The Bitch Who Always Calls the Cops

My latest title is not just “The Birch Who Always Call the Cops”, but is now  also “The Bitch Who calls the Cops Whenever She Wants To”.  This is because crazy guy got blackout drunk one Saturday night recently after drinking heavily for 24 hours, called me around 10 to pick him up, was screaming and weaving without the Segeway and his wallet in the dark at a closed Legion, and was so abusive verbally I drove him to the Cop Shop and called the cops. Never mind that is the 4th time he’s gone to the drunk tank this year, and that two of those arrests were due to other people calling the cops, because crazy guy was disruptive, hostile and in  blackout in public. One time he stood at a road and flipped off everyone who drove by for no particular reason except he was raging mad and stinko on booze.

This time his belligerence while drunk led to him being physically hurt at the drunk tank. Two young policepeople  hurt his arm badly enough for him to wonder if they had broken his arm. he had a large, dark bruise on his inner elbow area, a cut and a lot of pain. He finally had it looked at an x rayed by a doctor, imagine that, and found out it was not broken, only damaged from a contusion and massive sprain. This is, of course, also ALL MY FAULT.  I called the cops on him the previous blackout because he broke our brand new printer and had swept our modem and part of the computer hookups onto the floor, was menacing and threatening to me inside of MY home. I called the cops that time to get them to talk to him and prove to his pickled brain I would call them if he decided to act out on his threats against me. I only wanted the cops’ presence to get him to go to bed and pass out and leave me alone.  But he could not resist the attention of the cops and stepped off the porch where they nabbed him, and took him to the drunk tank.

Morning before last he was home and up around 3 am, and attacked me verbally about an old issue which has been a bone of contention between us for forever. I had been asleep on the couch and he went after me with his worst, relentless condemnations and accusations. The lioness in me awoke, and I began roaring right back in his face at the top of my lungs. I met his unbridled hate with mine, and we were finally  a real match.  When I got dressed and left an hour later at 5 am,  I was done believing there was anything left to give a damn for. I told him what an evil bastard he has been, that I wanted him out of my life and house, and didn’t want to EVER see him again. I stayed away all day.

The kicker is that when I finally came home, he told me that I had never abandoned him during our 30 odd years together, and that now, he would not abandon me, would not leave me over a fight or an arrest.  All this time trying to be decent, not give into my hate of the abuse at his hands I’ve been taking over and over again.For awhile I wasn’t sure if I was hearing right. He’s never, ever said any of that before to me under any circumstances. I know well the danger of swimming too far down the River Styxx of rage. If you become it, stay there, you go to hell, no matter how heinous the person hating and abusing you is. I frankly have no clue why he responded in that way, even apologized for his treatment of me. I know this: no apology from him will stop him from being abusive to me later.  When I was out and about sobbing my guts out at the extreme hurt his dirty, vicious attack on me did to me, I realized that I had boarded the wrong boat in life, and then made the mistake of staying on it. I am warped, much  like he is, or I would not be where I am or have him in my life. This was a bitter realization but a true one.


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Made Me look, Time to Unsubscribe

This morning I got up to write in  my online daily journal and then I went to the Yahoo page to get to my emails. I have recently taken to actually reading news articles on the Yahoo page due to the Harvey Weinstein deluge of women calling him out for sexual assault. This was in direct violation to a rule I imposed on myself long ago because Yahoo is far from being a reliable source of just about anything newswise. They are mostly infotainment, and they have long ago sold their soul and our personal information.

I allowed myself to get caught up in a long and slow slideshow revealing detailed information about a hit tv show I used to watch called “The Rifleman” with Chuck Connors and Johnny Crawford. a wide eyed, innocent looking boy who played his son on the series. I remember resisting joining Facebook after I was initially invited to, and trying it. I actually left it, and they hassled me by asking nosy questions in print when I did cut it off.  I can’t remember exactly why I went back, but it was  because I was lost in my life, adrift and unable to connect. I hated it, didn’t have the attention span to not get hooked on it and felt enslaved and oppressed getting used to it, searching for connection.

