Wednesday, August 24, 2016

I can't stand life anymore

I need major dental work, like five grand worth at dental school prices. I can't eat properly due to several missing teeth that I can't have repaired/replaced.

I go on taking care of my type one diabetes and I just worked hard to figure out, on my own, not due to doctor's knowledge, what the fuck was leaving me in great physical pain, great stiffness and profound fatigue. It was a new fangled drug. I just announced to my primary care doc I wasn't taking it anymore and that got her attention because I was taking it for a serious thing. She replaced it with a drug I have used in the past but, criminy, I suffered with the aforementioned symptoms for many months until I figured out what was causing my very debilitating suffering.

And then losing another tooth that the dental school wants $1,700 to fix.

I have no one to seek help from. No family. No close friends who can chip in.

I think it might be time to just check out.

Monday, August 22, 2016

Sunday, August 21, 2016

I am a goddess

Kiss your own fingertips
and hug your own curves.
You are made of waves and honey
and spicy peppers when it is necessary.
You are a goddess,
I hope you haven't forgotten.

~ Emery Allen

I am a goddess.

wings ready

Saturday, August 20, 2016

world full of magic things

The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper. ~ William Butler Yeats. I used to be way into Yeats. A guy I knew in law school was into him and gifted me most of Yeats poetry. Wes thought Yeats was a poetry god. I used to be way into Yeats. A guy in law school was into him, I was way into Wes and became very into Yeats. I wonder what happened to those books? I don't recall.I especially love this small bit from Yeats.I am glad the world patiently waits and my senses do grow sharper, although, just sometimes, it seems they grow in wrong directions. How could that be? Hmmm.

to say "I am a Christian" is a misstatement, a misunderstanding

A frequently heard statement that’s misused more than most is: I am a Christian. An esoteric should realize that being a Christian is a distant ideal that he must constantly try to attain. To live like a Christian mainly means to accept whatever destiny may bring us with equanimity, to never grumble about the Gods’ work, and to joyfully accept whatever they send. It means to let the sentence “Look at the birds of the air, they don’t sow, reap or store in barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them” pass over into your flesh and blood. We’re living in accordance with this saying if we thankfully accept what’s given to us. If we don’t do that it becomes blasphemy in our mouth.
Source: Rudolf Steiner – GA 266 – From the Contents of Esoteric Classes – Esoteric Lessons Part II – Stuttgart, 31st December 1910

I thought I found such a someone


I was mistaken.

hmmm. . I am more introverted than this


I do, sometimes, feel freer and more open with people I know, but I think I am more like the top baby elepahtn, tucking myself in, toning myself down. I am powerful, high energy, but my power can make people uneasy. Or does it make me uneasy because I don't fully own it?  Maybe. Hmmm.

Anyway, I don't feel safe and open much.  This photo and my reflections on it have made me cry.

life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish & way too long


I have some loving, long-time friends but no one in the bay area. No one spends time with me that allows me to laugh and feel loved.

Friday, August 19, 2016

we have hope in us or we don't

"Either we have hope in us or we don't; it is a dimension of the soul, and it's not essentially dependent on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation. Hope is not prognostication. It is an orientation of the Spirit, an orientation of the heart.

Hope, in this deep and powerful sense, is not the same as joy that things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously headed for early success, but rather, an ability to work for something because it's good, not just because it stands a chance to succeed.

Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out. . . It is also hope, above all, which gives us the strength to live and continually try new things, even in conditions that seem hopeless. . ."

- Vaclav Havel (1986)

your people will find you


I wanna be luminous


I so totally need to cleanse and release myself of any and all thought forms, beings and situations that do not serve me.  It can be very hard for me to let go of past relationships that were important to me. This pattern keeps me mired out of present. I pray for healing.

depression

Depression is an invisible disabililty that can be as debilitating as many disabilities that most people see as serious. So many people downplay the ravage of serious, major depression. I am in and out of severe, major depression and I have been all my life. I have heard far more dismissive comments (snap out of it, pull yourself together, you are self responsible) than I have heard supportive ones.

I am quite debilitated by depression now and have been for months. I try to get help and I am supposedly on some magical waitlists, have been on such wait lists for months to no avail.

I don't think I have ever been as depressed as I am just now.  It's dark. And its scary.  It's scary because I so want to escape and, without professional help, which I can't seem to obtain, I see only one way out.

Thursday, August 18, 2016

crop-circle-like geometry


I have read, many times, that many people believe humans create crop circles. Maybe, but I don't believe that. Crop circles typically appear overnight. I don't believe a bunch of humans, however many they might pull together to do something like this, would be able to do this overnight in the dark, even on a full moon night. 

