Bullhead City, Arizona! Arid Zone-ah. Understatement; a BIG one. It's 9:00 pm right now and the temperature outside is 89 degrees. 89!!!! I grew up near the ocean, for Pete's sake, with cool breezes that don't dehydrate your eyeballs! I love June-Gloom and rain, the smell of salty air, decent fresh fruit, fish and sushi! What the fuck am I doing here?
Actually, damn my hide, I know exactly why I'm here.
The love of my life has an older sister he's very close to. When he and I met and lived in California, he was planning on moving within a month or so to AZ to be with her. She's in her mid 60's, pretty much alone, and had been having more than a tough time living in Georgia. Her health was poor and, (dealing with some tragedy) she was longing to be with family (a cousin lives here, too). So, James, thinking it could be a fresh start for himself, felt it was the right thing to do. And I was not about to let him leave me.
He has three grown kids in Cali, one with a gorgeous gal, her two kids and two of their own (one amazing boy, born just yesterday). James also has a pretty daughter with a good job and a better heart. His third (a boy I've yet to know) lives in LA and also has a pretty girl. I have two lovely grown girls, one married to a talented guy, and blessed with a brand new beautiful baby boy-- my other pretty girl, a free-spirit, is earning her way and finding her way in her own time (which she has always done).
When James and I lived in Cali, I didn't see my kids as much as I wanted, and pissed and moaned about it. I was self-absorbed, still licking my wounds from divorce, and trying to keep my brains from spilling out my ears from depression. James was in pretty much the same shape, having just gone through a life-altering event. And, I'm very close to my sister-- but I was so miserable, I was making her crazy, too. I wasn't much fun to be around; I wore her out. Our wonderful relationship changed; all we did was fight.
I needed change--and against her warnings, she helped me. Arizona!
I knew the second my loaded van hit the desert I was making a huge mistake. But what could I do? Stop the van, flag James and the U-Haul off the road and tell him, "Uh, I'm going back home now." I loved this man, and still do. I was determined to make the best of it. We'd both planned carefully, interneted plenty of existing open job apps, nailed an apartment--maybe it was going to be great after all!
We're now in our second apartment (first one turned out to be a methamphetamine commune). None of the jobs we applied for were available. NO jobs to be found at all; if the opening hadn't gone to someone on a waiting list, then it was "hiring freezes". All over town meth-whores and their cling-ons squat in any available shady spot. They don't beg for money, though. But they sure as hell check out how close I'm holding my purse, if I have money in my hand, if I locked my car . . . if I'm alone.
And everything here is BROWN. This spring, the desert plants in our rock yard bloomed. James' camera is full of pictures; I couldn't take enough photos of the colors. Some blooms are still there, too. Amazing. We do have that; my James gives ours extra water.
Other more important blessings--We have each other--stronger than ever before. Anyone who has suffered from depression understands the importance of this. James is essential to my life and sense of well being, and I am the same for him. He makes me laugh, and that is golden.
We love our duplex: a roomy 3 bedroom, AC, paid water and we're up on a hill that borders Kingman. Up to 10 degrees cooler than down below, in the valley, in the searing depths of . . . sorry.
But check this out. Just within the 10 months we've been here, James has had a heart attack, has developed a thoracic aortic aneurysm. He's been to the ER 4 or 5 times and hospitalized for either his heart or diverticulitis. He's due for heart surgery in November. But our faith is strong and we're confident he'll come out of it better than ever. Still, he has a few other health issues that now prevent him from working. He's trying for disability; we'll know in September. I myself called Binder and Binder about my foot pain, back, carpel tunnel and epilepsy. They suggested I claim depression and epilepsy, as they had more documentation. I should have an answer in a couple months. We both live on the alimony my ex sends, along with generous loans (that I repay) and car expenses when I'm in need. By the way, my van died on the "operating table": took it in because we kept smelling a gas leak, and the whole gas tank fell flat out into the auto bay. Thank you, God, for my ex-husband, as he paid out the down payment for my new used car: a Chevy Malibu Classic. I call her "Mama Class".
And, by the way, turns out his sister ain't so sick after all. She did come out to be with family, but she brought her son and his girlfriend with her. She's adamant about never living in Cali again, so talking her into sharing rent and living with us is out. We're heartsick to be with our families, grandbabies and friends--and out of this baked crater. I'm putting us on a budget and start saving to go back. But there's not much we can cut back on. We have to have Sparkletts because the water here is "crispy" . . . no shit. It leaves white, chalky chips on everything. Nasty! We have cable, but we're stopping Showtime . . . no "Dexter". !!!!! Do you know what a sacrifice this is? :) AAAGGGHHH! Skimping on food, which won't hurt either of us, and no more trips for a while. I say let's have next Christmas out here! Right, after I've made it sound so charming.
