Autumn. (Archive)

My apologies for the protracted time between posts. Medical marvels have continued to flummox physicians as well as limit my productivity. With good juju, I anticipate my summer of sloth shall morph into an autumn of brio.



On September 22nd, we came upon the glory of the autumnal equinox, the start of my favorite time of the year. In ancient cultures, the start of autumn was a period for celebration, rejoicing in the harvest, a spirited display of community. Some killjoys have mutated the seasonal transition to a time of disdain, anticipating winter. While standing amid the splendor, I have heard people mutter about the coming snow and slush and cold. I admonish them. The seasons are separate entities. Though there is continuity, they are unique. Are Browning, Whitman, Baudelaire, and Dickinson blended to glop because they all lived during the same century? More appropriately, should we blame Burns and Blake and Coleridge for leading to William Topaz McGonagall? Of course not. Regarding poets (don’t fret--- I’ll talk about pie soon), Yeats and Verlaine and Rilke saw their own digression and decay as the leaves swirled down into the soil and the night sky arrived early. Hmm, don’t see that. I find autumn to be a mystical segue into maturation. I find autumn to be the intense culmination of the year-long play with winter as the denouement; we applaud upon its conclusion, exit the theatre, and await the premiere of a new, exciting dramatic composition, the first act being the vernal equinox.

Using my senses is effortless and purifying during autumn. The vivid reds and oranges and yellows, kaleidoscopic marvels to my vision; the chill on my skin, making me reach for another layer of clothing, downy and warming; the smells of harvest--- tart apple, hearty oak, aromatic spices; the tastes of baked goods, both sweet and savory; the jolting vapor pops in burning firewood. The enhanced sensations, almost hallucinogenic, a mind-expanding, synesthetic journey without the enormous pupils and possibility of a bad trip, dude.

During fall, the delights of childhood can still be experienced as an adult; there just may be more abrasions and contusions. Jumping into a pile of leaves is damn fine fun, though I caution others to not do it randomly, as unacquainted yard workers do become rather peeved and may chase you down with raking implements. Canines also enjoy a rowdy tussle amongst the leaves. Another word of caution: my brother’s dog of yore, BoBo, could not distinguish between good and bad times to leap. For clarification, he bounded into burning piles of leaves (we rescued him). This is not recommended for any living, breathing being. Please discourage. I do enjoy witnessing animals that are not aflame during fall. Forest animals are very purposeful during this season. They resemble humans during tax time, all the running this way and that, the wide-eyed look, the furious motivation, the clamor involved in stockpiling, whether foodstuffs or paperwork. Any combination of creature and hubbub can be highly amusing.

Let us not forget the food. The feast. As a vegetarian, I do not partake in the consumption of the turkey. Occasionally I see those of the bare-wattled head and neck on my drive to work--- wild gobblers wandering aimlessly amidst the speeding vehicles of dawn. As a whole, I’m not too fond of any birds, but I do give turkeys a break since learning about tetanic torticollar spasms; the drowning in rainstorms thing is really just a genetic disorder. Who knew? Though I am an herbivore, I enjoy Thanksgiving immensely. This is because of the starch. I love starch. It is a close and personal friend of mine. I love starch. Potatoes, rice, bread, and corn, oh boy! I exhibit textbook addict behavior, very possessive of my tubers. I load my plate with the wonder of complex carbohydrates and eat until extreme discomfort. After groaning and shifting in my seat for a good 15 minutes, I’m ready for pie. If you know me at all, you understand what this means. Dessert plates are an insult; I tolerate dinner plates, though if offered the tin and its entire contents, the giver of such shall claim my heart. I am deeply committed and fiercely loyal to those who provide pie. It’s a quirk.

It’s 6:30 in the morning; I just stepped outside for a cigarette. It’s dewy and foggy outside, in the air a crisp chill, cool but not frigid. A thousand more leaves have descended during darkness. It’s silent. I am alone, smiling and contented, rejoicing in the quiet comfort of autumn.

Summer. (Archive)

The spring fever is gone; the merciless, relentless slimy heat of summer is upon us. No more halcyon days with sweet, flower-scented breezes and the gentle warming upon our skin providing tinges of tan and multiplying freckles. No more enthusiasm about longer days and more daylight. Nope. Now, we stand beside our cars pumping gas or walk our dogs or go outside to check the mail, and the minutes we spend in direct sunlight without any air current make us think, “Oh my freaking god. I’m going to die right here.” And, when we don’t, we are, quite honestly, a bit disappointed.

I dislike hot weather. When slathered with humidity, the world is more irritating. For me, summer is not a time for fun and frolic; it is a time of distress and repulsion. There are certain rules of contentment that summer violates. I prefer to be refreshed from a shower for longer than two minutes after sliding the plastic curtain open, rather than standing in the bathroom saying, “Why did I bother?” In my world, sweating is only enjoyable when accompanied by multiple orgasms; thus, abnormal perspiration, such as under the bodacious ta-ta region or in the crotchal zone, without the mentioned wild primal sex, is, frankly, uncalled for and rude. People are stickier in the summertime but not in a good way. I don’t like that. And the bugs, the dreadful insects. They slam against your body and buzz your ears and completely ignore the “my space, your space” rule. Couple that with the invisible bug syndrome, and madness is assured. Perhaps a hair grazes your neck and for the next few hours, you are slapping and itching, convinced an army of small arthropod animals is trying to kill you with itty-bitty teeth and tiny pokey things. Here’s something: do you know what food tastes good when it’s 90 degrees out? None. Nothing at all. When I am offered items that I normally devour and instead find them to be completely unappealing and sometimes the cause of nausea, well, that’s just not right.

Here’s a tangent, yet a pertinent point. Because every place in the country is smoke-free, I have to be outside in the swelter to partake in my addiction. Let us look at the facts: not only am I purposely killing myself rapidly with carcinogens, but I am also childless, thus doing my part with the world population problem. There. That’s an admirable thing. I believe this garners me at least a small, self-contained, air-conditioned closet in which to smoke. Who would it hurt? Offices have those horrendous vending machines filled with sugar, additives, fat, and overall nastiness; hospitals are chockful of disease and infection; manufacturing plants have chemicals that can melt a human within seconds --- it makes a little tobacco inhalation seem innocuous, don’t you think? Going from 90+ degree heat back into a building that can chill bones causes a kind of waterless bends; add to it the fact that I smoke as much as possible makes a day of outside/inside/outside/inside dangerous. I could get hurt.

Mostly though, summer defeats my best intentions. I want to accomplish things. I want to be active and productive and energetic. It cannot happen. I step outside and immediately am awash with exhaustion. The lethargy seeps into my being. During spring, fall and winter, there are actually little check marks next to items on my to-do lists; I do things. Summer? Uh, no. It is three months of looking around my surroundings, sighing, and giving up. I wish that I could hibernate from the summer solstice to the autumn equinox. I would like the option of completely surpassing the canicular days, fully realizing that a quarter of my life would be spent comatose. I’m fine with that. Do you know what one of the most repulsive sounding words in the English language is? Moist. It sounds disgusting and I would never change it because it is perfect. I would readily sign away a quarter of my life just to avoid moistness. When my world is moist, I am unhappy. Many people on the coasts worship the sun, fully enjoying the beach and all it has to offer. This does not appeal to me, because what is worse than being moist is being moist and gritty. And, I know. I sound like I’m eighty. I’m not; I’m sweaty.

I was watching my dog today lying on wood chips with the sun focused solely on her. She was panting profusely and smiling. She looked at me and seemed to say, “This is glorious! I am almost on fire!” It was a “Watch me, Mom!” moment that continued: “Sometimes I roll in this grass and dirt and get crap all over me! And these little things fly by and I catch them in my mouth and I eat them! And sometimes I forget to drink water when I’m really, really hot so I dry-heave! I love summer!” Fantastic. Beloved canine, I lack your enthusiasm.

Anytime now autumn. I’m all set for your arrival. Anytime now.

Courage. (Archive)

This was originally published in September 2008. It's a quick read before "Loss" and "Classics", both of which will be posted soon.

Occasionally I don a helmet. Additionally, I designed a coffee mug that reads, “Fierce Warrior.” I can take a punch without wincing. Instinctively, I assemble walls to ensure that I am protected and untouchable. I talk tough. It is not that I relate to the violent aspects of warriors; I’m a pacifist and do everything in my power to subdue aggression. What I do relate to is the mentality of helmet-wearers. It’s having pluck, having grit, having mettle, having spunk. It is having the spirit to face exposure and vulnerability to risk with self-assuredness. It is approaching fear and pain with poise and confidence that it shall pass. It is handling vicissitudes with aplomb.

I am by no means spectacularly courageous. I get by. Many professions demand bravery from the moment one punches the clock. Firefighters, police officers, and soldiers are constantly challenged with life-threatening situations. I certainly have admiration for them, but also a realistic viewpoint that they have chosen those vocations knowing full well the dangers. I am appreciative of their service and admire their commitment. At times, they display tremendous heroic behavior, such as after the 9-11 attacks. Alas, crises do occur that require their training and judgment, in a different manner than retail clerks and computer programmers.

