January 26, 2001

"Letting Off Some Steam"

This won't be a popular entry. Be forewarned here, and please, if you will, indulge me, as I have a small rant.

Laura just left to visit Serena. She'll pick up her Mother on the way, and then head into Tempe where the care facility is. CARE FACILITY sounds so much better than 'nursing home', doesn't it? Though a nursing home is what it really is. Serena's the youngest there, of course, and old people in various stages of Alzheimer's wander about around her. A month or two will seem like a very long time there indeed.

The um 'care facility' isn't very deep into the heart of the Phoenix meglaplex. The deeper one gets into the meglaplex, the worse the air gets. That's a real problem for Laura, whose emphysema has been worsening lately. 'Loss of elasticity in the alveoli, or air sacs', says the dictionary, is the reason. According to the American Lung Association, smoking ''is directly responsible for 87 percent of lung cancer cases and causes most cases of emphysema and chronic bronchitis.'' Laura quit smoking over fifteen years ago, and still she must pay a price. My dad smoked. He died of lung cancer. Glen smoked. He would have died of lung cancer, but because they removed part of his lung, he had two more years of life. But the cancer, ever persistent, came back and attacked his brain. I could get into a rant here about the foolishness of all those eighteen year olds that come into the store so eager to proffer their IDs and get their 'Marlbaro lights in a box', showing how 'grown up' they are, and how they themselves will end up just that much sooner in a sealed box some day themselves . . .

 . . . but that is a real downer, I know, and no one wants to read stuff like that. So I'll cut short on that downer. But let me tell you, not being able to breath is really scary. Laura went to sleep peacefully last night, but, as always, a few hours later, she woke up again last night, unable to breath. She feels as though she's being strangled. She has to sit up for an hour or so until her lungs clear. Then, maybe, she can go back to bed and get some sleep. The least little activity wearies her so. When one can't get a good lungful of air, this is what happens.

So I worry about Laura. I worry and feel helpless. I can't help but feel angry about it all. I want to scream at all those youngsters ''Don't do this to yourself. You have no idea of what the consequences will be on your life, and the lives of those around you. Don't do it. Don't smoke.'' But I hold my tongue. It isn't my place to preach. I sure wouldn't last very long as an employee, discouraging sales and profits, if I did. But I can think, oh, I can think it. This place, however, with your indulging ear, er eyes, is my place to preach. And sometimes one just has to do that. Even though it isn't 'popular'.

So I'm begging your forgiveness if this has been a downer, but I just had to let off some steam.

 

January 27, 2001

"Now"

It rains. We've just finished watching a documentary about the building of the pyramids. A contemporary crew tried making just a tiny pyramid. They worked together over three weeks devising methods, experimenting, and finally successfully getting the thing accomplished. The parting thought of the film was mine as well. What organization the ancient Egyptians must have had to accomplish such a thing on such an huge scale!

Still, when an emperor desires immortality, he does what he can with all the resources available to him. And it worked. Those ancient Egyptian rulers are still being talked about today, while those of other lands of that era have long been forgotten.

Today, as I look out beyond the blind slats through the rain streaked what looks to be a hazy sort of pyramid, though I believe it's a water storage device.

pyramid of sorts . . .

 

. - Now - . It rains, and I care not. All about me are huge looping towers. They go no where. All that matters is the intersection of now.   Huge looping towers of what ifs, and maybes, and should haves and could haves . . . All that matters is the intersection of now. JAL, 1-27-01

 

January 29, 2001

"Hopeful"

It is 2:52pm. I had every intention of going with Laura to Phoenix to pick up Debbie, Serena's sister. I got to bed at 7:45am. Did I hear her knock at the bedroom door at 10:00am, when she wanted to leave? I don't know.

Laura's not back yet.

I woke up an hour ago, feeling peaked, somewhat sticky eyed. Maybe the peakedness is the cause of this odd poem I 'channeled'. 'Channeling' is in quotes, for I don't believe in that hogwash. Still, writing down words as they come is a pretty strange way to write poetry.

Weariness descends, the darkening call. What lies ahead, we do not know. All above, the foot steps of angels on the ceiling of life. They are unseen, yet I hear them. I am downstairs, downstairs, with my hand on the rail. I will wait patiently. JAL, 1-29-01

Who are those 'angels', huh? More mystical 'crapola'? Whatever . . . it seems an hopeful poem.

 

January 31, 2001 - A

"Riddles"

What is this poem about, that I've 'received'? It would seem it's about those in power and deception. What grand illusion had I once hoped for? A government in which everything was fair, just, and honorable? Yes, I did once have that illusion, when I was a child. In the seventies, something called 'Watergate' rather disillusioned me of that. Now that we have a president the people did not elect, I've been further stripped of the pretty varnish.