It'll take at least $3 k, but we'll find our way home. If anyone out there knows of anyone out there who would love to share a home with two very funny and fun, considerate and kind older people--please don't leave me hangin'! James is a terrific cook and the man loves to clean. My cooking is nothing to sneeze at, but I'm a bit of a clutter-er. But loveable.
So, I haven't blogged in a long time. This is foremost on what's left of my mind, so I hope you enjoyed the read. Love.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Sunday, August 7, 2011
"Melancholy Man"
I met James Miller on LA's The Sound radio station's Facebook page; an excellent start since I'm fanatical about the music I love. It's a Classic Rock/vinyl-spinning/deep cuts/ high variety type of station--the kind of station I would own and have full control of if I were rich.
On Memorial Day weekend, they were playing requests. On FB, James requested "Stairway to Heaven" for his lifetime friend and sweetheart, Tina, who literally died in his arms a little more than a year ago. Having lost my oldest sister in January, a brother to murder two years ago, I was moved by his loss and his heart worn words. I wrote to him and told of my loss, how I felt about his request and sorrow and wished him well. James wrote back, and we continued this way for a couple of months. It seemed natural as breathing to reveal ourselves with bleeding honesty. His loneliness and sense of all good things being wiped from his life, and the rest of his life, was wrenching. Tina had been his light--a peaceful, positive and forgiving soul. She believed in filling yourself and others with positive love--that good follows good. And James, having reconnected with her after some rough years, was learning to rebuild himself and his life through her example. So it was so much more than losing a mate when he lost her. Now he felt untethered, floating in dark depression and an unsure future.
I'd been divorced after nearly thirty years with the same man. I told him I'd been stricken with a skin disorder that prevented me from intimate relations. So my loneliness also saw no future worth living; where in the world would someone like me find a man willing to love me in spite of what I couldn't offer in return? For a few years, I'd been on the edge. One attempt to end my life left me in a mental ward for a 72 hour observation. Scared straight, I can't say I lived my life--I simply continued to breathe through each hour, each day and night, week, month and year. If not for my faith, my children and my family, I'd been creeping dangerously close to giving the void another chance.
And then James wanted to meet face-to-face, and I was terrified. I kept putting it off. I still don't have a clear picture why. All I do know is that, in my mind, I already knew he was perfect for me. I worried about my heart . . . Vulnerable and close to starvation, I knew that one more blow and it would crack and break like a poorly cut diamond. Then one day, he sent a post saying that if he "didn't get out of my house tonight, I'm gonna lose it!" I knew that feeling too well; I told him "okay, let's do this. Come on over."
I knew the second I saw him that I was in trouble. His attractive FB profile picture did not do him justice. A glaring combination of Biker Bad Boy and the most tender smile I'd ever seen, he presented me with flowers. His joy was evident, and all I wanted to do was cry. We talked until 3 am, and I asked him to stay. And it's been a wind-in the-hair journey every day since.
I fit perfectly in his arms; my head nestles between his chest and shoulder like it was always meant to. His tender hands are always touching, stroking or simply at rest on my skin--which he loves, and which I thought was getting a bit rough. We're like teen-agers. Time apart is blissful agony. Constant texts of love-you's and thinking of your _____ keep us blushing. We've tried to take it slow, but apparently love doesn't know the speed limit. And, well, shit. I'm 57. I seriously doubt I'm due a second miracle. I've slipped this one under my coat and running for my life--and for his.
He talks of Tina often, and I feel I know her. I showed him a picture of myself at twenty-one; she and I could've been sisters. My manner and mind set are nearly the same as hers. At first, a big red flag hit me--REBOUND ROMANCE! I told James of my concern, and he said, adamantly, NOT at all. Discussed further, I no longer feel those red flags, just a communion with a gentle spirit we both feel has a good deal to do with our meeting.
The most amazing of all--he's made love to me. I'm totally at ease with him, and he is concerned and gentle with me. Sometimes we're slow and full of sensual intensity; most times frantic, as if all that's left is to crawl up under each other's skin. I don't question it too much, just as I don't want to jinx this obvious spiritual awakening we've both fallen into. There are too many "Holy crap!" coincidences to believe it "just happened".
