11:20 Writing Practice 46° Boise
Got a phone call this morning, Steve Beck. That got me all off track and I'm just now sitting down to do my writing. Also, I have to pick up Rio from the airport soon. I haven't heard from him at all so I'm just assuming he's on the plane and will arrive on time. If not, I'll be waiting. Dang, I hate that. I should have gone over the return trip plan with him, but Pam and I have this down to such a fine art, I didn't even think of it.
So today is already fractured but I insist that there's still stuff to write about. For instance, I'm listening to a book on CD, How We Decide, about brain function. The PFC (pre-frontal cortex) can only deal with about 7 pieces of information at one time compared to the thousands of bits of information that are available moment to moment. And this is why I'm having trouble deciding what to write every day. Too much information. I have enough story to fill several books and yet I won't get to even one book if I can't decide where to begin and stick to a theme, pushing all other information or story bits to the side.
Last week, I started writing about the day I left my parent's house back in 1971. I got two paragraphs. Now today I want to write about the night I met John Sandknop in Waikiki. And yet I don't have time to concentrate because I know I'll be interrupted to go get Rio at the airport. It's hard enough just to make myself sit here and type. In fact, I've got time to go get my breakfast before he calls, I think I'll do that and then I'll be totally free all afternoon after that.
So, short day typing. But the day is young, more could still happen!
Monday, February 29, 2016
Saturday, February 27, 2016
The one with Drug Court and Neuropsychology
9:35am Writing Practice 44° Boise
Yesterday I wrote in my journal notebook by hand so today I can type. I felt the need to directly access that part of the brain that is stimulated by handwriting versus typing. In a way, it seems to me that handwriting is more emotional then typing, typing is more rational. Handwriting accesses the heart and typing accesses the brain. So it does make sense to do them both.
I'm listening to a non-fiction book on CD, How We Decide. It's exactly what I need to be listening to right now, it has the answers to why an addict would decide to use drugs again even if the consequences are dire and life shattering. Cory went back to jail and is on his way to prison for a special rider program. He'll be in prison for six to nine months when he could have been out here relatively free and not in a cage like an animal. But he put down his homework one day, said out loud, "I'm done." And off he went to find meth. He decided he hated Drug Court, that it was silly and not effective, geared toward punishment and not actual help.
The Drug Court system requires participants to surrender, literally lay down and give up all control of their lives, allow themselves to be at the mercy of the probation officers and counselors and under scrutiny at all times. At the same time, it requires them to stand up and decide where to apply for jobs (they are required to work full time), how to get around with no vehicle in a town with poor public transportation, how to make do with living at a shelter with no money at all until some sort of paycheck arrives or a family member or friend slides them a loan that they probably won't ever pay back. And all the while, there are court and legal fines that have to be paid and a rigorous schedule to be maintained filled with drug education classes, AA meetings and curfews. This system would be difficult for someone without addiction issues and fully functioning brains. Hand a system like this to an addict with no help to repair brain function and add threats of punishment for any slips or failures and you have a no-win situation that is akin to torture. I do understand why Cory opted for what would appear to be the harsher course of action. He has a hope that when he gets finished he will simply be on probation, but he still may have to deal with Drug Court when he finishes with his rider program at prison and if that's the case, he will be back to those same issues.
It's that complex action of surrender and take control at the same time that is nearly impossible for most anyone to do. People only surrender when they are defeated or when they fully trust. Defeat surrender has a different energy from trust surrender. People often surrender in religious situations when they come to believe that there is a power greater then themselves and they trust that power to help make their lives more manageable. I got that line straight from Alcoholics Anonymous. Notice that the word 'believe' is in that sentence. Here's where mandatory recovery programs fail. People can't be forced to believe, they have to come to believe or decide to believe. They can be forced to surrender in defeat but that surrender only involves the body and the moment. Unless you break a person's spirit completely, they will always be looking for a way out, some way to escape the situation they have been forced to surrender to.
So that's the dichotomy of Drug Court in Idaho. It's a great way to keep people in action without any actual progress being made. It's the hamster wheel of the legal system. People are employed and trained for any number of jobs to oversee the treatment and management of the hamsters but in the end, there is no way out for any of them. The only way the systems maintains itself is by insuring that the hamsters keep running and never get out. It's a self-perpetuating failure system and someone is making big money on it. I wonder who?
