What? (Photo)

Peeking (photo)

Moss (Photo)

Safe (Photo)

Peek (photo)

Filler

1. Were you named after anyone?
Do pseudonyms count?
2. When did you last cry?
You mean before right now? Kidding, probably yesterday.
3. What is your most embarrassing CD?
I am not embarrassed by music. If it sounds good, it is good.

4. Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell?
Never.
5. How do you release anger?
By not feeding it. Let it starve.
6. Do you trust others too easily?
No. I trust, then observe, then trust some more, etc.

7. What class in high school do you think was totally useless?
The lost year after high school. Oh, wait, class as in subject- religion, no question.
8. Do you use sarcasm a lot?
No. What do you mean? Are you implying something?
9. Favorite movie(s):
I've rated over 4,000 movies on Netflix, and you want one? Are you nuts? Give me a category and a time frame, I could maybe give you some suggestions.

10. Which celebrity do you most resemble?
Amanda Root.
11. What are your favorite colors?
Purple, and midnight blue.
12. What are you listening to right now?
The hum of the computer, the swish of the dishwasher.

13. What is the weather like right now?
Mild, dark, boring.
14. Favorite Drink?
Good beer.
15. Favorite Food?
New Taste of Asia's chili shrimp and chicken. Grow hair on your lungs.

16. Summer or winter?
Winter, as long as there is polartech.
17. Hugs or kisses?
Both. Ok, ok, hugs.

18. Where Would You Want to Go on your Next Vacation?
Iceland.

19. What Books are you reading?
A Year at the Movies- Kevin Murphy. Going Postal- Terry Pratchett. Absolute Friends- John leCarre.
20. What did you Watch Last Night on TV?
Cops. Why?
21. What's the furthest you've been away from home?
Saudi Arabia.

Ham (Photo)

Some folks are simply not shy.

I have won nanowrimo this year, and will be editing and posting chapters, probably starting next weekend. Thank you for your patience and continued support this past month. I hope the new POV and changes in style- due to simply burning out old, bad, habits, will meet the high standards of such an august group of writers who so kindly read my drivel.

If nothing else, I have gotten so much practice typing that I may be up to more frequent posts.

Whew.

Elegant (Photo)

And such a lovely south-of-London accent that always charmed me. Dear Aunt P.

Berries (Photo)

Ice (Photo)

Wilma (Photo)

Yoga (Photo)

Guardian (Photo)

Leaf (Photo)

Knot (Photo)

Fish! (Photo)

Argument (Photo)

Autumn (Photo)

Archives.

Wild hair up orifice. Nanowrimo. See you in December, read archives, leave posts.

~Love

Z

Red (Photo)

Red

Red was the color of church at it's most lavish and warm. Christmas drapery, vestments, poinsettias, infused with incense and sounding of carols and bells. Cranberry red tree ornaments, glassy distorted reflections that mirrored my curiosity. Festive color, scarlet ribbons and cherry flavored bubble lights.

My sister-in-law's bridesmaids in dark red velvet dresses for her November wedding. At eight, I thought this wonderful beyond belief.

Red is maple in autumn, berries and redwing blackbirds. Rolling through piles of brilliant leaves in the Irish Hills, a universe in crimson and orange crunchiness.

Red is blood, stark and vital beauty, dangerous and intense. Spurts to send a clamp to stop, the line of tiny rubies marking the flow. Red the saturation of nature, the human body in surgery.

Red was Gigi's ball, my aunt's fat black poodle who loved her ball, food, Aunt Alma and me, in that order. Spiturated rubber, I threw it endlessly as she chased it until both girl and dog were tired. Threw it down the laundry chute until she brought it back, and I would throw it down again. Red ribbons in her topknot when Aunt Alma groomed her, which lasted about an hour. Red polish on her nails.


A red wool blanket, washed and shrunken log ago. Brought out to cover me on winter nights when I had a cold. I imbued it with healing properties. We huddle under it in our dark blue terry robes. Moby kneads it then poses, jet black cat on blood red wool.

Library

I have lived in libraries. Brought to a local branch from before I was born, I knew it well even before being hired there when I was 17.

Campbell Branch was one of those old style buildings, dark wood and high ceilings, brown smooth undulating floors. But once I was an employee I was shown the lunchroom, also lovely wood and window high up and bright, Barbara's office with the books to be fixed and new books to be marked and organized. The toilet for staff was down a steep uneven stairway, and stored Benny's cleaning supplies. I would learn how to open and close the windows with the long pole with the iron hook, and sit behind the large wooden desk and have access to the cards and learn how to change the due date stamp. I shelved books, and loved to organize the children's picture books, a never ending task, but one that opened such a wonderful world of art and humor. I loved Mercer Mayer and Seuss, Potter and Sendak. I could sit on that lovely bench and alphabetize books. So soothing an occupation.

I got the Dewey system in my brain, I still imagine books according to where they will be on those shelves. Especially the heavily used children's sections. Joke and car books, animals and comics.

It was the first place I got to call adults by just their first names, kind of a cheat because three of them were Barbara, the head librarian was Mister Beldin- always- but I never cared to talk to him anyway.

There were two SLA positions, student library assistant. We referred to ourselves as SLA-ves. In my two plus years there, first was Michelle- a fan, of Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica and baseball and Beach Boys. We went to a lot of movies together, since she had a car. Then Billy, who was only 15 and into Dungeons and Dragons. I crushed on him -to no effect, because he was there. Nice geeky kid.


The patrons made the job even more interesting, especially since the Social Services offices were just down the street. The oddest ones tended to prefer one of us, and Barbara referred to them as "(your name here)'s friend." My "friend" was a tall dyed-red-haired woman in her 60's with bright thick makeup who tended to lean in way too close to tell you all about her day. I eventually figured out that she was nearly deaf. Mr. Belding's "friend" was an old guy who wore coats and galoshes all summer and whose odor would come in about five minutes before he did*. Barbara's was a middle aged Italian man who brought in a passel of kids and reeked of garlic. Incomprehensible and odiferous, but endearing. I don't remember the other two Barbaras (the children's librarian and the adult librarian)'s "friends".

Saturdays would be the children's programs, movies or story tellers, crafts. I would run the projector and try to keep an eye on the short folks. I checked in/out books, took overdue fines, and on slow days, got to study or read. Summer I worked more hours, and read even more books. Once I walked there during a tornado, the sky bottle green, and the floor flooded.

I would work in other libraries, shelving tons of books as I inched my way through school. I have the papercut scars to prove it. I can flip a book to better read the spine and slide it on an overstuffed shelf -all with one hand. If I could make a living wage doing it, I would happily shelve books all the time. Perhaps when I retire, as a place to go every day. Find the corners of another library. The worlds they open up, and the people I would meet.

Besides, that is where I keep all my books, and staff don't pay overdues.





*Tipping my hat to Terry Pratchett and Foul Ole Ron, and his smell.

Walk (Photo)

Way

I was taken to a park. There was a slide. Unlike any other time I'd been to a park, there were a bunch of other children, lined up, sliding down, running around to slide down again. I was baffled by this, and patiently waited for them to finish playing so I could have the slide to myself as usual. My mother thought I was shy, and urged me to get in line and play. I tried, I did it, but found it an utterly unpleasant experience. I preferred not to "play" in a crush of strange, pushy and smelly children. Not shy, just not that social.

A similar experience with an Easter Egg hunt. Lined up, I could see several eggs, and figured I'd just go pick them up, never really considering the mass of other children who could see them as well as I could. I hesitated, waiting for them all to run off while I went and picked up a couple. I was aghast at them taking my eggs, leaving me empty handed and foolish. My poor brother who took me to the event, I'm sure he had no idea how to explain. He got me an egg somehow, plastic, empty.

I have liked crowds at times. Christmas Eve morning at Eastern Market is a joyful rush of teeming crowd, cold and friendly with tea, cheese, and chocolate as a reward. I rather like shopping at Haymarket on a Saturday morning. I don't mind when the train is so crowded there is no room to move, as long as my feet don't hurt too badly. I work in a team in a small crowded room all day. I love my work.

But I have this issue with people getting in my way.

In Utah, there is a socially acceptable (well, not to me) habit of people holding conversations in the only passage through an area. In the middle of doorways or crowded hallways, store entrances or grocery aisles. At the airport, I once had to force my way past two well dressed women chatting at the bottom of an escalator. I probably didn't need to have whacked one with my backpack quite so vigorously. Not need, as such.

I missed my train home today because of several people blocking pathways unnecessarily. And another woman on the train "saved" the window seat, others having to stand. A group of three further blocked her empty seat. I was seething about this, until I saw the guy hit her absently with his backpack as he gestured to his two friends. I had to grin, draining my irritation.

I often sit alone at lunch, as a way of resting my brain, and gathering myself together. When I was in Basic, I ate very fast, always the first to finish, even if I was the last in line, because sometimes it meant I would have five minutes alone. I could walk back to the barracks and sit and be by myself. Much as I love friends, much as I love my work, I need the balance of time alone. Having a place to myself. I don't mind waiting until everyone else has taken their turn.

