#IWSG – JULY 2015 CHECK IN – ARE THERE ANY SECURE WRITERS?

Last Friday as I was doing my Tweet 'n' Sing-alongs, where I shout out the SONG OF MY PEOPLE to my followers, the delightful NikkiMcCormack stopped me in my tracks. She asked me “Are there any SECURE writers?” I really had no answer and had to stop and think. I haven't even PUBLISHED, although, my blog posts were stolen and posted on another site, and I had to threaten legal action to get the site to take them down, so they are apparently good enough to steal. But is any of my writing good enough to ask people to fork over their hard-earned money for? I'm too insecure to find out. 

My darling Nikki, gave me her consent to show the world, that she is in fact, a jumping spider whisperer. 

The legendary “jumping spider whisperer”, the afore-mentioned Ms. McCormack IS published and is a superb writer and I really don't even know how to get a quarter of the way to that point. I understand a lot of work, editing, gnashing of teeth and crying is involved. I have enough of that going on right now in playing the viola, after a long absence, due to a motor disorder, which a very excellent neurologist fixed, after 10 years of worsening symptoms. This does not mean that I can't pretend to be the “Renaissance Man” or woman in the 21^st Century.

But, back to the secure writers, as opposed to the secure musicians? Musicians are hams, even when they're bad. Play it proud and play it loud, even when it's out of tune. I have a coffee cup that says “Tune it or Die” even though I don't drink coffee. I take it out of my case, backstage, when I'm warming up, to set up a perimeter. I have perfect pitch; you don't work on it or earn it, you're cursed with it, and boy howdy, is it a curse. Some of these cats need to find new jobs, use mutes, or play pianississimo, not fortississimo behind my back, when I don't know they're the. . . HOLY CRIPES ON A CRACKER! WARN A PERSON! IT SOUNDED LIKE A GARBAGE CAN LID! It hurts to hear things played out of tune; it also is weird to hear things played in different keys than they were originally written in, say for instance, the "Hallelujah Chorus" which was originally written in D Major and I played it once in C Major. It was just. . . odd.

I think perfect pitch is much like eidetic memory. I can go years without hearing a piece, or playing it, and I know exactly what note it starts on. I thought that was weird until, in college, my viola professor said, don't you know you have perfect pitch? D'oh.

I remember hearing a story about a rather well-known and very good writer, who went to another author's book release party. There were several other writers there as well. The first author greeted his host, got his drink and cowered behind a potted plant for most of the party, too afraid to mingle. Across the room, he saw several other refugees hiding out from the mingling part as well. He spent most of the party in his little hole, until he felt he could safely make his good-byes and left.

courtesy:www.miriamjoywrites.com

This cracked me up; such a downer that you know it's NOT true!

Actually, good musicians are so very critical about their own playing, but what musicians do is but a moment in time and then it's gone, as opposed to what a writer does is forever. We're constantly trying to perfect our technique, so that each moment is a gem, each one is memorable. The best we can do though, since we never truly master these beasts; the violas or violins or cellos, or whatever, is we learn to minimize the flaws and bring out our virtues. I've been told I'm really good at playing during the rests.

I don't know what I'm working on, as far as writing, at present. Back at the end of May, we finished our symphonic season with a superlative performance of Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5, for Big Orchestra. This symphony probably saved Shostakovich's life for it's stirring triumphant 4^th movement, as he was in very dire straits with Joseph Stalin in 1936. We were still receiving congratulations on our performance two weeks after the end of the season, but it was a very schizophrenic time for me. My life partner, who had been ill for the past two-and-a-half years was dying, and we had Hospice in our home. I came home from that last concert, and never changed my concert black for the next ten days until he died on Wednesday, May 13^th, 11:15 am. Not due to any symbolism, although it was fitting, but there was always something for me to do for him. His final coma was brief and his passing was so very peaceful; it was transcendent. I am just so very glad that he was able to pass away here, in his home, with me here. It is what he wanted.

