It's the passion that makes the art, it's the desire that makes the artist.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Yo, Andy!
"I would say it's in your best interest to pack up and go," the former United Nations ambassador, Atlanta mayor and confidant of Martin Luther King Jr. said to the protestors. Young told protestors he supports them, but he said they would be more effective if they focus their message. "You have to be very clear in what you're saying, and you have to have a consensus about the changes you want in the American economy and what does it take to make those changes," Young said.
Andy, did you change your name to Dick? WTF? You know me. As recently as ten years ago, you looked me in the eye, said "Hi, Laura." and then you said something else about the importance of civil disobedience but that suing a judge was a really dumbass idea and then I just wanted to punch your lights out so I didn't hear the rest. Right, Anj. Like marching on Selma was rocket science. You have to wear them down, Andy, one day at a time. I think you said that once. Maybe Yoki's Daddy said it. Could have been her momma. Coretta had more than a few things to say. I sure wish I could hear what she would say to you today.
Oh, wait! I can hear it. "Struggle is a never ending process. Freedom is never really won, you earn it and win it in every generation." How about this one: "If you don't like something, young lady, get you get up off your fanny and you do something about. You just take that first step and all the universe will come along to help you." That's one that isn't in the books. She said that to me. You were there, so don't deny it.
When the system became so broken, and so wrong and there were so many homeless and hopeless and without any resources, this protest was born. Your argument that the protestors need a clearer statement is the equivalent of someone in the 60s saying "what do you want Dr. King? Voting rights or to eat lunch?" We want it all. We wanting voting rights, not further unconstitutional restrictions that make it difficult for the poor and downtrodden to vote. We want a job. We want health care.
We don't want it all. We just want enough to pay the bills, have a barbecue on Sunday, go to the mall once in a while, watch a little internet porn, whatever. Whatever it is we do, we just want that. We want a cozy bed, tv, dinner and a movie once in a while, a couple a kids, a car that doesn't self destruct or cost as much as a house. We want a fair game, a level playing field, the same rights and privileges that corporations get. In other words, Andy, we want the same thing you wanted when you marched on Selma. We want them now and we want them for EVERYBODY. We want them for young, old, christian, muslim, buddhist, and gay. We want help now. We want rich people to stop acting like dicks and we want the government to stop kissing their butts. We want a little honesty, integrity and sanity in our goverment. And we want it now.
You, Andy, are not helping. You could. But you aren't. Here's another good one from Coretta: “You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.” Right now, Andy, I hate you. Lead, follow or get the fuck out of the way.
Andy, did you change your name to Dick? WTF? You know me. As recently as ten years ago, you looked me in the eye, said "Hi, Laura." and then you said something else about the importance of civil disobedience but that suing a judge was a really dumbass idea and then I just wanted to punch your lights out so I didn't hear the rest. Right, Anj. Like marching on Selma was rocket science. You have to wear them down, Andy, one day at a time. I think you said that once. Maybe Yoki's Daddy said it. Could have been her momma. Coretta had more than a few things to say. I sure wish I could hear what she would say to you today.
Oh, wait! I can hear it. "Struggle is a never ending process. Freedom is never really won, you earn it and win it in every generation." How about this one: "If you don't like something, young lady, get you get up off your fanny and you do something about. You just take that first step and all the universe will come along to help you." That's one that isn't in the books. She said that to me. You were there, so don't deny it.
When the system became so broken, and so wrong and there were so many homeless and hopeless and without any resources, this protest was born. Your argument that the protestors need a clearer statement is the equivalent of someone in the 60s saying "what do you want Dr. King? Voting rights or to eat lunch?" We want it all. We wanting voting rights, not further unconstitutional restrictions that make it difficult for the poor and downtrodden to vote. We want a job. We want health care.
We don't want it all. We just want enough to pay the bills, have a barbecue on Sunday, go to the mall once in a while, watch a little internet porn, whatever. Whatever it is we do, we just want that. We want a cozy bed, tv, dinner and a movie once in a while, a couple a kids, a car that doesn't self destruct or cost as much as a house. We want a fair game, a level playing field, the same rights and privileges that corporations get. In other words, Andy, we want the same thing you wanted when you marched on Selma. We want them now and we want them for EVERYBODY. We want them for young, old, christian, muslim, buddhist, and gay. We want help now. We want rich people to stop acting like dicks and we want the government to stop kissing their butts. We want a little honesty, integrity and sanity in our goverment. And we want it now.
You, Andy, are not helping. You could. But you aren't. Here's another good one from Coretta: “You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.” Right now, Andy, I hate you. Lead, follow or get the fuck out of the way.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Living Wood
I prefer to work on dead wood. A tree just felled, that's still alive, makes me wonder if it hurts. I know, strange thoughts for a non-vegetarian, but I do agree we could all go a lot further to consider the pain someone or something else might feel. Trees are alive. Vegetables are alive. Plants are alive. Animals aren't the only thing we kill for food. I don't discriminate on what I'll kill for food. But, I do worry if a piece of wood is dead enough to be carved. I know. I've been this way my whole life. I'm used to it.
This wood is beautiful. I first noticed it when I moved here. 4 years ago. It was deep in the side of a hill that was very slowly eroding. I did help loosen the dirt sometimes. Whenever Webs and I went for a walk. Just a little. That's probably really environmentally treacherous, but I just live on the edge. I had to have it. It really called to me. So, this is the wood I mentioned yesterday. It still has sap. Today, the sap had been bleeding out of the right shoulder. So cool. It's almost like amber in other places. Proper polishing and it will shine like gold. I just really feel an intense connection to this wood.
I'm also examining other artists and works that exhibit great passion. And I mean passion - not the Hollywood over used kind (I have a PASSION for Facebooking) - no the real, deep down, impossible to ignore, c'mon baby light my fire passion. Like Georgia O'Keefe kind of passion. Sexual kind of passion. I mean, isn't that really the only kind of passion? There has to be a better word for all those other things.
Flitting through these thoughts and feelings, it occurs to me now that I have been missing a huge part of creating art. Sensuality is expressed so often and in such depth. Where the hell have I been? Really, I knew it was there, appreciated it, even sought it out. For some reason, now that I have actually achieved it, witnessed it, art lives and breathes on a whole new level.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Question for Artists
This could be considered a touchy topic. Very touchy. O.K. I'll just ask. Artists out there: does your art ever turn you on? Do you find yourself feeling perhaps a little too passionate about your work sometimes? Has the color of your paint turning at just that point leave you breathless? Does the curve of that wood, or the silken feel of its polishedness just send you over the top? What about paper - does it ever whisper to you? Canvas could, too, you know.
I had never fully experienced that until recently. I'm working on this piece of wood that threatens to be an enormous compilation of several other large and small pieces of wood. Recently, I ran my hand down an area I'd just polished and I plotzed. OMG. That wood felt good. Gave new meaning to a woody! For a woman, that's quite an achievement. But, seriously. You know that point in the relationship, when your shoulders touch and you don't pull away, you just slightly lean into each other and it feels nice. It feels almost electric. It feels real and right and warm. It feels like laughter.
This wood speaks to me on levels I'm just now finding. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to be a guest on that weird show about people who are in love with inanimate objects. It just surprised me to be able to feel so much life from a piece of wood that was dead and felled so very long ago. It's really added a new level to the physical and mental aspects of creating art.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Goodbye, Norma Jean
Years of dementia. Years of wasting away. Years of slowing being erased. Her brother, sister in law, nephew left to get a bite to eat. They'd be back in just a while.
The hospice nurse came in to check. Perhaps we could give her some more morphine. She'd check. This was the nice hospice nurse. Not the evil witch I cussed out two weeks ago when the turn came, when she saved Jean from a fever of 105F and seizures, when she gave me the reputation as being the kind of person who will cuss out a nurse for saving a patient's life. Yep. That's me. Yep, I know that's standard procedure. Yep, I don't care. It was an Oscar worthy moment. If life gave Oscars, I earned mine that night. I was patient at first, just trying to understand the why of it. Where in the file was the error, so I could fix that page, so no one saved her life again. The error was the nurse never looked at that page, or any page. Never looked at the file. Never even stopped to think about it. I know I was verbally on that night. I can't think right now exactly what I said, but I did thank her for making sure that Jean could now die even more slowly and painfully than she was already dying. The rest of it included lots of really bad words. For the next two weeks, I didn't have to ask twice for anything.
After all is said and done, I'm sorry for whatever suffering Jean endured, but I'm grateful for those last few times Donna was able to share with her. I'm grateful I was able to be there for her. I'm grateful for all Jean did for me.
Donna held one hand. I held the other. Donna was telling me about Alaska. "You should go. You should take the cruise up there and then just stay. You'd love it." A breath went in. "I promised her I'd drive the Oregon coast." I said. A breath went out. It wasn't at all labored. Just slow. "I could just drive from San Francisco to Portland, then cruise up to Alaska from there." Breathe in. "There are lot more men than women up there - you should love it." Donna added. Breathe out. "Yeah, but it's cold." Breathe in. "Do you think you could handle the darkness all winter?" Breathe out. "No. But I could totally love the sunshine all summer." Nothing.
Norma Jean Tyson strolled the golden road home. She called it that. - the path the full moon makes on water. That's the path you walk to home at the end of your days.
Monday, August 8, 2011
re-post - Rich Girl, Poor Girl
A highly financially solvent woman once asked me "why do poor people think rich people should give them money?" Huh???? It was said in a particularly snotty tone of voice. I wasn't even sure if she was including me as one of the rich who had found the answer to the pesky little problem, or one of the poor who was trying to suck money out of her. Given that I was working with her on a home improvement project for which she was paying me, because I needed work and had no money, I knee jerked to the latter. I was initially tempted to rip her a new one but there were just too many things being undersaid in her question that I just couldn't leave it not bitched about:
1. Rich people - would you define that for me, please? Who's rich? You? If you had a brain, you would hire somebody else to use it for you! You got yourself some money, don't you? Good for you. Why do you think that makes you better than me? How'd you get that money? Your daddy and granddaddy and great granddaddy died and gave it to you! And when your Momma dies, God rest her soul, you will get even more! Weehaw! That sho nuff makes you waaaaaay better person than me and so much better off than I can imagine. I once sat with a friend and wistfully said "I sure do wish I was rich." To which friend responded "Why do you think you aren't?" I have friends who love me, a good educations, the enthusiasm for good work and the ability to laugh loudly and with all my heart. Turns out, I'm pretty rich.
2. Poor people - would you define that for me, please? Jesus said there would always be the poor among us. Yes, we know there are those who have no home, no food, no education, no hope. Of all those things, we can easily provide for all but hope. Hope comes hard. It takes real effort. It takes time, imagination, and some days it takes absolutely everything you got. Sometimes, every thing you got isn't close to enough. I got money today, but I can't buy $50 worth of propane to get me through to next month when I'll have $100 more to toss at it, but they won't shot up for less than $200. Who knew it would be this cold in October. I thought for sure I could make it until December 1st with just a little faith. November 29, and I get the propane. November 30, a tree falls and smashes the house. No such thing as a propane refund. So, you who daily calls 1-800-DO-IT-FOR-ME to have your toilet paper changed, would it really hurt you to actually give a little money to a genuine, bona fide person who has none? I can live all year just on what you spend in one month at Walmart. Without even being thrifty. Who's poor? Within 2 hours I have a place to live with heat, thanks to a friend who just happens to have a house. Thank you God for your plans for me. Thank you God for friends. I will need another place to live next year, and as I walk into church full of faith that You will lead me to where I need to be, a friend needs help, would I, could I, please, live in her basement? We all provide.
3. Why is giving money to poor people so wrong? There's this attitude that if you have no money, there must be some lingering, underlying, nefarious moral issue at work in your life. Somehow, you just aren't good enough. For me, it worked like this: I got out of college and began to meticulously, carefully, deliberately plan my life. Of course, life happened other wise, and I rolled with the punches, got back up, went back to planning, got better and better jobs, better and better educations, better and better homes and better and better stuff. Then, one day, out of the blue, it all came tumbling down. Blindsided on a Tuesday. I hit a big, fat, hard brick wall. Family health problems and my own personal issues collided into a spiral of reality checking like I never imagined. In a world where what goes around comes around, I had to face up to a whole lot of mean, angry bad shit.
I got therapy. I got God. I was born of Jesus in a dream, and summoned to a conference with the Prophet (not profit) Muhammad (peace be upon him, praise to him, peace, love, and whatever it is that is said - and why don't I know this yet?). Buddha laughed. When the dust had finally settled, I emerged happier, wiser, and with a greater ability to laugh at myself and the world in general. I had no plan. I gave up. God wants me to do something, God knows how to get it done. God knows I don't. That was my plan. That is still my plan. I don't have any money, because God don't want me to have no money. God has her reasons. I have no idea what they are, but I have a roof over my head, I have food to eat, I have heat, beauty, laughter and the best friends anyone could ever want or hope or pray for. I'm still not poor.
As for the friend, I still like her. I disagree with her on a lot. I don't see her much anymore, but that's another issue for another day. So, when she asks me why poor people think rich people should give them money, I just tell her what she really already knows: Because Jesus said so.
1. Rich people - would you define that for me, please? Who's rich? You? If you had a brain, you would hire somebody else to use it for you! You got yourself some money, don't you? Good for you. Why do you think that makes you better than me? How'd you get that money? Your daddy and granddaddy and great granddaddy died and gave it to you! And when your Momma dies, God rest her soul, you will get even more! Weehaw! That sho nuff makes you waaaaaay better person than me and so much better off than I can imagine. I once sat with a friend and wistfully said "I sure do wish I was rich." To which friend responded "Why do you think you aren't?" I have friends who love me, a good educations, the enthusiasm for good work and the ability to laugh loudly and with all my heart. Turns out, I'm pretty rich.
2. Poor people - would you define that for me, please? Jesus said there would always be the poor among us. Yes, we know there are those who have no home, no food, no education, no hope. Of all those things, we can easily provide for all but hope. Hope comes hard. It takes real effort. It takes time, imagination, and some days it takes absolutely everything you got. Sometimes, every thing you got isn't close to enough. I got money today, but I can't buy $50 worth of propane to get me through to next month when I'll have $100 more to toss at it, but they won't shot up for less than $200. Who knew it would be this cold in October. I thought for sure I could make it until December 1st with just a little faith. November 29, and I get the propane. November 30, a tree falls and smashes the house. No such thing as a propane refund. So, you who daily calls 1-800-DO-IT-FOR-ME to have your toilet paper changed, would it really hurt you to actually give a little money to a genuine, bona fide person who has none? I can live all year just on what you spend in one month at Walmart. Without even being thrifty. Who's poor? Within 2 hours I have a place to live with heat, thanks to a friend who just happens to have a house. Thank you God for your plans for me. Thank you God for friends. I will need another place to live next year, and as I walk into church full of faith that You will lead me to where I need to be, a friend needs help, would I, could I, please, live in her basement? We all provide.
