Tuesday Tunes

I assure you, I have no idea why, but I've been thinking "they've gone about as fur as they can go" all day long.

Cursed by Rodgers and Hammerstein earworms!

Kansas City - from the musical OKLAHOMA



~*~

A great song about impending motherhood, by adoption.

I Had Something - Lucy Kaplansky



~*~

Great mid-70s art-rock tune, with lyrics by Kurt Vonnegut!

Nice, nice, very nice - Ambrosia



~*~

I never truly appreciated this song until I no longer identified as a Christian. And now, I just love it. Thanks to the indispensable WPCI!

Where to now, St Peter? - Elton John

Name that car!

Another old car, for you antique-car fans who sometimes drop by (((waves at car-photo lurkers))) ... and I profusely apologize that I don't know what kind of Ford this is. Falling down on the job. (ashamed)

My late father, proud UAW-member and GM-assembly-line worker, would chuckle at that and say Fords are not worth remembering, so don't sweat it. (However, he WOULD know the make and model just the same, which makes me jealous.)

He would then add that Ford stands for "Found On Road Dead."

I did dutifully read the name of the car when I first spotted it on Laurens Rd (and you can SEE the name next to "500"--but so hard to read, even when you click to enlarge) ... and I told myself that of course, I would remember it when it came time to blog it. Weeks later, having forgotten totally about the cool car, I also forgot the name of it. (embarrassed)

I have done some random sleuthing, to no avail. Although it would certainly help if I knew the year too! I have NO idea what it is, but if you do, speak up! I love CHERRY RED and I love this vehicle, although it was not in the best condition, I still enjoyed the ancient steering wheel, radio, and general AMERICAN GRAFFITIesque interior.

~*~

We have been doing a bunch of radio shows about the NSA and Edward Snowden, in case anyone thought I had been noticeably delinquent on the subject. I assure you, I have been doing my share of fulminating, and probably your share too. Other recent radio shows:

[] The trial of our radio consigliere Gregg Jocoy, for carrying a sign that was officially TOO BIG (really). Yes, he was found guilty in a jury trial and had to pay $55.

[] An interview with Richard McIntyre, the US Trade Representative for the Green Shadow Cabinet, discussing the Trans Pacific Partnership Agreement.

[] An interview with the redoubtable Rev. Billy of the Church of Stop Shopping. Great inspiration for activism and street theatre, you can find the Church HERE.

YALL TUNE IN, we are on every day, LIVE AT FIVE ... you can listen to us on the radio-livestream HERE. (Podcasts are HERE.) Yesterday, I had to do without my usual opening music and I sailed through it like a pro. Only a few months ago, I would have had a nervous breakdown. (There IS something to be said for 'practice makes perfect' and getting fairly good at it... that 10,000 hour rule and alla that.) As we get better, we cut down on DEAD AIR lapses (we all think its pretty damn funny that my blog was named this YEARS before I started in radio); have almost stopped interrupting each other... and have nearly eliminated the dreaded brain-fart, during which *whatever* you were thinking (and had planned to say) just EVAPORATES into the ether... as you stare at the radio mike in front of you: DUH!

We are also getting fairly good at rescuing each other when this happens.

~*~

In a couple of weeks, I am having finger surgery, which I realize sounds mildly ridiculous. But really.

I figure something incredibly blog-worthy will happen around that time, and I will want to type and find it impossible. So, I am making up for it now and apologizing for not using my fingers for GOOD whilst I have the chance.

I briefly mentioned HERE (another car post!) that I had this thing on my finger, which turns out to be a mucous cyst ganglion. As time goes on, it gets angrier and angrier, and has started rupturing with regularity. GROSS STUFF (which looks remarkably like vaseline) pops out, which at least makes the nasty swelling go down. For awhile. And then it starts all over again. (sigh)

At the current rate, its been popping open (spewing its gross vaselinesque material) every week or so. Although I have had this thing for years now, it is only currently causing problems beyond the general warping of my fingernail. Since it stays 'open' (sorry for the TMI, yall), it is an active infection risk... and this could quickly morph into a JOINT infection, not just a lil ole fingernail/cuticle infection. Apparently, it has something to do with having osteoarthritis. (sigh again)

Ah, aging, the fun just never ends. From Web MD:

Mucous cyst ganglions usually occur when osteoarthritis symptoms develop, at middle age or older. This type of ganglion is more common in women than men.

Mucous cyst ganglions are found at the joint nearest the fingernail (distal interphalangeal [DIP] joint). The ganglion is firm and does not easily move under the skin. These ganglions may be painful and may break open, increasing the risk of infection. The fingernail may grow irregularly or be misshapen because the ganglion is near the growth cells for the fingernail.

Because of the risk of infection, a mucous cyst ganglion should not be broken open on purpose. Occasionally a ganglion opens on its own. Home treatment may be all that is needed.

Treatment measures include removing the ganglion fluid with a needle (aspiration) to temporarily shrink the cyst, injecting the cyst with hydrocortisone to reduce inflammation and possibly lower the chance that it will return, or removing the ganglion with surgery. The ganglion may return after treatment. Bone spurs (small, bony growths that form along a joint) are often present in the joint next to a mucous cyst, and removing the bone spurs makes it less likely that the cyst will return.

I've had the cortisone shot into my finger already (certainly not pleasant, but not nearly as bad as the thing itself, if you can believe it) which did shrink it for awhile, but it regrouped and planned its next massive assault with a real vengeance.

I'd even suggest it got MAD that it got a shot and decided it would show me whose boss. And so it has.

I am soon getting the joint and bone spurs scraped, as well as the cyst removed. I'm sure it sounds like lots more fun that it is!

I will keep you posted. (For those of you who have missed my periodic gross TMI posts, you should be in for a real treat, whenever it heals enough for me to type!)

~*~

One of my ALL TIME favorite trees is currently blooming! It is called Calliandra surinamensis and is also known as Surinamese Stickpea, Pink Tassel-Flower and Pink Powderpuff. I used to call them "bottle brush trees" because the bloom looks just like an old-style bottle-brush. My daughter finally looked it up at the library (long before there was the internet) and found the name for me. (Thus, I also associate it with her childhood.)

These beautiful trees are all over the upstate, and I took the photos below while hiking the Swamp Rabbit Trail. (you can click to enlarge)



So purty!


