We’re Still Here

Entertainment:

Last night Jeff Mangum was phenomenal. He is a true artist, his writing is incredible, his voice is raw and pure. It was so worth a drive to New Haven. And it reminded me just how influential and important Neutral Milk Hotel had been to me. And how they still can move me in major ways with one verse or line. A particular favorite being: “God is a place you will wait for the rest of your life” (from Two Headed Boy, Part 2).

Artmaking:

Moving right along, I am working on my next show, temporarily entitled “We’re Still Here.” I worked on a painting this weekend of the doctor’s outfit during the Black Plague. It is not done yet but it is coming along. Wikipedia says “In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, some doctors wore a beak-like mask which was filled with aromatic items. The masks were designed to protect them from putrid air, which (according to the miasmatic theory of disease) was seen as the cause of infection. Being a plague doctor was unpleasant, dangerous, and difficult. Their chances of survival in times of a plague epidemic were slim.” I am posting here the painting in progress:

as well as a few of the images that influenced me:

School:

On another note, tonight I start school again. My first masters level class since 1998 awaits me. And this one will challenge my foundation in different ways than getting a graduate degree in art did. At Orientation they implied that while in the program, we would all experience massive existential crisis and fall into exhausted heaps of wailing sleepless disasters. Well, I have to say that I feel like I have been doing that on a bi-monthly basis anyhow, so maybe it won’t be that jarring. Either way, I have two new notebooks, updated progressive eyeglass lenses and a pen I like so I am good to go.

Food:

Yellow lentil vegetable soup

Clementine

Dark Chocolate

Cat:
Jackson’s nose. It is just so, nosey.

Wouldn’t It Be Nice

After a short vacation I find myself back at my desk with a cold draft coming in through the window and a stack of work before me. I am not interested in doing this work, tallying useless data for someone in the department of education to pretend to look at. I feel more like writing stories, drawing pictures, getting lost in anything involving a pencil, globs of paint or a guitar string. I feel like inserting myself into a Henry Darger mural and cheering on the Vivian Girls as they fight off the Glandelinians. I feel like falling into the middle of the sea while listening to big band as the water envelops me like frosting on a cake. I feel like laying down in the hot sun while covered in dust next to a lion who has no intention of eating me for dinner. I feel like astrally projecting myself into 1910 and stealing some guys clothes. I do not feel like tallying data. I feel like eating mountains of chocolate with mint, rice krispies and espresso niblets in it. I feel like drinking ten soy lattes and not getting a stomach ache. I do not want to go to the dentist at 2:30 to get a crown that will cost me $800.00 that I do not have.I would rather just pull out the tooth. Plenty of good, kind people are missing teeth. What’s the big deal. I feel like sending out rays of light and love to all of the animals of the earth, like a nine year old girl might do as she brushes the hair on her My Little Pony. I feel like playing second base again, wearing cleats and short pants, using my glove with Carl Yastrzemski’s signature on it. I feel like smelling the seasons like I did when I lived in the suburbs, where the trees let you know what month it was. I do not feel like being at that party in high school where everyone was drinking, smoking weed and making out and I felt like an alien even though I was wearing Benetton and had cool hair. I do not feel like having that anxiety running rampant through my veins again of why does this all feel so wrong. I feel like going out dancing where they play music I actually like that isn’t bullshit crap music. Where can you go dancing around here where they play Die Antwoord and lykke li and Foster the People? Also I really feel like buying those pants I saw that I don’t have enough money for. I feel like those pants could change my life. I feel like starting school and it starts in three weeks and I am excited. I am excited to go to classes and learn new things I am interested in. Then I can continue to change and not have to collect useless data for people who wont even read it.

It is a new year. There are so many things to see, places to go, colors to ingest.

And my advice is that if you are riding the Shame Train, jump off. It is a big fat waste of a trip. Live well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Art Show at FAB

Reminders.

I have been reminded of so much this month.

I have been reminded about loss and despair, and I have been reminded of the elation one can feel from just one good song played over and again on loud.

I have consulted with three psychics about Figgy’s absence. I suppose I was desperate for help after having done everything I could think of, just as I was desperate to find an answer where there did not seem to be one. And in this search I have learned that no one can really give me the comfort I feel I need, because without tangible proof, in my hands or before my eyes, everything still remains a mystery. If psychics are telling me what they see or feel, I have to tuck away my skepticism and need for physical evidence and make a conscious choice to believe them. This belief in what they offer me is really just a choice. My choice, in my helplessness, was to embrace the pictures they drew for me because I did not know what else to do.

