Tack One On

As the lucid air of a full bodied year comes to close, I feel compelled to rush over to this speck of my Internet Universe and well, you know, tick one off for the record.
I counted it up, with this entry I'll have exactly 23 for the year, a clear miss for a true 2 per month average. Oh well....tis what it is.....a lack of something or other.

I've never been a resolution type of gal, so this evening change of numeral implications doesn't create a huge impact in my life. If anything, the last day of the year creates an ominous acceleration of my past years accomplishments, experiences, or lack of, that line up for me to take stock, analyze and punctuate with appropriate ! (meaning good for me) or ? (meaning WTF was I thinking) or ........ (meaning clear unconnected confusion of the who knows type) etc etc.

I suppose within that car crash of accumulative 2007 life facts, it provides a bit of a wishful push to look around the gate into 2008 with a trace of motivation, clean slate potential and dreamy opportunity. I suppose. All a matter of perspective.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had a good Christmas. I prevailed. I survived and will not be boycotting next years festivities. I have realized Christmas isn't as jolly anymore with my daughters growing up. There just isn't the same type of magic to be derived from putting a big bow on a snowboard, or wrapping up a cute Ipod.

Barbie's and Teddy Bears and lots of cheap toys was way- way- funner..........thankfully there's always the promise of future grandchildren. I'm already plotting to be one of those rockin' Grannies that go overboard with all the unapproved toys .....of the annoying nature. Fun Grannie, Sugar Grannie, Extreme Grannie, Lovin Grannie, Break the Rules Grannie, Adventure Grannie.....oh my darling future Grand babies, we are going to have a good old fashioned Rebecca rockin' time. (grin)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the sentimental note of Christmas Gone and New Year fast approaching
I extend my best wishes to all those I've known online.
May your 2008 be full of surprises, accomplishments and satisfactions.
And may I suggest...
Add a bit of adventure, sugar, extreme, lovin, break the rules and fun.

I know I know, I surprise even Myself

Well, I guess it's a good thing I kicked on the defibrillator today because I have something else to say. Or more like, I'm agitated and I believe in the midst of my agitation a public forum would make a good catch spot for it.

So this evening, in talking to a quasi-friend/acquaintance after the hooray of hello, howyadoin, how's the kids, life, you know, standard pleasantries, our conversation took an unexpected turn for the worse.

It went something like this.........

Friend (Beaming) : "Blah Blah Blah.....la la la.....so are you voting for Hilary Clinton? I think she so's fabulous....blah blah blah.......so are ya? are ya? of course you are, right??"

Me (shifting ever so uncomfortably, religion/ politics = cursed topics) : "Well, it's alittle early to make that call."

Friend (looking stunned) " Why wouldn't you vote for her? Huh? Why? What's the problem?"

Me ( looking for the exit door) " No problems, I'm still gathering information about all the candidates, that's all. Wasn't it cold out today? "

Friend (looking horrified) (and this is where she started to piss me off) " I just don't see how an intelligent woman like you would have anything else to think about. Hilary is our savior!"

Me (done): "Ya, ok, savior. All right, well, it was good seeing you again" and I started to move away to find a safe zone when she throws this out.........

Her: "Why in the world wouldn't you want to vote for a woman for President? You don't think a woman can handle it? (and then she practically hissed) You won't vote for a woman President!"

Pause~

       Is that the way of it? Is that the way it's going to be, especially within the feminine community? Because this has happened to me twice now. Twice I say. The first time wasn't as bad.... accusation style, but I basically got the same, "How dare you not commit your vote to the name with a vagina right this second."

       Seriously, I'm not ready to say who I'm voting for until I know who's going to be on the ticket, do alittle research, keep watching the debates etc, etc. But evidently the gender war is on, sideline style. Or maybe I've just run into two extremely narrow minded individuals and I'm overtly worried now....panic like.

       If someone is willing to accuse me of not wanting to vote for a woman, just because I'm not ready to commit to any one politician today, I have a problem with that. I have a problem with "You won't vote for a woman" coming after a conversation as a last ditch effort to sway me. Talk about an immature moronic reason, and reason alone, to vote for anyone, in any situation....... She might as well have followed that statement up with," I'm not gonna be your friend anymore!"

       I know the score, I know this little trap. It runs along the lines of this beautiful question, "Do you believe in God?" and then I say, "You know, I have my own thoughts and I'm not throwing my eggs in the manger" and I get the voodoo, "Ohhh your going to Hell lady." Which I guess is supposed to scare me and all, but the truth is, if you don't ride the God ticket, you don't exactly sign up for a hell, so they are both rather mute points. Which brings me to 'vote for the woman' or get pegged as a traitor to the female race, or prejudiced against a woman President etc, etc, etc........ I'm a female getting this mind set, I can only imagine what it will be like for you men, if you dare mention your doubting Mizz Clintons abilities. You'll have a lynch mob of Kotex throwing fanatics after ya!

       It shouldn't be like that. It doesn't need to be like that. Obviously, with the state of things in our country, this next election is going to be madly insane (that's for you Paul) and all I'm trying to say now is, lets leave the entire gender part out of it? K. Is that cool? Is that fair, comfy, agreeable, acceptable?

       Where my vote ends up going is unimportant, what I do think is critical today.....is people, specifically us gal pals, don't shoot below the belt and cry 'vagina' if we expect a woman to earn her way (not default gender vote)  into the big oval office someday.

Again, I'm just saying.............

Oh, and my final comment to the above mentioned person was and I quote, " Why in the world would you vote for someone just because she is a woman? Think about it, it's the Presidency, I want someone who is qualified, a strong leader, respected, responsible and a hundred other qualities. If Hilary Clinton is that person, then she will earn my vote, if it's a male candidate, then he will earn my vote."

P.S.
Wow, thank you everyone for your comments, additional defribulations to the old Iris pages and words. I believe the blood is up and pumping once again. Even though I'm a bit mortified I've actually done a political entry. Always a first time for everything..........    

A Numb Beat

This entry is akin to putting a defibrillator on a dying person. I'm just saying........

       I thought this morning I would go take a stroll through blog lane, catch up, see what everyone's been up too. Blog lane for me, is a massive tangled mess of journal links packed to high heaven in my AOL favorites.
      
        Now, I understand this is the 'old fashioned' way of doing things, but I'm usually at least a year or two behind on all things high tech. For example, I don't even have a picture phone (the horror, my daughters have expressed) and have survived thus far, so I'll continue to do things the hard way. I'm just saying...........

       Anyway, back to my defibrillation......during my stroll through my blog link (hell) highway, I discovered myself actually in a graveyard of deserted journals, broken links, now private journals, and cobweb covered rooms. If I was a mathematician, I'd say at least 75% were mute, dated over a year ago, simply gone, or private.

       The song, "where have all the cowboys gone" came into my mind, except, of course, I substituted cowboys with writers, then changed the scene from a dusty ranch to a huge hotel with blinking red lights and labels above each door displaying the long lost journalers blog title.  Then since I was at it, I had to switch any wayward horses to fancy computers and hip shooters with cordless mouse's. Anyway, that's all neither here nor there, the point is and I'm certain I had one....., is that my blog highway is pot hole filled, with rusty cars stranded alone, tombstones erected everywhere and flowers wilted over. It was a sad morning (mourning) of deletion after hip shooting, mouse clicking alleviation.

       Which made me think of poor wilting, neglected Iris in it's dark ass shadow. A heartbeat could hardly be detected here, in these pages. Which made me sad, for no other reason then I am the responsible party of these pages and I've been most negligent. Actually, truth be told, I've been cheating on Iris with another writing space, so I suppose I just don't have enough in me to court two places at once. So maybe that's what happened to all those other journals, they are all adulterous writers as well and I just wasn't privy to the new relationship.

       Anyway, this entry is about as un-interesting and completely irrelevant, in the way of journal entries, can be----but it's pounded on the chest of a dying thought.

That's all I'm saying.............

      
      

 

Sentimental Fool

It's back, it's up, it's off and running. You really should participate.
It's the Arsty Essay contest over at Judith's chateau. Judith HeartSong <~~ Linkage
And it's a difficult one!!!! In a good way, go visit, try it, do it, you know you wanna.

(topic currently pilfered for advertisement and mussing purposes, please visit Judith's for full details, rules, guidelines and deadlines)

"What is your favorite and most inspiring possession? Tell us about it, and if you want an extra creative challenge... tell us about it without naming it until the very last sentence of your essay:):):)"

That Judith is a crafty one if I may say so myself. I'm not letting those little smiley faces fool me, it was a very crafty and brilliant/difficult topic to throw to us mere emotional humans.

When I read the topic, alarm bells and the electrical currents called my thoughts seized up in instant conflict. This is why..........

I, Rebecca Anne, am a self proclaimed sentimental whore.