~*~

I now have a very lax and anemic TUMBLR of my own. I mostly did it to keep up with the various SJW-wars that have broken out online, and to lend my name to the truth-tellers who are sick of dopey, politically-correct excesses (as well as the attempted wholesale silencing of opinion). After dealing with THIS LATEST DEBACLE (see comments for gory details) -- I wanted to vent with others of a like mind, and decided to START A TUMBLR, God help me, even after declaring the place a total sewer. NOTE: I still think it is, but then, I used to contribute to DIGG and other sewers, so I am not above mucking about in the sewer... I mean, I'M BLOGGING, right? (I have declared Reddit a bridge too far, and although I've looked at it from time to time, try not to make a habit of it.)

The gangpiling, which I used to put up with as the price of admission to Blogdonia, has lately reached the level of patent insanity. In fact, TUMBLR would seem to be ONE LONG EXERCISE in gangpiling and dumping verbal abuse on people you simply disagree with... and usually the disagreements are not very serious or profound. Nonetheless, the stakes are raised immediately by issuing countless fatwas and edicts declaring that various bloggers are evil/genocidal/fascist and what-all. Thus, when something truly IS evil/genocidal/fascist and what-all (i.e. the prison-torture of Bradley Manning, the calls for the prosecution of Edward Snowden for being a saint, the shooting of Trayvon Martin by a vigilante-wannabe, etc etc) the 'social justice warriors' (not) are already bored by their own overwrought-language-feuds and therefore... DO ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

In fact, they don't even seem to have any opinions about these incidents, they are too busy honing their victim status and obsessing about themselves and their 'otherkin'. Real activism (even just writing about it), local political issues that need addressing and in general, real life, does not enter into their little just-so stories.

For this reason, I often find myself wondering if they are real or just decided to take on certain 'oppressed identities' to have something to whine about.

I would like to collectively paddle all of their spoiled asses and send them to Time-Out. I can't, so I have climbed onto the Tumblr soapbox to join the choruses making fun of them instead.

I mean, what else can you do?

~*~

In happy news, our beautiful FALLS PARK here in Greenville, was just voted one of the top 10 parks in the country (includes the big cities, peeps! WOO HOO!) by TripAdvisor, whatever that is.

We already knew that. :)

Ann Romney and class war

Apparently, I upset some people with the 7-minute intro to my radio show this morning. Wow, really? And I try so hard to be nice, too.

I usually start my show with a summation of whatever the other talk-radio hosts have been discussing, then give my take on it. And then we segue into other subjects. I long ago decided this would be my pattern, to let people know that this is not your ordinary South Carolina talk radio. In fact, we are the only self-identified lefty radio show in the entire upstate. So, my choice to begin my shows this way is quite deliberate. I want people to know who they are listening to, right out of the box. Unlike many conservative radio hosts, I don't try to fake people out and lead them to believe I am "objective" (since of course there is no such thing as objectivity, as the post-modernists have correctly counseled us) or "fair and balanced"--since what I try to do is make up for the fact that local media in Greenville County is overwhelmingly conservative.

Today I started my show trashing Ann Romney, which seems to have upset people. It also means they weren't listening. And its that last part that upsets me.

The scandal of the week is about the words of liberal journalist Hilary Rosen (not a Democratic party operative, although you certainly wouldn't know that from all the conservative media coverage) stating the obvious, that Ann Romney, who owns a couple of Cadillacs and is married to extremely-wealthy presidential candidate Mitt Romney (a proud member of the fabled 1%), has never worked a day in her life, which of course, is absolutely true.

This true statement is considered a scandal. Why? Because the Rethuglicans have successfully spun her comments as "mommy wars" comments, implying that Rosen impugns the beleaguered stay-at-home mamas (which note, I have also been, as I was careful to mention on the air). MOMS DO TOO WORK, comes the chorus. Well, duh, of course we do. But a woman worth "$290-odd million" (in her husband's amusing estimate) is not a "stay-at-home-mom"--she is the mistress of the plantation. As F. Scott Fitzgerald so memorably said, the very rich are different from you and me. And a woman who "raised five boys" certainly DOES work hard... but a woman with maids, nannies, secretaries and yard workers, DOES NOT.

In fact, what DOES she do?

THIS is what Rosen was saying... and if she wasn't, it is what *I* am saying.

Ann Romney is a rich woman who has done nothing but hire nannies, and that is not tantamount to raising five boys, or even five houseplants. Sorry, but it just isn't. Are we to believe she is Shirley Jones in THE PARTRIDGE FAMILY, hauling five kids around in her used-schoolbus? Right. She has drivers, she has car-elevators, she has EMPLOYEES. And no, that is not "working"--in fact, the very idea is a JOKE.

My question is: why would regular folks want to identify with such a person? My consigliere pointed out to me that people in trailer parks will vote for Mitt Romney... and he is 100% correct, although the logic here totally escapes me. Have we working-class people been so brainwashed to hate ourselves and believe ourselves inferior, that we automatically think anyone rich must be superior, must have the answers, MUST be smarter than we are? (This concept always reminds me of a line from FIDDLER ON THE ROOF: "When you're rich, they think you really know!")

Do we believe such a thing about a rich person who inherited everything and did nothing himself to deserve it? WHERE do we get this bias for the rich? WHY is it bad to point out that Romney has not raised her children herself?

Let me make it clear: nothing pisses me off more than "I built this house" or "my dad built this company" or "FDR built the Lincoln Tunnel" etc. Workers built your house, workers built your father's company, and workers built the Lincoln Tunnel. The erasure of workers, the fact that people died building the railroads and the Panama Canal and the bridges, is something I keep front and center in my consciousness, because those people were me and my family. Likewise, I always correct people when they name some rich slave-owner as the man who BUILT one of the countless beautiful homes of the South. NO, SLAVES BUILT THAT HOUSE. FOR FREE, TOO.

Likewise, I am annoyed when Ann Romney or another rich woman comes forth to claim she raised 5 boys, or 5 houseplants, or whatever she is claiming to have done. NO, NANNIES RAISED YOUR CHILDREN FOR YOU. MAIDS WASHED THEIR CLOTHES. DRIVERS PICKED THEM UP FROM SCHOOL. To say otherwise is to actively erase these workers, and I won't do it. I will certainly give credit where it is due, and it is not due to Ann Romney, but it IS due to the women she erases with her lying statements of having "worked" at home. Bullshit. Rich women with nannies have hired employees to raise their kids, period. If they don't like me saying that and daring to recognize the actual workers who have done the actual work, then they shouldn't LIE about it. What do you suppose Ann's nannies are thinking, the women who actually stayed up late with the feverish, puking babies while Ann cozily slept in? Let's hear from THEM. And by the way, did she pay Social Security taxes on all of her domestic workers? What is their immigration status; is it as nefarious as those yard-workers her husband claimed not to know were illegals? And why didn't he know that? Because he doesn't even HIRE his own yard workers, he hires out other people to do his hiring.

