Beautiful Beige, Creators in Conversation, Art and Moloch

C’era una volta ... now we’re on to Moloch.  What an odd thing Moloch is ... traditional sources say he’s an evil demon that people sacrificed children to ... which makes zero sense ... in the days of tribal supremacy, children would be considered of a source of incredible value to the strength and power of the tribe, not something you had so many of you could sacrifice them ... and in fact, if you look him up now, there is a growing belief among scholars that he wasn’t connected with sacrifices of any kind.  Now, that old Sumerian bugaboo, Abraham – DOES have a rather well-known tale of attempted child sacrifice on his record ... which makes you wonder if the development of the character of Moloch as requiring it wasn’t a bit self-reverential – or at the very least, a major effort at (“Look! It’s Haley’s Comet!”) illusionary distraction - on the part of later writers of rabbinic texts ... which of course, christians inherited and didn’t even question.

Have been thoroughly engrossed in the Transgression:  Creators in Conversation podcasts on iTunes:  Menton J. Matthews, III, David Stoupakis and the awesome Damien Echols in intense conversations about art, energy, souls, magick, passion and creativity, meditating, creating things with thought (thought forms) ... consciousness other than our own ... external intelligences ... pushing yourself beyond your boundaries and stepping outside of your comfort zone, reincarnation ... sigils of the urban landscape, A Winter’s Tale, doing what is uncomfortable in order to grow,  “poetry in motion” posters on the subway ... just exhilarating to listen to, believe me ... if you ever have the chance to tune in – do so.  I still have about 4 or 5 more to go until I’m caught up.

One of the most resonating points for me came from Damien:  his view of art itself.  He had little use for “art for art’s sake” – people who created something because they thought it made them look “cool” or “hip” or it was what people expected of them or wanted ... or whatever.  None of them liked commissions where they were handed something specific:  “paint my kid sister riding a unicorn with a purple sunset and fairies in the bushes,” – they all preferred beginning with a general concept and interpreting that concept the way they saw it in their mind’s eye.

But as for that “general concept”, Damien’s comment was that it was, for him, almost a snapshot of a moment in his own experience; a relic, a souvenir of a moment.  Something you could look at and experience anew what you were thinking, what you were feeling when the first image or concept flooded your mind and you gave voice to it – however you defined that “giving of voice”:  be it painting, poetry, music, sculpture, architecture ...

In my case ... while working daily on C’era una volta, I’d finally finished Beautiful Beige, and was in the process of pinning the three layers together (top, batting, back) in preparation for quilting.  Looking at it, I immediately remembered the moment it depicted:  I was in North Andover, Massachusetts.  I was listening to the song again for the first time in years ... in fact, the last time I’d listened to it, I had been young and clueless.  This time I actually heard the lyrics.

An image came into my mind with the force of an epiphany ... I saw a woman’s hand, reaching out, trembling, to touch the spadix of a lily she has cultivated and planted in a precious golden cup on her windowsill, not aware of the hands reaching hungrily out of bright starry heavens in her direction ... the lily, having been forced to grow in such dry, airless sunlight, is sterile, blunted and sharp edged, but as she touches the one part of it that is sensuous and full, she experiences her own awakening, as a fire that begins to sparkle in the air around her ...

... and I did sense myself in the awakening woman, whose own unwillingness or fear of experiencing a complete surrender to love, has instead tried to recreate and grow safe images of love and all of its riotous blooming vitality, which protected her and kept her a safe distance away from the real thing. The epiphany was that being willing to love does require an unnatural fearlessness out of you ... the willingness to fail utterly, to be heartbroken and devastated ... but until you are willing to reach out fearlessly, you will never know anything other than false and unnaturally controllable images of the real thing.

It IS terrifying to reach out to someone who could possibly shatter your heart, not knowing what you’ll find when you do ...

... which led to the willingness as this blog began, to initiate the “search for a soul mate”.  And so many other things exploded out of that one moment, my Beautiful Beige moment.

In any event, the visual image percolated through moves, upheavals, family tragedies, everything that happened afterwards ... until it finally found its way out and into visual form.  Part of the rest of the story will be told through the quilting design itself.

Advice from a Spirit, Italy Gets Robbed ... and Bob Tells A Story

Okay, I’m not going to go into that much detail ... suffice it to say that another dream (this one a gift from a certain guardian spirit who shall remain nameless) gave me instructions on how to stop the spasms and twitches in my lower legs.

The dream was actually an image of me acting in the role of – I’m assuming – a hair dresser.  Another very handsome man – who shall also remain nameless because he’s still very much alive! – was sitting in the chair in front of me, wearing one of those plastic sheets that barbers put over you so you don’t end up with hair cuttings all over your shirt.

The only odd thing about this scenario was that I wasn’t cutting his hair, I was gently applying oil to the top of his head with a cotton ball.  He said, “What is that?  It feels weird,” and I looked down to discover he had hair growing out of his scalp where he hadn’t had any hair at all a few moments ago.  I lifted his hand and let him touch his new hair, and he whipped around in the chair to gape at me with an expression of shocked amazement and astonishment on his face.  End of dream.

At the time I had the dream, I was in such pain you wouldn’t believe it – ongoing leg spasms and twitches so painful, I was unable to accomplish simple things like shuffling around the house with a walker ... I mostly just sat and suffered and kept taking more and more muscle relaxers which were making me dizzy, groggy and nauseous.

Because of the identity of the man in that chair, I knew exactly who had sent the dream to me ... and because of that, I’m thinking, “Okay, I don’t think he wants me to take the contents of the dream THAT literally.  ” (In other words, I’m sure the man in the chair would not have been all that amused, had I chased him around in real life threatening to apply oil to the top of his head with a cotton ball). 

I suspected I was supposed to figure out which oil I had been using in this dream – that way, I thought, maybe the underlying message would make more sense.

So I did a little bit of internet research on the few bottles of oil I had in the house at the time.  Some of it cooking oil, some of it fragrant oil, some of it spiritual oil.  I was researching my third or fourth type of oil, when I found it.  Used for strengthening and re-growing hair.  Then I read one of its other uses:  curing muscle pain and stiffness.  Enlightenment slowly dawned and I said, “Ahhh-ha!”

Like most homeopathic remedies for things, I anticipated that if this oil did anything beneficial for my lower legs at all, it would take time to build up in my system.  But I had grown to trust this particular spirit/guide, so, as soon as I identified the oil, I went and applied some, just to see what happened.  What was I expecting?  I expected that I would be using it as some sort of massage oil on my legs.  But I expected wrong.  I knew this spirit well, and should have known better.  (I have apologized to that wonderful spirit more than once for doubting things he tells me.)

The spasms and twitches stopped in their tracks less than a minute after my application.  Just with a cotton ball.  No massaging, no kneading of the muscles.  Just applying it.  The spasms and twitching and pain stopped – as though someone had flicked a switch.  My jaw practically hit the floor.  I was so not expecting that I stared at my own legs with the same expression that the handsome man in the barber chair had on his face in my dream when he discovered he suddenly had his hair back.  I said, “Wha ...?  How is that possible?”

But it was.  And three days later – as long as I keep applying it – I still haven’t had any leg spasms or twitches or pain.  This is, quite truthfully, one of the most amazing things that has ever happened to me.

And may I now take this opportunity to apologize again to this really awesome guardian spirit ... publicly ... I am so sorry!  You would hope that at some point, I’d stop underestimating you!

Meanwhile ... now that I have a lot of my energy back ... I’m thinking up all sorts of things I can do to kill time until I see the neuro-muscular specialist.  Not sure which one to do first.

Bob telling a wonderful story about The Cowsills at Yankee Stadium in 1966 – and The Beach Boys setting fire to the locker room.  I could listen to him all day!




Finale, Eurovision.  Il Volo and Italy definitely won the popular vote – by a mile – but the jury in Vienna not surprisingly went with the politically safe choice and picked Sweden.  Il Volo won the televote by a wide margin - the "televote" being the vote by the public throughout all of Europe.  Needless to say, the howls of outrage are still going on.  But Il Volo turned in one heck of a performance ... as always, they were magnificent.  In any event – here’s their finale performance.