Through all of this, where I am today is in a place of simply accepting that Figgy is gone. I don’t know where he is. He is either with a new family, or he is living with  a pack of feline street toughs, or he is gone from his fluffy vessel and he is a free floating cat spirit again. All three of those things are okay with me. And this is the only place I can really reside right now. Just accepting that I do not know and may never know, truly, in my heart and gut and for myself. I wish I could have that feeling of “you just know”, but I don’t. I don’t know and I have no idea and I may never know.

Perhaps it is because I am blocked, spiritually, that I cannot access my knowing gut. My left nostril feels as if it has a brick in it, which is supposedly related to my right brain hemisphere being blocked. This all makes perfect sense to me. Yet I am glad to say that there is a slow but noticeable shift happening. This move to start school for social work (after the vet tech thing ended up being not right for me), feels more right than anything has felt in years. I feel so driven to start classes, get my degree and then work with animals and people together, and to dedicate myself to helping that movement grow, to join in the building of something I truly value and believe in. I am completely excited, everything feels right. And I was reminded that when things are right, they snap into place and they proceed in an easy way. When things are not right, they are hard, extra challenging, complicated and filled with disappointment.

If I were 22 years old, I would not be able to do this, go to school to become a social worker. I would not have the last twenty years under my belt from which to draw wisdom, inspiration, patience, experience and a kind of compassion one can get from having gone into the dark place more than a few times.

I spoke with one of the psychics about 2012, and what the move towards a higher consciousness actually means for people, what the Age of Light means, how the rapture is so silly, what books to read, etc. We spoke about being empathic people and she told me my ears have started hurting because I am sensitive and tuning in more, as vibrations start to rise, and my eyes are struggling for the same reasons. She told me to pay attention to when it is that my ears hurt. Why silverware or voices or tv hurts sometimes but not others. I have to learn more about how to deal with this being sensitive thing. I spent my life apologizing for it. But now it is time to learn how to use it, manage it, work with it instead of fighting it. When you are absurdly sensitive it can feel like the environment dictates how you feel, so you have to stay grounded, know how to be in your body, learn how to tune out to some things and tune in to others. It is all just about learning how. I hope I can learn how.

I have been reminded of so much. I want to reach for all of the books I have gathered over the years, the books about spirituality, metaphysics, Buddhism, communication, etc. I want to reach for them and put them under my pillow and by osmosis remember everything they taught me when I first read them. I want to find comfort about having lost my boy. I want to suddenly understand the universe, the afterlife, oneness, and subsequently feel better.

But I do feel better. I am getting there. I am for the first time in almost forever looking forward instead of looking back. This is a super big deal. Apparently, my Italian grandmother’s spirit is clapping for me, proud that I am learning how to love myself after years of just not being able to do that. She is sending down recipe inspirations to chefs worldwide, stirring her pot and clapping for me. This is a picture I will hold onto.

And this one:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Long Month, A Long Blog.

This has seriously been one of the hardest months I have had in years. I have thought about writing as things were happening but instead used facebook. The amount of immediate support I received from friends on facebook was so amazing. I really don’t know how my generation made it through high school without it. We didn’t even have voicemail or answering machines for awhile there. There was so much not knowing, so much waiting. Everything is so different now, so immediate. I cant imagine living back when there weren’t lightbulbs. But I guess it is true that you can’t miss things until you have them and they are then taken away from you.

But that is not what I plan to write about. Nowadays there are plenty of people writing about facebook, immediacy, what friendship means, all that stuff. I am instead going to write about what I experienced this month, October 2011, and investigate what my “take-away” might be. But first I have to walk to the bodega for some ginger ale. I’ll be back.

Okay. The goal is to share my experience in a way that feels honest and thorough without going on and on and on.

I. INTRODUCTION

A. Carpenters come to fix the basement. I let Figgy out into the garden during the day because:

1. He gets depressed and aggressive when he doesn’t have outside time.

2. He hasn’t tried to jump the fence all summer, since I rigged it and made it harder to get out. (So he gets outside time for good behavior)

3. It is what he seems to need, which seems more important that what I feel I need (control over my pet)

2. BODY

A. Friday afternoon, September 30th, carpenters are making a massive racket clearing shit out of the basement. Figgy makes a decision and jumps over the fence. We see he is gone and reluctantly leave for the weekend assuming he will find his way home as he has done in the past.