If something has a story, meaning, physical or mental value, I keep it. I have a well designed system for storing all these items, call boxes. Wood boxes, pretty boxes, lockable boxes, glass boxes, metal boxes, jewelry boxes, marble boxes, big old hope chests, teeny tiny jeweled boxes, handmade boxes, doesn't matter. If it can pass off like a Pandora's box, without the plague if you open them, hiding my favorite things, it'll do.

There isn't a room in my house that doesn't house some sort of box, filled with my favorite and most prized possessions. I can only think of two things that are very sentimental and prized that aren't cased in domains of 4 walls and a top. My flyrod and my art collection on the walls. Everything else I possess can be blown to the four corners of the earth and I wouldn't really care. But my boxes of sentimental gold and my walls of art and the flyrod that usually lives in my Tahoe are utterly important on the grand scale of prized.

Pick one? Play favorites? Place one above the others?
Judith, Judith, where art thou's merciful creative soul?

Since I read the theme yesterday, I've played a few completely totally sick and twisted scenario's in my head, just for mind bending fun. The best one is............"Your house is on fire, and you have time to grab one thing, what would it be" .........thinking that if I played that game with myself, I could narrow it down. All that did was coax me into looking into the financial costs of building a completely fireproof room in my house.

The thing is, very few of my prized items are worth any monetary value. I doubt anyone would give me a single buck for some of the rocks I've collected from all over the world. Or donate 10 cents for a pressed flower I found atop a mountain in Montana. There is no value on a note written by my then 5 year old daughter telling me I'm the best Mother in the whole wide world, even to the moon and back. There's no value, other then sentimentally on a completed journal I've written, or a story I've tossed on paper. Or a piece of cut ribbon from a present I received. And letters, my beautiful cherished letters.... I save every single solitary letter ever written to me and I think I would perish should anything happen to them.

I'm 35 years old and I think I've been saving the most important sentimentally valued things of my life for 30 of them. I know this, I've learned over time nothing I buy for myself is of great importance. Nothing I can go to the store and toss in my cart can compare to something given me by a friend, a loved one, or found during my wanderings. I may be alittle off my rocker, but can anyone else say they cherish a green rock found on the banks of the Lamar River while fishing with an extremely special person? I think not, thats why it is so very damn important to me. It isn't even really the pretty rock, it's everything that rock represents.

I'm home for a few more days, I'll be doing my very best to write up an essay. I'm just not sure how in the sam hell I'm going to pick one solitary thing. Can we go metaphysical here? Then I wouldn't have to play favorites and offend any of my physical possessions...................I love my prized sense of ummm, well, floaty thought..............

Propensity Of the Ominous Nature

I have a propensity for skin cancer... says Mr. Scalpel yielding Doctor.
I have a propensity for staying outside in the sun...says Me.

Which propensity shall win?

The way I see it, I'm rather screwed in either direction. I would wither and die if I spent my days hiding from the very thing that enhances my life...outdoors.....but outdoors is where that glorious back stabbing bitch of a sun is located.

When Dr. Slice and Dice did his medieval propensity on my face, he accused my skin of intensely leaning towards future and more skin cancer....."Your skin has a high propensity (sheer traitorous behavior in my humble opinion) for further skin cancer" he warned like a fortune teller......I couldn't help but think what a shitty propensity to be assigned.

I know my current cancer would get kicked out of the cancer lounge by much bigger, badder, meaner and vicious cancers that other people get. I know that. I realize that. I'm grateful I dodged the melanoma bullet again, the one that would earn a permanent membership to the lounge, and got smacked with a lessor cancer. But this propensity reality feels like an ominous black cloud I'll have hovering just behind my over sun-screened body for life. Wonderful.

I can't imagine changing my lifestyle at this stage of my life. I imagine it's too late for prevention, all I can do is maintain now. (Sunscreen, hat, long sleeve clothes in sweltering 100 degree weather, blah blah etc...)  My propensity for fun and adventure, outdoors and life seems a much better focus then the propensity I didn't ask for.

Since my natural inclination is to do as I damn well please, I shall now focus on my habit of ignoring the bad and enjoying the good.  Thats nothing more then sensible wisdom.

I did learn something about my personal mentality. When hearing the news, the boo C-Word, rather then feeling sorry for myself, or being reduced to tears, or fear, or something memorable like inspiration or wisdom, I got pissed, furious if the truth be told. I rarely get mad about anything, but on this certain occasion, I did. If I remember correctly I believe I said something like, "Now that fucking pisses me off" to the Doctor when he told me over the phone. I suppose nothing makes me more angry then a threat to my little patch of grass on this earth. 

I have a new battle scar, and she's a beauty if I may say somyself. Another dent in this vintage car called me. I have other impressive scars achieved in more glorious of a fashion, so this one is just another notch of experience. If my propensity fortune goes according to the Butcher man, this old face of mine will look like a mine field someday. I may have to make friends with a body shop, i.e., a doctor, with a propensity for plastic surgery.

I think, my outdoors will win, always win, until the day I am gone. On the day of my death bed, I suppose then, I will let my bad propensities win.    On that day, they can have me.

Sneaking In

It's past midnight, sometime in July, it's summer I don't need a calendar.

I feel like a teenager sneaking back into the house after disappearing for an evening of eye opening adventure and UN-punishable sins.

Although I'm only lighting a small candle, I see this place is as I left it. 

Thats good to know.

How is everyone? Good I hope.
I'm doing fine thank you.
I'm alive, and kicking (potentially screaming sometimes) and doing well. My computer didn't blow up, I didn't loose the link to this journal, and I wasn't held hostage by anything remarkable. I just........ well,....... snuck out of the house for a while. 

A rather limp excuse for my absence, even unapologetic, but it tis what it is, me. I disappear in this world as often as I disappear in my 'real' world. In April I took movement to a new level and haven't paused much in-between. This computer collected much dust and my real home is in dire need of some cleaning as well.

I've been forced to stay in town for a bit, so I thought it was time to reconcile with these pages before another month passes. I'm failing miserably at keeping a documentary of my life in the nice chronicle order this realm offers. Whoops.

I'm really not ready to give up on the old Shadow of the Iris here, I just need something......to change within me. I need to open the doorways again and let the thoughts flow. I'll get there.

~~~~~~~~~~

My last entry gives me ironic pause.

I lived through turning 35 with only a few moments of numerical panic. I've pushed myself to act as carefree, young and spontaneous as possible over the last several months. Self assurance that I was truly vibrant and still kicking some serious life ass. It worked for the most part. Other then the fact I found out I have skin cancer last week. (stating that is like jumping out of a corner yelling Boo at people) That little bump in my road of life has royally pissed me off.

I blame my last entry. Sure as life, if you complain about insignificant, you'll get smacked with righteous perspective.

I'm not entirely surprised by the news. I've had enough pre-cancerous spots removed from my skin the past. The good news is I dodged the melanoma bullet once again, and got a less severe punishment for my fun in thesun with a nasty thing called squamous cell carcinoma. If given a choice, I would have taken some old basal cell cancer cells that make up 90% of skin cancers. But nope, I fall into the other 10% category.

No biggie, it doesn't appear to have spread, it's non-aggressive, it's fixable, it's a 95% cure rate, it's hardly worthy of a panic, but it still pisses me off. The bad news is this live cest pool of cancer cells is located on my face. I go under the knife, a procedure called Mohs surgery, leaving any potential vanity thoughts at the door, on Thursday. Meaning, I have no idea how much will be left of my face after they are done. Beauty.

Life event duly noted. Enough of that depressing little curable experience.
If I'm not scared, worried or alarmed, no one else should be.
I hereby swear I will never complain about another wrinkle, gray hair or birthday.
Karma
~~~~~~~     ~      ~~~~~~~



There was a time, when AOL journals were united by a very special woman named Judith Heartsong.
She moved her 'location,' but I've never stopped reading her entries, admiring her art and basking in her outlook of life. 
Once again, she is opening the possibilities of wonderful creating, writing and unity through her journal with her
Artsy Essay Contest.
I encourage everyone to visit her journal, get to know an extraordinary woman and participate in her contest that starts the 15th.
I have two of her amazing pieces hanging in my home, my prizes for doing what we all do here.
Writing. 

Judith HeartSong

The Ants of Time Go Marching...........

       It may not seem a very remarkable thing to mention, but I have officially decided getting 'older,' to put it in childish terms, sucks. Currently I stand on the podium of 34 years and 11 months old. Next month I hit the banner mark of mid-30's, the big 35.

       I never thought getting older was a big deal, I still don't really care about the actual number. That means relatively nothing to me. What has started to matter to me is the independent government that consists of all the pieces and parts of my body and what 'they', the new majority, have to say about certain activities.

