A doozy of a dream. Whew! No wonder I wake exhausted. I'm going way out on that limb to be really honest, so if naked honesty is going to make you uncomfortable, don't read. Remember it's a dream.
Part One - Danny and Dying
First I was in a large cabin with several people. one of whom, Danny, has been a friend for decades. I'm not sure who the others were, but I knew them. I realized I was having a heart attack and new I was going to die, so I told Danny. He said, "Just a minute, I have to go do something."
I thought, that he was really going to feel badly if he came back and I was dead. (In real life, I have done something like this. A friend whom I loved dearly told me was dying and I refused to believe it. I just couldn't. And so, I was not around when he actually passed. I've felt awful about that.) Anyway, in the dream, Danny had come to the party with me and left with some girl, whose name may have been Pamela. I had been trying to tell him that I really didn't mind when I felt the heart attack come on - and I didn't mind. (In real life, Jim came to my party as my guest and left with a "friend" of mine. This was a million years ago when I was an undergrad. I really did care then. Boy, did I!)
So I tried to hold on, for the sake of my friend, Danny. And I did. He returned and we began making love. (Yes, this was a dream and if he reads this he'll be embarrassed!) At the moment of climax, I died. Petit mort, my foot. My first thought was that poor Danny was going to feel terrible about this and I really didn't want him to. What a way to go, though as far as orgasms go it was cut short. Go figure.
So I realized I was dead and I sort of flew around and conversed with people I knew who were still living. People from all parts of my life were there and I could go from one to another. I was amazed that I was having two way conversations and I asked Joe, who in real life had been a priest, about it. He and subsequently others, explained that they could see parts of me or hear me, but that they wouldn't remember it later. I said, "Oh, so that's how it works."
A group of men from all parts of my life asked me if I yet realized all the men who had loved me in my life. I said that I did not. Someone was reading me a list of names, including at least one boy with whom I'd attended elementary school in waking life. The list was long and I kept saying, "Wow, I didn't know that. I wonder why they never told me." The reader of the list told me that many of them had told me, but that I couldn't hear it.
I realized I was going to soon go to the next plane, so I needed to get going if I were going to converse with everyone I wanted to. Someone reminded me that I could go through walls and time easily, and by George, I could.
I saw Danny, and told him to be happy and that Pamela was not good for him, then we both laughed. I saw many people and explained that I realized that when they spoke to me, they wouldn't remember content, but they may remember feelings, so I loved them all greatly.
Part Two - Escape from Alcatraz
I began watching Escape From Alcatraz, which in my dream I had seen many times and in my dream it was quite different from the actual movie. But I was actually in the movie. I was with the two men who were escaping and the story continued long after we got to the mainland. First we used a rubber raft with a little trolling motor and a light to escape the island at night. When we saw the guards coming down the beach after us, we set the raft off in one direction so they'd shoot at it. We went behind a big boulder where we had hidden a speed boat. (It's a dream, remember.) Then we turned off the lights and sped toward a far point on the shore. Then we let one light come on for a short time, then turned it off and went a different direction. We were indeed tricky. We got to shore, but we knew that soon people would be coming after us.
Often during the movie I would get really anxious. Well, who wouldn't with people shooting and chasing! Then I'd have to remind myself that this was just a movie - one I'd seen so many times - and I knew everything would work out just fine and I should just relax.
We made it to the house of the sister of one of the men. She was having a garden party, but the guests all left and she made us cream of asparagus soup, although one of the guys didn't think he was going to like it. Then she made them suits to wear so as not to be suspicious. Outside young couples were walking around the neighborhood, looking at houses with for sale signs in front of them. I was reminded of my daughter getting her house and told them the story about how happy they were. My daughter said something like, "This whole experience has been perfect!"
Then my ex-husband was sneaking about, trying to make me share this large amount of money I had. I wouldn't give him any. He was made because I gave my daughter the down payment for her house. (Oh, yes, this is a dream.) I had to hide my two Alcatraz friends, who had since become two rolled up area rugs, in her house. I kept having to remind myself that this was a movie and a dream and that everything came out alright.
Overall this was a very fun and happy dream, though the second part doesn't sound that way. The feelings were good.517559
Part Three - Married With Children
I was to get married that day, though I really didn't know the guy very well. He was very nice, sort of naive and distant. We were at the church and a group came in and said that it would be illegal for us to marry. I asked them why and they couldn't say. I followed one woman to the bathroom and I knew I was going to punch her in the face, so I was trying to remember what my brothers told me about hitting when I was a kid. Was I supposed to tuck my thumb in or not? Then she came out of the stall and upon questioning, told me that I had had too many men in my life to marry his nice man and asked if I wanted to see the video of Danny and I (Part One will haunt a person). I punched her in the face and it hurt my hand like heck.
So I asked the nice man if he was sure he wanted to marry me. I was sort of hoping he'd back out of it. I told him I wasn't very nice and was also concerned that he lived with his mother and his sister. His sister had three children, one of whom had a physical disability. He said he was sure, so we got married. While eating cake, which was really yummy, btw, I mentioned that I had something scheduled in a month, and his mother said, "Oh, then stop by and see us in a month."
He lived on the fifth floor of a building down town. I don't know what town. I was combing the girls hair and telling them to read before they want to sleep and one girl had very tangled hair. The other needed physical therapy. The boy was a real brat. I realized that they often didn't go to school and that they didn't have proper shoes, nor could any of them read well. I got really, really pissed.
I woke up the sister and told her that it wasn't right that she was living on social security and food stamps because of her children and that she had shoes but her children didn't and that I was fixin to take those kids away from her and kick her out. I told her to get her fat ass out of bed and clean the kitchen.
I took the kids to a reservation school near us where the teachers were appalled at how bad off these kids were. In the boy's classroom, there were five students and three teachers. The kids all loved the school, which was even going to provide physical therapy to the girl who needed it.
