The Christmas Crash

It happens to me every year and seems to get more and more pronounced as I get older.

On Christmas day, I am hit with excruciating, agonizing pain that is centered along the middle of my rib cage  just below the heart and above the solar plexus. I think it is located between two chakras. Sometimes it feels like somebody is hitting me, repeatedly, in the stomach. Yesterday, it was more like a 5-inch stiletto heal was  being pushed and poked deeper and deeper into my body. Luckily, yesterday, it didn't hit me until about 1:30 in the afternoon. Only a few hours of primal screaming and howling and I only had to hold myself back from committing suicide a couple of times. A successful Christmas, really.

For the past few years, I have felt it best to be locked up, away from everybody else, so that I don't ruin their holiday, too. Right now, being homeless and in a town 2000 miles away from my closest relative, that isn't difficult to achieve. However, now we are all connected by Facebook and other forms of social media. So, I can still be a cybernetic buzz-kill, if I so choose.

As I do, every year, yesterday I tried to dig into the pain to determine its origin. I know it goes beyond the expected "mother never loved me and drunk daddy left when I was 5-years-old" bullshit. I know it isn't about being poor, or being mistreated and forced to do housework on the holiday. I also know it isn't just about feeling lonely and isolated from family. It is all of those things, and more. Over the years, I have tried to create my own traditions and joy, like the new-age "happiness-is-where-we-put-our-intention" people say. I have accepted kind invitations to join in with friends and their families on Christmas, but that usually is just a reminder to me that I am a tourist in somebody else's  holiday. Doesn't matter how kind they are or how magical their family tries to make the day. And, I have beaten myself up for not being able to enjoy their generosity, "like I should". My sisters gave up on me, long ago. For some reason, they have been able to forget the past and create happy new traditions and I applaud their efforts.

I may have gotten closer to discovering the cause of my pain, yesterday, and it goes like this: When I was in my teens, I showed up at my grandmother and great aunt Esther's home, unannounced, on Christmas day, to wish them a merry you-know-what. When I got there, I saw a beautiful tree was all set up, and underneath it were more presents than I had seen in years. Grandma accepted my good will but informed me that my my Aunt Theresa, Uncle Bob and my cousins Susan and Beth, were to be arriving any minute, and I had better leave, so that they could have lunch. In short, none of the gifts were for me or my sisters and I was not good enough to join my own relatives for the holiday. (I even remember feeling that I was superficial for wanting one of those presents) My mother's tantrums and cruel behavior had ostracized us from my own grandmother and aunt. So, I had to go back to my mother's house, where I would be forced to do more housework and feel jealous that my younger sister was able to spend the day with her boyfriend's family, who always gave her a stocking loaded down with gifts. Christmas was (and is) a reminder that I was not loved, and had never been loved, and that my presence was not wanted by those that I loved. I try and remember if my sisters were with me on that day, or if it was my friend, Bo, accompanying me (since he could drive and had a car). I can''t recall. Maybe my sisters don't feel the annual grief that I feel because they were not there. Or, maybe they were and have either suppressed the memory or did not come to the same grim conclusions that I had. I try to remember, but I can't.

Perhaps, now that I have committed this memory to my blog, I can finally be healed?

Where Do I Begin?

I don't even know how to start to describe what has happened in the past few weeks, since my last blog post. Mold has changed my life. Mold has left me homeless and jobless. Mold has brought me back to New Mexico.

Leaving the job was probably for the best, though.  I was working for a Draconian company, anyway, that did not care about its employees. This company used the "shame and blame" method of motivation. Actually had "demerits" and wrote people up for mistakes. Mistakes that were often caused by poor management, desperate to save their own asses. A company steeped in fear, who mostly hired regimented people who lived in fear. I was terrifically saddened when I learned that one of my favorite co-workers turned out to be a two-faced suck-up, who applauded my absence. He was bound and determined to keep his job and distance himself from me, even though we had great conversations every day of the week and I felt a true kinship with him. Human nature. I suppose I'll never understand why people do the things they do.

After I had to leave the mold-free motel room I occupied for 9 days, I stayed with a generous friend for a couple of weeks. But, his old home had its own mold problem and the mold coming into my workplace combined to make me weaker and weaker by the day. When I finally left his home to drive to the desert, I was so sickened that I could not walk up a flight of stairs without taking a lengthy rest. The only choice left was to drive West, and fast. Thank God I finally have a car. I want to thank my friend, though, for helping me in so many ways. He repaired my car, carried my belongings and packed when I was too stricken to do it myself. I'll never be able to thank him enough for his support and kindness. I hope he is blessed in his life.

I felt tremendous joy when I drove across the Pennsylvania state line and said goodbye to the place that held me in exile for 16 months. Yes, I was supported along the way by several people. Yes, I am happy I got to see the town where I grew up as it exists, today. But, more and more, I understood why i was so miserable there years ago. I simply don't fit in and could not make myself compromise my beliefs in order to be accepted by most of the folks with whom I came into contact. I am glad I got to see my mother for (what I hope is) the final time, before she dies. My last words to her, however, were "Drive your car with your ass!" - after she became belligerent with me while I tried to buckle her seat-belt and drive her to the Social Security office. I walked away and threw her the keys. No need to put up with that abuse, any more.

On my journey, I spent several days in North Carolina, with dear friends. One of whom, I hadn't seen in 29 years. I was stunned to learn he has been battling cancer for four years and that his wife has been dealing with a neurological spinal problem but amazed by their courage and willingness to lead as normal a life, as possible. It took forever to drive through Tennessee. That is one long, skinny state. In Oklahoma, I stopped at a strange little place called the National Shrine of the Infant Jesus of Prague, in Prague, OK. At first, I thought it would be kitschy, but it turned out to feel quite holy. And, a lone devotee, kneeling in the first pew, had such an expression of ecstasy on his face, I could only feel uplifted by the experience.

In Texas, I was caught in a speed trap and lied to, by a state trooper, who trumped up a ticket for me. There was no way I was traveling 85 miles an hour in that 75 mph zone. I'll have to fight that ticket. Before I left Texas, however, I had run out of money and wound up spending a freezing night in the car. I was thankful that mother made me put a thermal reflective blanket in my glove compartment. It kept me warm at that rest stop. The next morning, I was thrilled to find $705 deposited into my bank account - my last paycheck from my job. I was able to be on my way and afford gas and eat one meal a day in a half-decent restaurant.

And, now that money is dwindling down. I have reached my temporary (?) destination, and applied for public assistance. I have driven to a town 70 miles away and learned that I may qualify to work as an adjunct professor at the community college. I am staying in a very small motel room with heat and a nice, long bathtub just perfect for soaking. I found healing hot springs where I relaxed and had the minerals pull some of the toxins out of my body. And, tomorrow, I drive 3 hours to Taos, where I will see the doctor I visited in 2010 who initially diagnosed me with "toxic spore inhalation". He will run some tests to find out exactly what spores I am allergic to.

Things have been working out, I meet people who help me along the way and I have enough money for a few more days. Trying not to lose faith. But, fear of the unknown is pretty powerful. So, I'm just focusing on the present moment and trying not to be too scared.

More Mold

Mold is everywhere!

It seems like it is following me. I am highly susceptible to toxic spores, especially since I have had open heart surgery and blood clots in my lungs. The body gets more vulnerable after every exposure. And, Pennsylvania, as it turns out, is a very moldy state.

What is worse is my employer won a new government contract and truckloads of boxes of old files and cases are being shipped directly into my office. I hand it to my boss, she did what she could. She had all of the floors shampooed, moved me to a different office with a closed door (however, the angry little frat boy who also occupied the space is not happy and I had to verbally clean his clock to stop his tantrums). But, she has a job to do and a huge assignment to handle, and the woes of one mold-sensitive worker can't take up all of her time. So, I have to get out. I don't think there is any other choice.

This also coincides with my latest bout of homelessness. My ever-generous mother kicked me out of her house for the following 3 offenses: 1. Buying too much ham salad, 2. putting a damp towel in the hamper and  worst of all, 3. Not cleaning my bathroom enough, before her housekeeper arrived. I stayed at a Motel 6 for 9 days (no mold there, very peaceful - a happy time). But, money is scarce so a friend has put me up in his home for a little while. But, it is an old house and there are old mold spores to which he has built up an immunity. I have not.

