MtnGrl Musing

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 05 Aug 2015 22:01:00 +0000

More of the Same

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 04 Aug 2015 21:35:00 +0000

There was relatively low humidity at 6:30 am and there were even tranquil breezes caressing my walk up the hill past the Unfinished Church to Tobacco Bay. Cupmatch over and another Somerset victory on the books, it was my last day in Bermuda, and it was glorious.

Wading in to the crystal clear water, I scanned the horizon for fins for awhile, then relaxed and looked closer. A school of little translucent fish jumped out of the water a few inches away, shimmering in morning sunlight; not one, but two(!) Bermuda longtails flew overhead not long after. Eventually I forgot recently acquired fears due to delusions shattered in Eleuthera (that big things like sharks and dolphins are way out in really deep water --nowhere near lil ole harmless me!) and paddled and frolicked and swam without a care. The blessings continued at the local market when I picked up breakfast to take back to eat on the verandah. There was a Keurig with a few good dark roast choices *and* Half and Half, and they even had ackee and saltfish on the buffet! The day was shaping up nicely. The trip started atypically; torrential downpours greeted me on arrival, and the plane stayed on the tarmac for some time before the threat of lightning had sufficiently passed and the stairs could be wheeled out for us to disembark. There were other anomalies this time, some sad -- a longtime mainstay, (New)Captains Lounge has departed Reid Street, and some great-- like delicious Thai entrees at Wong's Golden Dragon, discovered right down the road from our digs in St. Georges.

Local fish was even harder to find this year, which made the Thai food even more welcome! Why on earth everywhere you turn, on an island, fish imported from more than halfway around the world (China) is being sold baffles me! ~~Could it be due to greased palms, er I mean, contract awards by the recently installed PLP, one wonders...~~

Ads on tvs at the airport exhort Bermudians bound abroad to spend their money locally, heaving with appeals to fund schools and to save jobs for themselves, their neighbors, their families and friends; yet increasingly in the last two years, from the finest restaurants to Mom and Pop shops--even at the St. Georges field for Cupmatch, you're more likely to be buying some soft fish called 'swai' from Asia or other fish from elsewhere, rather than good Bermuda Rockfish. It's a growing pet peeve of mine, but I digress.

Several hours and a couple of airports later, back home, I listen to my son's tales of moving woes, nodding and smiling out of his sight on the phone, hoping that without my saying 'I Told You So', he'll take 'lessons learned' from this experience and next time do what I told him to in the first place! Somewhere, moving is sited as a top stressor, right up there around or before death of spouse or divorce. It's among everyone's least favorite things, I'm sure. His story was replete with mishaps, missed connections and even a flat tire-- and then, surpassing all that, my travel tales and the beautiful morning I had, he says that they got pulled over by the police. Exhausted, frustrated and three trips in, they got harassed and humiliated by a cocky Philly cop trying to antagonize them for nearly 20 minutes, repeatedly asking why they were sweating and shaking (three trips, two people, third floor walk up, hot as -- HELLO?!)
"You got something to be nervous about?"

Of course no one dared say anything similar to my parenthetical, but kept their responses to 'Yes' and 'No'. Thankfully, they lived to tell about it.
Is this not terrorism?

I am one mother of one Black son and this is just one incident. The anguish is consuming. Imagine the collective anguish and rage. It's a wonder -- or something-- that we don't implode.

I'm home again.

