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| violet cardoon at high noon the gardens at lake merritt, oakland, ca |
Sunday, December 2, 2018
How Great is Depression and How Long is Anxiety
So I thought it would be a worthy endeavour-- at this point-- to present a simple explanation of how I perceive depression and anxiety.
Then the wheels came off my will to post anything and once again I fell short of my goal of posting between the 9th and the 23rd of each month.
We’ll get it right in time.
This is not the complete reflection on the dual affliction of depression and anxiety but it will have to suffice for the moment.
Also, I’ve not studied psychology or psychiatry, so I do not know whether my characterization duplicates some other thinker's writings-- but I’m sure my impression is solely my impression.
My characterization may seem simplistic and possibly cliched but... bear with me.
Anxiety: an Affliction of the Perception of Time
A family member shared with me an account of the first occasion on which she noted that her mother might be suffering from some sort of mental illness-- which did in fact turn out to be Alzheimer's Disease.
On a completely mundane day out shopping with her mom, she walked away for three minutes and when she returned your mother was in a state of panic.
Alzheimer's Disease of course is not Anxiety but her account nevertheless led me to wonder whether the nature of anxiety might have something to do with the inability to fix a beginning point and then end point in one’s reasonable perception of time.
Someone who's anxious may in fact regard thirty minutes as a year-- not realistically, of course,and not rationally. But being left waiting for an anxious person approaches being unendurable. One can learn now to suppress this sort of anxiety but if one who has anxiety is told a task was just take three minute, if they have no way of a fixing to starting point to that amount of time, they enter an uncertain realm wherein time is a joke.
Depression: an Affliction of the Perception of Space
What pairs well with time?
Yes, that’s right: space!
And since I was anxious to have a similar definitive description of depression, I examined whether I perceived depression as a disorder in my perception of space.
I do know that a depressed person-- take me for example-- by my disordered nature instinctively overestimates the load they have to bear and the distance they have to travel.
So frequently-- not always though-- a mere trip from my bedroom to the kitchen to get a drink of water can seem as daunting as carrying a ton of weight over the distance of a mile.
This miscalculation is naturally followed by the unanswered question “….and for what purpose?”
I will continue to extrapolate on this basic premise as possible but the gist of my message today is this: To me depression and anxiety are best defined as a internal inability to adequately objectively and reasonably judge the distance to travel the burden to bear or the time to budget to accomplish anything... and the anguish which results from this failure.
-----------------------
MORE TO FOLLOW
-----------------------
Self assessment
-----------------------
I began this on a Monday and by Friday still hadn't been able to continue work on it. Now it is Sunday and I'm finally posting. As the week progressed I began to obsess on the fact that, although what I intend to write is as precise a definition of my experience of depression and anxiety that I can recount, my definition may differ from other's experiences or a textbook definition.
I'm also thoroughly disgusted by the utter twisting of my intended words that my voice to text executes. To dictate text pertaining to personal experiences and then to read its nonsensical shambles of transcription-- for me-- is to feel profound failure.
On top of this challenge, note here another nasty pitfall of mental illness.
Sufferers are compelled to keep quiet because they fear that the symptoms they are confronting don't conform to a textbook definition and aren't easily understood by others.
As for this post, I'm going to have to resort to the strategy I used previously-- post what I have done and promise “MORE TO FOLLOW”.
Hey, it's something-- and something is better than nothing.
Then the wheels came off my will to post anything and once again I fell short of my goal of posting between the 9th and the 23rd of each month.
We’ll get it right in time.
This is not the complete reflection on the dual affliction of depression and anxiety but it will have to suffice for the moment.
Also, I’ve not studied psychology or psychiatry, so I do not know whether my characterization duplicates some other thinker's writings-- but I’m sure my impression is solely my impression.
My characterization may seem simplistic and possibly cliched but... bear with me.
Anxiety: an Affliction of the Perception of Time
A family member shared with me an account of the first occasion on which she noted that her mother might be suffering from some sort of mental illness-- which did in fact turn out to be Alzheimer's Disease.
On a completely mundane day out shopping with her mom, she walked away for three minutes and when she returned your mother was in a state of panic.
Alzheimer's Disease of course is not Anxiety but her account nevertheless led me to wonder whether the nature of anxiety might have something to do with the inability to fix a beginning point and then end point in one’s reasonable perception of time.
Someone who's anxious may in fact regard thirty minutes as a year-- not realistically, of course,and not rationally. But being left waiting for an anxious person approaches being unendurable. One can learn now to suppress this sort of anxiety but if one who has anxiety is told a task was just take three minute, if they have no way of a fixing to starting point to that amount of time, they enter an uncertain realm wherein time is a joke.
Depression: an Affliction of the Perception of Space
What pairs well with time?
Yes, that’s right: space!
And since I was anxious to have a similar definitive description of depression, I examined whether I perceived depression as a disorder in my perception of space.
I do know that a depressed person-- take me for example-- by my disordered nature instinctively overestimates the load they have to bear and the distance they have to travel.
So frequently-- not always though-- a mere trip from my bedroom to the kitchen to get a drink of water can seem as daunting as carrying a ton of weight over the distance of a mile.
This miscalculation is naturally followed by the unanswered question “….and for what purpose?”
I will continue to extrapolate on this basic premise as possible but the gist of my message today is this: To me depression and anxiety are best defined as a internal inability to adequately objectively and reasonably judge the distance to travel the burden to bear or the time to budget to accomplish anything... and the anguish which results from this failure.
-----------------------
MORE TO FOLLOW
-----------------------
Self assessment
-----------------------
I began this on a Monday and by Friday still hadn't been able to continue work on it. Now it is Sunday and I'm finally posting. As the week progressed I began to obsess on the fact that, although what I intend to write is as precise a definition of my experience of depression and anxiety that I can recount, my definition may differ from other's experiences or a textbook definition.
I'm also thoroughly disgusted by the utter twisting of my intended words that my voice to text executes. To dictate text pertaining to personal experiences and then to read its nonsensical shambles of transcription-- for me-- is to feel profound failure.
On top of this challenge, note here another nasty pitfall of mental illness.
Sufferers are compelled to keep quiet because they fear that the symptoms they are confronting don't conform to a textbook definition and aren't easily understood by others.
As for this post, I'm going to have to resort to the strategy I used previously-- post what I have done and promise “MORE TO FOLLOW”.
Hey, it's something-- and something is better than nothing.
Monday, November 19, 2018
The Secret of the Hummus
I previously mentioned that "What I Thought" would include recipes. Here's one:
"The Secret of the Hummus"
Canned garbanzo beans -- or you can cook them from raw.
(Cooking the garbanzos
Into a crock pot add:
As many garbanzos as you'd like to cook,
A medium sized onion, quartered
Several stalks of celery, with leaves, use inner stalks)
Several cloves of garlic
2-3 Bay Leaves
Cook in crock pot until beans are tender, drain beans and remove bay leaves, onion and celery -- it's no great disaster if small bits of celery and onion move on in the recipe, but make sure you get all or most of the bay leaves.
I've also added roasted cumin and coriander seed in the cooking of the garbanzos, those can move on in the recipe. Proceed with the following ingredients:)
Garlic (a lot)
Olive oil (copious amounts)
Cumin (plenty)
Ground coriander (I use a former TJ's sea salt grinder with coriander seeds in it)
Dried Oregano (watch out for the stems on the little leaves)
The juice of at least two lemons...
Sesame tahini
Salt
Infuse olive oil with roasted garlic... roast garlic cloves on a hot surface. You can use the floor of a clean oven, cookie sheet, or a skillet in an oven at 375 degrees. When cloves are slightly browned, or even a little charred, remove them, cover with salt and smash into a paste in a bowl. Use as much garlic as you like. Cover with olive oil, and let sit while garlic infuses into oil.
Drain garbanzos.
Combine in a large bowl: garbanzos, olive oil (Reserve some garlic infused olive oil), garlic, oregano, cumin, ground coriander, lemon juice and salt.
Let this mixture sit for awhile (could be days in the fridge....)
Blend the marinated garbanzos, and spices in blender or food processor, with sesame tahini (Note: exercise restraint with tahini-- too much will impart a peanut-buttery flavor to the hummus).
As you are blending, add garlic-infused olive oil, lemon juice, salt and cumin to taste.
(If a kick is desired, white pepper can be added.)
--------------------
Self assessment
This recipe was pre-written as a Facebook Note. Insomnia had me awake early but fatigue nevertheless made copying and pasting difficult and stressful.
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
Karaoke Tunes - Someone to Watch Over Me
It gives me no small amount of sadness that two voices that I've known and appreciated for years have been stilled even though the women who utilized these instruments are still alive.
Both sang a wide variety of songs-- my next favorite karaoke tune is one they both have performed.
The song is "Someone to Watch Over Me" and the vocalists are Julie Andrews, who no longer sings as the result of a botched vocal cord surgery, and Linda Ronstadt who no longer sings as a result of Parkinson's Disease.
The first time I recall hearing "Someone to Watch Over Me" was in this scene from Woody Allen's "Manhattan":
https://youtu.be/AsbdW6ZTFBs
The beautiful imagery of this scene was perfectly underscored by an orchestral arrangement of George Gershwin's poignant melody which I instantly loved.
I had no idea at the time that I would become as fond of Ira Gershwin's lyric.
Andrews's performance of STWOM is from her much-lambasted Gertrude Lawrence biopic "Star".
I've seen the film (or some chopped up version of it) on TV; generally, I'd describe the film "huh" dragged out past the point of "meh".
Below is a link to a clip of her performance of STWOM.
Honestly, while I recall Andrews-as-Lawrence's performance of Kurt Weill & Ira Gershwin's "The Saga of Jenny", I have no recollection of her rendition of STWOM, or even the scene's context in the film.
Ronstadt's version is from her first album of standards, conducted and arranged by Nelson Riddle.
