Pennies

It's just something that I do, but if I find a penny, it's a good day. The penny is not allowed to be a signifier of anything further than a bit of happy. Larger coins are also accepted, and thus boost the number of penny-finding days forward. A nickel is worth five days, for example; nickels are hard to find because they are larger and people notice them, pennies and dimes tarnish more and thus blend into the strata besides being a smaller size. This past June I found three dollars on the ground in the parking lot, so technically I am ahead 300 days even though if I don't find any pennies on any day, well, it's like no dessert which I am used to, since cake is bad for you anyways. I still believe in pie, but don't let it in the house.

But I did find a penny today, in the parking lot of the college where I registered for two more courses closer to the degree. This is a trapeze-swinging jump, as I think I am unemployed from my job, (will know more tomorrow), and paying out of pocket. It is taking half of everything I have, and that's the scary part. However, what could happen? Once I pay the car insurance, I will qualify for food stamps. Wegman's will honor generic prescriptions for $10 per 90 tablets. Without a job, I would be eligible for unemployment, yet don't think I can get any further student loans. I have one course in the spring left.

The part that squirrels me is that once my then health issues screwed up my waking memory to the point where I forgot to pay them their easy $75 for three months, the state required not only that "good faith" payment, but they also garnished my wages $200 a paycheck. So, $475 just to the government. This, combined with the lost ability to get student loans put me in a

financial bind precluding further attending grad school until the income tax refund arrived.

Life was later hit by the bag of wet mice that had the last two courses needed for the degree given on Thursday nights at the same time. Even if my head was on straight, it wouldn't have happened. So, employing either catalyst, I am losing my job which wanted the master's degree by midnight, tonight. A note is in to Albany from the union, bless 'em, and there may be a last minute reprieve. Results like this are really in the state's best interest as well, for without employment at my age, what are the options?

I am not going down the litany of worries, because frankly, being back in college feels terrific. The health issues ever dissipate, and I will always have a hot shower as long as I live where I am. Who knows where this will land me? A new adventure, this, with old skill sets of living on a string. It may even force me to paint pictures to sell. Dumpster dive. Catch a brown goose for dinner. Move in with my son and his girlfriend (just kidding on the last one, Buzz).

So this is where I am, and it's a far better place than three days ago, when despair clutched in an iron grip. Even then, pennies found meant something good. I don't know why people just throw them away, a good place to find them is in the area behind a do-it-yourself car wash, where people vacuum their cars. They'll toss eight pennies on the ground, but save out the one nickel.

I have a day tomorrow, of getting books and assignments, of going in to get more personal belongings out of the classroom. Not waiting for results, I can always haul stuff back. Sleep is calling to me, sleep under an orange moon just rising in the east. Have to plan, have to think, it is a thing of interest to me, this happenstance, a puzzle to be conjured.

Lord, the children. Let them sleep well, this life is not for the drowsy. Good night.

Editing previous post

Well, I don't know how that happened, that bit where sentences are cut off. But I like it.

Names

Apple, peach, cabbage, silo. Arm, leg, tinker, walk. Up, down, red, green. Words communicate ideas; the idea of water drops on grass in the morning is dew; bring something up, whether thought, building or foot is to raise. I love words, should learn more about usage, maybe read the Times more, go back and subscribe to the New Yorker. Poems are a favorite, images play for years from a stanza or two.

I have been practicing e.e. cummings poem "anyone lived in a pretty how town", restarted memorization again last night. His ideas are tough to get, to put in order, but so, so lovely. One of my secret hobbies, memorizing poems. I have Coleridge's "Kubla Khan", Yeats "The Second Coming", and Emerson's "Brahmin" complete. Have to review from time to time, the old brain is fusty and jumbled.

An author's nuances and meaning turn me inside out in delight, for example, from Coleridge:

"But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon lover!"

What woman? Where'd she come from? A demon lover? What was she looking for from him,

was he late with something? "Where the hell were you, we missed the seven o'clock showing."

All sorts of visuals there. Ah but that's the thing, visuals.

Names give us a common reference identifying connections to each other, with whatever groups

we circle in throughout the day. People delight in wit, in being the clever one, or mostly, being

a friend of the clever one. We repeat what we hear in spite of thinking, do we really mean this,

is this phrase expressing our own hearts? Alliance forms from fear, of being the one left out, and

so we parrot whatever current group we are in.

So nice to see you's are spouted, but when in front of the other nasty mouths, the words turn

cartwheels to become agreement with whomever we regard as the most intrusive or feared, just

so's we don't get squashed ourselves. It doesn't stop when you get older, this relegation of

rank continues and lives on, fed by fear and self-loathing. But it is most painful to observe in

children being victimized by other children or adults.

