My Father-in-law passed away about a decade ago from ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis) aka "Lou Gehrig's disease". When he was 19 or 20 years old, he was captured by the Nazis when the bomber he was a gunner on was shot down over Germany during WWII. He was in Stalag 17-B. This Christmas my mother-in-law gave us a little Bible that my husband's father carried on a long march they were forced to make at the end of the war. He had written his vital information inside the front cover and notes in the back that gave a small picture into the last few weeks before they were liberated by U.S. forces. Needless to say, I was in tears when I realized what I was holding.
My husband said that his father never talked about the war or his time as a POW, but near the end of his life he reconnected with the POW survivors groups and attended several of their gatherings. It was wonderful for him to see men that he had not seen since they were liberated. It was also a catalyst for his opening up to us about, at least, his capture. He said that when the plane became disabled, most of them parachuted out and came down in a field. The plane disappeared out of view as it got lower to the ground, with part of the crew still on board. He said that they saw a farmer running across the field toward them, and his first thought was that the farmer would hide them in his barn. That hope was soon gone when he saw that the farmer was leading a group of Nazi soldiers to their location. He said that at the first POW reunion he went to, he discovered that the men he thought had perished when the plane crashed, had survived but had exited the plane so late that they ended up in a different POW camp. He was happy that they had not died in the crash.
The internet makes it so easy to find pictures, information and stories from his POW Camp, and the bit of information in his small New Testament matches perfectly. These little Bibles may have been in the Red Cross packages that were passed out to the prisoners at the beginning of their march from the camp. Not sure, but there was a sticker in the front that said it was from the War Prisoners Aid, YMCA, and the Commission on Chaplaincy Aid for Prisoners of War. Stalag 17-B was a former concentration camp located one hundred meters northwest of the Village of Gneixendorf, six kilometers northwest of Krems-on-the Danube, 85 kilometers West by North of Vienna, Austria.
________________
This was in the front:
Property of S/Sgt. George -------
A.S.N #--------
Home Address
77 Canal St.
Brattelboro, VT.
P.O.W. #105202
Chaplain
Father Kane
Stalag 17-B
This is what is written in the back:
23
17
23
17
29
____
109 kilo April 14th
April 28th 1945.
Completed march of 250 miles
Living in wooded area just 10 miles from Braunau. General Patton's forces only a few kilo from here.
May 2nd Liberated by the 13th Armored Division of 3rd Army, at 6:45 P.M.
May 3rd - 4 yank jeeps came in & took command of camp. Germans are showing true colors today. Our Stalag Officers were asking the Amer. Officers for mercy. No luck! The Lt. Col. in charge of recapture unit is a real Army man. Expect to be moved back to our lines tonite or tomorrow. Many skirmishes around here today. Tanks are still rolling in around the Braunau area.
* * * * * *
From the internet, I got the following first person account of the march. A woman tape-recorded her father, Paul Spodar, who was also in stalag 17-B, as she asked him about the war.
The March
"In the final days of the war the Germans started to dismantle the prison camps. In the beginning of April 1945 the Germans led thousands of POWs from Stalag 17B on a 300 mile march to a "new" camp in Braunau Austria. Hundreds of men were left behind in hospitals too ill to make the march. Unfortunately for the POWs on the march there was no new camp their final destination ended up being in the Weilhardt Forest. The move by the Germans was made so that the approaching Russian troops would not liberate the prisoners.
For almost 3 weeks the POWs covered approximately 15 miles a day in marching columns of 500 men. They were herded along by the guards and their dogs. Paul and crewmates, Jake, Rube, and Beck managed to stay together. At the beginning of the march the men were given a Red Cross parcel it was suppose to have enough food for seven days, the food quickly ran out. During the days of the march they would occasionally pass by working slave laborers consisting of Poles, Ukrainians and other Slavic people. It was at these times that Paul would speak in Ukrainian and beg for any food as they passed the workers. Sometimes Paul got lucky and one would throw a potato or other vegetable without the guards noticing. That little gift of food would be shared between the 4 men.
Through rain and snow the men marched. When someone fell from exhaustion or illness the other POWs would quickly pick them up and drag them along for as long as they could. If a man could go no further he was left by the side of the road where death would take him on his final journey.
During their march they were coming near the Mauthausen Concentration Camp. A column of people were coming towards the POWs at a very slow pace. The POW guards pulled the POWs off to the side of the road. The guards instructed the prisoners in no uncertain terms that if they to tried to talk or pass anything to the people that were going to pass by they would be shot! This was not what usually happened. Before when they passed a group of people the men would try to talk to them with only a stern warning or a cuff with a rifle butt for their discretion. This time the guards meant business don't talk or do anything to the people who were going to pass by. As the column slowly approached they got their answer of why they were not to have anything to do with the people.
First the POWs saw the infamous and brutal SS troops followed by the most pitiful sight. They were Jewish prisoners. You could tell they were Jewish by the big yellow Star of David attached to the rags that they had for clothes. These living skeletons of men were trying to hold each other up as they plodded along. Many did not have shoes, hats or anything on that would protect them from the harsh cold of winter. The POWs just stood there with their hearts going out to these wretched poor souls as they passed by. It sicken the POWs that they could not do anything to help these ill-fated prisoners.
As the POWs resumed their march they saw strewn along the side of the road the bodies of the Jews who could not go on. The POWs said a prayer not for the dead along the road (as they had been released from their mortal misery) but for the others who still had to endure the suffering agony of torture from the SS troops. What little the Jewish prisoners had in the way of covering from the elements, they gave up to respect and cover their dead."
*Links:
This is a great site, Paul's Sentimental Journey, where I got the details of the march.
This link has pictures as well as lots of information.
This is one of the websites that filled in some of the gaps.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Mr. Chomsky, Please Excuse the Delay
In October, I wrote to Noam Chomsky because few years ago when Savant was 16 or 17 he did a picture that featured a quote by him. After Savant became sick I sold prints of some of his art work on eBay, including that one. Being the opportunistic capitalist / devoted mother that I am, I put the prints back on eBay for sale recently and I wanted to set my son's mind at ease about violating Mr. Chomsky's copyright. We received a positive reply from one of his representatives, giving permission and a request for one of the prints for Mr. Chomsky's archives.
Yesterday, I finally got Savant to sign some of the prints, a limited edition of fifty prints, though we were given permission for an edition of up to 100. Today, about two months later, I'm going to finally get it mailed. I hope. I think I may send a couple of extras. Maybe Mr. Chomsky will sign one and send it back to Savant.
I'm kind of embarrassed that it's taken so long, but if your artist is not himself for a while, it's a slow process just to get him to sign some. Also, my computer that fried, had the good pictures of it, and the digital camera only interfaced with the old computer, so I had to wait for Savant to provide better examples for me to use on eBay so you can tell what the print looks like. But I'm not going to do that today.
I have a question for the art savvy. I understand the reasoning, in the past, for numbering each print. The litho stone image or the image etched into a metal plate, becomes deteriorated by the printing process. The first prints have the best image quality. If you are not using an intaglio or stone litho process, each image should be as good as the first, right? Negating the need to number. We number them anyway, because it is traditional and they are nicely done, acid free paper stock, etc., but I wonder with the new media available today, if numbering prints will become a thing of the past?
Yesterday, I finally got Savant to sign some of the prints, a limited edition of fifty prints, though we were given permission for an edition of up to 100. Today, about two months later, I'm going to finally get it mailed. I hope. I think I may send a couple of extras. Maybe Mr. Chomsky will sign one and send it back to Savant.
I'm kind of embarrassed that it's taken so long, but if your artist is not himself for a while, it's a slow process just to get him to sign some. Also, my computer that fried, had the good pictures of it, and the digital camera only interfaced with the old computer, so I had to wait for Savant to provide better examples for me to use on eBay so you can tell what the print looks like. But I'm not going to do that today.
I have a question for the art savvy. I understand the reasoning, in the past, for numbering each print. The litho stone image or the image etched into a metal plate, becomes deteriorated by the printing process. The first prints have the best image quality. If you are not using an intaglio or stone litho process, each image should be as good as the first, right? Negating the need to number. We number them anyway, because it is traditional and they are nicely done, acid free paper stock, etc., but I wonder with the new media available today, if numbering prints will become a thing of the past?
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Ne Sois Pas Decourage
from Thursday, April 14, 2005
Savant is not himself. We watch his storms roll in. I watch with dread, because he needs to get back on medication, but he claims that it is the medication that makes the people in the TV talk to him when they should be doing their show instead. What a load! If you want to make yourself feel horrible, try reasoning with a lunatic.
He has at times been so far gone that he could not make sentences. I've been told the medical name for that is "word salad". Too bad he looses a good chunk of his memory of these times. While we have them burned into our memories. He does not believe that he looses his sanity so completely. I need to film him so that, when he is stable, he can see what everyone else sees, what he is unable to see.
We want to provide a safe haven for him, whenever he needs it, forever. Easier said than done. He has been committed before, and been taken into the custody of our local jail twice. Each of his stays in jail were brought about by his doing something abnormal, when he's too delusional to reason the negative consequences of his actions. And that his actions are based on the delusional mind movie that has substituted itself for reality.
I was in public with him yesterday when he lost it. My objective then became to get him into the truck and go home. He began ranting about how he could sleep on the street or in the woods and eat out of dumpsters. Knowing it was going to be cold and rainy that night increased my distress. I tried to placate him. In the end I did get him home, but the rants were not over for hours, and only after his father got home and took over "rant control". I was falling into my own hole by then. He did agree to see a doctor; we'll see...
The whole thing triggers PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress....) and I become consumed with agony, because my First Mistake/husband used to trap me and our baby, and rant like a lunatic for many hours, or run off with the baby and say they would go live in the woods and eat berries (never mind that the baby was breast feeding) and I would never see them again. When I was pregnant with this first baby, I had to eat weeds I pulled up around where we were staying because I had no food. The husband was always off with his friends that fed him. Sure some days I got a potato or a carrot.
On the local evening news, all over the country, there are murders of women and children, by the husband or boyfriend (If I can't have you, nobody can!). These men can't see why anyone would hate, fear and want to run from them. Do you think maybe the women know you're the kind of guy that could kill them? Besides that, what's not to love?I used to wonder how such a thing could happen. My First Mistake showed me how. Private little hostage situations. I had the chilling feeling more than once that "This is how it happens!", we may not survive the night. What made me put up with Homeless Shelters, starvation, danger, living in the car, his drug use, giving away all my possessions...? I still think I was an idiot to have stayed as long as I did. Now I know first hand that battered wife syndrome is psychological torture as well as physical. I would escape, but not without my son.
I wish the past would not grab me by the throat, but they call it a TRIGGER for a reason.
Looking on the bright side:It is a beautiful morning. I have a new grand-nephew and I have hundreds of pine seedlings to plant. I love trees. With a bit of help from the family, I have planted hundreds on our land. The first trees are huge now. It rarely snows here, but when it does, I like to pretend we are in Canada; Banff Springs Hotel or Whistler or Vancouver, BC....we, Husband#2 and the kids, had wonderful family vacations there. Good memories.
Savant is not himself. We watch his storms roll in. I watch with dread, because he needs to get back on medication, but he claims that it is the medication that makes the people in the TV talk to him when they should be doing their show instead. What a load! If you want to make yourself feel horrible, try reasoning with a lunatic.
He has at times been so far gone that he could not make sentences. I've been told the medical name for that is "word salad". Too bad he looses a good chunk of his memory of these times. While we have them burned into our memories. He does not believe that he looses his sanity so completely. I need to film him so that, when he is stable, he can see what everyone else sees, what he is unable to see.
We want to provide a safe haven for him, whenever he needs it, forever. Easier said than done. He has been committed before, and been taken into the custody of our local jail twice. Each of his stays in jail were brought about by his doing something abnormal, when he's too delusional to reason the negative consequences of his actions. And that his actions are based on the delusional mind movie that has substituted itself for reality.
I was in public with him yesterday when he lost it. My objective then became to get him into the truck and go home. He began ranting about how he could sleep on the street or in the woods and eat out of dumpsters. Knowing it was going to be cold and rainy that night increased my distress. I tried to placate him. In the end I did get him home, but the rants were not over for hours, and only after his father got home and took over "rant control". I was falling into my own hole by then. He did agree to see a doctor; we'll see...
The whole thing triggers PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress....) and I become consumed with agony, because my First Mistake/husband used to trap me and our baby, and rant like a lunatic for many hours, or run off with the baby and say they would go live in the woods and eat berries (never mind that the baby was breast feeding) and I would never see them again. When I was pregnant with this first baby, I had to eat weeds I pulled up around where we were staying because I had no food. The husband was always off with his friends that fed him. Sure some days I got a potato or a carrot.
On the local evening news, all over the country, there are murders of women and children, by the husband or boyfriend (If I can't have you, nobody can!). These men can't see why anyone would hate, fear and want to run from them. Do you think maybe the women know you're the kind of guy that could kill them? Besides that, what's not to love?I used to wonder how such a thing could happen. My First Mistake showed me how. Private little hostage situations. I had the chilling feeling more than once that "This is how it happens!", we may not survive the night. What made me put up with Homeless Shelters, starvation, danger, living in the car, his drug use, giving away all my possessions...? I still think I was an idiot to have stayed as long as I did. Now I know first hand that battered wife syndrome is psychological torture as well as physical. I would escape, but not without my son.
I wish the past would not grab me by the throat, but they call it a TRIGGER for a reason.
