PLAYING THE VIOLIN AND HOW TO AVOID IT – REDUX

courtesy of: Copyscape.com

What a riveting start to a post. A list of the post you are about to read and the places you can currently read it. All are legitimate, with the exception of "Otto Benjamin Violins, blah blah." Unless you are fluent in Cowface and Dingbat the site is unreadable, but this is how my friends, Andi Roo and Aaron Brinker brought to my attention the fact that my deathless prose had been gasp! stolen.

(IT SHOULD BE NOTED, IN THE INTEREST OF OPEN AND FAIR DISCLOSURE, THAT THE READER WILL NEVER FIND OUT HOW TO AVOID PLAYING THE VIOLIN BY READING THIS POST)

I first unleashed this little gem on an unsuspecting world back in early August of 2012, and it went on to become one of my most “popular” pieces, right up there with my “nameless guy who fell down in the Falcons' Superdome and was horrified” and “E. T. Phone Home” posts. This piece also has the erm, distinction along with a couple of other nameless pieces of being stolen and sold on a now-defunct “for-content” website. How ironical, I jestically say, as I've never earned dime one for my blatherings. There's a reason for this. I get PAID (or I used to) to play music and not for writing verbiage. Maybe I should be paid to not write verbiage; I haven't a clue as to whether I'm any good or not as a writer, I just know that from the age of fifteen, I wrote, and understood English at a post-doctoral level.

Einstein wrote his “General Theory of Relativity” and I read an English translation of it. I cannot say whether it was riveting or boring; it got the point across, but it lacked something of the elegance of his little E = MC² equation by pages and pages and so on and so forth. I think my writing is a lot like that. It's kind of hilarious to me that someone “stole” my piece and sold it, when I wouldn't have the balls to try and peddle my own jun -, er, work, yet, in solidarity to my writerly friends, and I owe them much and they depend on their writing for a living, I went the whole route of writing the “publisher” and kindly requesting they remove my piece. I kept it light and airy and the piece was removed within 24 hours. The website disappeared shortly thereafter.

I'll bet he was fun in a string quartet!

I owe what little writing talent I possess to my parents who were very well-read, and downright scholarly in their own ways. My mother held two degrees, and my father, never having graduated from high school, lied his way into the Air Force, went to the Flight Academy and flew B-29s for roughly three years in the Korean action, until he mustered out on a medical discharge, after two crash-landings. That's two whole more flights than I ever want to have endured, WITHOUT the crashing. He continued to fly, privately, as did my mother; I think they were both a pair of loons. I loathe flying. 

 

 He was the epitome of cool; he brought me home from the hospital and was my primary caregiver until I started kindergarten. He and my mom were great together, until they weren't, due to her own mental illness, but she was a star, too. My folks had the hearts of lions.

He then attended college; went year-round and graduated 3^rd in his class. Maybe there were only four students, but he was pretty bright. He did all this while caring for me, as my mom was working three jobs. To keep me quiet, he played a combination of Glenn Miller, Beethoven, Richard Strauss, Tchaikovsky, Tommy Dorsey and Debussy on the Hi-Fi, but not all at once, so he could do his homework. I was a preemie and tended to be fussy. Music was the perfect panacea and the only thing I ever loved deeply and passionately. I love working with computers, but that is more about problem-solving and it kind of sucks as performance art; no one is going to pay for an evening of watching me code, or resolve a system issue caused by the r.schmitt trojan virus. Boring stuff.

My Ma was no slouch in the brains department, either. While working on her second degree, a B.S. in Psychology, she was programming in Fortran, a machine language hardly anyone uses. I found her books, after her death. Since she was taking no classes, she was either plotting a takeover of the world, or writing games for her own enjoyment. I would bet the former.

I went to college on scholarship, and was a lazy student, due to having perfect pitch. But, I have since learned that without music in my life, my life had lost it's anchor. To make this short and sweet, I was diagnosed with essential tremor, after having exhibited symptoms for years and harboring latent symptoms for decades. I finally had to stop playing altogether. This is a condition much like Parkinson's Disease, without the heavy medications; call it “Parkinson's Lite” if you like, but it can be every bit as horrible as Parkinson's, with core tremors and psychosis. I have all the inherent symptoms; tremors, drooling, no sense of smell, I stagger, occasionally and stutter when excited. It also has deep psychological components and at times those were ruinous. But, I found an awesome, awesome neurologist, who found a good medication that mitigates the core tremor and has allowed me to resume my mostly abnormal, life.

