Life is Art

Skittles

2011-02-16T15:51:00.001-05:00

i know this was last spring- i am just getting organized. man are my sons gorgeous or what? Click on the picture- the album should open

The Winter of My Healing; Art is Therapy

2011-02-09T12:14:00.005-05:00

Seems I am turning this into a very rarely visited art therapy blog. I've been busy this winter. I ran away from home and my entire life on November 2, 2010. Lot's of you know- many don't - care so what, it's my blog my story. I am not really sharing in words any essays or experiences as most I wish to write about is just safer in my personal journals. The artwork- I am always ready to share, if only I remember to post it.
Saint Mary of the Woods Master of Art Therapy classes roll on and I still am ridiculously passionate about my school work. I love it.
Since moving here, Maine, I entered the season of healing and resurrection through art making. I have painted, drawn, collaged, danced, photographed over 100 pieces.
I'm in an awesome place- exhilarated, exciting, in love yet again(yikes:), optimistic, and grateful- to be here now. Yes, there is deep sadness seated deep within my heart from the events and the loss which led to my exodus, they will last my entire lifetime. Here is my response to a fellow student on a group discussion; he asked whether change was the goal of art therapy. I will also attempt to post some of my recent works which express the point where grief surrendered to happiness- where I'm at now. Yea- it's about me- it's my neglected Blog- silly

"It seems sometimes the focus on getting the client to change suggests there is something not right within them when in fact we can't really change events which led to where we are- only how we respond to them. The change I believe is in perception- we have to be able to de- fuse the bombs of our memories ("a memory is like a mine field" Maya Angelou) and learn to identify an IED on the path before it blows our psyche apart. That to me is the hard part- learning to stop recreating the drama we are chained to. Hope all is well with you- love-S"
yes, there's plenty more-later

Giant Horned Horse Ass Faced WORM

2010-11-27T17:33:00.003-05:00

This is a collage of my family in animal form. I am in the middle. If you know my family you know which son is on each top side and exactly who the giant horned horse ass face worm is I am jumping off from.

Bedroom at Boothbay Harbor

2010-11-23T12:44:00.003-05:00

Bedroom at Boothbay Harbor, 2010. Mixed media on paper, 12"x 16".

Art Therapy Alliance

2010-11-23T12:40:00.002-05:00

This is an international postcard exchange I participated in this month. VERY FUNSEE POSTCARDS< CLICK HERE

Jesus Contemplates

2010-11-18T15:28:00.003-05:00

I recently moved to Boothbay Harbor Maine. It's beautiful here. I am painting and art making everyday.This is going in a group exhibit/fundraiser in the local art foundation gallery. Jesus Contemplates, 2010. Acrylic on canvas, 12"x12". ($100.00)

Affective Rorschach Words

2010-11-17T15:09:00.002-05:00

In transition these day - or was- This is an Affective component exercise of the Expressive Therapies Continuum I submitted and created as an assignment. I was amazed at how the images reflected the meaning of the words: grief, alone, sadness, grace, hope, peace.
Idea respectfully borrowed from Rob Tarbell.

Griffins

2010-11-17T15:03:00.002-05:00

In May or June of this year, whenever I would pick up a pen and begin to doodle(for lack of a better word;I detest the word for the activity)a Griffin of sorts would appear. I didn't know much about griffins and looked them up on the omniscient Wikipedia- amazing stuff. I am the Griffin, or at least I strive to be.

Sting of the Scorpion

2010-11-17T14:57:00.002-05:00

I did this piece in crisis mode, I don't even remember what medium I used. It is a symbolic exercise where one draws their initials then creates an image from them. Awareness of form arises, a title is given.

My Box

2010-10-01T10:51:00.000-05:00

The Box assignment is to create a box which represents my inner and outer experience- self on my journey of becoming an art therapist. The description is the real work and I will leave you to interpret it for yourself.
I am really loving every project we have created so far. I will post more as soon as I catch up on some writing assignments.

Assignment 1

2010-08-12T10:26:00.003-05:00

Assignment 1. Create a collage which represents your definition of art therapy or more exactly, "what art therapy means to me". I love this program and found a much better suited to my personality registered art therapist to be my field supervisor. Life IS awesome today.

Everyone should laugh, everyday

2010-07-10T09:54:00.004-05:00

From a hotel room in a galaxy far away from here, our alter ego family sends pictures. Aren't they adorable?
Wait!!! I do not know what happened to my original post but

Like a Lobotomy, but it feels better

2010-06-16T14:44:00.004-05:00

In the orient, those who believe in the power of Feng Shui believe branches from trees should not grow too closely to their houses. They believe the branches catch negative energy, like a dream-catcher catches dreams, and hold it in the home's personal space.
This could be a bad thing no doubt.
As a young girl until the age of 12 I was known as the girl with the hair. I would have to pull it over to pee,to sit down, it took 100 pins to put it in a bun. Heavy, long, thick brown hair. It was beautiful-
back then.
Now my hair is graying,thinner than I ever remember, has numerous fading hair-colors and is a plain old ethnic-frizzy, uncontrollable mess.
Remember, I earn most of my living cutting and coloring hair- and my own hair is, er- was- pretty awful.
At some point in my 20's I became very disenchanted with long hair. My little boys had short hair and I liked the feeling of their velvety buzzcut heads when I rubbed them with my palm.
"Come here, let me rub your head" I would command.
(of course they acquiesced)
The freedom a buzz cut represented; the detachment from the ego, no more concern over the smelliness, the submission of style, "is my hair looking right?"- freedom.
I did it.
Somewhere in the early 90's after numerous style and coloring experiments and a brief stint of the classic beauty school pink hair phenomena-
I buzzed it slam off!
And it was good- for me.
It was a bit of a shock the first time I buzzed however because it was February on the central east coast- 20 some degrees outside.
Wow does hair keep your head warm, who knew?
I sported a buzz for several years. People assumed I was gay. I heard about it all the time.
Here and now it has been almost ten years since my last total buzz cut. My sweet Tate and others convinced me it was not my best look.
I had an ego to protect- theirs.
I let it grow, and grow, and grow.
I trimmed it, cut off 5 inches, more, less- and it kept growing.
Nine years of this long hair, hair I was quite unattached to meant numerous hair clips, pony tails, braids- a constant battle.
It felt like a dust magnet and needed constant shampooing.
It tickled my face and I pulled it back all of the time- making it thin and broken in the front.
I refused to color it, it was too long.
I felt as if I were in a cave, negative energy held in the tree branches outside.
Old memories carved from each thought have grown into each hair shaft and dangle around my shoulders- noisy- negative energies.
Two weeks ago- floating down the river in a kayak with Tate.
"So T-my buzz cut, remember what a great look that was for me?"
"It wasn't your best- nope."
"I liked it. I really want it back but I do not want you to not be attracted to me. You know, so you don't go looking for someone else".
"Are you kidding me? he asked- I'd love you if you were bald. Yada, yada, yada"- he sort of said.
(basically he said he does not ask me what to do with his hair,beard, or body for that matter and would not mandate my style parameters.he loves me unconditionally)
I decided to take baby steps to freedom and made an appointment with a young, talented, artistic stylist.
I told her my desire to buzz, the obsession and we talked about how weird people are to create such stigma and drama when a woman gets a buzz cut. Men do it all the time, what's the big deal?
"Oh my god, why did you do that!" is what I was used to hearing each buzz.
-STUPID- we agreed
In order to placate and diminish my fears of being unattractive to my mate, I decided to go short but leave a few inches here and there to add a little fem to the deal.
Ms. C. cut. . . and cut, and cut.
After a strong 30 minutes, maybe more I put my glasses on to see her work. It was short. I was a bit shocked. I almost cried.
I know it seems strange; its what I wanted, what I had before, but it had been a long time since my hair was this short.
I was scared- scared he wouldn't like it.
Avi- I'll call Avi.
"What are you doing" he asked.
"I just got all my hair cut off. I have to go shopping now."
"For what?"
"A new dress. Anyone with hair this short better be wearin a dress or people are going to think I am a boy."
He laughed.
I went to the drug store to pick up a prescription. The pharmacy worker was young, male, and for the most part- attractive.
Instead of asking for my meds. I blurt out-
"I just got all my hair cut off. Does it look stupid?"
"Noooo" he said sweetly.
I bought some sparkly girlie head bands. They made me feel a little better.
I called Tate and told him I got all my hair cut off and was afraid to come home.
"That's what hats are for" he said.
On the hour drive home
I notice I have a phantom pony tail. I feel around the bare back of my neck. I begin to feel giddy, free, from all that oppressive hair. I begin to love this forgotten feeling.
I don't care what people think of me- screw people who judge others by their appearance- freedom.
Ahh, it was all coming back to me.
I walked in the house where Tate sat at the table waiting for me to get home.
"It's adorable!" he said "best ever."
Giddy- free-!!!!!

KetchUPPP!!

2010-06-16T11:39:00.006-05:00

Truth be told, ever since my grade school girlfriend, whom I had not seen in thirty plus years, found my blog; ever since she told me there were threads on facebook with numerous old grade school friends asking "what ever happened to Stacy Sheer" last October, I have been remiss- in writing- and blogging.
I've been working on pre reqs for grad school which meant lots of art and painting and my writing about the unfolding of my so called life has been reduced to simple one liners on facebook.
It's kind of a shame- because-
Here are some of the amazing events which I have failed to write about:
1)In April, Avi(my favorite son) came in from NYC and ran the Charlottesville Marathon- 26 miles in good stride. I cried. (There is a UTUBE video of the cville marathon if you want to see- me cry that is).
2) In May I finished the last pre-req for the art therapy master of arts art therapy program at Saint Mary of the Woods College- Indiana.
3) In May one of my paintings was hung in a juried show where for every one artist submissions accepted, 5 were not.
4) In May- I received the Chica Tenney scholarship for the arts at our local community college- which I love- so I can take one more class there this fall.
5)IN MAY- WILEY (my other favorite son) GRADUATED COLLEGE AT VCU IN RICHMOND!!!!!!!
Could there be anything else I failed to write about? seriously. . .(I cried at this too and there's a Utube of Wiley doing the walk on my utube page)

-In June I received the phone call I have been accepted to grad school,I begin the end of July.(I cry when I think about how much money this is going to cost and the thought of APA research papers and thesis writing- yeah just kidding who would cry over that)?
-I recently completed the Hospice volunteer training and am awaiting my first assignment.
-I've had drama with hair salon/barber employees which is not worth writing about, but it hurt my soul.
-I've assisted at one birth in the past year and have given up midwifing for the current epoch.
The Universe which seems to be my dream has been teaching me some kick ass lessons lately and I am opening my ears to listen.
so.. . that's enough of some of the stuff you missed.
Now, I have 2 stories to tell today and about an hour to tell them in. So
I better hurry, and don't you worry, they are- all about me.
Feels good to come back.

Man Eating Sushi; has a funny shaped head

2010-06-16T09:45:00.003-05:00

The Man Eating Sushi has a funny shaped head (2010). Acrylic on wood, 18"x 24". $250.00

In Tom Wait's Voice

2010-06-16T09:26:00.001-05:00

(double post on Numb Benign- just because I like it)

Mary was a welfare mother
Joseph was a kindhearted man
Jesus was born on a cold winter's day
in a cardboard shack
Under a sign
which read
"WILL WORK FOR FOOD"

Daren Court

2010-06-11T20:52:00.005-05:00

I know it's long, I wrote it almost 5 years ago on my birthday. I wanted to get it archived here after I realized it had never been posted. Or has it? Forgive me.
Note: this is 8200 daren Ct. The large black numbers would later be added by my father and uncle to the front gable peak facade and Doc the dwarf statue carrying a lamp and doctor's bag still stands atop the entrance concrete steps on the hill, center left.He was purchased a few years after this photo.