3. Why is giving money to poor people so wrong? There's this attitude that if you have no money, there must be some lingering, underlying, nefarious moral issue at work in your life. Somehow, you just aren't good enough. For me, it worked like this: I got out of college and began to meticulously, carefully, deliberately plan my life. Of course, life happened other wise, and I rolled with the punches, got back up, went back to planning, got better and better jobs, better and better educations, better and better homes and better and better stuff. Then, one day, out of the blue, it all came tumbling down. Blindsided on a Tuesday. I hit a big, fat, hard brick wall. Family health problems and my own personal issues collided into a spiral of reality checking like I never imagined. In a world where what goes around comes around, I had to face up to a whole lot of mean, angry bad shit.
I got therapy. I got God. I was born of Jesus in a dream, and summoned to a conference with the Prophet (not profit) Muhammad (peace be upon him, praise to him, peace, love, and whatever it is that is said - and why don't I know this yet?). Buddha laughed. When the dust had finally settled, I emerged happier, wiser, and with a greater ability to laugh at myself and the world in general. I had no plan. I gave up. God wants me to do something, God knows how to get it done. God knows I don't. That was my plan. That is still my plan. I don't have any money, because God don't want me to have no money. God has her reasons. I have no idea what they are, but I have a roof over my head, I have food to eat, I have heat, beauty, laughter and the best friends anyone could ever want or hope or pray for. I'm still not poor.
As for the friend, I still like her. I disagree with her on a lot. I don't see her much anymore, but that's another issue for another day. So, when she asks me why poor people think rich people should give them money, I just tell her what she really already knows: Because Jesus said so.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Dry Spells
I've been going through a long, difficult dry spell. Oh, sure, I've done some work this year, but not as much as prior years. And I've done a lot more the last few months, so I think I'm gearing up over all. The last three years, in fact, have been slow. I keep finding other things I need to do. I'm there today as well. I really, really, really want to paint. It's raining and it's the perfect storm for color and brush to dance over some available surface. But, I can't paint the way things are right now. I have no choice but to deal with the clutter in my environment.
It's a mess. I cleaned my closet and now I find myself going back there and just standing there looking at it, admiring the tidiness, cherishing the orderliness of it all. My sock drawer - I can't even open it, lest I disturb all the matched companions nestled there so snugly. I confess I love, admire, envy tidy people. But, the truth is, I'm just not one of them. Oh, yeah, I make a big deal out of OCD being a disorder, just as bad as messy hoarding, but I'm just jealous.
I want to do what I did to my closet to the rest of my living area, but I just can't figure out where to start. I tried starting on the porch, but I needed to clean things, which meant doing the dishes first. Dishes are now done, but they need to dry and be put away to make room for the next load. It's always something. I'm not naturally tidy, or neat. What my bff doesn't know (or hasn't shared with me that she ever suspected) is that I am currently about the tidiest I have ever been in my life. I feel like I've come so far for so long, that I just need to rest on my laurels a while. But, I can't. The clutter really does crawl right up my last nerve and admonish me to do better.
That's the thing with self improvement. You are just never quite done. Small success begs for a bigger victory. A tidy sock drawer double dog dares for a clean, uncluttered desk. A human's work is never done.
It's a mess. I cleaned my closet and now I find myself going back there and just standing there looking at it, admiring the tidiness, cherishing the orderliness of it all. My sock drawer - I can't even open it, lest I disturb all the matched companions nestled there so snugly. I confess I love, admire, envy tidy people. But, the truth is, I'm just not one of them. Oh, yeah, I make a big deal out of OCD being a disorder, just as bad as messy hoarding, but I'm just jealous.
I want to do what I did to my closet to the rest of my living area, but I just can't figure out where to start. I tried starting on the porch, but I needed to clean things, which meant doing the dishes first. Dishes are now done, but they need to dry and be put away to make room for the next load. It's always something. I'm not naturally tidy, or neat. What my bff doesn't know (or hasn't shared with me that she ever suspected) is that I am currently about the tidiest I have ever been in my life. I feel like I've come so far for so long, that I just need to rest on my laurels a while. But, I can't. The clutter really does crawl right up my last nerve and admonish me to do better.
That's the thing with self improvement. You are just never quite done. Small success begs for a bigger victory. A tidy sock drawer double dog dares for a clean, uncluttered desk. A human's work is never done.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
one-ness
I was asked an interesting question yesterday: "what does your life falling apart look like?" There are just infinite numbers of ways to answer that question. Life exploding and falling apart is an experience on the mental, emotional, spiritual, physical levels and so much more. And it's messy. Take everything in your refrigerator and shoot it out of a cannon into your living room. What my life exploding looked like, felt like, at the time.
Before you get all ready to help me, this happened many years ago. I weathered that storm, and many more since then. But, I like an interesting question. It was someone showing an interest in me, who I was, am, where I came from, where I'm going. Artists are like that. And, usually, an artist will share with you what they think, feel, perceive, pray about a particular thing, topic, whatever. Non artists seem to hold those opinions to themselves. I think it's because non artists don't think their own particular perspective on a thing is sacred. Ah, but that's where I think non artists are incorrect. Note, I don't think they're "wrong" - too judgmental. Wrong isn't possible in a oneness world. Which brings me back around to my initial point.
Oneness. An artist said, in part and parcel of the above mentioned conversation, "I am a non dualist." This is a term of art, I know, among spiritual seekers. And it's a nice thought with a nice meaning. Judgment, I know, but it seems not judgment to like something, even if it really is. Since that statement, and its explanation and discussion and elaboration, I changed my perspective. Being a non dualist feels to me like a judgment against dualists and a defining by the not rather than the is. But?
I do often paint a subject as much by painting what it is not as painting what it is. A face recently only took shape when I painted in the sky where the face was not. Much as I struggled to paint the actual face, it didn't happen alone. I painted the not face. Then I saw the face. There's a duality there. There's something more that exists than I can define in line, color, shade and form. The face against the sky is as much the face as it is not the sky. In that space, that energy between face/not face, sky/not sky, right there is aGod. God is not just in all of us. God is all of us. God is sky, God is not sky. You are Me, You are not Me.
Before you get all ready to help me, this happened many years ago. I weathered that storm, and many more since then. But, I like an interesting question. It was someone showing an interest in me, who I was, am, where I came from, where I'm going. Artists are like that. And, usually, an artist will share with you what they think, feel, perceive, pray about a particular thing, topic, whatever. Non artists seem to hold those opinions to themselves. I think it's because non artists don't think their own particular perspective on a thing is sacred. Ah, but that's where I think non artists are incorrect. Note, I don't think they're "wrong" - too judgmental. Wrong isn't possible in a oneness world. Which brings me back around to my initial point.
Oneness. An artist said, in part and parcel of the above mentioned conversation, "I am a non dualist." This is a term of art, I know, among spiritual seekers. And it's a nice thought with a nice meaning. Judgment, I know, but it seems not judgment to like something, even if it really is. Since that statement, and its explanation and discussion and elaboration, I changed my perspective. Being a non dualist feels to me like a judgment against dualists and a defining by the not rather than the is. But?
I do often paint a subject as much by painting what it is not as painting what it is. A face recently only took shape when I painted in the sky where the face was not. Much as I struggled to paint the actual face, it didn't happen alone. I painted the not face. Then I saw the face. There's a duality there. There's something more that exists than I can define in line, color, shade and form. The face against the sky is as much the face as it is not the sky. In that space, that energy between face/not face, sky/not sky, right there is aGod. God is not just in all of us. God is all of us. God is sky, God is not sky. You are Me, You are not Me.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Visual Reality
I'm working on a wonderful painting - two little girls, sisters, holding hands, in a field of flowers. Whenever I paint people, I'm always amazed by one very profound fact: if I paint a person exactly they way the look, it will never look like that person. I know. It's very strange. I've examined this anomaly from a variety of perspectives. I can line up a building from graphs and copy it exactly and it looks exactly like the exact same building. I can line a person up from a graph and copy it exactly and it looks like a deformed freak.
Whaddup with that? To paint a person who looks like a person, this specific person, I have to draw not just that person, but that which is not that person. The girls' faces take shape by painting the sky behind them, not just the shape of their features. It's not a matter of painting precisely they way they stand, or the tilt of the head, but the imprecision of it - there is a spirit there that colors a person that is beyond the reach of physical technicalities.
The smile is dead on exactly the smile on the girl's face, but it's totally wrong until the sky behind her open mouth fills in and then the smile takes a substance it hadn't felt before. There is no obvious pink right there on her cheek in the photograph and no blatant highlight in the middle of it, but it is there and she doesn't look at all like her self until that is added.
I always surprise myself regardless of what I paint. I learn something about the subject. I learn something about myself. I learn something about God. In landscapes, in animals, in people, in every living thing, there is something more than the physical parameters of the thing. If you only capture the image, it will look all wrong - only when you reach in deeply to capture the spirit will it look anything like itself.
Whaddup with that? To paint a person who looks like a person, this specific person, I have to draw not just that person, but that which is not that person. The girls' faces take shape by painting the sky behind them, not just the shape of their features. It's not a matter of painting precisely they way they stand, or the tilt of the head, but the imprecision of it - there is a spirit there that colors a person that is beyond the reach of physical technicalities.
The smile is dead on exactly the smile on the girl's face, but it's totally wrong until the sky behind her open mouth fills in and then the smile takes a substance it hadn't felt before. There is no obvious pink right there on her cheek in the photograph and no blatant highlight in the middle of it, but it is there and she doesn't look at all like her self until that is added.
I always surprise myself regardless of what I paint. I learn something about the subject. I learn something about myself. I learn something about God. In landscapes, in animals, in people, in every living thing, there is something more than the physical parameters of the thing. If you only capture the image, it will look all wrong - only when you reach in deeply to capture the spirit will it look anything like itself.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Help Me, Jesus!
http://www.mcssl.com/SecureCart/ViewCart.aspx?mid=69B05C52-18FC-4A5B-9C3D-DABD0C2FEA08&sctoken=6467530115804a83aa735f0043b562a5&bhcp=1
This is a link to a book that promises to teach me all I need to know to market my own art for worldwide sales and big time money. So, does this artist really make the money marketing her art or does she make money selling her book to slobs like me who haven't figured out anything better than art by extortion - ie, I paint a lovely picture of YOUR grandchild which you then want so desperately you'll pay (nearly) anything for it. And like, what do I want with a portrait of your grandchild anyway? See, art by emotional blackmail! so, look in the column to the right and click on the donate button so I can buy the book, or leave a message as to why you think this book (and its ilk) is a total ripoff not worth my time, and keep up the blackmail art (please include photo of child, grandchild, dog, granddog, cat, etc.)! Thank you for your support.
This is a link to a book that promises to teach me all I need to know to market my own art for worldwide sales and big time money. So, does this artist really make the money marketing her art or does she make money selling her book to slobs like me who haven't figured out anything better than art by extortion - ie, I paint a lovely picture of YOUR grandchild which you then want so desperately you'll pay (nearly) anything for it. And like, what do I want with a portrait of your grandchild anyway? See, art by emotional blackmail! so, look in the column to the right and click on the donate button so I can buy the book, or leave a message as to why you think this book (and its ilk) is a total ripoff not worth my time, and keep up the blackmail art (please include photo of child, grandchild, dog, granddog, cat, etc.)! Thank you for your support.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Happy Happy
I heard a commercial on the radio today. You've probably heard it too. It's for one of those over prices under perform health care plans. It said, in a sincere, perky, female voice "Happy people are healthy people." I've heard this before. It wasn't the first time. It was the first time I had excess time on hands in which to really consider the theory. Since the ad admonished me to be happy so I could be healthy, well, I had to consider what all that entails.
Here's what I concluded: Happy people are healthy because THEY AREN'T SICK. Sure, I know that's easy to say, but let's face it. More and more body parts hurt every day. This does NOT make me happy. It isn't ruining my life just now, but it is working my nerves. Worked nerves don't lead to happiness. Chronic pain doesn't either. Unemployment is also a super big downer. Unemployed people low on money and resources with chronic increasing pain are usually not classified as 'happy people' although they aren't always necessarily unhappy.
What, exactly is a happy person? Right off the bat, I think of the basics: meaningful work, good enough pay, friends, family, balance of work, fun, hope, faith, feeling good. This happy person has a job, or at least a meaningful, reliable cash source. This happy person also has health care, regular, reliable, care that includes dentistry every 6 months, wellness checks for all those things you want to catch early so the don't make you sick. Happy person has a significant other with whom to share all this good, basic happy stuff. Then again, some studies suggest that only men are really happy with that significant other and heterosexual women are usually happier over 50 and not married. I haven't read any lesbian studies, but from what I can tell it's about 50/50 for who's happy and who isn't. Finally, ant it's certainly not official, but I bet hard cash that happy people don't gain weight as easily as the rest of us either.
The fact is, the things that lead to good health, are the same things that lead to happiness. The things that lead to happiness, take you straight toward good health. At least for a while. Age is bound to play some dirty tricks. so, while we're legislating taxation and fines for Coke vs Diet Coke, arguing in favor of healthy food legislation and banning tobacco, drugs and other 'unhealthy lifestyles' and shunning those not so inclined, perhaps we might want to consider demanding those tings really do lead to good health. Happiness. It's not just for rich people any more.
Here's what I concluded: Happy people are healthy because THEY AREN'T SICK. Sure, I know that's easy to say, but let's face it. More and more body parts hurt every day. This does NOT make me happy. It isn't ruining my life just now, but it is working my nerves. Worked nerves don't lead to happiness. Chronic pain doesn't either. Unemployment is also a super big downer. Unemployed people low on money and resources with chronic increasing pain are usually not classified as 'happy people' although they aren't always necessarily unhappy.
What, exactly is a happy person? Right off the bat, I think of the basics: meaningful work, good enough pay, friends, family, balance of work, fun, hope, faith, feeling good. This happy person has a job, or at least a meaningful, reliable cash source. This happy person also has health care, regular, reliable, care that includes dentistry every 6 months, wellness checks for all those things you want to catch early so the don't make you sick. Happy person has a significant other with whom to share all this good, basic happy stuff. Then again, some studies suggest that only men are really happy with that significant other and heterosexual women are usually happier over 50 and not married. I haven't read any lesbian studies, but from what I can tell it's about 50/50 for who's happy and who isn't. Finally, ant it's certainly not official, but I bet hard cash that happy people don't gain weight as easily as the rest of us either.
