Summer update

I don't know what has made me finally update this thing. Well, okay... yes I do. Full disclosure.

I looked up some critic I used to read in the 80s/90s. A common hack, but a very puffed-up, self-righteous hack; one of those you remember for their never-ending indignation and bluster (which should not be confused with genuine insight). Whatever happened to that person?--I wondered.

Answer: They are teaching at an Ivy League university.

This warmed-over, self-congratulatory HACK is now teaching AT AN IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL ... and apparently, is regarded as pretty damn important. Say what?

And when did THAT happen? HOW did it happen? Who did they blow to get that job? Surely, this Ivy League school read the same warmed-over bluster that I did? Didn't they?!?

See, this is why writers give up. This is why. The hacks who repeat dopey conventional wisdom are rewarded with the best jobs in the land, while us poor local radio-hosts/bloggers/burnt-out columnists trudge ever-onward, totally ignored. They steal our ideas, our memes, our catchy phrases, our radio-show topics, et. al... and then they get the gigs the rest of us will never get because we are too poor, don't live in the right part of the country and don't wear the right shoes.

Further, we don't even know WHERE TO BUY the right shoes.

Anyway, I just thought I would mention that. Ivy League. Somebody who can't put together two decent similes in a row, now teaches the privileged children of American how to write badly. Jesus wept.

~*~

And now, the summer update. Yes, the summer is almost over, so I figured it was safe to update now.

Aside from posting some pretty photos and similar inconsequential ephemera, I have basically taken leave of evil tumblr, Heart of Darkness. My account was hacked and I thought, okay. This is it. They really really do not want me here, it certainly isn't just my imagination. I considered deleting my entire account/tumblr blog, but I have linked it here (and other places) a few times, and therefore have no desire to do that. If people dislike what I have written or what I have reblogged, I really don't care. (Reblogging does not equal agreement, but that concept is FAR TOO COMPLEX for the nasty suburban brats at tumblr to comprehend.) The vicious kids on tumblr remind me of those carnivorous dolls in Barbarella, except their actions are safely baptized with the words SOCIAL JUSTICE so its all perfectly okay. In fact, they routinely assure each other how wonderful they are with "appreciation posts" and "appreciation threads"--the more vicious and nasty you are, the more likely you will be greatly appreciated.

I have made a few friends on tumblr, for which I am grateful, but these people are notable for being NOTHING like the majority of participants, and proof of this is that all privately reached out to me. All seemed eager to talk to someone (anyone?) with a different point of view, but they are also afraid to cop to this desire out loud. And yes, I do understand.

The ideological lockstep governing the Left right now, is stifling and horrible. The only words for this paranoid climate are Stalinism and McCarthyism. For example, I am the only person I know hacked on tumblr for "transphobia"--as well as banned from (what many consider) the most "transphobic" blog on the net, Gendertrender (there is your warning). So go figure.
EDIT: I attempted to link to Gendertrender, to no avail... blocked already. (Am I important or what?) If you are sufficiently curious, you can copy and paste gendertrender.wordpress.com. As I said, Stalinism... which of course includes lots of textbook KGB cloak-and-dagger paranoia. (Why have a blog if you don't want anyone to read it? Ahhh, never mind. The paranoid mindset is a puzzle best left to the Freudians.)

As the Firesign Theater famously said, in a "marching cadence":

You ain't got no friends on the Right! (you're Left!)
You ain't got no friends on the Left! (you're right!)
Sound off, 1-2, sound off, 3-4...

I am very fortunate in that the work I have done in the real world (over decades) speaks for itself. If they want to hack, screech, holler, ban, call names, block my links, threaten, etc... have at it. I know what Stalinism is and this ain't my first trip to the Cultural Revolution.

I was getting purged way back in the day, long before it was hip.

~*~

At left: The best thing to happen this summer! I nominated our local activist dynamo, Traci Fant, as "Hero of the Month" on the Investigation Discovery network... and she won! Her organization, Think2XTwice, was awarded $1000 and she was also highlighted on the ID network site and on TV. I WAS SO PROUD!!!!!


See, watching true crime shows can have unexpected benefits!

~*~

On a postmodern note: I also co-organized our local demonstration against the misnamed SC Freedom Summit in May. This turned out to be a terribly depressing event, if there ever was one. Here in Greenville, it was Artisphere weekend (which I have mentioned here before many times) and the "summit" (a bunch of Republicans giving speeches, paid for by Fox News and the Koch brothers) was at the Peace Center, the same place we protested their last "debate" during last election season.

The weird thing was, nobody seemed to know it was happening. Nobody even knew it was going on. People looked at us quizzically and asked what we were protesting. There was NO big sign outside the Peace Center announcing the SC Freedom Summit and there were few campaigners outside, compared to other election events we have protested. (We believe this was deliberate, a way of speaking over the heads of the majority, to the "tuned-in" minority who vote in the primary.) This little soiree was practically invitation-only and private, like some parallel universe: Artisphere was the bread-and-circuses diversion for the Masses, as "serious business" was conducted inside the auditorium by Those Who Matter. Inside the Peace Center, important policy was being decided, whilst the folks outside eating hot dogs and listening to bands, were totally oblivious to the fact that the rich were planning their future. Our signs and chanting, all reminding them of these facts, were not particularly welcome. It was like, they didn't even believe us. The empty suits that showed up outside for photo ops, seemed to make this point; nobody recognized Ted Cruz or Ben Carson or Marco Rubio... the only excitement occurred when (guess who!) Donald Trump showed up. My co-demonstrator Elaine Cooper has been making the best of things: here is her photobomb campaign, which started with Trump at the Freedom Summit.

Elaine and I went inside at one point (she taped a good deal of it on her phone), but since we had "hostile" signs, we were deemed to be "acting inappropriately" and unceremoniously asked to leave. A FREE EVENT about FREEDOM (ha!) and we were bounced out. That's the Republican idea of freedom, baby! And don't forget it.

Elaine's first-person account is here in the Greenville Bray (pdf) and includes a good photo of us demonstrating too. I wrote a few words on Tumblr about it, but not much.

Elaine concurs with me; nobody outside at the festival seemed to know what was happening inside at the Summit... a very good metaphor for our entire political system.

~*~

And here is the star of our show, Democratic presidential candidate Senator Bernie Sanders.

I regret that my photos are not as good as they used to be. I have developed a pesky ESSENTIAL TREMOR due to thyroid disease, which makes taking good photos difficult. (another reason I no longer update as much as I used to) The tremor isn't too noticeable right now, but like most things, that will likely change. (*I* notice it, though, during fine motor coordination-type activities... such as writing, typing, sewing, braiding hair or photography.)