Over their careers, the performances of both artists have demonstrated great technical skill but inconsistent emotional expression.
For example, Andrews's "Feed the Birds" from "Mary Poppins" and Ronstadt's "Love Has No Pride", among other performance" genuinely move me.
Sadly, neither of these takes on STWOM feels right to me.
I invite you however to give both performances a listen. Please share your opinions of either or both recordings. Maybe I'm
missing an epiphany....
Inconsequential and Possibly Gratuitous Personal Note: When I sing STWOM, I make one lyric change. The idea of referring to myself as a "lost lamb" feels ridiculous, so this Aries pronounces himself a "lost ram".
Same species; approximately equivalent pathos.
--------------------------------------------------------
I don't own the rights to this song or these performances.
These links are offered to facilitate an appreciation of the song. named.
Someone to Watch Over Me - Julie Andrews
https://youtu.be/QKvnUGSNbys
Someone to Watch Over Me - Linda Ronstadt
https://youtu.be/_wzuAyAdecc
--------------------------------------------
Self Assessment
This post went in a much different direction than I first planned and took far too long for me to complete.
I attribute this to my focusing on preparing some dishes around the Thanksgiving holiday and my inability to focus on two endeavors simultaneously.
Nevertheless they're done now.
Both sang a wide variety of songs-- my next favorite karaoke tune is one they both have performed.
The first time I recall hearing "Someone to Watch Over Me" was in this scene from Woody Allen's "Manhattan":
https://youtu.be/AsbdW6ZTFBs
The beautiful imagery of this scene was perfectly underscored by an orchestral arrangement of George Gershwin's poignant melody which I instantly loved.
I had no idea at the time that I would become as fond of Ira Gershwin's lyric.
Andrews's performance of STWOM is from her much-lambasted Gertrude Lawrence biopic "Star".
I've seen the film (or some chopped up version of it) on TV; generally, I'd describe the film "huh" dragged out past the point of "meh".
Below is a link to a clip of her performance of STWOM.
Honestly, while I recall Andrews-as-Lawrence's performance of Kurt Weill & Ira Gershwin's "The Saga of Jenny", I have no recollection of her rendition of STWOM, or even the scene's context in the film.
Ronstadt's version is from her first album of standards, conducted and arranged by Nelson Riddle.
Over their careers, the performances of both artists have demonstrated great technical skill but inconsistent emotional expression.
For example, Andrews's "Feed the Birds" from "Mary Poppins" and Ronstadt's "Love Has No Pride", among other performance" genuinely move me.
Sadly, neither of these takes on STWOM feels right to me.
I invite you however to give both performances a listen. Please share your opinions of either or both recordings. Maybe I'm
missing an epiphany....
Inconsequential and Possibly Gratuitous Personal Note: When I sing STWOM, I make one lyric change. The idea of referring to myself as a "lost lamb" feels ridiculous, so this Aries pronounces himself a "lost ram".
Same species; approximately equivalent pathos.
--------------------------------------------------------
I don't own the rights to this song or these performances.
These links are offered to facilitate an appreciation of the song. named.
Someone to Watch Over Me - Julie Andrews
https://youtu.be/QKvnUGSNbys
Someone to Watch Over Me - Linda Ronstadt
https://youtu.be/_wzuAyAdecc
--------------------------------------------
Self Assessment
This post went in a much different direction than I first planned and took far too long for me to complete.
I attribute this to my focusing on preparing some dishes around the Thanksgiving holiday and my inability to focus on two endeavors simultaneously.
Nevertheless they're done now.
Alabama
Updated & Completed - Nov. 18, 2018
I want to assert that-- even though my previous post about Iowa featured a preface of hapless misadventure-- no conclusion should be drawn from the fact that my visit to the state of Alabama also begins inauspiciously.
For one, I enjoyed Alabama far more than I did Iowa….
When I was planning my trip to Alabama I asked a Birmingham-knowledgeable friend, Julie Walsh, to recommend where to go and what to do. Julie was immensely helpful (as is her nature). I still have her extensive document with great options of things to do while in Birmingham.
I regret to say I didn't go to all the places or do all the activities Julie recommended. But I feel I struck gold with the one recommendation I followed through with-- which was literally a dream.
How I Got There and What Happened on the Way
What happened to me on my way to Birmingham could have happened to anyone. My flight itinerary was custom created to permit me an Amtrak sleeper car voyage from Birmingham to NYC, whence I'd go visit my parents. So I booked round-trip air from SFO to JFK.
Late in October 2013, I flew on a red-eye flight to Kennedy Airport, then took a cobbled-together series of brief flights JFK to Dulles, Dulles to ATL and ATL to BHM. At SFO, JFK and IAD I had to pass through TSA so I had my ID out. By the time I was in a cab in BHM, I realized my ID was MIA.
Could happen to anyone. How do you check in to a hotel without ID? Well, here's where an early arrival helps. You say to the front desk clerk “I'm arriving today, I've misplaced my ID, I hope to have a friend fax a copy of my passport to your attention, would that suffice for the ID required? In this case the answer was “yes”.
My dear friend Robin Dolan was able enter my apartment, where she located my passport (It pays to keep your passport in one easily described location). From there she was able to make a copy of the passport, fax it to the hotel in Birmingham and then-- dear heart that she is-- she FedExed the envelope to my parents' address (It helps-- when your driver's license is already lost--- to be headed ultimately to a destination where you are comfortable having your passport sent).
This concludes my tales of calamitous arrivals to destinations-- with the one exception to be told in the near future....that of the Trip to the Other Four Letter Destination.
The Birmingham Experience
16th Street Baptist Church / Kelly Ingram Park
Alabama’s and Birmingham's history entails anguished occurrences from which sense and purpose need to be drawn and empathy needs to be applied.
As a White man I cannot know the pain of racial discrimination or the terror of ethically motivated violence but travel and contemplation can bring anyone further understanding of that which one lacks firsthand knowledge.
On the afternoon of the day I arrived, I went to respectfully pay a pilgrimage to the 16th Street Baptist Church where, in 1963, four young girls were murdered by a racist’s bomb.
The area seemed deserted that Saturday afternoon I visited. With few people around, a stillness pervaded the area that italicized the moment's solemnity for me.
The 16th Street Baptist Church wasn't open. If it were, I may have not ventured to enter, as I don't regard places of worship tourist destinations. One can make an intentional and possibly secular pilgrimage to a church for a service, but walking into such a place at an odd hour is not something I'd do.
It was sufficient for me to walk the sidewalk beside the church and sense the energy of prayer, hope, tragedy and resilience that reside in the structure.
Cattycorner to the church, at the edge of the four-acre Kelly Ingram Park is a statue of the young martyrs, girls depicted in joyful play. The spot served as another point for quiet contemplation.
Other statuary in Kelly Ingram Park contains other statuary commemorating moments in Alabaman images of my nation's continuing slow process to grant all their civil rights . One piece I recall brilliantly captured a widely viewed historical moment of desperation as it made me a participant in that moment.
As I walked along a path in the park I approached a wall with a doorway cut in it. Through the doorway I could see a distant statue of a lone firehose on a stand pointing towards the door.
As I passed through the doorway, on either side there were statues of figures crouching and thrown against the wall as if by the violent force of the firehose's spray. In that moment my own balance faltered, so real was the power of the imagined space of the statuary.
A Trip to Dreamland (I've Never Been to Jupiter….)
Every time I'm in Berkeley I remember once hearing work colleague who lives there say, “Thursday night I went to Jupiter...." (Jupiter is a bar/restaurant on Shattuck Street in Berkeley.)
I've actually been to THAT Jupiter and-- on my visit to Birmingham-- I had the pleasure of visiting Dreamland.
One of Julie Walsh’s recommendations about where to find good BBQ in Birmingham was an establishment named Dreamland.
On the Sunday I was in the city I ate breakfast around 11am. I went back to my hotel, and checked out because I was spending my second night at another hotel, and stashed my bags with the bellman. I planned a leisurely walk to lunch at Dreamland but misjudged the length of the walk there….
At 12:45pm, there I was in Dreamland-- shamelessly eating lunch only and hour after finishing breakfast. I recall ordering ribs and chicken, mac and cheese, potato salad and sweet tea-- all delicious.
I sat at the establishment's bar and-- as I was dining alone-- I became engrossed in the several NFL games which played on multiple TV screens. I might have stayed longer but after two rapid-fire meals I was painfully in need of a nap, which would require my checking into my new hotel.
So, off I went. Miles to go before I napped.
What is this Commemorative Plaque commemorating?
Sometimes in my travels I will see something which is quite typical and then wonder about how atypical it might be.
When I think of having seen what I saw where I did and when I did, I suddenly feel feel the need to go back and double check to see whether or not I actually saw what I saw.
One such discovery that I will have to double check someday is in Birmingham.
After I checked in to my second hotel of my two night stay, I really couldn't nap so I went for a walk.
As I meandered the sidewalk, I noticed a commemorative plaque on the side of a building. The plaque commemorated the nation's first Veterans Day Parade, it said, which was held in Birmingham one day in the late 1800s.
My first thought about what I saw is “Hmm, interesting; that's a nice piece of trivia.”
My next thought was to try to picture what that parade looked like.
Then it occurred to me that in the late 1800s, the majority of veterans living in Alabama actually were individuals who had not fought for the United States.
While a veteran's Day Parade may seem both worthy and innocuous, a gathering of individuals who had fought for the Confederate States of America might actually be more terroristic than nostalgic to many of the citizens of Birmingham.
I do wonder about that parade-- who attended that day and who felt it would be best to keep the hell off the street and out of downtown Birmingham.
A Lecture at the Local LGBT Establishment
Sunday evening I went looking for Birmingham's nightlife. I tend to go out early-- when I do go out-- but if this was a typical Sunday night in Birmingham there is no nightlife there.