When it was time to go to bed, my new husband went into a different part of the house and got into a twin bed. I said, "Oh, hell no," and asked him if he didn't want to sleep with me. He said he wanted to be close, so I squeezed in with him and turned out the lights. Then I realized the boy had snuck into the bed with us. I thought, oh, well. This isn't how I thought it was going to be, but I have this chance to really make a difference in the lives of these three children and I think this will be a good life for me to add to my other lives.
-fin-
While telling my hair dresser about the dream today, I realized many things. I think this dream is about having seen the movie and therefore being able to relax. I know things are all going to be just fine. When people die, they aren't gone, they are just different. Well, different and the same.
I also realized that I dream in greater detail than most people and I wouldn't give that up, even though I think it's exhausting sometimes. Oh, and I realized that I project a lot of things onto Danny, who has become an icon in my dreams representing a lot of different people and things and situations. I can't even begin to explain.
I also remembered a line from a movie or book I've seen or read recently that went something like "And because I have known Love, I will accept all that life brings with the flexibility of the wind." I understood that wind can blow down communities as easily as it can loft a bit of dandelion fluff into a blue sky.
So I reckon if you are looking for a reason to put me away, this might be it. Just don't take away my dreams.
It's just a silly phase I'm going through.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Monday, February 27, 2017
Iconic Phrases
Although I have never seen the movie nor read the book, there are a couple of lines from Gone With the Wind that I, along with a few other Americans, have adopted. The phrases have become icons.
Frankly, my dear, . . . . works when you just don't give a damn and I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no babies! is always good when you don't know nuthin. Many people share these references, so if you use them in the U.S.A., you have a good chance of being understood. If you need to point out that someone is feeling sorry for him/herself, you may whine Marsha, Marsha, Mar-sha. In this country, Baby Boomers will understand what you mean.
Throughout my lives I have collected other iconic phrases that make sense only within a certain circle of friends. That is, only a select group of people understand the origins of these phrases and how they've come to be icons. And it would be futile to try to explain the it all to someone who wasn't there when the icon was born. There's just too much background. But that doesn't mean that people who don't know the origins can't use the phrase and adapt it to their own lives.
Although phrases such a a fine kettle of fish or dressed to the nines have become common, few people know the origins of those phrases.
The following phrases have been adopted by me and groups of people I know. If any of them work for you, feel free to adopt them.
So it is written, so it shall be done (thump fist on chest and click heals) The King and I This phrase is used to respond to a command or directive.
Wook dem cwouds, Edie is a versatile phrase used to draw attention to something you've noticed and can easily be changed to suit the situation. Wook dem flowers, Edie, or Wook dat fwoun, Edie.
Where the hell are the singing cats? is used to express confusion.
A cat stampede, it's a cat, it's a cat, it's a cat, it's a cat stampede of course is the perfect response when someone asks, "You know what we need?"
When you need a conversation starter, of course you could say Keith Moon is dead.
Thank you for holding the flag is for when "thank you" just isn't quite enough words.
When you're ready to start a new project or ready to go you might say Here we go, Blueboys, here we go.
These phrases are like poetry in that they condense a lot of meaning into a few words. However, the meaning may differ from occasion to occasion, so while they are colorful and tend to pleasantly remind of another time and place, they are probably not best used when precision is needed. And of course, there's a big chance that if you use phrases like this outside their circle of origin, people will consider you daft.
Well, that's about all the examples I can think of right now, so I'll just say I'm done here. Steve Buscemi is in this film.
Frankly, my dear, . . . . works when you just don't give a damn and I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no babies! is always good when you don't know nuthin. Many people share these references, so if you use them in the U.S.A., you have a good chance of being understood. If you need to point out that someone is feeling sorry for him/herself, you may whine Marsha, Marsha, Mar-sha. In this country, Baby Boomers will understand what you mean.
Throughout my lives I have collected other iconic phrases that make sense only within a certain circle of friends. That is, only a select group of people understand the origins of these phrases and how they've come to be icons. And it would be futile to try to explain the it all to someone who wasn't there when the icon was born. There's just too much background. But that doesn't mean that people who don't know the origins can't use the phrase and adapt it to their own lives.
Although phrases such a a fine kettle of fish or dressed to the nines have become common, few people know the origins of those phrases.
So it is written, so it shall be done (thump fist on chest and click heals) The King and I This phrase is used to respond to a command or directive.
Wook dem cwouds, Edie is a versatile phrase used to draw attention to something you've noticed and can easily be changed to suit the situation. Wook dem flowers, Edie, or Wook dat fwoun, Edie.
Where the hell are the singing cats? is used to express confusion.
A cat stampede, it's a cat, it's a cat, it's a cat, it's a cat stampede of course is the perfect response when someone asks, "You know what we need?"
When you need a conversation starter, of course you could say Keith Moon is dead.
Thank you for holding the flag is for when "thank you" just isn't quite enough words.
When you're ready to start a new project or ready to go you might say Here we go, Blueboys, here we go.
These phrases are like poetry in that they condense a lot of meaning into a few words. However, the meaning may differ from occasion to occasion, so while they are colorful and tend to pleasantly remind of another time and place, they are probably not best used when precision is needed. And of course, there's a big chance that if you use phrases like this outside their circle of origin, people will consider you daft.
Well, that's about all the examples I can think of right now, so I'll just say I'm done here. Steve Buscemi is in this film.
Friday, February 24, 2017
Civil Disobedience
Thomas Jefferson, who was by most measures a very groovy man, said that if a law is unjust it is our moral duty to disobey it. I think this not only goes for laws of government, but also laws of society and culture. Therefore, I challenge all of us to break some laws.
1. Pee in public restrooms clearly designated for a gender other than your own.
B. Plant marijuana in your garden.
3. Stand in a crowded elevator, facing the back wall.
V. Wear articles of clothing associated with a culture other than your own.
H. Put a thank you note on a police car.
17. Use rain barrels
XII. Ask your physician questions and insist on answers.
D. Be nice to someone who really doesn't "deserve" it.
42. Attend a religious service that you would not normally attend.
12. Refuse to "act your age."
II. Encourage a sing-a-long in the grocery.
I'm sure if you give it some thought, you'll think of many other ways to break a cultural or government law that you find unjust. Please share your ideas with me. I've already done all these and I'm looking for some new ones.
