Monday, February 27, 2012

Thing of Beauty #46-101: Not Shaving

Vagina Dentata is in the hospital with a leg so infected that doctors mentioned amputation.  Velvet saw the lesions for himself, and it may have ended all ideas he ever had about being an EMT.  When he got home last night, he had clearly been nauseated and exhausted by the entire experience of helping Buzz Kill get Vagina Dentata through an admission process that took 36 hours.  I'm not sure why the hospital left Vagina Dentata in the ER overnight, but these things happen in a health care system Glenn Beck declared is the best in the world.

Fortunately, I have been spared all the details.  I have been napping in my sunbeam, having brunch at Cafe Lux with Gigi and seeing Mr. Wisdom.  I've also been reading Time Quake, the last novel Vonnegut ever wrote.  As it happens, much of the action in the story takes place in my neighborhood.  The building across the street in real life is the shelter for homeless men where Kilgore Trout lives in the book as well as the offices of the American Academy of Arts and Letters.  It's cool because one of the things I've been contemplating wile I'm laying in the sunbeam is preparing for the Grandma Zone, and Vonnegut comments on events in the book from "his sunset years."   It's like Vonnegut himself has been ushering me into the next phase of my life with insight and commentary provided by Kilgore Trout. Ting-a-ling!

Looking at Velvet, one might think I'm nowhere near the Grandma Zone.  And I'm not - at least not as far as Velvet is concerned.  Gigi, on the other hand, has spent the last couple of months snuggled up with a man, and they've been seriously discussing the prospect of having children together.   The idea that I am Gigi's "real" mother has been firmly established ever since Velvet was in 10th grade and started telling the guys that she was his sister.  She's a beauty now, but when she was still in grad school and studying the relationship between women's sexuality and dance vis a vis pole dancing class - she was the kind of hottie who stopped traffic.  When she attended his high school graduation as part of the family, my father was tickled pink to discover he had thirty year old pole dancing quadroon as a long-lost granddaughter.  Dad has been perpetuating this story ever since.

Now that Gigi has already turned 33, she has no intention of letting grass grow under her feet.  The potential father is a successful entrepreneur in his early 40s.   He's fully African-American, and Gigi has visions of chubby brown babies dancing in her head.

She quickly modified the story of her birth to replace The Man from San Antone with Mr. Wisdom as her birth father.  According to the legend, Mr. Wisdom and I had a brief but intense fling when I was an undergrad resulting in me passing off my nappy-headed offspring as The Man from San Antone's daughter from the wrong side of the blanket.  All the wrong sides since it would have been 1976 in the great state of Texas where the history of race relations includes one of my favorite holidays:  Juneteenth.  Although Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation with an effective date of January 1, 1863, slaveowners in Texas were able to keep this information to themselves until June 19, 1865 when the news finally trickled down to the slaves.

That bit of history may explain a vignette that occurred some weeks ago on the Uptown 1 train.  I was sitting directly across from a grizzled old black man, who was either drunk, crazy or both.  He remarked on my beauty and asked if I was from France.

I said, "No.  I'm from Texas."
He said, "Kansas?"
"No.  Texas."
When he said, "Kansas?" again, I stood up, held onto the pole in the middle of the subway car, leaned closer to his ear and shouted, "TEXAS! T-E-X-A-S."
He broke into a big, toothless grin, and declared, "Oh!  You're dangerous.  You Texas Crackers are dangerous."
I could only agree.

I'm nearly certain that Gigi and I were sitting at the bar in Cafe Luxembourg when she modified her personal creation myth.  At the time, I was of the opinion that such modifications were entirely premature with regard to Mr. Wisdom, but now that it appears the man will be around for a while, I kind of like the storyline.

This budding relationship with Mr. Wisdom has brought to mind, yet again, the Mandelbrot set:

I've been reflecting on how past relationships revolved around my ongoing attempts to have an impact on emotionally unavailable men. If a person who I myself imbued with the power of Existential Judge paid attention to me and developed some sort of fondness or affection - which is as far as it could ever go since Love was out of the question because I viewed myself as fundamentally unlovable - it not only proved I had value as a human but also secured my right to exist on the planet. Countless hours of psychotherapy can explain this fucked up emotional gestalt, but at the end of the day, how I got that way doesn't really matter.

