#IWSG SEPTEMBER 2017 CHECKIN – THE CAPPER OF A PERFECT YEAR? IRMA IS ON HER WAY!

In what has to be the most monumentally perfect end and seque into what has got to be a better tomorrow – and this is being said with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek, we are bidding a fond adieu to this third quarter of 2017 and looking ahead to the last quarter of 2017 and heading into 2018, with the hopes that all of this will be far, far better than what has gone before and I must elucidate.

Hurricane Irma, 09/06/2017 01:48 am edt. Marching up the Caribbean to Florida.

After coming home from Japan, which was surely a highlight, it took a while to get back into my normal routine, and as a matter of fact, I'm not sure I ever got there. This is rather a disaster for someone like me. I'm hard-wired to the max and it's difficult for me when I get out of my routine; I get out of sorts and lose my appetite, have trouble sleeping and just generally do not operate at my optimal level best, but I soldiered on.

Things seemed to be settling down into a normal routine, until I had two unfortunate hospitalizations; one in March and one in late July. The one in March was due to some atypical chest pains that were attributed to my essential tremor, which I've grown accustomed to experiencing, but the one in July, was a bit more difficult, as this one was caused by my essential tremor once more interfering with my autonomic functions, by lowering my blood pressure and this time, my heart rate, throwing me into bradycardia and had the unfortunate effect of leaving me with a poor sense of balance and with vertigo. I was also having my usual trouble of keeping weight on. The upshot? Home with physical therapy, occupational therapy, extra food, care of Meals on Wheels and extra vitamin supplements.

My handsome viola, Wolf. He's an Italian snob and it shows in the way he looks and sounds. No wonder he doesn't want to get his feet wet!

Then, after a few weeks of that, I came down with a case of strep throat; only my 2^nd in my entire life. I knew it was strep, because my gums threatened to run away first. Lovely stuff. This is on top of having had my new cell phone stolen back in May. What a bad summer. The highlight was seeing my old and dear high-school chum of 40+ years back in May. That was 3 days of laughing hysterically over everything. I get to see her again in the spring, along with another cohort of ours, and I can't wait.

So, here we are. It's September 5^th, 2017 and what do we have awaiting us? Why one week after Hurricane Harvey, certainly one of this epoch's most destructive storms in terms of human misery and the cost in property damage and just the scope of destruction, we have Hurricane Irma, not just lying in wait, but what has become quickly, a category 5 storm, with winds of 185 miles per hour, at least 3 times the width of Florida, so that it matters not where she comes ashore, we're all at risk. And it matters not whether or not I am ambulatory, or if I have a vehicle or not. I have a valuable instrument, and as long as I'm in a place that is high and dry, it behooves me to stay put. Or rather, it behooves the underwriters of the insurance policy that hold Wolf's policy for me to stay put. Not that I'm tempted to go and grab a boat and go punting through the streets of Tampa anyway. Nebraska Avenue is weird enough, when it's normal out. I can just imagine how bizarre it's gonna be with Irma's impact. Mr. Cigaret and his “Merry Christmas” in July and Abraham singing to the cars will have new audiences to sing to and new patrons to greet, if FEMA and disaster relief need to make their way to our shores. As for me and Wolf, it's highly doubtful that we'll be singing for our suppers, but you never know. Stay tuned. At any rate, when Irma leaves, it's time for this run of luck to change! 

#IWSG – DECEMBER CHECK IN – TROTSKY FILLING IN THIS MONTH!

Sorry, Viola Fury couldn't make it! She all tied up in symphony rehearsals and many viola playing! Playing otlichno viola! Is korosho? You think for once in her life, she could post decent check in that let everyone know she care about writing? Bah! All she care about is stupid viola and music! Not give one damn about me and her kinda crappy about goals!

D'obro Vechir! Mena Zavut Trotsky!

They all play lovely Rachminov “Variations on a Theme of Paganini” in some alternate universe, when they should be playing Schumann's Symphony Number 1, in B flat Major in Tampa Bay Symphony. But... Nyet! They all run off and find some wizard of a pianist!

“Play Rachminov!”, she said! “Stay home!”, I said!

Never! Off she goes with viola and leaves me alone to pine! “Sigh!” It is sad to be a Russian Blue... Maybe I go off and sing the Blues... Is that allowed here? In the USA? Now, that President Obama is not going to be in White House?

