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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Goodbye Mayonnaise

Well, the jury is in on  PUFA’s….or Poly Unsaturated Fatty Acids. Apparently, every single kind of plant based oil except butter, coconut and olive oil are  very bad for me, blocking thyroid, liver, cell receptors and some other vital thing’s pathways. According to the source I’ve been following for over a year, it takes 3 years to get that stuff outta your fat cells. The same source claims that most of the Vitamin E capsules have got those kind of oils in them as carriers.

I got hooked on mayonnaise, specifically BEST FOODS Hellman’s mayonnaise a long time ago in my family. I had no idea what it was made out of, and now that particular mayo is considered mega poison because it has  toxic aluminum in it, BAD, BAD, BAD! The same source claims his vitamin E does not have the bad oils in it, will have to totally check that.

We used mayo in my family for sandwiches and gorging on white/dark turkey with dressing and cranberry gel sandwiches for days after Thanksgiving. I have been overeating with it for decades, though I changed to an “alternative” mayo made out of grapeseed oil. When I started reading about the ketogenic diet, I gleefully upped my consumption and ate butter and mayo like there was no tomorrow. High fat diet? You betcha, no problemo. Love them fats, they satisfy!!!!

Further, the guy says no matter how much thyroid you take, it won’t go into the cells if they are clogged, and you stay hypothyroid. DAANG. I’ve spent years making my own “healthy” salad dressing by combining olive oil, coconut oil, minced garlic cloves, spices, lemon and, yes, a coupla Tablespoons of grapeseed, and for awhile, safflower oil mayo. Boy do I feel sheepish, literally, am shaped like a big, fat, woolly one at this point. BAAAAAAH!

I have  stopped buying mayo. Even the paleo purists like Mark Sisson of Primal Blueprint love them some PUFAs, have their own organic, advocado oil speshal mayo, which according to Thyroid guy is still BAD for those of us with shitty, clogged up cells, liver, and thyroid. My guy loves blue cheese dressing and 99% of all store bought dressings are canola oil based, which is supposed to be mucho bad O for the liver.

I  love everything white and creamy, but it hasn’t been the loss I thought it would be. There is still pastured butter and coconut oil, and perhaps ghee. There is also raw milk, cottage cheese, yogurt, kefir, and sour cream. I think one of my ideas of heaven would be to have a small goat dairy and make nothing but raw goat milk products, just for me and whoever wanted them.

I’m relieved the information is now CONCLUSIVE and very clear. Before now, there was a kind of hemming and hawing. I could not keep it straight exactly what oils were considered bad and good, and then there was all the stuff about processing. Monosaturated, poly unsaturated, saturated, trans fat, hydrogenated. Virgin versus refined. According to an unusual heart doctor, his vitamin e is made from organic red palm oil and has mixed tocopherols. Plus there is Emu oil that has k2 in it. I just bought some, we will see.

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Brain Fog Time Warp Cluster Fck

Today I tried to make it to a dentist appointment I thought I had at 11:30 am, failed to get going soon enough, did my best to get there in as fast I could safely, and arrived at 11:40.

I walked in feeling mostly fucked, because I had sent an email chastising the dentist and her staff for telling me I didn’t respect their time and was “insulting” because I didn’t lie the last time I came in for mold casting when they asked me if I had brushed my teeth that morning.

I came in and sat down in the waiting room. No one was at the front desk, and the dental assistant came in and said there was no appointment on the books for me. I knew something was fishy, went out to my car and discovered that not only was the appointment supposed to be at 12:30 instead of 11:30, I had cancelled it by email instead of one that was in August that I didn’t want to pay another $300 bucks for.

I had earlier told the dentist in person at a consult appointment that I needed to stop coming because of money and work issues. She had then cut some of the fee for the apt in August and offered to make me a no cost retainer for my missing tooth. AND she had not charged me the $155 I had been told I would need to pay for that consult.

I’m hypothyroid, possibly Hashimoto’s and Lupus bound, estrogen dominant, gut fucked up, swollen, overweight and have shitty skin. Almost every day, depending on what, how much, and when I eat, I pass out for any where from 1/2 an hour to 2, and when I sleep at night, I don’t sleep, I mini coma out at night, and no matter how much sleep I actually get, feel tired  in the morning and have a hard time getting up.  I’m often tight in the body, and I have high blood pressure, white noise in my left ear constantly, and tachycardia.