Grief is a funny thing. We met in a homeless shelter 5 years ago, and I so wish that we would have more time together and I fought his decision to die (he signed a DNR) but that was HIS life, and as much as we loved each other, his pain was too terrible for him to bear, and going against him just made it worse. Once I accepted it, we made every day together as much fun as two people can under the circumstances. We said our goodbyes and "I love you's" a million times a million. When he couldn't speak, we said it with our eyes, until he was no longer lucid. My grief has been more for the things we could have done together, not in the things we didn't do. Before he fell ill and became sicker and sicker, we did lots together, so there are no resentments, no bad feelings. He is at rest and I am glad of that. I did something right and good, by helping a fellow human through his last days, and I would gladly do it again. I understand now why people become hospice nurses. I am over the deep grieving part and I have so many fond memories of him. Enough for the rest of my life.

Jim, talking to his best friend in Ohio.

I'll always miss him; he was so good to me, but I do him no honor by not moving on and playing and writing and doing nerdy computer things and gaming; the things I love to do. He knows that. So, this is a time for me to figure out where I'm going and what's next. Thanks for listening, #IWSG. And we're not really insecure; just monumentally confused, at times. But, dammit, writers are GREAT! (I'm not there yet, ever striving to be so!)

REQUIACET EN PACEM, JIMMIE CARL

JIMMIE CARL

JANUARY 22, 1947 - MAY 13, 2015

YOU WILL BE MOURNED AND MISSED BY MANY AND LOVED BY ME FOREVER AND ALWAYS. REST IN PEACE MY LOVE, REST IN PEACE. 

#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.

#ROW 80 POST – JC'S OBSERVATIONS

I live with a man. Okay, now that you’ve all recovered, picked your jaws up off the floor, told the cat, and went “well! I never!” I have to say this: I love this man whole-heartedly, completely without reason and would die for him, Truthfully. He has had a terrible life; living among a population of truly dysfunctional people and having had a pretty toxic childhood myself, this says much. His childhood and personal life have been absolute hell. JC is from west Texas and has a wonderful drawl and a colorful way of speech. He’s not the type to go out of his way to tell knee-slappers, or shaggy-dog stories, but in a non-calculated way, he places his comments perfectly, leaving me breathless with laughter. He can tell stories so prosaically and honestly, the depth of realization of the tragedy doesn't really impact until later. I mourn for hours at times.

Mama is good balm for the soul and she loves the affection. She wouldn't be here if it weren't for JC.

He never finished grade school; according to him, he can barely read. He learned to read by reading the Bible, which he knows Chapter and Verse. JC is almost Old Testament in the depth and breadth of his knowledge. He is righteous, but not judgmental and steadfast. At times, I feel he is too generous, but he must do what he feels is right. He is good and wants to help people who hurt and really need it and he is protective, but prudent. He has moral limits he will not cross. He thinks he is not “smart, but has common sense, because he doesn’t read well.” He is one of the smartest men I have ever met. He has been with me through everything; my having to be Baker Acted, my many trips to the hospital and has listened to me whine about all the weirdness from my PD-essential tremor symptoms. His is a courage found rarely and I cherish it.

 Our poor grocery store; an endless series of delights and japeries for me. I keep being warned that I will end up on You Tube for one of my idiocies, by the store employees, who are terrific in personality and customer service skills. Jim, of the Pink Pumpkin saga has taken his awesome to the front, to help with bagging, and managing the cashiers. It suits him; along with awesome, he is unflappable and unbelievably kind and generous, as everyone there is. I consider it my 2nd home. It was the first store I went to with a food voucher, no ID when I was place in the homeless shelter by Homeless Recovery.The Manager, understanding immediately, my situation, honored that voucher, so I could eat that weekend. It was the day after Thanksgiving, 2010 and all the official agencies were closed. Josh Hamilton is still there. They are my friends; no. They are family. Which means I pick on them at every chance I get. I was totally unaware that chickens had paws. I guess I slept through Biology or Chicken Anatomy at school that day, whatever. 

