#ROW80 1ST QUARTER 2015 – LET THE CRY OUT

2014 was a busy year and for once, I met up to certain expectations well, but in other areas, I know I slacked off a bit. Okay, I slacked off a lot. Whether it can be summed up to just the overall fatigue that comes with close to fifty years of battling with depression, in one form or another, or realizing that I've made some stunningly bad life choices in the past, it all added up to an "A" for getting my passion back and a "B-" in just about everything else.

Oh yeah, I started a Python Class, that I ditched about half-way through. Thank God it was free. The repeat starts in February. Finishing would be a win.

Rather than getting myself into messes and then finding out that #whatamess and Holy Mother of God, I have to get myself out of this screwed-up fiasco, before I have a heart attack, die and he wins – yeah, I'm talkin' to you, Lithia, aka Bill Nunnally of Heartland for Children, helmed by one Ms. Teri Saunders, who right about now, must be enjoying dealing with the fact that an esteemed colleague, a CEO no less, over at Gulf Coast Jewish Family Services, was put to death by her own life partner-abuser, because women are open-season and it exists everywhere and is accepted everywhere, you fucking bunch of hypocrites, EXCEPT by me, and, oh, how is Andrea, you sly-boots, all getting' a girl-friend, while I lay up in a hospital bed battling congestive heart failure, at Brandon Regional Medical Center (I've got the medical records, you lying prick), you Master of Head-Fucks – or trying to buy a house in the midst of what seemed to be a rather secure situation at the beginning of the year 2008, or the end of 2007, I forget which, because I was still trying to recover from a severe case of PTSD, it seems.

I still am, but a funny thing happened on the way from now to here. First off, I got really, really honest with myself, for the first time in my life. That's a well-nigh impossible thing to do, when you live in a family that is a solid-gold definition for “dysfunction”. My parents honestly did the best that they could, and I have nothing but love and respect for either of them, but mostly I honor my mother. You see, she's the one who continually harped on me about getting past all the bullshit that had been flying around the house for years. Unfortunately, she had only one tool to deal with it and that was rage, which would be directed at anyone within reach. Boiling, festering, unmitigated rage that would unleash at the drop of. . . nothing; at least from my perspective.

Kids understand a lot, you have to give them that, but they do not understand nuances, or the subtle battles that their parents may be going through. My father chose to deal, by not engaging with her at all, and by drinking. . . a lot, and this left her with nothing but pent-up rage. I've written of this before, and the only way the poor woman could retain her own sanity was by divorcing him. I honestly believe though, that my father hung around as long as he did, because he feared for my own safety; she would fall into these blind rages at times. Once, she tried to burn down the house. There had been an earlier attempt at suicide, so my father's fear was very real. But, they both loved me and they were both trying to do right by me; my dad always had a job, and although a “maintenance drunk” he was never unkind or cruel. My mom pushed me to do better, but not in a rah-rah way. It was more of a “I'm gonna beat your ass” kind of way; not always the greatest incentive for truth, in my opinion. I was terrified of her. It wasn't until I was older and became a bit wiser that I understood what she was trying to impart to me. I was a bit dim-mish at the time. Fear does not make for a good learning environment.

Fear does make for a hell of an incentive to lose yourself in something you love doing; realizing that there are more things bigger than yourself and your stupid fears work. . . for a while, but to pardon the pun, the music must eventually be faced.

So, having waded through all of this, I left home at the earliest opportunity and didn't really look back. My parents were ending their marriage; in rancor and misunderstanding and I was busy with music, but in my heart, there was always an emptiness, an understanding that something had not gone right, and I didn't know how to fix it. I fell back on patterns easily learned; go along to get along, and the hell with what I REALLY wanted. I did have a succession of marriages, each worse than the last, and the last nearly killed me; I ended up hating it and him. I didn't want to get married again, and had told him that, but said “yes” when he asked. Even after that, I fell into another abusive relationship, but I could deal with that, because that was physical, and I gave as good as I got. I've always been a brawler and can easily take down a 250-pound man and have. I came out of that relationship with surprisingly little ill-will and still wish the ex and his family Happy Birthdays and all of that. Physical can be gotten over; it's kinda like boxing.

Lest anyone forget by my cultured tones, I live in da 'hood, and I do train, as do a surprising (well, maybe to you) number of people in the Symphony. A swift left upper-cut, followed by a quick, right jab surprises the HELL out of would-be muggers, and what not, 'cause, pronation + batshit insanity that I can unleash at a moment's notice. I do not play.

This may look like easy pickin's on Nebraska Avenue and it's environs, but it's not. Most people know that by now and steer clear. I sometimes miss the old days; I'd be lying and definitely not a Wallace if I said I didn't enjoy fisticuffs now and again.

Emotional, psychological and spiritual abuse is much, much harder to fix, especially when you're damaged goods to begin with. For years after that divorce, I had panic attacks, at the mere thought of being back in that situation and it's been a solid ten years now, since I left Bill Nunnally, on January 5^th, 2005. My heart would not let me stay there. It skittered and jumped around like a wounded animal in my chest whenever I even thought about driving back to the ol' homestead, so this was clearly not a good sign of things to come. Frail of mind and body, I left and lived on a friend's couch for a few months. Thank god that's all behind me.

