loose string

"One-way streets and square one, The answers don't come from any one direction"

 

My new home has a flashing neon sign

 Today I am feeling as though someone inserted a hand mixer in my ear and scrambled my brains.  I have been fluctuating between high and low emotionally so it seems appropriate that I pull out the old story book.  Pull up your cushions kiddies.

As I once mentioned, I have a great number of stories that begin, "I was in this bar...", this is one of those.

I had been dating a much younger man during the period immediately following my divorce.  I had come to the conclusion that we were not meant to be and had ended the relationship.

One night not long after the breakup I was in a bar that I frequented and I ran into the young man.  I spotted him from across the room and made a concerted effort to speak to everyone in the bar in order to prolong the inevitable conversation.  He was quite unhappy over our breakup and convinced that he could talk me into giving it another chance.   I was equally convinced that this was not a possibility but I did not want to have to be mean to him in order to get this point across to him.  I was concerned that this was where the whole thing was headed.  So, anyway, I finally made my way over to him and said hello.  He was all smiles and kept telling me how good I looked and touching me.  Mostly just stroking my arm but it was not welcome.   I was trying to be gracious and stepping back to avoid him.  Fake laughing and stepping back at the same time.   Just trying to stay out of reach.  I made this big laugh and step back movement one more time and promptly found myself on the floor.

I had stepped back and simultaneously slid the cover off of a heating vent in the floor.  The opening was just large enough for me to get my foot down into with my toe pointed but the exit was impeded by a large nail that was poking through the duct work into the top of my foot.   That combined with my shoe was making standing up impossible.  I was up to my knee in a heating vent in the middle of a crowded bar floor. Let me say that I was wearing a rather tiny, little skirt.  There was quite a war going on in my head over strugging to rise and trying to keep my cooter from being seen by all and sundry.  I was also just a bit mortified to be the center of attention (pretty much all bar activity ceased in my immediate vicinity) for such an asinine move.

There were suggestions being made from all spectators (and the crowd was growing).  I was trying to reach down into the duct and unfasten my shoe but the opening was just too small.  There were a couple of people who tried to see if they were able to reach my foot to get the shoe undone.  One of the guys wanted to pull me out but only succeeded in driving the aforementioned nail farther into my instep.  The bartender brought me drinks to enjoy as we tried to decide how best to resolve the situation.  There was talk of  the little girl who was trapped in the well.  There was talk of paramedics.  I was not keen on the paramedics.  Finally an enterprising young barback went down to the basement and knocked apart the duct and took my shoe off for me.

I was free.

In the activity surrounding my rescue the conversation with my former young boyfriend fell by the wayside.  For just this fact alone, I do not consider the  evening an entire loss.  

posted by: loosestring at 06:54 | link | comments (2) |

Through the magic of Google

I have recently found the following key word searches for this blog:

 

“girl getting turned on while a girl is skinny dipping”

 

This seems like a very specific fantasy.  I applaud your single-minded dedication to this very narrow area of erotic stimulation.  I would suggest that you might find some source material in the mid-80’s European porn catalogs.  Perhaps something Swedish?

 

“loose twat”

 

Hmmm.  Nope.  Not here.  Sorry.  I must say that it has been my experience that this is not the preferred adjective in reference to this part of the anatomy.  Kudos to you for following the beat of your own drummer.

 

"paris hilton cooter"

 

Really?  Are you kidding me?  I believe that there have to be approximately 2,752,654 sites that feature photos and perhaps even video of Miss Hilton’s bare nether regions.  This is not one of them.  Again, sorry.

 

“loose 30 pounds in two weeks”

 

Interesting.  I get e-mails about this all the time, how did you know? Please send your e-mail address and I would be happy to forward them to you.

 

“song ziggy stardust”

 

Okay, the fact that I would come up anywhere in a Google search for Ziggy Stardust is mind-boggling.  If I had known about the internet when I was a teenager, I am sure this would have been a goal of mine.  I am truly honored.  I suppose that I could begin to devote this site to all things Ziggy and never post pictures of my garden again.  Something to think about.

posted by: loosestring at 20:03 | link | comments (1) |

A Lot of Noise About Nothing

I have been running this lyric over and over in my head:

I’m so tired of being tired
Sure as night will follow day
Most things I worry about
Never happen anyway

“Crawling Back To You” by Tom Petty

This is a simple bit of a song that I used to keep me sane at one point.  I get words and lyrics and bits of song stuck in a loop in my head sometimes.  These are occasionally annoying and frequently distracting but always entertaining.  Something about this “most things I worry about, never happen anyway” helped me to remain fairly calm through a particularly difficult time in my life.

There is another frequent sample from the playlist in my head:

If learning is living, and the truth is a state of mind
You'll find it's better at the end of the line.
Can you deny, there's nothing greater
Nothing more than the traveling hands of time?
Sainte Genevieve can hold back the water
But saints don't bother with a tear stained eye.

“Tear Stained Eye” by Son Volt

I am sure that I could get all fabulously introspective about these lyrics but really I think I just heard them at the right time and I was open to listening to them, couple that with nice musical accompaniment and that is as simple as it gets.  There are some moments when you need to hear “it will get better in time now suck it up and quit your crying” put a little more gently.

Lately I have been listening to some newer stuff:

cast me away
from yesterday's things
in deed and in my memory

sweeten the taste
of the past
and borrow just a little more time for me

“Cast Me Away” by Over The Rhine

This is just the method by which I process the noise in my head.

posted by: loosestring at 06:32 | link | comments (2) |

I am currently obsessed with all things garden.  I have prescribed myself some yard work because it is the best way to get me to go out in the sun and stay there.  I am in dire need of all the sunshine I can get.   This is my inexpensive way to get the seratonin and all the other good chemicals racing around in my brain.  Needless to say, pictures are in order.




This is just to say that things are blooming and life is happening and all is right with the world. This week.