Live

We were told the Blue Pigs would be putting on a show. I imagined guys in pig costumes, or maybe blue animals. Trooped into the cafeteria/meeting room, the small stage was full of amps and musical gear. When the police came out (in uniform? Not sure, can't remember) and did loud sound checks, I put my fingers in my ears, my aversion to loud noises combining with my fears of the unknown. Whoever thought that a Detroit Police rock band would play in an inner city Catholic grade school? After a couple of songs, I was in love, and whoever booked them was obviously a genius. They were talented and contagious, endearing. It was Motown and it rocked. My first experience with live music, live performance.

Taken by family to hear the Irish Rovers, I was blown away. Actual people creating glorious music in front of my eyes. I had no words for it, just wanted to sing along, to dance to it all. I would later prefer more authentic stuff, question my earlier taste. Still, they made beauty, and it is what it is.

My first paid-for-by-me concert was much more exciting in anticipation. A work friend wanted to see the Beach Boys. Not my choice, but I was eager, imagined comfortable seats and engaging music, seeing their faces. Yeah, right, in an arena. The Boys were obviously bored and uninvolved, as was I. Mike Love tried to get a bit of charisma going, give him credit. I came out deaf and disappointed. Let's not even go into having Culture Club tickets foisted on me by a group of college friends. Boy George played to the wings, and the playlist was unknown to me, and monotonous. So when Tanya twisted my arm to go see The Police, it took some major twisting. Joan Jett opened for them, and was booed. I was not hopeful. We were at least on the floor of the arena.

They weren't bored. They seemed to hate each other ~found out later they really did~ but such energy they put into it, they were excruciatingly talented, the songs were power, and Sting was audible through the amplification. I was utterly blown away, and still consider it a miracle that I heard them on their Synchronicity Tour. A point of amazement and pride.

Music concerts would always be rare, occasional fairs or street musicians would constitute my live musical fix. When D worked at a ticket outlet, we went to hear the symphony several times, including one with Christopher Parkening. Nothing like music that raises gooseflesh and lives on in the heart.

I found They Might Be Giants. I have seen them eight different places. I had no idea, seeing them live the first time, only having heard their recordings, that they would be a great dance band. They rock. I have never been disappointed. (Well, the one time they were at a July 4th stadium extravaganza, one in a series of 'entertainments' including a children's choir and frisbee catching dogs, but it wasn't their fault.) They have a confetti cannon. They goof around. They are deeply talented, and very fun, and they let their audiences sing along. And we do. Loudly.

The best music is live, and surprizing, unexpected and impressive. Like a stamp, these moments shape my emotional world. My usual musical taste is thrown out when I heard a good band live, the interaction reaches out past my filters and drags me in, skipping.

Perching (Photo)

Prayer

Memorized prayers of the Rosary were a mantra for me, a chant that I used to keep myself together during my father's rants. Funerals included Saying the Rosary, a warm overstuffed room as the priest spoke the first part of the prayer, and we all responded, in an hour long ritual that truly did ease grief. The Rosary (other than said at funerals) is largely the Hail Mary at a ratio of about 10:1 with the Glory Be and the Our Father, often recited at speed.

~Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.~

The other main prayer was Grace, said before every meal, mumbled aloud. It took me years to decipher it as it was slurred into incomprehensibility through three to a dozen hungry, hurrying voices reciting at once.
~BleesusourLord, Anthezigiffs, Wichwerbout t'receve, from Thighbountythewchristhourlord, AMEN. ~

I had no idea what I was saying until I was about 10. I had to ask, and my mother was astounded and a bit angry. "Why didn't you ask?" How could I have asked? It was magic words said over food. I do prefer it to the Mormon tradition of extemporaneous thanks, which can be protracted, belabored and excruciating. (Nice enough people, but, c'mon, let's eat.)

Living on my own, I did not say 'my prayers' at night anymore, as I could not find it in me to believe them. Gradually, finding my own path, I began to pray again, tough I found it difficult to develop a form. I no longer had any idea where prayers went, nor did I care, but like writing letters never sent, I knew they helped me to understand, to forgive, to heal.

I would reclaim one old memorized prayer from my early life after hearing Joseph Campbell. I didn't like him in many ways, and I think he has some critical flaws, but he laid out the evidence that all religion is myth and culturally bound stories, and that they are all connected, in such a comprehensive and convincing matrix. That myth is not an insult, but a way of understanding the flow of belief and the desire to understand what it is to be human in the world through history. He showed images of art and artifacts that I could never have seen, or seen in that light, in any other place.

He gave me the most cogent definition of God. I remember it as "God is the word to indicate that which is transcendent." Not male or female, but both and neither. Not good or evil, but all the universe, without qualification. Any duality deemed irrelevant, but included. Not me or them, but a way of seeing that does not differentiate, is one and many and all.


I wanted Hail Mary, untainted, consistent with my soul. I did some adjusting, trying to keep the meter, making it about Her. This is now my mind prayer when I cannot summon thought of my own. In a plane about to take off, or land, for instance:

~Hail Mary, full of grace, the Word is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. Holy Mary, Mother and God, forgive us, thy sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen. ~


I don't know if it means anything useful, but the old version is certainly jibberish for me. It's a love of the form, the rhythm, the ritual, the lost idea of family and connection. I like the idea of a rosary said at my funeral, using any words that will comfort any friends who might be left to care. For myself, well, I will be past caring I expect, but maybe those voices joined will comfort me even then.

Glory Be to our friends, our loved ones, and our holy spirit, as we were in our beginning, are now and ever shall be, no beginning nor end. Amen.

Mouse (Photo)

Shoulder (Photo)

Footnote (photo)

Heaven

I have always been fascinated with Heaven. I remember being angry at Adam and Even when I was small, that they messed it up for all of us, and -I- would have left the apple alone. If it had been me, we would live peacefully among the animals with fruit every day, no meat or milk that I had to finish up before leaving the table. No anger, no itchy clothes, nothing scarier than a talking snake. Took it very personally.

I clearly remember once crying at the song Toyland- because I so wanted to be there. Not quite understanding what the lyric "Once you cross it's borders, you can never return again" meant. At times thinking that if I could get there, I would never see my mother again, at others that if I couldn't find a way there very soon, I would not be able to get there when I was grown up. I think I conflated it with other children's songs about the idyll of childhood and Big Rock Candy Mountain (Burl Ives version.) I didn't get the nostalgic ideal of a wondrous childhood, not being in the middle of one.

I could also not wrap my mind around the Christian, Catholic Heaven. Eternity praising God. Like endless Mass. I just boggled at the idea of that as a reward. Despite being assured that once I saw the face of God, that would be glorious. Hm, seeing some old white guy's face forever is... I'm sorry, could you explain that again? Talking with those gone before seemed good, I could chat with St. Joan and ask her about her life, and other saints and historical figures, and Leonardo Da Vinci. (I'd seen an Italian documentary about him, and had a bit of a crush.)


Studying moral hierarchies and operant conditioning, I made the connection to what the literal religious people did with the Heavenly reward and the stick of Hell. I was appalled. This life didn't matter, only the next life? And the only reason to be a good person in this one was to make it to the next one, and avoid eventual suffering? Christian definition of being saved. Saved for what? Was that like saving it for marriage? Yeah, God Said it- but Who Said God Said it? Too much living in the ideal future, with too little attention to the eternal present. Too much like yearning for an idealized past that never existed either. A lazy theology, to believe that idleness is ideal, rather than useful work. How ungracious, to be given this amazing opportunity, and say,"I'll endure this, but I want more, better, different." How petty and selfish. How limiting.

My search for the ideal afterlife was my first step in discovering my own spirituality, my critical and rigorous search for a genuine and attentive life. I developed an elaborate set of rules for being introduced into one's own heaven, who you could talk to, who you could punish. One gestalt involved those who hurt me living through a version of my life as me, feeling what they did from inside me. Being fair, I also had to live those moments of other's lives that I made painful. After all that was done, I could go to any place or time and observe, understand. But, this being eternity, then what? Idleness not being a virtue presumably even in heaven.


When I first read about Nirvana, I was even more deeply confused. True nothingness, loss of personality and individuality to merge with the universe and end the separate life of my soul. Horrifying, frightening. Over the years, finally not hoping for "reward", nor accepting that Someone was there to hand any out, I have come to find this infinitely comforting. When I am ready for this, I become, again, the eternal and infinite. Oh.

Having experienced strange liminal events surrounding deaths, I suspect that there is more to what happens to us when we die. I refuse to define it. I do not know, cannot know, and am suspicious of those who claim they do. I like the philosophy of reincarnation, give me however many chances I need to get it together. I do not desire, but I am comforted simply ending as my life ends. I have love, I have life, how could I be greedy for an unknowable more, or different?

The reward for a life well lived is a well lived life. It's up to me to make it heaven.


If I am given more, I will accept it with grace, and gratitude.


Like that last bit of chocolate.