Carving out social rank within a group is a safety feature of survival, no news there, but there are

way too many glitches along the way. These glitches are called nincompoops, and they live to make

their position seemingly secure by dumping venom on others not within their perimeters. Names

are the easiest, non-thinking way to cut someone off at the knees and then congratulate yourself

that you aren't one of them.

This whole train of thought was brought on by a friend's blog, as he reminisced about feelings

surrounding the names peers tagged him with. I was called names, others I love dearly have

suffered verbal bullying, and until you believe that you are a good person, these names cut your

soul to shreds. Self-doubt is magnified by the lens of scrutiny, and you better buck up and find

what you like about yourself and build on it, or the rabble will grind you in their maw until they

tire and find other victims to sustain their useless selves.

It is just so hard for children, teenagers, the lonely, introverted, or different. The can collecting man

has a degree in physics, the quiet child who can't read knows how to make beautiful pictures;

listening to them raises you up, smiling at them pleasantly isn't hard, use a kind word in front of

them and more importantly, display some integrity and refuse to play these horrible, empty games.

Go out and hang up some laundry or go find a new way to study turtles. For heaven's sake, do

something useful. I'll like you better.

And not always, but most of the time? The people who are drubbed and tormented turn out to be

fascinating adults, while the mouthy clique-y ones find that name callers stay just that. I know you

know someone who hasn't outgrown their high school role. Yet not all introverts are heroes, nor all

extraverts pains in the neck, you just know better where the extraverts are; 75% of the population,

for goodness sake.

One hundred percent of us need our sleep, and bless you if you can with a clear conscience. No demon

lovers necessary, we can take care of this ourselves. Be at peace with one another, all any of us

want is to be happy and toss over a grilled cheese on whole grain bread once in a while. Change

into jammies, say a prayer to whatever guides you, and let yourself fall innocently into the sleep

shared by every other living being on the planet. As the world spins, imagine the light switches

being clicked before head hits pillow. That will be interesting, a recorder in the high atmosphere,

able to pick up the changes of the hours as they rotate around the earth. Does Spain sound differently

from China? It would have to, but how? Ah well, sleep my dears, and heal. You are loved and shiny as

a new penny.

Sunset over the lake. Moonrise in the southern sky. Venus, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter, Uranus.

Good night from the city.

Clippings and Notes

Moving furniture takes your mind off of whether you may have a job tomorrow or not, so the bed is being pushed about the room it is in, sloughing layers of papers saved from this and that. An envelope of newspaper clippings that my Mom had snipped spills onto this bed, and belies the dreams she had. What I read from these yellowed scraps tells of isolation from friends and life, due to her marriage and the life she was doled.

She saved items mostly from the two Buffalo papers, The Buffalo Evening News and the Courier-Express; there were several clothing tags from garments she bought regarding fabric care, and notes of measurement for curtains and carpet. These are what she was allowed as portals to a world outside. I say it is my job to report her interests, of things that seemed important, for today the clippings are being thrown away.

This is what her eyes took in, what she deemed helpful to keep life in order: German events in the city, shops for cuckoo clocks and Hummel figurines; recipes for crowds, car care, window cleaning formulas, and hints on freezing candles to prevent dripping wax. Wall washing hints. About eight different snips of articles on vinegar, particularly for window cleaning. She used scissors to cut out an imaginary safe world, storing it in shoeboxes and used envelopes. I have two more boxes to go through; this is just the beginning, this first pile.

Pictures of people at dinner, dancing, sitting in conversation over the latest recipe for cabbage and pork chops are framed by pounds of clippings for large crowds, dinner party for eight sort of things. My Mom, so lonely and wistful, not strong enough to get out there where real people and ideas surfaced. Ach, du lieber.

Her flat, lefthanded writing sometimes has numbers or names of stores and companies. Measurement meant hope. The curtains will bring warmth and that note of sparkle to the decor, providing the family with a homey sense of society. A carpet will be comfortable, able to silence hard footsteps, mask and absorb sounds. Feed your family from the five food groups to keep their immune systems functioning and give them happy dispositions. I see, Mama, your thirty pickle recipes were how you kept going when all you had was a newspaper and your soaps and had to have a hot meal on the table or face the terror and violence at five p.m. and on weekends.

In a wonderful world, I would not throw them out, but publish them in a book titled "Dorothy Mae". It would be a handbook for the people who live just under the top layer of life, who live without breathing most of the time so the poltergeists don't eat you up. Invite people over, make a casserole able to feed twelve. Be loud, clink glasses, laugh, turn up the music. It never happened for her. I couldn't save her. One of my biggest failings in this life.

What can be done. Looking back turns you to salt, so I am going back to moving more furniture and throw out some other history, perhaps some of my own. The cat rubs her face on the corner of the laptop screen and goes back to washing her front bib in circling laps. My love, I love you so.

