Meta Watershed

THANKSGIVING JOURNAL

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 16:49:00 +0000

(Buttermilk pie)

it was a tough night because i was thirsty and i'd run out of all bottled water, juice, or even soda near my bed. bad planning. i'd been up and around the house earlier, pushed to my limit, and the idea of repeating a foray to hydrate seemed too much to bear. (try to get upright with major joint issues, wearing an abdominal binder and not using any abdominal muscles -- it's an olympic event.) i tried telling myself it was about self-love, but even that didn't work.

dry-mouthed, i began watching a pbs docu about the mamas and the papas, and got engrossed in spite of myself. i was struck by michelle philllips' mature appraisal of her strengths and weaknesses, and her unstinting affection for mama cass -- she called her "huge" with a humor that had no tinge of fat phobia. she deftly put paid to the "choked on a sandwich" canard about cass, and outlined the reasons why cass would have gone on to be a superstar had she lived.

(Mama Cass, Mary Travers and Joni Mitchell singing "I Shall Be Released", 1969)

i intended to watch the independent lens docu which followed called objectified, about design, made by the folks who made the excellent "helvetica", but I fell asleep. when i woke up four hours later, i had the will finally to get up and bring liquid back to my nest. i took my hydrocodone for the day, recklessly not saving it for a pain crisis -- i think it will be okay today. i plan to have human conversation, excellent food, and do some writing. it's a day off.

i couldn't eat my threadgill's chicken-fried steak last night; my capacity and appetite are very diminished, and i begin meals with what my body is most craving, which last night was tomatoes and cornbread. this morning after i was hydrated, the cold meat sounded appealing, so i had it for breakfast while watching the start of the parades on TV. to my surprise, dinah offered to share the meal with me. she typically is skeptical about humin fud but she remarked that any dish containing the names of TWO meats was worth a look-see. she approved. still couldn't finish it so will save the rest, although with the other food here, something will probably get thrown out before being eaten. i do have a slice of buttermilk pie (my all-time favorite) which WILL be eaten.

quick question: is anybody else around my age who DOESN'T have joint problems starting to have serious difficulty loosening bottle caps and jar lids?

aside from cass's soaring voice, what else is intruding into my thoughts is the PBS episode of "secrets of the dead" yesterday about the terrorist attacks on mumbai a year ago. i had mixed thoughts about trying to watch it, but now i can't recommend it highly enough. two different set of survivors, married couples, one of whom (an elderly turkish pair) went through unspeakable slaughter which splattered all around them, gave riveting firsthand accounts which ended, eventually, with a version of compassion for the ignorant, terrified young men who were controlled by a remote terror network into becoming tools of murder and suicide. it was so damned good to hear a detailed, NON-American take on terrorism. catch it if you can, and be ready to grieve in a productive manner.

i'm experimenting with a shareware program that will cartoonize and/or make line drawings of photographs. the one i'm trying for free, photo to cartoon, is adequate but i suspect i could eventually make use of a lot more bells and whistles. anyone out there have recommendations to make? i'm not a skilled graphics person and i use PCs, so those are limits to keep in mind. also it must be either free or low-cost; i'll definitely use it for blogging but i can't justify high expenditure for this, all the same.

okay, it's 10 a.m., i'm going to eat the pie now. my daughter worked for amy's ice cream when she was a teenager, and their employee T-shirt was the first place i saw the adage "life is uncertain. eat dessert first."

i'm past the point of dying young and leaving a beautiful memory. i'm planning for happy, meaningful old age instead. that's new, folk. time to turn off this idiotic parade, eat pie, and untie my brain.

(Maggie and mother Mary Jo in passport photo to India, 1956 -- cartoonized by Maggie)

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

LOLCATS ROUND-UP THANKSGIVING 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 06:06:00 +0000

Here's a special edition of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts. Before the jump, however, are a few LOLMaggies, my own attempts at captioning photos. Have a good one, y'all.

HUBBLE THURSDAY 26 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 06:05:00 +0000

(Eagle Nebula, M16, Pillar Detail, Portion of Top)

Every Thursday, I post a very large photograph of some corner of space captured by the Hubble Space Telescope and available online from the picture album at HubbleSite, followed by poetry after the jump.