Has anyone reading ever walked through a full grown corn field or wheat field?  I have. Cutting such crops down in a pattern would be very hard. Farmers, small ones or big Ag, use heavy machinery to cut down corn or wheat, it's a long, hard job and the only pattern they se is up and down.

Just saying.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

the other serenity prayer


today is my birthday

It's your birthday, too.

I'm en route home from Ottawa. Ottawa airport has FREE luggage carts. Canada sure seems like a much saner country.

It was fun going through customs because the guy noticed today is my birthday. The form requires one anotates one's b-day.

My phone has not worked here. As soon as I land in Detroit, I'll check two weeks of texts and voice mails, eh?

This trip has me missing the Midwest. I think my soul belongs in Minnesota. I have never been easy being near oceans, so going to the beach is not my thing, unless it is a beach on a lovely lake surrounded by green, clouds floating by, kids playing and my sweet man coaxing me to make love in the water, even with people nearby. Now that's a good day.

take another piece of my heart


Thursday, August 11, 2016

emotional abuse

I was married, briefly, to an abusive husband. He was sometimes physically abusive although he took care that his violence was on parts of my body that didn't show, like my thighs, stomach, upper arms. He seemed to love to drag me around by my hair which hurts a lot when first done and then it hurts every time you brush your hair for weeks because being pulled around by your, your hair comes out in clumps and tears flesh from your scalp and brushing tears the scabs as your head tries to heal.

Once he 'missed' and I had a large, visible bruise as we traveled to visit my family. He had relatives on the way and he wanted to drop. He turned off the interstate and began heading to his aunt's town when he remembered my bruise. He turned the car around and skipped his family visit saying "My uncle is a doctor, if he sees that bruise, he will know I gave it to you."

Another bit of abuse: he used to angrily rail at me because I bruised too easy, blaming me for the large, dark purple bruises.

BUT . . .and I gave the physical background briefly to illustrate that even physical abuse can be hidden (and victims often collude in hiding it, out of shame and fear of more abuse, at least for me), the physical abuse was nothing compared to the emotional abuse.

When I left him, I stayed in a shelter for battered women for a few weeks, until a court ordered him out of the house and me and our baby back in it. Then I went to two weekly support groups for abused women for three years, the years of our absurd custody battle. (then the judge let me remove my minor child from that state's jurisdiction".

In those three years, I met dozens, maybe even a couple hundred battered women. And every single one of them agreed with this: I would take physical abuse any day or emotional abuse. Emotional abuse wears a person down more than water wears down rock. Emotional abuse hurts, debilitates and the scars/scabs linger longer than bruises, broken bones or torn scalps.

I have shared the above, about every battered women I have known, and I knew many (I also did divorces for many battered women once I was free of my abuser) and still, in spite of my sadly won expertise in this area, nearly every time I say "I have known many abused women and without exception they all say they'd rather endure physical abuse than emotional", most folks mock me, scorn me for not being tough enough. Some women puff out their chests and say "you guys are wimps, I'd never let any man hurt me and you have to be crazy if you think emotional abuse is worse than physical." I usually say no more if someone makes such a callous, unempathic comment but here is what I am thinking: "You are lucky that you have never been struck, lucky that you'd never put up with physical abuse but you don't know what the heck you are talking about if you have never been abused. At least give abused women some credibility, trust that if a woman who suffered broken bones from her abuser has said she'd rather have a broken nose than endure emotional abuse, give that some value."

I have had women mock me for putting up with abuse. I met my abuse in law school, in Commercial Paper. He was struggling, I was outstanding and he sidled up to me for help -- classic abusive behavior, using me. Soon he was telling me how to dress, even forcing me to change the kind of shampoo I used. I thought these requests (which were, I know now, demands) were signs he cared.

And, as most abusers are cunning, he was. He never struck me until we married. But he did begin, almost immediately after we began to date, to emotionally abuse me through trying to control me over things that seemed trivial to me. Now I know it is not trivial if someone insists I dress in a way that does not reflect my preference

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Tuesday, August 09, 2016

my kingdom for organic kale

I first ate a 'blooming onion' when a friend visited me in Berkeley, ground zero for healthy, organic food.She said she really wanted to go to an Outback Steakhouse to get a steak and a blooming onion. Even after I pointed out that Berkeley was full of restaurants of great renown and there were many I had never tried and would like to, also pointing out that the places I longed to try would be cheaper than Outback and probably we could still get her steak.

It was the blooming onion she wanted. So off we went for that blooming onion.