       For example, a motorcycle and I got into a nasty dispute on Monday night and the bike won, hands down. Or maybe that should read, Rebecca down, ruthlessly and hard. I believe 5 years ago I would have jumped back up, kicked it, cussed it out and proceeded to jump back on and go like the master I should be. Monday night I found myself lying on the ground, for an undisclosed amount of time, certain no less then 5 bones were broken.They weren't and I should formally thank the makers of Diet Coke and the formaldehyde it's deposited in my system. But the pain and lack of further desire to keep going seemed like a clear cut chant~~ I'm getting too old to do certain things. (repeat 5 times)

       It's two days later and I'm all frozen up. My joints are creaking, my muscles are moving the pace of molasses down a tree and I, the old master of her domain, feel like renting a wheelchair. This is not good. Not good at all! In my past, I've done far worse things to my body and I rebounded in record time, so what the heck is up if not age and time? 

       That wreck could seem like an obvious consequence to my endeavors, but there are other things. Like the fact I can't eat all the chocolate bars like I once could without noticing an extra pound or two or three of four. So far, I'll be damned if I go on some sort of diet, but the clear result of chocolate shows it's glorious indulgent self on places I'd rather not notice it. Namely, my ass. This was NOT the case a few years ago. When you hit 33-34ish does your metabolism just go out for an extended lunch date? I object to this milestone.

       Another noticeable milestone of mid-30's, I get tired. In my twenties I didn't even comprehend the notion of tired. I went and went and did and did until I forced myself to go to bed late at night. Four or five hours of sleep was just about right. These days when I do my five hours of sleep, I find the next day I'm dragging a sleep deprived weight around behind me. Gasp, I can even take a midday nap now!!

       As for time marching it's way across my looks, I'm good with that. Even though the last time I had a facial, the lady sweetly recommended botox and filler for a few "laugh lines" that evidently will only get worse. Wonderful I thought, penalized for laughing and smiling. Isn't that the most unbalanced reward of all time!??? There should be an equitable compromise to that situation. The more you smile, the more you laugh, the more you've exercised those muscles, the more toned and smooth you should look. It's just twisted to have it the other way around.

       I suppose what reality is smacking me (and beating the crap out of) in my 35 year old mind, is that I'll probably always have the mentality of a spry youngster. I'll probably always want to do the thing meant for young bodies, but my body isn't exactly down with that idea. So where does that leave me? I have no desire to tone things down to my age bracket, so which side wins? Do I dare admit age is a consideration in my choices?  

       I'm thoroughly irritated with this age discovery. I'm petrified it will only get worse and I'll be reduced to playing shuffle board and lawn darts. If a time came that I was unable to run up a Mountain, or wade across a river I believe I would be devastated. Maybe today I've finally realized I am indeed getting older, and not as resilient as my mind likes to believe.
And again, I think, that sucks.

Navel Gazing of the Pointless Nature

       Sometimes, I find I can look over my shoulder and discover great amounts of time have escaped by my world and I am unable to account for these tick tock moments. Meaning, if someone inquired as to what I've been doing for the past several weeks, I would simply shrug my shoulders and reply, "stuff, something, things, you know......just life gazing."

            During my delightful gazing, I've wrote quite a bit. No shocker there. I've also gone through great pains to organize my writing, a mountain of an accomplishment only I - Rebecca Anne, and OfficeMax can truly understand. Irrational fears of my computer blowing up, AOL being sucked into a Internet black hole never to return, and a house fire of epic proportions spurred my desire to amass, collect into one place and protect my writing.

       For one, I went all the way back to the beginning of this journal and printed out every single solitary entry I've written in Shadow Of The Iris.......complete with ALL the comments ever left. This endeavor required 4 separate trips to Officemax for 1) 3 inch binders 2) good archival paper 3) new three hole punch and 4) the holy mother Mary of sentimental costs.....printer cartridges.

       Add up the hours spanned over 3 days to achieve my original goal with just this journal, plus the fact my printer practically melted by overuse and I turned a bit mind crazy by the time I was done----I wouldn't suggest such an adventure for the faint of heart. By the end of year 2006 I was weeping with joy if that paints a true picture...............then, I tacked all the writing in my Office Word program....etc, etc.....

       I needed a week to recover, navel gaze and beg my printer to forgive me.

       Lets see, what else.......I helped have my Brother committed to the State Mental Hospital. All was good there, until I got a call this week that they think he's doing just fucking fabulous and are sending him home. I don't even want to think about it.

      Here's something thats been bothing me. I love Diet Coke. It is my poison of choice, my drug of caffeine, my daily friend and someoneabsolutely ruined it for me. They informed me that drinking Diet Coke deposits basically formaldehyde in your body. Which means, based on my Diet Coke consumption over the years, that I am a walking, live, embalmed corpse. Welcome to the Land of the Living Dead. Why, why oh why, do people feel the need to ruin a perfectly good addiction with such outlandish realities? Now, every time I sip on my Diet coke, which used to be a ritual of pure enjoyment, visions of mummified Rebecca's dance in my head. Double damnit.

       Not everything lately has been stationary navel gazing and formaldehyde consumption. I've dove head first (literately sometimes) into a new sport that has me outside and satisfying the thrill seeker (death wish) within me. It's gathered steam by several contributing factors, first, I like it, second, far too many people told me I couldn't do it, shouldn't do it, sh'ant attempt it.......which of course welded the seams of my reservations into sheer tenacious 'I'm going to do it just to prove the naysayers wrong' and therefore, I am. (Pray for my bones, then again, they are already preserved by toxic Diet Coke, so perhaps I'm safer then the average human, see....there's always a silver lining to everything)

       I suppose this is the closest to an update I'll ever do. I'm good. All is well in the land of Diet Coke corpses, warped printers, useless mental wards, dangerous sports and comfy navel gazing. Now, I just need alittle (ok, make that major) catch up time~~

      
             

Two Sparks and a Fat Guardian Angel Weed

"Are you my guardian angel? You look just like a weed I picked on the side of the canal and I thought it was beautiful," said one of the patients to me. Over and over and over.........oh, and over and over and over again.............never a dull moment in the mental ward ~~ :o)

A quick update on my Brother. I visited him at the mental hospital last night for one hour. He wasn't doing so great physically, mentally or otherwise, but he was actually relieved to see me.

Physically he's a mess. He was shaking like a person with severe hypothermia, hard and uncontrollable. His heart is unstable, with a racing 180 beats per minute average and blood pressure doing it's own sky high to rock bottom acrobatics. His kidneys are close to shutting down and his liver may be kaput. The normal detox medicines aren't doing enough to stabilize him, so he was on 10 minute intervals of checking vitals by the nurses and they were thinking about transferring him back into the medical ward to have him monitored by machines. (I said..."what are you waiting for? A heart attack?" which is a very real possibility)

They were perplexed by his lack of response to normal detox meds, but once they finally understood through me and my Brother his actual daily intake of alcohol, they realized they weren't dealing with the 'normal.' For me, I'm tipsy and giddy off 1/2 a glass of wine. Ben was up to a case of Captain Morgan's Rum (thats 12 bottles!!), chased with case after case of beer per in days, sleep was occasional short pass outs. 99% of  humans would die from alcohol poisoning from a margain of that intake, but not my Bro~~

Mentally, he still wishes he had died and ended his suffering. Which personally I think is good, because normally he would be charming the nurses and test takers into a pleasant euphoria of 'cured' and he would be out on the streets in a couple of days. For once, he's maintaining honesty. As of last night, he just didn't have anything left in him to live....but I hope that changes.

I did see Ben smile, ever so slightly, because of a patient who hovered like a bee to honey next to us. This man was convinced I was the messiah, a guardian angel sent from the heavens above to break him out of the mental ward.  He was also convinced I was a weed, a beautiful weed, but a weed nonetheless. His insistence that I was a beautiful weed is what triggered a small smile from my Brother.....priceless, I'll be a weed anyday if it sparks life into my Brother!!!  This patient promised me he would pick me some flowers if I wouldjust tuck him under my coat and sneak him out the locked doors.