Bark (Photo)

Ambulance (Photo- with text)

My dear, wonderful cousins, as I am taken off in the ambulance as a precaution. I knew someone had to have taken pictures, given the number of people at the party. I feel awful that they had such a scare, but at least it was just a scare. Happy Birthday, anyway, Ed. My apologies for belaboring the experience, but it really has been only three weeks now. And I am still amazed when I suddenly realize how beautiful breathing is.


I remember later part of what I heard in dribs as I came around. My dear D giving information to the EMTs, calm and clear and taking care of me. He was the one who unstuck the O2 mask from my lip. He gave my medical information. He sounded so normal, I forgot him. It was so expected, my memory glided over his quiet steadfast presence.

He feels guilty and weird for being so disengaged, and feeling so little at the time. I'm still trying to convince him this is the ideal reaction to a crisis, no panic. He has no more medical training than Army CPR from 15 years ago, but he did everything right.

Suicide

I can't think of a time in my life when I did not imagine killing myself. As a small child, growing up in a Catholic environment, this was the darkest sin. My small misery was such that I still imagined it, even as I felt deep guilt about it. My teenaged angst was variations on the theme of death and self destruction, even as I lived exactly as was expected- explicitly.

I read mysteries obsessively, both fiction and True Crime and came to the realization that a botched suicide was far worse than any circumstances that were the impetus for escape by that route. I also believe I extrapolated that murder was a more reasonable alternative. Why kill myself when I could kill my tormentor? I began to plot my father's murder. But, as anyone who reads mysteries knows, murderers always get caught. I could never come up with a plan that would not leave me in far more chaotic trouble than before. I also thought it through, to foster care or prison, or to adulthood and escape. Just as I could not figure out a sure way to kill myself, the failed attempt being more damnation than the completion. Outliving current troubles seemed the surest path, so I endured.

In my darkest hours, this is what really saved me, imagining who would have to find me. A child? Stumbling upon my bloodied body, perhaps after a day or so? No. I did not hate anyone enough to leave them to deal with my mess. I delayed the act until I could see it through, leaving as little collateral damage as possible.

I began to fantasize escape, a fantasy that lasted until my late 20s. I would drive off and begin a new life with a new name, lost to those who claimed to care. It became acute when I was training for the National Guard, and full time Army was a real option, and my "marriage" was disintegrating completely. It was also the closest I actually came to a realizable plan.

I was in Kansas, OJT for the Army, alone, fights over the phone becoming exceptionally toxic, and I wanted it all to end. My CO, seeing me at the breaking point, sent me to an Army shrink. I knew that confidentiality in the military isn't even a fiction, and "suicidal ideation" was grounds for commitment. I talked about stress to the doc, and silently formed a plan- which effectively calmed me down considerably. I was going to catch a cab, go to a town pawn shop and buy a gun "for self defense", and late at night on the weekend, go to mid-stairwell in the hospital and shoot myself in the heart. Rationalizing that medical people could most easily deal with a dead body, and it would even be near the morgue. I see some potential flaws now, but it wasn't too bad a plan, all in all.

It was payday, I was on my way to call the cab, I had cash in hand. The hall of the barracks was lined with the full time Army folks, celebrating with lots of beer, and extra beer. I tried to politely get by, but they were having none of it, I was cajoled into a beer and a chat. It was the first time in a while I felt included, felt like laughing. I could always go tomorrow, right? I wound up very drunk, and kissing a very nice guy in the wee hours, and generally enjoying myself. Hell, I figured, might as well wait it out a while longer. So, I did.

It would be a hellish year when I got back, but I would survive it. And escape, and find myself again at the behest of the US Army, in barracks. With yet another nice guy. Who would turn out to be wonderful. My only regret being that my time when I could have stopped trying to live anymore, was over, because he would be so hurt, and have to clean up after me. No. Damn.

The fantasies continued, never ever admitted to in any therapy that I would occasionally turn to when I was in a bad knot. Every night, every morning of nursing school, I imagined myself killing myself, a knife through the throat, IV K+ (painful, but fast and certain), not really wanting to end my life, but to not have to get up the next morning and struggle on and keep going. To sleep. And not to dream.

Suicide was the option in extremis, like putting down an animal. Not so constant a mindset by now, but solace if I were to outlive D for too long. I could sell off or give away everything, and finally lay my burden down.

Then I had this brush with mortality for real. In the following week, I had the chance to talk with a therapist through my new employer's EAP. He asked me at the end, somewhat apologetically, "I have to ask if you have any thoughts of harming yourself."

I laughed, genuine relieved heartfelt laughter, "No, not at all," and I was telling the whole truth. I could not harm myself, even in my dreams, anymore. I had not realized what a trap my "escape hatch" was (had become?) I know, for real, down to the basement, that I love life. No conditions, no matter what, I had finally committed to living.

I'm still having flashbacks. My work in surgery means I am there to assist with intubations and extubations, and that bothers me viscerally as it never did before. When an anesthetized patient gags on the tube, I gag and blink back tears. I am even more emotional than my usual easy-to-cry self.

I am also calmer, more forgiving, happy.

I've stopped killing myself. My death will come in it's own time, not to be feared. But, now is the time for life. While my candle holds out to burn, this humble sinner will live with a whole heart, grateful, troubled, whole.

I breathe.

Fortune (Photo)

Crack

I was born between the generations. Not part of my parents' Depression fears, nor my older brothers '60's rebellion, I fell between the cracks of the Named generations. I was too young to remember the day Kennedy was shot, too old to have had computer access in my school. Too young for Howdy Doody, too old for Sesame Street, or even the Electric Company. I had leftovers, my brother's Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs- or the remains of them.

I was not the object of hope, but the salvage from despair. All the anti-drug anti-sex messages were aimed at me, warning me of the excesses of my half generation older brothers. I had missed the boat, and I had escaped the worst of the dangers. I saw from the car window the scars from the Detroit riots of '67, boarded up storefronts, and the death of the older neighborhoods. I remember vaguely the gas wars, and the prices dropping to 30¢ a gallon. My oldest brother was in Thailand during the Vietnam War, it was simply the underlying horror of my early childhood.

What I came into consciously in the popular mind was the fear of nuclear war, and pollution infecting my world. I supped feminism as a right, an inevitability, to grow into as the society would. I assumed that all the old small minded men would die out, and the boys my age would assume the obvious- that women were due equal rights. Assumed to be a goody-goodie- I was not offered drugs in school. Shy and depressed, I was not offered sexual experimentation either.

I remember not being able to find clothes that were not hideous polyester knit, and skirts too short, and jeans not allowed. My mother bemoaned the difficulty of finding slips, and I longed to never wear a dress again. Popular music was a constant, consumed with no more thought than Wonder Bread or canned corn. I was given no choice, so I did not evaluate. Having no money myself, I was not invested in the material culture of my time.

When I went to college, a year after high school, I was 19. I caught up on the mass culture, but not just the current one. I had film classes, and the University Film Society and the Detroit Institute of Arts Film Theater, and the Punch & Judy, and dollar night at the Ren Cen, seeing everything foreign and domestic. I most enjoyed going folk dancing- never shared by my friends. I had friends ten years older, and two or three years younger- when the world seemed to have changed when I wasn't looking. I learned from them, but I was never a part of their soap operas of rotating roommates, loves and dramas, existential angst or nostalgia. I was quietly blundering along my own path, in my own timeline, hiding my experiences as unworthy and uninteresting, not part of the movement of the lives around me.

I am still hopelessly out of step with any group of folks around me. If I have a drummer it is Steward Copeland. I was on my spouse's friend's BBS before there was a www. I love music from all over the world, since before it was called World Music, and I sing Sacred Harp which is a very old form of folk music. Neither truly Buddhist nor ever evangelical, I do try to live in a christian manner and grow the serenity treasured in Eastern philosophies. I have this outlet for my writing that strains the definition of blog. I don't follow the rules unless I think there is a point to them. I don't dress like anyone I know, I never wanted a diamond ring, pregnancy or children, a house or a dog.

I do not do drugs, although I may well have tried marijuana on several occasions many years ago (May Have because I told the Army not ever, so well, can't admit anything, can I?) I am against the war going on, but I despair of making any difference in ending it- just as I despair of ending bigotry or sexism or Global Climatological Fuck Up (GCFU) or ugly fashion. All I can do is object and live my life consistent with my conviction. And with kindness toward all I can touch.

Because if WWI didn't end war, any more than WWII, and the activists of the 60's fell down on all their promises, how can I hope to Change the World?

Perhaps by putting just the right amount of pressure in the crack, in my own small way, in my own time, one soul alive to possibility can make a millimeter of difference. I figured out in second grade that I cannot shush the rest of the class when the teacher asks for quiet. I can, however, be silent myself. I can become myself, only that, and it is everything, in any generation, in any culture, in any world.

Slide

I remember the day. We were going to a slide that was as tall as a building. I asked over and over again how tall it was, trying to get the size, the idea of it, into my mind, never quite did. Mom and aunts, cousins and brothers, two cars, a grand outing. But after much searching, it seemed the slide was gone, no evidence it had ever been there. Although I have seen such huge slides since, I have no idea what that one looked like. A family legend, a strange sort of mystery for me still.