Anyway, we saw Sanders speak a couple of weeks ago and it was like Old Home Week ... as I saw nearly every southern progressive activist I know from here to the coast, as well as from here to Atlanta and Charlotte. He is inspiring a lot of hope right now... but I am cynical. I am always cynical. I have been cynical since they got rid of a nice peaceful peanut farmer and foisted a has-been right-wing actor on us. I doubt the cynicism will subside.

Photos below: August 21st, TD Convention Center in Greenville, SC.



~*~

Speaking of cynicism: Mr Robot was terrific. Can't wait for season 2.

Hope your summer has been eventful. I promise to drop in regularly from now on. I hope you will join me!

And yeah, we are on the radio for, I think, another month? We are winding down there, too, the end of an era. Check us out live on WOLI AM/FM at 8pm EST on Monday at least for a few more weeks. I don't know what comes after, but something always does. (More about that to come, I promise.)

I once hyperventilated at the mere thought of doing the show (and lost entire nights of sleep worrying over it!), but NOW after four years on the air, somebody can have an actual seizure in the studio while I am talking (I have witnesses) and I don't miss a beat.

~*~

Finally, some heartbreak ... after 15 years of true companionship and love, we lost the Official Cat of Dead Air. Our bodhisattva-kitty has gone on, to teach enlightenment to other humans. Truly, the most affectionate animal I have ever known, and his earthly death was crushing to both of us. But we know he has many others to teach besides us, so he was called home. We know his next owners will be forever changed when he appears at their door, as he appeared at ours.

Welcome the beloved and noble bodhisattva-kitty, who will teach you the meaning of unconditional love.

And when you meet him, please give him our best wishes, warm regards, love and kisses ... we miss him so much.

Terri Leigh McKee 1958-2012

The Queen of Cups, from the Art Nouveau Tarot by Matt Myers.




Advice: When people ask you to stay in touch, stay in touch. Don't tell yourself "one of these days"--because you might Google them one day and find their obituary.

She came to my grandmother's funeral, whom she had loved. I promised her I would mail her copies of photos I had recently discovered, of our childhood... one of us standing next to an old Packard, another of us trying to make Kool-Aid, and still another, in front of a gaudy, awful, silver Christmas tree.

I never remembered to send them.

We grew apart... I became a crazy radical, and she remained devout and conservative. We had little in common as adults, and it was somewhat uncomfortable. You know how that is.

I still remember us singing together, "In the Year 2525" and laughing about the lyrics. We also sang it into the telephone for crank calls, which of course, you can't make any more. (The kids have no idea what they're missing.)

I had been thinking about her all week, possibly due to the death of Davy Jones. But it suddenly became pressing and important, as if I should see if I could try to find her. (She wasn't on Facebook or any of the other social media sites.) So, I did, and found this:

McKEE Terri L. McKee, age 53, passed away Monday, March 5, 2012. She was a member of St. Cecilia Catholic Church and a graduate of Westland High School, Class of '77'. Preceded in death by great-grandparents Charles and Sarah Bentz, grandparents Frank and Thelma Bragg and Adryenne and Arnold McKee, aunt Marilyn Isaac, and cousin Robert Riley. Survived by parents, John and Julia McKee; fiancee, Michael Woolfe; sister, Vicki (Mike) Davis; nephews, Nicholas Davis and Benjamin (Sara) Davis; great-nephew, Thomas Davis; along with aunts, uncles, cousins, loving relatives, and friends. Family will receive friends Sunday from 2-5 p.m. at THE TIDD FUNERAL HOME, 5265 Norwich St., Hilliard, OH 43026. A funeral service will be held 11 a.m. Monday at CONCORDIA LUTHERAN CHURCH, 225 Schoolhouse Lane, Columbus, OH 43228. Interment Sunset Cemetery.

All attempts at taking photos of photos have failed, so you will have to settle for my physical description: light light parakeet-blonde hair (100% natural) and extremely disarming pale blue eyes. Very feminine, small, thin, petite.

Aspasia offers the consoling thought that I thought of Terri because her soul was reaching out to me, to say goodbye. It is a comfort to think so.

And you folks reading: please don't forget my advice. Contact those old friends now. Don't put it off.

~*~

In the year 2525 - Zager and Evans



We got on a roller coaster once, at the Ohio State Fair, while this song was playing, full-blast. We screamed and sang along, all at once. One of those wonderful, great moments of childhood... perhaps she thought of it in her last moments, as I surely will.

Pleasant Valley Sunday - The Monkees



Mr Green, he's so serene, he's got a TV in every room... we decided we liked Mr Green and wanted TVs in every room when we grew up, too.

Goodbye, old friend.

Kate Schulte 1951-2011

Some people simply radiate goodness... you can even get drunk and barf on their nice rug and they say ohhh, that is nothing. When you reconnect with them years later, they never mention the rug, and instead tell you how wonderful you are. They impart their special magic to all of those around them. These are very rare, beautiful souls on this earth.

We have lost one.

Goodbye, dearest Kate.

~*~

SCHULTE, Kate "Kathaleen Beth" Schulte, beloved wife, mother, sister, aunt, and friend, left our company on September 15 from an apparent heart attack at the age of 60. Kate was born in Wichita, KS, and settled in Columbus, OH, in 1975. Her earliest work for justice was with farmworker organizers and the Columbus Tenants Union. In 1984, she met her swoon-unit, Michael Vander Does, on a memorable trip to the Kentucky Derby. Allen Ginsberg was a guest at their engagement party in July 1985 and they married a few months later. She loved and cared for her stepdaughters, Nicole and Naima Vander Does, as if they were her own. She loved to travel. The Yucatan, Italy, and New Orleans were favorite destinations. She attended 17 Jazzfests, seven Kentucky Derbies, and too many ComFests to count. She was a graduate of The Ohio State University College of Law, after which she became a well-known civil rights attorney. Perhaps her proudest legal work was on the Brunet firefighter sex discrimination case. A remembrance will be held at Ray's Living Room, 17 Brickel St., Columbus, OH, on Saturday, October 8, 2011 at 6 p.m., for her family and friends to celebrate her beautiful life.

From: Columbus Dispatch

~*~

I got on a bus once, drug-addled, and Kate was there. I meandered on back to sit next to her... I didn't even ASK if I could sit there. I told her I was all messed up on drugs.

"Well, you don't look like it!" she whispered, conspiratorially. And then she started telling me about her law book. I remember that it sounded very cool and interesting.

She reminded me, "Isn't this your stop?" She was right! Without Kate, would have ended up in Worthington or somewhere.