The establishment I went into had not much going on-- just about 6 guy sitting around a U-shaped bar. I ordered a cocktail and sat there listening to the lively conversation. I wasn't eavesdropping as the discussion was sufficiently loud that it was impossible not to hear every word. As I recall, there wasn't even any music playing.
Out of the blue one of the fellows who was talking-- in fact the one was talking the most: a White fellow-- suddenly used in passing, completely comfortably, the N-word.
I was ambivalent about the company in the bar up until the moment the fellows that the word he did. Then ambivalence went out the window. I finish my drink quickly and I left.
Another spot was about a mile away down the street away so I walked the distance this next place was a bit more lively but I guess I wasn't really in and overall mood to socialize. I didn't hang out there too long either.
It was one cocktail and out, but at least I wasn't being propelled by the classless comments of an ignorant fool.
On my way back, since I was going to go by the first establishment on my way to my hotel, I thought I might stop in again and see if the scenery had changed, as well as the dialogue.
It hadn't. By the time I realized it hadn’t, I was already in the door and had twelve sets of eyeballs on me. So, I sat down and I ordered a drink.
I had the drink for only a minute or so, when Mr. Ignorant Fool inquired, “So, did you leave earlier because I said (the N-word)?”
I said, “Yes”.
He spoke as if he was the most reasonable person alive but I could tell he was offended that anyone would reject his company. He asked if I was from Birmingham.
I replied “No, I'm from Oakland”.
Thus began his mini-lecture: “What you have to understand is that down here we all say (the N-word)-- all of us. Even the (N-word)s. And no one minds because everyone knows what it means. You don't know what it means.”
He was goading me to ask him “what does it mean?”. But I was 100% sure he didn't have a good answer.
I finished my drink and left without another word.
My encounter with this fool was unfortunate and I don't mean to use him as an illustration of the typical Alabaman.
The Alabamans I know are principled, intelligent, caring people. (Perhaps by virtue of the fact that I know them…. Need I say, just kidding…)
I will return to Alabama-- definitely to see the Gulf Coast and to revisit Birmingham, to see if that plaque is still there and if it says what I thought it said, and especially to see any sites or attractions linked to Willie Mays's life and career.
--------------------
Self assessment
I tried to get this done dictating voice to text which naturally meant a hell of a lot of editing and rewriting. (Voice to text heard something I said in the section about my visit to Dreamland “I have boobs boobs” as if I was a weirdly insistent Erin Brockovich.
My general mood makes getting this entirely done impossible at this point but I am anxious (literally) to get some of it up at least…..
I want to assert that-- even though my previous post about Iowa featured a preface of hapless misadventure-- no conclusion should be drawn from the fact that my visit to the state of Alabama also begins inauspiciously.
For one, I enjoyed Alabama far more than I did Iowa….
When I was planning my trip to Alabama I asked a Birmingham-knowledgeable friend, Julie Walsh, to recommend where to go and what to do. Julie was immensely helpful (as is her nature). I still have her extensive document with great options of things to do while in Birmingham.
I regret to say I didn't go to all the places or do all the activities Julie recommended. But I feel I struck gold with the one recommendation I followed through with-- which was literally a dream.
How I Got There and What Happened on the Way
What happened to me on my way to Birmingham could have happened to anyone. My flight itinerary was custom created to permit me an Amtrak sleeper car voyage from Birmingham to NYC, whence I'd go visit my parents. So I booked round-trip air from SFO to JFK.
Late in October 2013, I flew on a red-eye flight to Kennedy Airport, then took a cobbled-together series of brief flights JFK to Dulles, Dulles to ATL and ATL to BHM. At SFO, JFK and IAD I had to pass through TSA so I had my ID out. By the time I was in a cab in BHM, I realized my ID was MIA.
Could happen to anyone. How do you check in to a hotel without ID? Well, here's where an early arrival helps. You say to the front desk clerk “I'm arriving today, I've misplaced my ID, I hope to have a friend fax a copy of my passport to your attention, would that suffice for the ID required? In this case the answer was “yes”.
My dear friend Robin Dolan was able enter my apartment, where she located my passport (It pays to keep your passport in one easily described location). From there she was able to make a copy of the passport, fax it to the hotel in Birmingham and then-- dear heart that she is-- she FedExed the envelope to my parents' address (It helps-- when your driver's license is already lost--- to be headed ultimately to a destination where you are comfortable having your passport sent).
This concludes my tales of calamitous arrivals to destinations-- with the one exception to be told in the near future....that of the Trip to the Other Four Letter Destination.
The Birmingham Experience
16th Street Baptist Church / Kelly Ingram Park
Alabama’s and Birmingham's history entails anguished occurrences from which sense and purpose need to be drawn and empathy needs to be applied.
As a White man I cannot know the pain of racial discrimination or the terror of ethically motivated violence but travel and contemplation can bring anyone further understanding of that which one lacks firsthand knowledge.
On the afternoon of the day I arrived, I went to respectfully pay a pilgrimage to the 16th Street Baptist Church where, in 1963, four young girls were murdered by a racist’s bomb.
The area seemed deserted that Saturday afternoon I visited. With few people around, a stillness pervaded the area that italicized the moment's solemnity for me.
The 16th Street Baptist Church wasn't open. If it were, I may have not ventured to enter, as I don't regard places of worship tourist destinations. One can make an intentional and possibly secular pilgrimage to a church for a service, but walking into such a place at an odd hour is not something I'd do.
It was sufficient for me to walk the sidewalk beside the church and sense the energy of prayer, hope, tragedy and resilience that reside in the structure.
Cattycorner to the church, at the edge of the four-acre Kelly Ingram Park is a statue of the young martyrs, girls depicted in joyful play. The spot served as another point for quiet contemplation.
Other statuary in Kelly Ingram Park contains other statuary commemorating moments in Alabaman images of my nation's continuing slow process to grant all their civil rights . One piece I recall brilliantly captured a widely viewed historical moment of desperation as it made me a participant in that moment.
As I walked along a path in the park I approached a wall with a doorway cut in it. Through the doorway I could see a distant statue of a lone firehose on a stand pointing towards the door.
As I passed through the doorway, on either side there were statues of figures crouching and thrown against the wall as if by the violent force of the firehose's spray. In that moment my own balance faltered, so real was the power of the imagined space of the statuary.
A Trip to Dreamland (I've Never Been to Jupiter….)
Every time I'm in Berkeley I remember once hearing work colleague who lives there say, “Thursday night I went to Jupiter...." (Jupiter is a bar/restaurant on Shattuck Street in Berkeley.)
I've actually been to THAT Jupiter and-- on my visit to Birmingham-- I had the pleasure of visiting Dreamland.
One of Julie Walsh’s recommendations about where to find good BBQ in Birmingham was an establishment named Dreamland.
On the Sunday I was in the city I ate breakfast around 11am. I went back to my hotel, and checked out because I was spending my second night at another hotel, and stashed my bags with the bellman. I planned a leisurely walk to lunch at Dreamland but misjudged the length of the walk there….
At 12:45pm, there I was in Dreamland-- shamelessly eating lunch only and hour after finishing breakfast. I recall ordering ribs and chicken, mac and cheese, potato salad and sweet tea-- all delicious.
I sat at the establishment's bar and-- as I was dining alone-- I became engrossed in the several NFL games which played on multiple TV screens. I might have stayed longer but after two rapid-fire meals I was painfully in need of a nap, which would require my checking into my new hotel.
So, off I went. Miles to go before I napped.
What is this Commemorative Plaque commemorating?
Sometimes in my travels I will see something which is quite typical and then wonder about how atypical it might be.
When I think of having seen what I saw where I did and when I did, I suddenly feel feel the need to go back and double check to see whether or not I actually saw what I saw.
One such discovery that I will have to double check someday is in Birmingham.
After I checked in to my second hotel of my two night stay, I really couldn't nap so I went for a walk.
As I meandered the sidewalk, I noticed a commemorative plaque on the side of a building. The plaque commemorated the nation's first Veterans Day Parade, it said, which was held in Birmingham one day in the late 1800s.
My first thought about what I saw is “Hmm, interesting; that's a nice piece of trivia.”
My next thought was to try to picture what that parade looked like.
Then it occurred to me that in the late 1800s, the majority of veterans living in Alabama actually were individuals who had not fought for the United States.
While a veteran's Day Parade may seem both worthy and innocuous, a gathering of individuals who had fought for the Confederate States of America might actually be more terroristic than nostalgic to many of the citizens of Birmingham.
I do wonder about that parade-- who attended that day and who felt it would be best to keep the hell off the street and out of downtown Birmingham.
A Lecture at the Local LGBT Establishment
Sunday evening I went looking for Birmingham's nightlife. I tend to go out early-- when I do go out-- but if this was a typical Sunday night in Birmingham there is no nightlife there.
The establishment I went into had not much going on-- just about 6 guy sitting around a U-shaped bar. I ordered a cocktail and sat there listening to the lively conversation. I wasn't eavesdropping as the discussion was sufficiently loud that it was impossible not to hear every word. As I recall, there wasn't even any music playing.
Out of the blue one of the fellows who was talking-- in fact the one was talking the most: a White fellow-- suddenly used in passing, completely comfortably, the N-word.
I was ambivalent about the company in the bar up until the moment the fellows that the word he did. Then ambivalence went out the window. I finish my drink quickly and I left.
Another spot was about a mile away down the street away so I walked the distance this next place was a bit more lively but I guess I wasn't really in and overall mood to socialize. I didn't hang out there too long either.
It was one cocktail and out, but at least I wasn't being propelled by the classless comments of an ignorant fool.
On my way back, since I was going to go by the first establishment on my way to my hotel, I thought I might stop in again and see if the scenery had changed, as well as the dialogue.
It hadn't. By the time I realized it hadn’t, I was already in the door and had twelve sets of eyeballs on me. So, I sat down and I ordered a drink.
I had the drink for only a minute or so, when Mr. Ignorant Fool inquired, “So, did you leave earlier because I said (the N-word)?”
