It Always Has to be Complicated

Loyal readers noticed that for a day or so this week the blog suddenly went away, requiring a password and a wordpress account, a pound of flesh and a promise to never, ever send me your first born (that last bit is still firmly in place, so go un-tape the priority mail box and let junior out, please). That came about because someone whom I had asked to respect my privacy where my blog was concerned chose to disregard that request, read it, and was unhappy with what they found. So I shut the whole mess down to give myself some time to think about it.

While I’ve never said so publicly, I’ve silently agreed with criticisms leveled against those bloggers whose families are fodder for their blogs and who have therefore created a sort of product out of their children/marriage/relationships that means any interaction must be viewed as potential material to bring in the cash. I’m uncomfortable with that. In a way, I fear that for those who are truly earning a living as a blogger, it’s kind of like the grandparent who spends every family gathering obsessively photographing or filming it. They’ve isolated themselves behind an observational lens that separates them from the experience their family is having because they are looking through the camera, thinking about lighting and focus and how to compose a good shot. The same is true of blogging–when every interaction with your spouse, every cute thing your kids says, every moment must be viewed through the lens of the internet and how to best capture it for a post, you lose a connection to yourself.

It isn’t simple. The grandpa with the camera loves his grandkids and wants to capture every moment. The mommy blogger with the precious two year old who refuses to potty train loves her kid and wants to share the ups and downs with a larger community. Sometimes the greatest infusion of encouragement comes from saying, “Wow, I’m going through X with my kid/husband/parent and I don’t know what to do” and having someone comment that they’ve gone through the same thing, here’s what worked for them. The balancing act of blogging happens at the intersection of where blogging is good for the blogger vs. unfair to the blogged about.

I don’t blog anonymously, but I don’t include the names of my family or friends beyond what they leave in comments. During a period of time of great strife in my household, I have blogged about what kid A or kid B is up to in terms of how I am feeling and what I am going through. It was called to my attention that this wasn’t okay with the person(s) being blogged about, so I have removed some content because I agree, it might suck to find out your mom/wife/friend is blogging about you. Yet, on the other hand, where do my rights as a person who needs to talk about what I’m going through come in? That’s an easy question to answer until you add “on the internet” or “in a public, open access forum”. And if I decide that my rights don’t extend to discussing specifics of what Kid A or Kid B did or said this week or what issues I’m having in my marriage or how crazy my or someone else’s mother drives me, then does my blog cease to have any value? I would be bored by purses, dog pictures and artwork, both as a blogger and as reader.

 Off the top of my head, I can make a list of people I’d prefer didn’t read my blog because I am pretty sure they’d be hurt or angry: my mother, my grandmother, my inlaws, my employers, my husband’s employer, the IOGG, the drunk biologist, the Event, Still Water, etc. It would be uncomfortable at BEST.

So, that leaves me looking at my freshly sanitized blog and wondering if this is maybe not such a good idea. If maybe it’s time to rejoin the world of the Not-Internet and keep a diary if I want to write about myself. I mean, I could say that in terms of the person who read this blog, FINE, I won’t blog about YOU, but that’s not really the issue. The issue is whether or not I can write a letter to the Whole World about anyone I want. Were I to go off and start a completely anonymous blog, I’d be writing to myself and no one else, since my only web presence to date is under my real name. Right this minute, I have issues with realtionships I’d dearly love to blog about, but I feel I can’t. I’m not sure if it’s the right way to go about sorting out my feelings. I’m not sure that the benefit to me is worth the potential harm to someone else who didn’t give me permission to hang their dirty laundry out on the web, even if it does allow me an avenue by which to sort out my feelings and interact with them more successfully in the end.

 

UPDATE: Or, as someone I pay to advise me pointed out, I am the Mommy, and I make the decisions. So if I say that the blog isn’t someone else’s business and they choose to read it, then reader beware. I’m getting one of those shirts that says “because I’m the Mommy, that’s why” to remind me that I spend way too much time explaining myself. Which doesn’t make the above less relevant or meaningful, it just reminds me about who is in charge around here.

Why My Studio (and the Puppy) is Coated in White Dust

The gallery owner from Montana will arrive at The Event’s studio today (like, right NOW) to decide what naked raku pieces he will be taking to Livingston. He actually saw the work a week or so ago, before I had seen anything fired, and from the smoke The Event is blowing up my ass, he really liked my stuff. I’ve been cranking out pots this week in order that he might have a strong group to choose from. Last Friday I went to The Event’s studio to snap some shots of finished work and see how they came out, but my camera battery claimed exhaustion after three photos.