Journey to 1993: Edmund Spenser, Prophetic Dreams, Surprising Love Poems and Armin Shimerman's Quark

Thinkest thou I’ll tease the smile
of one so far and distant placed,
and self-protective, all the while
in public eye, to be embraced?
Methinks the man will soon be chased,
by one who seeks his visage fair
Not caring I, he lewd or chaste,
More wishing I be with him there ...
Me, 1993, “Good Grief”

An interesting day, reliving 1993.  Believe it or not, that was actually generated after having watched a VHS tape of an original Beauty and the Beast with Ron Perlman and Linda Hamilton.  They had included a song with the episode – but the song made me think of Edmund Spenser.  From what I recall, the song was about having loved someone forever.  THAT brought to mind a conversation with the awesome Armin Shimerman I’d had when a friend dragged me to a Star Trek convention across the street from Penn Station.  I forget why she was so desperate to go – some actor SHE was off the deep end over - but I liked Deep Space Nine, so said, “Sure!”  and went along with her.

I actually had a great time – very enjoyable.  And really enjoyed a brief chat with Armin Shimerman (who played Quark in that series) – and who is also one of the most gifted and well-read Shakespearean actors on the planet.  In that conversation, Edmund Spenser came up; I’d gone out after the conversation and bought a collection of his works.

Coincidentally, Armin also played a character named Pascal in the same Beauty and the Beast series; so this was an entire synchronicity of events happening here like a chain of dominos.  One thing reminded me of the next.  Watching the episode, I was reminded of Armin Shimerman who reminded me of Edmund Spenser who reminded me of his sonnets, while listening to a love song that reminded me of first loves that had felt like they went on forever, because I had never forgotten them.

With me so far?  So guess who who that opening love poem – dashed off without thinking, really, while this line of dominos was falling – was about?  I actually gave it the title, “Good Grief”, because I thought it sounded so ... silly and obsessive (considering that it was 1993 and I thought at the time that the man I had written the Spenserian inspired love poem about had disappeared off the face of the planet 20 years earlier in the early 1970’s) when I wrote it.

Give you a hint:  I just met him for the first time a week ago and nearly fainted on him.  Yup.

Anyway, I just found it today and grinned from ear to ear.  And thank goodness I hadn’t found this yet when I wrote him the letter I handed him!  Good grief indeed:  he would have taken one look at that and said the same thing; although hopefully I would have had the sense not to reprint it in the letter.

What happened today was that I located a file folder containing all of the pages from a journal I kept in 1993.  Most of it is wincingly ridiculous, but I found another very strange entry:  Wednesday, October 27, 1993.  I had a cold at the time and had taken a cold medicine that made me very groggy before going to sleep:

“Had a horrible sleep last night, which I still don’t understand; maybe it resulted from too many doses of Nyquil or something.  It was of being shot on the subway.  All I remember of it was a man with a gun.  He shot at me, and I fell off the seat to my left and landed face down on the floor.  Question rose in mind mind:  was I faking it, or had he really shot me?  I could sense him pointing the gun a second time at my back as I lay there.  Then I woke up, struggling out of a deep sleep.”

What makes that entry a little odd is that on December 7, 1993, on the LIRR, Colin Ferguson “pulled out his gun and started firing at passengers. He killed six and wounded nineteen before being stopped by three of the passengers.”  I recall even thinking, “I think I dreamed about this,” at the time – meaning, I heard about it on the news, and thought, “This sounds familiar,” as though it had already happened.

I’m not sure if I even looked it up in my own journal to check – just had the thought and let it go – but I certainly dreamed something that shared some of the details with something that actually happened.  Not sure what I was supposed to DO with that – start jumping up and down and crying, “There’s going to be a shooting on a train – somewhere, sometime - by somebody”?  I couldn‘t, obviously, which makes me always wonder about the value of what appears to be precognitive dreams like that.  Nothing you can do about it – just stand there and watch it unfold when it does, and brag that you’re psychic or something?  And I never rode the LIRR, so it wasn’t even something that impacted me personally – my dream took place on a subway, because that’s what I rode every day.

I also had come up with the most awesomely creative idea for a quilted triptych based on Spenser’s Sonnet #71:

I joy to see how, in your drawen work,
Your selfe unto the Bee ye doe compare,
And me unto the Spyder, that doth lurke
In close awayt, to catch her unaware.
Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare
Of a deare foe, and thralled to his love;
In whose streight bands ye now captived are
So firmely, that ye never may remove.
But as your worke is woven all about
With woodbynd flowers and fragrant eglantine,
So sweet your prison you in time shall prove,
With many deare delights bedecked fyne:
And all thensforth eternall peace shall see
Betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee.

As I read the idea, I definitely remember laying the entire plan out in my Quilt Journal at the time ... one of the many valuable, irretrievable documents that made up the creativity of a human life that Carbonite utterly and permanently destroyed in their Epic Fail later on.  To this day, every time I see the name “Carbonite”, I want to shriek:  don’t fall for it, don’t do it!  they’re lying!  They’ll destroy your life’s documents like they destroyed mine!!

Yes, the damage they did carries on to this day, that’s how far reaching their failure was.  And is.

In fact, the destruction of my Quilt Journal was so massive, I couldn’t even work up the energy to start a new one until THIS YEAR – and it has been, what?  Five years since they lost the first one?  Six?  And the paltry one I have now will never come close to the one they destroyed.

(Yeah, I know:  hold grudges much?) (Why yes – something that overwhelmingly destructive?  Yes, I do.)

Another Spenserian sonnet I fell in love with in 1993.  I had changed the gender of the piece – he had been writing about a woman; I rewrote it for a man:

Was it the work of nature or of Art?
which tempred so the feature of his face:
that pride and mischief mixt by equall part,
do both appear t'adorn his beauties grace?
For with mild humor, which doth pride displace,
he to his love doth lookers eyes allure:
and with stern countenance back again doth chase
their looser lookes that stir up lusts impure,
With such strange terms his eyes he doth inure,
that with one look he doth my life dismay:
and with another doth it straight recure,
his smile me draws, his frown me drives away.
Thus doth he train and teach me with his looks,
such art of eyes I never read in books.
Sonnet 21 by Edmund Spenser

I don't remember who I had in mind with that Spenserian re-write.  You would think it was the same long-lost (at the time) "first crush" who inspired the quick love poem that opened this entry, but I'm not certain of that.  Other than these beauties, 1993 seemed to have been a rather angry year:  in a job I hated, working for a boss I didn’t like, not happy at all.  The only pleasure I seemed to derive from the year was a burst of creativity that Carbonite completely destroyed all records of ... and some really nice poetry, thanks to a Shakespearean-loving Ferengi.  I wonder if I ever thanked him for that.

Moonstones, Passionate Love, Sewing Patterns, Vagabonds ... and Radishes

My yard work guy is out in the yard cleaning, raking, mowing ... and burying ... the plants I bought last spring – Korean Lilac, Rosemary – did not survive the winter, I’m sorry to say.  Considering they were buried under 10 feet of snow for the bulk of the winter, I’m not surprised.  Once the snow started, I couldn’t even walk through the snow (it was up to about my waist) to even check on them.  I’m thinking I should have transplanted them way ahead of winter, but never did before the snow started and the ground froze.  Besides one of those cheap planters I bought from Lowe’s started sagging the minute I put soil in it, and that didn’t help either.  It’s too bad ... I loved both of those plants, until they disappeared under mountains of snow and died a cruel death.

One of my new favorite rings ... a moonstone ... I’ve already received one compliment on it – at the grocery store of all places.

Moonstone Gemstone meaning:
Inspires and solidifies passionate love that will fly you to the moon.  Brings good fortune. Assists in foretelling the future, enhances intuition, promotes inspiration, brings success in love as well as business matters, offers protection on land and at sea. 

Loved that: “inspires and solidifies passionate love that will fly you to the moon”.  Not sure I needed a moonstone ring for that to happen, but couldn’t hurt.

Working on Beautiful Beige.  Have one of the two hands done; the violets and the golden cup done; now need the second hand and the violet leaves.  After that, adding a few more columns and appliqueing all of the pieces in place.  It’s actually looking really impressive.

I am also learning how to draft sewing patterns.  And why, you ask, would I want to learn how to draft sewing patterns?  Oh, no reason – sayeth I – except I’m different sizes and shapes depending on which body part you’re looking at, and ... NOTHING FITS RIGHT!  Other than that, no reason.

