Seriously, can I cuss in here?

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So Benjamin is really (really) sick. 
And I'm much too tired from taking care of him to accomplish anything in regard to academics. 
Need a recipe for get-better-soup?

You'll need:

• Carrots, Potatoes, Celery and/or Cabbage
  The young ones - "Teetering Crockery"
• Green Onions, White Onions, Garlic Cloves (not that powdered crap)
• Vegetable Stock, if you don't know how to make your own
• Herbs: Thyme (not lemon), Oregano, Marjoram, Sage (as you like)
• Ground Black Pepper, Cayenne Pepper and Sea Salt

Add ingredients in the reverse order, allowing the pepper and cayenne to really get down into the stock.  (Whilst waiting, read a bit on the history of soup, if you like.)  The white onions need to be slightly translucent when the vegetables go in, and don't let these get too mushy.  It's exceptionally nice to have some bite to the vegetables when you're sick.  I have no idea why.

Normally, I make a truck-load of this concoction for canning.  As needed, I can then reach up into the cabinet and retrieve some, adding things to it, according to the tastes of the particular invalid on hand.  It's easy to add in brown rice or chicken, if so desired.

Right before I serve this to someone, I throw in some additional fresh herbs, and brighten up the pepper and cayenne.
The vapors from this addition really does wonders to clear out the sinuses, and cayenne can clear a cold, you know.

Meanwhile, I'm really all about looking up some obscure "causes of death".  I run across these a lot, while researching genealogy, and thought I should share my findings:

• Louis died of a "prevailing disease" in 1819.
• Lyman died of Cholera on the 24th of June, in 1820 
• Poor Calvin was taken by Pythisis, otherwise known as Tuberculosis. 
• Mr Richards was listed as dying of "Anomalous Disease" in 1820. Poor bastard. 
  

  Lots of old bottles
• Mr Rosck apparently died of his intestines telescoping into themselves and withering away (eating themselves away), reported as "Intrasuception". 
  
• Benjamin Reading & Christian Ramcle didn't beat the wicked "Bilious Fever". 
• ...which is right up there with the deaths caused by a proper Yellow Fever, which reigned popular throughout history, regardless of location.

Defined as such:

1. The smallest mass of a fissionable material that will sustain a nuclear chain reaction at a constant level.
2. The amount of matter needed to generate sufficient gravitational force to halt the current expansion of the universe.
3. An amount or level needed for a specific result or new action to occur: “The sudden national uproar over drugs and drug abuse has reached politically critical mass in Washington” (Tom Morganthau).

So here we have a big 'ol melting pot of unhinged emotions.  Once a situation has boiled itself out, it seems only natural to have it change, die or do something interesting. Hmmm...interesting is certainly subjective, isn't it?

About this time last year, I took an outward look at my friends, enemies and cohorts, noticing those who had switched their personalities into a fine array of outspoken depression and apathy, with a side of violence gravy in a few cases.  Winter depression?  Possibly. Some have recently blamed their swirling emotional cocktail on an occurrence of the planetary systems, invoking the Saturn Return phenomenon.

This was a particularly good and well meaning interpretation:

Not the physical kind.  But rather the kind that does not go away. The pain that you'd never have willingly walked into.

The kind that rapes your soul and leaves you standing in the wind, without any adhesive to hold your cells together.
In disbelief.  Blank.

A downer of a posting, maybe. But this is a moment for clarity and reassurance. This is for those who didn't make it, and for those who I wish I could offer some catharsis. 

But it's something I've been wanting to get off my chest lately.  This posting may not be for the faint of heart, but it's certainly not going to include those thicker details which serve only to remind me of that which has been much too constant in my life, until now.  This day is different. 

One decade.  This month, this particular square on the calendar, marks exactly one decade since I left Kansas.  Left "him" finally, and in so doing, began the long trip toward living and breathing again. Sounds really over the top to someone with a safe, secure life. "You should have left", doesn't apply in all cases. Just you try leaving with a handful of diapered kids in the middle of a freezing November night, with nothing more than half your wits, after spending countless nights with the entrance to your children's room held fast with butter knives wedged into the door jam. The mind is a powerful tool, and it can exist in a kind of stasis, saturated in the primal defenses acquired by only the hunted and exploited. Those who offer kind advice generally cannot reach into this mode to try and "fix things" without getting some of the filth on them.  When the advice stops, one of two things must happen. 
The victims must choose to live, or to die.