Looking on the bright side:It is a beautiful morning. I have a new grand-nephew and I have hundreds of pine seedlings to plant. I love trees. With a bit of help from the family, I have planted hundreds on our land. The first trees are huge now. It rarely snows here, but when it does, I like to pretend we are in Canada; Banff Springs Hotel or Whistler or Vancouver, BC....we, Husband#2 and the kids, had wonderful family vacations there. Good memories.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
November Was Rough & December Promises Spit
Savant was in the hospital for the major part of November. We could only visit him for one hour a week, and I went alone the first week. I lost it and spent a half hour crying in the parking garage before I could pull myself together enough to drive home after I went. And then I was a sad vegetable for a few days, so I didn't go again. He and his Dad needed more personal time anyway.
While he was gone I actually started to remember what it was like to make plans that had something to do with me and to possibly move from last place on my list of people who need attention. That came to a crashing stop when his after-care plans all involved me resuming the "Kiss Your Life Goodbye" chauffeur service. I tried to tell some one's voice mail at the hospital that I was going to be their next patient if they didn't stop dumping it all on me, but they wouldn't return my calls. They set him up with day facilities that were no where near our town. I'd object, they'd ignore.
They tell you he's an adult so they don't have to talk to you, even though he has signed a paper saying they can. Then they set him up with appointments at places he can't ride his bike to, or ride our local trolley to. (You don't want this guy behind the wheel just now.) I've already been taking him to a doctor who isn't in our town because there are virtually no doctors who will participate in Medicare! I'll spare you the rant about that travesty, and the story that we don't have those kind (mentally ill) of people in our town so we don't have services for them. We tried the one place in town when he first got sick and it SUCKED! Tag the loony, collect a check.
So despite my trying to get some one's attention about the fact that I was not volunteering to drive him to one city in the morning and another city in the afternoon, and other days have a different combination of cities and times, that is exactly what I'm doing. I got a lecture from someone at one potential after-care facility about what a good mother should be willing to sacrifice for the well being of her child. I wanted to jump through the phone! He's an adult! A sick one, but still over 21.
Husband points out that my tourette's is really acting up; gee thanks Honey. It wouldn't have anything to do with stress would it? I'm not suicidal, but the urge to sleep in the woods is getting stronger. Don't worry, I suck at wrist cutting. I've had worse from a rose bush. They are little angry scratches. Very easy to hide. I've only done it a few times and it only started in the last couple of years. It is really stupid, and I don't understand it, but I feel calmer afterward.
When I was little, one of my parents used to say, "Ignore her. She's just trying to get attention". I treat myself the same way.
Savant seemed better than he did in October, except when he forgot to take his medicine about a week ago and became very paranoid. After a couple of distressing days he confided that he was worried that we were homicidal psychos. He searched the house for evidence (bodies?) despite our assurance that we have always been peaceful folks. When I asked him if he would feel safer at the hospital, he said yes, but he wasn't willing to let me drive him anywhere. Long night. He got back on track with his medicine and the doctor tweaked it again yesterday, and he seems a bit better.
I want to get up in the morning and leave. Silly Rabbit, you can't be an architect anymore, you've got important driving to do and you're too old, fat, stressed, angry, stupid, one of the Extra People. If I didn't exist, these problems still would; how would Savant get to the doctor? Tell me please. So much for not writing about Savant so much.
Pity party will continue until a tornado blows fancy dirt over the rainbow.
While he was gone I actually started to remember what it was like to make plans that had something to do with me and to possibly move from last place on my list of people who need attention. That came to a crashing stop when his after-care plans all involved me resuming the "Kiss Your Life Goodbye" chauffeur service. I tried to tell some one's voice mail at the hospital that I was going to be their next patient if they didn't stop dumping it all on me, but they wouldn't return my calls. They set him up with day facilities that were no where near our town. I'd object, they'd ignore.
They tell you he's an adult so they don't have to talk to you, even though he has signed a paper saying they can. Then they set him up with appointments at places he can't ride his bike to, or ride our local trolley to. (You don't want this guy behind the wheel just now.) I've already been taking him to a doctor who isn't in our town because there are virtually no doctors who will participate in Medicare! I'll spare you the rant about that travesty, and the story that we don't have those kind (mentally ill) of people in our town so we don't have services for them. We tried the one place in town when he first got sick and it SUCKED! Tag the loony, collect a check.
So despite my trying to get some one's attention about the fact that I was not volunteering to drive him to one city in the morning and another city in the afternoon, and other days have a different combination of cities and times, that is exactly what I'm doing. I got a lecture from someone at one potential after-care facility about what a good mother should be willing to sacrifice for the well being of her child. I wanted to jump through the phone! He's an adult! A sick one, but still over 21.
Husband points out that my tourette's is really acting up; gee thanks Honey. It wouldn't have anything to do with stress would it? I'm not suicidal, but the urge to sleep in the woods is getting stronger. Don't worry, I suck at wrist cutting. I've had worse from a rose bush. They are little angry scratches. Very easy to hide. I've only done it a few times and it only started in the last couple of years. It is really stupid, and I don't understand it, but I feel calmer afterward.
When I was little, one of my parents used to say, "Ignore her. She's just trying to get attention". I treat myself the same way.
Savant seemed better than he did in October, except when he forgot to take his medicine about a week ago and became very paranoid. After a couple of distressing days he confided that he was worried that we were homicidal psychos. He searched the house for evidence (bodies?) despite our assurance that we have always been peaceful folks. When I asked him if he would feel safer at the hospital, he said yes, but he wasn't willing to let me drive him anywhere. Long night. He got back on track with his medicine and the doctor tweaked it again yesterday, and he seems a bit better.
I want to get up in the morning and leave. Silly Rabbit, you can't be an architect anymore, you've got important driving to do and you're too old, fat, stressed, angry, stupid, one of the Extra People. If I didn't exist, these problems still would; how would Savant get to the doctor? Tell me please. So much for not writing about Savant so much.
Pity party will continue until a tornado blows fancy dirt over the rainbow.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Is That Pepe le Pew or You?
from Sunday, May 15, 2005
As long as I'm telling cat stories, instead of addressing the current stuff, I'll tell about a kitten that lived near us.
My husband built a third garage onto the house, for the tractor and bush-hog, but hadn't put a door on it yet. We investigated a loud ruckus in there one night and could see two skunks, making baby skunks, under the tractor. Needless to say it left a pungent odor in there.
The people who owned the acreage next to us, built a house. They got a couple of kittens and a pug dog. The pug had an odd habit of walking around with a rock in it's mouth. We found the pug, dead, in the field behind our house. I think he choked on his rock or one of my husband's unretrieved golf balls. But this story is really about the little female kitten and our big, handsome, black & white, neutered, curmudgeon of a male cat.
The kittens came to our house, exploring. If they had been adults, our cat would have started a fight. Instead he tried to avoid them. A few days later when I was outside and I saw the little female come stumbling out of the tractor shed like she was drunk. She began to roll around on the ground in a post-sex way. Then she spots our cat and thinks she's in love. She follows him around and tries her best to get him to notice her. I was surprised that he tolerated her as nicely as he did.
As soon as the skunk smell left her her mind, she would head for home like someone who has sobered up and realized the guy in the bar was really a dud.
This happened over and over. She was so funny after she visited the tractor shed and then tried to put her best moves on our cat. She was such a cutie. After the neutering, I had never seen our cat let another feline get that close to him. He'd give me these looks like he was thinking, "What's up with the drunk chick? Make her go away."
As long as I'm telling cat stories, instead of addressing the current stuff, I'll tell about a kitten that lived near us.
My husband built a third garage onto the house, for the tractor and bush-hog, but hadn't put a door on it yet. We investigated a loud ruckus in there one night and could see two skunks, making baby skunks, under the tractor. Needless to say it left a pungent odor in there.
The people who owned the acreage next to us, built a house. They got a couple of kittens and a pug dog. The pug had an odd habit of walking around with a rock in it's mouth. We found the pug, dead, in the field behind our house. I think he choked on his rock or one of my husband's unretrieved golf balls. But this story is really about the little female kitten and our big, handsome, black & white, neutered, curmudgeon of a male cat.
The kittens came to our house, exploring. If they had been adults, our cat would have started a fight. Instead he tried to avoid them. A few days later when I was outside and I saw the little female come stumbling out of the tractor shed like she was drunk. She began to roll around on the ground in a post-sex way. Then she spots our cat and thinks she's in love. She follows him around and tries her best to get him to notice her. I was surprised that he tolerated her as nicely as he did.
As soon as the skunk smell left her her mind, she would head for home like someone who has sobered up and realized the guy in the bar was really a dud.
This happened over and over. She was so funny after she visited the tractor shed and then tried to put her best moves on our cat. She was such a cutie. After the neutering, I had never seen our cat let another feline get that close to him. He'd give me these looks like he was thinking, "What's up with the drunk chick? Make her go away."
Cats, Bunnies, Skunks...
from Sunday, May 15, 2005
It is early morning and I just looked out the window. There were three bunnies out there. Then I looked around and saw my cat watching them; quick, get him some cat food! He usually just likes to watch, but when he had a "cat door" in our last house, he would sometimes bring in baby bunnies, and birds. We would chase him and he almost always dropped it, bleeding a bit, and then we would have to chase the poor thing to catch it and release it far from the house. Last week a squirrel was walking around on the back porch and I moved to a different window to watch it and was very surprised to see our cat lounging on a chair, just watching it.
He is an outside cat now. I built him a house from a big box; lined it with padding covered with blanket, to keep him warm this winter. He never used it. He used his "summer bed" all winter. He would sit on the top of the box, but never go in. I tried putting him in it to show him how comfy it was, and he would jump out like I was trying to trick him into a trip to the Vet. It is at the dump now.
He is a very big, black and white tuxedo cat. He is very aloof, not needy. He was an adolescent when we first took him in. We were in an apartment while we built our first house, and would see him sleeping on our porch, in a box that was there. We didn't want a pet, but he became very sick and I had to get him to a Vet or he surely would have died. The kids loved him, and named him Sox. He soon hit puberty and became obnoxious, jerking his tail and spraying everything. He was smitten with a small cat, and spent lots of time trying to get her pregnant. He did, and we had him neutered. He seemed very pissed off, for a long time, about the neutering.
My daughter asked a man in the apartment complex, who had a black and white cat, if she could borrow her, to show to me. When she took it back the guy said he didn't want it back. She told him she couldn't keep it and he said,"Then you have a problem, don't you." and never answered his door again. She was a very clever cat and would crawl up the exhaust pipe for the cook top, before it was connected, and would end up meowing in the kitchen cabinet! Luckily I found a home for her soon after that.
Sox is very territorial and won't be friendly with any other cats. After we moved into our house, I coaxed a starving, stray, long haired, black and white cat out of a field by our house. She was beautiful, with long hair on her cheeks that stuck out like on Silvester the Cat of Tweety Bird fame. I put an ad in the paper to find her a home, after we had fattened her up, but I made a huge mistake. I forgot to say that she was terrified of dogs. I drove up to the home of the first people who called and they had dogs. The lady was out the door already and the cat was freaking out, clinging to me with her claws. The lady was ecstatic about what a beautiful cat she was and promised she would be inside, away from the dogs. It just felt so wrong, but I gave her the cat.
My husband smokes outside. One evening, while having a cigarette by the creek and he thought Sox had joined him, but when he looked down, it was a skunk standing next to him!
Another time I saw Sox walking up the driveway with a green snake wrapped around his head. I took it away from him, but he looked so funny.
My very favorite stray was Raggamuffin. I loved that cat, but it is a long story. And the amorous kitten with a crush on Sox. But I'll save them for a different entry.
It is early morning and I just looked out the window. There were three bunnies out there. Then I looked around and saw my cat watching them; quick, get him some cat food! He usually just likes to watch, but when he had a "cat door" in our last house, he would sometimes bring in baby bunnies, and birds. We would chase him and he almost always dropped it, bleeding a bit, and then we would have to chase the poor thing to catch it and release it far from the house. Last week a squirrel was walking around on the back porch and I moved to a different window to watch it and was very surprised to see our cat lounging on a chair, just watching it.
He is an outside cat now. I built him a house from a big box; lined it with padding covered with blanket, to keep him warm this winter. He never used it. He used his "summer bed" all winter. He would sit on the top of the box, but never go in. I tried putting him in it to show him how comfy it was, and he would jump out like I was trying to trick him into a trip to the Vet. It is at the dump now.
He is a very big, black and white tuxedo cat. He is very aloof, not needy. He was an adolescent when we first took him in. We were in an apartment while we built our first house, and would see him sleeping on our porch, in a box that was there. We didn't want a pet, but he became very sick and I had to get him to a Vet or he surely would have died. The kids loved him, and named him Sox. He soon hit puberty and became obnoxious, jerking his tail and spraying everything. He was smitten with a small cat, and spent lots of time trying to get her pregnant. He did, and we had him neutered. He seemed very pissed off, for a long time, about the neutering.
My daughter asked a man in the apartment complex, who had a black and white cat, if she could borrow her, to show to me. When she took it back the guy said he didn't want it back. She told him she couldn't keep it and he said,"Then you have a problem, don't you." and never answered his door again. She was a very clever cat and would crawl up the exhaust pipe for the cook top, before it was connected, and would end up meowing in the kitchen cabinet! Luckily I found a home for her soon after that.
Sox is very territorial and won't be friendly with any other cats. After we moved into our house, I coaxed a starving, stray, long haired, black and white cat out of a field by our house. She was beautiful, with long hair on her cheeks that stuck out like on Silvester the Cat of Tweety Bird fame. I put an ad in the paper to find her a home, after we had fattened her up, but I made a huge mistake. I forgot to say that she was terrified of dogs. I drove up to the home of the first people who called and they had dogs. The lady was out the door already and the cat was freaking out, clinging to me with her claws. The lady was ecstatic about what a beautiful cat she was and promised she would be inside, away from the dogs. It just felt so wrong, but I gave her the cat.