What about clerks and programmers? Writers and tellers? Teachers and postmen? Do they have to don invisible helmets from time to time? Absolutely. Courage is ever present in humanity, even if inconspicuous. One need not be savage to exhibit valor. I have been fortunate to know many courageous individuals, exhibiting fortitude and brio through illness, grief, heartbreak, and devastation. From them, I learn and grow but only if I’m paying attention. I watch one person speak in front of others despite absolute terror. I watch another reveal fear and insecurities in a quest for assistance. Yet another braves through rejection and still continues applying for employment. And from children, I learn about approaching life without the hindrances of ego and self-consciousness which glom onto us as we age. My good friend, Kadence, belted out a rousing interpretation of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” with nary a bead of nervous sweat or hand-wringing, positive that her singing would delight all present, which it did. Children have courage without any semblance of what it is or means.

On my quest to become more human, I study the behaviors of those I admire and respect. This always includes those with bravery and backbone. Incidentally, the coffee mug I had made does have in small lettering, “Injured Kitten” on the opposite side of “Fierce Warrior.” I struggle with the balance at times, realizing that dichotomy is continual as we function and adjust. Though life can be perilous, remaining calm and composed are characteristics I have found requisite to invoke courage. I am fond of the term, sang-froid, which literally means “cold blood” in French; its truer meaning is, “keeping one’s shit together.” Perhaps I will have that inked on either side of the mug, centering my duality. Or etched into my helmets. And regarding my helmets, some people have indicated that my inclination to wear them is brave in a free-spirited manner. In truth, wearing helmets and/or plaid pants disinclines much of humanity from having contact with me. Since my greatest fear is the danger of people, this works out well. There’s always a catch, isn’t there? Attributed to boldness and lack of concern for others’ opinions, but in fact, a method of distance and detachment. Not courage, but rather a clever concealment of cowardice. Yeah, I’m pretty cool.

Worry.

Not every pimple on your ass is cancerous. Too harsh? Just to make clear, it's not my intention to be callous and devoid of compassion, but rather to acknowledge that our society has somehow birthed a bevy of whiny fusspots and fretful worrywarts. And, admittedly, I, too, can succumb to the lunacy, carked and spooked by fabricated apprehension. “What if...” is a most common inquiry, anticipating misfortune from the onset. It's as if people go from the youthful “oh boy!” excitement for all things new to banking on a blitzkrieg. What do we know about worry? We know that the fixation is agonizing and seemingly endless. And, when we are not the actual worriers, we can provide excellent advice to anxious others, offering that worry is, in fact, a needless emotion, wasting time and energy without having any impact on the events about which we are overly and ineffectually concerned. Some priggish word wonks might even offer that the word, worry, descended from the Old English wyrgen, which meant “to strangle,” and, later evolved in Middle English to worien, which meant “to grasp by the throat with teeth and lacerate.” [American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language 4th edition, (Houghton Mifflin Company, 2000)]. Although kindred of snooty logophiles would very well discern the etyma as powerful prognostication of an unenlightened era, others would most likely walk away, stare blankly, or find a heavy object which to thump the snot's head.

With all seriousness, has anyone, through worry, ever altered the outcome of a situation? Or, have they just altered their own health, enduring heartburn, insomnia, headaches, and the occasional coronary? The hours squandered scrutinizing the endless unfortunate possibilities of a situation are hours one cannot get back. And yet, it is both consuming and common. Nowadays, people feel anxiety about incidentals as frequently as people through famine epochs felt hungry. In all honesty, it's kind of embarrassing.

One of the problems with worry was birthed from the psychological concept of, “Getting in touch with your feelings.” In the 1970’s and 80’s, the idea of an authentic self took over with therapists across the land, which is all good and fine. But humanistic psychology morphed and altered into a stew of cognitive-behavioral/constructivist/psychodynamic/schema therapy, so that “I feel” statements and “I messages” have hijacked communication and thought processes. Since we’re getting Gestalten with it, let me just say that it is an intuitive function to form a schism of expressed and suppressed feelings. It is as natural as blocking a punch or blinking an eye; it’s the body’s spontaneous reaction to protect itself. Not every emotional response requires dissection and analysis and repetitive examination. This does not mean one should be neglectful of detrimental changes in and of his or her body. I am, from more personal experience than I care to have, an advocate of regular physical exams, as well as prompt attention for possible problems. Typically, women wait too long to have lumps in their breasts examined. Also, men avoid routine rectal exams because the exams are rectal. While these reactions are completely understandable, the consequences of prolonged avoidance will be much more humiliating and quite possibly, devastating. Regarding worrying about others and outside events, it is kindly to be concerned and compassionate, unless it escalates to causing an aneurysm. Then, not so good. Constant anxiety, even if there is a bad run of plights, only compounds the situation into an all-out pisser. Sometimes, rather than brood over a bugaboo, it is a better choice to take your car in for an oil change, eat Thai food, and nap. This was not my light bulb moment, but rather the wisdom of a friend who thought my spinning head might be overcome from centrifugal force and shatter. I have to admit: spending thirty minutes doing something nice for my car, followed by Spring Rolls, Pad Thai, and rice pudding, effectively slowed the G-force, allowing me to sleep soundly for a couple hours, even if the borborygmi frightened my animals.

We have a tendency to worry about the wrong things. Before my latest surgery (a complex sinus/nasal undertaking to correct a septum deviated into an “S” shape, a missing sinus wall, multiple humongo turbinates, and numerous bone fragments embedded in tissue, all of which contributed to brutal monthly sinus infections), I was concerned about my appearance changing and my voice being altered, neither of which occurred. What I should have been thinking about was how to shower without having drips of blood stream from my nostrils. Ultimately, I figured it out. It turned out to be the first time I have ever showered with two strings dangling from my nose; yes, the age-old boxing solution was utilized. I showered with tampons stuck up my nares, a lovely moment exhibiting my sexiest side. As I stood naked and wet with the strings swaying, I thought to myself, 'Well then, I hope I don't die suddenly. Being found in a situation such as this would certainly be unsettling and also leave a legendary aspect to my lifetime that I would prefer not to have.' The absurd situation made me immediately reminisce about the time I passed out while alone in my apartment. That in itself was ill-starred; however, combined with eating leftover Chinese food at my kitchen table and wearing only a thong... bad, dreadfully bad. Fortunately, I awoke on my own without subjecting others to the state of affairs. Once again, I had not worried about such a thing happening, but evidently, misgivings would have assisted me to take appropriate precautions.

Granted, as I have stated previously in my life and most likely will forevermore: I am emotionally stunted in many, many ways. Growing up in a family of Marines is entirely different than growing up in a military family. Case in point, say you’re having a dumbass contest to see who can handle the spiciest food. Military families eat jalapeno peppers with a few haberneros thrown in as a dare. Marines will immediately suck down Bhut Jolokia peppers (recognized as the hottest pepper in the world, just beneath law enforcement grade pepper spray on the Scoville scale), and they will do this without pause to exhibit their superiority, even if it means blowing out their duodenums. There exists a level of recklessness, under the guise of honor, within Marine families. Even as civilians, pain is never exposed, weakness never exhibited, and all family members act as stoic war hawks, ready to confront any adversary. The less others know of one's vulnerabilities, which are very few, mind you, the less likely to be assaulted and have boundaries encroached. The Jarhead way of life is transferred to children, so that scrapes, cuts, and bruises are incidental and deserve no recognition. If anything, minor abrasions command a “Ooh-rah!” before moving on.

So then, during the medical madness which has become a huge chunk of my existence, what “feelings” do I have? After having three surgeries in 5 ½ months, as well as dealing with that persnickety lil' thing called MS, if I am rarely willing to discuss possibilities, if I'm not in need of a solid cry, if I refuse to explore and belabor the emotions involved, are there concealed reasons behind it, something going on other than my upbringing? Yes and no. I truly am not of the mindset to become upset about something I cannot control. Also, I believe I have a responsibility to be the strong one, to continue purporting sangfroid as I have for some time now. I explained to my psychologist (yes, I have one) that I may open up to some people, but if I sense they are becoming uncomfortable, I revert to staidness. She inquired as to if it was better for me to be distressed than others. “Absolutely,” I affirmed. She paused and then said, “Excuse me. I have to cover my eyes. Your halo is blinding.” She has a sarcastic panache that I find oh so irresistible in my mental healthcare professionals. It wasn’t until later while talking with a friend that I disclosed the primary aching woe which was of concern to me: I worried about being alone the remainder of my life. Though I have the most amazing group of friends, I am single. As we all know, hugs from friends are entirely different than being held by someone. Through all of these doctor visits and procedures and hurry-up-and-wait outcomes, I have gone to an empty bed every night. I miss having a significant other; it worries me that perhaps I’ll never have one again. After long days of poking, prodding, and medical verbiage, I sometimes wish for someone to hold me, to wrap around me and say, “C’mon, try to sleep. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.” My friend was elated to hear me exhibit mortal characteristics, almost impressed and proud by my warp from automaton. It was yet another slight fissure in the wall that bulwarks my humanness. Every narrow chink that allowed light and vision has always been applauded by my friends, shared among them as a milestone achieved, despite the jumbo gap between me and the emotional development paradigm. But, who of us doesn’t some of the time long to be held and comforted by another? Who of us, even self-reliant, solitary individuals, content without frequent companionship, doesn't end a troublesome day with a sigh, yearning another to be lying beside to wish a peaceful sleep and sweet dreams? The tenderness of a beloved offers ease unmatched by friends and family members. Before dew drowns thine eyes, I shall concede that even this lone wolf has an immense vat of latent sap. The worry I feel is not dying alone, but rather living the remainder of my life without experiencing love one more time. Ugh. I'm a bit nauseated after that divulgence.