Something finally feels different though, I feel rested, for lack of a better word.  Life is really, finally different. I'll never lie and say it's peaceful, because there's that lingering glance over the shoulder.  But I've gotten so brave this year, I ordered a land-line phone for the first time in a decade. Ten years. And we're on the grid. I've aquired a proper license, and ditched the Texas one.  Hiding is not an option, although it's usually tempting. 

Naturally, since I'm only 33, ten years is a lot. My eldest son is 12, and my daughter is 10 1/2.  Yes, she almost died that last and darkest night.  The first time she almost died was in the womb.  And the second, and the third.  Finally he left us alone.  Then, on the day she was born, he left me at the hospital.  The next time I saw him, was 4 months later, at my eldest son's 2nd birthday celebration. He left soon after the family cleared out of the house, and commenced with his ritualistic Sunday brain cell reduction process.

Eventually, that night made sense to me, but certainly not at the time.  How anyone could drink that much alcohol and not die is mind boggling to me.  Again, my mind wondered, how any human being could operate a vehicle to somehow make it back to the house and manage to twist my face into an almost unrecognizable form, is beyond me. Sure, I've been in fights before, but never with a man who carried no trace of a soul in his system. (Have you ever seen that in another living, breathing creature?) Nor, until that moment, had I joined the legions of women who gently settled themselves into the idea that this night, our lives will end.  I stood ranks with them, in the dark, as I defended my children's bodies with my own, and dared Death to take us all.  Fortunately, Death wasn't terribly interested in that proposition. 

Skipping past all the in-betweens, all the frustrated attempts at reconciliation, the searching for glimpses of rehabilitative effort on his part - you see, these are the embarrassing days.  Why would a woman try to find hope in a life-threatening situation?  Because she loves him with a sickness unknown to any other than an addict.  And like any other addiction, you will eventually die.  So that day of realization came, and I did not wait for the sun to set on it before taking action.  We traveled silently through the night, and arrived in the state of Texas, the home of my first birth, and now the home of my second arrival into the world.  A colder, more exhilirating night, I really cannot imagine. 

Courage is a word I've heard applied to women all over the globe, who have somehow found their sea legs in the midst of this typhoon of abuse.  Tenacity, has been applied to many of the names I know, because they took the monsters to court and stood for the presentation of the fresh wounds. Without the help of the District Attorneys, without the heartfelt consideration of District Judges, these women (and men in some cases), bring their lives to a screeching halt which then lingers on a hope that their abuser will never be able to have contact with them again. 

The details are pushed into the back of my skull, boxed up prettily for removal, only if someone needs that level of affirmation. It is truly possible to live beyond this day.  And then the next. And then keep looking at your shoes, because they'll continue walking forward if you let them. Because there is no getting over it.  The dreams resurface, the scars continue to itch, and those images never really stop haunting the last reserves of stability which teeter on very tall stilts. But it's not possible to just pretend it never happened.  Everyone knows a person who has had their mind switched into survival mode, whether or not that fact has been made apparent.  How I come about this recognition is due to the almost psychic connection I now feel toward these creatures of partial obscurity.  We're part of an unwilling band, you could say. We're sharing unnatural chemical imbalances and levels of understanding about each other, which should not exist in the mind.  A band of comrades who share similar aftershocks to those who have suffered the tremors of war. It's terrifying, yet similar. I often wonder if prostitutes feel this sense about each other.  Or children who have to grown up in squalor. We're all different, sure, but very similar in some ways. But I can finally say it's mine. If you know what this means, then I need offer no explanation.

Daffodil Lament

The Cranberries

It's true, there are some pains which facilitate the strength to wrestle others.
Still better, there are those kind which others are willing to hand you, all the while insisting you can handle it. Assumptions can maim and kill sometimes. One day, I will hopefully understand what it takes to prevent my children from becoming part of the assuming flock.  Lemmings, all of them. 
There is no room for hurting another person.  No, it's not alright, and sometimes people just aren't ok.  My lifetime is for me to live, not for others to wrecklessly endanger.

My mother told me one year, on a different anniversary, that if she'd experienced what I had, she would have folded in half.  She cried a lot that day, with the realization of those words. I cried, because she didn't realize what a strength she had been to me all these years. I am this person, because she taught me how to walk through whatever moment crossed my path, and to do it with grace. 

So this fall, I will feel different.  I will continue to march forward, and turn all the pains into a career path, to assist others in coming out the other side.  This might entail bringing the abusers themselves back into life, or it might involve cleaning up the memory banks of the one who bears the bone fractures.  This might mean that I become a liason of sorts, or an active member of my district as a coordinator of court proceedings. But I can't sit still anymore.