B. He does not come back. He is gone for days and days. I can’t sleep, I cry, I make flyers, I post everywhere I can on the internet, I make more flyers in three languages saying he has asthma and is microchipped and  add a reward. We go door to door, we go into people’s homes to get access to their yards. We go to the stores and restaurants and ask. We go into garbage filled alleyways. We talk to so many people, we hear “did you find the cat yet!?” when we walk by groups of neighbors we don’t know. We climb fences with flashlights. We call out “Figgy” hundreds of times. We take note of who saw him where. I walk the streets at midnight, looking at every crack and crevice, thinking of all the places he might be. I am completely immersed in the task of finding him, helping him get home. It is all I can think about. I miss him so much. All of the calls we receive are for his lookalikes, of which there are many. People are so kind, calling and trying to help us. People start to call from farther away, “I saw it on the internet, I think I have seen your cat!”. But no one sees him. He is a really great hider. Always has been. Loved it under the butterfly bushes and under the hasta plants, outside he was always peeking out from underneath something.

C. I am desperate. I contact an animal communicator. She seems reputable, a shaman and a psychologist. I’m down with that. We talk, she contacts him shortly thereafter, he will not talk with her at first, nor will he talk through her cats – he will only talk to her dog (who is also known to take long walks and go on adventures so perhaps he sensed a kindred spirit). We talk again. The day after she tells me where I might find him, noting certain kinds of yards he says he is in and telling me that he smells food, I narrow down where he might be. That night, on my first stop I immediately see him. I am in a yard with a flashlight and I see him over a cinder block wall, he is eating dog food in the yard next door with a chihuahua who is barking at me. I call to him “Figgy!”, he looks at me. I can’t get over the wall it is too high so I call in the window to the kids I see. “Is your Dad home? Your mom? My cat is in your yard! El gato!” (At this point I know how to say “gato perdido” and “blanco y negro”). A man comes out through his window. He is called Angel so I have high hopes. I have to run around the block to get to his house. Figgy runs next door, we chase him. He is so close, suddenly up on another fence but hiding behind a tree where I can’t reach. I open the 9 lives and call to him. Angel is calling to him “Figgy Figgy” but he runs away to the next yard and we lose him then. The whole time I am not sure if it is actually him because it is dark, I am not wearing my glasses, I did not have a moment of identification with him, like when you know you know. It was as if I was in shock at actually seeing him. But it was him, I am certain of it.

D. Angel’s wife says she has been seeing Figgy for a week. “Oh that flufy cat, yeah he showed up last week and was fat but not anymore, now he’s skinny”. I want to yell and scream “haven’t you seen the 150 flyers I have posted all over your street you idiot!? My cat is lost! The psychic said he is lost and scared and has a stomach ache!” but I don’t say that. Instead I thank them for helping. Angel lets me set a humane trap in his yard. He calls at two am that night, sends me a photo of his catch but its the wrong cat. That poor cat got caught twice but at least he got to eat salmon cream cheese. Two doors down a great couple, cat lovers, they let us set a trap also. Wrong cat found the next morning. We decide to take the traps back.

E. A couple nights later the animal intuitive calls me back. She tells me she contacted Figgy again and that he has left his body. “He is dead” I say. “Yes”, she says “he is no longer in his body”. She tells me that he saw me see him. He was already sick at that point from eating poison, probably rat poison. I wonder if someone sprinkled rat poison in their yard or if someone is trying to kill the cats. I think of the chinese restaurant, where the woman was so mean to me when I asked if she had a backyard. I want to blame her. I think of how Sara and I said “there are surprisingly few rats around here”, and then a couple days later saw the most giant rat, dead on the sidewalk, and then saw it again moved down towards the curb that night. I talk for awhile with the communicator. We talk about how people who do animal rescue or even regular pet guardians are faced with loss and grief so much more than people who are not involved with animals. We talk about being less attached. She says I am probably chosen to do this work. We talk about the good life Figgy had, although it was cut so short. We hang up eventually and I tell everyone that Figgy is dead because the cat psychic said so. No one wants to believe me. They like proof. But now, almost a month later, I think it has sunk in.

F. I build a little marker that says “Figaro”. I put his other collar, his favorite toy and his photo in a tiny wooden box and we bury it under the forsythia bush. I make a kodak picture book about his short but hopefully happy life.