What I was doing, though, was thinking back to clothes I’d worn throughout my life and really loved.  I immediately thought of two of them:  one was a muted light beige floral swing skirt dress with cap sleeves and a tie that tied in the back ... another was an emerald green dirndl skirted dress made of a nubby sort of fabric.  Long sleeves.  I looked beautiful in it, or at least I thought so – who cares what anyone else thought? – so when the book suggested I look back at clothes I really loved and try to recreate them, those are the two I thought of, right off the bat.  So I had been trying to find a fabric that inspired me.  Nothing.  I was only able to find cotton florals, or satin, or crushed velvet ... nothing that really jumped out at me.

So then I thought:  why not try to match the beautiful ring?  Next I looked up turquoise, green and aquamarine fabric and found all sorts of beautiful things to use.  Now I've switched my idea from a dress to a summery top to wear over jeans.  My idea was: 

I want French cuffs, for one; a V-neck for two, but not so plunging it’s obscene;  I want it to cover the tops of my thighs but not most of my legs; I want the material to be flowing but not clingy, or starchy or stiff.  I want it to hang straight in the back, like with those pleats from the shoulders, or from the yoke.  I want it to be classy and sensuous, but not provocative or tasteless.  I’m trying to design it in my head ... but I’m not a clothes designer on paper; I’m not a sketch artist, I only see it visually.  Is this all too much to ask?

Apparently it was, because the book said to try and sketch it out on paper first.  THIS should be entertaining.  I could see THAT sketch in my head, easily enough: “Stick figure with turquoise shirt.”  I’m sure I’ll become a true fashion designer with that memorable design, trust me.  (Why do I do this to myself?  Tackle projects that drive me nuts because they're so out of my skill set?)

Next comes the fun part of trying to measure body parts I couldn’t quite reach.  Nothing like twisting yourself into knots trying to run a tape measure down your own back, or across the backs of your own shoulders.

But while I twist myself into a pretzel, back to finding recipes that use all parts of the ingredients, I had purchased some fresh radishes to use in a salad, and discovered that radish leaves are an absolutely heavenly “green” ... why on earth did I ever discard them in the past?  They’re wonderful!  Note:  soak them a little more thoroughly before consuming them.  And I think they’d make a delicious pesto.

“Radish greens appear alongside broccoli and kale in a list of vegetables that contain high levels of anti-cancer compounds called sulporaphane indoles in the book "Healthy Longevity Techniques: East-West Anti-Aging Strategies," by Joseph P. Hou, Ph.D. A study published in the February 2004 issue of the "International Journal of Food Science and Nutrition" found that greens from wild radishes showed considerable free radical scavenging ability. Researchers recommend increased consumption of radish and other vegetable greens to promote antioxidant activity.  Radish greens contain as much as six times the vitamin C content of the roots. The trace mineral molybdenum is also present in radish greens, as are potassium and the B-complex vitamin folic acid. Add radish greens to your fruit smoothies, says Victoria Boutenko in the book "Green Smoothie Revolution: The Radical Leap Towards Natural Health." Their fiber helps slow the absorption of sugar from the fruit and their nutrients add to the nutritional value without adding significantly to the calorie count.”

So there you go.  And who knew?  I just have always loved fresh radishes.  When I was younger, Mom grew them in her garden – I used to rinse them off with a garden hose and eat them right out of the ground.  The best!  In fact, I should grow those.  Provided I don't kill them off, too.

Now I haven't said much about the pub show after Westerly ... this was not a public concert, this was a Cowsill family reunion and celebration, in a private room in a Newport, Rhode Island pub. Ninety minutes of the entire family singing for and entertaining each other and having a wonderful time.  Below, you're seeing a performance by Tim Brooks (a Cowsill cousin) who sings locally around Newport, singing "Vagabond", a song written by Billy Cowsill.  He's backed up by Bob Cowsill on vocals and guitar,  John Cowsill on drums and Del Cowsill (Billy's son, playing Barry Cowsill's bass).  Bob's funny opening remark, directed at the backseat driver musicians and musical arrangers among his many talented relatives, "Look, all of you Tim folks who know his voice who think you need to tell us how to play for him?  Sit down!" - cracked everybody up.  Enjoy.

The Cowsills in Westerly, Rhode Island ... Bill Yells at Me ... and I Finally Meet Bob Cowsill

Well, THAT didn’t work.  You know, you start out on a venture, thinking you’re going to have this nice, peaceful trip to a sleepy seaside town, and assume you’ll meet (finally!) your childhood crush, discover he’s as normal as everyone else in the world, say, “Gee, what a nice guy”, and come back home, pleased but glad to be home and getting on with your life.

As I said, well THAT didn’t work.

Instead, I came back to the hotel that night – still in something of a state of shock – and wrote down my first memory of the evening: 

“Oh, (bleep).  He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my entire life.”

Okay, I was probably still a little dazzled maybe, but ... well, let me start over.

Once again, the concert was perfect.  Note perfect, pitch perfect, banter perfect, joke perfect, song list perfect ... those Cowsills have their act down to a science of perfection, really.  They’re that good.

But there was no official Meet & Greet after the show, so I’m now devastated for a second time.  To actually speak to Bob, I would now need to jump right in front of him or something ... and there was no way in hell I was going to do that.  Fortunately for me, other people had more courage than I did.  Stopped him to meet him, take a picture with him, chat with him.  I still am too terrified to try the same thing, so start walking away.  I’m halfway out of the tent when I hear Bill Cowsill’s voice.

No, it wasn’t Bill Cowsill himself – trust me, I’m not THAT psychically adept – but what I heard was someone who sounded just like Bill Cowsill saying in a loud, “I will brook no argument from the likes of YOU”  voice:  “Get back there!”

I’m sure whoever it was had no idea of the impact the sound of their voice and that particular command had on a complete stranger, but at the time, I jumped right out of my skin, turned around and went back to meet Bob.  Thinking back on it, dollars to doughnuts it was a Cowsill relation – so many of them were there – who no doubt would have sounded just like Bill.  But I wouldn’t question whether or not it was Bill Cowsill until later. 

At the time, I just went, “Okay,” and turned around.  Went back to meet Bob, so I wouldn’t have to explain myself to Bill in the afterlife.  (“You know I THOUGHT it sounded like you, but then I thought ...”)  And waited patiently, looking down at my feet until the huge guy in front of me moved away.  And there was Bob Cowsill, looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

And you know, I probably would have been fine if I hadn’t made the fatal mistake of looking at his face.  That was my first reaction, the first one, the one I wrote down:  “Oh, (bleep).  He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my entire life.”

I just froze, I think because I wasn’t expecting it.  That’s when I went ice cold and started shaking.  Oh, it would have been so much easier if he were --  there was one video where he described himself as “old and worn”, and I thought he was wrong then, but I didn’t realize just how wrong he actually was.  It would have been so much easier if he’d looked “old and worn”, but he didn’t.  He just looked beautiful.  A strange thing to say about a man’s face, but that was my first reaction.  Maybe I should say “handsome”, but my first thought, unvarnished and unedited, was just that:  “beautiful.”  He looked better at that moment than all his teenage pin-up photos from my pre-teen years.  I inhaled in surprise and went a little dizzy.

Picture it:  I'm a corporate trainer, can teach classes with 20-30 people in them all day long without even blinking.  In fact, I enjoy it!   Public speaking?  I'm fine.  People who know me would describe me as confident and outgoing.  But none of them would have recognized me, meeting Bob Cowsill for the first time and looking right into his face.

I immediately regressed to the age of 12 and started shaking like a leaf, to the point where he was now probably afraid I was going to drop at his feet like a stone.  I did manage to give him the letter, but my voice was shaking so badly, he had to lean forward to hear me.  He did take it and said he was glad I had finally delivered it.  Then he reached for my hand and discovered it was ice cold and trembling.  He looked at me, and here’s where he was probably thinking, “Uh-oh.  She is about to drop like a ...” and wondering if he remembered any of his EMT training, because he might have to use it.