Don't misunderstand me. A blooming onion, which is a large onion cut do when it is dipped in batter and then dipped in hot frying fat, it blooms into a greasy, sorta tasty hot mess. And it comes with greasy dip.  It's a greasy fest.

I suppose some delude themselves that it is a vegetable but it is mostly fried crap. And tasty.

Last Saturday, I went to a music festival. That's how it was sold to me. It was a rib and grease festival. Greasy pulled pork, greasy pork ribs. The only vegetable on sale was a cursed blooming onion. Oh, and the ribs came with a small dollop of cabbage. I was sharing all this grease with friends but I ate all the cabbage (or, and I don't understand why, it was actually called cole slaw. Doesn't cole slaw usually have mayo?).  Also a small side of pork and beans.

Pork and beans. I don't get them, never have. To me, they are things hobos ate out of cans during the Depression when desperate men road the rails looking for work and better lives. The hobos sometimes, in my imagination, heated the opened cans of pork and beans over fires built in old oil cans, which used to be the standard garbage can in my childhood Chicago. and these old oil cans were all over, convenient for hobo fires.  In my mind, not necessarily reality.

No organic food has crossed my lips since I left Berkeley. Few fresh vegies or fruit have either.

I begged my hosts to take me to a grocery store, which they did. They took me to a neighborhood awful store. No organic anything. The cantaloupe on sale was actually rotting on the display case.  I did buy a pint of non-organic blueberries cause they are low in carbs and something I can snack on. And I bought some free range eggs.

It's been slim pickings for healthy food. Or any food.  My being is kinda in shock. My focus at home is heavy on healthy eating.  I want to be a good guest so I've been going along with their food.

Seriously:   several times my hosts have offered to go out and buy me food from McDonald's.

I realize I have become a Berkeleyan. McDonald's?  Sure people in Berkeley eat at the Berkeley McD's but not me. I want McD's to go out of business.  My friends describe their great salads. I have been too polite to tell them the crappy lettuce McD's uses is beneath my standards. So I sit here starving and say "No thanks, I'm not hungry." But I am.

I wanted to go to a store so I could have a stash of my own food to eat.

It's kinda funny. And kinda not. I am hungry all the time. For what I believe is the first time in y life, I wake up in the middle of the night because I am so hungry that my hunger awakens me.

There is a promise in the air today that I will absolutely be taken to a good grocery store.

My kingdom for some organic kale.

P.S. My hosts do have nuts. But all roasted. I only eat raw nuts but I've stooped to roasted nuts. A gal can't go hungry forever.

And more fresh fruit.

Wednesday, August 03, 2016

on aristotle

On Aristotle by poet Billy Collins

This is the beginning
Almost anything can happen
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page,
Think of an egg, or the letter 'A;
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises
This is the very beginning
The first person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks
This is early ion, years before the Ark, dawn,
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the all of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl,
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her,
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.

This is the middle.
Things have had time to get complicated
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers

teaming with people at cross purposes
a million schemes, a million wild looks.
Disappointment  unshoulders  his knapsack
here and pitches his ragged tent.
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals
where the actions suddenly reverses
or swerves off in an outrageous direction
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
to why Miriam does not want Edwards child
Someone hides a letter under a pillow
Here the aria  arises to a pitch
a song of betrayal salted with revenge
and the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
halfway up the mountain
This is the bridge, the painful modulations
this is the thick of things
so much is crowded into the middle
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados
Russian uniforms, noisy parties
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through walls
too much to name too much to think about

And this is the end
the car running out of road
the river losing its name in an ocean
the long nose of the photographed horse
touching the white electric line
this is the colophon, the last elephant  in the parade,
the empty wheelchair
and pigeons floating down in the evening
and the stage is littered with bodies,

the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
and the climbers are in their graves.
It is me hitting the period
and you closing the book,
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck,
This is the final bit
thinning away to nothing.
This is the end, according to Aristotle,
what we have all been waiting for,
what everything comes down to,
the destination we cannot help imagining
a streak of light in the sky
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves

Tuesday, August 02, 2016

love after love

LOVE AFTER LOVE
.
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
- Derek Walcott

Monday, August 01, 2016

my sisters

On Aug 1, 1960 and on August 1, 1965, my mom gave birth to my first two sisters. Mary Ann in 1960, Catherine Ann in 1965. Mary Ann lived unit October 1960. We had a wake in a funeral parlor, a funeral with relatives. For Catherine, who died after 8 days weighing less than 3 pounds, only our immediate family had a brief, private viewing of our sister before we headed to the cemetery.