Anyway, here are two shots I managed before the camera curled up in its beddy-bye basket to make mimis:

  

That second one was my first experiment with shading, which basically means I brush down layers of the glaze that I am etching as I work (It turns into a powder that is finer than dust, and I’m not exaggerating in terms of how much white shit there is on everything in my studio, animate and inanimate alike). I’m really happy with it, and expect that it will soon be on its way to Montana. I will be going to photograph the rest of them tonight (with a well rested and quite refreshed camera) as well as to hear about what was selected and any feedback concerning my work. Given the way things have been going, I really hope it’s positive, glowing feedback.

And Some Perspective

If you had already read the previous post, you might notice now that I edited out some of my more snarky commentary concerning my husband. We had argued yesterday, it wasn’t a good day, but I realize maybe I should be more cautious as to what I say in a public forum. Last night at about 9:20 one of my closest friends, my neighbor, my “spiritual mother” called us. She said, “Genni, I need help” and I was already flying out the door even as I was trying to find out what was wrong. Her partner was unconscious, and sgt gennimcmahon, came right behind me. As I called 911, sgt gennimcmahon started CPR. My friend’s partner had suffered a heart attack about a month ago, but was doing quite well. He was only 66, and although CPR was started within minutes and the EMS response time couldn’t have been faster, his spirit was already gone. After an hour and a half of shocking him, loading medication after medication, the ER doctor told my friend that he had been coded for far too long. We went in and they turned off the machines and we stayed with him until his stubborn body let go at 11:30 pm.

This man, he was a rascal. He was infuriating, egotistical, loud and at the same time funny, generous and often very kind. My favorite memory of him will always be the day the Smallest of the Fries marched up to his house with a plastic sword and this man, he leapt out the door with a colander on his head and his own plastic sword and they battled it out. Not many grown men will do that for a little kid.

Today we will help my friend make calls. They were not married, he was estranged from his family, it will be messy. She is without a job, everything in her life is completely uncertain, and he didn’t get around to drawing up a will to protect her, so there will likely be no benefits for her. It’s a disaster, and in the midst of that, my arguing with sgt gennimcmahon seems pretty meaningless. I was never prouder to be his wife when he unhesitatingly laid that man on the floor and started CPR, apologizing as he did so, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you but the ambulance is on the way, so hang on.”

We’ve had about four hours of sleep, and today I will help my friend make arrangements and calls and all the business of finishing up his affairs as best we can. At some point in the future, sgt gennimcmahon and I will talk about our fight yesterday, but not now–much more important stuff is happening, and reality has pointed out that despite our current woes we know when to set that aside to attend to the immediate, which tells me all I need to know about our marriage today.

The Battered Ego as Contained by an Aging Body

Yeesh. I am not lying when I say that my whores? They have been moaning a lot lately. It’s that joyous late 30s shift as my body struggles to straddle the fence between havin’ babies and shutting down the baby factory. At this point, I pretty much feel that my body is sending the message that I could have more babies, but damn, it wouldn’t be pretty. Which, by the way, is fine—I am firmly out of the baby business. BUT, I am noticing a significant loss of youthfulness. My way of physical sloth is revealing itself as I age. Shit’s sagging around these parts, the hair is gray, the underarms wiggle and waggle disturbingly when I wave (hello or goodbye, it doesn’t matter, and yes, that’s research I’ve engaged in). Suddenly I’m wondering if I shouldn’t start buying clothes in the grown up lady department instead of the juniors. I even ordered a swimsuit from the “swimdress” section of Newport News, and found that unless the “dress” part of the swimdress is brushing my knees, it’s not really helping anything–but damn, the built in “Shape F/X” makes it hard to breathe. (I suspect that all the fat squeezed by the F/X promptly shifts down to my thighs, which, in case anyone from Newport News is reading this, doesn’t seem to much help the self-confidence situation).

I’m aging. I’m having a hard time with a kid. Marriage is hard work.