I’m used to it now, and I finally have a direction in my life that is real: going to massage certification school at a local community college. I am also out of my compulsive and desperate search for answers to my health problems, which are over a year old and continue to be a huge source of misery and stress.  I have been a quick buy sucker when it comes to health stuff, in particular supplements and books. I’m not foolish enough to think I want to give up the internet completely, but I am now categorizing a great deal of what I constantly. almost daily waste a  lot of precious time doing:

I’m now ready to listen to and hear an inner voice  pipe up and say “Made Ya Look”, and “Time to Unsubscribe” on a daily basis when I’m on the net.  I’ll see if those simple concepts will help me now start to come back to more of me, whom I need to be in touch with.

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The Shitshow of Narcissistic Cock Soup

Today on Yahoo, I read 2 Tweet responses from british actress Lena Headey to the recent things comedian CK Louis has written lately  in response to 5 women accusing him of sexual misconduct. I find it interesting that the woman wrote the article on her response calls it “Savage”in the headline.  At the end of the article, which reviews the fact Headey previously had stepped forward to relate her near rape and sexual harassment at the hands of Harvey Weinstein, the writer acknowledges Headey.  This was quite the journalistic hedge, first implying Headey is over reacting, then praising her for being part of the men and women coming forward and breaking the silence about sexual harassment and rape in show business and other industries. I believe she has every right to call what CK Louis has done what she has, which is the title to this post.

I like Headey, who most ironically played the wife of the Spartan general in the movie “The 300”. That charactor is raped and temporarily  silenced by a betrayer from within the Spartan society  while her husband is away defending his people against a huge enemy army. I think she has hit the nail on the head about CK Louis, and all the big time producers and directors who are rapists and  sexual harassers. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate the death of Hugh Hefner and the end of Harvey Weinstein’s sexual war on women and  reign of terror.

But the person I respect the most is Ronan Farrow, the reporter who went to great lengths to research and find proof strong enough to get the New Yorker to break his story on Harvey Weinstein’s rape and harassment of countless women. He is the son of actress Mia Farrow, who once was married to Woody Allen, and who is supposed to be his blood father, but is rumored to be a son of Frank Sinatra. He has now exposed Harvey Weinstein’s hiring of ex  Mossad operators who run a secret organization called the “Black Cube” in order to discredit and expose any women and journalists who have come forward with allegations against him.

I’m grateful to have lived to see this day, where ALL the women and men coming forward to own their experiences of being coerced, molested and raped are being listened to , heeded and believed. It’s not punishment that I think is needed in relation to the men doing all this, but putting a stop to them being able to continue doing it and getting away with it with impunity.  I really don’t care if Bill Cosby, Roman Polansky, Brett Rattner,  or Harvey Weinstein go to jail, I care that the world makes it now impossible for this kind of widespread, blatantly harmful shit to continue to go on and on, like it has for too many years.



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Wednesday’s Windbag is Full of Woe

This morning I did a post on Nextdoor  about a flyer I got yesterday in the little park info box below my regular mailbox  stating that there will be meetings sponsored by the County tonight and tomorrow night on Rent Controll, PROPOSED MOBILE HOME PARK CLOSURE, and some kind of ZONING issue.

In my post, I stated what I had received, and I said what I fear: That Big Bucks wants to take the land upon which I live, in a mobile home park, and it’s gonna happen soon. I then  stated that I can’t attend the meetings because I am going to school, and if anyone was going would they share information on Nextdoor.

I got a big  reaction by a man in my neighborhood who is a contentious, righteous know -it-all WINDBAG, rebuking me for my opinion, condescendingly putting me down for stating it. I’m actually quite happy I did it, and drew his fire straight up. I was going to retort, decided against it, thanked him for his suggestion. I’m not going to defend myself to anyone about it, because the whole purpose of me posting it was to WAKE people the fuck up. I want them to be scared and anxious so I can get the most information as quickly as possible.

It’s very suspicious to me how inauspicious the flyer was, and the timing of it’s delivery. Somebody is pulling a fast one.  Most people won’t  see that it was delivered for at least a day or night, more will not read it and see what is hidden in the print and they will not have the opportunity to go to the meeting and find out anything.   You have my permission, Mr. Windbag, to kiss my ass. You and everybody around here should be afraid, VERY afraid.