We both love the Moody Blues. There's a song I've always kind of connected to myself: "Melancholy Man". For those of you who aren't familiar, it's about a person maybe a bit too introspective and sensitive for this world--a person who feels so much, they struggle to keep their feet on the earthly path. At the same time, their hearts are above in the stars, beyond this life. They know there's hope for change, for growth, for happiness . . . for love.
On his way home the other night, James called to tell me he heard a song on our station. The Moody Blues. Something about a man . . .?
"Melancholy Man"? I said.
"Yeah!" he said. "It's so me and you!"
The hair on my neck rose and tingled along with my love and hopes for our future.
Thank you, Sister Tina . . .
On Memorial Day weekend, they were playing requests. On FB, James requested "Stairway to Heaven" for his lifetime friend and sweetheart, Tina, who literally died in his arms a little more than a year ago. Having lost my oldest sister in January, a brother to murder two years ago, I was moved by his loss and his heart worn words. I wrote to him and told of my loss, how I felt about his request and sorrow and wished him well. James wrote back, and we continued this way for a couple of months. It seemed natural as breathing to reveal ourselves with bleeding honesty. His loneliness and sense of all good things being wiped from his life, and the rest of his life, was wrenching. Tina had been his light--a peaceful, positive and forgiving soul. She believed in filling yourself and others with positive love--that good follows good. And James, having reconnected with her after some rough years, was learning to rebuild himself and his life through her example. So it was so much more than losing a mate when he lost her. Now he felt untethered, floating in dark depression and an unsure future.
I'd been divorced after nearly thirty years with the same man. I told him I'd been stricken with a skin disorder that prevented me from intimate relations. So my loneliness also saw no future worth living; where in the world would someone like me find a man willing to love me in spite of what I couldn't offer in return? For a few years, I'd been on the edge. One attempt to end my life left me in a mental ward for a 72 hour observation. Scared straight, I can't say I lived my life--I simply continued to breathe through each hour, each day and night, week, month and year. If not for my faith, my children and my family, I'd been creeping dangerously close to giving the void another chance.
And then James wanted to meet face-to-face, and I was terrified. I kept putting it off. I still don't have a clear picture why. All I do know is that, in my mind, I already knew he was perfect for me. I worried about my heart . . . Vulnerable and close to starvation, I knew that one more blow and it would crack and break like a poorly cut diamond. Then one day, he sent a post saying that if he "didn't get out of my house tonight, I'm gonna lose it!" I knew that feeling too well; I told him "okay, let's do this. Come on over."
I knew the second I saw him that I was in trouble. His attractive FB profile picture did not do him justice. A glaring combination of Biker Bad Boy and the most tender smile I'd ever seen, he presented me with flowers. His joy was evident, and all I wanted to do was cry. We talked until 3 am, and I asked him to stay. And it's been a wind-in the-hair journey every day since.
I fit perfectly in his arms; my head nestles between his chest and shoulder like it was always meant to. His tender hands are always touching, stroking or simply at rest on my skin--which he loves, and which I thought was getting a bit rough. We're like teen-agers. Time apart is blissful agony. Constant texts of love-you's and thinking of your _____ keep us blushing. We've tried to take it slow, but apparently love doesn't know the speed limit. And, well, shit. I'm 57. I seriously doubt I'm due a second miracle. I've slipped this one under my coat and running for my life--and for his.
He talks of Tina often, and I feel I know her. I showed him a picture of myself at twenty-one; she and I could've been sisters. My manner and mind set are nearly the same as hers. At first, a big red flag hit me--REBOUND ROMANCE! I told James of my concern, and he said, adamantly, NOT at all. Discussed further, I no longer feel those red flags, just a communion with a gentle spirit we both feel has a good deal to do with our meeting.
The most amazing of all--he's made love to me. I'm totally at ease with him, and he is concerned and gentle with me. Sometimes we're slow and full of sensual intensity; most times frantic, as if all that's left is to crawl up under each other's skin. I don't question it too much, just as I don't want to jinx this obvious spiritual awakening we've both fallen into. There are too many "Holy crap!" coincidences to believe it "just happened".
We both love the Moody Blues. There's a song I've always kind of connected to myself: "Melancholy Man". For those of you who aren't familiar, it's about a person maybe a bit too introspective and sensitive for this world--a person who feels so much, they struggle to keep their feet on the earthly path. At the same time, their hearts are above in the stars, beyond this life. They know there's hope for change, for growth, for happiness . . . for love.