DAREN COURT

Doc stands watching over the cul de sac. His once red dwarf cap is severely faded, along with the rest of him. The lamp he holds in his right hand is broken in half, yet he continues to hold his outstretched arm in such a way to let me know, he is looking out for me. He is still here, so are the exaggerated house numbers, 8200.

On a summer day, my uncle who always arrived when there was work to be done, real work, the kind you didn't learn to do in school, was there. He painted the numbers a glossy black, while my father stood atop a tall ladder, hanging them straight. I played in the grass under a huge maple tree, front and center on the hill. The tree that is no longer there, only a rough grassy round indentation marks it's place. From my vantage point I could see everything in my world. I could see in both directions every house on the street perpendicular to our court. Being on the corner, I could also see each house on the cul de sac. The place where I watched the big kids ride bikes without training wheels and walked my baby, Karen, a piece of plasticized beauty with curly dark hair and cerulean blue eyes, in a real pram. The neighbor ladies would wait for me to push her past their driveways, and bend over to see my baby. "Wasn't I lucky, wasn't I a proud mamma. How nicely I wrapped her in that soft yellow blanket."

It is three days before my fortieth birthday. A few of my friends, upon reaching this landmark, plan trips to the islands, or have surprise parties thrown for them, where they drink shots of tequila to prove they still can. I have driven four and half hours in the oppressive summer heat to visit my childhood home. Thirty five years have passed since I have been to this place.

It's fairly early in the day, just like I remember humidity 100%, temperature hot. I am traveling with my eighteen year old son. I have brought him for courage, sanity, and purpose. He obliges me by coming along, but the significance to him is lost probably in his own experience of thirty two homes in eighteen years; a symbol for which he could never find in one place.

We have just been to visit my Grandmother (his great) who, two days ago celebrated her eighty fifth year speaking of significant. The mahjongg maiden and her friends sat four around a card table. "Crack" "Bam" "Three dot". "This is serious business, you children be quiet, we have to concentrate now." The old lady whose apartment this is, is unhappy about our visit. Her face tells all as she greets us at the door with a come in then growl. It's not really us, or maybe it is. She is hunched over her tiles with a magnifying glass in hand. We notice after a while that she has changed position around the table, switched seats with the grandma closer to the spotlight pointed at the table, she's nearly blind. The other women, my grandmother included, are bristling with impatience. If we listened really close we noticed the clicking wasn't just from the ivory tiles on the table, but from tongues, and my diva grandmas coral pink fingernails, tap, click, tap, click. To break the tension my grandmother tells me to get a little present out of the blue bag sitting on a chair. Mondel bread. Cinnamon, chocolate chips and almond paste, Jewish biscotti. Our family fights over this stuff. We eat it, kiss her on the cheek and wish her luck on her game before we head to the early childhood museum. The stakes are high; four dollars a day, three times a week, sixty years, someone else can do the math.

Mature trees stand along the driveway where there used to be none. The big trees I remember, the Pyrocantha that sent clusters of orange berries up to the roof, the Mimosa, with pink cotton candy blooms that matched my hair ribbons, are missing.

Large trees loom over the roofline from the backyard that also used to be bare. I can't bring myself to walk to the back yard, not yet. I walk three steps and steady myself by Doc's faded side. The heat or the memories that attack the inside of my head like a boiling whirlpool, make me dizzy.

'You're still here!"

"Where else would I be?"

"I remember when you were bright, beautiful and new, you could use some colorful paint"

"Yes my darling, I guess the same could be said of you."

"Good to see you Doc, I'm going in."

"Time changes us all in some ways. I'll be here when you come out."

"Okay Doc." I pat him on his pointy hat, reaching down instead of up like I used to. Already I am gulping back tears, but I can't really pin point what disturbs and saddens me more, the fact that doc is still here under the giant numbers, or the fact the he isn't gone, like the other landmarks, the trees, my neighbors, my childhood and it's friends. Different should be different, no lingering remnants of who we used to be should still stand.

I remember when we found Doc in a roadside concrete statuary during one of our weekend family excursions. My father liked to get away from his long hours at the hospital. He started his second residency the day before I was born. He would drive the green and brown station wagon to nearby getaways. State parks, the Pennsylvania Dutch Country, the beach. He wore thick black glasses on his prominent nose, and his hair was black, cut in a classic crew. He wears contact lenses now, his nose is still huge, and he's bald as a coot. He had a huge laugh. He had the kind of laugh that when he started there was a sound that made you laugh too, even when you didn't want to. He wasn't nearly as funny as he said he was. Then it turned into one of those silent, face dissolving into an open mouth, head tilted back kind of laughs. Little "auck" gasps would escape the back of his throat. One hand would have to hold his chest I guessed to keep it from exploding. "Daddy, how come she gets to sit up front and I don't?"

"Because I like her better than I like you"- Big laugh for him, even though I knew he was joking, I wouldn't laugh.

"That's not funny." I would claim.

"Yes it is, it's funny." He usually replied.

My sister Bari was less than two years older than me, but I considered her one of the big kids. Big sister, ally and arch nemesis. Mean, mean, mean. By the time I was less than five years old; I know because it happened here in this house, I also felt sorry for her. Not because she had a lazy eye, and had to wear a patch over the lens of her blue cat eye glasses. Not because my Mother cut her hair into a pixie cut which was all the rage. Of course not the hair cut, I got one too. We were lucky like that. We had the matching outfits meant for twins, same pattern, different color scheme. Looking back now it is quite possible that our Mother could not tell us apart, even though we looked completely different, even though my sister was almost a head taller than me. No, I felt sorry for her because to her our mother was mean. Meaner than she was to me or our little brother, and he was her favorite. Time didn't change their meanness, which must be one of the things that Doc didn't realize when he said time changes us. . . Oh yeah, I was talking about finding Doc. We had stopped to get some air in our lungs, a respite from my mother's cigarette smoke, hairspray, and incessant complaining about us. Those stops were the highlight of mini trips for my Mom (which in the future, luckily for us, she would excuse herself from completely). She could stop trying to pretend to like her station in life as a wife and mother and she could spend money.

Doc didn't come home with us; he would never fit in the station wagon with the five of us. He must have been delivered. I realized he would be joining us the same way I learned of most events in our family, through my mother's never ending telephone conversations with her friends.

"He's adorable . . . long white beard . . . dwarfs cap… has a black doctor's bag (one just like my father's). Oh yes . . . a lantern in his hand. . . set him by the steps on the walkway. I know, he's absolutely perfect . . . can't wait for you to see him. . ."

Endless.

I walk a few more feet to the front stoop. Standing before the front door of the late fifties brick ranch home, my ears began to ring. "P.F flyers, P.F. flyers . . ." A continuous loop being chanted by the group of big girls standing outside. They are led by my sister. I loved my new red sneakers yesterday, now I hate them. I stand looking down at my shoes, tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat. I hate them as much as I hate the girls on the other side of the front door, out on the stoop, mocking me. Why does she lead them in this chorus, why is she so mean? I didn't get it then. I still can't figure out what was so mockable about my P.F.flyers, but the front door is different. Different now from the pane over pane glass I stood behind then, it's heavier and covered with ornate golden colored metalwork. I ring the doorbell. A middle aged dark skinned woman in traditional African dress and headscarf appears where I once stood, while the mean girls mocked me. Where I stood every morning looking out to see if anyone had answered my prayers and left a baby in a basket for me.

I spoke fast, a tap dance on my head. "Hi, my name is. . . I am sorry to interrupt you. . lived in this house for the first five years of my life. . . I know it's an assisted living home now, a business, my sister told me. . . many years since I've seen. . ., my fortieth , yes driven four hours, could I possibly see inside?"

She hesitated, then, "Okay".

I was inside

An aging black man sat on sofa, in the living room where our black and white heavy brocade sofa used to sit. The material matched the long drapes which hung from the front window. Gone is our sofa, the drapes and the crimson red carpet. White walls, curtains and thin Oak floors have taken their place. Tan couch, brown aging man, staring at the blank white wall across from him. His gaze misses the large television screen by several yards. A few feet to his left is the dining room. Two geriatric women sit in wheelchairs. I am directed to explain myself to them by the African lady who seems to be in charge.

"Hi. This was my house when I was a little girl. Ms. Marie has allowed me to come inside; I just wanted to see it again." I told the two women who look at me as if I were a three headed alien from Mars.

They look at each other, then shift their steady stares past me.
"What? one old lady said to the other. I didn't hear a word she said".
"Me neither" said the other one shaking her head.
I shrug and walk back towards Ms. Marie.

The foyer I stand on in awe is covered in white linoleum. It follows around an impossibly short empty walkway, around a corner, to our bedrooms.

I am walking over real slate, gray-blue tiles, past the heavy wooden credenza draped in ivy. It is taller than me. I pause at the corner. There's a small empty nook, where a concrete cherub statue used to stand on a sea-shell bowl refusing to pump water from a stone decanter. I would stir the tiny dry multi-colored pebbles at his feet with my hands. The bowl was level with my chest. I realize it must have stood somewhere below where my knees are now. The kitchen stands door-less, before us. We skip the kitchen and round the corner toward the bedrooms. Standing at the end of the hallway, the doors to each of the three bedrooms are all within arms reach, one in front, and one on each side. Actually the real doors have been removed from the hinges and have been replaced by see through louver doors, the kind you hang on closets. They are hanging at odd angles giving the entire space the feeling of Van Gogh's "Room at Arles". My little brother's room, the first I peek in, is smaller than some closets I've seen. There is a single bed, a dresser, night stand, and a table lamp. Pale, cheap hotel chic. The walls again are white. The house is completely void of color and carpet, yet when I cross the threshold, I see orange- brown carpet, mustard cream colored walls, his crib, his changing table. Then I see his single bed, the one we found his half eaten dog biscuits under. The bed he would cry himself to sleep in, "It's not fair! I don't wanna go to bed! I want a dwink o wawor!" We would laugh for a while, my sister and I trying to sleep in the next room, then we'd get tired of his screaming, and we'd yell at him to go to sleep too. In the morning I would crawl into bed next to my brother, somehow being my mother's favorite made everything around him feel safe and comforting. Brian's room: (definition) a safe zone suspended between the bedrooms of mother and daughters.

One step to the right and I was in my parents bedroom. A portal through time and space back to the days where my parents acknowledged they were married to each other. A place where they shared the same bed, where they had children, a house, a station wagon and an aging French Poodle named Pierre. Once again, vivid colors were replaced by white walls and pale fabrics. I am making small talk with my tour guide, I have drifted so far away in my memories, it is difficult to speak. She yanks me back to the present with one statement. "It used to be green carpet here."

Now it's Oak, like the other rooms.

"Yes, but, how do you know?"