XI.

by Wendell Berry

Though he was ill and in pain,
in disobedience to the instruction he
would have received if he had asked,
the old man got up from his bed,
dressed, and went to the barn.
The bare branches of winter had emerged
through the last leaf-colors of fall,
the loveliest of all, browns and yellows
delicate and nameless in the gray light
and the sifting rain. He put feed
in the troughs for eighteen ewe lambs,
sent the dog for them, and she
brought them. They came eager
to their feed, and he who felt
their hunger was by their feeding
eased. From no place in the time
of present places, within no boundary
nameable in human thought,
they had gathered once again,
the shepherd, his sheep, and his dog
with all the known and the unknown
round about to the heavens' limit.
Was this his stubbornness or bravado?
No. Only an ordinary act
of profoundest intimacy in a day
that might have been better. Still
the world persisted in its beauty,
he in his gratitude, and for this
he had most earnestly prayed.

DINAH'S SURVIVAL TIPS

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 18:43:00 +0000

[Note from Maggie: I translated these from LOLspeak because I had pity on you.]

1. The putting on of pants is time to panic. Hide her keys. And glasses.
2. All rustling plastic could be a Whiskr Likns bag being opened.
3. Chinese takeout has hot peppers mining the meat -- FAIL.
4. Best time to ask for attention is when Maggie is compiling her weekly round-up of LOLCats for her blog.
5. If Maggie suddenly says "God fucking DAMMIT", immediately go to closet for long nap.
6. Cripples are easy to outrun.

UPDATE

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 08:29:00 +0000

(Sappho, painting by Charles Mengin, 1877 -- hat-tip to Ian at Dykes To Watch Out For for this image)

Thanks those of you keeping tabs and wondering at my silence. It's pretty tough right now: Extreme physical weakness and no nursing help, intermittent diarrhea, and not eating enough -- no real appetite plus making a meal leaves me exhausted. In addition, to get around the hit-or-miss wifi on my bedroom netbook, Barbara brought me a router which I couldn't get set up right for 24 hours, bumping me offline (which some of you noticed).

Good news is the wifi is now working and throbbingly strong, your donations continue to arrive, my incision is clean and tightly knit, Thanksgiving is not a holiday where I miss my family, and Dinah's devotion is striking. So I push on. Facebook is a fun diversion at the moment, as is the early release of Westward IV. I'll write more now that I can get through reliably. Love and cornbread stuffing to y'all.

LOLCATS WEEKLY ROUNDUP 24 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 08:03:00 +0000

Here's the weekly best of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts. There are some really creative folks out there. As usual, those from little gator lead the pack.

HUBBLE THURSDAY 19 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 05:45:00 +0000

Ancient, White Dwarf Stars in the Milky Way Galaxy

Every Thursday, I post a very large photograph of some corner of space captured by the Hubble Space Telescope and available online from the picture album at HubbleSite.

IMPACT

by Chrystos

I wish I could give you the moment when
Eagle came back into view trailing Crows with the sun dancing
on the water near the very still meadow then you'd know
even one more building anywhere in america or the world
is too many

LOLCATS WEEKLY ROUNDUP 17 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 06:05:00 +0000

Here's the weekly best of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts. There are some really creative folks out there. As usual, those from little gator lead the pack.

HUBBLE THURSDAY 12 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 06:05:00 +0000

Every Thursday, I post a very large photograph of some corner of space captured by the Hubble Space Telescope and available online from the picture album at HubbleSite.

NO DIRECTION HOME

by Charles Wright

After a certain age, there's no one left to turn to.
You've got to find Eurydice on your own,
you've got
To find the small crack
between here and everywhere else all by yourself.

How could it be otherwise?
Everyone's gone away, the houses are all empty,
And overcast starts to fill the sky like soiled insulation.

FOCUS, TRINITY

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 15:48:00 +0000

(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 Group News Blog.]

LOLCATS WEEKLY ROUNDUP 10 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 06:05:00 +0000

Here's the weekly best of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts. There are some really creative folks out there. As usual, those from little gator lead the pack.

GINNY BATES, BOOK TWO: HOME MOVIES

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 19:40:00 +0000

Here's a new scene from my Great American Lesbian Novel (first draft), Ginny Bates. If you are new to reading GB, go to the section in the right-hand column labeled Ginny Bates to read background and find out how to catch up.