Sleep well. Please. It would do me so much good to think so. Reality is that I can't save anyone but myself, but it does also mean that wishing you well feels good, and that I can lend you a hand if you need. Oh the power of thought, of wishful thinking. Move forward, push the bed. Good night, you are safe.

Solipsis

Can it be ever understood how many people are on drugs? Not the recreational illegal business, but the doctor-prescribed medications that are not hinged too tightly on getting us better. First I was on a high blood pressure med that zombified me. Then I was on cholesterol med that started dissolving my long muscles. Now I am on a diuretic that creates a ghostly, drowsy weakness that has me tripping over rugs and my own feet.

The online stats say that over two million people take this particular cholesterol drug, not all of them successfully. They are as woozy as I was, and maybe this is a good time to let everyone know not to tailgate. God knows what the person ahead of you is on. If it's a prescribed drug, we think the side effects are legal and try to go on with business when we should be sitting at home with a pillow under our head. No, no, I'm fine. I can do this. Getting used to a new drug and finally deciding that it is doing more damage than good is a long struggle towards normalcy. Getting used to a drug that works for you is just as nerve-wracking, for you never know the outcome until weeks have gone by. My life, a good chunk, has been spent getting used to drugs.

Just realize folks, that too many of us are dealing with pharmaceuticals and what they do to body systems. I feel way better now than I did this morning and hope that with time this new med will be tolerated at the get-go. Friends who take it say it will, and it eliminates the other two meds that were debilitating. Plop one foot in front of the other and there you go.

The rhabdomyolysis causes the muscles to waste, and so I still ache while the meds are flushed out. It hurts to lift, walk, and breathe. But I am peeing oceans of bright yellow, better that the weak brown from dissolved proteins that would have caused eventual kidney problems. If anything, I have learned to be insistent with doctors and ask questions and do web research. Most are doing their best to be good people, but that's just it, they are people.

The night is cooling and I look forward to laying my long bones flat. Over the next few days the Perseid meteor shower takes place, and perhaps tomorrow evening, I will see some. Never have. But I will be near the southern border of New York State, in the woods with a couple of girlfriends, a mother and daughter who have a cabin there. Nowhere near city lights, at the top of an Allegheny mountain.

Sleep well and keep trying. Don't give up, too many people think of you when they say prayers. It is a privilege to be part of the struggle. Today at the grocery, I overheard a cashier speaking with a customer. This cashier is a man, a refugee from an African nation who had one arm chopped off possibly when he raised it to deflect the machete, which also left a deep dent in his skull. The customer asked, how are you, man? The cashier said, any day above ground is a good day. Think of that.

Dreams are for everyone, particularly for those who worry, push against the flow, or collect cans to supplement food on the table. An eccentric man used to run a bookstore, and lost it to a devious partner who came in and sidled his way legally into ownership, booting out the original owner. I see him up and down Elmwood on occasion, trailing a wire cart while searching for cans and returnable bottles. He refuses help from the government, and is intent on self-sufficiency, his long white hair and beard flopping out from under a baseball cap, his fingernails curved and yellow. His college degree is in physics.

What can we do but dream. Replenish with sleep tonight, let the body systems do mysterious workings unknown to the conscious mind. Sleep well, sleep tight. Hold on to something, it helps. Good, unknown night. Wait for me, Perseids.

Walk at the Basin

The sun was shining on the sea, shining with all her might; she did her very best to make the billows smooth and bright, and this was odd because it was the middle of the night. Here in the city, the sun was very shining except it was upon the lake and head of the river. I went for a walk in a direction I haven't been in maybe two years; I live right near the thing and rarely go that way. The point of interest was to see what plants they were testing in the beds down at the Marina, for one of my goals this school year is to have the kids plant a garden of mostly perennials, so they can witness the plants growing along with them. Grow and Read. What do you think?

There are two narrow strips originally designed as raised flower beds surrounded by concrete that have been let go, becoming just grass to be weed whacked. I think if we could just stuff a few here and theres, it would brighten the space and with luck, last a few years. The students could weed and water and see just how a garden works. I have taken this walk, then, as a step towards beginning research.

Also have to clear this with administration, but it was meant to be planted, so what's up? There is also abandoned space where a small playground was, and that could be used as a vegetable patch, further down the road. A sunflower house. Well, that's waaay later. There are urban gardens springing up left and right; big one between Fillmore Avenue and Wilson Street, smaller ones run by community groups. I wonder if the Buffalo Conservancy, which tends the garden outside the museum, would be willing to divide up some plants for us, really, the spot isn't that large. It's just empty.

Maybe the Botanical Gardens could divvy up some of its outdoor plants, and furthermore, most of our school staff have gardens with potential donations available. You know, when public areas clean out oh, say, tulips after the blooming season is finished, the bulbs are pulled and tossed. I know Buff State does that, as well as the Niagara Parks commission. If you know someone, there's bags for free. I don't know anyone, but I can introduce myself.