So we stopped at a park to picnic. There were long teeter-totters, big enough for all the kids to get onto, which we did. As the smallest one there, I was sat in front, a brother holding me. This is all I remember, until I was surrounded by everyone staring down at me lying in the sand, and my head bursting. I could barely catch my breath as I sobbed uncontrollably. I heard "She's gonna have quite a goose-egg!" This confused me more in my agony. I tried to only whimper, because that hurt my head less. Ice was wrapped in a cloth and put on my head. I had no idea what had happened, sitting there in the sand.

All the older cousins, and my brothers were criticized for putting me on the overloaded see-saw. I heard the stories, they said I flew through the air. I was sad I couldn't remember this, as it sounded rather fun. But then they said I hit my head on the center bar, the fulcrum, a substantial metal pipe, which seemed to me improbable. I was jollied along, more talk of my having a goose egg, they calmed me somewhat, but the pain really was astonishing, worse than after having my tonsils out. I would find out what a goose-egg was, as the bump on my forehead swelled and turned colors. I felt I had ruined the day, and any chance for the elusive slide to be suddenly found.

I think about this now, and realize I had a concussion- by definition a hit on the head causing unconsciousness. I wonder about my migraines, which may well have started with this accident. I wonder who was there, and if anyone else remembers now- especially since I am not entirely clear which cousins. I wonder if taking me to a hospital was even considered, or if it would have made any difference if they had.

I was thinking about lying in the dirt and an ice cold cloth on my head- and finding it unbearable. This is one of those odd moments from my recent acute incident- I pushed away what felt like ice in a cloth on my head, explaining that wet was nice, but the ice was unbearable.

I have been having more flashbacks today.

Stair (Photo)

Accident

I was in the back seat of the Studebaker with my brother Bill when the door popped open. I have an image of the road speeding by beneath me. He grabbed me in and slammed the door. This was before seatbelts were standard. I don't even remember locks on the door, but I was very small at the time. I always figured he'd saved my life.

My father had picked me up from ballet class. When he made a fast left turn, the woman in the other car may have sped through the red light. All I know is she slammed into the back door on my side. My father made me anxious driving before then. He was frantic. I simply wanted to go to the gas station to make a call to mom, but I was wearing leotard and tights, I was only eight, and he wouldn't listen to me. It would be many years until I could open my eyes when a car was approaching from the right. I had nightmares.

When I was ten, he was driving us out to the airport, I was flying out to Arizona to visit my brother Dave for the summer. There was a four way stop. Neither he nor the pick-up seemed to notice this. I wound up on a later flight, the car was totaled. More nightmares, more fears of cars coming from the right. More fear of his mindless driving, and my entrapment in childhood.

My mom had taken me to see a movie, it was raining, we were at a red light. A 15 year old in his mother's car skidded into us. No license, no permission, I was appalled and angry, being myself 14. Calmness prevailed with mom. That night I was having sharp spasming neck pain and was taken to the ER. Given a collar and told to use moist heat, my neck would never be quite the same. Different nightmares followed.

Living up in Kalkaska, rural, small town, at the edge of my pay, I was hit by a sheriff of a nearby town- he ran a red light when I was in the intersection. He was treated with great understanding by the Kalkaska sheriff. My inability to afford to fix the damage were answered with a referral to a local garage and a make-do repair suggestion. More nightmares, another version of a trap.

With the ex, who drove way too fast, never asked for directions, but was otherwise an able driver, a bad crash exploded in front of us. Semi clipped a young woman in a Honda, spun her around. We barely tapped her car in this chain reaction. I had just passed my Army CPR classes, and my terror was knowing I had to act. I ran toward her, and cried with relief that she was breathing. She had a head injury, was not wearing her seatbelt, was a nursing student. She joined my parade of nightmares in a year of very different fears.

I'd just been hired for my first full time RN position, we had been looking for a new car, as the Subaru was falling to bits. I took D to work since it was raining. Car ahead of me stops, I stop, fucking SUV behind us does not stop. Well, not like it was going to take much to total the poor old thing. Still. No one hurt, had to rush to get the already mostly chosen new car.

This week, after being on the wrong side of a resuscitation, I had to go for my first week's orientation to a new job. I had hoped to get some help from the Occupational Health nurse when I had my vaccination records done for my increasingly sore neck. Instead, I was given an Return to Work form that had to be filled out before I could start working. A long wait -in a walk-in clinic, since I hardly had time to find a PCP on my shiny new insurance. The Doc there who was helpful and gave me drugs, also filled out the form in a confusing manner. I was in no shape to properly check. Unhelpful, obstructive bureaucracy followed. I prefer to leave it at that. I sorted it out, after much walking, and talking.

Not breathing for a minute, and being beaten up to correct that, leaves me with much the same side effects as the car accidents. The terror and helplessness in the moment. Knowing who was really important. Fury over stupidity and panic. Abiding gratitude. Fearsome images that play over and over in my mind. A desire to change the systemic flaws that make error more probable. The exhaustion of damage in the gaps of life, stress-points and liminal darkness. Fear. Unexpected calmness, and detachment.


Pain in the neck.

Thread

I work full time at a hard job that is in demand, that I figure counts in life and is satisfying more often than not. I make a living wage, more than many folks in jobs involving manual labor of any kind.

I have worked enough benefits-free, crappy, dead-end, part-time jobs in my life to know the kind of hopeless fatigue that sets into bones. I know the gut drop sensation when the stated wage per hour and the total expected on the check has nothing to do with reality, nor does it come up to the figure of the added up bills. I know about the daily scan of classifieds and fliers for yet another part time or temporary job. Even now, with a decent wage, we live in a tiny apartment that we found out is going condo- and far out of our reach or desire for purchase, when our lease is up next year.

My dear one worries because he is doing grad school full time, and I will not compass him working more than a small job, because this is his later-in-life, last, best chance. Because although making rent and having security matter deeply to us, money, really, when we stop to think about it, does not.


I used to kid him that I had married him for his money. Then quote Casablanca: "(Shrug) I was misinformed." We both came together when we had nothing, and were scrabbling along. We both leapt into the dark of our future, with no idea how we were going to float. We took turns holding each other's heads up, breathing in shifts, until we found our feet. Now that he has found his own course, he is feeling guilty that I am the one holding him up. And I say.

Bunk.

We are not living our lives to make money. We are not living our lives to own a home, or a car, or travel the world. Desirable comforts all, but not the point. We love and are loved. We have friends, and new found cousins, we care deeply for. We are curious and helpful. He is happy researching, and writing and growing his considerable intellect. Happy.

When we first got together, he said his goal in life was to make me happy. Seemed utterly unreasonable to me then, but he did it. Does it every day. So, what could I do but my damnedest to reciprocate? This is our Deal. We each try to live up to the other's opinion of us. And become better people for the effort. Money is a kind of barometer- which we share and save to make sure we are ok. But no more, really, than say chocolate or warm sweaters.

I want him to be happy. To have work that he enjoys, to feel competent and of value in the face of the world. He wants that satisfaction. We want to live in that space between desperation and smugness.

It's taking longer than expected, but we've come further than I would once have imagined.




I really married him for his dimple.

Bruised (Photo)

Life (Photo)

Breathe

Breathing is good. Breathing is wonderful. Breathing after I thought I might not take another breath is a miracle. Today I have bruises on my rib edges, a sore back and shoulders, a raw throat, a tendency to tear up, and a very worried man beside me. I send out my gratitude to the world, the EMTs, Rowley police, various new met cousins of my cousins Elizabeth and Ed, more friends and cousins, and my own dear one who stayed calm and did what was needed.

It was a party. I had a bit of wine, not usual for me, I was enjoying myself, nibbling on appetizers, enjoying the mild air, the good people, being welcomed, watching Ed's joy as the small party became a surprize huge gathering. He was given a very silly hat, which he wore with aplomb. I decided to get a bit more substantial food, a bit of steak tips. They were a bit gristly, and I thought I'd bitten through enough to swallow a small bit, but the larger bit stuck and went down as well. I couldn't cough it up, I mimed to D the Heimlich maneuver, which he immediately started. I figured it would just pop right out, like in the movies, like in the CPR class descriptions. It stayed glued. D got someone else to try, and I heard the new rescuer say "bend over!, bend over!" wondering if that would make a difference. And started to go black. I didn't mind dying for my own sake, but I went out agonized at leaving D, in such a messy, pointless way. How stupid to die at a birthday party, in front of so many people. But I was helpless, my throat blocked, my life collapsing.