Infections at home and work. I am a goner, unless I can get out of this place. New Mexico seems to be calling me again - but where? How? Thank God I finally have a car.

I can't tell you how tired I am of living like a gypsy.

A Lifetime in a Week.

OK - lets start with last Saturday, when I finally had enough cash to buy a car I found on Craig's List. A blue 14-year-old Honda Civic with 119k miles that runs great. 5-speed manual transmission and it is sooooo much fun to drive! Gonna have a problem keeping myself off of the freeway, lemme tell ya! I named my car, Bernard.

I gave in, acquiesced to the state laws and got a PA driver's license. I had been holding on to my WA state license, out of homesickness and principle, plus, I like being in denial about residing in this state again. However, taxes, license and plates cost me more money than I had, so I borrowed a bit from a friend. But, the FREEDOM I FEEL IS PRICELESS!!!! 15 months without a car has been one of the most difficult things I have gone through. Having to depend upon the generosity of family and friends. Having to call and beg for a ride. Always having to say "you drive, OK?" sure makes a 51-year-old woman feel like a teenager. Or a pre-teenager.

I had a day-long joyride that ended at the big casino/racetrack facility. A band was setting up on stage and the very seasoned-looking black gentlemen surrounding the instruments were a good sign that the music would be top notch. So, I hung around and nostalgically watched them set up and do a sound check. Wow. Great voices! I kept my spot close to the stage and talked to the DJ while the band changed into their performing clothes. The DJ, named "Jazz", and I , had lots of fun talking about being singers "back in the day". The band took the stage, in matching suits and ties - and I knew I was in for a night of Temps and Tops tunes. Damn, they were great! Named "Vinyl Groov" - I looked at them and thought - "now that is a hell of a way to retire! Do a couple of shows a month at high profile places and you're set!"

When I returned from my fantastic Bernard-the-car-filled day, There was a rude, demanding note on the home fridge, insisting that I do much of the housework for the home I WAS living in, as well as paying monthly rent. Mind you, I live in a tiny bedroom, use the kitchen (and not much, at that) and the bathroom. The rest of the noisy family messes up their house however they want, and the kitchen and bathroom are always the worst of the place. I was told I needed to vacuum, and do THEIR laundry, as well as wipe off kitchen counters, etc. Now that wouldn't be a problem if they ever put anything away in the kitchen. But they don't. Hardly ever. I have never seen a kitchen this bad in my life. I kept it as clean as I could, before I had a job and began paying them rent, but the fact that they wanted me to do their work (that laundry line really pissed me off - throwing sperm-filled teenage underpants into the washer, for god's sake!) was the last straw. So, I wrote a note saying this situation was no longer working for us, and asked mother to move back in with her.

Spent all of Sunday packing and moving, and most of Monday recovering, while at work. All the while, knowing that I had just bounced a check to the DMV for my driver's license and praying my credit card would keep me fed for the time being. Then there was election day and the aftermath. So much stress on the backs of the entire nation! On Wednesday, I applied for two other internal job openings, with a higher rate of pay. On Thursday, I started the day in the emergency room, after coughing up blood and dealing with an acidic esophagus. Blood tests came back normal but I might have a bleeding ulcer. I went to work and found out I got "promoted" to a different assignment, something I LIKE at work! (but no pay increase). On Friday, I found out how little I was trained and got very angry at my boss for not teaching me things I should know. I made her cry. I wrote an email to her boss and explained things from my perspective. HER BOSS AGREED WITH ME!!!!! This time, I did NOT get fired for writing a note about mistreatment at work!!! So much better than stupid-ass Clear Channel!!! I went into the ladies room and cried my eyes out - due to post-traumatic stress. Could not believe I was NOT fired for stating my truth this time. Incredulous.

Now today, Saturday, I went to work for 3 hours, overtime. I was so hungry when I finished, I stopped for a slice of pizza and a Coke. My credit card was rejected and I couldn't get my lunch. Went to the ladies room and sobbed. When I came out, a man, sitting in front, told me he had paid for my lunch. I thanked him, felt like a piece of dirt, and cried while I ate. After that, I had my friend, Steve, help me move the rest of my things over from my friend's house over to mother's. Then we went to see an apartment building in the country (not far from Hershey), that his brother owns. The place might  be do-able for me - townhouse for under $600 a month. Not a sexy neighborhood. BUT - unloading his van and moving in, was a guy, named Ron, and it turns out he is a singer and adjunct English professor and we had a LOT to talk about. He's lived all over the country. His musical taste is a bit more punk and hardcore than mine but it was sooooo nice talking to somebody who comes at life from a similar perspective as I do! He is also pissed off being back in Central Pennsylvania and had a hell of a time growing up here, but is making the best of it right now. I might have a non-Christian-not-living-in-fear friend, with whom. I can discuss music!!! A music pal in the same building. Unthinkable! (Plus, he's kinda cute - but maybe 15 years younger than me).

So, I found HOPE FOR A BRIGHTER FUTURE this week, in the midst of chaos and confusion and frustration. A happy ending.

Unrestrained Capitalism

Oh these poor people.

I've been through this twice before, once with the rapid expansion of the computer industry in the 1980's and  again when the FCC loosened the restrictions on the radio industry, allowing one company to own a large percentage of a market, instead of just one or two stations in a city. Unrestrained capitalism allows greed to be the driving force in a corporation's existence. Greed becomes the master and everything else is secondary. Especially the health and welfare of human beings.

 Before the regulations were loosened, companies would strive to do the right thing and take care of their employees. Happy workers were productive workers - as they used to say. Benefits were plentiful and employees and their families were taken care of, in the hopes that they would dedicate their lives to doing their best work and reaching a common goal of being the "best in the business". Camaraderie was common in the workplace. Today, you see more hand-wringing than pats on the back. Nowadays, it isn't about being the best - it is about being the biggest and taking away business from every other competitor out there. Size is the only thing that matters. It doesn't matter that all of the corporation's available resources go to acquiring more and more business (in this case, bidding on more and more government contracts), leaving less and less funding for the still-dedicated employees. It doesn't matter that quality goes out the window as expansion continues. As long as profits go up and up and up, you can screw everything else.

These people who have worked for the same company for 20 or 30 years will see the light soon. In a few months, the team spirit and the fire in their eyes will die, as these fine dedicated folks realize that they are only cogs in their masters' machine. When they start complaining about their reduced benefits that have been changed to be "more in line with the marketplace", they will be told that they should "be thankful that you have a job and any benefits at all - hey, you're lucky." Having worked at one place or in one industry for their entire lives, they don't see things from my perspective. They don't yet know what lies ahead and are doing what they can to keep their chins up. I hear them say "It is rough now, but it'll get better." No - I'm here to tell you that it won't. As the corporation grows, consolidation will happen. They might lose their jobs to contractors. Their livelihoods and futures will be outsourced. They won't be able to care for their homes and children and grandchildren. The unrelenting pace they are now required to work will take an enormous toll on their mental and physical health. They won't understand why so many of their co-workers are getting sick. Soon the champions and cheerleaders will put down  their pom-poms because their fingernails have been worked down to the quick. It'll take everything they have just to keep their heads down and do the work in front of them. And even though they've done their very, very best it will NEVER be enough.

The greedy profit machine is a very hungry beast that must continually consume or it will die.

God bless America.

So, How's the New Job Coming Along?

Fine, I guess. I'm damned glad to have work. I'm exhausted all the time but here are the good things about this job:

1. NO PHONES!
2. NO MULTI-TASKING!
3. My hours are 10 to 6:30.
4. I can wear headphones and listen to music all day.
5. I can take lunch whenever I want.
6. The dress code is pretty casual - no jeans and sneakers, but almost anything else is OK.
7. I don't work with egomaniacs.
8. I don't have to worry about a capricious boss who might fire me at the drop of a hat.

Here's what I don't like about the job:

1. I can be bored out of my scull by the mundane point-and-click computer work and tedious copying of envelopes.
2. I don't seem to have much in common with my co-workers (but really, don't think I ever have, in any job).
3. I don't have a desk to call my own for the entire day. I have to move around.
4. The chairs are unbelievably uncomfortable.
5. Did I mention that I can be bored out of my mind?