G. I call another animal communicator because I would like a second opinion. I tell her nothing that the first psychic said except that I think Figgy has passed on. She tells me that she thinks he died from violent nausea and vomiting. Probably poison of some sort. I’m sold. She tells me he was seriously called to mate. She explains that sometimes when cats are spayed or neutered, there can still be “a little left” which will effect their hormones enough that they will want to mate. This explains why Figgy used to fornicate with blankets and try to get it on with my leg when I was in bed. It also explains why he was constantly trying to mount our little girl cat Billie. She then tells me some things he is supposedly saying to her but I don’t necessarily believe that he is there chatting with her. They are comforting though so I write them down anyhow. Also, Sara and Tamara ask me to a) not get another kitten, to get an older cat next time and b) to wait awhile before I adopt a new pet. I agree.

H. October 24, Monday. Follow up with the first communicator via email. She says he is a very straightforward spirit. Kind of like, “live and let live”, not one to linger or feel angst. She says he was happy with us and loved us, he misses us and had not intended to get lost and eat poison, but that is what happened and he accepts it. That our connection was very much about the physical plane, not a spiritual or teaching one. He says he saw me shortly before he crossed over and a bunch of other things that I won’t spell out here because my short story has already gone way past long.

I. Back up just a few days. October 20, Thursday night around eight. I am home watching netflix. I am exhausted from the month of searching, hoping, and mourning. I get an email from a neighbor who was in her house and heard a mewing outside her window. She has a tiny kitten with a busted leg in her front yard. She does not know what to do. I put my boots on and run across the street. I trap the kitten in one of the traps I had borrowed to catch Figgy with. The kitten is hissing and spitting. The spitting is like a really intense full body thing they do, it is actually pretty scary even though they dont bite you or anything. So then I see her leg and I offer to take her to the emergency hospital if the neighbor will pay for it since I am broke. She agrees.

J. I am driving to cobble hill with the tiny kitten who is mewing so much. I assume her arm is broken and that she is in pain. At the ER, once the tech gets her out of the cage, which is not an easy feat because even he, a tattooed pierced dude, is afraid of the spitting, I have her in my arms in a towel and she is purring. The purring is something they sometimes do when they are scared, it releases endorphins which calm them down. So I hold her for a good ten minutes. She is so beautiful and tiny. Not even a pound. Her leg is all funny, crooked and lame but does not seem to be causing pain. A vet comes in and she is very young. She tries to reach for the kitten who spits and hisses. The vet is afraid which I think is sort of funny. The kitten jumps and we are chasing her around the room. The vet finally grabs her with a towel, examines her. Says the leg is not broken bones and is probably nerve damage that may heal on its own or may not but the kitten is too young to know yet. They do an FIV test which is negative. They send her home with me. At this point I am emailing all of my cat lady neighbors. Everyone wants to help but no one can really take her. One woman offers to take her in even though she doesn’t really want to. I am about to leave for the weekend and very concerned about what to do with this kitten. It is now midnight. I make plans for people who can help while I am away, I make a lot of plans and send a lot of emails.

K. Flash forward. Saturday morning I am at ASPCA.  They will take a look at her and maybe will take her in if she is adoptable. She is so good in the car, barely cries, just looks at me, looks around. She is softening up. We get there and when he tries to take her out of the carrier she spits and hisses and she is scary so he says they can’t take her until I socialize her. I start to cry because I have pms and I am emotionally exhausted and so concerned about this kitten, who I name Olive. He gives me kitten food and a cage. I decide to just take her with me to CT because it will add two hours to my trip to drive back to Brooklyn, contact the other caretakers, set it all up, and then drive back uptown to get out of the city. So I just take her with me. I leave my mother a message saying there will be a kitten in a cage I am sorry.

L. Wow this kitten is so cuddly and sweet. Once she stops with the hissing business she is the cutest little thing in the world. Her lame arm drags around but it doesn’t stop her. We have a weekend with cuddling and play and she is happy. I bring her back home to Brooklyn Monday night. I set her up in our guest room because she is our guest. I socialize with her. I do not sleep with her in the room because I do not want to get too attached. I take a lot of photos of her and post them on facebook. I ask people what I should do. I am offered help in finding her a home which is great.

1. Questions I ask myself:

Did Figgy send her to me so I have something to distract me from my mourning and pain? Her cuddling is very comforting.