On his way home the other night, James called to tell me he heard a song on our station. The Moody Blues. Something about a man . . .?
"Melancholy Man"? I said.
"Yeah!" he said. "It's so me and you!"
The hair on my neck rose and tingled along with my love and hopes for our future.
Thank you, Sister Tina . . .
Friday, July 8, 2011
"Fire and Rain"
I slept too long this morning; it always makes me feel like a lazy good-for-nothing. But I just could not keep my eyes open, not even after coffee. So, this began my third or forth day of being alone is this apartment without speaking to another human being. Talked to my daughter once on the phone, but couldn't think of anything to say. I do go to the grocery store, the post office, WalMart. I applied to probably six jobs this week, called back on two and one was taken, the other "call later in the week".
So, what I call the "Black Hole", is big today, and really fucking dark. I took a shower, ate some Raisin Bran with a banana, checked FB and emails. Still felt lower than hammered shit. Time to get busy. Since I've moved into this apartment, I haven't really gone through the boxes in the closets. No. I take that back. Everything in the boxes are things I thought, at the time, were valuable, stuff I'd want to hang on to in case I ever move to a bigger place. More room for pictures, drawings, candles, etc. Still, I knew from previous experience, that I'd look through them and think, "why did I keep this?" So started on the first closet of boxes. One was filled with artsie-fartsie stuff I one day intended to finish. Keep? Toss? Who was I kidding--toss. Another was a box of old but protected People magazines of my favorite stars who've passed on. Wow, :( I couldn't believe how many good people the world has lost, how many memories they held for me.
Black Hole getting bigger.
"All in the past," I told myself out loud. "Look forward!" On to the next box. Albums. Records, I should say. Bing Crosby Christmas, The Beatles IV, Phil Spector's Christmas Album. And a boxed set of The Beatles Complete, London pressings. My ex-husband gave me this one Christmas and it's been one of my prized possessions ever since. Suddenly, I recalled the exact moment I opened it, with him sitting close and excited for me to see it. I'd cried and cried, I was so happy he'd remembered and thought enough of me to buy such a treasure.
One foot in the Black Hole . . .
Then came pictures of my mama, who passed in 1999, with me and my two sisters at her bedside. One of those sisters passed in January, and the other, Sandy--well, we're not speaking. Under my mother's pictures was one of those tin-plated wall hangings. My oldest sister, Carol, collected those Victorian pictures of little girls with long, dark curly hair. The most iconic is the one with the girl pouting in the corner with her little dog at her feet. My sister had been sexually molested by my father--her stepfather, and in her heart and mind, she was another little girl named Callie-Lou. This was the girl in these pictures. The tin-plated wall plaque I found was of four little girls playing in a circle. One was Carol, another was supposed to be me, with long blonde curls, the next with shorter hair was Sandy, and among them, with long dark curls was Callie-Lou. Four sisters, innocent and carefree, playing 'Ring Around the Rosie' or some other child's game.
Cannonball into the Black Hole.
It's all still sitting on my bed. I can't--not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I will organize it all and give it to my two girls, sell it in yard sales or give it to Goodwill. I can't move forward with the sadness of the past staring me in the face all the time. A part of me feels like I'm turning my back on people I love, but what choice to I have?
I was watching "Sling Blade" the other day. Near the end, Carl (the mental guy) goes to ask a friend to look after the boy he'd made friends with. "That boy lives inside his heart. And that's a mighty big place to live", he said. That's me. I feel my life to the bone--past, present and future. It's been a blessing in many ways. It's made me a good mother, a good writer, a rabid lover of good music. But it's a curse, too. Life is too harsh to feel every single thing like a knife to the heart.
They say divorce is like a death; I'm dealing with both. I've passed denial. I feel myself moving into anger. Next is bargaining and then acceptance. Those should be an interesting fucking circus. Lots of clowns, that's for sure. And me on the tight wire.
I miss my sisters--especially Sandy. I miss my girls. I miss my family, I miss my youth, and yes, if I had it to do over again, I would do many thing differently.
And I'm not built for living alone. I have a lot to offer someone, even a roommate. I still love the things I love passionately. Even my sadness is vibrant. The radio is now playing "Sounds of Silence". And I can't turn it off; it's too pretty . . .
