when words fail me, which is often, I paint. When words work for me and are available on time, I am surprised.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Curs -ed Pukany's

Network Error (tcp_error)

A communication error occurred: ""
The Web Server may be down, too busy, or experiencing other problems preventing it from responding to requests. You may wish to try again at a later time.

For assistance, contact your network support team.

And the beat goes on This from solely trying to communicate my pain tonight.

Saddist Gods and blessed Goddess

I am not even going to tell you the story of the past few days and the computer Techno stresses, it wouldn't change a thing. Glimpses of tyrannical, twisted , sadistic computer gods somewhere in the techno verse, laughing as they take over my ethernet communications, making my mouse suffer and lead me into a tailspin.
First the post to my online discussion board of my online university statistics course, the one I had sweat over all day. I hit the submit button and was bounced off the website and landed in my homepage browser. Second attempt, I got wise and hit save, to be safe, just in case. The saved file however seems to not exist.
The Pukaneys laugh, rolling on the floor, the dirt floor, laughing.
Yesterday, the company QuickBooks , which I back up to an external hard drive now, after the computer crashes and viruses, refused to open. Who'd a thought, the Pukaneys could cause the external hard drive to become "DAMAGED"?
Realizing it was having a problem, the Ex that is, on Friday which caused me to be four hours late to work, yes four, I backed up the files I was finally able to retrieve after plugging and un-plugging old Ex a thousand times, I backed up the books to my internal hard drive.
An hour one way trip to the computer store with free device in hand, came with the new computer we had to buy after the last hard drive brain freeze. I didn't know how to work the tiny flash drive. It is the shape and size of a credit card. "Just plug this piece into your USB port" kid techie tells me.
"If your files are open you can back them up to it, plenty of room."
Yeah, right.
The computer this morning went into a nose dive, ctrl, alt, delete, to no avail.
Cant find your Ex drive, your other flash back up was incomplete, Windows is going CODE BLUE.
I frantically plug in and out the Ex drive cord. To no avail.
But there is the sacred internal back up.
I see it, all green and man running, and click.
To no avail.
Can't retrieve this. . . message over and over again.
We have bills to enter, to pay. I have so many other things to do this day, GOD PLEASE! I pray.
To no avail.
I begin to shake,to panic, and I actually cry.
The Pukanys roll with laughter, the thunder thunders, the rain falls.
I call the QB company.
They send an SOS to their online service for me.
The Goddess calls me.
I give her my power, I surrender.
She takes control and finds my back-up.
She creates files in my hard drive, she creates copies. She is in New Delhi, India.
I breathe.
The sun comes out, the Pukanys have had their fun.
While normally terse with people who do not speak the same language as me when dealing with sensitive issues such as my credit cards and company files, with Aarna, I am meek and respectful.
"Can you stay with me on my computer forever?" I beg her
"No, I cannot. After I help you with your problem, we must disconnect."
"Please, I love you. I do not have much money, but I have two very handsome and smart sons. You could have your pick, Please don't leave me."
The Goddess laughs and says thank you.

Sunday, February 24, 2008


Blogger Michelle O'Neil said...

Never mean to humble you Stacy.

You should have seen my in my lieder-hosen when I was a beer wench at Busch Gardens. Now that's humbling.

Now, I just want to clarify something, it is not bad to be humble. I simply meant humbled in a good way. I deduced, (did I make that up? Is that a statistics term?) If I said I wouldn't have created such ugly things if I was creating my reality and universe, I must be implying that the creator or creators, whatever truths may be, did a worse job than I would do. And Michelle reminds me, that I may not have created mice with very long tails and ugly liederhosen for middle aged women, . . on purpose. But wait, maybe she is saying the creator made mistakes.
Now, I am curious as to the implications of the responses to the comments in my make believe universe to my pretty lame post altogether.
Attempting to organize my head by moving office furniture around, but its Sunday and I am terribly in need of a good long nap. My outside world is a reflection of my inside world. In need of better organization, battling the need of a great nap. And the winner is zzzzzz....

Thursday, February 21, 2008

5 Weeks Update

1) I found my deck in the upstairs bedroom.(where i store all of my midwifery stuff)

2) Mercury is no longer doing a retrograde dance in Mars, as of yesterday- hooray

3) FOUND THIS in my statistics text book this morning in an article about math fear, "you might be a" type point.