On Fall Vicissitudes

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 09 Oct 2014 07:45:00 +0000

Cheverly Day is an annual community festival that culminates with THE BEST fireworks display. Because the crowd is relatively small, the fireworks are launched merely yards away, and during the display's climax you can yell at the top of your lungs and not be heard. I wish it was Cheverly Day. I feel the need to rage, but the most I can do is write. Instead though, I've been tinkering around this long-dormant blog for hours, changing templates, adding gadgets, moving widgets-- because I've got no words--none, no eloquent phrasing, no profundity to assuage the anguish of recent events. It's just the arbitrary facts of life.
I've written before about a listserv I started in the early 90s, GIRLFRIEND: a cyber-forum for Black and Black-identified women. I was an enamored and sleep-deprived stay-at-home mom of a newborn son, teaching myself what I could about then-new internet technologies to stay connected and keep my skills fresh. Soon I had GIRLFRIENDs from all over the world, from various walks of life, in various stages of life. We 'talked' about everything and nothing, celebrated triumphs and comforted through trials; many travelled to meet each other. After a few years, I transferred management of the Listserv to another member and moved on to other things. Over a decade later, a newer GIRLFRIEND Googled my name then emailed me and I learned the group still exists. I became a member of a subgroup that the GIRLFRIEND moderator started called Original Girlfriends (OGs), where many of the names were familiar to me from back in the day. One OG from Georgia friended me on Facebook and in an email exchange catching up, she said how much she enjoyed being on GIRLFRIEND and how it's part of my 'legacy'. That word choice from this seemingly ceaselessly chipper woman who frequently shared recipes and pictures of comfort foods and reminisced about childhood games and treats gave me pause. She passed away suddenly a few months later.
Reeling, a few of us determined to meet in Las Vegas for Columbus Day weekend; life is short, etc. Fortunately, a travel agent OG made all the plans and got us a decent deal. I was especially looking forward to meet the few that were going, since they all were familiar to me from 20 years ago. One was set to retire from 35 years of teaching at the end of June and her excitement for her post-retirement plans was increasingly infectious! She was clearly THAT teacher that everybody loves, and her warmth and good humor was nearly a daily presence in the OG group. I looked forward to hanging with her in Vegas. Shortly after her retirement, she stopped posting frequently, and I assumed she was off on a retirement adventure. My emails to her went unanswered and I eventually reached out to another OG who informed me of a cancer diagnosis. She passed away just a few months after retiring.
'Passed away' is a phrase I never use when speaking yet when writing, it comes naturally. I never met either of these two women; I've never even heard their voices, but my life was definitely enriched by their acquaintance and jolted by their loss. Some people don't like to think or talk about death, as though not mentioning it will make it not happen. The fact is, it's going to happen; regardless of your faith or lack thereof in what comes thereafter. Regardless of the number of miles you run, vegetables you juice, squats you squat or foods you eschew-- you and people you love who love you are going to die.
The day before my brother died, the Hospitalist inartfully asked him if he "had everything in order". My brother, being kept alive by one machine that maintained his blood pressure and another that sustained some degree of kidney and liver function, didn't know what he meant. Further inartfully, the Hospitalist asked, in order to clarify, presumably, "Do you want to die here or do you want to die at home?" My brother scoffed in response: "I don't want to die either place!" Hours later he rallied suddenly from sleep, as though he recalled that exchange, and lifting his torso off the inclined bed, proclaimed-- "I gotta get outta here!" The motion expended all of his energy; his frail body fell back immediately and he drifted back into a drug-addled sleep. I had compelling notion that touch would bring comfort; I wanted to wrap my arms around him, swaddle him somehow. He was about 6 feet tall and probably weighed around 80 pounds. The next morning, the machines off, his blood pressure descended and organs began to shut down. I kissed his forehead and whispered in his ear who I was and that I loved him. He would always say 'I love you more', but this time, rendered speechless, a forceful exhale was all he could muster. The nurse came in: "I'm gonna give you something for the pain" he said to my brother.
I have wondered what that medication was that the nurse slipped under his tongue about a half hour before he died. My brother showed no indication of pain. He wasn't grimacing, he wasn't moaning -- why did he assume he was in pain? Was this medication just to expedite the dying process? I continued caressing my brother's arm and whispering a mantra as he died, and then a robotic 'no more pain, no more pain' for awhile after. Grief is strange, spontaneous and sometimes angry.
The next update on my newsfeed after the one announcing the OG's passing was one praising a childhood friend having reached a one year anniversary of being cancer-free. While I was frustrated in lines at the DMV, another good friend's presumed constipation required emergency surgery. A friend since college had her last chemo treatment for breast cancer today; radiation and surgery come next. My cousin welcomed a beautiful new granddaughter barely a month ago, since then the baby's 25 year old mother has died.
The point of all this, if there is one, is that life is short--and capricious.
Love who you love, let them know and hug them; then hug someone else too. Don't waste precious time trying to impress nor be impressed; listen, speak and act more from your heart and less from your ego. Go for long walks on quiet mornings.
Go to see fireworks, get close; SCREAM.

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 28 Aug 2013 14:00:00 +0000

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 17 Jul 2013 11:06:00 +0000

Let the Rain Come Down

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 15 Jul 2013 12:31:00 +0000

I am drinking too much coffee. Usually it's just a cup a day--that is, if 20 ounces from Dunkin Donuts can be considered a cup. Saturday and Sunday at home with the Keurig, though? Different story. It's actually probably in proportion with the puffs and Margaritas, but you gotta draw the line somewhere. Caffeine is so not good for you.

Folks have been complaining about the rain. I think it's rained every day for the last two weeks or so; it definitely rained at home every day, 7/1 through 7/7. I don't mind it. I wish it would rain ceaselessly; torrents provide a useful curtain for sobbing while driving.

There are stages of grief, I've heard/read about in times past. Maybe I'll Google it and post a link later for your edification, should your fingertips be disinclined themselves, but for now--I'm just going on with my point-- and whatever it may be might contradict with whatever Wikipedia and Google reveal. Take that as a disclaimer. Whatever.

I think I may be at a different stage now; or maybe it's just that my attention has been deflected to another sad situation, the verdict in the Zimmerman trial for the murder of Trayvon Martin. Surely, that verdict has got to illuminate for all, to shatter the illusions of even the most die-hard conservative as well as of the 'colorblind' assimilationist who thought he'd 'passed', that the American judicial system is not the last bastion of hope for equitable humane treatment of all Americans, irrespective of skin color. It is, though, in fact the last semblance of hope for those Americans who are routinely aggrieved and worse, by the American judicial system, and whose murders now, apparently, are sanctioned by it.

I don't know whether this is a stage of grief or not, but the dominating emotion at the moment, underscored by the verdict, is hopelessness. SCOTUS has long proved itself to be-- at best, disinterested in parity and the plight and pursuits of Everyman, (Bush v Gore ) and at worst, detrimental, (Citizens United ) if not outright hostile; gutting Voting Rights. Thousands amass in cities hither and yon to protest the outcome of the Zimmerman trial, as they did a little over a decade ago to protest going to war in Iraq, as they did in occupations a few years ago to protest the plundering of the American economy and citizenry by mortgage and other bankers; all of which came to nought in terms of effecting change. Waddaryagonnado? Some people distract themselves from despair by casting their cares on Jesus; attributing all the injustices in the world to some divine design that they cannot possibly fathom, rather than attend to it at all. Other people see this as a cop out.
I just want to collapse into the arms of my beloved on a sustainable farm in another country with DirecTV and reliable Wi-Fi till it all, imminently, finishes crashing down.

A Knowing

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 28 Jun 2013 13:47:00 +0000

Intuition is...an ability to cut through the thickness of surface reality. Intuition is like a slow motion machine that captures data instantaneously and hits you like a ton of bricks. Intuition is a knowing, a sensing that is beyond the conscious understanding. --Abella Arthur

In the wee hours of Tuesday morning, June 25, I rolled over in bed, smiling, raised up on my elbows and said internally but emphatically: "You lived an EXCELLENT life, you raised 8 wonderful kids; you raised me-- BY YOURSELF-- and look how fabulously I turned out! You did a lot with a little!" My earnest tone in this internal dialogue portrayed pride and praise. Still smiling and now fully awake, I opened my eyes and looked down as I ran my fingertips over the inside of my left forearm.