This past weekend, we went to a big shindig at the home of sgt gennimcmahon’s boss. This boss, he made a lot of money as a financial guy, so he doesn’t really *have* to work. As we stood in the room with the indoor pool (bigger than our house), and his perfectly stunning wife welcomed us in her very short dress that topped her very fabulous legs (no children, over 40, breast cancer survivor–in the way they might make a Breast Cancer Barbie) I felt even more goofy that I had after the 17,000 outfits I had tried on prior to arriving and thanked the good dog that I hadn’t gone with the shorter skirt. After all, my streaky fake baked “natural glow” (natural only in the way that, say, jaundice is natural) and calloused feet and wide ass were plenty to contend with under normal circumstances. It was not a relaxing sort of party, because what with the dazzling wealth and the open bar and the band and, yeah, the pool (from which one could watch the horses), it included a veritable small town Who’s Who. Sgt gennimcmahon is a civil servant, so when the grossly obese politician hugs me and says, “Yer mah buddy, arencha dear?” I have to smile and say yes. I have to nod and be polite about the troubles some developer’s very decorative wife is having with finding a good, private, Christian school.

It’s not fun in that way that fun is usually fun.

As it turned out, The Event and Still Water were there, which was lovely, they were convincing a couple we know to come see some of my pottery at The Event’s studio. This couple is one that I would swear on a stack of bibles is married so that no one need question their straightness when, seriously, these two people are NOT gettin’ busy unless he’s pretending to be even more effeminite to her Butch. We went to a party at their home once and since then, she’s managed to snub me or “forget” who I am half a dozen times. We will pretend that she is just that intimidated by me. I had even complimented her on her Spam earrings (there’s a museum and they sell jewelry, who knew?) at her party, and she doesn’t know that I spent part of the time in the kitchen with a tiny crab leg hanging out of my mouth because I was intimidated by the tiny crab leg appetizers. When The Event brought us together she had to cover her snobbery (although women in Talbot’s “comfort” clothes, give me a break, snobbery is your only defense when you’re wearing pastel plaid campshirts and coordinating melon pedal pushers) by saying, “You change your hair so much that I just never recognize you–but of course your tattoo is how I know it’s you!” Whoops, just gave yourself away, sister, since the tattoo is always with me–not like I can leave IT at home.

The Event has been on this tear that Still Water wants to give me drawing lessons, which I had ignored largely because The Event, he’s excitable, and Dude, I can draw already, okay? It didn’t occur to me that at this party, that subject might come up again. Ah, but it did, and it was Still Water who asked if I wanted lessons, and I said, well, you know…..and she said that she really thinks I have talent, but I could really go a lot further with better drawings skills….Or, was I happy with my work as is? To which I said that of course one is never entirely finished learning, so, well, unless I’m dead I’m not figuring I’ve reached my zenith or anything, and somehow now I’m going to have some lessons.

That this wounds my ego is strictly, STRICTLY my problem. Because I am speaking truly when I say that I could always learn more, I could always get better. I think that this is being offered to me because they see talent, they wish to foster talent, and they think they can help. It’s just, you know, I’d really like to be the sort of fantastic, amazing talent who is already drawing rings (perfectly shaded and balanced) around everyone else in the world. In which case, of course, I wouldn’t be making pots for craft fairs, now would I? I certainly wouldn’t be making purses. I have, often, wished I had stronger technical skills, that when I wanted to draw something I just could–that the drawing of something wouldn’t be the hardest and most consuming part of the process and that I would end up with something that was just like I wanted it, not an approximation. So, I can suck it up and take drawing lessons and keep my fragile ego out of it.

It will come as a shock to no one, I hope, that I am human. After the disaster with that wretched gallery owner, I was delighted to find that I didn’t take it at all personally. I’ve got plans for three shows in the fall, all of whom are juried, and I’ve been confident that acceptance to them is a non-issue. Two of them were suggested to me by The Event, and I’ve been accepted to the least discriminating of those already. The other was a show in El Paso, and I paid a measly five bucks to submit three images to the jury. I was surprised, then, to find that they had rejected me via a letter that arrived today. As I was pondering that, The Event called, asking if I’d gotten my letter, how we needed to decide where to put our booths, and I said, well, see, they shot me down. To his credit, The Event was shocked. He apologized for getting in when I did not, and came over to give me a pep talk. I realize that there are plenty of reasons, not related to my work, as to why they didn’t take me. Somebody’s BFF might make purses from the asses of used jeans, and so they didn’t want to lose all their business to me. Or, I might be so fucking talented that I’ll make everyone else there look bad, right?

