So I sent a package to Tunisia for an Internet friend who can't purchase online because only importers/exporters are allowed charge cards. She was looking for Buster Keaton media, so I sent her my doubles from items that I had forgotten were already purchased, or were gifts from others. Wonder how long it will take to get to the other side of the world...Tunisia is squeezed between Libya and Algeria in Northern Africa and faces Sicily across the Mediterranean Sea. All I know, besides the recent Tunisian Revolution in 2010, is that Star Wars used it as the desert planet, where the Sand People lived. Now, that is changing as I research the place so I don't sound like an idiot during an email.
The box is wrapped within a box and that puppy is slathered in silver duct tape and insured, still, fingers are crossed that it makes it...should take 6-10 days. In other adventures, I will be taking some of my artwork to a printer's for the first time in my life...have enough confidence with a finished piece that I showed to an art shop. Will toss prints for sale onto eBay, the machinations of which are yet a mystery, but it doesn't look like you have to have a finance degree to sell items. Another new thing to learn.
Had dinner with a friend that I have known since I was nineteen, revelations of intent shook some of the apples out of the tree, and the snake curled further away into its lair while Adam and Eve dined on soup that was made to kill a human or be used as bug spray. Maybe dessert next time, and I mean dessert like cake, a torte, or ice cream. Not quite dinner without a sweet after, a glass of sherry; maybe a nice slice of baklava, a flat pan of which I made today to send to DC for the son's girlfriend's birthday.
Today's industry concerns getting the one picture finished up in order to begin the other ideas in my head; not enough hours in the day, but here is a trapeze act: this city is not having summer school this year, my usual job. The board says there is no money, while the mayor says the place has a surplus. Should I come up with another job at a private school, or should I stay home and make art? I know which I would like to do, but giving up that almost two thousand dollars is edgy when the "what ifs" line up in a row and cackle like supervisors at Happy Hour. But could I make that back in selling drawings? Be a real, grown-up arteest? Eek. We will see, if the above eBay plot spins straw into gold.
It has been a beautiful day with sunshine and spring temperatures, Sundays are one of my favorite days, at least as an adult. Things need tidying up, that fish tank should be changed, the clown loaches are growing huge; more work could be done on the current piece before the clock turns the calendar into Monday. A wave of the curtain, and another day enters stage east, to play until darkness returns for repainting scenery, changing costumes. Sleep well, and look at the new green roiling over fields and lawns, too early to dig in the ground for a garden, still a bit irriguous in texture.
Dream well, dream on.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Taxing, Tithing, and Officialness
Last Minute Mildred, that's me, why do I imagine that it will be worse than any other time I have done this, which is always. I could really get into the ins and outs of tax rules and regs, but generally my interest is elsewhere. Friday the thirteenth, due the fifteenth, better get going.
Now, there was a Great Purge two months ago, and I put things where spaces were assigned, of which there were none, since there is No Storage in here. But I made room by disposing of Things, and stuffed stuff in drawers, folders, files, and bags for AmVets; tabletops were once again horizontal, the cats could run down the hall to sideways slide on the throw rug and then take off, claws and paws scrabbling furiously in circles like in a Warner Brothers cartoon. The water bowl at the end has been knocked about several times in sloshy celebration, but I don't want to move it since my oldest remembers where it is, there. I can identify with her, for everything I put away has disappeared from the mishmosh organization of my neurons, and I Don't Know Where Anything Is Anymore.
Did I give/throw/recycle it away? If it isn't in front of me, it is a mystery as to where it is, unless it is an everyday item, but tax forms, well, ha ha ha. Once a year botherness, so they sat on the dining table for three months until moved to the living area table near the laptop for one month and then were neatly paper clipped together, labeled, and put into the den on top of the large wooden desk. You would think that being on top of a desk would be safe. I did.
After thirty minutes of looking for the forms, beginning at the first table to the second table to the desk, then other, out of the way, bizarro places were checked. I wouldn't have put it in a drawer...maybe? Or put it in a folder and slid into the bookshelves...nah, I know I wouldn't remember that. Where the hell are they? As soon as the swears start, it's time to drag up St. Anthony, my mother, my grandmother, and anyone else who has passed on who likes me to send inspiration to my sabotaging brain. I looked everywhere, this place isn't that big, not that many drawers: but deadlines, the IRS will get me and yell, NYS will do worse by unscrewing my license plates off my car in the night. C'mon. c'mon, c'mon!
The cats are helping by taking grand interest in my bouncing around, it looks like I'm doing something potentially fun. They saunter, leading the way until THEY STOP RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME and sit down so that I have to do a brake, stop and hop over them so I don't step on one. God forbid. I shuffle the mail I haven't opened, they help by jumping up to read the return addresses. I dig through writing papers, dig in the couch, look everywhere three times over and finally begin the Process of Elimination, the only sane way of getting through the Wormhole of Lost Things.