I remembered I meant to pray for Mama. I clasped my hands together with my index fingers pointed outward, and began to pray out loud: "Please Lord, comfort her. Please let me and Mama spend the week after the 4th together." It was just a little over a week away.

I'd saved this "Three Piece Microwaveable Comfort Spa Set" that Curtis, the man I tutored in the Adult Literacy program, had given me for Christmas, and I was going to use it to give Mama something like a spa day during our week together. There was a slipper set, and spa wrap and an eye mask-- all with "herbal aromatherapy". I'd warm them in the microwave and make some "to do" out of it, give her a little massage, maybe. On the phone with Mama last Friday, I'd reminded her that we'd visited our long-ago neighbor Miss Gertrude when I was home for Memorial Day, and told her maybe we'd pick her up when I was home for 4th of July to have a little cookout. I made a mental note to really look for my cameras; it would be great to make some videos.

There was a Homedics foot massager in a box on the floor at Miss Gertrude's when we visited.

"What is that, Gertie?" Mama asked.
Miss Gertrude said, "You put your foot on there, and you rub it across, and it makes it feel good."
Mama said, "OH MY! You're pampered!"
Miss Gertrude said, "I got one on right now!"

We all laughed at Miss Gertrude's joke. Former neighbors during their child-rearing years, they now giggled and clutched each others hands in their dotage, one 86, the other 92. Miss Gertrude began to weep when she realized it was Mama coming through her door. "Proc!" she exclaimed; a nickname that she and my father had for Mama. She'd just buried her youngest child two days before, she said.

On Memorial Day, I got up to leave for the 8 hour drive home at 5 am. I looked in Mama's room; she was fast asleep. I started in, then turned back; I didn't want to wake her up. Sleeping through the night was often elusive for her these days; I'd be back in a few weeks, after all. I went out to the car, started it up and was ready to hit the road when, typically, I discovered I'd forgotten something. This time it was my phone, still plugged in to charge on the table in the den. I headed back in, got the phone and peeked in Mama's room. She was lying in bed wide-awake, staring at the ceiling. The alarm on the front door, installed to alert my sister to Mama's nighttime wanderings, must have awakened her with my comings and goings.

"THERE you are!" I said, entering the room and kneeling on the floor beside the bed.
"Where you been?" she asked.
"I'm getting ready to go back home and I forgot my phone. I looked in here a little while ago, but you were asleep."
"I wasn't asleep" she said. "I've been up for a long time, waiting on you!"

I knelt beside the bed, then felt time expand; slowing. This could be the last time I see her alive. I became wholly present, sensing the need to say something reassuring, permissive, even. Instead, I drank her in. My eyes swept across her face... the freckles on her cheek that began to run together in middle age, making her proclaim, "I'm brown now!"; those babydoll eye lashes jutting straight out from her eyelids (much to her chagrin-- she wanted them to curl up); the little skin tag beneath her left eye that I also had before I got mine zapped, her button nose.

I ran my fingertips over the skin on her inner forearm. I'd become enamored of it in recent months. I wanted it photographed-- professionally, with lighting--or as near as I could muster myself if I could ever find my camera. I told her again how pretty I thought her skin was, so sheer, so delicate, the undulating folds like gift tissue paper, transparent and seemingly fragile; revealing the veins and sinewy muscle beneath it.

She didn't think it was pretty at all, of course, but before she could assert as much this time, I struggled for the right thing to say.

"You are SO blessed to have SO MANY people that love you so much."
"I AM?" she said, astonished.
"Yes," I said. "Remember all those children and grandchildren and great grandchildren that came for your birthday party?" I began calling off names. "You are really blessed to have so many people who love you. I don't have that."
" I am." she agreed.

When I visited during Veterans Day weekend last November, my mom had no recollection of my having been there barely 4 weeks earlier, for Columbus Day, though I had been there for a full week then. When I went in to say goodbye before setting off to drive home after having just dropped her off from an hours-long outing we'd had, she was surprised to see me, asking "When did you get here?!" Alright. I thought at that moment; this is serious. I became convicted to have a surprise birthday celebration for her in a couple of months so the next family gathering wouldn't be for her funeral.

Her birthday is New Year's Day and we had the celebration on the last Saturday in December. We had a great time. Over 30 family members came, her kids, their kids, spouses; filling the room with love, laughter and gifts. She thoroughly enjoyed herself, especially with her great-grandchildren. A few hours after the celebration ended, when my sister and I sat with her reading cards and opening presents, she had no recollection of the party. Every few minutes she'd say "Where did all this stuff COME from?!"

Since that time, Mama was diagnosed with Lewy Body dementia. My, and my sister's, sense of relief was palpable. Not long after, we both scoffed: just because we knew what it was wouldn't make it go away.

About 11:30 on Monday morning, June 24, my sister texted me a picture of Mama with the caption, "So Sad." She was sitting in a chair in her condo in what had become my sister's room, with her PJs and bathrobe on, with her hair 'all over her head'. I texted, "Why is she sad?" hoping against hope that there was some external cause for the sadness, and not that her condition was saddening. She had been doing so well, so often and for long stretches recently. Much of the time she was her usual self. "She's in a crisis, that's what's sad", my sister texted. "In crisis" refers to episodes of confusion and sleeplessness often marked by delusions and visual and aural hallucinations that are symptomatic of certain types of dementia. I enlarged the picture after I got my sister's response, and was disturbed by what I saw in Mama's eyes: it looked like panic. I rejected it out of hand. "Alright." I thought, reflexively, and closed the picture immediately, putting the phone face down. that's enough

I looked at the picture again later in the day, enlarging it further, just to confirm. There it was again; Mama sitting in her PJs and bathrobe in a chair in the guest bedroom of her condo. Her hair unkempt; her eyes and facial expression portraying panic. Alright. I declared to myself again, that's enough.

