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I make no promises that I will be posting much more often. I seem to have needed a break. (I also pretty much entirely missed my “blogoversary” in June…how do you spell that, anyway? Oh, well.)

I wish I could say I’ve been tied up with (or by) a new lover, though surprising prospects are on the horizon, I suspect…we’ll see. More may be to follow on that; maybe not. I’ve been doing pretty much what I’ve been doing for the past year or so…family, occasional travel, work, gardening (which is amazing this summer…I love late summer!) These are heady days, indeed!

Garden View I

Snagged!

Please Note Tree Rat

I spent an scrumptious 9 days in the Bahamas last month.

My Private Bahamas Beach

I don’t think I’ll disclose the location of my private beach because I’d like to keep it that way, in case I want to return some day. If I mentioned the island before, you go dig it up; but the name of my beach will go with me to the crematorium! Now I’ve got my eye on Belize…and another Caribbean beach. Another cottage. I’m even wondering if I might be able to afford it in October of this year and still hit Memphis in November…

I’ve spent some wonderful days with my grandboy, who is an amazing little person. He’s very calm and peaceful and such a joy to play with. Toddlers have to be one of the greatest creations of all time. Can I bottle him up just like his little 16 month-old self is now and keep him that sugary forever? Don’t I wish! Though it might make it a little hard to take him to Europe when he’s a teenager.

Beach Boy

I’ve been doing some journaling in an undisclosed location and have done a lot of work in therapy, though I’ve only had a couple of sessions with my therapist in recent months. I mentioned this to her the other day and suggested maybe I should cut back and do some work on my own for a bit. She responded that she’d see me in two weeks.

I’m working on a journal post about things that I am passionate about. It will be a long list. I have a lot to go around.

The post itself is about Miss USA. I know it’s old news but, while I was tooling around YouTube today, I saw the video clip of the tumble Miss USA, Rachel Smith, took in June at the Miss Universe pagent in Mexico. Watch the MSNBC interview, as well. It’s worth it.

This is a woman with amazing grace and composure and I am proud to have her represent my country without reservation. The thing that made the greatest impression on me as I watched the video clip of her fall was that she immediately regained her composure and continued on with hardly a flicker. Look at her face 1.5 seconds after her butt hits the floor. She looks as if nothing ever happened. That is the spirit I’d like to see fostered in American women. Hell, in all women across the globe!

So what.

Fuck that.

I’m wonderful anyway.

Yeah!

P. S.  Either world’s loudest orgasm woman moved away or is having a very ‘dry’ summer.  I’m rooting for the former.

This is the DSM-IV diagnosis my therapist assigned to me a few years ago:

Dysthymia.

(I found that information on Internet Mental Health, which I haven’t explored enough yet to endorse, though methinks it has potential.)

And this is the most amazing description of my condition I could have ever imagined:

Mental Water Torture.

“If we think of major depression as a spectacular brain crash, milder depression can be compared to a form of mind-wearing water torture. Day in and day out it grinds us down, robbing us of our will to succeed in life, to interact with others, and to enjoy the things that others take for granted. The gloom that is generated in our tortured brains spills outward into the space that surrounds us and warns away all those who might otherwise be our friends and associates and loved ones. All too frequently we find ourselves alone, shunned by the world around us and lacking the strength to make our presence felt.

The symptoms are similar to major depression, with feelings of despair and hopelessness, and low self-esteem, often accompanied by chronic fatigue. This can go on for years, day in, day out.

Still, we are able to function, a sort of death-in-life existence that gets us out into the world and to work and the duties of staying alive then back to our homes and the blessed relief of flopping into our unmade beds.”

(from Suite 101…anybody ever heard of it before?)

Is it any wonder we turn to drugs?

Good thing I have an appointment on Thursday. After reading that, I am so much more depressed! ; )

Remember when I said I would be glad to fuck this man? At the time I said that, I even said I’d go so far as to marry him. Well, that was before I found out that Bill just quit drinking. Sorry, but given my family history, the last thing I need is a drunk man for a husband (or a drunk woman for a wife, for that matter, though the “Dad connection” is much greater with a man).

If you’ve just now shown up for the first time, welcome and a little backstory: my dad died a year ago and he was an alcoholic all my life, though a dry drunk for the last dozen years of his. I imbibe a bit but am very conscious not to overdo. I’ve always lived with the fear of developing a dependency (other than the nicotine addiction). I lived with the fear of becoming mentally ill, too, but that’s another post…

So, Bill, I’m in for a weekend (even a long one) but not a lifetime, Hon. Too risky.

Below is one of the reasons I’d fuck the man.

Here is where you can listen to and buy it.