Then I was on my side, looking at dirt, and glory, glory, glory, I was breathing. Raspy uncertain breaths, but I was breathing! I never realized how lovely dirt could look. And I could hear a voice saying "She looks much less blue" and "She's pinking up." More phrases that made sense at the time, but I can't remember now. I wanted to reassure them, I said "Breathing is good" and I'm fine, I'm fine, and Hi, wow that was scary. One voice said "She'll feel better if you wipe that dirt off" I said I didn't mind the dirt at all, it was beautiful dirt, as long as I was breathing. I can't say that is what actually was heard, but I think I got a few relieved laughs. A man told me he was giving me a face mask with oxygen, coaxing me into accepting it. Completely unnecessary, I jammed it onto my face and sucked in, my chest easing, delicious oxygen. I found my cousin Fran holding my right arm, and she looked so beautiful and caring. I reached out to my left and felt D's shoe, and we found each other's hands, and I drank in his worried face. I'm fine, I'm fine, breathing is wonderful, this was scary. Said a bright Hi to the woman in the uniform who came and took my vital signs and asked me questions.

I didn't want to get taken to the hospital. We can't afford the expense, I will be fine, but oh, my head is sparkly. I deferred to D, who said go. I complied. My EMT talked to me the whole weird ride in the ambulance, the same kind of litany that I do for my recovery room patients. I cried the whole way, but she believed me when I just said Ignore it, normal stress reaction. By the end of the ride, I'd managed to tell her what I did for a living, and she laughed that I knew everything she'd been telling me. Didn't mind, I'd found it very reassuring. The heavy pain below my zyphoid eased after a belch or two before we got to the hospital. I put out my hand when the gurney moved, and there was D's hand. We grinned.

I was checked, monitored, watched. My oxygen levels were the acceptable over 90%, but not the good over 95%, for a while. My throat hurt, I was wiped of all energy or desire to move. They listened to my lungs, my gut. My head spun, partly from the wine. By 7PM I talked them into letting me go home. Even D didn't object by then. I was given precautions on the potential sequela from the resuscitation effort. They reluctantly discharged me after a few more signatures. Elizabeth took us back. When she drove into the driveway, Ed stood waiting, then gathered me into his arms. I felt like a long lost child, welcomed back from the grave. For so I was, and I was just as glad to see him.

Death had come to the party, so when I came back alive, everyone there had to touch me, to reassure themselves, which also reassured me. I was happy to hug any of these lovely people. I was alive, because of them. There was more humor, the advantage of a party with the addition of red and blue flashing lights- regarding the reputation in the neighborhood. The joy of breathing. Stealing the spotlight from the birthday boy. (So what if it was his 70th.)

Today, I feel very fragile. D is worried and shaken, keeps holding me with a kind of wordless desperation. I have emailed people, because I needed to connect with my life, our life. Moby was very skittish when we got home, and he let me hold him a long time. He was at our feet all night, and as near to me as he could get all day.

I am alive. I breathe. I am deeply grateful.

I feel very loved.

Branch (Photo)

Crisis

I am who you want in a crisis. I stop, listen, see, and act. My anxiety disappears, I do. I will gather the children, I will have my gas mask on, I will run for the Defibrillator, I will run toward the victim, I know. I have. I do not quite remember when I knew this of myself, during my first resuscitation in nursing school? The first car accident I was in? The next day I will fall apart, but in that critical hour, I will stand.

I believe in triage, although trained, it was always very right intuitively to me. Save who you can, do what you can, move on. Brutal choices, no looking back. Simple choices, action. Still, it took me longer than I thought reasonable to automatically prioritize breathing, a common failing. A year working surgery-recovery to thoughtlessly, automatically, pull out the O2, pull up the jaw to clear the airway, check breathing first and always. I think the reason may be deeply ingrained genetic history. That if a person is not breathing, until modern times, they were not salvageable, so the ingrained human reaction is to go on to the next and staunch bleeding- which is survivable under rough conditions.

Two stories from the first week of hurricane suffering: patients in a nursing home abandoned to the flood, and an ICU nurse, for days, manually breathing for a patient on a ventilator. The first is condemned as heartless and selfish, the second as noble and right. To me, in my darkest hours, I know the first is the sadly, selfishly human survival action, and the second foolish and wasteful, if admirable in impulse. The staff (with the culpable owners off elsewhere) could little have saved disabled elderly, had little choice or resources to do else. The second, who could have eased suffering among others, chose to focus on one who would not survive anyway. Survival is not pretty, and those on-the-ground choices are not always how we want to see ourselves. Altruism is the high risk gamble, the ideal we want others to embody.

So, most of us save the young who will be strong and carry us along, and one will save the oldest member whose grandmother told him about getting to the next valley that may not be flooded. The ghosts follow along, for good or ill.

And the criminals? The ones shooting at the rescuers? Some were shot, some slipped through to safety as well. We want to be innocent, but it is not necessarily a survival trait.

We are thousands of years of disaster and war and each other. We panic and kill, rescue and defend. We are the genes of the survivors, mostly the pragmatic and brutal, a scattering of the lucky and altruistic.

No wonder we want a god to forgive us.

Hold

My job as a small girl was to hold the hands of elderly relatives and neighbors. It was what I did. Mrs. G lived across the street, and I would visit with her, listen to her stories, talk to her, hold her hand, pick at her wicker porch furniture. Later, when she was just lying in a hospital bed in her house, her sister caring for her, I would hold her hand quietly, fascinated by the pattern of blue veins and the soft fragility of her skin. She died the week I started kindergarten.

Mr. M. was also on my rounds, and he told me of being a railroad engineer, and promised to take me for a ride one day. I listened, holding his large, once powerful hands, and dreamed with him of driving a locomotive, and coupling freight cars.

Mrs R. was my next door Italian grandma. I'm told she was the only person I always smiled for as a baby, her hugs were all encompassing. I can still hear her singing my name, welcoming and embracing. I could spend hours in her company, leaning on her as she read. I think she missed me when I grew older, and busier with my life. I missed the simple joy of disappearing into her bosom.

My Grandmother was bedridden for most of my life, her daughter caring for her roughly, she only got up once a day, and later not even that. Her right ear eventually became deformed from lying only on that side, the bed being pushed against the wall on the other side. She seemed a very tall woman to my small self, even lying so still in bed. She spoke very little English, I spoke no French, I held her hand kindly, but with very little attachment. I wonder what kind of mother she actually had been. My father and his sister and brothers often said she would not live through the winter, through the summer, through the winter. She lived to be 95. She remains a cypher who never got my name right.

My Granny, now she was a pistol. Busy, cantankerous, bright and active right up to the end at 93. Had her cane taken away from her the week before she died because she was hitting people with it. Infuriated and monopolized my Aunt Evelyn, coddled my Aunt G. played favorites and Euchre with equal aplomb. My memory of her is largely her relationships with her children, not with me. She had wonderful hands, of great age.

I hold hands. In the face of overwhelming disaster and global suffering, I reach out to one hand, and sit quietly, observing the texture of the skin, the color, the map of veins. I am a tiny girl, being warned not to make a pest of myself, holding very still.

Fairygoddaughter(Photo)

Grey

I was at Mayfest at my university, stealing a guilty hour from finals study time to dither and shop the booths. Pottery, tie-dye t-shirts, save the animals and become a libertarian, come to the library, and have your fortune told. I opted for the last one in my ditherment. A young woman asked me what appealed, palm or cards, choosing stones in a bag. Hadn't heard about the stones, and so I closed my eyes, and picked out a half dozen. She read them for me, but mostly was amazed that every one was grey. She dumped out the whole of the bag, full of colorful stones. I was in the last throes of my "marriage" grinding out A's as my life depended on it, and felt very defensive about my choices. What was wrong with grey? The stones all felt pretty interesting. Still, I took it to my heart. I was wearing an oversize grey rayon jumper, large pockets, very comfortable, my daily uniform, rather shabby. I noticed how little color was in my closet. Camouflage.

I had won a soft grey stuffed rabbit at a church Easter party, guessing the number of jellybeans in a huge jar. Ecstatic, I'd never won anything, and for such a lovely critter. Older kids stole it from me while I waited for my mother to pick me up. The church committee found out and later gave me a bright yellow bunny to replace it. I'd loved the real looking one, and the soft grey fur. They thought they had gotten me a better one. I cried later.

In high school, I bought a skirt, pinwale corduroy, dark charcoal grey, long, slim. I felt so stylish in it. Unprecedented. My parents always complained when I wore it, too dark and severe they thought, not allowed when visiting relatives or for church, and I had uniforms for school. So, a few school dances, until my hips took a growth spurt, and it no longer fit. I have a shortish knit soft one now, discovered on sale, and very subtle, makes me feel daring and sensual.

I have had grey coats, and hats, all soft. Grey to me is comforting, or very sophisticated, elegant. Cool, neutral and natural. Grey is what I wear for myself, to feel solid and certain. I like to think angels wear grey, dark heather charcoal grey, gently flowing, walking in our midst.

Tea (Photo)

Mirror (Photo)

Poem

It's only my opinion, it's only my belief/ that a caterpillar giggles as he wriggles across a hairy leaf.

Don't ask me who wrote this. Nash? Perhaps. I like amusing poems. My taste in poetry is remarkably low. I know the good stuff when I read it. I just don't always respond to it. Limericks seem to me perfectly wonderful.