Me, the sole offspring of the two pilots above, on the left, with a touring buddy and my partner in crime, "Wolf", a superb viola made only ten years after the death of Beethoven in 1827. I'm happy, because I'm NOT playing the violin!

In fact, I have started playing AGAIN, and have auditioned and am playing in the Tampa Bay Symphony, a group I started with 20 years ago, when I first moved to Tampa. So, I'm currently practicing up a storm, and participating in some clinical trials that I hope helps people farther on down the road. The Parkinson's Foundation has been very, very good to me and I am fortunate indeed to have found them. But that is not what this post is about. It's about playing the violin. Now, that I'm back in the harness, I have to say once again, it is to be avoided; at all costs.

Ring ring!

Me: "Hello!"

Manager: "Hey, Mary. Are you doing anything the week of November 20th to the 25th?"

Me: "Well, let me check my calendar." Sound of pages flapping in the breeze. "Hmm, nothing but the “Merry Parade of Turkeys” and “Turkeys, We Got Your Turkeys Right Here with Skitch Henderson Sound Alikes." At this time, I am living in Charlotte, North Carolina. I am also still playing in Tampa and pretty much driving all over the south. I am also exclusively playing the viola.

Manager: "So, you have open time?"

Me: "Yes." To my everlasting regret, I said, "Yes."

Manager: "Great! I need a violinist for..."

I didn't hear the rest. I was in shock. I told people for years that I didn't play the violin. I never played the violin. I hadn't played the violin since I was sixteen, and here I was at 45. I play AT the violin. I still don't play the violin. I hate the screechy little suckers. They're all under your chin being little and screamy. What the hell is that? I just hate it. The only reason I started to "play" the sons of bitches is because I got sucker punched and caught unawares. I didn't even own a violin for years. I refused to buy one. I rented one for years and a student model at that. I figured since I didn't play the bastard, I wasn't going to be pretentious about it and get some big, souped-up Lamborghini violin or something. I have a Lamborghini viola. I rented a violin with steel tuners, tin strings, and tape on the finger board which I never, ever, ever allowed any of my students to use. That pussy Suziki shit with tape is beyond horrible. If you can't use hand-framing and play by ear, like the God Galamian intended, burn that hunk of wood. You don't deserve to call yourself a non-fretted string player.

courtesy of: collectibleviolins.com

Aargh! No, it's not "Talk Like a Pirate Day!" Those tapes! When you shift positions, the intervals change! It's impossible to develop your "ear" assuming you have one to begin with, if you're using tape as a "guideline" Fluidity counts. Not everyone is meant to play non-fretted instruments; those folks need to stick to "Guitar Hero!"

So, I'd rent these god-awful violins with tin strings and "play" in these violin sections, in the hopes that people would get the hint and quit hiring me to "play" the goddamned violin. I'd play loud. Real loud and shrieky, when the music asked for piano. I'd ask my managers shit like, "why the hell are you hiring me to play the violin? Did every other violinist in Tampa die/migrate/go on vacation?" They still hired me. I tried drinking my way through rehearsals and that didn't work, because everyone else was out smoking blunts during the breaks; they couldn't tell stoned from drunk.

People thought I was a good violin player; I guess because I didn't give a damn and was reckless; I was the Nic Cage of violinists raging around on my rented violins. I started ending up in first violin sections, so it got exponentially suckier. You know what really, really sucks? Playing Mozart on the violin. I hate Mozart. I hate Mozart, MORE than I hate the violin, if such a thing were possible. Because Mozart's a pussy. He gets right up to an idea and says “never mind” and plays mezzo-forte, before limping off into the 600^th pianissimo iteration of the same shit he wrote over and over and over and over. Yes sir, there is Hell in a barrel right there. Eighteen ledger lines above the staff and I'm playing "guess the note." I can't even read that shit. It's in soprano clef. I normally read the viola clef. Okay, I read soprano clef just fine, but when you're up towards the direction of the sun, weirdness starts to happen, physically. Purple becomes yellow. CRYSTAL-BLUE PERSUASION! Mountains walk. Cats do algebra. The horn section is being played by The California Raisins. I look down, unsurprised to find that the stage has turned to lava, when I hit some of those harmonics. My stand partner's hair catches fire. God knows my ears are still ringing.