I have begun building trellises.   I got the bright idea last year to build trellises out of copper tubing.  There are a lot of copper accents in my yard so this seemed like a great idea.  I looked up all of the information on the internet and had T translate a couple of designs into the proper measurements.  I went out and got wild in the plumbing aisle at Home Depot -  bought tubing and elbows and tees.  I brought it all home and put it out in the garage for later and the next thing I knew the summer was over and my trellis-building mania had passed.  Then I went to Albuquerque and started talking about the idea with my sister.  She got really enthused and promptly went home and made a trellis.  She called me to tell me all about it and I was so jealous that I had to make one too.  No pictures yet, but have no fear there will be some.

posted by: loosestring at 06:48 | link | comments (1) |

I've listened to preachers, I've listened to fools

Many years ago, when I was divorcing, I moved into a small, one-bedroom apartment with my son.  I had been looking around for quite awhile trying to find something that fit my small budget but did not fall smack dab in the middle of a ghetto.  I went to look at this place during the early afternoon and everything seemed okay.  The neighborhood was quiet and there were no strange or scary neighbors lurking about dealing drugs so I signed a lease and made a deposit.  I was all set to move in the following weekend.

I suppose there should have been alarms sounding as soon as I pulled up the first night at 11:00 pm and was greeted by the soothing sounds of "Crazy Train" by Ozzy Osbourne blasting out of the third floor windows.   Weaker souls might have been deterred by the wafting clouds of marijuana smoke rolling down the stairwell but not I.  I had made the decision that I could live in this apartment for at least a year and, damn it, I was going to.

We moved in past the stares of the gang of slack-jawed yokels that made their home on the stoop.  We had to ask them to move anytime we needed to get through the door, which, given that we were moving in, was frequently.  There they sat, sipping their Old Milwaukee in cans, as though they were watching the opening laps at the Brickyard 400. 

Soon enough, my stuff was moved in.  I always got the feeling that they were taking inventory for future reference.  One of them made a comment about my new car - a 1991 Ford Escort - possibly the least fancy, least impressive car that you could possibly drive.  I started to get a bit uncomfortable when I overheard one of them refer to me as a "stuck-up bitch".  Sweet.  I had really reserved judgement up until that point but thereafter they were collectively referred to as "the bunch of rednecks that live at Hillbilly Heaven".  Ah yes, at last I had arrived, to my deluxe apartment in the middle of white trash hell.

Please do not get me wrong, my family is full of farmers and Nascar fans.  Many of us live in trailer parks or on farms and attend monster truck rallies and professinal wrestling matches.  But,  we have all attended school, read a book, been to a museum, travelled beyond the confines of the states into which we were born and none of us has ever married a first or second cousin.   These people scared me.  If the little encephalitic boy had begun to play banjo, it could not have been more creepy.  It was going to be an interesting year.

I tried to go about my business and live my life while interacting with the neighbours as little as possible but you could not help but get to know everyone.  Across the hall was a single mother with her two daughters Dusty (about 14 years old) and Crystal (about 5 years old).  Now, these are dog names, not people names but I tried not to think about that too much.  Second floor, above me, was a family of about ten members living in a two bedroom apartment.  They were dirty and loud.  Thrird floor, above them, was a couple with two young boys.  They fought constantly and the police kept coming by to take one of them away.   Third floor, across the hall, was two 20-something brothers from whence the clouds of marijuana smoke and the Ozzy originated.

Among the many highlights of my time in Hillbilly Heaven, several moments stand out as particularly memorable.

The single mother became involved with one of the brothers from the third floor.  She was about 37 and he was about 21.  I have nothing against the May/ September romance but I was curious as to the attraction between this skinny, greasy guy and the dumpy, homely mother of two.  I soon discovered the secret.  One morning, as I was leaving for work, I walked out into the hallway and was greeted by the sight of the boyfriend and the 14-year-old daughter in a passionate embrace.  It is possible that this is the type of thing that passes for fatherly affection somewhere but certainly not anywhere that I know of.

The other brother got busted for dealing pot.  The popular rumor was that I had turned him in.  I don't know why I was chosen.  Everybody knew it was the mom from the family on the second floor.  She even told me she did it when she informed me that I should be careful because they were all mad at me for turning them in.  I did not give her up but I was tempted.  Lord knows, I had no problem with the stoners.  As a general rule, I have found pot smokers to be far less violent and noisy neighbours than drunks. 

The building threw a communal New Year's Eve Party (to which I was invited but chose not to attend) that involved all the neighbours opening their doors and roaming from apartment to apartment all evening long making a horrendous amount of noise.  I watched movies and fell asleep after the majority of the partygoers had passed out.  The next morning, when I emerged from my apartment, I was greeted by a sight that would rival a war zone.  There were streamers, noisemakers, balloons and beer cans everywhere and the hand rail of the stairway was lying in a corner of the entryway.  The smell of alchohol was overwhelming.  So, Happy New Year!

We had to have our toilet replaced so, of course, my son decides that this is the very moment he must pee and cannot wait.  I wrack my brain to think of where I can take him and decide that the loud and dirty family is my best bet.  I hurry him up the stairs and I am a little apprehensive but I figure, "How dirty can someone's home bathroom be?"  I soon found out that it can be very dirty indeed.  My first clue was that the whole apartment was a pit but I figured with all of those people living there it was bound to get messy.  Then I noticed that the hallway walls were dirty.  Not splashed or just smudged but completely grey with grime in a stripe about 3-4 feet wide in the middle of the entire length of the hallway.   Then we got to the bathroom and the toilet bowl was brown.  Not a brown toilet but just filthy, truck-stop dirty.  Strike that, I have been in truck stop bathrooms that were cleaner.  We touched as little as possible and made a hasty retreat.