This Trump Turnip? He say he knows Putin? I think Putin will, how you say? Have his lunch... maybe eat him for lunch. More like it; Putin very, very wily and smart; this Trumpkin Turnip. He dumb, like bag of hammers, or napkins; he a goner. For sure, he no President; he think he smart? Ha!...

I wish my redhead would come back to me. She was my one and only; actually I left her. I came to her when she most needed me; left her when she most needed me, but I couldn't help it. I was so old; sick beyond sick. She know that; she still pine. Now, she doesn't really need me, but... I need her. How do I get her back? Does anyone know? Or am I with her always in her memories.

ViolaFury and stupid viola, "Wolf".

    I should be in lap, not piece of junk wood! >.<

Da, that is it... we are interwoven. Well that is #IWSG for now. She will not be here in January. She will be in another country, with her beloved viola, playing. There is a saying in my country, in Rodina, da. “Your first love may be great, but your last love will be perfect.” I truly believe this, and as she has had tough times, she crafted her well-earned perfect life, but is still waiting for her perfect love. Spaciba and D'zvadanya! More drivel in февраль, 2017. Maybe she write some words, but she still be playing many viola in Tampa Bay Symphony. Bye Bye, as you say, for naow!

#CHERISH – WOLF

We are writing about objects that we cherish and have so much meaning in our lives. Mine is my viola, named “Wolf” by his luthier, who cared for him, when I lived in Detroit, Michigan. Fine instruments are given names by luthiers; I am not sure why that is. I acquired Wolf when I was eighteen years of age, getting ready to start college, and my mother didn't want me to start on a “block of wood” as she termed it. The luthier in San Francisco who sold us the viola, bought “him” from an estate sale, of a woman who had died in her late 70s. She had developed something like MS or some motor disorder and had been a young violist in the San Francisco Symphony. Wolf was found in her closet after her passing.

The one time I don't want a picture of the cat, she sneaks in; the bow is German-made, by Richard Grunke, and at 72 grams is the heaviest viola bow made.

She had all of his papers and provenance, so there is no question that he is a Guidantus Florenus of the Bolognese school of violin making, not the Cremonese school, which turned out the lovely Stradivarius, Amati and Guarneri instruments. You can go on for days and days about different makers, houses, schools, blah blah blah. I have all the viola I need right here. When I first played Wolf, I could not believe the sound that came out of this small, unassuming looking instrument. It was huge! The lower notes were full and rich, the higher ones were sweet and piercing without stridency. I had to take this instrument to my professor to have him listen. There is an adage: "Don't buy the first instrument you play" and naturally, this was the first one I played!

Florenus had some odd little things that he would do with his instruments; here, he has managed to match up 2 pieces of maple so that Wolf appears to have "stripes" the length of his back.

I took him to my professor, the good and kind, late Dr. Jakey and we went to the concert hall. I played Wolf, while he walked around the hall and listened. He had me turn my back to him, because conversely, the viola's sound is projected through the back of the instrument, due to it's size, and not the f-holes, like the violin (probably more than you want to know, but there it is) and he walked up and down, back and forth. Then, he played and I did pretty much the same thing. There wasn't a false note on the instrument, no matter how high up the register, or high up you played on the lower strings. The viola was just solid and so rich. Wolf "plays easily" too. By that I mean, he's a dream to play. I had a viola once that I was trying to sell for a friend, and I felt like I'd been in a cat-fight every time I played it.

Another "hallmark" of Florenus' house (usually several members of one family worked on a "bench" or for a "house" - Antonio Stradivarius passed on his fiddle-making to his sons) is that his f-hole work looks like cavemen chiseled them out with rocks. Interesting, since he took such care with the backs, but then, wait until you see the scroll!

Before Wolf got his name, I had to have some work done on him. I took him to my luthier in Detroit, Michigan. I needed to have all of his pegs changed out to rosewood, his fingerboard was beveled as was the custom in the 18th century and needed to be smoothed out and evened, I wanted to have him outfitted with matching chin rest and end pin to match his pegs. He also had a tiny, tiny crack on the front and that needed to be fixed. The luthier, Peter, said he could do all of that, but would have to take the top off. I went into a near-frenzy. I think all players do that. He said, "relax, just going to put a tiny cleat on that crack underneath". 