And where is the mainstream media, and why aren't they asking these questions? Because rich people are sacrosanct in America. Their choices are not to be questioned. They can do anything and everything they please, with no repercussions. To point out that they are liars (and lazy people who have never worked) is considered RUDE.

Well, let me continue to be rude, since someone has to do it, and as we see, the regular media is too busy chastising Rosen for saying the obvious, and fawning all over the 1%. Hey, if the 1% does it, it MUST be okay. How dare we suggest otherwise.

And then we wonder where they get the power to erase us and walk all over us and steal $800 million in bail-out money from us? We have given them the power, in our fear and reticence to question them. We genuflect at their lifestyles, we tell ourselves it is our failing that we are not more like them.

I do not WANT to be like them. They are morally bankrupt, lazy, parasitic rich people living off the HARD WORK of the rest of us. Ann included. If that message bothers you, you are not ready for class war, even though it has already been declared on us when they took our money to bail out the rich. And be advised: they intend to take more of your money and give it directly to the rich. Romney is warning you, daily, that he intends to do this. If you vote for him to pick your pocket to give another tax break to him and his staggeringly-affluent friends, you are a fool. If you think it's PERMISSIBLE for a man who keeps huge amounts in a Swiss bank to run this country, you deserve everything you get. I just wish you wouldn't take down the rest of the country with you.

And his wife? A tool. His "consultant on women's economic issues"--a woman who has never worked a day in her life.

This is the truth, and Rosen should not be shamed or vilified for reminding us. I only wish we could be reminded of their fraudulent statements more often.

Wordless Wednesday: pick your favorite!

Okay, today we have a sweet, sleeping baby grandson (held by my son-in-law), and my daughter's new tattoo.

Hello America

I filed for an unemployment-benefits extension today, which I did not know was even possible. I learned of my extension-eligibility from a very helpful state employee at the Greenville-area One-Stop center yesterday.

And so, I girded my loins and prepared for today's long bureaucratic process at the unemployment office, where I have not been since November.

I am always somewhat obsessed with bean-counting the minute I enter the unemployment office. It is just so glaringly obvious. Today, about 50 people, give or take (very hard to count precisely, since people are constantly entering and exiting)... with only three white men in attendance, and they all appeared to be over 40. The rest of us, women of all colors and ages, and black men, all ages.

As I said, interesting.

Ever since I started counting, the results have been more or less the same.

My question: Are the young white men really staying employed en masse during this economic crisis, or are they too proud to apply for unemployment?

~*~

At left: Interior of Greenville Mall, around the time I worked there. (from Deadmalls.com)




The One-Stop center is in an old shopping mall, McAlister Square, that has been utterly transformed--you might say the building was recycled. I used to take my daughter there when she was a child; I recall St Patrick's Day and Halloween events that she loved. And now, when I walk in, it is still jarring to me that it is no longer a shopping mall. But I am so glad they managed to find some good purpose for it.

There is a website that I find fascinating, Deadmalls.com, since I am one of those people who actually worries about the proliferation of big-box stores and malls. I often wonder WHAT ON EARTH we will ever do with them.

Ever since I read JG Ballard's Hello America, I've wondered what these entities will be in 100-200 years from now. I imagine the enormous suburban office buildings chopped up into tiny apartments; I see the big-box stores turned into homeless shelters for hundreds of people... or possibly turned into hospitals, schools, or condos. What else could you do with them? Simply knock them down when they are no longer needed?

Greenville Mall, where I worked for awhile and had one of my fender-benders, is now gone; torn down some time ago. It was once the big deal around here, and now it is history. I think of it as a symbol of the fleeting nature of fads and fashion and why it's futile to try to be cool. (Buddhist aside: Empty malls that once attracted the moneyed young, filled to overflowing with hustle and bustle, are a good subject for anicca [impermanence] meditation.)

Cool lasts for a week or a day, and then something else is cool. I always tell people, I was totally cool for about an hour in the late 70s, during which time I visited both Max's and CBGB's. But the hour passed, and I descended back into my usual uncoolness.

It was a nice hour while it lasted.

If Disney did a horror movie, might look like this

Left: Victoria's birthday party; she is the one in yellow who looks just like me.







My granddaughter turned six on September 11. I certainly DO wish her birthday was NOT a national day of mourning. To my daughter's credit (that's her in the photo), she has always tried to make her birthdays happy. I don't think Victoria will become self-conscious about the date until she is older, and maybe not even then.

As one commenter on a blog recently said to me: If we let them take our happiness, they have indeed been successful in totally destroying the day. I agree.

Meanwhile, my granddaughter is SIX whole years old! I will be seeing them next week for the first time in over a year, and I am very excited.

And don't these partiers look a little scary? ;)

Date a geek today

Can I say it? I feel really sorry for people who are dating now.

A whole generation has gone by since I last shopped for males. (In November, we will celebrate our 24th anniversary.) And from the looks of things, it's gotten kinda ugly out there.

I think it must be terrible for people to look you up and down, talk to you for five minutes, then press the buzzer: NEXT. Back in the day, before the internet, things were slower. You usually didn't press the NEXT buzzer until you knew the person fairly well and were CERTAIN it was time to press the NEXT buzzer. And even then, you might keep that person around as a good friend, the way Chris Rock says women keep a man in the wings: "In Case of Emergency, Break Glass." (Yes, she admitted, head hung low, I did that for years. Because as Chris Rock says, you never know.)

This post was inspired by a geek-hating tirade, and I just had to say something.

As an old lady married to a geek, let me say, geeks are the greatest. AND the smartest. (I admit, being married to a genius is important to my self-image.) But I understand that not everyone feels that way. Big Blogdonia hoopla over this intended-humorous post over at Gizmodo. (I thought Gizmodo was a geeky-site, so I was surprised that they would run an anti-geek piece.) Trendy young woman dates a geek, and suffers extended apoplexy:

The next day I Googled my date and a wealth of information flowed into my browser. A Wikipedia page! Competition videos! Fanboy forums! This guy isn’t just some professional who dabbled in card games at a tender age. He’s widely revered in the game of Magic that he’s been immortalised in his own playing card.