Because humans worry incessantly and are confounded as to how to make it stop, we often engage in diversionary activities. Lacking skills and tools to properly temper the anxiety and render it powerless, we embrace distractions, flipping red herrings through our own paths and pretending that they just came about, like magic. If we're crocked or stoned or pie-eyed, maybe we won't think about the bad thing; there's no doubt our luck is about to change if we hit casinos and racetracks and furiously rub loose coins on scratch cards, because damn if we're not due to get money for nothing and chicks for free; the emptiness we feel from the unknowing must be able to be filled if we gobble constantly, quadrupling our portion sizes and suckling down fats, oils, and sweets enough to scoff the food pyramid's apex into bloated blubber; perhaps we should spend money we don't have on things we don't need sidetracking our mind malaise with a shopping mall zombie shuffle. I've tried a couple few of these in my lifetime, all of them confidence games played upon ourselves, straying swindles devised to rid our gnawing anxiety even with the chance that opting this will run riot and pathologize our panic. I reckon one of humanity's most endearing traits is the ability to dupe itself any day, anytime.

So then, what to do, what to do? Maybe, just as those with uncontrollable rage often are encouraged and/or mandated by the court system to take anger management courses, those individuals with acute anxiety should be required to take part in worry management classes. Might work, right? Until that becomes a common option for out of control killjoys, all we are left with is the universal advice passed through the ages since the time of Plato: trust your gut. Listen to the “still, small voice within,” which does not continue to “the still, small voice within that shouts and whines and sobs to everyone in earshot's scope.” Sometimes when you’re bleeding, it doesn’t hurt, and sometimes when you’re hurting, there is no blood. Be honest, but without contrivance, without projecting cataclysm. The omnipresent maxim to pick your battles could easily be extended to choose your weeps. What I’m saying is: people, really, c'mon, show some restraint. If you can’t get through a day without continually worrying about your neighbor’s sick parakeet and whether your co-worker gave your boss a memo and the global warming effect, take a sedative; if you are worried about the divorce of the Gosselins or Kim Kardashian's badunkadunk or the vapid swellheads from “The Hills” or any other nonebrity offal, take the entire bottle of sedatives washed down with a fifth of vodka. Seriously, this world is too much for you.


A clarifying addendum: The author pointedly expressed that one should not worry about Kim Kardashian's budunkadunk, not that it shouldn't be viewed and/or glorified.

Spring. (Archive)

Just a quick read about the season change, originally published in April of 2008. Soon enough, "Worry" and "Loss" shall be posted, assuming the weather doesn't divert my attention elsewhere.


I’ve been watching people get a fever. It’s fabulous to observe. As the weather warms and the trees start to bud, people are becoming more pleasant. Coats are coming off; more skin is shown; the human race in Chicago is starting to glow. Spring is a perfect time to forget any assoholic mentality that developed during winter. It’s a season to emerge from the crusty shell of frigid frozen visages and wicked behavioral lapses. The flowers are blooming and look at my happy face! The birds are singing and I join them, la-la-la! As the wind swirls sweet smells of the vernal equinox, I bound and hop, emanating chances and choices and a newfound resilience that withered in winter. For a short time, I’m swinging the world by the balls. It’s amphetamines without the edge. I’ve actually sang the Underdog theme thrice in two days.

Reality has a heavy smack and my confidence is sometimes placated, but I still love the greeting of open windows and soft dewy breezes when I arise each day. I giggle when the canine, Ella, bounces and the felines, Lewis and Punk, strut. The slow, woe-is-me, winter soundtrack has been altered to mixed discs with ridiculous songs such as, “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” January would have never seen house visitors stopping mid-conversation to chorus, “I’m hot, sticky sweet, from my head to my feet.” Spring allows and encourages reservations and inhibitions to pop like soap bubbles. Remember in the wintry months when tripping on something outside caused the reaction, “Blasted mother-fucking snow and shit!” In April and May, we’re moving faster, so a misstep results in the exclamation, “Har har! Did you see me trip? Haha!” Little annoyances remain little, snippets in time we gobble up with a gulping swallow and then forget, rather than masticating for days on end.

What a fantastic way to live: spontaneous five-second dances, cuts of lyrics warbled, simpatico and harmonious. I know it’s transitory, but I’m enjoying it nonetheless. Soon enough, the temperatures will skyrocket and people here will become sweaty and irritable. It happens every year in Chicago. Additionally, our Midwestern traditions insist upon barbecue, thus people are not only snappish and excreting stank moisture, but they seemingly have a continuality of being sauced and sticky. Ew.

Let’s focus on spring. Spring is pretty. Let’s jump around.

Teenaged.

I would rather have a vagina injury than return to high school. That may seem extreme to some, but it is an honest assessment of my true feelings. Though my teenage years had moments of giddiness and a few glory days, overall, I found them to be a dismal experience. So much so, that I would readily choose harm to my hoo-hoo rather than relive a single day of it. There are times in our lives that hold sweet sentiment, and there are eras which conjure such mortification and inadequacy that to reminisce is as inviting as a kick in the crotch. Unsuitably equipped for secondary school, straight away I pounced a pratfall into the cyclonic chagrin which would contaminate my cerebrum for years. Though my self-assurance is somewhat secure and my skin fits well, during this discourse alone I may have a bruise of humiliation boldly pop my frontal lobe. Mere mention of memories may daunt my capability to refrain from blubber and snivel when reprimanded by an authority, in addition to crushing my capacity to talk to a boy. And, unfortunately, no mnemonics are necessary for my recollection of that time period. The mindset and misery of high school emerges sporadically, not unlike a chronic spastic colon: there's no cure, but if you commit to self-care, it only episodically discommodes your time in the crapper.

I, like many others, didn’t believe I “fit in” during high school. Though I was athletic, I didn't excel in sports as I had done in grade school and junior high, relegated from superstar to reliable bellwether. Despite being relatively intelligent, I was bored with class offerings and lacked challenges, thus performed at only a level of mediocrity. And while I could make conversation with those of any clique or subset, I felt more like a hanger-on or a passerby than a member. The absence of belonging fused with banality created my own personal time loop. The routine of school was similar to my family life pattern: I felt plopped into a Sisyphean existence, not knowing why I was there but knowing that I had to exist through it. The best possible method was to be much the same as gossamer: to be barely noticed reduced the likelihood of being scrutinized. Consequently, I didn't excel nor was I delinquent. A good portion of the problem was that I felt incarcerated by the parameters in which I lived. To yearn for freedom is fairly typical for teenagers, a need to bolt from the rules and regulations concerning that age. Additionally, I also longed to distance myself from a difficult family environment. Without suppression, I wondered how much I could experience and achieve; without fear, I speculated whether my feeling of awkwardness and my insecurities would lessen. That certainly contributed to my schooling experience and interactions with classmates; I was secretive and protective about many things, rarely allowing anyone into my emotional realm. I never felt ostracized, but always thought many others viewed me as odd and different than themselves, and I worried that the more others knew about me, the less they would want to spend time with me.

Common insecurities also dominated my psyche, because, like many girls, I had glasses, braces, permed hair, and carried a bit of extra pudge. There was a glimmer of hope provided by my mother, as well as a couple of boys who showed interest, that this ugly duckling would turn into a beautiful swan. But, let's be honest: ducks and swans are different. Cygnets turn into swans; most ugly ducklings turn into fairly average ducks. Now, it is possible for an ugly duckling to turn into a pretty damn good-looking duck; it can happen. It's rare for ugly ducklings to become absolutely loathsome, nauseating ducks, but that, too, can happen. All in all, the results of ugly ducklings are mostly fairly average-looking ducks. Since I owned no crystal ball and lacked prognosticating skills, I assumed that my opinion of my appearance would never alter, and I would continually think of myself as no more noticeable than wallpaper, albeit inoffensive wallpaper. That lack of self-esteem surely played a role in my demeanor, making me more inhibited and self-conscious. Truth be told, I did not attend any homecomings or proms because I wasn't asked. There was a last-minute sort of invite through others by a boy I barely knew, but it felt like more of a convenience date than genuine interest. I was swooning over the cute, popular boys who, of course, were swooning over the cute, popular girls. Come to think of it, I don't think I even had a date during high school except for a fry cook from Golden Bear Restaurant who bumptiously groped me during a theater viewing of “Purple Rain.” That experience left a mark of distress. Most date nights were squandered writing bad poetry by candlelight while drinking Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers and listening to pathetic love songs. I was a wistful youth, full of angst and lassitude.

