Mystery Man, I'm mad at you.
Not "golly, you rascal, you had me going gee gosh I'm so mad"
but white-hot furious.
I thought better of you.
I even said as much multiple times.
I said you wouldn't allow people who cared about you to grieve. That you would not be that cruel or careless. That you were a gentleman, and simply a good guy.
I was wrong.
I *grieved* for you, you son of a bitch.
I *cried* for days.
I was heartbroken.
And it was just some kind of stunt?
We all understand you needed to leave the Mystery Man persona behind, and would have understood retiring it. To tell people you were dead was a crappy way to do it.
I've lost respect for you.
I have added your accounts on facebook and twitter because I know I will forgive you (I'm very forgiving for a Scorpio) and don't want to lose track of you in the meantime.
___________
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Getting Organized
My goal for this year (I wouldn't call it a resolution) is to get organized. My room, my office, and my kitchen are a mess - lots of stuff, in piles, randomly stuck into drawers or cabinets and forgotten about or lost.
This is partly because I'm, well, lazy. But largely because I moved into this house while my mother was dying, and have only in the last few weeks really begun to feel back to myself. In fact, just yesterday, felt good, good in a way that made it clear how rarely I've felt more than OK in the past few years. I grieve for a long time.
I've read that when people whose space is organized are more organized and productive in their work, and that matches my own experience. It's not simply a matter of habits carrying over - it's the setting. Clutter is distracting. Makes for messy thinking. Also, for me, provides a constant nagging "I should be" that keeps me from diving in to projects I care about.
So, my goal is to spend my vacation organizing, finding places for my stuff, weeding out stuff I don't need, cleaning. Then to set about organizing my activities, finding room for my writing, exercise, play time with the dog, and going out to movies and dinner... and then to keep organized throughout the year.
This is partly because I'm, well, lazy. But largely because I moved into this house while my mother was dying, and have only in the last few weeks really begun to feel back to myself. In fact, just yesterday, felt good, good in a way that made it clear how rarely I've felt more than OK in the past few years. I grieve for a long time.
I've read that when people whose space is organized are more organized and productive in their work, and that matches my own experience. It's not simply a matter of habits carrying over - it's the setting. Clutter is distracting. Makes for messy thinking. Also, for me, provides a constant nagging "I should be" that keeps me from diving in to projects I care about.
So, my goal is to spend my vacation organizing, finding places for my stuff, weeding out stuff I don't need, cleaning. Then to set about organizing my activities, finding room for my writing, exercise, play time with the dog, and going out to movies and dinner... and then to keep organized throughout the year.
Dear Amazon
I have had several authors tell me in the past that they would prefer I not order their books through Amazon, as they make a smaller residual through them than any other portal. But I've continued to do so for the most part, as a matter of convenience.
Now, however, I find out that Amazon has removed the sales ranking for several Gay and Lesbian themed books.
They use the excuse that they want to preclude Adult material from showing up in searches - but may of the works concerned do not have any graphic sexual content. From Young Adult novels like "The Filly" to classics like Erastes' Transgressions and modern works of literature like Oranges are Not the Only Fruit and the Well of Loneliness.
However, you can still find books with explicit heterosexual content, including photographs.
So I wrote t hem and informed them that I would not only be removing all my wish list content, and no longer doing business with them, I would not link to them when recommending books and I would not do business with their other websites.
Blatant prejudice is especially offensive coming from a purveyor of books.
Now, however, I find out that Amazon has removed the sales ranking for several Gay and Lesbian themed books.
They use the excuse that they want to preclude Adult material from showing up in searches - but may of the works concerned do not have any graphic sexual content. From Young Adult novels like "The Filly" to classics like Erastes' Transgressions and modern works of literature like Oranges are Not the Only Fruit and the Well of Loneliness.
However, you can still find books with explicit heterosexual content, including photographs.
So I wrote t hem and informed them that I would not only be removing all my wish list content, and no longer doing business with them, I would not link to them when recommending books and I would not do business with their other websites.
Blatant prejudice is especially offensive coming from a purveyor of books.
Dreaming Myself Awake
I've posted some links on Twitter recently, to kabbalah.info, and wanted to delve into my perspective a bit here. I've read a little on the subject, and while I don't consider myself a kabbalist, I have been told by those who do (consider themselves) that my ideas are quite similar to theirs. I also draw from Christain mystics, Sufis, Zen, Tibetan Buddhism, Jesuits, Hindus, Athiests and more - so it would never be accurate to ascribe my understanding of the world and approach to life to any particular religion or philosphy.
I believe we are each created toward a specific purpose, designed for a specific role in the story of the Universe. That story is larger than any of us, yet each of us is essential to it.