Just like you’re obligated to mention you’re divorced or have a kid in your online profile, shouldn’t someone also be required to disclose any indisputably geeky world championship titles? But maybe it was a long time ago? We met for round two later that week.

At dinner I got straight down to it. Did he still play? “Yes.” Strike one. How often? “I’m preparing for a tournament this weekend.” Strike two. Who did he hang out with? “I’ve met all my best friends through Magic.” Strike three. I smiled and nodded and listened. Eventually I even felt a little bit bad that I didn’t know shit about the game. Here was a guy who had dedicated a good chunk of his life to mastering Magic, on a date with a girl who can barely play Solitaire. This is what happens, I thought, when you lie in your online profile. I was lured on a date thinking I’d met a normal finance guy, only to realise he was a champion dweeb in hedge funder’s clothing.

I later found out that he infiltrated his way into OKCupid dates with at least two other people I sort of know, including one of my co-workers. Mothers, warn your daughters! This could happen to you. You’ll think you’ve found a normal bearded guy with a job, only to end up sharing goat cheese with a world champion of nerds. Maybe I’m an OKCupid arsehole for calling it that way. Maybe I’m shallow for not being able to see past his world title. But if everyone stopped lying in their profiles, maybe there also wouldn’t be quite as many OKCupid horror stories to tell.

This post exploded onto several blogs, as the geeks and geek-defenders came out in force. Gizmodo even replied semi-officially and took the guy's name out of the piece. (But with the multitude of information the author has provided, it would be really easy to locate him and his name.) Sady Doyle takes up the charge and defends the initial poster and her account of the shitty date. (NOTE: Sady is far funnier.) Eventually THAT thread has to be closed down too. The whole thing has caused a near-riot in Blogdonia.

Meanwhile, I am rendered mute and remain utterly clueless about the whole thing. Really? A game? Really?

And what's wrong with goat cheese?

See there, I am already hopelessly uncool. I don't even understand the underlying premises of why this man is bad. As far as I can see, he didn't insult her or women in general, did not grab her tit or pinch her ass, was reasonably literate and dressed inoffensively. (She offhandedly says they discussed "normal stuff" and includes "college" as one of those "normal" things... obviously, a man who had not been to college at all would not have been regarded as "normal" or good enough, regardless of his interests or intelligence. In virtually all angry replies to the post, this casual elitism was unremarked upon.) Is it supposed to be bad or good to dress like a hedge fund guy? And why? Is capitalism considered an unbridled good by this person? If the guy had oodles of money (if his card-game-of-choice was the World Series of Poker rather than Magic: The Gathering), would she have been impressed?

Feminism is not just about women. Feminism is also about men. We cannot expect men to transcend their base desires and like us as people, if we are not willing to do the same to them. If we judge men solely by their wallets or their hobbies, we can hardly be angry when they judge us by our boobs or our weight.

Does it shock you when I tell you I married AN UNEMPLOYED PERSON? Of course, now, he has had his job longer than everybody, but when I met him, this was certainly not the case. Sady says there is no such thing as the Frog turning into the Prince and sees this as propaganda for girls to accept Frogs and to be happy with them:

We get a lot of sexist narratives about love, but none of them are more pernicious and subtle than this: The Frog Prince story. You could call it “Beauty and the Beast,” too. Or you could call it “Twilight,” or “Knocked Up,” or “Rory Williams Won’t Stop Whining;” it’s always the same story, anyway. Girl meets guy. On the surface, this guy is unappealing! Because he’s a frog! Or he’s not sexually attractive to her, or he treats her badly, or he’s immature, or he’s Rory Williams and he won’t stop whining; all of these are frog-like states, generally considered unkissable. But only a bitch would think that frogs don’t deserve our sweet, sweet kisses, so the woman doesn’t leave. Instead, she looks for the guy’s good qualities. She lowers her standards; she changes her expectations. She gives up on her silly little “ideas” about “attractiveness” or “compatible lifestyles” or “having fun with her partner.” Finally, she loses touch with her own desires to the point that she winds up making out with a fucking frog. At which point he becomes a prince. Or a loving husband, or a responsible person, or a whiny little Roman Centurion; the point is, in these stories, once you give up on wanting things from men, men magically become what you want.

Here’s the secret, though, if you are the girl in this particular story: That guy never became a prince. At all. He’s still the same guy; he still possesses all those qualities you initially found unappealing, for all sorts of valid reasons. People don’t go from frog to mammal overnight, and they particularly don’t do so because you ask less of them; you are still making out with a frog, in the long run. The only reason he looks like a prince nowadays is that you lowered your standards to the point that you literally could not tell the difference between frog and mammal.

First of all, I was an alcoholic very active in AA when he met me, a single welfare mother with a three-year-old child, so I was not free of my own amphibian tendencies. And maybe those flaws are pretty glaring, but you know, everyone has them. Everyone. But because mine WERE so glaring, I could not lie about them or hide them, and had to face them up front. I was not a terrific bargain, and I did not present myself that way. Perhaps everyone should consider that? (Aside: Working-class and poor kids are frequently asked by their peers, Who do you think you are?, and I often wonder if the middle-and-upper-class kids are ever asked that question, because they sure don't act like it. But I digress.)

And second, I find it interesting Sady thinks the Frog tale is a propaganda story for women... when I think women wrote the story, out of personal experience.

In short, we SAW the prince emerge, so we know. For sure.

As one who has been married three times, let me share something crucial: you do not know who men are until the shit hits the fan. (Yes, I'm afraid the military is right about that one.) Our characters are forged in crisis. Will this man stand by you when you go to court with the ex? When you are sick? Been fired? Lost your mother? How will he respond? What kind of father will he be? You don't know any of this ahead of time, even if you think you do. One of the worst things that can ever happen, is finding out that you married someone who can't deal with emotions or reality, who subsumes himself in work or TV or porn. When you are young and carefree and everything is fun, you can easily handle things. But the first time something HAPPENS (i.e. somebody becomes an alcoholic, okay: ME) and this person can't deal? They will cut you loose and move on. It turns out they are not someone cut out for the long haul, and you had no clue. (How could you have had a clue? Nothing BAD had ever happened before.) You could go years and never know this about a man. And it happened to me.