After a decade, I understand, because I want to.  And I'm very alive.

Awake

SO what's been going on lately people?  I'm finding amusing that I've gained some covert followers.  Ah well.

 

I'm finding the most popular photo of mine to look at is the latest one, which I've included here for a better look-see.

So enough of the obscurity, and on with the point.

Fugazi - Blueprint

 

Found on a wall

Social experiments are certainly interesting, are they not?  

That's one way to look at it.  The paper I write on this should be interesting enough, as my Sociology professor thought it might be a bit too "instigating".  Pot stir-er I've been dubbed.  Ah well. It's time to shut down the interest this one measly photo has nabbed from far and remote places such as Denmark, Turkey and even from Alexandria, Virginia.  Funny, that. Yes, I can see you.

 

What would a Criminology student need with an oddly placed photo like this?  Think about it honestly.  I find the statement to be rather self-fulfilling.  Really, if you're going to go around tagging, why not just do it on a squad car and get it over with? Hurry up and get to the point, so the real graffiti artists can have their moment in the sun.  I'm an art snob, in this respect, ok?  Here's why:

In Barcelona, (reportedly until recently), the city did indeed invite graffiti artists to decorate their very specified areas. Sadly, I've seen some beautiful, fully endorsed work ruined by some piss-poor taggers, who wanted nothing more to leave their territorial markings on someone else's passion.  Looking for a place to paint? Take a gander around Legal Walls and see what's available where you happen to be standing.  If you find yourself in Brighton, you can look around Upper Lewes Road.  If you happen to be CouchSurfing around Rio Azul, you won't have to go too far to find a place that wants your passionate renderings of what's in your soul, scrawled on the wall.  Fact is, there are places in the world to do this, legally, with the support of other artists.  If you can't make it to these spots scattered throughout the globe, there are countless systems of artists who can show you the ropes, so your ass doesn't wind up in jail.  Respect is key.

My point is, there are places where the art is respected.  And there are places where it's not even considered art.  Destruction to another person's life-work, or the heritage of a community is NOT fucking art.  It's a crying shame.  I personally do not know even one self-proclaimed graffiti artist who could find it an admirable quality to allow anything to come out of that can, which hasn't been pulled from the soul.  The requires necessary surface.  Immediate accessibility, and lessened consequences.  Why bother with a statement of beauty or conflict in the visual sense, if you're not going to have it remain for at least awhile?  And again, defacement of someone's home, church or grade school with swear words and racial slanders is NOT art.

 

Question authority.  But make sense.  

Tags, sloppy, ugly, tags done with an immature hand do NOT belong on the park building wall across the street from my house.  I found this one morning, as my first view out of the house into the foggy morning, was at this wall.  I sighed and began to look around for more of the same, and was not disappointed in that respect.  The brats had taken bright red paint, tossed up their baby-tags, with all the panache of a 12 year old spouting, "I'm so fucking brilliant, look at me go!"  So the city, as well as the neighborhood association got together and cleaned the park.  

In Portland, the children of an alternative school might have permission to display their artistic visions on the side of a building, with full blessing of the owner and neighborhood.  These beautiful renditions of a child's dreams are followed by a damned tagger, who defaces the project, rendering every passer-by a tearful or angry witness. 

The other side of me, the rebellious one that just won't kick the artist's viewpoint is, what are you proving, little Tagger?  Where's the opposition?  Doesn't the kindred spirit of political angst still rage inside you?  History is crammed full of political graffiti from ages long gone, caricatures of figure-heads in power, and words of wisdom. 

Of course not every display of tagging is ugly and destructive, and not every large piece is a perfectly executed work of heartfelt art.  There's always going to be that middle ground for people to step on, which is part of the graffiti culture.  Look out, oh prudish society, you may find yourself admiring some gorgeous mural on the side of a building in your town soon! 

But meanwhile - yes, please, sloppy little Tagger.  If you need something to fuck up and you have no real direction just yet, have not learned what Anarchy truly is at it's heart (let me know when you figure it out), what a worthy political cause is defined by, or you simply just do not have the necessary facilities which cause the rest of us to respect each other, to follow the instructions indicated on the stencil piece above.  You might wind up with something to complain about other than your homework or how much you hate your parents.  And remember: don't pretend to be something you're not. 

Noticing lately, the driving habits of others about town.  This town would be Portland, Oregon.  There's no need for an in depth comparative study into the psychological matters of it, but we can sure talk about it for a minute.  And then even throw a Bitch about it for extra affirmation.  Maybe.  I'm not really that "affirmation" needing kind of girl.