But, in looking back and now moving forward, I know I've healed. I can now think of the ridiculousness of that situation: Bill, yelling at a blind woman (me; the blindness being courtesy of the Congestive Heart Failure I didn't yet know I had), “Why don't you get a goddamned job! All you do is look at that goddamned book!”, as I looked at a Time Magazine, trying to see the pictures. Me thinking, “Mmmmm, I'm blind, can't drive. Yup, that's a sure-fire resumé builder”. But, by far my favorite put-down was the huff over the 3 Little Pigs or Porkies. There was a local commercial on-air, which featured some badly-drawn pigs, of the “Porky the Pig” style, with the exception that these were wearing pants; this is Florida, after all, we wouldn't want to scare the Q-Tips with butt-naked pigs. I made some random comment, like “Gee, these are like Porky the Pig, exce–“ and wasn't given the chance to finish, before the beat-down commenced. “Those are NOT Porkies, because Porkies do NOT wear pants! These are the 3 Little Pigs!” or something equally asinine, came from the couch Bill would sprawl out on the minute he got home from work, in his sweat pants, and pasty chest, with no shirt. To emphasize, he repeated, “NOT Porkies!”

I had completely forgotten this inanity until the other day, when Alex, JC, Jason and I were kind of looking at something on the television (which I rarely look at; even giant-ass as it is, I really cannot see it all that well) and some stupid local advert came on with some poorly-drawn cartoon characters. I began to laugh and the more I thought about it, the more I laughed. I then had to share this whole #whatamess with JC, Alex and Jason, so they didn't think I was a complete loon and they know my history. So, after we all had a good laugh at that, we continued watching the game, or one of the ancient westerns that JC is so fond of. I am glad that I am in this place; it is right for me to be here, because, JC is dying. There, I've said it and there's no getting around it.

JC, in much more robust days; laughing at some inanity from one of his many friends. I miss the old JC, but help him and honor him as he lives out his days.

At some level he knows this, and I think he's accepted it. There are times when I'm driven to distraction, because he is weak and I am not; it is not in his nature to fight. I'm a strategic fighter; a good general. I know when to cut and run and when to stand and fight and this one time, I cannot do it for him. He is not a strong person and I know he's afraid, deep down. I feel so Goddamned helpless, because just this once, I can't fix it and I love him. I remember asking my father once, “When do we begin to die?” He answered, in his wisdom, “The moment we are born.” I was maybe four years old when he said that to me, but he had already taken the measure of me and knew me well. So, maybe we die a bit every day, but we also have been given this grace; the grace of just this moment. To treasure it and to make sure that everything we do, everything we say is a commitment to our own truth. My truth is to try and ease a dying and frightened man from this world and let him know that he did not fail in his commitment to me. He cared for me when I was desperately ill; he made choices that he thought I would hate him for, when he Baker-Acted me, but he saved my life. I can do no less for him. I fight like a lion with TGH, insurance companies, idiots on the other ends of phones, which I won't do for myself, because it exacerbates my e. t., yet I'll continue to do so, because he matters. He's a human being and a life and he matters and I love him.

I had a dream last night that prompted this post. In the manner of dreams, it was just a mish-mash of stuff that made absolutely no sense. The “Nic Cage as a popcorn box” dream made more sense, but there was one part of it, that made me cry in my dream. There were a bunch of animals; cats, dogs, ferrets, hedgehogs, or something that just were running around in a jumble, along the side of this road. I was riding in a ridiculously tall bus, and as we drove by, a woman called out, “There's my Matilda! Stop, Mr. Bus Driver! My cat Matilda is by the side of the road!” But the bus went on; the driver heedless to the woman's pleas. In the manner of dreams, somehow I could see this little cat left by the side of the road, all alone, bereft. The other animals were gone; my dream “logic” imparted that they had gone with their people, except for this little cat. I started to cry in my dream. I hate loss; just hate it with a passion, but we must accept it and go on.

Matilda looked very much like this kitten when she disappeared. The worst part was hearing the loss in my mom's voice when she phoned and said "I've called and called her home for her supper, but she never comes." This was about a month before my mom died.

I woke up with this burning pain in my chest and shoulders and back; throat working, trying to cry, but my goddamned messed-up mind and my body will conspire against that and quite frequently does. Old habits die hard and I really wasn't allowed to cry at home as a kid. But, I also believe that crying acts as a circuit-breaker and when we cry it alleviates the stress, the pain, whatever the subconscious is trying to tell us. As I lay there, I thought back, and all the while this pain is building in my chest. Just for my own sake and to be strong, I know I have to let this go somehow. I thought back to my mom. I remembered just before her death, she had adopted a little kitten, and named her “Matilda” which I thought was a charming name, but Matilda disappeared and in the wake of my mother's death, she became forgotten. . . until last night. That connection was like flipping that switch; that connection on that circuit breaker and finally, I was able to Let The Cry Out.

We all must do that at some point; without it, we become mindless gray things and just exist in a numb sort of day-to-day shuffle. Life isn't about a series of rote routines, or running around, trying to make money for a nest egg. I no longer have one; I don't care. I have a life; a rich and full one and I spend time with JC and our friends, play my viola with passion and heart and excellence, work on computers, and game and am a proud co-Leader with probably one of the oldest clans in the world. I write sporadically, but write well enough and passion enough, that sometimes people think my shit is worth stealing. That's enough for me. But, when I need to Let The Cry Out, I'll find a way. It keeps me relatively sane and healthy for what lies ahead.

HOMELESS CHRONICLES IN TAMPA - FUN WITH SETI@HOME, SUNDAY CHECK IN #ROW80 #NANOWRIMO 2 DAYS IN




SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) is a scientific area whose goal is to detect intelligent life outside Earth. One approach, known as radio SETI, uses radio telescopes to listen for narrow-bandwidth radio signals from space. Such signals are not known to occur naturally, so a detection would provide evidence of extraterrestrial technology.

