Group News Blog

Acorn: a Lesson in History and Humor

2009-11-19T14:48:00.000-08:00

Alternet has a great story today detailing the history of ACORN and efforts to help the poor.

The real purpose of the right's attacks on ACORN is to destroy a remarkably successful 50-year-old grassroots model for defending the poor and workers.- David Morris

Give it a read- I found it very illuminating.

Also if you want a laugh and you're a twitter-er go online and search for #acornfacts -- some very wonderful lefty bloggers are having a bit of fun giving Acorn the nefarious-and-ridiculous credit for the best and worst of human history. Stealing the thunder from the insane claims of the right. Very nice.

crosspost from FL

Buffy v. Edward

2009-11-18T01:00:00.000-08:00

Twilight New Moon has premiered in LA.

Are you an Edward or a Jacob? A Twi-Mom?

More importantly...
Don't you believe BUFFY would KICK EDWARD'S ASS?

Open Twilight Thread. Plus Buffy.

Spoilers okay. At this point everyone is assumed to have read ALL Twilight books. By all accounts New Moon (the movie) follows the book closely. If you don't want to be spoiled, don't read/comment.

H/T Salon: "Twilight" of our youth.

Atlantis (STS-129) Lifts Off November 16, 2009

2009-11-17T02:00:00.000-08:00

Fly Baby, Fly!!!

This time we're up to bring LOTS and LOTS of heavy stuff, things which require the shuttle's cargo bays. There's going to be a 5-7 year gap as the new shuttle's come on line. During that time the International Space Station is going to be, well, kinda on its own with only what we with our supply rockets and other nations with their launch vehicles and supply rockets can get up there. But no one other than the United States has anything close to the Space Shuttle in pure terms of heavy lift, irregular shapes, or both combined. With our shuttle fleet down, the ISS is going to be very much at risk till our new launch vehicle comes on line, well into Obama's second term.

Therefore what Atlantis is doing this mission is bringing up heavy and oddly shaped pieces of machinery. Generators, tools to make tools, and so on. The stuff which simply can't be sent up any other way. With the intention that with all this stuff up there now, stored for the most part in vacuum outside until and unless needed, that it'll be enough to allow the station to pull through. I mean, they are UP IN SPACE, speeding along at 4-5 miles a second, roughly 500 miles above the earth making an orbit every 90 minutes. They can't step out to Lowes Hardware Store or call the plumber. Well, they can call the plumber but after the shuttles stop launching the plumber launches from Russia (or perhaps Japan) and it takes several weeks even in an emergency. Their alternative if they can't wait for the plumber to arrive, is riding the emergency escape docking ship back down to earth. *shudders*

As the footage of Monday's Atlantis liftoff cut off early -- stupid broadcast network -- I've included the below AWESOME footage of an Atlantis ride all the way to MECO in February 2008. It is quite simply the most amazing liftoff footage I've ever seen (even if the stupid broadcast anchor keeps trying to talk over the voice from the Cape/Houston.)The final 60-90 seconds as Atlantis hits MECO and breaks free from the fuel tank in the darkness of space lit only by its own engines and the reflection of earthlight -- the sun reflected off the quarter-earth visible in frame. An absolutely beautiful, compelling final moment as Atlantis breaks free of its tank and flies up, up and away, out of frame... and... cut.

Atlantis STS-122 - February 7, 2008

Ride Atlantis all the way to MECO.

The separation of Atlantis from the main tank is AWESOME. We have live video all the way through the separation. Un-fracking-believable. The most amazing space video liftoff footage I've EVER seen... and I've been building models of rocket ships since the Mercury Program. I personally built two scale Apollo's with working LEMs including the Lunar Module. (I had to. My sister [whom every time I start to curse at her over this, I force myself to remember I was very very young, and she is and always will be five years younger than I. *expletive deleted* And yes, I remember the deletions in Nixon's papers as well] The toughest part of building the models was applying the decals. They always wanted to bubble, warp, or end up slightly off center and tilted. Or *gasp*, torn. I hated the damn decals. I had an entire third Apollo V spaceship box which I had planned to keep till, well, till now, really. However somewhere in the midst of the roughly 70-80 different households I've lived in in my life, probably 65 of those since I hit 10, the box and contents got crushed, flooded, burnt, lost, domestic or wild animal wrecked it, moving damage, thrown out accidentally, thrown out purposefully by someone other than I who didn't know its value, insert your own reason here. Grrrr.) Whatever.

The point is I know my rides to orbit. This one is AWESOME.

Watch the footage. Dream.

Human beings are orbiting our planet right now. Damn.

Remembering Steve and Celebrating Life

2009-11-14T21:02:00.000-08:00

As I threatened after last Gilly day where some members of our community remembered and marked Steve's Death, again-- From here on out I am going to celebrate his Birthday!

Steve Gilliard was born on 11/13/1964. Somewhere out there I imagine him toasting to life for his 45th Birthday.

Love you Steve and thank you for all you did for me, for the progressive blogosphere and for so many people in American and elsewhere.

Email me if you would like to donate to the 2010 Steve Gilliard Award for Journalism in honor of this auspicious day.

Everyone Raise a glass this weekend, "A toast to your fiercely lived life!"

President's Fort Hood Memorial Speech

2009-11-10T15:25:00.000-08:00

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Focus, Trinity

2009-11-10T07:59:00.000-08:00

(Bill David Barnett, age 2.5, and Maggie, age 5, trailer park in Pecos, Texas, summer 1961)

Today my little brother Bill would have turned 51.

Which means he's been dead almost 9 years. Can't quite understand that.

He was waiting for health insurance to kick in at his new job: We'd watched how medical costs had starved our family when we were kids. So instead of being saddled with a "pre-existing condition", he lay down alone on that green-and-white striped couch and watched TV as a heart attack rolled on into cardiac tamponade and he bled out into his chest.

Universal health care for every human being, no questions asked, without profit linked to medical choices. Now. Get rid of any leader who caves, no matter what other distractions they toss up. The alternative is ongoing pointless death.

[Cross-posted at Meta Watershed.]

Sacked!

2009-11-08T09:55:00.000-08:00

“Awwwww folks, you just hate to see that kind of thing happen...not!

I believe...yes, I'm almost certain that it was a British poet of some renown from the latter 20th century who famously and through wasp-stung lips howled “You Can't Always Get Whatcha' Want”. It was a simple mantra. One that we, the little people, common folk have always known to be so. It is not a chiller of dreams, but rather a simple statement that sometimes, a grand plan will come asunder like so much sodden tissue paper in spite of one's mightiest efforts to succeed. These things happen sometimes “just because”—maybe the “karma” isn't right...or the timing is a little bit off. And other times it's a direct result of something the desirous person has done or said that dashes the opportunity...a seemingly unrelated statement or deed(s) so ugly and so damning that when the dreamer's chance comes around and he or she must be deemed worthy or not by peers—that ruling is often...well, “not”.

Of course, if you proudly leave a tornado-like wake of destruction behind you—millions of people meanly defamed simply because they are differently colored than you, or are less-abled than you, are a different gender or are differently sexually inclined than you, then you dramatically increase the odds that down the road a piece, said ugly sentiments and deeds will be recalled and considered by those beyond you who hold sway over your dream's coming to fruition.

Bluntly put, there is often a price for a lifetime of assholery.

To which I say, 'Hello, Rush! Nice to see ya'. Enjoy that virtual “fantasy” football team of yours, because that's about as close to “owning” an NFL team as sane folks'll let you get.

Thus was the tale of Mr. Limbaugh's doomed, would-be co-ownership of the St. Louis Rams. His nearly three decades worth of vile and incendiary statements, stands, and stunts were weighed when it came time for him to try and move away from the sordid ghetto of batshit talk radio he helped build and perpetuate. A ghetto where he is the soiled and stinking “King”. It turns out the neighborhood beyond (NFL Team Ownership-ville) where he wanted that second house deemed him undesirable and would not let him move in. There is a delicious irony in that metaphor's working against him, when you consider the numerous exclusionary and flat-out racist blatherings that have oozed from his fat head over the years. And his anger over some of the rough remarks being bandied about under his byline not being his is equally laughable. It's a dodge. Note that his squall wasn't 'I've never said anything racist!', but rather 'I didn't make the racist statements a few people have attributed to me in recent days!' His mewling about oppression and some sort of denial of his rights has been an exceptionally sweet treat—especially when one recalls his recent circus-elephant dancing when President Obama's lobbying of the International Olympic Committee to grant Chicago the right to host the 2016 Olympics went for naught.

Ol' barnacle-bottom could sure enough deal it out then, huh?

“You know, human beings are human beings, they have jealousies. This is the IOC's show, it wasn't The Obama Show. They came over there, they tried to hijack the whole thing and the IOC bitch slapped them. It's no more complicated than that.”

“Sigh!” You've just gotta love his “entertaining” use of violent, misogynistic language (Um...“bitch-slap”? Really?) in his little post-Olympic-diss end-zone dance there, dontcha'? But, to take the ol' football metaphor a wee bit further (“chortle!”) down the field, the problem when you dance in the end zone at another team's expense is that sooner or later—and in this case, pretty much on the next Goddamned play, you're going to have to eat a touchdown against you and endure a mocking dance or two at your own expense.

Homeboy has if you've noticed, not taken it well, kids.

He's railed about the unfairness of it all, being dropped from the Rams' buyers' consortium and bleating like a sheep at the abbatoir door about lies set against him (Actually, Limbaugh whining about “lies” against him is like the master burglar complaining to his landlord to put extra locks on his apartment's door 'cause some thief might break in'). How he's being witch-hunted and and McCarthy-ized. A couple of his more abraded-knuckled pals have dared trot out the Dallas/Dynasty-era chestnut of his being a victim of...yes, a 'High-Tech Lynching'. He's even threatened to take the considerable moolah he was going to sink into the team's purchase and by cracky, sue those vile scalawags who besmirched his integri-fucking-ty!

Please...those ducats have already been re-allocated for his next five sex-tours of faraway places where the chickies don't know him and thus won't immediately puke upon his sweaty-browed introduction. And does he really, really want people looking even a little bit closely at the known record of the awfulness he is lead-pipe-cinch documented as spewing? Really?

His anger over this smackdown is interesting though, and...if you know anything at all about him historically, pretty easy to explain.

Number one, he's a frustrated jock, who played the old “if you can't do it, talk about it” bit of wish fulfillment to the ever-lovin' hilt. He hitched his lead-filled caboose to professional sports as a broadcaster of little renown (after a couple of Top 40 stints under such memorable monikers like “Rusty Sharpe” and “Jeff Christie”) and spent a lot of time cozying up to equally politically retrograde actual athletes. When that career fizzled out, he rolled into the world of political talk radio like a five-ton boulder, crushing everything in sight, and re-making the landscape—using a potent potpourri of hate, lies, ridicule, and a brash hyper-certainty that played to the angry rubes looking for a loudmouth leader to worship and rally their “Falling Down” anger around. It worked like magic, as he became wingnuttia's most prominent loudmouth leader in the media—his talk show at its peak pulling in close to 15 million lemming-lobed listeners per week. There were the so-called “books” he “wrote”...stream of consciousness natterings transcribed from tape by his pals Johnny Fund and Joe Farah. Best-sellers, yes...in the sense that right-wing books have come to be known where they are “mayfly” classics that are born, flit madly about and then die with no legacy. He got rich off 'em as well as the radio show—super-quick and tried to parlay that “face made for radio” success into television success...

...Which being kind, did not work out quite as well.

Doing radio every day, he could sit on his considerable ass and pontificate for a while, and when he got tired, simply go to an hour's worth of filler—a.k.a. sycophantic calls from atrophy-brained fans squealing ego-fellating “megadittoes” at him. No such chance on T.V. He had a live audience, but as is the case with live TV audiences, if they weren't as they say, “feeling him” he could not count on them eating from his hand like his AM Radioslaves. In fact, they were quite capable of going rogue and chewing his pudgy hand down to a nub. What's more, he didn't translate well beyond radio as he looked exactly like a three-dimensional caricature of what you'd expect of a stuffy, harrumphing, conservative scold. His show was a wingnut proto-“Daily Show”—minus all the funny, and a likable host that is.