We play that role, wittingly or not, according to our natures, our true or essential Will. We can better understand our Will, and better fulfill our role simply by following the internal compass of joy. What it is that makes us joyful, that satisfies us on a deep level, that makes us feel right and at peace and happy - that is our Will, or at least a part of it.
I find this sense of joyful purpose giving massage, especially when I am relieving pain. I find it in my writing, when an idea comes and I dive into it and let it flow through me, transmuting it to words in my own voice. The sensation is similar to lucid dreaming, taking control of an unconscious process and turning it in another direction.
I also find it at moments in other activities: noticing a beautiful contrast of a rusted yellow warehouse against a blue sky, watching my dog play, catching a glance between two people in love. The part of my purpose found in these moments is learning to appreciate the world.
We can also seek to understand how or own role fits with the larger dream of the Universe. This begins with the recognition of two things: 1) Each and every person has a role to play, and in this, we are all equal 2) the Universe is in constant communication with us, but we can only narrowly perceive the messages it conveys.
In addition to our bliss as a guide, everything around us is imbued with meaning - the arrangement of letters and numbers, the pattern in the branches of a tree, the "chance" crossing of our path with another person. Through introspection, study, openness and perception we can catch glimpses of this meaning, and as we do so, while continuing to follow our Will using our sense of joy as a guide, then we can progress spiritually.
A sense of the connection we have to the larger story is essential for the human race to survive. We can see from the echoes and repercussions occurring through the economies of the world right now. Our personal integrity is important, but it is also important to do our best to strengthen others - because if they fall, we will stumble. it is important, too, to remember that we cannot carry them, or try to direct them on the road to our own goals - because each person and each nation must discover their own Will, and learn to embody it. (I'm an advocate of micro-loans rather than charity or larger government loans.)
The most powerful thing we can do is to set an example by living our Will, and sharing our joy. In so doing, we inevitably inspire others to do the same.
I believe we are each created toward a specific purpose, designed for a specific role in the story of the Universe. That story is larger than any of us, yet each of us is essential to it.
We play that role, wittingly or not, according to our natures, our true or essential Will. We can better understand our Will, and better fulfill our role simply by following the internal compass of joy. What it is that makes us joyful, that satisfies us on a deep level, that makes us feel right and at peace and happy - that is our Will, or at least a part of it.
I find this sense of joyful purpose giving massage, especially when I am relieving pain. I find it in my writing, when an idea comes and I dive into it and let it flow through me, transmuting it to words in my own voice. The sensation is similar to lucid dreaming, taking control of an unconscious process and turning it in another direction.
I also find it at moments in other activities: noticing a beautiful contrast of a rusted yellow warehouse against a blue sky, watching my dog play, catching a glance between two people in love. The part of my purpose found in these moments is learning to appreciate the world.
We can also seek to understand how or own role fits with the larger dream of the Universe. This begins with the recognition of two things: 1) Each and every person has a role to play, and in this, we are all equal 2) the Universe is in constant communication with us, but we can only narrowly perceive the messages it conveys.
In addition to our bliss as a guide, everything around us is imbued with meaning - the arrangement of letters and numbers, the pattern in the branches of a tree, the "chance" crossing of our path with another person. Through introspection, study, openness and perception we can catch glimpses of this meaning, and as we do so, while continuing to follow our Will using our sense of joy as a guide, then we can progress spiritually.
A sense of the connection we have to the larger story is essential for the human race to survive. We can see from the echoes and repercussions occurring through the economies of the world right now. Our personal integrity is important, but it is also important to do our best to strengthen others - because if they fall, we will stumble. it is important, too, to remember that we cannot carry them, or try to direct them on the road to our own goals - because each person and each nation must discover their own Will, and learn to embody it. (I'm an advocate of micro-loans rather than charity or larger government loans.)
The most powerful thing we can do is to set an example by living our Will, and sharing our joy. In so doing, we inevitably inspire others to do the same.
slowdown
I've had a lot of pain recently in one of my shoulders, and I've had carpal tunnel syndrome symptoms. This is from doing deep tissue massage. I've cut back my hours, but when I started I went from 3-4 massages a month to 36 a week, and it was way too much. I'm down to an average of about 28, and that would be perfect - but I need to take time off to heal...just can't afford it.
Anyway, I'm doing what I can with ice and massage...but one impact it has is that typing hurts. I can get about one sentence out before my hands start falling asleep or throbbing, and I have to pause. Silly me, I was doing it anyway - just making very slow progress.
I realized this week that spending all this time on my computer writing was hindering my healing.
So, not much blogging, not many comments on my favorite blogs, and no progress on my screenplay. Indefinitely.
I'll be back. (And I'm still out there, reading, just avoiding typing )
Anyway, I'm doing what I can with ice and massage...but one impact it has is that typing hurts. I can get about one sentence out before my hands start falling asleep or throbbing, and I have to pause. Silly me, I was doing it anyway - just making very slow progress.
