a response to a comment on a waaay cool blog :
I can't be satisfied with plain old PMS, I have to be a Zebra on the North American grassland and have PMDD Pre Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder. But you are correct when you say that is a time for truth-trekking. It is Persephone's descent into Hades in winter while the land above is barren bleak hopeless...until refreshed with drops of precious menstrual blood.
Each month since I was 12 I've gone into the deepest depressions around the time of my period, but never attributed them to PMS or anything except my own bad mood, bad attitude, bang BANG maxwell's silver hammer came down upon my head--and I was the one wielding it.
Funny how long it took me to put two and two together and get the connection. What helped was the blessed sense of light, joy, relief, "everything will be okay-ness" that poured over me soon after the first drops of blood appeared on my panties.
It can still catch me off-guard. I just recently had some slow hip-grinding dances with Death before I realized what was going on.
NO I don't want this. NOT YET. But Death wanted me and tried to seduce me like it has throughout my life.
Thanks so much for sharing the blood and the mess that we need to muck around in to get to the truth. I mean, if you're too prissy to get your hands dirty digging, how will you ever expect to get to the truth? It doesn't grow on trees, no,
truth is buried deep in the earth under the trees, nourishing the roots, feeding the whole system. Mud. Dirt. Blood. Love. It's all mixed up in the same package.
If you can't stand to get your hands dirty, how will you ever find true love? You will always have a pretty but empty candy box--chocolate melts and so gets dirty, so no chocolate for you, Missie.
Whilst we are dying for love, needing it like we need the next breath of air we take. Needing it and repulsed by it and afraid and angry it has to be this way and why bring this up can't you just look at the pretty empty card and box and be happy?
No. I can't.
Well, it's not that I can't. It's that I can't anymore.
In a Woman's Room Marilyn French talks about the disconnect between the ideal crystal clear light feminine in our culture and the sweat-soaked, fluids-covered, moaning in ecstasy full-fleshed creature in her natural environment: the temple of sex.
Virgin birth indeed. What an insult. What a dangerous concept. The horror.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Southern Cross with lyrics - Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
I've always wondered: when you see that Southern Cross for the First Time...Then what? I never really heard any of the other lyrics. When I did see the Southern Cross for the first time, pointed out to me by my now ex-spouse as we stood on the dock of our new home in the Florida Keys, finally close enough to the equator, far enough south, far enough Away, to see it. Only very close to the horizon and only certain times of the year (I was not the astronomer of the family so I can't be more specific) can you see the Southern Cross from the Florida Keys, Southernmost City in continental US
It was about moving on. Detaching. In the Buddhist sense. Going Away. Leaving.
But I didn't know it then. Now, the spirit calls me like the horns of Jericho and I cover my ears and cry. Tear down that wall, you fool. Tear it down. Tear it down.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Meet, Eat and Hear a Great Guest Speaker at the Key West Botanical Garden Tues., Feb. 1st at 6:00 PM
But not necessarily in that order, one would hope. Sort of ruins the point of the guest speaker.
But a fine sacrifice for the new garden and I for one am PROUD of the Botanical Garden for admitting they are not too craven to perform the Ultimate Sacrificial Ceremony to the Gods of Fertility to make their gardens grow.
(I wondered what mistletoe was doing growing in a sub-tropical garden)
Nom nom nom nom-- can I bring my pussycats? What a treat for the little Bastlings!!
Merry meat!
But a fine sacrifice for the new garden and I for one am PROUD of the Botanical Garden for admitting they are not too craven to perform the Ultimate Sacrificial Ceremony to the Gods of Fertility to make their gardens grow.
(I wondered what mistletoe was doing growing in a sub-tropical garden)
Nom nom nom nom-- can I bring my pussycats? What a treat for the little Bastlings!!
Merry meat!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Salutory Hint 2
When you come to realize you are surrounded by scoundrels and thieves, instead of getting mad or afraid, befriend these folk all the closer and study them. Learn from them. You can use their techniques, honorably, of course, for the better good of all. Just like Robin Hood.
Listening to a CD on how to make your life work, how to be successful, loving, healthy, prosperous, etc etc... I suddenly realized: He's teaching me how to be a con man.
After my initial outrage, I started to think. Better to know how these peeps manipulate, learn what they say to make other people believe their dubious words-- or how they say it (loudly and often?) And even practice it yourself, though when I've been successful at such a manipu...persuasion...I feel sick in the heart. Exhausted. Terrified of the exhilaration of success. Because my success depends upon your failure. oh, sure, it's a nice concept--room for everyone at the table. And I don't like to see peeps left out in the cold. But truly, is there enough firewood to go around? Or will we burn it up and be left with nothing and no chance for the human race at all because humans reproduce faster than trees.