She points to the floor underneath the hinge pin of the closet door. A tiny piece of emerald green carpet is holding tight. It begins to spread out and the room grows back to its original grandeur. A sea of regal green rushes out and sweeps away from the wall length closet. The closet is full of fine clothes and shoes. Shoes that sparkle when you hold them in the sun beams pouring through the window over the bed. The bed was the biggest I had ever seen, with a fat green coverlet, and paisley sheets. There was a long cardboard tube that held pillows in perfect form across the padded headboard during the daytime. On the other side of the green ocean, way across the room: two golden velvet bucket chairs, a round wooden table, and a television set. I would curl up in those swivel chairs, watching my favorites: Green Acres, A Family Affair and The Partridge Family. In the evening after dinner (Dinner: another intangible memory for my family) I would watch Laugh In. Scantily clad, blond airheads with painted on psychedelic tattoos, huge breasts, go-go boots, laughing and dancing; I couldn't wait to grow up and be just like them.

Across from the sitting area, my mother's make up table. Tiny parlor chair, enormous light bulb framed mirror. Hair pieces, wigs and falls, sat on styrofoam heads. Light blue eye shadow, Dippity Do, Aqua-Net, "Okay ready, hold your breath. Hsssssst."

I opened the door to my first bed room. The once princess pink walls were covered in peeling, off white textured wall paper. The frame of the window, above our white lace covered trundle bed, hung across the panes loosing a battle with gravity. A little girl with a pixie haircut stood on the bed, swollen red welts on her thigh, sobbing. She'd stare out the window through puffy red eyes, at the grassy hill behind the fence. The fence that's now rusted and bent. She imagines she's leaving, for good this time. She's never coming back.

Father and Daughter Act to die for

2010-06-11T10:55:00.000-05:00

2010-06-10T12:35:00.002-05:00

A dream that is not interpreted is like a letter that is unread.-The Talmud

Big News; Field, Water, Sky

2010-04-13T15:38:00.005-05:00

This is Field, Water, Sky (2010). Acrylic on canvas, 24"x32".
I used the image for posters announcing my first solo art opening on April 1. This was the only canvas I had during our last blizzard. I was snowed in for 7 days; this painting has many layers of paint.
Field still hangs in my shop/gallery unsold with a price tag of $450.00 (I am willing to negotiate)
The day of my opening I received notice the Field painting was accepted into a national show. Big news, somebody besides me likes some of my work:)
VMRC Art Exhibition

Kila and The Golden Parachute

2010-01-12T12:57:00.003-05:00

Kila is a serpent girl.I could have named this painting lots of different names; Princess of Wands, Kila and the Golden Parachute, Mirage. . .
I knew Kila when she was just a little girl, now she is a covergirl (of sorts). The dress killed me, it was all about the dress. She is acrylic on canvas, 16"x22". This is the first painting of 2010.

Shark Number 22

2009-12-30T11:44:00.002-05:00

Enough of the spontaneous snow art, I actually painted on canvas during the storm. This is a painting of Tate showing off his 22nd shark catch of the day over the Thanksgiving holiday. We were on the beach in the Outer Banks. The sunset behind him was truly difficult to believe. It is acrylic on canvas, 16"x20". (I have almost used up my case of 16x20s and am eager to move into another sized box).

Snow Angels and Goddesses, and Spontaneous Sculpture

2009-12-21T14:45:00.008-05:00

We've had a bit of snow. more than 20 inches actually. I know it is a common occurrence for you northerners, but not us. I don't even own a pair of snow boots.

Tate is not the goddess I speak of, I made her out of snow (she's up there).

Tate made a snow angel, he was naked as a jaybird when he made it, maybe a little tipsy as well.

Neither of us had anything to do with the rock sculpture sporting a penis, hanging mighty low though- mighty low. The muses entertain, no?

Grandpa's Farm

2009-12-04T16:46:00.002-05:00

Grandpa died a few weeks ago. I have been going through old photos and found several versions of the little boys in the little boat with Grandpa, fishing in the pond behind Grandma and Grandpa's house. There has been one picture in a frame on a shelf for years and I never realized before how the passage of years could be noticed in the numerous versions of these pictures. Boys age 4 and 6, 10 and 12 etc. They are both wearing their favorite blaze orange hoodies in this painting and are maybe 5 and 7 years old. Beautiful memories of boys and Grandpa, we miss him.

Maggie's Masquerade

2009-12-04T16:30:00.002-05:00

Maggie's Masquerade, 2009. Acrylic on canvas 16"x 20"

This is one of my favorites, from a picture of Isabella/Maggie S. our friend. The setting is an enormous Chinese emporium in Manhattan. I can't remember the exact name of the place but the word Pearl is in it. Could have stayed there for days and not gotten a chance to see everything. The colors and the lanterns and the light, yummy.

September McGee

2009-12-04T11:11:00.002-05:00

Another amazing artist I found this morning. September McGee

Stacy and Tate's Room at Arles

2009-10-30T09:38:00.003-05:00

Acrylic on board. 18"x12"

Jesus Van Gogh

2009-10-30T09:26:00.004-05:00

Jesus Van Gogh. Acrylic on board, 12"x12". I entered him in a high stakes painting contest. You can vote for me by clicking on a star under one of my paintings, if you haven't already. Thanks for your support.VOTE

Praying Mantis Boy at the Beach

2009-09-14T14:58:00.003-05:00

I know he may be furious with me about the title but I could not help myself. This acrylic on canvas painting of my most skinny adorable son at the beach is 16"x20"on canvas. NFS

Feeding Geese

2009-09-04T15:17:00.003-05:00

This acrylic on canvas piece is 10"x12". It is a color study which I am quite pleased with.There is a mystical quality to the little boys in each environment.
Those little boys are 20 years older than the model photo boys now. In the mid 1980s these little boys moved into the most secure home they had ever lived in all their 5 and 3 years. We were on the edge of a corn field and one morning were awakened by a cacophony of wild geese honks. Wiley still in his crocheted night cap grabbed a bag of cereal from his Uncle B. and planted himself in the middle of the flock and threw handfuls. Little brother Avi walked around the edge of the excitement,not too happy to meet birds which were as tall as he was.
Remember it as if it were yesterday

Naked Sunday

2009-09-04T15:11:00.003-05:00

On a naked Sunday, a woman works in her poppy garden.

Lottery Gods

2009-08-13T10:18:00.005-05:00

The voice came to me as Tate brought me my coffee in bed. It wasn't my birthday or anything he just knows bringing me coffee is the only way to get me to wake up. I am known to sleep through house fires.
As I rose to wakefulness a dream announcer in an authoritarian male voice said "If you were born on July second, today is your day to win the Lottery."
I was born that day!
I told Tate.
"Good, I'm getting tired" he said.
Later that afternoon I drove into town to get the air conditioning fixed in my car. It had not been working for two of the hottest weeks of the Summer. While the mechanics examined my fairly new vehicle I walked to the store to purchase the winning lottery ticket.
At the check out I checked my numbers for the 150 million dollar powerball which played two days before.
I hit it! The powerball, yes number 43 was the winning powerball number and I had chosen it on the correct day. I also hit one other number out of the 5 in the sequence. I won
Three dollars.
Funny Lottery Gods, funny dream announcer.
Oh, the air conditioner in the car, they fixed it. The nice mechanic showed me where the ON button was. "Ms. Sheer,the air conditioner runs nice and cold, ...After you turn it on"
Who knew?

Haunted House

2009-07-22T11:58:00.002-05:00

This painting is 16X22" acrylic on canvas. The image of the ghostie in the window is from an actual photo of an abandoned house on a country road. I stopped to take its picture and when I was close enough I saw an old shredded night shirt hanging inside in the glare of what appears to be an open back door of the house. It was eerily disturbing and I almost left it out of the painting but couldn't edit a force like that out.

The Holy Man

2009-07-17T12:57:00.002-05:00

The Holy Man by Susan Trott, a gem pulled from the shelves of our local small town, underfunded library because it had not been checked out in a year. Lent to me by a friend who is in the loop at the library.

"All Joe wanted for the world was more kindness, less ignorance".

Sidewalk Chalk Guy

2009-07-10T14:34:00.002-05:00

I know we have seen some of these before but I think some are new. Worth seeing again though. Edgar Muller

Birthday Calls

2009-07-05T17:59:00.002-05:00

It's my 44th birthday, Tate and me are driving seven hours to Pennsylvania for his family reunion. Usually our road trips begin before the crack of dawn but not this one. Tate had a quick business meeting early and we were in the neighborhood of the baby whose birth I recently attended so we stopped in to (wake them up) say hello, and. After a few hours on the road Tate's phone rings. “Don't answer if you don't know who it is” he orders. I look.
Ring- ring- Oh, its Wiley I realize out loud.
Hey Mongo- happy birthday he says, I bet I am the first to call.
Right you are , you always were my favorite son I assure him.
I know , I am sure Avi will call, he's probably still asleep.
I agree with him and we chat a bit and love you too. . . bye.
Further up the road nearly an hour passes and now my phone is ringing. Hi Avi.
Happy birthday he sing songs in a falsetto voice. I'm the first to call aren't I ?
Actually no,your brother already called me.
What? Wiley? Uggh, mom I thought of it first I just woke up and besides I took the day off from work in commemoration of your birthday.
Wow, really? You must love me more. You always were my favorite son.
I know.

At least they remembered the day, after all they are males. Speaking of males and birthdays and remembering dates and other oxymorons of the sort, I realized T had no idea today is my birthday somewhere into our first few hours of our day. I told myself I was not going to enlighten him. I would wait until his baby sister mentions my birthday (she-always remembers) in front of him later tonight when we get to the reunion. Its kind of like keeping a secret which although I can , it is hard for me. Really hard.
I make this inner promise to myself as he is putting gas in the truck and I am sitting in the cab waiting. Boredom strikes and a bit of early morning carsickness I decide to take a quick look inside the store for something to eat or drink.
We are back on our way out of town and only 30 minutes from my secret when I catch a glimpse of some odd object in the console drink holders.
Hey, I say- where'd he come from?
A solitary kneeling plastic green army man, one hand on his telephone which is attached to the field pack on his back and the other hand is missing. His handless arm is outstretched in front of him as he makes a call on his field phone.
I hold him up, coveting.
You can't have it, Tate shouts, it's for your happy birthday. I found it while I was working on so and sos farm last week.
-Today IS MY Happy Birthday! I blurt out.
It is?
Yyeah.
OK, I guess you can have him then.
Thank you, he's my favorite. You notice he is on the phone?
Yes.
Did you notice he lost his hand in the battle?
Yes, that too.
Know what he's saying?
Tell me.
He says- “Hey Mac, I need a hand here, Now!”
Yeah, we're funny I know. I am noticing a theme here that some of you may not have even considered, it's the green birthday present theme. Last year you see T gave me a 13 pound cabbage for my birthday. It's what I wanted, a cabbage anyway, and yes, I reminded him my birthday was coming up for a week in order to help him be prepared. I guess that proves it, some men do not have trouble remembering birthdays and special dates after all. I sure am blessed.

Rainy Day Man

2009-07-01T13:22:00.003-05:00

Rainy Day Man. Acrylic on canvas, 12"x22", 2009.
Note to self; Please excuse Stacy for being tardy to work this morning, she just had to finish this painting.
It is actually my Tate under that umbrella.The goldfinch in real life is a cell phone- but he was talking to me and the finch is as cute as he is-so- Its my new favorite.