And back to radio it was for El Rushbo—and there he has stayed ever since—which is the root of his present frustration.

Ambition...ohhhhhhh, sweet ambition...can be a kick in the mother-fucking nads, especially when said ambition outstrips what you bring to the table in terms of talent, or class. He tired pretty quickly of being boss fly atop the right-wing talk radio turd-pile. But his raging hate and willingness to say the wildest things imaginable has locked him right-damn-there. Much as an asset as he may be to the politicos he pimps (he does get their message out), there has been nothing over all these years they could do to grow him past his tinny-speakered boundaries. There appears to be no self-selected second act for him. No page turn or broadening (pun unintended)—remember the failed “Monday Night Football” color booth gig he imploded on himself thanks to his Donovan McNabb tirade? He's much too toxic to actually move from behind his supposedly gold-plated microphone into politics and succeed, like his liberal arch-nemesis and fellow talk radio-er / now U.S. Senator Al Franken did. (And if you think that little power-move didn't rankle the hell out of him, I have a never-ridden, wild, magical unicorn to sell you. Cheap!)

This is a guy who in spite of his claims of brilliance, self-congratulatory bluster, and power of influence—albeit far more limited than he would care to admit—cannot get beyond the simple reality of what he actually is, namely the very popular afternoon-drive guy who takes over the egg crate-lined studio just after the jock from “Hee-Haw” signs off.

What's super-ironic about his abbreviated, attempted NFL team ownership is the way the whole deal's collapse held fast to the hard-line Rush-ian principles of free-marketeering. He was brought into the Ram's potential ownership group by Dave Checketts, former NY Knicks GM and stealth God-Squadder whose mounting series of faith and self-serving moves helped drive Coach Pat Riley out of town and damaged the team for a decade (i.e. Moves like penning the gutless, holy-rolling goofball Allan Houston to the worst and most team-crippling long-term contract in NBA history). As soon as the heat came down from all circles about Limbaugh's past lunacy, Checketts and his consortium did what any business group would do—they ruthlessly carved out the cancer that was damaging their chances at acquiring the desired commodity and kept on steppin' on. Limbaugh got the boot because he was a liability, a stumbling block and yes, an undesirable in a circle he assumed he would be a favored son in—the steadfastly wingnutteous ownership supermajority in the NFL. Now that's a hell of a thing, being told you are far too right-wing by a group that gave money to McCain over Obama to the tune of a three-to-one ratio but that's exactly what they did, jail-shanking the fat-cat dream of the wannabe baller / shot-caller, Rush.

But how did that happen, considering his near-fellow owners share maybe ninety-percent of his cave-spawned views? Well, the little thing ol' Rushie forgot was that the NFL wasn't like his beloved NASCAR, where the ownership and the performing talent were on the same page politically and culturally. The NFL while almost one-hundred-percent wingnut owned has a performing talent group that is a touch over sixty percent Black—with an exploding number of that sixty-plus percent at the once-exclusive, good-ol'boy cherished position of quarterback. This was a bottom-up “revolt” with the usually feckless players and their union spine-ing-the-hell-up and while not calling for a straight boycott or on-field protests, made it very clear to anyone who would listen that they were EXTREMELY displeased at the possibility of the likes of Limbaugh entering the ownership club—an unprecedented bit of mutiny and a P.R. nightmare for the game itself. In a league where players choreograph personal post-touchdown / sack performances with the precision of Hollywood special effects teams—with no input or real ability for the league brass to stop them, the potential for a supremely embarrassingly series of brass-balled, public call-outs against Limbaugh would have given the game such a black eye and called further attention to Rush's hateful crazy that it would have probably superceded the the 1968 Olympics “Black Glove / Black Power” medal podium protest firestorm.

This was not something NFL commissioner Roger Goodell and his network partners at Fox, CBS, NBC and ESPN/ABC were willing to risk.

Rush forgot it wasn't the fifties / early sixties anymore, when his sort proudly strode the NFL ownership landscape like armor-plated, walnut-brained stegosauruses, where you had folks like the odious former owner of the Washington Redskins, George Preston Marshall, the not-quite-crypto-bigot whose racist sentiments and enforced bigoted policy manifested itself in team-destructive on-field decisions, and who as a charter franchise owner, led the league's unspoken decade-and-a-half-long color barrier during the height of his powers.

He baited and arbitrarily punished Black players and got away with it—the league percentage of African Americans was between six to twelve percent post-WWII, and those few were still operating under 'Robinson's Rules of Rectitude'—a term we'll use here to describe the 'stoicism in the face of bigotry' style pioneered by baseball's Jackie Robinson, who'd only smashed big league sports' color line a touch over a decade before.

Marshall was the last of the red-hot n*gger-haters in the NFL brass, and last to integrate his team (in 1962!) post the wild successes of Black stars like Marion Motley, Rosey Grier and Jim Brown on other squads. (And pressure from league brass attuned to the upheaval in America circa the Civil Rights Movement) He wasn't the last racist—because they still exist in large numbers in the ownership ranks, but he was the obvious hold-out of the age where men of his sort still expected Black folks to jump in a muddy gutter before thinking to share a sidewalk with him. And once the league signed a national contract with network TV, such open embarrassments could no longer be tolerated. Marshall's ways—financially damaging ways that is—to the expanding league turned him into a pariah, and his fellow team owners simply waited him out until he sickened and died off.

Rush however, thanks to his daily slams at Blacks, women, and anything not fat, pink-skinned and wee-hung like himself is far more dangerous than the cantankerous, cracker-tastic ol' coot Marshall ever was. Marshall never had millions of drooling, snarling fools checking in for his craziness du jour and acting on said lunatic gospel. He was an institutional racist, not the rabble-rousing demagogue. This isn't to say that the back-room bigot is any better than the street-corner screecher, but in so-called “polite” society, the latter is an embarrassment simply not worth being associated with.

Rush was thrown under the bus by the powerful people who share his opinions and personally like him but just can't exactly be seen out and about with him.

“But baby...of course I love you! I-I just can't bring you 'round the neighborhood...for your own safety of course, you know.” (BEAT) “Oh hey...you might wanna kinda...you know, wipe your mouth. You sorta got something on it there.”

It is from here, this sad relegation to 'fuckable but duckable' by his more urbane pals on the right that his recent anger springs. And sweet son-of-a-sea-cook has it ever! First the tirades against the press, the NFL Players Union, Al Sharpton and hell, probably the ghost spirit of Walter Payton in direct response to this smackdown. Then, realizing one would guess that 'What is, is what will probably always be' for him, that initial “snap” grand mal-ed itself into a deeper mental splintering. Add in the fact that cravenly, he probably feels he just has to step up the crazy to stay relevant, what with his having been blown past on the old cultural relevance-ometer by his “friend” Glenn Beck, who now savvily markets in tears what ol' Rushie once did with cigar-juice infused spittle. But perhaps...just perhaps, we're also witnessing the cumulative effects of the most recent series of “hits” he's absorbed—the drug arrest, the Michael J. Fox tremor debacle, McNabb-gate, the Viagra / Le Sex Tour's exposure, his party's falling from power (in spite of his best-laid plans—and if so, we're looking with deep and chuckle-worthy irony at a reality-concussed brain reacting the same way an over-tackled NFL player's brain does after years of blows against it...with wild, erratic mood swings, dementia, and self-destructive behavior.

It's one way I guess, in spite of losing out on the whole NFL ownership bag for dear, old Rush to stay connected to the game he so loves.

Let's dance to that “connection”, shall we?

Diary 7 November 2009

2009-11-07T07:47:00.000-08:00

(Westward IV screen shot)

In my e-mail today is an offer from Sandlot Games to pre-purchase the upcoming release of their game Westward IV for half-price. These folks already have my business for several reasons: They have equal or almost equal numbers of available heroines in a variety of races, classes, and body types (yes, fat heroines); they deal with historical realms but frequently contradict the white Western take on how things went down (though the Westward series is terrible about ignoring theft of First Nations territory); the action increasingly relies on smarts and cooperation as much as "battles"; and, thrillingly, the last release Tradewinds Odyssey had a small positive lesbian subplot written into one of the sequences. Now, the opening line of the blurb for Westward IV refers to the villainous railway owner as "patriarchal". Sign me up, kids. Pretty soon they'll be offering women-only vegan collectives who are fighting the criminal justice system and power-sex conflation.

Last night I watched a rather timely PBS Empires episode called "Holy Wars" about Salah Al-Din and his reconquest of Jerusalem during the Crusades era -- his decision to not slaughter or terrorize the Christian population made him a legend among Islamic and Arabic nations, but cut him no respect from the bloodthirsty Christianists of Europe. Like Bushies, they viewed compassion and respect for others as a sign of weakness.

When you have a nation (and city) where prevailing values are adherence to authority, a narrow and base-emotion definition of patriotism, and limited funding for "social" issues, internal violence will be the norm, not the exception.

Dinah finally left my immediate presence for a couple of hours to sleep, which I take as a sign of healing on her part. I'm still not sleeping more than a few hours at a stretch, related to pain. I myself sorted through some of my feelings last night with Martha, mostly having to do with being at the literal mercy of anybody who walked into my hospital room and having little room to say no or insist on autonomy. People think giving advice to those who are ill, pushing them to "do what's best", telling them stories about their own medical experiences or those of their friends & family, and/or generally assuming their thinking and decision-making is somehow impaired even in areas it is clearly not, are all manifestations of caring instead of actually simply being roadmaps to the advice-giver's own emotional blocks about what is going on -- i.e., "here's my difficulty with your difficulty, since you're lying there unable to get away or go find other resources, let me demand you deal with my difficulty right now". No wonder we can't think rationally about a simple health care plan, when we're all so bollixed up with panic about ever being truly sick and helplness ourselves.

Work on it, people. Work on it with each other, that's all I ask. Just like you work on your crap about brown people with other white folks, and your shit about women with other men.

Dinah has discovered the yellow "FALL RISK" bracelet from the hospital that I ripped off my wrist I got home and thinks it is a great toy.

My stamina is still so hammered, typing this much leaves my fingers trembling to the extent I have trouble keeping them in line with QWERTY. I guess I'm done for the time being, need to go lie down again. Dress your children in bright colors, not camouflage, and remember what Mark Twain said: "History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme."

Futures, Declarations, Promises, Trust, and Betraying Teh Gay

2009-11-06T07:00:00.000-08:00

Barack Obama in New Hampshire (Jan 4, 2008). Click for LARGE size.
photo Emmanuel Dunand/AFP/Getty Images.

What I Trust Obama For
(and why he gets NOTHING from me)

I don't remember if I contributed to Obama or not during the General election; I don't think I did but I may have, after the primary races were settled. Mostly my contributions went to key House and Senate races where I felt my money would have more of an impact.

I never kidded myself about Obama; it was always clear to me, and I always said to my readers at Group News Blog, even though it pissed off a solid 60-70% of them, that at best, Obama was a middle-of-the-road politician, that his campaign rhetoric was just that, slogans and feel-good imagery designed a) to get him elected (7.2% & 192 electoral points), and b) to let everyone place their own meaning on simple non-commitments without actually committing him or his future administration to any real positions. Further I said, the commitments he does make he will not interpret as actual promises but as declarations, as futures he intends to bring forth, but never as specific promises.

Obama doesn't make promises; that is not the way in which he speaks. The "Presidential Voice" is always that of Declarations, never that of Promises or even that of Assessments and Assertions (which as a former College Professor Obama is familiar with...except that when he went there, as he did a few times on the campaign trail -- *coughLevittown--Bittergatecough*, it got/gets him into trouble.)