So, really. It's better to have the elite few share the precious resources, protect them from the stupid hoards who would squander them, only dole them out as required to keep the peeps pacified: bread and circuses...don't skimp nor begrudge either because that's when rebellion rears its inevitable head. When lack becomes unbearable. But a good song and a reasonably full belly will keep most of us happy enough not to risk losing the small flicker of happiness we are allotted -- while the few elite wolves gorge themselves on the supposedly rare and endangered.
So okay it's no bad thing it's just how life is. We all make choices. We make distinctions. As we age we become more discerning, that's if we're willing to keep learning. Once we know enough we're doomed.
So I'll never really know, not even the heart of my own motivations. I love to believe I'm motivated by good, love for all of us equally. All of us with our different gifts, all needed. And then there's me laughing in the bushes...at my earnest crystal pure loving self. Snickering. It won't let go. It won't give up. You are flesh you shit you touch... Can he stay? Of course he can, and must.
All light? Nothing is seen. Shadow is needed to create a scene, a story, a life. Chiaroscuro shadow and light. Fingerprints and snowflakes. But when the shadow lifts a girl up and out of the world so she misses? Misses... so so very much?
Listening to a CD on how to make your life work, how to be successful, loving, healthy, prosperous, etc etc... I suddenly realized: He's teaching me how to be a con man.
After my initial outrage, I started to think. Better to know how these peeps manipulate, learn what they say to make other people believe their dubious words-- or how they say it (loudly and often?) And even practice it yourself, though when I've been successful at such a manipu...persuasion...I feel sick in the heart. Exhausted. Terrified of the exhilaration of success. Because my success depends upon your failure. oh, sure, it's a nice concept--room for everyone at the table. And I don't like to see peeps left out in the cold. But truly, is there enough firewood to go around? Or will we burn it up and be left with nothing and no chance for the human race at all because humans reproduce faster than trees.
So, really. It's better to have the elite few share the precious resources, protect them from the stupid hoards who would squander them, only dole them out as required to keep the peeps pacified: bread and circuses...don't skimp nor begrudge either because that's when rebellion rears its inevitable head. When lack becomes unbearable. But a good song and a reasonably full belly will keep most of us happy enough not to risk losing the small flicker of happiness we are allotted -- while the few elite wolves gorge themselves on the supposedly rare and endangered.
So okay it's no bad thing it's just how life is. We all make choices. We make distinctions. As we age we become more discerning, that's if we're willing to keep learning. Once we know enough we're doomed.
So I'll never really know, not even the heart of my own motivations. I love to believe I'm motivated by good, love for all of us equally. All of us with our different gifts, all needed. And then there's me laughing in the bushes...at my earnest crystal pure loving self. Snickering. It won't let go. It won't give up. You are flesh you shit you touch... Can he stay? Of course he can, and must.
All light? Nothing is seen. Shadow is needed to create a scene, a story, a life. Chiaroscuro shadow and light. Fingerprints and snowflakes. But when the shadow lifts a girl up and out of the world so she misses? Misses... so so very much?
Take My Advice: I'm Not Using It: Salutory Hint 1
Take My Advice: I'm Not Using It: Salutory Hint 1: "There is nothing so important it cannot be blown off when the creative urge strikes. There will never again be that waft of night-blooming j..."
Friday, January 21, 2011
Now Add Lupus to the Mix and give it a good stir?
Just read an article about lupus. My MD says I have symptoms of Lupus but not enough for clear diagnosis (all tests aren't in yet, however). I'm like this auto-immune stew roiling and mucking and making me feel like I'm wearing a full set of medieval armor just trying to get up out of bed. I don't like to complain because I believe in the power of the mind to influence your physical health, but peeps are wanting me to come out and play and I just hate having to keep saying no, or saying yes and having thorns in my knees and feet and having to stop and collapse in a chair or use my walker or yadda yadda yadda...
I wasn't allowed to complain AT ALL during my marriage. My husband (also disabled) told me he was sick of hearing it. So no moans, groans, or whimpers. One day after I put his TED stockings (tight tight hard to put on) on his legs I sat down on the opposite side of the bed and silently cried. Couldn't help it. He noticed, "What are you crying for"?
"Because I'm in pain, dummy. Now how would you like your eggs?"
It's hard for me to grasp the concept that I am FREE and while I can't afford to have people clean my house regularly like I did or bathe and dress me (not absolutely necessary, but a little assistance would cut my daily wash/groom by about 5 hours or so) It's not easy brushing your teeth in a full set of armor. Or like the Tin Man.
I think Tracy Chapman wrote a song about the Tin Man I used to love.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBZvSvpUX58
I wasn't allowed to complain AT ALL during my marriage. My husband (also disabled) told me he was sick of hearing it. So no moans, groans, or whimpers. One day after I put his TED stockings (tight tight hard to put on) on his legs I sat down on the opposite side of the bed and silently cried. Couldn't help it. He noticed, "What are you crying for"?