Early Winter 2021

Another holiday season without Chris was perversely harder on Myra and Allie than the first yartzeit had been. Myra said it was because it was becoming normal to never hear Chris's voice; even Lucia seldom asked about her any more. She said death was a fucked way to organize the universe and she could have plotted it much better on her crappiest writing day.

Allie just went silent. She began coming over after breakfast every day, sitting at Myra's second worktable to read Chris's journals in the original as Booray created an annotated index. She filled sketchblocks with partial scenes and minimalist renderings of Chris that were quite unlike her usual rich detail but even more haunting for their swift precision. Mrya and Ginny talked privately about Edwina's distance from the project, which seemed indirectly imposed by Allie. Myra asked Allie one day if things were okay between her and Edwina.

Allie's eyes were flat as she answered "What do you mean, okay? We not fighting."

"But are you talking with her about what all is going on inside you? Cause you're pretty much not with me" said Myra.

"I don't know how to put in it words. Except I wasn't ready to be without Chris, and I'm still not" said Allie. "And from here on out, the ante goes up to unthinkable stakes, and I can't leave the table."

"Wasn't it Luisah Teish who first said 'What don't kill us makes us stronger'?" ventured Myra.

Allie's smile was acid. "She fulla shit on that one. Being gutshot a slow but certain end."

Myra went cold. She put her hand on Allie's. "Are you saying you're gutshot?"

"Not yet" said Allie.

After a long silence, Myra said "Change is sometimes veined with hope and joy. What Margie and Frances are bringing us this spring -- "

"I know" said Allie. "I'm counting on it."

After that, Myra's grief shifted into worry about Allie. That is, until her former lover Mimosa died suddenly from an aneurysm and Kate Bean was diagnosed with Stage III colon cancer. Myra and Ginny flew to San Francisco for Mimosa's funeral the second week in January, and the day after their return, Myra sat in a waiting room with Kate's son Rafe and the sister who was one of Myra's more hostile exes as much of Kate's intestines were removed.

"I don't understand it" Rafe kept saying, "She's the healthiest eater I ever met."

Bodies offer possibility, not justice Myra thought to herself.

The next week, Beebo began peeing on Jane's carpeting in odd corners. The vet said his kidneys were in trouble and every morning Myra walked over to coax a dropper of a new medication down his throat. She whispered to him "You tell me when this isn't okay any more, I'll listen and help everybody else hear it too." He purred and eventually began eating the expensive canned food they switched him to. Myra bought flats of it to stack in their storage room and put all their cats on it as well.

The day before Ginny's 65th birthday, Ginny was painting upstairs while Allie was in Myra's study. Myra baked a cake made mostly of almond flour and bright orange organic egg yolks. She drizzled it with honey, and was pressing halves of succulent dates onto the sticky top when the phone rang.

Five minutes later, she emerged from the elevator and sat down woodenly in Ginny's work chair. Ginny hadn't registered her arrival. Myra looked at the pots of pigments -- heavy on the greens, this one, but that was no clue as to subject matter, not with Ginny -- before saying expressionlessly "Myra's dead."

Ginny didn't respond. Myra said in her cutting-through-the-fog voice "Gin!" When Ginny looked at her, Myra fancied she could see faint swirls of green among the blue smudges in Ginny's eyes. "Myra has died" Myra said.

Ginny looked confused. Allie's voice came from the doorway: "You ex, Myra?"

Myra gazed at her own palms. "Yes. Heart attack yesterday. She was my age, you know."

"Son of a bitch" said Allie as she came to Myra. After two beats of hesitation, Ginny wiped the painstaking accumulation of color on her palette knife into a rag and came to embrace Myra as well.

"Bad year to be one of my exes" said Myra distantly. "Maybe I should send out a warning, time for a check-up, y'all."

Allie laughed, which brought a little color to Myra's face.

"Her memorial service is Sunday" she said. She and Ginny had planned to spend the weekend at the coast, but Ginny swiftly said "I'll go with you, of course."

"No" said Myra slowly. "I'd rather not." She met Allie's eyes and said "Will you finish the cake on the counter and put it away? I think I'll go call Nancy in the bedroom."