Naked Dream

2009-07-01T12:49:00.003-05:00

I finally finished the naked in the Italian canal dream. It is acrylic on canvas, 18"x22". I just call it Naked Dream, 2009.
(you can zoom in to the water to see the characters do their thing)

Street Art, Joshua Allen Harris

2009-06-17T14:50:00.002-05:00

Relaunch

2009-06-17T12:58:00.002-05:00

Once again I believe it is time tochange my blog. I am not really writingmuch these days- mostly due to this new notebook's inability to space. See it? My dinosaur Cadillac laptop is about cooked from age and abuse, college papers and too many images saved. This tiny notebook was not a wise solution.
Now that school is out for a while, I am returning my focus to painting.
I am giving up Midwifing. A recent experience convinced me birthing is not in the cards for me, not now, maybe never.
I am not in any trouble but I can not discuss the particulars- another reason I have not been writing
Seems everything I want to write about could get me into trouble.
I am taking a break from my fiddle lessons with Ms. Mary- I just need a break.
I work when I have to and am going back to paint.
I'll be checking in now and then with you writer bloggers.
I hope to be pleased with my work enough that I will confidently be able to post it here-
in my revamped site
and maybe even sell a piece or two on Amazon or Ebay.
Thanks for your patience, and everything else about you.

Dream about a Dream

2009-06-15T14:50:00.004-05:00

What is interesting sometimes is to discuss a previous dream in a current dream and watch the ways in which reality and dream realities intertwine. In a dream a few nights ago, I was discussing my painting of my dream "Swimming Naked in Italian Canal" ( I know- you haven't seen it, it is sketched in a previous post, scroll down a bit)with dream researcher and department head of dream and psychic research for the Edgar Cayce Institute, The ARE, Henry Reed. I have taken Henry's dream interpretation and dream quest course in the past and found it a fascinating journey.
Anyway- in this dream,Henry is a travelling art expert, he is critiquing people's art and it is my turn. He makes a few statements about its mediocrity and how I only get $300.00 per painting (not good enough).
next part is very cool because I tell him, in the dream, the painting is of the dream where I am swimming naked through the canal. . .
I explain to henry I am getting hung up on the details of the painting and am getting stuck, it does not flow as it should.
Henry takes a piece of drawing chalk? and quickly draws the skyline, he tells me to let go and paint , loosen up and just do it as if I was sketching.
The next day, I returned to my canvas after feeling quite trapped in it. I took a piece of chalk and fled across the canvas and the painting began to take a positive shape- to me means it is making me happy and I like to work on it.

A few days later, today, I emailed Henry and told him about this experience. he reminded me with this video to look again at the dream and the painting with respect to the action and the meaning of the dream , not so much on the environmental details, background etc.
Tomorrow when I get a chance to paint again all day, I already know where changes are going to be made.
Henry is a fabulous teacher.

Remey In the River

2009-06-10T15:43:00.003-05:00

Here is a pastel sketch of my nephew. He is adorable, no beautiful, and unfortunately is being used as a pawn in his parents nasty little war. The biggest losers in this battle- 2 kids. Why do adults act so irresponsibly when there are beautiful ( or ugly for that matter) KIDS at stake? Why?

Belmont House (Sketch)

2009-06-05T10:01:00.004-05:00

Now that I have finished my BA, I am working on completing all requirements for the grad school program I want to participate in. This means beginning art classes.Funny? Not really. I have been painting since I can remember being alive and never felt the need to take painting classes. Now they are required and one can always learn more.What is even better is the fact my current intro to painting teacher is a personal friend of mine and she has separated her class into 2 sections. Those of us who already have experience with paint (5 out of 20) are allowed to simply paint what we wish and to join critiques with the beginners. I love having the time to paint as a requirement. My goal is to complete at least four paintings which please me in the next 8 weeks.
Anywho- Michelle ONeil of Full Soul-Ahead (the only reader of this blog at this point) suggests I post my work and make it available for sale.
I have been creating pastel sketches of the paintings I am preparing to work on and have considered selling the sketches for a mere 25.00 each. I have paypal. Anyone interested?
Here is a possible next piece; Belmont House, pastel sketch- $25.00

Dream Sketch, Naked in Italian Canal

2009-05-28T16:52:00.003-05:00

I forgot to add the dude, but it is not too late. Coming along in paint too.

Swimming In the Street

2009-05-22T10:54:00.001-05:00

The night before graduation , well, 2 nights before
I was in an older city, like somewhere in Italy and the buildings on both sides of the city street scape are in view. I see a man on the sidewalk as i swim by, I am absolutely naked and swimming in the street which is water. I am thinking I know I am naked and I do not mind if the man sees me. I am feeling beautiful, powerful and strong as I swim a powerful breast stroke. I swim around the corner and under a tunnel bridge.
It was cooler than cool.
I will attempt to paint it this next few weeks.

Life After School

2009-05-14T16:18:00.002-05:00

Now, what? I guess I have time to sit and watch the irises bloom. I actually have time to smell them too- Mmmmmm, Can you smell em?

Walking the Walk in Ruby Slippers

2009-05-13T14:55:00.002-05:00

Thanks to Matt at Animal Mind for finally enlightening me to the embed link function- doh!

Let's watch this one more time:))

Walk The Walk

2009-05-08T09:27:00.002-05:00

When I become overwhelmed i often have the same recurring nightmare; I am in high school and I am unprepared and I am not going to graduate. As an- at times- over zealous student, I am mortified, and then I declare in the dream that I do not need to finish high school, I went to college anyway.
In this dream I am sometimes teen aged and others my old aging middle aged self. I am the oldest girl in the class, older than my teachers often.
It is true, when my father left us for his chicksa new wife and family, I took it quite hard. I fell into a deep self loathing depression and stopped going to school. I stayed home to clean the house and read and who knows. I received the letter addressed to my parents which stated if I was not in school on Monday, I was not permitted to return, ever.
I threw it in the trash.
After some time I took the GED exam and went to college in upstate NY. My father bitched and moaned about the money and my mom bought a new sportscar and a fur coat, a few pieces of jewelry too I think.
I partied most of the time, took off to Grateful Dead tour most of the week and returned to take exams maybe once a week. I maintained a 3.80 average anyway and then after 2 semesters I entered the school of hard knocks.
A year later I gave birth to my first son. At 21 I was a proud (welfare) mother of 2 babies and on my own. I will be 44 this year.
A few weeks ago, after I completed my final academic course for my BA , I had the new version of the recurring dream:
This time I am not going to graduate from college because i have not completed my papers, I do not have time to write another one.
Listen up Psyche!!!!!
We are going to IOWA, in a few hours, you need to get that woman in her underwear away from the keyboard and get her dressed and packing.
You did graduate- or- you will, if you get your ass packing!!
Pomp and circumstance here we come.

BTW

2009-05-04T18:09:00.001-05:00

Oh, in case any of you are disturbed by the mummy like picture on my comment profile- relax. I am making new friends. I have found a grad school program I want to participate in, Art Therapy. I need a sculpture or 2 for my portfolio. She is going to be fabulous.

It Worked; sort of

2009-05-04T18:01:00.002-05:00

I spent way too much time trying to post the video clip of my blooming irises.Cut and paste and it works, sigh- I am so technologically challenged.
The Antique Road Show is on and it is still cool and raining outside. Gotta go- maybe I will write on the plane next weekend. I am graduating college this weekend, gonna be a riot.Love- just that.

Click your Heels 3 times Dorothy

2009-05-02T12:20:00.011-05:00

If one more idiotic DJ says-We've skipped right over Spring and landed in Summer-
I am going to scream, or worse. This has been a beautiful cool Virginia spring and I am watching every day, taking pictures each day of the bloom of my purple iris garden. I have been working on this bulb garden for 6 years now. I started it with 30 plants given to me by a friend as she thinned her historic home garden. There can be only one- purple Irises only. Last year a yellow popped up and I banished it to another garden.
I dig up, separate, replant these bulbs each fall and wait all winter and early spring to see the show. You may think I am simple, but this garden is one of the greatest joys in my life.
There's no place like home, no place

There's No Place like Home

2009-04-19T16:44:00.002-05:00

Unfinished Business

2009-04-16T10:14:00.005-05:00

As much as I hoped to be big about my little girl drama with my ex-father, I seem to be a bit stuck. I expected the fact that I had worked the dynamics into my dreams would resolve the issues in the awake world as well.
First night I see the man who was my father enter the room with a ukulele and my three-not real- sisters. He is going to play music with them and I am left out and heart broken, I want to play too. I enter the room and sit down on the sofa next to him, I lean over and whisper in his ear- "I need some daddy time"

He puts his arm around me and I feel calm, safe, protected and loved.

Next night- I am getting ready for my wedding to Tate, there is much drama and preparation. I move along a city street and stop near a wall with a telephone sitting on top of it. I pickup the phone and say-"Hi dad,I just want you to know that Tate and me are getting married today, you probably won't be interested in coming to it because your wife's children are not in it, so don't bother coming, thanks"
Dad, or man that used to be my dad,laughs his laugh-

Perhaps you get the gist now; I welcome feedback on this one. Even though I now have my great big BA in Psych, I may not be ready to get through this conflict alone.
Here is what happened:
As the academic front runner in my family, dad expected me to go to college, hopefully in the Med school track. (like all smart doctor daughters)
When I was 14? 15 years old,my Jewish doctor dad left my mom and his three children for a Catholic woman (of course she agreed to convert to Judaism for the financial(strike through)/spiritual reward) who had 2 smaller children of her own.
Mom took all his money and spent it on fur coats and sports cars and singles clubs.
All three of us kids dropped out of High School (unspeakable sin against Judaism)
Dad said he has no money to send me to school.
I proceed to take alot of drugs and have a breakdown.
OK kid- he said- I will send you to college.
Art school I say
Art is a hobby I won't pay for it, why not med school he said.

Twenty seven years later, I have completed my BA in Psych and am planning a Masters in Art Therapy.I am paying my tuition as well as helping both of my sons pay theirs.
For the past year or so, the man who used to be my father has been asking me when I will graduate and if I am going to it.He said he would like to go too.( I could care a less if he is there or not, its not the point.)

Two weeks ago, I call him to discuss this evil flu I have. He asks again, When is my graduation?
May 9th I say.
-May 9th?!!! That is Mother's Day weekend he said disbelieving. Why do they have graduation on a holiday?! he implores-this is a major tragedy for him.
Oh Stace (not my name anymore) he said, if it were any other weekend I could go, but not Mothers Day my wife would be livid.

Well gee dad, they always have graduation then I replied.
And- You can bring your wife to graduation too- (I actually like her)

Big drums roll-
We just can't do it, you know we have the kids to think about (meaning his wife's adult children in their 30s now).

As Tevye said- He is dead to me, dead to me i tell you, as my dad, now he is the man formerly known as my dad and I am changing both of my names, legally.

As an adjunct to my case, since the leaving time,not once have I, or my siblings been invited to participate in a family gathering or holiday at their home. Apparently those times are reserved for the new family- forever.
His loss truly.

My Muse

2009-04-15T09:47:00.001-05:00

I'd never lie to you, never.

Name Change

2009-04-06T10:08:00.007-05:00

(The title is a link to name encyclopedia)
After a certain conversation with my father, I have decided to change my name.
He has lost his naming rights-
it is final.
I have several acquaintances who do not have children.
Most of them appear to me as emotionally stuck in complicated issues with their parents, the lousy mother, the drunk abusive dad. ..
I know we all have these issues but somehow their importance or ability to challenge our mental stability wanes when we become parents of our own children.
I remember pausing one day several years ago as I played the continuous loop of how horrible my mother was and still can be at times through my head.
The question of how much of a similar but different rant might be going through my own son's heads now or in the future, or the rest of their lives for that matter, snapped me into a shut-up mode.
My internal dialogue of childish complaints and anger seemed selfish and indulgent; I am not the child anymore, I am the parent, the focus of future internal dialogues with the mother for my sons.
I dropped my daughter tape and began paying closer attention to the words and actions of the momma me; I had a breakthrough session with my internal therapist, I was cured.