JC holding the chicken paws. The best part of this was getting him to smile. He has a beautiful smile. It was 10 am on a Saturday morning and we were waiting to have some prescriptions filled. It's dead quiet in the store, except for me holleriing, "SMILE, SMILE, SMILE, HA HA. COME ON. DON'T BE SUCH A WOODEN INDIAN! LOOK AT ME! HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE LATEST FORM OF URBAN VIOLENCE? DRIVE-BY VIOLA SOLOS! BLAH BLAH BLAH" No one else is in the store and it's pretty quiet, all anyone can hear is my cheerful blathering, trying to get this man to smile. Behind me, I can hear the Pharmacy department cracking up. Finally, he smiles and I quick, take a picture. Otherwise, this picture would have had all the charm of death row.

I am liberal. I am so liberal, I am an anarchist. I read and understood at a post-Graduate English level at the age of 15. I am righteous and mercurial. I want to help. He and I work so well together and watch the folks here and decide who might need a hand up. Plus, we have a bunch of fun.

This day started as many others do, with the hopes, speculations and trepidations of a Bus Ride. Ah yes, First, the inevitable 1 minute equals 7 years. This means that JC must leave the house around August 9, 1872. I hope he set the alarm early enough. So, off he goes. I sleep on and miss Garfield’s assassination and the turn of the Century, the 20^th.

JC comes in around 10:30 on August 9, on 2012; he must have taken the wormhole home, and plops down. I’m doing something different. Pounding madly on the keyboard as if possessed, typing drivel or doing my latest form of side-splitting cyber vandalism; it’s all pretty much the same thing.

“What do you make of this?” JC asks… and he proceeds to tell me about the ride home. Some cat got on the bus and pointed at JC’s shoes. Just plain lace-ups, kind of like running shoes, only black. The dude mentioned “shoes” and looked at JC. JC looked around the bus; the riders looked at him. JC looked at the dude. The dude looked back at the shoes and mumbled “shoes” again. JC shrugged and said, “Okay.” The guy proceeded to get down on the floor and pick each one up and one, by one, rub his face all over the bottoms. “What in hell? Do I have shit on them?” JC asked, but no one answered. Guy gets up and sits down.

EW M G! It wasn't this creepy, but since it happened to JC, it's happened to several other men on the HARTline bus. I'm pretty open-minded, but this is a bit much, particularly since this jerk wasn't even asking for consent; he was just helping himself. I would love to have seen it, just for a laugh. But, yikes!

Of course, JC can’t wait to get home and tell me about this squirrel. We sort of have a running competition about who runs into the biggest loon on the bus. So far, JC’s got me beat. No one’s asked to smell my purse or underarms yet. If someone asks to smell my panties, it’ll be the last thing that person ever asks in existence, or non-.

We proceed to go sit on the front porch and watch the stupid world of Nebraska Avenue go by. Here comes Jo-Jo (either “Jo-Jo, the Ho” or “Jo-Jo The Dog-Faced Girl, if I’m feeling particularly ugly that day.) She is being led by one of the newer denizens of the homeless shelter. The homeless shelter is an amalgam or payors, felons and people sent there from the state. Jo-Ho gets an SSDI check. She had a stroke, most likely due to her excessive drinking which has not abated since. Anyway, she is being “led” by a newbie, a woman. Usually it’s a man. Jo-Jo has all the grace and charm of a 58-year old cheerleader who pissed herself 40 years ago after being dragged face-down through a gravel-pit. She has the voice, face and outfit to prove it.

“Look, Jo-Jo has a new “helper” JD says to me nonchalantly. I kind of glance over that way. I get a dim impression, my eyes being kind enough to allow seeing 2 little blobs; one wavering, the other helping the other on the sidewalk to the liquor store.

JC continues on, “You know for someone so feeble and ill, there is certainly nothing wrong with the hinge in her elbow…” This is all said placidly, with the nonchalance of “nice day out. Do you want eggs?”

We are both together in a tiny apartment now, and his healths is not good, so I'm never going to be that wife who writes to Ann Landers as I once saw in the paper. Her husband had died, and she was so sorry for bitching about his snoring, not picking up after himself, and on and on. I felt so terribly bad for the woman, because even though she had not loved her husband, she had not told him, nor showed him, even in the smallest of ways. Due to the fact that we would lose our SSDI, we live in “sin.” I'm sure Rick Scott, GOP family values guy, being the asshole Republican Satan Governor of the State of Florida is just hopping mad over this. Fuck him, although he probably has some indescribable man-ware and can do himself. Anyway, as JC well knows, it is my mission to make him experience happiness, or miserable trying.