Here’s what I would say to anyone who doesn’t like me stating that Big Bucks is coming to take my home away from me:  PEOPLE, are you kidding me? Really? Trump is president, HELLO!  Can you say BIG WAVE PROJECT? Are you blind or haven’t you seen the  big “BUILD TO SUIT” sign right next door to us? The rents in this town are INSANE for everything!  And what is happening in San Francisco, Oakland, and LOTSA other places: People who are not rich and well jobbed up are being driven OUT. Out, as in NO MORE PLACE TO LIVE they can afford. You are really being STUPID  to want to stay asleep.

I have every  right to state my opinion, stir everything up as much as I please. It’s called beating the bushes so I can find out as much as I can as fast as I can by (almost) any means possible to take care of myself, my life , my future and my welfare.


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Finding Ogun’s Oven Mitts

Today I went to a fancy cooking equipment store that is going out of business and found 2 cooking mitts that were only $10 apiece. I could hardly believe it, because this is the kind of store that has really fancy, expensive cookware and stuff only big time chefs and cooking fanatics understand. These mitts are nice, long  and thick, with insulation inside of them. I bought one in black and one in a nice spring green.

Black and green are the colors of Ogun, the Warrior orisha who carries 2 machetes and governs metal, technology, clearing the way,work,  and war in the Santeria tradition come from the centuries old Yoruban spiritual tradition of IFA.

The oven mitts I have to be replaced by the  new ones are a lighter green and they are burned, worn, tired, long in need of retirement. I bought them a long time ago at the local grocery store and they were perfectly fine, have done a good job.  They have  hung from two lonely little screws that used to secure a paper towel roll holder and are just hanging out in the cheap kitchen  wall in the holes.

Ogun’s Oven Mitts look magnificent, and I have already used the black one to pick up my iron skillet to pour hot bacon grease into a container. I love em, have been looking for them for some time.


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Congolese Resurrection

Yesterday I was at a Beat Meet with drumming friends and I ended up using the 6 years I spent getting Congolese Conga Rhythms to teach people who wanted the information and practice.  When I knew the congolese class was fading and about to end,  I remember thinking everything I had worked hard to learn was now completely useless.

I knew that the long and painful struggle I had gone through to build my skills effectively had given me a good base for learning any kind of percussion. I never imagined  that people would actually want to learn the actual congolese rhythms and how they fit together. It was a moment of grace, and I have gratitude for it.

Much of what I learned during the 6 years was not about the rhythms but how to deal with  human situations in relation to drumming. Human beings as a rule are vulnerable and they don’t like to show it, so there is a lot of  bullshit behavior to try and cover that vulnerability, make it look like something else, and put the blame on others.

What is good now is that what I learned is really solid, and I chose not to make it into some big grandiose deal, just worked hard to learn it in a way I could keep forever. AndI have moved further into latin percussion, always remembering how impossible it seemed for me to learn the congolese patterns in the beginning and all along. I proved over and over again that “Difficult” is not “Impossible.”



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Stuck on the Mine That Isn’t Mine

Last night I watched a video of a movie out called “Mine”. It’s a story about a marine sniper out in a desert who steps on a mine and cannot move for long hours while he struggles with dehydration, exposure to too much sun, sandstorms, wolves trying to kill and eat him, and hallucinations mixed with flashbacks about his troubled and unresolved life.

It was horrible and riveting at the same time. I could relate. Not incidentally, the man I live with was gone too long, not answering his phone, disappeared for an obvious time period that could only mean one thing: He was doing something he knows he should not. When he got home it became crystal clear he’d fallen off the wagon and had drunk alcohol. This after over 60 days of sobriety.

I told him I’m not going back to him using meth and/or alcohol. I skipped the hysteria, rage, pleading, threatening. Been there and done that for over 30 years. He did his usual defensive drunk bluster about getting a hotel room and going somewhere else for the night, which I dismissed, knowing full well that a key inner part of him is always waiting to be kicked out for good no matter how good things ever get. And there is very young part curled up in a fetal position inside in terror of it.