The fact is, the things that lead to good health, are the same things that lead to happiness. The things that lead to happiness, take you straight toward good health. At least for a while. Age is bound to play some dirty tricks. so, while we're legislating taxation and fines for Coke vs Diet Coke, arguing in favor of healthy food legislation and banning tobacco, drugs and other 'unhealthy lifestyles' and shunning those not so inclined, perhaps we might want to consider demanding those tings really do lead to good health. Happiness. It's not just for rich people any more.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Life's Messy
Life is messy. Pay attention, all you neat freaks, you tidiness junkies. Some days, you just can't get around it. There will be mud. Muck will invade your order on every level. Crap will mate, reproduce and explode all over your psyche. It just will. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. You can run, but you cannot hide. Life will hunt you down and find you out.
We all do try to avoid those places in life. We would rather have order. Clean is the preferred state of things. We dust, scrub, tidy, clean, vacuum. But, nature (and dogs) abhor a vacuum. Some days, you just can't keep it clean.
Some days, the phone rings with the call you don't want. The doctor gives you that look as she walks the long hall to where you are. It can be as simple as a devoted pet in the last throes of life on the new carpet, or a life long companion in a nursing home. Sometimes you see it coming straight for you, but more often it will blindside you on a Tuesday afternoon. Even when you know it's coming, it's final reality will jump up out of the shadows and knock you down.
There is great life in death. There is much gained in loss. Letting go is not easy, it's dirty, it's complicated, it's painful, but in those moments holding a hand, wiping up messes, screaming at God, absolutely hating where you are and what you are doing, there is great living.
Whatever you do or don't do in life, don't miss out on the messy parts. That's where the life is.
We all do try to avoid those places in life. We would rather have order. Clean is the preferred state of things. We dust, scrub, tidy, clean, vacuum. But, nature (and dogs) abhor a vacuum. Some days, you just can't keep it clean.
Some days, the phone rings with the call you don't want. The doctor gives you that look as she walks the long hall to where you are. It can be as simple as a devoted pet in the last throes of life on the new carpet, or a life long companion in a nursing home. Sometimes you see it coming straight for you, but more often it will blindside you on a Tuesday afternoon. Even when you know it's coming, it's final reality will jump up out of the shadows and knock you down.
There is great life in death. There is much gained in loss. Letting go is not easy, it's dirty, it's complicated, it's painful, but in those moments holding a hand, wiping up messes, screaming at God, absolutely hating where you are and what you are doing, there is great living.
Whatever you do or don't do in life, don't miss out on the messy parts. That's where the life is.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
WWYD?
Okay, I'm not exactly a poster child for fundamental christian principles. I'm not really even christian. Except that I am a Universalist: I believe in the fundamental truth of all faith. I do believe in something other than life in this dimension as we know it. Something bigger. Something greater. Something more. I also believe that we are incapable of really knowing what that is.
It's not uncommon for people experiencing dark and frightening times of life to seek greater wisdom and power. I have done that. I have asked. I have been offered otherworldly guidance. I have blindly followed. Blindly. And I mean that literally.
One day, I walked away from my life, my career, my ambitions, my education, my house, my belongings, my everything. I gave up. I had worked hard. I had a good education. None of that mattered. Security never existed. I couldn't count on anything I had ever believed in. Quite the contrary, I could count on everything I had believed in to be fundamentally false. What then?
I got a lot of advise. I tried a lot of things. I went in any number of directions. I do remember reading a lot of religion. I remember laughing at some of things I read. "Take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra shirt. Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that town. If people do not welcome you, leave their town and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them. Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it. What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit their very self?
Wow. That's some instruction. Not that anybody would really do that. I certainly wouldn't. And even if someone did, not every body can. Because then there would be no towns, no homes, just a lot of lost souls wandering around seeking kindness from strangers. Would that really be a better world? No. But, then, if you take Jesus seriously, you are probably smart enough to realize that everybody isn't going to do that. And Jesus, being omnipotently smarter than anybody else, obviously knew that as well.
In truth, that's what I did. It was never what I intended to do. I made no deliberate plan and set out to accomplish it. In hindsight, I realize that doing so would have been contrary to the purpose. I just asked a question. In prayer, I wondered, cynically, what life would be like if I were to really do that. In fact, it's really only been recently pointed out to me that I did this, am doing this. It's very odd to me to look back and make that connection.
Truth is, we all have a gospel, all our own. We preach it every day. In our thoughts, our acts, our works, we spread our gospel as we go. what we have, what we do, this is what I cherish most. Often it is our children, our hobbies, sometimes it's our work, for many it is the public recompense we value most. What I am worth to the world in terms of dollars and cents - very real, very tangible, very necessary appreciation. We truly cannot live without it.
As an artist, and occasional writer, I accept that my recompense must often come in smaller increments, further apart, than most in our culture enjoy. When survival depends on having the gold and silver to pay the tax man, the corporate supplier of food, water, housing, transportation, then there is so little left over for things like beauty, decoration. Somehow, since starting this journey, I have always had enough. It hasn't always felt like enough. It often felt way too close to a day late and a dollar short. I've learned there is a wide gap between what I want and what I need.
We can all live with a lot less. Try it. For a month. Use only what you absolutely, bottom line need. You will quickly find that beauty, kindness, laughter are absolutely mandatory.
It's not uncommon for people experiencing dark and frightening times of life to seek greater wisdom and power. I have done that. I have asked. I have been offered otherworldly guidance. I have blindly followed. Blindly. And I mean that literally.
One day, I walked away from my life, my career, my ambitions, my education, my house, my belongings, my everything. I gave up. I had worked hard. I had a good education. None of that mattered. Security never existed. I couldn't count on anything I had ever believed in. Quite the contrary, I could count on everything I had believed in to be fundamentally false. What then?
I got a lot of advise. I tried a lot of things. I went in any number of directions. I do remember reading a lot of religion. I remember laughing at some of things I read. "Take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra shirt. Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that town. If people do not welcome you, leave their town and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them. Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it. What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit their very self?
Wow. That's some instruction. Not that anybody would really do that. I certainly wouldn't. And even if someone did, not every body can. Because then there would be no towns, no homes, just a lot of lost souls wandering around seeking kindness from strangers. Would that really be a better world? No. But, then, if you take Jesus seriously, you are probably smart enough to realize that everybody isn't going to do that. And Jesus, being omnipotently smarter than anybody else, obviously knew that as well.
In truth, that's what I did. It was never what I intended to do. I made no deliberate plan and set out to accomplish it. In hindsight, I realize that doing so would have been contrary to the purpose. I just asked a question. In prayer, I wondered, cynically, what life would be like if I were to really do that. In fact, it's really only been recently pointed out to me that I did this, am doing this. It's very odd to me to look back and make that connection.
Truth is, we all have a gospel, all our own. We preach it every day. In our thoughts, our acts, our works, we spread our gospel as we go. what we have, what we do, this is what I cherish most. Often it is our children, our hobbies, sometimes it's our work, for many it is the public recompense we value most. What I am worth to the world in terms of dollars and cents - very real, very tangible, very necessary appreciation. We truly cannot live without it.
As an artist, and occasional writer, I accept that my recompense must often come in smaller increments, further apart, than most in our culture enjoy. When survival depends on having the gold and silver to pay the tax man, the corporate supplier of food, water, housing, transportation, then there is so little left over for things like beauty, decoration. Somehow, since starting this journey, I have always had enough. It hasn't always felt like enough. It often felt way too close to a day late and a dollar short. I've learned there is a wide gap between what I want and what I need.
We can all live with a lot less. Try it. For a month. Use only what you absolutely, bottom line need. You will quickly find that beauty, kindness, laughter are absolutely mandatory.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Charity
I'm something of an Antiques Roadshow freak. I love it. I'm sure I'll get that priceless prize at the garage sale, thrift store, trash pile on the side of the road. Whatever. I've always loved digging through attics, basements, boxes, just for the thrill of discovering what's in there.
The same thrill of discovery is achieved weekly on my favorite PBS show. The sweet old lady who spent twenty-five cents at a yard sale has an original Picasso. Too good to be true, but there it is. What's not to love?
Last night I watched in horror. A sweet little old lady proudly claimed an original artwork from a famous watercolorist. She found it at a silent auction. A school was raising money for scholarships to give to students who didn't have the money to attend the highly regarded private school. Mrs. Sweet Little Old Lady PROUDLY recalled how she bid seventy-five cents for the priceless work and the hovered around to make sure nobody outbid her!
WTF??? Am I the only one appalled? Is this behavior we want to encourage? I certainly hope not. I've been to numerous charitable auctions, silent and rowdy, and felt the point was to get the money to the charity, rather than expect a windfall take away. I've even applauded when raffle winners turned over the proceeds won to the charity involved. I've never won said raffle, so I can't vouch for what exactly I would do if I did win the color tv (or whatever). I'd like to think I'd be magnanimous.
I know I'm not the best person I would like to be, or even could be. I dance a fine line some days, knowing what's right, just not being fully committed to the personal wisdom of it (like the above paragraph - I did delete the series of nasty names I called the old bitch). But, there I go again.
It's not up to me to judge. But, when I see Gilbert Godfried celebrated in spite of spiteful anti Japanese 'jokes', or Mel Gibson praised in spite of just plain stupid meanness, or Charlie Sheen selling tickets and getting good reviews even though he beats women and isn't even allowed unsupervised around his own children, or old ladies cheaping out on a charity I just can't help but thing that maybe we are sending the wrong message about really matters. And in case you wondered, it isn't money.
The same thrill of discovery is achieved weekly on my favorite PBS show. The sweet old lady who spent twenty-five cents at a yard sale has an original Picasso. Too good to be true, but there it is. What's not to love?
Last night I watched in horror. A sweet little old lady proudly claimed an original artwork from a famous watercolorist. She found it at a silent auction. A school was raising money for scholarships to give to students who didn't have the money to attend the highly regarded private school. Mrs. Sweet Little Old Lady PROUDLY recalled how she bid seventy-five cents for the priceless work and the hovered around to make sure nobody outbid her!
WTF??? Am I the only one appalled? Is this behavior we want to encourage? I certainly hope not. I've been to numerous charitable auctions, silent and rowdy, and felt the point was to get the money to the charity, rather than expect a windfall take away. I've even applauded when raffle winners turned over the proceeds won to the charity involved. I've never won said raffle, so I can't vouch for what exactly I would do if I did win the color tv (or whatever). I'd like to think I'd be magnanimous.
I know I'm not the best person I would like to be, or even could be. I dance a fine line some days, knowing what's right, just not being fully committed to the personal wisdom of it (like the above paragraph - I did delete the series of nasty names I called the old bitch). But, there I go again.
It's not up to me to judge. But, when I see Gilbert Godfried celebrated in spite of spiteful anti Japanese 'jokes', or Mel Gibson praised in spite of just plain stupid meanness, or Charlie Sheen selling tickets and getting good reviews even though he beats women and isn't even allowed unsupervised around his own children, or old ladies cheaping out on a charity I just can't help but thing that maybe we are sending the wrong message about really matters. And in case you wondered, it isn't money.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Divine Miss Emmy
I've officiated at any number of funerals for pets. I never cease to be amazed. There is a ritual that dogs know. All dogs. The largest dog funeral I officiated had twenty dogs in attendance. My dog, Mongo, had to be put down. She was a fifteen year old lab mix with severe arthritis who had suddenly lost her sight. She had to do stairs and couldn't manage it without eyes, unless I carried her. I couldn't spend every minute with her and she didn't want to be where I wasn't.
She spent a lot of time at one particular farm. There were ten dogs that lived there full time. Another five to ten dogs were frequent farm visitors. They all came to say goodbye to Mongo. We brought her home from the vet's office. From the truck, she rode the wheel barrow to the little cemetery. Someone brought a little yard angel to sit beside her. I had dug the hole earlier. Mongo had sat beside me while I worked, content to be near me. There was a half of a chocolate cake left over from the weekend, so I fed it to her. She loved chocolate, and stole it whenever she could. She had to have known something was up when I gave it to her.
Friends came over to help me, and to comfort us both. I took a break. Mongo took a nap. In the hole. Any concerns I had over whether or not it was a good fit were at least dispelled. It took tugging, pulling, laughter and tears, and a pack of hot dogs to get her out of her grave and into the car and off to the vet. Talk about ironic.
When we came home, the dogs were sitting quietly in the yard, waiting for us. We loaded her into the wheel barrow and they followed behind me as I took her to the grave. There they watched while I placed her gently in the ground. They looked at me, as though they fully expected me to say something. So I did. I talked about the joy she gave me, the weird way she barked at airplanes, her love of forbidden chocolate. I said a little prayer. Then, one by one, each dog walked by the grave, nudged her, sniffed, went back and sat down. I covered her up, gently put the rocks around the space to mark it as hers. When I was done, Jake leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Those inclined to do so joined in. Then, they took off running full speed up the mountain.
Emmy has been sick a long time, but had an attitude and enjoyment of life that belied her diagnosis. This week, though, she quit eating. Dogs have their ways of telling us when it's time to move on. Mongo didn't like being blind and I knew what she wanted - napping in her grave was only the last clue. Emmy loved to eat. She would eat everything. She could eat more than Webster who is four times her size. When she quit eating, I knew. I think, too, she didn't want Donna to see her that way, but to remember her royal demeanor. Donna knew, and we had talked about it, but it wasn't obvious when Donna left on a trip. It was obvious later. Donna knew I wouldn't let her, or any dog, suffer needlessly. She didn't give me the job, but I offered to take it on if it became necessary. She trusted me to know when that might be.
Abbey, Savannah and Webster came today and watched as I put Emmy in her own little grave. I planted an azalea with her. They each walked over to Emmy, sniffed her, nudged her, then sat respectfully and watched as I finished the work. I said some words, about how much she loved Jean, loved to eat, would push Webster away from his dish and polish off his dinner, push him off his bed to nap there, prance past the other dogs languishing in the ninety degree heat to go loll about in the air conditioning inside. Then I said a prayer. On cue, Webster leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Abbey and and Savannah joined him. Goodbye Miss Em.
She spent a lot of time at one particular farm. There were ten dogs that lived there full time. Another five to ten dogs were frequent farm visitors. They all came to say goodbye to Mongo. We brought her home from the vet's office. From the truck, she rode the wheel barrow to the little cemetery. Someone brought a little yard angel to sit beside her. I had dug the hole earlier. Mongo had sat beside me while I worked, content to be near me. There was a half of a chocolate cake left over from the weekend, so I fed it to her. She loved chocolate, and stole it whenever she could. She had to have known something was up when I gave it to her.