Wolf is small compared to most violas; 15 and 7/8" inches, instead of 16 1/2, or 17 inches, but because he is "fat" between his front and his back, he is able to project the kind of sound much larger violas produce. He can pretty much out-shout bigger ones, but then I have a "heavy" arm and have had to learn to back off and play with a lighter arm, when necessary. Now, that I'm back playing symphonically and no longer a free-range violist, I actually have to pay attention to the dynamics. When I toured with rock 'n' roll bands, like Styx and the Moody Blues, no one gave a hoot about dynamics. 

He went off to do his voo-doo, while I paced around and fretted. Peter came back in a bit, and said, "come here, I want you to see this?" I'm thinking, "oh geeze, he's gonna tell me the thing's got termites." So we go back into his inner sanctum, and he's taken the top off of Wolf. First off, there's a dust bunny in there, that's been there so long and is so huge, it's viola-shaped. Just kidding. Peter shows me where he fixed the tiny crack and the set of pegs, chin rest and tail or end pin, that he's picked out for Wolf. Wolf is not a deep red, or mahogany; he's blond and his varnish is also a softer varnish. That's another thing string people yap about; varnish. For days. 

This is a true Florenus scroll. It's out of kilter. It looks like something that got left out in the sun and kind of melted. There is no symmetry and I laugh every time I see it. If I were to have no provenance or proof of Wolf's lineage, an appraiser would look at this, his f-holes and his back and go, "yep, Florenus". They're all horrible. It's like Florenus just didn't care, at least about the head-on part of it. 

Anyway, Peter is looking at Wolf's scroll and his front, deep in thought. He says, "Mary, I've seen this viola before." I'm like "Orly?" in my head. Peter goes to his catalogs. Luthiers have very, very expensive catalogs that are updated every so many years with notable string instruments. He hunts around for a certain year and pulls out this book. It's huge and it's heavy and he flips through it to the "F" section and there is my Florenus. I was pretty shocked. I told him I have the bill of sale. I had to have the instrument authenticated and insured, but Peter named him "Wolf" because of his huge, at times gruff sounds on his lower strings. Another weird convention: Wolf is a "him" because I'm female. This is not etched in stone, it is more a tradition that has gone on through the centuries, among luthiers and string players. 

Wolf and I have been a team now for nearly 41 years; that's longer than any of my marriages have lasted and longer than the time I had my father in my life. Wolf is by my side pretty much all the time, and we have had our adventures, and our disasters, although I make sure that if it's gonna get physical, I take the brunt of it, like falling off a stage. Ribs can heal; it's damnably hard and expensive to fix an Italian Aristocrat. This happened to a friend of mine; I completely understand his “tuck and roll” move.

I do have to give Florenus this much. When it came to the serif and the profile, there were few better. The sweep from the serif up to the crest is gorgeous. The only prettier one I've seen is on a Gofriller cello. All in all, Wolf is a spectacular instrument! I'm so fortunate to have him.

In an eery coincidence, several years ago, I developed a motor disorder and it was though that I would not play again. Understandably, this may have been caused in part by about 10 or 15 years of total hell – went blind, had congestive heart failure, during which time, husband got a girl friend, left his cheating ass, tried to buy a house with the settlement, lost it in econ meltdown of 2008, got sick AGAIN and HOMELESS, this time – and at one point, I just wanted to lay down in my traces like a tired old cart horse and not get up. But, that's not what we do in my family. We come roaring back, and are usually made stronger by whatever set us back on our pins in the first place.

But, the motor disorder, is in fact inherited and I had been displaying symptoms for many years. They just chose to become overt and I was unable to play. Well. Shit. After two years of fighting with a bunch of quacks who call themselves “neurologists” I was set up through the Parkinson's Foundation with a world-class neurologist, who had me diagnosed and out the door in well under 2 years. Understand, that neurological problems typically take from 6 to 10 years for a diagnosis. Within a year, I was playing again. I joined the local symphony and took it head-on. We started our season with Beethoven's 5^th Symphony (Oh, I should mention, Beethoven is my muse, not just for music, but for life) and ended with Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony for Big Orchestra, and gave a seminal performance. I am so thrilled to be able to make music again on this level! It was just a dream, but to have Wolf? Icing on the cake and I'm making up for lost time!