I realized this week that spending all this time on my computer writing was hindering my healing.
So, not much blogging, not many comments on my favorite blogs, and no progress on my screenplay. Indefinitely.
I'll be back. (And I'm still out there, reading, just avoiding typing )
Puppy Needs Home
A stray puppy was running around the neighborhood for a couple of days. I grabbed her Tuesday when she was following an electrician down the street. None of the neighbors claim her.
She's a German Shepherd, very friendly and playful. Gets along with people and other dogs. About 8-10 weeks, and around 18 pounds so she'll get big - wouldn't be surprised if she got to be 100 lbs.
She doesn't know her boundaries yet, and while she is starting to get the idea of it, definitely isn't housebroken. She will come when called (usually), and understands no (though she'll probably still try again) and is already learning "sit." She needs someone patient but firm and consistent, and this will be one incredible dog. I was sooooo tempted to keep her, but can't really do that right now.
This little girl needs a home.
Depressed.
Eating disorders suck.
I know more about exercise, nutrition, and the body than most of my clients, even the athletes, but I can't seem to get my own house in order.
I've gained 15 pounds in three months. Can't seem to shake myself out of this binge cycle this time, and I know it's because I have emotional issues that I haven't been able to deal with. (Overwhelming problems with my father & brother - and with the guy I was dating...) I had hoped that getting enough rest would be the key to getting a handle on this, but it's not enough.
Don't think I'll be able to conquer this on my own, but am not comfortable with the religious tone of Overeaters Anonymous (and other 12-step groups), especially here, where people tend to not understand the concept of non-denominational.
Eating disorders suck.
I know more about exercise, nutrition, and the body than most of my clients, even the athletes, but I can't seem to get my own house in order.
I've gained 15 pounds in three months. Can't seem to shake myself out of this binge cycle this time, and I know it's because I have emotional issues that I haven't been able to deal with. (Overwhelming problems with my father & brother - and with the guy I was dating...) I had hoped that getting enough rest would be the key to getting a handle on this, but it's not enough.
Don't think I'll be able to conquer this on my own, but am not comfortable with the religious tone of Overeaters Anonymous (and other 12-step groups), especially here, where people tend to not understand the concept of non-denominational.
a good thing
I had a massage gig today. Moderate pay, just a few hours, with a company that does corporate massage. There will be a few other gigs coming up, and potential to become a lead or manager... Not enough to get by, but enough to buy groceries.
It was four hours, hard work. (Chair massage is much harder on the therapist than working on someone who is laying down.) I did about a dozen brief massages. And I loved it.
Y'know what really rocks about being a massage therapist?
People are happy to see you.
They look forward to it.
They smile about it.
They are grateful for it.
They thank you, and bless you.
I get all kinds of warm fuzzies from making people feel better, too.
It was four hours, hard work. (Chair massage is much harder on the therapist than working on someone who is laying down.) I did about a dozen brief massages. And I loved it.
Y'know what really rocks about being a massage therapist?
People are happy to see you.
They look forward to it.
They smile about it.
They are grateful for it.
They thank you, and bless you.
I get all kinds of warm fuzzies from making people feel better, too.
the Decision - a very long poem
My mother died from breast cancer one year ago. This is a poem I wrote not long afterward.
the Decision
How do you decide when?
How long is long enough?
When do you stop trying,
and let nature run its course?
For every step forward
she fell further back,
and we knew
the decision
was imminent.
The most difficult decision
anyone will ever have to make.
I'm being vague
and I know that's the death
of a poem, talking about
not showing.
Let me try
to give you a picture:
it started with wheezing,
as she stepped up the curb
to go into the hospital
to visit daddy,
who was lying attached to tubes
machines pumping
air into his lungs
food into his stomach
medicine into his veins
piss and shit into bags.
He was sedated
so he could "rest"
and tied down
so he wouldn't
unplug himself,
Swollen like
the balloons
in the Thanksgiving day parade
that he slept through.
We thought it was a cold.
I had a cough, too.
We were all stressed.
Two months later,
he was home,
barely able to stand
but still having to
wash the dishes
because she
was wheezing
worse.
He must have known,
really. I think he knew.
Diagnosis.
Treatment.
Hope.
Plans.
There I go, being vague again.
OK. Another picture.
She's showing me her bone scan.
She smiles.
She says she thought
all the bright spots
were cancer,
but it's only these.
Pointing out which
bright spots
are arthritis
and which
are cancer.
I know my mother.
This is her brave face.
It's in both lungs.
It's in the a remote site.
Metastasis.
But it's not until she says this:
"Stage IV"
that she cries.
Saying it, it sinks in.