'Alright' is my 'go to' word when I've had enough of a situation; usually involving indecision or confrontation. With that utterance, I either seize control or cede it; but the matter-- for me-- is resolved. I had no idea what it meant in this case.

I deleted the picture.

I cried while driving home from work hours later. Thinking of Mama, I picked up the phone to call, then put it down. I decided to wait a few minutes til I picked up my son so he could talk to her too. Maybe I'd have him call; she always asked about him, and it had been awhile since they'd spoken. When I pulled up in front of his Dad's house, I started punching in Mama's home phone number. Three numbers in, I was interrupted by an incoming text from my sister: she was at the hospital with Mama; they were doing some tests, more information would be coming soon.

My son and I went to see Now You See Me. It was an engaging distraction, tears only sporadically slipped down my cheeks. I checked in with my sister after the movie. They were going to admit Mama to ICU for fluids and antibiotics and more tests. It sounded relatively innocuous, but I wondered what happened to send them to the hospital in the three hours since I'd last texted my sister about the picture. I didn't want to pester her with questions now, though; being at the hospital is stressful enough. She was having tests done, I'd know something soon.

As I puttered around at home after the movie, snatches of words and phrases drifted unsummoned to mind like snowflakes, fluttering to alight gently on whatever I was thinking about.

I lifted the folded towels from the laundry basket. Lillies. No; yellow roses.

I had sent her yellow roses once, decades ago, when she was in the hospital. She hadn't seen any before apparently, and exclaimed over them a lot. I sent some again years later on some random day, to surprise her at home.

Awhile later, Labels distracted me from my TV-watching. Labels? Then I remembered. Once I'd evolved from disliking 'homemade clothes' and realized what a blessing it was to have a Mama who could sew whatever outfit one wanted, I had customized labels made to put inside her creations. For my clothes, the label was "MAMAMADE"; for everybody else, the label contained her name in script, followed by the words "Custom Clothier".

Fully engaged by an episode of Snapped that I'd recorded, I was interrupted again awhile later: Hawaii. I smiled. Mama often mused about going to, as she pronounced it, Hi-WAH-Ya when I was growing up. When I was in my twenties, I convinced my siblings and we bought her a week-long package to Oahu that she enjoyed with her husband.

It had been a couple of hours since I'd heard from my sister, so I checked in before going to bed. I texted my other sister too to ask if she was at the hospital. "Yes, Mama is here." she responded. DUH!

The tone of her responses was familiarly condescending, reflecting a oneupmanship often present in exchanges with her. I cut the interaction short before I began to respond in kind. I was only seeking clarity since my oldest sister's text seemed to convey a conflicting message. The treatment seemed routine enough, but she'd added: "It doesn't look good." "Okay. Thanks." I blithely texted, tossing the phone on the bed. I was done with getting information third hand. I'd drive to Asheville in the morning. I turned over to pray, and soon after, fell asleep. The last text was timestamped 12:39 am.

The first time I woke in the wee hours on that Tuesday, smiling and stroking my forearm, I didn't look at the clock. When the phone rang waking me awhile later, the screen read 4:48 a.m. beneath my sister's name. I realized that I was expecting the call.

"Hello?"
My sister said my name calmly.
"Yeah?" I said.
"Mama has passed." she said.
"Okay." I said.
"I'll talk to you later." she said.
"Okay." I said.

Tributaries

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 02 Mar 2013 13:24:00 +0000

The film Amour recently won the Oscar for best foreign film. It so credibly depicts an elderly lady's decline that it often beared reminding that Emannuelle Riva, the 85 year old actress who played the leading role, was acting. Despite the realness on screen, Amour is not a documentary.

I remember once visiting an aunt at a nursing home. Aunt Louise was my mom's older half-sister, some twenty years her senior, who was my favorite Aunt. She was a hoot. She took me on my first trip out of North Carolina; to New York by train, when I was 11. It was during that long ride that wanderlust took root in my spirit, anchored by a love for long train journeys.

That day in the nursing home, Aunt Louise was dressed in a hot pink shirtdress; the cloud of hair framing her head matched her sweater. She was sitting in a wheelchair in the common area where others sat too, a tv was on that no one paid attention to. Mama approached her, smiling; "Hey Luigi!" She kissed her cheek; Aunt Louise didn't respond. Mama was unsettled, but undaunted. She rubbed Aunt Louise's arm, she patted her hand. "Louise? Louise? Do you know who I am?" Eventually, Aunt Louise shrugged and harrumphed: "Don't YOU know who you are?!"

It was hi flipping larious (to me). It was classic Aunt Louise-- but it was a flash of lucidity, as quickly gone as it appeared. Now, some twenty odd years later, my heart breaks many times a day, as Mama's conversation segues from the present day at the start of a sentence to 40 years ago by the end of it. When she was talking to a niece the other night who'd been chatting with her for awhile,Mama suddenly interjected: "Who you?"

The most abusive thing is how quickly it happens.

I live about 700 miles from home; and have for over 30 years. I go home, typically two long weekends a year; usually around Memorial Day and Veteran's Day. Mama and I would make a traditional run to Shoe Show, at least once per stay, to feed our shoe-shopping habit. She's a trooper. Even into her 80s, she was still going out with me, up til the last year or so.