Quite possibly the best memory I have is of the time we were throwing a party for a friend.  The event was being thrown at another friend's house but we were arranging food and drinks.  I had gone to the liquor store and picked up beer and we transferred it to my friend's trunk in the parking lot of the apartment building.  I noticed that the yokels were all present and accounted for but I did not think too much of the fact.  That is, until the next morning when we discovered that some very inept criminals had tried to open the trunk with a screw driver.  Not only had they made huge scratches all over the back of the car when the screwdriver slipped and completely gouged out the lock, but they never actually succeeded in opening the trunk or obtaining the beer.  It was a beautiful moment when the cops arrived to make the report and no one was anywhere to be seen.

There were many other precious moments such as the time the woman on the second floor tried to kill herself and the cops were looking for her husband and interviewing everyone.  The time one of the kids from the third floor got stuck in the tree outside the apartment hanging upside down by his foot and the fire department  had to come get him out because all of the adults were too drunk to manage it.  The many times that my clothing was stolen out of the dryers and/or washers.  (puzzling because no one who lived in the building was my size).  Not to mention, the 3.467 times the cops came to arrest someone for fighting, dealing drugs or noise complaints.

All good things must come to an end and the year eventually did.  My lease was up and I chose not to renew.  The landlord tried to tempt me with no increase in rent and a free month, but I was ready to move on.  A little bit wiser and a wee bit more deaf.

posted by: loosestring at 06:44 | link | comments (2) |

Just yesterday morning...

Last night, just before midnight, I received a phone call.  I knew by the number on the caller id and by the late hour that it was a call I had been expecting.  My sister calling from Albuquerque to let me know my father had died.  It was not a surprise.  My father has been battling cancer and had recently begun the hospice stage of his care.  He accepted that there was not anymore that could be done to treat him that would not cause seriously debilitating side effects that  were not worth the  minimal chance of recovery that was promised.  Other than the chemo/radiation therapy, the doctors could only offer to treat the inceasing pain that he was experiencing.   He made the decision to cease fighting the illness and try to live what little life he had left in the best way he knew how - with his family.

Last week I went to Albuquerque to see him.  I had received another phone call from my sister to let me know that he was failing quickly and the time was near.  I arrived on Saturday morning.  My father had been in his chair in the living room since Thursday.  He was in too much pain to lay flat.  I think there was also a part of him that believed that as long as he was in the chair and not the hospice bed everything was okay.  On that Saturday he was mostly asleep due to the high dosages of morphine that he was receiving.   He would wake occasionally and, before the pain became too great, he would hold a short conversation with whoever was sitting with him.  We all took turns sitting with him, holding his hand and trying to get him to eat or take water.  Sometimes he did, more often he did not.

By Monday, when the hospice nurse arrived, he agreed to be moved to the hospice bed that was set up for him.  It was a delicate operation that required the combined efforts of several people.  Once settled into the bed, it became a struggle to make him comfortable.  The pain was increasing and there seemed to be no position that was adequate.   The panic attacks that accompanied the pain began to increase in frequency.  The act of moving him to the bed had caused him stress and further pain.  We were all struggling to achieve the perfect balance of medication and position to give him peace.  There were several ugly episodes in which the panic flared up and the pain was aggravated.  We were doing our best to try to talk him down but he was angry and scared.  Each of these episodes was followed by a long stretch of peace when he got the proper amount of morphine and was able to sleep.

I was originally scheduled to leave on Monday but when I saw what the situation was I wanted to stay and help.  I was a little surprised by my reaction because I had been so frightened before I got there.  I was terribly afraid of seeing my father suffer and to be so close while he was dying.  I did not know if I could be of much help.  That all changed for me when I saw him and saw my stepmother, sister and brother-in-law already caring for him.  The whole thing was so loving and seemed so natural that my fear faded.  I was able to be of some help.  I was able to get to the point where my need to have my father alive was replaced by my need for my father to be out of pain and at peace.

I cried a lot of tears while I was there but I also laughed as we shared some of the stories from growing up.  We would sit exhausted in the evening and talk about the good times and the bad times and all the times we had shared as a family.  I felt empathy for my stepmother ( a woman with whom I have always had a rocky relationship).  I was losing my father and that is a terrible thing but she was losing her husband and that might be more terrible still.  

On Wednesday, I was sitting with my father while he slept.  He woke up and turned to me and stretched out his hand to take mine.  He looked in my eyes and said," I remember you, honey, how are you doing?" and he squeezed my hand tightly.  He had been completely out of it for several days but I know he saw me there and he knew I had come to be with him.   I told him I loved him and he said, "I love you too, always."  When it was time to leave I did not want to go.  But, I hugged everyone tightly and I went to the airport.  I cried all the way through security.

I am happy that my father is no longer in pain.  I am happy that I was able to spend time with him before he died.  I am happy that I was able to help honor his wish to die at home.  I am happy that he was surrounded by love and caring and family while he was dying.

posted by: loosestring at 06:49 | link | comments (2) |

Land of Enchantment

I have been away for a couple of days.  I went to Albuquerque to visit my father.  He has entered the hospice stage of his cancer battle and it will not be long now.  I do not have the words for this right now because I am still processing some of the visit but I will be writing about it soon.  I am sad but I am at peace and very happy to know that he will have an end to his pain soon.

A few notes on my trip:

Albuquerque is where Hair Metal has gone to retire.  Originally I phrased this as "where Hair Metal has gone to die.", but it is still very much alive and well.  The big hair, tapered jeans and Ratt t-shirts are still worn with pride and not a bit of irony.  There is a radio station that plays all of the old bands like Jackyl, Ratt, Iron Maiden, Cinderella, Dokken, Quiet Riot, Twisted Sister and Warrant.  They do not bill themselves as an oldies station but as "the home of real rock".  I swear to God that the radio was playing the same playlist as it had when I moved from that town in 1986.  Time stands still and the frangrance of Aqua Net wafts in on the breeze.

Albuquerque has the distinction of being the town that changes the least from visit to visit.  Sometimes Chicago changes from week to week but Albuquerque remains the same year after year.  I have no idea how they manage this but I think the new state slogan should be "the land that time forgot".