Friends came over to help me, and to comfort us both. I took a break. Mongo took a nap. In the hole. Any concerns I had over whether or not it was a good fit were at least dispelled. It took tugging, pulling, laughter and tears, and a pack of hot dogs to get her out of her grave and into the car and off to the vet. Talk about ironic.
When we came home, the dogs were sitting quietly in the yard, waiting for us. We loaded her into the wheel barrow and they followed behind me as I took her to the grave. There they watched while I placed her gently in the ground. They looked at me, as though they fully expected me to say something. So I did. I talked about the joy she gave me, the weird way she barked at airplanes, her love of forbidden chocolate. I said a little prayer. Then, one by one, each dog walked by the grave, nudged her, sniffed, went back and sat down. I covered her up, gently put the rocks around the space to mark it as hers. When I was done, Jake leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Those inclined to do so joined in. Then, they took off running full speed up the mountain.
Emmy has been sick a long time, but had an attitude and enjoyment of life that belied her diagnosis. This week, though, she quit eating. Dogs have their ways of telling us when it's time to move on. Mongo didn't like being blind and I knew what she wanted - napping in her grave was only the last clue. Emmy loved to eat. She would eat everything. She could eat more than Webster who is four times her size. When she quit eating, I knew. I think, too, she didn't want Donna to see her that way, but to remember her royal demeanor. Donna knew, and we had talked about it, but it wasn't obvious when Donna left on a trip. It was obvious later. Donna knew I wouldn't let her, or any dog, suffer needlessly. She didn't give me the job, but I offered to take it on if it became necessary. She trusted me to know when that might be.
Abbey, Savannah and Webster came today and watched as I put Emmy in her own little grave. I planted an azalea with her. They each walked over to Emmy, sniffed her, nudged her, then sat respectfully and watched as I finished the work. I said some words, about how much she loved Jean, loved to eat, would push Webster away from his dish and polish off his dinner, push him off his bed to nap there, prance past the other dogs languishing in the ninety degree heat to go loll about in the air conditioning inside. Then I said a prayer. On cue, Webster leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Abbey and and Savannah joined him. Goodbye Miss Em.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Good Advice
I'm reading a book about poetry. I just read that Juan Ramon Jimenez told Claribel Alegria not to write free verse. "You have to go through all the traditional forms. You can free yourself after that. Then you will know what you are doing." Great advice.
My own poet-mentor gave me the same advice. Alexander Whitaker at Berry College told me: "Learn all the forms intimately. Write those meters in your head over and over. Use those forms until you know all the nuances. Then, later, when you break the rules, you'll know what rule you're breaking and why. It will mean more to you and your audience." That was probably the best advice any one ever gave me about writing. I still write in those old forms. I like the rhythms, the meanings of themselves. And it does make breaking the rules that much sweeter. And I do like breaking rules.
Writing by the rules taught me that rules have reasons. They exist because they matter. They remain because they continue to matter. And if you didn't have rules, you wouldn't know who your revolutionaries are. If no one is out breaking those rules, reinventing reality, then we know we aren't growing. And when people are out breaking those rules, we know where the autocrats are ruling. And we can break free of their power.
My own poet-mentor gave me the same advice. Alexander Whitaker at Berry College told me: "Learn all the forms intimately. Write those meters in your head over and over. Use those forms until you know all the nuances. Then, later, when you break the rules, you'll know what rule you're breaking and why. It will mean more to you and your audience." That was probably the best advice any one ever gave me about writing. I still write in those old forms. I like the rhythms, the meanings of themselves. And it does make breaking the rules that much sweeter. And I do like breaking rules.
Writing by the rules taught me that rules have reasons. They exist because they matter. They remain because they continue to matter. And if you didn't have rules, you wouldn't know who your revolutionaries are. If no one is out breaking those rules, reinventing reality, then we know we aren't growing. And when people are out breaking those rules, we know where the autocrats are ruling. And we can break free of their power.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Too Strange To Not Be True
I did something embarrassing. You know those ads for internet match makers? I finally succumbed and had to look. Really, I've never done it before. But there it was. There I was. Time on my hands when I really should have been doing something productive but didn't want to. So. I peaked.
Of course, the first thing I learned was that you have to provide a profile of your own. Yikes. I don't, like, want anybody to actually, like, pick me. Not really. Well, I might, but let's face it, Jack the Ripper would pick me. John Boy Walton would just walk on by. Mr. Right would never recognize me from an online write up. Not that I equate John Boy as Mr. Right, but at least he isn't Mr. Axe Murderer.
So, I did what any other lurker would do. I made up something. As far as my online profile goes, I'm a 62 year old, hindu woman, 4'2", weigh 230 lbs., have no hair, 10 children living at home with me, have no income and am looking for a serious relationship with someone who is over 6'9" and independently wealthy. I figured that anybody who'd bite at that profile had to be at least interesting.
So, I lurked. I searched. There are easily 300 single/separated men in the area of Canton to Blue Ridge who are actively looking for love. No shit! They are all, to a man, over 6' tall, self described good looking, Christian of religion and Conservative of politics and own a Harley. Okay, one is agnostic and is 5'2", but he wants a good woman to cook for him and be sweet, so that even rules out my alter ego, not to mention me (well known for NOT sweet). WTF? Is there no variety? NO. They have 'blond' hair and blue eyes. They like long walks on the beach (I like tall cocktails at the beachside bar). They like cooking gourmet dinners (I like eating gourmet dinners, but not the ones usually cooked by Harley riders and let's face it, they're going to be out riding the Harley and want to come home to a gourmet dinner, not cook one). They are sincere and loyal (which is why the mother of their children is nowhere to be found). They smoke. WTF??? Where were these men when I smoked? Oh, yeah, they're Conservative Christians.
So, now that I've satisfied myself that the pool really is comprised of neanderthal losers, I've come across a dillemma: Someone sent me an email. OMG. I can't read it, because I will NOT pay whatever it costs to actually, literally look for love online, but I am so curious to know who would email someone who fit the description that I could just bust. Oh, well, curiosity killed the cat - no need to worry about it. It's Jack the Ripper.
Of course, the first thing I learned was that you have to provide a profile of your own. Yikes. I don't, like, want anybody to actually, like, pick me. Not really. Well, I might, but let's face it, Jack the Ripper would pick me. John Boy Walton would just walk on by. Mr. Right would never recognize me from an online write up. Not that I equate John Boy as Mr. Right, but at least he isn't Mr. Axe Murderer.
So, I did what any other lurker would do. I made up something. As far as my online profile goes, I'm a 62 year old, hindu woman, 4'2", weigh 230 lbs., have no hair, 10 children living at home with me, have no income and am looking for a serious relationship with someone who is over 6'9" and independently wealthy. I figured that anybody who'd bite at that profile had to be at least interesting.
So, I lurked. I searched. There are easily 300 single/separated men in the area of Canton to Blue Ridge who are actively looking for love. No shit! They are all, to a man, over 6' tall, self described good looking, Christian of religion and Conservative of politics and own a Harley. Okay, one is agnostic and is 5'2", but he wants a good woman to cook for him and be sweet, so that even rules out my alter ego, not to mention me (well known for NOT sweet). WTF? Is there no variety? NO. They have 'blond' hair and blue eyes. They like long walks on the beach (I like tall cocktails at the beachside bar). They like cooking gourmet dinners (I like eating gourmet dinners, but not the ones usually cooked by Harley riders and let's face it, they're going to be out riding the Harley and want to come home to a gourmet dinner, not cook one). They are sincere and loyal (which is why the mother of their children is nowhere to be found). They smoke. WTF??? Where were these men when I smoked? Oh, yeah, they're Conservative Christians.
So, now that I've satisfied myself that the pool really is comprised of neanderthal losers, I've come across a dillemma: Someone sent me an email. OMG. I can't read it, because I will NOT pay whatever it costs to actually, literally look for love online, but I am so curious to know who would email someone who fit the description that I could just bust. Oh, well, curiosity killed the cat - no need to worry about it. It's Jack the Ripper.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Come out, Come out Whoever you are! (shameless self promotion)
I stumbled on my stats page today. I knew it was there, but hadn't really bothered. Somehow, I keep thinking of this as my digital diary, where I rant to myself, pretending that other people actually care and read it. Then, I saw that I had followers. Then, I saw that I had followers I didn't even know. Actually, follower is more correct. So, today, I looked to see what my stats could tell me about the growing number of people who read me.
This month alone, 127 different people viewed me at least (on average) 4 times each. Wow. For all time, it's 423 people. 423 different people. In Germany, Denmark, UK, Croatia (really? Croatia?), United Arab Emirates (GET OUT!), Canada, China, Singapore, and Iran. Iran? OMG! I'm global! Who are you people? Now, I don't mean that in my snarky, cynical tone. I mean that in my, oh, I love you, you are my friends, you read my words, I want to love you back tone.
Apparently, a number of you pop in just to see if I've posted something lately. Most of you pop in via Facebook (likely after I've shared that I have a new post). I wish it would tell me who you all are. I know who 8 of you are - my dear, loyal followers. I get to like you best of all because I know who you are. The rest of you, I really would love to know who you are. Please share. Please, if you read me, leave a comment. Or don't. If you would like to comment, but don't want anyone to know who you are or read your comment, please email me at ellijayblueridge@yahoo.com. And if you really like me, feel free to make a donation. Really. Shameless as that sounds, I have a bit of the Steven Colbert self promotion instinct that begs for cash and attention whenever and where ever I can. And that is pretty much everywhere. The link is just to the right, and you can click on it and it will allow you to make a donation via Paypal. If you don't have a Paypal account, then trust me on this - you should. Paypal is an excellent company (short of the fact that they are owned by Ebay which is evil, but WTF, it's an easy and safe way to send money to me from anywhere in the world. If you know of a better way, let me know). If you like, I will send you a print, a photograph or a painting in exchange for your donation. Go to L. J. Burton Fan Page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/L-J-Burton/152050821477986?v=app_2373072738&ref=mf) and pick out one you would like. Or just leave a comment. Anyone who leaves a comment is exempt from donations. For now.
This month alone, 127 different people viewed me at least (on average) 4 times each. Wow. For all time, it's 423 people. 423 different people. In Germany, Denmark, UK, Croatia (really? Croatia?), United Arab Emirates (GET OUT!), Canada, China, Singapore, and Iran. Iran? OMG! I'm global! Who are you people? Now, I don't mean that in my snarky, cynical tone. I mean that in my, oh, I love you, you are my friends, you read my words, I want to love you back tone.
Apparently, a number of you pop in just to see if I've posted something lately. Most of you pop in via Facebook (likely after I've shared that I have a new post). I wish it would tell me who you all are. I know who 8 of you are - my dear, loyal followers. I get to like you best of all because I know who you are. The rest of you, I really would love to know who you are. Please share. Please, if you read me, leave a comment. Or don't. If you would like to comment, but don't want anyone to know who you are or read your comment, please email me at ellijayblueridge@yahoo.com. And if you really like me, feel free to make a donation. Really. Shameless as that sounds, I have a bit of the Steven Colbert self promotion instinct that begs for cash and attention whenever and where ever I can. And that is pretty much everywhere. The link is just to the right, and you can click on it and it will allow you to make a donation via Paypal. If you don't have a Paypal account, then trust me on this - you should. Paypal is an excellent company (short of the fact that they are owned by Ebay which is evil, but WTF, it's an easy and safe way to send money to me from anywhere in the world. If you know of a better way, let me know). If you like, I will send you a print, a photograph or a painting in exchange for your donation. Go to L. J. Burton Fan Page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/L-J-Burton/152050821477986?v=app_2373072738&ref=mf) and pick out one you would like. Or just leave a comment. Anyone who leaves a comment is exempt from donations. For now.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Poetry
I'm reading Bill Moyers' book The Language of Life, a companion to his series on today's poets. I wrote my first poem at age 6 in the back seat of the family Buick. I thought is was great. I was really amazed with myself. I wrote poetry nearly every day after that for at least 20 years. There were some breaks. When I was 11, we moved and my mother tossed my box of poetry. That pissed me off so bad I gave it up for a while. Until my first crush and there I went. I wrote nearly every day again. In college, a favorite professor volunteered to read my poetry and help me with my writing. His constructive criticism was exhilarating. I wrote more and better than I'd dreamed possible.
I was 27 when I moved out of an apartment with one of those roommates from Hell. I went far off one way, roommate went far off another. Roommate took that box of diaries and all the poems contained therein. Never to be seen or heard from again. Breaking up is hard. Going back, even for one's life work, can often just not be worth it. I like to imagine some distant future, grandchildren cleaning out an attic find the Lost Years of my poetry, thus completing my legacy to the great relief of literary critics everywhere.
I've written maybe three poems in the interim, two of which are lost to posterity. There might be some in my diaries, but life has been full and rich and painful and joyous and I don't really want to revisit my diaries, even to loot them for lost verse. I prefer to move forward. These really are the best years of my life, I promise you that.
Still, as Barbara Kingsolver noted, unwritten poems become dust bunnies. Dust bunnies multiply and lurk under the bed, waiting to attack you at night, in early morning, whenever they can. I have today been assaulted by the attack of the dust bunnies. My early instincts have awakened and now my soul shall be heard.:
Friends
An Apple keeps you well and wise,
a Banana safe and pure.
Pears will never show surprise,
A Mango's always sure.
Cherry is so very merry
as it is with many berries.
But, ah. A Peach.
So out of reach,
will steal your friends,
and when she's done (and just for fun)
she'll turn around and suck you in.
I was 27 when I moved out of an apartment with one of those roommates from Hell. I went far off one way, roommate went far off another. Roommate took that box of diaries and all the poems contained therein. Never to be seen or heard from again. Breaking up is hard. Going back, even for one's life work, can often just not be worth it. I like to imagine some distant future, grandchildren cleaning out an attic find the Lost Years of my poetry, thus completing my legacy to the great relief of literary critics everywhere.
I've written maybe three poems in the interim, two of which are lost to posterity. There might be some in my diaries, but life has been full and rich and painful and joyous and I don't really want to revisit my diaries, even to loot them for lost verse. I prefer to move forward. These really are the best years of my life, I promise you that.
Still, as Barbara Kingsolver noted, unwritten poems become dust bunnies. Dust bunnies multiply and lurk under the bed, waiting to attack you at night, in early morning, whenever they can. I have today been assaulted by the attack of the dust bunnies. My early instincts have awakened and now my soul shall be heard.:
Friends
An Apple keeps you well and wise,
a Banana safe and pure.