During the course of this rule-breaking, you may feel uncomfortable. That's an excellent sign. It means you are stretching your limits. And let's face it, limits are silly.
1. Pee in public restrooms clearly designated for a gender other than your own.
B. Plant marijuana in your garden.
3. Stand in a crowded elevator, facing the back wall.
V. Wear articles of clothing associated with a culture other than your own.
H. Put a thank you note on a police car.
17. Use rain barrels
XII. Ask your physician questions and insist on answers.
D. Be nice to someone who really doesn't "deserve" it.
42. Attend a religious service that you would not normally attend.
12. Refuse to "act your age."
II. Encourage a sing-a-long in the grocery.
I'm sure if you give it some thought, you'll think of many other ways to break a cultural or government law that you find unjust. Please share your ideas with me. I've already done all these and I'm looking for some new ones.
During the course of this rule-breaking, you may feel uncomfortable. That's an excellent sign. It means you are stretching your limits. And let's face it, limits are silly.
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Genders and Restrooms
When I was in China, I went to a public restroom in a park. I went into the first stall and thought it was out of order. After all, there was no toidy in there, just a hole in the floor with a porcelain ring around it. So I went to the next stall.
Dang! Also just a hole in the floor with a porcelain ring. No instructions. Hmmmmmm. . . . . what to do? Well, my bladder pulled rank on my brain at that point and I figured out that popping a squat is universal. So you can understand that now, living in S. Carolina, I'm quite confused about the hoopla about what bathroom a transgendered person should use.
I don't know about you, but I don't check out genitals when I'm in a public restroom. In fact, it's probably the last thing on my mind. Especially as I get more mature, I hardly ever think of anything except getting there in time to pee! I can't remember one time - not a single time in my whole life - worrying about the birth configuration of someone's genitals when I was in a restroom. And I have been in some restrooms, let me tell you.
In fact, a childhood friend and I peed all over our hometown while growing up. We didn't do it out of some weird desire to be rebellious, we did it because we had to pee. And if we began laughing, which was bound to happen when she and I got together, we had to pee often! Now that is a bit off center, I reckon, but no one ever complained. We tried to be discrete for the most part.
So I'm wondering, who the heck is it who is policing restrooms to make sure that people's genitals match the sign on the door indicating which restroom they should use? I'm especially suspicious when there is only one toidy in the restroom. So there is a locked door, and I'm the only one in there, but I'm supposed to wait until the "ladies" is open? Not blooming' likely. As I've said before, when I gotta pee, I've gotta pee! I applaud the places in SC now that are putting up restrooms that have just one toidy and are marked his/hers.
Newsflash! Most men pee at home in a regular toidy, not a urinal. So most men (although there are some who are incredibly lousy shots) can actually figure out how to pee in a regular toidy. It's not a huge deal.
If you are in a place in which people in the restroom want to look at your private bits, you had better just get on outta there.
Let's all think of something better to bitch about.
Dang! Also just a hole in the floor with a porcelain ring. No instructions. Hmmmmmm. . . . . what to do? Well, my bladder pulled rank on my brain at that point and I figured out that popping a squat is universal. So you can understand that now, living in S. Carolina, I'm quite confused about the hoopla about what bathroom a transgendered person should use.
I don't know about you, but I don't check out genitals when I'm in a public restroom. In fact, it's probably the last thing on my mind. Especially as I get more mature, I hardly ever think of anything except getting there in time to pee! I can't remember one time - not a single time in my whole life - worrying about the birth configuration of someone's genitals when I was in a restroom. And I have been in some restrooms, let me tell you.
In fact, a childhood friend and I peed all over our hometown while growing up. We didn't do it out of some weird desire to be rebellious, we did it because we had to pee. And if we began laughing, which was bound to happen when she and I got together, we had to pee often! Now that is a bit off center, I reckon, but no one ever complained. We tried to be discrete for the most part.
So I'm wondering, who the heck is it who is policing restrooms to make sure that people's genitals match the sign on the door indicating which restroom they should use? I'm especially suspicious when there is only one toidy in the restroom. So there is a locked door, and I'm the only one in there, but I'm supposed to wait until the "ladies" is open? Not blooming' likely. As I've said before, when I gotta pee, I've gotta pee! I applaud the places in SC now that are putting up restrooms that have just one toidy and are marked his/hers.
Newsflash! Most men pee at home in a regular toidy, not a urinal. So most men (although there are some who are incredibly lousy shots) can actually figure out how to pee in a regular toidy. It's not a huge deal.
If you are in a place in which people in the restroom want to look at your private bits, you had better just get on outta there.
Let's all think of something better to bitch about.
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Technologically Challenged
As long as I can remember, I've talked to myself. I sing to myself, too. I joke with myself and I must admit that sometimes I just crack me up. I say thank you aloud when I find my keys or when I see a butterfly or when seeds sprout. I can't really see anything wrong in any of this. It may not be normal but I don't think it's abnormal in a bad way.
Lately, I've noticed that I have to talk myself through tasks that used to be more automatic. Translating these blogs into a manuscript takes several steps that require thought, and for me, speech. In the shower I say, "Okay, wash your hair first, then your face." But I think it's only slowed me down a tiny bit. For the most part, I'm doing okay.
If the iPhone (dang its hide, anyway) would stop updating and if the Mac would stop improving, I'd have a much better time using them. I really don't think it's the fault of my brain cooties that I have trouble with them.
I'm having a fond memory of the first time I was allowed to make a phone call by myself. I picked up the big black receiver and an operator spoke to me. I told her I wanted to talk to Lee Wright, my neighbor. She said okay and connected me. That was that.