I was laughing about it though, when I thought about all the variations and different types of gigs and positions I've held. I played with Styx and I can't remember how this came up, but it is also the same with a Johnny Mathis tune; one of his “Brazilian” set. "Sail Away" which is so lovely, is an absolute bitch to play. It consists of 64th notes, practically in its entirety. Denis Deyoung's father was part of the OSS in WWII and was one of the first to reach Paris, with the Allies. You can hear the Chopin and Debussy in Styx's music. An interesting little bit of trivia along with the silly today. There, aren't you edified?

Styx's music is challenging and we had a lot of fun playing it. But, one of the things that does happen with playing that type of music, is you lose the edge on your heftier musical "chops" as we call them. We were touring pretty extensively at the time with Styx and "Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto" -ing all over the place and having a hell of a lot of fun. In the midst of this tour, we had a layover and and my trio, myself, a violinist and cellist, picked up this "fun" gig and none of us were exactly slouches. Being the, uh, "professionals" that we were supposed to be, we show up for this luncheon or whatever the hell it was to provide "background" music and proceed to play trios, for a couple of hours. I just grabbed a bunch of my trio music and off we went.

Beethoven is my muse; he's always been in my life. I auditioned on his 5th Symphony and won it. I am a rock-and-roll violist!

Now, it is axiomatic that the fewer instruments you have, the more difficult the music is going to be, especially if you are going to play, oh say, Beethoven. If we were going to play, Johnny Mercer, we might have stood a chance, or maybe, some Beatles transcriptions, but Beethoven? It was... interesting. I have played all of his String Quartets. They rock. His Trio in C Minor rocks. It also requires lots and lots and lots of practice. Playing Styx's "Mr. Roboto" for 18 weeks straight does not constitute practicing Beethoven's trio. We all learned a valuable lesson that day; leave the Beethoven at home, if you haven't looked at it in the last, say, week or so. Thank god the Luncheon guests were drunk.

HOMELESS CHRONICLES IN TAMPA - THE LIEBSTER AWARD 2013

The Liebster Award is a legitimate award, and until last year, had never heard of it. I was first nominated in 2012 by Aaron Brinker who runs @dadblunders and as I read of the history of the award, I realized this is a serious thing and an honor. It’s an award given by bloggers to other up and coming bloggers as a way to recognize and promote their blog. Liebster is a German word meaning dearest, sweetest and beloved. How wonderful to be nominated, once again! Thank you so very much to Maggie at expat.brazil. I am honored.



The Rules: seem slightly different on various blogs but in general are

1. List 11 facts about yourself.

2. Answer the 11 questions given to you.

3. Ask 11 new questions for the bloggers you nominate for the award.

4. Choose up to 11 up-and-coming blogs to nominate.

5. Go to each blogger’s page and let them know about the award.

6. Thank the person who nominated you and link back to their blog.

So step 1. 11 facts about me

1. I was a professional violist for close to 30 years. I switched from violin at the age of 16-ish. I occasionally played the violin on gigs for money. Only when all the other violinists within the tri-state area had left or died was I called upon to do so. I hate the violin, but then, I hate Mozart. I love Beethoven. I love all good music, in any genre.

2. I was a computer software support engineer at IBM for 3 years and Verizon for 7. I also worked for the Gastonia, NC police department in the same capacity and continued to play at the same time. It's called multi-tasking, or “insanity.” I got into this line of work, when my 2^nd husband a violist, discovered that I didn't magically become a _______ player and got jealous when I got hired to play for the Moody Blues and he didn't.

3. I am legally blind and have been for about 10 years now. I also have Parkinson's Disease, or non-Parkinson's Disease, THAT is the question. It's hard to diagnose.

4. I own a viola that was made 10 years after Beethoven died, in 1837. The viola was made in Bologne, Italy and is of the Bolognese school of fiddle-making. Like all fine instruments, “his” appraiser named him. His name is “Wolf.” He has a hell of a sound and is by my bed.