My husband smokes outside. One evening, while having a cigarette by the creek and he thought Sox had joined him, but when he looked down, it was a skunk standing next to him!
Another time I saw Sox walking up the driveway with a green snake wrapped around his head. I took it away from him, but he looked so funny.
My very favorite stray was Raggamuffin. I loved that cat, but it is a long story. And the amorous kitten with a crush on Sox. But I'll save them for a different entry.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Another Year
It is Halloween today, 2006, Savant will have a birthday tomorrow.
I have an older son with problems also, but I'm trying to pull back on divulging what both my sons' issues are. I need support, but I don't want them, or anyone else to get the very wrong idea that, by writing about them, I get some kind of creepy emotional pay off. As you know, any person with very serious family issues benefits from knowing that they aren't alone.
I took my son to his doctor appointment yesterday, and after talking to him, she told me to take him directly to the hospital, where he will be for a while. And I had just written to a friend and one of my sisters, telling them how much better he seemed.
Because of his right to privacy, all the doctor told me is that: his condition is much worse than I think it is.?! How am I supposed to know what to think it is? I will see if she can arrange some family appointments, with my son's consent, because you can't deal with something when you don't know exactly what she is talking about. Today though, I'm glad I don't know. I hate when I spiral into that crummy emotionally raw place.
I was told, in the class I took when he was in the hospital for the first time, that Halloween is the worst holiday for schizophrenics. The slasher movie retrospectives for at least a week, the portrayal of scary homicidal psychos, which can heighten the fear ordinary people have of the mentally ill, the costumes and decorations, etc., can really knock schizophrenics into a place where they become very frightened.
I don't think that he is suffering because of that, but I would never have thought of it before he became sick.
~~~~~~
Happy Birthday Love.
I have an older son with problems also, but I'm trying to pull back on divulging what both my sons' issues are. I need support, but I don't want them, or anyone else to get the very wrong idea that, by writing about them, I get some kind of creepy emotional pay off. As you know, any person with very serious family issues benefits from knowing that they aren't alone.
I took my son to his doctor appointment yesterday, and after talking to him, she told me to take him directly to the hospital, where he will be for a while. And I had just written to a friend and one of my sisters, telling them how much better he seemed.
Because of his right to privacy, all the doctor told me is that: his condition is much worse than I think it is.?! How am I supposed to know what to think it is? I will see if she can arrange some family appointments, with my son's consent, because you can't deal with something when you don't know exactly what she is talking about. Today though, I'm glad I don't know. I hate when I spiral into that crummy emotionally raw place.
I was told, in the class I took when he was in the hospital for the first time, that Halloween is the worst holiday for schizophrenics. The slasher movie retrospectives for at least a week, the portrayal of scary homicidal psychos, which can heighten the fear ordinary people have of the mentally ill, the costumes and decorations, etc., can really knock schizophrenics into a place where they become very frightened.
I don't think that he is suffering because of that, but I would never have thought of it before he became sick.
~~~~~~
Happy Birthday Love.
Friday, October 13, 2006
What Is It About A Red Dress?
I experienced the totally puzzling red dress phenomenon first hand.
I used to work as an architect in the greater Boston area, and I had one red dress. It gave total body coverage, no cleavage or slit up the side, screaming: Look At Me! Look At Me! But I noticed that when I wore the red dress, some of the men I passed on my way into the building or on my way across the park to get to my car, felt compelled to tell me how great I looked. I got wolf whistles from passing cars. One guy even said quietly, as he passed me, "Mmm mmm, sure do look good in that dress." I felt like a cupcake with sprinkles. If I was wearing any other color: nothing.
I frequently had lunch at the cafeteria in a bank nearby. One winter day I set my tray down at an empty table, took off my coat, and sat down. I was soon joined by a man who, after greeting me said, "I want you." You guessed it, I had the red dress on. He gave me his card, a stock broker, and with puppy dog eyes asked me to call him.
I told my husband about the strange powers this dress seemed to have. He was not happy to hear about it. But he did agree that I looked really great in that dress.
I still have it and I may pass it down to my daughter so that it can journey through the generations, and maybe someday science will be able to shed light on the origin of its mysterious powers.
I've wondered if it is a regional thing or is it hard wired into the brains of men everywhere?
If anyone can shed light on this, I'd be really interested.
I used to work as an architect in the greater Boston area, and I had one red dress. It gave total body coverage, no cleavage or slit up the side, screaming: Look At Me! Look At Me! But I noticed that when I wore the red dress, some of the men I passed on my way into the building or on my way across the park to get to my car, felt compelled to tell me how great I looked. I got wolf whistles from passing cars. One guy even said quietly, as he passed me, "Mmm mmm, sure do look good in that dress." I felt like a cupcake with sprinkles. If I was wearing any other color: nothing.
I frequently had lunch at the cafeteria in a bank nearby. One winter day I set my tray down at an empty table, took off my coat, and sat down. I was soon joined by a man who, after greeting me said, "I want you." You guessed it, I had the red dress on. He gave me his card, a stock broker, and with puppy dog eyes asked me to call him.
I told my husband about the strange powers this dress seemed to have. He was not happy to hear about it. But he did agree that I looked really great in that dress.
I still have it and I may pass it down to my daughter so that it can journey through the generations, and maybe someday science will be able to shed light on the origin of its mysterious powers.
I've wondered if it is a regional thing or is it hard wired into the brains of men everywhere?
If anyone can shed light on this, I'd be really interested.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Trust The Mandarin
One of my earliest memories just popped into my head.
I was probably about 3 years old. I was crouched down on the sidewalk in front of our house, poking my finger into a blob of chocolate, preparing to taste it, when my brother informed me that just because it is soft and brown does not mean it is chocolate. He provided me with a short list of other possible soft brown sidewalk blobs and that was the day I decided to always believe my brother. And, to stop eating stuff I found on the ground, no matter how much it looked like candy.
*****
This might explain why one of my favorite jokes is from "Pinkie and the Brain" (they are cartoon mice). Pinkie asks the Brain, "What's brown and sticky?" The Brain is pretty sure he knows the answer, but knowing how important it is to Pinkie to fool him, says,"I don't know, Pinkie, what's brown and sticky?" and Pinkie says, " A STICK!" and Pinkie and I laugh our asses off! Everyone says the joke isn't funny, which makes me laugh even harder.
I was probably about 3 years old. I was crouched down on the sidewalk in front of our house, poking my finger into a blob of chocolate, preparing to taste it, when my brother informed me that just because it is soft and brown does not mean it is chocolate. He provided me with a short list of other possible soft brown sidewalk blobs and that was the day I decided to always believe my brother. And, to stop eating stuff I found on the ground, no matter how much it looked like candy.
*****
This might explain why one of my favorite jokes is from "Pinkie and the Brain" (they are cartoon mice). Pinkie asks the Brain, "What's brown and sticky?" The Brain is pretty sure he knows the answer, but knowing how important it is to Pinkie to fool him, says,"I don't know, Pinkie, what's brown and sticky?" and Pinkie says, " A STICK!" and Pinkie and I laugh our asses off! Everyone says the joke isn't funny, which makes me laugh even harder.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Drunkard's Dream Chauffeur Service
The drunkard's dream chauffeur service is on vacation....kind of. It is doing me a world of good to have some time to think happy thoughts! It occurred to me that I am not only dealing with Savant's mental illness, I've lost my life. He doesn't drive since he got sick, which has left me acting as his chauffeur. I can say no, but then he asks me repeatedly all day, like an impatient little child, which drives me nuts.
I want my life back. I can't really remember what it was, but I want a new, less co-dependent one. I'm not kicking myself, for giving up my architecture career, quite so often these days. Savant has been back at school for half a semester, taking one course. It is a lot of money, but it is his money, and it is worth it to give me some breathing room. Hopefully he is learning valuable life skills and becoming more independent.
But when he wants me to drive to the town the college is in because he is out of cigarettes, or some such nonsense, I get stressed and angry but I can't show it, so my nervous ticks kick in and beat me up. Stress makes Tourettes amp up to a painful ferocity. It's the answered prayer of everyone who ever wanted to kick my ass.
I still do have to drive him to his doctor's appointments, which involves a three city marathon, each way, that takes hours, but the doctors he had in M'boro sucked. It was obvious they were only interested in playing: tag the patient and collect the money. Health care got skipped in the process.
I want my life back. I can't really remember what it was, but I want a new, less co-dependent one. I'm not kicking myself, for giving up my architecture career, quite so often these days. Savant has been back at school for half a semester, taking one course. It is a lot of money, but it is his money, and it is worth it to give me some breathing room. Hopefully he is learning valuable life skills and becoming more independent.
But when he wants me to drive to the town the college is in because he is out of cigarettes, or some such nonsense, I get stressed and angry but I can't show it, so my nervous ticks kick in and beat me up. Stress makes Tourettes amp up to a painful ferocity. It's the answered prayer of everyone who ever wanted to kick my ass.
I still do have to drive him to his doctor's appointments, which involves a three city marathon, each way, that takes hours, but the doctors he had in M'boro sucked. It was obvious they were only interested in playing: tag the patient and collect the money. Health care got skipped in the process.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Is Everyone In Italy?
Any of you who have read my posts for over a year may remember that I went to Italy last December. And it was not good, for me or Italy. I was totally stressed out before I went and I met up with my daughter who had been living there, for a jaunt that would take in towns all over the country, while dragging along many bags, one that was the size and weight of a small refrigerator, and the one that gave my daughter the most trouble, that was the size and weight of her mother.
At least two of my sisters and my mother are going to be in Venice until the end of next week, and now I read in my brother's blog that he has also headed to a gorgeous spot in Italy. The picture on his last entry is of Ravello on the Amalfi Coast line. Gorgeous! I can still picture the ocean views of Gore Vidal's cliff hugging home there, from Architectural Digest.
So, I feel like it is time to tell Italy that I'm ready for a second date.
At least two of my sisters and my mother are going to be in Venice until the end of next week, and now I read in my brother's blog that he has also headed to a gorgeous spot in Italy. The picture on his last entry is of Ravello on the Amalfi Coast line. Gorgeous! I can still picture the ocean views of Gore Vidal's cliff hugging home there, from Architectural Digest.
So, I feel like it is time to tell Italy that I'm ready for a second date.
Recovering eBay Addict
I discovered eBay back when you could have a three digit password. When giving a reason for why I went to the web site in the first place, I kind of point the finger at my grandmother, even though she was no longer with us. She had a modest collection of small coffee cups and saucers, espresso size, known as demitasse cups. I thought they were really cute and my three sisters, my step mother and I split up her collection and we each got a few.
It could be hereditary, but tiny things like that have attracted me ever since I was little. In kindergarten on the base in Japan, they had a little grocery line set up with small versions of canned soup, etc.. I went nuts when I saw the tiny Tabasco bottles in military MRE's one of my sons had, and yes, I have saved one.
I decided to see if I could find some pretty demitasses on eBay. You could spend years going to antique stores and never see anything but a couple of ugly ones. Big waste of time. EBay is a collector's dream. You want something obscure? They will have it, and perhaps thousands of different ones to choose from. This is how I became an expert on my chosen obsession, silly as it is. I'm not going to count them all, but I have well over 200.
Well you'd think that would be plenty, but there are always those that are gorgeous but that I know will be out of my price range when the bidding is over. Every now and then everyone who will bid a great item up to a couple of hundred dollars, will have overlooked it because of a mistake in the description or the seller won't know what the china mark means, or some other good luck for me. But as I said I don't need a bigger collection, and as soon as I get a camera that will work with my new computer, I'm going to try to sell off the ones that I'm no longer in love with.
I used to have my own store on eBay, Beautiful Mind Fine Art, selling stuff I wanted to get rid of, plus large prints of Savant's art work and the cookie jars I make [see november 2005 archives for some of Savant's older pieces, and march/april 2006 archives for some of my older cookie jars that aren't always used for cookies]. I may start that back up now that my co-dependent is off at college, taking a course load of one class. It may be a good time to sell more of his work called Chomsky.
One of the drawbacks on eBay is sellers who have a screw loose. I had one guy in England reply to my email, regarding shipping, with outrage that I was yelling at him! I had no idea that if you type using the caps lock, or if your font size is larger than this, some people think you are yelling at them. I was using a larger font in capitols because I just liked it. When the plate came, it was completely smashed to bits, in a box that didn't have a dent! You can sometimes spot the nut jobs before you get stuck in a transaction with them, by looking at their negative feedback.
I spotted something great with a tiny opening bid and was tempted until I checked the guy's feedback and decided there was no way I'd ever do business with him. I have copied some of his replies to complaints to give you an idea of why this seller rates as a nut job:
1. Complaint: NON-SELLING SELLER. Paid TWICE aggressive seller refused to complete sale BEWARE
Reply by seller: PROUD TO HAVE SOLD AT A £60 LOSS, YOU NEVER PAID SO STOP TELLING PORKIES
2. Complaint: Item was damaged prior to dispatch, ignored emails, not recommended as ebayer
Reply by seller: vindictive and malicious comments made me cry for days..pass me the tissues
3. Complaint: Seller threatens negative feedback when I complain about shipment problem
Reply by seller: Not that I use them, however I have a number for a 1st class shrink for you.
I'm starting to wonder if this is the same guy who sent the broken plate.
We sold our tractor and bush hog, and a vintage sports car on eBay with no problem. The people who bought the tractor and bush hog, drove down from Ohio and picked it up in a snow storm. The person who bought the MG, sent it to Europe where it was bought by someone in the Netherlands who emailed us that he was thrilled with the car and wanted to know if we would send him the Tennessee Vintage Car lisence plate it wore here. We sent him the lisence plate and he sent us a picture of the car!