Now, I have to first find the little cell phone. It could be anywhere, and indeed has been. Then I have to turn it on, hope that I've plugged it in sometime recently so that it has enough power, select phone then contacts, then I have to decide if I want to phone them in technicolor or black and white. It's too dang many steps. The tiny little critter can do all sorts of things for me, answer bizarre questions about the universe, tell me where I am, map a course to get home, take photos and send them around the globe, play music for me. . . . . but one has to know how to use it to make it do these things and there are always soooooo many steps. I have many videos of my feet with me saying, "No, no, not a video, I just want to call my sister!" And it's constantly making noises at me, not just ringing, but dinging and chiming and whistling. Every sound means something, but heck if I know what they mean, let alone how to respond.
When I was younger and behind a woman of a certain age at a check out, I'd get a bit impatient at her talking her way through everything in her purse to find the correct change. Well, guess what?
"Now, let me see, where are my keys?"
"Ma'am, they are in your hand."
But you see, those ladies were old and I'm not old, I'm just older than I used to be. I refuse to be responsible for not keeping up with technology. Those young whippersnappers who create these things intend for them to be impossible for people of a certain age. I think it's all part of a plan to thin the herd.
"Unfortunately the woman who called 911 was only heard to say 'No, no, not a video, I just want to call my sister.'"
Lately, I've noticed that I have to talk myself through tasks that used to be more automatic. Translating these blogs into a manuscript takes several steps that require thought, and for me, speech. In the shower I say, "Okay, wash your hair first, then your face." But I think it's only slowed me down a tiny bit. For the most part, I'm doing okay.
If the iPhone (dang its hide, anyway) would stop updating and if the Mac would stop improving, I'd have a much better time using them. I really don't think it's the fault of my brain cooties that I have trouble with them.
I'm having a fond memory of the first time I was allowed to make a phone call by myself. I picked up the big black receiver and an operator spoke to me. I told her I wanted to talk to Lee Wright, my neighbor. She said okay and connected me. That was that.
Now, I have to first find the little cell phone. It could be anywhere, and indeed has been. Then I have to turn it on, hope that I've plugged it in sometime recently so that it has enough power, select phone then contacts, then I have to decide if I want to phone them in technicolor or black and white. It's too dang many steps. The tiny little critter can do all sorts of things for me, answer bizarre questions about the universe, tell me where I am, map a course to get home, take photos and send them around the globe, play music for me. . . . . but one has to know how to use it to make it do these things and there are always soooooo many steps. I have many videos of my feet with me saying, "No, no, not a video, I just want to call my sister!" And it's constantly making noises at me, not just ringing, but dinging and chiming and whistling. Every sound means something, but heck if I know what they mean, let alone how to respond.
When I was younger and behind a woman of a certain age at a check out, I'd get a bit impatient at her talking her way through everything in her purse to find the correct change. Well, guess what?
"Now, let me see, where are my keys?"
"Ma'am, they are in your hand."
But you see, those ladies were old and I'm not old, I'm just older than I used to be. I refuse to be responsible for not keeping up with technology. Those young whippersnappers who create these things intend for them to be impossible for people of a certain age. I think it's all part of a plan to thin the herd.
"Unfortunately the woman who called 911 was only heard to say 'No, no, not a video, I just want to call my sister.'"
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Couch Miracles
A miracle happened yesterday and today. Well, okay, I'm sure that a gazillion or so have happened, but this is one I'm going to tell you about.
I've been selling stuff online. I want to whittle down the amount of things I own. I've had my love seat and couch on several sites for quite a long while and finally heard from someone that she loved them. I told her that they wanted to go home with her.
Through some private messages, usually reserved for negotiating great deals, this young woman explained that she had no way to pick them up because she has no truck, and that she can't lift because she's currently going through chemotherapy for breast cancer. I don't have a truck either. I don't even know anyone with a truck, I don't think. But I said, if you want it, I'll get it to you. As I typed it, I wondered what in the heck I was thinking.
Then, as sometimes happens, we began chatting and I found out that this breast cancer is just sort of one more thing in a long line of not so nice things in her life, even though she is an exceptionally positive person. Her "man" left her when she lost a breast. Her son, who would soon be 18, died in a car accident with her husband when her son was nearly 4. I won't go on, because you'd think that this woman was a Debbie Downer.
She's anything but.
She did tell me, however, that she finds getting comfortable enough to sleep during chemo is a real challenge and her bed is no help. I said, "Wellllll, as a matter of fact, I happen to have an extra bed - memory foam, even." She said she thought Cancer Society could help her buy it from me, since she isn't exactly rolling in dough right now. I told her that I could wait because I'm independently wealthy. But then I decided that lying is no way to start a friendship, so I fessed up.
We chatted for a long while and made each other laugh. Amazing how much we have in common. She told me her next chemo was today and so I asked if I could come and sit with her. She agreed and I took her all the caps I'd collected when I had no hair a year or so ago.
Luckily, there weren't a lot of people in the big room getting chemo at the same time, so few if any were disturbed by our rather raucous laughter between her grimaces and twinges of pain.
I contacted a college age friend, knowing that he's strong and I figured between the two of us we could move the furniture if I rented a truck. He said he thought he and his dad could help. Then I asked if they had a truck. He said no, but they had a 16 foot trailer.
It appears the move date will be Friday.
I am so very blessed to have met this woman. I'm grateful.
I've been selling stuff online. I want to whittle down the amount of things I own. I've had my love seat and couch on several sites for quite a long while and finally heard from someone that she loved them. I told her that they wanted to go home with her.
Through some private messages, usually reserved for negotiating great deals, this young woman explained that she had no way to pick them up because she has no truck, and that she can't lift because she's currently going through chemotherapy for breast cancer. I don't have a truck either. I don't even know anyone with a truck, I don't think. But I said, if you want it, I'll get it to you. As I typed it, I wondered what in the heck I was thinking.