What matters is that I'm not that way anymore. That's why in March, we celebrate my release from the looney bin instead of marking the anniversary of when I went in, which as it happens, is St. Patrick's Day.

When Mr. Wisdom and I first got together, he was very available - but then circumstances conspired to make him unavailable.  Consequently, the Universe presented me with another opportunity to run a familiar maze.  This time, I feel like I've finally navigated my way through it successfully.  It's kind of like when the point on the Mandelbrot set pushes beyond the black dot or the red squiggle out into the great blue beyond.  You still wind up with an endlessly repeating pattern no matter how far out or how far in you go - but at least you're in different territory.

I'm finding this territory pretty comfortable, actually.  It seems that I'm finally on my way to becoming the cool old lady I always wished I could be, and now that I am comfortable with my own self, it's much easier to be comfortable with other people.  It's especially nice to be comfortable with a man I genuinely admire and respect.

I'm still not quite ready to have a sleep-over date with him, but I've relaxed to the point where I don't feel like I have to shave my legs just because he's coming over.   It's still too soon to say if Mr. Wisdom and I are really going to have a relationship, but it's beginning to look like we're seeing each other.  I'll call that Thing of Beauty #46 -101 especially since it reminds me of this song by Keb Mo.  I've been wanting a relationship like the one in this song ever since I first heard it years ago.  If I understand the process of manifesting what you want to the Universe, you've got to put it out there clearly.  To that end, I'll manifest a man who feels like the one in this song:

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Crepitation 1946

When one of my compatriots over at learned that I am uptight about farting and other little physical issues that go along with intimate relationships, he kindly turned me on to The Great Crepitation Contest of 1946.  This rare recording has become so legendary in the annals of flatulence humor that it has earned a paragraph in the Wikipedia entry on the topic, right up there with Rabelais, Chaucer, 1001 Arabian Nights and the Roman Emperor Elagabalus.

At first I thought this allegedly Canadian production was the inspiration for Terrence & Phillip on South Park, but once the contestants were fully involved in the farting match, it was clear that Lord Windesmear and the Australian challenger, Paul Boomer, had infinitely more style and finesse than anyone who ever appeared on South Park.

Mr Charleston wisely pointed out recently that nobody has ten minutes for enlightenment these days, but I'm betting they have 15 minutes for farts.  I laughed so hard I nearly wet my pants - more distressing evidence that despite my cherished delusions, I'm really not made out of cotton candy inside.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Contractors, Brokers and Banks - Oh My!

The other night I visited the apartment I'm supposed to be buying.  I just walked by the building on my way to meet a friend for dinner in that neighborhood - but it was great to be reminded just how much I love that street.  I especially like walking down the hill, turning a little bend in the road and seeing the George Washington Bridge.  It's not exactly like this picture from the internet, but it's close:

Plus there are cute little restaurants, a wine store and a corner pub once you get closer to my (potential) place.  It's all very lovely, except that right now I'm stuck in limbo waiting on lawyers to figure out if the building itself is so screwed up that I'm walking into a money pit.  I'm also in the process of getting documents to the mortgage broker whose apparent attitude is pissing me off.

Now, I've barely talked to the woman in person and she may be perfectly lovely.  People sound abrupt when they're sending one line emails from their phones, so maybe she's not a condescending, dismissive prig who thinks my clerical skills suck.  And we must acknowledge that the minute I hear the words, "Mortagage," and "bank," somewhere in the back of my mind, I start imagining people sharpening up the blade of a guillotine.


It's a couple of days later, and I just woke up from a bad dream about borrowing money from a Loan Shark.  Nothing in the dream was identifiable - so it was generalized anxiety, I suppose.  No big deal.  My real estate agent- an actress with whom I have been friendly for years peripherally and trust completely - said that if Mortgage Broker A was unresponsive, then let's go with Mortgage Broker B or C.

But I feel like I'm swimming in a shark infested cesspool when it comes to bankers since they've got you by the short and curlies.  Contractors are easier because they're just goofballs in a van, for the most part.  Some are good; some are not.  The one who provided me with an estimate on the work I want done in the new apartment, for example, clearly wasn't interested in getting the job.  I'm not a bit worried about that, though, because the friend I met for dinner knows a guy who used to be a super in the neighborhood who can do everything on the cheap - and my mother is already making plans to come up here and boss Velvet around so we can do the less complicated tasks our own selves.  Life is better when you can do things for your own self.