These Cold Fingers

Gina left town with the first snow of the year
He drove her to the airport in his Ford
And he tried to propose as he ordered one more beer
but the PA drowned out his words and it was time for her to board.

So he walked her to the gate
He took his hat off as he kissed her
He needed one more drink to take the chill out of his soul
He said a quick goodbye then spent two hours in the bar
Finally paid his tab and kept a dollar for the toll

Everything slips through these cold fingers
Like trying to hold water, trying to hold sand
Close your eyes and make a wish a listen to the
singer
One more round, bartender, pour a double if you
can

It’s four o’clock and the sun’s gone down the drain
It’s still late winter but they say it’s early spring
Louis reads the gas pumps, Rossi counts the oils
But me I’m done so punch the clock and see you in the morning

There’s nothing back at home that ain’t gone greasy from the stove
I never laughed so hard as when that typewriter broke
Think I’ll stop along the river road for a half pint and some beer
Well everything would be ok if those old dreams would disappear

Everything slips through these cold fingers
Like trying to hold water, trying to hold sand
Close your eyes and make a wish a listen to the
singer
One more round, bartender, pour a double if you
can

The dog can’t move no more, surprised he made it till the spring
His pain won’t go away and the pills don’t do a thing
You’ve known that old hound longer than you’ve known any of your friends
And no matter how you let him down he’d always take you back again

So it’s one tall glass of whiskey, one last drink for old times’ sake
The dog just lays in bed and watches every move you make
Wrap him up in his blanket, hold him once more close to you
Lead him out behind the barn with a borrowed .22

Everything slips through these cold fingers
Like trying to hold water, trying to hold sand
Close your eyes and make a wish a listen to the
singer
One more round, bartender, pour a double if you
can

Bill Morrissey‘s These Cold Fingers, released on Standing Eight in 1989 on Philo Records. Available now on Rounder Records.

The raw emotion in that song, the heart-rending sorrow. Anyone with the ability to tap into that much pain in the world and keep on moving is a person of interest. Mind you, I had no idea he was speaking from personal experience about the booze. I assumed it was metaphor. Though from the raspy voice, I probably should have suspected…

Congrats on the sobriety, Bill! May it stay with you always!

 

This is a smattering of the stuff I’ve been dealing with over the winter; hence, my hibernation. I doubt I’ll be back much soon, though I do have a draft about what I’ve been up to.

You know, therapy’s got to end eventually, doesn’t it? It does. Doesn’t it?

Posted on an anonymous, private journal of mine, which I’m using as a therapy journal.

  • My garden is now my self, and my child.

All the diligence I put in to cultivating Michael to be a man of integrity, sincerity, hope is paying off now. He is a fabulous man and a fabulous father. He seems to have my instinct for how to nurture his son while fostering his intellect and his ultimate independence.

I really was very adept at encouraging Michael to be all he can, learn as much as he’s able, investigate as much as he desires. I also taught him, as best as I was able, to respect others, to be open to the world around him. I tried to encourage him to be open to his feelings; he denied any desire at the time but I see how open he is in his relationship with Jen and with his son.

I really did a good job nurturing and cultivating my fledgling to become a real man, a good man. Mostly I listened to my heart telling me all the things I wished I’d received as a child…unconditional love and acceptance, encouragement of my unusual bents, interests and proclivities, exposure to many different things and experiences in the world, being there and (mostly) paying attention to him.

Now he’s done. Not only have I gotten him through college, seen him married and a father, I now see him as a man considering and planning a future with his family. His emotional separation is complete. I have done a good job; no, I have created a masterpiece.

His honesty in our talk following the birthday party. The way he opens his eyes to the 600-pound gorilla, just like his mama, and deals effectively with it, unlike his mama, historically. He’s self-assured enough to be vulnerable, to assert what he wants or needs, to work on an issue pro-actively. What a man!

So, I wash my hands of that task. Except for getting him interested in politics (which might be more successful after he’s done grad school) there’s nothing more to be done there. Now, on to the next project.

  • My garden.

I’m communing with the earth this spring. I’m listening to her and taking instruction about what she needs here, how I can help there. I’m now talking about putting in a drainage system which will create a (sometimes) water feature through my terraced cut flower and rock gardens. That diversion would meet up with the primary diversion below the ivy-covered stump then trickle down along the half-buried drainage pipe that is (now, thanks to my efforts) carrying the water from the downspout to the creek.

I’m dreaming big and wild this year and the work will be backbreaking but when I’m done, there will be an environment that could be beautifully tended by another special soul or allowed to be swallowed back into nature with lovely surprises springing up in unexpected places at unexpected times.

