My full essence menu, including the mandatory bad java jolts, delectable entrees, innervisions appetizers, musical life refrains, open mike night, and all the conversations with myself that bear sharing....Life is a moveable feast, but no second helpings. Savor it now.
There are apparently days when I am totally unencumbered by normal fears or anxieties and the channels open and the small weirdnesses of the universe are somehow magnetically attracted to my exact location....is there a secret GPS signal encoded with my dna that brings these visitors?
Today, while pumping gas into Vanna White, I had such an encounter. I was fueling up, my mind ticking off all the to-do list items for the remainder of the work day, when a man who had been rooting in the garbage can saw me and approached me with these words: "I'm looking for cans or bottles. They've obamafied the gasoline."
OK, non-sequiturs, made-up word I don't understand. I quickly computed: Was he an admirer of Palin and, by emulation, was now enriching the language not quite on the level of Shakespeare or Palin? Was he a TeaBagger, infected by virulent language and misspelled posters, who was looking for affirmation or an argument? Was this postmodern flirting with a dismally abject attempt at humor? Should I take this five minute gas-em-up interlude to school him on what I thought about current political discourse....no - no need to be holier-than-thou or high and mighty. I lack both qualifications.
On closer inspection, he wore a small chain with a cross dangling about mid-chest. His faded t-shirt advertised perhaps an affiliation with veterans and a local junior college. He may well be one of the many shell-shocked veterans who wander the landscape after multiple tours, seeking any form of light in days filled with specters of dark knights and the realities of memories of darker nights in darker parts of the world I will never see.
All over the teevee news and the internets, folks are up in arms about the apparent overpricing of the local administrators and Councilmembers by themselves. Crooks, corrupt etc.
My take, coming from local government, looks a little askew and wonders: where were the voters, the local news media, the local government gadflies who hold our toes to the fire, deserved or not,.
From the LA Times article, it appears that the apparatus by which Councilmembers were able to enrich themselves was by a ballot measure in a special election in 2005 - voter turnout - well, 99% stayed home that day. This allowed the Councilmembers to pay themselves for every hat they wore, toting up the compensation meeting by meeting; allowed Councilmembers to approve adminstrators' pay well over the norm through confidential performance evaluations/compensation negotiations - those may legally be in closed session, but the appropriation of any of that funding to cut those paychecks - well, hello Sunshine laws.
When in doubt or the two unscathed brain cells just won't compute for a long piece, revive a Y360 blogging prompt and share a favorite piece of music for your daily pensee....The photo, well, the dog is enough like my constant compnion Buster that I just have to use it.
The song, by Alberta Hunter, still kickin' it in her 80's in this video, is a great bluesy tune that Clapton revived for the younger generation....hey, that's me!
It calls to my mind the many today disenfranchised in America, most particularly the population afflicted by homelessness (if we peg them "the homeless," it only separates and stigmatizes). Those seeking shelter today include families with children, veterans, people who sunk after being upside down on their mortgages and not just those stereotypical figures who used to be called vagrants, bums, hoboes and so on.
Today's tip, from a shelter provider: Drop some sunscreen by your local shelter. In most parts of the country, it's blazing hot and for those who don't have the luxury of air-conditioned comfort, particularly children, being out in the sun all day only adds to the misery index.
You'll feel connected....and that's what improves the human condition and changes hearts.
A repost from my Yahoo 360 blog dated 11/28/2006 - my 55th birthday. I had been blogging for about 11 months by that point and developed surprisingly enriching friendships with fellow bloggers, all literate inspirations in so many ways. They were with me right through Tim's death seven months later and buttressed my grief and shock with heartfelt stories and tributes. One friend, Stephanie, has resumed blogging (YEA!) and recently reposted her Letter to Herself which inspired mine back in 2006. The idea was to write a letter to your younger self on the day of birth from a current vantage point. The theme inspired some very personal, authentic blogs in our community. It's Friday evening, it's been an extra-fatiguing week, and I'm too mentally vacant to update this letter - perhaps when I turn 60 (yikes), I'll tackle that reflection. So, Stephanie, my Poe-lovin' Bucaneeress, this one's for you... Tonight's YouTube: From Fosse's All That Jazz, the dazzling Ann Reinking with a Peter Allen tune - "Everything Old is New Again"
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Y360 Blog: 11/28/06
AARP, here I come. My birthday arrives (how I hate sharing my day occasionally with the turkey - so it goes). I started writing here with loving encouragement and have been amazed by the friends I read in blogville. Recently, a few of you have posted letters to your younger selves and because I know I can be a bit opaque about myself, am stepping out a bit. 55 - less limits. My offering of friendship follows as I share with you as you have with me...