Yesterday, I was cranky because of Israel and Iran, and how for some reason the Media seems to think that no one will suspect there's no weapons of mass destruction in Iran either.  Then Rick Santorum keeps spouting shit - it's no wonder we call him Frothy since the shit slides out of his mouth so slick and fast it must be mixed with lube.  There have always been politicians mouthing stupid shit, but people didn't flock to them in droves like they do today.  George Wallace is the closest thing I can remember to a shit spewer - and at least he sincerely believed what he was saying.  At least I think he did.  I was just a kid.  I'm pretty sure the Republicans believe what they're saying when they say it because they're good enough liars to follow Wanda Sykes advice and Believe the Lie.

Comedy Central Stand-Up
Get More: Jokes,Joke of the Day,Funny Jokes

I would say I hate all those political motherfuckers, too, just like I hate bankers and propaganda artists who act like they're journalists reporting real news except that I'm trying to be all Zen about that shit these days. But it's hard to remain unruffled when people say things like: Women who are in the military should expect to be raped (Liz Trotta).

If I understand the theory that the World is an Illusion - and all that shit is of the World - then we just need to let that shit go and focus on Being the Change.  I honestly believe being the change is the only way to go and I fully believe that when we've been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun - the world will be a better place.

In the meantime, however, I wish Americans would take a lesson from the Greeks and start working to restore our Democracy.  I don't know what's going to happen over there.  I don't know what's going to happen over here.  But I'll say this much:  At the end of the day, it all goes back to the same rich motherfuckers.  They could have been Dukes and Viscounts back in the day, or Slave Traders or Nabobs with the British East India Company or Boers and Afrikaners or Conquistadors working for Queen Isabella.  The Owners, as George Carlin so famously called them.

With The Church, The Schools and The Television, the Owners have things sewed up so well that even if Americans did have a mass uprising, the best we can hope for is about the same amount of change as we saw during the 60's and early 70's.   That's good enough, though.  I hope things in America don't get as alarming as they are in Greece, but if they do, maybe our police will show some balls and make a statement like this one from the police union in Greece:
'Since you are continuing this destructive policy, we warn you that you cannot make us fight against our brothers. We refuse to stand against our parents, our brothers, our children or any citizen who protests and demands a change of policy,' said the union, which represents more than two-thirds of Greek policemen (from The Globe and Mail).
I have a feeling that most American cops get a hard-on from beating up hippies, so I'm not holding my breath waiting for our paramilitary police force to tell the Owners to Suck It.  That's going to make life a little trickier for the Occupation, but plans are underway for the spring no matter what the cops have to say.

October2011 and others are calling people to National Occupy Washington on March 30 to kick off the American Spring.   And we can't forget May Day.  It's even on Facebook: Occupy May Day - General Strike

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Farting and Intimacy

I've been home alone a lot lately, and I'm enjoying it so much that I wonder if there's something wrong with me.  Velvet has spent the last two weekends sleeping at Cupcake's or his father's or Hawk-Eye's.  He stayed at Hawk-Eye's in the middle of the week, too.  I don't miss him because the rest of the time, he's been laying on the couch, playing video games or watching TV, sometimes drinking beer but not much.  I imagine that there's endless beer at Hawk-Eye's because of the trust fund.  I shudder to think what will happen if the funds dwindle to the point where Hawk-Eye joins the Nouveau Poor.  I believe his big brother, who got the name Maple Heart one summer up in Vermont when he was out in the woods with a specialized program within the Hippie Dippy Quaker Camp, has lived with Hawk-Eye sometimes.  Maple Heart is an EMT.

Velvet doesn't want to be an EMT, but he's proud to have Wilderness First Responder on his resume.  People don't often realize that sometimes New York City presents extreme conditions - like in Brooklyn last winter when there was that blizzard and Mayor Bloomberg had just privatized the snow removal.  I don't remember how the situation was resolved in the end - if at all - but babies died in Brooklyn due to snow in the street.  Streets were totally clear on the East Side.  If Velvet were out in one of the larger city parks with kids, it's good he already can respond to an avalanche.  You never know.