When I hugged my brother good-bye, he did toss one more spark of life at me, he said, "You feel good, my nice and fat guardian angel." Now, under normal circumstances that should be an insult to 100% of us female gender humans, but to him it meant I felt healthy. The fact is, I'm 5 foot 8 inches. He is just shy of exactly 6 foot. I weigh 138 pounds.. Right now, my brother weights 131 pounds of skin and bones. He hadn't eaten a single thing in 6 days, and lost another incredible 26 lb. between hospital stays. When he's healthy, when he's ok, he weighs 170 lb. on average. I told the nurses to fatten him up~~

~~~~~~~~~~

Now, I have something to say, to all of you.
I wrote no comments please on my last entry.
I didn't want anything.
You ignored my request, repeatedly through comments and emails.

~Thank You~

Want and Need.
Two entirely separate definitions, but can produce the same results.
When my daughters say, "I don't want any medicine." I will say, "You may not want medicine, but you need medicine and I care about you, so your gonna get it from me."

In a way, you all did the same thing.
I realize now, I didn't want sympathy, or pity or drama inspired anything. I didn't get that. I got good old fashioned medicine of the caring and compassionate kind filled with heart and kindness and hope.

A wise mentor of mine says...
Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.

I thank You.



Edit: Thank you to Julie and first commenter. I just called the hospital to check on him and he was transfered back to the medical part of the hospital right after I left last night. This is a new hospital for me to deal with, in a city away from me. The two mental wards in my city were full Sunday night, so they transported him 40 miles away. New system, new nurses, new doctors, new hospital=more frustrations. Getting information over the phone is like extracting a tooth from an cat who wants to keep it's teeth. After 5 transfers, the best I could get was "The doctor is seeing him now, yes he lived through the night. No, I'm not sure if he is still critical. Blah Blah Blah" 

 

52 minutes....20 seconds

My advice is, skip this entry........and I usually give good advice :o)

I have never really spewed forth drama in this journal. Personally, I could do without it on the whole and avoid things in life that could be potentially drama filled......like the plague. I am, in business, in family, in day to day, in dealing with friends and pets and kids and anything else, I am the level gal, the even Steven, nary an outburst, nary the drama kinda person. So when I am faced with a problem I cannot solve and I'm hanging onto the last shred of my cool, calm, collected persona, I find myself completely at a loss for direction.

This drama type shit is made for someone else, someone else who thrives on it and comes flying out of the corner with her phone attached to her ear and a phone tree bigger then a sycamore. I just can't do that, hate doing that, won't do that. But I can write......Tonight is simply my recording of a night I doubt I'll forget, for me.

This evening, after wafting around my home in flyfishing euphoria, I got a phone call that was so heavy, such a burden, and so awful, I felt mute for exactly 22 minutes after I got off the phone. My Brother, the alcoholic who I knew was spiraling into oblivion called to say Good-bye. He was crying, which he never, ever, never, does. When I realized what he was saying, what he was doing, what he was about to do, I did what a person like me does, record it. I wonder now if that was twisted of me to think of doing, but I sat at my computer and like a good little secretary I typed almost every word he said...while I tried to reason with him, influence him, save him....but typed anyway......just in case they were really his last.

I don't know if anyone reading this has ever heard the voice, the words, of someone who wanted to end their life at the time they were actually standing on the very brink of doing it. Until this night, I hadn't. Now I have the hard copy. I guess there's good things in life, and there are really bad things. And tonight, I officially submit in my journal, proof of the really bad things. The really sad things. The devastating things.

I need to keep it. The voice of alcoholism at it's worst. Life at it's worst. Pain and despair at it's worst. A burden on my shoulders that I can't begin to explain. A choice I had to make that I never, ever want to make again.

My brothers words:

"your talking to a dead man
I'm dead
Your the last person I'm ever going to talk to and I'm just glad it's my sister so I can tell you I love you. I have no choice, alcohol has me, every piece of me.
Nobody is here, when I need someone the most
I'm finished.
Don't cry at my funeral, I've caused enough tears
I'm really hurting Bec'
Tomorrow is nothing, I could care less about it
Tell Mom and Dad how sorry I am
if you calls the cops, I'm dead before they knock down the door
your overthinking bec, if I go to the hospital again, I still will want to drink when I get out
why did I even call you....I don't care anymore.....all you want me to do is go the hosptal
If you call the cops, I swear to god it will be too late
If you dare show up here I will slash my throat, see if I can do it, I swear I will
I got nothin left, nothin
Stop trying to talk me out of this, I just called to say goodbye, I'm done, I love you, I'm sorry
shut up, screw you....I mean, not screw you, cause I love you, but I'm done
I'm done I bought the knife today just for this
Instead of a year without seeing Mom and Dad, it's a life
If you call the cops, you kill me for sure
They want a year away from me, they can have a lifetime
I don't know why I called you, I thought you would be my sister and let me die in peace
your committing your Brother to suicide hell if you try to help
I'm sorry for Mom and Dad, for putting up with me and all that I'm through with this I'm done
1) there's nothing I would do to hurt you guys 2) well, I guess thats it
Alcohol chooses me, when you see me and Mom and dad in my coffin you'll see a guy who once mattered to someone .....you can't help me, I got no way out. You just don't understand. I don't know why I called you, your not helping, I thought you would understand my goodbye....your confusing me....forget it you know......just I need a chance to come back around..you know....don't call the cops or anything weird. Forget it, they can't help me, you don't understand....well Mom and ddad don't want to see me they aint gonna see me alive again........stupid move, I'll be a dead man on the spot....your my sister...the closest family I got that will talk to me......I got no other way out, nothin....aint gonna happen...I'm done....I don't have any choice anymore, it'snot the matter if you drink you lose, if your done....I don't have that choice, it chooses me. I don't have choice. You guys will never know until I'm dead, I'm totally dead it chooses me, I don't choose it. I'm hurting can't you hear it in my voice, it's over, it's done. I just thought I would I would Say I love you, it's done, don't call the cops. It's real.
You can't help Bec, it's over, just let me deal with it. I'm gonna do it or I'm not. Thanks for being there to help me. And thats it. basically, sorry, sounds like I need superior help, but no body can help me but me. I'm the only one that can help me, but I can't do that cause alcohol rules my life. It's not a matter of mind over matter, or a choice, I don't have a fucking choice, thats what you guys don't understand......thats them, those AA people hugging and kissing thats not me, I'm beyond that. I got no where to live, I'm through with my job, I got nothin. I'm gonna put the knife right through my throat.
so whats the point so fuck it. Screw it, I'm done. I love you. I'm sorry yo ugotta see me at my funeral. not that you have to go, I'm sorry I just don't ......just don't call the cops, the knifes in my throat and I'll just shove it through if I hear even a knock on the door.......hospital or whatever. Either let me get over it or I'm doing it. .......the bible, I tried reading that bible you gave me, it doesn't help. I'm gonna let you go, I've wasted way to much of your time. Let me cope with it. deal with it. do you understand. Your brothers in hell, going to hell I love you bec I gotta go now   click "
52 minutes........20 seconds conversation Between Ben G****** and Rebecca H****** his sister on Sunday night between the time of 9:00 p.m and 10:00 p.m. Rebecca's words ommitted

22 minutes. I sat at my desk watching the minutes click away, paralyzed. Call the cops, risk having them storm in on him and have him plunge a knife through his throat, or let him do what he needed to do, find the peace he's begging for....or hope he didn't do anything.

22 minutes is a very, very long time to stare at a clock. I didn't call anyone, I didn't do anything but stare at my clock. I've never been in a position where I felt such responsibility for something so important. Choices, the very thing I live and die for, can be so simple, or so unbearable.

Choice: to let him do what he wanted to do by not doing a damn thing..........well, I decided that was a really fucked up thing to pack around on my shoulders for life. Choice: call the cops and have him plunge the knife in exactly as he said would happen if I called the cops. Another fucked up thing to have wrapped around my throat like a noose for life.

It took me 22 minutes to pick the lesser evil of two life sentences for me. I called the police. I told them what Ben threatened. I jumped in my car, went to his hotel and parked across the street to watch what happened. I knew, ambulance bad, only cops good.

But this is where things got screwy. In a matter of minutes 7 police cars came, parking away from the hotel. Sneak, quiet mode.  From my view I could see them crawling around like ants, but I saw them go to the wrong hotel room. I saw them extract, calmly and simply a man out of this room. I was confused and didn't think it was my brother, but kept watching. Then, police crawled around some more and finally busted into my brothers room.

He didn't accomplish his threat. In his drunken state he dived for the knife, but didn't get the job done quickly enough......the police officer told me.

The thing is, I realize now, that had I not called the police, my Brother would have certainly seen the police lights once they pulled into the parking lot, for the other man. Evidently, within minutes of my call, another call came in about a man who was beating up his wife in another hotel room. If I hadn't called, my brother would have seen those lights and most likely assumed I had called the police and they were there for him. He could have done his deed and no one would have known. He never knew they were there until they already had the door flung open. Thankfully.

This is probably the longest and horrid post I've ever made. Who knows. I'm a dead thought walking right now anyway, I'm bone weary, mind exhausted and everything else you could stuff in a bottle of hell dealing with my Brother.

Although I prevented something tonight, I know all I've done is prolong the inevitable. Unless I can finally persuade the state to keep him, long-term, since the idiots declined our motion for State Institutionalization earlier this last week. I need sleep. I can no longer think straight.

I would like to thank everyone for all your comments and emails of support in regard to my Brother over the last few weeks. They have been very appreciated and helpful.

But tonight.........please

No need to comment on this post of record, it is what it is. A problem I cannot fix, avoid, or rationalize. 

Never Had A Bad Day....

~I have never had a bad fishing~