Our fair Governor, Rick Scott. Florida GOP, friend to Satanists everywhere. I believe that this is the finest Paint job I have ever achieved, and it took a whole 2 seconds, with no do-overs. Revel in the stupidity.

When we lived at the Homeless shelter, JC had all sorts of sayings. Mr. Pimp My Ride was always talking about how he “worked for a living,” and wasn't a lazy slacker like JC and I were. Well, this idiot was working under the table and getting paid daily and it couldn't have been much of a job, because Mr. PMR was not quite as bright as a sack of hammers. I'm fairly sure he was illiterate, and he spent most of his time drinking and smoking crack. He babbled something at JC and I when were in the kitchen and wanted us to look at something, I told him that due to my cataract in my left eye, I was unable to see it. Mike, aka Mr. Pimp pipes up, “Ooh, I've had about 37 o' dem.” Then he, apropos of nothing, starts talking about “cyclostopy” and wondered to JC, “is that the one where they take the balls off, too?” JC was washing the dishes, didn't turn a hair, he said, “No, that's the one where they sew up your mouth and stop the bullshit.” I had to leave the kitchen.

They say one picture tells a thousand words. This one pretty much writes the whole novel. Who in the name of all that is holy or unholy wraps tinfoil around his spokes? The only time this is acceptable is one is 11 or maybe 12 years of age. He used to get him some bungee cords and tie his boom box to his handlebars. Stylin' man. I don't want to give the impression that he was just a fool; he was mean and dangerous and his weapon of choice was a knife. He was rather impaired about what or who should be stabbed. He stabbed cars, trash cans, but seldom people. I guess his folks didn't read "Why Little Johnny Can't Stab." His brother lived there, also. They both had a younger brother who was a regular guy and would occasionally have to bail one of them out of jail and I remember him saying in an exasperated tone, "Why in the Hell can't you and Benny just get it together?" Never gonna happen; people like that will never even try to get out of that life.

The following week, Mike tried to sell us a DVD. It was like “Big Butts” are something. JC just looked at him and said “What the hell is wrong with you?” Mike launches into this story about how he'd originally bought the thing, and then lent it to someone else. It was then stolen from that person and sold to another person in the house. Mike found out about it, and bought it back from that person, and then wanted to sell it to JC “to earn a profit.” As if. After hearing this, JC, nodded his head and said “I think you're an Astronaut.” Mike says, “How you figure?” JC said, “All that space between your eyes.” I ran down the hall, cackling like a hyena.

JC tried to get me back and make me laugh. He forgets that I've spent a lifetime on stages holding in the ha-ha. Besides, I was pissed because the bed was it's usual mess. As if. I'm about as domestic as a panther.

I always laugh, when he starts recounting these stories, because of the “demonstration.” I look over to see the frantic motion of right elbow going up and down 90 degrees from chair arm to mouth. That's his Jo-Jo imitation. The motion says it all. “Nothing wrong with her smoking elbow either.” Motion repeated on left side. I fall out of chair. How many ways do I love this man? This is just one of them.

ROW 80 POST 38 – THE RAT WHISPERER – A LOVE LETTER

Being homeless broadens one’s horizons. Yeah, no shit. That makes it sound like a candidate from MissManner’s School of Perfection chipped her nail polish and ended up on the wrong side of the tracks. Well, if you want to look at it like that, be my guest, but you will have missed out on all the stupidity, catastrophe, fun, yes fun, and peril that put my dumb ass in this predicament, in the first place.

I would also like to climb further out on this metaphorical limb and perhaps break the branch altogether and say, that life is one hell of a lot more entertaining post-homeless, than pre-. Along with all of the attendant annoyances, Food Stamps, and the idiots of the FDC, Medicaid and the non-existent elves of “medically needy," and “costshare,” plus, all the redundant nightmares of the state and federal bureaucracy, we get what has to be the King of all Bad Governors, Ever.

Am I Sparkly Enough?

