BLOGGING FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 – LETTER “N”

NUTRIA

The God of Whimsy came to me in a dream and told me to explore Nutrias, and boy, howdy, am I glad I did! I found out that the coypu, from the Mapudungun language, spoken in Argentina, means "river rat;" It looks like a small capybara. The only thing I remember about that is when one stumbled and fell into the Amazon and Piranha stripped it to a skeleton in about 12 seconds flat. It's amazing the crap kids remember. Anyway, Nutrias are herbivorous and semi-aquatic rodents and weigh about 10 pounds. They were originally only in subtropical and semi-temperate parts of South America, but some dim-bulb fur farmers in Louisiana introduced them to North America, as a cheap substitute for the beaver.

I don't want to wear him. I want to make a pet out of him.

Of course, since they look like giant guinea pigs, with long tails. what harm could they be? As it is with all non-native species, they quickly grew thumbs, keyed the locks on their cages and made off to... Florida! Everything that is on the run ends up in Florida. Bad checks? Off to Florida. Murder for hire? Run to Florida. One too many Nigerian E-mail scams? Destination Florida. Crazier than a shit house rat? Florida's the state for you; you'll fit right in! Giant snake that's going to get gianter? Destination: Everglades. I could write a book on Florida Weird. Thousands have and never repeated the same story twice. That's how insane this state is.

So, apparently, "non-native species" takes on a whole new meaning. This must be "non-earthly species." I fish and have caught some weird stuff in Florida's waters, but nothing that weird. I may have to move back to Michigan.

So, it was inevitable that our friend the Nutria would end up down here. The problem with non-native species, is that there are no predators to control the population. We have a few panthers, but they're farther south There's so much wild life running around down here in Florida, along with people on the lam, that the retirees hardly have room for Bingo and Shuffleboard. I digress however. So, the Nutria is running around down here, after branching out from Louisiana and Mississippi. They've been in Florida since 1955, which is the year I was born. I ran across an interesting statistic. The Nutria has been extirpated from all counties in Florida but one, Hillsborough. This happens to be the county I live in. I'm not sure where they're hiding out, but it isn't in da 'hood.

Yay! We're number one in Nutrias!

BLOGGING FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 – LETTER “M”

MIND, MOOD and MEMORY

I blogged about this for the Parkinson's P.A.N.D.A. Foundation once. At least I think I did. As I remember it. The funny thing about these three “M” words, is that they are closely linked. We tend to remember our experiences colored by our moods at that moment; good or bad, or blah, or happy, or mad. An obvious statement if ever there.

But, how reliable are our memories really when we are mentally ill, or are dealing with something like a bipolar condition? Or Asperger? Is it possible to go back later on and dissect some incident of the past in a rational manner, when you weren't in a rational state of mind during the incident itself?

My brain is attached to my mouth and it's going constantly.

I think if one is able to look at one's own behavior dead on and honestly, that answer is “yes.” I've done it. Over the past year, I've learned a lot about what it means to live with all manner of odd behavior; running the spectrum of being numb (not catatonic) to just short of schizophrenia. I have a cousin who is schizophrenic and has been most of her life. Consequently, I am shunned by the rest of my surviving family. Not that I give a damn.

Other than my first psychotic break, I've been able to either get on top of my episodes of dementia and remember them, and I've only come close twice to full-blown psychosis again. These are usually brought on my physical triggers and I know I have to get to a hospital. The saving grace is, I remember them. I didn't the first time and that must have been a doozy. The 2^nd time, I called 911, here came the fire trucks and half of the Tampa Police Department. Oh my! I remember Officer Fair and he lived up to his name.

Officer Fair was nice, but nervous. I think he thought I might bite him. My dad cured me of that when I was 4. He bit me back. That shit hurt!

So, either because I'm a fast learner, or because I don't want to spend my life in either the Mental Hospital or Jail, I figured I should learn some of the triggers. Frustration, total lack of understanding by people who should know better and problems with my sugar play huge issues. It's amazing how large a part some of these things can play, especially if they build up day by day. But, everyone has these issues and they don't go off the deep end. This is where the Parkinson's comes in. It is a constant emotional roller coaster. Up and down. There is no even keel. It's like bipolar on speed.