#ROW80 POST 13 – THE QUESTION

“What makes you think you have Parkinson's Disease?” Dr. Deborah Burke asked me this question after several minutes of very insightful discussion and quick, probing questions, which I readily answered for her. I had done my homework and I realize that these doctors at the USF Byrd Center have only so much time to spend with their patients, even the new ones.

Dr. Burke is kind and compassionate and again, possesses a kind of intuitive grasp of things, while maintaining a discipline (staying in her “box” as she terms it) to help keep a patient on track. And lordy, I am a handful and I know it. Having worked in a teaching hospital for 5 years, has given me the ability to understand systems at an extremely rudimentary level, but when you're working with doctors who are teachers by nature, they don't care who's asking the questions, even if it's a wet-behind the ears viola student.

The hurly-burly chaos of a huge hospital that housed some 9,000 souls, many from different countries, also sharpened my skills as an observer, rather in the way the ancient Greeks learned about how things worked. The power of observation is so overlooked; and is a marvelous tool, both within, as well as without. I, of course didn't think of this at the time, when Dr. Burke asked me a question, which literally shut my pie-hole, for a minute. I was flummoxed and several things came to mind, and I went “ah, err, lemme get back to ya on that one.”

She was okay with that. She had me do the walk up and down the hall without whackamole (my controlled fall thing,) some hand thing that reminded me of that awful Disney song “We Are Siamese If You Please,” (my father always cringed at that) and try to draw a spiral, after hers, which was shaky. She then had me write a sentence, which she said, almost apologetically, “this looks like essential tremor.”

We had already gone over the lack of smell, drooling and my horrible new voice, which is just, whatever it wants to be, except what it was for 56 years. Hoarse, croak, weak and unintelligible. I'm going to learn semaphore; the flag thing. Then I can lug around 50 or 60 flags. I'll get it wrong, and tell people to walk out into traffic, which is a bonus around here anyway. It will be quicker than trying to holler and then spitting on people. Another bonus for PD or whatever this is.

I have noticed that doctors of all stripe seem to be really hung up on the tremor thing, but it's not that simple. I have them at different times. They stop when I do something that requires real strength and I have tons of that. I can't play my viola because the delicacy needed to balance the bow and do spiccato and skip around and just even pull a long bow-note isn't in my bag of tricks, or it's hiding. So, I have to leave it alone. I get almost suicidal at the thought of NEVER being able to play, even if it's just for me and that is not going to happen. I am a master at interpretation and long, slow passage work. I'm not boasting, just stating a fact. But I need to be able to feed that beast.

Nobody puts Wolf in the corner.

Play me NOW!! I'm gahddamned history. I was built only 10 years after Beethoven died. PeeDee, ShmeeDee! Get off your lazy ass and play some 3-octave scales. A minor. NOW!!!!!

So, when I thought long and hard about what Dr. Burke asked me, I came up with this answer: intuition, but I didn't voice it. I had my first tremors a week after I was released from the mental ward after my Baker Act. In the middle of the night, when they woke me up. I had experienced some numbness in my hands and forearms in the hospital, but not tremor one.

The Byrd Center also houses the Alzheimer's study and Research Center

The only thing I knew at that moment about Parkinson's Disease, was that Michael J. Fox and Muhammad Ali had it. Why I made THAT connection, I have no idea. Rather than being scared out of my wits, I started reading about different pathologies and etiologies of various neurological conditions. I realized as I was reading, that I had been experiencing some type of PD symptoms for at least 15 years. 

I also realized, through remembered observation that my mother had that type of early-onset disease. Tremors, thousand-yard stare, along with her depression and suicide attempt(s). These were many occurrences with her. Not just once, or twice, but over a course of decades. Coupled with my father's alcoholism, and I was very upfront with Dr. Burke about this, along with my own history, she understood, what I was saying. I didn't tell her about my intuitive reaction. I'm saving that for the follow-up, whatever the diagnosis. She's been so accommodating and kind. This is the type of doctor you want to keep, FOREVER.