Of all the profound things I could place on my death plaque, I've decided I'm going simple and easy. I say death plaque instead of gravestone, because I have no intention of ever being buried in the dirt. Dirt is where the worms are, and I'm quite certain my irrational fear of worms is so strong, so ironclad and soul ingrained, it will transfer in death. The thought of being trapped in a coffin thats rotting away to give the worms a new mansion and rotten flesh food, makes me seriously nauseous.

I made this official decision today while walking along the greenbelt that follows the local river to go flyfishing. I started noticing several trees and benches that had sweet little dedication plaques next to them and I paid attention for once. It's perfect: torch me, toss the ashes in the river and then buy a bench and slap a plaque next to it. Presto, I've left a mark on thy world to step on.

Fishing was the only choice I had today. After being terrorized Friday night by one said Brother and then last night, being terrorized again by something much smaller, completely out of control and just as sinister as my brother, I needed a mental break.

The thing is, although I've already mentioned I'm terrified of worms, I really am one of those 'tough' chicks. Meaning, minus the worm oddity, nothing really scares me. I fear nadda and have no problem hanging with the toughest of the tough. But last night one single little creature had me at my wits end. It terrorized me.

I had settled, naw, more like collapsed into bed. Given the week I've had dealing with certain 'said' things, sleep hasn't come easy and I was officially exhausted. I had closed my eyes, I was counting sweet sheep when I started hearing unusual noises. My girls are with their Dad this weekend, so I knew it had to be the pets. I tried, unsuccessfully to ignore them. The noises wouldn't stop. So finally got up and stomped out to the front room to give every single pet within sight a piece of my mind.

When I flipped on the light chaos broke out. Two cats instantly came flying out from somewhere chasing a single solitary mouse straight for me. If it had been a worm they were chasing, I would have screamed, ran out the front door and booked a hotel for the evening, but I figured I could handle one mouse. Besides,I had reinforcements. I have cats. I have a few cats. I won't admit the actual number here, because I'm not sure what number actually constitutes an 'official crazy cat lady' and I never wanted to be one of those.....so the point is---I had back up of pure feline mousing ability. Or so I thought.

Two hours. Thats right. Two hours, with every piece of furniture moved, over turned, tipped over and all out removed from the main hunting arena of the house. My cats would wait patiently each time this monster moved locations while I scooted, threw furniture and scared the little demon to a new location. Oh, the cats got hold of it every once in a while, but I discovered none of my lazy cats are true hunters, none possessed the killer chomp I was counting on. Sadly, I've accused each and every one of them as PETA versions of real cats. All they wanted to do with it was play, and that hissing mouse wanted nothing to do with that game.

Finally I took matters into my own frustrated hands, fired the cats without pay, and although I will spare this journal the details, I can say that little mouse finally dealt with someone who isn't of the PETA variety. Me.

This is why I needed to fish today. This is why I fished for hours and hours and didn't care that the only thing I could hook was icky white fish and the occasional moss bottom. It did not matter one single bit to me.

I finally had a glorious, beautiful day. Even if my 'said' brother came pounding on the door tonight, or another mouse invaded my home, I know when I go to sleep tonight I will be thinking of nothing but the beauty of the river and the peace I feel when I am casting my line across the water.

Today, it is all good.

~I have never had a bad day fishing ~

Irrelevant Details

Ahh the quandary of details.

Here's the problem with details. On the solitary level. I believe, if one partakes in the self sided conversations for too long, one tends to wallow around in said issue long after it has dissipated. I, being of sound mind and common daily practice, does not like to influence the fires of potentially drama based problems. Does not like and actually accomplishing, are two different things. On this individual level, the battle of self (thought) indulgence is admittedly a tough fight. Draining self thoughts are worthy adversaries and they rarely wave white flags of truce. Meaning, inside my head, civil war is a constant threat.

I got that scenario down pat, solid, well executed, ya for me. However, sometimes a problem just won't go the hell away. A problem you never asked for. A problem you had no hand in creating etc etc..... even when you sic the police on reoccurring problem it just keeps coming back for more and more.

This week, my problem, my drama and my own flesh and blood is back with a vengeance. I've kept the details to myself, because this problem, this so called brother of mine, has no one other then myself to call and unleash on. Legally, because of a protection order granted this week, he can no longer harass my parents and for that I am VERY Thankful. I can handle it much better then they could, or should, or have already. Today, I am tired of dealing with him, again. 

Details, oh the glorious juicy tidbits. He was spit out of the system once again, booted from the mental hospital with a neat little stamp called 'discharge.' He called me to come pick him up. I declined. Officially he is homeless. He walked to a dank dingy hotel riddled with fleas and god knows what else. A stray dog has a better chance then him, at least strays have the animal shelter to be taken to.

The calls started in. I ignored 90% of calls, however I did agree to take him some personal items. First visit reveals beer cans and a whiskey bottle hidden under the blanket I sat on. I removed myself immediately from hotel. More calls, a few fights, blah blah blah, the list could go on and on. Messages from hell, messages begging for forgiveness, declaring his love and full of despair to messages full of rage and vile threats. Last night was the breaking point once again, and I feel I was given no choice but to call the police, words are powerful and if someone in his state of mind threatens killing people, as a simple human I see no choice but ask for help from the authorities.......again.

His last call, a message on my unanswered phone, was one of fuck off and die to me for sending the police to his hotel. His parting words, "I'm going to die in this hotel and it will be your fault" I don't think he'll do it until he officially runs out of money and alcohol, but I could be wrong......

Lovely.

I wonder, even with him and his extreme to this concept, why people in tough situations can always find a way to blame other people for their actions. I hate blame. I also loathe excuses and people who avoid personal accountability. Even a small child can understand the principles of cause and effect. Action and consequence. I've done some actions that produced some clear reactions that I don't love (regret is more like it), but accept as mine and mine alone.

I wonder today, how I will feel when he finally ends his personal hell on this Earth. Will my non-action and refusal to give him a home, answer his calls at his beck and call, give him money, calling the police, and refusal to subject myself to the deliberate hell he's created, produce a reaction deep down inside me of regret and guilt when the end comes? The boy in a 32 year old body is screaming for help right now and I feel no choice but to let him keep screaming.

Today, and again, I am trying to convince myself that I will try, should, and can be at peace if he makes such a choice. Maybe if I say it enough, affirmation style, when it happens I will internally believe it. It's worth a try I suppose.

Details are so irrelevant to a situation like this, unless your talking to the police or stuck in an Al-Anon meeting. What I'm truly left with is a bag of emotions that aren't the type I like to embrace, pack around and flame the flames into a bonfire. But bonfire it is, and I crave some water just as much as my brother craves his poison.          

Tags: alcoholism

15 And Proud

My oldest daughter turned 15, middle of the teens, halfway to 20's, center of teen universe, this weekend.

For the mathematicians, I am 34, turning 35 in May, which equates to: I was a statistic on the books of teenage pregnancy for my generation. Although, at the time I didn't quite understand that because I was old enough to vote, live on my own, done with school, but nineteen (and unmarried, which instantly made me a no good tramp in the eye's of goodie two shoes) lumped me in with the shaking of the head, sympathy for my unborn child and general bad looks, plus the cool check mark in the teen pregnancy books. After I had her I couldn't wait, and I mean counting the days-2 1/2 months worth, until I was a respectable 20 year old and I could wear my Mommyhood proudly.

If I had listened to public opinion, my daughter should be a promiscuous, struggling, no good human being and a blimp on her generation destined to fail and be a burden. She was born to a Mother who was a teen, unmarried, just a high school degree, penniless broke, who gasp, used state aid for exactly 8 months to monetarily survive. I'm happy to say, I proved them all wrong, wrong, dead wrong.

I admit for 12 years I dreaded, had nightmares, worried and hated the notion of her turning into a walking zombie of teenage hormones, tyrannical potential and the hateful possibilities every parent can conjure in the mind. I assumed, based on perception that was just the way it would work, urban legends dictated my imagination!

For reason only a parent can understand, I had this vision that the day she turned 13 all my good parenting would sink into oblivion, I would witness an exorcist movie type phenomenon and she would turn into a version of the daughter I once knew. When she turned 13 I braced, but she didn't morph, spit green vomit and her head stayed on straight. When she turned 14, I held my breath, but every day she was the same sweet daughter I had raised, no out of this universe demon voices came from her mouth and I never needed to tie her to the bed. Now that she has turned 15 I feel good, I feel proud, I am no longer afraid.

I've realized circumstance does not dictate a destiny. Situation does not direct an outcome and predictions only happen if you believe in them. I should know, all the cards of presumption were stacked against little Shelby and I the day she was born. I know much of the world believes most children being raised today are no-good, ungrateful little shits who will eventually burden society. I'm here to say I despise that ignorant assumption. To say that insults me, my daughters, and the other parents who work very hard at raising good decent children.

The fact is, doesn't every older generation say that about the generation coming up through the ranks?? People thought the world was going down the toilet with my generation (80's teen), and according to my Mother, her elders were frantic watching her generation going through the 60's, those crazy hippie kids. I have no doubt that same mentality goes down and down through history. Generations change, people change, dynamics are constantly shifting.

I can look today and find awful teens, I can also find horrible people in their 20's, embarrassing to my generation 30 year olds, despicable people in their 40's and burdens to society folks in their 50's and so on. Age draws no lines in the fact some people are good and some people are bad. Thats why I refuse to tell my daughter, and her peers, that they are bad, awful and a disappointment to society-based on public assumption.