Although, on a side-note, I’m not sure that would have worked all that well – imagine coming out of a dead faint and discovering Bob Cowsill giving you mouth-to-mouth.  Would have no doubt undermined all of his heroic efforts, having me take one look up at him and passing out again ...

But, fortunately, I somehow managed to remain conscious, and no doubt impressed him to no end with my witty repartee:

Bob:  Are you okay?
Me:  No.  Yes.  No.  Yes.  I'm sorry!
Bob:  (reassuringly, in a gentle voice)  You'll be alright.
Me:  (as though I've just been hypnotized)  Yes, I'll be alright.

Then he hugged me.

Me:  (5 minutes later)  Oh, GOD!  He probably thinks I'm an idiot!
Bystander:  (who photographed the show and witnessed the whole thing):  "Yup!  I sure would have, if I were him."

(The authorities will someday find Mr. Bystander's remains in the sand dune where I buried him.)

Finally.  After 45 years, I finally met Bob Cowsill.  Even if he does think I’m an idiot.  I’m okay with that.  And he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my entire life.  Still.

Before I left for Rhode Island, I heard from a friend of mine.  We were discussing plans for me to pick her up at the Kingston, Rhode Island Amtrak station and take her to Newport for a memorial service.  At the time of this memorial service, I will have been at a concert in Westerly, Rhode Island – which is why I was picking her up in Rhode Island.  I get up the next morning and find a message from this friend.

She was trying to book the train, but then she read in the Amtrak booking page that trains in the northeast corridor might experience delays due to track work in Virginia.  She panicked, wanting to know what the plan was when she went through Virginia and got held up by track work.  Keep in mind that she is traveling from Boston to Kingston, Rhode Island, a trip of maybe an hour in length.  So she hasn’t purchased the ticket yet because she’s now afraid of what will happen when she goes through Virginia.  Not the train alone.  Her IN the train.

I just stared at her message and went, “Wha ...?”  Read the message again, just to make sure I hadn’t read it wrong.  Nope.  Hadn’t read it wrong.  Sat in front of my computer with my mouth hanging open in shock.

She’s afraid she is traveling through Virginia – going from Boston to Rhode Island.  Virginia.  O ... M ... G.  Just for the record:  she went to elementary and high school in Quincy, Massachusetts, and has no idea what or where the State of Virginia is.  They must be so proud.  As I said, I was just stunned.  Spent a good ten minutes trying to compose a reply that didn’t start with, “What are you, an IDIOT??”  Way to go, Quincy, Massachusetts School Systems.

Hair Disasters Part II, Killing Boredom and Bob Cowsill Makes Me Think Deep Thoughts

You know your hair is a disaster when you take a photo of the disastrous results and your friend – who has been cheerfully hopeful through your description of the horror – now suggests you look into a wig or extensions.  When SHE gave up on improving the style – which is to say, there wasn’t a “style” anywhere in sight - I knew there was no hope for it.

I have never worn a wig, never expected to ever wear a wig or an extension ... my hair was beautiful just the way it was, if a little straggly at the ends ... and now I was considering it, that’s how big a disaster my hair was.  I can’t imagine that one stupid salon could completely trash someone’s hair, but this one did.  This salon cut aged me 20 years, I looked so bad.  (And no, I will not post the photo here.)

If – a few years down the line – I post something stupid, like:  “I’m thinking of getting my hair styled”, I hope someone will jump online immediately and scream, “DON’T DO IT!”  Trust me, I’ll be forever grateful.

So, I bought my wig, which matched my original hair as much as we could, and I look actually unchanged and okay in it, if I can figure out how to pin it properly. How odd that I had to buy fake hair to look exactly like I did before the hair cut.  It turns out I’m allergic to the hair “cap” that holds it in place – as soon as she put that on me, my scalp started itching so badly, she had to take it off and use pins.  It is not dramatically different than my hair was before the disastrous hair “cut”, other than there are a few more highlights than I had.  I can live with that.  I know I won’t have to wear it for a very long time; once my hair grows back out again, I won’t need it.

They also said (and by “they” I mean the very nice wig lady, her daughter, and a random customer who happened to be sitting in the daughter’s hair cutting chair):  “Don’t ever take any pictures of yourself!” – they unanimously agreed I look nothing in a photo like I look in person – I’m just one of those people who take bad photos – who look good in person and look horrible in photos, I mean.

THANK YOU!!!  I already knew that, but people who thought they were being nice kept saying, “Noooo, you look fine!” while looking at photos of me.  No, I don’t.  I knew I didn’t.  Thank goodness three other people completely agree with me, and were honest enough to say, “Yeah, you look like shit in that photo!”  I felt so relieved to hear that, you have no idea.  For the longest time, I really thought I looked as bad in person as I did in photos, and if that doesn’t mess with your self-confidence, nothing will.

Rule #1 of True Friendship:  if someone looks a lot worse in a photo than they do in reality, don’t lie and say they look just the same.  All you will accomplish by doing that is messing with their self-image.  I could never figure out why I looked one way in a mirror, and like someone entirely different in a photo – in a way that had nothing to do with the face being reversed.  I just take really bad photos.  Thank you, thank you, thank you to those three people who never met me before and had nothing to lose by lying – she’d already sold me the wig, so it wasn’t like they’d lose a customer by lying.

Not only that, they all said that before they knew how I felt about the photo/selfie – their first reaction after the comment was, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” in the fear they’d offended me; I was the one who grinned from ear to ear and said, “THANK YOU!!”  And meant it from the heart, it was so nice to have people tell me the truth at last.  They were right, I take crappy photos.  After I said “Thank you!”, they all felt free to elaborate, “You don’t anything like that photo!”, and “You look at least 10 years older in this photo than you do in real life” ... it was such a relief to finally be vindicated!

The clothes that were altered look great too; I finally look OK, and I may have the courage to face my childhood crush now ... who apparently was into hiding out in tents when he was younger; don’t ask me to explain that photo, I have no idea what he was doing hiding out in a tent, or why he was suggestively inviting drooling and oh so willing readers of a teen magazine to come into it with him.  I just remember sighing dreamily over the photo scotch-taped to my wall when I was 12 and wishing he was within tent-invitational distance.

I am not betting on a surge of courage when I actually come face to face with the man, but the chances are greater that I’ll somehow find the courage to say more than “Bluh bluh bluh ergle duh ...” than I was before I fixed the hair disaster, anyway. 

But hopefully he’s used to people – who under most circumstances are outgoing, outspoken and confident - turning into blithering fools in front of him ...?  I mean, think about it:  I can face an entire class of students without blinking an eye, yet I completely fall apart at the seams at the prospect of facing Bob Cowsill?  Yes, it seems I possibly could.  Let’s face it, he’s not just anybody ... he’s (wait for the capital letters now) BOB COWSILL.  The same one I created a bewildering shrine for on my bedroom wall when I was 12.

But I was thinking last night – “Why him, of all people?” – and maybe it’s because of who I thought he was at the time when I was still 12, naïve and inexperienced:  at the time, I thought he was handsome, yes (and how!), but also intelligent, funny, thoughtful, poetic, gifted ... if you’d listened to me for all those years, since he and The Cowsills disappeared from public view, trying to answer the question, “What are you looking for in a soul mate?” – the same question you all had to sit through when I started this blog and didn’t even know he was still performing –  that’s what I had been looking for and never found - or at least not yet.  Not Bob Cowsill himself, obviously, but someone who was also handsome, intelligent, funny, thoughtful, poetic and gifted. The guys I got crushes on never lasted because they were none of those things, they were other things.  Maybe just one of those things, not all of them.  The guys who liked me unrequitedly had NONE of those things, which is why I ignored them for the most part.  Bob, in my young and inexperienced eyes at any rate, had it all.

So here was the question:  did the preference already exist before I caught sight of him for the first time, and he just seemed like he fit the bill - or is he the one whose imaginary image created the preference because he was my first crush?  Did every other guy since then have to live up to who I thought Bob Cowsill was, when I was much younger?  I say, “thought” because I never met him, talked to him, interacted with him ... maybe he was actually dumb, unfunny, incapable of deep thought, unable to rhyme two sentences sequentially without aid and not as talented as ... well, no, I can’t say he’s not musically gifted, he is.  And no, I really don’t believe he’s dumb, unfunny, etc., or any of those other things, or someone would have made mention of it by now.  Instead, everyone who has met him has said just the opposite.  He’s funny, he’s bright, he’s charming, he’s witty ... so maybe I had it right, back then.