She's in her mid eighties now, a 2 times cancer survivor -- (lymphoma in her 50s; colon cancer in her 70s ), and she completely recovered from a stroke she had about five years ago. She's more than a trooper, she's a warrior, but warriors decline too, as it turns out.

I was home for 5 days last October, the longest time home in about 4 years. I intended to assess Mama's condition for myself, having deemed the alarming texts from my sister as hyperbolic, maybe even indicative of Munchausen by Proxy syndrome. What I experienced those five days in October compelled me to go back again in November.

When I went in for Veteran's Day weekend, Mama continuously forgot that I had been there 4 weeks earlier, in October.

In November, when I bent to kiss her goodbye after spending the last couple of hours together--just the two of us, going to a doctor's appointment and then lunch, she looked at me and said, with surprise in her voice and her face -- "When did you get here?!"

That was the first heartbreak; the speed of her decline delivered a body-doubling punch to the gut.

The most gracious thing may be how quickly it happens.

In recent years, Mama's awareness of her creeping forgetfulness frustrated and depressed her. It's probably a blessing for her now that she is unaware that she is unaware.

For those of us who love her, it's saddening and humiliating, helplessness abounds. It appears to be Alzheimer's; her sister, my Aunt Bert, had it. I treasure each moment, even the fleeting ones, where there's still connection, when the grit and humor of the Mama we knew flashes through. Even this new Mama is charming and engaging, as long as you're patient and meet her where she is, whether worrying over children who aren't there or collecting and packing things to 'take home'.
She's slipping away.
My siblings and I, and our offspring and their offspring , about 30 in all, converged on the Ville and surprised Mama to celebrate her birthday in late December; her birthday is New Year's Day. That's one gift so far, of this experience, it compels me to act, not waste one day. When my heart broke that day in November, I was inspired to celebrate Mama and soon, while we still recognized her, and while she had a chance of remembering it. The birthday celebration was fantastic. With all those people around, especially the great-grands (she's got a sweet spot for the Pre-k set too) she was in her element: the Mama we knew, joking and teasing; one could've been seduced to think that her decline was simply attributable to isolation; what she needed was more social interaction.
Four hours later, as we read her cards and opened presents, every five minutes or so, she'd say something like: "WHERE all this stuff come from?!" "What birthday party?"

I could go on and on; there are new griefs every day. Tributaries join the river of tears shed for my brother who died on January 31, 2013, aged 60 years, two weeks. He was long suffering and little-complaining (only about food), and died after a long illness. He was a sweetheart, yet the hardest core-- the stories about him are legendary, but he was just my big bruh. I'm the youngest of 8, and at a distance of 7 years from the next youngest, so alot of what I know of my siblings is based on stories I'm told--like this one:.
My brothers Tim and Steve were thick as thieves back in the day, and till the end. Before the wheelchair ramp was built, Tim, at 64, would hoist Steve on his back and carry him down the steep, treacherous steps from his house to the car to take him to dialysis three times a week.

I went home in time in January to spend two good days with Steve while he was still alert and in good spirits; he was a warrior too. The night before he passed, he jolted from some hovering unconsciousness, reached out and clutched the sides of the mattress, trying to raise his frail frame out of the bed: "I'm ready to go!" he exclaimed. He'd had enough of that hospital bed! The next morning, I helped dress him in his last few minutes with us, caressed his skin. I got to say goodbye; I hope he was comforted. I'm so glad his suffering is over; still--this all hurts so much.

Mama's buried two of her children now. Hours after coming from my brother's funeral, she started asking when it would be. Not remembering my brother died could be a blessing--but only if it doesn't mean suffering news of his death anew time after time.

I thought writing would be typically cathartic.
There are no words.

In Today's Lies--

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 20 Jan 2013 23:56:00 +0000

Size doesn't matter.

(Right. Everyone knows it does; no one likes being in the ocean in a dinghy. Accept it and move on.)

When it comes to lies, though, does size matter? Size is in the eye of the beholder, apparently.

Subway footlongs are not always a footlong. Sometimes they're only eleven inches. Turns out calling it a footlong, isn't necessarily meant to suggest that the sandwich measures one foot long. What would have ever given you that idea?!

It's been a banner week for the liars of the world. First, from the world of sports, Oprah (yes, Oprah) made the rounds early in the week to publicize (her) OWN's big GET, her interview with former professional cyclist ~~and monumental fraud~~ Lance Armstrong that was broadcast on Thursday. Turns out he'd been doping and lying all along, collecting medals and millions along the way. His turn on Oprah, admitting he doped his way to seven gold Tour de France wins, was a stab at Clintonesque redemption, I guess, but he needs to work on his faux remorse.

I don't consider myself gullible, and I don't think people who know me do either (or perhaps it's naive of me to think so), but when Lance Armstrong gave his Tour de France medals back a few months ago, I didn't interpret it as some type of half-assed admission of doping. I thought he was retired, taking the high road, raising kids and just tired of the perpetual whispering investigation, wanted to remove the specter of wrongdoing from the family's sphere. I thought he was just trying to shut the whole thing down -- enough already!-- in order to move on with his life.

It's not because I'm a biker or a Lance Armstrong groupie that I felt that way. I simply could not fathom someone would go to such length, breadth and depth, to lie, so often, and for so long.

Silly me.

Since the advent of social media, the use of petitions to effectuate change has exploded. Sometimes it actually makes things happen: offensive dolls get pulled off store shelves at least one tasteless reality show stayed in the can and won't air (anytime soon, anyway.) Even the White house is in on the game, guaranteeing a response to petitions with an increasing number of signatures. Too bad we can't start a petition to bring back shame. People need to get back to being ashamed of themselves.