One of the reasons I'm glad for peace and quiet is that I spent Friday morning at the DMV.  I have no one but myself to blame for not getting to the DMV until 10:00, but two hours later, I emerged with my maiden name restored.  So on Friday night, when I read in Bad Date Great Story, there was no longer any tangible evidence to connect PENolan to Mrs. St%$#lzkq.  I can no longer sully the Buzz Kill family name, even if I get locked up for subversive activities - although I can't imagine I'd really get locked up since I never leave the apartment if I can help it.

It's become my habit lately to stay home and rest all day on Saturdays.  That's the day I take the medicine for the rheumatoid arthritis which I like to refer to as Poison.  This Saturday, it especially suited my mood because, although the reading was fun and a cadre of dear friends came out to support me in this new venue, it was still kind of Sensory Overload. The audience was decidedly younger - no bifocals in sight except for the Menopausal Stoner corner.   I'm glad that I revised the story thanks to some helpful insight in the comments so that the ending was much more suitable for the evening.  The updated version is up at Diane Gee's site The Wild Wild Left.

The fact is that there are a lot of people out there in the world who fully support Barack Obama and still seem to believe he's going to hold Wall Street accountable when he's surrounded himself with Banksters.  But it's like Woody always says, "I understand that some folks will be compelled to select (Obama) . . . but at least have the decency to feel like shit about it" (As the Cookie Crumbles: Two Weevils).  That level of political discourse would have been a downer in the East Village last night, and I'm always glad to stick with The Disney Princesses.  I was tired Saturday.

I haven't seen Mr. Wisdom lately because he's in the fortunate position of having too much work right now.   He's sent an occasional smoke signal, so he's still out there on the periphery taking care of business.  In the Western in my head - the one that seems to be where I get ideas about gender roles and expectations - I feel like a school marm and he is a stranger who was passing through town.

This interlude has given me an opportunity to examine how I feel about intimacy.  Like farting and snoring intimacy.   Once I get used to the idea that I'm emotionally intimate with somebody, I'm all cool with that.  It's shocking to realize at first, but then, emotional intimacy is manageable.  Farts can be more problematic and unpredictable.  Snoring too.

I'm happy to say that my whole digestive system has improved dramatically since I eliminated Dairy and Gluten, for the most part.   Every now and then I have wheat products, but my arm doesn't seem to be effected.   Without the dairy, there's much less farting.  I have no way of knowing about my snoring.  As far as I know, snoring is situational for me and typically has something to do with being congested or snockered.  It's been a very long time since I was disturbed by a noise in my sleep and woke up wondering if there was a goat in the bed - only to discover that noise had come from me.

If Mr. Wisdom weren't working two jobs at once and taking care of his kids, the question of sleeping together might have come up by now.  I figure that if you're still ambivalent about sleeping together, you're not ready to be as intimate as all that with a person no matter how impressive he may be.   I remain impressed with the man, especially now that I've learned a little more about his job and am happy to see he's made a positive contribution to the land of contemporary television.  He's worked on shows that entertain older kids and grown-ups - like those documentaries on Discovery or History or PBS or National Geographic.  Back when Velvet was in middle school, those channels were not totally fucked up by conservatives and Rupert Murdoch, who is such a dickhead he gets a class by himself.  Anyway, TV has gone the way of other industries who got rid of as many full-time employees with benefits as they possibly could, then hired the people who used to work there as freelancers for less money and no benefits.  It's a blessing that Mr. Wisdom has work and can make hay while the sun shines.

I feel kind of like a letter that's been tucked into a cubby hole on a roll top desk.  It's nice to have a little spot, and once he clears off all the other stuff, I hope he has a little energy left for me.

Punk Voting

Punk made this video back before the mid-terms in 2010.  It's been on my mind a lot lately, as I've been listening to so many people who believe that it's a waste of time to consider a third party candidate - or that voting for an alternative candidate will hand the presidency to the Republicans, as if we don't already have a Republican in office.  Even though it seems like nearly everyone agrees that the existing two-party system itself has been fundamentally corrupted, it's better to keep voting for Evil.  Just vote for the lesser of two evils (LOTE):  Mr. Obama.