Mary Ann actually came home briefly, but returned to the hospital. Premature, her little lungs needed help from machines. While she lived, my dad took bottles of mom's breast milk to the hospital each evening, after his long day of work. We did not own a car so dad had to take the long bus trek to do what he could to keep his little girl alive. The night she died, our whole family knelt together in prayer, knowing she was passing.

I asked, a time or two, if I could go with dad to the hospital when he delivered mom's breastmilk.  He said there was no reason both of us should spend the evening on the bus.  I felt much love for my dad's devotion to the little sister I had not yet met, proud at his daily, long trips after work to deliver that breastmilk. How I loved my dad for that.

During the week Catherine lived her life, all of it in the hospital, dad brought the rest of us kids to say hi to our mother from the grass outside her hospital room, a couple floors up. In those days, only fathers, at least in Chicago, were allowed to visit new moms and new babies. As we called up to our mom outside that hospital, mom called down to say that she hoped Catherine would not die that day, for that day was my brother Tom's birthday. Tom's birthday is August 6th. Very considerately, Catherine died on the 7th.  I remember being grateful to God that "He" had not had Catherine die on little Tomy's birthday. I remember praying all that week that her life would hold out until the 7th.  I guess it was clear she was not going to make it for we all prayed that she live past Tom's birthday. And then she did.

I am also an August baby. My Irish Twin brother Joe was born in July, less than a year after my birth. I guess my parents liked to make love on cool fall and winter nights. As serious Catholics, they never used birth control.

My mom should never have had her last few babies. She nearly died with my baby bro Dave was born in 1964, again when Catherine was born and again when my one surviving sister was born in 1967.

Mom's faith must have shifted over the years because she went on the pill after my sister was born and she began to move towards divorce, not wanting to risk more babies when being a single mom with a bunch of kids was already going to be tough. Plus her main childcare slave, housekeeper and cook, me, was heading off to college. No coincidence that my mom made damned sure she finished college and got her teaching license before I graduated h.s. And it was no coincidence that she scretly scheduled her divorce hearing for the day after my h.s. graduation.

My parents did not tell their six children they were getting divorced. My dad did not want the divorce. He would later say he didn't tell us because he kept hoping she was just trying to scare him into quitting his gambling on the ponies. He didn't hire a lawyer, never quite believing she would divorce him. He went to the hearing, though, and learned she definitely intended to go through with her divorce. So he told the judge "Please your honor, let me have custody of my son Tom and don't let her take my two youngest children out of Illinois, I don't want my kids growing up far away from me."  Mom solemnly swore, and she was, of course, under oath, that she would remain in Illnois with my baby brother and sister, who were as much babies of my heart as hers. I had actually spent more time with the two youngest than any other human being. I was as much a mother to them as mom was.

Within a couple hours of her lies to that judge, a large interstate moving ban pulled into our ally and removed most of the furniture, moving mom and my babies out of state.  I did not see my mom or my babies again for a long time. I used to get drunk on 3.2 beer, which was legal for 18 year olds in WI in 1971 (I believe that law has changed since then) and talk about my grief over not knowing where my baby brother and sister were.  I wrote to them constantly, mailing my letters and small gifts to my mom's siter, hopiong she would forward them.

My mom was a cold fish. Probably damaged. We're all victims of victims, as Louise Hays says in the intro to her book, "You Can Heal Your Life".  My mom hurt her kids because she was hurt. We're all victims of victims.

My dad actually hired a detective to find out where his kids were. His divorce judge had said he did not have to make his child support payments until my mother told him where his kids were. Mom held out awhile but she wanted that money. So she finally let us all kow where she and my babies were by writing one of her very, very short letters to my dad, on folded notepaper, only using the inside folded half. She wrote "The children and I are living "here". P.S. I have remarried."

My dad, crying, shocked, over his kids being permanently living two states away but also over the love of his life having remarried, called me at college to tell me. Dad blubbering. Poor dad.

No one voiced any empathy for my loss. My college friends thought I was odd to cry into my beer over baby brothers and sisters.

One friend, Donna, understood my bond with David and Margaret, my baby bro and sis. As our college graduation approached, I said I wasn't going to go and my family would not attend. Donna said "OH no you don't, I've been listeing to David and Margaret stories all these years and I need to meet them."  So my mom, her husband and my babies, along with brother Tom who usually spent his summers in the Winnebago mom paid for with her teaching salary, came to my college graduation.

I loved Donna for insisting on meeting them. She might have been the only person that ever really saw that David and Margaret were my heart.

now they along with my daughter are my heart and I have lost them all.

August 1st i a sad, weepy day for me.