5. I was homeless for about 11 months and spent that time living in a homeless shelter and was very annoying to my fellow homeless shelter mates. That is how this blog came to be. After I received my Disability, I moved across the street. I still see some of the people I lived with and new homeless people.

6. I've been committed for mental illness. I am bipolar and have Asperger (we used to say, “doesn't play well with others.”) I also cry over stupid stuff and laugh at stuff I probably shouldn't. I have a mordant sense of humor. They have a label and pill for that. I call it questionable taste. Sheesh. There's a pill for everything now.

7. I love cats. Cats and computers just seem natural. We've a wonderful little cat who adopted us. We had her fixed, and I came up with the name of “Butterscotch,” which is not very original. JC fed her so much she got fat, so I started calling her “Butterball” and “Butterfat,” and JC said I hurt her feelings. So, she's Mama.

8. I played in Opera Tampa here for 12 seasons with Maestro Anton Coppola, Nic Cage's, Great Grand-uncle and Francis Ford's Great Uncle. It's a small world, because in Detroit, Carmine Coppola, played flute in the orchestra I played in. Maestro Anton wrote operas and conducted Italian opera with no score. He recently retired at 98. His most memorable quote to us? “Anyone can play German opera, it's just 1, 2, 3, 4, but Italian opera? Rubato, rubato, rubato, it's all goddamned rubato!” He was great to work for. I left the Opera in 2009, due to the fact I couldn't fake it anymore. He retired last year. Apparently, he couldn't fake it anymore, either.

9. I'm an only child and never had kids. But I taught generations of them on the violin (even while not enjoying playing it, I am very enthusiastic about music; a teacher's role is to inspire. We're all self-taught, according to one of my viola professors.)

10. I was married 3 times and lived with a man who was one of the most irresponsible people I have ever met. Shame on me. I met the man I know I will be with for the rest of my life in the homeless shelter. Think on this if you will. I was homeless, had had a drinking problem, but stopped. The man I met in the shelter had been in prison. What are the odds of something durable working out?

11. JC, the love of my life, has seen me through my committal for mental illness, several hospitalizations for my PD and congestive heart failure and has steadfastly been there for me. He's patient and loving. My 3^rd husband was out looking for a new girlfriend the minute I was hospitalized with congestive heart failure. I had actually sworn off men, but the time I was in the homeless shelter. God had other plans.

So, the 11 random questions I would like to know.

1. Favourite Writer and why? This is like asking me who my favourite composer is. I love so many different writers and genres. Let me compare it as to music; Beethoven is so monumentally joyous and full of life, even as his life was tragic. Mahler was the opposite. Even his so-called happy music had tragic undertones. James Thurber, whom I read at the age of 11 is just flat-out funny. Harlan Ellison is funny, but there is a seething rage beneath his humor that is black indeed. I am currently back on Stephen King, after having read excerpts from his book 11/22/63, I purchased “Under the Dome.” He is still one of the finest technically perfect writers I've ever read and his imagination is without peer. But gee whiz, it is hard to choose. Harlan Ellison is probably the finest short story writer ever, and that has got to be the hardest form to master. Great question, Maggie!

2. Who is your best friend and why? Without a doubt, JC, the best, most honorable and most decent man I've ever known. Ex-con, or not. Which is laughable. The United States justice system has much to answer for. JC lost everything. Had a horrible childhood, loveless marriages and tried and worked so hard to care for his family. He had to quit school to help a shiftless, no-good step-daddy run a pig farm. Shades of John Steinbeck and Tennessee Williams. JC says he's dumb and practically illiterate next to me. So what? Book-learning was an advantage and a gift. I was a prodigy, but I couldn't see into people's hearts. He can and he's taught me much. He's beyond price and I love him unreasonably. He's never known true happiness, until now. I told him my mission in life was to make him happy, or make him miserable trying.

3. The genie has granted you three wishes, what are they? Genie grants everyone the ability to reason, empathize and show compassion.