Surprisingly, I attended my five-year reunion, arriving on a Harley with an enormous biker whom, when asked the semi-question, “And this is your...” I responded, “This is my Dale.” He and I and two of my former classmates danced wildly for awhile before someone ran to find me in the bathroom announcing that my mother was outside because something was wrong with my dog. I hurriedly grabbed my purse and my Dale and sped to the animal hospital. My German Shepherd, Loni, died that evening, an event that I have given the power to portend my lack of presence at another school gathering for fear of more pets teetering in extremis. And yes, of course, there was more to it. After ten years and then after twenty years, I just wasn't sure of the point of reuniting with former classmates. And, following speaking with folks at the five year get-together, I felt somewhat the unconventional freak, running in the opposite direction of normality. Though I didn't feel insufficient, what was I to tell my classmates from long ago? That I hadn't created offspring, I had created art? That though I had no valuables, real estate, or retirement funds, I had never capitulated to the system? My achievements have been quirky and atypical, choices frequently of here and now action rather than prudent preparation. I don't have degrees, certificates, awards, and trophies, but I have marvelous stories; I have not had tremendous career progress, but I did make Lily Tomlin laugh; I have never run a marathon, but I have run full-speed to the bottom of the Grand Canyon (don't do it; it's a bitch climbing back up); I've never been married, but I have had exquisite love affairs; my extended family is splintered and sour, but my circle of friends is lifelong and has proven itself stronger and more resilient than flesh and blood. With all of this, though I don't long to impress others, I prefer not to substantiate my malapropos existence either. I wasn't sure summarizing my life in a few hours could leave an accurate impression. And, one problem with “success” is that its concept is completely subjective. Whatever its interpretation might be, it is not applicable to anyone other than the paraphrast. By construing and rehashing its definition to accommodate our life stance and moral code, we find in it what we deem of ultimate value while in the same breath, render our discovery completely meaningless to every other person. My impression of a rewarding, gratifying life is mine alone, established through my time alive and my interactions. What is meaningful to one could very well be worthless to another.

The entire concept of what is a successful life has become deformed and distorted. I happen to believe that the word “success” is much more profane than the word “fuck”. Since the 16th century, the concept of achieving good fortune and Godspeed was twisted to measure fame, power, and prosperity. To succeed one has to step lively and upward in social status; one has to bloat prestige and rack up triumphs. Though society praises humility, it certainly does not condemn gasconaders. It may be considered obnoxious to boast, but if someone is swinging the world from his balls, what's a peon to say? Either take the high road and stay low or get wise and savvy sycophancy. Whichever, it's a choose and lose scenario, and you're a nonstarter or an underdog in the game of ascendency. Now, let's say none of that matters, opulence is excreta, and your quest in life is enlightenment. Kudos to you and your soulful self! Stay strong and on your path, because if you don't, if your confidence and mission lose momentum, you may find yourself all too frequently bopping the Beck ditty, “I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?” It can happen. We look around us, catch a glimpse of scorn rather than smiles, and question our best intentions. Is it the journey rather than the destination? Are we loving the traffic, appreciative of the car's summertime sputtering, thankful for the lengthy queue amid the swelter, or do we just want the freakin' Peanut Buster Parfait?!

To those who are shaking their heads to and fro, thinking that this assessment of 21st century mores is callous, c'mon folks. What are the chances that when daughters introduce their fiancés, who lack college degrees, strong investments, job security and advancement, but possess close families, good health, and inner peace, have parents who are jumping for joy? I don't care what new age gurus, life coaches, and those asserting edification say about true success, society is still inclined to be more impressed by what ya got than what you give. Sad, but true. This does not mean I believe an avaricious stronghold is wangling the populace to become grabby mercenaries; however, there is a certain level of societal conditioning to which people react with Pavlovian psychic secretions upon seeing a Rolls Royce or Tiffany diamonds or a fatty bankroll. Those individuals who are not dazzled by well-to-do luxuries hold tight to the bastion of sensibility, criticizing the boorish booming of loaded philistines. It's the simple things in life, they proclaim, that determine success. “In any event, you have a close family,” they say. Uh, nope. “Well, at least you have your health.” Au contraire, dear well-meaning folks of mankind. With virtually every definition, idea, or concept of success, I appear to have wretchedly failed. So then, am I an abject, good-for-naught ne'er-do-well? Maybe, certainly by some standards. But, I have sculpted my own mode of prosperous well-being. My benchmarking system is configured by my waking mood: upon rising, do I want to blow my brains out OR do I pose and strut with a resounding “Doot-dootle-loo!” to hail the daylight? The former means failure, a complete balls-up flop; the latter typifies, “Rock on, Deb,” with an illustrious showing to make a go, make good, even while making do. It's not a jimdandy humdinger existence, but it serves me well, this life of nonpareil absurdity. After my formal salute, I give the day a kiss, maybe slip a little tongue if I'm feeling tarty, never petrified or panicky about upcoming escapades and ramifications from past events. There is a comfort in my adulthood that I never anticipated. It is self-acceptance, not only of my personality and my appearance, but also of where I'm at in life and how I spend my time. It's an inconsistent self-acceptance, to be sure; just check in with me when I'm dreadfully ill, experiencing brutal PMS, or haven't been shagged in some time. Completely different take on things, I assure you. The comfort is more a sense of belonging no matter where I am--- includable to humanity, an understanding that I serve a purpose within my family, the knowledge that I can produce significant work, a secure sense of self-efficacy, and an appropriate level of self-respect, hopefully, without insufferable hubris. Additionally, my life need not have chaos to be exhilarating and thrilling. Just because something is ordinary does not mean it is tedious; daily commonness is the calm between calamities. Every day offers its own rousing rocket ride in reality; awareness of that alone is an achievement.

Another of my high school reunions will occur this decade. Today, probably tomorrow, too, I'm undecided about attending. Whenever I envision conversations, there is trepidation, wondering how I will answer the question, “So, what have you been up to all these years?” Now and then, I dread that chatting with adults I thought back then were way cool kids would include them attesting the gospel of Bill O'Reilly, Glenn Beck, George Bush, et al., in which case I would politely turn my head from the buffet table during my emesis. Sometimes I envision notes compared about cruise lines and Disney World and when asked for my opinion, I would almost finish chomping a handful of Cheez Doodles and offer, “Naw, I don't like boats or people dressed as animals with enormous heads... I just don't. I get edgy.” As blank stares surrounded me, I would remember too late the indispensable quality of complaisance. This would immediately hurl me into the helix of high school humiliation. See how quickly that happens? Decades later and I still freakin' end up in the crapper. I swear, if another pet snuffs it, that's it, dammit, I shall never again revisit the bane of my beingness. All the “doot-dootle-loos” in the world wouldn't be able to salvage my arse running aground with that one. I knew it: mere memories. I'm going to my safe, happy place now.

Energy. (Archive)

This was originally published in March of 2009. Soon to come are two new essays: "Teenaged" and "Worry".


I made my cat sick. It wasn’t intentional, of course. Delaney (the Cougar), a stunning orange-striped 8-lb. beauty, laid calm on my chest for hours on end, days in a row. I was remarkably ill, unable to function in any other capacity than keeping myself alive. She stayed still as did I. I studied her hue because there wasn’t much else to do. Orange, though a wonderful word and exciting color, didn’t do justice. Parts of her fur are the color of marmalade, fading into what matches the bark of sequoias. Maybe some sorrel, threads of caramel, and a rich brown, not like chocolate, but more like truck-stop coffee. The white on her chin and around her eyes has a depth to it, more matte than gloss, kind of like chalk. Near-sighted and without glasses or contacts, I studied strands of fur while she was trying to heal me.

Here’s the deal: for a very long time, my method of overcoming sickness was a trough of hooch and an internal bawl out--- my bloodthirsty, jackhammer-voiced drill instructor thrashing my yellow-bellied, sniffling pansy. Pill-popping was rare; doctor appointments never happened; health ailments equaled weakness and weakness equaled vulnerability. I was determined to never be assailable, thus I could not admit that I didn’t feel well. If I wouldn’t admit that I was sick, then the concept of treatment, whether conventional or alternative, was wasted time. What changed all of that was serious illness, debilitating illness, life-threatening illness. Facing the prospect of premature death, I found the appeal in all possibilities of wellness. My attitude changed from thinking they were looped-up wah-hoo to thinking, “Hey, let’s give this a whirl.” Suddenly, therapies I may have previously sneered at took on the aura of miraculous. My closest friend, Lara, has always been open to the mystical possibilities of healing. She is a massage therapist, a maker of essential oil ointments, and a witch. She is a good witch, but unlike Glenda from “The Wizard of Oz” she isn’t creepy sweet and swathed in light and white. Her pagan rituals and appreciation of ancient healing arts have in the past made me smile; I found them cute. But then, I hadn’t needed additional methods to provide relief from pain, stress, and a physical downward spiral. Desperation is an excellent eye-opener.

Through my studies of Taoism, I have an understanding of Chi, the flowing energy circulating through the universe, inherent in all things. Motion and heat and coolness undetected by vision, balanced or imbalanced, powerful yet calm. A side note: for those golf enthusiasts who haven’t read about Taoism, Chi is entirely different than Chi Chi Rodriguez. Wanted to clarify that. Onward. Lao Tzu wrote frequently about water; indeed, it is an excellent example of Chi. A prime example of its energy is the Grand Canyon, formed by the Colorado River over a period of six million years, continual flow of channels working their way through solid rock formations eventually creating a gorge a mile deep. Now, that there is some powerful energy. Water, something we can effortlessly step into and through when it is in its liquid form, used its flowing touch against the atoms of the rocks, reshaping minerals to create one of the most magnificent natural wonders of the world. Well done.

When I am ill, my energy doesn’t flow with the power and grace of water. Mine seems to have more of a slime essence. There is no efflux through my body, but rather a sticky mucous leaching around nonsensically. I trust Lara implicitly, and when she suggests energy work, I am more than ready. She can explain polarity and Therapeutic Touch to me time and time again. I will listen dutifully, but my head is thinking, ‘Make me better. Make me well.’ That’s a tremendous amount of pressure to put upon someone, thus my thinking as opposed to talking. Whether she is rebalancing my essential energies or meditating upon my energy field to remove blockages, I stay still and await her magic. Lara has magic. People sometimes mention others who have an aura about them, those who radiate a distinct power, those who emanate some intangible striking quality; she is one of those people. I consider her a healer. As a registered massage therapist and student of naturopathy, she has studied many methods of sanative remedy. She’s not a flaky nutter, though, summoning snake gods, spinning round like a Stevie Nicks record, and chanting humpback whale ditties. Once she took a class on reiki, thought it was screwy bullshit, and stopped. Not everything works for everyone; we all know this to be true. And, some things are just plain frightening, such as Rolfing which scares the crap out of me. I’ve seen those pictures in alternative health magazines, that little boy in his saggy BVD’s, first all twisted and weird and contorted and then straight as a board. I always think something really not right happened. Plus, it’s a stupid name that I can’t take seriously. One website actually has a link that reads, “Become a Rolfer.” Um… no. Icky.

Days after Delaney tried to heal me, Lara visited. I mentioned that my dear feline friend was lethargic, eating very little, and just didn’t appear to feel well. Lara held her for an hour, performing energy work on this small wonder. Shortly thereafter, she was up and about, spunky and back to playing with her favorite toy, a squishy stress plaything shaped like a politician. It seemed a marvel, the quick transformation, the power of touch from the right hands. Through therapy from Lara, Western medicine, rest, nutrition, friendship, prayers, well wishes, and most significantly, time, I overpowered my illness, too. My body stopped attacking itself and reverted to its natural state of repairing itself. I have continued on the road to wellness: exercising, resting, eating, resting, regular follow-ups with my doctors, resting. I still have the continuous battle with MS, but no longer have to wearily fend off viral and bacterial invaders.

Delaney and I had a talk recently; I informed her she can no longer attempt to extract disease from my being, that it was under control and she could go back to continually grooming herself. She took the role of nursemaid seriously, though, and still watches over me. When I rest, she purposefully touches my pulse points. Her paws, the size of quarters, seek out my arteries, delicately monitoring my blood flow, making sure I have one. The radial arteries and aortic arch are of comfort to her. Mostly though, she reaches her forepaw to my carotid arteries, nails retracted, never leaving a mark, her digital pads performing a feline effleurage. That’s the thing about energy, it’s always there, flowing from one being to another, unbroken continuity, smooth and graceful, the intense force of vitality.

Asylum.

It's not that I don't believe in ghosts, it's that I don't care. I would rather see figments, hear slammed doors, and have that spectral uneasiness surrounding me than be in a room of uber-wealthy, smarmy, ultra-conservative, self-righteous evangelists. It's a preference. Real world versus phantasm--- bring on the boogely-boogely-boo spookiness.

When John and I were in Massachusetts, we attempted to visit the Medfield State Hospital. John is an avid admirer of the writer, Dennis Lehane, and his book, Shutter Island. Martin Scorsese recently completed the filming of the book-to-movie and much of it was done at that hospital. Unfortunately, due to vandalism and lack of upkeep, Medfield is now off limits to the public and under security 24 hours a day. I befriended the security guard and he provided me with names and numbers to possibly access the buildings; moving on the road prohibited us from follow-up. I could tell that John was disappointed, as his writing often has preternatural elements and a visit would have galvanized his creativity, inspiring figments and chimera for future narratives. Nonetheless, we journeyed north and succumbed to the transcendental glory of autumn in New Hampshire and Vermont. For me, it was a moment of clarity, all of my distress and disease becoming disembodied. With the continued slump of my body from the MS, I desperately needed to divest myself from the swirling head madness and be reminded of my puniness in the world. Driving through the Green Mountains and the White Mountains, all looking like a canvas with brush smudges and dabs, seemingly with colors not yet named, offered to my smallness both vividness and verisimilitude. After a meandering day of picture-taking as well as extraordinary Seriously Sharp Cheddar Cheese (Vermont dominates the U.S. dairy domain in quality; they even have a cheese trail... glorious madness), we headed to Baltimore to stay with close friends, Larry and Lily. After driving nearly 1500 miles, John and I both needed a break from our zoom through the Great Lakes region and the whirling loop throughout New England. Staying with our friends provided comfort, relaxation, and much needed lollygagging. Two nights at their welcoming home enjoying their gracious company allowed us to unwind and prepare for an anticipated mellowed westward journey home.

Brown steel signs along highways normally indicate protected prettiness, forests and mountains and rivers, oh my, or tourist attractions that held no appeal to either of us. Until... as we approached Weston, West Virginia, John caught sight of a brown sign that made his eyeballs protrude and his smile widen. “Historic Asylum Tours,” it stated. And, away we went, veering to the exit ramp with speed and thrill. The asylum in question was the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, built during the Civil War and utilized until 1994. A mammoth building of hand-cut stone, it stood with wanton enticement, almost a lewd lure which neither of us could resist. We weren't sure if it would harbor our fated muse or Mephistophelean ruin. The last tour of the day had ended; I inquired when the first one was the following day. Noon. I looked at John, knowing the answer to my forthcoming question, yet asking nonetheless. “Are we staying overnight here in Weston, John?” Think of a child at Disney World, think of a gastronome at El Bulli, think of a horticulturist walking the Tivoli Gardens, think of people with no taste in music visiting Branson, Missouri... yes, pure, unbridled euphoria. We took with us some informational pamphlets to study up for our next day's visit.

Apparently, ghost hunters, psychics, and other paranormal folks have visited this particular asylum numerous times. Seems there are some Caspers here. When we took the tour, our guide mentioned a number of incidents that had given him the shivers. After touring all four floors, I had no doubt some of the patients still had grievances upon their deaths. The hospital was rampant with history of mistreatment and procedures which would give anyone the willies. So then, why was I fairly comfortable, poised, and impassive while there? Because, um, ghosts have never killed living beings. The notion of ghosts may cause breathing humans to piddle their khakis, but that's kind of the peopled emotional scaredy-cat thing. Now, if the ghost hunters took their EMF devices, temperature sensing equipment, cameras, digital recorders, and night-vision goggles to West Garfield Park in Chicago during the “psychic hours” of 9pm to 6am, I would be duly impressed. If they survived, I would readily acknowledge that those were some damn big nads on those crackers.

While some others were skittishly turning corners, I was absorbing the surrounding conditions and becoming appalled by the evidence of maltreatment. The atrocious acts which occurred within the walls of the asylum over the course of 130 years were prevalent, as well as indicative of the general opinions of the mentally ill during that time. I feared not the possibility of poltergeists as I peeked into seclusion rooms, but I was becoming qualmish envisioning the pitiful lives of those confined within this imposing structure. Though the practices of the psychiatric field have improved, the stigma associated with mental disorders is somewhat similar. Before and during the 19th century, it was common for the populace to think that those struggling with mental illness were not only deranged, but also they believed that the insanity was caused by being possessed by Satan. And, as we know now, Lucifer does not fight with God for the souls of humans through psychopathy, but rather through reality television; obviously, since the television wasn't commercially available until the 1930's, that belief had credence for a very long time. Too often individuals experiencing disorders are assumed to be delinquent, deficient, inferior, and weak, rather than having physiological dysfunction. The smirch of reproach associated with mental health is cruel and ignorant. If one seeks treatment for a mental disorder, which seems to me to be a highly rational decision, they are instantly derogatorily labeled. Furthermore, the societal misbeliefs are so insidious that the individuals themselves develop an attitude such as, “I must be a ghastly human being.”

The brain is immensely more complicated than other aspects of the human body; thus, of course it would have difficulties and problems that needed to be addressed. I had read numerous books of the magnitude of the mind, how genetics, trauma, stress, and physical conditions can cause mental illness, how the neurotransmitters are altered, the chemical imbalance in those with addictions, and the combined function of medication and cognitive therapy to improve conditions. Estimates indicate that the human brain is capable of having 60,000 thoughts per day. That's fantastic. Gosh, are we smarty-pants. And yet, frequent reactions to brain illnesses contain the beloved phrase, “Snap out of it!” whereas, if someone complains about severe pain in the lower right quadrant of his/her abdomen, the reaction from others is, “It's probably your appendix. You better get to a hospital! You have appendicitis and you could die!” Now, because the appendix has proven itself to be useless, sometimes troublesome, and capable of whacking the person who keeps its little parasitic self alive, I'm going to imagine what it thinks:

“{nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing} Me swelled big worm big giant {nothing nothing nothing nothing} YEOW!!! {nothing nothing nothing} Gonna crack and bang!! {nothing nothing nothing nothing}.”

I think that's a fairly accurate hypothesis. It was just one of my thousands of thoughts in an hour. My point is that too often the most magnificent, intricate, abstruse part of humankind is treated as if it can miraculously fix its own malfunctions, yet the ailments of other organs demand medicinal response. Society thinks men fools who do not seek treatment for cancer or diabetes, but with depression or anxiety or addiction, the reigning philosophy is that the person in question is being kind of a sissy and needs to buck up. Asinine, yet typical.

And, unfortunately, within some of these buildings there are few demarcated levels of madness; mostly, all the inmates wander about together. Just as there are stages of cancer, there are levels of insanity. The historical perspective indicates that these were not always distinguished by educated, trained doctors and nurses; some healthcare professionals treated everyone as if they had gaping holes in their brains, oozing pus and sanity. Even in modern times, the manner in which health professionals sometimes speak to patients is disgraceful. I can’t envision a nurse telling a cancer patient, “If you don’t go to group therapy, you won’t be able to visit with your family,” but to those in cracker factories, it is all too common. Many caregivers surmise that if a patient questions his or her treatment, the individual must be acting unruly, thus, needs further restrictions and lockdown. Now, it may seem that I am discouraging people from seeking treatment. That is not the case. What I do think is essential is that every person seeking or needing psychiatric help must have an advocate. Alone, the system has the capability to eat you alive; with one well-informed, composed person on your side, you can get the care and respect you deserve.

With our bubbly enthusiasm evident, the question has been broached as to what kind of twisted individuals consider an antiquated, dilapidated asylum to be one of the highlights of their journey? Just your average gonzo writers. Any surprise in a road trip is grand; a stunner which keeps travelers thinking, analyzing, and writing for days afterward is the quintessence of the road trip itself. With elements of architecture, history, crime, psychiatry, phantasm, deviancy, and sociocultural evolution, the institution was both treasure chest and Pandora's box for the inquisitive, imaginative ilk, whether masterminds or wonks. Lunatic asylums are probably not the penchant of most wayfarers, but for Johnny and me, the ideation has yet to wane. A single stop in a journey will contribute to the fervid prolificacy of two swollen heads in the year 2010. I guess I owe some ghosts a thank you.

Winter. (Archive)

This was originally published in December 2008. "Asylum" will be posted this week.

Ah, winter! It’s de-lovely, isn’t it? Amidst a mild snowstorm by Midwest standards, a gazillion hexagonal ice crystals floating, flying and twisting, I view through my window the dissipation of color until all surroundings are absent of hue. I turn down my music and open the casement window. Virtually soundless. It is eerie, not in a sinister manner, but rather unearthly, as if the scope of what is happening is not the weather but visual acuity failing.

I am a winter enthusiast. Not a winter sports enthusiast, mind you. I have no inclination to be unnecessarily active during cold months. Skittering down the driveway for the newspaper and occasionally picking up frozen dog turds is the extent of my strenuous recreation. Gelid conditions aside, I am a committed Chicagoan. There is a perverse satisfaction that comes with surviving the Midwest winter every year, idiotic pride in our ability to maintain everyday life no matter the weather conditions. While other regions of the country shut down with a spray of snow or a speckling of ice on the roads, we act as if nothing is amiss, even during a blizzard. We drive, we walk, we work; occasionally, a reporter will interview a resident about the inclemency; they will be outdoors, of course. Amidst the violently blowing snow, the Chicagoan with snot icicles hanging from his mustache will say, “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”
The cub reporter will ask, “Did you take any extra precautions?”
“Well, I put some kitty litter on the stairs ‘cuz last year Grandma slipped and broke her hip. And, I been starting up the cars ever so often to keep the motors warm.”
“What are your plans tomorrow?”
“Well, I have to work at 6 in the morning. After that, I’ll head to the bar, watch the game. Go Bears!”

Kids of the Midwest are similar in demeanor. I have watched children from out of town snivel and whine, “It’s soooo cold!” upon their arrival in our city. I fear they will amount to little in life. During the snowstorm of ’78-79, my family lived in a townhouse; they were nice then but are now considered the ghetto of Schaumburg. We had a very small, square, fenced-in backyard. My brother and I built an amazing snow fort, a labyrinth with tunnels and trenches, little areas dug out and covered and filled with an arsenal of snowballs. We stayed outside for hours without reprieve, frostbite started to chew at our skin, yet determined to create a stronghold in the suburbs, a fortress worthy of Marvel comic superheroes (we had decided long ago that DC Comics superheroes were sissies). When the sun set and the bitterness edged into our bones, we finally succumbed and retreated indoors. A bit of nourishment and some rest would serve us well before our envisioned battle the next day.

Around these parts, weather doesn’t matter. We are accustomed to the requirements of the season. We have unspoken rules. We migrate; we hibernate; we cover; we bundle. The lessening of exposure to ultraviolet illumination fades skin pigment, leaving some of our friends with a tone more pastel than we are accustomed. Perhaps we chubby up a bit from holiday treats and increased frequency of casual gatherings with the prerequisite of a pass-around dish. Some men grow facial hair, whereas some women are less inclined to shave their legs regularly, resulting in both sexes being stubbled. We sneeze and sniffle as our immune systems are overworked from the cold temperatures and celebratory soirees. That is the upper northern hemisphere from November until March: pasty, plump, shaggy, and symptomatic. It is our rogue’s gallery and we embrace it annually.

Tilting my head, I can see the fullness of the moon through the window. There is a comfort in cold, in dark, in silence. In this hush, I reflect upon the twelve months, what transpired, how I coped and empowered and weakened and settled and managed. As each Gregorian calendar year concludes, I am always astounded that I am still alive. It is not that I live dangerously; it’s not that I invite menace. Concert-going with the Hell’s Angels? Nope. Base jumping and cave diving? No, sirree. Scrumptious dinners of fugu and Death Cap fungi? C’mon now. That’s just silliness. Sometimes, trouble finds me (it’s true; ask around). Other times, illness attempts to strong-arm my emotional enthusiasm. Occasionally, I imperil myself with, shall we say, questionable choices; however, my days of internal thuggery are now limited. Still, in the still, the New Year brings amazement. “Good job, Deb,” I say. “You freakin’ survived another one. Well done.” It is an acknowledgment of perseverance without acquiescence and anticipation without expectation. As Albert Camus stated: “In the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer.” When I first read it, the quote stopped my breathing momentarily, as I analyzed simple words used with precision to create a flawless thought. Thus, with the close of each December, I settle in and gear up, preparing for another chance to be harmonious with others and yet indomitable in spirit.

My pensiveness is interrupted violently by snow plows. The scraping upon the pavement, coarse salt dumped randomly, scorching headlights slicing the darkness. Back to work and back to life. One cannot be wistful in a pothole.

Road.

Over the course of twenty years, I have traveled to every state in the continental U.S. Up until this last trip, I had avoided Delaware. This omission had not initially been purposeful; however, as time passed and states were journeyed through, the ostracism became somewhat amusing, cultivating into ridicule toward a state that did nothing to deserve it. Except for being itself, that which is Delaware. My first road trip companion and I had a large map push-pinned to a wall upon which we would carefully and proudly track our journeys with a black Sharpie marker. First to New Orleans, then southwest, then northwest--- driving with rarely a destination, only a direction. It was thrilling to be on the road in a beat-up car with little money and few possessions. In the age before cell phones (ghastly, I know), we had to rely upon passersby if anything bad happened. Somehow, it always worked out without us appearing on a milk carton. I would prefer to claim that we weren't stupid girls, but that was not always the case. If one was moronic, the other offered no astute insight, instead going along without reservation to the land of Imbecilica, chortling accomplices to any end.