I had a very uninteresting flight out but the return flight was spectacular.  I can say with fair certainty that "spectacular" is not a term that I have ever used to describe an airplane flight before. 

The beginning was the slow, angled ascent over the Sandia Mountains.  I was on the right side of the plane to get the view as we climbed out of the valley and the mountains were close and clear.  It was early evening and the shadows were just starting to fall and the ridges and valleys were highlighted.  The ground thrusts up and you can see where some prehistoric subterranean clash splintered the earth.  There are great ridges that look just like torn seams.  As soon as we were too high to see the ground, the sun began to set.  It must be some effect of the angle at which the horizon is seen but there was a very vivid rainbow of colors beginning with deep orangey-red and progressing through orange, yellow, green, blue and violet-blue at the curve of the sky.  It was one of the most gorgeous things I have ever seen and I was completely unable to photograph it.  I am not a huge fan of the stereotypical sunset but this was truly unbelievable.   (Note to self: sit on the other side of the plane the next time).  Just as we were about to land in Kansas City, we started seeing huge lightning storms flashing.  It was so weird to see the whole sky light up from below and the gigantic flashes of light.  I was staring out the window and forgot to be afraid about flying into a storm.  After Kansas City the skies were pretty much clear and the lights of the towns were like constellations and galaxies down below.  It was kind of odd to view the constellations from above but I was entertaining myself trying to name them.

I was a bit tired and emotionally overwhelmed so the pretty, pretty sights made the trip home a little easier.  I usually spend most of my flying time reading and I rarely look out the windows.  Who knew what I was missing?

posted by: loosestring at 06:33 | link | comments |

The Ballad of Hobie and Elmo

In 1991, I got divorced from Husband #1.  It was a hard time, as most of these situations are, and I struggled as a single working mom.  My son was three at the time and he was actually pretty much okay with the divorce.  Children at that age tend to be much more adaptable to change.  It really did not affect his world a lot.  When I was married, I worked two jobs and our chedule was fairly hectic.  The only real change was the logistics.  Pre-divorce, I worked all day, picked him up from daycare, brought him home, cooked dinner, bathed him and put him in his pyjamas, left to go to work for the night and came home after he was asleep.  Post-divorce, I worked all day, picked him up from daycare, brought him home, cooked him dinner, bathed him, put him in his pyjamas and dropped him off at his father's while I went to work at night.

Regardless of how well he seemed to be adapting to the change in situations, it was important to me that he have good memories of holidays and occasions.  That first year, as Christmas approached, I started to worry about how I could afford the usual array of presents.  We talked a little about it and I explained that the budget was tight for Santa so he needed to think of one really special present that he really wanted.  My lovely little boy piped right up with, "Can Santa bring a kitty?  Daddy can't live with kitties but we can, right?"  So, there it was, I had only to find a cat and the Christmas miracle would remain completely untarnished in his memory. 

I started looking around and I managed to find an older kitten that needed a home.  Perfect.  The cat was 6-months-old already so he would be a good match for a small boy.  Not too little to be easily hurt and not too old to be unfriendly.  I brought him home on Christmas Eve and woke up my son to show him what Santa had brought.  He was over the moon.  He was brand-new-bicycle excited.  The first order of business was deciding upon a name.  We have a tradition of using my grandparent's names for naming animals.  My paternal grandfather was Hobart, so Hobart was the one.  Of course, it was quickly shortened to Hobie or Hobie Cat.

Hobie was a character.  He was unlike any cat I had ever known.  He liked people a lot.  He greeted us at the door and played catch like a dog.  He was a happy guy but we decided a few months later that he needed a friend.  That was how Elmo came to live with us.  Elmo was a tiny little ball of orange fluff that kept Hobie company while we were gone all day.  (My son named him after the most annoying Sesame Street character ever, but he was a sweet, good-natured, dopey kind of cat so it suited him)  They became fast friends and ate together, played together and slept together.  They soon grew to be very large cats.  Elmo turned into a fluffy orange tiger and Hobie just expanded around the waist line.  By the time Hobie was four, he weighed about 20 pounds and loved to show his enormous stomach to everyone for rubbing.

In 2001, Hobie started to have some health problems.  We took him to the vet and had him checked out and they ran a million tests and found nothing.  Hobie started to lose weight and had problems keeping his food down.  He was still his usual sweet self but it was obvious that he was sick.  Finally, after three months of back and forth to the vet, he tested positive for Feline Infectious Peritonitis.  By the time they caught it, it had progressed beyond the point where it was treatable and, reluctantly, we agreed to euthanasia.

 We were all sad and missing Hobie but no one as much as Elmo.  The poor guy was pining for his pal.  He would go to the places where Hobie slept and sniff and meow and look pitifully at us.  It was heartbreaking. 

One day, a few weeks later, Ex #2 came home and fixed himself a plate of food to eat in front of the television.  Elmo was curled up on the end of the couch and so they sat companionably through the meal and enjoyed a little television.  Once he was done, Ex #2 put aside his plate and reached over to pat Elmo.  Unfortunately, Elmo had died in his sleep and was quite cold.  Startled by the discovery of the dead dining companion, Ex #2 took the kitty to the vet to have him checked out and cremated.  The vet said that Elmo appeared to be quite healthy and had no apparent illness.  We wondered why he had died so suddenly and the only reason we could come up with was that he died of a broken heart because of Hobie's death.

I still think this is one of the saddest things I have ever heard.  It reminds me of "Where the Red Fern Grows", the movie guaranteed to reduce me to tears when I was a kid.  I know it is a hokey kind of story but I love that they had the close bond that they had and that they loved each other so much. I am a romantic, sappy kind of fool like that.

posted by: loosestring at 06:43 | link | comments (1) |

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be

The year I turned thirteen was the year I fell in love with Kurt Vonnegut.  It could be argued that I was a bit young to be reading  Vonnegut but I had always been a precocious reader and my parents had long since given up monitoring what I read.  I was going through all of the usual anxieties that are associated with the age and the raging hormones of a thirteen-year-old girl and my parents were getting divorced.  I was a prime candidate for indoctrination into a cult or a intravenous drug habit, instead I found Mr. Vonnegut.