So, what I call the "Black Hole", is big today, and really fucking dark. I took a shower, ate some Raisin Bran with a banana, checked FB and emails. Still felt lower than hammered shit. Time to get busy. Since I've moved into this apartment, I haven't really gone through the boxes in the closets. No. I take that back. Everything in the boxes are things I thought, at the time, were valuable, stuff I'd want to hang on to in case I ever move to a bigger place. More room for pictures, drawings, candles, etc. Still, I knew from previous experience, that I'd look through them and think, "why did I keep this?" So started on the first closet of boxes. One was filled with artsie-fartsie stuff I one day intended to finish. Keep? Toss? Who was I kidding--toss. Another was a box of old but protected People magazines of my favorite stars who've passed on. Wow, :( I couldn't believe how many good people the world has lost, how many memories they held for me.
Black Hole getting bigger.
"All in the past," I told myself out loud. "Look forward!" On to the next box. Albums. Records, I should say. Bing Crosby Christmas, The Beatles IV, Phil Spector's Christmas Album. And a boxed set of The Beatles Complete, London pressings. My ex-husband gave me this one Christmas and it's been one of my prized possessions ever since. Suddenly, I recalled the exact moment I opened it, with him sitting close and excited for me to see it. I'd cried and cried, I was so happy he'd remembered and thought enough of me to buy such a treasure.
One foot in the Black Hole . . .
Then came pictures of my mama, who passed in 1999, with me and my two sisters at her bedside. One of those sisters passed in January, and the other, Sandy--well, we're not speaking. Under my mother's pictures was one of those tin-plated wall hangings. My oldest sister, Carol, collected those Victorian pictures of little girls with long, dark curly hair. The most iconic is the one with the girl pouting in the corner with her little dog at her feet. My sister had been sexually molested by my father--her stepfather, and in her heart and mind, she was another little girl named Callie-Lou. This was the girl in these pictures. The tin-plated wall plaque I found was of four little girls playing in a circle. One was Carol, another was supposed to be me, with long blonde curls, the next with shorter hair was Sandy, and among them, with long dark curls was Callie-Lou. Four sisters, innocent and carefree, playing 'Ring Around the Rosie' or some other child's game.
Cannonball into the Black Hole.
It's all still sitting on my bed. I can't--not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I will organize it all and give it to my two girls, sell it in yard sales or give it to Goodwill. I can't move forward with the sadness of the past staring me in the face all the time. A part of me feels like I'm turning my back on people I love, but what choice to I have?
I was watching "Sling Blade" the other day. Near the end, Carl (the mental guy) goes to ask a friend to look after the boy he'd made friends with. "That boy lives inside his heart. And that's a mighty big place to live", he said. That's me. I feel my life to the bone--past, present and future. It's been a blessing in many ways. It's made me a good mother, a good writer, a rabid lover of good music. But it's a curse, too. Life is too harsh to feel every single thing like a knife to the heart.
They say divorce is like a death; I'm dealing with both. I've passed denial. I feel myself moving into anger. Next is bargaining and then acceptance. Those should be an interesting fucking circus. Lots of clowns, that's for sure. And me on the tight wire.
I miss my sisters--especially Sandy. I miss my girls. I miss my family, I miss my youth, and yes, if I had it to do over again, I would do many thing differently.
And I'm not built for living alone. I have a lot to offer someone, even a roommate. I still love the things I love passionately. Even my sadness is vibrant. The radio is now playing "Sounds of Silence". And I can't turn it off; it's too pretty . . .
Monday, July 4, 2011
"Oh, Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood."
I've heard the saying, "It's hard to stay confident in a vacuum." It rings true to me, in my case. I come from a negative environment; the times didn't preach teaching your children with support and positive feedback. Our parents lived their troubled lives, and us kids went along for the ride. I learned that love doesn't last, when it comes to sex, neither men or women can be trusted to be faithful. Love is pain, with very few shining moments thrown in; these seem, thankfully, to stick in our memories--making us feel that maybe things weren't so bad. The good floats to the top, the bad lays low in our subconscious. It reveals itself at our weakest, when we're hurt, or angry, jealous or frustrated. We act out like the children we were when those emotions were born.
People who spend too much time alone tend to ruminate on the negative. I admit this is me. However, I wasn't always this way. I've heard loved ones say, " I just want the old Sheila back." Sheila wants her back too. I miss laughing with my friends, my family. But so much time alone makes one awkward in social situations. 1. You're so giddy to get out and have some fun, you laugh too much. You seem a bit hysterical; you try too hard. 2. If you don't laugh enough, then you feel watched and awkward. Others ask if you're okay, which is nice for them to care, but it makes one feel as if the whole gathering is thinking the same thing: boy, Sheila's a real mess.