Radio telescope signals consist primarily of noise (from celestial sources and the receiver's electronics) and man-made signals such as TV stations, radar, and satellites. Modern radio SETI projects analyze the data digitally. More computing power enables searches to cover greater frequency ranges with more sensitivity. Radio SETI, therefore, has an insatiable appetite for computing power.

Previous radio SETI projects have used special-purpose supercomputers, located at the telescope, to do the bulk of the data analysis. In 1995, David Gedye proposed doing radio SETI using a virtual supercomputer composed of large numbers of Internet-connected computers, and he organized the SETI@home project to explore this idea. SETI@home was originally launched in May 1999.

FUN WITH SETI

I've been keeping abreast with my writing for NaNoWriMo. Which reminds me: Q: What is this? (besides a really bad joke, and an even worse drawing):

A: 2 Men Walking A Breast. I could riff on this, with "2 Men Walking a Brest," although how you'd walk a whole European city is beyond me, or "2 Men Walking a Beast," but living where I do I see this every day. "2 Men Walking a Beast," either of the 4-legged or the 2-legged variety a-lenty, so this is not a novel enough thing to disregard around here. This is Nebraska Ave., 33605, 33602, after all. So too are "2 Men Walking a Beat;" the law enforcement kind, or the hip-hop kind to be found here pretty regularly.

THIS IS THE CHECK IN PART. I WROTE ACTUAL WORDS AND SENTENCES, COHERENTLY, AND FORMED PARAGRAPHS, TOO! Anyway, I am 4,432 words into this year's NaNoWrimo for 2013, as of day 2 and today looms, No biggie. I have my outline, beat sheet, the next segment plotted in my head (sort of) and all of that happy-crappy. Once again, poor #ROW80 has taken a hit, once AGAIN (remember the A-to-Z blogging challenge last spring?) and I owe her so much. Without #ROW80, none of this would be happening. I'm going to be checking in for Alex J. Cavanaugh's #IWSG this Wednesday (why do we not pronounce that Wed-nes-day? Just askin') In spite of the fact that I have spent the week feeling great, I have the WORST ABSCESSED TOOTH EVER. My left front central incisor is so badly inflamed, the infection had pushed up into my nasal cavity and has warped the roof of my mouth. Penicillin has stopped that pain. No pain pills, 'cause I'm on so many other things, I'd probably go on some weird acid trip, and I have an exceedingly high threshold to pain. Now the pain is gone, so it won't ruin the fun of my eating everything in site, whilst I write. Yay! Thank you, rotten oranges or whatever you are, dear penicillin!

I go through all of my SETI stats about twice a year; once in late spring and once in the autumn. Usually, I just print out my certifications to see how I'm doing. I stay off of the forums, because there is an über-bitch, who in the disguise of a helpful admin, delivers scathing lectures to the innocent lambs who want to know why their uploads failed. I'm a fairly adept practitioner of the Dark Arts, so I don't need any help, but I sure feel sorry for the poor unweaned, who start their posts with, "I just received a message that said Upload Failed..." The few times I read these threads, UB blasted back with something related to the user's fallibility as a computer user, insulted the user's children and also mentioned that the user's pets were ugly. Yikes! No help to be had there.

Anyway, after I printed my stats, which show I've process astronomical amounts of data received from the Arecebo Telescope in an attempt to find E. T.s. . . wait, what? Never mind. Which would make sense in the astronomical department, because it is after all, the universe we're scoping out. What a hash of sentences there. So, I printed my stats and then for grins, I went to the website that shows where my team fits in with all of the other teams. 

This is my team, highlighted in green. There are 64 members of my team, but only 10 of us are active. I guess the rest are out on missions. The standing joke is that everyone was once CIA, or DOD; some kind of spook for some alphabet agency or another. They're probably doing piece-work for the NSA. NASA is only 5 slots ahead of us. I love the randomness of "Get off my lawn!" This whole project is full of stuff like this. 

Even with all of their brain power, we're still ahead of UC Berkely, UC Davis and BooYah! This Man's USMC! Our team consists of people with cats who puke on keyboards, but can do some mean hacking and cyber-spying, so I was a natural fit.

Number 69 is Marquette University, one of my mom's alma maters and I like that University of Florida is number 52. Keep it up! Go Florida. Maybe we'll win the Inter-species Regionals this year!

The number one spot is held by Team USA *yawns* but I was thrilled to see that the U. S. Air Force is number three, behind the U. S. Navy (boo.) GAY USA is number 5, which is great, because the universe is not only about radio frequencies, it is about transmitting in the Ultraviolet all the way to the Infrared. So, we've got rainbows covered. SQUEE!

An explanation of how radio frequencies and the color spectrum fit can be found here.

Team number 4's team name is some kind of random code. Way to go. My next team name is going to be "dice = std::bind ( dist]" and then everyone will think I'm some kind of either great genius, or crackpot. Except for "Get off my lawn." That team will totally get it. O How I Hate Ohio State is at the 21 spot. I don't really hate 'em. it's just what Michiganders say. It's a knee-jerk reaction. Oh, and "The Pirate Float" at number 16, is going great guns. I bet they say, "Aargh! I'm a pirate!" a lot at String Theory and GUT (Grand Unified Theory) conferences. 

Rounding out the top 100, of over 500 teams, are University of Michigan and Michigan State (not shown,) and EMU in Ypsilanti, Michigan. I love the "Master Strategy Group." This is vague and sinister, yet kinda creepy. More spooks? To be a good spook, you have to have a great cover, like the Villages. The crazy cat people get overlooked every damned time, but you never know what we're gonna do. Number 94 are the University of Florida GATORS. I can damn-guarantee you that if they were number 94 in FOOTBALL, they would be rioting up in Gainesville. At number 95, we have "ShallowThought." What a great name for a team. 