I started off with Slaughterhouse Five because it was on the Summer Reading List for the HIgh School.  You know, that's how they get you, they start you off with the easy stuff and then you move on to the hard stuff.  The small town that I lived in had an equally small public library but, through some miracle, they had copies of every Vonnegut novel published.  I have always been a voracious reader and weekly visits to the library were just a matter of survival.  My Mom would drop me off and go grocery shopping or run errands and I would wander around looking for something new.  I was a big nerd so I usually got the Summer Reading List for the grades ahead of mine and tried to read everything on the list.  Don't ask, I thought this made me really cool. 

Anyway, back to my love.  I read through all of the Vonnegut that had been published to date in the Summer of 1979.  At the end of my reading, I was disappointed that there were not more books so I read through the entire collection again.  There was something about the melancholy and the sarcasm that I identified with very closely.  The voice of the author was speaking directly to me and we had formed a club wherein we were the only members.  I wanted Vonnegut to be  my father.  I wanted a father who had so much humanity and humor and could give voice to the belief that although the world is an incredibly fucked up place and it may be filled with a multitude of insufferable assholes, there was still hope and life and joy sometimes.

I still re-read Vonnegut every year.  I used to haul out the dusty, falling-apart paperbacks that I purchased second-hand in high school.  About four or five years ago, I replaced those paperbacks with hardback copies off of eBay.  They are not first editions;  they are not in mint condition.  They are well-worn, and missing dust jackets.  They are the most treasured books in my collection. 

I have met any number of Vonnegut fans over the years.  Many of them want to discuss what it is about the man that makes his books so great.  There is a tender, loving relationship that exists between Vonnegut and his readers.  The type of relationship that does not translate well to words.  Sort of like trying to explain the concept of color to a blind man.  I am certainly not capable of a rational, well-reasoned explanation.  I just feel warmed by his stories and welcomed by his characters.   They are a safe place to which I can retreat.  They are a little piece of home.

Several years ago, Mr. Vonnegut wrote what he announced was his last novel: Timequake.  I read it slowly and savored every last word.  When I was finished, I closed the cover and cried a couple of tears.  I was a little sad to think that I would have no more Vonnegut to which to look forward. 

Every so often, the world conspires to give me a little reminder of what I am missing.  A couple of years ago, there was this and, a year later, this.
Yesterday, I was clicking around on Salon and curiousity led me to the new Arianna Huffington blog.  I was skimming along trying to get a sense of what it was all about and there was this from Paul Krassner:
                       
Kurt Vonnegut, my favorite Luddite, occasionally sends something my way via snail-mail. For example, his idea for a bumper sticker: “Your                         Planet’s Immune System Is Trying to Get Rid of You.” So I’m taking the liberty of sharing his latest thought-provoking missive here in cyberspace:

Dearest Iraq: Act like me. After 100 years of democracy, let your slaves go. After 150, let your women vote. At the start of democracy, ethnic cleansing is quite OK. Love you madly! Uncle Sam.

Good to see that there is life in the old man yet.

posted by: loosestring at 07:17 | link | comments (1) |

A miner for truth and delusion

I had a realization recently that I have always viewed emotions in terms of color.  I guess this is natural given terms such as "the blues" or "seeing red" or "green with envy" being commonly applied to moods.  I think I have always believed that there were a rainbow of emotional colors but that the "norm" was supposed to be something in the happy  yellow range.  I don't think my moods cover the full color wheel; mostly they are just shades of blue.  This is what is normal for me. 

It sounds as though I operate in a permanent state of depression but that is far from true.  There is definitely a tinge of melancholy in most of my emotions but there are some really good, happy moments that I would classify as periwinkle or sky blue.  These are sunny, happy shades of blue.  The birds are singing and the flowers are blooming.  I am not by nature a jealous person.  I have never seen green envy or felt tremendously threatened in any of my relationships.  I am fairly confident that I can survive with or without the significant other in my life.  There have been moments, however,  when I have seen turquoise or or maybe teal.  There are moments of peaceful restfulness that would be azure or ultramarine.  Calm seas and cloudless blue skies.  There are serious times that are cobalt or sapphire.  Lots of difficult emotions or intense changes.  The really bad times are navy blue or midnight blue.  Dark and gloomy but with a touch of color still.  The good news is, that's as dark as it gets for me.  There is no black.

I spent a lot of my 20's and early 30's trying to medicate myself to sunny yellow because I though that was how everyone normally felt.  I spent my 20's and 30's mistaken about a lot of things.  The trick  was accepting that I have a full and normal range of emotions, for me.  It has been  very difficult and harmful for me to make decisions about what goes on in the minds of other people based on the face they present to the world.  Worse yet to judge my state of mind based on this set of faulty assumptions.

The moment of realization is usually the result of years of casual consideration.  The cumulation of moments reflection on my state of mind.  This seems to come as a lightning bolt of insight when it comes together into a singular theory.  It is probably something everyone else had figured out in 8th grade while I was sneaking off to get high and listen to Pink Floyd.

posted by: loosestring at 05:36 | link | comments (2) |

12-Steps to Gardening Recovery

This weekend was full of good time shared with the most important men in my life: T and my son.  Sometimes weekends are so hectic that I barely notice that I am not at work and then I am back at work and it is Monday morning all over again.  This was one of those relatively slow paced weekends that allowed me time to take notice of the good times and appreciate them while they are in progress.  "Being in the moment" is the term, I believe.  That seems like an earthy-crunchy cliche but when it does not happen very  frequently, you do take note when it does.