So that's my take on the Drug Court system. I've been nixed permanently from hosting any Drug Court participants in my home. They didn't like my attitude when they came by for a home inspection in January and now I know why. I don't buy into their program and they could tell. I'm not a good influence on their hamsters. The poor hamsters have to comply or be punished so it's best that I stay out of it.
I had a dream a few nights ago where I became an neuro-expert of some kind --- went to school for it and everything, got certified or licensed, had a title. It's true that I've very interested in brains and how they work and how a dysfunction in the brain can cause behavior to change and ruin lives.
Yesterday I wrote in my journal notebook by hand so today I can type. I felt the need to directly access that part of the brain that is stimulated by handwriting versus typing. In a way, it seems to me that handwriting is more emotional then typing, typing is more rational. Handwriting accesses the heart and typing accesses the brain. So it does make sense to do them both.
I'm listening to a non-fiction book on CD, How We Decide. It's exactly what I need to be listening to right now, it has the answers to why an addict would decide to use drugs again even if the consequences are dire and life shattering. Cory went back to jail and is on his way to prison for a special rider program. He'll be in prison for six to nine months when he could have been out here relatively free and not in a cage like an animal. But he put down his homework one day, said out loud, "I'm done." And off he went to find meth. He decided he hated Drug Court, that it was silly and not effective, geared toward punishment and not actual help.
The Drug Court system requires participants to surrender, literally lay down and give up all control of their lives, allow themselves to be at the mercy of the probation officers and counselors and under scrutiny at all times. At the same time, it requires them to stand up and decide where to apply for jobs (they are required to work full time), how to get around with no vehicle in a town with poor public transportation, how to make do with living at a shelter with no money at all until some sort of paycheck arrives or a family member or friend slides them a loan that they probably won't ever pay back. And all the while, there are court and legal fines that have to be paid and a rigorous schedule to be maintained filled with drug education classes, AA meetings and curfews. This system would be difficult for someone without addiction issues and fully functioning brains. Hand a system like this to an addict with no help to repair brain function and add threats of punishment for any slips or failures and you have a no-win situation that is akin to torture. I do understand why Cory opted for what would appear to be the harsher course of action. He has a hope that when he gets finished he will simply be on probation, but he still may have to deal with Drug Court when he finishes with his rider program at prison and if that's the case, he will be back to those same issues.
It's that complex action of surrender and take control at the same time that is nearly impossible for most anyone to do. People only surrender when they are defeated or when they fully trust. Defeat surrender has a different energy from trust surrender. People often surrender in religious situations when they come to believe that there is a power greater then themselves and they trust that power to help make their lives more manageable. I got that line straight from Alcoholics Anonymous. Notice that the word 'believe' is in that sentence. Here's where mandatory recovery programs fail. People can't be forced to believe, they have to come to believe or decide to believe. They can be forced to surrender in defeat but that surrender only involves the body and the moment. Unless you break a person's spirit completely, they will always be looking for a way out, some way to escape the situation they have been forced to surrender to.
So that's the dichotomy of Drug Court in Idaho. It's a great way to keep people in action without any actual progress being made. It's the hamster wheel of the legal system. People are employed and trained for any number of jobs to oversee the treatment and management of the hamsters but in the end, there is no way out for any of them. The only way the systems maintains itself is by insuring that the hamsters keep running and never get out. It's a self-perpetuating failure system and someone is making big money on it. I wonder who?
So that's my take on the Drug Court system. I've been nixed permanently from hosting any Drug Court participants in my home. They didn't like my attitude when they came by for a home inspection in January and now I know why. I don't buy into their program and they could tell. I'm not a good influence on their hamsters. The poor hamsters have to comply or be punished so it's best that I stay out of it.
I had a dream a few nights ago where I became an neuro-expert of some kind --- went to school for it and everything, got certified or licensed, had a title. It's true that I've very interested in brains and how they work and how a dysfunction in the brain can cause behavior to change and ruin lives.
Neuropsychology
Yes, that's it! It's a PhD degree and no way would I ever qualify. But I can study into it and see what I can find out. I wonder if addictive behaviors have been studied this way? I'll find out. In the meantime, I'm going to send this book, How We Decide, to Nathan. If he doesn't want to read it or when he finished it, he can send it back to me. I'll keep it in my reference library.- the study of the relationship between behavior, emotion, and cognition on the one hand, and brain function on the other.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Bully Women and Emotionally Unavailable Men
10:04am Writing Practice 37° Boise
No writing yesterday. I dithered around in depression all day, didn't feel very good in the afternoon but didn't nap, got some bills paid with the soc sec deposit and figured out how I want to switch up my credit cards for optimal interest rates.