But maybe he’s also a serious pain in the ass or something.  Maybe he is a “curmudgeon” as his sister Susan said once – although I can’t remember why she said it.  Oh yes, because he put Louise Palanker off for so long about doing the documentary, and was so unwilling to do it at first.  (And thank goodness he changed his mind about that, or I never would have rediscovered them!)  But, in all the successive years, was I looking for guys to live up to a standard of perfection that never existed in reality?

Something for me to think about, anyway.  I’m not at all sure it would change anything.  I would still search for someone who had the same qualities.  Or, if not all, at least a majority of them.

So I am now back to looking forward to the trip to New York.  I love going home ... I am always more energized when I’m home.  The city gives me energy; I feel more alive and more present when I’m there.

I’ve been practicing with a cane and took a major header into the kitchen counter.  Yeah, this is going well.  I’ve been drinking my dandelion tea with lemon and unsweetened cranberry juice ... and have no idea what it is supposed to do; I’m just stubbornly drinking it.  Purge me of toxins or something?  Increases my metabolism?  Makes me grow cranberries out of my ears?  Something useful anyway.  Well, when I find out, I’ll let you know.

And MEANWHILE ... I went back to sewing clothes again.  It took a while for me to unpack all of the fabric, patterns and sewing supplies and put them where they belonged ... but I finally started doing that again as well, while working on “Beautiful Beige” ... which is actually looking quite attractive at the moment.  At least sewing gives me something creative and productive to do ... while reading Paradise Lost and letting it percolate ... while preparing for a trip to New York ... while dealing with doctors, physical therapists and everything else.  Well, at least I’m not bored.

Grande Amore - Lyrics and Bob's Amazing Erotic Lilies in Golden Cups

Update:  I finally found the name of the songwriters who came up with the amazing song Grande Amore – Francesco Boccia and Ciro Esposito. 

Ahhh, and then life interferes with life sometimes …

After the EMG, my legs were twitching and jerking uncontrollably.  Went on for about five days.  All of a sudden, without warning:  [*JERK*!]  … the legs would go flying out in a weird direction.  I just stared at them, trying to make sense of it.  I thought perhaps my lower legs and feet were coming back to life.

Then the leg jerking stopped and they’re back to being dead again.  The regular muscle and tendon spasms have returned.  The physical therapist thinks less than one month before being back at work at full capacity is being too optimistic.  Next, my right foot inexplicably started turning in towards the left foot whenever I lifted it ... and the shuffling I had been able to do turned into a stumbling gait that scared the crap out of me.

Time to perhaps plan the rest of my life as a not too mobile disabled person?  Not quite sure how to do that.  I have always walked – have never been able NOT to walk.  Which is not to say I can’t stand on my feet and perambulate – I can – but I need a rolling walker in front of me and I shuffle at the pace of a snail – and now, I should say, stumble at the pace of a snail.  Not quite what I would call “walking.”

I worked on We Can Fly to keep myself distracted ... had fun with it actually.  First real bout of creativity I’ve had in a while.  Created as inspiration to get us  to New York City and the Cutting Room, despite mutual mobility issues – which now seems horrifyingly dubious given my recent stumbling issues.

Symbolism:  the four center “Wings of an Eagle” block.   Peacock:  Transforming the physical body into its potentiality.  Eagle: "Fly Higher."  Number 4:   endurance, mastery, building solid foundations, determination, hard work.  Grey fabric, black print fabric: nerve electrical impulses.  Red fabric:  intensity, passion, will power.  Green fabric:  spring, new growth, April.  Black/grey/white versus color:  “They clipped my wings, and I can't fly”, Gotta Get Away From It All , (Bob Cowsill, Bill Cowsill, Mary Dean); change in attitude from defeated to hopeful, awakening.  Asymmetrical borders:  partial disabilities.  Bluebirds:  cheerfulness, happiness, prosperity, good health, and the renewal of springtime.  “Bluebirds come up to guide us”, The Cowsills, We Can Fly, “Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly”, The Wizard of Oz. 

This is the center of it, minus the borders, batting, backing and quilting.  Right now it’s pinned to the wall, providing inspiration ... and waiting for some ... haven’t really decided what to do for borders yet.  Quotes are: 

Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly? (Frida Kahlo)
Birds have wings; they're free; they can fly where they want, when they want. (Roger Tory Peterson)
Love and desire are the spirit's wings to great deeds. (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)
I believe that if one always looked at the skies, one would end up with wings. (Gustave Flaubert)
There is nothing holier in this life of ours, than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.  (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
They clipped my wings, and I can't fly.  (“Gotta Get Away From It All” , Bob Cowsill, Bill Cowsill, Mary Dean)
Nothing to tie us, bluebirds come up to guide us, When you're beside me, we can fly. (The Cowsills, We Can Fly)
Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly… (The Wizard of Oz)
Poor baby, try to feel better, Nothing's bad as it may seem, Poor baby under the weather, Try to close your eyes and dream (The Cowsills, Poor Baby)
I have been one acquainted with the night.  I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.  I have outwalked the furthest city light.... (Robert Frost)

Next project:  Let Beautiful Beige Come Into Your Mind.  Now THIS one ... the original idle thought was to just use the title and create a soothing monochrome art quilt ... even had a sketch of what I wanted drawn up.  And then I read the lyrics.  I mean, really read the lyrics.  Said, “Holy (bleep)!”  And all these years I had thought the song was about something else entirely.

A violet in the field is growing,
You're afraid to touch not knowing
That its petals cannot burn you,
Don't you think it's time you learn to love?
Your window sill is lined with lilies
And other white assorted sillies,
Planted within golden cups,
But is there any diff'rence up above?

Nice, sunshiny Cowsill-esque song, no?  Not hardly.  You have a young woman, afraid of the realities of love.  She’s out in a field, out in the wilds of nature, afraid of touching a violet (the color violet relates to the fantasy world, and a need to escape from the practicalities of life, the daydreamer escaping from reality) out of fear she’ll be “burned” by it.  At home, she has lilies lined up in “golden cups” on her windowsill.  Has anyone looked at a lily lately?

Generally speaking, a lily is “sex on a stem”, and always has symbolized just that:  artists have always used the lily to capture the erotic shape of male and female genitalia found within the one shape.  And these lilies are planted in “golden cups” – something of real value, coveted.  Not a vase, or a planter.  A cup.  Not just any cup – which is another word for the item men use to protect those same certain valuables they carry around with them – but a “golden cup” ... in other worse of the same color as the flower’s representation of the same item, and also valuable and coveted.  The singer is asking, “What is the real difference between the love you seek in the daydreams of your imagination or in the symbols of love on your windowsill (i.e. your view of the world), and the real thing?”  You may see things as either good or bad:

Black is black and white is white,
You're so hung up on day and night,
Is it that important to you?
Can't you let the dark come shinin' through?
A searchin' hand says come and greet me,
Be a friend and don't defeat me,
You say that the day is lighter,
I say that the stars can be bright too.

Actually I did those verses in reverse, but “I say that the stars can be bright too.” – what you see as something dark and fearful, can actually bring you as much pleasure as sunlight.  Or something along those lines.

Anyway, I looked at the primary lyricist and thought, “Wow, no wonder I thought he was so (bleeping) hot!”  Have no idea when Bob Cowsill came up with those lyrics, but I just sat here with my mouth open.  The song first appeared on their We Can Fly album (MGM Records – 1968), so he had to be – what?  Had to be 18? 19? And somehow that kid came up with an astoundingly erotic and adult love song.  How did he do that?  He was just out of high school!  Inspirational, too – I’m re-thinking the entire Beautiful Beige art concept into something far more Georgia O’Keefe-ish than monochromatic.