What I remembered, when I heard the news of her passing, was her warm, bright smile that day, when I sat next to her. She made even some silly druggie feel like the most important human being in the world.

So many people recall the warm, inclusive smile, and how it made them feel.

~*~

Yippies regularly crashed parties given by various important liberals and lawyers, which we loved to do. Go ahead, try to throw your poor lefty relations out of the party! (Sometimes they did.) We will talk trash about you and call you rich!

It was a game: "Do you think they'll let us in?"

But not at Kate's party: "Oh, that's fine, I love the Yippies. Somebody has to bring some controversy, don't they?!" (Was that a dig at the boring liberals?) She warmly invited us in, plied us with cheese and wine and introduced us to the well-heeled Democrats. She seemed to enjoy knowing scruffy anarchists, and also seemed to quietly enjoy ruffling those rich liberals a bit.

Official Yippie verdict on Kate: What a great person!

~*~

On Facebook, I told her, you know you are old when you are friending the people you used to babysit. She loved that. And it was via Facebook that I reconnected with a beautiful soul, and then lost her, in a year's time. And ohhhh my, it does hurt.

I've written about the modern phenomenon of experiencing death so up-close and personal via Facebook, and how it is now turning into a common occurrence. I hope this grief will not also become commonplace, but then again, perhaps it will serve to make us treasure every minute that much more.

As Kate would have done.

Friday Earworms

Is everyone having an excellent start to the weekend? If you need some musical accompaniment, you've come to the right place.

Currently, I am preparing for our trip to Charlotte for HeroesCon... unfortunately, it will be even hotter tomorrow than it is now. Hydration! Packing extra kombucha and Tramadol.

Maybe I'll even meet up with my Blogdonia heroine and alter ego, Fanboy Wife. Perhaps we should have some kind of 12-Step meeting while we're there, modeled on Al-Anon: Are you married to a Fanboy? Chances are, you're as addicted to sick behavior as he is!

NO, NO, I refuse to believe it! Denial, denial!

PS: It's been awhile since I've shared my earworms, so here you go.

~*~

I recently heard this gem on our local wonder-station, WPCI-AM, and I've been hearing it in my head ever since. Just beautiful!

Passion Play - Joni Mitchell



~*~

This one also comes courtesy of WPCI... Good Lord, will you listen to this woman SING?! I have no idea how old this tune is, but it sounds ancient... raw and unglossed. Lovelovelove!

A Fool in Love - Ike and Tina Turner



~*~

I was worried, the last time I posted a song by Journey, that I'd jeopardized my musical cred... and whaddaya know, Journey's been rehabbed! Tony Soprano, we owe him.

This is what is known as a "power ballad" (did Journey actually invent the power ballad?), and if I hear it just once, these lovely intertwining riffs stay lodged in my head for weeks.

Weeks, I tell you.

Send her my love - Journey



~*~

This song has plagued me since the death of my father in late April; I'm hoping once I post it here, it will stop continuously haunting me.

Probably not, though.

Mansion on a Hill - Hank Williams



Hope you all have a great weekend.

Born Under a Bad Sign

Written by the late bluesman Albert King, this was the first version I ever heard. I've always loved it.

I think Eric Clapton qualifies as someone with bad enough luck to play this. ;)

Stone

This has been a week for the record books. Been down so long, looks like up to me. Born under a bad sign. Hellhound on my trail. Etc. When blues songs define your life, well, that pretty much says it all.

I saw some movies yesterday, and that helped. Yay, escapism!

~*~

Even if it is rather slow and ponderous, I highly recommend STONE, if you want a deeply spiritual character study, highlighting the immediate problems with Christianity. If you already know what the problems are, you'll get it. If you don't, this will put it in stark relief for you, but in a non-confrontational manner. I identified heavily with the protagonist, a convict played by Edward Norton.

Norton is a marvel, possibly the greatest actor of our era. He is psychoanalyzed, sorta kinda, by Robert DeNiro, the greatest actor of HIS era. Watching these two play off each other is the great strength of the movie. It becomes real, right before your eyes, and you totally forget you are watching two well-known movie stars.

I loved it, but certainly, the film is not for everybody. A rather tepid ending, when the dramatic tension between the two leads causes you to expect fireworks. Then you realize, there WERE fireworks, but they were all interior.

Check it out, for something different.

~*~

I also saw BLACK SWAN at last. Natalie Portman says she was inspired by Repulsion, and you can tell. Great inspiration, and the scene in which the nail-clippers jab her is right out of the original.

I was astounded by her thinness (realistic for ballerinas; I'm not criticizing) and hope she's gained some weight for her pregnancy.

Mr Daisy was disappointed by the ending. He wanted her to turn into a giant black swan and fly out into the audience and eat people.

You shouldn't let fan-boys watch this stuff.

~*~

If you pray, pray for me. Whatever you do, please do it. It is not pleasant to lose a parent and a job in one week. The first loss, however, has eclipsed the second one easily. I am pretty numb; I simply didn't know how to write about it until now.

But it's soooo quiet here. I can smell the honeysuckle outside, as the southern spring air drifts in from the woods. And I like not having to dash out the door for a change. (Translation: I think this might be one of those blessings in disguise, but right now, sure doesn't feel that way.)

I love you, my blogger buddies. If you have never commented here (or rarely comment anywhere), how about you leave one and let me know you're out there? It really would help.

More to come. Always.

Plain(s) Feminist R.I.P.

I have tried several times over the past couple of days, to write a decent obit for my friend, Plain(s) Feminist. Her blog is listed below, not updated since February. I had not known that her breast cancer returned, or I would have called, written, anything. Our modern life rushes on, and it stuns us when someone is here today, gone tomorrow, in a scant six or seven weeks. Say what? But, but... she was so vital, so funny, so real, so aware, so present.

And now, she is not.

When I heard, cried my heart out. Got to work, sobbed there too. Good lord, Daisy, get a grip.

I have realized that my various existential crises are all bound up with death, my fear of death and my anger at death for taking the wrong people. I just wrote about awful individuals like Michele Bachmann and Newt Gingrich... they are still in this world and beautiful, kind, selfless Plain(s) Feminist (herein referred to as PF) is gone. This is not justice; this just makes me so upset. I ask God, as I often do: Excuse me, but WHAT IS THAT SHIT?!? I never get an answer, just the reminder that sooner or later, you, me, Michele Bachmann, Newt Gingrich and everyone else in the world, will hear from the Grim Reaper as well. But why so soon... why interrupt her work, her social activism, her writing, her teaching, her motherhood, her PLANS?