I am thrilled, though, to have something to do during the day and to be making some money - finally! And, I must thank Brenda for letting me borrow her car EVERY SINGLE DAY. I don't know how I've been so blessed to have such a generous friend but I am very, very grateful!!

Cover Band Blues

Still reeling from a conversation I had with a very talented local musician. He's been singing and playing guitar for 42 years and has been a professional for nearly that long. The guy has an amazing, powerful voice and a large local following. And, he pulls in nearly 20 thousand bucks a year, just gigging part-time. He plays in small clubs and large summer festivals but almost everything he plays was written and recorded by somebody else. His classic rock cover band performs 2 of the songs he's written, but that is all.  As we were talking, I asked him why he almost never plays original music. His reply was "Every song I sing is original - it was just originally recorded by somebody else". He said local people who sing their own music were, essentially, arrogant, and foisting their creative hubris on an unwilling audience. He felt he has an obligation to his audience to perform something polished and expected. He assured me this was the main reason he had a successful career.

An enormous light bulb went on in my head.

I was raised with the cover band mentality. I was employed for 8 years in bands that only performed the music of others.  As a singer, it was part of my job to try and mimic the vocal stylings of the artist on the record. And, I was very good at it. The highest compliment a band would hear was "Man, that sounded just like the record!". I first got the inkling that there was more to music when I auditioned for a group in Winchester, VA  - my first full-time band. In my audition, I kicked ass on Angela Bofill's hit, "I Try". I got the job. But later, when the group listened to the tune in order to learn the song, they found out that I had done an impeccable impression of Angela, instead of singing my own heart out. Furtive glances and furrowed brows passed between the musicians. For many reasons, I only lasted 3 months in that gig. When I moved to Seattle in '87, I wanted to find work in bands in order to supplement my income. Problem was, the Northwest city did not pay musicians and singers very much, and most of the groups performed original songs, instead of covers. I was way out of my element and didn't know what to do. So, I decided to stop singing and wound up working on the radio. I'll never forget the night I brought my old band tapes into the KISW production studio and cried my eyes out, listening to the old days. God, how I missed it.

Out of the blue, I took an experimental drawing and painting class at a local community college. We painted blindfolded, and were taught to trust our inner vision. Trusting that voice lead me to trust my inner musical muse, as well. Then, a friend and I began exploring musical free improvisation on a weekly basis. He, on keyboards and me, on voice and all kinds of wacky rhythm instruments. It was in that Pioneer Square studio that I really began to understand that creative expression was not arrogance, but essential to the soul. After performing for a few years at the Seattle Festival of Improvised Music, I searched for more ways of self-expression. I was lead to Jay Clayton and a weekly scat-singing and improvisational vocal class at Cornish College of the Arts. I loved vocal vamping with others. Nothing had ever felt more musically satisfying. Finally, I went a little "Inside" and studied jazz, briefly, with Jay. We only had a couple of private classes but she was the person who finally made me understand that I had to "pay attention to the words and sing them like I mean it". I don't think I had ever quite understood that, until Jay said it. For that, she has my eternal gratitude.

For many years, I beat myself up for wasting so much time singing like other people. But, until last week, I hadn't realized how the cover band mentality was so ingrained in my being. I blamed myself for "selling out" and not being an authentic performer. I have now forgiven myself for my creative naivete. I was raised and nurtured in the cover band mentality. The band mates were my brothers, lovers and teachers. How could I have known any differently? But, a baby bird has to fly once she gets her wings. It just took me a while to find them.

DOING TIME

Wow - I am grateful to have a job. TRUST ME. I am grateful. But this song and video describe how I'm feeling right now, as a cubicle monkey, sorting papers and making copies.

I am blessed to have a very generous wonderful friend who lets me use her car. I asked for a job that won't stress me out, where I don't have to answer phones or deal with an angry public. I have that. I am grateful. And, I'm earning money again and getting out of the house.

But, sometimes, it feels like I'm just doing time.

Close Enough for Government Work

A job. An occupation. A way to keep busy during the hot days of summer and beyond. Can't believe I finally have employment!

Who'd have thought I'd land in an enormous building sorting mountains of claims and paperwork for a federal government contract? Sounds desperately unglamourous, I know. But, for right now, I think this is just what I need. Paperwork. Concentrated focused detail and blissfully, NO PHONES or belligerent people standing in front of my desk. I don't have the pressures of live broadcast and grammatical perfection. My fight-or-flight instincts have not kicked in! No panic or anxiety in an entire week. For now, I am at peace, even though I am tired. After being unemployed for two years, it is difficult to get back into an 8-hour-a-day routine (well, 10 hours, if you count up the commute and lunch). But a routine is nice. Apparently, I need some structure, to feed my creative juices. Today, while curiously eavesdropping on the native-tongue conversation of two Asian co-workers,  I began composing a musical piece, based on the tonal structure of the Vietnamese language. Will the piece ever come to light? Not sure but the exercise felt great. Good to stretch these mental muscles again.

Thank you, Universe!

This is What Anxiety Feels Like

First, there is an electric pulsing throughout my body. Then, a slight shaking that continues. My breath becomes shallow and I fight through a sinking feeling in my stomach. Next, My brain feels like it is crowded by too much information. Every sound I hear is dramatically amplified - any kind of noise is too much. I work my hardest to banish negative words from my mind. The shaking gets worse - the tremors don't seem to be visible to anybody else in the room. My face is nearly immobile, as I struggle to keep my composure. I run to my room and I stiffly lie on my bed for a while. Then, the fight-or-flight urge kicks in and all I want to do is run away from my surroundings. I concentrate on my breath and my hands start to tremble. I want to cry but don't know why. It feels like the end of the world is coming, but I know it isn't. So many days start out like this. I struggle and try not to take any medicine. But then, after an hour or so of this torture, I break down and put half of an anti-anxiety pill under my tongue. I start to calm down. I feel a little ashamed for having to take the medicine. I tell myself to be grateful to have relief from the panic.

Imperfect Snippets of an Imperfect Life

Some people only post to their blog when they are fully satisfied with they have written. Sometimes this applies to me, but for most of this year, it has been a struggle.  My posts seem like half-finished thoughts and uninspired writing. I have  written several drafts that I later delete. Nearly every day, I'll see something or be inspired by a small incident where I tell myself, "I'll have to blog about this", only to either forget what happened or be unable to elaborate on my thoughts enough to make for interesting reading. So, this blog is not perfect (and neither am I) but is filled with little snippets of my recent life.

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It was Tuesday, the week day I visit my mother to do her housework, yard work and shopping. Sometimes, if she's in a good mood, we also sit and talk for a while and watch the birds. While at the window, I noticed that my ankles were swelling a little and I got a bit concerned. I explained to my mother how my feet, ankles, arms and hands swelled up when I was sickened by toxic mold a couple of years ago. Her first statement was "Come on, was that diagnosed by a doctor or did you just make it up?" and when I explained that it took several doctors before I finally got the diagnosis, she said "That must have been so frightening for you." Now, that statement would not strike most people as remarkable, especially coming from their mother. But, from MY mother, this exhibits a tremendous step in the right direction. Empathy - for something she has never experienced. I was thankful for this exchange and it gave me hope. Later I wondered how she was able to make the leap from skepticism to empathy and it struck me - her favorite TV show is the old drama "Little House on the Prairie", a program  filled with morality tales and lessons about the golden rule. Perhaps TV has its benefits, after all!

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I have begun volunteering, once a week, at a place that teaches horseback riding to developmentally challenged kids. Not only do they have a horse stable, they keep other small animals as well. I will be helping care for the small animals like miniature horses, chickens, goats, cats, dogs and guinea pigs. Oh yes, there is also an enormous pig named Blanche who needs daily meals. Each animal has specific recipes and regimens for dinner. The miniature horses (named Mozart and Minuet) have alfalfa sprouts and other wheat germs etc. added to their food. Blanche gets a mixture of fruits, veggies and 'pig chow'. Cats get wet food in bowls located in 2 places and the goats get some hay and dried kernels. Right now, I feel like an idiot, as I am not accustomed to farm life. The blistering heat takes a toll on me and I tire easily. Blanche got out of her pen when I arrived last week but I was able to gently coax her back inside until she escaped again. Each pen has a second secure lock that the animals can't undo, and I neglected to attach the one to her cage.  Later, two goats trotted out of their pen and it took somebody else, with a food bucket, to get them to return home. So far, I'm not much of a help. But, I appreciate the mission of the place and the people seem nice.