I said, “Yes”.
He spoke as if he was the most reasonable person alive but I could tell he was offended that anyone would reject his company. He asked if I was from Birmingham.
I replied “No, I'm from Oakland”.
Thus began his mini-lecture: “What you have to understand is that down here we all say (the N-word)-- all of us. Even the (N-word)s. And no one minds because everyone knows what it means. You don't know what it means.”
He was goading me to ask him “what does it mean?”. But I was 100% sure he didn't have a good answer.
I finished my drink and left without another word.
My encounter with this fool was unfortunate and I don't mean to use him as an illustration of the typical Alabaman.
The Alabamans I know are principled, intelligent, caring people. (Perhaps by virtue of the fact that I know them…. Need I say, just kidding…)
I will return to Alabama-- definitely to see the Gulf Coast and to revisit Birmingham, to see if that plaque is still there and if it says what I thought it said, and especially to see any sites or attractions linked to Willie Mays's life and career.
Self assessment
I tried to get this done dictating voice to text which naturally meant a hell of a lot of editing and rewriting. (Voice to text heard something I said in the section about my visit to Dreamland “I have boobs boobs” as if I was a weirdly insistent Erin Brockovich.
My general mood makes getting this entirely done impossible at this point but I am anxious (literally) to get some of it up at least…..
Saturday, November 10, 2018
The Klutz with the Clots
The Teaser: (composed Nov. 9, 2018)
This first post of November 2018 is a meditation on my uncommon blood and what I did when doctors told me to ingest rat poison and also my recent reflection on being prescribed yet ANOTHER med.
As October 2018 ended and November began, I underwent a medical procedure-- two days later a consultation with medical specialist.
I'm going to write about my consultation with the specialist because you don't want to hear the story of my colonoscopy. (But, believe me, it’s a story…)
I inaugurated this blog's posts last month with comments about my unremarkable brain..
NOTE: Genealogically my blood is as common as anyone’s. What makes the stuff my heart pumps so unusual is its not one-- but two!-- genetic factors which makes it clot really really really well...
My Uncommon Blood
Quite accidentally in July 2010, I ran a test on myself which revealed my blood contained not just the Factor V Leiden clotting factor but also the Factor II. This just means I clot like a beast.
What was the test? Well, I don't really know. Midweek the first week of July I started to have pains in my left calf which I thought might be a charleyhorse, but which I couldn't stretch out.
Yadda yadda yadda -- clots in my lungs which required six days in the hospital.
What I Did when Doctors Told Me to Ingest Rat Poison
Perhaps you all recall those TV commercials with the late Arnold Palmer, comedian Kevin Nealon, basketball great Chris Bosch and some NASCAR star? They were advertising a prescription drug which helps folks with really clotty blood like mine.
Was I prescribed this medication? No. In 2010, my health insurance wouldn't pay for THAT medication.
Instead I was prescribed Wonder Drug of the 1950's: Warfarin.
Some of the details in the following History of Warfarin may be incorrect but basically:
1) Scientists develop a substance
2) Scientist test substance on rats
3) Rats die of internal hemmoraging
4) Substance marketed as rat poison
5) Demand for rat poison wanes
6) Some nut decides substance can be used to treat folks with blood that clots like a beast if the people taking the substance can adhere to dietary limitations and, since those folks usually die really quickly anyway,...
7) Wonder drug Warfarin introduced
Sixty years later-- I was told to ingest rat posion and given ridiculously impossible dietary restrictions to follow involving the intake of Vitamin K. Since the drug was introduced in back when men had wives who stayed at home (or cooks) who planned their meals, no problem looking out for that pesky Vitamin K.
When I insisted I didn't want to take the stupid medication anymore because I missed certain foods, my idiot doctors would insist: "no one said you couldn't have blueberries anymore, you just have to consistently eat 7 blueberries every day...."
By 2014, it was decided I could take one low dose aspirin every day. Which I'm cool with....
But...
My current medical profession recently sent me to see a hematologist and the recommendation: now that the cost of the TV anticoagulant has dropped, it's time to take that...
Except--- I would have to watch out if I ever traveled to a remote location.... because, if I were injured there probably wouldn't be anyone with the antidote to the anticoagulant around....
Now, I'm not big on traveling to remote locations-- it's not a fave for me like blueberries. But it's at lease something I enjoy as much as cranberries-- which also raised Warfarin warning flags.
Even more so, I know myself and have come to know myself better in light of my diagnosis as having depression and anxiety. While it may be oversimplifying the dual affliction, for me they lead to periods in which I am overcome with horrific inertia (depression) which simultaneously cause me such inner distress (anxiety) that I tend to hurl myself into action.
(NOTE: I am actually completing this entry in one of those "hurlings")
Knowing that I have this inclination explains why I can be a klutz at times-- I simply don't "stick the landing" well when I vault from wherever I've been sitting or laying in depressed inertia.
Recognizing this makes the idea of taking some medication which requires an antidote were I to injure myself VERY undesirable.
It really doesn't matter to me if I fall in the company of many people in an exotic locale or by myself at home-- in both instances, I could still bleed internally to death.
So, please pass the baby aspirin....
-----------------------
This first post of November 2018 is a meditation on my uncommon blood and what I did when doctors told me to ingest rat poison and also my recent reflection on being prescribed yet ANOTHER med.
As October 2018 ended and November began, I underwent a medical procedure-- two days later a consultation with medical specialist.
I'm going to write about my consultation with the specialist because you don't want to hear the story of my colonoscopy. (But, believe me, it’s a story…)
I inaugurated this blog's posts last month with comments about my unremarkable brain..
NOTE: Genealogically my blood is as common as anyone’s. What makes the stuff my heart pumps so unusual is its not one-- but two!-- genetic factors which makes it clot really really really well...
My Uncommon Blood
Quite accidentally in July 2010, I ran a test on myself which revealed my blood contained not just the Factor V Leiden clotting factor but also the Factor II. This just means I clot like a beast.
What was the test? Well, I don't really know. Midweek the first week of July I started to have pains in my left calf which I thought might be a charleyhorse, but which I couldn't stretch out.
Yadda yadda yadda -- clots in my lungs which required six days in the hospital.
What I Did when Doctors Told Me to Ingest Rat Poison
Perhaps you all recall those TV commercials with the late Arnold Palmer, comedian Kevin Nealon, basketball great Chris Bosch and some NASCAR star? They were advertising a prescription drug which helps folks with really clotty blood like mine.
Was I prescribed this medication? No. In 2010, my health insurance wouldn't pay for THAT medication.
Instead I was prescribed Wonder Drug of the 1950's: Warfarin.
Some of the details in the following History of Warfarin may be incorrect but basically:
1) Scientists develop a substance
2) Scientist test substance on rats
3) Rats die of internal hemmoraging
4) Substance marketed as rat poison
5) Demand for rat poison wanes
6) Some nut decides substance can be used to treat folks with blood that clots like a beast if the people taking the substance can adhere to dietary limitations and, since those folks usually die really quickly anyway,...
7) Wonder drug Warfarin introduced
Sixty years later-- I was told to ingest rat posion and given ridiculously impossible dietary restrictions to follow involving the intake of Vitamin K. Since the drug was introduced in back when men had wives who stayed at home (or cooks) who planned their meals, no problem looking out for that pesky Vitamin K.
When I insisted I didn't want to take the stupid medication anymore because I missed certain foods, my idiot doctors would insist: "no one said you couldn't have blueberries anymore, you just have to consistently eat 7 blueberries every day...."
By 2014, it was decided I could take one low dose aspirin every day. Which I'm cool with....
But...
My current medical profession recently sent me to see a hematologist and the recommendation: now that the cost of the TV anticoagulant has dropped, it's time to take that...
Except--- I would have to watch out if I ever traveled to a remote location.... because, if I were injured there probably wouldn't be anyone with the antidote to the anticoagulant around....
Now, I'm not big on traveling to remote locations-- it's not a fave for me like blueberries. But it's at lease something I enjoy as much as cranberries-- which also raised Warfarin warning flags.
Even more so, I know myself and have come to know myself better in light of my diagnosis as having depression and anxiety. While it may be oversimplifying the dual affliction, for me they lead to periods in which I am overcome with horrific inertia (depression) which simultaneously cause me such inner distress (anxiety) that I tend to hurl myself into action.
(NOTE: I am actually completing this entry in one of those "hurlings")
Knowing that I have this inclination explains why I can be a klutz at times-- I simply don't "stick the landing" well when I vault from wherever I've been sitting or laying in depressed inertia.
Recognizing this makes the idea of taking some medication which requires an antidote were I to injure myself VERY undesirable.
It really doesn't matter to me if I fall in the company of many people in an exotic locale or by myself at home-- in both instances, I could still bleed internally to death.
So, please pass the baby aspirin....
-----------------------
Self assessment
In November, the added challenge will be sticking with the schedule I previously mentioned of posting between the 9th and 23rd of each month. I adopted this schedule assuming that a horrifically stressful but periodically resolvable situation would be on track to its periodic resolution. This situation hasn't been resolved so I am in anxiously uncharted territory. After dragging myself out of a multi-day emotional roadside ditch, I concluded that-- in order to proceed with and meet my schedule-- I'd make the adjustment of providing teasers for my posts whenever I cannot complete the entire post, then double back to complete it later. It, of course, complicates my overall task but it's all I can do. There's no point of getting even MORE depressed and anxious about shit.
Now I'm going to eat a shit-ton of blueberry coffee cake (and a piece of fruit!), post this to Facebook (but first a birthday shoutout to a college friend!), do a little cleanup on my post labels till 1:30p (and a maybe start this month's R O Y G B I V cycle), finish my coffee and go look for this farmers market in West Oakland I keep missing. (Didn't find it this time either.)