Two pictures today:

The first is a color study  for a black and white (I am learning how to scan in negatives this week so there will be more photos soon)



The second is from my son (i was teaching him about the camera this weekend)



I am currently in the middle of a battle with the weeds.  It is raining which is quite good for the flowers but it is equally nourishing to the weeds.  We had a ton of topsoil brought in last fall and it would appear that it was extra-chock-full of weed seeds.  I will not be defeated and am determined that I will be able to begin planting new plants this weekend coming up. 

Further proof that my son has inherited his sense of humor from me has been demonstrated.

This weekend I coaxed him into helping me weed for a little bit.  I am not so cruel as to tie him to the job so he gets up and wanders and kicks a ball around the yard and then comes back to pull a couple more weeds.  I have been worried about his depression and so, of course, I ended up watching some program about video game addiction being rampant among teenagers.  I guess it just never occurred to me to think of video games as addictive because I have no interest in them.  But I watch this show and I start to worry that he is self-medicating with video games and I work myself into a lather of distress until I make up my mind to talk to him about it.  So, while we are weeding I begin with, "I saw this show the other day...".   I explain about the addiction thing and actually he is fairly aware of the subject .  We just agree that he should take a look at his behaviour with regard to video games and that is pretty much that.

Today I picked him up after school and we were running down the plans for the week.  When he was helping with the Girl's Soccer Team practices and games.  What day he could come to school with me to learn about developing pictures.  I asked what his plans were for this afternoon and he told me.  Then he asked what I would be doing.  I said I had to run an errand and then I was going home to weed the garden.  To which he replied, "Mom, I was watching this show this week and I am worried that you might be self-medicating with this weeding addiction."

Ah yes, I am the proud mother of a smart ass.

posted by: loosestring at 06:17 | link | comments |

Erin Go Bragh

In honor of Mother's Day, a story:

My mother is a very kind, bright, loving woman.  She is, however, known for her ability to completely miss the obvious.

Several years ago, there was a big fuss over the right of gay and lesbian organizations to march in the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Boston.  The matter went to court and it was decided that given the public nature of the event it was not fair to exclude the gay and lesbian marchers.  This was considered a big victory by gay and lesbian activists and a big slap in the face of tradition by the organizers of the parade and the Irish community of Boston.  The national and local news covered "the controversy" to death.  You could not turn on the radio or the television or pick up a paper without hearing or reading something about it.  I believe it was even spoofed on late night talk shows.

Anyway, my lovely mom and her friend had made plans to go to Boston to visit one of the museums or some exhibit.  Their visit happened to coincide with the day of the Parade.  They spent the day wandering through the museum and went to dinner to top off the day.  As they were returning to their car, a group of flamboyantly dressed men walked by and caught their attention by talking loudly and festively.  My mom's friend turns to her and cracks wise with, "I guess they are coming from the parade."  My mother looks at the group and turns back to her friend and says, "How could you tell they were Irish?"

posted by: loosestring at 05:18 | link | comments |

Meanness in girls can start when they still are toddlers, a Brigham Young University study found. It found that girls as young as 3 or 4 will use manipulation and peer pressure to get what they want.

Some kids are really adept at being mean and nasty.   They regularly exclude others and threaten to withdraw friendship when they don't get their way.

The "mean girls" are highly liked by some and strongly disliked by others. They are socially skilled and popular but can be manipulative and subversive if necessary. They are feared as well as respected.

 Why is such common knowledge given news coverage because it is dressed in the clothing of academic study?  Anyone in my kindergarten class could  have published this paper.

 All I have to say is, "No kidding."

posted by: loosestring at 06:44 | link | comments |

It's all about the rage

In the name of my sanity I spent the afternoon in the garden.  I had much weeding to do.  This is a mundane chore and fairly mindless so I get to spend a little quality time in my head.  I tend to do my best, most productive thinking while my hands are occupied.

The garden is this huge project that I have made even larger with my need for planning on a grand scale.  We bought our house in October of 2003.  I was really looking forward to having a lawn and flowers. The first weekend after we moved in I decided that the small, pie-shaped wedge of grass between our walk way and the house was not really necessary.  I wanted to make the entire area a planting bed so I went out with a shovel and just started digging it up, much to the amusement of my new neighbors.  Since that time, I have dug up another large plot in the front of the house, removed two overgrown evergreen bushes with pruning shears and a lot of swearing, had four overgrown pine trees removed from the back yard, re-terraced the back including putting in a set of steps leading to the upper yard, dug up about half of the back yard to put in flower beds and planted somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 plants.  The plans for this year include putting in two raised planting beds, laying a small brick patio in the upper back yard, planting two trees and about 200 more plants.  You know, just a little relaxing, meditative yard work.

The other benefit, besides the time to sort out my thoughts, is that I am usually so worn out from my efforts that I have no problem falling asleep.  I have chronic problems falling asleep and I usually wind up awake and spinning thoughts around in my head at 3 am.  This is the non-productive form of thinking that usually leads to either nightmare-filled, non-restful sleep or a late night fit of housecleaning.  Not that the house couldn’t do with the attention but I think I need to sleep more than I need to clean.  The lack of sleep leads to short-tempered, ill-advised actions that lead to more late night spinning of thoughts which leads to …. and so on. 

Several years ago, I began to have back pain.  Not  “ouch, my back hurts, better take an aspirin” pain but wake-me-out-of-a-sound-sleep pain.  There were many nights that I did not get any sleep at all and had to go to work and try to function in spite of it.  The office that I worked in was very dysfunctional and so I needed to expend a fair amount of effort toward not telling people off and just generally trying to not get fired for telling my boss what a twat she was.  By the end of the day I was usually a seething ball of rage set to explode on the first person that crossed me.  I did begin to go to physical therapy and mental therapy to work things out but it was a drawn out process. 