Pears will never show surprise,
A Mango's always sure.
Cherry is so very merry
as it is with many berries.
But, ah. A Peach.
So out of reach,
will steal your friends,
and when she's done (and just for fun)
she'll turn around and suck you in.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Women's Hall of Fame
Who knew? I had no idea there was such a thing. There is. These women were inducted this year:
St. Katharine Drexel
Dorothy Harrison Eustis
Loretta C. Ford
Abby Kelley Foster
Helen Murray Free
Coretta Scott King
Lilly Ledbetter
Barbara Kikulski
Donn Shalala
Kathryn Switzer
I want to know more about these women, and will look them up. I would say I would write something about them, but I hate to make promises I can't keep. It's nice to know there is such a place. They have a website: http://www.greatwomen.org/. There are a total of 236 women included. In all of America, that's what we came up with. I think we can do better with numbers. Quality can't be challenged, even if quantity is desperately lacking.
Most of the women inducted this year are still alive. It's touching to look and see and say - I know her! My known is not alive. Coretta Scott King - more correctly, Yoki's momma. As many of you know, she was no icon to me. She was a classmates mother, a human being, someone who did not think twice about snatching me baldheaded if I did wrong. Honestly, she never raised a hand to me. She raised an eyebrow. The woman had a look - most mothers then had one, but I swear to you black women ruled the world with it. White women just never caught up to any black woman's look. Freeze you in your tracks. A room full a screaming, playing, running, jumping, terrorist children at full speed and Momma King could sneak up to the door, stand there, never say a word, just aim that look. Instantly, nine full speed children stop dead in their tracks. Paralyzed. No doubt, we are all better people for it.
It seems strange to me sometimes how much black women took part in the proper upbringing of white young ladies. Every black woman I ever knew considered it her sacred duty to make sure I kept my dress and shoes clean and tidy, sat like a lady at all times and respected my elders. Any one (or all) could take me down if I even had an un-lady-like thought. "Young ladies don't act like that, missy, sit straight in your chair." "Don't cross your legs, that's trashy." Trashy. OMG - the horror of all horrors was to be trashy. We had thousands of strange, arcane rules of behavior instilled in us perpetually. But we were watched, attended, loved, nurtured and are better women for having been raised by the legions of Southern women, black and white, who never wavered in their determination to see us grow up to be great women.
Great women rule the world. From the cradle to the grave, day in and day out in a million little ways they raise us up. Our village is all the better for it.
St. Katharine Drexel
Dorothy Harrison Eustis
Loretta C. Ford
Abby Kelley Foster
Helen Murray Free
Coretta Scott King
Lilly Ledbetter
Barbara Kikulski
Donn Shalala
Kathryn Switzer
I want to know more about these women, and will look them up. I would say I would write something about them, but I hate to make promises I can't keep. It's nice to know there is such a place. They have a website: http://www.greatwomen.org/. There are a total of 236 women included. In all of America, that's what we came up with. I think we can do better with numbers. Quality can't be challenged, even if quantity is desperately lacking.
Most of the women inducted this year are still alive. It's touching to look and see and say - I know her! My known is not alive. Coretta Scott King - more correctly, Yoki's momma. As many of you know, she was no icon to me. She was a classmates mother, a human being, someone who did not think twice about snatching me baldheaded if I did wrong. Honestly, she never raised a hand to me. She raised an eyebrow. The woman had a look - most mothers then had one, but I swear to you black women ruled the world with it. White women just never caught up to any black woman's look. Freeze you in your tracks. A room full a screaming, playing, running, jumping, terrorist children at full speed and Momma King could sneak up to the door, stand there, never say a word, just aim that look. Instantly, nine full speed children stop dead in their tracks. Paralyzed. No doubt, we are all better people for it.
It seems strange to me sometimes how much black women took part in the proper upbringing of white young ladies. Every black woman I ever knew considered it her sacred duty to make sure I kept my dress and shoes clean and tidy, sat like a lady at all times and respected my elders. Any one (or all) could take me down if I even had an un-lady-like thought. "Young ladies don't act like that, missy, sit straight in your chair." "Don't cross your legs, that's trashy." Trashy. OMG - the horror of all horrors was to be trashy. We had thousands of strange, arcane rules of behavior instilled in us perpetually. But we were watched, attended, loved, nurtured and are better women for having been raised by the legions of Southern women, black and white, who never wavered in their determination to see us grow up to be great women.
Great women rule the world. From the cradle to the grave, day in and day out in a million little ways they raise us up. Our village is all the better for it.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Lent
The concept of letting go of something pleasant for a period of time as part of a spiritual journey is as old as the world. It's one of the aspects of Catholicism that I like. It seems to have caught on lately in most Christian journeys, too. A good idea is always just that.
Should everyone try it, then? I've been in austerity central for the last few weeks. I haven't counted the days, but it may well have been forty, more or less. As is usual in my experience, money comes in fits and flurries. Being self employed, there are lean and fat times. Have just emerged from the lean, I'm disinclined to extend that experience further. On the other hand, doing so might be a good exercise in self control. I'm still not smoking, but I could use to make further efforts on that diet resolution. Fits and flurries. Fat Tuesday saw me eating cookies and drinking wine. Ash Wednesday just isn't motivating me to much.
I'm not really Christian, anyway. My father was Catholic and my mother Jewish. I'm the youngest of three. I remember them fighting tooth and nail with my sisters trying to get them to say prayers, to go to catechism. I remember them giving up on trying to force me. I was something of a bulldog of a little girl, anyway.
This is the time of year when winter's hardships lighten up their grip and make life more of a celebration than a bleak survival. On the other hand, winter stores have likely been used up while planting is only just begun. There isn't much in the way of food in the historical pantry. Saving up the last of the best of what is left for later celebration is a wise custom. Making a spiritual journey of necessity is a healthy twist on what otherwise just seems more bleak at a time of year when we are all emotionally past dealing with more bleak.
I'm of the mind to make some symbolic sacrifice for this period of time. I have too much planned that is inconsistent with foresaking too much food or alcohol. I could do it, I suppose, but I'm sure God wants me to have the fun I've planned. I'm not sure God gives a fat rat's ass whether I sacrifice mindfully or not. My own personal philosophy for the last ten years would say She especially would not want me to do so - "What? I've given you so much! Enjoy it. Eat, drink, laugh." Ah, that's what I'll do. For each day of Lent, I will make some one laugh. Laughter - the song of Heaven.
Should everyone try it, then? I've been in austerity central for the last few weeks. I haven't counted the days, but it may well have been forty, more or less. As is usual in my experience, money comes in fits and flurries. Being self employed, there are lean and fat times. Have just emerged from the lean, I'm disinclined to extend that experience further. On the other hand, doing so might be a good exercise in self control. I'm still not smoking, but I could use to make further efforts on that diet resolution. Fits and flurries. Fat Tuesday saw me eating cookies and drinking wine. Ash Wednesday just isn't motivating me to much.
I'm not really Christian, anyway. My father was Catholic and my mother Jewish. I'm the youngest of three. I remember them fighting tooth and nail with my sisters trying to get them to say prayers, to go to catechism. I remember them giving up on trying to force me. I was something of a bulldog of a little girl, anyway.
This is the time of year when winter's hardships lighten up their grip and make life more of a celebration than a bleak survival. On the other hand, winter stores have likely been used up while planting is only just begun. There isn't much in the way of food in the historical pantry. Saving up the last of the best of what is left for later celebration is a wise custom. Making a spiritual journey of necessity is a healthy twist on what otherwise just seems more bleak at a time of year when we are all emotionally past dealing with more bleak.
I'm of the mind to make some symbolic sacrifice for this period of time. I have too much planned that is inconsistent with foresaking too much food or alcohol. I could do it, I suppose, but I'm sure God wants me to have the fun I've planned. I'm not sure God gives a fat rat's ass whether I sacrifice mindfully or not. My own personal philosophy for the last ten years would say She especially would not want me to do so - "What? I've given you so much! Enjoy it. Eat, drink, laugh." Ah, that's what I'll do. For each day of Lent, I will make some one laugh. Laughter - the song of Heaven.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
This is a test - if it were real, there'd be better instructions
Nola
View more presentations from ljburton963
Welcome to my latest fun -- pictures from my trip to Nawlins with Donna and Karen. I'll figure out how to get music to play with it soon - until then, have fun! LAISSEZ LES BON TEMPS ROULER!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Rich Girl, Poor Girl
A highly financially solvent woman once asked me "why do poor people think rich people should give them money?" Huh???? It was said in a particularly snotty tone of voice. I wasn't even sure if she was including me as one of the rich who had found the answer to the pesky little problem, or one of the poor who was trying to suck money out of her. Given that I was working with her on a home improvement project for which she was paying me, because I needed work and had no money, I knee jerked to the latter. I was initially tempted to rip her a new one but there were just too many things being undersaid in her question that I just couldn't leave it not bitched about:
1. Rich people - would you define that for me, please? Who's rich? You? If you had a brain, you would hire somebody else to use it for you! You got yourself some money, don't you? Good for you. Why do you think that makes you better than me? How'd you get that money? Your daddy and granddaddy and great granddaddy died and gave it to you! And when your Momma dies, God rest her soul, you will get even more! Weehaw! That sho nuff makes you waaaaaay better person than me and so much better off than I can imagine. I once sat with a friend and wistfully said "I sure do wish I was rich." To which friend responded "Why do you think you aren't?" I have friends who love me, a good educations, the enthusiasm for good work and the ability to laugh loudly and with all my heart. Turns out, I'm pretty rich.
2. Poor people - would you define that for me, please? Jesus said there would always be the poor among us. Yes, we know there are those who have no home, no food, no education, no hope. Of all those things, we can easily provide for all but hope. Hope comes hard. It takes real effort. It takes time, imagination, and some days it takes absolutely everything you got. Sometimes, every thing you got isn't close to enough. I got money today, but I can't buy $50 worth of propane to get me through to next month when I'll have $100 more to toss at it, but they won't shot up for less than $200. Who knew it would be this cold in October. I thought for sure I could make it until December 1st with just a little faith. November 29, and I get the propane. November 30, a tree falls and smashes the house. No such thing as a propane refund. So, you who daily calls 1-800-DO-IT-FOR-ME to have your toilet paper changed, would it really hurt you to actually give a little money to a genuine, bona fide person who has none? I can live all year just on what you spend in one month at Walmart. Without even being thrifty. Who's poor? Within 2 hours I have a place to live with heat, thanks to a friend who just happens to have a house. Thank you God for your plans for me. Thank you God for friends. I will need another place to live next year, and as I walk into church full of faith that You will lead me to where I need to be, a friend needs help, would I, could I, please, live in her basement? We all provide.
3. Why is giving money to poor people so wrong? There's this attitude that if you have no money, there must be some lingering, underlying, nefarious moral issue at work in your life. Somehow, you just aren't good enough. For me, it worked like this: I got out of college and began to meticulously, carefully, deliberately plan my life. Of course, life happened other wise, and I rolled with the punches, got back up, went back to planning, got better and better jobs, better and better educations, better and better homes and better and better stuff. Then, one day, out of the blue, it all came tumbling down. Blindsided on a Tuesday. I hit a big, fat, hard brick wall. Family health problems and my own personal issues collided into a spiral of reality checking like I never imagined. In a world where what goes around comes around, I had to face up to a whole lot of mean, angry bad shit.
I got therapy. I got God. I was born of Jesus in a dream, and summoned to a conference with the Prophet (not profit) Muhammad (peace be upon him, praise to him, peace, love, and whatever it is that is said - and why don't I know this yet?). Buddha laughed. When the dust had finally settled, I emerged happier, wiser, and with a greater ability to laugh at myself and the world in general. I had no plan. I gave up. God wants me to do something, God knows how to get it done. God knows I don't. That was my plan. That is still my plan. I don't have any money, because God don't want me to have no money. God has her reasons. I have no idea what they are, but I have a roof over my head, I have food to eat, I have heat, beauty, laughter and the best friends anyone could ever want or hope or pray for. I'm still not poor.
As for the friend, I still like her. I disagree with her on a lot. I don't see her much anymore, but that's another issue for another day. So, when she asks me why poor people think rich people should give them money, I just tell her what she really already knows: Because Jesus said so.
1. Rich people - would you define that for me, please? Who's rich? You? If you had a brain, you would hire somebody else to use it for you! You got yourself some money, don't you? Good for you. Why do you think that makes you better than me? How'd you get that money? Your daddy and granddaddy and great granddaddy died and gave it to you! And when your Momma dies, God rest her soul, you will get even more! Weehaw! That sho nuff makes you waaaaaay better person than me and so much better off than I can imagine. I once sat with a friend and wistfully said "I sure do wish I was rich." To which friend responded "Why do you think you aren't?" I have friends who love me, a good educations, the enthusiasm for good work and the ability to laugh loudly and with all my heart. Turns out, I'm pretty rich.
2. Poor people - would you define that for me, please? Jesus said there would always be the poor among us. Yes, we know there are those who have no home, no food, no education, no hope. Of all those things, we can easily provide for all but hope. Hope comes hard. It takes real effort. It takes time, imagination, and some days it takes absolutely everything you got. Sometimes, every thing you got isn't close to enough. I got money today, but I can't buy $50 worth of propane to get me through to next month when I'll have $100 more to toss at it, but they won't shot up for less than $200. Who knew it would be this cold in October. I thought for sure I could make it until December 1st with just a little faith. November 29, and I get the propane. November 30, a tree falls and smashes the house. No such thing as a propane refund. So, you who daily calls 1-800-DO-IT-FOR-ME to have your toilet paper changed, would it really hurt you to actually give a little money to a genuine, bona fide person who has none? I can live all year just on what you spend in one month at Walmart. Without even being thrifty. Who's poor? Within 2 hours I have a place to live with heat, thanks to a friend who just happens to have a house. Thank you God for your plans for me. Thank you God for friends. I will need another place to live next year, and as I walk into church full of faith that You will lead me to where I need to be, a friend needs help, would I, could I, please, live in her basement? We all provide.
3. Why is giving money to poor people so wrong? There's this attitude that if you have no money, there must be some lingering, underlying, nefarious moral issue at work in your life. Somehow, you just aren't good enough. For me, it worked like this: I got out of college and began to meticulously, carefully, deliberately plan my life. Of course, life happened other wise, and I rolled with the punches, got back up, went back to planning, got better and better jobs, better and better educations, better and better homes and better and better stuff. Then, one day, out of the blue, it all came tumbling down. Blindsided on a Tuesday. I hit a big, fat, hard brick wall. Family health problems and my own personal issues collided into a spiral of reality checking like I never imagined. In a world where what goes around comes around, I had to face up to a whole lot of mean, angry bad shit.