My PC also came down with a huge virus.  Not quite sure how it happened – I’m always extremely careful about clicking on unknown links without checking and vetting sources first.  But the weirdest thing happened:  all of a sudden, without having clicked on anything,  I get an IM message from the Kinks Official Fan Club:  “We have accepted your request to join us.”  I said, “Huh?  I never requested to join any Kinks Official Fan Club …”

… and then my mouse cursor went wonky on me, as though someone else had ahold of it and was trying to click elsewhere … I disconnected the cable, shut down immediately and took the PC to Staples – it was still under a service contract … being without my PC for 3 days was a major pain in the … well, I’m sure everyone has been there at one time or another. Then it turns out whatever scrubbing they did had disabled my online access, so I had to drag it back in ... such fun.  It also disabled my video converter, but when I re-downloaded THAT, I ended up with a Bing search page, which I can’t get rid of to save my life, no matter how many times I change the Home Page in the control panel.

There are days when I just hate computers in general.

Hair.  After the last nightmare with a haircut, when I ended up looking like the butch-est looking creature since Gertrude Stein and completely devastated, I haven’t had it cut since – and it strikes me as amazing that I haven’t had it cut in almost three years and it isn’t down to my waist yet.  It’s about halfway down my back.  I do need it cut, but ... what to do.  Shag, layered?  I have no idea what my hair will tolerate at this point – I know it definitely doesn’t hold a curl.  I was even thinking of a French braid or twist if I could figure out how to pull that off.

Crippled and Creative, Il Volo's Grande Amore and Bob Cowsill-Inspired Art

FINALLY – Il Volo released a new cd – I might even call this a mini-cd, as it only has 7 songs on it – recorded to be released in conjunction with their triumph in San Remo.  I hear that the version released in Italy has even more songs on it – and, to my dismay – the version of this on Amazon is sold out already!!  How is that possible?

The centerpiece of the cd is, of course, Grande Amore, winner of the 2015 San Remo Festival – I would also tell you who wrote the song, except this Amazon Prime cd download doesn’t have liner notes with it!  I’ll update once I have the cd in hand, and my apologies to the songwriter for not crediting him or her where due.

I think the guys just found their signature song .... to replace their original signature song, which was "O Sole Mio" ... a classic, to be sure, but I think it just got supplanted by this one.  A soaring, passionate, soul-stirring, absolutely magnificent song – as sung by three of the world’s most magnificent voices.  I’ve been sitting here, listening to it over and over again, totally in love with the song, the lyrics, the incredible passion of the delivery, the performance, the recording ... all of it.  Those guys just nailed this song.  Completely.

This is going to be a global blockbuster ... everywhere except the U.S. of course, because we are the world’s most ridiculous, arrogant, self-absorbed bunch of musically illiterate yahoos on the entire planet, unable to hear a word not sung in English without having a nervous breakdown ... all I can say is, thank goodness for the internet.  No, really.  I’s a lot of things, but mostly, it enabled those of us who long ago realized that mainstream American music was heading straight for the proverbial toilet, to escape the horror of it, and surround ourselves with actual MUSIC that lifted us into the stratosphere, where music was at its finest.

And there they are, from the Billboard International chart (digital):  #1 already, a week after the performance in San Remo.  And I would imagine that it will go viral in all of Europe, South America, Mexico ... all over the place.

Except here.  Because we just love wallowing in our own self-righteous idiocy and narcissism, and love drowning in the hideous crap this country produces and, in their feeblemindedness, tries to call label “music”.  It isn’t.  Never was.  Never will be.

So, way to go, Il Volo ...!  Grande Amore is absolutely awesome, and the entire rest of the world knows it.

The entertaining part of it is watching them on You Tube confront in their own country the same hysteria we saw in South America in 2013 – the screaming girls, the huge crowds of people – and Italy was pretty much the last country to recognize them, really – Italy tends to celebrate everyone else EXCEPT for their own native sons.  But they finally broke the Italian trend, and are now superstars in their own country – which I think is entertaining to watch.  Suffice it to say they are having a lot of fun over there, right now.  And hopefully, for my own listening pleasure, let’s hope they release a full-sized recording one of these days.  Seven songs just isn’t enough.

Moving on ... I went for the “legal tasering” – my term for the EMG, possibly one of the most sadistic, painful medical tests they can inflict on anybody – and I was so not looking forward to it. 

By way of keeping myself entertained and distracted, I’d been designing and making a new textile art wall hanging  based on “We Can Fly” - #2 in my stolen “Women With Wings” series ... my way of processing this supposed “Causa Equina Syndrome” the neurologist thinks I have – and the walking issues I definitely have. 

I am assuming the rest of my patterns and partially made textile art pieces were in the North Andover storage room, and now reside in the Salisbury storage room ... so until I can dig those back out, I’ve been creating new ones.  I can think of no better way to distract myself than creative endeavors, at the moment.  I finally bound my older “The Guitarist In-Between ” ... based on the famous quote from Federico Fellini: 

“What is an artist? A provincial who finds himself somewhere between a physical reality and a metaphysical one…. It’s this in-between that I’m calling a province, this frontier country between the tangible world and the intangible one—the realm of the artist.”

Yes, guess who THAT is named for – or, actually, dedicated to, I should say.  I dedicated it after watching him play “Rescue”, because that moment was so awesome it was truly a depiction of the interpretive creative process, at its core – the ability to tap into the unfathomable and create beauty from the ethereal.  I started that thing back in the 1980’s; have been carrying it around, unfinished, since then.  I’m astonished I finally got it done.  Not sure what will happen to that after I’m gone, but he will be immortalized on it, at least:  on his own, musically and lyrically and now also ... quilt-istically?

Today – a full moon in Virgo.  I reached the point with this medical issue that I needed direction.  Decided to tap into my subconscious with the Thoth deck.  Imagine my surprise when the final two cards I drew were both “Magus” cards.  Said, “Huh?”  Looked it up.  Apparently, there are a few decks which have three Magus cards instead of one – mine was apparently one of them.  The additional two cards were rejects by Crowley; considered novelty items in the deck, not part of the deck itself.  Usually, the Magus card had stood for Mr. Signpost – not sure what the two of them in succession meant, in this context.  I now associate him with both sigils and direction, so wondered if that’s where the reading was going.  I wasn’t sure what sigils would be useful, however.

And on to the sonnet cycle.  Experienced a huge burst of inspiration on that as well and went from stanza 3 to stanza 7 in a matter of days.  Not sure what all is happening with me – crippled and yet creatively fulfilled, at the same time?  What is that all about?

 I leave you with “The Time Has Come”, with Paul Cowsill singing lead for a change of pace.  Also:  Waddy Wachtel, John Cowsill of the Beach Boys on drums, Barry Cowsill in the hat and blue shirt on guitar, in one of his last appearances, and Susan Cowsill singing harmony vocals.

Winter Misery, Hospital Trickery, Facebook Skullduggery and Ultimate Happiness

Fun with Winter 2015
It’s getting to the point where those of us who live in the Northeast find ourselves planning days, errands, trips, chores around SNOW – when is it coming, how much is expected, will public transportation shut down again, how well-stocked is the food and water supply, should I make up a last will and testament in case I die of a heart attack shoveling it ... the usual.

People are just moaning with the fed-uppedness of it all.  We’ve broken all sorts of snow accumulation records, and it still keeps coming:  one huge snowstorm after another.  We are all running out of room to put the snow we keep shoveling ... and we’re all getting slightly freaked out.  Our ability to do anything is becoming narrower, along with our focus.  For the moment, all we can see is the next storm, barreling towards us; all we can hear are weathermen, consistently apologizing for their reports:  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but ...”

We got Winter Storm Neptune about two weeks ago.  Blizzard, big snowfall, high winds, and luckily a holiday on Monday to dig our way out of it,  After Neptune?  “The coldest temperatures in a generation”.  I didn’t trust the MBTA to keep running in temperatures like that, and they didn’t.  Limited service, cancelled trains, the works.

But those cancelled trains in the evening – compounded by a manager who didn’t care if I needed to get home to take my anti-leg spasm medications on time – took their toll.  I can’t take the medication after 7 pm, or I don’t wake up on time in the morning; sleep right through an alarm held up to my ear.  I was getting home at 8, 9 and 10:00 at night.  I have gone without the medication for one dosage and been alright, but this was nearly an entire week’s worth of missing meds.  And apparently, that was all it took.