Okay, so--this is me. A lucid me, someone who's had time to step back and see what messes she's caused and what messes fell in her lap. I am not lazy; I want to work. Having a job is salvation. Get me out of this freeking apartment and daytime TV. Not only do I feel worthless watching daytime TV, but every other commercial is about how "you can start your life today by going to - - - - college!" Makes me feel like even more of a loser that I didn't do something with my life long ago.
I sleep too much just to make the day go by faster. I don't work out enough. But I have a good novel to finish. I sometimes think I've got myself deluded, that I'm not a writer. But then i work on it, read older chapters and find that it's pretty fucking good. Maybe nothing will come of it when it's done. But stranger things have happened. Still, if not, I've written a dang novel. I will find other work and do my best.
Yes, I do get alimony. It's adequate, but never is enough for the whole month. I'm sick of Top Ramen, Cherrios, and not enough healthy stuff on my dinner plate: they're too expensive and don't last.
I'm grateful for the roof over my head. My health (which is actually good), and my kids, friends and family who always are there for me. I'm grateful for FB, the way I can keep track of family instead of the phone. I've met wonderful people, too.
God will give what he thinks I need. I still pray for other things, but it's up to Him. I'm silly happy for my best friend and her grandbabies, but I'm envious, too. It seems to have pulled their whole family together. A family I used to be a big part of, and now feel a bit squeezed out. Only natural, I guess. Still, the feelings remain. That there's a big confession!
And mostly, what other's may see as self-pity, is actually humiliation. I hate other's paying my way for anything. It's not that I'm so proud, it's just that I'm 56. Growing old and being poor terrifies me. I stress over my future big time, although, at the same time, I chant "think about today, think about today." And when the past gets me down, "Past, past, past. Leave it there." All of this exhausts me.
So, that's my rambings for today.
People who spend too much time alone tend to ruminate on the negative. I admit this is me. However, I wasn't always this way. I've heard loved ones say, " I just want the old Sheila back." Sheila wants her back too. I miss laughing with my friends, my family. But so much time alone makes one awkward in social situations. 1. You're so giddy to get out and have some fun, you laugh too much. You seem a bit hysterical; you try too hard. 2. If you don't laugh enough, then you feel watched and awkward. Others ask if you're okay, which is nice for them to care, but it makes one feel as if the whole gathering is thinking the same thing: boy, Sheila's a real mess.
Okay, so--this is me. A lucid me, someone who's had time to step back and see what messes she's caused and what messes fell in her lap. I am not lazy; I want to work. Having a job is salvation. Get me out of this freeking apartment and daytime TV. Not only do I feel worthless watching daytime TV, but every other commercial is about how "you can start your life today by going to - - - - college!" Makes me feel like even more of a loser that I didn't do something with my life long ago.
I sleep too much just to make the day go by faster. I don't work out enough. But I have a good novel to finish. I sometimes think I've got myself deluded, that I'm not a writer. But then i work on it, read older chapters and find that it's pretty fucking good. Maybe nothing will come of it when it's done. But stranger things have happened. Still, if not, I've written a dang novel. I will find other work and do my best.
Yes, I do get alimony. It's adequate, but never is enough for the whole month. I'm sick of Top Ramen, Cherrios, and not enough healthy stuff on my dinner plate: they're too expensive and don't last.
I'm grateful for the roof over my head. My health (which is actually good), and my kids, friends and family who always are there for me. I'm grateful for FB, the way I can keep track of family instead of the phone. I've met wonderful people, too.
God will give what he thinks I need. I still pray for other things, but it's up to Him. I'm silly happy for my best friend and her grandbabies, but I'm envious, too. It seems to have pulled their whole family together. A family I used to be a big part of, and now feel a bit squeezed out. Only natural, I guess. Still, the feelings remain. That there's a big confession!
And mostly, what other's may see as self-pity, is actually humiliation. I hate other's paying my way for anything. It's not that I'm so proud, it's just that I'm 56. Growing old and being poor terrifies me. I stress over my future big time, although, at the same time, I chant "think about today, think about today." And when the past gets me down, "Past, past, past. Leave it there." All of this exhausts me.
So, that's my rambings for today.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Talkin' 'Bout My Generation!
I just heard on 100.3, The Sound, that Bob Segar is turning 66, and that he's thinking of hanging up his guitar. He doesn't see himself touring at 67. I understand his point, but it made me so very sad.