Every once in a while, I get the bradykinesia (freezing, or stop-action movement) associated with Parkinson's. It's weird, just weird. Mostly, I'm ahead of myself. Chronos is broken.

Anyway, I think it is possible to go back and mindfully dissect those memories. Bad mood, good mood, to draw conclusions that will help in the future. I really, really don't want to wake up in some Mental Ward, having been Baker Acted (committed in Florida) again after a month's sleeplessness, with a psychiatrist asking me, “Just what were you trying to do? Hmmm?” 

Source: www.parkinson.org and me.

BLOGGING FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 – LETTER “G”

GOLF

Golf is a game that was invented by the Scots and my father, being a Scot, played the hell out of it. He played at night (with flashlights) with his other deranged Scottish friends. In the winter, they all painted their balls red, and golfed in the snow. How in the hell they were able to find their balls in 8-foot drifts is beyond me, but they did. That became moot after we moved to California from Michigan. My mother was a Scot, too. My folks were native-born; my ma in Edinburgh and my dad in Glasgow and they emigrated to the US. I was born here in the United States, in Michigan.

I wasn't even this good. I'm surprised my dad overlooked my deliberately horrible swing. Here, Charles Barkley looks like he's battling a swarm of bees. Actually, I could do no wrong in his eyes; typical daddy's view towards his only child and a girl to boot.

Ma didn't care much for golf; every so often my dad would pester her into a trip to the course for 9 holes. Me? I have no golf gene. I also have no flying gene; both my parents were pilots and I hate flying. Golf is just “flog” spelled backwards. The Scots are kind of peculiar. Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of my heritage. William Wallace is an ancestor, but the Scots either invented weird stuff (Nessie?) or latched onto some crazy things invented by other nationalities. Take the bagpipes; we didn't invent those, but I adore them (a sure sign I'm a Scot.) There's a joke that goes like this: Q: Why do bagpipers walk while they play their pipes? A: To get away from the sound.

Wallace bagpipes being played by a Wallace; no English here; no offense, but Anglo-Scots creep me right the hell out.

Anyway, I went to the Driving Range exactly once with my dad and I sucked. I kept slicing and badly. I was beaning other people who were on either side of me, that's how bad I was. I went to the course with my dad and hit someone in the foursome ahead of us. We almost had a riot on the course. Damn geezer, just because I hit some old crock with his little pink plaid plus-fours and his little pink tam o' shanter, he's got to go and get all his little older, crockier friends and they came at us with their 9 irons and walkers and Larks. He needed to be hit, the old eyesore!

The guy in front 2nd from the left displayed daring individualism and wore a cowboy hat. Are there golfing cowboy boots? At least these guys are wearing long pants. The plus-fours are beyond ridic.

So, that was the end of my golfing career. My dad still golfed and golfed everywhere. He went to Saint Andrew's in Scotland and raved about it for years. What an armpit that course is! It looks like it's one big giant rough and there are 747s taking off right over your head. I'd be so worried about the things falling on my head, I wouldn't be able to concentrate. Last New Year's Eve, I couldn't concentrate on trying to look at the fireworks, because these stupid little planes were flying directly over my head; two of them and I just knew those suckers were going to fall down right on my noggin. The only good plane is the one sitting on the ground, along with the golf clubs.

BLOGGING CHALLENGE FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 – LETTER “D”

DEPRESSION AND

"PARKINSON'S DISEASE OR NON-PARKINSON'S DISEASE, THAT IS THE QUESTION"

NOTE: April is a busy month for lots of folks. It starts off well, with April Fool's Day, which I personally celebrate every day; sometimes several times a day, or an hour, if I'm having a good run. As well as this fine Challenge, Blogging from A to Z for April of 2013, April is also Parkinson's Disease Awareness month. I have Parkinson's Disease. Or not. That is the question. Stick around long enough and you will all find out the answer to the worst-kept secret since the H-Bomb recipe was sold to the USSR, back in the 50s and since this is my blog on Thursdays, I will be posting my posts here and at P.A.N.D.A. Even if you don't know anyone with Parkinson's Disease or any type of movement disorder, or you are not a caregiver for anyone, or are dealing with any type of chronic illness, you might want to browse this site. The men and women and this community are brave and wonderful, hopeful and funny people. They are my battery mates. Now, back to our Challenge here at A-to-Z!