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

~*~

Once upon a time, I was devastated and confused beyond telling, and there are times I unwillingly return to this state when I cruise around Feminist Blogdonia. I once had many friends there, and happily, proudly populated my blog-roll with them. Most are still there, even as they have exiled me. A major fallout on a fairly-large email list, left me persona non grata among many of these people... all (but one) much younger than me. Most had college degrees (even advanced degrees) and there was no question that I was waaaay out of my league. Blundering in with my uncouth redneck sensibility and using the wrong language was bound to happen. When it did, and I was tarred and feathered in short order (leaving me dazed and confused, even now), PF was one of the people who comforted me and explained things (see link above). This is part of being a woman, this is also a struggle of feminism... that women should learn to work together. It is not surprising that we don't know how; that instead, we savage each other. We have been raised to do that, after all. She wrote to me, "When a friend of mine tells me I've misunderstood her, I listen to that." And she did.

How precious to find the person who listens. Her students were so lucky.

I can't add much to what others have written... please read Kittywampus, since she knew PF better than I did and has also collected obituary-links. Some have used her given name and some have not, and I am confused about whether that is acceptable, so when in doubt, I don't. But other people have, and if you are in the Women's Studies field, you may have known her. Please go check out the links and pay your respects.

I once told PF that I believed the advent of Women's Studies was the death of activist feminism, an (honest) opinion I lob every now and then, to see what the professors will say. (It's a dead horse, so I no longer beat it, but I did for years.) Most of them have just sneered back, huh UH! and shook their heads forcefully, nary missing a beat. But none took the charge seriously. When I said it rather offhandedly to PF, she emailed me specifically and asked me to elaborate, and kindly asked for evidence. Wow, really?! Nobody ever did that before, so I chronicled some of my decades-long observations. She emailed me and said yes, those are great points (!) and we need to CONNECT women's studies to activism, always, or it is just an academic thing, no different or any more enlightening or important than other academic pursuits. And in her life, she did this... she belonged to all kinds of activist groups and also supported many activist women. She walked the walk and talked the talk. And how RARE is that? (Unfortunately, this brings me back to my anger that the rare jewels are taken from us, while the baddies are here in full force--gahhh!!!) PF asked me to have patience with the Women's Studies grads and see them as having been "prepped" by her and others, for the activism that I might teach them... a hand-off, if you will. The idea that we were working together was such a radical one, such a great concept. We would all, gladly, work for PF, and make sure her newly-radicalized students fulfilled her dreams.

PF leaves a life-partner and son.

Goodbye, my friend. We should all have your zeal, your energy, your drive, your love, your essential decency and morality as applied to women... well, your feminism. Just plain feminism.

The Borders by Sharon Olds

My mother died in July of 2006, but I could not get back up to Ohio until the second week of August, near the Feast of the Assumption (which is tomorrow, the 15th).

And on that day, I scattered her ashes into the Tuscarawas River, in Massillon, Ohio, a few scant feet from where my stepfather (her beloved) had been employed during our 3-year residence there. It was in this location, she said, that she had been the happiest in her lifetime. It was in this location that she was markedly different; she was finally in a country-and-western band that respected her and valued her input. She lived with the man she loved and during the days, briefly attempted the fantasy-sitcom stay-at-home mom role, so valued by the middle-class. She made curtains, she drew sketches in pencil, she put bouquets of flowers on the table. She practiced endlessly, leaving the identifiable bass-lines of various 60s pop-songs in my head forever. She smiled at me.

She was herself there, more than she was anywhere else... before or after.

In the tumultuous years that followed, I often thought of my "Massillon mama"--and wanted her back.

So, I returned her there.

~*~

The Borders

To say that she came into me,
from another world, is not true.
Nothing comes into the universe
and nothing leaves it.
My mother—I mean my daughter did not
enter me. She began to exist
inside me—she appeared within me.
And my mother did not enter me.
When she lay down, to pray, on me,
she was always ferociously courteous,
fastidious with Puritan fastidiousness,
but the barrier of my skin failed, the barrier of my
body fell, the barrier of my spirit.
She aroused and magnetized my skin, I wanted
ardently to please her, I would say to her
what she wanted to hear, as if I were hers.
I served her willingly, and then
became very much like her, fiercely
out for myself.
When my daughter was in me, I felt I had
a soul in me. But it was born with her.
But when she cried, one night, such pure crying,
I said I will take care of you, I will
put you first. I will not ever
have a daughter the way she had me,
I will not ever swim in you
the way my mother swam in me and I
felt myself swum in. I will never know anyone
again the way I knew my mother,
the gates of the human fallen.

--Sharon Olds

Dead Air is devastated

As I said in this post, I actually took a physical blow for him once (not that I planned on that!)... Hopefully, I will be able to collect myself later, to write a better post.

For now, please listen to one of my favorites. Just magic.

We were less than a year apart in age...so imagine a very young Daisy listening to a very young Michael.

Of course, I had Jackson 5ive posters on my wall, right next to David Cassidy, David Bowie, Iggy, The Who...

And when he sings, "there's so many things we haven't tried"-- (((cries)))

I wanna be where you are - Michael Jackson

If I knew the way, I would take you home

I am attending our yearly commemorative candle-lighting tonight, for the thousands of American dead in Iraq. It is YEAR SIX of the Iraq War. Do you believe? YEAR SIX.

I find I do not want to go; I find the sight of all those candles (one for each soldier) simply stunning (not in a good way) and almost utterly overwhelming. What possible good could come from thousands of dead enlisted personnel; thousands of once-alive, vibrant young souls?

Why are we still in Iraq, again?

Depressed, confused, talking to God (okay, arguing!) and feeling the futility of it all. And yet, giving up is not an option. I have never known how to do that. (See previous post: I have 4 Virgos in my astrological chart!)

As Deadheads know, there is only one song for these occasions.


~*~

Ripple (Robert Hunter/Jerry Garcia)


If my words did glow
with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Would you hear my voice
come through the music
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

Its a hand-me-down
the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they're better left unsung
I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

Reach out your hand
if your cup be empty
If your cup is full
may it be again
Let it be known
there is a fountain
That was not made by the hands of men

There is a road
no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go
no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone.

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow.

You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall
you fall alone
If you should stand
then who's to guide you?

If I knew the way, I would take you home.


~*~

Do yall have any idea how many versions of this are on YouTube? Maybe hundreds.

This one is particularly nice in that you can hear the audience singing along.



Ripple - Grateful Dead

Kathleene Anthony 1944-2008

My AA sponsor always signed her cards, letters and emails "Yo AA Momma"--and yes, she certainly was.