Or so I thought-
He named me, he said he thought it was a beautiful name when I told him years ago how much I disliked it.
Because he said that,I kept it.
I am not going to tell you the stupid things he said last week which caused me to take away his naming rights of me, it is too self indulgent and I am burning the internal tape as well as a major support in the bridge.
I am not going to burn the entire bridge,yet, but I might.
From now on I will call him by his first name(which I happen to know he does not like) and you can call me Tzeitel.
Yes, I am serious

State Talks

2009-04-02T08:07:00.002-05:00

Tuesday Night:
I can't breathe. I've taken 2 doses of night time Theraflu,3 shots of cough syrup, some Tylenol and still feel like crap.
So I switched to a few glasses of red wine, (you know, do what you always do) and I still feel rotten. I think I am going to drown, I mistakenly say out loud.
Tate puts his shoes back on and walks to the front door.
What are you doing? I ask
We're going to the hospital come on, let's just get this over with.
The door closes behind him. He turns on his truck to warm it up.
I go to the little cabinet in the bathroom, pull out a 10 year old inhaler from Wiley's younger days, and take a few puffs.
Tate comes back inside. Come on- he says.
No, I just took some inhaler, feel much better now, I can breathe. . .
Blank stare with a hint of desperate rage.
I'm serious- I plead- Look I will go to the doctor tomorrow I promise and if I wake up dead in the morning you can kill me OK?
Deal he said as he went outside to turn off the truck.
It's so nice to have a man who understands me.

Feve

2009-03-31T09:34:00.006-05:00

That's what Wiley used to say, "Momma, I got a feve" too sweet.
But I have had one now for 5 days and 5 nights and the nightmares and dreams which accompany a fever, well. . . toss up between mystical and terrifying.

A glimpse into another realm of hell. Its a quickie short film type of scene. I have seen a few, vivid and terrifying , too awful to discuss. People quickly herded into a circular tube like elevator, there is no background, no real walls per se, just boundaries. Large chains appear and pierce the flesh of the faces and feet and link the poor souls together and then___ the bottom drops out and the people fall at flesh tearing speed then perish.
Last night another nightmare, I get caught having sex with Al gore- what in the world?
Neither nightmare borders on mystical, don't bother asking that question. Is this a link?

Venus of Pho Henix

2009-03-30T17:02:00.003-05:00

I am working my way back to blogger; its been a long time. I finished all of my academic classes for my degree. I have a 3.98 average in my major- psychology. I am going to Iowa to walk down the aisle. I have not been in a graduation ceremony since kindergarten. This is going to be fun, I pray. . . even though I think Iowa is under a bit of water.
I have abandoned you all for a while because of my schoolwork and work work getting out of control and then, I was lassoed into facebook. It's a long story but a middle school friend found me on my Blog and lured me in. It's like climbing back into a shed skin, the one you outgrew long ago and finding it is oddly comfortable . To be able to laugh, share stories, say I'm sorry, I secretly always liked you, etc. has been a blast.
I have missed so much of your lives and cannot wait to catch up. I have a little more time now. I am looking forward to doing some painting and a sculpture or two. I am still in my ceramics class on Wednesdays. I LOVE IT!!!
Have found a grad school program I hope to attend, maybe next year, if all goes as planned.
So, HERE IT IS, I AM SOMEONE ELSE NOW so I revamp this Blog and start again anew.
Missed you.
Here is my Green man , he holds my glasses while I sleep, burns candlelight through the eyes and holds my coffee cup in the morning. I got a star for learning to throw a pot on the wheel.
Life is good my friends, life is good!

2008-12-24T14:49:00.002-05:00

For Christmas, Tate gave me a special picture... of his pole.
What? I have everything I need and I didn't want him to spend any money- you know, times are hard (guffaw!)
I really enjoy it,
it's my favorite
picture ever.
If you were here, I'd give you a chocolate kiss or something sweet, a hug, a merry, merry to you- but you're not even close
So, I will share my special glimpse of Tate's spectacular pole with you,
just this one time
Happy holy days my friends, with all my heart and Tate's pole!

Tate's Pole

Not Dead- Yet

2008-12-18T14:31:00.003-05:00

Nope, I am not dead yet
sometimes I think the zillions of stressful things I deal with on a daily basis
which I am ill-prepared to manage
just may kill me once and for all
but it hasn't happened
I am just busy, which could be good except my creative urge gets stifled when I have to work all the time
or go to the beach for a few days instead of working the pre christmas rush
but I did my homework- some of it
So- the boys laugh and tell me the Avalanche music video is ANCIENT!
who knew? So that's why nobody had anything to say about it.
I cannot wait to get back into this loop and see what is going on in your exciting lives
as soon as I get a little break AND the computer working!!!! (bastard)
So- here's another cop out, hysterical though- see you soon, on this side I hope-

This explains everything

Gray Days call for This; Part II

2008-11-12T12:51:00.004-05:00

Avalanche of too funny
A visit to geniusMr. Tom's blog brought this fabulous piece of performance art to my attention; Mr. Tom rocks too. Thanks Mr. Tom.

Post script: my sons tell me this is way old news and mock me for being so out of synch- whatever, its funny!

Yes We Did!

2008-11-06T10:36:00.003-05:00

I wonder how many people have titled their blog the same title yesterday; I have not checked into any other blogs today- anyhoo-

Tuesday, THE Election of my lifetime day, it is raining.
Rain usually means Tate does not go to work and most of those rainy days we get to play.
He wakes me up and tells me it is getting late; let's go vote.
I look at the clocks which have not been set to daylight savings time (I do not want to shock my system so I wait until the biological clock gets with the program)and say it is really an hour earlier, maybe only 7.
He lies and tells me he reset the clock and I believe him.(now he denies this little fib)
But let's go vote! Yes.
I jump out of bed and get dressed. I grab my camera and we drive to the Waltons Mountain Museumto vote.(I love the museum and there are no lines and we do not have to pay to tour today, but I have to take off my hat with the Obama button, YES, I was told I had to take off my hat because of the button on it, even though there were mcCain/Palin (gag me) signs all over the front lawn.
I took off my hat, we voted.
I forgot to take a picture of the event, it was raining pretty hard.
All afternoon I watched the election coverage on news networks. I became obsessive and nervous, really nervous.
Foot tapping, sweating, agitated.
As I watched Obama vote for himself, I cried real tears.
Tate realized I was a nervous wreck and came up with a few distraction techniques, which did distract for a bit.
Evening time came, PARTIAL polls were being announced which infuriated me.
McCain was ahead in nearly every state that was announced in the time of my falling asleep.
I became despondent- Not again! I pulled the blankets over my head and wept quietly until I fell asleep.
The TV was still on.
Two Oclock in the morning (not daylight savings time)
I roll over and out of my sleep and become aware of the voice of the announcer on the television proclaiming the official count is in and Barack Obama is the 44th president of the US!
YES WE DID!!!!
I cannot even count how many times I have spontaneously burst into tears in the past 2 days. Yes my friends for the very first time in my lifetime I am proud of my country and my president; the very first time in my 43 years.
Blessed be.
Yes we can!

Eye of a Needle

2008-10-27T18:04:00.001-05:00

Wow! This is bigger than any camel

Shoes, Ships and Sealing Wax

2008-10-18T14:49:00.002-05:00

Although I often create posts and poetry in my head, I rarely seem to have time to get these ramblings out of my head. I am currently less than 20 credits away from my B.S. Psychology degree and have been working towards this degree for more than 20 years. I left high school at the age of 16 and went to college out of state. Leaving was simply my choice of escape route, escape from my family which was re-creating poor Usher's nightmare. Yes, even the house- once grand was Falling!
After one year of college I entered the school of hard knocks and then dedicated the next 20 plus years to surviving and raising my two little boys- by myself.
(Do I hear violins playin somewhere?)
Online college classes are accelerated; every 5 weeks a new course begins and ends. Textbook, writing, tests, discussions, and 15 pages of academic research papers. One course ends on Monday, next one begins on Tuesday, little time for writing out of a creative urge within.
When I was in the first grade I was a bit of a loner. Although I attended preschool for 3 years (my mother's way of getting rid of me for the day), I felt absolutely clueless as to what to do in this school place. I did not know anyone in my class, my teacher was mean. I didn't know how to count by fives and had NO IDEA how to get lunch when the time came.
In the morning the teacher would take a tally, who was having the "hot lunch", a hamburger, a hot dog.
What's a hot lunch?
She would ask the question and I would begin to break out into a sweat- all out panic actually.
I would wait for my classmates to respond and when I saw other kids raise their hands in response to the teacher's order request, I would raise my hand too.
Stacy- you can't order more than one lunch! My teacher would shout. The kids giggled and I squirmed and said NOTHING.
(I don't even like hot dogs)
Somehow she would make a notation about which lunch I would have and somehow again, I ended up in the cafeteria with some meal waiting for me.
I usually had to get a ticket for my lunch and who knows where the money came from to pay for it. (My family surely could afford to pay for my lunch at the time, it was simply my mother's failure to give a darn about whether or not I was cared for while out of her blessed sight.)
Sitting at the long table, old overcooked broccoli smells and greasy fish sticks. The muffled sounds of kids laughing and talking while the industrial fans roared and wheels squeaked and hairnet ladies shouted- keep moving! and hamburger or hot dog!
Confusing.
I usually sat alone until one day a new boy came along, I think his name was Manuel. He was an outsider in our suburban mostly white neighborhood too.
Manuel was my friend; he taught me to tie my shoes.
Manuel giggled alot and made me laugh too. When I first asked his name he told me it was Mickey Mouse. Oh boy was that funny- really funny and we giggled forever over that.
Mickey always drank his milk, the kind that comes in the small wax paper box, with a straw.
One day I asked him- How come you always drink your milk with a straw?
-Because, he said- my father told me to because he says the ceiling wax gets in the milk from the opening and it can make me sick.See, its brown there.
Oh, this sounds very serious. I look up at the ceiling to ponder. Industrial-I beams painted white and fluorescent light fixtures, a little rust and water marks, and I wonder how did that ceiling wax, way up there, get into the milk cartons? HOW?
Throughout my entire school career, through high school and even into the years of my own son's schooling,Even Now, the sight of a small milk or juice carton sends me into the realm of questioning- what is ceiling wax and why did my first grade friend's father warn him of the dangers of it?
I have heard of many food scares in my lifetime, the lye on pretzels, the worms in McDonald's burgers, spider eggs in bubblegum, but never did the ceiling wax scandal make headlines that I recall.
Last week while conducting research for yet another term paper, I came across this title in the online collegiate resource library;
"Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax: The faulty and specious assumptions of sexual reorientation therapies"
And the light bulb finally came on-

The Writing on The Wall

2008-10-16T14:31:00.003-05:00

I hear it, the writing on the wall.
Its a sickening rumble underfoot. Five per cent lead, and stolen elections,
and then thisRacist Bullshit

I was told the story today about a man who was running for the Senate a few years back. The man is black (well he's probably more a mixture of sienna, umber, white and cadmium red, but I couldn't say for sure).I do not remember his name. If you know me very well, you know I suck at remembering names, even yours. According to the polls, he had a ten point lead, it was a slam dunk- Until- the people went behind the voter's curtain, and pulled the lever for the white guy. They just could not fathom a black leader. STUPID!