Then, as sometimes happens, we began chatting and I found out that this breast cancer is just sort of one more thing in a long line of not so nice things in her life, even though she is an exceptionally positive person. Her "man" left her when she lost a breast. Her son, who would soon be 18, died in a car accident with her husband when her son was nearly 4. I won't go on, because you'd think that this woman was a Debbie Downer.
She's anything but.
She did tell me, however, that she finds getting comfortable enough to sleep during chemo is a real challenge and her bed is no help. I said, "Wellllll, as a matter of fact, I happen to have an extra bed - memory foam, even." She said she thought Cancer Society could help her buy it from me, since she isn't exactly rolling in dough right now. I told her that I could wait because I'm independently wealthy. But then I decided that lying is no way to start a friendship, so I fessed up.
We chatted for a long while and made each other laugh. Amazing how much we have in common. She told me her next chemo was today and so I asked if I could come and sit with her. She agreed and I took her all the caps I'd collected when I had no hair a year or so ago.
Luckily, there weren't a lot of people in the big room getting chemo at the same time, so few if any were disturbed by our rather raucous laughter between her grimaces and twinges of pain.
I contacted a college age friend, knowing that he's strong and I figured between the two of us we could move the furniture if I rented a truck. He said he thought he and his dad could help. Then I asked if they had a truck. He said no, but they had a 16 foot trailer.
It appears the move date will be Friday.
I am so very blessed to have met this woman. I'm grateful.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Fun With Dementia
My blog has been depressing lately, though I didn't really mean it to be. But my brother, Wade, just called to slap me upside the head and tell me to get my head outta the dirt and write something upbeat.
Some of you may not know my brother Wade, but when he slaps ya upside the head (always in a loving way, of course) you know your head's been slapped and you'd better straighten up and flight right. (What the heck does that statement actually mean anyway? I'm' not flying right now. And truth be told, if anyone did ever actually physically slap me upside the head, he'd probably be the first one to knock that person right on down.)
So anyhoo, I decided to write about some of the good things that one with dementia experiences. "Good things?" you ask. There is a flip side to every ding dang coin and there are some entertaining things about losing ones memory.
I am so very grateful for the GPS in my car. Of course, I've always been one to get lost, but just knowing the GPS will guide me home is a comfort. Don't get me wrong, I can and do still get lost with GPS, but it allows me to see things I never would have seen otherwise. Just yesterday, I saw an absolutely beautiful house on some odd street on the way home from where ever I was. I can't remember.
Have a an argument with someone? Not to worry. Chances are, you won't remember it tomorrow. All that is forgotten is forgiven.
Anything I've read in the past few years - in fact, even things I've written - are totally new to me. I enjoy them just as much as I did the first time I read them.
Same with people. I just loving making new friends, even friends I've known for a few years. If I've known you for 55 to 10 years, chances are, I'll remember lots about you. Possibly things you wish I'd forgotten. But if you kicked me in the stomach 3 years ago, no worries. As far as I know, unless it left a scar, it didn't happen.
More and more I say whatever the flip in on my mind at any given second. Now, this can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on what time of day it is, and what crosses the fog in my brain. SOMETIMES, I'm just very honest. That of course can be either good or not so good. But SOMETIMES utter bullshit comes right out of my mouth. That's not good. Ooops, sorry, supposed to be focusing on good stuff.
I relish scrumptious dinners that James has made for me a zillion times as if it were the first time I've tasted them.
People don't need to send new Christmas cards or birthday cards. I can just bring out the ones from last year, thus preserving paper.
You can tell me the same joke over and over. I probably won't get it, but I'll laugh anyway.
It's a GREAT excuse for talking to trees and other plants and rocks and soil. . . . . . things I've always done, but without an excuse.
Except for a few special circumstances, I'm fearless. For example, I really think if I were in a store and some nut walked in with a gun and wanted to rob the place, I'd do something like laugh loudly, attempt a cartwheel, or try to kiss him. Surely that would give the clerk enough time to push the button or whatever. And if the crazy person shot me. . . . . ha. . . .. jokes on him.
And most of all, this fading has given me a humongous appreciation of my brain. Dang, it's been a good one. I was so darn smart. I'm sure I'm still smarter than the average bear, although IQ tests are seldom used now, especially with bears, but you get my drift. And for that I am the most grateful a person can be.
So there you go, Brother Wade. An upbeat blog about dementia. Carry on,
Some of you may not know my brother Wade, but when he slaps ya upside the head (always in a loving way, of course) you know your head's been slapped and you'd better straighten up and flight right. (What the heck does that statement actually mean anyway? I'm' not flying right now. And truth be told, if anyone did ever actually physically slap me upside the head, he'd probably be the first one to knock that person right on down.)
So anyhoo, I decided to write about some of the good things that one with dementia experiences. "Good things?" you ask. There is a flip side to every ding dang coin and there are some entertaining things about losing ones memory.
I am so very grateful for the GPS in my car. Of course, I've always been one to get lost, but just knowing the GPS will guide me home is a comfort. Don't get me wrong, I can and do still get lost with GPS, but it allows me to see things I never would have seen otherwise. Just yesterday, I saw an absolutely beautiful house on some odd street on the way home from where ever I was. I can't remember.
Have a an argument with someone? Not to worry. Chances are, you won't remember it tomorrow. All that is forgotten is forgiven.
Anything I've read in the past few years - in fact, even things I've written - are totally new to me. I enjoy them just as much as I did the first time I read them.
Same with people. I just loving making new friends, even friends I've known for a few years. If I've known you for 55 to 10 years, chances are, I'll remember lots about you. Possibly things you wish I'd forgotten. But if you kicked me in the stomach 3 years ago, no worries. As far as I know, unless it left a scar, it didn't happen.
More and more I say whatever the flip in on my mind at any given second. Now, this can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on what time of day it is, and what crosses the fog in my brain. SOMETIMES, I'm just very honest. That of course can be either good or not so good. But SOMETIMES utter bullshit comes right out of my mouth. That's not good. Ooops, sorry, supposed to be focusing on good stuff.