Therefore Obama speaks in Futures, in Declarations. Any promises he makes must always be understood, be listened to inside the possible futures Obama is bringing forth in this moment, and like all futures, Obama knows that Futures are Probabilities, not certainties. Some Futures may be more probable than others. Some Futures may be strongly more likely, almost dead-certain. But in a moment, everything can change due to an unexpected event from a change in the market to an assassination to war or peace breaking out to a natural disaster. There are moments when certain Futures are possible and other moments when those Futures are not...and these moments are not under the control of anyone. Life comes at us as it comes. We can prepare; we can be in the moment ready to act. But Life, she just happens.

Obama -- and any student of history -- knows this in their gut. Thus Obama is ready, always, to dance from one set of possible futures to another set of possible futures, and is never truly committed to any one specific set. Instead he is looking in every moment to bring forth, to produce what he considers the best, the most open (in his world, what he considers "best" and open"), the best possible set of futures which fit HIS standards, given the circumstances and politics, the resources and the economics, the weather and the world situation and all that jazz, of THIS moment. Ten days, ten hours, ten months from now, Obama will be working to produce a different -- yet clearly related -- set of futures, which is related not just by the way the world and the political, economic, and all that jazz circumstances have changed, but also which is clearly related by Obama's commitment to his own standards,e.g.: none of his possible futures will allow television advertising of cigarettes, some will have public option health insurance and some will not, and likely only in very few of them will Obama ever do more than give lip service to civil rights for gay marriage or anything Teh Gay.

Why? Because Obama doesn't give a flying fuck for Gay Rights. Regardless of the words which come out of his mouth, the futures he declares, the soaring words he speaks, he and his administration and the DNC have made ZERO ACTIONS consistent with these futures. Thus, bullshit. Bullshit across the board.

Here's the good thing. This bullshit means we can trust Obama in this domain. No longer any need to get crazy about it. Seriously.

I trust Rush about gay rights as well. I trust that Rush will absolutely, given the opportunity, fuck me, fuck my daughters and son, fuck my mother, fuck my friends, and fuck everything I and my family and colleagues stand for in the domain of rights for people who are GLBT. Rush is absolutely trustworthy in that he WILL fuck all of us over given any opportunity in this domain. Even more, Rush will go out of his way to CREATE opportunities to fuck us when it comes to gay civil rights. He's a scorpion; he stings. It is who he is; it is what he does. I am not upset about this; it does not freak me out. I don't waste any time being crazy wondering where Rush stands or damming the Gods that Rush is this way. Water is wet, rocks are hard, Rush fucks teh Gay, and this is how it is. *shrugs* I trust completely that Rush is out to fuck me and act accordingly without it getting in the way.

After Maine, after this week's Fall 2009 election, I now know how to trust Obama with respect to Gay Rights. I have for myself -- and others will have to do this (or at least can do this) for themselves -- clearly separated the Declarations of possible Futures Obama keeps making (his speaking), from the Actions (his doing) that he and the entities he is accountable keep making.

Obama -- just like Rush -- I say, is absolutely trustworthy. Obama is a) trustworthy not to screw us, that is, he won't fuck us over. This first part is fairly weak. He'd give this one up and actually screw us over if need be. So best not to rely on this one too strongly. None the less, at least for now, Obama is trustworthy to not actively screw us. More importantly, Obama is also b) trustworthy to do nothing. This is for what he can be primarily counted on. No matter what Obama says, no matter what promises Obama makes or futures he invents, proclaims, or declares beautifully, Obama's actions over time lead me to be certain what Obama is trustworthy to do and all Obama is trustworthy and count-on-able to do in the domain of GLBT civil rights is nothing. We can count on Obama and groups under his control, when it comes to gay civil rights, to do jack-shit. Obama is trustworthy for that. You and I do not need to suffer or worry about what the President and DNC will do; we now have sufficient history that we can trust them...they will do—nothing. Period. Full stop.

Seriously, it is good to know this. Truly. It means we don't need to suffer trying in vain to get them to do something. It means we don't get upset afterward due to unfilled expectation having thought the folks who claimed we could count on would do something (and then they did it poorly, not at all, or screwed it up so badly one might suspect they sold us out intentionally) or should have done something.

See, it is truly silly to be upset at someone for not doing something or expecting someone to do something, when the grounded interpretation/assessment about them is, they are trustworthy for doing nothing. *laughs* So they did nothing... well Duh... Nothing is PRECISELY what they were trusted to do. I would never be upset at Rush for doing nothing. (Or at a cow for shitting in its stall. Cows shit. Have you ever seen a big pile of cow shit? [Click on photo at link to enlarge. *grins*] People make enormous sums of money dealing with cow shit. But first (to make the big bucks) you have to accept that cow shit is natural for the cow and part of life for the rancher.) Obama (in the domain of civil rights for gay people) is trustworthy to do—nothing. Rush... Hell, I'd be happy if that fuck did nothing. Because what Rush is trustworthy for is to fuck us over.

Upsets come when from unfulfilled expectations, thwarted intentions, and undelivered communications. In this case we primarily have unfulfilled expectations (the expectation that Obama would do what he promised/declared), which when done would handle the intent (which is thwarted and now, continues to be.) But the intent is a secondary thing. Communications are being delivered just fine, but positively and negatively. The upset here comes from the unfulfilled expectation.

That there is an expectation at all is because we -- you, me, everyone who is gay, lesbian, bisexual, transsexual, has a family member, a friend or loved person, colleague, or is in any way committed to the success of the GLBT community -- have been expecting the Obama team to deliver. We have believed they were trustworthy in the declarations and promises they made. Now we know better.

Knowing Obama, the administration and the DNC are trustworthy to do nothing, means that if I expect anything to be done, I know it's going to be other entities -- perhaps even my daughters and I -- who get the job done, as just happened in Washington State where my daughter and her pals worked their asses off campaigning. And won! Go Kyle, go her buddies. Good fracking job!!! Most of all, I know NOT to give a fracking penny, dime or dollar to Obama or the DNC. Because I do not EVER fund people who don't have my back. Not funding people who fail to support my goals is simple common sense.

I stopped funding NOW when they backed that slimeball Joe L. for reelect in CN, those gunkies, as well as writing off the DNC who sucked his ass while he crapped all over them. (And look how well it paid off; he's about to take a big steaming dump on all of us with the Health Care bill. Well done, Democratic Leadership. Good work.)

Now I know also to not fund Obama, even if he is the leader of my Party, as well as still to keep not funding the DNC. Again, why? Because they don't have our backs; they look at me and mine as vending machines. Screw them and their corporate donors whose teats they suck. What is now clear is Obama, the administration and the DNC would rather dance with corporate donors and try to get religious conservatives to vote for them (who won't, ever) than keep their word given in battle to the heart and soul of the Democratic party. Believing we have nowhere else to go, they are trustworthy to write off GLBT people, their familes, and the people who support them. Writing us off is up to them.

This is what is up to us...

I am not going to waste my energy or emotions getting angry or mad. To do so would be to damage who I am. I'm stronger and wiser than to waste myself getting angry with Obama and the fools he has advising him how to sell out his soul. Instead of getting angry, I'm simply walking away from Obama, the administration, the DNC, and everyone associated with them. I am going to donate my money, my time, and organize and blog, campaign and write, and give as much of myself, my family, my resources and energies as possible to people who DO have our backs, to people who are trustworthy down in the trenches. *waves to Al Franken and Alan Grayson*

I'm also going to tell everyone precisely why Obama and the DNC are on my shit list... because they are trustworthy to promise one thing, while doing another. They say they support Teh Gay, but what they really want is Gay Money while doing jack-shit for civil rights for ALL Americans. Fuck that, fuck them, fuck this.

Obama and the DNC get NOTHING from me -- no cash, no support, no good press, no volunteering, nothing -- till they not only speak great declarative Futures (which they're great at doing) but until they cease the hypocrisy -- UNTIL THEIR ACTIONS ARE COMPLETELY CONSISTENT WITH THEIR DECLARATIONS, WHEN IT COMES TO GLBT CIVIL RIGHTS, OBAMA AND THE DNC GET NOTHING FROM ME.

*smiles sweetly*

Trust is an assessment, grounded in Competence and Sincerity.

Let me give you that again...

Trust is an assessment, grounded in Competence and Sincerity. The Obama administration's declarations (and promises) regarding gay civil rights are competent; they are not sincere nor were they made in sincerity. People and organizations who make declaration/promises from a place of competence while intentionally making insincere promises/declaring futures to which they are not committed, are assessed as CRIMINAL with respect to that domain of declaration and promises.

Why everyone is SO FREAKING PISSED at Obama regarding all this is simple. It is clear he and his team have intentionally used the Gay Community to raise campaign money for himself with no intention of fulfilling his campaign promise. This is a CRIMINAL act. Perhaps not legally (although perhaps), but absolutely socially. Barack Obama personally, and the Obama administration as a whole, have intentionally and deliberately violated, breached, betrayed their word, after already collecting -- repeatedly -- enormous campaign contributions which were given in exchange for the promise that Obama WOULD make gay civil rights a major priority, that he, Obama, would personally get this handled. And now we see it was all a lie. *sighs*

Obama took our community money and got himself elected. California was not possible, not possible without television commercials which would have cost (forced) Obama's campaign to (have to) pull TV spots and other major media buys from all over the country...which would have cost him electoral votes, and who knows what might have happened then without A-Gay Money and old-school Hollywood Support, hmmm? Plus every other GLBT flat-out breaking their piggy-banks open for Obama because he PROMISED a whole new world. He PROMISED.

We now know the Candidate, now President, made us a flat out CRIMINAL lie, a betrayal. (We won't get into parsing the other distinctions of how breaking a promise settles out. Just know that if someone is competent and insincere, linguistically people assess that kind of lie as CRIMINAL. Think Dick Cheney or Richard "Tricky Dick" Nixon. Criminal betrayers, both of them. Competent liars, yet insincere in the promises/declarations they made.)

I trust the Obama Administration to do nothing for teh Gay. *shrugs* The made a cold-blooded determination it was less costly for them politically to take our money and do nothing than to take our money and keep their word. They lied and did so knowingly to over one-tenth of all Americans, said "Fuck You..." You're not even as valuable as 3/5ths of as an American. But please... we want your money and your vote.

It's a political calculus of the coldest kind. They figure we have nowhere else to go. Plus they've already got our money. Obama's already in office. What, they think, are we going to do? Throw a fit? Tell our Senators and Congresspeople to vote against the White House position on all the other bills we want? Piss on our own (well-tailored) shoes?

Obama thinks he's got our money and our votes and in addition, has managed to screw us over in broad daylight, thus gaining votes with middle America. (You know whose strategy this was. But Obama went along and he's the President, not Rahm.)

Until Obama, the administration, and the DNC stop talking about change and actually ACT on the change the promised, not one dime, not one bit of campaign support, nothing. We are DONE.

If they want me to trust them to something, they need to change their actions. But for right now, I trust them to do...

Nothing.

TOO LONG FOR TWITTER AGAIN

2009-11-05T16:33:00.000-08:00

(Maggie and Nilmoni cropped from larger photo, 1958 Kolkata, India)

Too long for Twitter, again: Dinah prowled and wailed every half hour all night long. I'd call to her and she'd come at a trot, need extensive contact to stop vocalizing. I had an endless fount of reassurance. I can hardly take in how painful this separation must have been for her. Finally, mid morning, she slept on my chest and then slept two feet away on the bed. Whenever I noticed her eyes opening, I'd tell her how much I love her, need her, missed her.

I found a long-lost cat toy near my bed, which nearly broke my heart -- I can imagine her trying to bring it to me, only to remember I was gone. We played with it for a while. Also have had regular dispensing of treats. Despite her food bowl being empty, she's not lost weight, and she's eaten from the refilled bowl but not ravenously. I think she figured out the big bag of cat food here by my desk was not sealed tight and helped herself, which is a relief.