What you want is a man who understands what true partnership means. These men are rare, so rare in fact, that you shouldn't turn them away just because they play the wrong game. Really, that is the least of it. (Some hints I can offer in retrospect: during the dating period, does he keep his distance when you are upset or yowling? Does he say, "call back when you have calmed down"? Move on. When you have children together, he will treat them like shit and refuse to deal. Because as you probably know, kids yowl all the time.)

The secret to being married a long time is: Your souls merge. Your MINDS merge. You may not like his games, but you will learn about them nonetheless. Even more than that: you will learn what traits he displays while playing said game, and why it makes him so happy. Similarly, he may not like your stuff either, but he will learn the lyrics of Who songs anyway. Eventually, you hear him tell someone else that the Who was great, and you privately preen. Just to yourself.

At this point, we finish each other sentences, or don't even bother with whole sentences.

Example: TV commercial comes on.

Him: "That reminds me of..."

Me: "Yeah, but that was a different actor."

Him: "No, same guy."

Me: "You sure?"

Friends: stare at us dumbfounded, and we don't even know why, until they tell us.

And I like it that way. :)

So here I am, defending the geeks. Because I am happily married to one, and have been for a long time. And girls, if you overlook them as a category, you are cheating yourselves. You really are.

But then, I occasionally eat goat cheese too. You might want to disregard my opinion.

Warrant: Mother Blames Ghost For Hatchet Killings

Image at left from Purple Moon Galleries.





I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone blamed a ghost for an actual crime... but hatchet murders?

That's some scary ghost.

Warrant: Mother Blames Ghost For Hatchet Killings

ASHEVILLE, N.C. -- A 33-year-old mother accused of killing her two young daughters with a hatchet and then trying to kill herself told investigators that a ghost killed her children, according to a warrant.

The murder warrant against Naiyana Patel also said that she has said she does not want to live and she did not want surgery for her head injuries.

On Saturday, Patel's husband, Lalji Patel, returned home from work to find his daughters, 7-year-old Jiya and 4-year-old Piya, dead and their mother seriously injured.

Police said Naiyana Patel struck herself in the head repeatedly with the hatchet after she killed the girls.

Relatives said Naiyana was being treated for depression after a pregnancy she did not carry to full term, and, at some point she switched medication because the initial prescription did not seem to help.

Investigators removed the medication from the home during the investigation. Relatives said the children's funeral is planned Thursday.

After undergoing surgery, Naiyana was listed in serious but stable condition at Mission Hospital.

Police said she was transferred from the intensive care unit to a regular room. They're waiting to find out when she will be released from the hospital before deciding how to proceed.

Lt. Wallace Welch said it depends on how forthcoming Patel is with information. Welch said there is a possibility she could go straight from the hospital to the jail.

A memorial service for the family only is set for Thursday at the Groce Funeral Home from noon until 2 p.m.

A community event will be set for Thursday at 6 p.m. in the ball field behind Oakley Elementary School, the school Jiya attended.

Welch said the public event will celebrate the lives of Jiya and her sister, Piya.

A day ago, they were blaming the medication.

Pretty shocking stuff for a peaceful town like Asheville.

My novenas are with the children and other survivors.

Odds and Sods - Skeptical edition

From Yellowdog Granny, who has all the funnies.



All sorts of busybodies weighing in about all sorts of heavy topics. Your humble narrator is terribly outclassed in trying to keep up... and in figuring out a decent opinion.

Amanda Marcotte worries that the atheists and skeptics are "mixing up" their respective social movements. (I didn't even know they were still separate, so that tells you how much I know.) In doing so, she doesn't miss a chance to use the "fairy belief" comparison. (sigh)

Really, can't yall come up with something else? As a lifelong scifi-fan, I resent the fantasy-fans' terms being privileged over mine... if you are going to insult me, please call me a believer in aliens and UFOs instead. Okay? Instead of "sky-fairy believer"--I insist upon FLYING SAUCER believer. In fact, you can use any term you like: Flying Saucers, UFOs, Area 51, Aliens, Extraterrestrials, Little Green Men/Women, be my guest. But seriously, fuck this fairy-obsession, you know?

Ah, but here we come to the heart of it... the Politics of the Insult. Are they willing to write off the UFOs, as they freely write off fairies and God? Since they claim they are all about rational evidence, certainly they will unquivocally announce that UFO-belief is all bullshit too? But few do. Hm, I wonder why?

Lots of atheists like sci-fi and consequently do believe in aliens, is the awful truth.

Not that they could prove aliens exist; they simply enjoying thinking they do. It's a matter of faith. It's FUN. Just like fairies and St Francis are enjoyable and fun, right? But their fun and our fun isn't comparable. They are lots smarter than us, so their fun is allowed under the rules of rationality, while ours is dangerous and must be abolished... right along with those innocent fairies, who last time I looked, didn't do anything to anybody. Rationality uber alles.

Amanda doesn't like it that Skepticblog actually thought Christians (fairy believers) should participate (!) in a famous Skeptics panel.

She wants to trash people, but you know, not when they are actually sitting right there in front of her.

~*~

Before I get accused of being all mean to Amanda, I did very much enjoy what she wrote about the 20th anniversary of Nirvana's Nevermind. And I find it fascinating that even though we are 20 years apart in age, I had the exact same emotional reaction to the Anarchist Cheerleaders that she did.

I tried to wrestle with the fact that 20 years has gone by since then, and I found myself thinking--

Don't let it be forgot
That once there was a spot
For one brief shining moment that was known
As Camelot

I tried to rewrite this for grunge, couldn't quite get there. This was the best I could come up with:

Don't let it be unsaid
That once there was a dread
of scary kids who took the plunge
into Grunge.

In any event, my sentiments are the same as Camelot.. and my hugs and kisses to you kidz out there who tried to resurrect the old faith. It was a nice moment, and you should be very proud and remember it fondly your whole lives.

~*~

Feministe has an endless thread about adoption as a feminist issue, that you must read. Although very long (374 comments as of this writing)-- it is amazingly heartfelt, as first mothers and adoptees and adoptive mothers and everyone else jumps in with their opinions, experience and knowledge. The thread includes excellent links and research, particularly about the feelings of mothers who give up babies for adoption. One commenter says the regret-percentage is as high as 96%, which surprised me... but not really.

Lots of talk on that thread about why people feel the necessity of having their own biological offspring, had me skipping all over the net, and eventually brought me to this scary story on Strollerderby: Sperm Donor Never Reported Fatal Illness: 24 Biological Children Could Be Affected Yow!