Gnome Glen, Rock Garden (terraced), Cut-flower Garden, Perennial Bed, Annual Beds, screened seating area, vegetable garden, Wind Chime Tree, creek bank recovery project, creating a self-sustaining wildlife-friendly habitat.

Dad’s Black Willow.

  • Dad. Lisa. Death. Grief.

So, Lisa, who was my salvation, was cut off in the prime of her life and just prior to the start of my own. Lisa the Savior. Lisa, my Out!

I paid my dues…over and over again. I danced the dance like a marionette! Just who did I do the dance for, though? Yes, it was Mom and Dad’s dance, their song, but which was the one I must support?

The weakling. Dad.

  • Dad’s dead now.

The one I was allied with, the one with whose care I was charged. That one is dead.

The one that was my responsibility is dead.

The other? Is it my duty to save my mother? My brother? Or should the allies continue to dance the dance they choose.

I listen to my own drummer. I dance to my own music. I cannot dance that way any more.

I now dance much more in tune with my child’s music. Well, not his actual music, mind you, but emotionally…you know. Metaphor.

  • My Garden-Redux

Now I am allowing that incredible capacity I have for nurturing to flow where it will right now and all flow is toward the garden! (Well, there’s a little stuff going on inside too but that’s for another time.)

I speak with the garden, with the water that runs through it, with the perennials I or others before me have planted, encouraging them. I listen to the creek and the earth and the trees and plants as they tell me what they need then I provide it.

I believe I am turning into a serious gardener.

And it’s the yummiest thing I’ve felt yet!

I think I know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a woman who gardens. Either tends veggie patches or designs and builds wonderful habitats and stunning masses of natural beauty. I’d love to do any of this professionally but will content myself with being a nurse while I develop into a Master Gardener. Once I retire, all bets are off! I could be an entrepreneur…South Jersey native plant nursery lady. It’s about time!

Something to think about.

Of course, I could adapt that to being the Rochester-area native plant nursery lady if my grandson is growing up in the Syracuse vicinity.

Okay, is the lesson you’ve been waiting for…the one about knowing I don’t have to save the world, I only have to do what I can to make it a better place and I already do that? Oh that happened months ago.

Let’s move back to sex, shall we?

And hypnosis.

; )

So, there’s been a lot on my mind and a lot I’ve been dealing with as well as planning out my fabulous garden and doing random acts of gardening kindness in my community.

I’m getting to know some of the neighbors a bit better. : )

All in all, life is very good this spring.

Road

You can say the sun is shining if you really want to
I can see the moon and it seems so clear
You can take the road that takes you
to the stars now
I can take a road that’ll see me through

Nick Drake, Road; from Pink Moon, Island Records (though they were cooler in the 70’s!)

If anyone associated with Nick Drake or his estate wanders over here, I hope you don’t mind. : )

 

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartanlike as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to ‘glorify God and enjoy him forever.’

Mortal City

She never should have rented this apartment in the Mortal City.
The cold comes though every crack she puts her hand up to.
The radiator’s broken, so she has to use electric heat.

And tonight was the first date with the brother of the guy she worked next to.
He lived a couple streets away.
He listened, he had things to say.
She asked him up for dinner sometime.
“Sometime” was tonight.

She never should have rented this apartment in the Mortal City.
The cold comes though every crack she puts her hand up to.
The radiator’s broken, so she has to use electric heat.

The radio gave updates on the ice storm while she made the dinner.
They said, from all the talk, you shouldn’t drive, or even walk,
“And this just in — We’re asking everyone to turn off their power.
They need it at the hospital.”

She ran around pulling plugs, then she called him up.
Maybe now they shouldn’t meet; he said that he would brave the streets.
She met him at the door with a blanket and a candle,
Saying, “I heard it on the radio, I had to turn my power off.

He said, “You’re not the only one, the streets were dark tonight.
It was like another century
With dim lamps and candles lighting up the icy trees,
and the clouds,
and a covered moon.”

She said, “What kind of people make a city
Where you can’t see the sky and you can’t feel the ground?

“I tell you something, I have this feeling that this city’s dying.”
He said, “It’s not dying it’s the people who are dying.”
She said, “Yes yes I think the people are dying and nobody cares.

“We had all this technology. Our dreams were bold and vague,
And then one city got bad planners, one city got the plague.”

He asked, “Why did you move here?” She said, “For the job.
For the job and I’ve been so lonely here, so lonely.
There’s no one I can talk to.
You know I don’t even know your brother.”

He smiled and said, “Sometimes at night I walk out by the river.
The city’s one big town. The water turns it upside down.
People found this city because they love other people.
They want their secretaries; they want their power lunches.