It could be hereditary, but tiny things like that have attracted me ever since I was little. In kindergarten on the base in Japan, they had a little grocery line set up with small versions of canned soup, etc.. I went nuts when I saw the tiny Tabasco bottles in military MRE's one of my sons had, and yes, I have saved one.
I decided to see if I could find some pretty demitasses on eBay. You could spend years going to antique stores and never see anything but a couple of ugly ones. Big waste of time. EBay is a collector's dream. You want something obscure? They will have it, and perhaps thousands of different ones to choose from. This is how I became an expert on my chosen obsession, silly as it is. I'm not going to count them all, but I have well over 200.
Well you'd think that would be plenty, but there are always those that are gorgeous but that I know will be out of my price range when the bidding is over. Every now and then everyone who will bid a great item up to a couple of hundred dollars, will have overlooked it because of a mistake in the description or the seller won't know what the china mark means, or some other good luck for me. But as I said I don't need a bigger collection, and as soon as I get a camera that will work with my new computer, I'm going to try to sell off the ones that I'm no longer in love with.
I used to have my own store on eBay, Beautiful Mind Fine Art, selling stuff I wanted to get rid of, plus large prints of Savant's art work and the cookie jars I make [see november 2005 archives for some of Savant's older pieces, and march/april 2006 archives for some of my older cookie jars that aren't always used for cookies]. I may start that back up now that my co-dependent is off at college, taking a course load of one class. It may be a good time to sell more of his work called Chomsky.
One of the drawbacks on eBay is sellers who have a screw loose. I had one guy in England reply to my email, regarding shipping, with outrage that I was yelling at him! I had no idea that if you type using the caps lock, or if your font size is larger than this, some people think you are yelling at them. I was using a larger font in capitols because I just liked it. When the plate came, it was completely smashed to bits, in a box that didn't have a dent! You can sometimes spot the nut jobs before you get stuck in a transaction with them, by looking at their negative feedback.
I spotted something great with a tiny opening bid and was tempted until I checked the guy's feedback and decided there was no way I'd ever do business with him. I have copied some of his replies to complaints to give you an idea of why this seller rates as a nut job:
1. Complaint: NON-SELLING SELLER. Paid TWICE aggressive seller refused to complete sale BEWARE
Reply by seller: PROUD TO HAVE SOLD AT A £60 LOSS, YOU NEVER PAID SO STOP TELLING PORKIES
2. Complaint: Item was damaged prior to dispatch, ignored emails, not recommended as ebayer
Reply by seller: vindictive and malicious comments made me cry for days..pass me the tissues
3. Complaint: Seller threatens negative feedback when I complain about shipment problem
Reply by seller: Not that I use them, however I have a number for a 1st class shrink for you.
I'm starting to wonder if this is the same guy who sent the broken plate.
We sold our tractor and bush hog, and a vintage sports car on eBay with no problem. The people who bought the tractor and bush hog, drove down from Ohio and picked it up in a snow storm. The person who bought the MG, sent it to Europe where it was bought by someone in the Netherlands who emailed us that he was thrilled with the car and wanted to know if we would send him the Tennessee Vintage Car lisence plate it wore here. We sent him the lisence plate and he sent us a picture of the car!
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Some Things Can't Be Fixed
A piece of junk mail, with Newton, Massachusetts as the return address, came a couple of days ago. We used to live there. Before I lived there, I believed, as almost everyone does, that the city called Boston was the large one on maps marked with that name. In reality, Boston is one part of a conglomerate of small cities. For instance Harvard and M.I.T. are really in Cambridge. One city blends seamlessly into the next. It is hard to know where the "big" Boston ends. Newton is on the western edge of the larger metropolitan space, and is itself divided into sections. If you live in Newton Lower Falls, that is different from Newton Center, or Waban, etc.. Lower Falls borders Wellesley and we lived about a block from where they meet.
From our kitchen window, we could see the Boston Marathon runners on Washington street, though it was more fun to walk down the hill and sit on the sidewalk. The highlight of the day, which always brought me to tears, was to see the Hoyts. Dick Hoyt, runs all of the marathons pushing his handicapped son Rick in a racing wheelchair. The feeling of their love was nothing short of stunning.
Near that corner is an old graveyard. I was fascinated by the old headstones and the inscriptions that left so many questions unanswered. The one that interested me the most was the stone for the Moulton family. Our street was named after them. The stone was very tall and listed the births and deaths of many children. All of them but one, died as infants or as very young children. Some died within days of each other. I tried to imagine how this couple could survive the loss of so many babies. I still wonder why they all died. I know that back in their time, many families lost young children to what we now consider simple or avoidable illnesses. I can not imagine how difficult it must be to experience that kind of tragedy over and over again. How did they do it?
It is probably because of the unexpected things that have happened to my family members, that the recurring theme of my thoughts today is of parents, children, loss, and love. When the loss is associated with one or more of your children, the result can be crushing pain. Most of the time you may seem to be handling it well, and it becomes easier to appear occupied with the mundane tasks which make up much of life, that you have moved on in a healthy way. No one wants to hear, more than once, if at all, that you are forever broken inside. It is a topic that should be kept to oneself. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and soldier on. Do you think you are the first person who has had it rough? Other people have had it much worse than you and they bore it with grace. I already know all those sayings, and they tell me that I can't even do this right, this suffering.
I cannot write or create art when I am in the depths of grief. If you think Van Gogh did, you are wrong. It was in between, when he was feeling better that his art was made. His suffering was part of what he had to survive in life, but his work stopped when he was in the depths of his psychosis and mental anguish. The pain had to recede at least somewhat to let the art out. I watch Savant lose and regain his abilities in much the same way.
I wrote "In The Rain" because I wanted to see if I could capture in words, at least one day when I was so consumed with sadness that my body felt numb except for the knots in my chest and stomach and the cry in my throat. I wish I had never felt that way more than once, but the truth is that I have felt this way, at times, throughout my life.
The rainy day was months after Savant's disease turned on, and my devistation was so overwhelming, that every time I came out of the numbness that followed the anguish, I would know, as if knowing it for the first time, that he was gone forever, and Love and Time and God could not change the finality of that fact; and the pain would hit with me with full force again. My husband found me and carried me into the house, got me out of my dress and into a warm bath and then into bed.
From our kitchen window, we could see the Boston Marathon runners on Washington street, though it was more fun to walk down the hill and sit on the sidewalk. The highlight of the day, which always brought me to tears, was to see the Hoyts. Dick Hoyt, runs all of the marathons pushing his handicapped son Rick in a racing wheelchair. The feeling of their love was nothing short of stunning.
Near that corner is an old graveyard. I was fascinated by the old headstones and the inscriptions that left so many questions unanswered. The one that interested me the most was the stone for the Moulton family. Our street was named after them. The stone was very tall and listed the births and deaths of many children. All of them but one, died as infants or as very young children. Some died within days of each other. I tried to imagine how this couple could survive the loss of so many babies. I still wonder why they all died. I know that back in their time, many families lost young children to what we now consider simple or avoidable illnesses. I can not imagine how difficult it must be to experience that kind of tragedy over and over again. How did they do it?
It is probably because of the unexpected things that have happened to my family members, that the recurring theme of my thoughts today is of parents, children, loss, and love. When the loss is associated with one or more of your children, the result can be crushing pain. Most of the time you may seem to be handling it well, and it becomes easier to appear occupied with the mundane tasks which make up much of life, that you have moved on in a healthy way. No one wants to hear, more than once, if at all, that you are forever broken inside. It is a topic that should be kept to oneself. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and soldier on. Do you think you are the first person who has had it rough? Other people have had it much worse than you and they bore it with grace. I already know all those sayings, and they tell me that I can't even do this right, this suffering.
I cannot write or create art when I am in the depths of grief. If you think Van Gogh did, you are wrong. It was in between, when he was feeling better that his art was made. His suffering was part of what he had to survive in life, but his work stopped when he was in the depths of his psychosis and mental anguish. The pain had to recede at least somewhat to let the art out. I watch Savant lose and regain his abilities in much the same way.
I wrote "In The Rain" because I wanted to see if I could capture in words, at least one day when I was so consumed with sadness that my body felt numb except for the knots in my chest and stomach and the cry in my throat. I wish I had never felt that way more than once, but the truth is that I have felt this way, at times, throughout my life.
The rainy day was months after Savant's disease turned on, and my devistation was so overwhelming, that every time I came out of the numbness that followed the anguish, I would know, as if knowing it for the first time, that he was gone forever, and Love and Time and God could not change the finality of that fact; and the pain would hit with me with full force again. My husband found me and carried me into the house, got me out of my dress and into a warm bath and then into bed.
Monday, September 18, 2006
In The Rain
When I feel this bad, I want to be near the trees. I know it is raining. It feels cool and wet and makes my dress stick to my skin. I don't think I have shoes on, just a dress. Walking into the tall weeds of an unmown field, my hands are out above my sides, grazing the tops of the plants. I lie down. No one can see me here. Insects are welcome to join the weeds and rain upon my skin. I am the same as them. The word, WHY, is growing silent now. The anguish is being replaced by calm. I want to sleep here. I reach up with one hand and run it over the wet plants. There are flowers in here. I didn't notice them before. The rain continues to fall, replacing the tears that have stopped. I want to sleep here. Now from my mouth, the words directed toward the sky, "No! No! No! No..." Fading into an ache in my chest and stomach. It can't be true, but, No.. it is. IT IS
I roll over on the ground. The crying begins again and I cover my face with the plants. I want to be near the trees. I stand up and walk slowly to the pine trees. The pine trees, my babies, I put you in the ground when you were the size of my hand. I want to feel your trunks with my hands, your wet needles with my face. You are so beautiful. I fall to my knees and lie down under the branches that come close to the ground. The world will never be the same, now. How many times have others felt this. Millions I guess. It is unbearable, but it has to be born; God, no other choice is given. I am only strong enough to stay on the ground in the rain. To leave, to leave is calling me, the liquid will mix with the rain and I will go to sleep. It would take strength I don't have to make the opening. And I can't leave you alone. I'm useless, covered with dirt leaves rain mud crying crying No no it can't be true. But it is. IT IS! Again I rise upon the wave of the reality of the horror, in a while it recedes and I am numb again. Thank God for the receding pain.
I want to lie in the field below the weeds in the cool rain. I want to sleep here.
I roll over on the ground. The crying begins again and I cover my face with the plants. I want to be near the trees. I stand up and walk slowly to the pine trees. The pine trees, my babies, I put you in the ground when you were the size of my hand. I want to feel your trunks with my hands, your wet needles with my face. You are so beautiful. I fall to my knees and lie down under the branches that come close to the ground. The world will never be the same, now. How many times have others felt this. Millions I guess. It is unbearable, but it has to be born; God, no other choice is given. I am only strong enough to stay on the ground in the rain. To leave, to leave is calling me, the liquid will mix with the rain and I will go to sleep. It would take strength I don't have to make the opening. And I can't leave you alone. I'm useless, covered with dirt leaves rain mud crying crying No no it can't be true. But it is. IT IS! Again I rise upon the wave of the reality of the horror, in a while it recedes and I am numb again. Thank God for the receding pain.
I want to lie in the field below the weeds in the cool rain. I want to sleep here.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Weird Day
Thursday, my computer committed suicide. I'm using Savant's computer, even though he doesn't want me to use it or hang out in his room. The restore disk didn't fix the computer and I am too stressed to even begin to tally what is lost. I was told by the manufacturer that my computer, five years old, is obsolete anyway. I was reading blogs and hit a highlighted link in one and the screen went black and the computer started making clopity clop noises like a fake radio horse.
I removed all the rude expletives from this.
I removed all the rude expletives from this.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
It Was Great To See You, Even If I Didn't Get To Lick Your Face
Hi,
I haven't felt like writing for the last month. My brain entered an observing and waiting zone.
I did get to have contact with several wonderful people though. It was a great treat for me to break out of my mostly sequestered routine, if only for short time.
I got to see my brother for a few hours, not nearly enough time to have a proper visit, but I was very happy to see him.
I have a bad habit of thinking that I have totally screwed up visits. After it is over, I go over all the things I should have done differently: We should have eaten in the dining room, the chairs are softer and the view is better. Why did I let everyone eat in the kitchen? Bad, bad hostess!! Did I talk too much? My social skills are pathetic! Everything I said was stupid! I wanted to know so much more about what his life is like, what he is doing, but I probably interrupted with some inane gibberish about me, me, me. He'd never been to our new house. I forced half a tour on him and then thought that maybe everyone doesn't hunger for mental floor plans the way I do, and perhaps it was rude to march him through the house.
Sometimes I wish it was sufficient just to bark, and wiggle and wag my tail, and jump up on people and lick their face. Then when they petted me on my head and called me a good girl, I could go to my happy place.
Someone once told me that being self-conscious, shy, or self-deprecating is the height of conceit, because your focus is on yourself and not the other person. I don't agree that it is conceit. I think conceit would leave you feeling better, instead of second guessing whether your guests are looking for the first chance they can take to flee. If I'm not well adjusted by now, I don't think it's going to happen.
I also met some old school friends for a few days at the beach in Tybee Island, Georgia. My friend that lives in the Savanna area, also has a house on the island, so she gave us a wonderful tour of the area. Savanna is so visually different from anywhere I have been, that it felt like a visit to a foreign country. I almost got too shy to go, but I'm so glad I was in the mood to break out of my usual isolation. It turned out that only four of us went, but it was perfect because it is easier to become reacquainted with a small group of people in that amount of time.