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I am actively becoming more passive about Facebook. I am reading more. Have finished 6 or 7 books in the last couple of months. Didn't realize how much I missed reading. After all, what is the month of July for, if not to immerse oneself inside a story? You know, I think I have always hated July. Especially here back East, where the weather is so ungodly hot and humid. I tend to hide inside, since I can't go for walks. As a kid, my mother used to call me a "hot house plant" because I didn't go outside. I hated summers in North Carolina, when I went back to college. I was bored because I wasn't attending class and couldn't find a summer job - and the one time I was employed, the monthly paycheck didn't arrive until the end of July and I was only able to eat by using my credit card at the college campus cafeteria. I'll always be grateful to Libby, from the math department, who bought me a box of blueberries from the farmers market. It was also July when I became deathly ill with toxic spore (mold) inhalation in 2010 and I was hospitalized for a week in 2011, in July, due to a pulmonary embolism.

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Thank God for second-run movie theaters that only charge $2.50 a show! A shame the local place only shows blockbusters. So far I have seen The Hunger Games, The Lorax, Men in Black 3 and Dark Shadows. Going to movies almost makes me feel normal - I saw a lot of shows back in Seattle, mostly at The Crest - a second-run house that specialized in independent or art films. I MISS intelligent movies. I used to especially love the free movie screening passes I got from the promoters and publicists hoping that I would mention the film on the radio. You can't imagine the joy I used to feel going into a movie and not knowing a single thing about it, and the glory of discovery, when it turned out to be inspiring - "Brother of Sleep", "The Priest", and "The English Patient" come to mind. After a particularly engrossing movie, I leave the theater in a daze. Sometimes I have to walk around or drive for several hours before I can come back down to earth. And, by the way, if you ever sit behind me at the movies and talk, beware. I WILL throw popcorn at you or shush you or glare. It is damned rude to talk during the film and I am sick to death of people who treat the cineplex as their own private screening room. I mean, what has happened to manners?

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Caffeinated Sunday

I am very grateful for the coffee shop within walking distance from this home. But man, oh man, does it ever cater to a different clientele. In Seattle, the plethora of caffeinated watering holes are filled with young adults staring at laptops or iPads through their hipster specs. Here, the average age of the male coffee shop sipper is about 60 years old. Their hair is either grey or balding and the women are decidedly middle-aged and older. Now and then, a young couple will enter to sip a latte or two, but they are a rarity. I must admit that, by appearance, I seem to fit in. But I still feel like an outsider.

Could NOT believe the overheard conversations this morning. I was sitting next to a table of four people discussing the recent approval of the health care system, now commonly referred to as "Obamacare". The loudest among them said "So, are your churches upset about the Supreme Court's ruling? We believe that abortion is wrong. Birth control is wrong. By forcing us to all have coverage, we are taught that this health care plan will make us pay for things against our beliefs!!" The lady next to him said "How can we be REQUIRED to pay for this? Our liberties are being taken away!" I have learned to sit quietly as I listen to these opinions but I chuckled to myself under my breath. I desperately need health insurance, but have been unable to afford it now, for several years. I figure any change is good - plus, the law says that the cost will be 8% of a person's annual income. However, I am suspicious because the health insurance lobby must have had a big hand in writing the bill, as their clients stand to profit mightily.

Across the room, a big bald-headed guy was complaining about a neighbor who was a repeat offender and alternating between prison and drug rehab. He turned beat read as he groused about the man's inability to care for his own estranged family while buying  the choicest cuts of meat at the grocery store for himself. Bald man's voice continued to raise when he told his friends he loaned his leather jacket to this neighbor who didn't return it until he got back from his latest stint in rehab.. However, it had been damaged - slit diagonally up the back with a razor. He explained that "if the coat looked too good, it would have been stolen at rehab". This is a suburban coffee shop.  But, life can be tough among these rolling hills, butterfly bushes and split-level homes.

Sometimes, I really, really miss Seattle's inane conversations about tattoos bar bands and software apps.

Wannabe War Zone

Helicopters fly overhead, every single day in this town. Sometimes 5 or 6 of them fly in formation above this house. I'm not talking tiny whirlybirds. I'm talkin' black or dark green military-issue LOUD helicopters. We even get the elongated twin propeller types, designed to hold an entire battalion. Those are incredibly noisy. I try not to be rattled by their pitch and decibel, but they raise my hackles, nonetheless.

We live less than 10 miles from a military base. This morning, I awoke to the soothing sounds of bombing, to the East. Low, rumbling explosions erupted every few minutes. Now and then, one was loud enough to rattle the windows. Perhaps it is no wonder I had anxiety issues for most of the day. Am I supposed to feel comforted, that our military is practicing preparedness? Perhaps I should feel grateful, that I don't reside in an area where our military is blasting at my friends and family with live ammunition?

Chiropractic Theater

Ladies and gentlemen, step right up and witness the amaaaazing back-cracking skills of Mark, the chiropractor!

Not every chiropractor has an office. Some, like Mark, travel from home to home, offering services. It is less expensive for him to visit patients than to keep up an office. Plus, in the home where I am staying, he provides an afternoon's entertainment. Seriously. The entire family sits downstairs and watches each other get adjusted. They ooh and aah and giggle at the sounds of necks and spines cracking back into position. Plus, they get to socialize and catch up on Mark's life.

I have used chiropractors since I was in my early 20's, and always had a one-on-one doctor/patient relationship. I don't want to know what happens to other patients and I don't want them to witness my appointments! While I have made peace with being on display, during my adjustments, I simply cannot bear to watch and listen to the rest of the household while they are on the table. I sit on the stairs, behind a closed door, until my name is called. It always makes me a bit nervous to have them watching me and I'm sure I tense up a bit. But, so far, Mark has been able to help my back get into alignment. He doesn't touch my lower lumbars, though, due to my ruptured L5 disc.

But honestly, don't you find the idea of chiropractic theater a little odd?

Will I?

Will I ever find my way?
Will I ever again be excited at the break of day?
Will I ever know, for sure, what the hell happened to me?
Will I find the truth that was meant to set me free?
Will I ever learn from my mistakes?
Will I ever quell this constant ache?
Will I ever be part of "normal society" again?
Will I ever find a community of like-minded friends?
Oh where did I come from and where will I go?
If it is not up to me, then just who the hell knows?

Tuesdays with Mother

Every Tuesday, for the past couple of months, my mother has been picking me up around 11:00 and driving us a few miles to an office park, where we have been attending a weekly financial class on investing and ageing. We normally arrive around 11:15, even though the class doesn't start until noon. Mother wants to  make sure she gets the parking spot closest to the front door. She has to use a walker, since her double knee-operation was a total bust. Just getting out of the car and into the building takes a tremendous amount of effort. I take the walker from the back seat and set it up outside of the driver's door. She throws her purse on the seat and grabs one of the handles and pulls herself out of the car. As we travel to the second floor in the elevator, she wonders if the class will be full today.

As we enter the investment company's door, the receptionist greets us by name. I say hello to her and to the little blue betta fish in the plastic bowl. Mother then indicates that she would like to go to the conference room, where the class is held. So far, we've been able to sit down, early, with only one exception. We make very mundane chit chat, as other senior citizen class members arrive. There are a few married couples, a group of 3 women, several single men and one man, with his 13-year old son. I don't know anybody's name. We wait for lunch to arrive - this is mother's primary motivation for attending the classes. It is a pretty good deal, information and a free lunch. The investment company holds these seminars in the hopes of finding new financial clients but there is no obligation. All-in-all, I suppose there are worse ways to spend the noon hour. Mother heard about these classes on the radio. The company has a once-a-week radio program on a local news-talk station. They buy their own time (called a pay-for-play show) and take phone calls from listeners. In the class, you can tell that the other students think of the teachers, Liz and Bill, as celebrities. They do a good job - I'll give them that. Using either power point slides or flip charts, they have discussed "high yield" stocks (aka junk bonds) and planning for long term health care, the volatility of the stock market and why it is better to stay in it for the long run.