I relish scrumptious dinners that James has made for me a zillion times as if it were the first time I've tasted them.
People don't need to send new Christmas cards or birthday cards. I can just bring out the ones from last year, thus preserving paper.
You can tell me the same joke over and over. I probably won't get it, but I'll laugh anyway.
It's a GREAT excuse for talking to trees and other plants and rocks and soil. . . . . . things I've always done, but without an excuse.
Except for a few special circumstances, I'm fearless. For example, I really think if I were in a store and some nut walked in with a gun and wanted to rob the place, I'd do something like laugh loudly, attempt a cartwheel, or try to kiss him. Surely that would give the clerk enough time to push the button or whatever. And if the crazy person shot me. . . . . ha. . . .. jokes on him.
And most of all, this fading has given me a humongous appreciation of my brain. Dang, it's been a good one. I was so darn smart. I'm sure I'm still smarter than the average bear, although IQ tests are seldom used now, especially with bears, but you get my drift. And for that I am the most grateful a person can be.
So there you go, Brother Wade. An upbeat blog about dementia. Carry on,
Monday, January 30, 2017
Who's to Say?
I know things. I used to know a lot more things. My brain has holes in it and things fall out. Perhaps someone will find these facts and ideas on the ground and pick them up and do something with them.
I know that with dementia (gourd, I hate that word!) comes mood swings. I don't know if one could say what I'm experiencing is swinging actually, since I've fought depression all my life, but lately I've had anger like I've never experienced before.
Anger is a tough thing for a pacifist. It tends to come out in my dreams, where lately I've been screaming at people and even punching them. Even though, when I was young, my brothers tried to teach me how to hit like a boy, I never really practiced, and even in my dreams it's evident. The only person I ever actually slugged was Dr. Korte, when I was in labor. She said she'd been hit harder.
Anyway, my point is that I get really, really angry lately. It seems reasonable actually, in light of what is happening to Earth, to our country specifically, but it isn't very helpful. It is also reasonable, I think, because though I often have hope that this is all a mistake, it's becoming more and more obvious that something bad is going on in my very favorite organ.
Just now I had to read back to see if I could find reference to my story about hitting Dr. Korte. I didn't immediately find one, but if I've written it before, get over it. It's a good story. And sometimes I search a thesaurus or call a trusted friend to find a word or a phrase that used to be right there.
When I read my old posts - old as in ones I wrote last week or two days ago - I'm usually amazed at how well written they are, how clever. But I don't remember writing them. And I'm often ashamed at how many mistakes in spelling and punctuation there are. I don't make those mistakes. Well, at least I didn't used to make them. I'm so grateful that I can still write. Of course, I'm assuming here, that I still write well. It could actually be gobblydee gook.
I'd hoped to write a daily blog about my life with the BBD, but there are lots of days I just can't. Ideas float about in clouds and are often obscured. And sometimes the clouds are stormy ones and then anything I write is full of all three of my curse words.
It's not pleasant to write about me becoming stupid, but I think it's important. And as my ego is shrinking lately, I am less embarrassed. I used to write about depression a lot, trying to educate people that it isn't a failure of character or weakness, but a disease just as diabetes or heart disease. Well, guess what? So is dementia.
Sometimes it's sort of cool to enjoy things I've enjoyed before as if for the first time. And I can remember Mary Ann's rainbow cancans she wore when we were in Kindergarten. I can remember Julie getting her new norange bike, and the smell of the cherry trees I climbed as a child as if I experienced them all yesterday. Who's to say those things aren't much, much better than the things I actually experienced yesterday.
And as my friend Zab would say, there is no yesterday, no tomorrow, only Now. Another friend, Ray, just now told me to ". . . try harder. Focus on being happy." Maybe this is what he meant. What is time anyway?
I'm grateful.
I know that with dementia (gourd, I hate that word!) comes mood swings. I don't know if one could say what I'm experiencing is swinging actually, since I've fought depression all my life, but lately I've had anger like I've never experienced before.
Anger is a tough thing for a pacifist. It tends to come out in my dreams, where lately I've been screaming at people and even punching them. Even though, when I was young, my brothers tried to teach me how to hit like a boy, I never really practiced, and even in my dreams it's evident. The only person I ever actually slugged was Dr. Korte, when I was in labor. She said she'd been hit harder.
Anyway, my point is that I get really, really angry lately. It seems reasonable actually, in light of what is happening to Earth, to our country specifically, but it isn't very helpful. It is also reasonable, I think, because though I often have hope that this is all a mistake, it's becoming more and more obvious that something bad is going on in my very favorite organ.
Just now I had to read back to see if I could find reference to my story about hitting Dr. Korte. I didn't immediately find one, but if I've written it before, get over it. It's a good story. And sometimes I search a thesaurus or call a trusted friend to find a word or a phrase that used to be right there.
When I read my old posts - old as in ones I wrote last week or two days ago - I'm usually amazed at how well written they are, how clever. But I don't remember writing them. And I'm often ashamed at how many mistakes in spelling and punctuation there are. I don't make those mistakes. Well, at least I didn't used to make them. I'm so grateful that I can still write. Of course, I'm assuming here, that I still write well. It could actually be gobblydee gook.
I'd hoped to write a daily blog about my life with the BBD, but there are lots of days I just can't. Ideas float about in clouds and are often obscured. And sometimes the clouds are stormy ones and then anything I write is full of all three of my curse words.
It's not pleasant to write about me becoming stupid, but I think it's important. And as my ego is shrinking lately, I am less embarrassed. I used to write about depression a lot, trying to educate people that it isn't a failure of character or weakness, but a disease just as diabetes or heart disease. Well, guess what? So is dementia.
Sometimes it's sort of cool to enjoy things I've enjoyed before as if for the first time. And I can remember Mary Ann's rainbow cancans she wore when we were in Kindergarten. I can remember Julie getting her new norange bike, and the smell of the cherry trees I climbed as a child as if I experienced them all yesterday. Who's to say those things aren't much, much better than the things I actually experienced yesterday.