My mother preferred the melodramatic 19th century narrative poems, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, The Highwayman, Grandfather's Clock. She liked the sentimental and romantic poems, Irish Blessings and Bible verses, Drummond and Longfellow, seafaring yearning. It was, she said, the only part of school she had liked. Memorizing long poems, a real joy for her, what she was good at. She laboriously typed out the text for a children's story book of color poems; "Hailstones and Halibut Bones." She loved it. I remember the next line was "... and some people's telephones." (!?)

Taking poetry apart in school, struck me as a pointless and cruel exercise. Repeatedly analyzing The Road Not Taken - Frost, until I came upon "Satire, that Blasted Art", which took apart all the sentimentalism of the poem and made the convincing argument that it is satire. Aha! Poems as subversive art. That was cool. I learned that poem, and it is in my repertoire. Only due to my understanding, an intellectual satisfaction.

I only had to memorize a few in grade school, one about fairies;
Up the (something) mountain/down the rushy glen I dare not go a' hunting for fear of little men. (Ugh)
When asked to pick one to memorize, I learned High Flight (John Gillespie McGee Jr) by heart because it was the text of an oft run tv ad for the Air Force. Lewis Carroll's mockery of poetry, I can recite Jabberwocky. I do like the poems, I am just not transported as I am with a good prose. Poems seemed too pretty, too short to engage me. Sketch work instead of a complete world with real people. I liked more story, dialogue. Or much less, like the Tao Te Ching.

Obviously, I am also not enamored of squishy Hallmark versification. Birthday cards with sentimental lines, and pretty flowers, - nauseating. My Aunt Evelyn spent a great deal of time finding the one that said just the right thing, and I would pretend to read it and go soft in gratitude. 'Oh, that is just perfect', and a hug. Like soft pop music, I considered it uselessly sweet without substance or flavor, however well meant. I have to accept the phenomenon that such stuff touches hearts. Leaves me quite cold.

So what is with me, that the highest verbal expressions in such a rich language that I love, leaves me shrugging my shoulders? Did I just have the magic sucked out of it in English classes? Distancing myself from my mother? A total lack of sentimentality? Lack of taste or refinement? Or do I just need it set to music for it to come to life? Ah. Mystery partly illuminated, though not at all solved.

One of the poems I memorized was the Wreck of the Julie Plante -Drummond. A funny poem in French Canadian inflected English about a shipwreck. The CBC had an animation, set to music, of the verses, that I saw in my 30s. I cried. This strange, familiar, consciously humorous bit of doggerel, when given a song, and a voice, touched me. Who knew?

So, dear poets who are my friends, sing me thy verses, I seem not to be up to supplying my own melody. That or it's Vogon poetry, only good for sappy greeting cards, and I will never tell.

Please, enjoy this poetical interlude. I will be humming.




The Wreck of the "Julie Plante": A Legend of Lac St. Pierre
 

On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
Got scar't an' run below—
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck too—
He call de crew from up de hole,
He call de cook also.
De cook she 's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.

De win' she blow from nor' -eas' -wes',--
De sout' win' she blow too,
W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w'at I shall do ?"
Den de captinne t'row de beeg ankerre,
But still de scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.

De night was dark lak wan black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
W'en de captinne tak' de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak' de life preserve,
An' jomp off on de lak',
An' say, "Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak'."

Nex' morning very early
'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—
De captinne—scow—an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore,
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore.

MORAL

Now all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm.
De win' can blow lak hurricane
An' s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.

William Henry Drummond

Song

My mother sang to me, hummed and lullabyed. Brahm's, Rock-a-bye Baby. Together we sang "Downtown" (Yes, Petula Clark.) She would sing "Stay Awake" to me at bedtime, sarcasm learned in the cradle. I learned a lot of old songs, Swing Low Sweet Chariot, It's a Long Way to Tipperary, Clementine. We sang in the car, we sang together.

In church I loved the music most of all. Crown Him With Many Crowns, I joined the choir as soon as I was old enough, and stayed with it until I left the church entirely. It was such a solace to open my throat and sing out, and sit far away from my parents, often going to a different mass entirely. To be part of the procession with candles intoning 'Praise We Christ's Immortal Body" an old and wonderful chant, very moving. I would gradually become more and more uncomfortable with the imagery, the dogma of the songs. The masculinity of the words, the overwhelming paternal identity of God, my exclusion for being female. The music of it, wordless truth, remains.

Popular music filled my head, I sang along. I listened to the WNIC, soft hits all the time. I am the Eagle, Country Roads, Oh Very Young, John Denver, Cat Stevens. It's not that I didn't have taste, it is that I had little exposure to what I would like. On my few albums, I tended to find the one oddball song and memorize it. Polka-dots and Moonbeams, Forest Lawn. My brothers left behind records when they left home. Tommy- The Who I nearly memorized complete. I wound up a DJ at an automated country radio station in Kalkaska Michigan, trying to tolerate the country music. There were specks of gold amidst the dross- Emmylou Harris, Nancy Griffiths, Johnny Cash. Still hating Country in general, I learned a more expansive musical eclecticism. Mainstream radio stations were becoming more corporate, homogenized, I was for a brief moment part of the problem. I examined my conscience, my mindless swallowing of pop.

I'd always got drizzles of folk and international music. The folk dances in college played music from all over. I listened to more NPR. Jazz I tried and found it to be habañero pepper, good only in tiny amounts. The difference - knowing quality from crap, and my taste from just not-to-my- taste. I sought out the corners, and the old stuff, and began to loathe the pabulum.

Then, well, the pantheon became available. International Music, still not easy to find, but no longer impossible. Schicklele Mix, the web, All Songs Considered, BBC, a world of music leaked in around the edges. Paul Simon and his Rhythm of the Saints pushed, Buena Vista Social Club, Oh, Brother Where Art Thou? all ate away at the monolith. Not all good, but trying. More genuine, more unfucked with, hardy stuff, raw, real.

The crap, of course, is everywhere. Read Dave Barry's 'Bad Song Book.' At work when the Soft Rock station is on, I can't turn it off. Or a James Taylor CD is brought in- if I ever run into the man on the street, I will kick him in the shins. I fixate on the words to pop love, the dysfunctional sentiments, the anti-feminism. "She's gone/It'll be the devil to replace her/she's gone/what went wrong?"- well, duh. If I never hear another Jackson Browne song, it will be a good start. The soullessness of it, the commercial slickness, the endless repetition, how many times does anyone need to hear REO Speed-wagon, Hesuschristpullingaricksaw? I will leave stores playing Elton John on the Muzak. Mediocrity infuriates me, neither hot nor cold, I spit it out. With music it feels an obscenity, cheapening the sacred.

Although the mainstream will always be there, I am comforted by more side-streams flowing, oxbows forming, harmonies and dissonances overtones and undertones, more voices chiming in, and turning the music.

I am learning new songs. Harmonizing.

Work

When I grew up, I became a nurse in surgery. I never saw it coming. I had considered nursing in high school, but a nun -Sr. Judith Nameless, who taught chemistry, badly, said I couldn't be a nurse because I was bad at chemistry. Perhaps she did me a favor, since I did have a lot to learn of a non-chemical nature.

I spent school trying to figure out what I would be, my interests scattered all over the landscape. I wanted to be a pilot, because my uncle was a private pilot. A disastrous idea, since I have no sense of where I am in space outside of my own skin. I fantasized about being a dancer, but even then I knew I wasn't good enough, nor the right shape. Had fad aspirations based on tv shows, a comment in The Courtship Of Eddie's Father had me wanting to be a pediatrician- even though I didn't like children even as a child myself. Mostly I had no idea, outside of (even I would admit) the unrealistic 'actress', what I could really do. It was just answering adults. The societal demand that a career had to start in grade school. Well, it was only a generation away from apprenticeships when that was true.

I wanted to be one of the actors on a tv show, tell stories, live in a well scripted world, touch people all over the world. When I earned a full scholarship, I started in a dedicated theater curriculum, took every class to get the degree, studied hard, and never got cast in a play. Oh, I played an old lady in a grad student directed production, and I was in the croc costume for Peter Pan, not exactly portfolio material. Couldn't remember lines to save my life, I was stiff and tense, awkward and self conscious, cried at all the wrong moments. I looked all wrong for most parts. I took me 3 1/2 years to realize I would starve as an actor, and for good reason. I found that I hated being told exactly what to say and how to do my job. But also hated having to fight just to have a job to do, auditions were a nightmare. Especially when rare and critical jobs were based on my vanity. Of which I have some, but it is of a peculiar variety. I quit in my last semester, feeling a failure, unwilling to scrape through in despair.

In my intervening years of confusion, I was a radio DJ, podiatrist assistant, library aide, phone researcher (real research, and before it became such a nuisance, forgive, please) movie concessions, ballroom dance instructor, costumed "Litter Bug," waitress (2 weeks), auditor, art model, mall market researcher, as well as the Army National Guard and nurse. Each job taught me at least one lesson I use daily. Together, that mess of employment gave me empathy. I know about crappy, dead end jobs. After years of chronic underemployment, I value my living wage.