Aren't we supposed to believe in the children? Aren't children what make the world go 'round? No one would take an individual child and tell them point blank they are nothing but a liability to our future, so why generalize the lot of them by saying it in newspapers, coffee chats, gossip on the phone and so on? Why perpetuate such a negative assumption? If a child is out of control, the fault lays squarely on the parent who raised them. Even then, there are exceptions, good parents who's children take mis-steps! If a parent is lazy and doesn't care about their child, there is a good chance that child will struggle and become the statistic that forms public opinion. However, for every struggling teen I've come across, I can praise 10 more for being good kids and I think thats what people should focus on.

To talk to Shelby and her friends, I can tell you, nothing pisses them off more then hearing they are lumped in with a few strays. They are proud of their achievements, they work hard at their activities, school and various other causes they have taken on to help the world. To listen to her and the others, I puff up in admiration,laugh at my old fears and feel very good about the future. Very Good Indeed. This year I am excited to see what my daughter accomplishes and I have no doubt our foundation, the one we created together from the day she was born, will hold steady and firm. And to the people, society, who said when Shelby was born we were both destined to be a burden, well, you know exactly where you can stick that opinion :o)

Happy 15th Birthday Shelby
You amaze me today, as much as the day you were born.

For My Personal Entertainment Value

I was Looking Beyond the Cracked Window this morning, so I have no doubt I can blame this Collage on Jodi. (insert mischievious grin) MY SORTING OUT PLACE has been at odds lately. Honestly, my Inane thoughts and insane ramblings have been playing a nasty game of rugby inside my Golden Silence. Many days lately There is melancholy in the wind and sorrow in the grass, but I know this will pass.............

The Wisdom of a Distracted Mind can both enlighten, or make a person feel like " I live in soap land " On both of those notions, I would like to officially nominate my RandomThoughtsConnected for Oscar consideration. The majority of the things I think about leave me perplexed and asking myself, "Am I thinking that" ??? Sometimes it's enough to make a person think I'm Going Sane in a Crazy World and then I feel much better.Perhaps we all need some sanity and crazy to compliment each other!

Some days I have Frosty Thoughts, and some days I have No More Appetite for Destruction. A calm settles over and I think about just Rebecca, or Just Mary, or just Kristen's Cosmic Fabulosity and I have no choice but to smile. Because, Life Is Full Of Surprises and I can't predict what I'll be doing tomorrow, I can try, but the fact is I could be sending Postcards From The Edge, or I could be waiting for Sunshine Colorado Notes to head my direction.

I like that about life, one day I can feel Separation Anxiety, and the next day I'm filled with enough  Courage to feel like I can save the entire world. Some day I may be reading a published book called Daughters of the Shadow Men or one day I may take a trip to experience Life & Faith in Caneyhead. Tomorrow I could  pass in the street, the man who wrote Diary of Rock-n-Roll Men. Who's to say?? Life, as I see it!, is full of potential and possibilities I haven't even begun to experience.

I think it's critical that everyone takes the time to do An Analysis of Life. Take time for More Reflections.., search under the couch and start a DUST BUNNY CLUB OF NORTH AMERICA..........why not? I think we are all worth it. Sometimes our Detached and Indifferent Expressions can make us feel downright blah. But from that important elemant we can all sew a A Crazy Quilt Life. It's up to us what patterns and Random Threads we use.

Listen if a friend says "let me tell you about  My journey with MS" or wants to tell you Porch Stories . Look when someone points out The Sunrise and the Sunset. If a friend comes to you and opens their Dear Diary, appreciate it for all that Dear Diary2 is worth. Remember HOPE FLOATS and time goes through our hands like Grains Of Sand.

There is certainly a time to RebukeTheWorld and there is certainly a time for a Moonlight Drive. I think everyone should take a Northern Trip and participate in an Aurora Walking Vacation every once in awhile. I believe everyone has a Secret Garden that needs attention and it's Worth Watering from time to time!!  Pluck from that Bowl of Cherries and notice Those Eyes That the Cherubim Drew. I think it's worth it...........every single day.

By The Way.. this was brought to you by a lady who likes to indulge in Adventures of an Eclectic Mind!

Have a Wonderful Weekend~~ and Never Forget......Carpe Diem - Seize the Day !!!!!!!!!

P.S. You guys have some wonderful Journal Titles, if I missed someone, well, sorry about that :o)

Indigent

My last mental vomit still stands, I feel rather passionate and close to said topic. My brother did live through the weekend, however, he did not make it through the weekend a free man/zombie.

Meaning, after a tenacious homefront battle, heartbreak, blood was shed, a swat team complete with guns drawn were called in, many tears, and a finale worthy of my expectations, my brother was drug off by the hero's with a badge, to another mental ward.

He's Indigent. The states word, not mine.

Anyway, I'm tired of thinking about, dealing with, and mourning for him. I'm feeling indigent towards him and his problems. I suppose that happens when you have to witness someone like him continually hurt and make life a living hell for other family members, for myself, who have never done anything but help, love and support such a person.

Sometimes, disgust and anger reign supreme. In this case, every time the reality movie of this weekend reruns through my mind, I feel an intense desire to beat the shit out of him. I'm no saint, never claimed to be, and compassion/love only goes so far. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I gave a friend of mine an unexpected (on her part) piece of my mind this week that I fear will go down in the history books as a bad choice. Hindsight is always a fun mind avenue to entertain. I now feel that my reactions were based on the simple fact my perspective has been altered dramatically over the last month. With a friend murdered, dealing with my brother and various other oddities, my perspective overload spilled over into dealings with most people. So my normal reservations in giving personal opinion broke through the gates of nonjudgmental listening and I let her have it. Whoops.

The thing is, and I'll use one of her tragedies as an example, if the worst that is going on with a person is their spouse paid a bill 3 days late, or their Mother calls to ask how life is going (and that annoys friend) I'm probably not a good person to use as a sounding board right now.

It just takes a few bad experiences, a few rotten apples to roll across your path to really notice how bloody insignificant the majority of peoples complaints really are. There have been days lately that I would give anything to be simply worried about something as irrelevant as an argument, or an annoying person -friend-co-worker-family-neighbor..........

Bite my tongue, I told her to grow up, stop letting the little shit consume her time and energy. I suggested she should be grateful she has people who love her instead of constantly picking apart every single solitary thing they did. Yep, perspective overload runneth over. Our conversation did not end well.

Sometimes I think, some people would rather be miserable then find the good in each day. I do not comprehend this. What purpose does this serve? Even if something annoys me, I only need to look to 10 feet in front of myself to see things could be much, much worse. I think because I grew up with a Mother who's mantra was always "things could be much worse" if I sniffled or whined about something, I learned to look past little things that can irk or irritate a person. I don't think she was wrong. I really don't.

I give her credit for my mentality when it comes to looking at life's problems. How could I not.......she was the one, who through tears, watching her own son hauled away bloody and screaming by the police this weekend remarked, "it could have been worse, much worse"....................

** edit note after a few comments, my friend didn't know what happened this last weekend with my Brother. I typically keep all things about me, my life, the goings on to me, myself and I unless they are good things.**

Helping

Anna Nicole Smith. Britney Spears.

I mention those two in my journal today, because they are/were both people in trouble and in the constant media spotlight. Be it alcohol, drugs, pick your poison, they fell into 'it' and didn't get out.

Yet, I've read all these articles and entries and commentaries of people ridiculing the people who are around Anna Nicole and Britney for not helping. Howard K. Stern. Lynne Spears. Managers, friends, family etc.............all in the hot seat for not fixing these darlings, not getting them "help" not curing them or steering them away from the bowels of addiction.............

Help a person who is an addict? A true living breathing addict who's life is dictated by the poison of their choice. Help them? And blame family members and friends for not curing or saving an addict??
You have to be fucking kidding me.

I reserve the right to be a bitch for a moment. If you have never dealt with someone who is an addict, keep your blaming opinion to yourself. If you have never held a garbage can under the mouth of someone going through withdrawals and suffered next to them while they went through it, shut up. If you have never drove someone to rehab with all the hope your mind possesses only to have them leave rehab and step right back into drugs and alcohol, you have no right to judge from afar.

~If you have never been hurt, punched, spit on, screamed at, kicked, stolen from, called collect from jail, sat through court for or by an addict...then shut it.

~If you've never picked a person up off a sidewalk laying in their own vomit, feared for your life, or one of your family members, hired an attorney for someone who is an addict, spent a holiday in a hospital, a suicide ward, a city jail, a rehab center, a mental hospital all typical places to visit an addict then save commentary for someone else. 

~If you have never been thrown up on, taken a knife away from a person who is intentionally cutting themselves, called the police to have your loved one arrested, locked away or have the police pull you out of your bedroom window in the middle of the night to save your life from said addict in the house then reserve judgments, you're optimist suggestions don't count.

~Unless you've invested 10's of thousands of dollars trying to help someone, you're perspective is that of Candy Land mentality.

No offense, but those are the truths I've lived through, and I know other families of addicts have lived through. Read any book you'd like, watch any movie you choose, hear any story you want, but until you've lived face to face with it, you have no clue, notion or perspective of what it's really like. Period.

Oh sure, you can toss all sorts of brilliant idea's out that sound good in theory. Hell, we've tried them all with my brother, but alcohol reigns supreme and within it's dictatorship, our good intentions flounder in the shadows of wishful sobriety. Vodka's voice is louder then love and hope. Rum clears the path for all self destruction and self mutilation. Old English malt liquor provides the strength to transform my brother into a vicious piece of human with no regard to anything, anyone around him.

When you've tried everything available (I dare anyone to come up with one we haven't tried) to help someone such as my brother, you are left with empty bottles, broken hearts and a monster who masquerades as human being.