And as my friend Zab would say, there is no yesterday, no tomorrow, only Now. Another friend, Ray, just now told me to ". . . try harder. Focus on being happy." Maybe this is what he meant. What is time anyway?
I'm grateful.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Sarcasm and Sensibilities.
Ladies, please listen. There was a time of glory. It has not been so long ago that we can not return to it, In fact, I believe we are on our way. In that glorious time everyone knew his or her place and if they weren't satisfied, at least they were for the most part complacent. Or at least unheard from.
Why should the poor be educated? Not every mind is made for such. Will we not always need workers who will work tirelessly, without regard to time and pay, feeling fortunate just to have some pennies with which to perhaps buy some bread? Haven't we fields to be plowed and walls to be built? And let's face it, we needn't worry at all about birth control, since their conditions, being so poor, will quite naturally weed out the weaker of them - the more useless ones. This is the natural law.
And if we happen to be born to a higher class of people, so be it. We have a noblesse oblige to employ those better suited to caring for us in the mundane - cooking, cleaning, helping us dress, growing our food, etc. We, have an obligation to maintain the social order. Ladies should become skilled in the finer things. We must read only the appropriate literature, lest our minds become conflicted. We should learn the finer arts, such as needlework, music, painting, flower arranging, dance, and entertainment. These are the skills that lubricate the social order so that our men may be free to manage the legacies to which they were born.
Oh, it's well and fine to say that all people are created equal, but the truth is quite different. Some people are made for field work, their darker skin showing less the dirt. Others' hands are made to raise animals, and a few hands - so pale and dainty - must be protected in order to maintain the beauty that is so important in our social order.
Health care really must be rationed. There are so many of the lower classes this it makes no sense to squander precious time and medicines on them. They would hardy appreciate it. In fact, you can't imagine that a poor household welcomes a 6th, 7th, or 9th mouth to feed! The upper classes, however, are prone to some delicate natures that modern medicine can and must attend.
We are right to maintain the social order as God intended, lest the whole of society be turned upside down and we are overrun like the jungles from whence the inferiors originated. It is, indeed, our holy duty.
So ladies, I implore you not to meet in groups to gossip and exchange ideas contrary to your fathers and husbands. Do not be too lenient on your inferiors lest they become haughty. Be always weary of strangers and foreigners, for they seek to dilute our righteous ways. Remember that God made the whole of the earth for us to consume and we should do so with joy.
A woman's mind must not be consumed with manly quests. She must remain free from vulgarity and maintain peace and order in her home by managing her servants well. By this, the Righteous Christian Womanhood, will continue to do our part in maintaining what is just and right in our world
Why should the poor be educated? Not every mind is made for such. Will we not always need workers who will work tirelessly, without regard to time and pay, feeling fortunate just to have some pennies with which to perhaps buy some bread? Haven't we fields to be plowed and walls to be built? And let's face it, we needn't worry at all about birth control, since their conditions, being so poor, will quite naturally weed out the weaker of them - the more useless ones. This is the natural law.
And if we happen to be born to a higher class of people, so be it. We have a noblesse oblige to employ those better suited to caring for us in the mundane - cooking, cleaning, helping us dress, growing our food, etc. We, have an obligation to maintain the social order. Ladies should become skilled in the finer things. We must read only the appropriate literature, lest our minds become conflicted. We should learn the finer arts, such as needlework, music, painting, flower arranging, dance, and entertainment. These are the skills that lubricate the social order so that our men may be free to manage the legacies to which they were born.
Oh, it's well and fine to say that all people are created equal, but the truth is quite different. Some people are made for field work, their darker skin showing less the dirt. Others' hands are made to raise animals, and a few hands - so pale and dainty - must be protected in order to maintain the beauty that is so important in our social order.
Health care really must be rationed. There are so many of the lower classes this it makes no sense to squander precious time and medicines on them. They would hardy appreciate it. In fact, you can't imagine that a poor household welcomes a 6th, 7th, or 9th mouth to feed! The upper classes, however, are prone to some delicate natures that modern medicine can and must attend.
We are right to maintain the social order as God intended, lest the whole of society be turned upside down and we are overrun like the jungles from whence the inferiors originated. It is, indeed, our holy duty.
So ladies, I implore you not to meet in groups to gossip and exchange ideas contrary to your fathers and husbands. Do not be too lenient on your inferiors lest they become haughty. Be always weary of strangers and foreigners, for they seek to dilute our righteous ways. Remember that God made the whole of the earth for us to consume and we should do so with joy.
A woman's mind must not be consumed with manly quests. She must remain free from vulgarity and maintain peace and order in her home by managing her servants well. By this, the Righteous Christian Womanhood, will continue to do our part in maintaining what is just and right in our world
Decisions and Drawing the Line
Since my neurosurgeon's office called and said that his health care system no longer accepted my insurance, there will be no follow up to my aneurisms from his office. The end.
I assume that my regular neurologist will still accept me and perhaps he will scan my brain for signs of any growth in the balloons and then perhaps find a surgeon for me, but I'm hesitant to do even that. I'll keep going to the neurologist because he is treating this memory loss/brain fade of mine with some drugs. Sometimes I think they are working. Sometimes I think the diagnosis was wrong all along and that I'm totally normal for a lady of a certain age, and then I forget where I am and how to get out of my bedroom, and that's a wee bit disconcerting. I maintain that there could be other reasons for such things to happen and that they are much less scary than progressive dementia.
So I've decided to take matters a bit into my own hands. I've been reading up on some natural treatments - alternative treatments - and what the heck. I doubt they'll kill me. Yes, I'm experimenting with myself. Better I experiment than some stranger who really doesn't appreciate just how totally cool my brain actually is.
I don't care to qualify nastiness of various illnesses, but if I had cancer, I'd have an automatic support group around me. I hate cancer, too. It sucks. But when you tell people that you have some sort of dementia, they get scared or confused or just grossed out. My credibility goes from 92 to 3 in the course of a few words. And every little stumble is suspect. This is the reality of it.