We are alone,
a rare thing –
she always has visitors.
I hold her,
my hand on her head,
feeling her tangled bed-hair
(I'll have to brush it)
I pull her gown together
in back, so she won't
moon anyone coming by.
We are sitting beside each other
on the bed.
She can still sit,
though standing
makes her pulse crash.
We look at the flowers
set in the window.
The stuffed giraffe
her "adopted" daughter brought.
She tells me –
when she was in the support group
during chemo
before,
(nine years)
they wanted to have a separate group
for those with metastasis,
but she (my mother) insisted
that all of them
needed to hear
needed to know
needed to see
because it could be
any of them one day.
Stage IV
She knows, better than I do,
that this does not mean if,
but when.
Not better,
but how many months.
(average 16-24,
with better chances
if the disease is contained to
a single site,
which it was not.)
But there was
hope – it could me five years.
New drugs,
the one whose name
sounds like a barbarous word of evocation,
the one the doctor
said was a miracle drug:
Trastuzumab
So we made plans.
More
breakfasts on the front porch
dinner parties
walks in the park with the dogs
and that vacation to Cancun.
Asked my best friend
how many people
could stay in his timeshare.
Looked into the cost
of a flight.
Of course,
it would have to wait
'till the chemo was done.
Looked at scarves
for her head,
found a chocolate-colored
velvet one
I wanted to give her
for her birthday…
she would need it by then.
Then one morning
she couldn't breathe.
ICU.
Same as my dad.
But alert.
With the tubes,
and wires.
The whirr of machines,
the beeping of monitors.
Hooked up.
The nurses said,
"I'm so sorry,"
because they knew us,
knew her.
After all,
we'd spent a couple of months
here already.
ICU.
Do you know what it means
when they come and close
the doors to all the rooms
while you're visiting?
Peek out the blinds,
and watch them wheel
someone away,
face covered.
But see, she was alert.
And we still had hope.
Visitors. Laughter.
Careful questions,
how was my father's heath, really?
how were we doing, financially, really?
how were we holding up?
The answer to all three:
getting by.
You find a way,
because you just have to.
And she became frustrated,
wanting the tube to come out
so she could talk,
really talk,
to us.
As her hands swelled, and
her arms atrophied,
it became harder for her
to even write messages.
So much can be said with the raise an eyebrow.
and So much cannot.
She wanted the tube out so she could talk to us.
But even a minute without it,
and her oxygen levels
plummeted.
They discussed a trach,
but her heartbeat
had become unstable
(a rare complication
from the miracle drug)
I knew her. And I saw,
before anyone else.
She was starting to give up.
She stopped
doing her exercises,
her circulation
worsened,
her bright moments
lessened.
I love my mother,
but she was not a fighter…
well, not on her own behalf
(though plenty if it were
one of us)…
and she started to,
noticeably,
literally,
deteriorate.
Swelled up,
lymphedema
so bad,
you could touch her hand
and it would leak
clear lymphatic fluid
out of the pores.
A lung tube for the fluid,
draining pink and yellow
into a box.
Beside the bags of piss
and shit.
Her pain increased,
her lucidity faded,
it was not long before
she was sedated.
And I hadn't had a chance
to be alone with her again,
and ask her
what she wanted us to do
if we had to make
that decision.
I knew it would come,
and no one else had thought about it
yet.
I was afraid to ask,
afraid of putting dark(er)
thoughts in her mind.
And then the doctors suggested
she might not ever leave
the ICU.
It made my father angry.
It made my sister cry.
My brother hid his feelings.
But I knew already.
So I asked the hard questions.
Life insurance, the will, "options."
Daddy knew what I meant, and said
it was too soon…
but a week later, he knew
we might have to make that decision.
We signed the orders.
The first time around,
they had discussed it.
So I felt OK about
the DNR.
Comfort care.
Keep up the drugs,
and the machines,
but don't stop arrest.
She became fragile.
They couldn't even turn her,
her heartbeat
would become chaotic.
So her bedsores worsened,
skin splitting open beneath her.
I was glad she was sedated.
And nothing was making her better,
every day a little worse.
Every treatment a new complication.
And she had to be in pain,
somewhere deep in there,
under the medication.
She no longer
even fluttered her eyes
to the sound
of my voice.
They asked
how long we wanted
to continue treatment.
That was it.
The decision.
How long do you continue
chasing away thanatos,
and when do you let nature
take its course?
We told them not yet…
and she held on
for their 37th,
and then started
slipping away,
heart rate slowing
to almost nothing.
I was at work,
and was told
I needed to come.
It was time.
I delayed.
They called again.
I said, OK.
Go ahead.
I will be there soon.
They turned off the machines.
Stopped all drugs
but the lortab.
And when I arrived,
there was only a wisp
of life
left.