Early afternoon the news about the shootings at Fort Hood broke into Rachael Ray locally and I followed that off and on, except when KBH or Chris Matthews were on the screen. I can't access wifi in my bedroom on my little netbook and don't have a cord to reach into my study where my main PC is, but at the moment the solitude -- or rather, being alone with Dinah -- is still an enormous pleasure. I need to sleep and dream a lot more. Scenes from Ginny Bates, past and not yet written, keep breezing through my head. They are some kind of palate cleanser for the hospital experience, I think.

I am lucky as Myra (the main character based on me in Ginny Bates, who wins the lottery as well as love). I know much of my luck has faces, names, heartbeats. I am reminded of the poem by my bed, written about in a post of mine at Meta from March 2008:

THE UNDERTAKING

The darkness lifts, imagine, in your lifetime.
There you are - cased in clean bark you drift
through weaving rushes, fields flooded with cotton.
You are free. The river films with lilies,
shrubs appear, shoots thicken into palm. And now
all fear gives way: the light
looks after you, you feel the waves' goodwill
as arms widen over the water; Love

the key is turned. Extend yourself -
it is the Nile, the sun is shining,
everywhere you turn is luck.

(by Louise Glück, from The House on Marshland)

(Dinah above my computer, May 2005)

Going Home Today

2009-11-04T09:16:00.000-08:00

(Mary Jo Atkins Barnett and Maggie, 1955, passport photo for going to India)

When I woke up from the RT shakiing my shoulder at 7 a.m., the Roches were singing in my head "We're going away to Ireland soon" with muted glee. It's been three weeks today since I was admitted, and I cannot account for a lot of that time. My Narrative has defiinitely been interrupted. A lot of memories wade in and out like scenes from a bad 60's "message movie".

Everytime I think about getting out of here, my chest relaxes a little and I breathe better. It will be hellishly hard on my own but no one will be opening my front door without my choice, and no more small talk, which is to conversation as WalMart is to small town main street commerce. Pajamas and keyboard, that's enough for me. (grin)

One thing that has emerged as my attention returned is that my attraction to folks who are looking for a place to tell their troubles has spread up and down the hall, apparently. I'm a better listener than I am storyteller, but at home I have a stopcock to control who dips into my well. Yesterday I earnestly told Erlinda, the tech of techs, how much everyone here admires her quick learning and leadership. She was clocking out for the day, but stayed at my bedside for half an hour to tell me what it was like raising her three abandoned nieces the past 9 years. Honestly, it's a tale I'm honored to have heard, altered my appreciation for others ever upward -- but what is it I do that inspires others to confide in me? In Erlinda's case, I wanted to hear. Otherwise, I am not even watching the daily reruns on cable of "Grey's Anatomy" -- my own body and midstream ordeal is swallowing the lion's share of my focus right now, and as Stuart Smalley would say, "That's okay."

Yesterday as I was warshing up (as one tech says it), I examined the altered corpus Maggie carefully. The blown IV sites and JP drain scab will go away entirely, I think. But the contours of my front are permanently rearranged -- large capstone bulge gone, everything listed to the right, and a wicked ruck from just below my breasts through my navel like the Hayward Fault when viewed from Mount Diablo. There'll be no problem saying "Yep, that's her" if I wind up mangled on some CSI slab.

Surgeons go directly to the source of an issue and tend not to deal with the aftereffects. This is seen as more efficient, as all versions of Henry Ford compartmentalization are now revered as most productive. I always question this ethic but especially now, as I hear the muttered resentment techs have toward nurses (who say "call a tech" for ass wiping) and the sullen obeisance nurses display toward doctors who breeze in and out far more obliviously than even the most gritty TV drama depicts. When we added making a profit to the work of caregiving -- and especially Reagan's permission to be greedy as an America ethic -- we created the monster that our government is currently too feckless to tame.

Thanks to Jill Cozzi, by the way, for reminding me of the excellent meaning of that word, feckless.

In contrast, a Quaker man, Sean Carroll, is arranging for a CarShare to get me home after my discharge today, since he doesn't own a vehicle. He's already done all the shopping I need to be safe-ish at home , except for the correct size diapers, which will arrive via FedEx tomorrow -- although at least 1/3 of all American women weigh 200 lb. or more, this hospital doesn't stock diapers that go beyond that size, nor would they research finding them for me. Thank g*d I was alert enough and able to get online to meet my own basic dignity needs.

You know, lesbian-feminism of the early 1970s is where I first encountered the concept of political correctness, and it's never been a joke to me. At bedrock, political correctness is about striving to express respect and kindness according to cultural values which may vary from the ones you were raised with. Respect, privacy, pluralism: arch enemies of the fear-based Right.

I don't know why, but for the last 24 hours a particular memory has been popping into my head, as it did just now. It's my first memory, and occurred when I was around one year age. We were living in Kolkata and I was out for the day with Nilmoni, my ayah. We were in what my mother called a rickshah, which was in fact a horse-drawn cart with a single horse. We turned into a street clogged with a mob. Nilmoni began shouting at the cart driver to get us out of there, but we were already being surrounded and horses have to be turned, there is no reverse gear. I was in her lap, held tight, and she put one hand over my face to block my vision. I tugged at her fingers ineffectually, then discovered if I opened my eyes I could see between her slightly spread fingers. I went still, watching with interest.

The crowd was all Indian, which was normal to me, I thought I was too. It was all male, and they were angry, but I wasn't worried because I was with Nilmoni. They were holding aloft, above their outstretched arms, two items: a round of bread and a man, passing them toward one side of the street. The man was struggling, wild-eyed, shirtless. It was intriguing to see an adult passed around as easily as I was.

At the side of the street was a two-story building with outside stairs to an upper landing. The stairs had no railing but the landing had a wooden frame around it. A rivulet of the mob swirled up the stairs and the flailing man was passed upward from arm to arm. Someone on the landing had a rope which was tied to the porch. As the man reached the landing, the other end of the rope was knotted around his neck. With a roaring surge, matched by Nilmoni's shrieks at our cart driver, the shirtless man was thrown over the railing in a small arc. He slammed against the side of the building and a seond later reached rope's end. He scrabbled frantically at the stucco wall with fingernails and feet to find a purchase. Before he could, our cart finally turned out of view. I tried to turn my head to watch but Nilmoni held me fast.

I didn't understand what had happened, and there is no negative emotion in this memory, only excitement about curious adult behavior. It is vivid -- the bright sun with dust in the air, hoarse shouting, Nilmoni's smell, and the look on the face of the shirtless man, his dark sweaty skin and the visible ribs on his torso. Years later, when I was six or so, I began telling my mother about the memory to ask her what it all meant; I thought of it often. She sat down heavily in her kitchen chair, her face horrified, repeating "My god, my god."

She knew the incident. Nilmoni had told her about it when we got home that day. They were both reassured by their belief I hadn't seen anything, and did not want to discuss it with me. Mama said the man was from the untouchable class, still a strong practice in 1956, and he had stolen the round of bread.

Now I have two versions of the memory, my original and the unspeakable horror of what actually occurred as Mama gently explained it to me later.

Sorting out this cacophony we call life takes up all our time. I'm going away to Ireland soon, will be home tonight, and can resume my sift in solitude. Aching, incontinent, exhausted, in a mess of a house, but with just me and Dinah to accommodate. There is peace and wonder to be found in any situation, even death, they tell us. I'll write again as soon as I can.

The Roches singing "The Troubles" in 1983

[Cross-posted at Meta Watershed.]

Cheney and the F.B.I.

2009-11-02T08:51:00.001-08:00

I Don't Know Nuthin'

'bout no Valerie Plame stuff...

I don't know nuthin' bout no talking with the press...

I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no goddamned babies....

I do know that Congress, 'specially that Leahey chump, can go fuck theyselves.

How long will we stand to listen to this absolute contempt for our laws, our freedoms, and our very way of life? He is, and has for most of his public career viewed that things like law and simple human decency are for the "little people."

Not big important sons of bitches like himself.

Sunday Morning Maggie Jochild Update

2009-11-01T08:35:00.000-08:00

Three Items

1. Maggie's using Twitter.

@jochild

that is

http://twitter.com/jochild

to post updates.

She says "I can manage 140 characters."

Her Twitter feed is totally worth reading. She's a poet, right? She gets a LOT into her 140 characters. *smiles*

2. Maggie probably won't be discharged today.

At the moment from reading the orders the Fill-In Doctor has left, it appears Maggie will not be discharged till at least tomorrow. We believe (but don't know for certain) that Good Doctor will be back tomorrow. Good Doctor is the one who has been standing up for Maggie.

Her physical strength gets stronger day by day. No matter when she gets discharged, going home will be very very hard. She will endure and survive; it is what she does.

3. We still need to raise $1500 (or more); we just have to see.

Maggie's Binder, a device she wears around her entire abdomen and back in order to keep the surgical incision from coming open, which makes it DAMN difficult to do many ordinary functions (as the Binder goes WAY up almost over one's ribs and down low to the bottom of the lower belly thus leaving one's entire middle in a splint) which means for the next two months Maggie will not just have big difficulty, pardon me, cleaning herself after using the bathroom, but she'll also find it difficult to sit up straight to use the computer (her little Netbook is different, and no, her work software won't load on her Netbook), to walk through her apartment to put away food or cook a meal, or any of the basics of life. She can lie down; she can prop against some pillows; with difficulty she can turn over. She can NOT ever ever ever put any fracking strain on her abdomen. At all. Or she might (literally) find her guts all over her bedroom, bathroom, or kitchen floor.

Thus DME (Durable Medical Equipment) for rails on her bed, rails in the bathtub, a higher toilet seat, and much other stuff. Maggie will need enormously higher quality food than she can usually afford (her regular food budget is $140 per month; yes, seriously. If you've ever had a meal or even a meal for two that cost $140 or more not including booze, raise your hand. Look around. Notice that over 80% of our readers have their hand raised. Thank you. Okay, put your hands down please.) and more medicines than she normally can afford (at best she can maybe afford $10 in generics per month plus another $10 in OTC medicine. That's on a good month. The rest of the time she goes without and suffers. I who have health insurance -- and I complain about my prescription drug copays -- pay about $120-150 per month on average for prescription drugs (which I must have or I'd be in the hospital or dead or unable to work and then in the hospital and then dead; like in the same situation as Maggie, so poor I'd be absolutely fucked plus pain beyond compare from the lack of meds... Most likely I'd end up, well, let's not even go there. *shudders*) Some months I pay $200-250 if I get extra sick or the doctors want me to try something new. The retail price of the medicines is around $2500-3500, I'm not certain; I've never really checked because the most I ever pay for a drug is $50, most are either $5 or $25. And being in the upper-middle class I can afford them.) Maggie will need cab rides to visits with her doctors, physical therapists, x-ray examinations on the surgery, at least some of which she'll likely have to pay for in cash as there's no way her Medicare will have come through by then. (We're working out how to pay for these services but some of them don't look good; if we can't pay for them it may be she'll just do without if we don't raise the money... which is how we got into this mess in the first place.)

Bottom line, we still need to raise much more money for Maggie.

My request is that folks subscribe, that is commit to a monthly amount via PayPal of $200, $100, $50, $20, $10, $5, mix and match. Or you can go to Meta Watershead and in the top right corner, hit the Donate button with any amount for a one-off donation. At Meta the Subscription buttons are also there for $5 to $10 monthly, to $20 or $50 a month, and for a number of you, $100 or $200 a month.

A choice: If you're choosing between a one-off donation of $50 or less and a subscription of any amount, please go with the subscription. What, huh? It's simple, really. We'd much rather have the certainty of knowing Maggie can count on that amount from you, even if it's only a large cup of Starbucks cappuccino or a dinner out. Or maybe a dinner out for two. *smiles* The reliability of being able to trust the subscription in the months to come means much more than a larger one-off donation now. It means stability. It means knowing Maggie has her bills paid every month. It means cash-flow.