~~~~~~

The thing is, some time today, I have to go check on my brother. I need to go find out if he lived through the night. What a horrible truth to state, but it's the hard cold addiction facts. Truth be told, I'm shocked he's made it this long. The 32 year old man/boy I dealt with yesterday is a mere shell of a human. I don't believe in a Godly hell, but I have no doubt my brother is deep in the darkest reaches of a personal hell a person could be. He is a nonfunctioning alcoholic who has taken his sickness to the most inner reaches of insanity an addict can go. The only way out for him now is death or personal choice of sobriety.

Thats the cold hard fact. The only possible way to for an addict to come back is through personal choice. No matter how many people try to help, or think they have helped, or dare to even take credit for helping, it's up to the addict to actually do it, and follow through. It's that simple.

I've lost my brother to alcohol. My true brother, the one I used to fish with and tease and beat the crap out of and hug and love. That boy is long gone and I'm not sure if I'll ever see him again.

At this point, and with this entry, I give myself pardon. If he hasn't made it through the night, or if he dies tomorrow, or next week, or in a year from now, I know I did everything in my power to help him. I know addiction was more powerful then love and hope and help and family and life. I know addiction was the God, the dictator, the circus leader in this entire tragedy. And when he finally dies from his hellish world of addiction, I will gladly tell anyone to fuck off if they imply or question that I or my parents didn't do enough to help him, we didn't support him enough, or love him enough and willingly let him slip away.

Most of all, I will always cling to the memory of the Brother I once had.
I love you Ben. Up camping with my little bro when we were still innocent~~~~~~~

Vanilla Nyquil

I boasted. I participated in self indulgent words. I bragged. It was innocent enough, I swear, all I said was this, "Well, I haven't been sick in so long I can't remember."

The statement that sealed the kiss of death.

If that moment had been a movie, the phone would have rang immediately and a sinister voice would have whispered in a snake like voice...."Seven daysssssss" (my nod to the movie ~The Ring)

I should admit, in my most delirious fever induced moments this week, I did some irrational blaming. I thought of the woman who sneezed next to me in the store last weekend. The man who touched the ATM machine before me while hacking up a lung, etc. etc........

Oh, and I even thought of all you AOL journals people whom I'm visited lately who were sick. Can you catch the flu via Internet? Just another form of virus right? Was it you Deb? Or you Mary? (p.s. I do hope you are feeling better !)

If thats the case, everyone's phone should be ringing......right about now...seven daysssss.......don't say I didn't warn you~

I'm higher then a kite right now. I'm on a Nyquil overdosed ride induced by too many doses in a 24 hour period. This is evidenced by a shaking brain, weary body, hyper thoughts and a deep desire to pass out, but can't. Since I have already used up all my sympathy cards with the family, I decided to come write here, Nyquil style. Lucky You.

There is only one person who knows me 3-D style, knows what I look like in the flesh, what my voice sounds like, how I talk, move, and carry myself in the real world, that has read this online journal. This person remarked once, that what I write here is all Vanilla. Meaning, I only skim the surface of who I am, what I am about, what I'm willing to talk about. I keep it simple and sweet, like Vanilla. The friend was right.

I've also noticed, as time marches on, I've tightened my thought strings even more then the original Vanilla statement from my friend. This is really starting to annoy me. Something changed, at some point in time, and I'm not sure what happened, when it happened, but it did. The strange and unexplainable writing goes elsewhere now. The issues I tumble around in my mind stay safe on paper.

Damn, this journal is like a marriage gone bad. I started out posting regular entries, like newlyweds have daily bed romps. I used to communicate with it's blank possibilities and felt good about it, and now, I'm like a cranky wife who clamps her mouth shut and says, "I'm fine" and talks about furniture. So sad.

I wish, it was like it used to be, when I would sit down and write things and not give a fuck what it sounded like. Hmmm, a bit like that sentence. I need a journal adjustment. Or journal counseling. A fresh start. A redo. A do-over. A makeover.

I want to sneak back out of my shell and cover the vanilla with some delightfully dark chocolate, some sinister cherry sauce and toss some candy adornment on whenever I feel like it. I want to touch the tender walls of my own individual mentality again here. The good, the bad and the unexplainable.

So why type all that out instead of just doing? Personal accountability. A person like me needs a touch of concrete to motivate in one direction. Does any of this matter to anyone who may be bored to tears reading this? Nope, but thats the point :o) The manifestation of my silent nature is slowly eroding my mood through time, and I've recognized the need to open up once and for all. Good luck to me.

If I don't, I suppose I could blame this lapse in protective judgment to the Nyquil and fever. Then again, I never did like excuses of any sort, nyquil included. Time is the ultimate judge of all things~~

The Beauty of Paper

Charley @ Courage commented:  "This might seem pedantic, but what type of notebook do you use? I have two that I carry with me, and I'm wondering which kind you use and why you use it as opposed to another."

I'll tell you what Charley, I'll answer that question today here in my journal, complete with visuals and rambling blather. I need a distraction~~

I covet fine paper goods like a wine collector adores rare vintages. Notebooks fall under the paper good stipulations. If I'm going to take the time to place my words in something, by paper gods, it's going to be worthy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For me there are two writing categories in which my notebooks fall, but one prevailing condition, rule, doctrine and requirement is no lines~

I am of the NO LINES mentality. No lines, no lines, no damn jail cell lines mantra. Much like Joan Crawford famously screamed "NO wire hangers, in this house, EVER" I feel about as much passion about not allowing lines infiltrate my home. Of course, I feel about the same passion about no blue pens allowed as well, but I'll stay on subject here. The only exception made for paper with lines in this household is the girls required school work. Thats it, all other offending paper with lines is cut off at the front door.

First stage collections of writing: These are the notebooks I pack around like my baby blankets. My 100% preferred notebook is purchased at the Art Store. They are hard bound black, wire spine, and thick white blank paper inside. Ideal for creative doodling, sporadic thoughts and unfinished notions. I believe they are supposed to be sketch books. You can buy them in all sizes and I couldn't live without them. Best of all, no stifling, handcuffing, thought squishing lines :o)                         Observe visual exhibit #1

If I want to write little I can, if I want to write bigger, I can, if I want to write sideways, I can, there is no limitations in any of my notebooks. I don't do well with confinement, in any form, manner or shape of life..............lines on paper make me crazy!

I will mention one other notebook I utilize, but I don't love it as much as my art notebooks. I have a few Moleskin notebooks that serve a specific purpose, so I won't discount those, but the paper quality is questionable.