We felt like we should
be there, at her side,
when she passed,
but I was frightened
of how it might be,
the body's last gasp.
We went to lunch.
And she died while we were gone.
I think she chose it.
We returned,
and sat with her body,
in the room.
Her husband,
and all of her children,
including the "adopted" one.
We looked at her,
we made arrangements,
we remembered
and we laughed.
Until it was time to leave.
How do you decide when
to let someone you love
die? It's impossible,
and yet,
you find a way,
because you have to.
the Decision
How do you decide when?
How long is long enough?
When do you stop trying,
and let nature run its course?
For every step forward
she fell further back,
and we knew
the decision
was imminent.
The most difficult decision
anyone will ever have to make.
I'm being vague
and I know that's the death
of a poem, talking about
not showing.
Let me try
to give you a picture:
it started with wheezing,
as she stepped up the curb
to go into the hospital
to visit daddy,
who was lying attached to tubes
machines pumping
air into his lungs
food into his stomach
medicine into his veins
piss and shit into bags.
He was sedated
so he could "rest"
and tied down
so he wouldn't
unplug himself,
Swollen like
the balloons
in the Thanksgiving day parade
that he slept through.
We thought it was a cold.
I had a cough, too.
We were all stressed.
Two months later,
he was home,
barely able to stand
but still having to
wash the dishes
because she
was wheezing
worse.
He must have known,
really. I think he knew.
Diagnosis.
Treatment.
Hope.
Plans.
There I go, being vague again.
OK. Another picture.
She's showing me her bone scan.
She smiles.
She says she thought
all the bright spots
were cancer,
but it's only these.
Pointing out which
bright spots
are arthritis
and which
are cancer.
I know my mother.
This is her brave face.
It's in both lungs.
It's in the a remote site.
Metastasis.
But it's not until she says this:
"Stage IV"
that she cries.
Saying it, it sinks in.
We are alone,
a rare thing –
she always has visitors.
I hold her,
my hand on her head,
feeling her tangled bed-hair
(I'll have to brush it)
I pull her gown together
in back, so she won't
moon anyone coming by.
We are sitting beside each other
on the bed.
She can still sit,
though standing
makes her pulse crash.
We look at the flowers
set in the window.
The stuffed giraffe
her "adopted" daughter brought.
She tells me –
when she was in the support group
during chemo
before,
(nine years)
they wanted to have a separate group
for those with metastasis,
but she (my mother) insisted
that all of them
needed to hear
needed to know
needed to see
because it could be
any of them one day.
Stage IV
She knows, better than I do,
that this does not mean if,
but when.
Not better,
but how many months.
(average 16-24,
with better chances
if the disease is contained to
a single site,
which it was not.)
But there was
hope – it could me five years.
New drugs,
the one whose name
sounds like a barbarous word of evocation,
the one the doctor
said was a miracle drug:
Trastuzumab
So we made plans.
More
breakfasts on the front porch
dinner parties
walks in the park with the dogs
and that vacation to Cancun.
Asked my best friend
how many people
could stay in his timeshare.
Looked into the cost
of a flight.
Of course,
it would have to wait
'till the chemo was done.
Looked at scarves
for her head,
found a chocolate-colored
velvet one
I wanted to give her
for her birthday…
she would need it by then.
Then one morning
she couldn't breathe.
ICU.
Same as my dad.
But alert.
With the tubes,
and wires.
The whirr of machines,
the beeping of monitors.
Hooked up.
The nurses said,
"I'm so sorry,"
because they knew us,
knew her.
After all,
we'd spent a couple of months
here already.
ICU.
Do you know what it means
when they come and close
the doors to all the rooms
while you're visiting?
Peek out the blinds,
and watch them wheel
someone away,
face covered.
But see, she was alert.
And we still had hope.
Visitors. Laughter.
Careful questions,
how was my father's heath, really?
how were we doing, financially, really?
how were we holding up?
The answer to all three:
getting by.
You find a way,
because you just have to.
And she became frustrated,
wanting the tube to come out
so she could talk,
really talk,
to us.
As her hands swelled, and
her arms atrophied,
it became harder for her
to even write messages.
So much can be said with the raise an eyebrow.
and So much cannot.
She wanted the tube out so she could talk to us.
But even a minute without it,
and her oxygen levels
plummeted.
They discussed a trach,
but her heartbeat
had become unstable
(a rare complication
from the miracle drug)
I knew her. And I saw,
before anyone else.
She was starting to give up.
She stopped
doing her exercises,
her circulation
worsened,
her bright moments
lessened.
I love my mother,
but she was not a fighter…
well, not on her own behalf
(though plenty if it were
one of us)…
and she started to,
noticeably,
literally,
deteriorate.