Speaking of cash-flow, frankly the present-value of a smaller subscription over time is MUCH less to you than a really big one-off donation now. Now obviously we'd love for you to make a big subscription (don't kid yourself; feel free to subscribe to those $100 and $200 buttons, that's why they're there. I and I think two other people are on the $200/mo subscription. Plus I made additional donations every month.) but we're cool if you don't. What we're saying first is that the present-value to YOU is better if you give less each month than if you dig really deep and make a one-time really big donation. Plus that way you get to keep all that interest till PayPal sends whatever the amount is off to Maggie.

From our point of view, a bunch of monthly subscriptions means we can all breath a little easier knowing each month isn't a scramble for Maggie to survive financially. (And yeah, we've applied for all the various financial aid programs, federal, state and even local, but it's going to take at least half a year for them to kick in, and that's assuming all goes well. We have this on good authority from the financial aid/social worker at the hospital Maggie's in whose job it is to get this aid for people.) So for now, y'all... we ...are everything Maggie has financially.

Thus, from two and a half weeks ago until we reach whatever the financial goal turns out to be, $4,000 or a bit more (and we're just not sure yet; ye Gods how I wish we were) what there is is for me to ask you... Please:

Please reach out for Maggie. Step up and make a monthly subscription: $200, $100, $50, $20, $10, $5, or jumble them as you wish.

Your generosity to date has been overwhelming. Not just with money, but with your good wishes, with people offering to help -- we have one person running errands in Austin, y'all have donated not one but two Netbooks (and maybe a third, not sure yet) and we're still figuring what to do with the extra one, and most of all your heart in being there, talking to Maggie on multiple blogs and emails blows me away.

She, and I love all of you so much, are so deeply moved by who you are and what you are doing to help her. As a group of people and as individuals you have really stepped up. You amaze me; you inspire me. Thank you for the gift you have been, and for the gift and contribution you continue to be to Maggie. I honor you for who you are and for the difference you make. Maggie is alive and getting better each day and it would not have happened without her friends and all of you being the difference in her life. Thank you for being you and for loving one another.

Every religion has some version of the Golden Rule. You my precious readers and friends, are living examples of how both the Practice of spirituality and the Golden Rule are designed to work on the ground. The Blessings of the Gods on each and all of you, your families, loved ones, and those with whom you work and associate.

Cross-posted at Meta Watershed and Group News Blog.

Happy New Year

2009-11-01T05:32:00.000-08:00

(Trail through grass, photo by R. Planck -- my current desktop image.)

In the house of long life
there I wander.
In the house of happyness,
there I wander.
Beauty before me,
with it I wander.
Beauty behind me,
with it I wander.
Beauty below me,
with it I wander.
Beauty above me,
with it I wander.
Beauty all arround me,
with it I wander.
In old age traveling,
with it I wander.
On the beautiful trail I am,
with it I wander.

In the culture of the majority of my ancestors (Scots, Welsh, Irish), today is the New Year. Here in Central Texas, it is Dia de Los Muertos. Since I am bound and cannot go even to Friends Meeting, I am repeating the Dine morning prayer to myself and contemplating the treat of a bagel for brex. If they'll let me have it and if it comes with a schmear. Onion or garlic if I'm very lucky.

I was at Shungopovi for the Antelope Dances the last time I spoke with my mother. I camped on Second Mesa and had to drive a ways to find a phone to call her. Something unexplainable happened that day at the dances; I try to write about it but can't tell it right. The next day I went to Canyon de Chelly, and the following afternoon she died in the blink of an eye, finally having escaped my tether.

I don't know the connection yet, but since awakening that old Alix Dobkin song "OKOY" has been playing in my head:

Maybe time alone will soothe our bones
And clo-o-ose the wounds

I'm angry that I don't have the language of my ancestors, maybe Gaelic has tenses or vocabulary to tell the stories lodged in me. I'm angry at how far the the edge I slid, toward my mama and brother's path despite swearing to myself (and Martha) that I would not. I'm angry that my values and choices mean poverty in this culture, and that poverty is not simply limiting but interpreted by institutions and much of Christianity (founded by a man who chose poverty) as dishonorable.

I'm angry about Steve Gilliard's death on a whole new level, as if he were my little brother.

I'm right at the edge of being able to go home and fend for myself. A man with whom I sat in Friends Meeting here for decades, Sean Carroll, contacted Jesse to help me in town. He has been shopping for the DME, household supplies, and good food I'll need to return home -- using money y'all sent. He doesn't own a vehicle but keeps borrowing one or arranging for CarShare to run errands, and has offered to be my ride home when I am discharged. He is bedrock that arose from the waves. He keeps thanking me and Jesse for the opportunity to be of service.

I know how he feels, that's the thing.

I'm terrified about how hard the next two months of recovery will be, even as time and good will closes the ruptures of this year. The only way to face it, this new year, is to remember I walk in beauty and to rest in the altered manner taught to me yesterday by Heather the PT -- who also grew up poor and decisively called me on what Mama always said: "Use it up / Wear it out / Make it do / Or do without." A bad adage when it comes to bodies, although the poor and working classes often have no choice about it.

I just stopped to order breakfast -- yes to the toasted bagel with cream cheese.

I am the only person left to tell the stories of my people in a way so they quilt together with your own stories. I was born and raised to do this. I'm not done yet. Narrative may be our most persistent delusion, but it's how we recognize one another in the dark and this introvert really does want to be with you all, as long as I can have a room of my own too. More to come.

[Cross-posted at Meta Watershed and Group News Blog.]

CEO of Google, interviewed at Gartner Symposium

2009-11-01T00:21:00.001-07:00

interesting stuff.

May the Great Pumpkin Bring You Much Candy

2009-10-31T15:59:00.001-07:00

see more dog and puppy pictures

Boo!

open thread- what are you up to this all hallows eve weekend?

Dangling on Friday

2009-10-30T10:43:00.000-07:00

In the sci-fi novel I'm currently writing, my main character Pyosz has a growing love interest, Maar. I'm having a lot of fun shaping Maar into my own heart's desire. I've been aware that my buddy Blue, who is avidly reading/living each installment of the book, also has a desperate crush on Maar.

Blue called me yesterday to chat. After medical updates, amid kid interruptions on her end, I told Blue that Pyosz and Maar have been popping into my dreams, asking for action to proceed. I wondered if I could discuss a future plot point with Blue. I could hear the eagerness in her voice as she said "Absolutely."

So, in a serious tone, I asked if I should allow Pyosz and Maar to become fully lovers before Maar is tragically killed by leviathans (the monsters in my made-up world) or if it would be less cruel to have her die after they have shared only a kiss.

There was a ghastly silence over the phone. I couldn't keep from laughing, and confessed I was messing with her. Blue almost shrieked in relief and told me if she was near me she would smack me in the head for that. We laughed and laughed -- AS IF I'd do anything to my heartthrob Maar.

I can tell the lack of privacy and autonomy here, not to mention the constant doubt about whether I will be discharged before I can quite be safe on my own, is rubbing me raw.

The tech who comes at 3:00 a.m. to take my vitals throws open the door with a clatter, puts on the brightest light, and sings to herself loudly (and offkey) the whole time she is nearby. If I don't yell after her, she leaves my tray table (with phone, water and call button) out of my reach, the lights on and the door open. But when I do remind her, she acts offended.

I've tried to remind myself if how bored she must be, what the circumstances she might be contending with to make her so utterly devoid of empathy. Almost all the other night techs and nurses go out of their way to not awaken patients. However, at this point I simply hate her. I want her to never enter my sphere again.

There are too many people out there doing as much as they can to help me for me to actually feel sorry for myself. I have been saved in a spectacular fashion. But today is a hard day.

Yet another new PT just came to give me a workout. I'm now sitting up on a bedside toilet, waiting for lunch. I'm dizzy and sweaty. My abdominal binder is not in the right place and hurts a fair amount, but there's no point in trying to adjust it until I am prone again. I'm pushing my endurance as far as I can, to build it back. The PT says she will be back this afternoon to work on getting me to the point where I can wipe myself. Whether I can or not, no matter my endurance, it seems at least 50/50 that they will discharge me today -- the Good Doctor is off and the Evil Caseworker is seizing her chance.

We'll never have universal dignity and respect for individuals in our world until safety and well-being are uncoupled from income and class. Today I am sick and tired of being an object lesson. I want to lie down in the arms of someone who knows me and weep until I fall asleep, secure and seen.

Here's the nurse with a pain pill and lunch (fried fish, cornbread dressing, carrots). That will have to do for now.

"Mama's On The Job"

2009-10-28T13:30:00.000-07:00

The Nursing Home reviewed Maggie and said "No."

The Good Doctor is now (there was some question) IN CHARGE of Maggie. This Good Doctor makes the decision as to if/when Maggie will be discharged. Earlier today, while the Nursing Home was still up in the air he said, "If it were up to me you would not be discharged." Heh. Good things come to those who wait.

Once control of Maggie reverted back to the Good Doctor, i.e.: once the Nursing Home was no longer an option and thus the only option was keeping her in the hospital v. discharging her to home/the street, the Good Doctor took firm control and wrote orders consistent with his speaking earlier today (and the days before.) The wonderful part of this is, before it could have just been talk -- who knew, really? It isn't as if shining on a poor fat female patient costs you anything. To the contrary, with hospital finance breathing down his neck, the Good Doctor is putting his professional self at risk when he steps up and insists Maggie be cared for as if she were rich and had insurance. In doing so he demonstrates the value of the Hippocratic Oath. He's putting himself on the line for Maggie; she's a real person to him.

The Good Doctor wrote orders: 1. Maggie is to stay in the hospital till at least Friday (which not only means she can continue to get better, it means she can relax for a few days without worrying where she'll wake up the next morning); 2. Maggie is to have two (2) physical therapy sessions a day (double what she has now); 3. PT is to continue to note her ability to perform the functions of daily living (as she can't be discharged in the Good Doctor's view till Maggie can perform the functions of daily living...He said to her this morning, "I know you can't perform daily functions yet. If it were up to me you would not be discharged." And then everyone got the word it IS up to him *laughs* But really, thank the Gods it IS up to him. Just like University Hospital being on ER diversion, the Good Doctor being responsible for Maggie may well turn out to be one of those key turning points which we look back at and say, "This, this right here, this saved her life and/or made a HUGE difference in the final outcome"; 4. Reevaluate on Friday to see how Maggie is doing.

*is oh so happy*

Maggie requests a reliable person to run random errands in Austin; if you're that person, please contact Jesse Wendel.

Maggie's Mama has come through. 'Cause this morning we were damn sure either Maggie was going to a BAD nursing home (the one they were trying to send her to really blew; it was -- and is -- especially bad for bed sores and pneumonia. Not to mention it keeps screwing up patient meds and can't quite keep the sheets clean and sterile. All this according to the latest report I've read/of which I have a copy.) But charity-case Maggie wasn't good enough for the nursing home.

Or Maggie was going to be kicked out of the hospital entirely like to her home or the street and they didn't care where, which, given she can't even climb into bed after getting out to use the toilet and she doesn't have a bedside toilet, would have been an utter disaster. But that didn't happen either. We didn't (quite) panic. We kept cool and waited, waited for a miracle.

The closest we came to doing something is a) prepping y'all to make phone calls (thanks y'all) and b) when the Good Doctor stopped by yesterday while Maggie was on the phone with Liza, as Maggie got off she said, "That was Liza, a friend of mine from back East. She's checking in for this large group who want to know how I am." The doctor went, "Huh?" Maggie smiled and said, "Yeah. I'm a nationally known writer and blogger. People all over the United States are trying very hard to find out how I am. It's a really big deal." And then she dropped it and moved the conversation on. However, Maggie reports, she could see it got through. That was yesterday evening. And now today we have this. To be fair, he's always been the Good Doctor, being wonderful with Maggie, standing up for her. But in the last couple of days he's really come around, taking a clear stand for her in a way which he was not three or four days ago.