The biggest lesson I've learned is that I AM SCREWED. So much money is required to stay in a long-term facility - from $4 to 9 THOUSAND dollars a month. If you are trying to do it all on Medicare, good luck. Apparently that only pays for 100 days of care. I sit in these classes, feeling a little like a fraud. I don't have much to my name, at all. And I will be unable to help provide for my mother's inevitable care. She has done everything "right". She worked at a job she hated for over 20 years in order to have a pension, etc. She tried investing, but made a critical error last year and wound up having to pay thousands and thousands of dollars in taxes this year, thus significantly dwindling her portfolio. And I know she is better off than a lot of people (definitely better off than any of her daughters). The amount of money needed to care for the elderly is exorbitant. I wish we could figure out a better system.

But, I am probably in my predicament for a reason. Through researching older US gold coins, I realize how little I care about money. I never thought about the burden of  wealth, until I started talking to coin collection dealers this week. Was this guy being honest with me? Was that one taking advantage of me because I am woman? Why did I have a hard time trusting these men when it wasn't even my money? I can't help but contemplate why we human beings place value on some things but not on others. A bouquet of tulips is sitting on the dining room table and I remembered learning about the Dutch tulip mania in the 1600's, when a single tulip bulb cost more than the average laborer's annual income. Many people were bankrupted in a few years when the tulip market crashed. In the late 1990's, Beanie Babies - small bean-filled toys that originally sold for about $5, were trading online for over a $100 a piece. The bottom fell out of that market, rather quickly.

I have always kept a 'piggy bank' of sorts. For many years, it was a pottery elephant, named Sydney. From time-to-time, I'd dump all of my coins out on my bed and count them. Sometimes I'd have up to $30 in there and I felt rich! Nowadays, I deposit my spare change in a green plastic pig. It has rarely held more than $5 before I cash it in. Right now, I think it is holding about 80 pennies as well as some dimes and a few quarters.

Anyway, after financial class, mother and I usually go grocery shopping or run some errands and then,  head back to her place, where I proceed to take care of some housework - vacuuming, doing laundry and dishes, planting a few flowers and feeding the birds.  Her mattress must be flipped and the bed made. Then, we have dinner. She likes to eat out at a "family restaurant" and bar called The Peachtree, because of their $8 dinner specials. She always buys dinner. She only eats the fish, and gets 2 sides. The side dishes MUST be placed in separate dishes and must not be on the same plate as the fish. NEVER put parsley on her plate - if it is there, she will send the food back! She always wants extra napkins and lemon in her water. Please bring a basket of bread and  the jelly. And, if they don't have peach preserves or marmalade, she would like some of that. Oh, and when you are filling up her hot tea, make sure you put hot water up to the brown line of the carafe. If not, she will SEND IT BACK. Not kidding. She knows what she wants and you'd better accommodate her, if you want to avoid any conflict. This is true for waitresses and daughters.

And that is the most difficult thing about Tuesdays with Mother. Avoiding conflict. Avoiding rage. Avoiding screaming. I believe she wants a harmonious visit but it is simply not in her nature to trust someone else's judgement. Especially her own daughter's. I don't want to sound like I don't love and appreciate my mother. I do. But, she sure doesn't make it easy.

The End of a Marriage

My last post was about window shopping for a fantasy wedding. This one is about the stunning end of a marriage.

Good friends of mine have been wed for 12 years. A couple of weeks ago, I found out that their marriage has suddenly come to an end. Seems the wife met and fell madly in love with another man. This blind sighted the husband who never saw it coming. I suppose it can happen to anyone, at any time. I don't believe she planned to leave her husband but once she met this other man, I guess she realized what was lacking in her life. I don't think this is a case of purely sexual attraction, but I can't be sure.  I thought my friends had a solid marriage. Sure, they bickered, but they seemed to resolve their problems quickly. To me, it looked like they stood as a team during difficult times. I remember feeling encouraged by their relationship and knew I learned a lot by observing it. Now I've learned that even the surest things can change. 

What lies ahead is anybody's guess. I suppose he'll get the dog, and she will take the cat. Then the possessions will have to be divided. Messy business, even when broken hearts are not involved. Having only observed divorces from the outside, I can only imagine how gut-wrenching it must be, to know that you tried your best but failed. Can twelve years simply be erased? Is it ever possible to just let go and thank your spouse for the time you had together and the lessons learned? I hope he recovers from this life-altering experience and is not embittered by it. I hope she treats him kindly during the transition and does not rub his face in her happiness.

Love is a many-splintered thing.

Planning My Fantasy Wedding

On a recent trip to NYC, I made a couple of stops near 5th Avenue.

The first one, was to the St. Regis Hotel. I wanted to see the rooftop ballroom again, the place where I met Barry Manilow, when I was 17 years old. So I wouldn't look suspicious to the hotel staff, I took the stairs to the lower level and then, from there, went up to the roof. The banquet staff was preparing the ballroom for a party to be held the next day. I explained that I was just sneaking a peak because I had recently become engaged and remembered that this room might be perfect for my wedding reception. My first impression was how very small the room was! According to the hotel's website, it only seats 220 people for events. I still can't believe my good fortune at being invited to that party. The next thing I noticed was that they still had the same gold-backed chairs that were in use in 1978. I asked if they were the same chairs and was told yes - they just freshen up the spray paint every now and then. The room's roof was still blue with clouds painted on it. I remember being at Barry's party and being in a daze, as I gazed towards the ceiling.

After I was there for about 5 minutes, a security guard was summoned and I was told I needed to contact the hotel's sales department if I wanted to inquire further about using the ballroom.

My next stop on my fantasy wedding tour was Tiffany and Co. on 5th Avenue. My high school friend, Rusty Corbett, had recently passed away, so I entered the jewelry mecca as a tribute to him. When we were in high school, once a year, the choir would go on an all-day excursion to New York City. Somehow my sisters and I, Rusty and our friends Craig and Jennifer convinced our parents to let us break away from the school group and walk up and down 5th Avenue, while the rest of the class toured the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As I entered Tiffany's, I said to myself, "This one is for you, Rusty". I noticed that engagement rings were upstairs on the 3rd (?) floor. As I entered the elevator and asked for floor 3, the operator said "congratulations"! I beamed as if I were a young bride.

Once I got upstairs, I inquired about pink diamonds, as a friend told me they were the rarest and most expensive of the diamonds. The salesman showed me a couple of them, and while they were beautiful, frankly, I was not captivated. And, the only one I sort of liked cost about 500 THOUSAND DOLLARS! Just a bit too rich for my budget. I asked where I might find something a tad more modest and moved to another counter.  I told the clerk that I was recently engaged and that my fiance was going to wear the men's blue topaz ring encircling my middle finger. Did he have something to match, perhaps? Well, that is when I fell in love with the aquamarine stone in a platinum setting. Much more reasonable at only $7,500. I laughed as I said "Ah, I would like the cheapest ring in Tiffany's!" "No, you are just a modest person" he replied. I liked that. I asked him to write down all of the information on the back of his business card. I think I still have it in my wallet. Here is what the ring looks like:

And believe me, it is even more gorgeous in person. In the meantime, I found a little sterling silver band with a blue square stone in a thrift shop that does the job nicely.

I did not look for a dress while on that New York City trip. The ring and ballroom were enough to fulfill my fantasy for one day. And, it was a brief respite from the painful reality that was waiting for me back in Brooklyn that night.

Be Here Now

"Be Here Now" - these words keep running through my head. Singer Cyndi Lauper reportedly said them to a man who was recording her concert with her cell phone a couple of years back. She wanted him to live in the moment and enjoy the show.

I have written about living in the present moment before. Recently, I've been having a difficult time with this.. It is as if I'm existing in some sort of bubble and am not able to embrace the life that I have. I feel like I'm "here", but strangely absent at the same time. Perhaps it is better to describe my life as some movie that I am watching. I go for walks or out to the bookstore and feel happy, yet, as soon as I get back home, I want to hide within myself again. I interact with others but am somehow distant. A thin filmy glass shield covers me and I want to break through. Is this the "suffering" that the Buddhists speak of? It is not really painful - just disconcerting.

I have reached again for my books by Eckhart Tolle and Louise Hay, they got me through past periods of ennui and I again  need their wisdom. This life that I have wandered into is mine, yet it feels like someone else's. I wonder sometimes if I am auditioning life, instead of living it. Trying on a new shirt to see if it fits and if not, discarding it for a different size or cut. Living in so many different places in the past couple of years, I have been trying on different lives with different people. I was used to living my own life - in my own space - for so long. But these days, I circumnavigate through the world of others and try not to kick up too much dust. Is this shyness? Is this shame? Perhaps it is a combination of both.