4. Which historical figures would you love to have dinner with ? Ludwig van Beethoven

5. What couldn’t you live without? My viola, Wolf

6. What do you do for fun? Play Runescape and annoy people in chat rooms.

7. Favourite Quote? “Animals grace us with their presence.”

8. If money was no object where would you live and why? I would roam. I found out recently, that we may not be where we thought we were from. “Wallace” of Sir William Braveheart blah blah fame we can claim, but “Wallace” means “foreign” or “alien” in old Welsh. There is some argument (I don't believe there is much evidence) for our origins prior to Glasgow being from around the Caucausus or the Black Sea. Maybe we were Scythians or Cossacks; maybe even Neptunians. Scythians were known for red hair, fair skin and blue eyes. At any rate, before I lost my site, I rambled all over the place, and it wasn't always work related. Our whole family was like that. You said “car,” and family members were known to get up off of their death beds for a road trip. I miss it.

9. What’s your secret pleasure? *looks around* I have been known to have apoplexy and hysteria over TSG (The Smoking Gun's) “The World's Dumbest ________ “ When the recipe includes grade Z celebs like Tonya Harding, Todd Bridges, Leif Garrett, Danny Bonaduce, Chuck Nice (which really is an appropriate last name for him) et al., and show the bottom of the gene pool video clips doing the stupidest things they can think of, and then comment and re-enact with cheesy cut-outs and even cheesier comments and the cheesiest CGI ever, I'm down with that. You see, I have the Siren-song-of-crap gene! And damned proud of it, too! And if they're not on, I'll laugh at my own stupidness. Like the time I followed myself on my own blog!

10. Who do you admire and why? I thought about this for a long time and I keep coming back to someone who has been on the public stage for most of the time I've spent on this planet. Muhammad Ali. The courage he showed when he stood up to the establishment and stated that he would not fight a war that he had no stake in really shook people up. I believe that for the first time, people really started to question what our government's goals were in Viet Nam. At this point, I was already hearing my father every morning bitch about what an asshole Robert MacNamara was; I was about 9 years old at the time. When the news came out that Ali had his license stripped, my very prescient father, who was a naturalized citizen, out of Glasgow and had fought in WWII and flown B-29s in Korea watching, said, “people are going to start rebelling against this war; it's a bad war.” He was right. As Ali has aged, and he is now dealing with PD himself, his foundations and charities have taken up causes he espoused. Brotherhood for all mankind.

11. What superpower would you like to have? Not invisibility; it didn't work so well for that guy in the X-files episode. I'll settle for that one where you wrinkle your nose and the house cleans itself and your food cooks itself. I know that was a witch power, but all I can come up with are those lame Saturn Lad powers, like the bouncing thing, or stop time, like Clock Boy. Lame

My 11 Random Questions

1. Describe which musical instrument your personality most closely resembles and why.

2. The last time you did anything idiotic in public (assuming you did; not everyone is me) were you embarrassed, or did you just shrug it off? Feel free to provide details. Or not.

3. Name one thing about yourself that would surprise people.

4. Favorite genre of music?

5. Cinnamon or peppermint?

6. What are you reading right now?

7. What was your favorite stuffed toy as a kid? What was his/her name?

8. Who is your favorite author?

9. Who is your muse?

10. If you were to come back to life as an animal, which animal would you be?

   11.  Who is your best friend and why?

Just for fun, I listed my fellow Liebster Nominees; please feel free to visit their blogs and see their responses to the questions I answered. They are probably MUCH more entertaining than I am; remember, I am the Straight Man to the World.

Michael at nouveauscarecrow

DL Shackleford at dlshackleford.com 

Kelly Hartog at kelliforniadreaming

Jen at jeneralinsanity  

Tracy Kuhn at volvodiaries

Bigger on the inside

Liz Blackmore at littleboxofbooks 

lachodrom1

chuckallen

Sonia Rao at soniaraowrites 

sohelpmecats

Vikki at the-view-outside 

Carolyn at carolynpaulbranch

myriteofpassage

Mary A to Z

spudsdailyphoto

Lucy at lucysreality

rsativus

Jo at henderson-jo.blogspot

playwrightchick

haleyscomic

gigglingtruckerswife.blogspot.com

wanderboomer

And now, for my 11 choices. These are all based on blogs that have changed me in some way, given me new insight into ways we relate with one another, ideals to strive for, inspiration for when I was just so damned low and just plain funny blogs. These are also in no particular order, either. Again, Maggie, thank you so much. You rock!