But it all just leaves me feeling like shit. The hard stuff that is happening right now–parenting challenges, marital challenges, therapy and self-improvement–that’s plenty. When the things I usually fall back on (”I’m a good artist” “I’m a fantastic purse maker” “I have mad sewing skills” “I’m attractive and youthful looking” “I’m not a Freak”) start to shift on me, damn.  I don’t need a letter telling me they don’t want my stinkin’ purses. I don’t need reminding that I could draw better.

The world doesn’t really care what we feel up for, though, so this is a point where I need to learn how to manage my ego so that I can be more resilient. Resilience is something I’m going to need a lot of, especially since there is still the really seriously juried show to apply to, and I’m going to be a parent for the rest of the forseeable future, and I would like to remain married. 

Team Kennel Cough Kicks Tail

Despite her pensive expression, Trixie is actually happy to know that two of her three new dog family are coughing until they throw up. This confirms that Team Kennel Cough has succeeded, and she will be just fine. If she weren’t a dog who doesn’t speak English, I’d say she is reflecting on the fact that just two days after she came home, the shelter euthanized her entire litter.

Trixie got lucky, as did we—this is a smart, easy to train dog. We’ve had her just over a week and despite her illness, she is sometimes going outside, by herself, to use the facilities. She sits, we’re about halfway there on “lay down” and last night she put herself to bed. Seriously, she walked right into her crate and laid down. The night before, in an unbearably cute moment, she climbed into a laundry basket full of dirty clothes, made a nest, and proposed that she sleep there for the night. We compromised and put some laundry in her crate for her to snuggle with.

Thanks for all the good wishes. Maybe we should set up a paid hotline for other puppy rescuers. We could have Team Kennel Cough, Team We Caught the Parvo Early and Team Worms. Think we’d make any money?

 

UPDATE: Trixie returned to the vet today, where we were told that Yes, she looks great, Yes, it’s good that the other dogs are sick, but No, we cannot entirely rule out Distemper as of yet. We’re 80-90% sure that we’re okay, but until a few months (yes, MONTHS) go by, there will be a small, malingering doubt loitering about the back of our minds. But we pay that no mind I tell you! Trixie has gained weight, she’s 4 months old, not 2 months old, and she’s good as gold. So sayeth I. Just, you know, cross your little toe or something.

If My Point of View Expands Any Further, My Head Will Explode

I’m a Leo. While you may or may not hold any truck with the astrological, it explains to my own satisfaction why I am an opinionated bitch. One of those opinions, long held, has been that I would never obtain a dog by a method other than rescue. I privately and not-so-privately looked down upon those who would as morally inferior.

Like most people, I learn best by personal experience, and like most people, it takes regular reminding to make me aware that other people learn by their own personal experiences, and those experiences may be different, OR EVEN DIAMETRICALLY OPPOSED TO MY OWN, but are equally valid. I can’t help that I am a bit smarmy, and as I marched out of the local shelter with a freshly spayed Trixie in my arms, I felt all  glorious with moral virtue. We paid $75 to cover immunizations, the spay, and the adoption fee. The shelter provided one month of pet insurance as a “gift.”

Today, when Trixie had coughed all night for two nights and had stopped eating and drinking as of this morning, we visited our vet. A light shone into those closed recesses of my brain as the vet explained that it is quite possible that she has Distemper and that after several weeks of pouring money and fluids and antibiotics into her, she will have to be put down once the disease becomes neurological. Did you know that there isn’t a definitive test for Distemper? Me either. Did you know that it can present quite similarly to Kennel Cough and/or Parvo? Did I ever think I would be saying to myself, “Please let the Parvo test be positive, please, please, that’s treatable”? No, I didn’t.

The Parvo test was negative. The blood culture provided potential (false) hope, in that her white count and the other thing that measures whether or not her body is fighting back are high. Typically in Distemper, those are low because the immune system is suppressed. However, that could be because a) it’s early yet, or b) there’s secondary shit going on. At best, AT BEST, she has Kennel Cough and a secondary pneumonia. This visit cost us $166, all but fifty of which the insurance should reimburse us. That’s not really the issue, though. The issue is that we are already in love with this puppy. I’ve already invested three sleepless nights and hours per day of socialization and training. She’s got the dog door down pat, she knows I want her to pee or poop when I say, “go potty, Trixie!” and she will–even today as sick as she is–follow me throughout the house, even when she has to get up and lie down ten times in an hour.