One day, on my rush-rush-rush way to a physical therapy appointment, I decided that it might help my state of mind if I ate something.  So, I pulled into the very first fast food restaurant that I came to and ordered a Happy Meal (the name implies that it should aid in the happiness, right?)  Food in hand, I started on my way.  About three blocks away I discovered that the drive-through person had forgotten to put napkins in my bag.   I just snapped.  I turned my car around, drove back, got out of my car and stomped into the restaurant in full temper tantrum mode.  Once inside, I spotted a manager and threw my Happy Meal down on the counter and began to spew and fume in an impressive tirade about the lack of competence and the inconvenience it had caused me.  The poor manager who looked to be about sixteen tried to calm me down but I was not having it.  I hurled my parting shot, “My car does not come with a napkin dispenser in the dash so I would expect that napkins would be included with my meal” , grabbed a huge handful of napkins and flounced back out. 

About five minutes later, I began to experience the beginnings of the “rage hangover”.  By the time ten minutes had gone by I was mortified that I had acted like such a lunatic.  By the time twenty minutes had gone by I vowed never to go back to that McDonald’s again for fear that they had posted my picture and would be notifying the police.

Whenever I start to feel the rage rearing it’s ugly head I think of this incident and push it back down into a hard little ball in my stomach.

posted by: loosestring at 20:11 | link | comments (1) |

May cause dizziness or nausea

In light of recent posts full of parental angst and parental gloom, I suggest a story.  Draw up your chairs and gather round as I tell yet another story of my misspent youth.

When I was in high school I had a small group of friends with whom I spent most of my time.  We were Laurie, Lisa, Lisa, Becky and myself (Beth).  We spent every weekend together.   We went skating, skinny dipping, to parties, to dances, to movies...you name it.  We knew all of the secrets and we got into a fair amount of trouble together.  One particular incident is noteworthy, if slightly nauseating.

We had been throwing parties at the home of whichever of us had parents that were out of town for many years.  We had been caught numerous times and not caught probably just as many.  All of these parties were the typical high school keg parties with rock and roll, some minor drug use, some "making-out" and a fair amount of teenage drama.  This was Buttfuck, New Hampshire in the early 80's so there was not much in the way of entertainment to be had unless we created it ourselves.  By the time we got to Junior year we had decided that we were in need of more grown-up past times and we had a series of dinner parties.   These events were hosted at the home of the cook.  We got fairly dressed up and set the table with linens, etc. 

On the occasion of the last of these dinners, I suspect we had become bored with the tame activity.  After dinner was finished and cleaned up, someone suggested that we might want to find out if there were any parties going on in the area.  So, some phone calls were placed and we managed to get in touch with some of the local boys.  They assured us that there was a party that they were planning on going to and we were welcome to come along for the ride.  This seemed to be the most likely prospect.  Although these guys were not the boys that we typically hung out with, it was a fairly small town and there were bound to be people there that we knew.  This matter decided, we waited to be picked up.  The guys showed up and we managed to wedge everyone into the car (there were much more lenient seat belt laws or no seat belt laws) and we were off to the party.

Naturally, this party was at some fairly remote place far off in the woods by the side of a lake.  (This being New Hampshire that is the description for almost anyplace you go) We arrived at the destination and things seemed a little quiet.  There was a small bonfire with a couple of guys standing around and there was a cabin/cottage with some lights on and some music playing but this seemed a little tame even by our standards. But, we optimistically got out of the car and hoped that things had just not gotten started yet.  It did not take long for us to come to the conclusion that we were the party.  Just us dumb girls and about six or seven guys that we knew from town.  This was a little disappointing but there was beer and we were there and we had no ride home so, what the hell?

I started walking around trying to find one of my friends who seemed to have wandered off somewhere, when I walked into the kitchen of the cabin and found three of the guys sitting around the table bouncing quarters into a shot glass.  Not having seen this game before, I inquired "What are you guys playing?"  These are famous last words whenever they are uttered in the vicinity of a game of Quarters.  I was quickly invited to sit down by the group of grinning young men.  They would be more than happy to teach me their game, they assured me.  A half of a bottle of Canadian Club or so later, I began to have the sneaking suspicion that they were trying to get me drunk.  Oh, I was always the bright one in the crowd.

The evening gets a little blurry after that.  I know I rejoined my girlfriends.  I know that the decision was made to stay over at the cabin/cottage for the night because everyone was a little too drunk to drive.  There was some talking and then I noticed that everyone seemed to be pairing up.  This was odd but I don't think I really thought too much about it given my advanced state of inebriation.  It did, however, strike me that there was someone holding my hand and rubbing my leg.  When I managed to focus on who it was, I was susrprised to learn that it was someone that I did not know very well and who I had rarely even spoken to before this night.  I began trying to puzzle out how this came to be when I started to feel that queasy, dizzy, clammy feeling that I knew from experience preceded vomiting. 

I stood up and lurched into the washroom and managed to throw up in the toilet.  Just as I was beginning to feel quite pleased with my ability to make it all the way to the toilet, I started to feel very, very dizzy and I fell over.  Whereupon, I promptly vomited all over the floor.  Unable to raise myself off the floor but feeling much relieved at having rid my system of some of the poison, I decided that the bathroom floor was not wholly unsuitable as a place to sleep for the night and passed out.

I vaguely remember people talking while standing above me.  There was some discussion as to whether or not I should be moved to a bed or the couch.  I managed to mumble that I was quite comfortable right where I was in my cozy pool of vomit.  I suppose that there were larger concerns than my comfort.  I awoke the next morning still resting on the floor of the bathroom with my hand in the aforementioned pool of vomit.  I struggled to stand, washed my face and brushed my teeth with my finger and cleaned up my mess as best as I could.  Other people started to get up and, eventually, we were all together again and on our way home.

Once we arrived back at the house, we began to share our stories of the events of the evening.  I had apparently missed out on the action.  There was much coupling and everyone of my friends ended up involved with someone.  The guy who had been making his move on me took one look at me on the bathroom floor and decided he was out of luck.  One of the girls ended up with what we called the "necklace of hickeys".  She had a string of the largest, reddest, nastiest hickeys from ear to ear.  While she had the most obvious reminder of her misjudgement , no one seemed too pleased with the "party".