1. Tim Peacock @ http://www.peacock-panache.com/

2. Andi-Roo @ http://www.theworld4realz.com/

3. Gina Valley @ http://ginavalley.com/

4. Kristen Dyrr @ http://kristenhead.blogspot.com/

5. Aaron Brinker @ http://www.dadblunders.com/

6. Amberr Meadows @ http://www.amberrisme.com/

7. MBOK @ http://mybrainonkids.net/

8. Lynnette Conroy @ http://rantravewrite.com/author/rantravewrite/

9. Lottie Nevin @ http://lottienevin.com/

10. Intricate Knot @ http://intricateknot.wordpress.com/

11. Alberta Ross @ http://www.albertaross.co.uk/

12. YumaBev @ http://parkinsonshumor.blogspot.com/ * Yes, I picked a 12th. I know it's a rule-breaker, but Bev is special to us all. She's a winner at life and after having DBS (deep brain stimulation) for her PD this year, she is TODAY having surgery for breast cancer. Please pray to Zeus or Allah or God or whomever you pray to for her!

I probably chose some people who have more established blogs, and more followers and I didn't get to list as many blogs as I would so much love to be able to do. I don't want to make this post any longer than I already have, but a funny thing happened on my way to disaster and my subsequent U-turn. I learned how to live again, with meaning this time. You all helped and I thank you.

ROW 80 POST 42 – THE RISING OF A DARK NIGHT, PART 2

I didn’t realize that when I wrote this piece that there would be a part 2. Aaron responded to my 1^st post and that spurred further thought. So here we are; I want to quote him:

“I hope this will get people to become more proactive and realize that so much was lost yesterday in innocence. The young man that did the senseless tragedy is responsible. All of the events make me question a world gone mad. A world where we teach our young boys not to cry or feel emotion. We show them examples through the media of other men that are bumbling idiots or uncaring fathers. Young men are unprepared for the perils of the world and they don't know how to get help when they need it because we are teaching them to "be a man." In my opinion, a man is a person that is not afraid to ask for help or too prideful. I will continue to blog and hopefully show the world that boys and men need positive role models and maybe I can make a difference.” -- Aaron Brinker, dadblunders

That is the heart of the matter right there, I believe. Boys are taught to be “men” and not show their feelings. They bottle up their emotions. I recognize this, because I was raised this way, by my mother, not my father, perverse as that sounds. My mother accused my father of being “weak,” when he shed tears, yet she was the one with the psychosis, as am I. To my detriment, I do not cry easily.

In general, when tragedy strikes or we deal with injustices, we turn to humor to use as a bulwark against the pain. In the case of the killings of Americans in Libya and the subsequent furor over the extremely provocative “Muslim Rage” cover in Newsweek, which was completely tasteless, Muslims and non-Muslims, like me, hung out at #muslimrage to make fun on Twitter. “#muslimrage “I hate when the hummis goes off.” It became ecumenical: #catholicrage “when the priest drinks all the sacramental wine.”

Humor is wonderful as a balm and to diffuse even the biggest blowhards, but it can’t bring back the dead, nor heal the broken-hearted. What we are left with is often a sense of bewilderment and helplessness. For someone like me, I understand all too well, how the heart of darkness can intrude.

I have written before of my mother’s mental illness. She was raised by people who were incapable of raising healthy children and should never had had any. The fact that the youngest son of 3 is relatively healthy, but clueless is more a testament to my mother’s care and protection of him as a child, than any actual raising done by his parents, my maternal grandparents.

My mother suffered as a child; much of it, she wouldn’t speak of. Suffice it to say that my childhood was pretty awful, and though when she died our relastionship was mended and I loved her dearly, it has taken me 57 years to gain the insight I’ve garnered. This is no one’s fault. Insight and growing is arduous and change really, never stops.

Anyway, I was a lousy girl-child. More a boy-child in thought and temperament. I was taught to fight back and make bullies pay and pay hard, although my mother bullied me ferociously into adulthood. My father, being the mellow soul, watched over me to make sure I came to no real physical harm. He too, was a victim of emotional bullying from her, but was staying in the marriage I believe, until I was grown.