Maggie's in the hospital till at least Friday. *smiles -- is happy*

Cross-posted at Meta Watershed and Group News Blog.

Maggie Jochild Wednesday Quick Report

2009-10-28T10:15:00.000-07:00

Fast report.

This may be the only report for today, not sure…

The hospital has asked a not-great nursing home to accept Maggie; the nursing home is evaluating her (either via a records review or perhaps in person, we’re not sure) which will probably take the rest of today and maybe even into tomorrow. Till we/the hospital get a yes/no on accepting Maggie from the nursing home, she’ll stay in the hospital. The odds are well into the 90th percentile she’ll be discharged, either to the nursing home (if they say yes) or to her home/the street (if the nursing home says no) within at most 24 hours of the nursing home saying one way or another, which could be as early as later today but more likely will be tomorrow morning.

While Maggie has half her stitches out and healing continues to go well, and while this morning she managed to get OUT of bed on her own, she could not get back IN to bed. In no way can she perform on her own the tasks of daily living. We now know who has the discharge authority yes/no over Maggie. We are sure he is under enormous pressure to discharge her from the financial people, even though she is clearly not ready to be on her own. Even so we are NOT going with the massive phone call storm to the hospital (which I mentioned over at DTWOF), at least not yet. We’re still waiting to see what the nursing home says; Maggie being accepted to the nursing home is the best bet.

Thank you for the emails and subscriptions. Please keep them coming $200, $100, $50, $20, $10, $5, mix and match. Maggie told me ten minutes ago to tell you how much she loves and appreciates you. And that she’s getting better each and every day. Later today she’s got a big PT workout. She has faith everything will work out.

For folks whom have asked about applications for welfare, Medicaid, and so on, good news (although it will take quite a while.) All of those applications are in or in the process of going in for Medicaid, welfare, and other appropriate programs.

The first time through, everyone gets turned down. But on the second application we are told, Maggie should be approved without much trouble.

The hospital is working closely with the person handling Maggie’s finances while she’s in the hospital, to see that this happens successfully. (It’s the only way for the hospital to get paid at all. They have a good track record with this as their own self-interest is at stake, so I’m quite optimistic in the long run.) In the short-run, Maggie has no money, no job till she’s well, so for the next two months we and the donations we raise for her are ALL that she has. *sighs*

Next time some damn Republican banker tells me that donations are the answer instead of government aid, I’m taking him to Austin and showing him Maggie as exhibit A. After two weeks of asking and begging and with Maggie being relatively well known nationally as these things go, we’re still only at half what she needs. And now the Republicans & Sen. Joe L (Ind-CT) are trying to blow up the Public Option on Health Care. Arrrrrgh!

Next update no later than tomorrow; sooner if there’s a major change. In the meantime, please contribute $200, $100, $50, $20, $10, $5, or in any combination.

Cross-posted at Meta Watershed and Group News Blog.

Swapping Class Lessons

2009-10-27T05:20:00.000-07:00

Entitlement is a concept which has been misunderstood and criticized in feminist/liberation ideologies. It’s an attitude we are born with, as is altruism, but just as altruism has been distorted by American mythology into “self-sacrifice,” entitlement has become conflated with selfishness and arrogance.

An authentic sense of entitlement, however, is not selfish. If you believe there is enough to go around for everybody (which is possible when capitalism and Christianist lies are snipped from your brain,) and if you have achieved enough emotional maturity to love yourself/your community without depending on power imbalances for security, expressing entitlement is an act of mass social empowerment.

Unfortunately we have meager examples of what this actually looks like in our current government or pop culture representation. Those of us trying to define it for ourselves -- say, a fat crippled family-less poor dyke currently receiving high-level care as an indigent -- must stay in continuous conversation and exploration with those we trust to keep identifying the next best refinement of definition.

And of course the major obstacle to clarity about entitlement is class conditioning about which America is in deep denial.

I have been/am being kept afloat daily by a network of middle-class institutions, working-class smarts, and a few specific individuals who will not let go my hand.

One as you all know is Jesse Wendel, raised middle-class Mormon who used the military to escape LDS paranoia and family violence. This is not the most obvious ladder to use, but someone who can manage to stop panicking at the sounds of hounds in his own head long enough to carefully select the next solid-looking hummock can pick his way across any bog. Plus there is a basic Mormon value of service to the deserving, and if you buckle that onto a new template of who is “deserving” you get the Gilliard kind of liberal that Jesse is. His instance of my value was in my head when I finally staggered to the phone last week in the middle of the night and gave myself up to the machinery of possible public humiliation and loss of autonomy. I left the Gillchrist Peninsula; I hitched a ride west from the 9th Ward, into the care of strangers. But I knew Jesse would find me wherever I landed, and I acted like I mattered to everyone I met. To do so meant completely betraying my class training and my families’ choices.

Equally crucial has been Martha Chesnutt, my friend since 1980, who is handling all the finances and working on getting me disability long-distance from Atlanta. Martha and I lived together years ago and she has been the older sister I would have chosen for myself. Our ancestors arrived in North America via Jamestown, and our shared southern roots are tangled. Her line had been as consistently owning class as mine has been poor. But we came out into the crucible of lesbian-feminism where, despite revisionist rhetoric to the contrary, many of us learned to deal with class and race in a way I do not see being done as well now.

Martha is a class ally to me whom I trust more than anyone else on earth. She’s done the work, keeps doing it, translates across the boundary as earnestly as I do, and for over a year she paid my rent, until her own difficulties kept her from doing it any longer.

Martha and I also bore witness to one another as we each in turn fell in love with and partnered to women who, despite all efforts, became abusive. We stayed close friends as these long-term lover relationships degraded us and challenged our ability to self-love. Imperfectly, mentally, we figured out how to just have faith in one another despite watching the other make self-destructive choices. We somehow kept returning to “any difficulty I have with your difficulty is still my difficulty.” The friendship survived where all other connections did not.

I can tell Martha anything. However I use this gift sparingly, because I see the wound in her when she faces some of my reality.

Martha has refused to ever give up her sense of entitlement. She blazed a trail in that regard and continues to often take a machete to the underbrush a few yards ahead of me.

I once wrote in an essay that I felt like my family and I had been left for dead. I still feel that way about them – I mean, they are all dead now.

But because I’ve chosen to reassess every class lesson handed on to me by my people, rejecting toxic beliefs for those of the middle and owning classes where I could see the sense of it, I’m the survivor.

About a month before I called the paramedics, Martha said to me, with all the courage she could muster, that she was afraid I was repeating my mother’s pattern of hopelessness about individual survival. It was an extraordinarily difficult talk, but I have to admit the seeds she planted helped me call those paramedics instead of dying alone.

Thank you, Martha, Jesse, Liza, Genia, Kat. Thanks for getting close enough to see/hear my truth and letting me see yours so I might learn from it. Thank you out there who believe I matter.

And thank you to my family, for taking me as far as they could before their own sense of shame dragged them underwater.

Cross-posted at Meta Watershed and Group News Blog as dictated to Jesse by Maggie.

Maggie Jochild Still In Hospital Monday, Barely

2009-10-27T04:55:00.000-07:00

Windows Netbook Donation Needed. Financial Donations Report!

Just a quick report as I’m in so much pain in my right hip I’m not at work today (this was written Monday afternoon, even if I’m posting it Tuesday morning.) Hurts to sit up, hurts to write. Hurts to do anything but sleep.

Maggie was NOT discharged over the weekend. One of the great things about the hospital she is in, is they apparently are big believers in what is called the TEAM Concept of Care. This means that in this hospital -- the best surgical hospital in Austin where the rich folks go for their surgeries if they don’t fly in their G-Vs to Houston -- unlike all the other hospitals which are not nearly as highly ranked nationally (oh yes, this hospital is NATIONALLY RANKED; what, you thought I’ve been pulling your chain, polishing your knob, yanking your Petunias, these last 10-12 days when I’ve told you Maggie is in the BEST surgical hospital in Austin? Oh, say it isn’t so Gentle Reader…)…unlike the other, not nearly as highly ranked nationally hospitals, the hospital our dear Maggie Jo lies recovering in, does everything in TEAMS. A Team consists of everyone involved in the medical care of a patient, plus a representative from the financial side of the house. Everyone gets a fairly equal voice in what should happen. This method of care compares to the less successful hospitals (so far as patient outcomes go) where the Doctors and the Finance People (and more and more it’s the Finance People) make the calls on what happens. Not so in the nationally ranked facility where Maggie is working so hard to recover.

That Maggie is working SO damn hard impresses the hell out of everyone. Today for example she walked 50 feet with a walker, her PT person right next to her to try and stop a fall just in case, but she made it! Totally wiped her out, she told me as 50 feet is an amazing (and very tough) distance for her to walk… Her stitches remain in (nope, the surgeon changed his mind last Friday and left them in. And today he decided to leave them in till at least Friday this week) with the Binder which is like a large corset still constricting her abdomen tightly keeping the surgical site intact, the stitches from coming out, and everything all good and clean and perfect.

Because Maggie is working so goddamn hard, because she’s working harder -- in the judgment of her nurses and the PT/OT and respiratory folks – all of the aforementioned TEAM members and even some of her doctors are all LOUDLY saying, do NOT discharge Maggie. Why, they say?

“Maggie has no support, no one to take care of her. If we discharge her for, let’s face it, financial reasons” -- and they glare at the financial guy who is pretty much coming around to see things from our side anyway, but they still glare at him we’re told – “we’re only going to see her again inside days to a week when her sutures come loose, the incision bursts open (the surgeon gets all stuffy at this point), she gets a massive infection and that’s if her insides do not spill out all over the floor, and of course with the massive infection she’ll get an even larger fever and become dehydrated. Hell, she isn’t even able, no, scratch that, she is UNABLE to even get in and out of bed by herself let alone make it to the toilet. Without any money to hire a nursing aide, no charity bed for rehab for the hardest working most deserving patient any of us have seen in forever. How can we possibly expect Maggie, with a Foley Catheter in place no less, to take care of her self all alone? It’s impossible! Hummph!”

This opinion is slowly gaining weight in the TEAM approach. *smiles*

On the other hand, finance still wants her out, although he’s being less adamant about it all. That said, there is a genuine, real chance Maggie may be discharged Tuesday. No promises or predictions one way or the other. It could go one way or the other. *sighs* I’m not going to panic. We will see and what happens will happen. But I think (and hope and pray) we have enough medical weight on our side, that with the TEAM being pretty damn pissed off at this point about Maggie’s overall condition, that a discharge won’t happen till Maggie’s truly ready. Furthermore, Maggie is ready to very respectful and appreciatively, strike, should anyone try to kick her out before her body is at least able to handle the basics of living alone: getting in and out of bed without ripping her stitches out (including NOT straining her abdomen which her PT person insists upon, as does her surgeon); since she doesn’t have a pull thingy above her bed to haul herself in and out of the bed with, that will be hard; cleaning herself; going to the toilet. Also walking to the kitchen; watching back from the kitchen; making a meal; feeding the cat; going all the way from her bedroom to the front door, getting groceries, taking them to the kitchen and putting them away before the cold stuff rots, then getting back in bed, all without falling over and hurting herself or ripping out her stitches or splitting open her abdomen.

If she can not do ALL these simple acts of daily living, she can not go home. Are they going to send her to live on the street under a newspaper? Seriously; what do they intend to do, send her to die, now that they have saved her life?

As she keeps telling people, “I live with a cat but she can NOT change my Foley.”