~*~


I don't remember the month, but I do remember the year, 1982. In the basement of an old building on East Broad Street in Columbus, Ohio, I was becoming increasingly restless with what I regarded as the just-so stories of Alcoholics Anonymous. The sloganeering, the shallow analysis of the psyche, the borderline-Calvinist zeal of some members, was wearing on me. I needed more, and I was getting argumentative about it.

Left to my own devices, I wouldn't have lasted out the year.

She was sitting across from me. Next to her, a very well-behaved child, about 7 or 8, was coloring and drawing quietly with crayons. Every now and then, the child would hear something and her eyes would widen. She would look at her mother, as if to say WOW! Her mother looked back, silently reinforcing, don't say anything, we'll talk later. (This exchange reminded me of my relationship with my own mother, wherein I was allowed to hear adults talk, only if I promised to be quiet.)

I remember she was quite large, even then, and was wearing green.

I don't remember exactly what she said, but the subject was gender differences in recovery, and a lot of sexist bullshit was floating around the room. I was greatly annoyed by what I was hearing and there was an accompanying tension at the base of my neck, giving me a roaring headache.

And then she introduced herself: "I'm Kathy, and I'm an alcoholic," she said, and explained, simply and thoroughly: Men in recovery talk about what they did, while drinking. ("Yeah man, we was hanging off the freeway overpass!") Women talk about how they felt. ("I cried every night!") The task in recovery is therefore: to get men to talk about their feelings, and to get women to talk about actual behaviors and how that effected the people around us.

Otherwise, she concluded, nothing has really changed, and we are not taking full responsibility. There can be no recovery.

Listening to her, I had one overriding thought: Oh dear God, who IS this person?

I knew she must be some kind of recovery professional, and might not be interested in sponsoring me. (People don't necessarily want to continue their jobs after they come home at night!) But I knew from listening to her, that she was a feminist. And ohhh my, how I needed her.

I had long ached to talk about the relationship of addiction and recovery to feminism; I needed a working-class, intelligent feminist who read books and was in recovery, and here she was, sitting right in front of me.

I was afraid, asking her, that she would say no. I could also tell, as she gave me her phone number, that she had given it to a lot of people... people who had attended one or two AA meetings and disappeared. She seemed accustomed to the request, and gave me her stock definition of "sponsor": one who takes an active interest in recovery. She didn't like the authoritarian, male-modeled sponsorships that AA then specialized in. She thought sponsorship should ideally be between peers and friends. I nodded as she gave me the spiel, inwardly thrilled that she had said yes.

I kept hearing we were supposed to call our sponsors every day, check in with them constantly like parole officers. Did she think that was necessary?

Could I call her every day? Would that be okay?

Bemused, she said yes, I could call her every day if I needed to do that. I could tell she didn't expect any such calls. (Later, she said I looked like an agitated hippie planning to go score some coke that very night... or worse.) Obviously, she'd seen my kind before.

But I did. In fact, I called her almost every day for the next five years.

~*~

What can I say about her? That she saved my life? That would be correct.

I find it impossible to list everything she did for me, but I can mention the highlights: giving me a baby shower; coming to collect me (and my child) after a devastating domestic dispute; supporting me through two divorces; being the local contact-person for my aged grandmother who had Alzheimer's disease; assigning me the daunting task of speaking for AA in various detox units she worked in (to build my confidence, she said); taking me to a country-and-western show in an RV park in Delaware, Ohio; declaring me "Support Womyn #1" during her oldest daughter's wedding... and just so much more.

At one point in my sobriety, she informed me that I needed to attend all-women's meetings, to bond with other women. Women in predominantly-male AA groups were prone to care-taking and attention-getting, and do not adequately work on themselves, she announced. (Once I began this habit, I attended mostly women's AA meetings from that point on, and made wonderful, lifelong friends. Some of the best advice I ever received.)

She was always taking in stray homeless people from AA, and her couch was a well-known Central Ohio AA pit-stop. She was the head of several detox units, and was also a psych nurse at the Columbus State Hospital.

In later years, as her health worsened and her fibromyalgia and arthritis brought constant pain, Kathy's personality underwent an almost radical change. She became nearly reclusive, and although her tremendous kindness remained, she was the victim of random street crime and learned to be suspicious. (I stopped sending any kind of gift card to her in the mail, since these would likely be intercepted before she could get to them--stolen right out of her mailbox.) She felt very vulnerable, and her vulnerability sometimes made her angry. People were not as kind to her, in her time of need, as she had been to others, and I think she found this confusing, frightening and unfair. It seemed to her that the world was going to hell in a handbasket, and in accordance with this conviction, she converted to a fundamentalist sect. And I found it more and more difficult to talk to her, so we communicated far easier online, where one can pick and choose which comments we will directly respond to. As time slipped by, she seemed more and more confused, and I knew that she was on some pretty heavy pain medication. Some conversations, she would just talk about how manageable the pain had been that week, and little else.

When my mother died, I brought Kathy some stuff from my mother's house. Practical items, cups and saucers, a can opener, some computer paper. And then I hauled out a painting by my mother. She told me she didn't want it.

A flash of the old Kathy, suddenly, as she said, "I wouldn't have had so much work to do with you, hon, if she had just done her job a little better," and then she lightly chuckled. "Not that I minded that, but I sure don't want any painting of hers," and I felt that I'd been slapped. This was the feisty Kathy who charted my Fourth Step with me, who could always tell when I was fibbing, and who resolutely forced me to tell the truth at all times.

I must have had that dumbfounded look on my face, because she added, "None of that is your fault, dear, it's between your mother and me," and lightly chuckled again.

And then, the old, shrewd Kathy seemed to slip back behind a cloud. She huddled beneath a large blanket, clearly very ill, as I kissed her goodbye.

May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs come to welcome you and take you to the holy city, the new and eternal Jerusalem. And may Jesus and Mary welcome your troubled, tired soul into heaven, dear friend.

Behold a pale horse

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.-- Revelation 6:8.


~*~

I received a Christmas card telling me that another old friend had died. I wanted to write a proper obituary, but I don't know her year of birth. I found myself almost unable to breathe, and instead of writing about her, I wrote about the fear itself.

Sitting down very late, I wrote:



The news that still another old friend has died, causes me to nearly hyperventilate. I had last seen her in 2006 and she looked fine. That was two years ago, but of course, it seems like last week. (The compression of TIME that seemingly occurs with aging is proof enough that Einstein was right...time literally speeds up as you age.)