“And think about tonight, I heard the same newscast you did.
I unplugged everything. I looked out the window,
And I think the city heard. I watched as one by one the lights went off
So they could give their power to the hospital.

They ate in silence while she thought this over.
They sat together in a dark room in the Mortal City.
Shifting in their blankets so they wouldn’t get spaghetti on them.

Then came the awkward moment after dinner, what to do.
The ice was still falling. The streets were still dangerous.
The cabs were not running and this neighborhood was not the greatest.

They both looked at the space where a couch would’ve been.
She felt her stomach sink. She felt like she could hardly think.

She said, “I never should have rented this apartment in the Mortal City.
The cold comes through every crack I put my hand up to.
The radiator doesn’t work. I have to use electric heat.”

And that settled it. They would both sleep in her bed.
It was a matter of survival.

She brought out teeshirts, sweatshirts, sweatpants, socks, hats.
If there was ever any thought of what would happen in that bed tonight,
There was no question now.
They could barely move.
They were wrapped up like ornaments waiting for another season.

They lay in bed, they listened to the pelting ice.
He said, “My brother’s not a bad guy, he’s just quiet.
I wished you liked this city.”
She said, “Maybe I do.

“I think I have a special kind of hearing tonight.
I hear the neighbors upstairs.
I hear my heart beating.
I hear one thousand hearts beating at the hospital,
And one thousand hearts by their bedsides waiting,
Saying that’s my love in the white gown.

We are not lost in the Mortal City.
We are not lost in the Mortal City.

by Dar Williams >(© 1996 Burning Filed Music, admistered by Bug)

Lyrics by Dar Williams. Punctuation and a little poetic license by me. Feel free to send me editorial suggestions on the latter and comments on the former.

I hope all is well.

Back to my blogging slumber…soon to be replaced with massive shoveling, purchasing, building, modifying, naturalizing, preparing and work.

Ahhh, spring…

Well, obviously I’ve fallen into some sort of hibernation period. Sorry about the hasty drop, folks. Neurological disorders are unpredictable.

I happened to find this gem through, believe it or not, AOL’s entertainment news. Yes, I’m a slut. Anyway, I happened to find this beauty too irresistible not to stash here for future reference.

Video: Our Swayze Reception.

Here is the YouTube video for your pleasure. By the way, if anyone can tell me how to download the actual file of this video (if that’s possible) please let me know?

(Aside: Oh! This is too good not to throw in here.)

Here are James and Julia on BBC Breakfast News following the smashing success of their YouTube memento.

And here they are on the obviously much more hip Richard and Judy. How come the guy gets top billing, anyway.

Finally, here is the website for the movie James manages to plug in both clips: AllBarLove.com.

The trailer, for your viewing pleasure:

All I have to say is I hope it makes it to the Ritz. I can only make out the damned dialogue of those Brit flicks on the big screen.

For another great Brit flick, check out Sliding Doors, with the oh-so-luscious Gwyneth Paltrow. She has the most delicious hair for half the film. Yes, despite her appalling taste in attire for award ceremonies. The icing on this cake is the always adorable John Hannah. (Yah, him I'd bed!)

But then that gets me thinking about Four Weddings and a Funeral and Possession (Aaron Eckhart, yummy! Blech! Gwyneth, most fetching!) and Sense and Sensibility. Scrumptious.

Final tidbit...here is James and Julia's "home." That video sounds like a shrewd move now, doesn't it? Who needs advertising when you can dirty dance?

Oh, pay no attention to this. I'm just setting it here so I won't forget it.

As for me, I walked Sadie, my "canine companion", in the drizzle this evening with my umbrella swinging from its leather strap by my side. The bathroom is presently warming and my pyjamas are toasting on the towel bar. I intend to get very warm and very snuggly very soon. Tonight, the wind will howl and the rain pelt and I will sleep, safe and serenely undisturbed.

I can't say when I'll be back next. Know that I'm doing alright. I'm back in therapy after a five-month break. Back on twelve-hour shifts, too, and feeling like a newborn. Sometimes I'm almost giddy on the job! In my present, semi-dormant state, I fear I may be getting a little Moley. I hope this doesn't Drag-on too long.

I turn fifty next week. Did I mention that? Feel free to send greetings. (::wonders how to get a PayPal button::) I'll be in NYC, secure in the anonymity of the eight million or so. I wouldn't be the least surprised if I happened to post some more, providing I get my laptop's wireless adapter up and running again.

Wish me luck.

Off to the showers, which sounds a little kinky...

(Really final aside: My pc used to face into the corner. After my dad died a year ago, I rearranged. Now it faces the road, the world. Just thought you might find that interesting... Mmmmm...maybe a little "treat" before that shower...)

Before that she bitched about: