Category: feed_your_soul

When your social media account is continually bombarded with bot followers. Goodbye. 🙁

The world may be disintegrating but the weather is lovely. Take a bit of peace while you can.

First concert for me since Jethro Tull ’82. Or was is Jefferson Airplane? A few days earlier someone said something to the effect of “wholesome.” Whaaaa? Never thought of grunge genre as “wholesome” but, yeah, after listening to CS again, I guess they are. Both in sound and lyric. Then I thought about it some more. Creed? Definitely played the shyte out of their CD in the 90s. Later learned them boyz is straight up white lace Christian. So, yeah, wholesome, it is. But I put it in my personal bucket of Happy Music. You know, like ELO’s Above The Clouds (no, not Mr. Sunshine….). Different style but the same resonance. Is happy not wholesome?

The music was good and I copped a few new songs I hadn’t heard of. Check out the track Perfect Day, featuring Sir John.

I felt a bit guilty going to a concert whilst the world is burning down around our ears, though. Truly it is, and if you don’t feel the same, your privileged butt is living in a bubble. Bubble Butt. But… one must self medicate in whatever fashion feasible, so this was my time-out.

Signing off with Collective Soul.

Some of the best times I have had have been with my daughters as we sit around talking about men. Raunchy belly laughs is effective medicine for what’s ailing ya.
Clarissa Pinkola Estés understands this. BTW, Women Who Run With The Wolves is a terrific book. Hat tip to Jung.

I remember climbing walnut trees in the Santa Clara valley. The smell of orchards and sweaty hair and dirt at the end of the day. As the sun went down, my second mother, “Mommy Jane” hollering, “Mike and Monique! Come and eat!” It was an accidental rhyme that I liked. We would burst through the back door, huffing breath, and tearing through the house to the bathroom wash basin.

1973

I was in a group home. An award of the state. My mother had had enough of me. Many a night I would sit in the common area in the dark, rocking back and forth in a rocking chair, listening to this one over and over. I felt as if I were soaring about 30 feet above the ground, gliding like a bird. Maybe it was my eleven year old imagination. Maybe it was astral projection (life force is pretty gottam strong at that age). Maybe it was just good music. When I became an adult I realized this collection of musicians were more than pop music. They were mature, classy, and evolved. Not a shred of raunch to their music but plenty of soul. Sometimes those two components complement each other, but they also stand on their own. Salute, Chicago.

December 2014

I was in the ICU with pneumonia and severe sepsis. The doc pumped me full of fluids to get my blood pressure up. I was there for 3 days. As an asthmatic I thought I was having a horrible asthma attack. I later learned that I couldn’t breathe because the amount of fluids being pumped into me was filling my lungs. The respiratory therapist had just been into my cubicle with a treatment. I didn’t feel like it had done any good. I saw him passing in the hall and begged him, half screaming and pleading, for another treatment. He didn’t say anything. He quickly looked both ways down the hall and wheeled the equipment inside. He let me breathe in the nebulizer for about a minute. I thanked him profusely. He didn’t say anything. He just whisked back out and went onto his next task.

I’ll never forget that act of kindness. To this day I wish I could thank him again. The thing of it is this: that treatment did nothing for me. I was beyond the nebulizer at that point. But it was a psychological need after years of asthma. He probably knew that. He did not stay to pat my hand or say anything at all. He just granted my one wish. I didn’t know how close to death I was at the time.

He was in blue scrubs, thin, long afro, and very young. Thank you, whoever you are. You could have just kept walking. There was no glory in it. It was a little thing. But it meant everything to me.

Not long ago I thought “Ireland Before You Die” was a clever slogan for an IG account.

Now I’m convinced it’s a taunt.

sliding down memory lane, listening to a reverberating acapella . . .

imagining singing like that while banging out a full range of keys. mind, body, soul all synched up. this is what humans are for.