She left him when I took off for music school. To say that I have Asperger  syndrome (note: at the time this was written, ABC News has helpfully highlighted the fact that there is NO link between violence and Asperger. I thought I was just socially inept all these years...) and do not relate well with people is to put it mildly. After a series of disastrous relationships, broken marriages, drug and alcohol problems, homelessness and ill health, Parkinson’s Disease, or non-Parkinson’s-Disease-that-is-the-question, bipolar, mental illness, psychosis, but perversely, great careers, I’ve finally figured out that I’m not the person my mother wanted me to be.

Gee, what a shock. So, I hate when I start on one topic and it ends up here. But, in explaining all of this, I’m also telling you, that there is something in me, that lurks. That is very dark, indeed. I try to keep it tamped down. It is “impulse.” It roars up, like a lava flow. It tends to come out at the oddest moments. It engulfs like a hot wave and it does, indeed fill my limbs with heat and light. I feel it when something good is about to happen and when I witness the bad. It is something atavistic and it scared me, at first.

It feels about like this looks. For real.

"Angel" is about a vampire who was given a soul and spends his time trying to find redemption and forgiveness for all the wrong he has done over centuries. I can relate, and identify somewhat with both sides of his character, and also how quickly he shifts from the light to the dark. Maybe we all walk that tightrope carefully. JC always says to me when I leave, "Be nice," and in the main, I am. I know I carry something that can easily be used as a weapon. I'm aware that I have to play chess mentally and try to be adept in situations that may need defusing. Not my greatest forté; diplomacy. I've been better lately, with JC's help.

The man got on the bus shortly after I did; I was riding to my local grocery store. The man was short 11 cents. He fussed around for a minute, searching his pockets. We waited a good while. The bus driver was not moving until the young man coughed up the 11 cents. I’m in patient, but not-THAT-patient mode. I sigh. My PD tremors were not noticeably bad. We were still waiting.

This young woman comes tearing up the aisle and puts 11 cents in the change hopper. The two of them go running to the back of the bus. The bus lurches off. The couple come tearing up and plop down in the only seat; the one in front of me and they have a baby. They’re both frantically fussing over their baby. They’re both neat and clean. The baby is clean and bundled up. This family is homeless and they’re on their way to a feed. 

They’re probably new in town. This is my home bus route. Everyone knows me on this route. There are several feeds and services for the homeless along Nebraska. I had an extra 5 bucks, so I handed it to the woman, as I got off the bus, saying to her, “It gets better, honey.” The man started to cry. My limbs were on fire. I hop off the bus and hear “Ha ha, Viola, you a crazy bitch!” My usual fan club.

I think this dark and light is in all of us. I see reports about these young men. They’re described as “geeks, loners, bright.” They may be “geniuses.” I’m no “genius” but, what is that, anyway? Everyone is peculiar. We could so easily be that way, or could we? I cannot for one minute imagine harming another person, especially, a smaller, weaker one.

My psychotic moments are rare and I am not a harm to others when they occur. I get confused, which is funny, because I am confused most of the time anyway. I call it my confuse-a-what. I remember them now; I didn't when it first happened. This is all beside the point. My fears, or psychoses have to do with my overarching fears of not having any security, so if everything isn't so, I freak out. Well, it's really funny if you think of it like that, because when is anything every like it should be, we're talking about PEOPLE for goodness sake! Nothing is ever where it should be! But, moving on, this isn't about me. I'm really harmless, unless I decide not to be and I'm iron-clad on being harmless, unless someone gives me a damned good reason not to be. See? 

But there’s no balm, no easing for wanton destruction of innocent life; here’s where I can’t stop the confuse-a-what. Other than trying to help pass stricter gun-control laws. Other than talking about this now and speaking out against the NRA and starting one of my endless and famous SignON.Org petitions which delights Rick Scott, Governor of Florida and his Minions. Other than that, I got nuthin’ as the song goes. Except an empty heart over this. This tears me up. Both JC and I are stricken. Everyone is devastated and when people are so universally affected by a tragedy of this magnitude, something is deeply, desperately wrong. We have ignored so many signs and warnings. We may not get another.

