causing. On a whim, I threw the sheet off me, and went to the bathroom where I dug out a bottle of peroxide and a handful of Q-tips.

Returning to the bed, I dunked the cotton wand into the solution and placed the Q-tip into my navel, twirling it a bit. I could hear the fizzle from up on the top of my body where my ears were, from way down there where my navel was. Bubbling. I knew what that meant. It was cleaning something. Whenever those scrubbing bubbles appear, you know there's some germ warfare in the offing. I mean, it is a small, puckered, wrinkled, dark and moist place. It stands to reason that it would need periodic purification.

I was pleased that I was taking such detailed care of myself. But during my navel swabbing endeavors, I noticed that when I pushed the Q-tip a little further and moved it around, I got this odd sensation in my private area. Now, I'd never considered my navel as an erogenous zone, and I wondered if I was the first one to discover this. Likely, it has been included in the collective consciousness for some time. Perhaps it was even in the Karma Sutra somewhere, if I could just muster the patience to read it. But there it was, a dubious and unsettling erotic discovery. One which I feel sure I will discover each time the old navel needs a scrubbing bubble or two.

Novel Navel Tangents Before Bed

Hygienic Hijinks

I saw a few commercials about it, and found myself warming to the idea. But not so long ago, I thought it was the most bizarre practice I'd ever heard of. I was afraid to visit a European country for fear I would be forced to take part in this cleansing ritual.

Now, I'm a big proponent of cleanliness, but there are some concepts that are foreign to me. I just didn't think I could ever get used to the idea of sitting on a toilet and having my genitals accosted by a stream of water.

By now I guess it's clear I'm referring to a bidet.

If it's not clear by now, then I'm sure you're a little perturbed.

Those darn late night commercials. If I had a credit card with a huge limit, I'd be very dangerous. By now, I would own a convection oven, Nathan's Reversible Stovetop Grill, A Tempur-Pedic Nasa-developed foam bed, a Food Saver Vac, and a Mini Steam Zapper, and a Magic Bullet mixer…at the very least….

I saw an infomercial about a Bidet toilet, and made another of my frequent Ebaying excursions, wondering if there was a less expensive alternative. I typed in "Bidet." Lo and behold (all Ebayers say that at one time or another, and usually outloud, even though they are generally alone in a room with a computer and no friends or social life)-but, anyway, Lo and Behold! A Bidet conversion kit. I could attach this thing to my own toilet and have the benefit of hygienic cleansing all the time! And it was a two for one special. So rather than bid, I just opted for Buy it Now and got the set. Wouldn't this be a fantastic Christmas gift for me and my best friend? I mean, who else would buy her a Bidet? Who else would be thinking about her genital hygiene? Isn't that what best friends are for? (Don't answer that.)

Anyway, a short time later, the contraptions were delivered and I set about installing mine, so I would know how to install hers for her. Won't she be thrilled. Won't the caroling be fine?

Jingle bells, jingle bells,
I've got a Bidet…
Now my nether regions
Are nice and clean today, hey!

Determined to assemble and attach the thing without assistance, I gathered my tools and read the instructions. Long moments later, I discovered that the coupling I was to use, meant the tubing behind the toilet had to be cut to a shorter length. I did so, and got it all hooked up, and when I tested it, realized the hose was leaking and I had no rubber gasket on hand. Then I realized that I couldn't put the toilet back the way it was because I had shortened the original hose. This was the only toilet I had. Wouldn't that be an entertaining conversation with the landlord? "I need another piece of toilet tubing until I get a gasket for my Bidet hose…yes, a Bidet. Yes, I'm squirting water on my private parts and no I'm not a weirdo." (not everyone is as worldly as I had just become).

It was midnight and all local stores that carried things like gaskets and washers were closed. I'd have to improvise.

I wound up cutting a piece off a rubber plug that was meant to go in the bottom of a piggy bank. But it was just the right size and I managed to eliminate the leak.

I was so proud of myself. I couldn't wait to drop my pants and try it out.

The first thing I noticed was that the trajectory of the stream was a little off, and I gave myself a mini-enema. The second thing I noticed was that the water was cold. Not quite as luxurious as the Bidet Toilet that had warm water and a blow-dryer built in.

It took some getting used to. It was the price I paid for the price I paid. The cheaper Bidets did not have warm water; and I would still have to pat dry with tissue, because the cheaper ones also did not have a convenient blowdryer.

I finally got it working sufficiently, and used it several times before going to sleep, feeling just a little wicked, and a great deal more hygienic.

I went to bed early that morning, and was awakened four hours later by my best friend who dropped by for a visit and used her key to come in and bring me a croissant.

My sleepy brain finally kicked in and I realized I could not hide the Bidet on my toilet and I had already told her I got the same gift for both of us. And the Bidet was the only new thing. She'd notice, of course, and then the surprise would be ruined.

She eventually went to the bathroom and I waited. After a few minutes I heard her exclaim, "Oh, my God!" and she was laughing.

When she came out of the bathroom, she had a huge wet spot on the front of her pants. I was confused. Did she sit the wrong way on the toilet? Did she somehow manage to relieve herself without removing her pants?

Seems she had noticed the activation lever on the toilet when she stood up to flush, and pushed it, dousing herself with the stream of water coming from the Bidet nozzle located just below the toilet seat, pointing forward.

"Why in the world did you stand facing it and push the lever?" I laughed.

"I didn't know it was a bidet, I thought it was some new gadget you had that sprayed that blue stuff in the bowl," she said.

This was not how I pictured her enjoying her Bidet.

Hygienic Hijinks

Symbols Are Not Things

In recent news there is a battle of wills at play regarding the presence of a 10 Commandments monument in the Alabama Judiciary Building.

I feel the same way about this as i do the flag-burning issue. The real issue here, i believe, is that people make the error of attaching God to a symbol, rather than to their own inner consciousness. It makes no difference what they do to that monument or symbol. Proponents of keeping it in that building are saying, essentially, that removal of the monument will somehow damage God.

This is essentially a fallacious argument, since the very nature of God is that He/She/It, as an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-loving, infinite, incomprehensible and perfect Entity can ever be damaged by something a human does. I find it ridiculous that there are those misguided enough to think they are somehow protecting God. God does not need our protection.

The real issue here is that we are a nation founded on Freedom. Freedom of religion also is included in that, and so the more logical action would to be either put up monuments/ symbols that represent all religions and belief systems, or take them all away.

Symbols Are Not Things

Canine PTSD?

He has begun to have bladder control problems. He goes through phases when he begins to shake, and whine for no apparent reason. He has, for the second time, exhibited a sort of PTSD response to normal stimuli. When we were at the other house a few months ago, he had this response to LS on the porch, when she had removed her boots, and smacked them together to knock off dried mud. He yelped, screamed and ran under the furniture, he was shaking uncontrollably.

When i would get near him, he would suddenly yelp as if i had kicked him in the ribs, and i hadn't touched him. He would no longer raise up to put his feet on me, as he has always done, as if his "up button" was malfunctioning. He acted like he could no longer jump into our laps while sitting, either, and if we tried to pick him up he would scream. This lasted for about 3 days, and nothing helped. He was not physically injured in any way, so this was very much like PTSD response to some past trauma--triggered by something unknown.

Now, months later, he had about a 24 hour bout with the same thing, and i just ignored it. And now, i catch him sitting and staring at a dresser or a chair or a wall, as if in a trance. When i tell him to go lay down, he moves to another object and stares at it--almost in a posture of punishment, like when you reprimand a child and tell them to go face a corner. He seems fraught with anxiety and fears. He will whine and grumble while he stares, sometimes, like he's having disturbing thoughts.

He seems fearful of his food bowl, of the kitchen floor, of grass, of trash bags, of anything in my hand, of the doorbell, or any other people in the house. He no longer runs fearlessly outside to the yard to relieve himself, but has to be cajoled, or dragged into going. He hides beneath beds and furniture.

While often comical to witness, it is at the same time disturbing. LS says, "He's crazy. That dog is just crazy." But he didn't always act like this. I assume it's possible for animals to have mental illness, just like humans do. But what brings this on? I've tried reprimands, gentle understanding, ignoring him...but nothing seems to help. He just acts like a crazy person.

Canine PTSD?

Behorned Cleated Demon, & the Exxon Valdez

I have horrible cramps. A little behorned cleated demon is kicking the crap out of my ovaries...

Oh it's so hard to be female sometimes...

I could run a hot bath and get in to soothe my horrible cramps.

I can see it now...I'd get all settled and then reach for the soap and realize it's up on the hangy thing, and I'd have to stand up to get it at which time the giant squids would fall out of me, and turn the water pink. I'd then have to drain the water because i don't want to soak in pink squid water.

Then I'd have a fresh tub of water, soap in hand, maybe play with a little boat in the tub, like i did when i was a kid...That's when the Xenical "side effects" would kick in...bubble bubble... isn't it funny: the idea of passing wind under WATER?

Then the little boat could be the Exxon Valdez...in the oil slick... except the oil slick looks like Catalina dressing. So i could throw a lettuce leaf in there, put some teeny little illegal immigrants on the lettuce, "Save us! save us! Mr. Exxon Valdez Captain, save us from the Catlina dressing ocean and pluck us from the lettuce boat so we can live among the land of the free, the home of the brave."

I'm convinced that hormones can cause mental illness.

Behorned Cleated Demon, & the Exxon Valdez

Figs From Hell

or FIGtastrophe
or
The 7th Circle of Hell is Full of Figs and I Can't FIG-ure It Out

It was supposed to be a simple process. My friend, Justice Harlow, drew a logo for someone. A company called The Hairy Fig. We were going to scan the drawings and then import them from the scanner to Paint Shop Pro, where I would resize them according to the needs for the website, and for business cards. Somewhere in the middle of all this, something went terribly wrong.

It began when my friend asked me to place all the large versions of the 4 different fig designs on one page and print it out. And to put all four of the smaller ones on a page, too, and print that. When inserting the large images onto my web site design software page, they were HUGE. I mean, like Figs from Space. It even crashed my program after getting some pesky memory overload error. I looked at the image dimensions, and it showed they were huge. Like Texas-- Huge. But when I would print them, they would be half-size. When I resized them, they printed even smaller.

She became so upset, waving her arms and saying, "What the hell?" that she knocked over her Sam's Diet cola, and made a huge spot on the rug. We blotted that up, and pressed on.

No matter what I did, I could not get those damn figs to be the right size. Go FIGure. It became a comedy of errors after that. And since it was in the wee hours of the morning, This incited screaming meemies in me me. I mean in me. Perhaps it was just a FIGment of my imagination, but these figs had a mind of their own.

Justice wondered aloud if maybe all the images on both our websites were also too big, but for some reason we couldn't tell, because our software showed them smaller. This was a horrible thought, because I knew we had hundreds of images. I told her to stop fucking with my Chi, and we moved on...

Meanwhile, the Velveeta and Ro-Tel cheese dip we had consumed earlier, began to turn on us. We suffered gastrointestinal distress, and I was experiencing vertigo. We knew it was the Velveeta and Ro-Tel, because we had had the first part of it the night before, with the same results, but only the second time did we make the connection. What are they putting in cheese these days?

While I strained my brain to FIGure This out, my partner left and came back with a fresh bottle of Mocha Frappuccino, but couldn't get the lid to screw off, so handed it to me, feeling I was the stronger of the two of us. (A myth I perpetuate by calling myself the "husband.") After several tries in which I felt I had totally lost my ability to grip (or couldn't get a grip?) I reminded her that we had appointment with galleries early in the morning after our meeting with the Fig Client. We needed to go to sleep....but she made this whimpering sound. It seems that Mocha Frappuccino is an excellent substitute for her chocolate craving--the one that usually has her eating candy bars or Snickers Ice cream cones purchased from Walgreen's at 2 a.m. She also pointed out that since the Mocha Frappuccino only had one gram of fat, but was like eating 10 Snickers bars, it was a health conscious for her to drink it.

But I couldn't get the lid off it.

More screaming meemies, and the added enjoyment of peeing in my boxer briefs. I finally used scissors to remove the plastic coating around the cap, but entertained images of gouging the scissors into my hand--This made me laugh so hard, that tears rolled down my face. I finally got the cap off without mishap, but then I was still taxed with the dilemma of the figs. The cute little cartoon fruits that had become my nemesis.

I went on a potty break, and saw that my Christmas lights in the bathroom had burned out. I like Christmas lights in the bathroom because it's just enough light to keep me from stubbing my toe or missing the toilet, without having to suffer the glare of the overhead lights. There have been times that I wore sunglasses into the bathroom when I did not have Christmas lights...but I digress..

Back at my desk, and the Fig Fiasco, I opened a new Aqua filter to attach to my cigarette and the innards came out of it and dropped to the floor. I laughed some more, and peed in my pants again.