#ROW80 4QTR 2013 – SUNDAY CHECK IN – HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MA

Happy Birthday, Ma! You'd be 83 years old today, if you were here. Dammit, as much as we had our bitter messes and fights, we made it right, so I'm writing you this letter. I miss you, so very much. Ma, it's been a long time since you and I have spoken. In fact, it's been over 13 years, and I have a lot to say. We had a lot to say to one another over the years, most of it bitter and unkind. There were reasons for that and as these things go, not all of them are your fault, and not all of them are mine. Being life, it's just one of those things.

You used to scare the Bejesus out of us every time you crabbed down a runway...

It has taken me many, many years to arrive here and develop the clarity and serenity that I have wanted all of my life. Not judging here, but it didn't start well. Being whip-smart as a kid and having an alcoholic father (although, blessedly, one who was kind to me and always told me the TRUTH) and a mother, who wanted the best for me, but was also jealous of me and manipulative in her own right.

Yes, jealous. I wasn't planned; I know it. Daddy told me and would laugh, but you never did. He said I wasn't really planned, but once I “got here, you sure are a hell of a lot of fun!” Silence from you. See, that's how I know. There was always that issue. Then, when you tried to take your own life, when I was 7 and y'all tried to hide it from me, well, that was just confusing, because you see. . .

Wallace Family Christmas, 1956. Complete with Ceremonial Baby Talc

Kids know. You can't lie to kids. They just know this stuff and I knew you weren't shopping at Sears, or whatever. Unfortunately, I still have a hell of a memory. Still, even after all the years of abuse I've heaped on myself. I also knew from that day on, that things between Daddy and you changed and would never, ever be the same. I tried to always pretend they were perfect, but all the hollering and screaming at night (mostly by you) just are really scary to a little kid, and I would be so very anxious, and lay awake all night. I just never felt any security.

And, I could never be what you wanted me to be. Always yelling, or it seemed like it; telling me I was ugly and stupid. Hitting me; then you'd feel sorry and try to make it up. These things are confusing. I was just a bad little kid. No wonder I didn't have any brothers and sisters. I would have liked some, just to take the focus off me, once in a while.

It did and it didn't get better as I grew up. The whole competition thing and I really don't want to get into who you thought I should have married. Plain and simple, you pretty much helped me sabotage my first marriage, but prior to that, I was already battling depression and I didn't know that until just recently.

Lives are just giant puzzles and I find them endlessly fascinating. It's like a whole bunch of strands weaving in and out; some come together and make beautiful tapestries, with subtle colors and shining hues. Some become tangled and snarled and corrode. What a metaphor, I think. Anyway, I have a neurological condition and it is caused by depression; an existential depression that began at the age of 16. I recently found this out from my neurologist, who is probably one of the finest in the country. We dug into my past and in talking, figured out some stuff.

The depression goes hand in hand with what is called familiar tremor or essential tremor, which I observed in you, when things were tense. It is inherited. Nothing you can do about that. You and I worked through a lot of shit together. We had some rocky times; very rocky. I understand more now why you were the way you were and I've long since forgiven and most of all, pretty much forgotten anything we did to one another that was truly horrendous.

I know you loved me beyond reason, as I do you still. That will never change. I still love Daddy, too. He was funny as hell. From him and from you, I received the best of you both. I can think of no finer things than that. We don't get to choose our parents. We can choose how we shape our lives.

You used to holler at me when my socks were run down at the heels; now I know why. Ma, in 1944. 

To that end, though, I have to say this, I did deny you at a time when you needed it most and I paid for it dearly, and you will understand this. I truly believe you hear me when I say these things; here, or in my heart. You were scared, but we had been fighting and I was impatient. I didn't want to hear any more of your shit. I was about 38, and had just moved to Florida. You had taken the time to show me around, but you were starting to push my buttons and we were fighting already.

Funny how our relationship was always so much better long-distance, than up close; anyway, you said, “Mary, I'm scared. I'm sick, and I don't know what's going to happen.” I just ignored you. I really was nonplussed and had no words. You had never, ever opened up to me like that. It's just one of those moments in time. I should have said, “Wait a minute.” I needed to rethink this, or I need to stop seeing whoever I was seeing at the time, but I didn't want to fool with it.

I am so sorry for that, and I know you forgive me for it, but I still cry over it. Because I know how it is to be so very sick and ignored or worse, yet, screamed at and belittled. Bill Nunnally, my 3rd husband, did a similar thing. I remember telling you my doubts about him while you were still alive, and we were living in Charlotte and you were oh, so sick, and you said, “I'm sorry. He seemed nice,” when we visited you in October, 1999 during our 1st Wedding Anniversary. He was anything but, and committed emotional and psychological spousal abuse, when I was sick. So, what goes around, comes around. Jesus, what a tired old adage.

I leave you with this. I have become the person I was meant to be. I am proud of who I am. I live authentically, and I call bullshit, even on myself. I love you and I miss you and Daddy. I'm not really alone. I have friends; great friends who love me and I love back, unreservedly. I live in da 'hood, after being homeless; it wasn't in the game plan, but, it has it's moments. I've gotten a broader education here, but I've also found out I don't need a whole lot to be happy.

Love, 

Your loving daughter, Mary  

aka ViolaFury

October 20, 2013

Lithia, see here for Verbal Evisceration and for anyone else who is interested in aberrant, deviant behavior and what not to do, to gracefully rid yourself of an encumbrance, please feel free to follow the links.