Am I supposed to keep her? How do I know?

Am I supposed to learn something from this?

Am i supposed to not get attached?

Am I supposed to re-attach to a new being who needs a family?

Did Figgy leave to make room for her because she needs more?

Who put Olive in front of my neighbor’s house? Where did she come from? It is so rare they are in the front yards. Most of the strays are in the gardens in back. Did her mother toss her out because she is lame legged?

M. October 27, Thursday. ASPCA guy calls to tell me he has a foster home for her who can socialize her, but that I have to bring her in right away today or tomorrow. I leave work early. I enter Olive’s room and I talk with her. I give her a hundred kisses and she licks my lips and bumps my nose with hers. She wants to play with the mouse and the little tomato toy I got her. She seems to have just discovered playing on Tuesday (although perhaps she played with her littermates before she was displaced). I tell her I am sending her to the A not because I don’t love her completely but because I want what is best for her. That they will take great care of her and she will be able to play with kittens and won’t be alone all day while I am at work. I pack her up and we are driving in the car. She is so good in the car. Just a few chatty mews here and there. She is staring at me through the netting in her carrier. She has these deep soulful eyes that she gazes with, and she does that blinky thing. I feel deeply connected with her. I am so attached it is crazy, after one week. She sleeps, watches the windshield wipers go back and forth, looks at me. She trusts me, this I can feel coming from her. I cry.

3. CONCLUSION

A. The boy at the A says he can’t believe what a different cat she is. “She is a whole new cat!” He says they don’t even have to send her to a foster home for socializing because I did such a good job. He asks if I want to foster and socialize more cats for them. He takes her in to the vet where she is vaccinated and examined. They explain that her arm has permanent nerve damage from being pulled away from her body while injured. The odds are that they will amputate it but the three legged animals we know as “tripods” do fine and are usually the first to be adopted. I give her a hundred more kisses, I ask him if I am doing the right thing. He swears to me that I am, that she will do great, that he will keep me posted.

B. I get to the car I drive home I go into the guest room and get the towels, blankets, litter and clean it all up. I collapse the cage and put it away. I sit and I stare and I sob. I sob for losing Figgy, I sob for losing Olive, I sob for myself and for all of the animals at the ASPCA. I cry rivers and I realize that I am so so tired of having emotions. That I have had so so many emotions all day every single day from September 30th through this moment at eight pm on October 27.

C. I think about how I was always so afraid to let Figgy out into the yard because I was afraid he would jump and get lost and get hurt and then die and that is exactly what happened.

1. I think about how I needed to let him outside so he would be happy. I needed to let him be himself. He was a forest cat through and through. I needed to put his happiness before my need for him to be safe and stay with me. I was always trying to hold onto him in so many ways and he was just not the kind of guy to be held onto. And I am working on accepting all of that.

2. And Olive. Beautiful sweet as sugar little Olive. Who will be the lucky one to have you in their life? I feel that no one is worthy! I am so sorry that my household was not ready to have you join us. If it were just me you know you would be with me still, right Olive? Did I do the right thing? Should I have insisted you stayed? Would that have been best for you?

D. And it is now. Sara’s two old cats sit on the bed, more comfortable now that Figgy is just made of light and not a heavy jumping body who chases them around. And on Tuesday I go to my favorite psychic, the one who felt my upset stomach when I walked in her door last year. Maybe Figaro will stop in to say hi while I am there and I can ask him a few  questions. (When I try and do this on my own I fear I am just making up the answers. Way too cloudy in there right now for clarity.)  And now. I have to get back to my life. Take out the winter clothes, clean, make some art, get grounded. Maybe even see a movie.

That’s it really. I needed to write the story down. It helps with the letting go. There are more parts I did not add in, little things that seemed meaningful. But I hope that what I did share felt worthwhile to you. If you have any thoughts or answers about coincidence, the master plan, the big picture, pet psychics, beautiful animals with short term life plans, etc., please feel free to share.

This is Olive.

Rest In Peace Little Fig

You will be missed beyond belief.
You were a great gift to us. A magical creature, beautiful, funny, and pure. Fly freely above gardens, following butterflies and birds into the sunniest days.

 

Figaro 9/2009-10/2011

 

 

 

About Books

I Like Parts

I have so many ideas for my next art exhibition but I can’t manage to pick one. It is actually causing me tooth-grinding stress. Each idea has a certain something that makes it feel valid, interesting and worth exploring. Each path requires tons of work though, which is not so easy to find time for. Even the ones that feel simpler and potentially less demanding loom above me, overwhelming swirling clouds with jumbled formulas and hallways to nowhere, mish-moshing into deep shadows and black holes. Or something like that.