I interviewed a little gal for the back bedroom (I did get in there and make the bed and dust, so I guess I did something), but then found out that the POs who were here in January wrote an 'uncomfortable' report on me and now I have to try to get that fixed. It's true that I was very uncomfortable with them when they showed up. Kaelen was at a meeting in his mother's car and they had a no-contact order on them.When asked how he got to the meeting, I wasn't prepared to lie about it and the whole thing made me squirm. But how do I tell them that. They don't know me. I could ask them to get a reference from James Du Tois and see if that helps. But in the big picture, even though it made me feel bad (really bad, almost sick) I really don't care today if a Drug Court kid can stay here or not. She didn't have any money so there I was going to be, stuck financially helping someone in my house. If the situation gets resolved, fine. If it doesn't, that's fine too. I still have a room and I can find a temporary person with actual money to stay there if I decide to.
So after the depression of the week, I realize that I'm being affected by the insights that are coming to me because of all this writing --- the bully mothers in my family (including me) makes me very sad for Gerald, Mark, Nathan and Stephen. Also, all the men in my life have been emotionally unavailable: Dad and Hubert Hesseltine, my fathers, Bob Willems and John Sandknop, the men I married. So was Rick Lawlor and Louie Kingman, for that matter. So all six of the major men relationships in my life have been emotionally vacant. That also includes both of my uncles, my mother's brothers, Bub and Pep. I'm just now realizing that I have no idea what an emotionally healthy man looks like, I don't know any! Although I have a suspicion that the neighbor, Eric Rhodes, is emotionally healthy. At least he seems so from here. Wow! I wonder where I would have to go to meet someone who was emotionally healthy? And would I recognize him if I did? Or her ... are any of us really healthy in our emotions these days? Have we ever been or did the constraints of society make it seem that we were?
Ah! I just got the tag ... I can only spot what I got! Thanks for the reminder, Stephen! Now I wonder if bully women and emotionally unavailable men make a match and that's why they are the only men I know.
So control issues = bully behavior. When Pam pushes me around with her control issues, I feel the resistance and want to push back. But people with control issues are hard to confront, it's easier to smack them back with passive aggression. That's where I learned my skills, at the feet of my mother. So passive/aggressive behavior is the flip side of control issues, it would seem.
For years I've declared myself a recovering control freak, swearing to watch for control issues when they crop up and learn to release resistance and be more flexible. I think I'm getting better, or at least I thought I was getting better. You know, all this new perspective on my family dynamics is causing me grief, as if I need more of that! Years ago I decided to change my childhood and to view it in only the best possible light. I stopped looking back at it, at the sad parts or the control parts.
All of this is very interesting but I can't let it stop me from progress on my project. Yes, it's enlightening and interesting and insightful. Yes, the ability to see these memories clearly will help me in the long run to make sense of what happened to Stephen and that's the most important part. But in the end, it's the story I make up for him and the combination of genetics, home environment and all of his other relationships that opened the door to who he became and what he did with his life. Also, there was the Acutane and the side effects of that stuff need to be factored in. He took that prescription during a crucial time in his hormonal development and that may have turned the tide on his feelings and his willingness to check into and entertain thoughts of suicide. It's actually listed in the literature as possible side effects. It's a fact that he changed after that, but he was doing the puberty thing, the Acutane side effects got lost in the haze of teen angst that ensued. It's also true that he never really recovered from it, not until he did the neurofeedback therapy.
But hey, these are all good avenues to explore. Yes, it was a combination of events and experiences and inner turmoil and genetics that caused his eventual demise. It wasn't just me, the horrible, bully mom. I certainly did contribute but I was also the only one who ever tried to help him overcome himself. So there is that.
No writing yesterday. I dithered around in depression all day, didn't feel very good in the afternoon but didn't nap, got some bills paid with the soc sec deposit and figured out how I want to switch up my credit cards for optimal interest rates.