4)Last night Tate and me were practicing singing gospel songs in harmony.(its a new game we like to play) I went into a long explanation of the essence and structure of harmonizing, as I understood it, and then. . . we turned on the tv to see Paul Simon and the harmonizing group from Africa,(I apologize for not knowing their name) performing.

The Universe works in such synchronistic and mysterious ways, sometimes I wonder, am I dreaming? All the time? Or is this a Universe I created in my mind?
But then there is George Bush and I would never have created an arrogant monster like that in my universe.
I wouldn't have created disease, poverty, hatred, ignorance, STATISTICS, ticks, mice with very long tails (if you get my drift), war, roaches, mosquitoes as well as a few other things, like those high waisted shorts women wear in the summer, with flats, that make them look like Pinocchio or some middle aged lieder-hosen wearer with boobs. gross.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Five Weeks

Yes, the ego still aches. I am too thin skinned, sensitive, call it what you will. I have always been this way. As I child I remember weeping at the beauty of the sky after a thunderstorm, the scent of burning leaves on a mist filled Autumn morning. I'd cry even. Also, I have a tendency to feel other peoples' pain. I sometimes realize when I am in a crowd that the fleeting headache or sore throat I suddenly feel is really an indicator of what is going on with the person standing next to me. If I see a wound on someones body, I feel a lesser (thank goodness) version of the pain in my body.
I started collecting Tarot decks a few years ago, I must have close to twenty by now. I get excited about the new one, season it with my dreams and essence by putting it under my pillow for a few days and sleeping on it. I usually dream the images and sometimes my guides come along and tell me things, which unfortunately, I think I forget.
My favorite deck is the Klimt deck. Gustav that is, yes. Every card has his "Tree of Life" image on the back and the fronts are beutiful, strange, realistic and gilded. Gilded means laced with shiny gold right?
This deck is the most inspirational deck I own. I shuffle, they shuffle, then lay them out on an orange and white M.C. Escher type scarf, the images I get from these cards have caused me to make some people cry.
When I realized this was my favorite, I made it a special pocket pouch lined with emerald green velvet to carry it in, along with the orange scarf.
It fit nicely in my coat pocket. Sometimes I just carry it for company, like having a friend walk with me, so I won't feel like I am walking alone.
Two weeks ago Monday, I put it in my pocket. I recall thinking at some point since then that it would be bad juju to leave it next to the heater at work, or something like that, but I can't really remember what or when that really was. Last Wednesday, I realized the Klimt was not in the pocket, the alter, the pillow, the office, the shop, under the bed. . . . I have looked everywhere I can think of.
Freaking out about where those cards are, all infused with my psyche and everything, I ask myself what this means.
The answer comes to me instantly.
I am such a great psychic, I can't find my Tarot cards.

OK, the title 5 weeks has nothing to do with this post except, it may be my last for a few weeks. I just began a 5 week crash college class in statistics, now I am really ready to end it all. . . drama queen I am, but if I have been depressed the past few days, I am betting the statistics is going to take my head in a completely different direction.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Calender Eraser

Ms. Mary is my music teacher; she is pure genius. Julliard trained, many years ago, she has taught thousands to play stringed instruments. She has created a color coded score which creates learning by ear and then conveys to reading notes on printed page. She is truly amazing. Nearing eighty now, she teaches in her home, in her front parlor. Boxes of tapes and music sheets, markers, instruments and family photos. Royal red Persian rug, cozy quilted day bed, bay windows. We play. Arkansas Traveler, Old Joe Clark, Tender Shepherd, Silent Night, Cripple Creek and more. I began my once a week lessons this past Summer; Mary is an incredibly patient person. When I practice at home, both cats race to the front door and beg to be let outside, really.
Your fiddle is the woman, the bow is her man. She tells me. I blush. They are in love.
I have a bruised ego this morning, a friends hair color job went very awry the other day. It wasn't my first failure to make the right call with respect to the correct color formula to mix and it probably wont be my last (if I don't commit suicide that is), but my timing was just horrendous!
It's a long story, but she's a ballroom dancer, she and her husband of 40 years were throwing a huge ball and fund raiser the following evening. There was so much work to be done Friday, she thought she'd save time and come to me to touch up her hair color. I made a bad decision, and then a worse one. It is a story I do not want to tell. Anymore. So I won't.
It ends with me feeling sick to my stomach and mad a myself, depressed. I wish I could take those hours and decisions back. My ego is in the trash can. Dammit! to hell I say.
I feel like crying.
I dread getting out of bed. I know it will pass, but. . .sleeping is good.
On the first night, the Dali Lama appeared in the village; he was leading meditation dances and exercises.
My haircolor lady said I needed to learn to handle stress, and there he entered, the dream.
It was now my turn to work with him, (Oh yeah, he is not the current DL, he is very young and from the past. I do not know which one he is)I am very close and he is gazing into my eyes, pure love.
As we are doing this meditation together, my sweater enclosure or earring becomes entangled in his sweater. I pull away and the threads from his sweater begin to unravel. I am horrified and embarrassed. He laughs and hugs me. He tells me he loves me and I feel how much he does. He tells me I try so hard to create love, to try to make people love me while all the time I am love.
In the morning, I try to remember his words, the unspoken ones. I wear saffron orange shirts, to remember. It's hard though because I am really good at punishing myself.

