MtnGrl Musing

Tributaries

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

Season for Lists

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

I Really Should Write Something

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

Wordless Wednesday

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

Lexington Avenue, Asheville, North Carolina

Wordless Wednesday

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

Is Resistance Futile?

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

Wordless Wednesday

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

Music Monday: Adagio in G Minor

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

Wordless Wednesday

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

Stew

noreply@blogger.com (MtnGrl) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 03:54:00 +0000

Being a woman of a certain age presents so many opportunities. (Really? I sound like I'm writing through clenched teeth? Interesting.)

I had an opportunity to visit a 'medical spa' recently, where, just like at the doctor's office, I waited well-past my appointment time--at least an hour--before I saw the doctor. Bustling in and apologizing for being late, we'd barely made eye contact before the doctor slipped some kind of fabric eyeband over my head and told me to pull it over my eyes. The doctor then took a breath, got some equipment humming and launched headlong into a hard sell discussion/description of a regime and products...exfoliation...salyicylic acid...sunscreen...anti-aging. roducts -- none of which I'd asked about--while attending to my flesh. The room smelled a little like a hot comb on the stove.

Second-guessing myself, thinking maybe she's trying to bond--you know, get to know me (since, apparently, I'd have to come back for a "minimum of 8 visits") I tried to converse-
but no; my instincts were right, it was a spiel.

After the ordeal, when I when to check out, an assistant motioned me over to a counter where she had what looked like an invoice slip, and a suite of products that she began describing, ones the doctor had suggested would be useful for my teenager's acne.

I never suggested to the doctor that I wanted to buy the acne kit, but I listened politely to the assistant--until she went to write on the invoice/receipt slip -- "How much is this?" "The Acne Kit is $150" she responded before returning again to the pen and the slip of paper. Then I asked about the little bottles to her left, "The regimen?" Yes, apparently these were what the doctor was speaking of when I tuned her out. I hadn't inquired about any regimen or products, nor displayed any real interest when she went on and on about them, yet here they were, all ready for my presumed purchase-- "And how much is that?" I asked, looking at the four tiny plastic bottles, " all together it's 150 dollars." Then I was just pissed.

FIRST, I was left waiting in a treatment room for over an hour before the doctor came in. Over an hour. No head popped in periodically to assure, explain or apologize; no head popped in. Still, I was chill I've got my blood pressure to think about; I'd meditated that morning, and I was playing some of my best Beyond Tetris ever.

But still.

THEN, once the doctor is in, I'm subjected to a rapid fire sales pitch (she denied it being a hard sell before I'd even realized she was trying to sell me something!) while prone and blindfolded-- an opportunity which was neither free nor cheap--

and on top of all that they're trying to hustle me out of three hundred more dollars and into a financing plan? I was done.
Yeah, times are hard all over. I'll stick with Cetaphil and Nair.

6203 High Score.

Music Monday: Nina Simone

noreply@blogger.com (MtnGrl) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 04:00:00 +0000

Remembering Joe Bageant

noreply@blogger.com (MtnGrl) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 20:52:00 +0000

Among sentient people everywhere there is a deep, visceral unease, and among those most aware there is genuinely acute suffering. -- Joe Bageant

During my research of distant lands for prospective expatriation, I've met quite a few interesting people. Some are wannabes, some usedtobes;some are expats who've done their level best to export their North American lifestyles fully intact to gated communities in developing countries where The Help is relatively cheap; some have sought to abandon a life of conspicuous consumption for a sustainable one, living off the land among locals insted; or at least a cheaper, less stressful one,of teaching yoga, tending bar or running a hostel.  One expat that I unfortunately never had the pleasure to meet since stumbling across his writings (he passed away in March), was Joe Bageant.

I thought of Joe today when I learned of the latest backtrack...er sidestep, of the Obama Administration, "delaying" implementation of climate change rules. (No, not the ozone standard ones that were shelved last month; these are whole OTHER ones that have been delayed before, and maybe will again, before they're abandoned altogether. When is this dude going to learn there's no amount of caving that's going to make Congressional Republicans like him?  He may be only half Black, but it is the half that's visible, after all.)

Not that the "deep,visceral unease" is attributable to the President, or his complexion (well, my unease isn't, anyway) but it is exacerbated by his (in)actions. As Joe put it, "the great mocha hope turned out to be a Trojan horse for Wall Street and the Pentagon."