Swelled up,
lymphedema
so bad,
you could touch her hand
and it would leak
clear lymphatic fluid
out of the pores.
A lung tube for the fluid,
draining pink and yellow
into a box.
Beside the bags of piss
and shit.
Her pain increased,
her lucidity faded,
it was not long before
she was sedated.
And I hadn't had a chance
to be alone with her again,
and ask her
what she wanted us to do
if we had to make
that decision.
I knew it would come,
and no one else had thought about it
yet.
I was afraid to ask,
afraid of putting dark(er)
thoughts in her mind.
And then the doctors suggested
she might not ever leave
the ICU.
It made my father angry.
It made my sister cry.
My brother hid his feelings.
But I knew already.
So I asked the hard questions.
Life insurance, the will, "options."
Daddy knew what I meant, and said
it was too soon…
but a week later, he knew
we might have to make that decision.
We signed the orders.
The first time around,
they had discussed it.
So I felt OK about
the DNR.
Comfort care.
Keep up the drugs,
and the machines,
but don't stop arrest.
She became fragile.
They couldn't even turn her,
her heartbeat
would become chaotic.
So her bedsores worsened,
skin splitting open beneath her.
I was glad she was sedated.
And nothing was making her better,
every day a little worse.
Every treatment a new complication.
And she had to be in pain,
somewhere deep in there,
under the medication.
She no longer
even fluttered her eyes
to the sound
of my voice.
They asked
how long we wanted
to continue treatment.
That was it.
The decision.
How long do you continue
chasing away thanatos,
and when do you let nature
take its course?
We told them not yet…
and she held on
for their 37th,
and then started
slipping away,
heart rate slowing
to almost nothing.
I was at work,
and was told
I needed to come.
It was time.
I delayed.
They called again.
I said, OK.
Go ahead.
I will be there soon.
They turned off the machines.
Stopped all drugs
but the lortab.
And when I arrived,
there was only a wisp
of life
left.
We felt like we should
be there, at her side,
when she passed,
but I was frightened
of how it might be,
the body's last gasp.
We went to lunch.
And she died while we were gone.
I think she chose it.
We returned,
and sat with her body,
in the room.
Her husband,
and all of her children,
including the "adopted" one.
We looked at her,
we made arrangements,
we remembered
and we laughed.
Until it was time to leave.
How do you decide when
to let someone you love
die? It's impossible,
and yet,
you find a way,
because you have to.
random brain spurt
I've had too much caffeine (which for me, is not much - I don't consume it regularly so it's easy for me to get wired on the stuff) and so you get another post from me before I go try to fall asleep.
I wrote a rather enthusiastic but perhaps not entirely relevant review of Mystery Man's The Toy Maker. Hey, it was fun, but if you looked at the first link, I think you'll see the effects that caffeine have on my thoughts are rather similar to the effects on the spider's ability to spin a coherent web. Or at least, it feels that way at the moment.
Then I read this tidbit on Jane Espenson's blog:
I'm reminded of one of my first jobs. We were working together as a staff on a script. We had just put in a stage direction: Fran enters, walking on eggshells. After a moment's thought we changed it to something like Fran enters cautiously. The show had a very eager and very literal crew, and we feared that actual eggshells might appear on the set.
Which reminds me of something totally not related to screenwriting.
When I was a chef in Prague, one of the keys on the register was "misc food." When someone wanted extra dressing, or a side of bacon or whatever - the waitperson would ring it up as "misc food" with an appropriate price, and then was supposed to write on the ticket what the item was before giving the ticket to the kitchen. But, well, sometimes they would forget.
Cooks are troublemakers. Incompetent waitstaff are their favorite toys... and the tricks can be cruel, because incompetent waitstaff make our lives difficult and make us look bad. It's not uncommon for the cooks to stick a plate under the broiler and "forget" to warn the disliked waitperson. Which is not funny - it's downright dangerous. As a chef, I encouraged a little creativity among my staff in order to avoid the more extreme or nasty (such as spitting in the food, or dropping it on the floor) commonplaces. Misc food was our favorite.
One particularly vapid and annoying waitress (whom we had nicknamed the "Barbie Doll for her blonde hair and the cause of her glassy-eyed smile) was constantly making mistakes, who kept her job because she was a consummate brownnoser. Once she was so busy following the owner around, she had a table walk out on her. She never, ever wrote down what the misc food was supposed to be. So, we would set out a small side plate with her order - containing miscellaneous food. One olive, a crust of bread, and, usually - an eggshell.
She never did get that right. She ended up getting arrested when she ran out of happy pills and tried to slit her boyfriend's throat with a broken mirror. Yes, while she was on shift. Fortunately, it was in back of the kitchen rather than out on the floor. Barbiturate addiction is a terrible thing.