I could be coy and state that here we have a multitude of “D” words, but today is Thursday, day 4 of the A-to-Z April Challenge and it is also Parkinson's Disease Awareness Month. I blog on most Thursdays for the P.A.N.D.A. Organization, which is a wonderful group that provides support to folks with Parkinson's, or PD, or their caregivers. Most people associate this movement disorder with Michael J. Fox, who has young onset PD, or Muhammad Ali, who may or may not have acquired PD or Parkinsonism during is delayed career after his boxing license was re-instated. Like so many neuro-muscular with all of the inherent symptomology and untangling of the physical and mental aspects, it is hard to pinpoint any one specific cause for these conditions. My PD or not-PD is not yours and vice versa. It's hard to quantify and eludes labeling.

My friend, YumaBev (Twitter @YumaBev and Parkinson's Humor) is a HUGE advocate for PD. She sings "I don't need no rockin' chair, 'cause I'm rockin' on my own!"

I am currently among the undiagnosed and non-medicated for that,  and my story is not unique, although my manifestations of the disease or condition or visitation, for the more celestially and whimsically inclined are unique to me, as are my outlooks and reactions to the whole shebang. I have had a whale of a journey to get here, just right here, right now, typing this to you A-to-Z-ers and P.A.N.D.A. Folks. I guess we all have these sorts of stories where we come in after the intermission and are trying to get caught up.

You haven't missed all that much. Just know that people with neuro-muscular disorders of any stripe, I find, tend to suffer from depression and black it is when it hits. There is of course, the usual raging debate, about whether or not this really exists. It does and it is ferocious in its callous disregard for a person's progress. Pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps is not an answer. More often than not, the etiology is biochemical, as I found when I had a psychotic break after not sleeping for a month and woke up a month later in a mental ward with tremors and a patchy short-term memory. The fun was only beginning.

Testing for PD doesn't exist and I, in the course of the past year, with careful observation of myself, reading, conversation with other Parkinson's Disease patients, memories of my life and my family life (I am an only child, no offspring and both parents deceased) can conclude that my mother suffered from PD or PD-like symptoms as well, though she was never diagnosed to my knowledge. After the committal to the mental ward, the psychiatrist, who concluded that I was absolutely no harm to anyone or myself, but was bipolar and prescribed accordingly and sent me on my way, also noted, that this was the least troublesome committal he'd ever dealt with; bipolarity is part of the Parkinson's. I think one of the reasons for that is I am in my late 50s, although I had exhibited symptoms for years.

I probably have more of the mental issues than physical; I do have tremors and they have really been troublesome of late. I can't play my viola without it sounding like a machine gun. ViolaFury is definitely not pleased. This brings out the not really happy part of me. This is not good. I will have to think nice thoughts or take a time out... from humanity. Just kidding. But, it really points to something that I mentioned briefly in my Beethoven post. Pissed much?

I don't do this well; by the time we're here, hostages have been taken and Haz-Mat is on the scene... Just kidding.

Mad? ViolaFury is my nom de guerre for a reason. She puts on her boxing gloves when she needs them. She may need them. I believe I mentioned the Roman empire and Emperors during their Triumphs in Ancient Rome; in a not very well-written way, I was trying to allude to their mortality and how they were reminded of it by slaves during the triumphs. Beethoven, in his way, did that to Bonaparte in his 3rd symphony. We all do that, while perversely "facing the tiger." I can put up with the spastic typing and not being able to comb my hair or wear make up. That's minor stuff.

But if I can't play Wolf? I can't play my gorgeous Guidantus viola, built in 1837, only 10 years after Beethoven died, to his (the viola's) full potential and play as I am able to play? I put on my Roman boxing gloves. They used to be made out of leather, with metal studs added and were called cestus, to inflict greater damage. I am a boxing fan; a HUGE boxing fan. I may have to dig those bad boys out of storage, and strap 'em on, to take on PD or non-PD, that is the question, because "nobody puts Wolf in the corner." Metaphorically, of course, but for real? I wish, in my little brawler heart.

Wolf and I, playing William Walton's Viola Concerto in a windstorm. The rainstorm pictures didn't work so well. Wolf doesn't like water.