After some discussion, it was decided that I was the lucky one.  The worst thing that had happened to me was that I had laid on the floor and splashed my hand in my own vomit.

Ah, yes, good times, good times.

posted by: loosestring at 06:33 | link | comments (1) |

How I got here I haven't a clue

I am going to attempt to post from work today.  Yesterday I was just a little too mentally overwhelmed to manage coherent thought.  Wednesday is typically a slow day here at the job so we should be successful.  Success being a relative term.

I am beginning to get a grip again.  Yesterday all of my emotions were right on top of the pile where they were far too easily accessible.  I was weepy and bitchy in equal parts, swinging back and forth between the two in the blink of an eye.  Went to school thinking to get work done and I was just fine until people started talking to me and expecting conversation. I was not capable of human interaction because the crashing sound of my thoughts rushing  around in my head was a little distracting.  I decided to go home and spend the night on the couch in front of the television.  No interaction required and if it becomes too much you can shut it off.  The constant, distracting flow of images and familiar characters that do not require anything of me.  Simple and  mind-numbing.

So, on with the new topic.

This weekend we went to see "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy".  I had been looking forward to seeing it especially after I found out that Douglas Adams was involved in writing the script.  I had some hope that the basic sensibility of the book would not be lost in the translation.  I was not disappointed.  I was trying to figure out if the average moviegoer who had not had the pleasure of reading the book would be lost, but I got caught up in the movie and forgot about that.  I suppose that there are some inside jokes that are more fully explained in the book but, for the most part, I think this movie would be entertaining to the uninitiated as well.  In the case of a "cult" book transformed to movie, the primary aim should be to please the readers.  The marketing of this type of movie is going to be highly dependent upon attracting the fan of the original.  Having been sorely disappointed by many of the movie adaptations of favorite books, I am skeptical about the genre in general.

I went with my son and T, both of whom had not read the book.  T enjoyed himself, laughed at the absurdities and appreciated the humor.  My son was not as enthusiastic but he did like the movie. 

So, my review: 4 out of 5 stars.  (I am a hard grader)

The weather took a turn for the cold and damp this last week.  (Hmm...must study correlation between dark, nasty weather and downturn in mental well-being, perhaps there is a scientific explanation)  I am not a happy girl when the temperature dips below 50. If I could set the weather like a thermostat I would be a consistent 90 degrees with lots of humidity.  I cannot explain my love for the tropical weather other than a very far fetched throwback to being born in Key West, FL.  We did not live there long (my father was stationed there and when Vietnam got really rolling he went to sea and we went to California) but I think you could make an argument that the location of your birth could play a part in your personal makeup much the same way that time and date do.  (Presuming the validity of Astrology....and, come to think of it, I do believe that location of birth is a factor in atrological charting)  So, one could postulate, I was predestined to live by the beach, in tropical climates, bask in lots of sunshine on a daily basis, drink margaritas (or frozen drink of your choice) and listen to Jimmy Buffett.   I guess I could think of lesser fates.

posted by: loosestring at 18:27 | link | comments (1) |

The theme around here lately seems to be loss and change.  I suppose you could make an argument that much of life is about loss and change.  These are not, however, my favorite subjects.

Tonight I spoke with my father.  He has cancer that has spread very aggressively throughout much of his body and he is in the final stages of dying.  He has chosen not to receive any further treatment other than pain management.  Although he takes multiple forms of morphine, he is in constant, excruciating pain.  I can hear it in his voice.  My very articulate, intelligent father has lost the ability to remember names, places and details.  He has always been a story teller and now he cannot recall the details of the stories I have heard all of my life.  He has always been reserved in his display of emotion, particularly in the display of pain or sadness.  Now he weeps as he assures me that he is okay and apologizes for being openly emotional about his impending death.

I do not have words to give him the comfort that I want for him.  I tell him not to worry about me.  To do what is best for him.  I assure him that his tears are not breaking me apart.  I try to let him know that it is okay to stop fighting.  That I know he loves me.  That all has been forgiven and forgotten.  I do not know if I am convincing.  I want him to have an end to his suffering.  I want him to have peace.  I want him to live for ever and I want him to die so that he can be at rest. I want to stop crying.

I try to remember the stories.  They are my stories now.  I am the storyteller.

posted by: loosestring at 06:44 | link | comments (3) |

One of the unfortunate side effects of having had a somewhat turbulent relationship with my parents is the self conscious analysis I bring to of my role as a parent.  I am aware of the power and influence I wield in the relationship.  I know how important it is to express love, caring and general interest in a child. I know how important it is to talk and listen.  I know how important it is to just be present in their lives.  I can become very critical of myself when I fail to be the perfect parent , in much the same way I was critical of my failure to be the perfect child.  I am fearful of passing down the neuroses that I carry from my own childhood.

I am the very proud parent of a thoughtful, kind and loving seventeen year old son.  He is an only child.  We have a good relationship.  We talk openly and I feel like he trusts me to listen to him when he expresses his thoughts.  I have  tried to be honest with him and I have encouraged him to be honest with me.  We have talked about drugs and drinking and sex.  He has for the most part made good choices and has a good group of friends that respect his choices.  He has struggled a bit with depression this last year but he has made progress.  I am proud that he saw that he was beginning to have some problems and came to me to ask for help. 

The problem here is not my son.  The problem is me.  I am becoming increasingly aware of my fear of his growing up, leaving home and not needing me anymore.  I think this feeling is somewhat natural.  Of course it is natural.  I know it is a normal, healthy thing for children to grow up and grow independent.  I have done my job by trying to prepare him for what comes next.  I have given him a moral foundation to build his adult life upon and I am confident that he has the skills to manage that life.  I have no doubt in my mind that he will be okay.  I have no doubt in my mind either that I will be okay.  I am sure I can make the adjustment to no longer being the most important person in his life. 

Sometimes it just feels like the whole thing went by too fast. 

posted by: loosestring at 07:46 | link | comments (2) |