Punk and his lentils addresses this argument directly and shows how you can feel good about your vote again.  It's ten very solid minutes, but if he gets to voting theory and psychology at about 3:30 and brings in the lentils at 7:45.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

High Praise

The other day, I walked into the TV room to hang out with Velvet.  I can't remember if he was watching Attack of The Show on G4, his favorite network, or if he was playing Zelda on the Cupcake's Wii, which has landed in my TV room.  Either way, he was sprawled on the couch under a very soft, leopard print faux fur throw Buzz Kill brought home from work years ago.  I'll say this for Buzz Kill, he really did bring home nice things to wrap our baby bunting in.  If you consider the amount of expedition quality outerwear Velvet sports around town, he still does.  But the point isn't that Buzz Kill is a pretty good father when you ignore the IRS factor and the Anxiety Disorder.  The point is that when he was snuggled up under that leopard print on the sofa with a remote control in his hand, Velvet looked a lot like he did when he was taking a sick day from middle school.

Velvet has been feeling depressed lately.  Not full blown, clinical depression - just the down in the dumps, hang dog, mopey kind of depression that naturally accompanies flunking out of school and being unemployed.  Overall, Velvet is totally fine and, to his credit, he's doing his chores without being asked and he's accomplishing the daily tasks I set for him satisfactorily.  For example, I can leave him $15 and go to work, and Velvet can go out into the neighborhood to fetch milk, Half & Half for my coffee and batteries like I told him and even remember we needed lightbulbs on his own, and get those too.

It may seem like an insignificant accomplishment, but he never had to do things like that when he was a kid.  He had to come with me to tote stuff while I gave lessons in comparison shopping.  That's why he could hold up a bag of Oreos in the grocery store when he was in first grade and say, "But Mom! They're on SALE."

He's off today earning 80 bucks for doing some sort of market testing involving smells.  We can only hope the corporate dicks paying for this testing have already abused some animals to determine that the smell doesn't burn the hair out of human noses.  In any event, Velvet is getting paid today and will hopefully secure part-time, low-wage employment very soon.  He spent the night last night with Hawk-Eye, the friend he met the summer between 5th and 6th grade at Hippie Dippie Quaker Camp.  Hawk-Eye is the one who is like a giant cuddle bear, has a glass eye he used to enjoy sticking pins in for the entertainment of his compatriots, and who watched his father die in a diving accident when he was about 13.  Hawk-Eye and Velvet have both been loosing themselves in Dungeons & Dragons periodically for years and years.  D&D can be an indication that they are both stressing and need an escape.

Hawk-Eye lives way downtown in some luxury building with a view of the East River where a bunch of rich parents have stashed their terminally adolescent kids.  Although we love Hawk-Eye through and through, he provides a cautionary tale about what happens when parents get swallowed by their own grief and despair, leaving kids to flounder alone with their trust funds.

Anyway, when I walked into the TV room the other day to hang out with Velvet, he looked up at me and said, "Hi Mom!"

I thought he could tell I'd been on the phone with Woody smoking copious amounts of weed and was making fun of me by calling me, "High Mom."  I looked so stricken, guilty and busted that we determined my new X-Man name would be High Mom, and my superpower is Chill.  All I have to do is exhale and everyone in the vicinity will suddenly Mellow Out.

It's almost as nice as when he said I could handle the Samuel L. Jackson role in Snakes on a Plane.  When I heard that one some years ago, I felt like it proved I had achieved a fair amount of parental authority.   The Power of Chill must mean that even though the world feels out of fucking control sometimes, Baby feels safe at home.  For a homemaker who has devoted my life to creating a harmonious environment - both at home and in my classroom - that's high praise indeed.  I'm declaring it Thing of Beauty #47-101.

For my next trick, I have to secure the mortgage on the new place.  I think it's all good since the mortgage broker gave me a letter stating I was pre-certified for a greater mortgage than the one I actually need, but this process still makes me nervous since (1) my ancient credit history sucks on account of Buzz Kill but all that foreclosure stuff was nearly 10 years ago and (2) I'm a preschool teacher who doesn't make a hell of a lot of money.  Such variables never stopped predatory lenders in the past, and I doubt they'll stop predatory lenders today.  I just don't want to be preyed upon - and if I must be, I hope things shake out so that I can comfortably make the payments.

I also hope America doesn't deteriorate to the point where we're all living like it's Planet of the Apes on account of collapsing infrastructure, homelessness, food shortages and general mayhem caused by our Corporate Overlords.  But, if it does, at least the new place is up on a bluff so that when the river rises due to global warming, we won't flood.  We can run across the bridge if we have to Escape from New York - or our friends can get to us easily if we need to house Red State refugees.  The best part is that we can transmit a clear radio signal from the front room in case the Feds fuck with the internet so badly we have to rely on old school communication to stay in touch with each other.