Extra, Extra Content -- DELIBERATE BETRAYAL

"It was easier for you to do all the things you did, because you never really trusted me in the first place. However I felt the blow after blow of betrayal to my psyche, injuries that only you could inflict, because I continued to trust you." – Anon

Bill – and this will be the last time I ever address you by name, and hopefully, address you period, as with this, the boil is lanced, but, I dislike you, no, loathe, hate, despise you, that much – the above quote pretty much sums up our marriage. I may have been a stupid fool, but I believed in you and expected the same in return. We tend to look at the world through our own prism; if we're kind-hearted and loving, we expect the same in return, regardless of the circumstances.

Anyway, I wanted to wish you a very, very happy ex-Anniversary, on this, October Ninth, year of our Lord, 2013. Enjoy it, you philandering, lying hypocrite. D'you remember your very last words that you ever spoke to me, after you asked me for your cell phone bill in late October-ish, November, of 2004, when I said I didn't have it? “You're a liar.” I, of course admit now, that I had it, and had called Andrea Tapiocahead in Maryland and informed her that I was your then wife, because you, not being omniscient, could never have known otherwise, no? I also told her that if you treated me this way, you would eventually treat her the same way! Ain't that great?

What I should have answered, but was oh, so very, very sick with Congestive Heart Failure, blind in one eye that was caused, not by my drinking, as you so sanctimoniously loved to tell me was bad, which yes, it was; that's what alcoholics do, when they're offered a beer by their then-boyfriends, whom they have trusted for a year or so, but by anemia, failure to thrive (childhood – I found out by getting into my old hospital's system, but I don't leave tracks; it's depressing to find out that the deck is that stacked, BUT, (deep breath) by stress and the fact that I had had ulcer surgery, and really, really neglecting my B-12 shots. I SHOULD have said to you, after you said, “You're a liar,” “Well, at least I'm not a philanderer.” So laughably ironic and sad; or as the late, great cellist Spencer Mcgee said, “Sad and an asshole.”

Where did things go wrong? That week I spent in Tampa right after we moved to Charlotte and I had contractual obligations to fulfill, in December, 1999? You were perfectly content to let me stay alone in that house on Annie Street all by myself, with no phone, no protection, and when I asked Herb if I could sleep on his couch, he said “yes.” Yet, your were so pissed by that. In what realm of what universe does that make sense? How fucking safe is that? Then, you swelled up like a horned toad and acted like the typical shithead you are until I pried it out of you in April, 2000.

NOTHING HAPPENED! Nothing was going to happen. But, no woman is going to stay by herself in that neighborhood. Your sense of self-righteous indignation are just breath-taking. Then, the following month, when you went to Tampa for Katie's Graduation, and stayed a few extra days, you came home and looked like you'd had about 8 8-balls shoved up your nose. The look on your face was pure guilt; I'm sure you climbed into somebody's pants in Tampa. I'm lucky I never got a disease from you. I was completely faithful throughout our marriage.

You just never had the stones to deal with anything or anyone that had REAL trouble. I was the one who carried Rusty outside and down the stairs after he had his stroke, so he could go potty; you couldn't even look at him. You MADE me help you drag Eric out into the back 40 when he had dug into his hole under our porch, so you didn't have to hear his screams, when he was dying.

When Eric had all those fistulas, I was the one who took care of him; wiped his bottom and broke up those capsules so he would heal. I cooked, cleaned, ironed, split the bills. I even agreed to split the bills 50-50, although it was a hardship, when you UNILATERALLY decided to quit your job at CGS and go back to school so you could save the world and make a difference.

In doing so, I helped there, not just with the bills, but with your job and the making those poor girls brownies. The one who lived over on the East Coast of Florida, as soon as she got out and was calling us, as you had bonded with her, you had me dealing with her, because it was too much trouble for you to deal with her. Just dump it on me.

Then, there's Herb. Herb's okay, but forgetful. You came at me over the finches dying after I had been away on a gig for a week or so. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Feed and water them by ESP? I TOLD him to take care of them and you have the temerity and the goddamned nerve to say to me, “What a shitty way to die!” I wasn't going to tell you he forgot. I was protecting him, because he was my friend (I thought) and because you were acting like some kind of fucking schizophrenic asshole, instead of just being your regular asshole self.

You were so far deep into your self-righteous “I am the all-knowing one with the job, while my lazy asshole wife lays around, does God knows what drugs, drinks, runs around. . .”

You were seeing me through YOUR eyes. You were the one who told the girls time after time, “I've quit smoking!” and then hide it from them; while Katie was snowboarding in Charlotte, in 1999, to Kyle, over and over and over. And you wondered why Kyle was pregnant BEFORE she left high school? Do you REALLY believe Fran didn't know? I knew, but I wasn't going to say a fucking word. Just reading this paragraph presents a whole basket of “STAY THE FUCK AWAY – LIARS AHEAD!!”

I think Katie has a pretty good moral compass, or at least she did, if she gets a chance to read this, understand, I meant you no harm, nor Kyle, ever. I loved you both, but you, especially. It really hurt me, when your father isolated me from the birth of Alex, and he did that with deliberation. I couldn't have driven to see her, I had one good eye and as it was, driving short distances were, understandably terrifying. Try covering your left eye and just walk around. No depth perception and no peripheral vision. Now add to that, labored breathing and a bad heart and a cheating husband and no one to turn to. For about 6 weeks. Then one day, your heart says, “no more, if you go back, you'll die.” Two grocery bags of clothes, my viola and violin and I was gone to live on a friend's couch.