Now I'm going to eat a shit-ton of blueberry coffee cake (and a piece of fruit!), post this to Facebook (but first a birthday shoutout to a college friend!), do a little cleanup on my post labels till 1:30p (and a maybe start this month's R O Y G B I V cycle), finish my coffee and go look for this farmers market in West Oakland I keep missing. (Didn't find it this time either.)
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Whither this Blog?
UPDATE
I've had this phrase going through my head lately. It seems like an old adage or saying but the more I think about it the less sense it makes.
(I refuse to Google it at this point but I may reconsider…)
Is there really a saying that goes: “Take care of the little things and the big things will take care of themselves”?
Don't Big Things always take care of themselves?
-----------
About 3 weeks ago I had arrived at a decision that I was going to work on this blog-- at most-- for 2 weeks out of every month. And since I worked on the blog in October between the 9th through the 23rd, I decided I should do my monthly blog posts each month between the 9th through the 23rd.
Then I thought posts I might make in October…
Then I didn't do make any of them…..
Sooooo -- back to the original decision: my monthly blog posts will appear each month between the 9th through the 23rd.
Final answer.
__________________________
Self assessment
This blog post-- brief as it is-- was a long time coming. Just coming through a stretch of feeling no need or use in communicating.
Answer tba
I've had this phrase going through my head lately. It seems like an old adage or saying but the more I think about it the less sense it makes.
(I refuse to Google it at this point but I may reconsider…)
Is there really a saying that goes: “Take care of the little things and the big things will take care of themselves”?
Don't Big Things always take care of themselves?
-----------
About 3 weeks ago I had arrived at a decision that I was going to work on this blog-- at most-- for 2 weeks out of every month. And since I worked on the blog in October between the 9th through the 23rd, I decided I should do my monthly blog posts each month between the 9th through the 23rd.
Then I thought posts I might make in October…
Then I didn't do make any of them…..
Sooooo -- back to the original decision: my monthly blog posts will appear each month between the 9th through the 23rd.
Final answer.
__________________________
Self assessment
This blog post-- brief as it is-- was a long time coming. Just coming through a stretch of feeling no need or use in communicating.
Answer tba
violet passion flower & R O Y G B I V
 |
| violet passion flower san pablo avenue, oakland, ca
Final photo from this first lap across the spectrum
_____________________________________________________
R O Y G B I V
This was the proposal for an art exhibit I recently submitted to a gallery in SF.
I wasn't accepted.
Perhaps my photography wasn't good enough, perhaps they weren't interested in submissions from Oakland.
____________________________________________________
Name of Show: R O Y G B I V
Tagline: A Rainbow Seen by Colorblind Gay Eye
Photography by Donald Cooper
Theme
I am one of the 10% of males who “suffer” from a specific type of color perception (aka “color blindness”) called a “red/green seeing deficiency”.
There's almost certainly a scientific name for the condition but “defect” is the word I remember being told I had that day in elementary school when I was tested and diagnosed. The news was shared with me in a pitying tone, I thought. The school nurse implied that the defect would hamper my pursuit of any number of careers careers.
I was even told I couldn't be a bus driver because I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a red light and a green light.
So, no one's perfect. We all have defects and talents to overcome them. I didn't let having a “defect” limit me...but the concerning idea that the rainbow I see may differ from what the “90%” sees stayed with me through the decades.
And I do see in color. I know “red” and “green”. Apples are red. And green too…. I didn't have a defect. Through trial and much error I learned not to make the sort of wardrobe choices that made me look like an escapee from a circus.
And I got very reluctant about discussing visual art.
But, for 17 years I had a job which allowed me to travel extensively and I learned I enjoyed photography. Investing in a genuine SLR never seemed practical-- given my “defect-- but did all right with a basic disposable camera.
In 2010, I finally got a phone which came with a decent camera…. And I finally had the capacity to challenge my longtime self-perception as “defective’.
Describe your work, your vision for the type of art you want to be exhibited on the second floor, and why you want to show it at Strut.
Capturing images of my home in the Bay-- as well as a handful of other locations-- started out as a pastime something which simply brings me joy. The Gay Bay is often seen exclusively as San Francisco’s clubs and organizations, and the sights and scenes of San Francisco. Of my 30 years in the Bay, Oakland has been my home for 16 years.
Oakland’s unique combination of natural beauty and “hella” gritty realness has sharpened my eye to such qualities wherever I travel and has made me a more assured photographer. In fact, the photos I’ve contributed to Google Maps as a Local Guide have been viewed 538,000 times.
I have visited 40 States (and DC) on my way to all 50 and have trained my eye to see details many might miss,
The significance of the rainbow is-- naturally-- the image of the Rainbow flag representing our LGBTQ community.
But R-O-Y-G-B-I-V also represents the range of color I was told I could never physically perceive.
As I facetiously recounted above, I spent decades doubting my “visual sense. I only gradually started to consider the images I took with my Nexus 5 phone “photography”, developing a love for the art past the age of 50.
------------------------------------------------
Self assessment
This piece was already for the most part composed. It simply required some editing. Posted in the niddle of the night as a result of insomnia
|
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
The Quake and Mrs. Eccleston
It’s been 29 years and a week since 1989’s Loma Prieta Earthquake; quake anniversaries are significant in the Bay Area so commemorations were abundant of late. It's funny how I remember a point in time most clearly sometimes by recalling my interaction with one person.
Most of my specific memories of the '89 quake are associated with my friend and coworker at Runaway Tours, Dorothy Eccleston.
Dorothy was a charming affable woman in her 70s who was very much comfortable as a peer among us 20-something pseudo-bohemians. She lived with her mentally challenged adult daughter, Andrea, in a small tidy apartment in San Francisco's Tenderloin.
Her husband, Dr. Eccleston was deceased. He had been an obstetrician who, Dorothy attested, would say of every baby he delivered-- not matter how ugly---, “Now THAT’S a baby!”.
Dorothy and Andrea subsisted on Andrea's social security and Dorothy’s meagre earnings from Runaway. As reservation agents, both Dorothy and I were entitled to a commission over a certain threshold--- I don't recall ever making commission but Dorothy's cheerful attentiveness in her dealings with travel agents who were the company’s clients made her one of their favorites.
Undoubtedly, Dorothy netted commission frequently. Nevertheless, she often spoke with dread about being only a paycheck away from the street,
Despite any existential concerns Dorothy Eccleston was the purest version of a bon vivant: she still kept up her season tickets to the San Francisco Opera and spoke rapturously of the performances she attended. She had gentlemen friends: I recall her giddy account of an outing on the weekend to one of the local race tracks. She laughingly recounted how-- after a few glasses of champagne-- she’d applauded a race finish so enthusiastically her rings flew off her fingers.
We were all at work late in the afternoon October 17, 1989 when the Loma Prieta Earthquake entered our lives.
Our offices were then on Union Square and the building, 291 Geary, was actually two buildings somehow lashed together. The building was quite “live”. In describing it to my cousin, I once mentioned that the office seemed to move when one of the “big girls” walked through the office. My cousin chided me for making a sexist remark-- I replied in SF, “big girl” didn't apply exclusively to females.
I was on the phone with a travel agent in San Jose at a few minutes after 5 o'clock
Out of the blue she said, "Oh my God. We're having an earthquake!"
At the second she said that, all was calm in SF but before I could say "Really?", suddenly our building started shaking violently.
The quake was 17 seconds of sheer terror--- as if the building that you were in suddenly an airliner in the midst of horrific turbulence. It went like this: shakeshakeShakeShakeSHAKESHAKESHAKESHAKEShakeShakeshakeSLAMSHAKESHAKESHAKESHAKEShakeShakeshakeshakeshakeShakeShakeshakeshakeshakeshake.
As it began someone yelled “Get under your desks” and we did. Dorothy cries of worry for Andrea who pealed out and each of us-- imagining she was running about-- yelled back, “Dorothy, get under your desk”.
After the fifth such direction to her, she rather bluntly replied “I AM UNDER MY DESK!!!”
When the shaking stopped, we evacuated into Union Square and milled about unsure of what to do or where to go as San Franciscans must have in 1906. People asked, “Are you
okay?” and said “oh my God” a lot. Someone with a transistor radio cried out, “The Bay Bridge collapsed!” and I wondered how since from the Square I could still see the top of one of the suspension section’s towers.
Dorothy was understandably anxious to get back to her apartment to check on her daughter. A handful of us accompanied her up Geary Street into the Tenderloin. At her building we climbed five flights of darkened stairs to her floor.
When we reached Andrea, I recall her being fortunately quite calm, more concerned about her mother-- I guess it runs in the family.
As the initial relief of the reunion ebbed and I announced I was going to head to my boyfriend's apartment, Dorothy turned to me. She and Andrea owned two flashlights and I was about to be sent on a mission of mercy.
“Donald,” Dorothy urgently explained, “You have to take this flashlight to my friend upstairs on the sixth floor. She’s an elderly woman and with the power out she must be terrified. Bring her this flashlight and tell her it’s from Dorothy.”
I agreed to do so, silently marvelling at Dorothy’s perception of her neighbor as bing “elderly”. I climbed another flight of darkened stairs and peered down the sixth floor hallway.
As I proceeded along in the twilit quake-shook dusty space, it seemed that every apartment door was wide open and in each stood an at least somewhat terrified elderly lady-- partly terrified from the quake, and probably by the fact that, in its wake, a strange man was stalking down their hall, peering in their apartments. Regardless, I felt I had to solve the puzzle of just to whom I should deliver the flashlight.
I received the incentive to solve the puzzle as the quakes first powerful aftershock hit. As the building shimmied, I turned to the nearest elderly lady, pressed the flashlight into her hands and yelled, “Dorothy wants you to have this!”. With that I fled, exiting to Geary Street and made my way to the home of my boyfriend-at-the-time.
For weeks after that day such aftershocks continued happening at uncertain intervals, morning noon and night. The random terrestrial echos of Loma Prieta wore nerves down and going to stand in a doorway for protection got to be rote and annoying, I recall watching a segment on aftershocks on the local evening news during which an aftershock struck.