My fear of death sometimes overtakes me like a whirlwind...all of my talismans and novenas and amulets and incantations and invocations of saints, the existential wall of safety that I have constructed, turns to mesh, to porous cheesecloth. My fortress wasn't IN PLACE, shields DOWN; my saints have all gone to lunch, I have misplaced my amulets. I am confused and tired, I am not thinking clearly. And I hear of the death of one who is especially strong in my memory, a vivid soul that danced in front of me, made a deep impression. No, not her. She had more energy, more life than all of us.

It's like I left the back door unlocked. FEAR rushes in like some viper, like the Devil himself, whom I suspect he is. He slithers in while my reinforcements are down, gone, misplaced, asleep at the wheel.

It leaves me breathless and dazed, this kind of fear. It sweeps through me like the presence of sudden summer thunder. It's painful, it sears. You can wait, wait, wait for it to subside, but it doesn't, because then it is fully commingled with your grief.

Yes, says the fear, you will die, too.

~*~

Although I devoutly believe in souls, spirits, etc., earthly death, the death of the body, the mortal self, is often very frightening and final to me. I do not know what comes after. As in the movie Jacob's Ladder, I think the crossing over could well be terrifying, as we cling to our human consciousness, as we endure what the Church has called purgatory, what Eastern faiths have named Samsara. Maybe we won't be ready, and we will have to do it all over again. (Perhaps the sharp fear, a Buddhist friend once told me, is due to the fact that we HAVE died before?)

~*~

Do any of you ever experience that kind of fear or sharp (pleasant? unpleasant?) awareness of your own mortality?

I will write more about my friend, but I did not want to infuse her obituary with my fear, and conflate the two here, as I have in my own head. She deserves her own obit, and I will write one. But not quite ready yet.

Comments most especially sought. Thanks everyone.

Van Robert Ault 1956-1996

Photo of Van from Our Faerie Ancestors, used with tremendous gratitude!

~*~


One thing I loved about the TV show SIX FEET UNDER, was Nate's continuous apparitions of his father.

When you know someone very well, you know what they would say. You just know. Other times, you are dying to know.

I remember wishing Van a happy belated birthday, the same week as the People's Temple disaster. (He had attended the church a couple of times, pronouncing it "odd.") "Oh honey, those poor people! I can't bear it!" And those words echo, as I watch the TV shows chronicling the horrific events of 30 years ago. And I miss him, the one who couldn't bear it.

Missing my friend, one of the touchstones of my life, is almost impossible to write about. I have tried several times. What can you say about the sort of individual who is simply LARGER than life? An amazing, dynamic, theatrical personality who was a fountain of love, ferocious wit and unending generosity? I can say: he took me in when I had nowhere to go, fresh off a Greyhound bus from the midwest. He shared his home with me. He gave me the beginner's course in San Francisco 101, what to watch out for, who to trust, who not to trust. I couldn't have functioned there without him; my guide, my mentor for the city.

He was my best friend.

But I find I can't describe him accurately. He was just too big for words. His eyes were bright green, like a cat's. (If you dared ask him if they were contacts, he would mimic slapping you; they weren't.) He was 6'4" and struggled with keeping weight on his whole life. I met him when we were both 15 and he was already full-grown but weighed only 135 lbs. People gaped at him; the word gaunt barely covers it. He took me to the Chattanooga Choo-Choo restaurant in Tennessee and Glide Memorial Church and the I-Beam in San Francisco. He took me to gay bars and introduced me to the first drag queens I had ever seen in person. We danced late, late into the night at discos. He showed me porn and than ran it backward: "Watch how THIS looks!" and then hooted and squealed.

He was either the president or vice president of the official Supremes fan club. He would be mad at me for not remembering which. I have a photo of him with Mary Wilson, and on the back, his trademark scribble: "Don't I look like I'm coming?!" Yes, he did.

In short, I adored him. And I can barely write this. One of the major losses of my life, this beautiful person.

~*~

"What are THESE?" said the naive girl from the midwest, leafing through Van's wallet. There were several colorful, plastic membership cards to the popular San Francisco bath houses. "Do you take baths there?" asks naive, unaware Daisy.

"Well I suppose you could!" he winked at me. "But I don't know anyone who does!" I asked about the sexual protocol of the bath houses, and he told me everything.

~*~


Left: Van wrote several new-age books in the 80s, and was on the staff of MAGICAL BLEND magazine. (I'm not sure if it is still publishing or not, but can't locate a decent web page.)



By the 90s, I had moved to the south, the same place he had escaped from. He tried to talk me out of it. "It's changed, Van, really," I said on the phone.

"Not nearly enough," he sniffed at me. He called it "Baptistland" and would sing made-up lyrics to the tune of Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland"--down in BAP-TIST-LAAAAAND! Always, always, making me laugh.

I attempted to tactfully approach the subject of the bath houses, the MATH, the sheer MATH. Mathematical probabilities. I got sick when I thought of it, got a headache.

I couldn't tell him that, so I just asked: "Are you worried? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. And then he sent me a sparkly pagan greeting card assuring me that he was okay, while also informing me that he was HIV positive. "Constant changes," he added, signing his name.

Constant changes?

I wept, but composed myself before calling. "You calling to see if I'm still here?" he asked, acidly.

I shot back, "Maybe I am, what's wrong with that?"

"Don't lose that sass, sister-woman!" he ordered, laughing.

I've tried not to.

~*~

An actor (as well as writer), he liked to make phone calls 'in character'--invariably pretending to be other people. For my phone calls, it was Baptist preachers. In his best televangelist voice (which was remarkably authentic), he would shout into the phone at me: "I'm calling from Bloody Jesus Baptist Church, and would like to ask you to ATTEND THIS SUNDAY. Are you SAVED?" He changed the name of the church each time, and on at least two occasions, actually faked me out. He would chuckle, then gloriously guffaw, if he had actually fooled you. He did it to everybody. I heard him call a friend on the phone and pretend to be Laurence Olivier.

"He won't call me back, but betcha he calls LARRY!" he said to me, after hanging up.

~*~

(deep sigh) I love you, dearest Van. I missed your Scorpio birthday, because it has taken me since November 11th to write this coherently. Last year, could not manage it at all. I promised myself, this year. This year, I will write it.

Van's apparition says to me, "Don't take that stuff too seriously!" then muses, "If I'd had the internet, honey? I'd put it to some excellent uses!"

And the apparition adds, "Try not to waste your time, okay? Just don't waste it."

I won't. I promise, I won't.


~*~

When I left the Bay Area, he made me a mix tape. "This will make you think of me, and you can take it everywhere you go and think of---(((here he sang a deep baritone C)))---MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

And I did.

This was the last song on it.