We have the ever evanescent presence of Florida Governor Rick Scott of the Sparkly Pluto Party, who along with his mendacious, shit-witted, and mostly stupidly-named minions of the state government who have never met a state or federal program they couldn’t fleece. Turns out one HUNTING DEUTSCH, Rick Scott’s “Job Czar,” whatever that is supposed to be and do, resigned after being paid unemployment benefits?!?!?

 On second thought, I am rather dim-mish here. Truthiness, y'all...

I KNOW!!!! What       The     Fuck???? How come Rick Scott is still alive? How come Hunting Fucking Deutsch just gets to resign? Seriously? Does this Scott have a reason to inhabit air molecules? And how come all of this malfeasance is just explained away, like, no biggie. No big deal. Imagine for a minute if you or I did something vaguely, oh, I don’t know… criminal? Maybe, steal a loaf of bread, because we’re hungry? That shit happens here all the time. I’ve seen people get arrested at my grocery store. I don’t know that they’re prosecuted, but they take them away.

We’d end up like our pal Quandarious Hammond… Really. And here is Hunting Deutsch, just waltzing off to the, I guess, the Black Forest, with a freaking Nazi-sounding name like that. No German-Bund hate mail please. And just why is it, that the GOP always has people with the stupidest names imaginable? That one guy, Crpsx Grpn, or something. I can’t find him on Google, anyway, you know who I mean, honestly. Another toad. Well, I’m too busy or lazy to look for him and my eyes are still trying to get over Hunting Deutsch for God’s sake!

Geeze, I wasn’t even going there, but I remembered that and that’s all it took. I was going to talk about “The Rat Whisperer.” Our kitty-cat, so proudly displayed here on my blog, was a gift that showed up late one night, when JC was sitting outside. He doesn’t always sleep all through the night and he doesn’t like to be inside all the time. It’s quiet here at night; blessedly quiet. During the day, it’s all boom boxes and Latino music and hurly-burly. We love it, but it do get raucous, so night time is a good time to sit out and reflect.

JC has had troubled times; as have we all. I dealt with mine by doing the go crazy-on-the-installmentplan. When the ARM bubble payment was due, man was that a bitch! But, it came right, I think. It's been almost a year, since that part and JC has been by my side for 2 years now. For him, with all of his goodness and purity, he was let down and hurt badly. No one should ever have their trust used and broken the way he did and as long as I’m alive, that will never, ever happen.

JC’d had a little dog once, and when he had to go, he had to leave her behind. I’ve heard lots about that little dog and how he loved her so. When we were all over at the homeless shelter, of course, we couldn’t have dogs. Cats would show up, and they would get fed, with whatever scraps, were around. One of the guys there still cares for the strays. I remember him hollering, “Who’s feeding these cats spaghetti! Cats don’t eat spaghetti!”  Meanwhile, the cats and possums were wolfing down spaghetti, donuts, cheerios and ramen noodles. Basically, anything anyone put on the ground, by the kitchen. 

Being in our homeless shelter was nothing so much as like being in high school; a very dangerous high school at times, but high school. You had cliques. I guess once a nerd, always a nerd, because that’s where I ended up; with the nerds. JC, H, D and a few others. Out on the outskirts, not doing drugs, or drinking, just kind of hanging out between doctor’s appointments, physical rehab, trips to SSA, parole offices, grocery stores, part-time jobs, or vocational rehab classes. Man, we lived there. Live-in school of hard knocks.

So, being nerds, we were also kinda, but not really, easy prey; we sat where we could watch ALL of the goings-on, keeping our backs to the wall, so to speak. We sat in the back in a row in porch chairs along what had been an old hotel on a cement easement. Underneath the easement, there was a family of rats. There were about 2 or 3 generations of rats living under there. They came and went, and JC started feeding them. The rats brought their kids and grandparents along to feast on the plenty.

We had been sitting out there for months and people were bringing out their sandwiches and crackers and here’s JC collecting all of this and feeding these rats and making pets out of them.  They would hear his voice and come out and wait for him to bring them “treats.” The owner came by one day. “Hey! Who’s been feeding these damned rats? If I find out, that person’s going to be kicked out of here!” This from the guy who is renting to burglars and dopers. So, we had to cool it on feeding the rats. 