Most likely, we'll be stuck with the same old shit for the foreseeable future so that Velvet and I will continue to hang onto the bottom rung of middle class life in the big city.  And in that case, there's a coffee shop and a pizza joint on the corner by the subway station and the bus stop.  That's about as good as it gets.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

The Preacher and The Pagan

Remember when that Preacher named Jack Daniels came down from the mountains to my living room a couple of  years ago?  Well, if you ever wondered what actually happened - from my point of view anyway - the story is up this morning at RoundTree7.  It's close to the version I'll be reading this weekend in the East Village at Bad Date Great Story.  As I mentioned earlier, Gwen is giving me time for a Dress Rehearsal tonight at 6:00 on her blogtalk radio show Here Be Monsters.

You can get straight to the show by following this link:
Straight to the story by following this one:
and straight to the bar on Friday by taking the 4,6 or F train.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Real Estate Developments

Let the record show that sometime near the end of April or the beginning of May, Menopausal Stoners World Headquarters will officially move to Riverside Drive.  Barring complications, anyway.  There are still engineering reports and coop board minutes to be reviewed by my attorneys.  I have to secure a loan, although I already was pre certified.  Now I have to actually do the paperwork.  I have to be approved by the coop board, and before that happens, I have to have a document drawn up outlining the way the money situation between Buzz Kill and me will unfold over the next few years vis a vis Velvet.

As per our original divorce agreement, Velvet's child support runs out as of his 21st birthday in April.  Buzz Kill is required, as stipulated in the same agreement, to establish a college fund for Velvet.  I'm required to contribute to this fund as well, with me at 25% and Buzz Kill at 75%, but we've never agreed on an exact amount although there has been an agreement around a conceptual number.  When I talked to Buzz Kill today, he took the position that since Velvet was not currently in college there was no reason to tie up his own money.

I did not threaten to take him to court.  Buzz Kill always talks like that the first time I bring up money. Buzz Kill is of the opinion that as a 21 year old, Velvet should be paying his own rent.  I do not really care what Velvet should be doing.  I care about my personal bank account which will be substantially emptier as of Velvet's birthday.   Hopefully the man-child will have a job by April so that he's responsible for his own spending money, clothing and transportation.  I'll provide room, board and medical.  And transportation, clothing and spending money until such time as he can swing it.

Buzz Kill can kiss my ass on the court house steps.  He can either work with me now, or he can tell it to the judge when I haul his ass into family court and say Velvet needs $40,000 per year for four more years since he clearly needs a Do-Over at a private college for kids with learning issues.  Somehow, I have a feeling we will reach an accord before I have to resort to drastic measures - especially since Buzz Kill is still paying off the result of the last time I had to resort to drastic measures.  Fundamentally, however, Buzz Kill is a good father which means, in my book, that he is actively involved in all aspects of his child's life.  All I really have to do is show him my arithmetic, and he'll be on board.  It's just that Buzz Kill was expecting his monthly expenses to be ZERO so he's not happy to find out several hundred dollars a month will still be finding their way to my house.

And a fine house it is.  It's modest, but it's totally mine (and the bank's).  Even if it is small-ish, and there's no doorman or anything, I've done it on my own which is a Mary Tyler Moore kind of moment.

Then, of course, there's the view:

Napping in the sunbeam is essential to my quality of life - but in New York City, a river view is a big deal, even if there is a fire escape in the way.  We'll have the sunset over the George Washington Bridge, and that's cool.

I'm hoping that Mr. Wisdom and I will have an opportunity to enjoy the view together.  I'm not going to be seeing much of him for a month or two because he just got a job as a muckety muck on some cable TV show that will take him out in the field - if places like Cincinnati count as "the field."  Could be places like Cincinnati are "on location." It seems like there should be wildlife in "the field."  I'm sorry to say it's the kind of thing that I wouldn't turn on in a million years, but then, I barely watch TV anyway.   From what I know about Mr. Wisdom so far, I suspect the cool thing for him is that he'll be entirely in charge of the story, and he likes stories.