I've wanted to write about this subject for a very long time: the music from my generation, and how strange it feels to watch it fade away into the genre of "Classic Rock" or even worse "Old School". Now, Classic Rock fits, however, there seem to be many opinions of what classic rock is. When I see radio stations billboards crow about their classic rock playlist and I see "Captain and Tennille" or "Michael Jackson" on there, it makes me want to gnaw my wrists.
Since you're already reading, allow me to paint a picture for you. In '64-'68 (my ages 9 to13), my narrow listening pleasure consisted of The Beatles (and still does), The Monkess (along with their TV show and the Partridge Family--in my defense, I never spent a nickel on a Partridge Family record.) My radio station was 93 KHJ AM, the L.A. based top forty station.
Then, in my sophomore year of high school, I found Dave Anderson, or I should say he found me. 6'3", wire rim glasses and long, straight blond hair. We instantly fell hopelessly, Romeo and Juliet, in love, as most first-lovers do. Dave lived at home, but had his own room fixed up in the garage, separate from the main house. It was there he took my hand and turned me on to real "music".
But while I was under the influence, he'd slip his headphones on my head, make me comfortable on his pillowed bed, incense and candles aglow, and leave me in peace to "listen".
It's hard to find the right words to explain the worlds and feelings the music opened up for me. My life up to that point had been loneliness, heartache and the starvation of soul. My parent's were divorced. All my brothers and sisters had grown old enough to "escape". My brother to the hell of Viet Nam, My sisters to the nightmare of bad marriages. My mother and her new husband drank in their tiny Valley apartment--so I was sent to live with my dad and his new wife. They both worked 3pm to midnight. So, you see, no one was ever home with me. Except for weekends, I lived alone. So when Dave and his new world came along, it sucked me in as sure a rainbow-colored whirlpool--and I loved, and still do, every second of it. For the first time in my life, I had friends, a boy who loved me for me, and of course Sex. I had beautiful music and freedom. A new way to live my life--a fresh sense of me. I was a Freak, a Head, a Stoner, a Hippie--and I say this with all honesty: for me, the drugs were a very minimal part.
And the music was dolled out in time. New albums came out in the course of weeks and they were all we talked about. When they did come out, we wore out the vinyl before attending, in a group, the opening concert for the LP we'd come to adore. We didn't have itunes, we didn't have iPods. We didn't have computers. Nothing was instant. We had turntables and we got together as a group and lit our candles and incense and hookahs and heard the music together. We shared and held our friendships like lifelines, which for most of us, they were.The music today is obviously enjoyed by the young. But it's a bombardment. Everyday there's a new artist, song or group, video or award. There doesn't seem to be any time to savor. The lifestyle seems to be hauling-ass, a thousand miles an hour. Maybe it's because I'm getting older. No, it's for sure--I'm getting older. Not that I like it. But I wouldn't change the time in which I grew up for anything
I suppose this could be said of any generation, but Mine was the turning point of musical freedom. So many genres came from that time. None would exist without mine coming first. The Stones wouldn't have been so blessed without the blues of Muddy Waters, etc. The Beatles' great harmonies were inspired by The Everly Brothers and Roy Orbison, and on and on and on and on
I'm proud to say that I've influenced my two girls with my music; they love it like I do, as do their friends who happened to be in the vicinity at the time.
Watch "Almost Famous".
All I'm saying is, well . . . "Talkin' 'bout my generation!"
Sunday, May 29, 2011
"Hangin' on to those good times, Baby!"
100.03, the Sound, is playing the greatest top 100 albums (that's vinyl to you young-un's), voted into being by their listeners. I didn't vote--not because I couldn't narrow it down. But the songs they've been playing have taken me from the floaty buzz of that third tequila shot--high school-ditched afternoons on the shores of Redondo Beach, when the lowering sun lined everything in gold, and the salt air seemed hypnotic.
I've thought of every family member. "Some are gone, and some remain", as Mr. Lennon says . . . said. No, says. Just like all these songs speaking to me today. My mama used to like "Teach Your Children" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. My brother, back in the day, had a killer stereo: receiver, turntable, cassette player, three microphones and "Quad" speakers. Family-party time, always including mama, was to get totally blind and sing. My sister's, my brother, myself and our partners would spin C.S.N.& Y. , the Eagles, Poco and others and sing like the stars we'd suddenly become--beer in one hand, mic in other. Rockin' It!
We'd sing along to the LP (thank God), record it all onto the cassette and listen to it the next day. Which was nothing less than wizz-your-pants hysterical. Hard on a hangover.