Kitchen: definitely not here. Entryway: nope, checked table thoroughly twice, looked on floor (Ooh. Hairball), looked in school bag. Living area: this took some time for there were three main places that could have held the forms....but nope, nope, and nope. Eliminated. Working backwards into the hallway, I could cross off the bathroom, and after checking the pile of books and articles by the bed, the bedroom also. Only one place left, and that was the den/library, where all necessary papers find solace and eternal sanctuary. I have paycheck stubs from the seventies. I will, really.
The place I would have put the tax forms would have been right in front of where I sit, on top of the desk. Not there, not there, dug through art research, illustrations, and what? Here was a piece, a form telling of the interest I paid on the student loan. Elation, curiosity, and conviction that the rest was here somewhere, and hadn't gotten tossed out with the Sunday paper arose. But it was literally not to be found. Until the deduction from observing the slanty angle that the research papers were arranged meant that things had gotten knocked over, used as a landing pad for juvenile delinquents in cat fur. On the floor? No. In the wastebasket next to the desk? Yes. I was conflabbergasted. My neat little package of forms, still paper clipped, had been the traction under the Flying Wallendas during a hiss I hate you run, a look what I can do performance, a this is my desk get the hell off of my desk swatfest. Can you imagine the relief? The on switch for adrenaline returned to normal gauge, and I got down to business. I wish they could talk sometimes; I would have had those forms in seconds, even if the conversation cost a can of real tuna.
It went well, the Federal is so much easier than the State form, but I owe them nothing and they owe me enough for a downpayment on a car. Or maybe a tv, with enough leftover for a small stash in the account. Ah life. I can't blame the cats, because: they are cats.
The light just went out of the sky at 8 p.m., it is lovely that the sun stays later each day, the houseplants at the window stretch in photosynthic glory. The package of lemon bars was successfully mailed to Washington, DC; three lovely dresses were found for $16 at AmVets, there was time to practice juggling clubs, and the sense of relief that the taxes are done and sent off capped the busy, run-around day. Son is doing medically well, so far good news and good news. A quiet night, Kai cat is next to me, a creamy brown ball of ragdoll fur, Siamese coloring. The others have their niches, and will sleep till about eleven, when some celestial trigger clicks their little cat brains to play King of the Hill till they sack out again around one a.m.
The sky is overcast, there are no stars to be seen, but it doesn't mean they aren't there, as sure as the tides are flowing hundreds of miles away, and Mt. Etna is spewing fire and brimstone. Our worlds seem enclosed sometimes, but imagine when news only traveled by messenger. How marvelous discovery must have seemed back then, with magic accorded responsibility for many scientific facts. Whirl on, world, and bring us to know each other, to understand that time is a human construct, and that eternity exists, as hard as that is for humans to imagine. Sleep well under the darkness, and bring your memory beyond forms and duty, to a place where animals run and fuss, jump like spring lambs and roar like lions. Dream and plan, dream and love. Goodnight.
Now, there was a Great Purge two months ago, and I put things where spaces were assigned, of which there were none, since there is No Storage in here. But I made room by disposing of Things, and stuffed stuff in drawers, folders, files, and bags for AmVets; tabletops were once again horizontal, the cats could run down the hall to sideways slide on the throw rug and then take off, claws and paws scrabbling furiously in circles like in a Warner Brothers cartoon. The water bowl at the end has been knocked about several times in sloshy celebration, but I don't want to move it since my oldest remembers where it is, there. I can identify with her, for everything I put away has disappeared from the mishmosh organization of my neurons, and I Don't Know Where Anything Is Anymore.
Did I give/throw/recycle it away? If it isn't in front of me, it is a mystery as to where it is, unless it is an everyday item, but tax forms, well, ha ha ha. Once a year botherness, so they sat on the dining table for three months until moved to the living area table near the laptop for one month and then were neatly paper clipped together, labeled, and put into the den on top of the large wooden desk. You would think that being on top of a desk would be safe. I did.
After thirty minutes of looking for the forms, beginning at the first table to the second table to the desk, then other, out of the way, bizarro places were checked. I wouldn't have put it in a drawer...maybe? Or put it in a folder and slid into the bookshelves...nah, I know I wouldn't remember that. Where the hell are they? As soon as the swears start, it's time to drag up St. Anthony, my mother, my grandmother, and anyone else who has passed on who likes me to send inspiration to my sabotaging brain. I looked everywhere, this place isn't that big, not that many drawers: but deadlines, the IRS will get me and yell, NYS will do worse by unscrewing my license plates off my car in the night. C'mon. c'mon, c'mon!