But why is that so surprising? You pay some guy for his sperm, which he'd just be wasting anyway, right? Easy money. Why wouldn't he lie to keep the easy money coming? Why would he kill the proverbial goose that lays the golden eggs?

When you pay money for the biological properties of reproduction, this is one of the things that can happen, as in any other retailing or merchandising: a lack of quality control.

As PT Barnum famously said, you pays your money and you takes your choice.

~*~

Warren Jeffs is guilty! Well, of course he is, but now it's official. How many of you DEAD AIR folks listened to the tape recordings of the 12 and 14 year-olds (Jeffs' "spiritual wives"), having the sordid FLDS "facts of life" explained to them? The sound of little-girls "amens" was freaky and alarming. And then, the silence on the (audio) tapes as he rapes them. He doesn't deny anything. The infant of the 14-year-old (now 15) was proven through DNA to be Jeffs' -- so the evidence for that was already a done deal.

The Prophet (as he is known) Warren Jeffs stood defiant at the end during closing arguments (he acted as his own lawyer after opening arguments) and was silent for the allotted 30 legal minutes of his closing. Instead, he stared at the jury, one by one. They stared back. (I knew then, dude, you are going down.) Finally, he announced in prophet-like tones, "I am at peace." (Honestly, my first thought was of the fictional character modeled on Jeffs, Harry Dean Stanton in Big Love, who would do something equally melodramatic and unexpected in a courtroom.)

Today, during sentencing, Jeffs walked out after reading a statement about his Prophethood:

Jeffs is the leader of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, which believes polygamy brings exaltation in heaven. Yesterday, he was convicted of sexually assaulting two girls, ages 12 and 15, whom he'd wed during what his sect considers "spiritual marriages."

Jeffs represented himself during the eight-day trial. Before the punishment phase began today, Jeffs asked to leave the courtroom, saying he objected to the proceedings against him. He also read a statement promising a "whirlwind of judgment" on the world if God's "humble servant" isn't set free.

District Judge Barbara Walther told Jeffs that he couldn't leave and continue to represent himself. She ordered two lawyers who had been standby counsel to represent him.

Jeffs could be sentenced to life in prison.

Yeeeuch.

Certainly, I understand where Amanda and James Randi and everybody else gets their skepticism, or atheism, or whatever they are calling it. This kind of thing is too disgusting for words.

But I am utterly confident that if there was no religion, the Warren Jeffs of the world would find another playground to exercise their disgusting desires, oppressing women and exploiting children.

I wish I were not so confident of that (sigh), but I am.

~*~

To celebrate the 20th anniversary of Nevermind, time for some grunge!

Biographical background: Some years ago, I decided to 'pick up' (as we say in recovery) a substance I had sworn off. You probably know which one it is. I had gone without it for 23 years... Twenty. Three. Years. Can you believe? But at the time, things were emotionally very rough... and I thought, you know, I will choose the most benign substance I can think of... and I will offer no excuses.

And I don't and I haven't.

And yes, I know the guy singing this is dead. I wish he'd chosen a more benign substance, too.

Alice in Chains - No Excuses



It's alright, there comes a time
Got no patience to search for peace of mind

Laying low, want to take it slow
No more hiding or disguising truths I've sold

~*~

Have a great weekend everybody!

There can be no true equality for women

... as long as the young, pretty, middle-class white girls get by with murder.

And if she were an ugly fat girl? Old? Black? Male?

I think we all know the answer to that.

Depressed at how far we have NOT come. This is not justice.

At left: Casey Anthony and attorney Jose Baez walk out of the Orange County Jail in Orlando, Florida. And she is free as a bird.

NOTE: Pro-Anthony posts will be deleted, or possibly selectively quoted and mocked. And the extremely-offensive (and totally ignorant and uninformed) remark, "there wasn't any evidence" -- will also be deleted and/or selectively quoted and mocked. Expect the worse. I feel very, very strongly about this matter.

No idiocy (or starry-eyed Casey-humpers) will be tolerated on this thread. Thanks.

How to get away with murder

From the outcome of the Casey Anthony trial we learn that baby-killers go free, if they are pretty, young, middle-class white women. I find this profoundly unfair, especially considering that poor Andrea Yates had an actual diagnosis and went without her prescribed meds, yet was still found guilty.

I would like to share my opinion with the jury. If one of them lived near me, I might leave a little note on their door or email them. Thus, whenever the names of the people on the Casey Anthony jury are released, I will be publishing them here. In addition, I will be publishing whatever other info is released about them, such as addresses or employer information. (In case anyone else wants to talk to them in person or anything.) And I hope the craven, cowardly members of this jury lose their jobs, their friends, their reputations and much more. Make them pariahs. Allies of baby-killers should be treated like the baby-killers themselves. They have dangerously turned an evil, heartless killer loose to walk among us; I am simply grateful I don't live in Orlando.

As for Casey, the continuing drama of her life should be fairly entertaining. I'm sure she will become even more famous, in our celebrity-driven, increasingly-amoral culture that provides polite, respectful obits for mass-murderers like Jack Kevorkian. Since she is very attractive, she will probably be in reality-TV shows or music-videos, possibly marrying a cool actor or musician.

I just hope she doesn't have any more children.

Casey Anthony trial, week 2

Wow, ladies and gents, this trial is so hot, it's like having an unseen, shiny brand new season of LAW AND ORDER on DVD from Netflix. Yow! I can barely tear myself away to buy groceries.

Scandalmongers throughout the land, I can attest that this trial is where it's at--as we used to say.

To spice up the proceedings, we have Detective Yuri Melich, who was reprimanded for posting on a crime blog about the case, under the name Dick Tracy Orlando (Mr Daisy approves of comic-book reference). I hope this isn't an issue on appeal; my personal opinion is that anyone--including law enforcement--should be able to post anonymously (or under a pseudonym) about anything they please ... the question is whether he was as anonymous as he should have been. Did everyone know who he "really" was, and does that count for anything? This is an important First Amendment matter, and I hope this case sets some kind of precedent.

Admission: I love it that blogs are taken seriously in such a high-profile case. All power to the bloggers!