The same thing with Dwayne. He was sick the day I got home from Brandon Regional Medical Center, where I had been for 2 weeks, with CHF. I had to have 6 pints of blood transfused because I only had 2% hemoglobin in my body. The day after I got home, Dwayne was in a corner. You were clearly doing your own thing, which wasn't feeding the cats, or whatever the fuck it was, just waiting to make my life more miserable. He could hardly breathe. I had to take him to the vet. I had no money, after having losing my job with Chase Manhattan because of my blindness. I had to call around to find a vet who would see me and him, because I had not money. The vet was straight up with me. We looked him over and he was in bad shape. His breath smelled bad; when he could draw breath, it rattled and he wheezed. He sounded like his parts were broken. After much discussion, I called Herb, who was now living with us (how did I know that was going to happen?) and he at least was sympathetic and had a grave dug, by the time I got home.

I was going to tell you, but Herb beat me to it, and you whirled around and said, to me, you said, you miserable cock-sucking bastard, “You murdered Dwayne!” I put him out of his damned misery, which you were too blind with lust, for the afore-mentioned Andrea? Self-righteousness over how very wrong I was, and how very right you were? Whatevs.

There were so many little petty mean things you said and did that I cannot possibly enumerate them all. I truly believe that your soul will be cast out into the darkness and you will be anathema. You will be denied grace and forgiveness; you will be denied any succor or understanding, because, you, you bastard have denied it, when it was so desperately needed. Cast into the stygian blackness, you are commanded to the Elders of Cthulhu, in the Time and Color before space. It exists.

That is partly the Catholic rite of excommunication and partly H. P. Lovecraft, and all mine. Curses are powerful things. You are damned and cursed and I am sure that at some point, if not by me or any agent that I choose to put into play, retribution will be made. I realize that I am damned lucky to be alive; I am also much stronger than I was.

Oh, and hey? Before my eye surgery? Thanks for yelling at me about not doing anything; that was great. You: “You just sit there and look at that goddamned book!!” Me (thinking) “Hmm, no job, totally blind, and he's yelling at me. I cannot believe this; what the fuck am I supposed to do? Grow new lenses?” I actually was thinking nothing; I was too terrified, humiliated and scared and you fucking knew it and made it worse. Rot in hell, you bastard. Herb stood by and watched all of this. Take him with you.

Anyway, the reason I posted the post on my blog, “Homeless Chronicles in Tampa” on May, 22, 2013, is because I found out that you were working at Gulf Coast Jewish Services, which I take as a HUGE insult, slap in the face, whatever. My mom worked there, and although, we had our years and years of problems, she and I made it right. The only thing I agree with you about is this: “she has wisdom.” Ma would say being really sick teaches a lot about compassion, but it also teaches you tons about true unconditional love and acceptance and accountability. It also teaches you about looking at the mote in your own eye.

If she were alive now, she would not only loathe you, but Herb, and most of your family. She would encourage me to probably go farther than I am, I think. Not a goddamned one of you did a thing. I was sick and dispirited for a long time after her death, but that was nothing compared to what has happened after I left 4406 Spring Road, Valrico, Florida, 33596. Let's just say, I've had more interesting times and I'm much better off for it. I heard you left there; somehow I am not surprised. You like to “re-invent” yourself every few years. Maybe one of these years, you'll find a re-invention that's human and not cyborg or an asshole². (That means “squared” and not a footnote, igmo.)

I still practice my arts; not that you care. Because, I have lifelong loves, and unlike you, I am a real musician. I've kept up my computer skills and can fix anything and do pretty much anything, from home. Although I am legally blind, there isn't a place in this world I can't travel.

But, I really only left, because I was starting to fear for my life. My heart was growing weaker and I was supposed to avoid stress. I know Herb was telling you everything, but I truly believe that if I had had a heart attack and fallen to the floor, you would have stood there and watched me die. You were hoping I would die and then everything would be yours and you wouldn't have to fool with me anymore. I didn't want to leave. I don't like leaving, but you knew what buttons to push.

Now, that I've seen the elephant, I'm not afraid of anything. Not you, not anybody. I wish I had the guts then that I have now, but this is life and we don't get what we wish for.

However, we did discuss at one time, my 5,000.00 401k that you “borrowed” in Charlotte, NC and you were going to pay me back. That never happened. That wasn't in the divorce settlement. Also, 200.00 for Jake, 200.00 for that violin (that you played so badly) and 200.00 for the Celestron Telescope, that was supposed to be “our” Christmas Present to one another, one year. By, the way, the divorce settlement, exactly covered the amount of money I paid for all the bills and food JUST while I was in the Valrico house. Never mind the stupid Atkins Diet that I "shared" 300.00 a week for food on, when we were in Charlotte, NC.

You also have a heavy iron skillet that is like glass, that belonged to my grandmother, and I want that back. I also want my mother's Garden Fairy. You kept a bunch of my heavy rods and reels, that were presents, INDIAN giver. Never mind. The girls gave me the Mix-Master for Mother's Day in 2002, but it's too ironic. You keep it. The sign that reads “Stinkbug Creek” that I bought and paid for, if you haven't already gotten rid of it, please take it down and burn it; I'm serious.

That's about all I have to say. I am posting this on October 9, 2013, which would have been our whatever year anniversary. Big fucking deal. I am also thinking mailing you, Herb, Katie, and whoever else I can think of a copy, of this here fine post. Don't get your panties in a wad and think about filing harassment or stalking (as if!) charges, because I will stall and file continuances and we'll end up in a jury trial, and talk about some more of your rotten behavior and I'm not doing anything illegal. I'm disabled, legally blind, and on SSDI. Mostly, I just wanted to tell you what a cock-sucking, son-of-a-whore you are, and I doubt you have the stones to refute or explain ANY of this. I would ask Herb about that note, however. 