Three weeks later a package arrived for Myra. It had been put together by the 40-something tattoo artist who had been Myra Two's lover for a year, and contained yellowing photos, a few copies of Myra's books which she had not given Myra Two, and a roll of Super 8 film.

Myra looked through the photos sadly. "My god, we were so young" she said.

"Who is this in the liplock with Myra Two?" asked Ginny.

Myra glanced at it. "No idea. I guess the new girlfriend thinks all fat dykes in Dickies are identical."

"What's the movie of?" daid Ginny, picking up the yellow box.

"Probably of a march or demo, Myra used to take her camera to events where she hoped we'd get into it with the pigs" said Myra, leafing through her old poetry volumes, hoping for a comment in Myra Two's handwriting, but there was nothing, not even underlining. Ginny had found a faint ink notation on the side of the box: "August 5th -- that's your birthday, is this a movie of some birthday party? We need to get this copied into a format where we can watch it!" she said with growing excitement.

"I think Gillam has a Super 8 projector, actually" said Myra distractedly. She'd found writing on the back flyleaf of one book, but it was some other woman's phone number. Suddenly she looked at Ginny in horror and snatched the film box from Ginny's hands. "Oh hell, I remember what this is!" Her face was going a dull red.

Ginny looked at her in swift comprehension. "Myra, please tell me you didn't make a sex tape with this woman." Myra's silence was answer enough. After a few seconds, Ginny asked "Is there audio on these things?"

Myra shuddered involuntarily as she stood and went to the hidden safe in her study. "Blessedly no" she said over her shoulder.

"Do you think that's the only copy?" Ginny called after her. Myra's step faltered for a moment before she left without answering.

A week later, on a morning when Sima was at Annie's and Myra was sleeping in from late-night editing, Ginny set up Gillam's projector in the spare bedroom and finally figured out how to thread the film correctly through its tortuous path. She closed the blinds and locked the door before pushing play.

At lunch, with Allie, Edwina, Annie, Sima, and Margie also at the table, Ginny said calmly while sprinkling cayenne on her baked squash "I watched that home movie. Of you and Moyra."

"You what?" hissed Myra.

"What movie?" demanded Margie, but Allie shook her head at Margie briefly before returning to glare at Ginny.

"I took a calculated risk" said Ginny. "It would eat you up, sitting there in the safe, someone needed to move it from the unfettered swamps of your imagination. So I was going to tell you what I'd done immediately. I figured if it upset me, I'd make sure you didn't have to deal with a scrap of it and I'd get clear to stay listening to you." She paused to swallow a mouthful of broccoli raab. Allie said to Margie "Myra and her ex who just died filmed themselves messing around after Myra's birthday party way back when. Myra got given the film yesterday." Clearly Myra had discussed it with Allie, and it wasn't news to Edwina, either. Margie and Sima goggled, however.

"So?" Myra said to Ginny challengingly, her chin thrust out.

"Not what I expected. Kinda sweet, actually -- although there are sections you wouldn't want to watch" she said in an aside to Allie, who registered horror at the very idea. Annie muffled a giggle. Ginny continued "It's you, but it's not the you I know, Myra. Not the woman I trust and love, only flashes of her trying to come through. I was fascinated. I think you will be, too. I left the projector set up in the guest bedroom."

Margie glanced at the ceiling overhead as if a living writhe of celluloid might find a way through the acoustic tiles. Myra stood stiffly, plate and silverware in clenched hands, and said "We are not okay about this."

"I'll do whatever work is required" said Ginny equably. "Turn on the little lamp for a minute before pushing the play lever."

Myra headed for the elevator. After the door shut, Margie breathed out and said "Destroy that and any cinematic efforts you two may have created before time comes for me to administer your estates, that's all I ask."

A week after Valentine's Day, Booray had his day filled with classes and meetings, so Myra and Allie were alone that morning in her study. Myra went downstairs for a ginger ale. She stood on the stairs a minute, gazing through the rain-streaked windows at the bench where her mother had some sort of spectral link. Ginny was vacuuming at the front of the house, and the kitchen already smelled of the tomato soup Ginny had started for lunch.