I know that no education is ever wasted, and today I can stand up and talk, in front of one person, or a group, speak clearly and calmly, and explain well. With humor. Useful for smarting off to surgeons or finessing anxious family members. I can empathize with any person, after writing many character studies. I can imagine a reason a difficult patient, or surgeon, is being an ass, and find a way to get through to them, or at least diffuse their hostility. Or else just duck--from stage fighting classes. When not to take moaning seriously- being able to spot a drama queen at a glance. I am wicked good at finding an analogy to describe a situation, having ushered so damn many plays, and BEING THE LIGHTBULB in actor games (ugh). Useful for answering patients questions about utterly alien experiences.

Surgery is my wonderfully, ridiculously structured work place, where I am an expert in my own sphere, and develop my own lines, and adapt creatively to changing situations. I have no homework. I will always have a job. I am happy not wearing make-up, I wear pyjamas every day that are magically cleaned by someone else. My appearance doesn't matter, aside from clean and concerned. Bleeds off (pun intended) my tendency to fuss and fix at people, and my paranoia at the vagaries of life. I am competent and cheerful, because the work fits.

I get the best stories first hand, the juicy not-for-the-dinner-table kind.

And I did just fine in college chem.

Now, I teach myself to be a writer. We shall see.

Train (Photo)

Limbo

I am in limbo. Never mind the particulars, I've told everyone and their dogs the whole chain of circumstances that bind me over and over and over and... well, it feels like that anyway. Nevermind. Chaos, The Hanged Man, the waiting is the hardest part thank you Tom Petty. So what do I do when I have little to do but wait? Well, I procrastinate, of course. Not creative, but stifling. I try to write, mentally pacing a small room, kicking at the wall at each rapid turn.

It's a common experience in the military, as assignments come in, but one doesn't go right away. Short Timers, playing at exaggeration. 'So short I walk under the door and don't stoop,' 'so short I'd sit on a dime and my feet'd dangle.' But I don't know how short I am. And I am not used to giving up my authority for the sake of three hots and a cot. I am used to being the one who makes sure everything gets ready, and as soon as it's time, I make it go. Surgery takes as long as it takes, but the time scale is in minutes, hours, never days, and certainly not weeks or months. Patients may come back over the course of months, but any individual procedure is a matter of less than a day, at most. And now, I am waiting weeks, perhaps months, and I am going loopy. I have been out of the military for ten years, and my life is very different now. My old methods of coping, assuming I had any (did I?) are long gone.

I can likewise wait for busses or trains, but that is also a matter of hours, or minutes if lucky. It is a manageable slice of limbo, even enjoyable if you get your head around it. As long as it is not sleeting, for instance. I am not in any pain, this is not Purgatory- a misery that might at least feel like progress. I am fine where I am, but it is stagnant. My attempts to solve the impasse have made it worse, like struggling in quicksand. I simply have to lay back and think of England. Or New England in my particular case.

I do have work to do, but in limbo, I dither and try to avoid work. I come home early to organize, then leave the cleaning for another day. I neglect to keep contact with friends. I don't exercise or read much. I get a job half done, and then leave it, sitting in the middle of the floor for later. When? Who cares. But I do, and it bugs me, and the half packed boxes sit there.
Maybe tomorrow.


(written before the move to Boston.)

Fiction

I read Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate, in particular her advice to writers, involving compassion and seeing another's point of view, her own issues with her difficult mother, and culture clashes. I have a difficult father, estranged completely for years, we never had any kind of peace or understanding. He is referred to in other essays, as I skirt him as a subject too painful. I try to starve my lifelong anger. I want it to settle and fade. But her words urged me to do more, to tell his story, inasmuch as I can. Let it be fiction, but let it help me understand a rather stupid and emotionally disturbed man who fathered me as well as he probably could. I cannot write his cadences, in his voice, although I hint at it, because I find it is too much like chewing on aspirin. Nor can I write it as a first person narrative, his sexuality is far too personally unsettling for me to handle. Ever. I can let go of my bitterness, but he remains galling. So here it is. Forgive the mess.

There was a farm and the vegetable stand family business, a large house that implied better days. A couple of French Canadian Catholics, of uncertain devotion, nameless now, who had sons. They expected the older boys to raise the younger ones. First Oscar, the eldest, the bully, the favored one, manipulative and powerful, ready with fists. Then loud but gentle Art, who did his best to make peace and protect the younger ones, when he felt like it, but he enjoyed tormenting them with words. Norman, slow and tall, he believed everything he heard and had a deep simple faith, and deep superstitions. Milton, challenged the authority of Oscar, and hated him. Smarter and faster than the rest, he took charge of the youngest brother, René. René was slow, but wanted to make himself better, wanted to be liked, wanted to play a musical instrument. But he was often injured because he was daydreaming, or tormented by his brothers for being dumb. One year younger, the only sister, Madeline. Red haired, doted on by their father, bossy and no brighter than the rest of the boys, she was paired with René for everything. He was held back starting school so she would go with him. The relationship between the two was forced close, unhealthy, twisted. (Take that as you will, I prefer not to speculate further, but I would not be surprized at your guesses.)

So in 1929, brother and younger sister were sent to an English-speaking public school in rural Ontario, where they would learn the language they would speak the rest of their lives outside the home. At home, only French, not educated French- River Canard French, illiterate French. They were sent because that was the law, lip service only. Working the produce stand was more important. None would get through high school, René would get to sixth grade then out. The year his father died.

He was a good looking young man, black hair and a ready smile, if you didn't notice the strain. He would talk with anyone, glib, if not bright, loud laugh and spoke with his hands a lot, had one song that he could sing, off-key. Dated a lot of girls, once. He had odd jobs, as well as working at his mother's business. He joined the Army in 1949, on the American side- his father was American by birth and he readily got his citizenship. He would have been 18 in 1941 (Was he afraid, or did his parents object? None of the brothers served during the war, they were able bodied, and Canada did have a draft, didn't they? Assume that they had no interest in going, and were not required due to farm deferment.) But perhaps guilt, perhaps not having another path, René joined, safely after the war. The American Army, not in itself all that unusual, his father had been born in the States, and immigrated to Canada. Border towns like Detroit and Windsor are like that, generations weaving back and forth. René obtained his American citizenship and joined the Army, and then, a mystery. He injured his left hand and they had to amputate his left index finger. The story is something he never tells. So what happened?

He hates the Army, hates the order, hates having to do what he is told, taunted for being stupid and inept- which he is. Hates the bullying and being the butt of every joke. He finally has plans for his life, having met a little redhead two months before. They met through his brothers' friends, he was in love with the quiet shy tiny girl. He'd just proposed, and she'd agreed, he is 27 and getting old, finally he is loved and worthwhile! So one night he goes out with a guy who will buy him drinks, maybe one of his brothers, maybe Milton, and he gets plastered. It would not take much, none of the brothers have a head for alcohol. He gets belligerent, and they get into a fight, he passes out. Or they get a bright idea of how to get out of the Army, and a knife or gun is produced. When he wakes up the next morning, his hand is a mess, and he drags himself to the hospital, where they amputate the index finger, and start him into rehab. He is ashamed of himself, but he never tells how it happened, perhaps he does not quite remember. His new fiance visits him in the hospital, flashing the little diamond ring around to keep the nurses from flirting with him. Shame and pride together. She had made him candies, too bad they were wintergreen flavored- she probably didn't know better than poisoning him. But he hadn't had too many, and he threw the rest of them over the bridge into the brook as they walked. She will depend on him, and her religion means she will stay with him.

Mary's family wasn't too thrilled, but she was 25, they could hardly say much about her choice. They married in April 1949. He talked her into having a birthday cake for his sister at the reception, since Madeline's birthday was the next day. He didn't want to make his sister jealous. Mary wouldn't refuse him, she didn't make him mad like everybody else did.

It was a hard first year, but at least he got to live next to his sister. Then he would find work in Detroit, at a copper tubing factory. Hot dirty work, but there were benefits and a union, the guys all called him Frenchy. He found them a small place, with a closet that would be room enough for a crib, his first child would be born in September 1950, a son. Dave would barely survive the first year, with constant infections, bronchitis and whooping cough, rheumatic fever and ear aches. Now if he can just figure out the trick so's he can make enough money, do good in life, keep his family alive. They find a small house and the family loans them money to get started. Three years later, a second son, smiling and happy and healthy, is born. His wife wanted a girl, but there will be more children. She is not as nice to him now, but that is just being pregnant, not getting enough sleep, right? He almost hit her, and she scared him bad, told him if he ever hit her she would not be there for him to hit again. He can't ever hit her, who would he be without her? So he yells until he feels better, and they go on. She's smarter than he is, he needs her to read, and keep his house clean, and make a life with, damn her for all that. He depends on her, and it is good to depend on people, right?