I hear it, and it makes me sick, the 5 point lead, the racist slander, the oops- we didn't mean to say that- IGNORANCE, is not bliss for those of us watching.
God please hear my prayers, please, please, please, strike those racists down , and hurry up. Yes, all of them. It's your law you know, the law of karma, Ok, call it "do unto others. . ." or even better "What you Reap, You Shall Sow"
Reaping hatred and murder and oppression, what is wrong with these people?

To M.

2008-10-14T14:45:00.002-05:00

Yes, this is not for all of you who are looking to see whether I have finally come up with something clever to say, or not, this is a message for Ms. M.-you know who you are.
I cannot call because I threw your number away after I gave the message to T- that you had called.
I made a slight error in our telephone conversation: you were not the one he said I reminded him of: That was another S. you might know her name.
I do not know how I forgot, but I did.

As for the message you left
he said- What? As in what does she want?
I told him of our conversation and he said he was not buying your story and had no interest in responding to you, now or ever.
So , there you have it.
I really enjoyed talking to you- good luck with everything.
I swear i wasn't snarky in relaying the message, I am more confident than that.
I do not mean to sound snarky now, just thought you might want to know.
Love to you-

Scottsville Merchants Kickball League

2008-10-14T14:30:00.003-05:00

Update:
The score for the Thursday 10/9 Scottsville merchant's Kickball game:
Everyone who played- scored several times.
So many in fact we lost count.
In attendance this week were:
Me, of course
Bebe Williams- artist extra extraordinaire( no kidding)
Town Administrator- one to watch- Clark D.
Josh? Kyle? whatever, one of the new Country Blessing's store employees who truly was this weeks MVP. His enthusiasm was contagious.
A volunteer who appeared in a black SUV and sunglasses, a stranger whose name also eludes me at this moment, who could not be convinced it was time to end the game. We were all out of breath in a half of an hour.
Of course the Kramer La Kreme was present, although the mighty terrier once again scored NO runs! Whose dog is that anyway?
The teams were intermingled and flowed more like a cafeteria line than a defense line, which means- kickers were the offensive team and sometimes were called off their base to make the play, or to pitch.
fun times were had by all.
check in next week for this Thursday's update.
oh- and all you Scottsville Posers (especially the 330 type)need to get your chicken butts out there- 2:00
buck, buck, buck

Billion Dollar White Elephant

2008-10-03T09:17:00.003-05:00

I try not to talk politics here; politics make even less sense to me than my worst fractured dreams and drunken thoughts. I am going to simply attach this little article with some political Blog links underneath, which I may have responded to in the comments of - go figure- the Atheist Blogger- you know, sometimes I question the big question, but when I do god simply questions my questions, like all the Shrinks I've ever known. Hey, maybe that's it, God is a Shrink.. . I'll stop.

Crazy Stuffed Pork

Kickball Update

2008-10-02T15:33:00.002-05:00

This week marks week 2 of the weekly Scottsville Merchants Kickball challenge. Of course last week was a rain out due to the tropical storm so this could have officially been considered the historic first game. The score- Stacy 2 Kramer 0
Stay tuned for the results of next Thursdays exciting match!

The Disappearing Kind

2008-10-02T15:17:00.003-05:00

Tate's gone fishing again, I am starting to suspect he's

learning to RELAX for the first time in his life.
Even when he isn't here I talk to him.
Last week- our conversation as I was attempting to get dressed: I stand in my closet doorway, shuffling through my chaotic basket of socks and underwear
"I can't find a pair of matching socks! They keep disappearing. I think I need some socks."
"You Know, they sell socks in the stores. The non disappearing kind."
"Really?"
"Yeah, they've been selling them for years"
"Hmmn"
So I did.
I went to the dollar store and I bought a bag full of new thick cushy non disappearing pink toed and white ankle length FAT socks.
And I wore them all happy week. A new pair every day.
This morning, Tate calls me from the road to make sure I get to work (late again) on time. I sleep a bit longer
and when I walk to the closet to pull out today's clothes
I am saying aloud "Oh NO! these are disappearing socks too"

where do they go? fishing? no I don't believe it.

Life is but a Dream

2008-09-26T09:18:00.002-05:00

We have rain, the air is cool and smells soooo good! we sleep under an open window.The level of relaxation this creates in me, right now, today, there is much to post about. . . Lot's of cool stories, much more upbeat than my normal melancholy self, like psychic dreams, seeing Brad, getting a mandolin AND a ukulele, the creation of the merchant kickball league- but I just don't. feel like posting right now, too relaxed in this cool, damp and green mood
Maybe later- love ya-

Phone Calls

2008-09-04T15:15:00.004-05:00

Caller ID says -US GOVERNMENT
ooh I'm scared.
I answer, the woman on the other end of the line asks for My oldest son by name.
Assuming incorrectly the caller is calling in reference to a College Loan, I reply, "He is unavailable, may I take a message?"
- Do you have pen and paper ready?
-Yes
- This is ____ _____ calling from the US Army Recruiting headquarters and my number is-
-That won't be necessary mam, I say. My son isn't going to join your army, my son won't be fighting in any rich corporation's pig war. My son will not be any Fascist's pawn.

-Will you give him my number and let him tell me that for himself?

-NO, NO WAY- BYE!
I hang up the phone and think to myself- How arrogant are these people? I live my life to raise these boys, teach them right from wrong, educate them, to pray and work diligently to keep them ALIVE- Alive I am saying out loud now.
And these people call my house where I pay the mortgage and I pay the phone bill and I raised my children and sheltered them from harm
and now here they are
FINE Healthy, young MEN
And you want to slip them some funky assed false promises and some petty assed amount of cash
to gear up in bullets and grenades and go off to the middle east to go murder innocent people- who won't even be counted
or to be blown up by hapless roadside bombs or shot full of holes- murdered to DEATH!
So some Fat Freaking Pigs in OPEC and the US government and Corporate oil Disney trader land can have even more money????
NO WAY- shut the F up! Don't call me anymore and no-
you cant have my sons- send your own!

* * * * *

There was another call this morning (which fuels the rant)
tragedy, gut ripping sadness
it's on Numb Benign- the group blog I participate in
the link is over there- on the bottom right-
Holden Caulfield- get your catchers mitt on- damn it!

My Thoughts Exactly

2008-09-03T11:56:00.003-05:00

"The Summer can be a difficult time for me. What appears to be a beautiful day usually means boring light- even and flat at midday. So I wait for stormy occasions. . . to seek the light I enjoy. . . " Peter Fiore

Don't Leave Me!

2008-08-27T09:03:00.002-05:00

Yes, things or times have been beyond distressing lately.
The Dominican Horror Show
The parasites
The allergic reaction to the herbal remedy- too horrific to discuss
Mr. Monk- the Rhodesian Ridgeback- who had just seemed to be adjusting to his life as a dog- not a suburbanite toddler- DISAPPEARED
I suspect Billy Bob- the alpha mutt- a Hansel and Gretel type of walk into the woods- sans bread crumbs.
Mentally unstable(worse than me I swear) women- 2 days in a row- acting very badly in my shop
Which has been quite slow in August
and I have not been here enough, I know
The drought, the DROUGHT!
Trees dying- shrubs- struggle- brown grass where it should still be green
I let my flowers go, long ago, the smell of dead things.
School papers due, dishes, laundry, vacuum, dishes, laundry, vacuum
Books- bills, books, bills- Pay
And THEN:
T comes home from another arduous, drought stinkin hot day, exhausted
I am writing a paper and not paying attention to the fact that he hasn't had a bite to eat all day and has tipped the Vodka bottle too heavily
and then- he bottoms out
He says he is ready to leave. . . and he isn't talking about a vacation
or walking away either
he means- this lifetime
he's tired, and he's had enough-
(he's drunk and exhausted)
I humor him and get him to bed-
Sure, I say, let's go- pick a place.
I can hang a world map- we can throw darts at it, destination here we come
He sleeps
Next day- yesterday-
Paper finished, bookwork done, vacuumed, dished, laundried, RAIN IN THE FORECAST!!!!
Paint- smile- rain falls- relax
yes I paint like a talented fourth grader- I know- but it makes me happy
Happy Yes.

Big Pharma = EVIL

2008-08-21T12:36:00.001-05:00

Troubles at Home too

PTSD

2008-08-12T18:07:00.002-05:00

I am home.
My house seems enormous, beautiful and spacious after spending 7 days in a room the size of my bedroom with 9 women, 1 toilet (which nothing besides bodily fluids will flush-all waste papers in the trash basket), 2 cold only showers, cockroaches, mice with long tails-must I go on-
And I have PTSD from what i witnessed in the DR. I am working day and night to contact all World Health Coalitions on this one.
Oh the nightmares, scarred for life, not kidding.
Here is my letter, I know it is long so read it a little at a time, please, if you are strong enough.
I won't be taking it down.
Boy I missed you-Love _S

My name is Stacy; I am a traditional Midwife in North America. I returned from a 1 week trip to Santo Domingo’s Altagracia Hospital de los Partos. My intention of going there was to attend a few births which I could document for the purpose of receiving certification in the US.
I am still in shock from the horror of the behaviors I witnessed in this countries public hospital.
The standard of care for a laboring woman is this:
Laboring women, labor in one room with sixteen beds and sometimes three women to a bed at a time. There are no clean sheets or chux on these beds, they are in their street clothes, body fluids are expelled on the floor or on the bed, all waste products are released in the bed or on the floor by the side while they labor. The women are not given food or water to drink.
When the doctors find the woman is completely dilated (or not as I witnessed), she is walked down the hall to the delivery room. If she refuses to walk she is placed in a wheelchair soaked in blood and fluids of the women who sat in it before her, no cover.
In the delivery room, less than three minutes from full dilation, the woman is then instructed to climb up on the table with a plastic garbage bag on it and put her legs in the stirrups. The intern then sticks her fingers inside the woman’s vagina and yells for her to push. She gets one push. Even though the baby's heart tones are WNL, and the baby's head is either -3, -2, or +1, or +2 station, the interns and doctors reach for a large needle and inject her with lidocaine and proceed to cut an enormous mediolateral "episiotomy" into the ladies bottom. The scissors they use are dull and they cut and cut and cut. I witnessed the doctor opening the scissors to find they had blood on them from another woman. She called for a nurse and none came; she used them anyway to cut this woman (What is the AIDS rate in this country neighboring Haiti?)
After the large incision is made, the doctor again puts her fingers in the vagina and orders her to push, if the baby does not fly out (which is rare), a nurse or another doctor pushes the baby out from the fundus.
One day I witnessed an intern cut a woman on both sides and a third time into the rectum; the head was not even visible and no one took a heart tone. This woman was left with a gaping hole in her pelvic floor which words cannot describe.
After the baby is forced out of the woman's severely compromised vagina, the doctors immediately clamp and cut the umbilical cord depriving the baby of its blood. The baby is whisked away to another room and the doctor immediately pulls on the cord of the still attached placenta until the woman hemorrhages and the placenta is expelled. Three times in one hour I witnessed projectile expression of copious amounts of blood at this pulling. Not only did I witness this type of bleeding as they pulled on the cord of this one woman's uterus, it was then found that she had two large medio-lateral tears on her cervix and a mediolateral episiotomy which was (and averages) nearly three inches in length. Needless to say the woman lost more blood than one could imagine, I could not begin to estimate. After much suturing in in a non sterile environment, the woman was instructed to sit up, get off of the table and walk back to a post partum room (she could not and the wheelchair was used),where she received little to no post partum care or any pain medication.
The private hospitals in the D.R. supposedly are much safer and saner than the public hospitals. I witnessed the same behaviors on all of these women giving birth in 2 separate public hospitals.
Instead of coming home and filling out my paperwork that I had attended births in another country, I am writing to you as a plea to investigate the situation in the public hospitals in the Dominican Republic. I am at a loss as to what I could do alone. If you are unable to do anything perhaps you could advise me on what could be done and who could possibly teach these doctors and interns how to receive a baby safely. The practices in the DR. not only endanger the health of the babies, but the mothers as well. The cross contamination of blood is rampant, the infection rates must be through the roof, the integrity of the mothers vaginal tissue is severely compromised. What happens in the public hospitals of the Dominican Republic as I am witness is not birth but torture. We as an educated global society should not in good conscience turn a blind eye to these women and children of our world.
Thank you for your time and response.
With all my heart, -Stacy Sheer

So Kiss me and smi. . .