It's not just in the public sphere that these elaborate frauds are perpetrated. During a recent interview, a veteran of online dating sites lamented the plethora of sociopaths there. One guy went to considerable length to persuade her of his decent intentions and dispel her suspicions about his marital status, painstakingly answering question after question--for weeks-- whenever her suspicions got the best of her. Eventually she surrendered her hesitancy to get involved, opened herself to the possibility of new friendship and its benefits and settled into a comfortable scenario with him. Fast forward three months after she'd let her guard down; they'd gotten together a few times, exchanged volumes of caring texts and emails, shopped, done household tasks, played online games and even had a tiff or two-- and one day he responded to a customary, innocuous text that she sent:

"MWAH!"

in a rather uncustomary way--

"Did I tell you I'm married? Been in an open marriage for three years now."

Er, uh... flags not red enough? How about lightning bolts instead, with your name spelled out in flames? The thing is, you just never know when someone's lying, until you do. A con man's glibness has overcome many a skeptic's gut instinct.

Back in the world of sports, a talented football player at Notre Dame learned of the death of his grandmother and his girlfriend on the same day, within hours of an upcoming championship game. Apparently he played very well, channelling his grief for the loss of his recently deceased beloveds into athletic motivation. It was a heartwarming, poignant story, but-- it was also a lie.

It's not that Manti Te'o's girlfriend didn't die, it's that said girlfriend was never born. She never existed; it was a hoax, also known as, a lie. The most despicable thing about this lie is that it's garnered far more investigative action and concern from Notre Dame's coaching staff, than the charges of rape and sexual assault previously raised against Notre Dame players by young women, one of whom committed suicide due to the threats and harrassment she received after making her claim.

I guess it's true, in the case of lies, that size doesn't matter. People contort humongous, multi-textured lies, and embellish them with righteous indignation for good measure, to protect or perpetuate their fortunes, vast or not.

Maybe Big Pharma should spend less resources on erectile dysfunction and more on anti-sociopathy meds. Somebody should start a petition for that.

Sex: What's Love Got to Do With it?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 04:27:00 +0000

As confessed in the The Salon article, Did Porn Warp Me Forever?, Isaac Abel's access to and relationship with porn is soooo far removed from coming across (or sneaking into) your daddy's (brothers? uncles?-- SOME family member's) stashed 'Hustler' or Penthouse Forum magazines or Betamax videos. His is the world our kids grew (are growing) up in; desensitized.

Sex, demystified. Decommodified?

"Even now, my “fantasies” are essentially rooted in the fantasies of my 14-year-old self. Age discrepancies in sex? Rape or S&M? These are fantasies of power and domination. This is not a particularly unusual (or necessarily bad) sexual preference, but it’s a nearly predetermined result for an immature adolescent being given a vast selection of pornography with no guidance."

Note: Fantasies of power and domination are okay, only as long as they're okay for the dominated.

I wonder what it's like for young women today, when hooking up has replaced courting and dating? How do they look for love, hope to find it, let alone presume, (or pretend ) they have, if withholding or granting sexual favors can no longer be used as leverage? What's the new currency?

I am writing tongue in cheek, of course.

(is that what that is?)

Meanwhile, Darwin reportedly got it wrong, and some things remain the same:--

"When asked about actual sexual partners, rather than just theoretical desires, the participants who were not attached to the fake lie detector displayed typical gender differences. Men reported having had more sexual partners than women. But when participants believed that lies about their sexual history would be revealed by the fake lie detector, gender differences in reported sexual partners vanished. In fact, women reported slightly more sexual partners (a mean of 4.4) than did men (a mean of 4.0)."

Sex and love seem all in the air of the web these days, as these recent articles portray; guess it's the lead up to Valentines Day. If the promise of care and comfort don't impel one down the aisle, I bet you institutionalized singlism will--

Hypothetical extrapolations over time:

Our single woman earning $80,000 per year paid $645,000 in income taxes. Our married woman earning $80,000 paid $490,000 in income taxes—a difference of $155,000.

Inbox me your proposals.

Transitions

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 06:26:00 +0000

"MA! I'M IN INDIA!" he interjected.

Fortunately, for purposes of conniption prevention, this was not news.

I was glad to be jolted from a mother's worry and transported to traveler's reverie. I know that feeling, I love that feeling. That's my high; that dawning recognition of being in a foreign culture. It's THRILLING--

But enough about me.

This is the brash undertaking of my son, gallivanting on a whim. When I'm not vicariously waxing euphoric, I'm PETRIFIED!! ~~This is my baby!!~~

I'm so impressed by the utter boldness of the move--barely a month past high school graduation, of his own volition, at his direction, against (his parents') better judgment, on his own dime, and in his own company, this young adult made his way to the other side of the world-- that it distracts me from being anxiety-ridden about his, um... preparation deficit.

That's okay. Independent travel in foreign countries teaches many lessons in resourcefulness. I won't worry excessively ~~and I haven't hypervventilated in hours~~. He has a long and mostly successful history of jumping in well over his head. He is a bull, after all. He learned what a Black Diamond was from the medic splinting his 8 year old leg after he'd managed to get from the top to the bottom of said diamond, twice-- on his second ski trip.

He's a young man, now, so-
it's back to me.

After nearly 19 years, my central focus is /SNIP/ detached.

No more play readings or basketball practices or sleepovers or rides home for friends from camp, basketball practice or the movies; no more person pretty much obligated to do whatever (within reason) I tell him to do. No more curfew. No more making lunch right after dinner, no more driving to whatever school way cross town, nor picking up from the metro, nor daybreak runs to CVS for posterboard nor vanishing field trip permission slips.

What am I 'GO'N DO' NOW?!!!

I don't even want to go to Disneyworld. Now, Bhutan, on the other hand...

.