But I must note that, on the day of the quake I witnessed a sort of shell-shocked benevolence from everyone I saw from Union Square to the Western Addition to Alamo Square. Out of a newly discovered sense of shared frailty people began looking out for each other; for example. as there were no traffic signals operating civilians even stood in intersections, directing traffic. This I witnessed.
The quake shook common purpose out of us all and ruptured the lines that alienated one from the other. A lot of good was unleashed on October 17, 1989. Years later, I heard a phrase that rang out most truth listening to a CD I'd bought outside a supermarket from an aspiring hiphop artist. “The only time we deal with one another's when there's an earthquake”.
The Loma Prieta Earthquake, of course, took lives and those aftershocks left scars.
Ten days after the quake my friend Robin Dolan and I took BART into Oakland to see Eurythmics at the Kaiser Auditorium. The train rolled past the collapsed Cypress Freeway where several lost lives-- their l. As the concert began, Annie Lennox strutted on stage asking us all “How are you doing Bay Area”?
We were okay just then-- some of us. Qr just starting to begin to be okay.
After the quake, Dorothy became even more anxious about Andrea and phobic of going pretty much anywhere.
She stopped going to the opera. She offered me her tickets to a performance of Tannhauser and wished me well.
As I climbed all the stairs to her nosebleed seats, I recall seeing the many cracks running through the walls of the Opera House stairwell.
-------------
Self Assessment
This was hard.
I began this account about a traumatic experience while waiting in Oakland's Housing Assistance Center-- ground zero for anxiety. I had paperwork to fill in to challenge a capricious rent increase but I have made an appointment with an attorney and will fill in the paperwork with her. I'm writing this to step out of the stress of the moment.
The attorney appointment this Wednesday was the victory I sought on Monday.
My city's current rental plight is this day's earthquake of greed, taking lives and leaving many unsheltered.
I completed this Tuesday afternoon.
In the morning I attended a poll workers' training and, although I'd had a full night's sleep, an hour and a half in, I became sleepy and was almost unable to concentrate.
After a short break two and quarter hours in, the course went on for another hour and I grew edgy and-- internally-- upset.
I was ravenously hungry when I got home so I cooked and ate lunch then wrote for an hour and a half but grew weary.
I posted this in the evening, after wrapping up just before 7pm.
It'll undoubtedly will need clean up.
Most of my specific memories of the '89 quake are associated with my friend and coworker at Runaway Tours, Dorothy Eccleston.
Dorothy was a charming affable woman in her 70s who was very much comfortable as a peer among us 20-something pseudo-bohemians. She lived with her mentally challenged adult daughter, Andrea, in a small tidy apartment in San Francisco's Tenderloin.
Her husband, Dr. Eccleston was deceased. He had been an obstetrician who, Dorothy attested, would say of every baby he delivered-- not matter how ugly---, “Now THAT’S a baby!”.
Dorothy and Andrea subsisted on Andrea's social security and Dorothy’s meagre earnings from Runaway. As reservation agents, both Dorothy and I were entitled to a commission over a certain threshold--- I don't recall ever making commission but Dorothy's cheerful attentiveness in her dealings with travel agents who were the company’s clients made her one of their favorites.
Undoubtedly, Dorothy netted commission frequently. Nevertheless, she often spoke with dread about being only a paycheck away from the street,
Despite any existential concerns Dorothy Eccleston was the purest version of a bon vivant: she still kept up her season tickets to the San Francisco Opera and spoke rapturously of the performances she attended. She had gentlemen friends: I recall her giddy account of an outing on the weekend to one of the local race tracks. She laughingly recounted how-- after a few glasses of champagne-- she’d applauded a race finish so enthusiastically her rings flew off her fingers.
We were all at work late in the afternoon October 17, 1989 when the Loma Prieta Earthquake entered our lives.
Our offices were then on Union Square and the building, 291 Geary, was actually two buildings somehow lashed together. The building was quite “live”. In describing it to my cousin, I once mentioned that the office seemed to move when one of the “big girls” walked through the office. My cousin chided me for making a sexist remark-- I replied in SF, “big girl” didn't apply exclusively to females.
I was on the phone with a travel agent in San Jose at a few minutes after 5 o'clock
Out of the blue she said, "Oh my God. We're having an earthquake!"
At the second she said that, all was calm in SF but before I could say "Really?", suddenly our building started shaking violently.
The quake was 17 seconds of sheer terror--- as if the building that you were in suddenly an airliner in the midst of horrific turbulence. It went like this: shakeshakeShakeShakeSHAKESHAKESHAKESHAKEShakeShakeshakeSLAMSHAKESHAKESHAKESHAKEShakeShakeshakeshakeshakeShakeShakeshakeshakeshakeshake.
As it began someone yelled “Get under your desks” and we did. Dorothy cries of worry for Andrea who pealed out and each of us-- imagining she was running about-- yelled back, “Dorothy, get under your desk”.
After the fifth such direction to her, she rather bluntly replied “I AM UNDER MY DESK!!!”
When the shaking stopped, we evacuated into Union Square and milled about unsure of what to do or where to go as San Franciscans must have in 1906. People asked, “Are you
okay?” and said “oh my God” a lot. Someone with a transistor radio cried out, “The Bay Bridge collapsed!” and I wondered how since from the Square I could still see the top of one of the suspension section’s towers.
Dorothy was understandably anxious to get back to her apartment to check on her daughter. A handful of us accompanied her up Geary Street into the Tenderloin. At her building we climbed five flights of darkened stairs to her floor.
When we reached Andrea, I recall her being fortunately quite calm, more concerned about her mother-- I guess it runs in the family.
As the initial relief of the reunion ebbed and I announced I was going to head to my boyfriend's apartment, Dorothy turned to me. She and Andrea owned two flashlights and I was about to be sent on a mission of mercy.
“Donald,” Dorothy urgently explained, “You have to take this flashlight to my friend upstairs on the sixth floor. She’s an elderly woman and with the power out she must be terrified. Bring her this flashlight and tell her it’s from Dorothy.”
I agreed to do so, silently marvelling at Dorothy’s perception of her neighbor as bing “elderly”. I climbed another flight of darkened stairs and peered down the sixth floor hallway.
As I proceeded along in the twilit quake-shook dusty space, it seemed that every apartment door was wide open and in each stood an at least somewhat terrified elderly lady-- partly terrified from the quake, and probably by the fact that, in its wake, a strange man was stalking down their hall, peering in their apartments. Regardless, I felt I had to solve the puzzle of just to whom I should deliver the flashlight.
I received the incentive to solve the puzzle as the quakes first powerful aftershock hit. As the building shimmied, I turned to the nearest elderly lady, pressed the flashlight into her hands and yelled, “Dorothy wants you to have this!”. With that I fled, exiting to Geary Street and made my way to the home of my boyfriend-at-the-time.
For weeks after that day such aftershocks continued happening at uncertain intervals, morning noon and night. The random terrestrial echos of Loma Prieta wore nerves down and going to stand in a doorway for protection got to be rote and annoying, I recall watching a segment on aftershocks on the local evening news during which an aftershock struck.
But I must note that, on the day of the quake I witnessed a sort of shell-shocked benevolence from everyone I saw from Union Square to the Western Addition to Alamo Square. Out of a newly discovered sense of shared frailty people began looking out for each other; for example. as there were no traffic signals operating civilians even stood in intersections, directing traffic. This I witnessed.
The quake shook common purpose out of us all and ruptured the lines that alienated one from the other. A lot of good was unleashed on October 17, 1989. Years later, I heard a phrase that rang out most truth listening to a CD I'd bought outside a supermarket from an aspiring hiphop artist. “The only time we deal with one another's when there's an earthquake”.
The Loma Prieta Earthquake, of course, took lives and those aftershocks left scars.
Ten days after the quake my friend Robin Dolan and I took BART into Oakland to see Eurythmics at the Kaiser Auditorium. The train rolled past the collapsed Cypress Freeway where several lost lives-- their l. As the concert began, Annie Lennox strutted on stage asking us all “How are you doing Bay Area”?
We were okay just then-- some of us. Qr just starting to begin to be okay.
After the quake, Dorothy became even more anxious about Andrea and phobic of going pretty much anywhere.
She stopped going to the opera. She offered me her tickets to a performance of Tannhauser and wished me well.
As I climbed all the stairs to her nosebleed seats, I recall seeing the many cracks running through the walls of the Opera House stairwell.
-------------
Self Assessment
This was hard.
I began this account about a traumatic experience while waiting in Oakland's Housing Assistance Center-- ground zero for anxiety. I had paperwork to fill in to challenge a capricious rent increase but I have made an appointment with an attorney and will fill in the paperwork with her. I'm writing this to step out of the stress of the moment.
The attorney appointment this Wednesday was the victory I sought on Monday.
My city's current rental plight is this day's earthquake of greed, taking lives and leaving many unsheltered.
I completed this Tuesday afternoon.
In the morning I attended a poll workers' training and, although I'd had a full night's sleep, an hour and a half in, I became sleepy and was almost unable to concentrate.
After a short break two and quarter hours in, the course went on for another hour and I grew edgy and-- internally-- upset.
I was ravenously hungry when I got home so I cooked and ate lunch then wrote for an hour and a half but grew weary.
I posted this in the evening, after wrapping up just before 7pm.
It'll undoubtedly will need clean up.
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Saturday, October 20, 2018
Karaoke Tunes - You're Only Lonely
If “So I Heard” exists to present songs that I especially admire, I guess the best indication of my admiration of a song would be the fact that I attempt it or assail it when at Karaoke.
So that is the meaning of “Karaoke Tunes”.
I love both the lyric and the melody of J.D. Souther's “You're Only Lonely”.
If the KJ can modulate the key of a song, this song is absolutely one that I ask to be taken down at least three keys-- or else my rendition of it is far less than lovely.