2008-08-01T11:05:00.002-05:00

Yes I am leaving on a jet plane, early in the morning. I am packing now, I am tidying up the office now.
I am laughing and crying all at the same time
I am scared
I am excited
All new
what if??
Breeathe, ground, feel your feet on the ground
see you all soon
i hope

Untitled

2008-07-27T13:58:00.003-05:00

Is it a blog if you only post every few weeks? I don't know but I am taking a few minutes to post a little update and then i will most likely disappear again for some time.
-My headache has finally subsided after one month of falling head first into the cast iron bath tub edge.(my left ear still crackles though)
-Our new dog has stopped acting like a chihuahua in need of a lobotomy, thank god.
-I got another A in my last course, all accelerated online BS courses, every 5 weeks. I thought I would have my degree by Jan/09, only to realize I would not be finished until next June.
Hooray!
-This Spring I have Midwifed three beautiful women while they gave birth to their babies. One of my closest friends was one of those women. Imagine this- at a certain point of her laboring, she returns to the shower. I help her break her water and wait outside the bathroom door for her to say -Something. She does-"Head's out" Entirely cool, she wanted to do as much as possible by herself, and she did . Love it.
-Two Nights ago Michelle O Neil from Full-Soul-Ahead entered my dream with her completed memoir in her hand. This morning as I am reading my textbook on Physiological Psychology, I read the end of the chapter on Autism and Asbergers Syndrome (which Michelle O's daughter has the diagnosis) and the final sentence in the TEXTBOOK, which blows my mind, reads-"By the way, careful studies have found no evidence that Autism is linked to childhood immunization." That's kind of like the "guns don't kill people" slogan isn't it? I wonder where the University researchers get their funding from. Hmmnnn.... I like butterflies.... I believe, clap your hands, WHAT F-ing Bullshit!!!
see, that is why I don't write political blogs, I can't write anything that shouldn't be censored when I get angry, which is too often in that advocacy arena.
I digress
- I am leaving for a week long missionary trip to the Dominican Republic, Friday night. I will be working in a birthing clinic where 15 laboring women labor at once in the same room, on tables with no sheets, covers or sanitary conditions and there are several species of insects all around. Going to be interesting. I am excited. but- before I go, I have 4 days to complete my 10 page term paper, several weeks of homework,as my class ends while I am away and I have to get it in early. I have to get Tate's company bills and ducks in a row which takes an average of 2 workdays per week. Prepare the house and animals and my shop and pack and pay all household bills so the glass menagerie does not crumble without me, as i fear it might.

-And here I am, its 3:20 pm Sunday afternoon. The plan, to write the paper, take the tests, do the homeworks, all today. Begin the company work tomorrow-
Procrastination? What is that?
Think I will go check out what you all are doing.
See you in a few weeks.

I CAN Fly

2008-07-14T19:43:00.004-05:00

A few nights ago. . .
I am sitting at a table with my oldest son, at the age of 16 maybe, before me. I take out a pen and sketch pad and begin to draw a figure of the bad guy. One eye this way, the other upside down strokes. Son is impatient. I tell him I must draw this picture to rid ourselves of him once and forever; be patient.
In the morning I awake and record the image. I then pull a tiny sketch pad from the bath side table, and a fine point Sharpie. I draw him in the same fashion as the dream instructed. Then I begin to aim projectiles at his face, and sketch his Lilly liver, and shrunken head and tears, because he is a very sad and wounded soul, and yes, I hate him. I am tired of him entering my psyche and tormenting me in my nightmares.
But this time it was different. I was in charge, I was creating the drama, not fighting or running or surviving his madness, I was exorcising him, the demon that he is.
After the bath, I doused the little sketch in alcohol and watched his face swell and bloat, and struck a match.... and said a few choice words. . .

Last night, in order to get to my love (who in the physical world sleeps next to me)
I fly
Above fields and people and buildings and hills
I wave my arms as if swimming the breast stroke.
I am in an upright position and I lift up high into the air
free
saying to myself out loud
I can fly.

Sounds of Now

2008-07-07T12:49:00.002-05:00

We have a new dog, he's a rescue.
We have named him Polio, short for Napolean Dynamite. Polio is a Rhodesian Ridgeback, 90 pounds of solid muscle. He was a suburbanite purgatory rescue and he is currently 5 years old. He's used to being on a lead and being locked indoors during the day. A Rhodesian Ridgeback is bred to hunt Lions! The real kind. A regal beast with teeth 2 inches long, he's ferocious looking. But he's an enormous spoiled suburbanite wimp. We brought him here to save him from the county dogwatchers. They threatened to have him put to death for escaping from his chain and chasing the neighbor's un-neutered male dog.

Free, seven acres on a hilltop, surrounded by thousands of acres of woods. No neighbors, neigbor dogs or cats, plain frredom.
Polio cries all day on the doorstep
"I want to come inside! Pleeease! it's hot out here (he's an African breed mind you)
There's big trees out here, and bugs, I want to go to PetSmart -puppy playtime you know, with carpet and toys. . . whaaaa"

Enough, my head can take no more
Still recovering from my concussion. My hematoma somehow became infected. I had to take antibiotics and missed the family reunion. I just got out of bed to work on the books and write my term paper due tonight by midnight.
Shut up Polio, and I mean that in the nicest way.

The shoes should come with a warning

2008-06-28T14:06:00.004-05:00

If a girl has a painful back issue and she works on her feet many hours without a break during a day, she might wear MBT -zero balance shoes. They help her enormously during the work day. These shoes cost as much as an ounce of gold during a high phase. They come with a DVD, an instructional DVD. Although I know how to put them on and how to walk, I watched the DVD anyway. There was no warning, no disclaimer, but I wish there had been.
The warning might say: If you are going to drink 2 Bloody Mary's and one glass of Pinot (ok, maybe 2)after a long, very long, stressful week; REMOVE YOUR MBT's before imbibing!"
The simple disclosure may have saved me from the unfortunate headlong dive into the far edge of the cast iron bath tub. The resulting hematoma on my skull and the Gumby like shape of my head the following morning. Did I mention the sensation of a fly buzzing on the opposite side of my head? There is nothing there. And no, no one pushed me, no one in a body that is.
I am back, missed you all, going to see what you've been up to. . .
If my unevenly dilated pupils will allow.
Sheeze it really hurts!

Change

2008-05-30T10:12:00.002-05:00

The toothbrush swap was the first clue, the failure to add a comma and a zero to the total for my Tate's company customer invoice (still waiting to recover, he hasnt received a paycheck in weeks thanks to me)was the second. Toothbrush trick you say? It's when you go to brush your teeth in the morning and you reach for the toothbrush in your tooth brush holder and you look at it and say out loud- This is not my toothbrush! My tooth brush is a different toothbrush altogether, I think. What color is my toothbrush? And you get really nervous because you have no idea, even though you used that toothbrush everyday for the past few weeks, maybe months, what your toothbrush looks like. But you have to brush your teeth because you have to go to work and you can't stand the glue and dust bunny flavor in your mouth so- even though you might begin to gag at the thought of where this toothbrush might have been before sneaking into your toothbrush holder-You use it anyway.
That's a big clue right there that it is time for a change.
Change of place, mind, wardrobe, empty closets toss out clutter, simplify and slow down.
The Empress runs naked through the garden, laughing at Adam's apple. What a joke.
She feigns fearlessness, laughing at the sound of lightning crashing through the far side of the moon
It's all fun and games until she sees the snakes
Slithering on door jambs
rising up bare walls every surface lined with Set, and his friends
They have a message, will she listen or is it true
She's just crazy in her head? So he says.

Maybe a little. It was just getting too crowded in there. Dump the head, clean the clutter, revamp your Blog and go for a walk.

We're MI

2008-05-22T10:53:00.003-05:00

"We're MI!" my favorite line from Monsters Incorporated. I wonder how many kids get it, or adults for that matter. If you've been by here lately, or if you've given up on me completely and you are not here and therefore not reading this and I wonder where you are too. . . .Then, you'd know I have not been here in a long time and I have nothing to say. I think I am not the same person anymore. I have wanted to write, I have been aching to paint, I am practicing my violin very little, but some.
End of the world weather rolling on with earthquakes, fires, volcanic eruptions and twisters. What could I possibly have to say at a time like this? I am stressed out? Sheezus, forget I was about to go on about how busy I am and all of the (just 1 maybe)mistakes I have made lately in the accounting arena and woe is me, but forget all that.
I am blessed, I am lucky, thankful, busy, free, loved. Did I say blessed?

Speaking of MI and blessed and all that, I have registered to go on the Medical Ministries International trip in the Dominican Republic this Summer for a week. I will be delivering babies in a maternity clinic with a group of midwives and doctors. Going to reboot my midwifery skills in a clinical setting; the clinic receives nearly 400 babies per month. Going to be a trip indeed.
I miss you too, almost as much as I miss me, really.

The Real story

2008-04-28T23:41:00.002-05:00

Sorry to upset anyone about my last post. I had those pictures of the bear incident, from a few weeks ago, before the Flu, and had to find some mythical way to use them. I thought it was funny, but I have been accused of finding humor in strange places.
The truth. I did get a terrible cold. I had a baby due on the 29th, which is tomorrow, no, wait, now today. The baby was feeling big to me and it was the Momma's first. Long labors come from that scenario and I had to keep one step ahead of myself, my schoolwork, my business, tate's company and it is gardening time. My schoolwork has really cut into my gardening performance. And what if I had to give that baby a breath? With a head full of flu? Worries. . .
I wrote my final paper on Sunday. it was due on Monday. That is a rare event for me.
Early this morning I awoke from a dream my pregnant lady called to say she was having contractions. A few hours later she called to say her labor had begun at one in the morning.
Long, very long story short-
I just arrived home, still smelling a bit birthy. Need to change my clothes and wind down from the high.
A BEAUTIFUL baby girl, Aurora, born this evening at 8:45 pm. Amen.

Beary Sad Story

2008-04-27T16:44:00.008-05:00

People! I have to tell you something. Thanks to Stacy's friend Farhad who called me yesterday and informed me that Stacy had you virtual friends who would (maybe) be wondering what happened to her. He told me how to get here and i am not a techie, so bear with me. Shit, did I say bear? It was horrible really. No, she didn't die from the flu or the Theraflu. I read her last post. Yes she had a bugger of a flu, yes she took way too much Theraflu. She went to the doctor and the doc said her heart was skipping a beat for every beat it thumped out. She told her to switch to the daytime stuff and then she seemed to bounce back to almost normal as usual self in no time.