Oh, yes - my days as an expat are full of colorful characters and dramatic stories. It'll take a lifetime to weave them into my work... (so I don't need any more tragedies, OK universe? I'll be perfectly content to have happy stories from here on out.)
I wrote a rather enthusiastic but perhaps not entirely relevant review of Mystery Man's The Toy Maker. Hey, it was fun, but if you looked at the first link, I think you'll see the effects that caffeine have on my thoughts are rather similar to the effects on the spider's ability to spin a coherent web. Or at least, it feels that way at the moment.
Then I read this tidbit on Jane Espenson's blog:
I'm reminded of one of my first jobs. We were working together as a staff on a script. We had just put in a stage direction: Fran enters, walking on eggshells. After a moment's thought we changed it to something like Fran enters cautiously. The show had a very eager and very literal crew, and we feared that actual eggshells might appear on the set.
Which reminds me of something totally not related to screenwriting.
When I was a chef in Prague, one of the keys on the register was "misc food." When someone wanted extra dressing, or a side of bacon or whatever - the waitperson would ring it up as "misc food" with an appropriate price, and then was supposed to write on the ticket what the item was before giving the ticket to the kitchen. But, well, sometimes they would forget.
Cooks are troublemakers. Incompetent waitstaff are their favorite toys... and the tricks can be cruel, because incompetent waitstaff make our lives difficult and make us look bad. It's not uncommon for the cooks to stick a plate under the broiler and "forget" to warn the disliked waitperson. Which is not funny - it's downright dangerous. As a chef, I encouraged a little creativity among my staff in order to avoid the more extreme or nasty (such as spitting in the food, or dropping it on the floor) commonplaces. Misc food was our favorite.
One particularly vapid and annoying waitress (whom we had nicknamed the "Barbie Doll for her blonde hair and the cause of her glassy-eyed smile) was constantly making mistakes, who kept her job because she was a consummate brownnoser. Once she was so busy following the owner around, she had a table walk out on her. She never, ever wrote down what the misc food was supposed to be. So, we would set out a small side plate with her order - containing miscellaneous food. One olive, a crust of bread, and, usually - an eggshell.
She never did get that right. She ended up getting arrested when she ran out of happy pills and tried to slit her boyfriend's throat with a broken mirror. Yes, while she was on shift. Fortunately, it was in back of the kitchen rather than out on the floor. Barbiturate addiction is a terrible thing.
Oh, yes - my days as an expat are full of colorful characters and dramatic stories. It'll take a lifetime to weave them into my work... (so I don't need any more tragedies, OK universe? I'll be perfectly content to have happy stories from here on out.)
Naropa
In a comment on another blog, I remarked on my experience studying with Allen Ginsberg - and someone asked me to talk more about that.
Ginsberg himself was more a presence than a teacher - he was at some of the parties, in some of the performances, had some conversations... in fact, he was one of those gay men for whom women do not really impact his reality much. I was introduced to him four times (the school's director thought he'd enjoy my work,) and each time he looked right past me. I wasn't offended so much as amused.
At any rate - this was my response. It ended up being pretty lengthy, so I thought I'd put it here as well.
Well, I took the MFA course in Writing and Poetics at Naropa University. The writing school there was founded by Anne Waldman and Allen Ginsberg - and named (somewhat absurdly) the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics - the latter half of the name being a reference to Gertrude Stein. I say absurdly, because I always considered Kerouac's work to be very much embodied, very much physical... but that little contradictory bit of excessive name dropping was very much in the spirit of the beat poets.
It's a small school, and the writing department, graduate and undergraduate, was perhaps 60 students, so there was a wonderful intimacy with the instructors. Ginsberg was there in the summer, and others like Hakim Bey, Adrienne Rich, Jerome Rothenberg and Diane diPrima taught courses. Anselm Hollo was on the regular staff. Other people came and spoke, performed or visited - including Philip Glass, Gregory Corso, Ed Sanders, and Ram Daas... I did a fundraiser with Ferlinghetti for a minority students' fund and got chewed out by Amiri Baraka for the same.
Really, it was an incomparable experience. I have several stories.
What I learned (and can apply to screenwriting,) and this may seem as contradictory as the school's name, was the value of structure. I wrote more formal poems while I was there than I ever have. I found that using the structure of a defined form was freeing to the imagination, it gave inspiration a lightning post to be drawn to. It allowed you to direct and craft the raw idea.
I was particularly fond of repetitive forms like the pantoum, which taught me how an image can be repeated to tie a poem together - and can change meaning slightly every time it recurs.
It also inspired me to go out and get life experience, to travel and have adventures - rather than become an academic. Nothing against academia. If I had gone that route I'd probably have a small measure more recognition as a poet, and a literary critic or theorist... but I think I've lived a far more interesting life.