And then, last night, Ms. Mary said to me, "I need to know what you are."
I tell her- I am an artist, and a poet (its a dream relax). I love to laugh and to dance. I pause and then say, I just wish I was smart.

You're smart OK she said.
Yep, that's me- smart.

Love Ms. Mary, love the Dali Lama.
Staying mad a myself, licking the ole bruised ego, not getting out of bed. Not today.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Arcane Messages

If you didn't quite get the meaning of my last post, as I am usually unclear even to myself, I passed a teensey kidney stone last Thursday night. It had been aching since the Monday before. It's not a pain one forgets easily, I know. I had an interesting experience with kidney stones when I was a teenager, it was 26 years ago, three months, two days, fifteen hours, but who would bother paying attention to that? Not me, right.
I was sixteen. I was taking alot of drugs, anything hallucinogenic was my favorite. I also drank quarts of herbal teas daily. I was in love with the herbs and was especially fond of Red Clover and Licorice Root to cleanse the blood and relax the nerves. I wore a tiny satchel around my neck, in it Cubeb Berries, to attract love. I knew it was safe, attracting love that is because if it didn't work out, Borage leaves under your pillow and in tea, and the bath, would mend a broken heart.
I liked to drink whiskey, beer and mouthwash (not really)too. I called it my macro-psychotic diet. I was very close to a realm without time, where scents ruled and the senses were full.
One day I was hiking with some friends and drank from a little stream, I was thirsty. The friends thought I was nuts, (but we already know about that)as the creek was in Maryland, just a stones throw from industrial parks and landfills.
That evening, I was in my friend Andre's basement, I love the name Andre, don't you?
Andre was in his early twenties, he went to college and had lovely blond curls. I wonder now if he was adopted, but no digressions-
The regular crew I hung out with was gathered at Andres on a weeknight, as usual. Almost every night was spent at Andres back then. My friends were mostly a few years older than me, all male, non had steady girlfriends that ever attended Andres house, not then. There were usually five to eight of us. I had women friends then, but I really didn't seem to be spending any time with them during this period.
That night we drank two bottles of Wild Turkey and I think I went home with the one who was obsessed with the idea of building underground houses. His name was Slab, really.
If this were really a memoir, I'd go on about the relationship with Slab and the sex and the acid, but I might be boring you, or making it all up. You never really know.
Do you?
Long story longer, but I will try to tell it fast now, what happens next that is.
My father, the nice one but naive, left me and my two siblings and my Jewish Mother (yes, we are all Jewish), for his Catholic younger than my mother, receptionist. Needless to say, I think, if Dad was the nice one, Mom was the? Disinterested self absorbed slapping type. Yes, that's it. She took the house and all of his bank account, so she could pay for my college tuition (I was in college by 16), or not. Actually, Dad convinced me he could not afford to send me to college as he had prepped me my entire life to do, as his academically smartest child. Thats right, mom spent his money on shiny pale blue sports cars and fur coats,and the singles club, and the "business" trips.
I woke up early the next day, as Mommie dearest was getting ready for work. She had been missing alot of work, her social life was demanding. I was doubled over in pain, holding my right side in clenched fists. I knew I was dying. In my mother's bathroom,I threw up over and over, moaning like a Rabbi with a bullet in his head.
"What's the matter with you?" she demanded.
She probably thought I was hungover. This was no hangover, even I knew that.
"I don't know, I drank some water yesterday from a dirty stream, maybe it's that"
"I'm going to be late, call your father." She ran out of the house
I called Dad, he sent one of his nurses, she was like family.
Shelly picked me up and I was really loosing it. The pain was unbearable. I was holding my side and falling down fainting trying to get to her car. I kicked her dashboard (wounded horse in a wooden stall?). I feel bad now that I kicked her dashboard, even if it was 26 years ago.
She said, "hold on baby, its gonna be OK"
I really did like her; she was a Lesbian, wait. I bet she still is.
I do not remember much else that day. I fainted a bit, the tests weren't showing the expected, the Docs were sure my appendix had ruptured, they gave me MORPHINE and I didn't care about anything that day anymore.
Then they sent me for an exploratory surgery, six inch abdominal incision, verticle, through the belly button on one side.
The appendix was healthy, but they took it anyway, you know, because you really don't need it and while they were in there, they might as well.
They sewed me back up.With numerous staples. I was in the Pediatric ward, on morphine, for three weeks, until finally one day, the Docs decided to scan my water tract with an XRay. They found the stone and told me I could go home to pass it.
There is so much more to this story. I am going to spare you, but it ends somewhere with me, the healer, attempting to heal myself from the harm and wrong of the evil-doers in the hospital. I was going to rebirth every cell in my body. I was going to fast for days, and I did, until I forgot when it was time to eat again.
I walked with Jesus in the desert. I made the rain fall by communicating with the clouds and skies and then I walked through the rain and rested under the sweet smelling canopy of pine trees. I walked the streets of the city and gathered poets and prophets and homeless people as friends.
After a certain lost period of time, I crashed. I forgot how to read, converse, brush my teeth, everything but cry and sleep.
The crash lasted nearly a year.
Last Monday, when I woke up with that pain one never forgets, I was frightened. Afraid to throw it, to let it go, to breathe.
In four short days with only a few brief hours of severe pain, Alas, the stone has passed
and I am as sane as ever.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Stones Throw Away