When Buttercup, Butterball, Butterscotch or Mama came to us, she was very, very shy. I think she may have been abused. There is damage to the right cornea of her eye. It took JC a long time to get her to the point where she would let him pet her. She is still leery of people she doesn't know; I’m grateful for that, because she still is not keen on being a totally indoor kind of cat.

She’s really a charmer and so funny; it's been years since I've had a cat. The most fun though, is watching the interaction between Mama and "The Rat Whisper." She loves him to pieces and follows him around. She looks up into his face, when he talks to her. He gives her directions with his hand and he uses American Sign Language. I may not know what he's saying, but she does. Lately, she’s been after his shoes. She gets her claw caught in his shoelace and the shoe “follows” her and then she takes off! It’s hilarious the way she zooms out of the room. JC is used to dogs and he said once, “Do you think she likes us?”

I said, “She likes me, but she adores you.” It’s the truth. And I love him, unreservedly and forever; the way it should be.

ROW 80 POST 33 – REASONS TO GIVE THANKS

Why O Why would anyone eat this?

That people right there is a reason to give thanks. I’ve been stalking this here mutant pumpkin since I discovered it before Halloween. And, yup, that bastard is pink. The Wizards of Marketing at my grocery store decided that with October being Breast CancerAwareness month and all, that nothing said “Save the Hooters!” quite like Pink Pumpkins. These suckers originally were going for 6.99 per. They then proceeded to sit there like so many white elephants and provided me with one more obstacle to try and avoid in what is an already perilous journey, what with kids running amok, truant teens drag-racing in the handicapped carts and your run-of-the-mill don’t-give-a-shit assholes.

However, I noticed as time went by, that although the pumpkins did not melt, nor seem to rot and their numbers were not diminishing, the price was. Three weeks ago, they were down to 3.49. Still, they sat. When first introduced at a whopping 6.99, they were displayed front and center in the vegetable section; they were the first thing you saw upon entering. Well, actually, they screamed at you; they were pretty fucking hard to miss. I wasn’t sure if I was in the grocery store or if I had wandered into some House of Horrors by accident. I do tend to wool-gather, when I shouldn’t.

Their demotion moved them farther back by the potatoes, where they lurked in shame for a while. The signage was rather curt. Pink Pumpkins. Breast Awareness. 3.49. Great for pies. Nothing else. The damned things are lumpy looking and warped. Some hybrid from hell; not sure I would eat a pie from that mingling. I mentioned it to one of the produce guys, and he said, “I hear ya, I won’t even it those little “personalized” watermelons.” Yikes. 

According to the inside skinny via the produce guy, they just showed up like so many bad nightmares, unasked for in one of the shipments and it was left to the stores to figure out how to push them on the public, after the "Breast Cancer" tie-in flopped. Methinks the man in the gray flannel polo shirt who thought up this doozy is now working at Sav-A-Lot, selling cheap shit made in China. I would have just adverted them as MUTANT DOOR STOPS FOR ZOMBIE HOUSES AS SEEN IN BETTER GUNS & GARDENS and I bet they would have gone like hot cakes. 

Yesterday, the death knell: the pink pumpkins have been moved and demoted once again. JC and I swapped phones. We did so, so I could get a picture of these prodigies for the blog. Those monsters were no longer at their accustomed site with the potatoes. I saw my friend Casey, who works in the veggie section and does stand-up on the side and asked where they were. We’d already had our fun with these things. Casey said, “They’re back by the salad stuff, ‘cause when you think salad, you automatically think pink pumpkins, too.” Couldn’t have said it any better myself.

1 whole dollar, from 6.99. This is what's left. Poor things; I almost adopted one, but it would probably have killed us in our sleep. I love how one is cut open over there and is wrapped in plastic. A sticker reads, "for display only." No, I want to eat the bastard here; it looks so yummy delish, especially the gray parts. I love my grocery store.

An added bonus: The signage reads: "Pink on the outside. Orange on the inside." Damn tremors.

So, the turkey-lurkey shopping took me every bit of 4 hours. I have to be really careful and go slow. Everyone was great, except for the one bitch who saw me, with whackamole and ran right over the top of me, nearly knocking me into the boxed potatoes. I never saw her coming and my greatest fear is falling; I lost a friend this summer when he fell. Without hesitation, I turned and said, “Hey bitch, I have this cane so I can beat the shit out of people like you.” She saw the blood in my eye and fled.