The cats are helping by taking grand interest in my bouncing around, it looks like I'm doing something potentially fun. They saunter, leading the way until THEY STOP RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME and sit down so that I have to do a brake, stop and hop over them so I don't step on one. God forbid. I shuffle the mail I haven't opened, they help by jumping up to read the return addresses. I dig through writing papers, dig in the couch, look everywhere three times over and finally begin the Process of Elimination, the only sane way of getting through the Wormhole of Lost Things.
Kitchen: definitely not here. Entryway: nope, checked table thoroughly twice, looked on floor (Ooh. Hairball), looked in school bag. Living area: this took some time for there were three main places that could have held the forms....but nope, nope, and nope. Eliminated. Working backwards into the hallway, I could cross off the bathroom, and after checking the pile of books and articles by the bed, the bedroom also. Only one place left, and that was the den/library, where all necessary papers find solace and eternal sanctuary. I have paycheck stubs from the seventies. I will, really.
The place I would have put the tax forms would have been right in front of where I sit, on top of the desk. Not there, not there, dug through art research, illustrations, and what? Here was a piece, a form telling of the interest I paid on the student loan. Elation, curiosity, and conviction that the rest was here somewhere, and hadn't gotten tossed out with the Sunday paper arose. But it was literally not to be found. Until the deduction from observing the slanty angle that the research papers were arranged meant that things had gotten knocked over, used as a landing pad for juvenile delinquents in cat fur. On the floor? No. In the wastebasket next to the desk? Yes. I was conflabbergasted. My neat little package of forms, still paper clipped, had been the traction under the Flying Wallendas during a hiss I hate you run, a look what I can do performance, a this is my desk get the hell off of my desk swatfest. Can you imagine the relief? The on switch for adrenaline returned to normal gauge, and I got down to business. I wish they could talk sometimes; I would have had those forms in seconds, even if the conversation cost a can of real tuna.
It went well, the Federal is so much easier than the State form, but I owe them nothing and they owe me enough for a downpayment on a car. Or maybe a tv, with enough leftover for a small stash in the account. Ah life. I can't blame the cats, because: they are cats.
The light just went out of the sky at 8 p.m., it is lovely that the sun stays later each day, the houseplants at the window stretch in photosynthic glory. The package of lemon bars was successfully mailed to Washington, DC; three lovely dresses were found for $16 at AmVets, there was time to practice juggling clubs, and the sense of relief that the taxes are done and sent off capped the busy, run-around day. Son is doing medically well, so far good news and good news. A quiet night, Kai cat is next to me, a creamy brown ball of ragdoll fur, Siamese coloring. The others have their niches, and will sleep till about eleven, when some celestial trigger clicks their little cat brains to play King of the Hill till they sack out again around one a.m.
The sky is overcast, there are no stars to be seen, but it doesn't mean they aren't there, as sure as the tides are flowing hundreds of miles away, and Mt. Etna is spewing fire and brimstone. Our worlds seem enclosed sometimes, but imagine when news only traveled by messenger. How marvelous discovery must have seemed back then, with magic accorded responsibility for many scientific facts. Whirl on, world, and bring us to know each other, to understand that time is a human construct, and that eternity exists, as hard as that is for humans to imagine. Sleep well under the darkness, and bring your memory beyond forms and duty, to a place where animals run and fuss, jump like spring lambs and roar like lions. Dream and plan, dream and love. Goodnight.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Spine Sciencea
He's a taller than me man now, this little boy who didn't grow much until the eighth grade; he chipped a tooth playing street hockey and had the frenum under his tongue snipped, but that was the extent of any medical poking about. Two days ago, he went for spinal surgery to alleviate the pain that has dogged him for nine months in spite of physical therapy. Apparently simpler than thought, the doctor dug in, shaved the disk, and gave him internal sutures that will dissolve, and glued the outside entry wound shut. Glued.
Losing only a thimbleful of blood, he has no memory of being given anesthesia and of being in the operating room just dimly. No counting back from one hundred, no you're-gonna-love-this happy shot before to soothe nerves, he was done in under an hour, the surgeon's first of the day. So a fairly routine operation, seemingly successful, and I made lemon bars to send to DC.
Did you know that the spinal cord doesn't go all the way down to the tailbone? Not me, I thought spine was spine, but the cord ends about five vertebrae up, above the lumbar region. Yay! I mean it. Less chance of dire results, faster healing, and an easy repair to the recalcitrant disk, all pluses. After what I went through to get this kid, any spinal disk with attitude will be dealing with an angry mother, his angry girlfriend, and other upset people; I am surprised the thing didn't turn tail and run from the negative vibes we sent. But, as anything, it is what it is.