Back in her study, she looked over Allie's shoulder at the charcoal sketch she was making of Chris making the "okay" sign with a wry grin. Chris had always folded her first two fingers over her thumb pad instead of only her forefinger for this symbol, and Myra had never gotten around to asking her why. Allie was capturing it perfectly.

"I been thinking" said Myra, settling into her chair. Franklin had joined Keller on Myra's desk, which he always did when the vacuum was running. Aliie continued licking one fingertip to smear shadows into her drawing, but she swiveled her chair to face Myra.

"We had one ginormous bolt of luck, you and me. I mean, I bought the lottery ticket but it was really both of us won. But what we did with it was be smart, not keep testing our luck. You got art training, I got therapy, and both of us squirreled away enough to keep us comfortable forever -- well, Ginny did it for me but I picked her to help me make those choices, I'll take credit for it that way."

Allie raised her eyebrows as she looked directly at Myra. She had a dark smear on her lower lip.

"Weve kept taking risks, Al, but never stupid ones, so I don't think of it as gambling. It's never been for the thrill of it, either. It's been to keep doing the gods-honest right thing. And we've got good lives as a result, which is lucky only if you favor the power of serendipitous catastrophe over the strength of human will and intent." Myra returned Allie's slow smile and added "A delusion, that human will thang, but I'm hanging onto it for now."

"Okay by me" said Allie.

"Chris...you know how utterly, passionately I love her, how I revere who she -- was" said Myra with a deep breath. "But I have to admit, Al, I'm stronger than she was. Don't know how or why, I just am. And so are you."

Allie didn't answer. There was no argument on her face, however. After a minute, Myra said "She'd kick my ass if I started living hunkered down now. And she had those steel-toed Red Wings."

Allie laughed in abrupt release. She said "I keep hearing the Wicked Witch of the West saying 'The last to go will watch all the others die before her.'"

"Yeah, well, Judy Garland was already on drugs by then" replied Myra. "Addicts got to keep they minds focused, you always say."

Allie looked at her sketch, then put her name and date at the bottom before turning to a fresh page. "You still mad at Ginny for watching that movie without asking you first?"

"A little. I know I chose to live with her and I know she can't help being someone raised by Helen and David, but I slept most of last week out here on my daybed. Rattled her good and gave me some fresh air" said Myra.

"Edwina told me" admitted Allie.

"Listen, soon as the roads clear, let's go to Colville and spend several days. Fish early, stay at a nice motel and eat out instead of cook, and pound out the final outline for this book about Chris. No children or granchildren, just us originals. Before spring hits and everything changes."

Allie said "I'll talk to 'Wina. They any salmon running this early?"

copyright 2009, Maggie Jochild

HUNGRY

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 19:24:00 +0000

(Maggie Jochild at Bean Hollow Beach near Pescadero, California, i980)

HUNGRY

When Liza found out I had lost 85 pounds over the last two years without knowing it, certainly without trying to, she instantly said "No wonder you write about food all the time.' Indeed.

I have been starving in many ways. Fat people are as often malnourished as thin folks in our culture, especially if they are lower income and urban. Post surgery, my electrolytes were persistently abnormal, and they began giving me daily potassium and magnesium sulfate. The surgeon put me on a 2200 calorie diabetic diet -- I don't have diabetes but good insulin control promotes wound healing. I listened to my own cravings and for the first few days of eating solid food I stuck to veggies, cranberry and orange juice, and potatoes plus bananas with every meal. I couldn't get whole grains or avocados, the other items I was jonesing for. The kitchen dutifully limited my carbs but I never reaxhed my calorie limit.

After a week, when I began hard-assed physical therapy, my craving switched to protein and milk, and I ordered accordingly: I was starting to replace muscle. I asked for a comsultation with the hospital dietitian. When she arrived, I told her I wanted to know how to best address the specific malnutrition I had been living with for more than a year, assuming I could afford to buy fresh produce and seriously complete grains as I prefer in my diet. I also asked for a print-out of what I'd ordered through the meal service the past week with nutritional breakdowns I could study.

She had no idea what to do with me. She agreed that living as I had been on a poor person's diet, I should have gained rather than lost weight (my saving habit, I bet, is my inisitence on brown rixe/whole grains). She kept trying to turn our discussion toward calories instead of nutrition. Turns out the kitchen did not keep or report patients' daily meam records, and in the end, she urged me to go on an 1800 calorie a day diet, even after I flatly reminded her that 95% of all weight-loss diets fail and I had only become fat after I began dieting as a young adult.