This week: The testimony of Casey's mother, Cindy Anthony, was wrenching. It nearly did Cindy in completely, and me too. Before this testimony, I didn't realize that Caylee, her deceased granddaughter, was born only a month before my own. She would be six years old this year, starting school, if she had not been murdered. Cindy wept upon seeing photos of Caylee's playhouse and bedroom, especially her little stuffed bears and other toys. Just imagine, your granddaughter is dead, and you may lose your only daughter to the death penalty.

Tellingly, Casey showed no emotion during her mother's continuous sobbing. Similarly, when her future sister-in-law Mallory Parker testified and also started to cry, she succeeded in showing more emotion than the child's own mother.

Today: We are now listening to the tape recording made at Universal Studios, when it was finally made obvious that Casey Anthony was lying about working there. She walked around looking for her fictional office at Universal, three cops trailing behind, and then she finally stuck her hands in her back pockets and admitted, "I don't work here." What? You don't work there? And for years, you have told everyone that you do, including your own family?! Holy shit, this woman is a world-class sociopath, making Diane Downs look like very small potatoes indeed.

On the Universal tape, the Orlando detectives are grilling her ass so bad, a mere mortal would have caved long ago. The lead detectives would make Lenny Briscoe and Robert Goren proud. This stuff is great! The incredible ability of Casey Anthony to reel off one well-spun lie after another, without even pausing to think about it, is astounding. I can truthfully say that I have never seen such a thing before. One of the legal commentators wondered aloud if she is the kind of person who could even pass a polygraph, believing her own detailed, in-depth web of fairy tales.

Casey just keeps repeating: the (non-existent) nanny took Caylee. Even though it has been definitively established that no one by the non-existent nanny's name ever lived in the mystery apartment where Caylee was supposedly dropped off; the last place Casey claims to have seen her. Casey keeps repeating these 'facts' anyway. And the Briscoe/Goren duo keep at her, in cop-tones that would make most of us curl up into a fetal position.

But it is quite brazenly obvious on the tape: Casey isn't scared and holds her ground. Freaking bloody amazing!

Tune in tomorrow.

Casey Anthony trial, Part I

I haven't been addicted to a good murder trial since Phil Spector's... and I blame my daughter for calling me on the phone to warn me I was missing Casey Anthony's crocodile tears (at left) and I'd surely regret it. So I turned it on and... yeah, you know what happened. I've been tuned in ever since opening arguments.

Typically, Casey is blaming daddy for her messed-up mind, and the defense is asserting that her 2-year-old daughter, Caylee, drowned and the entire family covered it up. It's a stretch, but that's the story, and they are sticking to it.

All the Ann Rule books (particularly Small Sacrifices) that kept me entertained (for decades!) have prepared me for watching this sordid trial of mother-love gone berserk. For instance, I immediately noticed that Casey sobbed when opening arguments referred to her own bad treatment at the hands of her father. And yet she remains stoic and unemotional when witnesses say things like, "... and then a skull rolled out of the garbage bag"... excuse me, say what?! This is your baby, and you sit there like a stone when they talk about her skull rolling out of a bag? (Jesus H. Christ, that looks so bad.) But that very intense brand of narcissism is fairly typical in murderers, and was present in both Diane Downs and Debora Green. (For Casey's sake, I hope nobody on the jury has been reading Ann Rule.)

Anybody else watching? Opinions? What did you think of dad on the witness stand today?

~*~

Although thoroughly unemployed, I've been chugging along... reorganizing drawers, catching up on tarot readings for friends and fans, re-commencing hiking and yoga (I now need Yoga for Cynics more than ever!), repairing old jewelry and vintage clothing... and watching Casey Anthony sob over her sorry-ass life. I'm also reading Robert Stone's fabulous memoir PRIME GREEN, and it IS nice to have some time to read for a change.

Speaking of reading, if you have some free time, here you go:

The "Alternative" Female Actress, And Why Hollywood Has So Few Of Them (Jezebel)

Focus on the Family Head: "We've Probably Lost" on Gay Marriage (Mother Jones)

Stop the Execution of Roy Davis! (Amnesty International Alert)

Great American Patriots (Glenn Greenwald/Salon)

Required reading for movie fans: The Dying of the Light (by Roger Ebert), which addresses the fact that films are growing ever-darker due to the accompanying rise of 3-D. (Thanks to Erik Loomis at Alterdestiny for the link.) I recently noticed that THOR was somewhat dark (of course Mr Daisy forced me to go see THOR), even though we skipped on the 3D and went to the regular showing. We even talked about it afterwards; the film seemed darker than usual.

Ebert worries that the darkness is rapidly becoming the norm.

~*~

BTW, the wonderful Asheville-based blog ASHVEGAS linked my Fanaticon photos, and thank you!

Gone, when you find that there's no one sleeping

Yesterday was the anniversary of the Columbine shootings, and I meant to link my old post titled Me and Columbine. Sorry about that... posting one day late (and a dollar short). As I wrote in the post, it is also something of a spiritual anniversary of mine.

My thoughts and prayers are with you, Wayne Harris, Katherine Ann Poole, Thomas Klebold, Susan Yassenoff... as so many pray for the victims, I know they often forget to pray for you too, but I don't.

I wish you had your boys back, and I am so sorry.

(The song below is also in the original post.)

~*~

Gone, when you wake in the morning
Gone, when you find that there's no one sleeping
Gone, pretty Penny was her name
She was loved and we all will miss her

Pretty Penny - Stone Temple Pilots

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

Please don't be long, or I may be asleep

Now if you ask of psychology just how and why aims that were peripheral become at a certain moment central, psychology has to reply that she is unable to account accurately for all the single forces at work.

--William James, Varieties of Religious Experience


I have always tried to be honest when it comes to spiritually-based matters. Even when it makes me look crazed or stupid. This time, however, has been especially difficult.

It seems I don't have the right words, the proper references, the easy approach. On some level, I find Westerners who claim Eastern religions to be pretentious and silly; tourists of the soul. And yet... I wrote about my beloved George Harrison for a reason. I made the case for him and people like him.

Of course, I realized I was also talking about myself. I knew this could all apply to me at some later date.

The date and time arrived, without any preparation, rather like an old rusty sundial that nobody pays much attention to. Time's up. The clock struck the hour, and as the book of Matthew tells us, no man knows the day or the hour, not even the angels in heaven.

I hesitate to call it a conversion. But I am stuck with Western words--words with their roots in Christianity. As I said in the George Harrison post: they don't do it like that, we do it like that. But then, I am talking about ME, right?

I do it like that.