For some of my poetry (I no longer write in form much, but it still influences my work):
http://www.myspace.com/empresscat
Ginsberg himself was more a presence than a teacher - he was at some of the parties, in some of the performances, had some conversations... in fact, he was one of those gay men for whom women do not really impact his reality much. I was introduced to him four times (the school's director thought he'd enjoy my work,) and each time he looked right past me. I wasn't offended so much as amused.
At any rate - this was my response. It ended up being pretty lengthy, so I thought I'd put it here as well.
Well, I took the MFA course in Writing and Poetics at Naropa University. The writing school there was founded by Anne Waldman and Allen Ginsberg - and named (somewhat absurdly) the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics - the latter half of the name being a reference to Gertrude Stein. I say absurdly, because I always considered Kerouac's work to be very much embodied, very much physical... but that little contradictory bit of excessive name dropping was very much in the spirit of the beat poets.
It's a small school, and the writing department, graduate and undergraduate, was perhaps 60 students, so there was a wonderful intimacy with the instructors. Ginsberg was there in the summer, and others like Hakim Bey, Adrienne Rich, Jerome Rothenberg and Diane diPrima taught courses. Anselm Hollo was on the regular staff. Other people came and spoke, performed or visited - including Philip Glass, Gregory Corso, Ed Sanders, and Ram Daas... I did a fundraiser with Ferlinghetti for a minority students' fund and got chewed out by Amiri Baraka for the same.
Really, it was an incomparable experience. I have several stories.
What I learned (and can apply to screenwriting,) and this may seem as contradictory as the school's name, was the value of structure. I wrote more formal poems while I was there than I ever have. I found that using the structure of a defined form was freeing to the imagination, it gave inspiration a lightning post to be drawn to. It allowed you to direct and craft the raw idea.
I was particularly fond of repetitive forms like the pantoum, which taught me how an image can be repeated to tie a poem together - and can change meaning slightly every time it recurs.
It also inspired me to go out and get life experience, to travel and have adventures - rather than become an academic. Nothing against academia. If I had gone that route I'd probably have a small measure more recognition as a poet, and a literary critic or theorist... but I think I've lived a far more interesting life.
For some of my poetry (I no longer write in form much, but it still influences my work):
http://www.myspace.com/empresscat
Perfect Toffee
I just had the perfect toffee. Not too hard or too sweet. A soft crunch with a buttery finish and a nice saltiness. It is rare to find toffee that's the perfect consistency.
Vosges Caramel Toffee
What's this got to do with screenwriting?
Well, we all need a little inspiration from time to time.
Vosges Caramel Toffee
What's this got to do with screenwriting?
Well, we all need a little inspiration from time to time.
Rebound
I named him Rebound, because the first night in my house he leapt from the couch, bounced off the coffee table, and flew three feet through the air to land by my feet.
I found him by the fire hydrant in my front yard, very young, a little scared, happy to see me. No one in the neighborhood was missing a puppy. His collar was too tight. His paws had no dirt on them, and were as soft as his belly - as if he'd never walked on a hard surface in his life - so I'm pretty sure he was dropped there. (I'm on a corner near a major street.)
He's recovering well. Still has pain around his ribcage and shoulders, but has figured out how to walk on three legs (though only for brief periods - the front leg that works has a cracked scapula, and it tires quickly.)
Last night, he used those springs in his butt to leap onto the couch. The couch is as tall as he is, but he just leaned back and sprung up - landing on his back legs and then letting himself tip forward onto the cushions so he wouldn't impact his front legs...
Looks like one of his legs is completely dead, though - and it will likely have to be amputated.
But he's going to adapt just fine!
Pray for my puppy...
My puppy got hit by a car tonight. Knocked out cold and dragged several feet...
He's at the emergency clinic right now, under observation.
It's going to cost me a hell of a lot of money, but it looks like he's going to be OK. He might lose the use of one leg due to nerve damage. There's still the possibility of more serious neurological damage, or blood clots.
Right now he's in a lot of pain, and scared...
I'll pick him up in the morning and take him to the regular vet to talk about surgery and rehab.
I don't have any children, so he's my baby and means a lot to me.
(pictures: http://new.photos.yahoo.com/empressgate/album/576460762395594812 )
He's at the emergency clinic right now, under observation.
It's going to cost me a hell of a lot of money, but it looks like he's going to be OK. He might lose the use of one leg due to nerve damage. There's still the possibility of more serious neurological damage, or blood clots.
Right now he's in a lot of pain, and scared...
I'll pick him up in the morning and take him to the regular vet to talk about surgery and rehab.
I don't have any children, so he's my baby and means a lot to me.
(pictures: http://new.photos.yahoo.com/empressgate/album/576460762395594812 )
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