I told her I loved my body, and after how it had just pulled through for me, ill-conceived calorie counting was not going to be how I rewarded myself for living. She left after giving me a print-out of a diet that relied heavily on white flour and caffeine as "snacks".

Fortunately, just as she was leaving, the Good Doctor came in. He recognized her and asked me how the visit had come about. I explained I'd requested it and gave him a thumbnail of what she'd said. A very nondemonstrative young man, he leaned over me and touched my arm to say "For countless reasons I'd ile to see you thin but PLEASE don't consider dieting, not for months until you are healed." Yet another reason why we call him The Good Doctor.

I stopped dieting during the same general stage of my life when I stopped hurting others via sexual messes. My weight plateaued for a decade, until my orthopedic disabilities drastically altered my mobility and I began living in pain. I gained to another plateau -- partly because in the advice of every expert I consulted, I returned dairy products to my diet. (Kinda need that calcium and minerals when bones are going whackamole.) I'd been the same size for a decade until this recent change.

The second oncologist who saw me this hospitalization, the one called in when pathology of my removed appendix revealed an occult carcinoid tumor, was wise enough to do an exam and take a thorough history of me despite the tumot's clean margins and staging indicating that carcinoma was neither a metastasis nor had it metastasized itself. She understood my level of weight loss, unintentional though probably the result of bowel strangulation and malnutrition, still warranted investigation to consider the idea of cancer elsewhere. In the end, she reassured me that as far as she could see, I had totally sidestepped death. Her face was so delighted: I bet she doesn't get to say that very often.

In contrast, I still remember the sneer on the face of the white gay male physician I saw at the free clinic in San Francisco in 1981 after having been flattened by fever and severe shortness of breath for a week. I was 25, unemployed, and broke, but my roommate Renee finally got me dressed and walked me two blocks to the nearest clinic in the Mission, paying the $12 office visit demand herself rather than let me waste precious oxygen answering their income questions. She also came into the exam room with me, thank g*d, because before even taking my temperature or listening to my chest, that doctor said "So, how long have you been overweight?"

I gaped at him, wheezing audibly. Renee said "She's not here for her weight, she's here because she's burning up with fever."

He turned on her. "Clearly her main problem is obesity, that's what we always see in here." At that point I was at most 25 pounds above the "ideal average" for my height, thick with muscle from walking everywhere.

Renee was slight but a working class Jew who was well-versed in fat liberation. In fact, she was who introduced me to the theory, and I'll love her forever for that fact alone. We shared our household food and she regularly ate circles around me. She stood up and raised her voice to demand that I be examined and treated for what was wrong with me, not given a lecture about obesity. An x-ray revealed advanced pneumonia, and a sputum culture eventually diagnosed me with Valley Fever. Antibiotics cured me and I avoided doctors for a long time after that, until I got insurance and searched until I found physicians I trusted.

Renee and I were in the habit that year of putting Alix Dobkin's latest album XX Alix on the turntable every evening when we got home from our respective jobs or meetings. One of my favorites was the haunting "Separation '78", which begins
Liza, you look more like your mother every day
Counting your calories, my how your body's changed

(Yes it's the same Liza as in my opening paragraph. We were not yet friends, although it's hard to see how we missed connecting back then it seems to have been an inevitability.)

Alix and Liza were lovers who became founding figures in lesbian-feminism, and because Alix's songwriting was frequently autobiographical, Liza's life was very public even when it wasn't through her own art and publshing. Liza was zaftig, buzzed her hair, defied fashion constraints -- including those dictated by dykes -- and had been a role model to me for years by 1981. I understood damned well that if Liza was paying attention to how she ate, it was in no way an attempt to be the kind of slender sex object dictated by heterosexual norms.