But anyway, on the walk towards the Hatch there are now carved statues from the immense trees felled by the October Storm of 2006. It is rather fabulous looking. The gardens are lovely, if concentrated and when turning a corner, there was a little brown bunny not too alarmed to see me lurching around. I found a penny. Petunias mobbed the beds in vivid Congo pinks, zinnias threw flames deeply scarlet and ravishing. Ornamental grasses were purple and fireworks red. Just lush, sumptuous.

I moved on to see people with lawn chairs dragged out of car trunks watching the goings on in the basin and further out on the lake. There were many sails apparent, perhaps participating in a race because they seemed to be going in the same direction, mostly. Sailboat races, because everyone's brother has a different class in this area, are handicapped to even up the field. You have to wait till they all get in before anyone can say yippee. Pretty to watch.

And there were geese. Lines of them. Gulls were about, but the Canadian geese swam neatly, conversationally, with wings tucked politely and no pushing or shoving. A couple rose up from the surface and I felt that thrill at watching an animal do something marvelous with little effort. To fly. The air rippled under their wings as two glided low over aqua colored water, silently.

Continuing towards the end of the berm, there really is quite a lot to see. The shoreline was swept of the skeletal mounds of driftwood that once filled the shore almost to the top of the slabs of stone put there to buffet waves. The stone slabs had also been built up more, with some gargantuan pieces of Medina red sandstone tossed in like checkers amid grey chunks. Columbine, Virginia creeper, Butter and Eggs, Moth Mullein, and I think a bit of poison ivy (it wouldn't surprise me, ivies in this latitude have increased a hundredfold because of climate change) grew from crevices.

Made it to the small, municipal "beach" with added sand and a sign sternly and correctly warning not even to stick your toe in beyond this stretch, the current is that bad, and it really is. Wading in the safe area seemed okay, but here is where nature hit the fan. Those lovely, regal geese must use the area as a morning spa, for goose feces was everywhere as well as the short, fluffy feathers that line under wings and chests. It was a supreme mess.

One family was allowing their little girl to play at water's edge in bare feet with a pail and shovel and lord watch over that she doesn't come down with a bad case of stomach cramps. Could someone not rake this small strand of sand? Not that it would take away the minutiae of bacteria, but for heaven's sake, if you make a play area available where you know people will be, do something about cleaning it. How could geese be convinced to go elsewhere?

Heading back off the berm, then, and to home. The sun felt so good. I had found catnip gone to seed poking through the slabs of rock and nipped some dried buds to scatter closer to my doorway. Grabbed a few green stems of chives for a potato later. That's me, pioneer woman.

Speaking of geese, when the economy sank and food prices became just plain ridiculous, I decided that if necessary, I could either supplement the menu with PCB loaded fish from the lake, or grab one of them birds and give it a quick whack in the noggin. The cats and I could live for a week off one. A can of Cream of Mushroom will kill the taste from almost anything except itself. Seriously, I worry and try to come up with solutions.

I don't have to kill any geese today, so that's good; the air is cool and dry and it is Sunday night. Two more days of summer school and then a few classes and hopefully good news. And more walks. You see so much more and get to say hi to folks as they pass. I think we all try to squeeze Sunday to the last drop.

Need to push a few things back in place before retiring to bed. Just a few, the rest can wait, I heaved a number of items to trash this morning and am now scanning the area for more. Airing out a few jackets, one of which I just rebought two days ago and don't regret. I got the piece from my favorite store, AmVets, and grew too big for it. It has a cat pattern woven as a sort of tapestry, but since I was donating things too small last spring, it went.

I have watched that jacket after it was put up on the rack for sale again for the past three weeks, hoping someone would wouldn't buy it. Only a cat lover would. Say, I'm a cat lover, but well, reality is such that I wasn't wearing it. From the rack, however, the little cat faces would look at me from the sleeves and frontpiece and I would think, oh, that one looks like my Martian, my Lucy, my Kai, my Muffin. Arrgh. So, here it is again. Heck it was only five bucks and a basketful of peace of mind.

It happens that you give things away and rarer that they return to you. Funny, for inevitably this jacket, all jackets, will be given away, passed on, donated or tossed. Nothing, not even a slab of stone lasts forever. Shorelines shift and rebuild, walls tumble, frames are bulldozed. Let go of what you can but recognize that there is nothing wrong with sentiment, nothing.

Sleep well with the belief that you are loved and safe, that there are objects around you that remind you of where you have been and where you desire to go. Totems, charms, amulets, they are part of our psychological trappings that comfort and call our name in the night when we wonder what we are doing here and why. Moon and wheeling stars, sleep.