I got home late one night, was still in my coat and boots – and a dual leg spasm seized up both of my lower legs so fiercely I fainted from the pain of it.  On the bed, luckily; I was standing bedside when it happened.  Woke up six hours later – with the spasm still going.  Still in my coat and boots.  I could feel the spasms in my thigh muscles – and that hurt like hell – but I could no longer feel my lower legs at all.  I crawled my way into the shower – or actually butt-walked backwards, and that took me a while - scooted myself onto the lip of the shower and managed to turn the hot water on.  Kept the lower legs under a stream of hot water and massaged them until they finally released.  Crawled for the phone.  And called an ambulance.

If I thought I had nerve damage after that bus accident before ... I wish I had that level of nerve damage back again.  The 6-hour long spasm had to have shut down the entire nervous system down in my lower legs ... the question is:  do they just need time to recover from the spasms, or are they gone for good?  There is a major disconnect between my brain and my legs – doc says, “Move your toes”, and no matter how hard I concentrated on moving my toes, I couldn’t do it.

Fun with Anna Jaques Hospital in Newburyport
And now for the Epic Fail of Anna Jaques Hospital in Newburyport.

Why is it that no matter how many times you tell emergency room personnel what the issue you’re having IS, they – out of stupidity, deafness or arrogance, I’m not entirely sure – dismiss what the patient tells them out of hand, and then write down something entirely irrelevant and misleading in the file?  Do they honestly think they know my own body, and my own symptoms better than I do?  They’ve just met me for the first time – ever – and yet they completely disregarded every single thing I told them.

I had also – by fainting – missed the nightly insulin injection.  I had also – thanks to the aforementioned manager – missed an injection at noon time, because he deliberately scheduled a meeting with me (despite the fact that I’d be missing lunch AND noon injection) right before I had to deliver a 3 hour training session.  So, my blood sugar levels were high when I got there; I explained to them just what I’ve said here.  I also said, deliberately – loudly – repeatedly – “the nerve damage was caused by the dual leg spasms, NOT diabetic neuropathy.  The leg spasms are the result of a bus accident and spinal fusion surgery in 2010.”  I said the same thing to everyone I saw at Anna Jaques.  Over and over and over again.

They disregarded it completely.  Totally.  As though I’d never said a single word.  When I saw the file (a visiting nurse service caseworker showed it to me), what did I read?  “Lower leg weakness and diabetic neuropathy caused by high blood sugar.”  No mention of the spasms, the fainting episode, nothing – not a single word! – of what I’d said to them, over and over and over again until I was blue in the face.  Total disregard.  I nearly went ballistic on the poor caseworker.  Lower leg “weakness”?  I couldn’t even feel or move the damn things!  I have to seek treatment for the nerve damage, with THAT report following me around?  It’s dead wrong!  In fact, it was so dead wrong, it was dangerously dead wrong.

Fun with Facebook
New topic, but since I’m already in serious bitching mode:  there’s this guy who fancies himself a musician/singer ... (debatable on both counts), who I made the mistake of interacting with on a Facebook page – twice – so if you want to cite me for gullible stupidity as well, I certainly won’t fight you on it.

This is his modus operandi (and he did this the two times I interacted with him, so I’m guessing he does this a lot):  an entire conversational thread gets going and it’s actually pretty interesting, so you devote a certain amount of thought into what you’re posting.  But the minute you disagree with him, he throws a hysterical hissy fit, deletes all of his own posts, and what’s left on the thread after he does that is everyone else who took the time to thoughtfully respond to any of his posts swingin’ in the wind, responding to nothing, and looking like idiots babbling randomly.  Almost like a toddler in a playground who gets his feelings hurt: “Wah, wah, I’m taking all my toys and going home!” 

So now, you have to edit or delete all of your own posts to compensate for his childish temper tantrum.

Here’s my thought, people:  if you can’t have an adult conversation, don’t post anything that someone might disagree with – because people will disagree with you, that’s just the way life is.  I gave him two chances to act like an adult; he failed both times, so he’s gone from my world, at least.  But wow, that was annoying.

Fun with Sharers and Agree-ers
Last bitch of the day:  over time, I’ve gotten more and more irritated by that ubiquitous “Share if You Agree” nonsense, which seems to be attached to every Facebook post I see lately.  It’s at the point now where I don’t even CARE if I agree with you or not, I’ll be damned if you’re going to order me to waste more and more bandwidth doing it, especially when most people don’t even question the basic premise of what they’re “agreeing” with anyway.  Someone makes up a false media story (and it’s such an over the top media story that simple common sense should tell you it’s entirely invented, and yet common sense never manages to kick in for the vast majority of these mindless share-ers and agree-ers) – and everyone just hits the “share” button, like half-witted lab rats pushing pleasure buttons.

I have a mind to take that last paragraph, stick it in Facebook and order THEM to “Share if You Agree”, but I’m guessing the vast majority of those yahoos wouldn’t get the joke anyway.

Back to real life. 
I’m having to scale back, just to survive this.  I knew I was slowly uncoiling when I took a late lunch yesterday and was looking out of the restaurant window, idly daydreaming ... and then, after a thought, a phrase, an unexpected image, reached for my notebook to record more lines in the sonnet cycle.  I hadn’t worked on it in months.

I was thinking of “The Always”, the twin soul I knew I was still searching for, deep down.  The odd image went through my mind, the two of us as ... Neanderthal is probably the best word ... together, in a savannah grasslands, alone; I had just given birth.  And he, looking at the tiny, squalling thing I had produced, his head slightly tilted in curiosity, examining it carefully.  He knew what to look for; signs that it might survive.  I watched him do that and experienced a profound ocean wave of tender regard for him.  In the here and now, I found I had tears in my eyes, sharing that moment with the once-was-us.  I had an ache in my heart, missing him so godawful much, whoever or wherever he was now.  Then I shook the image free and wondered where on earth THAT had come from, out of nowhere.  So I wrote it down.

And Back to Bob

I’ve been slowly re-finding pictures from my “Bob Cowsill All Over My Wall” days ... for nostalgic reasons if nothing else, and I do remember this one.  Ohhh, how naïve I was, back then:  this one didn’t even strike me as an odd caption I was 12.  In the present day, however, I came across it again and spluttered San Pellegrino all over my monitor.  Ahhh, the innocence of the 60’s.  My mind must have gone seriously downhill and right into the gutter in the intervening years.  And of course I’ve since learned about photo re-touching.  Back then, I just thought, “Oooh, he’s got the white-est eyes ... I wish mine looked like that.  Must be all that milk he’s drinking.”  I really was a mindless little twit when I was 12, wasn't I?

I leave you with a wonderful appearance he made in someone’s living room.  Have no idea when.  Just because it made me smile – you’ll enjoy his surprised and delighted reaction at 17:50 when the small audience suddenly starts singing along with him.  And right now, I love anything that can make me smile happily and forget everything else.  I find this so amazing ... that after all these many, many, oh so many years ... he can still make me smile as though I hadn't a care in the world.  Who knows, maybe ultimately I don't, and I need to stop grousing over problems that aren't even remotely important in the vast scheme of things.  What can I tell you?  He's just special.

The Winter of Our Discontent ... and Longing for Spring

On and off over the last month, I’ve been out my window at a silent, peaceful (and sometimes not so peaceful) snowfall ... once, I absolutely had to pick up the mail, so eased my way down the ramp outside ... stepped onto the level pavement, with about 3 inches of snow on it, and completely wiped out, landing on my left knee.  Immediately rolled into a fetal position in the snow and stayed there.

Which sounds like an odd thing to do, but I had learned from experience that because the lower leg nerve damage from the bus-jeep collision of 2010 started at the knee, I might not have been able to sense right away how bad the damage was.  If I’d immediately tried to stand up, I could have made it worse if it had been broken.  So I laid there for about a minute, waiting for a belated stab of pain traveling to my upper leg – which fortunately never came.  Oh, I felt it alright, just not the “Don’t move you’ve shattered the (bleep) ing thing,” sensation, which I probably would have felt in my thigh muscle, just above the knee.  So I slowly began to move.

Funny part was a lady I’ve never met calling me from the house across the road:   “Do you want my husband to come pick you up?”  Ahhh, the many ways that question could have been interpreted; and it may be the greatest pick-up line ever:  “My wife told me to come pick you up!”  Despite the pain, I tried not to start laughing at her very kind concern.  She told me that until I moved she was terrified that I was unconscious – and here I didn’t think anyone had seen it happen.  (And in her defense, she probably would have run out the door to come help – were it not for the fact that she was still in her bathrobe and bare feet.)