One thing I am curious about; just what did you tell Katie, John, Kyle and her husband, your sister Cathy Bush and her husband Dan Hill in Oklahoma City, Fran or anyone else, in the Blanton family, about why I was no longer in your life? What kind of opprobrium did you heap upon my reputation, so that you could look like the good guy? You are a churl, coward and bully, and I dare say, you told them all I was cheating on you and running around, or crazy. You most certainly said nothing to Cathy and Dan until after the fact, because they strike me as kind people, people who would be concerned that a woman with no other family, was being systematically shunned by her so-called "family-by-marriage." Think back on your own father's behavior towards your own mother Irene Stone. If she left you behind, she had damned good reason to and I'm sure it was with regret, but she also felt her life threatened. Think about that, long and hard. 

5,000.00 loan for cashed in 401k (no interest) you said on the back porch you would pay me back. It was a loan up in Charlotte.
200.00 for Jake
200.00 for violin, which you didn't need
200.00 for my part of the telescope; Herb sent me the manual -- fat lot of good that will do.

$5600.00 TOTAL

my mother's cast iron skillet, which had been her mother's

garden fairy -- which had been my mother's

heavy fishing rigs, which were mine as a gift from you, Bill. I may not be able to see well enough to drive, but I can still fish.

Take down and burn "Stinkbug Creek" sign, as it was my idea. 

You're such a bastard you probably dug up poor Trotsky, Dwayne and Sage (you pitched a fit about my having to work after her death, but saw no hypocrisy about dragging Eric away to the back 40 to die miserably alone, you immoral jackal.)

John, I bear you nor Katie any ill-will, but please stop having her look for me. Her father should have the stones to do that, or confront me in my blog. He robbed me of my health, dignity and my future. It's taken many years to get to the point where I have a good life again. I lost not only the Valrico house, in the divorce, but a house I was trying to buy in the economic crisis, with the measly settlement, I stupidly agreed to in the divorce. I want nothing from him, but what I enumerated above. He knows the truth, but will never tell you so; I'd wager it.

Katie is not his stalking-horse. He is a coward and a bully and your wife is a fine woman. But I know she's been trying to find me; let Bill do his own dirty work. You and Katie raise your family; the less you have to do with him and his taint, the better. 

I do not really expect to see the money, because he is not honorable, but I do want my things, especially the iron skillet and the garden fairy. If ANYONE cares to respond, I will pay for shipping. Someone in that whole bunch needs to grow a spine and start showing some damn principles. It's called virtue. Look it up and live it. It's what I've learned to do every day. It isn't easy and I should be thankful; in a way I am. I'm in a place I need to be, among the poor and homeless, doing real good, not some jumped-up half-assed teaching per Dr. Phil. Katie understands me better than anyone, I guess. So, just think about what I said. Take care and a very, Merry Christmas to you and your wife, and family. Mary

#ROW 80 4TH QUARTER 2013 SUNDAY CHECK IN – BACK IN THE DAY & DELIBERATE GOALS

JC, Alex and I were eating Taco Salad this afternoon and watching football; a pleasant enough occupation, when JC got a brainstorm. These are always terrific fun; today it was “honey, let's check into one of those Swifter-Bristle Steamboat things.” One of the reasons I really love him, is he is one the best word and name-manglers I know. It only makes the confusion richer in my life. James Thurber (in a short New Yorker article, published under the name “What Do You Mean it Was Brillig?”) once had a maid who was like that, and he used to regularly joust with her, along with his dictionary.

courtesy: www.donmarquis.org                       

Today, this would pass for random; back then, it was called "whimsy." Whatever it is, I still cackle like a hyena every time I read any of James Thurber's writings or see his cartoons.

While the three of us are not nearly so entertaining as James and Della in the story, we did manage to work up a good laugh about shared and non-shared things and went right off the tracks, tangential-wise. A phrase my father and Edwin Newman would cringe over; but the fact remains the Swifter-Bristle thingy is just another white elephant that will sit around here and collect dust and we already have plenty of that. I guess that's what the Swifter-Bristle takes care of, but cri-ma-nently! JC had purchased and was going to work on: 4 bicycles, 4 or 5 separate bicycle tires, several tubes that “fixed” themselves (then why did he need to fix them?) and, a bunch of rusty tools JC bought for a buck or 2, here and there, from “Angel,” one of the neighborhood “entrepreneurs,” who kind of spoke English, but apparently had the super power of magnetic fingers. He's disappeared and is either been deported or is in the Orient Road Jail; it depends on which branch of the Nebraska Avenue Grape Vine you want to believe.

So, as we ate and jabbered away (with moi doing most of the talking and the guys eating,) I started in on, why we needed this Swifter-Bristle thing and reminded JC of the bike pump. Not to mention the 3, not 1, but 3 bug sprayers with pumps that lay unused while the roaches have parties and conga lines in the kitchen after-hours. Plus, I just found another mini-pump under the kitchen sink. This I can understand; apparently, we're still not over the trauma of “Bedbug Apocalypse.”

After the bicycles sat in the back of the apartment, taking up very valuable real estate, he finally conceded, that no, he was not the next Orville, nor Wilbur Wright and sold the whole kit-and-kaboodle for I-can't-even-remember-how much money. He may have paid someone to get them gone. Hell, I may have paid someone to get them gone. It was clutter at it's finest and it was threatening to overtake the house, much like kudzu vine does, in the deep south, in the hot muggy summers of the United States. If you stand still long enough; it will overtake you and you're history. Your corpse will only appear as so much dry deadness in the shape of a screaming person, in mid-screech, the following winter. But I digress.