Lena Horne - Believe in yourself (from "The Wiz")



Believe in yourself, as I believe in you.

Paul Newman 1925-2008

Movie poster for HARPER (1966), one of my mother's favorites.

~*~

Reflexively, I almost called my (deceased) mother when I heard Paul Newman had passed.... he is so closely associated with her in my mind, that I cried for her all over again. She loved him SO much. I didn't have to read any of the official obituaries, since I already knew his life story; his movies, his long and stable marriage to Joanne Woodward, his car-racing, his son Scott's death, his politics...

Speaking of which, she was PROUD AS HELL of his progressive politics. During a conversation about conservative Hollywood people like Reagan, Schwarzenegger or Bo Derek, she would invariably remark on how pleased she was that "Paul didn't turn out like that!" She also periodically reminded me that he was a Buckeye--to her, the most famous and important one.

The proceeds of his organic food line, Newman's Own, go to progressive charities. Regarding this venture into business, Newman once said "The embarrassing thing is that the salad dressing is out-grossing my films!" (note: I particularly recommend the fire-hot pretzels and Ginger-O cookies!)

~*~

I don't know where the following excerpt is from... but it appears to be a segment of an old British TV documentary about Newman and Woodward. I chose this because I love looking at old stuff, and my mother was endlessly dazzled by the Cinderella-story of modest, Georgia-born Woodward moving to Hollywood and landing an Oscar and a leading man.

Also, check out the young, drop-dead handsome Gore Vidal at about 1:45. (WHO KNEW he used to be gorgeous?!?) My apologies for the documentary's use of the c-word to describe disabled people, herein used to describe Piper Laurie in The Hustler at about 3:13. At the time of the film, this word was acceptable and routinely used to describe Laurie's character (in reviews and trailers) and unfortunately, I believe the word is still in use at various news outlets today.

The increasing political involvement of Newman/Woodward is also chronicled here.



I will miss him, the beautiful Buckeye who made my mother flush and laugh, her eternal fantasy man.

Ad majorem Dei gloriam: Herbert Kuhlke Conner, S.J. 1930-2008

Left: Father Conner, who did not suffer fools gladly.

~*~


It is a testament to the great strength of Catholicism, that I have just attended the funeral of a very cantankerous, opinionated, grumpy Jesuit, who infuriated many people. I heard a lot of trash-talk about him, lo, these many years.

And the place was packed.

Catholics don't usually do cult-of-personality stuff with our pastors; a parish priest is assigned by the Diocese. He can't go wherever he chooses, or decide to start his own outfit whenever he gets pissed off. Ironically, the popular, personable priests are quickly promoted to Monsignor and Bishop and are often not around very long. The everyday, journeyman priest who doggedly says Mass day in and day out, is not a star, and usually not very entertaining. He is a given, like a local politician on the city counsel; like the local dentist who has always had the same office in the same building. He is the bringer of sacraments, the dispenser of blessings. Such was Father Conner.

The adjective Jesuitical perfectly described him, as there was nothing you could say, no argument you could give, that he didn't have an answer for. He handled the annulment of my first marriage, and although I have heard (and read online, multiple times) that one is expected to pay for Canon lawyers and such to facilitate the process, he never charged me a red cent. I realize now, this was his politics talking, the Social Gospel in action.

At the time, I argued with him that this bureaucratic Canon Law gobbledygook was even necessary. He narrowed his eyes, as I imagined St Francis Xavier did, in suitably Jesuitical fashion. (At St Mary Magdalene, his parish in Simpsonville, there is a very large, strikingly severe icon of St Francis Xavier. Father Conner once presented a first-class relic[1] of the saint after a quiet evening Mass, which we all venerated. Thus, I now always associate the Society of Jesus [2] co-founder with Father Conner's stubborn, taciturn personality.)

"What do you mean, not necessary? The laws of the world have divorced you, the laws of the Church have not." St Francis Xavier, I thought, couldn't have pronounced any better.

"But he was JEWISH!" I protested. "This is ridiculous! How can the Church say the marriage was valid?"

Eyes narrowed again.

"Are you saying all of the marriages in the world, outside of the Church, are not valid? Of course they are."

Yes, a snappy answer to everything. Damn those Jesuits anyway.

~*~

Left: The Glory of St Francis Xavier, by Peter Paul Rubens (1617)


The funeral was impressive, a beautiful procession featuring a gaggle of Diocesan deacons and priests, all bedecked in white and gold, flanking the altar. A Jesuit who knew Father Conner in their days together in Augusta, dedicated his chalice to the parish. Father Conner was a Jesuit for 60 years, entering the Society while still in high school. So young! I wondered, did he ever wish he had chosen differently? (What did he think of modern-day kids who couldn't make up their minds about their vocations, well into their 20s and 30s?) I remembered that he seemed happiest when he was with his little dog, who waited patiently in the vestibule for him during daily Mass. (She would then flop on her back, tail wagging, as we all took turns afterwards rubbing her little tummy.)

At the conclusion, the Diocesan priests gathered in a phalanx around the coffin, all taking turns sprinkling it with holy water. Outside the Church, they parted on the left and right, singing the Dies Irae:



And unexpectedly, I sobbed my heart out.

May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs come to welcome you and take you to the holy city, the new and eternal Jerusalem.

~*~

[1] Catholic Relics are divided into 1st, 2nd and 3rd classes. A first-class relic is the bone or hair of the saint; second-class is clothing or an item they used (missal or crucifix, etc); third class is item (usually a medal) touched to the tomb of the saint, or touched to a first-class relic and blessed.

[2] Society of Jesus is the name of the religious order, individual priests in the order are called Jesuits. Full ordination as a Jesuit priest usually takes 12 years, the longest of any order.

[3] The post title, Ad majorem Dei gloriam, is the motto of the Society of Jesus: "For the greater glory of God."

Friday Cat Blogging: do kitties grieve?

Left: Peace Cat (black and white) and the late Grand Old Man, were always together.

~*~

Since the death of my beloved Grand Old Man, my youngest cat, Peace Cat, is alone.

He started out with us over six years ago in a household of three cats, and now he is the only one left.

Peace Cat loved to sleep next to Grand Old Man and fight with him. He also pestered him terribly and chased him everywhere. I used to adopt an "old man voice" and complain, imagining how he must feel, as Grand Old Man just looked so TIRED and weary of any more fun feline-games. Peace Cat, contrary to his name, loved to jump on him and bite his ears. Grand Old Man would loudly growl and whine, as if he just couldn't even muster up the energy to swat back at him. (The noise was meant to signal ME, to break it up.)