But I digress--

Joe Bageant was described as a 'redneck socialist', reared in Winchester,Va as a member of what he called the 'white underclass'. You can read what he has to say about himself in About Joe but his essays, blog posts, and interactions with readers is more revealing.   He wrote and spoke unflinchingly about capitalism and classism-- and that *might* be why his books are more widely read elsewhere than in America (ya think?).   One book seemed aptly titled to be a bestseller here, right up there by Palin's or Beck's: Deer Hunting with Jesus -- until you get to the subtitle: Dispatches from America's Class War.

His commentary, biting, witty and often longwinded, refreshingly tells it like it is, to wit:

As an Anglo European white guy from a very long line of white guys, I want to thank all the brown, black, yellow and red people for a marvelous three-century joy ride. During the past 300 years of the industrial age, as Europeans, and later as Americans, we have managed to consume infinitely more than we ever produced, thanks to colonialism, crooked deals with despotic potentates and good old gunboats and grapeshot. Yes, we have lived, and still live, extravagant lifestyles far above the rest of you. And so, my sincere thanks to all of you folks around the world working in sweatshops, or living on two bucks a day, even though you sit on vast oil deposits. From Waltzing at the Doomsday Ball.

In America: Y ur Peeps B so Dum? he writes: Purposeful ignorance allows us to enjoy cheaper commodities produced through slave labor, both foreign, and increasingly, domestic, and yet "thank god for his bounty" in the nation's churches without a trace of guilt or irony.
...
Our hyper capitalist system, through command of our research, media and political institutions, expands upon and disseminates only that information which generates money and transactions. It avoids, neglects or spins the hell out of information that does not.

also from the Doomsday Ball piece, this little gem:
Compounding our ignorance and naiveté are the officials and experts, politicians, media elites, and especially economists, who interpret the world for us and govern the course of things. The go-to guys. They don't know either. But they've got the lingo down.

Joe and Noam Chomsky are featured in a documentary coming to an art house near you, The Kingdom of Survival. Here's a clip:

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (MtnGrl) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 04:00:00 +0000

Music Monday: Ozomatli

noreply@blogger.com (MtnGrl) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 12:28:00 +0000

"Just raise your head up and stand up, no fear in your eyes.
Tell me love and hope never die.
So raise your head up and stand up, no reason to cry.
'Cause your heart and soul will survive."

What I Said on the 1st Anniversary of 9/11

noreply@blogger.com (MtnGrl) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 21:23:00 +0000

This Is Your Life 9/11/2002

Last year about this time when I found myself suddenly and resolutely awake--snap! just like that, I interpreted it spiritually, feeling summoned for intercessory prayer. For who or what, I had no idea, so, that being the case, I prayed that much more fervently.

Jesus; look what happened a scant five hours later. The emotional magnitude of the devastation was absolutely beyond my imagination. Keauki was away from New York when it happened; she was in the Midwest somewhere I think...maybe on an Indian reservation, and she mentioned how sympathetic the people were, but how they clearly perceived it as something that happened to you all", in New York, or on the East Coast, I guess.

I was surprised that anyone in this country could suffer such a luxurious delusion; distance. But then again, I'm here, a good percentage of my time well within collateral damage distance of here, so...quite contrarily to the folks she met, I felt like a sitting duck. And I was one--and not because my VP encouraged it, (which he did, in a pep rally in the hall a half hour or so after the Pentagon was hit ("this is news! this is why we're in business!")minutes, perhaps, after the rumors about the fires at the State Department, the felling of USA Today.
(USA TODAY?!, I thought. Right. Either that was a purely logistical consideration, a symbolic gesture of an attack on American media or, the start of hitting all the high profile members. In the latter case, I'm reluctant to admit, I then thought: any second now...)

I stayed because I figured the traffic getting out of the city would be so bad; it would be tied up and emotionally charged for hours; and also, because, at that moment, I couldn't be deprived of any source of information. I wanted and had, frequent, easy access to a tv, and a radio, and the Internet, and phones, (cell and landline), plus my beeper. The phone was of little use, but the information, knowing whatever could be known, was critically necessary at that juncture. It was the best time to get any real grasp I'm sure, of what was happening, while it unfolded, before it got the chance to be propagandized, stylized, packaged and marketed for sublimated desired effect. Raw. Real. Realer than ever, for every American. This wasn't over there , somewhere remote and fantasy-like, like Hawaii(ah, sweet luxury of generational distance), but the financial and political founts of the lord of the world; where peasants were going about their working lives! Where I live.