It is 1960, and Mary has had a late miscarriage, and she cries over the loss of her daughter. René is scared, because she makes him mad a lot now, his boys are in a good Catholic school, and they think they are smarter than him. He's got a good job, works eight hours every day, but it's getting harder. He is scared that if Mary has her baby girl, he won't matter to her anymore. But he wants her to be happy, and the next year she is pregnant again. This time it is a girl, born the day after his sons are confirmed. Her family were looking down their noses at him, aggravating him, making him mad, at the party. His sons are growing up and won't need him much longer, Mary sat with her sister Evelyn talking way too long, what were they talking about? They got quiet when he came near. Now he is waiting at the hospital, a blizzard raging outside, February 1962, and the doctor comes out to tell him he has a daughter. He dreams of a frilly sweet daddy's girl, tiny like Dave when he weighed no more than a cat, who would love him more than Mary, fuss over him and crawl on his lap, ask his advice and giggle. The next morning he sat with Mary when they brought in an 8 lb baby to them- how could this be a girl? She nestled into her mother's arms, Mary beaming that she had her girl "at last!" But when he reached out and held her, she screamed. When he shook her like his boys, and she screamed louder. He handed her back, his face flushing red with rage and shame. His wife was already defending the daughter, already excluding him, shutting him out. He swallowed it then, but could not forget. Could not understand.

(The rest of this is my story, and I need to tell it elsewhere. Where I will take responsibility for my own sins. He may be dying right now, and I await the news as a prisoner awaits reprieve. I cannot like the man, still do not want to talk to him, even if that were possible. But when he can no longer hurt me, I can give real forgiveness, freely, with all my heart. It is given, on probation, now. No more hurts. It is not my fault I could not be what he needed or wanted, his jealously and insecurity, his emotional damage are not my responsibility. His sins against me are no less sins for his intellectual and social deficits, but he can plead diminished capacity. I do not wish him in hell, or to whatever drags on his soul. For the sins against me, I will not hold against him past his death. What he holds against himself should he ever look into himself- is up to him. Poor man.)

Love

How do I know that it is the real thing, that I am in love, that this is the one? Such an awful, unanswerable, and misleading question. Everyone who wants to love and be loved has asked it. I have heard many glib answers. Like 'well... you'll just know.' The pervasiveness of bad relationships and failed marriages exposes this as a glib lie. Or it's an old theory of Finding The Right One, applied to the modern problem of making what was long a social/economic construct and jamming it into a Hollywood Ideal of Romance. Only by reframing the question can any sense come of it. Then, it is one of those answers that can only come out of experience. How do I know a particular individual seed will grow? By planting it and finding out.

It is far easier to be taught what love is not, and learning the red flags. Manipulation, jealousy, contempt, disregard, unfairness, hostility, all apparently obviously bad things, but how many folks in abusive relationships will say "S/he is wonderful, except (for one of these mean behaviours)!" And who of us, new at the idea of love, have not tried to control the one we hope to bed? Or lost our temper when they were not living up to our fantasy of them? Or indulged in selfish stupidity, or self-destructive envy? Why should we expect perfect love, when we are ourselves not perfect? Because we have to start somewhere, and I cannot climb a seed, I have to let it grow into a tree first.

I had lots of crushes in school, and by the time I graduated high school, having not yet had anything like a boyfriend, or indeed a date, I had formulated a Plan. I was only going to allow myself to indulge in a crush if the guy was interested in me. I am still convinced this was a good principle, but being unbalanced, led me into six years of misery. I succumbed to the "But he loves me," argument for staying in an unsatisfying and dysfunctional relationship.

I knew, in the deep of night, in the dark of my heart, that I was never in love with the ex. I loved him in the way I treated him, but I never had that spark. I simply did not think anyone else would love me. And he told me he was the only one who woud love me. He had the spark, but never treated me lovingly. There were always two different rules for polite behaviour, one for him, one for me. He would correct me for standing with my weight on one leg, or fingering my toes (a comforting habit indulged when home only.) He treated these as bad habits he was helping me stop. (Huh?) He always took the waiter's side against my ineptness ordering in restaurants, and hated losing any game to me. There were far worse things done that would drive me to escape, but these small acts of dismissal, competitiveness and petty complaint stay with me more. The signs I missed, the clues I can only see clearly now. What I could spot at a glance now, I did not even know to look for then.

When I got to know D, I was raw and damaged, angry and deeply distrustful. He was young and very inexperienced, with only his friends' misadventures with girlfriends throughout high school to inform him. We approached each other with great caution. We talked. We spent time together, quite a lot due to sitting in Colorado Springs waiting to be sent to Saudi Arabia. We joked and asked questions and offered confidences. We pulled back, and misunderstood, and tried again, apologized and spent more time together. We each proved ourselves trustworthy, and began to trust. We talked about everything, anything, and made each other laugh. He coaxed me out, never judging me or complaining about me, never forcing.

Early on, we discussed marriage, as if at the ends of proverbial long poles. I was terrified of the idea. He didn't want to be trapped in a restrictive conventional life with a house in the suburbs, kids in a mini-van, and a job that sucked out his soul for 20 years. But the spark was so strong, and all of the bored Army folk around us kept asking us when we were getting married. There was always such a sense of rightness between us. We made vows.

1. Don't lie to me.

2. Don't treat me like shit.

Which turned out to be a very good place to start. We would, over the years add:

3. Never take each other for granted.

4. Always get each other toys.

Again and again, he gives small acts of kindness and praise, without considering any of it extraordinary. He quotes me, his professors know who I am and what I think. He always greets me with enthusiasm. He takes care of my computer and makes phone calls when I get an anxious attack of call reluctance. When I stutter and cannot find words, he is attentive to the utmost. He attempts skills he knows are beyond him, because I need him, like driving on a long straight road when my exhaustion overcame me while we needed to keep moving toward home, like trying to tie my hair back when my shoulder hurts, like dancing with me at a company party. And he astounds me with his skill, playing guitar, writing dense cogent history, giving a serious, funny speech, writing music.

We try to love each other as best we can. We admire each other, and grow in order to live up to each other's vision of the other. We cultivate privacy, without fostering secrecy. We laugh. We hurt each other. We keep coming back, in humble awe for how well it seems to be working. We are perfect for each other, as imperfect as we are. Did I mention we laugh a lot?

And so two people, without malice, can find each other endlessly amusing and interesting. We grew a wonderful love. It's a very nice view from here. Utterly impossible, easy as breathing.

Track (Photo)

Chocolate

February 15th is a wonderful holiday. It is Half-Price Chocolate Day. I stumbled up on it almost accidentally, a joke gone terribly right. We have never done Valentine's Day, or any of the other commercially mandated holidays. Ours has been a practical romanticism, a fun sense of romance. Toys and silliness more than hearts and roses. But I have a terrible sweet tooth, at least when it comes to chocolate. D knew I was happy with him when I told him I loved him as much as chocolate. That I considered him a solid chocolate bunny- the same to the core and all wonderful.

One year, after about a decade of ignoring it, Valentine's Day was coming up, and in a kind and conscientious manner, D asked if I wanted something for the holiday. I said no, it was silly and commercial. But the next day, I jokingly mentioned that well... he could get me chocolate Today, since it was not any kind of holiday, and chocolate would be half price. The only thing better than chocolate, is half price chocolate, because then you get twice as much! He knew I was joking, but he called me on it anyway and brought home a box of Godiva's. Very funny, and wonderful, and we nibbled lusciousness. The next year, he did it again, so instead of just a joke, it was a sweetly romantic, and economical gesture. The next year, a tradition. So, February 15th is Half-Price Chocolate Day. Godiva's isn't as good the past few years, so now he has to find another place to get chocolate in February. I await developments.

My love of chocolate goes deep. Mom tried to keep chocolate chips for baking, but I ate them. So did my father, and although he denied eating them, he also regularly lied all the time, and I was meticulously truthful with anything checkable. He was blamed, I was not suspected. I scarfed chocolate chips in a spoonful of peanut butter when mom went to pick up dad at work. I washed the spoon and put it away. Mom also made wonderful chocolate chip/walnut/chow mein noodle candies that I could never resist. Not that I ever actually tried. I loved my chocolate Easter bunny, and yes, bit off the ears first. I will lie, steal and commit violence for Chocolate.

While in Saudi, our chow halls were distant and far worse than usual Army fare. When the PX's opened, we ripped into the alternate food. Canned chicken spread, Pringles and Nutella. Nutella is chocolate hazelnut spread, paradise in a jar. I ate it by spoonful or fingerfull. I kept a jar under my bunk for those late night scud attacks. Or just in case I got hungry.

When I worked at a nursing home, transitional care, there was between Thanksgiving and Christmas a plethora of family gifts of chocolate. The boxes would appear as if by magic at the nurses' station. I tried to ration myself, as I had no self control when it came to good chocolate. This last Christmas in the recovery room was dangerously chocolatey. The last week I gorged, made myself sick on it, because it was omnipresent, all good, all different. I vowed every day to slow down, and wound up stuffing in fistfuls by the end of the day. I am rarely so utterly undisciplined. But those cherry and blueberry chocolates were calling to me with their smooth little voices....

Chocolate is my guilty not-terribly-secret secret. Not terribly guilty either. Tea, beer, chocolate. My impractical, frivolous joys. When I furtively whisper to D that I want (chocolate), I get to see his dimple. Joy.