I’ve deliberately not gotten treated because I don’t trust either tests or doctors. I’m often flushed, and fatigued for no particular reason. I can walk and do mobility exercises, but anything else active is out of the question. I’ve spent a year online researching this and have now become so surfeited with internet health gabble and health hustles that I have pulled back from it. I know I’m doing damage to my body and am lucky I have not had a stroke, heart attack or collapse.

I paid an online  cellular detox coach way too much money and fucked off his protocol.  I wasn’t clear minded enough to insist the expensive, specially trained dentist get down to business and get the god damned mercury out of my teeth.  I’m aware hundreds of thousands of other people are suffering from this shit, but I’m not a happy camper about it today.

Still, I have a book another woman loaned me which has proven useful and some other sources, and I know I have to clean my god damned teeth twice a day. In spite of everything, the dentist did show they gave a shit by getting on my case about brushing. So now I know I’ve got to get real hardass and ask the hard questions about getting the mercury out of my teeth before I ever climb into a to a dentist’s chair  again: what will it take, how long, how much.

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Fit To Be Tied

Woke up this morning to the sixth or seventh version of the guy’s anxiety and indecision over signing the union list today for roll call.  He’s  40 days sober, basically what they call in 12 step “dry drunk” because without the constant anesthetic of meth, dope or alcohol, he’s back to the traumatized, confused, blindly impulsive, clinging and  lost inner child he’s been all his life. And every time he tries to get a sponsor, or get help, it goes badly, only confirms he can’t trust anyone or the world.

My one major beef with 12 step is all this “just get a sponsor and work the steps” mojo like they grow on trees. In ACA they say “slow down, breathe, ask for help”. There in lies the rub: asking for help from strangers who are as sick as you. How in the fuck does that ever work? Clearly it does for some people, proof is the  actual folks in the rooms who make it and can tell the story, get and have sponsors they continue to be connected with. The only sponsor that ever helped me was one who was worse  off than me, and would shelter me when I couldn’t be home with drinking crazy guy. I’ve never “done the steps” and had the recovery that is supposed to happen, so it’s hard not to assume it will never happen for me, no matter what I do.

I found myself tapping into deep rage this morning, irritated by the mendacity of the guy’s infantile emotional floundering over the same stuff I listened to for hours yesterday. He doesn’t want to work for the union anymore, having fallen off the world again in sober isolation, regressed back to abandoned, abused child, unable to imagine or remember what it’s like to be actually working, having somewhere to go during the day where you belong. At such times he ping pongs between trivial decisions as though tomorrow he will have no where to sleep and nothing to eat, because that is what happened to him numerous times, thanks to his insane and insufferably abusive family.

One of the real reasons I’ve stayed with the guy and supported him all these years was that he has always tried to work, always gotten back up again time and time again, and got his fucked up self out there to work. He has braved incredibly difficult, abusive job conditions, over and over again, only to have to leave situations and then deal with new, unknown ones again, sooner or later. Being in the union stopped the endless, obvious exploitation  of him  as a carpenter, from local, small time contractors who’d use him, pay him too little, and drop him, but it has continued the nightmare of chronic insecurity, masking it with the structure of organized labor.  Despite everything wrong with him, despite his long abuse of and dependency on me, he is a talented, hard working, brilliant carpenter who deserves a decent, well paying, sustained job.

While raging because he got up, played the same broken record and blindly obstructed me from using the bathroom so I could get the trash and recycling out, I tapped into my own despair and rage over the same issue: Never being able to get sustained work where I felt I belonged and was safe.  What’s up with that, GOD?

When I was younger I believed in a sort of natural selection: that if I couldn’t make it, I would just die, or kill myself, because that was the natural order of things. Then I didn’t make it, but I didn’t die, and I got tired of trying to plan my suicide and facing  just  how much nobody would care if I did kill myself. I kept on keeping on, continued to continue. And now I’m going to massage school. Doing something I never could imagine I could make a living from. I still don’t understand why I’m here, and if there is a god, what it’s got in mind for me. Deep down, I’m still really angry about my guy and my life. Despite everything, we NEVER deserved this fucking, endless mess. I hate it, and I hate living the LOSER life.

 

 

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