I feel like my life has been just like the guy’s ordeal on the mine. This in relation to living with a guy who wants to die and is never, ever gonna be OK, even if he’s sober. Like the man on the mine, I have had grave difficulty moving forward, even when salvation is presented in the form of ghosts and a helping human  who understands the situation all too well, having lost a leg and a young daughter to the dangerous mines.

Now the guy has called and is exhibiting some healthy fear and remorse over his “slip”, but I’m aware now that I am far from being where I need to in relation to him, his sobriety, and life. He is the mine I’ve been standing on. I have a workable form of detachment, from him and how he behaves, but it is not enough. My confusion/delusion has centered around him, and I don’t know how to get off it safely. There is a paradox at work here, and I know I can’t cut the Gordian Knot juts yet. But it will have to be cut, I will have to move forward with myself somehow.

I’m not at fault for freezing on the mine that the guy I’ve been supporting, But it has to end, and no matter what happens, it’s a big death of what I have identified with as my life. I’m still terrified of moving forward, still frozen on the Mine that isn’t mine.


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Chihuahua Shit Central and The Big Life Service

We have a very small little corridor of grass that starts beneath the three mailboxes next to our skinny  mobile home driveway, and continues up from the street to some concrete rimmed Arizona flagstone. Grass, clover, and weedy oxtongue grow right where we step out from our vehicles, mine on the driver’s side and the guy’s when loading or unloading stuff from his truck back passenger side.

Naturally, neighbor  dogs in the park, a large percentage of which are tiny  chihuahuas, love to shit there. I imagine the cool green grass caresses their  little ass checks as they happily crap at this convenient, close by  dog toilet. The dogshit piles  could not have been placed more fortuitously  for being stepped in or on, partially hidden by the grass.

I think of it as a sort of compliment to our cat barf stained porch, which often sports a few rakishly scattered, left over cat kibble stars, occasional hairballs and tufts of black or white fur  from Junior, one of two semi feral catboyz.  Junior and Mr. Green grace our porch almost every morning and evening to get wet food. Our porch is testament to an unofficial catland, for it is essentially one big scratching post and has much wear. You can’t see that the front door inner mat is yellow, because it is soiled from grooming cats and foot traffic. Ah, the Wabi Sabi joys of living with traumatic abuse survivors who are not in their bodies, are paranoid , OCD and Ring of Fire ADD.

I often dream of trisodium phosphating our front door, of cutting through the grease and dirt of more than a decade, of purifying it and making it white once again, even painting it. This along with completely de-filthing my trash and recycling bins. Mere washing will not do. I believe I will have to spend days to get them clean and carefully schedule it so I can ritually cleanse them between trash pickups.And I have no intention of ever washing the outside of the mobile ever again, but plot to hire a power washer whose trucks I see in the neighborhood when I walk.

I’m well convinced  that IF I completely clear, clean and ritually cleanse my battered and grease stained Chevy Impala, mountains will move. From there, I can move to what I call The Big Life Service, piece by piece, bit by bit. When we had a used, yellow,  Mercedes Benz that we foolishly bought at an auction house, we had NO IDEA how expensive maintaining a Mercedes of any condition is. We went to a number of mechanics who liked to talk about The BIG SERVICE.  The Big Service was their euphemism for Big Bucks to “restore” the health of the Mercedes.


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Releasing the Dark Mother Shadow

I have a medium sized sculpture I made quite a while ago, out of a black clay called Cassius Basaltic. It’s the headless torso of a woman with arms, breasts, buttocks, and big, protruding stomach in rolls. it has a vagina and a broad, muscular back. When I made it, I had been reading Jungian books on the dark feminine for years and was aware of what is generally referred to as SHADOW. The shadow is what we deny in ourselves and don’t see because we don’t want to accept it’s part of us.  When I made it, my body was getting heavier, and I was feeling the strain of carrying  the shadow projection of my family. I had fallen into playing the role well of the non achieving loser and wasn’t a “real” woman because I had not married and had children. This put me outside of any real respect and everyone was perfectly ok with exploiting me and treating me like some kind of garbage they could tread on and control.