Seeking Solace

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 05:24:00 +0000

The need was immediate, pressing, and specific. I needed joy. I reflexively sought it in music, literally by Googling 'Ode to Joy' and listening to a few orchestras' recordings of it. I love parts of that symphony, but it wasn't doing it for me. I needed something MORE beautiful, MORE moving, to transport me from this despair. i knew it must have strings.

This wasn't the seemingly universal sadness that we shared on Facebook and Twitter, grieving together when Michael Jackson died or Teena Marie or Don Cornelius or when watching Whitney's funeral. It was sadder than that.

This wasn't sharing the loss of icons, larger than life; this was personal. For Trayvon's family, it was the sudden, unbelievably tragic loss of a loved one.

For the rest of us, it was an 'in your face' reminder, of experiences we've had, feared, hedged against or that are otherwise there, ever-present in our consciousness:.

"There but for ____"
go you, or your son, or your brother, your uncle, dad, teacher, coach, doctor, UPS man.

In an interview with the local news media, the police chief may as well have shrugged his shoulders.

My son was first falsely accused of criminal behavior when he was three.

3.

He was barely conversant and potty-trained, and some strange man loomed over him yelling and shaking a finger at him.

Callouses and other defenses began building then; and I am just one mother, of one Black son.

Trayvon's disregarded murder ripped the scab off, scattering defenses among hedges in the process.

The pain was searing; fresh, yet deep-rooted. It pulsed with the recognition that-

No matter how broadly you smile, heartily you laugh, clearly you enunciate, diligently collect initials and display them after your name, capably scale career ladders, masterfully swing tennis rackets, golf clubs, or deliver checkmate,

No matter that you cross the street to not appear predatory, wear your pants at your waist, and your baseball cap facing forward, sing on the choir, keep your hands visible, and smugly mate with whites--or perhaps 'anybody else but';

It's no matter that you don't drink anything Grape-flavored or smoke Newports, don't go to Tyler Perry movies nor live in 'a hood' --

unless it's gentrifying, of course, in which case, it's 'cool' to;

It doesn't matter that you went to private school and/or send your kids to one, drive 'luxury' cars, eat sushi, buy local or otherwise act

like a normal fucking human being, an American citizen even, with the right to choose

to do

and to be

how - and where-

ever one pleases

within the bounds of the law,

without being stalked, harrassed or killed --

IT DOESN'T MATTER.

You are a suspect.

And further, you can be shot dead in a broad public space, the killer can confess and go home for days; maybe forever.

Trayvon Martin is the Emmett Till of this era. They both are you, and your loved ones. They are me and mine.

We collect names on petitions, amass physically and in cyberspace, wearing hoods in solidarity; occupying and displaying our indignation, hoping that this, maybe THIS will matter--
but Trayvon's young life will still be over. Zimmerman's may well be underway far away by now.

Swirling around the drain- sorrow, anger, pain, despair. I thrash about. I seek joy. I can't find it.

The Silence Breaks

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 03:22:00 +0000

I've had a few notions to blog in the past few weeks, but you see what became of that. Today, though, I'm doing it because, clearly--I need help. My favorite seven year old asked me to play Scrabble with her on a cute and handy board that stores all your tiles and racks inside and has a convenient carrying handle.

Three days later, I bought my own; The Diamond Edition.

My son and I began a ritual of playing Scrabble at meal time. On the upside, I began to ~~nuke~~ cook more often, and that was nice--and even edible mostly. What wasn't nice was when bonding became pestering. There's only so much Scrabble he's going to play, after all, even to indulge his beloved mom; he's a chess fiend. I had to find another way to get my fix.

I've never been the least compelled to respond to any of the game requests I get on Facebook for Farmville, Mafia Wars, Bejeweled Blitz, whatever. However, I am a word nerd from way back, so when my childhood best friend kept ~~nagging~~ inviting me to play, I eventually succumbed, and followed her down the path to vice, yet again.

Before you know it, I'm playing Words With Friends in the wee hours, then on my phone --at work-- (on breaks, of course). Next I started trolling for Friends to play with, (after said childhood best friend stopped responding to my REMINDERS TO PLAY) sending people the dreaded unsolicited invitations, having 3 or 4 simultaneous games going, and when THAT wasn't enough, I began playing random opponents. In a few short weeks, I'd crossed the divide eagerly; without a second thought, nor a glance back, from Words with Friends, to Words with Strangers.

What finally brought me back to blogging was not the fact that it's THEIR move in all 7 of my current games, nor that I've sent all my reminders out. What brought me back to blog was another cultural icon, Don Cornelius.

Don Cornelius was the big afroed guy with the beautiful baritone voice who hosted acts like The Bar Kays, Kool and the Gang, Rick James and Teena Marie, Rose Royce and The Jackson 5 in my living room every Saturday. Soul Train was the source for the latest grooves and dance moves--but it wasn't the Soul Train line that drew me (my standard move on the Soul Train line is the fastest walk to the end of it--while clapping. People with 'two left feet' have threatened--aggressively--to sue me for slander.)

What drew me to the TV on Saturday mornings, even more eagerly than Friday night's back to back Brady Bunch and Partridge Family offering, was the opportunity to see on TV, folks who were Black like me. In a town with a 6% Black population, that was not a small thing.

Thanks, Don Cornelius. Wishing you Love, Peace and SOOOOOOOUL! May you rest in peace.

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 06:14:00 +0000

Season for Lists

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 05:56:00 +0000

I loved the view of the Petit Piton from our room at The Mago hotel in Soufriere, St. Lucia. It was majestic; this singular mountain jutting up against the sky from the sea. At some point each day, it gradually disappeared behind a curtain of clouds, heralding sporadic rain showers. Later, the clouds would dissipate as the showers passed, and the mountain would re-emerge in the distance. It was magical. I felt every manner of privileged, doing sun salutations on the balcony facing the mountain every day; wealthy, blessed, nourished, powerful.