heart full of joy

• it turns out Plant was impressed with Faith No More when they came out. I’m only down with Stripsearch and Just a Man but none can deny Mike Patton’s vocal range and style. And so RP is my older soul brother, with a sonar for eclectic music.
• meanwhile I’ve just discovered The Youngbloods thanks to his remake. i can describe it with a venn diagram
  • Darkness, Darkness at the center, with one circle “quintessential 60’s shyte,” one circle “poignant”, and a third “i can totally relate.”
• Jesse passed just last month
  • I’m late to the party yet again
    • In all fairness, mamma was a New Yorker…so during this period I was exposed to Dionne Warwick, Trini Lopez, and Joe Jones, etc. Definitely more Motown than hippie or folk.
    • I’ve been late to the party my entire life. And the person following me will think they are too.
    • it’s linear and can’t be helped
• While at the corner today (I was there for 1hr, 15min, then got hungry)
  • about 5 chimpanzees chanted trump, trump as they drove by
  • one dude craning his neck trying to yell something (it was indecipherable as I had Jesse’s soulful voice in my hearing aids) ran up on the curve and fucked up his bumper while turning the corner. that was quite satisfying and I allowed myself a snorting chuckle.
  • a group of young black women crossing the street clapped and smiled at me
  • several waves and car honks
  • I had two signs
    • Save Democracy
    • Trump’s Agenda is Putin’s Agenda – when a clean cut older white dude yelled “vote Republican!” I turned the sign around for him to see the other side: “Republicans Grow a Spine”
  • Meanwhile, the scammers on the dating site continue to reach out with their bizarre photoshopped profiles and lame scripts. I’ve started generating gibberish text in response. it’s been immensely entertaining for me. the absurd will pump belly laughs out of me until my eyes tear up.
  • changing octaves is a bitch and I’ll likely be in the disjointed tempo stage for a couple o’years.

Signing off with The Youngbloods

feels good

i must be evil

but, lord, i must be evil. people have told me i’m evil?

Although I don’t partake, this is a favorite picture. My girls were actually GIDDY that they had persuaded their mother into two puffs. After years of listening to me preach about the stuff, an unexpected temporary reversal, and they were thrilled. [I giggled for a bit, ate ravenously, then took a nap.]

I was beginning to feel like a lecherous old woman looking at images of Robert Plant in his 20s when he was half naked. To rectify that I got something more age-appropriate. When I am feeling overwhelmed with work, I’ll just look to the right and say three hail Roberts and all is well again. 🥴 look at those nice forearms and gypsy eyes.

Don’t judge me. It’s inexpensive therapy.

I’m learning piano. With my arthritis I found out real quick that I have to warm up first. Pulled out that old workbook from storage.

I’m training to sing too. Alto Monique.

It will drive my roommate up the wall, although she denies it. But the catharsis is in the doing. It’s soul work. Must do it.

Signing off with EL-P.

On the drive home, I told them that I wasn’t supposed to be here at my age. I was supposed to be in Ireland, on the edge of a forest, in a cottage with a cat, and a bicycle parked outside. I explained this place, where we are now, is a cultural wasteland. Mid-America, where people crawl to die. “You wouldn’t understand though,” I say to them, “you grew up here and don’t know anything else.  I came here from California.”

As if on que, my grown daughters start singing Tupac’s California.  Very effectively taking the sail out of my forlorn monologue.

I found a beautiful and haunting watercolor painting done by my youngest daughter. I complimented her and lamented that I have no creativity.

“Mom, I did that in a manic episode.”

Gee. If that’s all it takes, I’m going to stop sleeping for four days. Then I’ll pickup a paint brush and we’ll see what happens.

A primordial feeling at the back of your head. 

An echo of survival, connection, and lust, etched into me/us.

It’s older than thought, an undercurrent pulling you toward what is essential.

“There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who say, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” and those who say, “If you’ve got it, spare a thought for those who haven’t.” ~ Guy Pearce

In no particular order but more likely than not — after retirement.

• Cultivate my backyard into a garden. So much potential.
• Do the Stephen King Bangor tour. ✅ done
• Learn piano. The keyboard has been collecting dust for a decade. ✅ WIP
• Do yoga every morning. ✅ WIP
• Make basement a livable area.
• See Stephen Lang at a public speaking event.
• Live to see my granddaughter as a grown woman and happy.
• Learn Spanish.
• See Radiohead, Robert Plant, or AfroCelt Sound System in concert.
• Travel to someplace — anyplace — where the scenery is breathtaking.
• Do mushrooms in my backyard and have some sort of epiphany – expand perception. ✅ done. no epiphany, but one hell of a hangover. Meditation only induces a nap. So I guess a spiritual awakening just ain’t in the cards for me. 

Things are going well these days with my oldest daughter and I. I know this because twice today she’s called me “ma” instead of “mother.”

Silliness! 🙂