I also knew -- all of us who followed Alix's music knew -- that a couple of years earlier, Liza's beloved parents had been killed together in a freak accident. My own mother was still alive, but I felt keenly the poignancy of Alix telling Liza she looked like her mother. Our generation was mother obsessed, positively and negatively. Even more evocative was the fact that "Separation '78" is a love song written about their break-up, again very public. I wept the frst time I heard Alix sing the chorus, with melancholy and hope interlaced:

Going our separate ways
We're on our own
Trusting that only love will come between us

Thus, you can perhaps imagine my shock when I attended a live concert by Alix that year and from the all-lesbian audience came a chorus of boos when she sang her opening lines above about Liza. Alix was visibly startled but far too professional to drop a note, even when boos broke out again at the next verse

Everyone's noticed your new grey hair
Clearly, my darling, I put some there
And my head is carrying its own share
We're an aging pair

After the concert, I talked with one of the women who had booed (not a friend of mine) who said any reference to weight loss was fat oppressive and the grey hair lines were age oppressive. I argued vehemently that noticing changing bodies is not inherently oppressive, and in particular we had every reason to trust the process of Alix and Liza as individuals. Or, to quote a remark Maria Limon made last week when she visited me in the hospital, "Can we just put down the pitchforks?"

I don't know anybody who thinks completely rationally about eating. Or money. Or sex. Do you?

I'm in mid-stream here. I'm hungry for protein as I write this but probably won't go make the tuna sandwich I really want because my pain pills didn't come and that trip to the kitchen might as well be a hike up Bernal Hill used to be. I'll nurse my cranberry juice and wai till morning. At least Ihave this link to you all, typed in my bed on a netbook Liza bought for me and arranged for Maria to bring me in my isolation. Some empty spaces do get filled with just what we need, sometimes people listen and stick up for you and tumors get found in time and love lasts. Let's keep talking. As they say in the crip community, "Not dead yet."

> (Publicity photo for Dyke: A Quarterly, circa 1976; editors were Liza Cowan, left rear, and Penny House, front second from right; also in right front is Alix Dobkin; photo courtesy of Liza Cowan)

DIARY 7 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 15:43:00 +0000

(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."

PERSONAL UPDATE 5 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 00:31:00 +0000

(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)

[Cross-posted at Group News Blog.]

HUBBLE THURSDAY 5 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 06:05:00 +0000

(Supernova 1994D in Galaxy NGC 4526)

Every Thursday, I post a very large photograph of some corner of space captured by the Hubble Space Telescope and available online from the picture album at HubbleSite.

BRIEFLY IT ENTERS, AND BRIEFLY SPEAKS

by Jane Kenyon

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

GOING HOME TODAY

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 17:10:00 +0000

(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 Group News Blog.]

LOLCATS WEEKLY ROUNDUP 1 NOVEMBER 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 09:37:00 +0000

Here's the weekly edition of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts.

Sunday Morning Maggie Jochild Update

noreply@blogger.com (Jesse Wendel) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 16:50:00 +0000

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

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 13:22:00 +0000

(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.]

LOLCATS ROUND-UP HALLOWEEN 2009

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 19:50:00 +0000

Here's a special edition of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts.

PYA: SCRAP FROM THE FUTURE

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 16:40:00 +0000

SPOILER ALERT!!!

I've written a scrap of action from my sci-fi novel in progress, Pya, that will take place several months from now in the book. If you don't want the unfolding of the narrative to possibly be ruined for you, don't click on "Read More" below.

And Blue, it's not bad news, I promise.

To begin reading this sci-fi novel or for background information, go to my Chapter One post here. To read about the background of the first novel, read my post here, which will also direct you to appendices.

For more detailed information, posted elsewhere on this blog are:

Pya Dictionary from Skenish to English (complete up to present chapter), with some cultural notes included
Pya Cast of Characters (complete up to present chapter)
Map of Pya with Description of Each Island
Map of Skene (but not Pya)
Map of Saya Island and Environs When Pyosz First Arrived
Skene Character Lineage at Start of Pya Novel
Skene, Chapter One (With Cultural Notes in Links)

Pyosz would ever after remember that first night with Maar in flashes of pure sensation, not in clear chronological order. The most vivid was opening her eyes to the light of one and a half full moons silvering the new wood floors around her bare iron bed, pooling in her second-story room through her generous Dvareka-facing windows. She was ravenously exploring Maar's melt with her wide mouth and vigorous tongue, but even the flood of her own pleasure could not keep her from looking to watch Maar's surrender. Maar's knees were bent so she could lift herself to Pyosz's demand -- as if that was necessary -- and cords of muscle in her thick thighs were visible in Pyosz's periphery. Her head was arched back to the mattress, her mouth open for one shrieking moan after another. Through Maar's red thatch, Pyosz could see that Maar had hands clenching the iron rails of the headboard for traction.