Or maybe it's about those in religious power. They set forth a great deal of illusions, and some of them as a way of obtaining thick pockets. Did I not once as a child, hope for heaven and all its riches? Streets of gold, and walls of gems and such grandeur as that?

Anyway, before this poem came, I took a deep breath, and sought within for 'truth'. Just that. I'd hoped a more personal truth. But am I interpreting it right? That's the trouble with these vague things. You, the reader, wonder what the poet meant? The poet herself is not sure.

A Fair Glimmering I touch at the gates of the grand illusion. Is it not what you hoped for, once? Things are not what they seem. Beware thick pockets of leering men. They have their secrets, and they're not telling. Pocket, instead, what hopes you have. Reach for deeper truth. It is harder than you'd hoped, but it casts a fair glimmering light. Just now, the parchments fall. A new word is being heard. JAL, 1-31-01

And who has 'the new word'? Am I hearing it and don't know it?

Riddles, riddles, riddles. Anyway, once again, it seems optimistic. Okay, the truth is 'harder', but it's got its compensating factors. Well, that will have to suffice.

 

January 31, 2001 - B

"Riddles Answered"

So I asked the 'muse', er, that right brained side of myself, what was going on with that poem. Here's the little 'conversation' we had.

Why wasn't this truth a more personal one? What could be more personal than that? You have the opportunity to work out your own salvation, with grace and love, instead of fear and guilt. What do I need to be saved from? All those things crumbling: greed, hate, destruction, these things that tear at life. Why, because we're all going to die anyway? But while you live, you live, and that is the thing to celebrate. End now the deathless society, if ever it existed. But while we are alive, light to light, we pass each other the torch. We have the power. Okay, I finally understand that poem now.

 

February 1, 2001

"Coff, coff, coff . . ."

'Tis the season. One worker comes to work sick, and pretty soon we all have it. I'm achy, and apart from the time at work, I'll be mostly abed. The teams been decimated. Short staffed to begin with, we are even shorter now. So I went to work last night, each moment dreaming of when I would return to that cacoon of bed. I'm dreaming of it even now.

Talk to you later. Keep warm and well, everyone.

 

February 3, 2001

"Still Coughing"

Oh, such a bug it's been. I feel as though my lungs have been invaded by a veritable army, GERMAN army, says the Czech part of me, and although a good number of the 'troops' have been dipatched, the damage they've caused has laid me quite low, indeed. There's no way I could have forced myself to work last night or this night. I have an option to take Sunday night off, too, if I need it. And I feel I'm going to need it.

I sure hope Laura doesn't succumb to this illness. She's been doing so much, making sure Serena has a daily visit, and today she promised Serena's sister a trip to the arboretum, as that was a place Shayna had loved so much. She and Julia went early this morning. They're gone, too, this evening, but they didn't tell me where. I drift in and out of sleep, scarcely aware of the world outside in my darkened room. Anyway, Laura had complained of a scratchy sore throat, and that scares me. The last flu bug that went through us laid her so low, she couldn't breathe.

They've just returned from a small errand run. Julia is keeping Laura plied with lots of echinachia tea. Maybe it will work.

 

February 8, 2001 - A

"A Lesson Or Two"

I've mentally sketched at least three entries since the last, but the sketches never made it to type. Most of the bug remains are gone, though my throat is still somewhat sore, from all the coughing, I suspect. Life is settling back into the usual routines again.

It's raining, not that that's unusual, either. While I was at work last night, something unusual did happen. Someone had left yesterday's local Dispatch on the counter, and during a break, I stopped to peruse it. Some man, said by neighbors to be quiet, peaceable and friendly, was threatening President Bush with a gun. Well, if any president is a likely candidate, one the people did not elect is more likely, I suppose.

Still, that wasn't the most impressive news. There was a feature about a local artist, in the law enforcement field by day, who is assembling an impressive body of work despite the demands of his job. He works in colored pencil and graphite. The colored pencil portrait of his smiling daughter, her eyes alive and glistening, moved me to tears.

I was startled by my reaction. It's been a long while since I've done anything with my artwork. Was that the reason for the tears? Indeed, even five days without a journal entry seems a long time, and I feel disconnected from my creative self. I asked inner 'Muse' what was going on:

If the voice is not in you, you will not hear it. Is it a voice from the past? You know it. Seek that which is clear and true. Listen, seek diligently, apply yourself, the vision will come true.

Now, 'diligence' has never been one of my strong suits. I must honestly admit to rather a bit of a lazy streak. Having made that admission, I must ask myself, do I want to continue in this way? I know nothing comes without effort.

I will, after sending this web-ward, check out those writings of Orson Scott Card that Laura has been telling me are good lessons for writers. A lesson or two never hurts.