This song should not be confused with Roy Orbison's “Only the Lonely” which is an anthem for every lonely soul.
While “You're Only Lonely” has a sound-alike title, the lyric is a heartwarming and tender address from one vulnerable person to another pledging understanding if contacted for the mere reason of loneliness.
The original performer, J.D. Souther, has a estimable body of work. Though possibly largely unknown to most pop and rock followers, he is by no means obscure.
Souther may be regarded as a one hit wonder. “You're Only Lonely’ is his only solo recording to chart in the Top 40, but he can be heard dueting with James Taylor on 1981’s “Her Town Too”. He also co-wrote an Eagles hit or two including "Best of My Love", "Heartache Tonight", and "New Kid in Town".
(An Indugence While on This Topic/Tangent: I must note that another karaoke fave of mine is “Best of My Love”.
Once, when I put in that song title for karaoke, when I got the mic I was surprised to discover that-- while the karaoke book listed the Eagles song-- the track that came on was the Maurice White-penned “Best of My Love” performed by the Emotions.
Unfazed, I performed the lyrics of the Eagles song--as I remembered them-- to the tune of the Emotions song.
The refrain of both is the same:“Oh-oh-oh-OH! You got/get the best of my love, etc.” The one difference; the Eagles say “Sweet darling”.)
J.D. Souther
You're Only Lonely
https://youtu.be/quglprlSQ8k
I don't own the rights to this song or performance.
The link is offered to facilitate an appreciation of the song named.
--------------------
Self Assessment
This post gestated a long while in concept so was relatively easy to write given my connection to the song. As with the previous written posts, I imaging some cleanup will be necessary
So that is the meaning of “Karaoke Tunes”.
I love both the lyric and the melody of J.D. Souther's “You're Only Lonely”.
If the KJ can modulate the key of a song, this song is absolutely one that I ask to be taken down at least three keys-- or else my rendition of it is far less than lovely.
This song should not be confused with Roy Orbison's “Only the Lonely” which is an anthem for every lonely soul.
While “You're Only Lonely” has a sound-alike title, the lyric is a heartwarming and tender address from one vulnerable person to another pledging understanding if contacted for the mere reason of loneliness.
The original performer, J.D. Souther, has a estimable body of work. Though possibly largely unknown to most pop and rock followers, he is by no means obscure.
Souther may be regarded as a one hit wonder. “You're Only Lonely’ is his only solo recording to chart in the Top 40, but he can be heard dueting with James Taylor on 1981’s “Her Town Too”. He also co-wrote an Eagles hit or two including "Best of My Love", "Heartache Tonight", and "New Kid in Town".
(An Indugence While on This Topic/Tangent: I must note that another karaoke fave of mine is “Best of My Love”.
Once, when I put in that song title for karaoke, when I got the mic I was surprised to discover that-- while the karaoke book listed the Eagles song-- the track that came on was the Maurice White-penned “Best of My Love” performed by the Emotions.
Unfazed, I performed the lyrics of the Eagles song--as I remembered them-- to the tune of the Emotions song.
The refrain of both is the same:“Oh-oh-oh-OH! You got/get the best of my love, etc.” The one difference; the Eagles say “Sweet darling”.)
J.D. Souther
You're Only Lonely
https://youtu.be/quglprlSQ8k
I don't own the rights to this song or performance.
The link is offered to facilitate an appreciation of the song named.
--------------------
Self Assessment
This post gestated a long while in concept so was relatively easy to write given my connection to the song. As with the previous written posts, I imaging some cleanup will be necessary
Thursday, October 18, 2018
Iowa
Iowa - State #36
"I hate hate hate Temecula
On a level that's almost moleculah"
This is one of several rhymes I invented with my friend Eric Birnbaum to keep ourselves laughing and sane during our days in the travel industry.
I'd never been to Temecula. I don't know whether I really would hate it on a level that's almost molecular. Temecula was once described to me by friends who'd been there as a decidedly lackluster town where one building housed the local fine arts center and the town jail.
But never mind: I'm not trying to discuss Temecula.
I'm here to discuss the state of Iowa.
"I hate hate hate hate Iowa
And if you ask why, I'll reply, 'Uh, duh'”
As I mentioned earlier, I find something to love about most places-- but one place I've been which rubbed me all the way the wrong way is the state of Iowa.*
My Arrival
I arrived in Iowa on public transit: a city bus. I boarded the bus in Omaha, having “detrained” from Amtrak's California Zephyr a few hours earlier.
My departure from the train began with the sleeping car attendant’s cheerful wake-up notice: "YOU HAVE TO GET OFF THE TRAIN NOW!!"
Several slapstick minutes ensued as I hastily packed and tried to locate my wallet and was essentially thrown off the slowly moving train onto the siding along with my bags.
The Zephyr chugged away.
I sat awhile in the sad modern one story Amtrak station situated between Omaha’s TWO rail palaces. In the station’s molded plastic peace, I located my wallet in my luggage and tried to unjangle my nerves.
Dauntlessly, I then proceeded out to catch a local bus to cross the river--- and discover Council Bluffs, IA.
Council Bluffs
The name Council Bluffs conjures an image of an earnest windswept hamlet perched high above the mighty Missouri.
The bus instead deposited me with my wheely in what appeared to be a forlorn industrial park. I'd misjudged my stop and was still about a mile from my destination.
In the still June morning, everything was flat (no bluffs). There was no view but everywhere that there wasn't lawn there was asphalt. I saw a Bass Pro megastore. I saw an Applebee's. I saw a strip club.
I wended my way to the distant Hilton Garden inn.
When I found it, I was surprised to discover it was connected to a casino, and on the far side of the casino, another undistinguished hotel.
This entire gaming complex sat beside a large factory which, given its smell, served to produce any number of noxious chemical concoctions used in agriculture.
The “Iowa Way”
It was early so I didn't expect I'd get a room right away. I did get something unexpected-- big time front desk attitude. I acknowledged my early arrival and acknowledged I knew that being assigned a room would be a courtesy.
I believe the charming reply I got was, “Well, you'll have to wait.”
I parked myself on an ugly lobby couch and sipped nasty lobby coffee. After twenty minutes of looking cheerfully expectant as several parties arrived after me and received rooms, I opted instead to look sullen and irritated, hoping the front desk would give me a room just to relieve themselves of their view of me.
After two hours, there was an apparent shift change.
I stepped up and asked the new desk clerk “Yes yes, I know I'm terribly early but might be assigned a room?”
The new clerk fairly quickly found me a room.
"Memories of your Stay in Iowa"
I recall that there might have been in issue with the room key and the need to exchange it for another key but why make that part of the narrative?
Why continue to tell of going to eat at the casino buffet and discovering , that unlike most casino food outlets, this one was extravagantly expensive?
The die of my Iowa experience had been cast in that lobby and for the next 24 hours there was no way I could learn the love this place.
I woke next morning, had the lobby breakfast included in the room rate, grabbed my bag, checked out and was soon waiting for the city bus back to my comparatively beloved Omaha.
Did I Give Iowa a Chance to Unspool her Charm?
One night does seem like short shrift and I believe I haven't fully enjoyed some states in which I passed only one night.
Texas definitely, Utah almost certainly, very likely Arkansas when I get there. (I intend to “cross-river-one-night” on a return trip to Memphis).
But, Iowa…. No. Girl, you had your chance and you showed me all kinds of ugly.
Who can say what rural dystopian shocks would await one in yet another night in Iowa?
Next up: I'll discuss some place I found charming. I haven't decided which-- most places I've been qualify.
* This account is not the experience I had two years earlier when I crossed the Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge from Omaha into Iowa in 100° heat and posted on Facebook these words: I am abandoning this expedition into Iowa. Iowa is uninhabitable.
Self Assessment
This piece wasn't written cold. It's an account of actual occurrences, really its composition involved deciding how much of the history of a bad bit of travel I wanted to share. I'd begun composing it on a walk and sat down to write. This slight effort took just over three hours to complete-- it seems to make sense that a piece about a place remembered bad memories would inspire a written piece which can be completed briskly . I'm sure it will need some cleaning up.
"I hate hate hate Temecula
On a level that's almost moleculah"
This is one of several rhymes I invented with my friend Eric Birnbaum to keep ourselves laughing and sane during our days in the travel industry.
I'd never been to Temecula. I don't know whether I really would hate it on a level that's almost molecular. Temecula was once described to me by friends who'd been there as a decidedly lackluster town where one building housed the local fine arts center and the town jail.
But never mind: I'm not trying to discuss Temecula.
I'm here to discuss the state of Iowa.
"I hate hate hate hate Iowa
And if you ask why, I'll reply, 'Uh, duh'”
As I mentioned earlier, I find something to love about most places-- but one place I've been which rubbed me all the way the wrong way is the state of Iowa.*
My Arrival
I arrived in Iowa on public transit: a city bus. I boarded the bus in Omaha, having “detrained” from Amtrak's California Zephyr a few hours earlier.
My departure from the train began with the sleeping car attendant’s cheerful wake-up notice: "YOU HAVE TO GET OFF THE TRAIN NOW!!"
Several slapstick minutes ensued as I hastily packed and tried to locate my wallet and was essentially thrown off the slowly moving train onto the siding along with my bags.
The Zephyr chugged away.
I sat awhile in the sad modern one story Amtrak station situated between Omaha’s TWO rail palaces. In the station’s molded plastic peace, I located my wallet in my luggage and tried to unjangle my nerves.
Dauntlessly, I then proceeded out to catch a local bus to cross the river--- and discover Council Bluffs, IA.
Council Bluffs
The name Council Bluffs conjures an image of an earnest windswept hamlet perched high above the mighty Missouri.
The bus instead deposited me with my wheely in what appeared to be a forlorn industrial park. I'd misjudged my stop and was still about a mile from my destination.