Still. I will never forget how my mama smiled and cried whenever we sang "Teach Your Children", always requesting encores. I loved my mama deeply, but, by her own admission, was not the greatest mother. So, I always wondered if she'd really listened to the words of that song. And now that I'm a mother, I think she did. Probably hoping we'd notice that she 'got it'. For us to know that her life hadn't been easy, and that she did the best she could.
I listened, Mama.
This radio show has brought back old loves and bad ones. My first love and first broken heart. The first time I was "flashed". A lot of songs (LP's) wrap around some of the best vacations I've ever taken. Right now, they're playing "Exile on Mainstreet". Great album, but at the time I was without a home and sleeping at a friend's house with her sister's two kids. Still, I was a kid myself: 17. Not a care in the world. Right.
Anyhow--I could go on and on, but I'm saving stuff for my NEXT BOOK! Yes, I will finish the one I'm on.
Memorial Day is for remembering, and I enjoyed myself. Music is my favorite way to travel. (I think that's a Moody Blues song. Damn, thought I came up with that on my own).
I've thought of every family member. "Some are gone, and some remain", as Mr. Lennon says . . . said. No, says. Just like all these songs speaking to me today. My mama used to like "Teach Your Children" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. My brother, back in the day, had a killer stereo: receiver, turntable, cassette player, three microphones and "Quad" speakers. Family-party time, always including mama, was to get totally blind and sing. My sister's, my brother, myself and our partners would spin C.S.N.& Y. , the Eagles, Poco and others and sing like the stars we'd suddenly become--beer in one hand, mic in other. Rockin' It!
We'd sing along to the LP (thank God), record it all onto the cassette and listen to it the next day. Which was nothing less than wizz-your-pants hysterical. Hard on a hangover.
Still. I will never forget how my mama smiled and cried whenever we sang "Teach Your Children", always requesting encores. I loved my mama deeply, but, by her own admission, was not the greatest mother. So, I always wondered if she'd really listened to the words of that song. And now that I'm a mother, I think she did. Probably hoping we'd notice that she 'got it'. For us to know that her life hadn't been easy, and that she did the best she could.
I listened, Mama.
This radio show has brought back old loves and bad ones. My first love and first broken heart. The first time I was "flashed". A lot of songs (LP's) wrap around some of the best vacations I've ever taken. Right now, they're playing "Exile on Mainstreet". Great album, but at the time I was without a home and sleeping at a friend's house with her sister's two kids. Still, I was a kid myself: 17. Not a care in the world. Right.
Anyhow--I could go on and on, but I'm saving stuff for my NEXT BOOK! Yes, I will finish the one I'm on.
Memorial Day is for remembering, and I enjoyed myself. Music is my favorite way to travel. (I think that's a Moody Blues song. Damn, thought I came up with that on my own).
Friday, May 20, 2011
Update on The Mansions.
I researched The Mansions haunted history online. The owner's name was Richard Chambers; one of his two nieces (who did indeed hate one another) was named Claudia. It was Claudia who died in a bloody "farm accident" which cut her body in half.
The Mansions I experienced was beautiful with its peeling paint on the porch, too many indoor plants and cobwebbed corners on the vaulted ceilings. Bald spots shined on the red velvet curtain edges, and the smells of old mahogany and sweet flowers sent goosebumps up my back. 19th Century rich folks had lived there, died and left all their gaudy "stuff" along with a few of their souls. I'm sad it's gone, apparently along with it's amazing history.
Gonna keep looking for those pictures I took. Keep checking here; maybe you'll get to share in a piece of Haunted San Francisco.
There were no pictures of the family that I could locate. The only photo I could find of The Mansions itself is the one to the left a remodeled front-view taken by a realtor. While the listing does mention the home is haunted, it quickly goes on to describe how it's been "painstakingly reformed to its previous glory".
But not in my eyes. It pretty much looks like any other "new and improved", cookie-cutter Victorian home.
The Mansions I experienced was beautiful with its peeling paint on the porch, too many indoor plants and cobwebbed corners on the vaulted ceilings. Bald spots shined on the red velvet curtain edges, and the smells of old mahogany and sweet flowers sent goosebumps up my back. 19th Century rich folks had lived there, died and left all their gaudy "stuff" along with a few of their souls. I'm sad it's gone, apparently along with it's amazing history.
Gonna keep looking for those pictures I took. Keep checking here; maybe you'll get to share in a piece of Haunted San Francisco.
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