I made the sculpture to try and embrace the reality of the fact I was becoming what I had sworn and fought to never become. It’s existence attests to the power of feminine archetypes, the nature of which cannot be avoided unless a woman can develop an inner vessel of consciousness to hold the marriage of opposites. I, like so many other women, have tried to  flee from the earthly feminine in my fear and ignorance, and, as a consequence have been partially possessed by the dark, ungrounded, shadow feminine.

When I made the sculpture, I deliberately exaggerated the swollen obesity, the heaviness of weight in the breasts and stomachs. I fired the black clay without glaze. I had read the mythic story about Baubo, a small dark goddess who made Demeter laugh when she was searching for Persephone  by exposing it’s vagina and telling sexual, off color jokes to her. Baubo’s eyes were nipples, it’s nose the navel and the mouth the roll  crease in the fat stomach. I also painted the hands of the torso silver to represent another metaphoric myth about the Silver Handed Maiden that I got from Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ “Women Who Run With the Wolves”.

I had made that sculpture while I was caregiving my mother, and I had it in a studio where my sisters came to stay when they thought they were putting my declining mother away into a facility. It had been sitting on a window shelf and someone put it in the corner and turned it around so it’s front could not be seen……Someone had not been OK with it’s naked, blatant sexual realism. That was a perfect indictment of it’s true meaning and compliment to it’s impact.

Damn the black crone! Damn the woman no longer obediently trying to stay young, hide her human imperfections, cover and hide her sexual organs and please/take care of everyone else but herself. In Jungian books about eating disorders, women either starve themselves with anorexia to disappear from the excessive and inhuman expectations of women, or massively overeat and are bulimic to numb themselves and get big to protect themselves.

Now I’m big, swollen and obese, hypothyroid, have high blood pressure and tachycardia. I have carried the dark mother, the woman who is thought of as too stupid to leave an abusive relationship, been called “too subservient” and told that “you don’t rate.” I have lived out the curse of the dark feminine shadow, the part our society has tried to burn, arrest, suppress, and control. I’ve lived with the terror and rage and grief I can’t express, lived a marginal life. I am the black sheep aunt who doesn’t get invited to things, is not included, but sends birthday gifts to grand nieces anyway. I have witnessed the horrible, hidden bias against women and the massive iceberg of comfortable denial we wrap around ourselves to live along side it, the war to keep it distant. I have survived the dark mother and shadow, am going to break the sculpture, break it down to dust and return it to earth.


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All Purpose Bad Projection Unit

Today I got the federal case putdown, the massive rebuke for not putting away the milk. I did not swallow this for once, remarked that the condemning party often leaves things out, and got the “shut up” and angry denial of what I said when in fact it is absolutely true. Lately, he’s been putting dishes in the sink, cooking, and even putting some things away here and there, but that is a brand new thing. Mostly he has NEVER put anything away and lived like a hog in slop while he treats me like an incompetent  house slave who never does her job well enough.

Most recently I read that some  parents project unwanted, disowned parts of themselves on their children and treat them accordingly, which is very bad and does a lot of harm. And I am quite sure males project on women a great deal, and the more abused and traumatized they are, the more punishing and hateful they are to the women around them. Women are, after all, considered “the weaker sex” AND women are, in many traumatized, fatherless male minds horrible “all powerful” evil witches at the same time. Can’t win for losing on that one in  a racist, misogynist, sexist, classist, rape culture.

We are so handy for blaming, because 99% of everything is about the collective denial of/splitting off of reality about human vulnerability. We have been groomed for centuries for the job of all purpose bad projection unit and scapegoat. And we women are used to doing it to each other and ourselves, so it seems normal even though it is barbaric and harms everyone. Thank you Phyllis Chesler for examining it and writing about it.

I have never understood the rampant ability of so many human beings to forget this when they decide to have children. We have the mindset of a bygone era which is rapidly getting more and more obsolete and pointless by the day. The sad thing is, it’s not just girls that are hampered and ill equipped to cope with our current reality regarding power and safety. Boys by the droves are very unprotected and lost also. Predatory people do well in times of blind ignorance and rampant denial. They have plenty of people to prey on.


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