Financially Maggie and I and Martha (who is handling the money) deeply appreciate the money given so far. We are roughly at half-way. So far slightly under two-thousand dollars have been donated. We need to raise four thousand. $4K allows Maggie two months off work, the medicines she needs, some healthier foods, some (but not all) of the durable medical equipment she needs such as a pull thing above her bed. Plus paying rent electric, water, food, cat food, taxi rides for outpatient, a little home health care, and so on. The absolute bare minimum with zero margin for error and no reserve (and ya always need a reserve; this number doesn’t have one) for the bare minimum she’ll need if everything goes perfectly (and there are always fuck-ups (this assumes no fuck-ups at all) is $4 grand cash in emergency donations/additional subscriptions. It does NOT include any subscriptions/donations existing prior to Wednesday 12 days ago when Maggie went to the hospital. We’re assuming all of those remain intact. If any of those get canceled, we’ll need more money. On the other hand, half way there, pretty much. So hey, far out and good work everyone! And we have a little room to breathe. It isn’t as if we need to have all the money tomorrow. We needed a bunch of money last Friday as we thought she was being thrown out Friday or Saturday, which would mean we’d have to hire a nursing aide right then as we had no bed for her and there was no way she could go back home. So we were going to put her, well, never mind. The point is, we now have a little more room. So please, take a deep breathe, congratulate yourself and everyone else on the great job we’re all doing so far.

Then, dig down and please donate more. We’ve got $2,000 and change to go. *laughs* If you haven’t donated yet, heh, opportunity! We're asking people to contribute from as little as $5 to $10 monthly, to $20 or $50, and for a few of you, all the way up to $100 or $200 a month.

Coming up still today, another post from Maggie. It’s amazing. I think one of the best pieces of writing she’s ever done. (I feel like a link in a chain, smuggling the writings of a renowned Russian writer out of the prison camps to the West. And honored to take her dictation.)

Ahhh… Maggie needs a Netbook Computer. She has NO Internet access. Getting her a Netbook so she can surf, email, and write whenever SHE wants to, not have to write by hand and then dictate to me, is able to check in on her friends and their posts, can check in at GNB and Meta when she wants… She’s cut off from her WORLD. It would mean the world to her if we can get her access restored.

Can someone please, please, pretty please with love and strawberries and real sugar on top please donate an inexpensive Microsoft compatible Netbook to Maggie? (Not even a laptop. She doesn’t have the strength to hold a laptop.) It needs to be SO light that really only a wireless-enabled Netbook will do plus also a Netbook is the right form factor. Even a very light-weight laptop would be too big; she wouldn't be able to balance it, and a telephone would be a new OS to learn plus you really can't browse on them. She needs precisely what I'm requesting and not anything else. Please.

Note: I don’t mean to offend any of y’all whom are huge Mac fans. -- I’m writing this on a MacBook and can hardly stand the wait till January for the new Apple Tablet, but that’s not important right now – I also don’t mean to offend fans of other OSes such as various Unixes. The thing is Maggie only knows Windows. Period. Full stop. In her current mental state -- able at her current best to think two perhaps three hours ahead when she isn’t physically wiped out which is much of the time, and she can handle perhaps five minutes ahead then -- I am NOT absolutely NOT pressing her in any way not critical to her health. An OS holy war is not critical to her health. OS discussion ends here.

Maggie needs a Windows-version Netbook computer. Having one will give her autonomy in a major way. This will make an ENORMOUS difference for Maggie in her physical recovery as well as her mental recovery (having to work with the keys will help her physical recovery; working with the thinking and writing and her peeps and writing again will deeply assist her mental recovery.)

If you can donate a Netbook, please email Jesse Wendel.

Thank you.

Again, please donate and get your friends to donate. Please contribute $200, $100, $50, $20, $10, $5, or in any combination. If you have a blog or know people with blogs, get the word out about Maggie. Link, link, link.

Anything I can do to help get the word out, be in touch.

Thank you all so much for your support. And bless all of you for that support. You mean the world to Maggie and myself.

Knowing you are there has on many a day, gotten me up and out of bed, I tell you true. Often it seems strange to me that me, big bad-ass Jesse, who walked through the toughest ghettos in the United States for almost a decade with nothing but a med kit, backboard, oxygen bottle and defibrillator, and a gurney. And my 90 pound gurrrrl partner (who could kick YOUR ass any day, twice a day on weekends, three times on pay-day weekends) could be brought to bed by pain. But it never, ever, ever stops. Even when I take LOTS of drugs, even then it doesn’t stop; it is simply overwhelmed and then the drugs usually overwhelm me also. It’s impossible to find positions not also painful. The best is this wonderful chair at work. In it I can sit for many hours and work and work and work. At home on my bed I’m able to roll this way and that, and to watch comedy shows which by making me laugh, reduce the pain. Sometimes I can sleep and then I don’t hurt, briefly, till I wake up, which I do every three hours around the clock to take pain meds. No, I don’t set an alarm. The old meds wear off and that wakes me up.

Here’s my point. In the midst of this, especially in the last two and a half years since my friends and I started Group News Blog, some days what has got me up when normally I’d have stayed in bed and wept, stayed in bed and tried to sleep, stayed in bed and watched television, or stayed in bed and read or done anything but moved a fraction more than I absolutely must (on what I call a BAD pain day, like today for example when I didn’t go to work as it felt as if someone had stuck a steel bar deep into my right hip and was bouncing bouncing bouncing up and down on the bloody thing with the blunt end quivering deep in my hip bone to the point where the scale I balance on is overdosing my meds v. screaming) and on some days precisely like today when normally I’d simply stay in bed and weep and pray for the day to end, on some of those days over the past two and a half years I have gotten up because I knew YOU were there, waiting for me to write, waiting for me to post, even just waiting for me to go check the PO Box and pick up a letter I knew was coming. So I got up and got to it. Sucked it up. Because of you.

You readers are the gift who quite literally, day after day after day, I get out of bed for because of you. If not for you, just as years ago when I was suicidal, then it was my four children whom I lived for, now I get out of bed and go enter into life because to do otherwise would be to fail to serve you.

The last eight to ten months (since shortly after the inauguration) have been very hard for me, physically. And I’m not fully back by any means.

But with Maggie needing me, with readers from GNB all of a sudden writing me and my needing to write them back, with other GNB writers suddenly writing again and the blog starting to pick up again (as I’ve said all along it would start to do about a year before the 2010 election) and with the joy of my writing posts for GNB all of a sudden descending upon me like grace from above, like how I feel after a wonderful bicycle ride with my daughters or son, I can only say that for the last eleven to twelve days, as totally wiped out as I’ve been each day, as utterly drained as I’ve been each day, I’ve been more ALIVE this past almost two weeks than at any time in the past eight to ten months of lying in bed in pain. Now I’m up and about (and in pain) but at least I’m about and out in the world (and in pain.) The fucking pain part does not change. But at least I’m out and in the world and alive.

Thank YOU (all of you, but I really mean YOU, the one reading this right now) for the wonderful gift to me which you are. And for everything which you are to Maggie, and for all which you do to her.

Speaking of which -- because this is how all posts right now must end, *smiles* -- please subscribe/donate to Maggie as much as you can afford: $200, $100, $50, $20, $10, $5, mix and match.

Also, I request you, Gentle Reader, donate a Windows Netbook for Maggie within 24 hours. Contact Jesse Wendel.

Thank you.

Oh yeah… Within a hour, a post from Maggie. *grins*

Cross-posted at Meta Watershed and Group News Blog.

Tachih Nádáh

2009-10-25T14:37:00.000-07:00

The Bullshit In Arizona WAS NOT Anything Native American

My heart goes out to the families of those who died. My deep rage and anger goes to the charletans who used a sacred ritual to bully and maim and kill others.

I hate going to Sedona. All manner of "New Age" hucksters and grifters have sullied the visual magic of a glorious place.

John McCain fits right the fuck in there.

You can go to Sedona and pay lots of money to people who channel dolphins, find "vortexes" of energy, and you can even find white people who for lots of fucking money will teach you all about Native American stuff.

Here's a quick way to tell if the people who are doing this are really into it. If you go to an Apache Haattaallii, healer, or spiritual guide, the only payment they will accept is tobacco, food, or blankets. Never. Money.

A quick google or Craigslist search will turn up people who are conducting sweat lodges all over the country. Sometimes they will ask for a little money to help them defray the costs involved with conducting the ceremony, fires need fuel and stuff like that. The honest folks who are doing this would be delighted if you showed up with a tank of propane instead of twenty bucks.

Here is a post of mine from over three years ago. If the experience of your sweat lodge isn't like this, you have my permission to run the fuck away screaming.

This ceremony is common to almost all north american native cultures. There are as many variations as there are among people. There are many more similarities than there are differences.

Let me remind you that I do not believe in the supernatural. I do not pray in the sense that I expect a god somewhere to listen and give a damn. I still go into the lodge with people. I talk and follow the forms of the traditional prayers. When I leave, I feel better. That's enough. No jealous sky demon has ever acted like it was going to strike me down. I don't get into all of that. There might be some Jungian tribal memory thing going on, I dont care.

We meet in the early afternoon at clan cousin's house. (Apache family connections are byzantine in complexity and I won't go into that here) They have a semi permanent lodge set up in their back yard. They are far enough out in the country that it is quiet and we won't be bothered by city noise or prying eyes. There are eight of us tonight, equally divided between men and women. Some cultures have a total ban on men and women doing this ceremony together, some wear clothes. We tend to be more pragmatic about things. After being hunted for the better part of two centuries by the Spanish, the Mexicans, then the Americans a lot of separation of men and women got discarded because there simply weren't enough of the people (indii) to keep things workable. Sometimes we have problems when those from other cultures that have these barriers come to visit. We will warn them about our customs but we don't try to adapt to them any more than that. Warrior societies are like that.

Many of us fast on the day of the ceremony. I will drink fluids but I don't eat. It's just a personal thing. I know people who do the whole dry fasting thing and I have done it before but mainly since it would mean doing without my coffee and having a raging headache before the dehydration sets in I choose not to.

We start by covering the bent willow framework that forms the shell of the Tachih (sweatlodge). It's about five feet tall at the peak and makes a nice circular dome. We are covering it with a combination of blankets (nothing special for the blankets, just old blankets is all) on the first two layers, followed by elk, deer and buffalo hides on the outside. We are looking for something that will be light and waterproof. There are sheets spread out on the floor of the lodge, mainly this is so we won't get all crusty mudded up while we are trying to cleanse ourselves. When we are finished we all go inside the house.

We gather in a circle in the living room and the leader (ha'taallii) welcomes us to the ceremony. We go around the room and introduce ourselves. We use our "medicine names" here. That is the name we use when we are in ceremony. There's a whole involved structure around naming, there's the name that it used in the state records, a medicine name, a name given by your warrior society, a sacred name that is never spoken aloud, and then there's the name everybody calls you by. Again, it's pretty alien and hard to explain. My medicine name translates roughly to "Singing Snake." We pass around a smudge bowl with a combination of sage, cedar and lavender. We let the smoke waft around us, fanning it with an eagle feather. If there is anything specific we want to look for inside the lodge it is stated at this time.

The leader takes out his pipe and puts it together. He (it can be a woman but tonight it is a man) takes a small pinch of tobacco (actually, it's a mix of stuff that grows out in the desert mountains and I am not going to go into the ingredients beyond saying that there is nothing in this pipe that would interfere with my program of drug and alcohol abstinence but when I am talking about tobacco I'm not talking about the Virginia leaf) and begins to fill the pipe a pinch at a time, saying the appropriate prayers for each pinch. When the leader is done the pipe and the pouch go around the room and we each add our own pinch and our own prayers (these prayers can be said out loud or be said in silence). When the pipe is once again with the leader he begins to smoke and pray. He smokes to the four cardinal directions, above and below, the center of things. Then he calls in the powers of nature and the world. It's long, intricate and involved. For me this part is like the sermon they make derilicts listen to before they get fed at the soup kitchen. I maintain a respectful silence but I'm not really all that into it.

Once the leader has finished his job the pipe again goes around the circle and we each smoke a little bit and say our own personal wishes for the ceremony. Then we get naked and go out to the lodge.