Bottom line:  just bruised, it appears – thank goodness.  But the bruise is bad enough, I’m still limping around going “Ow. Oooh.  Ow.  Oooh.”  Ice pack did help.

I spent yet another snow day listening to the sounds of Juno outside the window.  Most of New England had the day off; there were no trains or busses running, so I couldn’t get to the office even if I wanted to.  It was still dark outside, so I couldn’t really see how much snow had happened overnight; I could hear the wind, though.  Nibbled on a 3-day old cream biscuit; finally got the chance to try out this Pumpkin Spice coffee I bought a while ago.  I knew I needed to get some chores done; couldn’t quite motivate myself enough to do them.

The night of Juno’s arrival was another one of those MBTA nightmares.  The MBTA bridge before Beverly had gotten stuck open by a boat crashing into it.  We caught the 4:20 to Newburyport alright, jam-packed full of people trying to get home before the big storm hit.  First we stopped and sat at every single station, starting with Lynn.  No announcements, no explanations – just lengthy idling.  An hour passes; people are getting irritated at not being told anything and the irate tweeting starts, some of which are pretty funny.  At about the two-hour mark, we creep into Salem.  Now they make an announcement:  bridge is stuck, yada yada, we’re going to bus you over the water to Beverly, where trains are waiting to take you the rest of the way.  Okay good, okay fine.  (with a respectful nod to the infamous Mouse of Ron Perlman/Linda Hamilton’s Beauty and the Beast who always said that.) 

We all get off the train and over to the Salem roundabout where the busses were supposed to be waiting in the sleet, snow and wind.  Within minutes we’re all shivering.  No busses.  Maybe 200-300 people waiting already.  People even got off of later trains behind us and joined the crowd.

Seems the busses are all stuck in traffic gridlock (welcome to Salem!  Again.)  After about 45 minutes of us standing in the sleet, snow and wind, freezing, they finally straggle in.  NO effort at crowd control.  One guy literally shoved his way past people into a bus, dragging a suitcase that took up enough room for two people behind him.  The people he’d shoved out of the way to do that are now even angrier, and they have the support of the crowd.  As ugly as that incident was, the MBTA now wakes up to the fact that crowd control might be a good idea, but it’s much too little too late.

Eventually, I get on a bus.  Recall that the last announcement they made was “trains will be waiting on the other side to take you to your destination”?  Again, they lied.  Now they tell us that the “Newburyport train wasn’t in Beverly, only the Rockport one”, so they don’t know what to do with us.  We get to Beverly, all get off the bus into the freezing sleet yada yada yada, and stand there.  10 minutes later, they tell us to get back on the bus.  Now, they’re going to bus us to our stations.

After leaving the office at 3:30, it’s now closing on 8:30 at night.  The storm – which had been tame at the time I would have originally arrived at Newburyport – was now blowing snow sideways.  The temperature has gone even further down.  I am so cold my teeth are chattering.  I get home at 9:00 pm.  On the night of what they’re claiming to be an “unprecedented” storm (although, I have to say, I’ve heard worse in terms of winds), that was the MBTA’s idea of customer service.

I can see the bridge mishap being an unexpected event, sure.  But the crossed signals, absence of information, misinformation, lack of crowd control – all of that which followed I do hold them accountable for.  Absolute dead silence for the most part.

So here comes Marcus.  Can’t remember which storms were given “K” and “L” names – I think the “L” was “Linus”?  We’re now midway through the alphabet.  Marcus.  Named after the Greek god Mars.  Marcus will be on top of us for 3 days.  This is just Day One.  I’m hearing the wind start to pick up, and we’re not even into Monday yet, when the worst of it is supposed to hit.  Another 2 feet, more or less.  I’m eyeing the snow shovel, propped up against the front door, ready to be reactivated into service for the umpteenth time.

Snow.  More snow.  Snow on top of snow.  I just bought the home last April, so had not invested in a snow blower, because I had not anticipated the record-shattering winter that would find us all breaking snow accumulation records.  We get hit with a monster snowstorm, we barely dig our way out of that one and another one hits.  And another.  And another.  I don’t recall ever seeing a winter like this.  You’ve never seen so many people praying for Spring to arrive, because they can’t endure Winter anymore.  Never-ending snow shoveling.  Useless public transportation.  Stupid drivers.  Mountains of snow so high you can’t see past them.

Spring.  I am so looking forward to Spring.  After all these years, I am finally going to see The Cowsills.  They must be trending now or something; I’ve never seen so many concerts cropping up all over the place.

A trip to New York City in April.  A trip to Rhode Island in May.  And then ... the most amazing thing:  after I was considering myself the most fortunate person in the universe to be seeing them twice in two months, an announcement:  The Cowsills were going to be performing at the Hampton Beach Casino in June.  Five minutes away from me. 

I went through the ceiling with delirium, seeing that announcement.  You have no idea how much I loved and adored this band when I was young and how excited I am to be finally seeing them live.  Unfortunately as part of the “Happy Together Tour”, so not just them.  I forget who else is packaged in with them (and with all due apologies to people who I’m sure are very nice and quite talented – I’m sorry, don’t care a whit), all I saw was:  The Cowsills were going to be literally 5 minutes away from me.  Sat there in ecstatic shock for maybe 2/10’s of a second before hitting the Ticketmaster button.  Got first row.  Could not believe my good fortune.

So because I’m an obsessive sort, I took a shopping detour and drove up to Hampton Beach, to see where the place was, what the parking situation was ... discovered it’s as bad as Salem with its one-car-width-only narrow one-way streets – no wonder the traffic is jammed for miles.  Drove past the Casino Ballroom, then drove around back to check out the parking situation.  Here’s an aerial view.  Notice the parking lot in the rear?

20-feet of snow.  Apparently, since the place is closed for the winter, they had decided to pile all of the snow they couldn’t put anywhere else in the Casino Ballroom’s unused parking lot.  At least 20-feet high, probably higher.  So high you couldn’t even see the back of the building from the street.  It occurred to me, as I gaped at that mountain of snow in front of me, that remnants of that snow are still going to be there in June, no joking.

And check out that water slide!  (Blue curlicue contraption on the right side of the photo).  Looks like fun!

No way in hell I’m getting in and out of there around show time.  Found a few small hotel/motel places with heated swimming pools that looked promising.

Remind me to never – EVER – move again.  It has taken me forever to find even the simplest of things – and I never did find the foot pedal to the sewing machine – had to buy a new one.  Next, I couldn’t find the ¼” seam presser foot; then I couldn’t find the manual to re-set the tension.  Couldn’t find the materials to make templates and had to use old file folders; couldn’t find the right color of thread ... every time I blinked there was something I had packed somewhere remote and irretrievable.

Got videoed for an e-learning course.  I’m wondering if I can get a copy of it.

Back briefly to Bob Cowsill, who I once scotch-taped all over my walls ... obviously much time has passed since those days, and he’s now older and the patriarch of the entire family.  The one thing I never really paid much attention to back then was just how talented he was.  I was (obviously) paying much more attention to the things any young girl pays attention to, when she’s drowning in her first crush of young adulthood, i.e. “He is the most beautiful, gorgeous and soul-stirring hunk who has ever existed since the dawn of recorded time ... yada yada yada,” and less on, “Wow, this guy is an awesome musician.”

So this particularly fascinating video – done quite recently for a series on songs and singers – was an in-depth interview he did on the creation of their mega-hit, “Hair.”  When he’s talking about “we” doing this or that, he’s talking about four people:  Bill, his older brother, and then Barry and John, who were considerably younger when the song was recorded.  Basically:  four teenagers let loose in a recording studio, all by themselves.  They were only supposed to cut a demo of the song “Hair” from the Broadway musical they could lip-synch to on a Carl Reiner comedy variety special.  Nothing more.  Easy enough, right?

Instead, those four teenage boys recorded, produced and delivered a song (Bill and Bob at the controls) that was a global hit and is still played even today.  Point being:  I’m now finally realizing what awesome musicians those four teenage boys were.   No wonder I adored them.  And still do.