As I explained to a teary 6 year old that we had to be prepared for Trixie to maybe not make it, I understood that adopting a dog from the shelter isn’t as straightforward as it sounds. A lot of them come home sick. A lot of them don’t make it anyway. Sure, we’ll be glad to know that even if Trixie’s life with us is measured in weeks instead of years we gave her love and happiness for awhile. But that won’t unbreak our hearts. I suddenly thought, “Damn, even though it’s always a gamble, at least a properly weaned puppy from a good breeder wouldn’t be likely to come home with distemper.”

Miss Trixie, who could hardly be bothered to raise her head from the exam table, received a parvo test (swab in the butt), a fecal test for worms (swab in the butt part 2), a blood test, and subcutaneous fluids. That last bit means they pump in a bag of IV fluid in between the skin and muscle tissue at the neck/back, giving her a camel hump of fluid that hydrates her and leaks out for quite awhile afterward. She received antibiotics, expensive canned food to entice her to eat, and was dewormed for caution’s sake.

If it is Distemper, we’ll be in a cycle in which she gets better, then gets worse, then gets better, then gets worse, then gets better, then gets neurological symptoms, then gets put to sleep. We’ll be even more attached to her, if that’s possible, and considerably lighter in the wallet. While I will still always rescue animals rather than purchase them, I will no longer stand atop a lofty perch when I meet people who do buy or breed dogs responsibly. I understand the fact that there are different levels of risk, and some people don’t want to go through this. I hardly fault them, because this is really pretty miserable.

The subcutaneous fluids perked her up a bit, and she devoured the canned food, both of which are good signs. We are far from being out of the woods. At the moment, she is snoring beneath this chair, and as soon as I get up, she’ll drag her lopsided (the fluids shifted to the side of one shoulder, so she’s half Hulk, half puppy) self to wherever I go next, flop down, and fall back asleep. If she stops following me, I’ll know we’re in trouble and headed back to the vet. It will be a long couple of weeks.  

It Was Between Trixie Belden and Honey Wheeler

And we chose Trixie, since there are a lot of dogs out there named Honey (true fans of those old mysteries will know the origin of both names, however). Our newest family member is obviously mostly Pitt Bull, a breed I happen to adore (nothing says “pinch me” like the muscular thighs of a Pitt Bull). According to the shelter, she is part German Shepherd, but frankly, they’ll say anything to get you to take a dog, so they always bill the Pitts as being of mixed heritage. They also said that she was very quiet at night, and very shy, and that she was eight weeks, no, no, sixteen weeks, no, eight or ten weeks old. She’s a puppy, ma’am, okay?

She’s darn cute, is what she is:

  

And one to demonstrate that I like my dogs big:

 

 

That smallest of the fries is no small kid himself–often ranking with the second graders instead of the kindergarteners, if that gives you an idea.

We adopted Miss Trixie on Thursday, but couldn’t take her home until she had been spayed, which happened Friday night or Saturday morning. We brought her home Saturday afternoon (yesterday), and she’s adjusting to the new digs pretty well. The older dogs hate, hate, hate her, but do so quietly and to themselves, as they know perfectly well who’s in charge. The Chihuahua is indignant that the puppy (who is bigger than he is) thinks he’s her age and wants to -gasp- play with him. He is full of wounded pride, thoroughly insulted by her attempts to spring upon him.

At this point she seems to have decided that I am her mommy and she is my shadow, so that no matter where I go, there she is. She understands the dog door, has gone potty outside several times, and slept all night in her crate. Sadly, she was very quiet when, during the night, she had tremendous diarrhea, which resulted in quite the festive morning. I’ll be setting an alarm to get her up during the night, thanks very much. She has yet to bark, which we like, and when she is having crate time she howls, which we think is hilarious (that may change if she decides to sing all night, but last night, as long as she knew I was nearby, she was quiet–far too quiet, as it turned out). She has learned, TWICE, that if she tries to chew the bars on the crate, her nose gets stuck. It hurt. Both times.

She’s not a watch dog yet, of course, but I picked her in large part because when I walk her as a full grown dog, she will send a “Men Making Kissy Noises Will Be Eaten” sort of message. I like that message. A lot.

A Plea for Votes for Violence

One of my best friends, Evil E of the LA Derby Dolls was kidnapped and forced to watch WE TV (I know, the deprogramming cost a fortune!). During her incarceration, though, she found herself compelled to submit a picture of herself and her cat, Lizzy Borden, for the Perfect Pair contest. Up for grabs is $5000 clams, so if you wouldn’t mind, mosey on over there and give them a rating of 10. She’s the only pet owner who describes her pet as “the world’s most violent cat.” Who doesn’t love that? Go here and vote, vote, vote!

 

A Buffet-Style Post, Where Things are More Related Than You Might Think

This is a catching up post. There are things I want to talk about, but I don’t know how much sense they will make to anyone other than me. It’s like eating at Furr’s, if you are like me you get fried okra, macaroni and cheese, fried fish and lemon meringue pie and call it a meal while other people regard you in horror. But it’s Furr’s, and what you like is your own private business, and no one else has to eat it. So, if you don’t get it, that’s okay. There’s a salad bar and a sundae machine around here somewhere to occupy you.  

That said, I’m behind in scanning artwork, but here is the most recent to be added to the computer memory banks:

  It goes with the series of art I’ve been putting up over the past months, and will be exhibited in December at a group show at the home of The Event. The theme of loss and grief, tears and oceans is one I’m not yet finished with, and it is still closely tied to -Ray and Ruby’s deaths. I’m sure that someday I’ll be done with that process, but not yet, and not now.

So many things spin forth from what happened to my dearest sister-friend and her child, things predictable and things surprising. Recently, I wore a skirt that was -Ray’s. I had reinforced the seams several times, as it was composed of a rayon/linen blend and that is a fragile fabric. Painted on the skirt was a dinosaur. I sat down at the computer that day and the back seam popped and split. I remembered -Ray telling me about the skirt, and had found a business card amongst her things that I *thought* belonged to the artist who painted that fanciful creature on it. I emailed her. She emailed back.

After two emails the pieces fell into place and I realized that she wasn’t just someone who had met -Ray, she was someone who was very tied to her, had been close friends with her, and was left bereft and confused and staring into a void of unknown when they died. I was able to fill Lissie in on what I have pieced together, and she provided information to me, as well. I knew John had “Sent some people away who think they are friends but aren’t” and I had wondered—who was it that he severed ties with during that week as he isolated his family unto his own muderous heart? I know now that Lissie and her husband were among them, suddenly getting an email saying that they had never been liked, to never approach them, to stay away. I tried to provide some perspective for her–it wasn’t anything they had done; it was John’s need to keep anyone from figuring out what he intended to do, to keep people away from Ray who might reach out and help and prevent his actions.

Lissie and I found that the universe lined up and somehow -Ray worked through us. Lissie is an artist, and she makes jewelry. She offered to give me a piece, and I agreed only if she would accept a purse. We each unknowingly selected the very item that the other had secretly chosen for them. I sent Lissie a card that featured a print of a fairy, and she told me that she and Ray each had a framed copy of that print in their houses. She thanked me for being “the keeper of the puzzle” and for whatever reason that struck me and I realized that I have taken on that role, and I’m glad that what I’ve carefully assembled over months of thought has functioned to help someone else deal with what happened. We are glimpses of our dear friend for each other, and I treasure that and tuck it away into my heart.

This theme of loss that I grapple with-that has become part of what I do with my life-includes my own fears about loss of myself. I have always harbored a tremendous and crippling fear of my own death, and so because I have the therapist who pulls no punches, we have been dealing with that in a way that leaves me in a fetal position, being swept out to the parking lot until next week. My own fears concerning what constitutes “I” and what is “life” and what is meant by “death” are now inextricably wound up in -Ray, in what happened, in whether or not she knew, and what she knew, in what she might know now or where she might be. Her mother believes that Ray, who died after Ruby and John, didn’t let go until when, in the ambulance, she heard them pronounce Ruby. She was never conscious, and I pick away at that, wondering, how did she know? DID she know?