A fairly accurate description of me is: “homebody with wanderlust.” My home--- once settled, once content--- is my sanctuary, a sacred shelter which protects me and allows me to decompress. Its comfort is restorative, its stability is life-sustaining, and its Wolf Cave is inspiriting to fecundity. Still, at times, I start pacing, I get snarky, I have an edge to my behavior, my movements, my speech. At that time, I know I need to get the hell out of my surroundings as well as my head; I need to go somewhere different, see and hear something different, talk to someone different, experience something different. Diversity and variety assist with sanity. Maintaining my creative madness without making me batshit requires a farrago, sparks of real life to rouse the right side of my brain.

To allow yourself to be in a state of complete unexpectedness takes balls. The excitement of that which is unfamiliar, senses renewed and enhanced by sights and sounds never experienced, it feels almost like an hazardous indulgence. Road trips are not for everyone, to be sure. Those who are high-maintenance should best stay home or consult a travel agent for their extravagant hooey. On road trips, vanity is, at best, a slapdash longing; luxury is laughable; itineraries are for namby-pambies. The correct answer to, “What do you feel like eating?” is: “Food.” And to the question, “Where do you want to stay?” the only answer is: “The car is fine. Or, if we're feeling outlandish, a place with a bed and a shower.” Without any idea of what may occur, one tends to rely upon the adrenaline rush itself. But, that, too, will become spent, and then dependence is upon the traveling companion to remain steady, as he or she is the only consistency available. That is why one has to be highly selective when choosing a compatriot. Will the person have temper tantrums? Then, no. Will the person be boring? Then, no. Though I have many friends with whom an evening is an absolute delight, they would never make the short list of road trip collaborator. Because John and I have spent many hours together, long stretches of time without the need for entertaining one another or being solicitous, we felt confident that we could not only stand one another for nine days, but also enhance the experience.

In Cleveland, John and I had the first of personal space challenges. The bathroom was tiny and its exhaust fan was less than effective. To emerge from the shower, apply deodorant and lotion, dress, and swaddle long, wet hair, was annoying and sticky. With a turban comprised of an itty-bitty towel, I opened the bathroom door and announced, “John, here's the deal. You will probably see me in my bra at some point during this journey. I will not subject you to full nudity, but I need to not ruin my showering event by embodying all that is humid. Therefore, I may appear from the bathroom displaying unmentionables. I refuse to bathe and then be moistly.” He nodded with empathetic understanding.

We both reveled in the opportunities for stories, dialects, and absurdity. Whether it was the aristocratic family from Beloit, cod curds, the psychopathic havoc of Lyle Dingman, Sicilian mobsters killing pet cats, exploding biscuits, or ass pain, we hyperbolized every incident and encounter until we could barely contain our hilarity. As we delighted in our waggery, we mutually honked clarion calls, inciting each other to take it one step further, and then clapping and roaring when it achieved preposterous. Ah, such gloating scribes! Though our inventive ad-lib narratives kept us occupied and smiling, we both needed a day without seeing everything at 80 or more miles per hour. The first stop at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum was a fun diversion, but we both needed our legs to stride and our eyes to veer. We decided to stay just outside of Boston and spend the following day wandering the Common and the Public Garden. Finding a motel proved to be challenging with every affordable place booked solid for no apparent reason. And, to make matters more stupid, all the motels we called apparently had the same receptionist. All conversations were close versions of this: “Are you on Mass Pike? If you're on Mass Pike, I can get you here. Where are you on Mass Pike? What direction are you headed on Mass Pike? From Mass Pike, I can get you anywhere. Take Mass Pike and head east. Exit at the second exit. You see that exit on Mass Pike? We're behind the Friendly's Restaurant. You can see Friendly's from Mass Pike.” This was spoken brusquely and with a distinctive, pronounced East coast accent, and the individual seemed exasperated that I wasn't of the “Mass Pike” elite, knowing precisely to what she was referring as if I wasn't an out-of-towner. “Mass Pike” continued to appear in banter for the remainder of the trek, easily upstaging other quips and capers.

The road has magical allure. On the road, there are no obligations and there is no accountability. It is a quick taste of absolute nomadic ambrosia. One of the thoughts that John and I both had independently was, 'No one other than my traveling companion knows where I am right now. No one knows what I'm doing; no one knows how to find me. I am experiencing freedom.' And, with freedom, one has time to come to terms with the many events that are transforming and life-altering. In addition to igniting imagination, the road allows time and focus to process. Mostly, we are denied that opportunity by daily life. The “big things” aren't broken down, sorted through, and resolved; they lay untouched and neglected in our minds until they start to decay. As they rot, other unresolved issues begin to fester until our internal cacophony causes us to act out with anger, confusion, and irritability toward others. Too often, the death of someone close or a severe illness or the dissolution of a relationship has its brief moment and is then tossed aside because, well, hey, life goes on. Grief and remorse and suffering are never given proper examination and reflection to reach resolution and then metamorphose into a past experience rather than a continual inner ache. This cyphering becomes angst, and we are unable to pick apart our own cryptogram and end our own torment. And that is why people are screwed up in their heads and mean.

On road trips, we need not be hurried to compartmentalize, stash away, and recover from before our next shift at work or our weekend with the kids or what have you. In my situation, before leaving I had a follow-up appointment with the physician who did my abdominal surgery. She informed me that because of the MS, my guts were becoming defunct. Those normal nerve signals that go from the organs to the spine to the brain and back again that say, “Um, pardon me, Person. You should really go to the bathroom soon,” in my body, somehow had a break in connection so that, basically, both my intestinal system and my urinary system had become paralyzed, no longer able to let me know I needed to relieve myself or to void on their own. Splendid. This news made me want and need to leave town, not to escape, but rather to process. I knew that the latest progression of the disease was not something that I could or should hastily accept and then within a couple of days be ready to face the world with a quick and ready “bah dum dum ching!” This progression was not just pain or lack of coordination, symptoms I had become accustomed to; this advancement was an insidious aspect of the disease, one that I had assumed would happen when I became bedridden and suffered from nearly complete paralysis. I had purposely skipped over the chapters in the MS books dealing with this, not only because I figured it was a long way off, but also because of its unpleasantness. The discomfiture and mortification were harsh, even for me, someone who does not embarrass easily. It's difficult to be a naughty, bawdy hellcat when you have voiding issues. Even though I had yet to suffer an incontinent mishap, my self-confidence was squashed, thinking that now, with these new developments, I lacked any sultry oomph. Carnal debauchery seemed dubious at best, hopeless at worst. Not that there was a throng of suitors and wooers in zany pursuit of me, but still... it could happen.

Thus, with my octogenarian bowel regime of Citrucel, Colase, mineral oil, and Miralax, and specific guidelines to John that we needed to stop every hour or two so as not to have pee flow up to my kidneys or down to my pants, we departed. In addition to both John and I needing adventure, escapades, and an unconventional and bizarre medley of people, places and things, I needed the road's magic--- its guidance to grapple with issues, its protection when jostling with fate, and its restorative powers--- besting reality by transcending its restrictions of clocks, obligations, appointments, chores, and pressures. It was time to clear the crazy and accept fortuitous events, whether blest or curst, whether happy or wretched. 'Tis life, best lived on an impromptu journey via motorcar.

Next: Asylum.

Trip.

We left with only the intention of going. That lack of expectation filled us with hope. Though I have been on many road trips, I was aware that this could be my last. That is not a macabre thought, but rather an objective assessment of my body's ability to handle duress. Though thoroughly exhilarating, road trips require endurance, patience, less healthy food, fewer hours of sleep, a youthful back, and a steel ass. My mental preparation was not necessary; my mind saw and heard only magic with the mere mention of nine days without an itinerary. As I packed, though, the precursory items to an even short time away from home made my mental sails suddenly windless. What once was some clothes, a toothbrush, and a carton of cigarettes, now was the metered clicking of a multitude of pills, dropped with precision into boxes with miniature partition walls for morning, lunchtime, late afternoon, and evening. Pink tablets, white and maroon capsules, all-white caplets, beige, peach, pale yellow--- dropped into their specified slots without contemplation yet with heavy sighs. There were other medicinal items necessary to my physical functionality--- enough so that I stopped packing, thought about having a cigarette, and instead laid down flat on my back, arms beside me, eyes vacantly staring into the whirling ceiling fan. 'I am not old,' I thought, 'I am worse than old. I am sick,' and that made a mockery of my childlike wonder and excited heart. Before finishing packing, I had to sleep hopeful for dreams of road trips long past.