One thing I have learned in the past couple of years is the impermanence of life. I have seen how quickly circumstances can change - due to health or emergency. This show will end, at some point and I need to be here now, and enjoy it. As they say, this too, shall pass.

Musicians in Awe

Right now, I'm sitting in Harrisburg's coolest place, The Midtown Scholar. It is in the process of changing from day time used bookstore, to night time concert setting. The young musicians and singers for tonight's show are wandering around the place, looking up at the balconies and wooden ceiling and wall murals and saying "this is so cool!". One of them put down his banjo and is making flying leaps across the stage and marveling at it's length. They look so happy.

I remember my very first professional gig, with Rhythm Transfer. It was at "Friendly Fred's Pine Tree Inn", someplace up on a hill about an hour from my mom's house. The Pine Tree Inn was famous for seafood - odd for being a mountain top place in Pennsylvania. They had outdoor seating and inside, some of the tables and chairs were moved aside to make a dance floor. The band played on a little stage that was barely big enough for the five of us to set up. I arrived at the gig a little later than I was supposed to because my mother drove me. I was 18 years old and had no idea what to do, onstage, when I wasn't singing lead. Mark, the bassist, told me I could follow along and throw in backup vocals to the other songs, by following what he played on his bass. That made no sense to me, at the time. The bass notes were so much lower than my voice! I was so nervous that I threw up before we took the stage. That night, I wore a blue and white button-down blouse, a white lace vest and blue jeans. I sang our cover version of Linda Ronstadt's Blue Bayou as well as "Le Freak", by Chic. On that first night, I remember thinking how boring it was to sing the lines "Freak out!", "Now Freak" and "I Said Freak" over and over again.  Maybe if we would have had a crowd on the dance floor, it would have felt exciting - but the 3 women dancing without partners just stepped back and forth to the beat. It also didn't help that Rhythm Transfer was, essentially, playing in the dark.  Our "light system" consisted of 2 home-made wooden boxes, each containing a red, yellow, and blue light that were operated by the guitarist with a foot pedal. That night, I met the "wives and girlfriends" of the band. I never quite knew my place with them, since I was chummy with their husbands and boyfriends, my band mates. But, I'll never forget the comment made by the sax player's girlfriend, Heidi: "Treasure this - these will be some of the best memories of your life" She was right. I sang hundreds of nights after that, in 6 different bands. Nothing compared to the fun I had with Rhythm Transfer. 

The young band setting up at Midtown Scholar has dragged in a heavy flight case-covered amplifier, A big guitar amp and 3 guitar cases. But, they haven't started to set up yet. Looks like they're having too much fun joking around and drinking coffee. May they treasure these moments.

In a Nutshell

Ponder

Whine

Attempt to Say Something Relevant

Introspective Question

Cliched Quote

More Grousing

Memory and Profound Question

Statement

Ha! I've Exposed Myself

Bridges

My favorite place to walk in my hometown used to be along the river and across the Walnut Street Bridge. I was finally able to make that trip again, this past Saturday afternoon. The Walnut Street Bridge became a pedestrian-only span, after Hurricane Agnes, in 1972, made the decades-old structure too unsafe for cars. In the mid-1990's, another big storm took out a section on the opposite side, so you can no longer walk the whole way across the Susquehanna River. When I took my walk, it was as if 25 years hadn't passed since the last time I crossed the span. The metal grated-road covers the steel girders and supports. I used to pretend that I had to balance on one of the beams, or else I'd fall into the river. I walked heel-toe, heel-toe all the way from Front Street to City Island, where the minor league baseball team The Senators now play. Notice the Market Street Bridge, in the background. It has arched spans for the river to flow through. Several of Harrisburg's bridges have arches.

Until Saturday, the last bridge I walked over was the University Bridge, in Seattle. It is an old draw span, with metal grating and it crosses the Lake Washington Ship Canal, that connects Lake Washington to Lake Union. When you walk across this bridge, you never know if you'll have to wait while it goes up to let a boat through. I used to enjoy daydreaming into the water, until the span was lowered - watching the sailboats or tug boats pass by underneath. I often wondered what it would be like to be a bridge tender.

And this is the Pont Neuf bridge in Paris (Pont Neuf means "new bridge" - nowadays it is the oldest bridge in Paris but it was named the "new bridge" when it was built). I walked across it in 1999, so I could take a boat tour down the River Seine. You can see the boats on the right hand side. Also notice the arches on the span.  I remember being struck by the arched bridge and found it funny that Paris could remind me of Harrisburg. Strange how the city of my dreams could resemble the town from which I couldn't wait to escape.

Yesterday

Yesterday I got the news that you died. You took your own life, in your own way.

You told everyone that you were OK - said you were going to live a long, long time. But it was all a lie. Inside, you knew the hours were limited. Perhaps you set the date in advance. Maybe you just woke up that morning and knew that this was it. You hid the evidence. Perhaps you had the stuff for a while and it gave you peace, knowing that you could check out at any time. As someone once said to me "you must never be sad if you hear I killed myself, for it was the the thing I wanted most, at that moment, to do".  She took her own life in 2003. I was still sad.

I know how you struggled with the insistent voices in your head telling you to end it all. You tried everything you could think of, to ease your pain. At first, it was alcohol and drugs. Later, you worked with a therapist and took medication. You reached out to religion and embraced your cultural ancestry. Finally, you devoted your life to your gift for language and imagery and became an incredible poet. My world has been enriched by your words. And now, you will not see the publication of your first book of poetry. What was to have been your life's celebration will now, instead, become its memorial.

Goodbye my friend. I send you love.

More on Religion

Part one - note to coffee shop preacher:

I am sure if we met one-on-one under different circumstances, I would like you. You seem like a very kind man, who cares about kids and your community. But, instead, we meet at the coffee shop and every time we do, you are loudly discussing your cock-sure religious beliefs.  Usually, you are quoting the Bible with someone in a pissing contest to prove who is the more pious. Last time we met, I got fed up and left in a fit of anger. This time, I remembered to bring my headphones in order to drown out your conversation. I don't want to infringe on your beliefs and I DO want to keep my opinions to myself. Devout Christians have been some of the kindest people I have ever met in my life. However, I have also been blessed with generous and kind atheist, Jewish and Pagan friends. 

Part two - my inner dialogue, as I wrestle with my feelings:

I think about my friends who have been through tremendously difficult times and I am thankful that they have such a strong faith. I am positive it is the only way they could have survived their turbulent lives. For this reason, religion definitely has a purpose. However, I have also been through the fire (and am still going through it), and I am doing OK, even though I am not attached to any organized religion. But, I do have faith in something. Call it hope, call it life, call it God or call it Karma. Whatever it is, it allows me to wake up and face another day. I don't dwell on it. I just know that it is. I don't try to recruit others to my way of thinking. I don't spout my beliefs out loud, any chance I get, in order to impress myself or others. I have said it before - faith is an intensely personal experience for me. So personal, in fact, that when I was a child, I used to feel embarrassed in church - it felt like my innermost secrets were being discussed without my permission. My sisters did not feel this way. My mother did not and I do not believe that this is a common experience, but I could be wrong. My father did not attend church with us when we were kids. But, after he died, we cleared many philosophy books from his shelves. Obviously, he had an interest in the inner journeys of humanity. He became more outwardly religious when he started attending AA. Turning his addiction over to a higher power certainly had an effect on him. It also worked, as he was sober for close to 3 decades. 

I feel that someone is out there and something does work but perhaps it is humanity's destiny to not know the answer until we leave this earthly plane.

Engrish Haaard

Do you ever have days like this? Days when just finding the correct word seems impossible? Conversations are very difficult today. Hell, I can't even update my Facebook status, without having to make corrections. What synapses aren't firing? Why do I get this way? I guess all writers go through this, which is why we are supposed to get up at a specific time each day and write through our blockages. Not supposed to post them on our blogs. But, I thought I would, anyway. Is 6pm too early to go back to bed so I can start all over tomorrow?