I got therapy. I got God. I was born of Jesus in a dream, and summoned to a conference with the Prophet (not profit) Muhammad (peace be upon him, praise to him, peace, love, and whatever it is that is said - and why don't I know this yet?). Buddha laughed. When the dust had finally settled, I emerged happier, wiser, and with a greater ability to laugh at myself and the world in general. I had no plan. I gave up. God wants me to do something, God knows how to get it done. God knows I don't. That was my plan. That is still my plan. I don't have any money, because God don't want me to have no money. God has her reasons. I have no idea what they are, but I have a roof over my head, I have food to eat, I have heat, beauty, laughter and the best friends anyone could ever want or hope or pray for. I'm still not poor.
As for the friend, I still like her. I disagree with her on a lot. I don't see her much anymore, but that's another issue for another day. So, when she asks me why poor people think rich people should give them money, I just tell her what she really already knows: Because Jesus said so.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
What If . . .
My favorite question. It embraces infinity. Seeks it out, kisses it on the lips, nabs its nipples and makes wild passionate love to it. Imagination takes us to places reality might never envision. And reality is creative in the extreme. Limited only by your imagination. This is my first 'What if' posting. It won't be my last. I started my own personal'What if' in response to 'what ev'. Now, I share.
What if you really did what Jesus said? Could you? Is it even possible? Are the directions mutually consistent, or would you find yourself blocked by inconsistencies? Has anybody ever done it? Has anybody ever tried? If you know someone, please leave a comment. Leave a comment anyway. I know you're reading - 313 hits in a month isn't one over-zealous fan hoping for a new post.
What would it entail to follow that advise today? I am reminded of this today by a Facebook friend, in the throes and woes of birthing a sermon. His topic is that tantalizingly tortuous one: No man can serve two masters. One is God. One is Money. WWJD? FUCK MONEY and the horse it rode in on. Whoa. Really? You betcha, Sarah Palin. I'm not judging, mind you. I'm just sayin' - why worry about clothes when YOU are so much more than a lily in a field. I first read that line about ten years ago. My first thought? What about the stink weed? God made that too. What if I'm the stink weed? Or the wharf rat? Those are also of God. Sure, lilies are nice and pretty, but lots in God's creation isn't. Does God's little stink weed serve his purpose as much as God's lily?
Of course it does. And it lives longer too. People pick the lily, stick it in a vase and it dies forlorn, uncopulated by the honey bee of love. The stink weed grows on, sucked and fucked by the honeybees, and lots of other bugs and hummingbirds and it grows and thrives. The prissy, sissy, delicate, needy lily dies childless. For me, I'll be the stink weed. The wharf rat eats and mates and eats some more, a thriving species. God loves it well, I'm certain.
And money? I'll have to get with you on that one next time. I think way too much about money. I don't worry about what I'll eat - I have food stamps, thank you, I eat quite well. And I do mean thank you. Very much.
I don't worry about home - I live in a lovely home and am able toil some in order to pay what my dear friend considers valuable consideration in return. It's a beautiful home, in a beautiful setting, and yet, the most valuable to me is the friend who allows me to share in it. Frankly, just the friendship alone in a tent in a desert would still be invaluable. She reminds me everyday that I just can't do it alone. And that I am not alone.
I don't worry about clothes. I have plenty. They don't cost much. I can look good for little.
But money? I still worry. Car insurance doesn't pay itself and the cost of gas keeps going up. Baby needs a new set of tires. A tuneup might prevent future bills and I'm pretty sure it's time for brakes. Don't even ask me how old the muffler is.
I no longer need money for tobacco addiction. I've virtually given up alcohol. So more and more, I require less and less. But when you need it, there's nothing like it. I think most people read those words "you can't serve both God and Money" and just assumes, God didn't really mean for us to walk away from our jobs, to not toil, to not reap, to not store for the future, to not worry about tomorrow, because today has enough worry in it. Not really. God feeds the birds, but they have to wake up in the morning and stick their beaks in the ground to pull out those worms. It's a good point, but surely God wasn't being literal, was she?
What if you really did what Jesus said? Could you? Is it even possible? Are the directions mutually consistent, or would you find yourself blocked by inconsistencies? Has anybody ever done it? Has anybody ever tried? If you know someone, please leave a comment. Leave a comment anyway. I know you're reading - 313 hits in a month isn't one over-zealous fan hoping for a new post.
What would it entail to follow that advise today? I am reminded of this today by a Facebook friend, in the throes and woes of birthing a sermon. His topic is that tantalizingly tortuous one: No man can serve two masters. One is God. One is Money. WWJD? FUCK MONEY and the horse it rode in on. Whoa. Really? You betcha, Sarah Palin. I'm not judging, mind you. I'm just sayin' - why worry about clothes when YOU are so much more than a lily in a field. I first read that line about ten years ago. My first thought? What about the stink weed? God made that too. What if I'm the stink weed? Or the wharf rat? Those are also of God. Sure, lilies are nice and pretty, but lots in God's creation isn't. Does God's little stink weed serve his purpose as much as God's lily?
Of course it does. And it lives longer too. People pick the lily, stick it in a vase and it dies forlorn, uncopulated by the honey bee of love. The stink weed grows on, sucked and fucked by the honeybees, and lots of other bugs and hummingbirds and it grows and thrives. The prissy, sissy, delicate, needy lily dies childless. For me, I'll be the stink weed. The wharf rat eats and mates and eats some more, a thriving species. God loves it well, I'm certain.
And money? I'll have to get with you on that one next time. I think way too much about money. I don't worry about what I'll eat - I have food stamps, thank you, I eat quite well. And I do mean thank you. Very much.
I don't worry about home - I live in a lovely home and am able toil some in order to pay what my dear friend considers valuable consideration in return. It's a beautiful home, in a beautiful setting, and yet, the most valuable to me is the friend who allows me to share in it. Frankly, just the friendship alone in a tent in a desert would still be invaluable. She reminds me everyday that I just can't do it alone. And that I am not alone.
I don't worry about clothes. I have plenty. They don't cost much. I can look good for little.
But money? I still worry. Car insurance doesn't pay itself and the cost of gas keeps going up. Baby needs a new set of tires. A tuneup might prevent future bills and I'm pretty sure it's time for brakes. Don't even ask me how old the muffler is.
I no longer need money for tobacco addiction. I've virtually given up alcohol. So more and more, I require less and less. But when you need it, there's nothing like it. I think most people read those words "you can't serve both God and Money" and just assumes, God didn't really mean for us to walk away from our jobs, to not toil, to not reap, to not store for the future, to not worry about tomorrow, because today has enough worry in it. Not really. God feeds the birds, but they have to wake up in the morning and stick their beaks in the ground to pull out those worms. It's a good point, but surely God wasn't being literal, was she?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Be Happy
Sounds easy enough. Short. Sweet. To the point. Why am I Not? Am I not? What gets in the way? What compels it? I find I must examine these issues periodically in order to stay on the straight and narrow path of happy.
Once upon a time, hanging out with friends, drinking copious amounts of intoxicating beverages and ingesting other intoxicants made me feel happy. On occasion, it still does. I learned somewhere along the line that moderation leads to more consistent happy than over indulgence in anything, including restraint. I also know that over indulgence in self restraint often leads to not happy. Balance. It's all about balance. What once made me happy fails me now. Parties, rock concerts, pounding it out full blast in the fast lane now make me decidedly not happy.
Sitting in the sun is happy. Laughter, of course is happy. Dogs, friends, food, shelter, transportation - all happy. Healthcare. Well, I don't like going to the doctor, but healthy is happy. Not healthy is not happy. Not smoking is both happy and not happy - the result is happier in the long run than otherwise. Money makes me happy. It does. I hate to admit it, but knowing the car insurance the government forces me to buy is paid for makes me happy. I have to bust it sometimes to make that payment, but I seem to make it. It shows up somehow. It's touch and go more often than not and the stress of worrying certainly interferes with happy.
Recent studies show that money does buy happiness, up to a point. Depending on your needs and wants and number of dependents, anywhere from $20,000 to $50,000 will make most people happy. That amount will pay the basic bills and provide a sense of security that allows happy to exist. Some people I'm sure could use less. I know others (with college aged and/or special needs kids or parents) could use more. Insurance companies are based on the premise that the group pays into the pool and takes out as needed. Many will need more, but more will (hopefully) need less. It's communism in its most basic form. Demanding that capitalist for-profit corporations are the only ones who should engage in communism is the ultimate irony. Oh, except for the part where they don't pay for the sick, they cut them off, leave them to die. So, now why was it we thought communism was so bad?
Once upon a time, hanging out with friends, drinking copious amounts of intoxicating beverages and ingesting other intoxicants made me feel happy. On occasion, it still does. I learned somewhere along the line that moderation leads to more consistent happy than over indulgence in anything, including restraint. I also know that over indulgence in self restraint often leads to not happy. Balance. It's all about balance. What once made me happy fails me now. Parties, rock concerts, pounding it out full blast in the fast lane now make me decidedly not happy.
Sitting in the sun is happy. Laughter, of course is happy. Dogs, friends, food, shelter, transportation - all happy. Healthcare. Well, I don't like going to the doctor, but healthy is happy. Not healthy is not happy. Not smoking is both happy and not happy - the result is happier in the long run than otherwise. Money makes me happy. It does. I hate to admit it, but knowing the car insurance the government forces me to buy is paid for makes me happy. I have to bust it sometimes to make that payment, but I seem to make it. It shows up somehow. It's touch and go more often than not and the stress of worrying certainly interferes with happy.
Recent studies show that money does buy happiness, up to a point. Depending on your needs and wants and number of dependents, anywhere from $20,000 to $50,000 will make most people happy. That amount will pay the basic bills and provide a sense of security that allows happy to exist. Some people I'm sure could use less. I know others (with college aged and/or special needs kids or parents) could use more. Insurance companies are based on the premise that the group pays into the pool and takes out as needed. Many will need more, but more will (hopefully) need less. It's communism in its most basic form. Demanding that capitalist for-profit corporations are the only ones who should engage in communism is the ultimate irony. Oh, except for the part where they don't pay for the sick, they cut them off, leave them to die. So, now why was it we thought communism was so bad?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Enlightened Self Interest
Someone recently posted in regard to our need to realize that we need each other. Okay, lots of people have posted in that vein recently. It's needed. One such voice that came to my attention is Hildy Gottlieb at (not surprisingly) http://hildygottlieb.com. In one of her posts, she asked the questions: "SO… is a precondition to our living well together that it be more profitable to bring us together than divide us? And if so, what might it look like if that were the case? What do you think?" Ah, someone not only encouraging others to think, but assuming that they already have. I like that.
There were some great replies, among them, mine: "It is imperative that we realize how much more the whole is than its separate parts. Of course, it’s more profitable to all of us to bring us together: If you are sick with a vile disease and can’t get treatment, it is that much more likely that I can catch your disease. My own self interest demands compassion to heal you."
This is pretty much my big, fat disconnect with the greed I see rampant today. Glen Beck is not immune from cholera by virtue of his paycheck and his health insurance policy. Insurance and money don't prevent bad things from happening to you. They only help you pay for the consequences of something bad happening to you - mitigating, perhaps (and I heavily emphasize the perhaps), the dire consequences of catastrophe. Hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes don't seem to give a fat rat's ass how much money you have - well, maybe not tornadoes - they really do seem to hit the trailer parks and small churches with inordinate abandon. Hurricanes, too.
The hard, plain fact remains that it is in my own self interest to want the prosperity of everyone. If you can't take care of you, then I will have to take care of you, one way or another. If your children aren't educated and can't work, then I have no hope of surviving my old age on social security because no one will be paying into it. If no one is building nice houses, how can I ever have a nice home? If you can be thrown in prison for no good reason, then I can be thrown in prison for no good reason. If you aren't free, how can I hope to stay free? If there are people allowed to beat you, how can I be sure they won't turn on me? If you are allowed to be financially devastated, how can I hope to avoid the same?
In spite of the loud sirens of many a mega church today, God does not reward the good with cash. God's favorites, historically, have not been the rich or powerful. It's a hard sell, I know, but there really is more to life than money. There's more to life than power. The next time you hear someone say, it's not personal, it's only business - take a chance. Correct that the person. It's not good business to harm others. It's really personal.
There were some great replies, among them, mine: "It is imperative that we realize how much more the whole is than its separate parts. Of course, it’s more profitable to all of us to bring us together: If you are sick with a vile disease and can’t get treatment, it is that much more likely that I can catch your disease. My own self interest demands compassion to heal you."
This is pretty much my big, fat disconnect with the greed I see rampant today. Glen Beck is not immune from cholera by virtue of his paycheck and his health insurance policy. Insurance and money don't prevent bad things from happening to you. They only help you pay for the consequences of something bad happening to you - mitigating, perhaps (and I heavily emphasize the perhaps), the dire consequences of catastrophe. Hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes don't seem to give a fat rat's ass how much money you have - well, maybe not tornadoes - they really do seem to hit the trailer parks and small churches with inordinate abandon. Hurricanes, too.
The hard, plain fact remains that it is in my own self interest to want the prosperity of everyone. If you can't take care of you, then I will have to take care of you, one way or another. If your children aren't educated and can't work, then I have no hope of surviving my old age on social security because no one will be paying into it. If no one is building nice houses, how can I ever have a nice home? If you can be thrown in prison for no good reason, then I can be thrown in prison for no good reason. If you aren't free, how can I hope to stay free? If there are people allowed to beat you, how can I be sure they won't turn on me? If you are allowed to be financially devastated, how can I hope to avoid the same?
In spite of the loud sirens of many a mega church today, God does not reward the good with cash. God's favorites, historically, have not been the rich or powerful. It's a hard sell, I know, but there really is more to life than money. There's more to life than power. The next time you hear someone say, it's not personal, it's only business - take a chance. Correct that the person. It's not good business to harm others. It's really personal.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Majority Rule
Just because there are more stupid people than smart people doesn't make the stupid people right. This is where majority rule becomes difficult for me. Not that I'm offering an alternative. Democracy so far beats out all other forms of government I've seen. I'm all for it. But, I think we did it better once upon a time.
For instance, I'm not the smartest person in the world. This might come as a surprise to most of you. Not the fact, so much as the fact that I know it and admit it. There it is. I know it. I'm up there. As smart goes, I'm above average. I also know how to think. I know principles of logic and reason. I have a lot of experience with what has and has not worked in my life.