I liked the feeling of being with people you have some background with. I want to do it again.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Savant Is Getting A Tune-Up
Savant is back in the mental hospital for a tune-up on his medications. He was miserable and I was getting so sick of the slow process of his seeing a psychiatrist for a few minutes each month. It was voluntary, but he's still angry about being there. Surprisingly, with a voluntary committal, it isn't all that easy to leave mid-treatment. I don't want him to leave until they have tweaked his medications enough to let him have clearer thinking and less anxiety. This is a better hospital than he has been in before. In the one week he has been there, so far, he's seen the doctor and nurses more than in the whole past year that he's been going to the clinic.
Is this the best treatment a person can expect? It certainly is not the best they deserve. It wears the whole family down, to have no peace or sanity for one we all love. After that short monthly visit, does the doctor feel satisfied that her contact with each patient has brought well-being for another month? She would be so wrong. We say to each other, this must be the best, now, because it is better than the last doctor did. Surely, they wouldn't leave someone in their insanity for one second longer, if they had a medicine that could clear away the delusions and fear. We would be so wrong.
Is this the best treatment a person can expect? It certainly is not the best they deserve. It wears the whole family down, to have no peace or sanity for one we all love. After that short monthly visit, does the doctor feel satisfied that her contact with each patient has brought well-being for another month? She would be so wrong. We say to each other, this must be the best, now, because it is better than the last doctor did. Surely, they wouldn't leave someone in their insanity for one second longer, if they had a medicine that could clear away the delusions and fear. We would be so wrong.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Forty One Houses
I've lived in forty one different houses since I was born. That count does not include the places between. I lost the will to make new friends and leave them behind again. I wait for the twisting of fate that will take me somewhere else I don't want to go. I'm afraid to make a friend of this house, to love it and believe that the leaving has ended at last.
The extinction of all attachment is reserved for the superior few. Insecurity has been my constant. Change crouches on my feet and cripples me. What doesn't kill you makes you weak.
Adversity, times forty one, does not make you strong. The wise say all life is change and suffering. I've learned that, but it didn't bring nirvana. Disinterested wisdom and compassion, the ideal condition of rest, harmony, stability, and joy should be right around the corner.
But I'm super glued to the other side of the coin. Tasered once may stun you, but forty one will kill.
The extinction of all attachment is reserved for the superior few. Insecurity has been my constant. Change crouches on my feet and cripples me. What doesn't kill you makes you weak.
Adversity, times forty one, does not make you strong. The wise say all life is change and suffering. I've learned that, but it didn't bring nirvana. Disinterested wisdom and compassion, the ideal condition of rest, harmony, stability, and joy should be right around the corner.
But I'm super glued to the other side of the coin. Tasered once may stun you, but forty one will kill.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Not Quite Mr. Buckley
Savant is going through a rough patch. Which means I'm distressed at my helplessness to fix it and make it better. We have been grateful for small signs that he may be becoming more mature. He's only 21, but his plate is pretty full and keeps shape-shifting. Lately, the symptoms of his illness have been stronger than his medicine.
When he is in this place he is so anxious and miserable. You never know what becomes part of a delusion. Something as simple as my earrings can feed into the delusions. I don't mind letting him inspect my ears for wires or devices that he thinks may be recording him as part of a conspiracy. I took them off so that he could stop worrying about it.
He had his job, earlier this summer, digging up skeletons, for four days. I was amazed that he went back after the first day. No coffins, just skeletons. He is afraid of a ghost that followed him home; a very white little girl dressed in white. There might be more, but he doesn't want to talk about it, he just wants to know how to make it go away. I told him he could try telling her to go toward the light that she had family waiting for her there. I saw that on TV. I don't believe in ghosts. He was worried that if her family frightened her, that it would make her more determined to stay with him. I suggested changing the wording to, you have loved ones waiting for you on the other side. I'm afraid he'll need to go back to the hospital if this gets worse; not that that would be a bad thing. Savant, my loved one, I wish I had the power to grant you peace.
A cherry in the yard. I had put my Sonic cherry limeade cup in the trash can outside without inspecting it for more cherries. A rain storm blew the trash can over and in the process, it's collection of cigarette butts, trash, Sonic cup, lime wedge and cherry ended up on the grass nearby. When Savant went out for a smoke, the sight of the cherry freaked him out. He saw it as a calling card, a la Kill Bill, from "Black Cherry". He is sure his life is in danger and is worried that we might become accidental targets as well. Black Cherry is the blog identity of someone he knows, but she is gentle and would never think of harming anyone. But, she is an expert at martial arts and dancing. This is further complicated by his reasoning that an expert assassin is the last person you would suspect.
His idiot doctor reduced his daily dose of one of his medicines a few months ago, just for the hell of it. Well... IT'S NOT WORKING! She won't give him anything for his anxiety either!
I know she won't talk to me, but I'm going to give her voice mail a piece of my mind! Husband is trying to teach me to keep my anger in check when leaving any messages or Dr Dumbshit might take it out on Savant. I know he's right.
When he is in this place he is so anxious and miserable. You never know what becomes part of a delusion. Something as simple as my earrings can feed into the delusions. I don't mind letting him inspect my ears for wires or devices that he thinks may be recording him as part of a conspiracy. I took them off so that he could stop worrying about it.
He had his job, earlier this summer, digging up skeletons, for four days. I was amazed that he went back after the first day. No coffins, just skeletons. He is afraid of a ghost that followed him home; a very white little girl dressed in white. There might be more, but he doesn't want to talk about it, he just wants to know how to make it go away. I told him he could try telling her to go toward the light that she had family waiting for her there. I saw that on TV. I don't believe in ghosts. He was worried that if her family frightened her, that it would make her more determined to stay with him. I suggested changing the wording to, you have loved ones waiting for you on the other side. I'm afraid he'll need to go back to the hospital if this gets worse; not that that would be a bad thing. Savant, my loved one, I wish I had the power to grant you peace.
A cherry in the yard. I had put my Sonic cherry limeade cup in the trash can outside without inspecting it for more cherries. A rain storm blew the trash can over and in the process, it's collection of cigarette butts, trash, Sonic cup, lime wedge and cherry ended up on the grass nearby. When Savant went out for a smoke, the sight of the cherry freaked him out. He saw it as a calling card, a la Kill Bill, from "Black Cherry". He is sure his life is in danger and is worried that we might become accidental targets as well. Black Cherry is the blog identity of someone he knows, but she is gentle and would never think of harming anyone. But, she is an expert at martial arts and dancing. This is further complicated by his reasoning that an expert assassin is the last person you would suspect.
His idiot doctor reduced his daily dose of one of his medicines a few months ago, just for the hell of it. Well... IT'S NOT WORKING! She won't give him anything for his anxiety either!
I know she won't talk to me, but I'm going to give her voice mail a piece of my mind! Husband is trying to teach me to keep my anger in check when leaving any messages or Dr Dumbshit might take it out on Savant. I know he's right.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Vicious Poodles
Fancy Dirt Definition For The Day
Vicious Poodle: a person who reminds you of one of those pampered little lap pets, that looks harmless and affectionate on it's owner's lap, but if you reach out to pet it, it will fly into a rage and try to chew your fingers off.
Vicious Poodle: a person who reminds you of one of those pampered little lap pets, that looks harmless and affectionate on it's owner's lap, but if you reach out to pet it, it will fly into a rage and try to chew your fingers off.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Look, Ma, I Have All My Fingers!
I like to look at the picture of my sister and me, that I have on my blog profile. So, I know that the most frequent visitor to my blog is me. One day after I put it up I realized that the fingers on my left hand were still intact back then. Hello, Finger Tips. Miss you. Then I thought about the quizzical little bit of a frown on my face. It has changed into a deep furrow as I've aged, so I must do that a lot. My sister is still very cute; in a slightly Sally Field sort of way. I thought I was the only one who had felt that comparison was a good one, but one of my kids said the same thing after they got the movie "Mrs. Doubtfire".
I haven't felt much like blogging this week. I'm sick and before that, I was doing too much yard work in the hot sun. This time it was me in the E.R. Usually I'm in the waiting room and Savant is the one in the bed. So until I feel better, I'll just sleep and read. I'm almost through with "Kim" by Rudyard Kipling. I finished "Night" by Elie Wiesel and the first five books in the Ender's Game series by Orson Scott Card and I really liked them. Proust (Swann's Way) got shoved in a drawer, unfinished. It's too bad babies can't read or it would be prescribed to put them to sleep. A few days ago Savant said "I wonder how Proust would describe a White Castle hamburger?" I said, I don't know, but it would probably take him about fourteen pages.
I haven't felt much like blogging this week. I'm sick and before that, I was doing too much yard work in the hot sun. This time it was me in the E.R. Usually I'm in the waiting room and Savant is the one in the bed. So until I feel better, I'll just sleep and read. I'm almost through with "Kim" by Rudyard Kipling. I finished "Night" by Elie Wiesel and the first five books in the Ender's Game series by Orson Scott Card and I really liked them. Proust (Swann's Way) got shoved in a drawer, unfinished. It's too bad babies can't read or it would be prescribed to put them to sleep. A few days ago Savant said "I wonder how Proust would describe a White Castle hamburger?" I said, I don't know, but it would probably take him about fourteen pages.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Madman In An Italian Train Station
I was just trying to read a book, but I became distracted from the story. I remembered something that happened when my daughter and I were in Italy last year, and I began to weep. Unfortunately I suffered from an unending migraine headache and nausea for most of our trip so I was pretty fragile. I didn't know that I could have just gone to an Italian hospital for help. Silly American.
We were in the lobby of a train station that had lots of people buying tickets, sitting, waiting, rushing around and there was an old, unkempt, obviously mentally ill man, standing in the center of this place. He was waving his arms and franticly talking non-stop in Italian, a language I don't know. He was hoarse, and had obviously been there for a long time, maybe he did this every day. No one was looking at him. They were ignoring him, tolerating him, annoyed by him... What I saw was my son.
I moved to within a few feet of him and did not take my eyes off of him. Schizophrenics frequently do not want to be touched, but they do want to feel that they have been heard. My daughter, I think, felt I was being rude to stare at him, and was a bit embarrassed by what I was doing. As I listened to him, tears began to roll down my face. To me he was a lost child. He did not look at my eyes, but began to slowly turn around toward me, and direct his speech to me.
A young man had seen the two of us and he joined me in directing his full attention to listening to the old man. The old man would look into the face of the young man next to me, and I could feel the pace of his speech slow a bit. The young man was shaking his head, yes, yes. I could feel the old man become a little more calm, and he reached out and took the hand of the young man. I still had tears streaming down my face, and took a step toward them and clasped their hands, so that all three of us were touching. I may have startled the old man by touching him. But he nodded his head in farewell and left slowly down a hallway; still talking, but slowly, more softly, as he went out of view.
I know there are street people who try weird stuff to get money from tourists, but this was no act. I was crying and overwhelmed with sadness for those among us that must bear burdens they don't deserve, and that they are sometimes made invisible by the way we ignore them, because of our fear. Sometimes the fear is from not knowing whether our reaction will be considered rude, and not wanting to hurt them even more. My rule of thumb is that an expression of caring is probably always OK.
I'm sure it was upsetting for my daughter to watch, and when she was trying to get me to leave him, I could hear her worried voice saying, "Mom?". All I could say was, "That is my son."
POST SCRIPT:
I need to make a clear distinction between the behavior, and mental normalness, of medicated versus non-medicated mentally ill people.
Idiot Like A Savant usually functions well when he has not forgotten to take his medication. The man in the train station was obviously unmedicated for a very long time.
The listening to him, in my story was not meant to be rude gawking. It was a silent 'you are not alone' that I hoped might calm him. Focusing on him, to let him know the message he was transmitting was important to at least one other person. His message was so important to him, that he was shouting it to all who could hear.
He didn't know I couldn't understand a word he said. You, sometimes, can't understand a word of what an English speaking, non-medicated, mentally ill person is trying to tell you either. So the words become moot in any language. Reasoning with someone who has been unmedicated for a long time is useless. They are in a very different mental and physical landscape. What looks like 'crazy' to us, is really their valiant struggle to live in that landscape.
We were in the lobby of a train station that had lots of people buying tickets, sitting, waiting, rushing around and there was an old, unkempt, obviously mentally ill man, standing in the center of this place. He was waving his arms and franticly talking non-stop in Italian, a language I don't know. He was hoarse, and had obviously been there for a long time, maybe he did this every day. No one was looking at him. They were ignoring him, tolerating him, annoyed by him... What I saw was my son.
I moved to within a few feet of him and did not take my eyes off of him. Schizophrenics frequently do not want to be touched, but they do want to feel that they have been heard. My daughter, I think, felt I was being rude to stare at him, and was a bit embarrassed by what I was doing. As I listened to him, tears began to roll down my face. To me he was a lost child. He did not look at my eyes, but began to slowly turn around toward me, and direct his speech to me.
A young man had seen the two of us and he joined me in directing his full attention to listening to the old man. The old man would look into the face of the young man next to me, and I could feel the pace of his speech slow a bit. The young man was shaking his head, yes, yes. I could feel the old man become a little more calm, and he reached out and took the hand of the young man. I still had tears streaming down my face, and took a step toward them and clasped their hands, so that all three of us were touching. I may have startled the old man by touching him. But he nodded his head in farewell and left slowly down a hallway; still talking, but slowly, more softly, as he went out of view.
I know there are street people who try weird stuff to get money from tourists, but this was no act. I was crying and overwhelmed with sadness for those among us that must bear burdens they don't deserve, and that they are sometimes made invisible by the way we ignore them, because of our fear. Sometimes the fear is from not knowing whether our reaction will be considered rude, and not wanting to hurt them even more. My rule of thumb is that an expression of caring is probably always OK.