Memories of the Present

I am able to effortlessly walk one and a half to two miles at a time these days. Most often, I head out to the local coffee shop, have a cup and daydream while watching the world whiz by outside of the front window. I don't want to jinx anything, but my back is completely free of pain these days. My legs are much stronger as well as my lungs. It is in my nature to totally forget about this past year's health problems. I would like to keep the debilitating and excruciating sciatic nerve pain as a distant memory. Same thing goes for that very lonely week lying flat on my back in a Reno hospital, while blood clots were cleared from my lungs. It all seems like an uncomfortable dream today. I am only reminded of it now and again, and then, I hate to dwell on the memories and don't usually bring them up in conversation.

See, that's the thing about living in the "now". Yesterday and six months ago fade away as I make my life a "day-to-day" life, instead of a "plan and plot for the future" kind of life. For so many years, I was dissatisfied with where I was, always dreaming of a better job and hoping for a more 'successful' life. For a little while, things moved along at the pace I expected but that eventually changed, when I decided to chuck it all and go back to college. I was so hungry to learn and followed my heart instead of my head. After having the life I had rebuilt yanked from under me a couple of years ago, I realized that I was not the one in charge of my circumstances and just decided to let go of the reigns.

What a journey I have traveled. Never thought I would again live in the town where I was raised. But, I am glad I have had the experience of seeing this place as it exists, now, instead of just as an image from a traumatic memory. While I don't know if I will end up here, I think I have been able to work through some memories and make peace with parts of my past. Most surprising to me is how I have been remembered by old friends and classmates. I always felt like an outsider and somewhat ashamed of who I was. But, as it turns out, people's opinions of the teenage Anne were not the same as Anne's opinions. It has made me rethink the narrative I have identified with for years. It is time to create a new story for this new Anne. Perhaps my ability to block out recent health problems can be utilized to erase my version of my past.

I am a survivor and it is time to make some new memories that I, hopefully, won't forget.

Honkytonkin' Woman

Somewhere between Dayton, OH and Cincinnati I decided that I wanted to see if I could sing in Nashville on "Music Row" (I think that is what they call that street, named Broadway, with all of the clubs, etc.) I figured, "I'm 50 years old and a good singer and damn it! After this past year and all of the crap I've been through, I at least have to try!" I was planning on singing karaoke someplace just to say I'd done it.

So, I fortified myself with a bowl of Skyline Chili (not as good as I remembered - kinda runny), and headed South. Finally traveled through Kentucky - the only contiguous state out of the 48 I had not visited - and saw the sign for Big Bone Lick State Park. BIG BONE LICK State Park. Wow. The things I have missed in my life! Passed through the Great Smokey Mountains in Tennessee and turned right in Knoxville. A few hours later, I was in a Motel 6 outside of Music City. The next day. after getting lost a couple of times (seriously - when you work at a Waffle House with lots of tourist traffic, you'd think you might be required to know where the local hot spots are!) I found Broadway in Nashville and a parking space just  a few blocks away.

Not sure where to go, I started window shopping. Lots of cowboy boots for sale but not a single pair as cool as the lapis-lazuli-colored ones I wear. I was amazed at how expensive cowboy hats were. None of them looked quite right on my big ol' head so I moved on. I just had to stop into a used record store that featured the most classic of Country and Western artists and I had to buy a little book of sheet music featuring Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton - if only for the cover photo alone. Porter was famous for wearing garish suits and Dolly was dressed in what looked like fancy lingerie. Then I stepped into a little shop to try on a blouse. Coming out of the dressing room, I spied a straw cowboy hat with a lapis-lazuli band that matched my boots. It was sitting on a high shelf in the back. Low and behold, it perfectly fit my head AND it was on sale for 75% off! I didn't hesitate a second before I bought it and put it on. Now, I was ready to make my Nashville debut!

It was late on a Saturday afternoon but the strip was starting to come alive. The downtown arena was hosting a big hockey game in a couple of  hours and several tour groups were roaming around. Some places hired guys to lure passers by into their restaurants. Just ahead the blinking light stuttered "KAROKE!!" and I walked that way. But, just before I got there, I heard live music pouring out from the door of a club called Crossroads. I glanced in and saw a band (with a cute lead singer) and they sure seemed to be having fun on stage, so I took a seat on a bar stool to have a listen. The singer's name was Jason Link and man oh man could he sing! He could really play the guitar, too, and the band backing him was KICK ASS! In between songs, there was a lot of banter and foolishness. They were telling a lot of politically incorrect jokes. The band picked on the customers, in a good-natured way. But, I think they were kind of bitter at their big break on Music Row. At the most, only about 25 people were in the club at one time. Folks kept coming and going on their way to check out other hot spots on the strip. But, I stayed - for 3 hours. They really held my interest. I noticed that there was a man at the bar who kept buying them drinks. Turns out he was their manager. I realized after about an hour and a half that the band NEVER took a break. In order for the drummer to use the men's room, Jason had to sit behind the trapset and keep the beat for a few minutes! Every now and then, he would walk through the crowd with a tip jar and CDs for sale. Due to the glut of willing musicians in Nashville, the clubs don't pay them! They are allowed to play for tips. I hope the band didn't have to pay for the "privilege" to be at Crossroads, but I don't know.

Anyhow, after about 2 hours, Jason and his Keyboard player, Tim, pointed to me and said "lady in the red shirt, you'll buy 2 of our CDs for $20, won't you?" I turned around. "You - sitting at the bar - I'm talking to YOU!" I only had a dollar on me but I did have a checkbook. And, remembering the main purpose of my Nashville visit, I shouted "I will, if you let me sing with you!!" They did NOT expect that, but half-heartedly said OK. And then, I said "Will you take a check?" - Reluctantly, they agreed. I wrote out the check and handed it to their manager (and he asked me if it was a good check). After another song, Jason hollered for me to get up on stage. And so I did. Not sure what I could sing until I stood behind the microphone, I turned to the piano player and said "Since I Fell For You in B flat" (That is pretty much the only song I know that I remember the key) the bass player said "It is in G" -" true - the record is in G but I sing it in B Flat", I replied. I told them that I do the prelude to the song "When you just give love, and never get love, you'd better let love depart" etc. And, I think they, and the audience, were pretty blown away when I opened my mouth to sing.

I was a bit raspy, but overall,  having a VERY GOOD voice day. And, the magical muse took over once I started. Tim, Jason and the bass player and drummer played a "bump and grind" version of the song. And I hammed it up like nobody's business. The crowd was cheering. I was having the time of my life, singing with the best musicians I had ever sung next to. Jason and I stood back-to-back during the line "Oh you love me, then you snub me". At the word "snub", I reached over and pushed him away. Their manager came out from behind the bar and stood in the middle of the dance floor with his mouth agape! This was the most fun I have had in years - my only chance to sing on Music Row and I enjoyed the heck out of it. Of course, the song ended way too soon. But those 20 or 25 people in the crowd were applauding like crazy. A couple of guys shouted "let me buy you a drink!!" (and gave the bartender some cash to pay for it)  One of them (a good 15 years younger than me) came over to me and said "Why aren't you and I making love right now? (!!) We didn't but it was fun to be asked.

I watched Jason Link and his band for another 45 minutes or so. During that time, I overheard the manager ask him and the piano player what they thought of me. The piano player told him that "she's just a cougar and this is how she meets men." Ha! I wasn't insulted. I think I was so good that I scared them a little. I'll never know for sure but what I do know is that I made a memory that will always make me smile. I moved on and waved goodbye to the band, grinning like a fool as I walked out that door.

Why Do I Get So Mad?

I did it again. Tried not to. Tried to control myself and not be judgmental. Tried to be "tolerant", once again. But, why am I always the one who has to be tolerant? Why, when confronted again and again and again by pomposity and smugness, do I have to turn the other cheek? I know these "opportunities" are thrown in my path for a reason but I am only getting angrier and not more compassionate. I thought I'd change, eventually. But no.

Since I was a very young girl, organized religion has been an extremely hot button for me. It began when I was seven, when I was given that stinking banana popsicle by the ladies in the Church of Christ during Vacation Bible School (a reward for being "saved") and continued a couple of years later when I chastised both the pastor and the youth pastor (at different times) for their hypocritical statements and blatant bribery at Decatur, Illinois' West Side Church of the Nazarene, until just this past Fall at my mother's place of Worship, St. Catherine's in Harrisburg. I have always thought that the church, in all of its denominations and divisions has misrepresented the Word of God. Heck, I had broken it off with God altogether, until July 19 or 20th of 2010 when, in a hilarious move, we made up in front of an ice cream truck in Portland, Oregon. God and I are good now.