Fifty-five and still trying to learn not to brake
If I were to write a letter to myself on this birth day 55 years ago,
I’d probably say
You may still be a ball of confusion at 55
But your heart is held and you are still working on saving your soul
Plaid skirt memories, eau de incense, confessions and meatless Fridays
Will be essential to your narrative, your mythology, your still-unanswered questions
Californian by birth, and Chicagoan by father’s work transfer
You’ll love the sea and the city – perhaps the restless rhythm that still drives the train
You will have too many interests to be perfected by one
You will plunge, sometimes without thinking, from one adventure to the next
The arts will take hold of your spirit early
Music and literature particularly
You’ll major in English, but become captivated by American history
Your Irish New York mother will whisper "Nixon’s NOT the One"
And that will mold your political views
She will later become a Republican
Who considers returning to the big tent when George W. Bush is elected
Five more siblings, the youngest born while you were almost 16
You will open a neighborhood "daycare" in 8 th grade summer
Arts and Crafts - Hide and Seek
All preparations yet unknown for the day
You will become a mother in Denver
He’s a preemie and you both will receive last rites
Mea culpa, mea culpa
He will be healthy and a jewel in your small crown
No daughters except by their consent to join the circle
But grandchildren too will call you to join them on the see-saw
Fortune usually smiles
Your father, a Great Valley boy from California, will probably vote for Nixon
His love is quiet and constant, his love of puns your dinner challenges
He will provide by
Building security and grand disc and sled slides down the backyard hill
He hoses them down in cold Chicago winters to make them icy
You like to fly
You will be fearless, a fence walker, a thunderstorm watcher from the roof
You will be fearful of monsters behind the door – your imagination so real
That your mother will heed your tale and evacuate the house
Only to discover it was only the ironing board.
You will have your heart broken and break a heart or two
But fortune smiles – there will be few cads
Sometimes late at night
You will wonder who is there inside
You will enjoy silliness and performing song parodies for retirement parties
Initiating high school yearbook days at work
Dancing or working behind the scenes in the community theater
You will write, but are mortified when you find that others have read your journals
It will send you deeper into yourself, stifle self expression
Until the internet shows you others who write from the heart, stepping out of fear
And your loving mate encourages your exploration and courage
You will be confused about being a woman in America, second class passage ticket
You will be a tomboy, but born too early for Title 9 and braless does not become you
Of all the Little Women, you are most like Jo who writes and cavorts and
Wonders when her time will come and sometimes must bite her wicked tongue
You will be fascinated by F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda, his mad brilliant wife
You will love the Beatles and Broadway
You’ll drive a semi through Indiana - one of the flat states --
During the first 11 months of your first marriage to the father of your child
You’re unlicensed, but it’s 2 am and he is tired
Note: When you live in a truck, there are no backyards, only byways and
You will hit all 48 connected states
Your husband will guard the shower at truckstops – affirmative action not yet implemented
Sometimes your life will seem somnambulent
Like the night when camping as a child in Big Sur
Sleepwalking, your consciousness dimly on
You will watch yourself venture into a neighboring campsite
And sit at a picnic table with two strangers
Two women who will finally notice your true state when your answers are illogical
And gently let you lead them back to your sleeping bag
When you see them in the campground bathroom next morn,
There is an off deja vu moment
When they greet you as known
When you are cocooned and vulnerable
Fortune again smiles
You will meet an honorable and complex man
You want to live with and join in the lights and shadows of riverdancing to the end sea
Today you were born, that day you will be given the chance for a redo
A second act in an American life – so there Fitzgerald!
The dance will begin and he will corral your heart
But he always leaves the gate open for he knows your sometimes too solitary observer nature
Stubbornly requires the cave and not the fire this time
You will be 55 and still trying to choose what is right
For you and those you love and those you still imagine are connected in the world
There will be no encores, so better commence
Understand yourself, forgive yourself, celebrate with humor, dance and kiss
Get busy living or get busy dying - it will be your choice.
For everything old may yet be new again