I'm sure it was upsetting for my daughter to watch, and when she was trying to get me to leave him, I could hear her worried voice saying, "Mom?". All I could say was, "That is my son."
POST SCRIPT:
I need to make a clear distinction between the behavior, and mental normalness, of medicated versus non-medicated mentally ill people.
Idiot Like A Savant usually functions well when he has not forgotten to take his medication. The man in the train station was obviously unmedicated for a very long time.
The listening to him, in my story was not meant to be rude gawking. It was a silent 'you are not alone' that I hoped might calm him. Focusing on him, to let him know the message he was transmitting was important to at least one other person. His message was so important to him, that he was shouting it to all who could hear.
He didn't know I couldn't understand a word he said. You, sometimes, can't understand a word of what an English speaking, non-medicated, mentally ill person is trying to tell you either. So the words become moot in any language. Reasoning with someone who has been unmedicated for a long time is useless. They are in a very different mental and physical landscape. What looks like 'crazy' to us, is really their valiant struggle to live in that landscape.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Didn't You Want to Be Indiana Jones Too?
Savant got a summer job. Working for an archaeologist. Some of the friends he met at school are working there, and got him to call for a job there. And by wonderful chance the office is only a mile or two from our house. So he gets to spend the summer with his friends! They meet at the office in the morning and are driven to the dig site.
I'm reminded of the children's story where you tell part of it and ask the kids, "Isn't that bad?" and of course it is, but then you hear the next part of the story, and it turns out that if this bad thing hadn't happened, the good thing that came next would have never happened, and the story goes back and forth that way many times. No summer classes turned out to be a good thing!
I want to get on the crew when they go back to school! I had Indiana Jones (Mary Leakey) dreams too.
P.S. See "Not Quite Mr. Buckley" for the truth about this "archiological dig".
I'm reminded of the children's story where you tell part of it and ask the kids, "Isn't that bad?" and of course it is, but then you hear the next part of the story, and it turns out that if this bad thing hadn't happened, the good thing that came next would have never happened, and the story goes back and forth that way many times. No summer classes turned out to be a good thing!
I want to get on the crew when they go back to school! I had Indiana Jones (Mary Leakey) dreams too.
P.S. See "Not Quite Mr. Buckley" for the truth about this "archiological dig".
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Savant Is Coming Home
Savant had planned to stay at school, and take classes, but because of a few SNAFUs and persistent mental illness, he found himself without housing for this summer. He just assumed he could stay in his on-campus apartment. He got an apartment, instead of a dorm room, because, though he had only completed two semesters of college, he had enough credits to make him a Junior; and upper-class men get perks. As of yesterday he completed two more classes.
He was fairly delusional earlier in the semester, he had to drop all but two classes, to survive. He had to repay his loans and grants, because they are only for students who are taking a full load of classes. His psychiatrist, Vocational Rehab, the Disabled Students Office, etc., may have been able to intervene, but I don't know if that would have helped him keep any of the funding in place for just two classes.
Last week, I tried to get specific answers from him about whether he had made arrangements with the housing office. Had he gotten the bill for it paid, etc.. He had not signed up for classes in the first summer session, but didn't think that mattered... It mattered.
He had not checked into it!
I called the housing office to see if I could rush over with a check, before the semester ended (yesterday was the date to be out of your on-campus housing). I was told that the on-campus apartments he lives in, were closing for demolition and remodeling!
*(Anyone who has read some of my old entries knows that, (Idiot Like a) Savant is schizophrenic, but on medication, many medications over the years, none of which have given him back normal sanity. Before he became ill, when he was in high school, he earned the highest SAT scores in the school (only missed 5 answers), and was also the only Merit Scholar. Was accepted to a private university in Massachusetts when he was 16, but even with the scholarship he was offered, we couldn't come up with the remaining tuition, etc. Picture the amount a small house costs. So he stayed in high school for his senior year and added to his cache of college credit courses. The story gets way too long here and you'll have to check past entries if you want to hear the rest of it.)
*I'm going to have to start using links to this, as an explanation for any reader who doesn't want to read the whole freaking blog archive, to figure out what I'm talking about. I always feel annoying, like Hyacinth Bucket, when she describes her sister Violet, as the one with a pool, a sauna, and room for a pony, in every episode.
The point is, this disease impairs your judgment even if you are on meds, and have an awesome I.Q. Add whiskey and pot and cough syrup for fun, and you become retarded in some areas of your brain. That is why I have begun to be less supportive when he has poisoned himself with that shit. The first 50 times it scares you to death. And nothing I have done or said has changed his behavior a bit. So, I'm going to try to be nice when it happens again, because I adore him, but I need to brush up on my non-enabler skills.
Anyway, summer school isn't going to happen this year. I'm really sorry things got so screwed up, because he has made some friends there, which is a huge benefit to his happiness. And he likes living on his own, even though he is "transportation impaired". His dad and I think it would be great if he could buy a condo near the school; but we are assuming that the payments would probably exceed his disability stipend. He gets so bored at our house, and I understand that. What 21 year old wants to be stuck in the country with Mom & Dad?
Welcome home Darlin'.
He was fairly delusional earlier in the semester, he had to drop all but two classes, to survive. He had to repay his loans and grants, because they are only for students who are taking a full load of classes. His psychiatrist, Vocational Rehab, the Disabled Students Office, etc., may have been able to intervene, but I don't know if that would have helped him keep any of the funding in place for just two classes.
Last week, I tried to get specific answers from him about whether he had made arrangements with the housing office. Had he gotten the bill for it paid, etc.. He had not signed up for classes in the first summer session, but didn't think that mattered... It mattered.
He had not checked into it!
I called the housing office to see if I could rush over with a check, before the semester ended (yesterday was the date to be out of your on-campus housing). I was told that the on-campus apartments he lives in, were closing for demolition and remodeling!
*(Anyone who has read some of my old entries knows that, (Idiot Like a) Savant is schizophrenic, but on medication, many medications over the years, none of which have given him back normal sanity. Before he became ill, when he was in high school, he earned the highest SAT scores in the school (only missed 5 answers), and was also the only Merit Scholar. Was accepted to a private university in Massachusetts when he was 16, but even with the scholarship he was offered, we couldn't come up with the remaining tuition, etc. Picture the amount a small house costs. So he stayed in high school for his senior year and added to his cache of college credit courses. The story gets way too long here and you'll have to check past entries if you want to hear the rest of it.)
*I'm going to have to start using links to this, as an explanation for any reader who doesn't want to read the whole freaking blog archive, to figure out what I'm talking about. I always feel annoying, like Hyacinth Bucket, when she describes her sister Violet, as the one with a pool, a sauna, and room for a pony, in every episode.
The point is, this disease impairs your judgment even if you are on meds, and have an awesome I.Q. Add whiskey and pot and cough syrup for fun, and you become retarded in some areas of your brain. That is why I have begun to be less supportive when he has poisoned himself with that shit. The first 50 times it scares you to death. And nothing I have done or said has changed his behavior a bit. So, I'm going to try to be nice when it happens again, because I adore him, but I need to brush up on my non-enabler skills.
Anyway, summer school isn't going to happen this year. I'm really sorry things got so screwed up, because he has made some friends there, which is a huge benefit to his happiness. And he likes living on his own, even though he is "transportation impaired". His dad and I think it would be great if he could buy a condo near the school; but we are assuming that the payments would probably exceed his disability stipend. He gets so bored at our house, and I understand that. What 21 year old wants to be stuck in the country with Mom & Dad?
Welcome home Darlin'.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Enough With The Jars Already ! ! An Angel Jar
I'll get back to writing some other day. I just feel like putting up more pictures of another jar I haven't seen in a while.
I like angel's depictions in art. If I have a guardian angel, she has a sarcastic sense of humor and must really get a kick out of irony. They do make a pretty jar. After 30 years of collecting pictures, you end up with enough beautiful pictures to make a jar about almost anything. I know it sounds like a syndrome, like a crazy newspaper hoarder or something, but until recently, I always preferred the pictures to the words. Saved the ones I liked.
Putting pictures on something that sits in view, is like having my favorite book open to a picture I like. I look at the book case in my office and I am sane enough not to tear up all the books and paste the pictures to the wall, but don't think I don't want to! That is where bottles and jars come to the rescue! I don't know if I'm making Folk Art or tacky tchotchkes, but you'd be wise to call them fabulous to my face.
I like angel's depictions in art. If I have a guardian angel, she has a sarcastic sense of humor and must really get a kick out of irony. They do make a pretty jar. After 30 years of collecting pictures, you end up with enough beautiful pictures to make a jar about almost anything. I know it sounds like a syndrome, like a crazy newspaper hoarder or something, but until recently, I always preferred the pictures to the words. Saved the ones I liked.
Putting pictures on something that sits in view, is like having my favorite book open to a picture I like. I look at the book case in my office and I am sane enough not to tear up all the books and paste the pictures to the wall, but don't think I don't want to! That is where bottles and jars come to the rescue! I don't know if I'm making Folk Art or tacky tchotchkes, but you'd be wise to call them fabulous to my face.
A Jar For Little Kids
I think my Mother-in-law gave this jar to our nephew's family. I didn't find a picture of the whole jar, all I have are these close-ups. Behind the glass, on the inside, are more pictures for little kids. So, if the cookies are gone, they still get a treat.
The last picture is of part of the lid. I wanted the pictures to be happy, and to reflect the time, not so long ago, before electronic toys made their way onto children's gift lists.
George Washington Jar
I love this portrait of George Washington painted by Raphael Peale. The Peales were an interesting early American family; all the kids were named after famous artists of the past, and they were a very talented bunch.
I put a mirror behind the jar to try to show what was on the other side without taking so many pictures, but they are too little to see anyway. The weird, long, "scratch" marks are just light reflections.
It is hard to see, but the green "We the People..." at the bottom ends with, "are sick and tired of getting the run around." And I liked the weed whacker, etc., in the spoof on G.W. Crossing the Delaware.
Below the picture of the puppy in the helmet, and the rare U.S. coin, is a copy of the telegram telling of President Kennedy's death. I wanted to make this jar a combination of the humorous and the serious.
There are many pictures that aren't easy to see here, including very small pictures of the World Trade Center in happier days, slave shackles, old coins and flags, the U.S.S. Constitution (the ship), former Presidents, eagles, bison, Native Americans...
This is the inside of the lid.
This is one of the jars I still have. This is the inside bottom of the jar.
I put a mirror behind the jar to try to show what was on the other side without taking so many pictures, but they are too little to see anyway. The weird, long, "scratch" marks are just light reflections.
It is hard to see, but the green "We the People..." at the bottom ends with, "are sick and tired of getting the run around." And I liked the weed whacker, etc., in the spoof on G.W. Crossing the Delaware.
Below the picture of the puppy in the helmet, and the rare U.S. coin, is a copy of the telegram telling of President Kennedy's death. I wanted to make this jar a combination of the humorous and the serious.
There are many pictures that aren't easy to see here, including very small pictures of the World Trade Center in happier days, slave shackles, old coins and flags, the U.S.S. Constitution (the ship), former Presidents, eagles, bison, Native Americans...
This is the inside of the lid.
This is one of the jars I still have. This is the inside bottom of the jar.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Pro-Choice Means You Can Choose To Stay Pregnant
Everyone who is "pro-choice" does not believe in abortion. They believe that it is each person's private choice to decide how it goes.
Everyone has different circumstances to deal with. Sometimes a woman is too poor, or ill, or abandoned, or on the edge of mental collapse, to cope with another child. Not everyone in the world lives in a nice place, or has an income, or a husband, or any family to support her through a pregnancy or after. Perhaps she loves this child but feels she is backed into a corner and will not survive. The people who told her that "if she ever really needed help, they would be there for her" have backed away.
What they had really meant was, that if they ever saw her run past their house, while being chased by a man with a hatchet, they would call 911 or yell for help from the neighbors.
It is a heart breaking choice to make, and I don't think it is done lightly by very many people. Many times a girl has been victimized into becoming pregnant.
I knew a woman who had an abortion when she was young. She was a person who was pro-choice. But personally, for herself, she would never resort to an abortion. However, she lived in very bad circumstances, was victimized. She had never imagined being in this situation and felt she would not survive.
When it was done, she was not prepared for what the doctor did. It was a pregnancy that was only a couple of weeks along, probably not much past the blastocyst stage. After the contents of her uterus had been emptied into a jar, the doctor dumped the jar into a colander in the sink and dug through it with his hands. He then turned on the water, dumped out the colander, turned on the garbage disposal and began to rinse off his gloved hands. A situation that should have been solemn turned gruesome. Her mind shrieked but she was too frozen with shock, to make a noise with her mouth.
She suffered tearful, heart breaking anguish, and was crushed by the memory of it, for the rest of her life. She remained pro-choice though. Knowing that no one would have helped her. And knowing that other women feel they have no other choice, because they will not live through it, and no one will help them. Taking the choice away will result in deaths too: they will be young helpless women.
Everyone has different circumstances to deal with. Sometimes a woman is too poor, or ill, or abandoned, or on the edge of mental collapse, to cope with another child. Not everyone in the world lives in a nice place, or has an income, or a husband, or any family to support her through a pregnancy or after. Perhaps she loves this child but feels she is backed into a corner and will not survive. The people who told her that "if she ever really needed help, they would be there for her" have backed away.
What they had really meant was, that if they ever saw her run past their house, while being chased by a man with a hatchet, they would call 911 or yell for help from the neighbors.
It is a heart breaking choice to make, and I don't think it is done lightly by very many people. Many times a girl has been victimized into becoming pregnant.
I knew a woman who had an abortion when she was young. She was a person who was pro-choice. But personally, for herself, she would never resort to an abortion. However, she lived in very bad circumstances, was victimized. She had never imagined being in this situation and felt she would not survive.