And then, like she mentioned. . . the bear, it was back.

This time the bear was bigger than any we had seen. Bigger than the one who carved up Billy Bob last fall, way bigger.
Maybe that's why she got sick in the first place. All night long, night after night the barking of the dogs, me running around trying to get pictures of it (it was beautiful), but in the morning she wasn't very happy. All of the bird feeders had been torn down. . . flowers trampled, tree branches broken.
So , last Sunday, on the full moon she snapped. I tried to stop her but I couldn't, it was too late.

The bear came back. Stacy rolled over in her sleep and said that she thought the bear just needed a little peanut butter and honey sandwich. It was hungry, that's all.
Right, I said as I rolled back into my dreams, sure she was kidding.
I heard the door creak then close and I ran to the kitchen.
A knife, peanut butter and honey stuck to it, sat on the counter top.
A giant jar of peanut butter. A honey-bear dripping honey and a half a loaf of bread sat next to the knife acting all innocent and unprepared for what came next.
She wasn't in the kitchen though.
I opened the front door to run after her
at the very instant
I saw the bear bite off her head.
What was she thinking?
The woman was nutz! I really miss her though.
Just thought you ought to know.

Scooby

2008-04-14T13:13:00.004-05:00

Wine, Truffles and Theraflu
480 x 320 - 117k - jpg
www.merakohblog.com

One question:

Where was Scooby Doo when there was work to do? Where?

Maybe he suddenly came down with a sore throat and head cold which fell into his lungs. Fast. Fever, aches, started Saturday night, after the Blessing way for the lady who is set to give birth any day.
no time for Flu, so. . .
A pot of Miso and seaweed with rice and red pepper. Doses of vitamin C.
Homeopathic remedies, echinachea, lobelia drops and Three doses of theraflu.

One dose and venture into a deep dreamless sleep, beyond the next world.
Awaken feeling groggy and a little lighter. Another dose. The heart pounds the snot dries up, the lungs turn to tissue paper sails in a giant tropical squall. Then sleep, a little less deeply.

Awaken, delirious and prepare the third dose of the pharmaceutical witches brew that sends me into stranger's bedrooms and lands between the land where no one walks or dares enter.

Trying not to breathe on Tate, who is resting next to me on our fluffy feather bed, I'm not nice enough to sequester myself to the cold hard beds of the guest rooms.

between awake and dreaming, I notice the vibrations of the words playing in my head and on the television set across the room. They intertwine and separately weave their vibrations through my heavily drugged body. All negative words and sounds affect me, I tense, all over, breathing changes, contracts. A negative thought, does the same. Our brains are taking in over 2 billion bytes of information per second, consciously we are only aware of 2 thousand. Subconsciously we are still affected by the sounds and thoughts we are not concentrating on. This reminder as I am beginning to catch myself in repeated negative banter with myself, WATCH YOUR THOUGHTS.
Would you say the mean things you say to yourself to anyone else? Your sister, best friend, lover, child? Why would you say them to yourself?
Why?

So, I turn to Tate, as my heart beats uncontrollably in my chest, trying to escape "Can Theraflu kill you?"
"If you drink three glasses of it, it could."

I am still here. The bear who came back full swing has moved on, spring is happening, statistics is over-got an A, have another paper due for another class, haven't started, my mom is in Md. visiting-I won't be able to get there, a baby due, shop busy, tate needs papers done and I am thinking about doing my taxes NOW. BUWAHAHAHA
Maybe another drink of Theraflu would do.

Sonic the hedgehog

2008-04-07T14:43:00.002-05:00

I really have much to write about, but again, too many things to do at one time.
The memory is a mine field and the bombs have been going off like mad.
I procrastinate writing this simple paper for yet another mind numbing class, and I IM my seriously funny son- the Avi-meister.
I just told him I was considering getting back on antidepressants from these mind weed troubles. He said go ahead, he'll start shooting heroin in return. End of topic. Eavesdrop if you want. read it, it's hilarious.

me: i dont see anythin
Avi: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/expats/expats_news/article1009799.ece
Sent at 3:25 PM on Monday
me: funny, poor sonic
hey, could you guest host my blog?
I am too stressed out to blog
Avi: what?
youre trying to outsource your blog?
me: people do it all the time
Avi: im buying my blogsite today
www.avi-tellafriend.com
me: they should be free
Avi: whatever. 10 bucks a year.
me: i am serious, you know how to get in to my blog, just sign in to google as me, then hit my account and blogger
go tell them about the hedgehog and mom too stressed out to do anything or something
Avi: i have to work on my short story. anyways id just steal all your subscribers and redirect them to my page
me: AVI, I need to write this stupid paper
all 3 of my friends! ha
Avi: dont make a difference to me
ill steal em
me: OK, I am going to post before I write this dumb thing.
Avi: no youre not
write it now. because its your fault i procrastinate. its your parenting. lead by example bum
HA
me: you cannot blame that on me, no way not goin there
Ok help me
I have to write about open ended questions, the hypnotists style, not a problem
but
i have to create a survey topic, then create 3 open ended questions for it
give me a topic
i can do the rest
only a 2-3 pager
Avi: bird feeding
me: What can you tell me about bird feeding?
Have you ever created bird feeding places in your surroundings
Avi: i dont know. i dont feed a bitch, pigeons!
me: be serious you said do it so I am
should people feed birds?
OK that'll do, now we must quantify their answers, when respondents say I dont feed no pigeons we throw hedgehogs at them
Avi: yes. negative reinforcement
actively force and rewrite the homeostasis of the planet
me: no, it is positive reinforcement, taking away the hedgehog is negative, they have to have something subtracted
Avi: whatever
me: punishment is the throwing of the hedgehog
dammit now you are keeping me from my paper.
Sent at 3:41 PM on Monday
Avi: nope
im buying my website
youre wasting my time

Don't Cry For me, OK?

2008-04-01T14:00:00.002-05:00

I'm sorry to say this will be my last Blog. Things have been a bit tough lately and life is getting shorter and shorter every day, and I want to take time and smell the roses. So, I am going to travel full time with a biker gang to see the country and enjoy life while I still can. Don't worry about me - they all seem like really nice people.

Thanks cuz!

First Love

2008-03-20T11:01:00.006-05:00

Stuart Stein aka my first boyfriend and still one of my silent heros

Review Summary http://nytimes.com retrieved March 20, 2008.

Baltimore artist Dan Keplinger is the focus of this documentary short which first appeared on HBO. In 1985, when Keplinger was 12 years old, filmmakers Susan Hadary and Bill Whiteford began recording his life and periodically checked in on him over the next 13 years. Afflicted from birth with cerebral palsy, Keplinger was six years old when his parents divorced; his father wanted his son institutionalized, but his mother, Linda Ritter, insisted on raising him to lead as normal a life as possible. At 12, Keplinger was sent to a school for youngsters with disabilities but two years later, after a close friend died, he and his mother decided that a mainstream education was best for him. He had already begun painting by using a brush attached to a head brace. Laura Moore, a young student, befriended him and helped to tutor him, and his work began to appear in shows. During his senior year in high school, he moved into his own apartment, determined to be as independent as possible. Keplinger was accepted into the art program at Towson State University, outside of Baltimore. There, he met some resistance from several faculty members in the art department,

but Stuart Stein, an artist who was also a teacher at the university, took Keplinger under his wing, and Keplinger graduated, even managing to complete his sculpture requirement with the help of a computer. King Gimp won the Academy Award for Best Documentary Short Subject at the ceremony honoring 1999 releases. ~ Tom Wiener, All Movie Guide

Hi, I do not know exactly, what possessed me to check in on you on Google today, but I did. I learned of the "Gimp" movie and story just now. I don't know why there are so many things about you I fail to keep up with but I do know this- You are simply amazing. Way back then when we were so young, the arguments we had when I said I wanted to grow up and touch everyone I met. You would tell me how impossible and naive I was. Now, so many years later I learn, you are the one, who touches everyone with your divine and deep, deep heart. I am beyond words but not tears, love- S

What is The Point?

2008-03-18T14:45:00.003-05:00

I miss this place, but yes the Statistics and the rest of life is keeping me busy doing things I'd rather not, but the material flows nonetheless

OlD decrepit man, well past 85 hobbles in through my shop door. The quiet afternoon sun pours through the store front window. A familiar, uncomfortable sound, high pitched and whining reaches me at the other end of the room. A sound that makes me want to cover my own ears, to escape its hideousness, the sound of hearing aids being run under water. The microphone feedback when the speaker is too close or filled with some sort of static electricity maybe.
Saying nothing, I watch as he limps through the motions, readjusting his cane in order to hang his hat and coat on the peg on the wall.
I nod to indicate hello, and point to the chair where he may sit.
I cape him and grab a clean comb.
I ask,"doesn't that ringing hurt your ears" incredulously.
Old man looks and me and replies, "ARE THEY RINGING?"
A smile spreads across my face.
Thankful for the muse in my daily routine.

Dog Tales

2008-03-07T11:37:00.002-05:00

Worse than the cat lady is the sad little woman who tells you stories about her pesky little dog; good thing I don't do that, right.
A few months back, Kramer the infamous R.A.T. terrier, began feelin mighty oatey. We were in the office supply store.
Kramer eyes every customer who passes us in the aisles to make sure I am safe; his job 'To protect and to eat'. He spies uniformed, raging hormone man; 'To serve and protect'. Kramer puffs up as he stares the manly man down, then lifts his leg, to let him know who's boss.
I caught him in the nick of time and snatched him into reality, then put him in my car to wait obediently while I finished shopping.
Unbelievable the adolescent hormone thing of the 18 month old un-neutered male dog.
I was shocked by this new indoor behavior, he began lifting his leg in the most inappropriate of places, like my shop.
Yes, he goes to work with me nearly every day. I've taught him a few manners, to stop licking people incessantly and jumping into their laps when they sit in the styling chair.
But now, he seemed to have forgotten a few ground rules- HE LIFTED HIS LITTLE LEG ON ONE OF MY WAITING CUSTOMERS!
Sealed his un-neutered fate that day, I kid you not.
I scheduled him to be fixed. funny term, fixed, altered, neutered, and I told him too.
Tomorrow, you are getting your nuts cut off buddy, this testes thing is over for you.
The surgery went well, two days later he thanked me, really. He said he felt much better now and he didn't feel driven by his raging hormones anymore.
He hasn't lifted his leg inappropriately since.
But this was kind of funny.
Yesterday I took him for his two week follow up at the Vet. . .
We walked through the door.
He looked up at me and asked, "Are they going to sew them back on now"?

Curs -ed Pukany's

2008-02-26T22:38:00.001-05:00

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

2008-02-26T22:04:00.004-05:00

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.

Clarification

2008-02-24T13:42:00.003-05:00

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....

5 Weeks Update

2008-02-21T11:41:00.003-05:00

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?
Maybe.
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.

Five Weeks

2008-02-20T16:09:00.003-05:00

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.

Calender Eraser

2008-02-18T07:42:00.003-05:00

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.

Arcane Messages

2008-02-12T15:11:00.000-05:00

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.

Stones Throw Away

2008-02-04T16:19:00.000-05:00

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

So She Said

2008-02-02T09:48:00.000-05:00

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" )