We laughed when she said, “I'm sorry to keep harping on this, but your own depression, prior to your psychotic break, when did it begin? Because I get a sense of the chicken, and the egg and the alcohol and the chicken, the egg...” making circular motions, until she got all confused. I said, “Yes, I understand.” Grinning, I said “I was 16. My mom was the co-dependent and living hell. My father was not unkind, but he couldn't cope. I just saw blackness, but I never considered ending it. It's just been there.” Like anything, it waxed and waned. Situational and work, diversions; I took little medication. It's impossible to play the kind of music I've played and take anything. I didn't even drink caffeine. One year, towards the end of this impossibly booked tour, we were in Miami and had 3 performances of Gilbert and Sullivan's "Mikado." I was dead on my feet and drank a Coke. I could hardly keep my bow on the string. Oh, and the "Mikado" is 3 hours long. Disney makes you play like that; it's one reason I ditched them for Warner Brothers, besides who doesn't want to play "What's Opera, Doc?"

Fun Fact: "Ride of The Valkyries" by Richard Wagner (the rest of that entire scene is a bitch) can be played in 4th position on the viola and you barely have to lift a finger! But you sure flap that bow arm! Impressed? Yeah, me neither.

So, all this time; there are always stressors and prices to be paid. My parents were not bad people. I, by far, did not have the worst childhood. I have heard so very much more tragic stories from people I love dearly and people who are far better than I. I have no one to blame, not because my parents are deceased, but because they did the very best they could with the meager tools they were provided. My mother and I mended our broken relationship before her death, which I am so very, very thankful for. My father, in spite of his lackadaisical ways, was my primary caregiver. Although, my mother bore me, my father brought me home from the hospital and raised me. That is why, I was never a very good girl-child. Being an only child I would prefer to while away my time with my computers, music and writing. I made a decision early on to not have children, and I am glad I stuck by it. It was probably one of the few wise things I've done. JC is the other; he is my rock.

JC always knows how to show me a good time. I laughed like a hyena over this. Sweetbay is so used to us, they don't bat an eye at any of our goings-on. Of course, the store is on Nebraska Ave., 33605, where everything happens. This is just one of the many reasons I love him unreservedly.

It took 10 minutes of me hollering and telling jokes and being, well me to get him to smile. He usually looks like a wooden Indian, or like someone just told him his house burned down.

The other thing I have begun to experience and follow as in over-riding my logic and letting intuition take over, as in the case of PD (I am almost 100% certain that is what this is) is that with the winnowing away of more of my senses (sight, smell, some of my touch, hearing is odd, hallucinations sometimes, when sugar drops) is a heightened increase in compassion and empathy for others. This sounds like some kind of hypocrisy, because I'm not good around people, but I have Asperger, or "doesn't play well with others," as they used to say. My psychiatrist and I laughed about this yesterday; it's agreed that I have bipolar I, but "pseudobulbar affective disorder: cry at nothing, laugh at morbid shit?" I told him I've been accused of bad taste for years and I don't need a pill for it. It's my bad taste. Anyway, while still quick to humiliate and take on the real asshats of the world, both verbally and physically, I am even quicker to recognize and praise or aid those who need it most.

courtesy: James Thurber's "My Life and Hard Times"

Caption Reads: He Caught the Same Disease That Was Killing the Chestnut Trees

I read most of James Thurber's books by the age of 9 or 10. For some reason, I found this hilarious. I still do. Leave my bad taste alone. It's funny. I don't want blah. I want the misery, hopelessness and despair, because behind that is the joy, elation and hilarity of life.

Yesterday, as I was leaving my Psychiatrist's office and making an appointment for August, I felt this jolt on my right elbow. In any other situation, I would have whipped around and been pretty keen on finding out who was invading my personal space. Something stopped me from reacting that way, however. I carefully turned around, and there was this darling little girl. She was a child with Down's Syndrome and she had a cast on her right arm. She pulled on my shirt again, and waved and smiled. I waved and smiled back. Her older brother was there, too. He didn't have Down's Syndrome, but what the Hell. I pulled on his shirt and waved and smiled. He did the same. Their Mama grinned. I was so elated. Beethoven-elated. “Ode to Joy” elated.

So, I believe I have PD. We'll see what the DaTScan says. Then, as Dr. Burke says, “We'll go down SOME road together.” Very cool. DaTSca is June 20th, then I make an appointment for my followup. So, we shall see, what we shall see, no?