I like stories, too, which is why I'm pretty sure the one about me and Mr. Wisdom will continue to develop.  I wish I weren't the lady wandering around in the tower again, but that seems to be my lot in life - and I do like that tower.

I don't actually work in the tower.  I work on the top floor of the newer wing, and my classroom faces the city - but you can still see it easily any time you're on a plane landing at LaGuardia.  In the springtime, the falcons swoop over the playground on their way from the tower to the park and back, finding food for all the babies.  I like the falcons too, even if they do drop pigeon heads onto the playground sometimes.

What I like best right now is the way I don't feel a bit clingy with Mr. Wisdom.  I think that's because we cling to people or beliefs with some kind of fever when we need external validation for one reason or another.  Eckhart Tolle talks a lot about it in The Power Of Now, and I can't remember a lot of what he said because it's been a while since I read it.  I remember how to breathe in the moment, though.  And to be glad for all I have instead of focusing on bullshit that I lack.

Living in the moment, in Love instead of Fear, has been the greatest transition in my way of being.  Certainly I get pulled off course from time to time.  That's what happens when you live in the World - but you can get back in line with a breath.  It may be easier for me than for many people because I spend so much time with very little kids, and in the kid zone, there is nothing but the moment.

The kids are so young that they haven't even been on the planet for 1,000 days - which is kind of weird to consider.  As a woman of a certain age, I have plenty of shit in my past, but the thing is that when something is in the past, the only place it lives anymore is in your head.  Even Vietnam, and Fat Man and LIttle Boy are all gone, gone, gone.  There have been far reaching repercussions, but the events themselves are over and done.  As usual, that reminds me of a song:

Fill your heart with love today
Don't play the game of time
Things that happened in the past
Only happened in your Mind
Only in your Mind,
Forget your Mind
And you'll be free

- Biff Rose

In the Hands of God

I've been on pins and needles for about 36 hours, which means I've been playing solitaire on the computer and eating too many snacks, waiting to hear if my second bid on the apartment across the street from Little Cutie has been accepted by the sellers.  Right now, the outcome is entirely in their hands, which means it's (1) beyond my control and (2) nothing personal. Maybe that's why I feel like it's in the hands of God, as He is perceived by those who insist God is Grandpa in the Sky.

If God loves me, then I'll get this apartment.  Of course God loves me - but how does that have anything to do with the people who are selling this apartment?  That's the trouble with the whole notion that God is Grandpa in the Sky, or Santa Claus - besides the fact that tying Christmas to Consumerism supports the idea that we know God loves us because we have lots of stuff.  It's all part and parcel of the same bunch of Bull Shit where the Church works hand in hand with The State to keep the serfs in line.  Back in the olden days, like when Robin Hood was in Sherwood Forest, the State and The Church might have been wrestling for control of the cash, but we seem to have gotten that straightened out in Modern America.  The Church and The State work together to support the 1%.

Be that as it may, I'm eating too many Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Covered Almonds with Sea Salt & Turbinado Sugar:

At my house, we mix them with cashew bits, which are much cheaper than whole cashews, so that the snack mix stretches much farther.  I may not be immune to the forces of consumerism in America, but at least I can be frugal.

God is on my mind at the moment because I've been re-working a story I wrote a while ago called, "The Preacher and The Pagan."  It's the story of what happened when that preacher came down from the mountains and into Menopausal Stoners World Headquarters on Central Park West.  Some might say it ended badly - but in my view, it only ended badly for the Preacher and that was because he could never admit that God, as He is known in The World, is a social construct so that any authority a preacher has in the community is not now, and never has been, arranged by The Divine.  Even though that particular preacher spouted progressive politics, his connection to The Divine was much like Michele Bachman's.  Delusional Thinking is not Partisan.

Anyway, that's what I'm reading on February 10 at some bar down on East 9th Street, and I've got to keep it to 10 minutes, max.  Fortunately, my dear friend Gwendolyn Holden Barry (from Roundtree7 and Daughters of Isis) has decided to give me some time on Here Be Monsters this Sunday, February 5th at 6:00.  I'll get a chance to read the story, then we'll be discussing miscellaneous connections between Institutionalized Religion, The Patriarchy and Politics, with anyone who calls into the show.

This link should lead straight to the Sunday show:
It would be fun if you guys called in from Blogland because then we could talk in real time like real people
(213) 816-0357.