ROW80 DAY 18 - MANY MOODS OF MARY

I was planning on waxing ecstatic about my new group of victims, er,  friends, that I have joined. Triberr! Yes, I am in a very prestigious tribe, with Head Chief of none other than Andi-roo herself, along with my swell Bonfire mates, Amberr Meadows, DadBlunders, Lottie Nevin and last, but definitely not least, the estimable, Jesse Libecap or "Hubz". In honor of this fine occasion, I hereby  dub Andi-roo "Grand Duchess of Dialog." Well, at least until I think up something less hokey. Anyway, after I admired my new Tribe and read all the cute little comments, I checked in on my own blog. Actually, I read my email.

Disaster! Well, kind of. Or, actually some of my Mary Confuse-a-(fill in the blank) struck a hapless reader. A very kind lady and a fine writer was confused by my timeline or description, or perhaps my life, and for that I apoligize, Michelle G. I kind of picked on all of my readers a few posts ago, indicating that I don't get much feedback from you, so I'm not sure what you all are reading or not reading. If this were in the daily paper, I could inveigh heavily on how this was mighty fine toilet paper, or bird-cage liner, but the culture has changed; we all know that. In my post-analytical, pray to the God of logic and sense, I am at last comfortable with the fact that I sow confusion at least as much as I am confused and am unbothered by it. Some people are bothered by it though and still appreciate some rational behavior. However, most of my readers are familiar with my rather free-wheeling approach after everything went to hell. I have a decent rein on my circumstances; my bills are paid, I have a roof over my head and I'm pretty healthy. Just about all my readers know why I blog now and why I'm no longer in the concert halls or working for IBM or Verizon anymore. Let me recap, quickly.

I became homeless after a lengthy hospitalization. I'm not anymore, but live across the street and over one block. I see lots of the same people. I'm glad that I am here. I can write about these folks and maybe be of some help to them.

This is one of those days when I just can't scrape up the enthusiasm, to be cheerful, insightful and breathtakingly witty. I know it's temporary, but everything seems so bleak. I hate being blind, it fucking sucks. I run into walls, doors. I jump because something the size of a mouse seems the size a car and cars are the size of mice; it's always DefCon5 in my head. I hate having to plan my goddamned day around the St. Vitus' Dance thing. I wonder how long it will be before I have to get rid of things I can't button. How long will it be before someone has to feed me? I haven't been able to drive for several years. I have trouble cooking now and pretty much don't now. I blame it on the heat. This is the down side to the bipolar thing. I'll take the up thing. I'd rather stay up for a month and forget August. I can wake up in September in the hospital again and call it a month.

Jesus, I'm sorry. I have no one to talk to, really. I love JC beyond measure, but we are worlds apart in so many things. He has no concept what I've been through and where I'm going. The only reason I pour this out to you, is because I have been caught at a low point in this instant. And why? Who knows? I don’t feel ill, I don't believe there are any celectial bodies in some kind Szyzygy thing, I took my meds. It's just that every so often... I don't feel right. I don't think we're meant to walk around in some kind of happy haze and I'm not that type anyway. I usually walk around in a froth of righteous anger, ready to punch out the lights of any Simon Legree who dares to cross paths with me. I will hurt you in a heart beat if you take on the weak, defenseless, young, halt, lame and I have.

Well, that must have been just a melancholy instant. I feel better now. Ready to see what is going on out in the world. Ready to figure out this Triberr thing. I think I'm going to be the Critic/Cheerleader of the outfit. I can't write fiction. It's like when I was in music school. We had to actually compose music. I can play music, just don't ever, ever ask me to write the stuff. If something diabolical happened and every piece of sheet music ever written disappeared and everyone who ever remembered a piece of music or played by ear forgot how to do that, it would be unanimous. "Mary is not allowed to put pen to paper."

When I was in Music Composition II in college and struggling, my professor said, "here's a fool-proof method," whereupon he had me map out a bunch of triads, tonic, subdominant, dominant, tonic, something simple. Then he had me circle one of the notes in each triad and draw a line from each note, a musical sort of connect-the-dots, "fool-proof," if you will. I did as he instructed. He played what I had written. He sat there, at the piano for a minute. He said, "God, that's horrible." So, Mary doesn't write music. And Mary will not be writing fiction.