Later, they guessed this is how the headboard weld was rattled loose from the bedframe.

Pyosz's second most intense memory was when the bed fell. She was on her knees, Maar behind her and in her, thrusting with a throaty yell at each push. Suddenly Pyosz was pitched forward at an acute angle, and she put her palms flat against the wall to hold herself back from it. She barely registered the crash, though later she would mourn the deep gouges left in her precious floor from the bedframe edge. She gasped only "Don't stop."

Maar closed the brief gap between her and Pyosz, and continued with measured abandon, trusting Pyosz's powerful arms to keep them both on the sloping mattress. When they both reached temporary release, they climbed out of their crevasse, laughing hysterically, and pulled the mattress flat onto the floor before flinging themselves back onto it, now flat but drenched in sweat.

Qala and Lawa downstairs and at the other end of the house, however, were awakened instantly by the crash. Lawa said "'Did a tree come down?" Qala pulled on pants as Lawa rushed past four curious katts to the front porch. Before she'd crossed the main hall, she heard the thumping from above and returned, scarlet-faced, to tell Qala "It was them" with a jerk of her head upwards. They decided to make tea and toast, talking over the intermittent sounds from Pyosz's part of the house. Clicker the kitten begged for a treat and Qala gave her a sliver of cheese as she remarked "She'll do the milking, nothing stops her from that, but they'll be worthless otherwise tomorrow."

"Not just tomorrow" agreed Lawa, grinning. "Good thing Maar has the day off."

"Remember that night in my little room off the Lofthall office?" reminisced Qala. "I fell off my cot more than once."

Giggling, they returned to bed for a few more hours' sleep.

When Pyosz's alarm rang, she and Maar had dozed off in a tangle of limbs only 15 minutes earlier. She struggled upright, then turned to meet Maar's kiss. "I'm going with you" said Maar hoarsely.

"You don't have to, my darling, you can sleep until -- " began Pyosz. But Maar was trying to find her otos, and Pyosz realized they could not separate, not right now.

Because of Maar's help, despite the heavy yield from a maximum number of does who had just kidded and the new lovers' easy distraction into passionate clinches, they were done before full light. As Pyosz led the swollen herd and frolicking kids to pasture, she turned to Maar and said "I've always wondered why this is called a kissing gate." They found a place to lean safe from Molars' reach, though not Killer's bewildered scrutiny. By the time they were done, the sun was over the horizon.

Pushing her cart down the streets of Koldok side by side with Maar was a thrill for Pyosz. Kolm took one glance at them and began laughing. "Finally" she said. "Does this mean we'll have Thleen among us permanently, then?"

"It does" replied Maar fervently. They took extra cheese and yogurt with them, and stopped at the grocery only to deliver bread, no shopping. Still, it was enough time for Gitta and another customer to grin at each other knowingly about the new couple.

Lawa was in the tillage when they climbed up from the dock. She called out "There's oatmeal and sausage on the aga." Qala had also vacated the house for the orchard. Pyosz and Maar ate heaping plates but did not linger to even rinse them afterward. Qala had to scrub the oatmeal pot half an hour after lunch to get it clean. Her grumbling was mild.

copyright 2009 Maggie Jochild

I"M USING TWITTER

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 12:35:00 +0000

Posting small updates throughout the day on my Twitter account, URL to the right.

The Invader (the sleep-destroying night tech) upped her ante this morning at 3:00 a.m., wearing perfume so strong it left me coughing.

UPDATE: Just spoke with Dr. Brode. He didn't mention discharge, again urged me to DC my Foley (told him I was considering it) and work hard at gaining endurance. For sure I will. So to me sounds like I'm here for today but the Evil Caseworker has not been heard from yet. Will she work on a Saturday, I wonder?

DANGLING ON FRIDAY

redredhands@sbcglobal.net (Maggie Jochild) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 17:40:00 +0000

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"

noreply@blogger.com (Jesse Wendel) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 20:55:00 +0000

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.