We are at a place in space and time where there are people who do not know that they are not really smart. I'm not sure why this is so. It may have something to do with building self esteem in children by not allowing them to know and understand their own personal limitations. For example, George Bush never realized that being a C student disqualified him from being a really successful president of a free nation. Apparently, being a C student also prevents him from understanding that he wasn't a really successful president of a free nation. Pity that.
I wasn't an A student. I was a sometimes B, sometimes C and sometimes D student. I suppose it did average out to a C. So, I never tried to be the president of a free nation, or any other nation for that matter. I'm pretty committed to that. Others will be better at it that I will be. I accept that.
We are leading up to another election. This is a time in our lives and history that I really dislike. People get mean and idiots spout garbage out the whazoo. It makes my head spin and my ears hurt. The hard part is when really otherwise objectively smart people prey on the inadequacies of the really not so smart or ill informed people.
Then there's Newt Gingreach. By all accounts, Newt was better than a C student. As my elementary school English teacher used to say "Rules were made to be broken." As my law school professor used to say "This is the exception that proves the rule, a distinction without difference, that subjugates the inevitability of the unknown dispositive ubiquities." Which only goes to show, you can be a law school professor, or a history professor, and still be a fucking idiot.
Newt Gingrich is one such idiot. Here's my favorite Newt quote: "If combat means living in a ditch, females have biological problems staying in a ditch for thirty days because they
get infections and they don't have upper body strength. I mean, some do, but they're relatively rare. On the other hand, men are basically little piglets, you drop them in the ditch,
they roll around in it, doesn't matter, you know. These things are very real. On the other hand, if combat means being on an Aegis-class cruiser managing the computer controls for twelve
ships and their rockets, a female may be again dramatically better than a male who gets very, very frustrated sitting in a chair all the time because males are biologically driven to
go out and hunt giraffes." My second favorite New quote is about his first wife: "She isn't young enough or pretty enough to be the President's wife."
He pretends to be a nice guy, but would a nice guy have his not young enough, not pretty enough wife served with divorce papers (the first she ever heard about it) while she was being wheeled out of surgery from a mastectomy (for breast cancer) into the recovery room? No. That's not a nice guy. That's not even low life dirt bag neanderthal.
He's threatening to run for President. Remember this in the future if you, dear reader, is even remotely a chance you might for a guy name Newt - which means he's either named after a salamander or is someone who has been separated from his family jewels. Either way, he still stands for the abiding rule: Just because there are more stupid people than there are smart people, doesn't mean the the stupid people are right.
For instance, I'm not the smartest person in the world. This might come as a surprise to most of you. Not the fact, so much as the fact that I know it and admit it. There it is. I know it. I'm up there. As smart goes, I'm above average. I also know how to think. I know principles of logic and reason. I have a lot of experience with what has and has not worked in my life.
We are at a place in space and time where there are people who do not know that they are not really smart. I'm not sure why this is so. It may have something to do with building self esteem in children by not allowing them to know and understand their own personal limitations. For example, George Bush never realized that being a C student disqualified him from being a really successful president of a free nation. Apparently, being a C student also prevents him from understanding that he wasn't a really successful president of a free nation. Pity that.
I wasn't an A student. I was a sometimes B, sometimes C and sometimes D student. I suppose it did average out to a C. So, I never tried to be the president of a free nation, or any other nation for that matter. I'm pretty committed to that. Others will be better at it that I will be. I accept that.
We are leading up to another election. This is a time in our lives and history that I really dislike. People get mean and idiots spout garbage out the whazoo. It makes my head spin and my ears hurt. The hard part is when really otherwise objectively smart people prey on the inadequacies of the really not so smart or ill informed people.
Then there's Newt Gingreach. By all accounts, Newt was better than a C student. As my elementary school English teacher used to say "Rules were made to be broken." As my law school professor used to say "This is the exception that proves the rule, a distinction without difference, that subjugates the inevitability of the unknown dispositive ubiquities." Which only goes to show, you can be a law school professor, or a history professor, and still be a fucking idiot.
Newt Gingrich is one such idiot. Here's my favorite Newt quote: "If combat means living in a ditch, females have biological problems staying in a ditch for thirty days because they
get infections and they don't have upper body strength. I mean, some do, but they're relatively rare. On the other hand, men are basically little piglets, you drop them in the ditch,
they roll around in it, doesn't matter, you know. These things are very real. On the other hand, if combat means being on an Aegis-class cruiser managing the computer controls for twelve
ships and their rockets, a female may be again dramatically better than a male who gets very, very frustrated sitting in a chair all the time because males are biologically driven to
go out and hunt giraffes." My second favorite New quote is about his first wife: "She isn't young enough or pretty enough to be the President's wife."
He pretends to be a nice guy, but would a nice guy have his not young enough, not pretty enough wife served with divorce papers (the first she ever heard about it) while she was being wheeled out of surgery from a mastectomy (for breast cancer) into the recovery room? No. That's not a nice guy. That's not even low life dirt bag neanderthal.
He's threatening to run for President. Remember this in the future if you, dear reader, is even remotely a chance you might for a guy name Newt - which means he's either named after a salamander or is someone who has been separated from his family jewels. Either way, he still stands for the abiding rule: Just because there are more stupid people than there are smart people, doesn't mean the the stupid people are right.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
MLK Day
It was our Senior Class Project to make this day a national holiday. That was in 1972. I really don't know if our class did that much in that regard, and doubt we did, since we haven't yet even agreed on one single solitary reunion (none has been held ever). One person did. Yoland King was in my class - Henry Grady High School class of 1972. We called her Yoki.
I have a blog from last year you might want to read for background. Please do so before you get impressed that I knew Coretta Scott King and Martin Luther King, Jr. Because I didn't know those people. I knew Yoki's momma and Yoki's daddy. They are two entirely different people.
Coretta Scott King would never give another human being a look that could fry ice in half a millisecond. Yoki's momma could, would and did. I'm not the only one to be the recipient of that look. You know who you are. You are a better person for it. Martin Luther King, Jr. didn't sit on the floor and play games with the little kids. Or tell stories on the porch to the older kids to teach them some small enormous lesson in living. Yoki's daddy did. And you know who you are, too.
There are people who make a difference in our lives and in our world, who touch one person, and who touch millions. Sometimes they're the same person. Sometimes not. There's a Jewish proverb that if you save one person's life, you save all the generations of lives that person touches. It's a good proverb. If you touch one life, if you reach out and help one person, you reach out and help all people. You don't have to be Coretta. You don't have to be Martin. You just have to be somebody who tries.
I have a blog from last year you might want to read for background. Please do so before you get impressed that I knew Coretta Scott King and Martin Luther King, Jr. Because I didn't know those people. I knew Yoki's momma and Yoki's daddy. They are two entirely different people.
Coretta Scott King would never give another human being a look that could fry ice in half a millisecond. Yoki's momma could, would and did. I'm not the only one to be the recipient of that look. You know who you are. You are a better person for it. Martin Luther King, Jr. didn't sit on the floor and play games with the little kids. Or tell stories on the porch to the older kids to teach them some small enormous lesson in living. Yoki's daddy did. And you know who you are, too.
There are people who make a difference in our lives and in our world, who touch one person, and who touch millions. Sometimes they're the same person. Sometimes not. There's a Jewish proverb that if you save one person's life, you save all the generations of lives that person touches. It's a good proverb. If you touch one life, if you reach out and help one person, you reach out and help all people. You don't have to be Coretta. You don't have to be Martin. You just have to be somebody who tries.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Pot Party
We've got the Tea Party. And the Tea Party Princess (aka Warrior Princess, aka Jesus Bitch aka Sarah Palin). I want to be a princess. So, since the coffee party and the cocktail party have already been taken by other cutesy wannabe poli voices of the future, I'm snagging the Pot Party while it's still available (and if it isn't, then too bad, I'm committed now). Well, actually, Willie Nelson and Mother Jones have advocated for a Pot Party. I'm just answering the call (a little late, a little slow, but hey, dude, it's the Pot Party).
We advocate (phrases like 'stand for' should be avoided as we are usually more likely sitting on the couch) the legalization of marijuana and the adoption of all behaviors relative thereto. This will require members to adopt certain lifestyle choices:
1. Dude. This leads to gender equality. Everybody is called Dude. It's not gender specific anymore either. Girls call other girls Dude now. I learned this hanging out with my nephew and his friends one weekend. His friend's girl friend kept calling me Dude (as in Dude, you're old). I wasn't sure who she talking to at first, but it became blatantly apparent when everybody else left to get beer and I was the only other person there.
2. Sharing. Potheads share. They pass the joint (marijuana cigarette) around so everybody can have some. This is especially important now that Obama has called for civility. Republicans totally bogart (horde, not share) everything. There's less agreement about whether or not Potheads also share potato chips and Peanut M&Ms, but I think they do if you remind them (hey, Dude, don't bogart the food).
3. It's the Economy, Dude. You don't have to call anybody stupid anymore - hence, the civility thing mentioned earlier. With Pot legal, there will be all that tax money coming in to pay for education and health care and new cars for all the official designated drivers. Employment will go way up, just in support industries (taxi cabs, caterers, growers, pickers, health care workers).
4. Less government spending. 858,000 people were arrested for pot in 2009. That's a lot of money we're spending to keep track of all those stoners in prisons and probation. Legalize it and those law enforcement officers can do things like enforce real laws for a change.
We advocate (phrases like 'stand for' should be avoided as we are usually more likely sitting on the couch) the legalization of marijuana and the adoption of all behaviors relative thereto. This will require members to adopt certain lifestyle choices:
1. Dude. This leads to gender equality. Everybody is called Dude. It's not gender specific anymore either. Girls call other girls Dude now. I learned this hanging out with my nephew and his friends one weekend. His friend's girl friend kept calling me Dude (as in Dude, you're old). I wasn't sure who she talking to at first, but it became blatantly apparent when everybody else left to get beer and I was the only other person there.
2. Sharing. Potheads share. They pass the joint (marijuana cigarette) around so everybody can have some. This is especially important now that Obama has called for civility. Republicans totally bogart (horde, not share) everything. There's less agreement about whether or not Potheads also share potato chips and Peanut M&Ms, but I think they do if you remind them (hey, Dude, don't bogart the food).
3. It's the Economy, Dude. You don't have to call anybody stupid anymore - hence, the civility thing mentioned earlier. With Pot legal, there will be all that tax money coming in to pay for education and health care and new cars for all the official designated drivers. Employment will go way up, just in support industries (taxi cabs, caterers, growers, pickers, health care workers).
4. Less government spending. 858,000 people were arrested for pot in 2009. That's a lot of money we're spending to keep track of all those stoners in prisons and probation. Legalize it and those law enforcement officers can do things like enforce real laws for a change.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Mental Health
My sister was 16 the first time I remember her going really over the edge. She didn't get out of bed for days and when she spoke, she demanded I make the person with the bells stop walking outside our (2nd floor) bedroom window. It was the 60s. I figured she was on something. We tried to hide it from our parents. She just really never came down.
She would go years without obvious bouts with whatever the diagnosis code was. Then, it just got worse. Alcohol didn't help and she could drink her weight, day in and day out, straight up, no chaser. She finally showed up on my doorstep (naked) with no where to go. I took her in. She's my sister. My other sister and mother were pretty pissed off and sick and tired of her shit, so I guessed it was my turn. I could do it. I'd find her help. yeah, right.
She didn't want therapy. She didn't like medication. She didn't like being schizophrenic. She wanted to be bipolar with psychotic episodes. Fine. Can we just call it whatever she likes and medicate however we can? The third time she totally pissed of a psychiatrist who started screaming angrily at me that my sister was 'JUST FUCKING CRAZY' I pretty much lost it. As if that fact absolved him of responsibility to help, to medicate, to be compassionate, to not blame her or me for her genetic brain chemistry. How did fault help? Even if we could point a finger and say "Yes, this did it", it still doesn't make "it" disappear.
She gave up. I didn't. If she didn't want therapy, if she wasn't crazy, then surely to God I was. I got therapy. I learned a lot. I was crazy. I grew up. I carried her when I could and when she became combative, I put her in the local mental health care unit for 3-14 days or however long I could convince them to keep her so I could get some sleep and peace and quiet. Then she would be let out, she would find a bottle, she would crawl into it and the cycle continued. Until I left.
She ain't heavy, she's my sister and I can carry her so long as she isn't fighting and kicking and biting and screaming every fucking inch of the way. Then I can't. I tried. Maybe she tried too. Maybe she gave up too. I did. It just reached the point where she was going to drag me down with her and I just wasn't going to go there. She did find some other help. She did straighten it out a little and for a while, but one medication would work for a few months and then it wouldn't and she was in no way able to figure that out. Eventually, a quart of alcohol a day took its toll and she is gone now.
Our mental health resources have improved dramatically in the twenty years that this went on. I would have a lot more resources now than I had then. She would no doubt have social security and back up and a safe place to live where she could have freedom and supervision. I know now what I would do differently. But absent patient, kind, compassionate people willing to take her mean blasts of shit repeatedly, she would get nowhere. I'm not so sure we have enough people who understand that about mental ill health. Mean is often just sick.
She would go years without obvious bouts with whatever the diagnosis code was. Then, it just got worse. Alcohol didn't help and she could drink her weight, day in and day out, straight up, no chaser. She finally showed up on my doorstep (naked) with no where to go. I took her in. She's my sister. My other sister and mother were pretty pissed off and sick and tired of her shit, so I guessed it was my turn. I could do it. I'd find her help. yeah, right.
She didn't want therapy. She didn't like medication. She didn't like being schizophrenic. She wanted to be bipolar with psychotic episodes. Fine. Can we just call it whatever she likes and medicate however we can? The third time she totally pissed of a psychiatrist who started screaming angrily at me that my sister was 'JUST FUCKING CRAZY' I pretty much lost it. As if that fact absolved him of responsibility to help, to medicate, to be compassionate, to not blame her or me for her genetic brain chemistry. How did fault help? Even if we could point a finger and say "Yes, this did it", it still doesn't make "it" disappear.
She gave up. I didn't. If she didn't want therapy, if she wasn't crazy, then surely to God I was. I got therapy. I learned a lot. I was crazy. I grew up. I carried her when I could and when she became combative, I put her in the local mental health care unit for 3-14 days or however long I could convince them to keep her so I could get some sleep and peace and quiet. Then she would be let out, she would find a bottle, she would crawl into it and the cycle continued. Until I left.