At one point, I was standing in the spice aisle, looking for salt. So were about 10 other people. It’s like “Night of the Living Dead.” We’re all just standing there. I found the salt; it’s in my cart, but I’m also thinking, “Is there something else I should put on my chickens?” Allspice? Poultry Seasoning? Lowry? Burnt Cork? Floor Sweepings? Everybody’s like statues, staring. Just looking; looking. 2 people down, this woman picks up her phone and dials a number. I hear, “mumble, mumble… cloves” and she hangs up. Is there some spice cabal or conspiracy I’m not privy to? There are 3 guys who simultaneously pick up… something and leave and… They’re not together! More standing goes on. Nothing is said; just more looking, no talking. A new man comes and stands and stares at the spices. That’s it! I got my salt! I might be implicated, so I take off.

Cat food! That’s it! So off I go. This is ridiculous. She will only eat Friskies Shreds, unless it’s JC’s chicken, or milk, or my cottage cheese, or not, or cat treats. So I load up. Cat treats, cat toys, Happy Christmas Cat. Oh wait, that’s next month. Oh well.

That’s pretty much how it went; it was a good today, and I am thankful. I’m so thankful for everything that has brought me here. I’m thankful for all of the richness and wonder and bright things that have come my way. Every day is a blessing in some way, even if it seems bad or wrong in some way, there is always a different way to look at it. I realized something yesterday; these realizations and these wonderful things weren’t given to me to understand and experience until I became honest with myself and others.

It’s not always easy to do, and I’ve caught myself trying to cut corners; shame on me. But I believe as long as I do that, the gifts I’ve received are mine to keep and share with everyone I can. If I sound cryptic, oh well. It is what it is. Well, off to see what other mayhem I can stir up. By the way, this is the store that brought us, "chicken paws." I almost had a stroke in the store when I saw this:

On a serious and very important note, a very huge thanks to the folks at www.parkinsonpanda.org for having me as a guest blogger today. I claim them as my very own personal "Parkie-Pedia" for all things Parkinson's Disease related, although I have not yet and my never receive that formal diagnosis, they have helped me tremendously. They have also done me a tremendous honor by asking me to blog a guest post for today. Please visit them. This is so very worthwhile and there are so many people who need help. Thank you again, guys! My love to you all and Happy Turkey-Lurkey!

BEDBUG APOCALYPSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHIT FOUND ON SIDEWALK POSTPONED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well... This could be a deep subject and I don't quite know how to start this. I have not posted in a while, since August 6th, I believe. After having gone through some near-death experiences in the last ten years and some very profound life-changing, and other hyphenated-type life-style stuff and seeing a very dim light at the end of this Stygian tunnel, we (read "I") have been thrown a truly horrific foe. A foe of unimaginable, diabolical, hideous existence and other descriptive type words. Just get yourself a batch of bad-sounding, momentous-like words and stuff and apply to this feared enemy. Are you all terrified, yet? 

Me neither. I am however, just sick and tired and kind of depressed. We have a HUGE bedbug infestation here at Happy Acres, in both houses. What a mess! We have toted our stuff out into the back yard, slept on the back porch, toted our stuff back into the houses. We have washed clothes, burnt mattresses, bombed rooms, gassed the furniture, microwaved the rugs, unwoven and re-woven the towels and shower curtains, done Santeria rituals, sacrificed small animals, and performed the Wave. All to no avail. These little bastards are still running around. They have opened up restaurants and are riding the Bus. They buy little bedbug Bus tickets and mock us. We see bedbugs in our dreams, our hair, in the streets, working in Super Markets. This is truly something. They laugh at our feeble attempts to gas them. I think the Ghost Buster Guys are slated to come in tomorrow and try to "exterminate" the little boogers. There are fewer of them. That's the only good thing I can say after several weeks of fighting this scourge. Unreal.