I have four folders & a notebook started already with various degrees of research notes, lists and collections of images. I wish I could just print out all of it and staple it to the wall and call the show, “I Couldn’t Decide But At Least I Had Ideas”.

If I were a better painter I would paint certain things. But that is actually quite hard for me to do, to paint things the way I want them to look. I have been working on that, trying to improve my skills, but that takes a lot of time and probably classes I will never take. And to add, now that my vision is declining it is pretty tough to do the small watercolors that always came naturally to me. So, this is what it feels like when things change, when there is less free time, when your body does not always work with you the way you need it to, when you feel interested and willing to explore but unable to focus fully on any one thing.

I really want to saw up  all of the paintings I have made and never shown into small pieces and then build a giant labyrinth or game board with the parts. I m feeling pulled towards working with all of the parts that make the whole. I like parts.

I want to hire an illustrator to paint the things that inspire me. Things like certain books and chocolate cupcakes.  And then I would hire an architect to design a giant candy land looking room where all of the parts could live together in inspirational harmony, well-painted with perfect color compositions and clean lines.

But the fact is that I am left alone, with my various mish-moshing ideas flailing around trying to get themselves a minute on the stage so they can sing a quick ditty and get into the show. But I can’t hear them really because of all the fuss in the dressing room. Do you know what I mean?

This is part of the macro is all I am saying.

This piece is the new and improved “Men About Animals” digitally enhanced watercolor.

 

 

 

 

Indecisive

Things I can write about today:

Art shows I have seen like the DeKooning retrospective, the plethora of paintings at the Affordable Art Fair, or the Talk To Me exhibit at MOMA.

How happy Figgy is since he has been spending his days in the garden now that he has a collar and microchip. (And how happy I am that he is not trying to escape anymore) And how his little face is so dirty from sleeping in the soil all day. And how when he comes in at dinner he puts his head down like a dog so I can take his collar off.He is a good boy.

This great article about the meaning of Apocalypse and its relationship to Haiti by Junot Diaz in UTNE: http://www.utne.com/Politics/Dispatches-From-The-Apocalypse-Junot-Diaz.aspx

How sometimes things come together in amazing giftful ways.

This program: http://www.therapyanimals.org/R.E.A.D.html

How annoying it will be when people talk on their cellphones while waiting for the train to come. Which reminds me, if movie theatres start serving alcohol it will make people even more loud and rude at the movies. Why can’t people just be quiet, unplugged or sober for five minutes!?

This lovely bit: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/09/28/two-headed-cat-frankenlouie-turns-12_n_984158.html

Or an old favorite: http://www.oddee.com/item_97917.aspx

The Rain

 

It is pouring out. I just walked to and from 14th street in the massive downpour to get something I needed, which the store didn’t have anyhow. I got so very wet. My pants were soaking wet all the way from my butt to my ankles, and my socks were drenched and squishing in what I thought were waterproof engineer boots. My hair, which was on my head beneath an umbrella, was also soaking wet. My shirt? Soaking wet. I was so wet that on my way back to work I stopped and bought dry socks and new pants. Now at work with today’s original wardrobe in front of a space heater, I am wearing the new pants which are too big but feel so nice and warm and dry.

I very much dislike being all wet. I know no one really “likes”wearing wet clothes, but I have a particular fear of it, almost a phobia. I do not know if perhaps this is related to my childhood fear of water, swimming, and drowning. Or, it could be in the family of dislikes such as hands being sticky, sand in the shoes, or how  a pen feels when the store puts the price tag on it and you buy it and take the price tag off but the glue is still on the pen and they expect you to be able to write with it. Or the particular pain experienced while being forced to share a small space with someone who is eating with their mouth open.

The other day I read about an illness that manifests as an extreme sensitivity to sounds, so much so that the people feel like they will go mental when certain sounds happen. I had to talk myself out of thinking I had it.

My coworker has been talking out loud to himself all day. His office is right next to mine. He is verbalizing every thought that goes through his very thought-filled and busy head. He is very sweet but this excessive verbal action is annoying. Especially when I am trying to watch Hulu at my desk.  My other coworker calls me up on the phone and we whisper “Oh my god I am going to go insane if he doesn’t shut it”. She is sensitive to noise also. We like it when we are the only ones here because it is nice and quiet.