But, apparently, organized religion and I have a loooooong way to go.

I did it again today. After a nasty head cold, I finally felt healthy enough to walk to the coffee shop about a mile away. I treated myself to a hot chocolate and sat at a cozy table towards the back, leafing through a big coffee table picture book about Italy. I was happily minding my own business and mentally traveling to Sienna  . The coffee shop was populated by adults, most of whom quickly left when a pack of about 20 college-aged kids started lining up at the counter. I noticed that they were dressed in school colors from a place I was unfamiliar. Couldn't read the emblems on their sweaters. But, I didn't have to. They were polite, thanking the elderly gentleman escorting them for the afternoon excursion. Very quickly, I overheard that this was a Christian group.

"Ah, no wonder they are so well-behaved", I thought. They were awfully perfect looking. 90 percent white - one black kid and one Latina in the bunch. They were quiet and good-natured - for a while. They were kids (a little too Stepford-looking for my taste) so there was laughing and joking. Some of their conversations were introspective and I thought that, "hey, maybe this religion thing has its place after all?"

Well, all it took was one boy to set me off. He started talking about the "burdens of being a Christian" and that, "as Christians, we need to set an example because people are looking to us for guidance..." My face went red hot and all I could see was my own rage.

NO THEY'RE NOT!!! The only people who are looking to you ARE YOU!!! YOU ARE MASTURBATING, you tool!!!! I did not say this.

But, automatically, I stood up and threw on my coat and gloves and said "IDIOTS. IDIOTS. WHEN WILL YOU PEOPLE REALIZE THAT RELIGION IS THE ANTI-CHRIST?????" I stormed out and slammed the door behind me, without even thinking.

I am sure they prayed for my soul afterwards. Well, at least I hope they did. You see, I feel guilty for my reaction (or over-reaction). I keep trying to live and let live. Since I have been back in Pennsylvania, I have happened upon many devout people and religion has been a major topic of discussion at the house where I am staying (not my mother's). I keep trying. Is it just a numbers' game? There are so many more of them and only one of me. Clearly, after 51 years, I am not going to change my mind on this. I have kept my mouth shut for so long about religion. I firmly believe that it is only a means to control people and gain power. As I have said in previous writings, I understand the need for community and connection. Most of the devout people I have spoken with seem filled with love and compassion. But put them in a group setting and I feel outnumbered and get defensive.

Maybe I am supposed to be a hermit and live in a cave?

This is Important - Voting Rights Corporatized and Stripped?

Bev Harris is a tireless voting rights activist and she speaks the truth! Please check out www.blackboxvoting.org! The headline reads "Global Internet voting firm buys US election results reporting firm". Holy crap. I did NOT know this: When you view your local or state election results on the Internet, on portals which often appear to be owned by the county elections division, in over 525 US jurisdictions you are actually redirected to a private corporate site controlled by SOE software, which operates under the name ClarityElections.com


PLEASE visit her site: www.blackboxvoting.org

Bed and Breakfast and Bail Bonds

It was dark and I was tired so I took the next exit off of the Interstate on a random Southern road. Just didn't feel like the usual Motel 6 or Super 8 that night and something kept me driving on the empty stretch and make a left. About a half mile later, I saw a stone building (with two Confederate soldiers flanking a cannon out front) that was lit up with about ten-thousand Christmas lights. One small sign said "Bed and Breakfast" and just below that, another read "Bail Bonds". Well, that was just too good - enough to pique my interest to take a look at the place, so I parked the car and went up to ring the doorbell. The  grandmotherly woman seemed like she was ready to head to bed, so I apologized for the interruption but asked if she had an available room for the night. She hollered for her husband.

Out from the back came a refined-looking genteel man with a voice that sounded like smoked hickory and honey. I could tell he loved to show off the place and was quite the talker. He began by telling me the mansion was built by slaves about one-hundred and fifty years ago, before the war(the Northern Aggression war, as he put it) and that all of the land surrounding the place, for miles around, was once part of the property. A famous Confederate General used to own it but I am not up on my Civil War history and couldn't place the guy. Then dollar amounts started to fly out of his mouth. "It took a million dollars to buy the place and another two million to renovate and I'm still not done". I was surprised that he did not seem to stress over that amount of cash and later on, pointed to his brand new Cadillac Escalade and Corvette, out front. I was shown the two available rooms for the night. The big one, downstairs came equipped with a jacuzzi tub and fireplace. The smaller room, in the back, had a regular bathroom across the hall and was much cheaper. Being the budget traveler, I chose that one.

After we had taken care of the bill, I was given a series of parting gifts: Two pens, one with a pull-out calendar for the new year, a key chain, several brochures, and a wall calender that included his Bed-and-Breakfast and Bail Bonds advertisement prominently placed, a NASCAR schedule, and local emergency numbers. Finally, I was handed a few business cards to pass out to my friends. On the front, was a photo of the bed-and-breakfast, complete with the Corvette and Confederate soldiers outside. But, on the back was a photo of a little kid in black-and-white prison garb looking glum behind bars!!! That side advertised the bail bonds half of his business. I thanked the man profusely for this priceless bounty! I was then escorted to the great dining room, which was festooned with holiday cheer. Tins and boxes of cookies and candies lined the walls (damned this wheat allergy!) and ceramic roosters shared space with Santa and Mrs. Claus. After being offered one of those Keurig-type coffees (I chose hot chocolate), the owner expounded on the virtues of the machine and mentioned that he was purchasing several others. By this time, it was clear to me that he and his wife were not in the hospitality business for the money, so I asked him why he rented out rooms? "Because I like meeting the people, and it helps offset the cost". Seemed reasonable enough.

Once I got to my room (very modest but did include a mini-fridge stocked with soda and bottled water, coffee maker and microwave) I knelt on the comfy bed and looked at the interesting painting on the wall. It was a copy of DaVinci's "Last Supper", except in this one, Jesus and the deciples were all either Middle Eastern or African-looking. Perhaps the owner was more progressive than his Confederate leanings suggested. Before I got settled in, I was given a tour of the back porch where a rangy stick-figure of a man was waiting to be driven home by the guy - he was the day laborer who was helping rebuild the porch (a forty-thousand dollar job to make it look authentic) and next to the parking lot was a trailer with a huge sign advertising the bail bonds. Then I found out that there was a prison just down the road. Ah hah!

After a night's rest, I declined the breakfast since my food allergy makes me travel with my own vittles. Mr. Owner started with more story telling. He asked me if I'd ever been to Colorado because he once had to chase down a man who skipped bail in that state. But, he assured me that he was definitely NOT like that Dog the Bounty Hunter guy from TV. However, tracking down (and shaking down) runaway scofflaws was part of his business. I looked over again at his nervous-looking wife. She didn't contribute to the conversation. Somehow, the topic changed to higher education and he informed me that after he was 50, he went back to college and got his Bachelor's, Master's AND PhD - in 6 years. Of course, his major was criminal justice.

I started counting backwards. I figured he must have held a government job and was able to retire early. He told me that he fought in Vietnam and had a gun put in his hand at the age of 17. My heart broke a little and I told him I was sorry he had to fight so young. But, his face never changed. There was no remorse or emotion of any kind at that memory. Then, I realized that his eyes stayed the same way throughout all of our conversations. While recounting story after story, his face was friendly, but immobile. This wasn't the case with his wife, who seemed to be glancing out the door every 10 minutes or so. Then it hit me. I knew there were "secret" underground government facilities in this part of the country. The interest in crime. The vast amounts of money at his disposal. The brilliant mind able to speed through three college degrees in six years and that immobile face. Now, maybe I spent too much time working for a late-night talk show but it suddenly seemed clear to me: This guy was maybe former FBI but more likely, ex-CIA!! That was it!! His calm demeanor was more robotic than human. The stories with that Southern drawl were a tad too perfect. In my mind, I saw him as a trained killer who obviously had an interest in criminal justice and after a lifetime of service, was now allowed to live out his life in peace, with the help of a generous severance package.

I had spent the night with the enemy.

Sometimes Wandering In the Wilderness Will Take You Far