Let me set the record straight first, by adding that Portland is one of the nicer cities I've driven in.  Dallas is a nightmare if you don't have the reflexes to deal with the game of leap-frog.  In Houston, you will die if you don't move with the speed of traffic, and God help you if you decide to actually drive in the right lane.  That's for merging and exiting the loop.  Chicago?  Just don't.  But if you do, carry an extra cam shaft under the seat. 
 
So Friday morning, what should appear in my rear view, but a man who personified everything the Idiocracy flick intended to portray.  I find this one, tiny realization damn near terrifying all by itself.

Said humanoid has decided it would be a great idea to thrust his tension and hatred of his traffic-mates upon the ass-end of my car.  You think this isn't going to turn into a sexual analysis?!   Come on now...you know me better than that.      Let's go!

Using all my strength of foresight, I can almost guess what's brewing in my reader's craniums. I implore you to not allow your brain to start traveling down the Feminazi aisle. 

I don't hate men, it's just that I know what a Man is.  I love Men. 

But I also know what a little boy in a big, ugly college football jersey is.  That's not to say that I can't also recognize the whining impediment to social graces that a fully grown woman can be, if she carries a similar personna. 
This is NOT a damned gender issue.  Stop reading my blog if you're that easily pushed into a politically correct tizzy.

This social parasite could clearly see that I had a car full of children, and cared not about the danger he was placing us in.  Instead, his interest was clearly on the side of showing me, them, whomever happened to be around (fucking greater Portland was in this line of stalled out traffic), his angry prowess.  Apparently, this is the kind of person who will take advantage of a moment wherein he cannot be stopped.  What could a person do in response to having the back of their vehicle suddenly become the target for a nice hard ram?  Get out and get shot?  Not so much there.   Call the police?  And they would arrive when?  So I instead followed my instincts as a mother.

I got pissed. 

Now here is where the psychology bit comes into play.  Notice how a species doesn't like being told where it's going wrong?  Notice when you tell a person to practice their own medicine, they almost immediately retaliate with aggressive behavior?  This moment was no different.  But I felt it was in my best interest to let him know that his unwanted advances toward my car were not going to be tolerated, no matter how badly he wanted to stick his car up my tail pipe.

Traffic slowly lurched forward, leaving me a bit of room to work with.  I waited...waited...and then closed the gap between myself and the car in front of me.  Smiled, and watched Sir Gallant speed up recklessly again.  Now this maneuver requires precise timing, lest you become the cause of your own stupid whiplash.  You have to watch the speeding bullet coming toward your head, to know when to duck, right?  Right.  Here's the play-list for what needs to happen next, to successfully carry out this plot. But don't fuck around and then blame your failure on me. I learned how to drive in compromising situations, friends.

1.  Put several seconds of space between yourself and would be assailant behind you. 
   
2.  Watch said wrecking ball speed toward your back end, without a care in the world as to whether or not you're  actually moving as fast as he is.
   
3. Check seatbelts and tell kids to hold tight.  Slam on the breaks.   
4. Watch anger spread over choad's face, as he realizes his aggression didn't somehow fuel traffic to continue   moving at his speed.  He's not really going to hit you, silly.  He just wants to intimidate you into moving faster.  Get out of his way.  Feel frightened because he's got no real outlet for his childish rage at the world. 
   

Surprise, surprise, he didn't like having his own space invaded!!  Perhaps he saw this is a threat to his safety, but more likely, he felt threatened by the "Fucking Bitch" ahead of him, because I saw these words, clear as day, pass his chapped lips.  He backed off, but I could still see him muttering away.  I sincerely hope he didn't go down the road with this anger projected at another car full of children, but he probably did.

What I would have liked to say, to Mr Hostility-pants is this: 

In reality, tailgating is damned dangerous.  People don't like it.  It IS intimidating and potentially causes deaths if you're going fast enough.  Worse yet try getting sandwiched in between a stopped car in front of you, and a speeding dickhead a few cars between you, because he or she is so irresponsible with everyone else's life.  What part of 12 car pile-up don't you understand?  Every play with dominos?
Try to imagine the fear in a mother or father's heart, while watching a fast moving car approaching the back side of their car full of live cargo.  Imagine what it feels like to realize, at any moment, you could be forced to take aggressive action against another human being, to make this shit stop!  Feels a bit like having to stand up for yourself in the 'ol sandbox!  But you're not going to read this.  Nor will you listen to anyone before you have a head-on collision with a Yukon, or someone gets out of their car to apply a lead pipe to your head.