Forecast. Rain, rain, and more rain with a chance of basement flooding. Hopefully the carpenter will finish installing the sump pump today, just in time for the continuation of our series “Climate Change Ain’t No Joke”. (A sump is a low space that collects any often-undesirable liquids such as water or chemicals. Sump can also refer to an area in a cave where a underground flow of water exits the cave into the earth.)

Well I don’t have much more to share. I am just hoping my clothes and shoes dry by the time I get to leave since it is TGIF and I don’t want to stay one extra minute if I don’t have to. I am still deciding on whether to keep the new too big pants. They don’t look so great but sometimes it is imperative to have baggy pants on. Sometimes I just wish I could dress like Sue Sylvester everyday. Not that her pants are baggy but you know what I mean.

Also you will never see me in any of these because they are dumb:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For weather nerds:

http://www.screencast-o-matic.com/watch/cXQYqmZiz

 

 

Before

I was just hit with this massive wave of reverie. It was a physical feeling, and I didn’t mind it but I couldn’t really grab onto what I was having feelings for or about. Then I thought of a macrame owl I made in art class in catholic school. Our art classes were not really very arty, and I got mostly C’s because imagination was not invited and I was crabby about following rules and drawing still lifes. But I made this owl and then my Mom had it hanging on the side porch of our house for years and years and years. It looked like this, even though this is just a macrame owl I took off the internet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I actually think I have blogged about this owl before and maybe even posted a picture of an internet macrame owl then too. Or am I simply having deja vu alongside my reverie? But why? Why is this macrame owl important? Perhaps because it was displayed prominently for years? Perhaps it represented something to me. Something about art and making?

There isn’t much on the internet about the school I went to because it closed. I was in the last class to graduate, 1987 that was. This is a picture I  found online. It is the school’s sign with one of our polyester uniform blazers hanging on it. I wore that polyester blazer with a turtleneck and a polyester (and eventually wool) kilt for years. Turtlenecks in every color and also ones with whales on them.

There is an office that has all of the records of everyone who went to the school, and it is run by women named Patricia Mccarthy, Patricia Corley, and Mary Patricia Flattery who I think may have been nuns at the school and are probably very Irish and rather old. They were very nice when I called for a transcript last year which made me miss some of my favorites like Sister Francis in the second grade at Blessed Sacrament School.

Speaking of, I loved that movie Household Saints so much. When I saw Lily Taylor at the bread freezer in the Cobble Hill Health Food Store I really wish I hadn’t frozen and instead told her how amazing she was in that movie.

And also in Dogfight with River Phoenix, she was so great in that.

I wonder what I was having reverie about before. I think maybe just the past in general. Like how just now I smelled fall and heard leaves and running around in the backyard in a coat over the catholic school uniform.

Aging is intense. Memory is fascinating.

http://cabezalab.org/pdf/pubs/LabarCabeza06.pdf

Little bird what say you.

We were on a blanket on a hill under a tree at the park. Suddenly Sara said, “look at the little bird” and there was a tiny bird planted in the grass right in front of us. It was only about one foot from our blanket and it seemed to be staring straight at us. It was not moving except for an occasional blink and obvious breathing. Neither of us saw it arrive there, so we didn’t know if it flew, fell, or hopped over but there it was. And there it stayed, for at least a half hour, staring right at us. I moved closer. It chirped once. I was talking to it, trying to send it bird love, wondering if it was injured or just a baby or what. I tossed it some crumbled cashews but it did not eat them. I just looked into its little bird eyes for a long time. We decided if we moved away from it maybe it would inspire it to move or try and fly. So we moved back about five feet. It stared. Then it started chirping more and finally it hopped away and tried to fly (with no luck), but it kept hopping to and fro. After another half hour of watching it hop around, watching other birds come near it, listening to it chirp, worrying that it was maimed and analyzing every flutter, we decided to leave it to nature. That was a very difficult thing to do.

Before we rode away, we asked why a little bird sat one foot in front of us, staring, unflinching for at least half and hour when it was obviously able to hop away. I muttered some business about the universe, nature and timely lessons (that I will not go into depth on here). But I think it meant something, as things often do. I am just not sure what yet.

This is the bird. This is the close photo taken on my iphone with no zoom. I hope s/he is okay or at peace in some way or another.