"Because I'm in pain, dummy. Now how would you like your eggs?"
It's hard for me to grasp the concept that I am FREE and while I can't afford to have people clean my house regularly like I did or bathe and dress me (not absolutely necessary, but a little assistance would cut my daily wash/groom by about 5 hours or so) It's not easy brushing your teeth in a full set of armor. Or like the Tin Man.
I think Tracy Chapman wrote a song about the Tin Man I used to love.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBZvSvpUX58
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Salutory Hint 1
There is nothing so important it cannot be blown off when the creative urge strikes. There will never again be that waft of night-blooming jasmine on that breeze the exact temperature of your hot skin air moving so softly and wet it grabs hold of you like clay on a potter's wheel tight, embraced.
Oh, where was I? Yes, introducing you to my new blog. I've found in my years working as a psychiatric RN, plus even more years in therapy or, as my family so amusingly refers to them "loony bins".
Yes, I've spent considerable time on both sides of the desk. As have more health care professionals than you might care to think about. I suppose it's not too smart for me to publicly admit I play both sides of the fence. But because I'm permanently disabled per the generous state of Florida (and it only took them six years to make that decision. If I were not fortunate enough to be married at the time and supported (grudgingly) by my (now) ex pose (now THAT is a typo--or a Freudian slip I will let STET) I meant by my own ex souse (ZZZOMG--I swear to you on my honor I did NOT mean to typo again, but holy cannolli--another Freudian typo to let STET, and my poor abused ex SPOUSE (phew!)
I tend to wander down odd tangents (to wander--to wanda--ToWANDA!!) Anyone remember that from Fried Green Tomatoes? (I think) There's a little town in northern Pennsylvania called Towanda. Not far from where I was born, grew up, and lived for 20 some years. I suppose I was never supposed to leave there, because I had (still have, probably), a plot of ground for my carcass. Or maybe I'm mis-remembering;
Where I come from is a hard coal (Anthracite) region. When I was growing up it was like a time warp, like 30 years behind the times. We are a tough people, but the problem with hardness is the harder something gets, generally, the more brittle it becomes. I've seen our type of people become so hard they crack, just crack up one day--oh, I guess that was me.
Ok, then, this is a journal-sort about change. The changes I had to go through to make it past the brittle stage and onto...well, that's what I'm discovering. There's a core of something and its solid, tough but not fragile
Good nite afore I fall to sleep with laptop in lap, then wake up forgetting, and spill life's work on hardwood floor...nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnv vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
oops too late, did drift off there; no harm done; Macbook intack. Thank Bast. Bast looks out for little kittens and fools...and I rest safely in her warm paws;
meow
Oh, where was I? Yes, introducing you to my new blog. I've found in my years working as a psychiatric RN, plus even more years in therapy or, as my family so amusingly refers to them "loony bins".
Yes, I've spent considerable time on both sides of the desk. As have more health care professionals than you might care to think about. I suppose it's not too smart for me to publicly admit I play both sides of the fence. But because I'm permanently disabled per the generous state of Florida (and it only took them six years to make that decision. If I were not fortunate enough to be married at the time and supported (grudgingly) by my (now) ex pose (now THAT is a typo--or a Freudian slip I will let STET) I meant by my own ex souse (ZZZOMG--I swear to you on my honor I did NOT mean to typo again, but holy cannolli--another Freudian typo to let STET, and my poor abused ex SPOUSE (phew!)
I tend to wander down odd tangents (to wander--to wanda--ToWANDA!!) Anyone remember that from Fried Green Tomatoes? (I think) There's a little town in northern Pennsylvania called Towanda. Not far from where I was born, grew up, and lived for 20 some years. I suppose I was never supposed to leave there, because I had (still have, probably), a plot of ground for my carcass. Or maybe I'm mis-remembering;
Where I come from is a hard coal (Anthracite) region. When I was growing up it was like a time warp, like 30 years behind the times. We are a tough people, but the problem with hardness is the harder something gets, generally, the more brittle it becomes. I've seen our type of people become so hard they crack, just crack up one day--oh, I guess that was me.
Ok, then, this is a journal-sort about change. The changes I had to go through to make it past the brittle stage and onto...well, that's what I'm discovering. There's a core of something and its solid, tough but not fragile
Good nite afore I fall to sleep with laptop in lap, then wake up forgetting, and spill life's work on hardwood floor...nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnv vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
oops too late, did drift off there; no harm done; Macbook intack. Thank Bast. Bast looks out for little kittens and fools...and I rest safely in her warm paws;
meow
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)