This isn't the worst I've ever seen, but it grows at some phenomenal rate, like 60 feet per season, or in 3 months. Kudzu vine is EVERYWHERE in Florida and is a non-native species. It has also been found in Canada, eh?

After we got through laughing about the bicycle pump, because it survived the Great Bicycle Pogrom of 2012, we started laughing about leaving things around and getting them stolen, because that happens around here, a lot. It's not just Nebraska Avenue, it's the fact that this is a poor area and lots of people are inherently dishonest. But, for every dishonest person, there are just as many giving and caring people.

I truly believe that; last week as I was sitting in the Bus Transfer Station waiting to go to my Neurologist appointment, a young man, almost a kid, who had just been released from prison, or jail was sitting on a bench, holding his belongings. He didn't have much and looked miserable and lost; he had just a bag with a few items and I knew he'd been incarcerated because he had on the shoes all prisoners in Florida wear upon release; blue canvas, with white rubber rims. An older homeless man, a type of “Veteran” who knows the ropes and there are lots of them in Tampa and I'm sure every where, walked up to the kid. The older man was holding a big, fluffy blanket. He held it out to the kid and said something. I couldn't hear, but it was probably something like, “Here, kid, you look like you could use this blanket.” The kid's eyes lit up. The two spoke for a few minutes and the older man got on my bus and off we went. I guess there are angels every where. That guy is one of Tampa's. There are a few of them here.

Anyway, when we lived at FSJ, you had to put your name on EVERYTHING edible that went into the fridge, even in your room. People didn't just put their names on stuff, they put warnings on their items. “THIS IS BUBBA'S DO NOT EAT! ILL KILL YOO!!!! Or, "This is Shanequa's YoGurt + Will Poisen U B 4 U finish!!!!" Of course, the challenge being too great, the whatever it was disappeared and was consumed. 

I had all my “fun” food stolen. Stuff like Hot Pockets, and Geno's Pizza Rolls. I bought healthy stuff for salads; that went bye-bye. Names and warnings meant nothing. We had one girl who stuffed everybody's stuff in her back back and would eat it frozen in her room. Just crazy. One guy purchased two beautiful NY strips with his food stamps and just stuck them in the fridge in the “men's” house. He came back later to find Crazy George, pan-frying one of them and eating the other one raw. A huge brawl broke out in this tiny kitchen with iron skillets and fists flying and people hammering on one another with meat tenderizers! Ooh! It was glorious. 

Then, the TPD came and the music stopped. Well, someone was always getting into trouble there. Anyway, once I bought some American Cheese Slices for the rock-bottom price of .69 cents a pack. They were a color and texture not found on this planet; like some kind of hybrid orange-red-chartreuse-dayglo-yellow and they hurt my eyes to look at them. So, I put just the teeny, tiny, tip of my tongue to one of the slices. It still hasn't grown back yet. Just kidding. 

I think we're no more than a few degrees from Radioactive with this cheese. Actually, the cheese I put in the fridge provided it's own light.

Looking at that color told me that they probably weren't fit for human consumption, so I put them in the house fridge with a sign that said “FREE!!!” That was in December of 2010, when I first got my Food Stamps. When JC and I left FSJ, after I was awarded my SSDI in March of 2011, I believe those same “cheese slices” were still lurking around. They may still be over there across the street, because no one ever cleaned out the fridge. I shudder to think what that's like now; more than likely, the Haz-Mat people have hauled the whole mess off. There were several things not of this earth that appeared in that kitchen with “FREE!!” attached to them. Some of the inhabitants were not from this planet, either, including myself. Good times! Good times! But, I have wandered, once again, tangential-wise.

D'you remember the bicycle pump? We immediately started to scheme about how to put this to work. We'd already had our fun with why hadn't JC sold it. He says he's been trying. I give him the ol' fish eye and he says “That's because it has something to do with the fact that you haven't put it on eBay,” which this is the first time I'm learning about eBaying his white elephant, but JC says that's because “I sleep all the time.” As if, ha! So, I didn't ask if he tried to make an appointment with my secretary, because I already told him I fired her last week, because she screwed up all of his doctor's appointments. Ain't retirement a gas?

This is the latch-key car wash across Nebraska Ave., 33602 from where I live. Tis a real dive and all sorts of nefarious goings-on, do indeed, go on. But they charge .25 cents for air!

So, I come up with the bright idea of returning to the old days, when competing gas stations would have GAS WARS. Seeing as how the government is shut down, or posturing or huffing and puffing, we, as Senior Citizens (Creeping Jeebus, that is so NOT right to say, let alone write) must take a stand. I have decided that until the time comes that I can either, a) con someone into printing some of my ravings and paying actual money for them, or b) find someone who is willing to accept the incredibly high costs of personal injury insurance just to have me on a stage to play my viola, due to blindness (I am so pulling this out of my ass) that c) I am Challenging the Car Wash to an AIR WAR! 

That's right, folks! Just turn the corner and I'll fill up your tires. You can't see the meter, but this is a professional-type air pump. You can tell by my awesome advertising that I am a pro! 

            So bitches, it's on!

Deliberate Goals: This has been a week of playing catch up, I fear. As much as I want to get to my Deliberate Goals, I have been dealing with a few other problems. I did have a GREAT visit with my neurologist, Dr. Burke. She is very happy with my progress. But, as the week wore on, I realized that I am having a lot of pain in my right eye. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I am off to the ER, as my old eye doctors don't take supplemental insurance. The last time I waited, I went completely blind. Part of the reason last time, I can blame on my selfish and totally self-absorbed ex-husband, Bill Nunnally of Valrico, FL, but I will not wait, and JC will not let me wait. That's another great thing about him. He loves me. Unconditionally.