After a few days of constantly attended television--I practically had MSNBC and CNN on speed dial;--augmented by NPR, I cut back to nearly constantly, and life interceded. But I didn't want to forget. I didn't ever want things to return to the status quo (an illusion at best) where this horror became "an Event", its sweepingly cross-cultural heaving emotional impact, relegated to memory. Things get lost back there.

So here I am, a year later. Up again in the wee hours(the dog pestered), I began to remember.
I can't decide whether the delayed recollection is courtesy of my boycott of news and information media since Sunday or so, or by a degree of spiritual dissonance.

I mean, I got a kind of "heads up" last year; this year, I'm remembering to remember?

In either case, remembering, I made this prayer:Bless the souls of the slain, nurture the spirit of the stricken, comfort the pain of the aggrieved, cleanse the hearts of the guilty.Forgive us all.Let there be mercy, peace. NO FEAR. Let us not need be reminded to love each day-- not in passive appreciation, but as a manner of being;to live the day, every day-- actively, consciously, interpersonally, with great intention, in all aspects, in every way, to the nth degree-- as though it were the last day.Namaste

Try to Remember

noreply@blogger.com (MtnGrl) — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 04:30:00 +0000

I remember my brother overdramatically singing this song-

Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow.

As it turns out, as long as you have the faculty to remember to search for what you forgot, and the capability to do it, Can't Remember Sh--Stuff syndrome (aka growing older), is not as frustrating as it could be. Any answer you seek is just a few keystrokes away on the Net, it's practically instant recall.

I used to daydream about owning a place that sold tea and had morning sunlight filtering through windows on overstuffed armchairs in random places--kinda like Idle Time Books; little nooks where people could read or write for hours on end, and sometimes-- maybe-- there would be readings too, like at Food for Thought--(was that the name of that place in Dupont Circle, with the green awning and all the vegan and veggie options crammed in barely legible handwriting on the chalkboard behind the counter?)

Am I remembering this correctly?

[Google 'food for thought dupont circle', press Enter. Click Images]

Yes, as a matter of fact, I am remembering correctly. Thanks to Incorrigible Curmudgeon for the photographic validation (shown right); ~~I'm not that nuts. O~~bviously I still can both:

remember to look up stuff I thought I'd forgotten or misremembered- AND
maneuver to do so!

So, hey, it's all good! This seasoned woman's got the agile mind and nimble fingers of a MtnGrl. F**tysomething is the new thirtysomething-- wait.
What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah-

One time I was daydreaming out loud, only to be interrupted by a coworker-friend scoffing, 'How are you gonna make money?!' Good point, I had to concede, seeing as how my trust fund never existed. Letting folks linger for hours with tea and books was not likely to be a big revenue generator. I've been bookish for as long as I can remember, and love bookish places; libraries, bookstores. My former husband and I used to happily spend hours and hundreds in bookstores. I remember being pregnant and mollified by the thought a book's title suggested: having a child who doesn't like to read.

This recollection tickled me yesterday, right after I finished bellyaching about how far away the nearest bookstore was--and the cost of gas--to my nondriving, one and only beloved youngun who'd asked to go to the bookstore.

The nearest bookstore is so far away because there ~~(has hardly been any in PG County, at least not in the 12 or so years I've lived here)~~, are fewer and fewer. Even the one we went to yesterday, in Silver Spring, was plastered with STORE CLOSING and FOR SALE signs -LAST EIGHT DAYS!
Being in the middle of so many books at such low prices due to a store's imminent demise--really takes the kick out of it, though.

I bought four books-- (two of which were actually on my To Read list--YOU guess which two):

I also got a 2012 calendar and a cuddly throw, all for $40 and change.

Rest in Peace, Borders.

I'd like to turn a page in homage to all those that have gone before: Crown Books, Super Crown, Olsson's Books and Records, Karibu Books, Vertigo Books, (I *so* loved that Dupont Circle space), The Trover Shop (in neighborhood news, another Capitol Hill institution, Hawk n Dove, will soon also bite the dust) and in advance, for the Georgetown Barnes and Noble, slated to go by year's end.

Try to remember when life was so tender
That no one wept except the willow.
....
Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.
Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,
Follow, follow, follow, follow.

If you don't remember, GOOGLE IT, but you can still follow me. ;-D