I won't be around to visit you too much
i submitted a lousy draft of a boring paper
i am going to puke
pecking away with 2 fingers, this keyboard
i'd rather have a baby than this, this stone
this kidney saved for years
to throw
see you all later, i hope

Saturday, February 02, 2008

So She Said

Saturday, January 19, 2008
So She Said
(I posted this on my Take Back the Birth website a few weeks ago. No art will flow if I continue ruminating about this social ill, so I post it again today.)

A certain neighbor of mine is well below the drinking age and 24 weeks pregnant. She has pulled out of her high school classes and is finishing her senior year online. Although she tells me she is not a Goth, she is still wearing her heavy soled, clunky, black leather knee high boots and her mini dresses. She had to give up the black hair dye because her mother will not permit her to color her hair until after the baby is born. Her belly button is pierced.
"Hey, I don't know if you are aware that I have a bit of experience with childbirth," I told her one day recently, "If you want to give birth at home, I could possible help you with the details."

"I don't like my home (her parents)that much" she said.

Realizing her perception was that women have home births because they like their homes so much they just don't want to leave, I explained:
Actually, women have home births so they can labor in private, comfortably amongst people they are familiar with, they receive one on one attention and have non- medical, natural births which are safer for mother and babies.

She said she liked the hospital. She said she was planning on having an epidural. She said she would be happy to have a C-section. She said she heard it hurts and there was no way she was going to feel that baby coming out of her.

"Wait, you would want to have major surgery instead of experiencing the pain of childbirth which you have never actually felt before?"
"Well, yeah."
"How do you know it hurts that badly, what does it feel like, what hurts exactly. . . I started in with my birth education spiel."

"People say it hurts. Friends of mine have told me it hurts alot."

"Really? Do you have any tattoos or piercings?" I asked.
"My belly button is pierced. My mother won't let me get my tongue or nose pierced as long as I am working for her."

"You'd have your tongue pierced?!!!. . .But that really hurts. I'd rather have my head cut off and served to me for Sunday brunch than have my tongue pierced. I'd rather give birth without drugs ten times in a row than have my tongue pierced."

"My friends tell me it doesn't hurt. I have two friends that have done it."

"I see."

I stopped talking and the next day I lent her a copy of

Ina May Gaskin's newest book

Ina may talks about this very conversation with other women in her lectures and her book.
Articles are being written in academia on the subject of C-sections as a social problem, not a medical problem.
Before I begin to say bad things about people, I am going to take a deep breath, close my eyes, and send love and
Prayers to my neighbor and her unborn child.

(Yesterday said mother of mother to be, returned the book. She said, "we are not interested" )