In all seriousness, this is fine. I'd much rather have this facing me than the horrible black sorrow of depression, the fear that all of life is ending and the mourning over the horrific cruelties we inflict on one another with so little thought, or worse, with so much planning and intention to do the greatest harm and evil possible. If life is to have any meaning it needs to be fought for and won hard. Every single day is a celebration, an ode to happiness, joy, a will to express ourselves the best that we are able to and to love one another freely and without reservation.

If I didn't have the challenges I have had previous to this moment, I would have nothing to say or express, nothing to sing or play or write about. This is my song and this is also what my Parkinson's Awareness has given me.

BLOGGING FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 – LETTER “C”

CLUE

As in I haven't a... As in what to write about. Words that begin with “C” abound, teem, jump and leap in my head. Beethoven must have taken what little inspiration I most recently acquired, out of my head. I only recently got it back, after catastrophes, chaos and crises, both large and small. My clues have to be writ large. I am that most literal of people; a horrible on or off type of person; binary in code.

I always, always lost. My go-to was "Miss Scarlett in the Drawing Room with the Race Car." Was there even a Race Car in this game? Or was that Monopoly?

I said more than I should have about Ludwig; windbag that I am. But I love him so as he is my Muse. Never fear, he is not my "M" word. I have a clueless and loving, adopted Chimera cat. I also tend to take more than my share of 270 degree turns. I like those dichotomies. Our Chimera cat is not a true Chimera; probably only a quartet, not an octet as I've been led to believe a true one is supposed to be to exist. Or, is she?

Venus, a true Chimera cat. She is her own twin.

I haven't a clue. I do have a cat, chaos, crisis on a semi-regular basis, but no longer do I use cat-gut strings on my viola. They were sheep-gut, actually, when I was in college, now, we have synthetic-core silver wound strings. But still, I have no clue. As a postscript, I remembered in my artless way later on, that my original "C" word was to be on compassion, which would have probably been much better. Although not as quixotic, it would have been longer. Win-win? I still have no clue.

BLOGGING FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 - LETTER B

BEETHOVEN

He was born in Bonn, Germany, in 1770. There is some dispute as his birth was registered on the 16^th or 17^th of December. Some histories list his date of birth as early as the 15^th. As that is my birthday, I prefer to think that is his as well. He started playing piano early in life; again, that is disputed as well. Ludwig's father, a stern and unloving man wanted his only son to be another Mozart (thank God that was NOT the case, one Mozart is one too many, in my not at all humble opinion,) and so, he may have been 4 years old, or 6 years old.

I don't remember when I first heard him. Probably at 6 months, according to my father. Ludwig and Glenn Miller.

Beethoven was a gifted pianist and violist, although not the most disciplined when it came to practice. He was a much more gifted composer and pushed the envelope when it came to experimenting and developing thematic material and working with extreme and sudden changes in dynamic contrasts. Rather than follow traditional rules that had always been followed assiduously for close to two centuries, beginning with Scarlatti and culminating in Mozart. The Art of the Fugue had been explored by Bach; Haydn had written brilliantly, establishing symphonic form that would remain into the 20^th century. Paganini not only raised the bar on virtuosi playing on all non-fretted string instruments, he introduced us to the “Tema and Variations;” a main theme and variations on that theme. This template has been repeated into the 20^th century as well, with Rachmaninoff and Edward Elgar.

Beethoven changed the musical world profoundly. He not only did away with the “terraced” method of dynamics; pianissimo. piano, mezzo-piano, mezzo-forte, forte, fortissimo. He juxtaposed pianissimo-fortissimo to great effect in his symphonic works and also experimented with melodies that were less predictable. His greatest works besides his symphonies are his string quartets.

Still, his greatest achievement is his 3^rd Symphony, the “Eroica” in E♭Major. In one symphony, we bridge the Classical era in music and go directly to the Romantic era. On listening to, and/or playing this, you can pinpoint it to the 3^rd movement. The symphony was originally to be dedicated to Napoleon Bonaparte, during the “Heroic” period of the early 1800s, but then, the Napster took a stroll with his armies through Europe and Ludwig got pissed. The 3^rd movement starts out at a funereal pace and is, indeed dirge-like. But then, Ludwig, being Ludwig, lets his inner rage loose about 2/3 of the way through and cuts loose and he's royally pissed.