She ain't heavy, she's my sister and I can carry her so long as she isn't fighting and kicking and biting and screaming every fucking inch of the way. Then I can't. I tried. Maybe she tried too. Maybe she gave up too. I did. It just reached the point where she was going to drag me down with her and I just wasn't going to go there. She did find some other help. She did straighten it out a little and for a while, but one medication would work for a few months and then it wouldn't and she was in no way able to figure that out. Eventually, a quart of alcohol a day took its toll and she is gone now.
Our mental health resources have improved dramatically in the twenty years that this went on. I would have a lot more resources now than I had then. She would no doubt have social security and back up and a safe place to live where she could have freedom and supervision. I know now what I would do differently. But absent patient, kind, compassionate people willing to take her mean blasts of shit repeatedly, she would get nowhere. I'm not so sure we have enough people who understand that about mental ill health. Mean is often just sick.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Palin Killed Them All (or was it AC/DC?)
By all accounts, Madge Oberholtzer committed suicide. She used her own hand to end her own life. D.C. Stephenson was the head of the KKK in Indiana in the twenties. Madge was an advocate for literacy. D.C. kidnapped her, forced her full of liquor, raped her and tortured her - she was so covered in bite marks that one witness said she appeared to have been chewed by a cannibal. Later, after she was freed, she never did recover emotionally from her injuries and ended her own life. Nonetheless, there is a very famous case supporting the conviction of D. C. Stephenson for murdering her - just as surely as if he had put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. He didn't, but he killed her all the same.
I realize that case is way more extreme than the recent events in Arizona. Palin didn't literally bite anybody. Beck hasn't been kidnapping or raping anyone. Nonetheless, they have been really, really, really mean and snarky. Blood libel? Really? Come on, Sarah, that is really reaching. I know you didn't kidnap anybody and you didn't personally incite that kid to start shooting, but, you did incite shooting. Rush absolutely incited shooting. Rush's outright contempt for anyone who disagrees with him is chilling. To call his condemnation of his enemies cruel is a compliment and an understatement. Hell, Dick Cheney shot his friends in the face and accepted apologies from the friend for being in the way.
All of this discussion only highlights that there is a mood in this country and it isn't good. Those I hear on the right have one line and only one line and it is regurgitated perpetually over and over until I literally want to bash in their heads just to prove there are no brains in there. I get angry. It's not just that the statements are stupid and irrational. It's also that I fail to see all these people thinking for themselves. Any rational mind must conclude that all this snarky mean references to shooting and death lead troubled irrational people to do irrational things. It's frustrating. And I'm sure they feel exactly the same way about me.
The only difference between me and those with whom I disagree is that I walk away. I'm always the one to walk away. I'm not the only one to get angry, either. The vehemence is mutual. I unfriend you when I get so pissed off at your stupidity that I can't see my own reason anymore. Before I do that, I really do try to see some commonality, so basis of humanity and compassion. I just see anger and irrationality. So, I walk.
But I don't use guns. I don't use gun analogies. I don't advocate using guns. I don't hunt. I don't kill. I don't even spank my dog. I try, try, try to surround myself with beauty, compassion and kindness. I try to pass on laughter. But I look around at what's on TV and what's on radio and what's going around is a lot of immature, selfish, self-centered stupidity where the right BLAMES the left and the left BLAMES the right and the stupid BLAMES the smart and the smart shake their heads, crack a joke and go on trying to earn a decent living and live a decent life against all odds. And they really are odd.
The sad part is that I really do know the answer to this problem: Be nice. Hold hands when you cross the street. Share. Look out for one another. Get a good education. Work at something you love. Power and control are illusions. Love is real.
I realize that case is way more extreme than the recent events in Arizona. Palin didn't literally bite anybody. Beck hasn't been kidnapping or raping anyone. Nonetheless, they have been really, really, really mean and snarky. Blood libel? Really? Come on, Sarah, that is really reaching. I know you didn't kidnap anybody and you didn't personally incite that kid to start shooting, but, you did incite shooting. Rush absolutely incited shooting. Rush's outright contempt for anyone who disagrees with him is chilling. To call his condemnation of his enemies cruel is a compliment and an understatement. Hell, Dick Cheney shot his friends in the face and accepted apologies from the friend for being in the way.
All of this discussion only highlights that there is a mood in this country and it isn't good. Those I hear on the right have one line and only one line and it is regurgitated perpetually over and over until I literally want to bash in their heads just to prove there are no brains in there. I get angry. It's not just that the statements are stupid and irrational. It's also that I fail to see all these people thinking for themselves. Any rational mind must conclude that all this snarky mean references to shooting and death lead troubled irrational people to do irrational things. It's frustrating. And I'm sure they feel exactly the same way about me.
The only difference between me and those with whom I disagree is that I walk away. I'm always the one to walk away. I'm not the only one to get angry, either. The vehemence is mutual. I unfriend you when I get so pissed off at your stupidity that I can't see my own reason anymore. Before I do that, I really do try to see some commonality, so basis of humanity and compassion. I just see anger and irrationality. So, I walk.
But I don't use guns. I don't use gun analogies. I don't advocate using guns. I don't hunt. I don't kill. I don't even spank my dog. I try, try, try to surround myself with beauty, compassion and kindness. I try to pass on laughter. But I look around at what's on TV and what's on radio and what's going around is a lot of immature, selfish, self-centered stupidity where the right BLAMES the left and the left BLAMES the right and the stupid BLAMES the smart and the smart shake their heads, crack a joke and go on trying to earn a decent living and live a decent life against all odds. And they really are odd.
The sad part is that I really do know the answer to this problem: Be nice. Hold hands when you cross the street. Share. Look out for one another. Get a good education. Work at something you love. Power and control are illusions. Love is real.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Revolution
People were shot today. A 9 year old boy and a federal judge went to heaven together, much to their own chagrin, I'm sure. I'm glad someone older and wiser was there with the boy, but that is only daunted my deep sorrow that either and both are now gone. Nothing will ever really explain why it happened. I'm sure the shooter had his reasons - a life of marginalization, recent economic dispair and disparity, misplaced righteousness, no friend to say "whoa, dude, don't". The facts will all come out and are still being sifted, but last I heard, six were dead. Many more were wounded.
Fifteen headless bodies were discovered in Mexico. Hundreds of red wing black birds fell dead from the sky in Arkansas and some number of other birds in Italy. The North Pole strayed so far that an airport runway had to be re-calibrated. After 50 years of war and revolution, southern Sudanese may vote for independence. But can they really?
Can we really be independent? If so, is that a good thing. In the case of the southern Sudanese it may well be the preferred 'state' of affairs, but as people, we need each other. That 9 year old in Arizona may have been destined to grow up and solve all manner of human problems. The judge might have achieved wisdom on par with Solomon. Red wing black birds brink joy and song - one may have eaten the mosquito that will now bite another human who will become ill.
Many people are angry - the ones on the right are angry at the left who are angry back at the right. I've been that angry. I've joked inappropriately that I had someone in my sights, as she did about Gabriel Giffords. But, she is not responsible for this, however glib and blithe she is at dismissing her opponents as unworthy heathen in God's judgment and hers. Feel free to dislike her, but hate is too strong - she doesn't need your love bent backwards on itself. She needs a good education and awareness that she is not alone, that she is no different than Gabriel Giffords. There but for the grace of God goes she. And we.
Fifteen headless bodies were discovered in Mexico. Hundreds of red wing black birds fell dead from the sky in Arkansas and some number of other birds in Italy. The North Pole strayed so far that an airport runway had to be re-calibrated. After 50 years of war and revolution, southern Sudanese may vote for independence. But can they really?
Can we really be independent? If so, is that a good thing. In the case of the southern Sudanese it may well be the preferred 'state' of affairs, but as people, we need each other. That 9 year old in Arizona may have been destined to grow up and solve all manner of human problems. The judge might have achieved wisdom on par with Solomon. Red wing black birds brink joy and song - one may have eaten the mosquito that will now bite another human who will become ill.
Many people are angry - the ones on the right are angry at the left who are angry back at the right. I've been that angry. I've joked inappropriately that I had someone in my sights, as she did about Gabriel Giffords. But, she is not responsible for this, however glib and blithe she is at dismissing her opponents as unworthy heathen in God's judgment and hers. Feel free to dislike her, but hate is too strong - she doesn't need your love bent backwards on itself. She needs a good education and awareness that she is not alone, that she is no different than Gabriel Giffords. There but for the grace of God goes she. And we.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Screw Gratitude
I tried - died in the wooly snarkette that I am. I did. And don't think I'm not grateful because I really am. On the other hand (and there's always the other hand), I have 'struggled' as an artist for decades to write that book. I have started. I have finished. I have not yet completed my tome. I've painted masterpieces, written poetry and music, tap danced (badly), but I have not completed a novel. I've done law school, litigated civil and criminal trials, performed stunning closing arguments (really, stunning, breath taking, tear jerking), and have left it all behind to be a hippie in the mountains. I have not written a book.
Snookie has. Snookie wrote a fucking book. Snookie. Did she even GO to high school? Okay, I didn't either, so that's not really fair, but I did go to college and law school which makes me infinitely better educated and talented and all kinds of things superior to a short fat jersey girl. She's a yankee for crying out loud. I am fair, delicate (steel) flower of the glorious south! I have done it all - all things except written a book and all things but having a written a book published by Simon & Schuster. Oh, and a tv show. Probably a movie deal coming up.
You can rebut my self flagellation with the fact (?) that the book probably sucks big green donkey dongs. Reviews tend to agree with that assessments. But reviews have been, historically, cruel to even great literature. Will it sell? Do I care? I am hell bent in the throws of a new year snookie will NOT be better than me this year kind of resolution. I don't know what I have to do to be better than Snookie this year (breath? think? anything?) but I'm determined that even if I have no class, no talent, no brains, no anything, I will at least at the end of this year have a novel finished, completed, written, done, edited and ready for any good publisher to send out the rushes. No short fat yankee bitch is gonna outdo me.
Snookie has. Snookie wrote a fucking book. Snookie. Did she even GO to high school? Okay, I didn't either, so that's not really fair, but I did go to college and law school which makes me infinitely better educated and talented and all kinds of things superior to a short fat jersey girl. She's a yankee for crying out loud. I am fair, delicate (steel) flower of the glorious south! I have done it all - all things except written a book and all things but having a written a book published by Simon & Schuster. Oh, and a tv show. Probably a movie deal coming up.
You can rebut my self flagellation with the fact (?) that the book probably sucks big green donkey dongs. Reviews tend to agree with that assessments. But reviews have been, historically, cruel to even great literature. Will it sell? Do I care? I am hell bent in the throws of a new year snookie will NOT be better than me this year kind of resolution. I don't know what I have to do to be better than Snookie this year (breath? think? anything?) but I'm determined that even if I have no class, no talent, no brains, no anything, I will at least at the end of this year have a novel finished, completed, written, done, edited and ready for any good publisher to send out the rushes. No short fat yankee bitch is gonna outdo me.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
New Year
I resolved to be openly grateful this year. I've also resolved to give back. Or forward. Either way. While I've been given much by many, it's still been a long time since I felt anything that remotely resembled abundance. I don't own a home, have a reliable income, or a 401K or much of a savings account. I also don't have debt, credit cards, unexpected home repairs (plumbing, heating, AC, etc., etc. ad nauseum). I have a car, tires, insurance, AAA, but God help me if anything breaks. God always does.
The amazing thing to me is that friends come up with the idea that they need some manner of work done that I can exactly do at just the very moment I need the work. Last month, when work kept popping up, even though money was regularly coming in, the work kept postponing until later. I was worried that January would be slow, but those old December jobs are rearing their pretty little heads again.
It's this all too reliable synchronicity of need and opportunity that belies atheism for me. There are many other reasons for my belief in something more, other, greater, bigger, wiser, but this is a constant. I read the bible once, in full, beginning with the Torah and progressing forward into Christian and Muslim sacred texts. The red words spoke deeply to me - those words in red that Jesus said, ignore the rest, for those are best - and I used to wonder what life would be like if I really did just give away absolutely everything I owned and walk away without a single idea what to do with my life.
Until I did. Well, I drove away, and I kept some clothes and momentoes, but I literally did give away quite a lot of stuff. Then, there was the offer of a place to live a while, then another, and some work, and a job, and not and this and that. Early on, a friend brought a box she'd found left behind among the stuff given away, that she saved for me, a box of oil paints, brushes, pastels, palette knives. It had been so long since I painted, I had forgotten I had them.
I supported myself with that box of paints for many years. In some ways, I still do, although it's been a rough two years. Things are picking up. I've sold some. I have two commissions. I still have three tubes of that old paint, not yet used up, still ready for some linseed oil to breath new life into it. So I start new works, painting first on one, then rest and dry and work the other. While doing so, I live in the basement of a house. Upstairs is the very best friend a person could ever hope to have. The home is on a quiet lake, no motor boats or screaming skiers, a sturdy dock, miles of decks, trees galore in the mountains. I do work that's needed to pay the rent. I have friends who have my back. No bills. I can't imagine why I would ever think life was anything but perfect.
The amazing thing to me is that friends come up with the idea that they need some manner of work done that I can exactly do at just the very moment I need the work. Last month, when work kept popping up, even though money was regularly coming in, the work kept postponing until later. I was worried that January would be slow, but those old December jobs are rearing their pretty little heads again.
It's this all too reliable synchronicity of need and opportunity that belies atheism for me. There are many other reasons for my belief in something more, other, greater, bigger, wiser, but this is a constant. I read the bible once, in full, beginning with the Torah and progressing forward into Christian and Muslim sacred texts. The red words spoke deeply to me - those words in red that Jesus said, ignore the rest, for those are best - and I used to wonder what life would be like if I really did just give away absolutely everything I owned and walk away without a single idea what to do with my life.
Until I did. Well, I drove away, and I kept some clothes and momentoes, but I literally did give away quite a lot of stuff. Then, there was the offer of a place to live a while, then another, and some work, and a job, and not and this and that. Early on, a friend brought a box she'd found left behind among the stuff given away, that she saved for me, a box of oil paints, brushes, pastels, palette knives. It had been so long since I painted, I had forgotten I had them.
I supported myself with that box of paints for many years. In some ways, I still do, although it's been a rough two years. Things are picking up. I've sold some. I have two commissions. I still have three tubes of that old paint, not yet used up, still ready for some linseed oil to breath new life into it. So I start new works, painting first on one, then rest and dry and work the other. While doing so, I live in the basement of a house. Upstairs is the very best friend a person could ever hope to have. The home is on a quiet lake, no motor boats or screaming skiers, a sturdy dock, miles of decks, trees galore in the mountains. I do work that's needed to pay the rent. I have friends who have my back. No bills. I can't imagine why I would ever think life was anything but perfect.
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