So I'm packing things in. I still need to do some traveling, but for the most part, I've contacted all the people in my life with whom I felt the need to make amends. Most have not responded at all. A few have responded negatively, accusing me of all sorts of ill behavior. And while I used to say things such as "I don't care about that, I've done my best, " Now I actually mean it.
I've little time or energy for people who do not keep their promises. Friends who disappear, and the emotional vampires who seem to suck the libido (oh, look it up, it's not just about sex) right out of me. Am I pissy? Probably, but I'm honestly pissy.
I'm determined that kindness be my default, but I'm also becoming determined to no longer bruise my head against brick walls. If you haven't spoken to me in a while, there is a thing called telephone and it works both ways. There's also the marvelous inter web, etc.
I find it so very sad that so many who've said they'll always "be there for me" have begun training for Olympic track events by running in the opposite direction, and while I continue to wish them well, I'm not likely to stand in the rain cheering for them. Maybe that's unkind of me, or maybe it's self preservation.
My heart aches, AND I know I'll be okay. I am so very enough. There are still people in this world who respect me and actually care for me, though I'm realizing that no one is going to "always be there for me" when I need little things. Perhaps that it a silly statement. No one can always be there for anyone else. I suppose the closest would be the sort of marriage I've seen a handful of times.
My sister and her husband, for example. Faerie tale. Not that their lives have been without pain or obstacles. They've had at least their share, but they are the kind of couple, that when you see them, you only see the good, the joy, the bliss. It's exceedingly rare. I have a grand imagination and I can't imagine how that must feel. I'm not an easy person with whom to live in the least and I have so very many (do you mind if we call them quirks or eccentricities rather than neuroses?) that I often can nearly not live with myself.
But I've got a mess of good traits, too. I've been loyal to my friends. I try to be kind to people, other animals, and all of Earth. I actually do care about such things. I think, I'm well worth loving. You may differ if you wish, we all have the right to differ.
Our health care un-system and mega insurance companies can line up to kiss my fine, round, pale behind. One would think that they are made up of actual human beings, but one might be wrong in that assumption.
In spite of the nastiness, terrifying fog that has befallen not only me, but all of Earth, I reserve the right to be optimistic, take chances, have adventures and love myself. I love you, too - if you are a real person or an animal or some identifiable part of Nature - if you are a big corporate machine. . . . well, the best I can say is "fuck off."
I remain grateful.
I assume that my regular neurologist will still accept me and perhaps he will scan my brain for signs of any growth in the balloons and then perhaps find a surgeon for me, but I'm hesitant to do even that. I'll keep going to the neurologist because he is treating this memory loss/brain fade of mine with some drugs. Sometimes I think they are working. Sometimes I think the diagnosis was wrong all along and that I'm totally normal for a lady of a certain age, and then I forget where I am and how to get out of my bedroom, and that's a wee bit disconcerting. I maintain that there could be other reasons for such things to happen and that they are much less scary than progressive dementia.
So I've decided to take matters a bit into my own hands. I've been reading up on some natural treatments - alternative treatments - and what the heck. I doubt they'll kill me. Yes, I'm experimenting with myself. Better I experiment than some stranger who really doesn't appreciate just how totally cool my brain actually is.
I don't care to qualify nastiness of various illnesses, but if I had cancer, I'd have an automatic support group around me. I hate cancer, too. It sucks. But when you tell people that you have some sort of dementia, they get scared or confused or just grossed out. My credibility goes from 92 to 3 in the course of a few words. And every little stumble is suspect. This is the reality of it.
So I'm packing things in. I still need to do some traveling, but for the most part, I've contacted all the people in my life with whom I felt the need to make amends. Most have not responded at all. A few have responded negatively, accusing me of all sorts of ill behavior. And while I used to say things such as "I don't care about that, I've done my best, " Now I actually mean it.
I've little time or energy for people who do not keep their promises. Friends who disappear, and the emotional vampires who seem to suck the libido (oh, look it up, it's not just about sex) right out of me. Am I pissy? Probably, but I'm honestly pissy.
I'm determined that kindness be my default, but I'm also becoming determined to no longer bruise my head against brick walls. If you haven't spoken to me in a while, there is a thing called telephone and it works both ways. There's also the marvelous inter web, etc.
I find it so very sad that so many who've said they'll always "be there for me" have begun training for Olympic track events by running in the opposite direction, and while I continue to wish them well, I'm not likely to stand in the rain cheering for them. Maybe that's unkind of me, or maybe it's self preservation.
My heart aches, AND I know I'll be okay. I am so very enough. There are still people in this world who respect me and actually care for me, though I'm realizing that no one is going to "always be there for me" when I need little things. Perhaps that it a silly statement. No one can always be there for anyone else. I suppose the closest would be the sort of marriage I've seen a handful of times.
My sister and her husband, for example. Faerie tale. Not that their lives have been without pain or obstacles. They've had at least their share, but they are the kind of couple, that when you see them, you only see the good, the joy, the bliss. It's exceedingly rare. I have a grand imagination and I can't imagine how that must feel. I'm not an easy person with whom to live in the least and I have so very many (do you mind if we call them quirks or eccentricities rather than neuroses?) that I often can nearly not live with myself.
But I've got a mess of good traits, too. I've been loyal to my friends. I try to be kind to people, other animals, and all of Earth. I actually do care about such things. I think, I'm well worth loving. You may differ if you wish, we all have the right to differ.
Our health care un-system and mega insurance companies can line up to kiss my fine, round, pale behind. One would think that they are made up of actual human beings, but one might be wrong in that assumption.
In spite of the nastiness, terrifying fog that has befallen not only me, but all of Earth, I reserve the right to be optimistic, take chances, have adventures and love myself. I love you, too - if you are a real person or an animal or some identifiable part of Nature - if you are a big corporate machine. . . . well, the best I can say is "fuck off."
I remain grateful.
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