In other Happy Acres news, we have discovered that Alchemy is a Chinese Religion that was founded in the 10th Century. There are several founts of wisdom who are gracing us with their timeless knowledge, profound thoughts and vivacious presences. Other things we have "learned" recently include:


After downloading an Ethernet Card from the Internet, one can download dinner and save time. I understand that the ability to shove paper money directly into one's CD Rom drive will let one deposit money directly into one's bank account. This wonderful time-saver is just around the corner. I can't wait for that app.

God is scheduled to change the rainy times here from 5:00 pm to earlier in the day, so that the "Pimp My Ride Guy" can get home from work without getting wet. This should occur within the next week or so, according to him. Pretty soon, I understand God is going to bring everyone here at Happy Acres a house and a pony. 

I was going to have my eardrums removed so I didn't have to listen to the deranged and cretinous monologues of "Pimp My Ride Guy," but then I talked him into getting his rectum removed so I don't have to listen to his shit anymore. He thought this was a fine idea until I told him what a rectum is. He asked me if he would get to keep his balls. WTF? 


The Black Helicopters have been especially active and they're focusing on these houses. Several drone 'copters have also been sighted over Nebraska Avenue. You can tell them apart because the drones are red. 

Did you know that you can use one of those cheesy fiber optic lamps with the changing hues in Aroma Therapy to enhance the experience? Neither did I. Maybe Lava Lamps would be helpful during Rolfing sessions. 


I've mentioned that I do try to use humor, satire and a wry view point in my postings. Being homeless sucks. It really does. I am working my way back to independence, but will never be able to do the things I used to do and did well. At least, not full time.  There is a horrible stigma regarding being homeless and I am very aware of how "society" judges homeless people generally. We're already disenfranchised and marginalized. Having health problems is hard enough for most of us to accept. I have a hard time accepting the fact that I can't see, can't drive and have a ticking time bomb in my chest. I know I've lost much materially, but I am so, so grateful to be alive. I revel in every day now. I have lived over half my life (please God, I don't want to live to be 111) and I feel such a deep appreciation for this chance to live independently and happily. Life is very, very vivid and very, very precious. Hackneyed as this sounds, it is oh so true. I laugh harder, work harder, and cry harder. I am not one whit closer to understanding the "meaning of it all" and I don't really care. I do care about the things I can do and am determined to experience and do them with all the passion, excellence, energy and wisdom I can bring to bear. Soon, I will be able to start playing my viola again. I can't wait. It's going to suck and be slow going, for probably quite a while. That's okay. It's going to be great to play again, even if it's just for me now.

Anyway, where this whole screed is trying to go is this: I hate like hell when people start knocking the homeless as shiftless, addicted ne'er do wells, that are just sucking the tit of Public Assistance. Like anything, the truth is much more complicated. There are certainly many who do take advantage of the system. There is also tons of waste on the bureaucratic side. The whole thing is bloated and is prone to corruption. But there are many people like me pulling an oar in this boat. Unable to pay half a million dollars for hospitalization and rehabilitation, I was taken under the wing of Hillsborough County. All bills paid. I am one of many in this situation. After thirty-plus years of working hard, I have come to this. Self-esteem and any sense of security are pretty much tattered. 

To that end, I want to acknowledge Mr. Robert Lee Haycock and Ms. Lyn Griswold. Robert was my High School valedictorian and someone I have always had the utmost affection and respect for. After a particularly horrid day of dealing with the system and listening to narrow-minded, self-satisfied people advising,"retraining" (retrain my health?) I was feeling very low. Robert responded to a post I had made, and I can't find the damn quote now, but the fragment, "...love, and love some more" made in reference to that post was a boost. He's always been encouraging and kind. Robert, thank you and much love to you.

I worked with Lyn for three years in a home-based virtual call center, after I gave up my driving privileges. She has always been there for me and is very encouraging, kind and funny. She has also defended me and understands. Lyn, thank you and much love to you. 


I'll just leave you all with this:

 

No, wait. I meant this:

 

Intrepid occupant and very happy here at Happy Acres!

Peace and love, love, love to you all. I'm gonna go love some more. Can't promise "Shit I Found on the Sidewalk" next, but I'll try.

P. S. Check out Robert's blog at bobbyleehaycock.blogspot.com