~*~

My study of Buddhism has grown extensive. And just like those numerous TV detectives (or Greg House), I was in the middle of something else entirely when it happened. In a series of realizations, everything coalesced, made sense, lined up. I tried to fight it, because I knew what it meant. (I briefly wrote about that here.) I am frankly terrified at the idea of "leaving" the Church, even psychologically. (Physically, I have no trouble staying away for months at a time.) A creator God is an idea I can't overcome and can't shake; an idea that seems etched somewhere on my cerebellum. In addition, my deep love for the saints and the Blessed Mother is a palpable and real phenomena in my life. I don't want to change, I protested inwardly, I don't want to.

Then why are you reading all of this stuff? Why have you steadily prayed for compassion?

It was the graveyard. I asked the spirits of the dead to speak to me, and tell me what they know.

~*~

I decided to take photos of the German graveyard in Fredericksburg, Texas. These immigrants are the people my grandchildren descend from, my son-in-law's family. They came thousands and thousands of miles, to these hills that must have seemed so hot, so inhospitable, so strange. They left the "old country" and arrived in the land of coyotes and cactus. I thought of what it was like, never hugging one's parents again, crossing a huge ocean and knowing that you will never again see the place you came from, the land that nurtured you and formed your imagination.

I saw the gravestones, some of them the graves of babies. The whooping cough, polio and other diseases these babies likely died from, have been largely eradicated in the West. And yet, our pain, our suffering, does not diminish. We have all kinds of modern conveniences that these Germans would have found incredible, the answer to any number of daily problems; even a telephone would have been an amazing innovation in their very primitive, pioneer way of life. But what does the modern proliferation of phones bring us? I thought of the woman seated behind me on the plane, arguing on her cell phone in controlled tones... arguing with who? I tried to figure it out and could not: Husband? Boyfriend? Best friend?

I thought of the juxtaposition of the arguing passenger, and the German immigrant (lying here in this cemetery?) of the last century, who would have been so overjoyed to hear that her husband was merely late, not hurt or harmed on his long, muddy trek home by horse-drawn wagon. Telephones were once used only in similar emergencies, to notify Atticus Finch there was a rabid dog outside, and other scary stuff like that. But now we all carry one, like talismans to ward off the problems of modern life that materialize seemingly out of nowhere. And as a result, omnipresent telephones have also helped to multiply our distress.

I thought about my newborn grandson, my nearly-five-year-old granddaughter, and the pain I have experienced, not being able to see them as often as I want to. I know they will not die of these old diseases, causing me great pain, but I do feel the intense pain of separation, the same crushing pain these German immigrants felt. In that sense, nothing has changed. Our common humanity is the same, and we feel the same, even after the passing of a hundred years.

We have improved our lot, we are living longer, I thought, but we are still sad.

And tellingly, graveyards have not changed. We have not changed the fact of death, the end of our earthly existence.

~*~

I entered that area of the cemetery in which the names have worn off the stones. Who are these people?--I thought. Please talk to me. There were gothic-appearing cages surrounding the oldest stones, some very rusty. To keep the grave-robbers out? Frightening. (One might also say, to keep the dead people from escaping, if one were sufficiently spookable.)

I could always get through the first two Noble Truths pretty easily. I mean, come on, who can argue?

The Nature of Suffering (or Dukkha):
"This is the noble truth of suffering: birth is suffering, aging is suffering, illness is suffering, death is suffering; sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief and despair are suffering; union with what is displeasing is suffering; separation from what is pleasing is suffering; not to get what one wants is suffering; in brief, the five aggregates subject to clinging are suffering."

Suffering's Origin (Dukkha Samudaya):
"This is the noble truth of the origin of suffering: it is this craving which leads to renewed existence, accompanied by delight and lust, seeking delight here and there, that is, craving for sensual pleasures, craving for existence, craving for extermination."

I would even agree with the third one, but I just wasn't sure it was for an amateur like me:

Suffering's Cessation (Dukkha Nirodha):
"This is the noble truth of the cessation of suffering: it is the remainderless fading away and cessation of that same craving, the giving up and relinquishing of it, freedom from it, nonreliance on it."

And finally, the fourth, the stumbling block. Aye, this is the rub.

The Path (Dukkha Nirodha Gamini Patipada Magga) Leading to the Cessation of Suffering:
"This is the noble truth of the way leading to the cessation of suffering: it is the Noble Eightfold Path; that is, right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness and right concentration."

Yes, it folded in on me, very simply and honestly.

This is The Truth, and I have found it, after much seeking. I am now ready to accept it.

And there it was, one of the most intense moments of my life, strikingly similar to my two other conversion experiences, which have brought me to this point. (I love trinities; these kindsa things should happen in threes.) I then saw the gravestone that said "Our darling" (photo at left)--and that was it. I started to cry, right there in the old German graveyard, for the suffering of all beings. And I wanted so much, with every fiber of my being, to end it.

I reached out and touched the words: Our darling. I felt the keening, the tears, of the mother who asked for those words on the gravestone. I am so sorry, I sobbed, I am so sorry.

~*~

I promise not to turn this into a Buddhist blog. I wouldn't know how to begin, in any case. I am merely reporting the incident and the shift in my sensibility. My sense of peace and new sense of mission, has not abated in the slightest, and has only increased. I know this means I have to go further. It will be my task to correlate my old beliefs with the new ones, and to figure out what I need to do to fulfill these new convictions in my everyday life. This is called dharma, a word I don't use easily. As I said, the feeling that I am some kind of religious tourist, or worse, a cultural imperialist, is overwhelming, probably fallout from too much leftism. Still, I hope this feeling will keep me honest. And as I seek out a path for myself, I hope my spiritual reticence will prevent me from bloviating nonsense!

In the short run, the change in my life has been enormous. The truth shall set you free!

As always: Stay tuned, sports fans. :)

~*~

Notes:

:: I loved Kloncke's recent posts as Feministe, and highly recommend her blog.

:: And as we speak so honestly of suffering: While I was gone, a sometime blog-reader and good friend passed away. He was one of those very generous, sweet-tempered Christians who embody the Word, and would gladly give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. Rest in Peace, generous and loving soul, Gregg James Farrier 1947-2010. The fierce and beautiful kindnesses you left on the earth, stay behind to remind of us of what we are capable of becoming, if we try.

:: Non-Beatles fans might wonder: blog post title is from George Harrison's Blue Jay Way.

After all of these years, I finally understood the phrase.