When it was done, she was not prepared for what the doctor did. It was a pregnancy that was only a couple of weeks along, probably not much past the blastocyst stage. After the contents of her uterus had been emptied into a jar, the doctor dumped the jar into a colander in the sink and dug through it with his hands. He then turned on the water, dumped out the colander, turned on the garbage disposal and began to rinse off his gloved hands. A situation that should have been solemn turned gruesome. Her mind shrieked but she was too frozen with shock, to make a noise with her mouth.
She suffered tearful, heart breaking anguish, and was crushed by the memory of it, for the rest of her life. She remained pro-choice though. Knowing that no one would have helped her. And knowing that other women feel they have no other choice, because they will not live through it, and no one will help them. Taking the choice away will result in deaths too: they will be young helpless women.
Pre-Raphaelite, Aesthetic Movement, Art Nouveau Jar
I thought I had lost the pictures for many of the jars that are no longer in my posession. Happily, I found the file some of them were in! I still have this jar. It is one of the large ones. I should take new pictures of it, but it is cloudy and I'm going to use that as an excuse not to do it today.
The main images on this jar are inspired by my love of Pre-Raphaelite art, the Aesthetic Movement, Mucha, Art Nouveau, etc.
These two pictures, one of the "dancing" teapots, and one of a Japanese lady with a kitten are from the art on the lid.
The Black Elk Jar
This Native American inspired jar is called the Black Elk jar because there is a quote from him on the bottom. There is no photograph of Black Elk, an Oglala Sioux, on the jar. The quote by him on the bottom, comes from an exerpt in the postscript in the book about his life, "Black Elk Speaks" written by John G. Neihardt.
It was bought, with another of my jars, by a collector from Indiana, as wedding presents for herself.
Near the end of his life he asked to be taken to the place where the spirits took him, in a vision, when he was young. Spoken by Black Elk, standing on the summit:
"With tears running, O Great Spirit, my Grandfather - with running tears I must say now that the tree has never bloomed. A pitiful old man, you see me here, and I have fallen away and have done nothing. Here at the center of the world, where you took me when I was young and taught me; here, old, I stand, and the tree is withered, Grandfather, my Grandfather!
Again, and maybe the last time on this earth, I recall the great vision you sent me. It may be that some little root of the sacred tree still lives. Nourish it then, that it may leaf and bloom and fill with singing birds. Hear me, not for myself, but for my people; I am old. Hear me that they may once more go back into the sacred hoop and find the good red road, the shielding tree!
In sorrow I am sending a feeble voice, for I may never call again. O make my people live!"
It isn't on the jar, but, then the postscript ends with Mr Neihardt's observation that, "For some minutes the old man stood silent, with face uplifted, weeping into the drizzling rain. In an little while the sky was clear again."
It was bought, with another of my jars, by a collector from Indiana, as wedding presents for herself.
Near the end of his life he asked to be taken to the place where the spirits took him, in a vision, when he was young. Spoken by Black Elk, standing on the summit:
"With tears running, O Great Spirit, my Grandfather - with running tears I must say now that the tree has never bloomed. A pitiful old man, you see me here, and I have fallen away and have done nothing. Here at the center of the world, where you took me when I was young and taught me; here, old, I stand, and the tree is withered, Grandfather, my Grandfather!
Again, and maybe the last time on this earth, I recall the great vision you sent me. It may be that some little root of the sacred tree still lives. Nourish it then, that it may leaf and bloom and fill with singing birds. Hear me, not for myself, but for my people; I am old. Hear me that they may once more go back into the sacred hoop and find the good red road, the shielding tree!
In sorrow I am sending a feeble voice, for I may never call again. O make my people live!"
It isn't on the jar, but, then the postscript ends with Mr Neihardt's observation that, "For some minutes the old man stood silent, with face uplifted, weeping into the drizzling rain. In an little while the sky was clear again."
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
A Day In The Country Jar
This jar is supposed to be a happy day in the country. The last picture is of the inside of the jar.
I think this one is now in the Boston area.
I think this one is now in the Boston area.
Blue Deruta W/ Falcon Jar
This is the jar, "Blue Deruta W/ Falcon". Blue Deruta refers to the large circular picture, in the photo that is second from the top, that has a lady's face at the center. It is from a picture of an old plate, made of tin glazed earthen ware. I wanted to evoke a feeling of Europe's past. It feels most like Italy to me. It is one of the jars that has found a new home.
This is the outside bottom, and the last picture is of the bottom from the inside of the jar.
This is the outside bottom, and the last picture is of the bottom from the inside of the jar.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Long Day's Journey Into The Carpal Tunnel
I've got a raging case of carpal tunnel; my hands are somewhere between tingling numbness and pain. Spring is upon us and I have many things to do to get my new parking lot finished. I am too cheap to pay someone to do it for me, and besides my truck holds about a ton of crusher run. So, I only have about 30 more tons to shovel out of the back of the truck. And many more plants to move before I sleep. OK, I've got to stop that!
Savant and I aren't speaking, sort of. The drama has been thick for a couple of weeks. One late night visit to the E.R. He had leaned back in a chair and it flipped him onto his neck and head. He called 911, but, didn't have a ride back to the dorm when he was OK'd to leave. I drove all the way to the town he is in to give him a ride back to his dorm in the wee hours of the morning, because I was too sleepy, worried, stupid, to tell him to call a cab.
Becoming intoxicated is sort of a tradition with some college kids, and he's one of them. But when he does it, all sorts of complications come along for the ride because, while he has a new found love of Canadian whiskey, he hasn't given up good old dextromethorphan hydro-bromide (used in Dexa-Trim and cough medication). Again this week, another call to me to take him to the hospital. He thinks the three bottles of OTC cough medicine, he drank a few hours before, might be causing a brain bleed, and he's worried. Well duh! Stupid is as stupid does, Forrest! I'm pretty sure his brain is not bleeding, but he is really upset. Again it is a middle of the night call. I called his sister, who lives in the same town, but sometimes works late, and she and her boyfriend drove over to do the honors. They talked with him for a while and he decided that he would not go to the hospital.
What is the attraction to frying your brain? Is that like asking why anyone would smoke? You'd think schizophrenia would be enough, but I think alcohol takes the edge off, that the meds aren't. He started drinking cough medicine before he became schizo'. I'd love to know if there is a connection. Is anyone out there studying this?
Anyway, when I spoke to him the next day, I wasn't exactly supportive and he wasn't exactly appreciative, so I turned off my phone. That night he called a different phone and apologized. Which was nice, but I was badly in need of a time out. So the phone has been silent. Perhaps his Dad gave him the warning that I had crawled into the rabbit hole, and needed peace for a while.
Damn hands are numb-pain again!
Savant and I aren't speaking, sort of. The drama has been thick for a couple of weeks. One late night visit to the E.R. He had leaned back in a chair and it flipped him onto his neck and head. He called 911, but, didn't have a ride back to the dorm when he was OK'd to leave. I drove all the way to the town he is in to give him a ride back to his dorm in the wee hours of the morning, because I was too sleepy, worried, stupid, to tell him to call a cab.
Becoming intoxicated is sort of a tradition with some college kids, and he's one of them. But when he does it, all sorts of complications come along for the ride because, while he has a new found love of Canadian whiskey, he hasn't given up good old dextromethorphan hydro-bromide (used in Dexa-Trim and cough medication). Again this week, another call to me to take him to the hospital. He thinks the three bottles of OTC cough medicine, he drank a few hours before, might be causing a brain bleed, and he's worried. Well duh! Stupid is as stupid does, Forrest! I'm pretty sure his brain is not bleeding, but he is really upset. Again it is a middle of the night call. I called his sister, who lives in the same town, but sometimes works late, and she and her boyfriend drove over to do the honors. They talked with him for a while and he decided that he would not go to the hospital.
What is the attraction to frying your brain? Is that like asking why anyone would smoke? You'd think schizophrenia would be enough, but I think alcohol takes the edge off, that the meds aren't. He started drinking cough medicine before he became schizo'. I'd love to know if there is a connection. Is anyone out there studying this?
Anyway, when I spoke to him the next day, I wasn't exactly supportive and he wasn't exactly appreciative, so I turned off my phone. That night he called a different phone and apologized. Which was nice, but I was badly in need of a time out. So the phone has been silent. Perhaps his Dad gave him the warning that I had crawled into the rabbit hole, and needed peace for a while.
Damn hands are numb-pain again!
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Ever Super Glue a Frog Back Together?
I have been known to attempt good deeds, but sometimes I'm not sure I've done it right.
*
Once our cat caught a frog and when I took it away from him, I saw that it had a long open cut in it's skin exposing stuff that should not be out in the open. I decided stitches were out of the question, and the vet said they would kill it, in a humane way, if I wanted to pay for it. I'd have just left it with the cat if I wanted it dead.
So I had this great idea that I would super glue the skin back together and set him free near the creek. Don't know if it helped him or not. But my family laughs about how silly I was to do it. Silly!? It was f'n brilliant. Thinking outside the box...
*
One winter, about three years ago, I found a toddler wandering around outside a deserted gas station. I took him inside and asked the clerk to call the police, which he did. I stayed behind the counter with the clerk and the baby. He was coatless, not dressed to be outside. I was not handing this kid off to anyone who might come in until the police got there. My mommy instinct was rapidly taking notes: the kid was clean, diapers seemed pretty freshly changed, genial and sweet, no visible bruises, didn't seem to understand English, French or Spanish.
It was taking forever for the police to get there, when a group of Arabic men came into the store. On foot, no car. They immediately locked in on the kid and the kid looked back with recognition. One of them spoke to the baby and he responded and leaned toward him, so I was pretty sure this was his family. But I was not handing over a kid I had found wandering around, until the police got there. The clerk was telling the men that the police were coming, and that I had found the baby, etc...
When the police car pulled up, I gave the man the kid and explained what had happened, to the cop. The men said they had a restaurant in the shopping center and the toddler had just walked off. I believed them, so did the cop.
*
Once I took the kids swimming at the local YMCA. I was sitting by the shallow end of the indoor pool watching my kids, and noticed the beginning of the first swimming lesson for little kids. There were three perky teenage girls talking to the kids. They had maybe 15 or 18 kids sitting on the edge of the pool with their feet dangling in. Some of these guppies looked like they weren't two years old yet. The kid at the end of the line, right in front of me, silently slid off the side and was sinking to the bottom. I jumped up and grabbed it out of the water.
None of the "teachers" had even noticed. I made sure the kid was OK, then I got in the face of the nearest "teacher" and gave her a talking to. I wanted to stay and talk to the child's parent when they came back to pick the kid up, but we needed to leave, so on the way out I told the girl at the front desk what had happened. Something told me that the parents would never be told how close their kid came to drowning.
*
When my first son was 4 or 5 years old he choked on a peanut butter sandwich. I had to stick my finger in his throat and dig a glob of it out. Then I picked him up and with his head down, leaning over my arm, I rapped him on his back. The Heimlich maneuver would have been next, but he was able to cough out the rest.
This is a warning about "health food store" peanut butter. The kind where the oil separates from the mixture and sits on top, and you have to stir it back in every time you use it. As you use up the peanut butter, there is not any oil to stir back in near the bit at the bottom of the jar, so it is very stiff. This is what the sandwich was made with.
I cursed this "health food" and myself for using it, and never bought it again. Skippy, and Jiff etc., are always creamy and stand a much lower chance of choking your kid to death. If A.P. had passed out before he made it to the kitchen, where I was, I wouldn't have known he was choking, because he couldn't make a sound. I'll never forget the look of terror in his eyes, the color of his face, and his throat's unsuccessful attempts to retch it loose. I'll take additives over a dead kid any day.
*
I experienced periods of starvation, on and off, during my first marriage. I remember being jealous of the pets I would see in people's yards. I knew someone was making sure they would be fed. I only tried begging once, in Eugene, Oregon. I couldn't do it. I broke down crying in front of the store and a student asked me what was wrong and gave me the bottle of grape juice he had just bought. His kindness has never been forgotten, but I felt like shit, taking what wasn't mine. But I had a baby to nurse and a husband who was a selfish jack-ass. Thank you, kind stranger, whom ever you are.
The store was across the street from the University in Eugene, Oregon near Skoob Doog. I think that was the name of book store, 'good books' spelled backwards. We lived in an empty apartment behind it, across the street from the hospital. Our side window looked out onto a grassy area where a tempura restaurant next door had picnic tables set up for their customers. Years later, one of the Architecture Professors at the U. of Texas told me he was at the University in Oregon at that same time and ate at the picnic tables at that oriental restaurant next to us.
Anyway, the point of this was that I sometimes buy $10.00 worth of groceries for people on the side of the road with "will work for food" signs. And I used to keep granola bars in the car for when a short shopping trip wasn't possible. I'm a real sucker for hungry people.
*
I tried giving blood to get money for food. Actually I gave plasma. They separate it out of the blood and put what's left over back into your vein. I only did it twice before they told me I didn't weigh enough to give blood anymore.
I did learn that many of the people in line to give blood were the street people, the ones who had fallen through the cracks. This was before AIDS. You may have to thank a wino or that person sleeping on a heating grate, if you ever get a blood transfusion.
*
I had my purse stolen outside Ken Keesey's brother's store in Oregon too. I had applied for food stamps, and they were in the purse (macrame, of course, made by me, stupid hippy, string was cheap). No one would help us. The food stamp office people treated me like I was the hundredth person who had tried that story on them, and they turned me away with no suggestions for how to survive with no money and no food. So it was graveyard cherries and food my husband stole from a friend's house, while she was out of town. He was going to water her plants for her, so he had her key. She only had a little bit of food, and I think he probably drowned all her plants. She was probably too pissed to ask where her food went and why her plants were dead. She avoided us after that.