This memory was inspired by a friend's blog post that motivated me to list the places I want to visit, and those I want to revisit. I'd revisit St. Lucia, it's a good place to reflect and regroup.

I 'm in a bucket list time of life--

I'm a single mother of a single child who's soon to go off to college or other adventures beyond my daily oversight.
I got an invitation to join AARP and a membership card in the mail yesterday, a clear indication that it really is high time I changed the name of this blog.

I've ticked the typically expected things off my Grownup list:

graduate from high school,
graduate from college,
get married,
buy a house
have a baby.

Now the baby's raised and starting to tick things off his own list. I have to refocus. What am I going to do now?

I've got to make a bucket list. Let's see.

Words for your Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 06:04:00 +0000

I Really Should Write Something

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 01:16:00 +0000

Why?

Well, because I've got this blog, see--the one that persists-- and it had become a bit of a habit, and then with Entrecard and BlogExplosion and other similar great things, there are even readers of the blog sometimes. An audience.

Imagine.

Besides; it's much fairer to my Facebook Friends and even my actual friends, to blather on on whatever soapbox I'm on at the moment to perfect strangers who've come to expect, and precisely to read these ~~blatherings~~ musings. Status updates are for what's for dinner, Happy Tuesday greetings or lemmingly posting some plaint or plight because allegedly 92% percent of people won't.

There. I wrote something.

Now back to spouting off--

The weather's been great here! (Thanks? Climate change!) I'm a newbie and proud to say (as of today) I've run 30 miles outside this month.
Which is sadder, that Rep. Barney Frank embodied any hope there was for a return to civil service and policymaking on the Hill, or that he too is getting out?
I have not watched any of the Republican Presidential Candidate debates. Not just because there are too many. Not just because they're not debates. It's mostly because the debates foment the notion that some of these people should be seriously considered as prospective leader of The United States, when they're really just about generating swill to feed the ravenous infotainment industry.

Come on now, seriously. Rick Perry? Herman Cain? Ideally, a Presidential candidate should KNOW stuff about history, policy, world affairs, etc. and be conversant in them; minimally, one should STUDY to get to know stuff. At the absolute least, know that you should study to get to know stuff. (The latter was working for John Edwards, remember? )
that and the cuteness
But he succumbed, alas, to the delusion that his political ambitions would be unhindered by his extramarital dalliances. Silly man. Sexual scandal is to the infotainment industry what conspicuous consumption is to a capitalist economy.

The one at the helm of policymaking and enforcement in these critical times should have the integrity of Bernie Sanders or Brooksley Born, the forthrightness of Elizabeth Warren, the work ethic of Sheila Bair and Eliot Spitzer, the political instincts of Bill Clinton, the charisma of Barack Obama and the courage to lead, like... Ronald Reagan of Lyndon Johnson with the humility of Jimmy Carter. And there should be actual civil servants in Congress...and the Supreme Court should be apolitical--

(When, exactly, will pigs fly?)

SHORT OF ALL THAT--how about campaign finance reform?

And here were are again. No matter what I start to write, this is where I end--and that's not fair to YOU!

Sense from Senator Sanders

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 05:00:00 +0000

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 05:00:00 +0000

Lexington Avenue, Asheville, North Carolina

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 04:08:00 +0000

Is Resistance Futile?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 16:16:00 +0000

RT: timsmithwp Timothy Smith
John Lewis: "Martin Luther King Jr must be looked upon as a founding father of the New America"
-----------------------------------------------------------
Forty some years ago, the Poor Peoples Campaign occupied much of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's time and energy. After the dangerous and deadly marches and boycotts that led to the passage of Civil Rights legislation in 1964 and 1965, Dr. King focused on human rights, championing an idea called the Economic Bill of Rights and called for "radical changes in the structure of our society". If you rely on media accounts and history texts, you'd think that Dr. King disappeared after 1965 until he was shot dead in Memphis in 1968. Long before the near-monopoly ownership of mainstream media and its manipulative dirty tricks detailed in the depressingly informative film, Orwell Rolls in His Grave, King's efforts on behalf of poor people, opposition to the war in Vietnam and U.S. foreign policy, in general, were studiously ignored by the media. Fortunately, the lenses of Swedish filmmakers provide some insight into this period via The Black Power Mixtape.

Today, in bittersweet coincidence, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's memorial in Washington, DC is being formally dedicated at the same time that resistance to the "global system of bullshit" is manifest in countries around the world: Italy, Croatia, South Africa, Australia, CANADA, Belgium, Greece, Spain...
Check out streaming feeds from around the world here: http://occupystream.com/

Forty years later, the "Poor People" includes increasing numbers of the formerly middle class: at least 45 million Americans on food stamps, 14 million Americans unemployed and thousands more with decimated retirement savings. Throughout the world, increasing numbers are jobless, homeless, and deeply indebted while a relative few make out like the bandits they are, taking home in bonuses enough to feed entire populations. This time, though, the resistance will not be ignored, despite the mainstream media's valiant, dismissive efforts. Committed, technologically savvy collaborators work diligently to keep this resistance publicized. Donate! Send mittens, hats and blankets, hand sanitizers, food. You can even VOTE HERE on what you think should be included in the demands. IMO, (the broken record) it's all for nought, without sweeping campaign finance reform, so that elected officials' constituencies are actual PEOPLE (one wo/man one vote), not lobbyists for industries.

Without sounding too cliché, the Internet really is the birth of some kind of global mind--Terrance McKenna

Check out Occupy Madrid:

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 16:16:00 +0000

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 04:00:00 +0000

Music Monday: Adagio in G Minor

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 12:44:00 +0000

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 04:00:00 +0000