 

February 8, 2001 - B

"Thoughts On A Writer's Thoughts"

"Fiction, because it is not about somebody who actually lived in the real world, always has the possibility of being about ourself."

from the introduction to "Ender's Game", by Orson Scott Card

That may be true of fiction. However, maybe that's why I prefer non fiction. I want to read about someone who is NOT me. I want to learn how their life differs than mine. I want to learn how their life is the same.

It bridges the gap between myself and others. I do not just want to live 'in my own mind'. I want to strain outside the boundaries, and see what's out there. How do other people live? What is in their minds? These are the fascinating questions.

"No, to understand who a person really was, what his or her life really meant, the speaker for the dead would have to explain their self-story -- what they meant to do, what they actually did, what they regretted, what they rejoiced in. That's the story that we never know, the story that we never can know -- and yet, at the time of death, it's the only story truly worth telling."

from the introduction to "Speaker For The Dead", by Orson Scott Card

But if the person kept a journal, perhaps these things can be known. These are the things I hope to reveal about myself here, in this journal. By attempting to be as honest as I can with myself, and with you, my evolutionary process may be revealed. The knowledge I have of myself is imperfect. Surely, there are things about myself that I do not know. Most puzzling was the realization the other day of just how truly lazy I am. Oh, I've heard it a couple of times from Laura, my spouse. But then one doesn't always believe other people. One often holds a more idealistic portrait of myself. Certainly, those ideals are true. But, true, too, as well, are the less ideal portions.

All of it is true, and I want to embrace it all.

 

February 9, 2001

"More Thoughts"

But maybe Card likes fiction for the same reason I like non-fiction: the possibility of finding some aspect of oneself outside of oneself. The reassurance obtained from this finding tells us we are not alone, not so 'alien' that at least someone else hasn't conceived of a characteristic, in only in their imagination.

But that's where the similarity ends. The work of a fiction author may exist only in his or her imagination, whereas non-fiction attempts to be based on certain reality. I get greater comfort from the 'certain reality'.

Still, I like a fantasy once in a while. I did enjoy the world created by the author of the 'Harry Potter' series. I, may, too, like my sojourn in Card's imagined worlds of the future.

 

February 11, 2001

"A Blast From The Past"

We were very surprised a couple of weeks ago when we got a letter from Vonna, an old friend of Laura's. She said she would be visiting a sick friend in Phoenix and would Laura like to see her again. ''Absolutely,'' Laura replied. They hadn't seen each other in fifteen years, and that was only briefly.

If you've read Laura's bio, you know what wild times Laura and Vonna had in their 'younger' days. Nothing makes Laura more animated than telling the tales of their crowd gathering exploits. As she relives the open air improvisations of Gor, Laura swings her arm, as if she's brandishing the sword of the warrior from the planet Gor.

Back then, not yet fully commited to a feminine role then, Laura explored gender roles by taking on the persona of an extremely masculine character. Young Vonna, barely legal age, played 'his' counterpart, a Gorean sex slave.

We imagined Vonna to be fearlessly spunky, as she played that warrior's scantily clad playmate, inspiring of such derring do. Oh, the scenes they'd improvise, all over the streets of Phoenix. The mortal humans who were innocent bystanders have not likely forgotten. For all I know, they may still believe in visitors from the far away planet.

So what's this legendary lady doing now? What exciting adventures does Vonna do now?

She, as well as Laura, has undergone many changes since those days. Vonna bakes bread in a tiny rural town in Arkansas. Very popular bread it is, and people all around her 400 large community come to her for it. The nearest movie theater is fifty miles away. The nearest movie rental place is fifty miles away. Even going to the nearest convenience store requires a seven mile trip.

Yes, it's quite a different lifestyle for Vonna now. But she says she loves the peace and quiet.

Vonna with Laura at their recent visit

~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~

A drawing I did in 1972

This picture is another "blast from the past". I was to the bank last week, and took the drawing out of the deposit box for a scan. Back in 1972, when I was newly a blushing teenager, there was something about a perfume ad I saw in one of Gramma's 'ladies' magazines that enticed me, so I drew the be-ruffled person in it. Rather than displaying a bottle of perfume, I had him write a letter.

When Laura and her Mom saw this drawing, they were startled, for Laura in 1972, prior to transition, wore exactly such ruffly shirts as the romantic figure in the portrait. Even the facial expression and hairstyle resembled Laura's at this time. Not only that, the letter writer appears lefthanded, as is Laura.

Curiously enough, it was at this time, in 1972, that Laura and Vonna were having their adventures together. Had I drawn a picture of Laura, before I met her? Destined to be soulmates, on some level, was I in contact with her spirit even then?

The mystery loving part of myself likes to think so. Even today, as I look at the above two pictures next to each other, Laura today, in her androgynous blouse of many gathers, bears a resemblance to that earlier picture.