This weekend I had a tiny experience that while not of much consequence served to further illuminate the murky concerns of mortality. We had gone to an opening at the gallery and while I was talking to someone, the fingers of my right hand went completely numb. I felt weird, as well, regarding my sand-filled digits with detachment, “Hmmm. This is bad. Well, better not let on, I’ll keep trying to move them…hmmmm.” Then my vision went a little funny. These are both symptoms of migraine, and I have those sorts of migraines every few years or so. But then, the vision thing righted itself. We left the gallery, and as we got into the van I mentioned the events to sgt. gennimcmahon “just in case.” I suspect I was not thinking so straight at the time.

We drove about, looking for somewhere to eat. One of the kids said, “How about the place we went with The Event that time?” And I said, “Who’s The Event?” Everyone in the car suddenly looked at me. Sgt. gennimcmahon put his hand on my hand and said, “Honey? The Event and Still Water? THE EVENT?” and I said, “I’ve met them? I know them?” Which earned me a trip to the ER, pronto. The children were dropped at home, money for pizza was flung on the table and sgt. gennimcmahon zipped me back across town to the hospital. All the way there asking me, “What day is it?” “Who am I?” (I knew all the answers, by the way, it was a short-lived little brain problem).

The ER part of this is not the point, and it did turn out to most likely be a weird migraine. But the abrupt forgetting of a major part of my life; that was somehow very shocking to me and to sgt gennimcmahon  It was one of those messages from mortality that you might just punch your ticket any old time, and there won’t be any warning. You might stop being YOU, and it might happen before you have time to realize it. I knew that I should know who they were talking about. And as they kept mentioning things to get me to catch up, I was trying to put those things together, “The Event….the pottery, naked raku…what is that? I should know this, but EVENT? Oh, smile and pretend, you should know this, look, they are freaking out here…”

I’m so concerned about the ME that must be in there; is there a core of me-ness that doesn’t go away even when I reach the point of ultimate forgetting? Am I in there?  If I am leaving and I don’t know it, how will I save anything to remember me by? This is why I don’t sleep well; it’s an endless circuit that runs through my brain. I have an absolute horror of dying in my sleep for that very reason.

Yet, I believe that Ray; some aspect of her that is real, worked through the universe to bring me and Lissie together at the exact moment it happened. I believe that the connections were made for a reason. And so I hope that even if I get switched off before I’m ready, that whatever is the essential aspect of me will remain. Just like I know exactly where I was and what I was thinking when I had no idea who The Event was. I knew that wasn’t right, even if I was pretty altered at the time it happened. Mainly I was sort of lost in my head, like when I’ve been given narcotics, and my mind is just babbling away, but if I open my mouth nothing intelligible comes out. My mind was saying, “Wow, something is really wrong here, seriously, this is not good, you should really say something about this, and quickly.” But it didn’t come out of my mouth.

I feel somewhat embarrassed that this small thing–a mundane headache, really–seems like a big enough deal to post about. But I do think things happen for a reason, and appropriately or not, it definitely tripped something related to a larger set of issues in my life right now. I think we all have experiences like that, and I can’t help how much it struck me. I’m an organized person, I like for the pieces to fit into the puzzle—I will worry with it until it does, or I pass out after three days without sleep. So that’s that–this is where I’m at today, this week, right now. Wondering, changed, seeking. But also grateful for Lissie. Grateful for sgt. gennimcmahon who did not wait for me to tell him that things might not be okay and who did not agree with me that we should bail on the ER once it seemed like there might be a wait and who even looked up the symptoms of a stroke on his PDA and then showed it to an impassive receptionist. These are all pieces of a puzzle so big I can’t even determine what the final picture will be, but I have to keep putting the pieces together anyway. Like a giant mandala, perhaps, it seems important.

 

 

Humor in the Midst of Madness

The only thing worse than having a neighbor who paints this on the side of her house:

 

Is finding out that the cross-eyed Native American is apparently utilized by other artists, as well:

 

This one is on etsy for a mere $2500 (and made by different people whom I hesitate to call “artists”).

See, the rendering by Crae Z. struck me as plain old bad painting. There’s no indication that she’s any good at this. But the sculpture, well, WTF?

AHA! I googled it, and it seems that some white people, having seen very old photos of Natives  made them look cross-eyed (maybe because they weren’t a people who sat around posing for a camera?). So, yeah, there’s some cultural appropriation we can throw in the mix with stupidity and ignorance. This should be the universal symbol for stupid white people.

Sigh.