Finally, Justice said she would just go to her office (in the next room) and use her computer to print out what we had. She brought back the sheets and the tracing paper wrinkles were now showing up bolder than ever, even though this was the same file, printed on the same printer. The Fig Files were now becoming more wrinkly (older?) as they rested on the floppy disk.

Then she said, "Don't you think I ought to color a bigger version of the figs, in case the client wants to use it on the web site?

Some days it just doesn't pay to gnaw the straps off...

-------------
illustration by JH ©2002

Figs From Hell

The 11th Hour

(the Persistence of Screaming ©Jae Baeli)

Sept 8th
In a few short days, the 2nd anniversary will be upon us. The Eleventh hour of the 11th. Media, et al, is buzzing about the likelihood of some other attack on us by terrorists. I am apprehensive as well. It makes me angry at them and angry at an administration that mismanaged things from the start.

Now the Village Idiot who usurped the Throne--the one we call our President--asks for huge amounts of money to try to clean up the mess; to fund the rebuilding of their "infrastructure." Well, we have some sorry infrastructure over here, too. How is it that Bush cannot justify the money for Education, health Care, more police, social security, and a plethora of other things, but he can find 87 billion dollars to give to a country that hates us? They hate us for the same reasons many other countries hate us. The U.S. Political Machine sticks its nose in where it doesn't belong, coerces and bullies and tells other people what their religion should be, what their lives should be...mostly in the name of Black Gold.

The U.S. Politicos are the global mafia. They spend astronomical amounts of money rebuilding this other country, and we won't even own it afterward. If Saddam needed to be taken out, it should have been a coalition of countries doing it. But Bush was too much of a war-monger and too worried about getting re-elected, so he wanted to be a war-time president because approval ratings always go up for them...that means he's greedy. That means he doesn't have the nation's best interests at heart. And now he's begging for help from the U.N. after they all told him they wanted no part of the way he wanted to do it.Democratically speaking, he was voted down, yet somehow that concept escaped him and all those in his administration. Neither Saddam nor Bin Laden have been captured or killed, all these Weapons of Mass Destruction have not been found, and I think it had more to do with being embarrassed that Bin Laden got away, so he went after someone more accessible. Isn't that like Robbing Peter to pay Paul? So what the hell was all that for, again?

While we're spending billions on the country that hates us, the terrorists will still do what they're going to do, and we won't be ready to defend ourselves because all our resources are tied up in another country, instead of our own.

Charity begins at home, dammit.

The 11th Hour

The Pusher

Certain people...why do they vex me so much? My most vexing personality type is the PUSHER. They suck the juice out of my brain and it is just so tired....

Recently, I had an unusually taxing experience with the Pusher...I had to keep reiterating that my response in a situation was about BRAIN FATIGUE...BRAIN FATIGUE...BRAIN FATIGUE...BRAIN FATIGUE...BRAIN FATIGUE!

I wanted to get some some facts straight:

• I am not her
• My brain is not her brain
• My particular needs for balance and harmony are not hers.
• I was not angry that she spilled tea on my desk--I recognized that was an accident--I'm not delusional.

I was angry about what the spilled tea DID to my already fragile psyche…(my fatigued brain). It was merely the straw that broke the camel's back. The scene escalated because the triggers continued to appear, on the heels of an already-present breaking point. I realized I had again fallen prey to the limits of my psyche; My books were stained with tea, several diskettes were ruined, I was fearful that the liquid would drip into my computer which was at the rear of my desk without a cover on it; she continued to apologize for the Tea, when it was not about the tea, it was about the trigger that would not have appeared had she honored my requests earlier.

Yes, I threw my glasses, and I threw the tea glass. I was angry and frustrated and it was an angry, frustrated reaction. But I know she made an assumption about it. I did NOT throw the stuff off my desk, it got nudged off when I was wiping the spill and that desktop hutch and all its shelves and the drawer were merely propped together and not fastened, so they fell to pieces when it fell, and it took everything with it because everything with cords was run under it and got snagged on the way down… just so she didn't think I did some table-clearing out of rage.

I did not harm my dog, Giz. I walked into the hall to get a towel out of the hamper, and saw him on top of the bed, digging. I smacked him on the ass and chased him with that plastic tub lid to scare him so he'd be less likely to do it again.