The entrance of the lodge is facing to the east. You stand before the entrance and the leader brushes you with sage smoke and a fan made from the wing of an eagle. When this is done you kneel down, touch you forhead to the ground and say "ahéhe'e shik'iihi" (thank you my people), then you crawl slowly around the lodge until you reach your place. There is one special position in the lodge that is right next to the firepit (which is roughly north northeast). The person that sits there is the last to pray each round and tries to keep themselves in tune with the flow of the ceremony. They are also there to aid the leader in any way that might be needed. I like to sit in the slight south west position. When the water hits the hot rocks the steam billows up and across the dome of the lodge right on top of you. I like it hot. During this part of the ceremony we remain silent, focused in our own thoughts.

When we are all in the leader enters and asks for the fire tenders to bring four rocks, one at a time from the firepit. We are using rocks from a dry river bed that have been baked for a couple of days right after they were gathered. River rocks hold the heat longer and seem to get hotter. If you don't put them in a 200° oven for a couple of days there's a chance that when the water is poured on them they will explode. I've been in a lodge when this happens and it's no fun at all. As the rocks are brought in they are sprinkled with fragrant herbs and flowers and the appropriate prayers and welcome is made. Then three more rocks come in. Same thing is done. After the first seven rocks are in more are brought in two and three at a time, the leader uses an elk horn to arrange them in the pit, the person sitting in the northeast begins to sing a song in Apache until we have a total of twenty rocks. The flap on the entrance is closed and we are in darkenss except for the glow of the rocks in the pit. The leader pours twenty times on the rocks, saying the ritual prayers of welcome and calling in the powers. Then one at a time we go around the lodge and say our prayers for ourselves. There aren't any real hard and fast rules on what to pray for. The form is to address the god or power you are intending to talk to and introduce yourself by your medicine name, you clan affiliation, and any honors from battle you might have be given. Then you pray for yourself. I pretty much follow the 11th step of Alcoholic's Anonymous here and tend to pray that I be given only the knowledge of what god's will for me might be and then have the power to carry out that will. It's enough. Sometimes people will ask the leader to give them a medicine name or change the one they've been given before. When everyone has had their turn the flap is opened and there is a slight respite from the heat.

During the rounds of the sweat lodge no one goes in or comes out. If someone gets in distress from the heat they can ask that the flap be opened for them to leave but the round is then started over from the beginning.

The leader asks for six stones, he can ask for as many or as few as he wants, it's pretty hot in there tonight, the steam is scalding and feels alive. We don't need a whole lot of it.

The flap is closed again and this time the prayers that are said are for others. People pray for family, friends, whatever. As long as it is not about you. The flap is opened again.

Some folks drink water in between the rounds of prayers. I don't but that's a personal choice that I made. It's not mandated one way or the other. I just feel a bigger ceremonial connection by having the time in lodge be about stuff going out

This time he asks for nine stones to be brought in. The flap goes down and we begin the "give away." Here we give away the things in our life that are not serving us well. You might have noticed that I am not going into any specifics about what I pray for in the lodge. It's very personal. It's very private. It's between me and what ever power might be out there, not between me and you. After everyone has taken a turn we do another round where we give away things about ourselves that we give to the people and society as a whole. The good things that we bring. After listing all the stuff that's not that great and isn't working it's good to identify what is good and doing the job.

The flap comes up again and he asks for seven stones, one at a time. They again get sprinkled with herbs and flowers, the flap goes down and while the leader does the twenty count prayer and pours twenty horns of water we are dreaming. Trying to be open to any message or emotions that be out there for us.

The flap is opened and one, at a time, in reverse order of entrance we leave the lodge. We stay in silence. Some people use an outdoor shower that is set up, others lie down on towels and stare up at the sky. We are coming back into this world slowly. I finally get up and douse myself with cold water, and start to drink some gatorade that I brought. It takes about forty minutes for us to get in the present enough to go inside and get dressed. Then we attack the pot luck buffet that has been set up. I am still drinking deeply and ravenous. The food tastes great. I am tired, but full of energy.

After the meal we gather again and go over what we felt in the lodge. The pipe is smoked and then put away. We stand around talking quietly about little things. The big things are through for the night. One by one we give gifts of tobacco and a small token of thanks to the leader, the three people that tended our fire, and the hosts who graciously opened their house to us. Then we drift away into the dark night. Cleansed in body and spirit. Part of this world and some other place I can't really explain. There is a thread in this ceremony that runs through us all the way to the beginning of time.

We aren't real hard core about keeping this ceremony all to ourselves, there have been outsiders invited to join our circle. It's rare, but it is not unheard of. I will leave you with the words from an old prayer

biihill hishash aaii diji jooni (may i walk today in beauty)
yexahiidella go, deya, tc'indii (having been prepared, he walks, they say)

good night.

There are many honest seekers of truth and spiritual connection out there. Many of them have been welcomed into our circles. I remember some German kids that my friend Silas and I found wandering in the Superstitions all lost and stuff. We took them in, invited them into our sweat lodge. They found themselves at home.

Please my friends, be careful who you follow. There are also a lot of greedy assmunches who are only after your money. The worst of them will take your money and watch you die. If, at anytime, your guide insists that you give up your personal autonomy and demands that they be given the power to make basic choices for you, you again have my permission to run the fuck away screaming.

Autonomy is a big thing among the Apache. Anyone who tries to take yours away is not teaching you about us, he's getting all white about shit.

Shabbos

2009-10-23T19:45:00.000-07:00

“Once, in Israel, God appeared in the doorway, and we were sore afraid.”
Annie Dillard

Let us now set aside
our profane belief
in corpus control
and embrace sacred humility
With yeast and egg
seed and must
Let us bow our will
to that power beyond our texts:
How our mucus membranes
will repair themselves
Flesh will knit
oxygen will
hop the metro of our corpuscles
It takes dozens of muscles
tiny or bovine, from may regions
to evacuate our bowels
an expertise we possess at birth
Let us mumble our ignorance
Of bile and synapse
Why some tumors are checked
How our watery sacs constantly
adjust valves to keep us
one step shy of liquid or
sicca again sayonara
We are deluded
We are sore afraid
Let us join fingertips
with the love we can only express
by life itself
which is another word for love.

© 2009 Maggie Jochild
October 23, 2009, 8:20 pm

Cross-posted at Meta Watershed and Group News Blog as dictated to Jesse by Maggie.

“This is Las Vegas. We have our own way, and we just let people be how they are.”

2009-10-23T19:30:00.000-07:00

This statement was given to me by Grace, Nurse of Nurses, here in the PCU. To be honest, Grace, or Amazing Grace as we call her behind her back, is one of two Nurse of Nurses here. The other being Extraordinary Emily. But for today I am blessedly in the hands of Grace for a third day in a row, sandwiched between two nights under the care of Ray-Ray, Grace’s best friend and the kind of man you wish was your own best friend.

But I digress. Easy to do here in Vegas.

The PCU is a netherworld between ICU, where gossamer threads of mortality are nearly visible in the always florescent glare and must be brushed by as delicately as Shelob’s Lair, and “The Ward,” the rest of the hospital. (In my Tramadol soaked brain I just commented “Ward, I’m worried about my beaver,” cracking myself up.)

Here on the PCU we are one firm step up from the ICU toward the remainders of our days but still dealing 24/7 with heavy damage done to us by other human beings or organisms which lack negotiation skills. Grace tells me she has three patients besides me and I’m the only person on the entire floor who is coherent. Which makes me something of a road-side attraction. In the midst of my extremis I’m having some profoundly human connections here in Vegas.

I saw half my abdominal incision today, about four inches of it. It’s grotesque but I touched it gently and reminded my belly I love it, all will be well someday. I did that for my Mamma after her surgeries, and now must love my self without her here.

Except, of course, she never left me.

More stories to come but hydrocodone, heparin, Protonix, potassium, mag sulfate, and levaquin await.

Thank you for being mine out there.

This post is about Thursday, October 22, 2009. Cross-posted at Meta Watershed and Group News Blog as dictated to Jesse by Maggie.

Baking Bread, Means Dad is Home

2009-10-23T16:20:00.001-07:00

view from the place I stayed for the Netroots Convention

Apropos of Nuthin'

I'll start off with some quick impressions of the NetRoots...

I would rather spend three days on a train than three hours in another fucking airport.
Sarah Robinson is charming, smart, and damned cute.
Ian Welsh is a witty, whip smart, engaging man.
Sir Charles, Litbrit, and Stephen Suh from Cogitamus are great people to share a wonderful view with.
I kept walking into rooms full of people, all of them focused intently on their laptops.
Next year's convention is in Vegas, that's MY fucking town yo.

Now, on to bread baking. I have been able to spend the last few days with my new doctor daughter, my son, my daughter's two fellow interns, and a whole host of family and Arizona friends who took the time to drop in on us.

When I became a single parent things didn't start out all that smoothly. I had three young, scared kids. All they really knew for sure was that through no fault of their own the adults had turned their lives upside down. For all that they were concerned, I was this dude who showed up every three or four months to yell at their Mom for a couple of weeks before taking off again.

When I took (or had it forced upon me by the court) custody, I made some very drastic changes in my life. First off, I was clean and sober for the first time since second grade. I decided that I would concentrate on providing some kind of reasonable facsimile of a home and family life for the kids. I quit touring altogether. Instead I scuffled and scrambled for studio and jingle gigs. At first money was very, very tight. As I began to understand the game better, things got better. Instead of schlepping from studio to studio I began to record my stuff right there at home.

I tried to keep things like fresh homemade breads available. One of the things I remember best, and loved the most was when I would gather my kids from the school bus stop and see the looks on their faces when they would come into the house and smell fresh bread, or pie, or cookies, or what ever stuff I had made for them. My new doctor says that those smells are what convinced her that things had really changed for them. That I meant what I said when I told them that I was going to stay home, maybe even learn how to be a parent or some square shit like that.

It's been a real joy to watch Dr. Ga'age Biitsahkesh walk into the house, smell the fresh bread, and get that same satisfied, joyful look on her face.

This is my favorite white bread recipe. I think I found it in one of Julia Child's books, but can't really remember. It makes great sandwiches, killer french toast, and is one of the best all around breads I make.

INGREDIENTS

7 cups bread or all purpose flour
2 1/2 cups warm water
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 tablespoons yeast
1/2 cup softened unsalted butter

Dissolve the yeast and sugar in the warm water. Place in the bowl of a stand mixer with a dough hook and let stand for ten minutes, or until creamy.

Mix, on lowest setting, 3 cups of the flour and the salt until smooth. Add in the remaining 4 cups of flour and mix until dough is smooth and elastic.

Add in the softened butter. At first in the mixing stage the dough ball might fragment and fall apart. Keep mixing and it will come together beautifully.

Turn out onto a floured hard surface and knead the living shit out of it for at least ten minutes. If your arms fall off after five minutes, duct tape or staple them back on and get back at it. It's the kneading that distributes the gluten and determines whether or not your bread as a nice even consistency.

Place kneaded dough in a large bowl that has been liberally buttered. Turn the dough ball so that it is completely coated with the butter. Cover with a cloth and put in a warm place (not less than 90° and not more than 100°) for an hour, or until doubled in size.

Punch down the risen dough, shape into two loaves. Place the shaped dough into two buttered loaf pans and let it rise, covered, for another forty five minutes.

Bake at 375° for thirty five minutes. Cool on a rack until you can handle the bread without raising blisters. Rub the outside of the loaves with more softened butter and allow to cool on the racks completely.

*****Informational Tidbit, free of fucking charge.......**********

The vacuum sealer thingie fucks your fresh bread all up. I thought it would be a great idea to put some bread up for the kids to enjoy when I'm gone...oops.

As a parting thought, I've been listening to the folks on TV and in Washington talk on and on about health care. Except they aren't talking about getting folks into doctors and hospitals, they're talking about insurance.

We asked for health care, they're talking about insurance.

I don't think they understood what we said.