When Grand Old Man was sick, he huddled under an end-table. I found him when I was calling for him and he was too sick to respond; Peace Cat (just like the fabled TV canine, Lassie) went under the table, as if pointing to him. He licked his ears earnestly, as if to say (simultaneously): HERE HE IS!... and "I'm sorry for all those times I bit your ears!"

Peace Cat seems sad now. Am I projecting? Do cats grieve?

I ask because he did indeed seem to love Grand Old Man, and followed him everywhere.

Yesterday, I discovered Peace Cat near the window in the spare room, where Grand Old Man used to sleep during the day. There are still wads of gray hair in the window, that I can't bear to clean up yet.

I saw Peace Cat poking on the closed curtain. Poke, poke. I realized: OMG! It's one of the feline-games! He used to poke on the curtain while Grand Old Man slept. Eventually, Grand Old Man would poke BACK (cats simply can't contain themselves for very long in such circumstances, regardless of their age) and the feline curtain-game would be ON. That's how my curtain got all torn up, too.

And Peace Cat was poking the curtain, possibly hoping his old friend would reappear, and poke back through the curtain. Or just pretending and playing anyway?

Can kitties have hope and memories?

He waits for the answering swat through the curtain, that never comes. He looks as sad as I am. Is that possible?

(I miss him, too, PC. I miss him, too.)

Dead Air Church - Sweetness Follows

A week since I lost my feline muse.

Several times, I thought I saw him on the couch... no, only a recently-shed piece of clothing, the same color.

I thought I heard him meow. No, it was only a cat-food commercial.

I keep thinking, hey, where did he go?

Oh. Right.

Thus, for Dead Air Church, one of my favorite songs about death. Sorry if that bums you out.

This version has the beautiful lyrics included.




~*~

It's these little things
they can pull you under

Live your life filled
with joy and thunder

~*~

Sweetness Follows - R.E.M.

[via FoxyTunes / R.E.M.]

Seven songs meme

Lovely Ren roused me from my grief by tagging me with a meme. See what nice friends I have? (She got an iPod and it just seemed pertinent!)

~*~

List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring-summer. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

I've already posted several of these songs and decided to post the rest, so you can listen to em here if you want to.

~*~

LAUGHING--David Crosby

Actually, I've been listening to the last two minutes, the amazing steel guitar solo by Jerry Garcia, which is resplendent.

MUSIC EYES--Heartsfield (2nd song in link)

Overjoyed to find this old song, and have listened to it about 5000 times since it was first posted to YouTube last week.

AIN'T LIFE GRAND--Widespread Panic

Always makes me think of summer, for some reason... probably because I first remember hearing it in a horrendous summer traffic jam, where I had the AC in the car way up. And it properly reminded me: you aren't in an accident, you aren't poverty-stricken or unemployed, people care about you, so just calm the fuck down. Zen message, which I listen to whenever I need to be reminded: Ain't Life Grand?

I love the wistful, ironic way the song is delivered. I think it was Wendell Barry (?) who said the Southern Way is "sitting on the fence post, commenting wryly on the ways of God"... and this song is the musical equivalent of that sentiment.

~*~

This next one goes out to the AA folks. I've listened to it most of my life, at some point. I love the hard-nosed sensibility; like the last song, it "wakes me up"--as the Buddhists would say. It brings me back to myself and reminds me of first principles. It's also one of the greatest country songs ever written.

I was once at an AA picnic and virtually EVERY SINGLE PERSON KNEW THE WORDS...even the children! That says plenty, huh? (Unlike a lot of people these days, he takes FULL RESPONSIBILITY!)

Mama Tried - Merle Haggard

[via FoxyTunes / Merle Haggard]

~*~

Abrupt change in sensibility. I've been patiently waiting for Netflix to ship me the movie about Ian Curtis, titled CONTROL. I MUST SEE IT. Meanwhile, listening to WARSAW, which is the most claustrophobic punk song ever written.

Every now and then, I get a sort of clairvoyance concerning who isn't long for this world. Or is it (as the skeptics would undoubtedly say) that I'm just very attuned to the particular reality of addiction? (see AA reference above) At various times in my life I have heard certain songs and then pronounced "That person isn't long for this world!"--spooking my daughter, Delusional Precious, with my prescience and accurate fortune-telling. Most historic of these documented instances: WOULD?, ALL APOLOGIES and NO RAIN. In each instance, I thought, wow, that guy is gonna die, and SOON. I don't know if it's the actual song-lyrics, or the fact that I have heard literally thousands of addicts talk in thousands of 12-step meetings, and the overall sentiments expressed in the songs ring some kind of existential bell? Or is it something else I am hearing on some other sensory level? Whatever it is, I can hear it, and it always alarms me in a distinctive way. DEATH IMMINENT is what I hear. (And the song might even be relatively sprightly, as NO RAIN is, but I heard it anyway.)

And I thought the same thing when I heard WARSAW. I thought, DAMN, that guy, whoever he is, is NOT LONG FOR THIS WORLD. (When I finally get the movie about Ian, promise to post a review!)

Warsaw - Joy Division

[via FoxyTunes / Joy Division]

~*~

Nostalgic pining away for the days in San Francisco before AIDS took my friends away. It was fun, you guys. I have no words to properly express it, but I do have the song.

(Why does it start out with a HARP? Because we were in heaven, of course.)

Boogie Nights - Heatwave

[via FoxyTunes / Heatwave]

~*~

And this election season, we are well reminded that the big fish eat the little ones, the big fish eat the little ones...

Something we should always keep in mind, even if we are optimistic.

Optimistic - Radiohead

[via FoxyTunes / Radiohead]

~*~

I TAG THE FOLLOWING:

white rabbit (who had issues with my quirky meme! you should like this one better, dude!)
Jojo
Annie
Rootie
Vanessa, who usually includes fun stories with her memes, like I do.
Nexy
And John Powers, to get him to update his blog!

~*~

Yall have been just wonderful in the face of my grieving. Thank you so much. It was (and still is) a shock.

My mother's beloved Siamese kitty lived to be 18, and I was kinda hoping for that long lifespan, even though I knew Grand Old Man's digestive system wasn't in very good shape.

And it happened so fast; just like with old humans. Simple illnesses are no longer simple.

It's hard to write without my muse. I've been doing it so long; Grand Old Man nestled in my lap as I typed. And when I got going really good, he would emit a sweet, quiet, musical purr, as if he could somehow sense that my brain was creatively humming along. His contented purr let me know I was writing well. We were connected that way, and I feel like a tentacle, a sensory antenna, was severed.

I just loved him so much. It will take a long time to recover.