Second stage collections of writing: If I like something I've written, or believe it's worthy of a better tribute then muddled in with my doodles and eclectic writing, I will then transfer it into the permanent collection. At this stage of writing, nothing but a leather bound journal with handmade (blank) paper will appease me. Because I live in a little town that thinks rainbows, angel cherubs and bunny rabbits on a cardboard covered journal filled with cheap lined paper is an acceptable writing tool, I have to buy all my leather journals online or when I travel. I love the feel of the leather. I appreciate the touch and feel of the handmade paper and the way it 'take's" the ink from my special pens.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I understand that my fascination with paper, pens, lines, leather, blank, quality, etc.....could seem a bit irrelevant, but give me a moment........ I once read this little quote, "The written word is the choicest of all relics." So if I regard my writings as a relic of myself, and I entertain the concept that it will remain long after I am gone, why not take the effort to place it in something nice.

All writing is a ritual. It's up to the individual to define how much enjoyment they will derive from the process. The above mentioned notebooks/journals give me the greatest pleasure during my writing rituals. I have no doubt, that pleasure is different from person to person. If someone like lines and blue pens, then thats all that matters, as long as it feels comfortable. ~~  I swear, I won't hold it against you either, my strange requirements stop with me! *grin*

~~I like to nudge myself to take one step beyond simple, beyond the normal and paint alittle extraordinary into everything I do~~

The Paper Goods (Top shelf, leather bound journals, second shelf~ all stationary *ok, I noticed one leather journal snuck on top of the stationary* ~third shelf, black notebooks and misc.)

Does anyone else put this much effort into their paper goods, writing, rituals?

Someone?

Anyone?

(crossing fingers) 

Observations of the Random Kind

Once again, I don't like my previous post, but have nothing of interest to write about. To improvise is to bullshit, and I can do that, anything, to push certain writing down a notch.

I have a notebook I carry around with me, always, every second, without exception. On the first page I've titled it as such:
Observations Of The
Human Watching Kind
~
Capture Of Personal
Fleeting Thoughts

Much like the start of this entry, in all my writing notebooks I have a starting 'explanation' page. I worry that if I don't put in a sub-clause title / reason for the writing, should I kick the bucket unexpectedly, my writings could be sorely and severely misinterpreted!

When I was young, Harriet the Spy was my hero, so I blame her for the Human watching. I can be anywhere, found scribbling little observations down at random. In a line for a movie, on a park bench, bathroom stall at Target, on the river bank, in a money bank. Doesn't matter, like a pistol in a holster on my hip, I'm always ready to fire down anything that catches my fancy. I was strolling through my notebook this morning and in my humble opinion, some of my observations are rather funny, some just weird, and some just quirky old me.
Today, I thought I would share a few recent notes...............

~ "My haircut is coldddddd honey" whined a man standing outside in line for hockey tickets in front of me. He did have a military short haircut, and it was quite cold outside, but he received no sympathy from the woman. She said, "It looks a hellava lot better short and I told you to wear a hat!"

~I witnessed a five alarm fire today and was amazed by the rainbow created by the fireman's water. Rainbow over fire, beautiful. I wonder if anyone else noticed.

~ The teenagers piled into the car, giggling from the nights dance festivities. I asked the required Mother questions. How was it? Are you all sober and free of illegal substances?  Did anything happen at the dance I wouldn't want to know, but your obligated to tell me? And with that final question all of them but Shelby laughed. Maintaining my hip, no one will get tossed in jail for telling me the truth rule, I pressed for explanation. Whispers and more giggling. Finally, one brave and bold teenie bopper stepped up and said, "Tonight a whole bunch of the boys nominated you as the official M. I. L. F.  of the 9th grade"
For once I found myself speechless, wordless and musical chords of the Mrs. Robinson theme song bounced ear to ear. Sweat pants and flannel for all future school functions. Shit. Shouldn't I get a tiara, a sash, or a bikini for that title?

~ This evening while reading Walt Whitman a new and refreshed sense of word loathing came over me. Once again, I abhor the word poet and poetry. He uses those words like a shield of supremacy and arrogant sword of importance. While I embrace the beauty of his word smithing, his use of the word poet, feels like a self indulgent abuse of purpose.

~ On Meeting Ben's (My Brother)  girlfriends Mother.
This is it, I've discovered the holy grail to all things insane. With her, the image of crazy cannot be ignored, denied or even guessed upon. The actual visual only compliments her insane aura.
With her erratic white hair defying the very notion we call gravity, the spastic arm movements and constant shifting on her heals I could have assessed a wildly quirky character. Nope, that wasn't all.

Her verbal talk came out fast and unpredictable, I could barely keep up, comprehend and understand half of what she was spewing forth. With the wild white hair, the spazzy body movements, the truck driver banter and constant foot movement I could easily give a whacko sticker to her...........

BUT............the creme de le creme, the icing on the psycho ward entrance fee, was the single roaming eye. That eye that constantly shifted it's gaze from nose to ear while her one controllable eye stayed firmly locked on my amazed gaze.

I could barely take the pressure of this meeting. I didn't know if I should fall to the ground in remorse over my wicked thoughts or laugh to the high hell. Political correctness sunk into oblivion. My compassionate side was frozen in bewilderment. And the writer in me etched every little detail in my thoughts for future use. To think I disregarded T*** when she warned me her Mom was 'different.'

If this new girlfriend makes it, I'm going to need something strong, really strong next Thanksgiving....................


"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."           ~Ernest Hemmingway

Scarlet S

       Now that I've updated, revamped and used BIG BOLD TYPE on certain conditions of my upcoming personal funeral, (upcoming, as in it will happen someday, I still haven't found the magical elixir of life)  paperwork, restrictions and instructions (I'm a writer, I like to get the last word in) ....I'm ready to attack my current irritations in the written avenue I'm accustomed~~ 

       Deep breath, rewind, focus, write, review, let irritation rest in peace. Perhaps I just need the perspective of all the God fearing individuals who could understand the process of a Church funeral here. Or perhaps I just want to rant and rave and spew forth heathen babble that will ensure my passage into a mythological hell I regard as complete fairy tale rubbish.

       The thing is, I've now attended 2 funerals in 5 months. The first one was conducted in a funeral home and I thought it was beautiful. It was personal, it was about a fabulous man, his life, his devotions, his world.........The second one, this week, was conducted in a Church and by the time I had suffered through an elapsed time of 1 1/2 hours I was honestly disgusted. Obviously, I'm still carrying frustrated thoughts from this experience.

       Here's my impression of this funeral. Sit, stand, pray, sit, listen to God wisdom, stand, sing some more, pray some more, sit, more God talk, stand again, pray again, more talk about God, toss in some Jesus smack, ( I'm starting to wonder if they will ever mention the person who's funeral we are there for) let us sit again, more voodoo and scare tactics uttered, stand, more singing.....sit, One mention of persons name (to my utter relief) , more praying, up, down, up, down, a reading here and a reading there, sing some more, pray some more...........finally and presto, we have a eulogy about the person we are all there for.......thankfully......and then we are right back to up and down with a grand finale of watching people drink blood and flesh of Jesus, more singing, more praying...Yaaahoooo......

       So, it's true, I'm still appalled and shaken by the manner in which this person was murdered. I am still sickened, as all of the people who were effected by this tragedy, and have thought about it a lot. Perhaps a wee bit of my hostility about said situation is leaking into this entry and my opinions of this specific funeral. The fact is, she is gone, and we can all look back on such a situation and find questions, meaning and purpose. There's a thousand lessons to be learned by such a tragedy and reasons, whether you believe in God or not,  will never come easy. But I'm not writing about those today.......
      
       So what I want to know, what perplexes dear little Moi, is why such an event is not actually about the person for whom we are there for? Why does the Church mandate and overshadow a persons life in a such a manner? You can slice and dice the sermon (multiple at that) anyway you please, but it still boils down to being how God raised his exuberant hand in taking this person 'home.'...(even though she, as everyone else, was a sinner) That God, what a nice man he is~

       I honestly would have believed I was at a regular Saturday night mass if it wasn't for the crying people, split second mentions of her name and the beautiful picture of her up front and center. What I want to know, is did that service really honor that person, her whole life. Because in my mind, it wasn't about her, it was about God and Jesus and she was a side note for the reason we were there. This irks the hell out of me......no pun intended.

       Maybe all the God fearing folks were most satisfied, comforted and thoroughly enlightened (or scared shitless into never missing another week of Church) by the end of the service. Maybe I'm the selfish one for wanting the time to be about her, her accomplishments during the time she was alive, her family and her world. I am thankful a family member read a eulogy and gave us that brief remembrance of her. I admit, I wanted more.......

       This entry isn't meant to offend others. Typically I keep my writing and mouth shut about such things, it's always a lose, lose battle.... I make an honest effort to understand and accept certain ways, but this recent example of Church has me tossed upside down.........Maybe this funeral was just the icing on the cake from the heckling I've endured lately from the tyrant God Mamma's at my daughters school and I can no ignore the scarlet S on my forehead.

But GoodGod in heaven, what the hell.............