It was really nice of those people to plant cherry trees in the grave yard. Oregon cherries are sweet and good!
*
I wish I had known that in bars, they serve free food at happy hour! I was such an innocent, ignorant, idiot, and hadn't really been in a bar before (except for one creepy time that doesn't belong here). I was vegetarian brainwashed anyway, but, if you are hungry, that's the place to go! And people will send lots of free drinks down the bar to you! Even if you only want to drink soda. And some of them will want to kiss you, too! Who knew?... It beats the hell out of begging.
I found out about happy hour food too late. I had ditched Hub#1 and had a job waiting tables in Austin by the time I saw how it worked. And the bartender was my boyfriend, so kisses were strongly prohibited, not that I was looking for them (or drinks or food). If I was at the bar, I was usually just resting my feet after my shift, and watching the "Cocktail" show the bartenders put on. They would twirl bottles, fling stuff around, slide drinks down the bar, etc...It was a wild, crowded scene at happy hour.
*
O.K. the creepy time:
I was about 19 or 20 years old and I was taking the bus between Indiana and Nashville, and the bus stopped at the station in Louisville for a while. It was daytime, I may have had to switch busses, I can't remember. Anyway, an old man came up to me and started talking to me about how he was lonely, and would I just sit and talk to him for a while, in the bar near-by? I thought he was a sad guy, and if just talking to him for a while would cheer him up, I should try to help. (God, I was gullible! Don't you just want to smack me?!)
We went into this dark little bar. The people behind the bar seemed to know him, and he took me into a back room. I don't remember the conversation, but I remember he wanted kisses. I may have let him kiss me on the cheek and then I left pretty quickly. As I left, all the possible motives for the guy's actions began to flow into my pea brain.
I had no idea that I was raw meat on the street. I thought I could take care of any situation that might come up. I didn't know that to the professional predators, I stuck out like a baby lamb.
*
Once our cat caught a frog and when I took it away from him, I saw that it had a long open cut in it's skin exposing stuff that should not be out in the open. I decided stitches were out of the question, and the vet said they would kill it, in a humane way, if I wanted to pay for it. I'd have just left it with the cat if I wanted it dead.
So I had this great idea that I would super glue the skin back together and set him free near the creek. Don't know if it helped him or not. But my family laughs about how silly I was to do it. Silly!? It was f'n brilliant. Thinking outside the box...
*
One winter, about three years ago, I found a toddler wandering around outside a deserted gas station. I took him inside and asked the clerk to call the police, which he did. I stayed behind the counter with the clerk and the baby. He was coatless, not dressed to be outside. I was not handing this kid off to anyone who might come in until the police got there. My mommy instinct was rapidly taking notes: the kid was clean, diapers seemed pretty freshly changed, genial and sweet, no visible bruises, didn't seem to understand English, French or Spanish.
It was taking forever for the police to get there, when a group of Arabic men came into the store. On foot, no car. They immediately locked in on the kid and the kid looked back with recognition. One of them spoke to the baby and he responded and leaned toward him, so I was pretty sure this was his family. But I was not handing over a kid I had found wandering around, until the police got there. The clerk was telling the men that the police were coming, and that I had found the baby, etc...
When the police car pulled up, I gave the man the kid and explained what had happened, to the cop. The men said they had a restaurant in the shopping center and the toddler had just walked off. I believed them, so did the cop.
*
Once I took the kids swimming at the local YMCA. I was sitting by the shallow end of the indoor pool watching my kids, and noticed the beginning of the first swimming lesson for little kids. There were three perky teenage girls talking to the kids. They had maybe 15 or 18 kids sitting on the edge of the pool with their feet dangling in. Some of these guppies looked like they weren't two years old yet. The kid at the end of the line, right in front of me, silently slid off the side and was sinking to the bottom. I jumped up and grabbed it out of the water.
None of the "teachers" had even noticed. I made sure the kid was OK, then I got in the face of the nearest "teacher" and gave her a talking to. I wanted to stay and talk to the child's parent when they came back to pick the kid up, but we needed to leave, so on the way out I told the girl at the front desk what had happened. Something told me that the parents would never be told how close their kid came to drowning.
*
When my first son was 4 or 5 years old he choked on a peanut butter sandwich. I had to stick my finger in his throat and dig a glob of it out. Then I picked him up and with his head down, leaning over my arm, I rapped him on his back. The Heimlich maneuver would have been next, but he was able to cough out the rest.
This is a warning about "health food store" peanut butter. The kind where the oil separates from the mixture and sits on top, and you have to stir it back in every time you use it. As you use up the peanut butter, there is not any oil to stir back in near the bit at the bottom of the jar, so it is very stiff. This is what the sandwich was made with.
I cursed this "health food" and myself for using it, and never bought it again. Skippy, and Jiff etc., are always creamy and stand a much lower chance of choking your kid to death. If A.P. had passed out before he made it to the kitchen, where I was, I wouldn't have known he was choking, because he couldn't make a sound. I'll never forget the look of terror in his eyes, the color of his face, and his throat's unsuccessful attempts to retch it loose. I'll take additives over a dead kid any day.
*
I experienced periods of starvation, on and off, during my first marriage. I remember being jealous of the pets I would see in people's yards. I knew someone was making sure they would be fed. I only tried begging once, in Eugene, Oregon. I couldn't do it. I broke down crying in front of the store and a student asked me what was wrong and gave me the bottle of grape juice he had just bought. His kindness has never been forgotten, but I felt like shit, taking what wasn't mine. But I had a baby to nurse and a husband who was a selfish jack-ass. Thank you, kind stranger, whom ever you are.
The store was across the street from the University in Eugene, Oregon near Skoob Doog. I think that was the name of book store, 'good books' spelled backwards. We lived in an empty apartment behind it, across the street from the hospital. Our side window looked out onto a grassy area where a tempura restaurant next door had picnic tables set up for their customers. Years later, one of the Architecture Professors at the U. of Texas told me he was at the University in Oregon at that same time and ate at the picnic tables at that oriental restaurant next to us.
Anyway, the point of this was that I sometimes buy $10.00 worth of groceries for people on the side of the road with "will work for food" signs. And I used to keep granola bars in the car for when a short shopping trip wasn't possible. I'm a real sucker for hungry people.
*
I tried giving blood to get money for food. Actually I gave plasma. They separate it out of the blood and put what's left over back into your vein. I only did it twice before they told me I didn't weigh enough to give blood anymore.
I did learn that many of the people in line to give blood were the street people, the ones who had fallen through the cracks. This was before AIDS. You may have to thank a wino or that person sleeping on a heating grate, if you ever get a blood transfusion.
*
I had my purse stolen outside Ken Keesey's brother's store in Oregon too. I had applied for food stamps, and they were in the purse (macrame, of course, made by me, stupid hippy, string was cheap). No one would help us. The food stamp office people treated me like I was the hundredth person who had tried that story on them, and they turned me away with no suggestions for how to survive with no money and no food. So it was graveyard cherries and food my husband stole from a friend's house, while she was out of town. He was going to water her plants for her, so he had her key. She only had a little bit of food, and I think he probably drowned all her plants. She was probably too pissed to ask where her food went and why her plants were dead. She avoided us after that.
It was really nice of those people to plant cherry trees in the grave yard. Oregon cherries are sweet and good!
*
I wish I had known that in bars, they serve free food at happy hour! I was such an innocent, ignorant, idiot, and hadn't really been in a bar before (except for one creepy time that doesn't belong here). I was vegetarian brainwashed anyway, but, if you are hungry, that's the place to go! And people will send lots of free drinks down the bar to you! Even if you only want to drink soda. And some of them will want to kiss you, too! Who knew?... It beats the hell out of begging.
I found out about happy hour food too late. I had ditched Hub#1 and had a job waiting tables in Austin by the time I saw how it worked. And the bartender was my boyfriend, so kisses were strongly prohibited, not that I was looking for them (or drinks or food). If I was at the bar, I was usually just resting my feet after my shift, and watching the "Cocktail" show the bartenders put on. They would twirl bottles, fling stuff around, slide drinks down the bar, etc...It was a wild, crowded scene at happy hour.
*
O.K. the creepy time:
I was about 19 or 20 years old and I was taking the bus between Indiana and Nashville, and the bus stopped at the station in Louisville for a while. It was daytime, I may have had to switch busses, I can't remember. Anyway, an old man came up to me and started talking to me about how he was lonely, and would I just sit and talk to him for a while, in the bar near-by? I thought he was a sad guy, and if just talking to him for a while would cheer him up, I should try to help. (God, I was gullible! Don't you just want to smack me?!)
We went into this dark little bar. The people behind the bar seemed to know him, and he took me into a back room. I don't remember the conversation, but I remember he wanted kisses. I may have let him kiss me on the cheek and then I left pretty quickly. As I left, all the possible motives for the guy's actions began to flow into my pea brain.
I had no idea that I was raw meat on the street. I thought I could take care of any situation that might come up. I didn't know that to the professional predators, I stuck out like a baby lamb.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Where Are the Good Psych Dr.s?
I'm feeling better than I did yesterday. Savant was having a troubling spell of delusions. <- That makes it sound like they last less than months. Get real.
Last week was spring break, so he was home. I was happy to have him here. It is difficult for him to adjust to different surroundings, so going back to his apartment on campus was another hard adjustment.
I've got to find him a new psychiatrist. One that will actually give a shit.
Most of them work like vending machines with ants in the candy.
Last week was spring break, so he was home. I was happy to have him here. It is difficult for him to adjust to different surroundings, so going back to his apartment on campus was another hard adjustment.
I've got to find him a new psychiatrist. One that will actually give a shit.
Most of them work like vending machines with ants in the candy.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
More Dirt Than Fancy Today
Welcome to another episode of the winey, sad, little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus girl. I stole part of that from a suicide note. Not mine.
I feel it would be so redundant to bring up anything I've already talked about here. The triumphs and tragedies are repetitive: the same, the same, the sa..., can't be fixed, can't fix, can't fi... Savant, Savant, Sava...
Just when I imagine that calm is here at last, the bucket of ice water hits me in the face. I'm just glad you came back.
I just want to hear about you today. How ya been? I've been so caught up in my own shit, I forgot to listen when you told me. Sorry. Kiss, kiss. Please pretend I'm not crying; I swear I'm really listening this time. I love you. Love you. You...
I feel it would be so redundant to bring up anything I've already talked about here. The triumphs and tragedies are repetitive: the same, the same, the sa..., can't be fixed, can't fix, can't fi... Savant, Savant, Sava...
Just when I imagine that calm is here at last, the bucket of ice water hits me in the face. I'm just glad you came back.
I just want to hear about you today. How ya been? I've been so caught up in my own shit, I forgot to listen when you told me. Sorry. Kiss, kiss. Please pretend I'm not crying; I swear I'm really listening this time. I love you. Love you. You...
Saturday, March 04, 2006
The Poetry Jar
Most of my jars tell a story, or are a visual representation of my thoughts. When you look inside this jar, you see, through the glass, poems written by Savant when he was about 18 years old. This jar holds so much of Savant and me that I could never sell it. The pictures on the outside are beautiful to me, but also have meanings. I liked the irony of putting a Federal frame around this beautiful Native American Chief. To me, he is much more noble and honorable, than any of the genocidal federals you usually see pictured in such frames.
The little girl at the bottom of this picture symbolizes the freedom of today's African Americans. She is happy and cherished, dressed like a little princess, looking out her window at the flowers and birds, at a world with few limits.
No Flies On Jesus
They move like matadors
to swat the flies,
and we, in turn,
move like flies
to kill the bull.
*****
This picture shows Christ holding up a warped church, standing on the Earth. His gaze is directed toward the suffering people on the left. That is his chosen focus, not the religions that were invented by others, in his name. Does he look like the kind of guy who would feel comfortable hanging out in cathedrals, being worshiped and Holy all day? I think he looks more like a guy who is ready to do the hard work.
This shows what the poems on the inside look like. The picture of the Navajo man is flanked at the top by semicircles that are halves of a plate made to commemorate the new millenium. They are there to symbolize that few his people, and most of the native peoples of this hemisphere did not make it to this millinium.
The central figure here is a little Native American girl in a photo by Laura Gilpin. The design around her is to honor her beauty. Below her are some pictures of other people from the past. Above her is a tattered American Flag.
At the bottom, the picture is of a bison hunt, and to the right is an old Native American looking back on what their life was like, what it will never be again. Above are pictures of flowers, a Japanese lady, Buddha and a native American "notebook drawing".
The bottom of all my jars have pictures also. The Latin inscription, roughly translates to, "Bidden or unbidden, God is here." The pictures on either side of the inscription are of, in vitro fertilization, on the left; and Gabriel, the Angel of the Annunciation (the one who tells Mary she's pregnant) on the right. Personally I think the old "virgin birth" excuse is a pretty lame explanation for being pregnant, but you know how stories can get stretched and embellished after a few centuries. The Jesus story is just as good without the stuff that requires you to suspend your common sense. Take away the virgin birth, the magic, and the rising from the dead, and he is still a wise man. Why do churches want you to believe absurdities to prove you are worthy of God's love? In that case, Andrea Yates, poor delusional sweetheart, and others like her, will be first in line at the gates of Heaven. You end up with people killing themselves because they think there is a Jesus-mobile behind a comet.
Keebler's cookies are not made by Elves. And the Mormon Boys said no matter how nice I am, I'm going to Hell.
You Are
Sad and sitting
in the rain
scrawling nonsense
on yellowing copy-paper
marooned
on the islands of self,
staring blindly
out at the world,
as it rockets by
at the speed
of sanity.
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