I interviewed a little gal for the back bedroom (I did get in there and make the bed and dust, so I guess I did something), but then found out that the POs who were here in January wrote an 'uncomfortable' report on me and now I have to try to get that fixed. It's true that I was very uncomfortable with them when they showed up. Kaelen was at a meeting in his mother's car and they had a no-contact order on them.When asked how he got to the meeting, I wasn't prepared to lie about it and the whole thing made me squirm. But how do I tell them that. They don't know me. I could ask them to get a reference from James Du Tois and see if that helps. But in the big picture, even though it made me feel bad (really bad, almost sick) I really don't care today if a Drug Court kid can stay here or not. She didn't have any money so there I was going to be, stuck financially helping someone in my house. If the situation gets resolved, fine. If it doesn't, that's fine too. I still have a room and I can find a temporary person with actual money to stay there if I decide to.
So after the depression of the week, I realize that I'm being affected by the insights that are coming to me because of all this writing --- the bully mothers in my family (including me) makes me very sad for Gerald, Mark, Nathan and Stephen. Also, all the men in my life have been emotionally unavailable: Dad and Hubert Hesseltine, my fathers, Bob Willems and John Sandknop, the men I married. So was Rick Lawlor and Louie Kingman, for that matter. So all six of the major men relationships in my life have been emotionally vacant. That also includes both of my uncles, my mother's brothers, Bub and Pep. I'm just now realizing that I have no idea what an emotionally healthy man looks like, I don't know any! Although I have a suspicion that the neighbor, Eric Rhodes, is emotionally healthy. At least he seems so from here. Wow! I wonder where I would have to go to meet someone who was emotionally healthy? And would I recognize him if I did? Or her ... are any of us really healthy in our emotions these days? Have we ever been or did the constraints of society make it seem that we were?
Ah! I just got the tag ... I can only spot what I got! Thanks for the reminder, Stephen! Now I wonder if bully women and emotionally unavailable men make a match and that's why they are the only men I know.
So control issues = bully behavior. When Pam pushes me around with her control issues, I feel the resistance and want to push back. But people with control issues are hard to confront, it's easier to smack them back with passive aggression. That's where I learned my skills, at the feet of my mother. So passive/aggressive behavior is the flip side of control issues, it would seem.
For years I've declared myself a recovering control freak, swearing to watch for control issues when they crop up and learn to release resistance and be more flexible. I think I'm getting better, or at least I thought I was getting better. You know, all this new perspective on my family dynamics is causing me grief, as if I need more of that! Years ago I decided to change my childhood and to view it in only the best possible light. I stopped looking back at it, at the sad parts or the control parts.
All of this is very interesting but I can't let it stop me from progress on my project. Yes, it's enlightening and interesting and insightful. Yes, the ability to see these memories clearly will help me in the long run to make sense of what happened to Stephen and that's the most important part. But in the end, it's the story I make up for him and the combination of genetics, home environment and all of his other relationships that opened the door to who he became and what he did with his life. Also, there was the Acutane and the side effects of that stuff need to be factored in. He took that prescription during a crucial time in his hormonal development and that may have turned the tide on his feelings and his willingness to check into and entertain thoughts of suicide. It's actually listed in the literature as possible side effects. It's a fact that he changed after that, but he was doing the puberty thing, the Acutane side effects got lost in the haze of teen angst that ensued. It's also true that he never really recovered from it, not until he did the neurofeedback therapy.
But hey, these are all good avenues to explore. Yes, it was a combination of events and experiences and inner turmoil and genetics that caused his eventual demise. It wasn't just me, the horrible, bully mom. I certainly did contribute but I was also the only one who ever tried to help him overcome himself. So there is that.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Stevie and Theater Camp
10:55am Writing Practice 41° Boise
Dithering around this morning. Got up late because I got to bed late ... again. Long phone chat with Clint Sturdevant again. He seems to like me and I'm getting to like him, too. Then I find out that he's got $300K in mutual funds and I'm wondering why I bought him a magnet and didn't ask him to pay me. Sheesh. I hope he doesn't turn out to be stingy ... I can't abide a stingy man!
I just got up to let the cats in and said out loud on impulse, "StevieRoo, where are you?" And I heard a faint response, "I'm right here." Yes, I liked that! Not an hour goes by without him in my thoughts in some way. It's hard to describe how much I miss him. He's my amputated arm that I need to function properly, the arm I can still feel but can no longer see. I'm out of balance without him in the world --- everything is harder, nothing is straightforward; simple tasks require a whole new set of skills to accomplish. And yet the more time goes by, the more I adapt to his absence and I can't stop the adaptation, no matter how much I want it to stop.