In roughly 1/3 of a movement, we go from a huge fortissimo, turmoil and sturm-und-drang in the lower strings and brass, to a syncopated, almost jazzy pianissimo in the first violins and woodwinds, and then back to the dirge, a sort-of dismissal, at least to my ear, finishes the movement as it started, in C minor, after the E♭Major diversion. A sort of rim-shot to the “Emperor” I always thought, as in the days of the Romans, when they held their Triumphal marches. Beethoven was fairly literate and he didn't care for the fact that his Hero did, after all have feet of clay. 

This is me, pouting. I like my Heroes to have Hero Feet

The 4^th movement of the "Eroica" (or "Erotica" as one gleeful colleague pointed out to me in a horribly botched program one evening; "Marc Wallac" on Viola!) is a riotous movement, E♭Major all the way; a true challenge for the violas. The symphonic literature has at last begun to explore the full-bodied sound and for the next 150 years, we will see astonishing growth and wonderful prowess, from this greatest of instruments, a 104-piece modern symphonic orchestra.

The Romantic era was about really pushing the envelope of symphonic music. Finally, the damn violas got something to do besides play whole notes. This being not a music appreciation class, but being a moment in time and having spent a lifetime, seriously, a whole lifetime, in music, that is the time when music changed. Everything written after that was profoundly different. Composers understood that although rules were there and there was a reason to build off solid foundations established centuries earlier and built carefully upon over time, it was really time to move forward. From Beethoven's 3^rd to his 9^th Symphony, there is only a span of 19 years. The 3^rd was premiered in 1805, the 9^th finished in 1824, and premiered to rave reviews. Of course, by this time, Ludwig was stone deaf and could not hear a note that was played by the orchestra, or sung by the chorus and soloists. Being a musician, however, I can speak from experience; he heard every thing that was in the score.

BLOGGING FROM A-TO-Z APRIL CHALLENGE

AMUSEMENT

Today is the start of the A to Z Challenge for 2013. This being April 1, 2013 and April Fool's Day, we'll start with the letter "A". Amusement for me is lying in bed in the early morning, listening to the TV in the next room, imagining what's on the ol' boob tube. Today, it sounds like some type of el-cheapo Advertisement for some horrible el-cheapo van, maybe made by Sanyo, called the “Meat Wagon.” The music, filtering dimly through the bedroom, sounds as if it is being played on something resembling a thumb-harp, accompanied by bongos. It is a happy, dippy, vaguely oriental tune, full of spry alarm, minor undertones, beneath the silly, disjointed melody.

I can only imagine what this thing looks like; some horror, possibly outsourced to the Dinky Toy Car Company, contract bought and built by the lowest bidder in WhereTheHellisStan. Low-balled parts, cheap aluminum carapace, a narrow wheel base, tall profile and that lovely raw rubber smell, that screams out “Death Trap!” No digital here. All analog, with dials and push-pins that once pushed, fall into crappy clear plastic dashboard coverings, forever registering 374-mile road trips, a testament to the finest engineering found in Asia Minor.

Slowly, slowly, the crappy clear plastic dashboard covering develops one giant cataract, providing the pilot and navigator the added fun of having to guess at fuel mileage and the rate of travel, although all inhabitants of the “Bring Out Your Dead Cart” are put so shame as traffic zooms by, hell-bent on reaching the event horizon before our hapless pioneers. Heating and cooling are no longer an option in this, the smokehouse from hell on wheels. All that is missing is the coal-tender. Hot, fetid air, smelling vaguely of stray pets, fur, tool parts, motor oil and insects circulate through the cabin.

The “Wagon O' Doom” was never intended for passengers, not really. It was meant as a work van. There are only 2 actual seats. The owners however, have lovingly installed two, plastic chairs like one sees on porches around the country for their offspring. There are no other windows then the front windshield and 2 back windows. It's like riding in a cave and it smells like a den full of rabid mechanics.

The engine is beginning to go and it whines and shudders upon starting. It farts, groans and howls and this is only in the driveway. But, the “Van of Destruction” is a campaigner. It has been around many years. It serves it purpose and is eventually passed on to another hard-working handyman, for 600 dollars. Amused by my imaginings, it turns out, I was remembering an old friend.