I remember when having him, the blessed relief of that numbing shot that went right into my own spine; I had to sign a paper during contractions stating that in case of paralysis, i wouldn't sue anyone because there were chances of that happening. By that time, however, I would have let them inject me with heroin capped with plutonium if it would have made the pain go away. I was goofy, giggling, and found out years later that that is part of the opiated plan; I had always felt bad that I was a laughing hyena while the doctors, two men, struggled to get him out...he was stuck and one held the gurney, while the other's arms shook with the tension of getting this kid out of my then size 4 hips. They put something in the shot that makes you goofy. I thought I was being callous, I was dancing over meadows of bright flowers in my mind, and my baby had the cord wrapped around his neck, facing backwards, and damn near had his head pulled off with the salad tongs. I wonder who the brave person was to take the first experimental shot into the cord. Bless you.
Now he is recovering tentatively, some residual pain seems to be lingering, that should go. The relief that medical procedures have advanced to take care of things like this plays counterpoint to the idea that my child was cut into, my Buzz. Yet how many parents face it everyday with young ones, sometimes repeatedly; it is a heart-catching roller coaster of hell's curves and our family has been spared that. He has been given Valium and Percoset for pain and is weaning off of them already.
You only want good things for your children, but when an obstacle is thrown their way, you feel an amount of pride in the manner that they handle it. He has been sleeping well, and has permission to walk, which he can, shuffling. Not allowed to lift a gallon of milk or bend for the toilet seat. Can take stairs slowly, but shouldn't lean over to spit toothpaste.
The air has been chilly and damp with rain that changes to hail, oddest sound when driving in a car and the ice pellets hit the windshield and metal. You feel like you're in a salt shaker. It's been lovely for sunsets, for the clouds are all fiery reds and magentas deepening to purples before scudding over the far lake to the west, into darkness. Sleep, then, count your fingers and toes no matter how many or not. You are alive, you are here, and there are those of us that love you so. Sleep well, goodnight.
Losing only a thimbleful of blood, he has no memory of being given anesthesia and of being in the operating room just dimly. No counting back from one hundred, no you're-gonna-love-this happy shot before to soothe nerves, he was done in under an hour, the surgeon's first of the day. So a fairly routine operation, seemingly successful, and I made lemon bars to send to DC.
Did you know that the spinal cord doesn't go all the way down to the tailbone? Not me, I thought spine was spine, but the cord ends about five vertebrae up, above the lumbar region. Yay! I mean it. Less chance of dire results, faster healing, and an easy repair to the recalcitrant disk, all pluses. After what I went through to get this kid, any spinal disk with attitude will be dealing with an angry mother, his angry girlfriend, and other upset people; I am surprised the thing didn't turn tail and run from the negative vibes we sent. But, as anything, it is what it is.
I remember when having him, the blessed relief of that numbing shot that went right into my own spine; I had to sign a paper during contractions stating that in case of paralysis, i wouldn't sue anyone because there were chances of that happening. By that time, however, I would have let them inject me with heroin capped with plutonium if it would have made the pain go away. I was goofy, giggling, and found out years later that that is part of the opiated plan; I had always felt bad that I was a laughing hyena while the doctors, two men, struggled to get him out...he was stuck and one held the gurney, while the other's arms shook with the tension of getting this kid out of my then size 4 hips. They put something in the shot that makes you goofy. I thought I was being callous, I was dancing over meadows of bright flowers in my mind, and my baby had the cord wrapped around his neck, facing backwards, and damn near had his head pulled off with the salad tongs. I wonder who the brave person was to take the first experimental shot into the cord. Bless you.
Now he is recovering tentatively, some residual pain seems to be lingering, that should go. The relief that medical procedures have advanced to take care of things like this plays counterpoint to the idea that my child was cut into, my Buzz. Yet how many parents face it everyday with young ones, sometimes repeatedly; it is a heart-catching roller coaster of hell's curves and our family has been spared that. He has been given Valium and Percoset for pain and is weaning off of them already.
You only want good things for your children, but when an obstacle is thrown their way, you feel an amount of pride in the manner that they handle it. He has been sleeping well, and has permission to walk, which he can, shuffling. Not allowed to lift a gallon of milk or bend for the toilet seat. Can take stairs slowly, but shouldn't lean over to spit toothpaste.
The air has been chilly and damp with rain that changes to hail, oddest sound when driving in a car and the ice pellets hit the windshield and metal. You feel like you're in a salt shaker. It's been lovely for sunsets, for the clouds are all fiery reds and magentas deepening to purples before scudding over the far lake to the west, into darkness. Sleep, then, count your fingers and toes no matter how many or not. You are alive, you are here, and there are those of us that love you so. Sleep well, goodnight.
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