I never, at any time, wanted to or DID become physical toward her. I was angry and completely taxed, and completely frustrated with her continued inability to understand a simple concept I have explained to her ad nauseum, which she choose to continually ignore, and which continues to indicate that she is hard-headed and not concerned with what I need in order to be healthy. This, while she has simultaneously told me lately how UNQUALIFIED I was to share a home with her, be her lover, or to ever share a home with her or be her lover.

The issue was BRAIN FATIGUE. She pushed. She always pushes. She doesn't know when to stop pushing. She is a PUSHER. And she pushes because she has this intrinsic blindness in her mind about what is the natural "speed" of things. Her speed, the one in her head is NOT COMMON. She continues to impose her own truths on the brains of others. This will ALWAYS cause people to react in negative ways, unless they are a type of person who enjoys being pushed. As for her comment about me needing a drug to withstand her mental pummelings, I daresay that a large portion of the population would also need that. (and it is a much wiser alternative than allowing my emotions to completely take over a situation that needs, instead, rational thinking). Perhaps it is why her previous girlfriends have become so crazed and volatile around her. Has she considered that?? Has she considered that their organic or chemical craziness could in part be induced by her own tendency to PUSH?

Concerning the elements that contributed to this series of events….I have not been sleeping well for days. I have been worried about her and her situation for some time, and feel deeply the troubles she has experienced; I have been working on my own web sites, examining all the new epiphanies I've had in a relatively short time; trying to understand this new piano gadget; trying to understand financial issues and budgeting things for my future; doing research on a grand number of difficult subjects; thinking a lot about my relationships with other people and what my future may or may not hold; running that track in my head of things she has said to me lately such as "Never in a million years will I be with you romantically because I can't be with a mentally ill person" and dealing with the overwhelming sadness that brings me, as I feel it is simultaneously something I cannot completely cure, and something that is also made worse by her particular insistence that things exist as she interprets them; I've had stomach problems, bad nutrition, hormonal fluctuations, and I've had a backache and a raging headache on and off for about 5 days…so my BRAIN was taxed when she came over. . .that's part of it.

The most important part of it, however, and the part I would like her to focus on, is STILL BRAIN FATIGUE--But the kind SHE inflicts. And last night she inflicted it on an already-fatigued brain (something she does to me repeatedly). I did very well for quite some time, but we were at that project for 13 hours, not counting the couple of breaks, and the work done the previous day. (I don't spend 13 hours at a time on my own stuff, contrary to what she seems to think. I switch off and do meditative things to rest my brain before I go back to it. And when my body tells me to rest, I rest. I don't care whether that seems "normal" to her or not. It just IS. This method is the way I have managed to feel more mentally healthy lately. This is one of the controls I have put in place in order to "Play to my strengths." These controls are not ALLOWED by her because all she can focus on is what she needs from me, and not how to work with me so that I can give her what she needs from me. I guess she doesn't comprehend this and assumes I am somehow shortchanging her. (This is not accurate).

It is a fact that if someone is mentally tired, they will revert to more primitive responses. Look it up. That's what happened last night and that's what has happened to me in the past years when my brain was also taxed beyond endurance by dis-ease in my body, chemicals, stress, pain, and a person who continues to PUSH.

Now, she will roll her eyes and get on the Superior Train with her little GOLDEN ticket::: but I take responsibility for one thing and one thing only….NOT INSISTING to her that I get some rest and be in a rested brain state before we continued. I let her convince me several times to just sit back down and continue for a few more minutes…although I knew it would take more than that…(this is a repetitive pattern with us). Even a few more minutes meant much more to me than it ever could to her, because of the implications for me, personally. (That's living on the edge, and while you she may require that to feed her Dervish brain, I DON'T).

While I was taxing my brain, she was reading emails, answering emails, coming up with still more complicated ways to add to her site, and sitting there watching. This process affected me more because my brain is NOT her brain. When my brain begins to shut down, it's for a reason. It is my body's response to overload. It is a defense mechanism manufactured by my own body. It is not much different than the body's response to pain, or the actual MEANING of pain. Pain is an indicator that something is wrong, something is out of balance. The real solution for that is never to mask the pain, but to eliminate the thing that is causing it. (Again, I see that she thinks I was somehow doing nothing different for her than I do for myself, but she cannot possibly appreciate the changes I've made here when I am alone…I know when to stop, and I know how to start properly so that I am prepared--no different than a marathon runner who knows there has to be certain things accomplished and in place before they can begin to compete. She is very blessed that mental things are not like marathons for her).