In the still June morning, everything was flat (no bluffs). There was no view but everywhere that there wasn't lawn there was asphalt. I saw a Bass Pro megastore. I saw an Applebee's. I saw a strip club.
I wended my way to the distant Hilton Garden inn.
When I found it, I was surprised to discover it was connected to a casino, and on the far side of the casino, another undistinguished hotel.
This entire gaming complex sat beside a large factory which, given its smell, served to produce any number of noxious chemical concoctions used in agriculture.
The “Iowa Way”
It was early so I didn't expect I'd get a room right away. I did get something unexpected-- big time front desk attitude. I acknowledged my early arrival and acknowledged I knew that being assigned a room would be a courtesy.
I believe the charming reply I got was, “Well, you'll have to wait.”
I parked myself on an ugly lobby couch and sipped nasty lobby coffee. After twenty minutes of looking cheerfully expectant as several parties arrived after me and received rooms, I opted instead to look sullen and irritated, hoping the front desk would give me a room just to relieve themselves of their view of me.
After two hours, there was an apparent shift change.
I stepped up and asked the new desk clerk “Yes yes, I know I'm terribly early but might be assigned a room?”
The new clerk fairly quickly found me a room.
"Memories of your Stay in Iowa"
I recall that there might have been in issue with the room key and the need to exchange it for another key but why make that part of the narrative?
Why continue to tell of going to eat at the casino buffet and discovering , that unlike most casino food outlets, this one was extravagantly expensive?
The die of my Iowa experience had been cast in that lobby and for the next 24 hours there was no way I could learn the love this place.
I woke next morning, had the lobby breakfast included in the room rate, grabbed my bag, checked out and was soon waiting for the city bus back to my comparatively beloved Omaha.
Did I Give Iowa a Chance to Unspool her Charm?
One night does seem like short shrift and I believe I haven't fully enjoyed some states in which I passed only one night.
Texas definitely, Utah almost certainly, very likely Arkansas when I get there. (I intend to “cross-river-one-night” on a return trip to Memphis).
But, Iowa…. No. Girl, you had your chance and you showed me all kinds of ugly.
Who can say what rural dystopian shocks would await one in yet another night in Iowa?
Next up: I'll discuss some place I found charming. I haven't decided which-- most places I've been qualify.
* This account is not the experience I had two years earlier when I crossed the Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge from Omaha into Iowa in 100° heat and posted on Facebook these words: I am abandoning this expedition into Iowa. Iowa is uninhabitable.
Self Assessment
This piece wasn't written cold. It's an account of actual occurrences, really its composition involved deciding how much of the history of a bad bit of travel I wanted to share. I'd begun composing it on a walk and sat down to write. This slight effort took just over three hours to complete-- it seems to make sense that a piece about a place remembered bad memories would inspire a written piece which can be completed briskly . I'm sure it will need some cleaning up.
Sunday, October 14, 2018
Saturday, October 13, 2018
The Chronic Pain of Naivety
I've had this lifelong insecurity around the dreaded suspicion that my very nature is hobbled by chronic naivety.
This culture’s general attitude is that naivety is childish, a foolish and easily fooled frame of mind out of which a well-adjusted adult must grow. It's regarded as shameful to an adult yet naive. But, it's apparently not a state out of which some of us grow.
Perhaps our culture should recognize that the inability not to be naive-- like blindness or deafness-- is not a deficiency. And, just as it would be morally repugnant to mock a person's blindness or deafness, asserting cynical advantage on a person unaware of deviousness is stooping beneath acceptable human stature.
Merely a suggestion-- and admittedly one made out of self-preservation.
Perhaps our culture should recognize that the inability not to be naive-- like blindness or deafness-- is not a deficiency. And, just as it would be morally repugnant to mock a person's blindness or deafness, asserting cynical advantage on a person unaware of deviousness is stooping beneath acceptable human stature.
Merely a suggestion-- and admittedly one made out of self-preservation.
The best illustration I can make of the nature of my character to which I refer is my reaction to two separate friends playing the same game.
Sometime in the mid-80’s, I and a group of friends-- artsy theater types-- sat and played the game “Scruples".
The game, as I recall, consisted of selecting cards, each presenting a moral dilemma. The card-drawer would share with the group how she would react to this dilemma. The group in response would share their opinion of the card-drawer’s “confession”.
It's significant that I don't have a clue from that first experience how the game is scored or how one wins. I don’t recall who won-- that wasn’t the point, it seemed.
The second time I played “Scruples” was about year later, again with a completely different group of artsy theater types. My initial enthusiasm about participating drained away as I witnessed this group’s approach to the game.
Scoring and winning was very much the point of the game and one successfully gained points by being utterly disingenuous about how one would react to the moral dilemma presented on the game’s cards. The more convincingly you lied, the more points you gained. It was explained to me that the game had no point otherwise.
I’m sure I grew huffy; I don’t recall who won but, even though I must have tried to adjust to this new and unexpected strategy, I’m sure I didn’t score many points. (My passive-aggressive revenge was to contribute names such as “Dame Kiri Te Kanawa” and “Hermes Pan” in a subsequent game of Charades.)
I consider most of the individuals with whom I played these two different versions of the same game friends and make no judgment on their character or morality.
But I do assert that I believe we are now in the midst of a massive national game of Scruples and I am appalled at the utter dishonesty of those have always claimed the higher ground-- which I will assert include members of my own family.
Much has been made of the recent confirmation hearings for a very dishonest individual to sit on this country’s highest court. Sharp criticisms have been made of the uncertain and ultimately unsuccessful efforts of the Democrats on the Senate Judicial Committee to hold a arrogant undistinguished man to account for recent unethical professional behavior and his patter as a young adult of exploiting intoxicated individuals.
I’ve heard for years of the U.S. Senate’s decorum, a kind of institutional naivety, grounded on the high-minded and-- perhaps-- utterly foolish notion that we as a nation are all pulling in the same direction. If the Democrats on the Judicial Committee seemed haplessly unmoored, they were-- from the principle that the Senate’s decorum would surely prevent the Republicans from forcing rotten meat into the country’s gullet.
But-- lo and behold-- there was the wizened Senator from the Smelly Dump of Rot in the Heart of the Heartland (this, by the way, is a clue to the riddle on the So I Went page) presiding over the foisting of diseased mediocrity onto another national institution which demands always superior candidates.
I can’t prescribe a remedy for the pain of such injury. Personally, pain relievers have never worked on me and my other meds are not showing much effect on my overall depression and confusion.
It is not wrong to feel unmoored when the person opposite you abandons principle and continually changes the rules, so much so that the once familiar game is unrecognizable.
It is, at last, all one can do to stand aghast regarding these New Strangers, who once were countrymen and family, with an unconcealed expression of stricken naivety.
Expecting them to have a corrective crisis of conscience is a voyage beyond naivety’s Final Frontier.
-----------------------------------------
Self Assessment: This was an unusually easy task in conception and composition, especially given the wretched insomnia I suffered last night and my lack of sleep.
Sometimes, when feelings are strong, words flow more readily and for most of the day yesterday I was more depressed than I've been in months.
While I'm pleased with the way this came out, it doesn't represent work I'm capable of under the weight of a deadline or expectations of consistency.
This links back to my first examination by a neurologist. After a brief series of simple tests his estimation was that I was all right. I had to advise him that I am conditioned to perform well on tests and let him know the mnemonic tricks I used to get my replies. Having coping skills to succeed at tests are literally brilliant-- until your coping skills begin to fail.
Sometimes, when feelings are strong, words flow more readily and for most of the day yesterday I was more depressed than I've been in months.
While I'm pleased with the way this came out, it doesn't represent work I'm capable of under the weight of a deadline or expectations of consistency.
This links back to my first examination by a neurologist. After a brief series of simple tests his estimation was that I was all right. I had to advise him that I am conditioned to perform well on tests and let him know the mnemonic tricks I used to get my replies. Having coping skills to succeed at tests are literally brilliant-- until your coping skills begin to fail.
Friday, October 12, 2018
“What Exactly are You Trying to Accomplish Here?”
Thank you, dear reader, for asking.
This blog is a space in which I can write while assessing my capacity to successfully write what I intended to write.
My unremarkable brain lately has been presenting me with a host of cognitive issues. In some instances, I've concluded that some of these issues have been lifelong and I am suffering from an onset of being unable to compensate for them.
Oh, just forget I wrote that…
I am attempting a blog to tell the world:
- So I Thought - my opinions, my musings and recipes (there will be at least two recipes). I know I share my opinion frequently on Facebook but why give it away free? If you believe my opinions on Facebook-- or anywhere-- are obnoxious, please proceed to number 2;
- So I Went - wherein I regale the reader with tales of adventure abroad and an occasional frightful mishap;
- So I Saw - hopefully the blog's simplest page to enjoy, where I share images and possibly explain what's in the picture;
- So I Heard - I intend to write a brief appreciation of the songs and pieces of music I love. Trying to sort out if I can link to a YouTube video of a song and not invite a lawsuit-- otherwise I may be reduced to explaining which Christmas carol is sheer Hell for folks afflicted with anxiety;
- Sale. aka Page In Process - a fifth page where anyone can go to order a print of one of my images, at a nominal cost (which I still haven;t done the math to figure out). If you wish to have a lovely 8' x 10' print of any of my images before the "Sale" page is up and fully operational, please contact me at dcooperate@gmail.com.
Just to make things interesting, I created a "The Brain is Unremarkable" blog first on WordPress, before I finally chose Blogger on which to unfurl the Unremarkable Brain flag.
If it is mad to do something in a mad rush, then to do the thing twice in the mad rush is, well, madness.
My commitment to Blogger proceeded my knowledge that having a blog with separate pages is not a Blogger thing.
But there are workarounds which, dear reader, we shall explore together.
We're on a journey and you have my promise that-- if the bridge is out-- I will have figured out a way to cross before we reach the river.
Or we may just sit and admire the river awhile.
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