It was John's first road trip and I feared being the sole source of letdown in our 3500 mile trek. It was a conundrum: should I wear my game face the entire way never indicating pain and illness, never allowing him to see that I may not be up to the task, or should I allow myself to be seen with some weakness, some frailty, a need for rest and recuperation? John is one of my closest friends and has been a pillar of support and compassion for a couple of years now. Still, I didn't want to be the singular cause of any disappointment, the reason he may tell his other friends, “It was okay, not as great as I expected but okay.” That would crush me, or more precisely, my ego, as well as my reputation as the finest traveling companion ever. But then, who was I trying to impress: John or myself? What was I trying to prove exactly and to whom? I grinningly ate up others shaking their heads upon hearing that I had the balls out nerve and stupidity to go on a road trip only two weeks after major surgery. It made me feel like Old Deb, the girl who flipped off authority and good sense with a quick finger and a sexy smile. With the accent and audacity of the Black Knight from Monty Python, I said aloud, “It's just a flesh wound,” and resumed packing.

Part of the giddy fun of starting a lengthy car trip is the inevitable notion of being unprepared. One does her best to ensure basics are taken care of, such as providing a caretaker for the animals. I adore my pets and it would be highly irresponsible and tragic to let them starve while I was gone. And then there are things such as rear struts. Since I am automotively challenged, I am unsure what struts actually do. I understand starters, brakes, steering... but, struts? Clueless. How important can they be? And, if they aren't functioning properly, what does that mean? A starter doesn't work, no starting. Brakes don't work, no braking. Struts don't work... then, we cannot strut? I'm okay with that since I much prefer to shimmy. Thus, we began our long journey slightly disappointed that we wouldn't be allowed to strut, yet confident that from the many silly walk variations, we would still be mobile.

John and I were, in fact, virtually all systems go for our excursion, much more so than I have ever been. Technology helps. We were both armed with laptops, cell phones, chargers, digital cameras, and debit cards. Fabulous. Additionally, John had a hand-held device that stored a little more than a kajillion songs. I am old school, packing numerous compact discs into a clear storage bin allowing easy access for the moments when I just had to hear one specific song. Combined, we brought enough music for a yearlong, worldwide voyage, but, you see, this was necessary because, as stated, sometimes you need THAT song. Like Boy Scouts, we were prepared, even if only primed for flashes of euphonious euphoria. We also had clothes and personal hygiene products--- always thinking of others are we--- and some caffeinated beverages and happy snacky treats. Luckily for us, it is always snack time on a road trip. Within the first few miles of the engine running, I exclaimed, “I ate that Ho Ho in two bites!” This was said haughtily and loudly while John goggled at me and then stared at his Zebra Cake, which was nearly untouched, flickers of crumbs stuck to his stubble from a polite bite, no more than a nibble. I believe I may have even raised my hands in fists from the steering wheel to exhibit my prideful satisfaction. So then, beyond those items, we needed little else. Oh, but wait... we are both writers. Thus, at the ready were journals, notebooks, scratch pads, writing instruments, and boundless flickering ideas soon to lose their turbidity. And, what, one may wonder, was the first recorded dynamical boom of genius? Why, of course, “I ate that Ho Ho in two bites!”

… Sometimes brilliance need not initially be swift to ultimately have impact. This was the immediate focus of our supplication while speeding eastward on I-90.

Next up: "Road."

Home.

It has been some time since I have written. Oddly enough, I have been consumed with everything involving my home. Not long ago, an opportunity arose for me to live in a very nice house despite my limited income. Initially, I was skeptical--- there had to be a downside, there had to be something wrong, something weird, some sleaziness. Yes, the rent was affordable… too good of a deal… what was the catch? Did I have to join a cult? Were there hidden cameras recording me at all times? Did I have to be someone’s sex slave? Accepting the concept that people in the world had goodness in them, wanted to help complete strangers, had kindness and interest in using their own good fortune to toss a few rocks of stability into someone else’s foundation… it was exhilarating as well as unnerving.

Living in a lovely house gives one a distinct joy akin to being gussied up for a special occasion or driving a fancy automobile. There is excitement in the experience itself. There may be a sense of ignis fatuus with the flighty whirling keeping one grinning though it is illusory to others and self. When telling friends of my new living arrangements, I have described myself as a Clampett, a clumsy twirl of dewy eyes, gingham and pigtails, hollerin’ for the critters to gather round and head over to the cee-ment pond. It is without doubt the nicest residence I have lived, and I still feel a bit the intruder, a houseguest who has brought all personal belongings. As I arrange furniture and color walls, hang art and cultivate plants, it is beginning to feel as if it might be okay for me to stay here, that maybe I do belong if only temporarily. Working room by room to infuse identity has been enjoyable, an outlet for creativity and expression done upon an exceedingly large canvas. I possess a few highly girly aspects: my toenails must always be painted a whimsical color; with flowers, I tend with a nurturing daintiness; I revel in coquetry and courtship; and, interior decorating is both a mission and delectation for me. I love making a house pretty. When I’m describing “my vision”, I have a confident panache, and I actually become somewhat swishy. Okay, maybe that’s not girly as much as dandyish.

I’m not sure how much “things” add to the feeling of home. I like things, but I have spent the last few years purging: lessening my possessions, restricting my buying, limiting items which required extreme care and caution. It was a penurious purification, one of both necessity and choice. I had read The Good Life by Helen and Scott Nearing, as well as Voluntary Simplicity by Duane Elgin, and I was implementing aspects into my life, frugality with the ultimate long-term goal of sustainable living. All of my owned items fit comfortably into about 500 square feet of living space. I was far from miserable; in fact, I felt a sense of release. I didn’t worry about anyone breaking into my home and stealing; I fretted more about the thieves’ disappointment. I drove a beater of a car and left the doors unlocked at all times, not just because the locks didn’t always allow entry, but also because it was 20 years old and if someone wanted it that badly, hey, have at it. Most of my clothes were purchased at resale shops located in fancy neighborhoods; used music and books were new to me; brand loyalty rarely played a factor for any merchandise; I patted myself atop the head with each act of transcending materialism and bringing Walden Pond to me and with me. And then… I got me this big ol’ fancy-pants house. What to do, what to do? Succinctly, I figuratively flipped off simple living, Thoreau, New World Order Utopia, et al, and I bought stuff. Since I could not go entirely full-throttle against my 40-year belief system, virtually nothing I purchased was new, nor was it expensive. Utilizing Craigslist and my alter-sprite, the Googling wunderkind, I was able to secure a number of nice items for few dollars. There was a need to fulfill the intentions of my house’s rooms. Without a dining table and chairs, it wasn’t a dining room and there could be no dining; it was a sad empty room with a chandelier hung centered and low, swaying woefully with each puff of air through the windows come. Perchance my nocturnal circumstance of airy-fairy affected my sighting of the ghost of Lord Byron, recumbent and listless, his curly locks and poofy shirt speckled with fuzzy carpet fibers, lamenting the lack of board and seat and thus, the privation of sumptuous banquet… And that was just one room.

Quandaries abounded. Living arrangements, for instance, have always been troubling. Christian Morgenstern, a German author, poet, and aphorist, stated that, “Home isn’t where our house is, but wherever we are understood.” If this is true, which I believe it to be, it is the reason why I’ve always preferred living alone. Often I have felt misunderstood, and rather than go through the process of explanation ad nauseam to others, I prefer to elucidate alone. Doing so rarely makes me irritable, and in fact, often allows creative furtherance or makes me sleepy-headed. My perfect living arrangement is with four-legged friends only; that is sufficient and enjoyable. Of course, human visitors are always welcome to come and go; eventually they leave and if they do not, I call the authorities to have them removed. The majority of the time, though, I’m quite fine alone. If I desire human companionship, I use the telephone, an amazing piece of electronic equipment that converts sounds into signals and back again. I am appreciative of this invention because it doesn’t require me to be showered, dressed or socially appropriate, and yet I can still feel connected to my loved ones. That device is sufficient for me. And, regarding casual conversation, my animals have distinct personalities and are rather vocal with their opinions. It is similar to normal interchanges. Frequently while getting dressed, I will ask my pets, “Does this go? I know it doesn’t match, but does it go?” I’m fine with their recommendations, which depending upon interpretation either makes me silly or daft. Now I must add that I do have a housemate, a very close friend of mine, and we are doing well at deciphering our synchronicity. Though she breathes and walks and talks, I am adjusting to having her in the house; and, though I am an antisocial ogre, she is adapting to my attempts at invisibility.

Joyousness in one’s home is often found in the nearly lost art of puttering. To muck about and tinker, touching this or rearranging that, is a fine mode of spending one’s idle time. Amblers are sometimes disrespected in our hurried society, which is unjust. To lollop through my home clipping dead leaves from plants, rearranging books and photo frames, sorting screws and nails, and meandering through minor home repairs and maintenance is not devoid of purpose. It is the placid ease of being soothingly afloat, the peace and pleasure of one’s stable surroundings, unhampered by the accelerated worry and onerous toil of being a denizen. That’s what home provides for us--- a place to safely putter. We love that. And, we need that. Another discovery: many have wondered why puttering retired men have one hand partially beneath their pants’ waistband. Due to medical anomalies beyond my control, now I know. They are holding in their hernias. Visit my home sometime: my carriage is that of a 70-year old Floridian, absent the socks and sandals.