I also know when to rest. When alone, I allow myself to do that, and then I function better. She pushes me past my limits. She would get the same reaction from a vehicle she drove at 100 MPH for extreme distances: it would run out of gas, blow a head gasket, burn up all the oil, or simply stop running; the same also for an animal if she pushed it to a corner and prodded it with a sharp stick: it would bite her and run away. This is a basic law of human nature. I owe her no apology for being human. If she is too myopic, arrogant and self-centered to understand this concept, then all I can say is, she's going to have a hell of a time finding anyone who can be compatible with her.

She also has this fallacious idea that I spend hours and hours without stopping, working on my webpages. I do spend hours and hours. And why does she think it takes me so long? I give myself BREAKS, and I only work on them when I have prepared my brain for it at the beginning, which, as she recalls, she did not allow me to do. The entire morning started off in exactly the sort of fashion that creates chaos and stress for me in my brain. She does not understand this, and I guess never will, and there is not a fucking thing I can say to make her understand it. Perhaps she is not wired to understand it, just as I am not wired to function in the way she sees fit--another example of her being intellectually self-absorbed. I told her many times I require certain things in order to function in a healthy way, and I have been VERY successful in creating and maintaining that recently. It changes when she comes along and imposes her own process on me. If she is incapable of allowing others to honor their own process, to implement their own set of conditions that are conducive to productivity and harmony, then the problem lies with her--not them, or me. If she wants things done perfectly and in record time, she should do it herself, as she seems to be the only one qualified.

The only thing I am guilty of is not being strong enough to withstand the repeated attacks on my brain that she is so fond of orchestrating. I don't think she does it on purpose or to inflict intentional harm. I think she does it because she can't help herself. Her strength BECOMES her weakness. What she CAN change is this unwillingness to honor the very personal and crucial requests of others less fortunate than herself in the brain-function department. She will never find that peer or that lifemate she wants until she realizes this about herself.

She bribed me, cajoled me, begged me, pushed and prodded and even used a few guilt-inducing comments so that I would do it anyway. So my MISTAKE was only that I did not have the balls to tell her NO, Absolutely NOT. This stems from the fact that I love her and I share a history with her that I am forever trying to "live down." Regardless, I will not let this taint the progress I have made, and I will not let her make me the scapegoat because it would be so easy to do that since I am the one with the "problem." How convenient that she has someone to foist all that onto, rather than looking at her own part in it.

She is quickly becoming another one of those people who refuse to allow me to be who I am. Does she even understand what it means to allow people to be who they are? Not this, "I don't care" stance she takes, but truly, realistically and fairly allowing that others are not HER. I am the one who has had stress issues, who has had an overly sensitive constitution because of them, who "doesn't have to work for a living"-- I am the pariah. Fuck that. I have managed to survive when I probably shouldn't have, I manage to look in the mirror when it makes me disgusted or frightened or angry. I have struggled my whole life to be a better person, a person who is productive, and who honors my gifts and always tries to hang on to that loving portion of myself, that compassion, that thirst for knowledge and understanding, and that sometimes vicious challenge of reinventing the self. I'm not responsible for other people's misplaced resentments about their own mistakes and their own life-outcomes.

I am SO sad that this pattern continues to happen with us, even when I implement solutions for my own part in it. I have made many changes, and a great many of them have been in an effort to find some harmony with her--between us. But I can see now that my efforts are inconsequential because she continues to REFUSE to meet me halfway; (meeting halfway is not defined as "I don't care" or a dismissal if the real issues). She continues to say she will meet me halfway, and then she won't. There is no question that I do have episodes like this--the reactions to extreme triggers--yes, that's part of the challenge. And that is, by GOD what I have…challenges … challenges I choose to rise to rather than run from.

I don't, however, think those challenges define me as "crazy," and I don't think it makes me much different than 9 out 10 of the people out there in the world. I just think the combination of the psychological and the physical makes me incapable of dealing well with certain situations at this point. But that doesn't mean I can't heal myself of the wounds that exist outside those things, or that have developed peripherally stemming from those things... It doesn't mean I don't make progress. It doesn't mean I can't separate the disabilities from the natural evolution that takes place inside a being who is aware enough to embrace it. I think some people just learn to control certain aspects of their lives to avoid those triggers, and some don't. I have worked very hard at discovering those things that trigger me, and I have toiled to degrees that she cannot imagine, to implement ways to alleviate them. (take organization and housecleaning and tidiness for an example…I was a slob my whole life and very unorganized, and now I am not, because I CHOSE to change that for my own mental health and to discipline myself). I have changed habits, altered facets of my personality, and questioned every indignation, fear, belief system and coping skill that occupies my mind and heart and life; and I have made great progress. I am proud of that progress and what happened last night does not negate that progress, nor does it support the overly-simplified argument she makes.

From her note and phone messages to me, it is clear that she has some erroneous ideas, and has once again missed the point. The point is not the spilled tea glass--that was merely the trigger that finally released what had been building for hours. The point is NOT that I was helping her with her web page--contrary to what she said in the messages--I completed a great deal in a short period of time without the usual problems; and the conflict only began when I started informing her that my brain needed to get away from it, but she decided it simply wasn't enough for her. . .The point is NOT that I am mentally ill and have irrational reactions to some things; I have normal reactions to abnormal stimuli. The point is that she tends to exacerbate those responses by her unwillingness to adapt to the needs of other people around her. And this is something that will reappear in her life repeatedly, until she fully grasps that she is an anomaly, and EVERYONE will disappoint her because her level of mental functioning is so much higher than the average….

She says she could never be with me in a partnership again in a "million years" because she's "not built to be with a mentally ill person." Perhaps she's even missing the point in that. Because I know in my experience with her that she is incapable of putting herself aside, as selfless as she thinks she is. Although she can be generous, loving, giving, kind, funny, brilliant…and an entire list of other wonderful things…..she is incapable, in certain instances, of backing off. She is incapable of tempering her own narrow idea of what the process must be in order to gain the outcome, and of comprehending that everyone else's brain is not her brain.

Perhaps it is time that the light switcher has her own room illuminated.

The Pusher

Mississippi: First Circle of Hell?

Mississippi just might be the first Circle of Hell. The heat and humidity here is oppressive, to say the least. I can always get a derisive laugh out of locals when i say, "When's it going to snow?" I admit, i had some preconceived notions about moving to a coastal area. Most of those notions were probably based on movies I've seen like Sleepless in Seattle.

Important distinction here: that's the Pacific Northwest, this is the Southern Gulf. I've noticed that when people talk about living "bi-coastal,"they are obviously leaving out the THIRD coast. The U.S. is really tri-coastal. The Gulf Coast, however, is like the red-headed step-child.

I can't speak to the appearance of the ocean on either West or East coast, but i can say that the Gulf of Mexico looks like one giant mud puddle. It certainly doesn't appear as it does in movies. And there are no shells or other washed-up sea treasures on the beaches--no, they clean the coastal sand with a big vacuum truck. So beach-combing is out.

<

Then there's the Tern sanctuary area that you must avoid in the interest of preserving an endangered species.

And you can't have your dog on the beach either. That will cost you a hefty fine

I had hoped to go floundering for the first time in my life, but roommate, who is a Mississippi Gulf Coast native, said it was awfully dangerous, since we would likely be accosted by bad men up to no good.

Even with all these obstacles aside, often the beaches are just plain CLOSED. Most often, "as a result of high bacteria levels." We are told we will be notified when it is again safe for human contact. The good stuff about beaches, then, is not to be had.

Then there's the threat of hurricanes. Obviously, not something one looks forward to, but even if no one is hurt and there is minimal property damage, there's the power outages that leave you in sweltering triple-digit heat afterward for sometimes weeks. And if the roads are blocked near where you live due to debris, then all the hoodlums are likely to take advantage. Cops can't get to you, you can't leave, so you're at the whim of any gang members or other undesirables who may want to enter your house and take whatever they want--including YOU.

To add to the negative column, there's also an unrelenting collection of toads that croak so loud, it can drown out the TV.

Overall, Probably most bothersome are the fleas. I've never in my life had so much trouble with flea infestation. About 3 times a day, i have to get down in the floor with my dog and pick fleas. Hundreds at a time. A few hours later, he's scratching and whining like crazy again. Cats have them too. Nothing store-bought works. I'm about to try herbal and natural remedies next.

Not surprisingly, i am looking forward to living in Colorado again, if i can ever get to the right region--Boulder/Denver area. I'll take cold weather, fresh air, creative arts communities, and cultural and entertainment choices any day over a bad beach. I just hope there's no unforeseen form of hell there. Like giant, attacking snow bunnies.

Mississippi: First Circle of Hell?