When Stephen was 13, we signed him up for theater camp in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. We lived in Quincy, Illinois at the time and we had to get him prepared and put him on a bus. It was at least an eight hour drive, a very long way from home and we had to turn him over to strangers. But he wanted to go, was enthusiastic about going, and so we coughed up the money, even though we were not financially solvent at the time.
While it seemed like a good idea at the time and perhaps a way for all of us to have a nice break from each other (because, let's face it, living with a freshly pubescent teenager is no picnic), the reality was surprising and very emotional for me. That first time, John and I drove him to the pick-up location, got his bag out of the car, hugged and kissed him and watched him turn away from us and join the others who were going on the trip, I left a sense of loss spark inside me that bloomed and expanded with every moment that passed after that. I had no idea that I would feel like that ... fearful of losing him, guilty for the pile of wrongs that I had built up and stashed in the dark corners of my memory, sorrow and grief that he was going to be out of my life for such a long time. Was it a week? Two weeks? I don't remember, but at that moment and the moments following his departure, as we got back in our car and drove away (the very same car I still drive today), I was bereft in a way I had not expected and had never felt before. It hit me in waves of grief, fear and panic. I had to control myself in front of John because he didn't appear to have any of those feelings.
It turns out that that was a preview of life to come. As a mother, the love of their children is a complex mix of so many emotions all fit tightly into a bundle labeled Love. And nothing could show me how much I loved my son like the experience of losing him, even for a short time. I felt sick for several days, careening between fear and love, imagining all the things that could go wrong, all the things that were out of my control, how it would feel to actually lose him, be forced to live without him for the rest of my life. It was torture, a nightmare, imaginable only because I have such a terrific imagination. A blessing and a curse, the ability to imagine so vividly.
I have this event written in my pages somewhere, I want to go hunt for it now and confirm the dates and the locations. But I can do that later. For now, I want to stay with this feeling of grief and worry, but safe in knowing that he's OK somewhere else, out of my sight but still existing on another level, still with me, still sending me songs and ideas. And right now I can feel him, almost hear his voice, and while it hurts, it also gives me hope. Because I simply could not go on without him.
Dithering around this morning. Got up late because I got to bed late ... again. Long phone chat with Clint Sturdevant again. He seems to like me and I'm getting to like him, too. Then I find out that he's got $300K in mutual funds and I'm wondering why I bought him a magnet and didn't ask him to pay me. Sheesh. I hope he doesn't turn out to be stingy ... I can't abide a stingy man!
I just got up to let the cats in and said out loud on impulse, "StevieRoo, where are you?" And I heard a faint response, "I'm right here." Yes, I liked that! Not an hour goes by without him in my thoughts in some way. It's hard to describe how much I miss him. He's my amputated arm that I need to function properly, the arm I can still feel but can no longer see. I'm out of balance without him in the world --- everything is harder, nothing is straightforward; simple tasks require a whole new set of skills to accomplish. And yet the more time goes by, the more I adapt to his absence and I can't stop the adaptation, no matter how much I want it to stop.
When Stephen was 13, we signed him up for theater camp in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. We lived in Quincy, Illinois at the time and we had to get him prepared and put him on a bus. It was at least an eight hour drive, a very long way from home and we had to turn him over to strangers. But he wanted to go, was enthusiastic about going, and so we coughed up the money, even though we were not financially solvent at the time.
While it seemed like a good idea at the time and perhaps a way for all of us to have a nice break from each other (because, let's face it, living with a freshly pubescent teenager is no picnic), the reality was surprising and very emotional for me. That first time, John and I drove him to the pick-up location, got his bag out of the car, hugged and kissed him and watched him turn away from us and join the others who were going on the trip, I left a sense of loss spark inside me that bloomed and expanded with every moment that passed after that. I had no idea that I would feel like that ... fearful of losing him, guilty for the pile of wrongs that I had built up and stashed in the dark corners of my memory, sorrow and grief that he was going to be out of my life for such a long time. Was it a week? Two weeks? I don't remember, but at that moment and the moments following his departure, as we got back in our car and drove away (the very same car I still drive today), I was bereft in a way I had not expected and had never felt before. It hit me in waves of grief, fear and panic. I had to control myself in front of John because he didn't appear to have any of those feelings.
It turns out that that was a preview of life to come. As a mother, the love of their children is a complex mix of so many emotions all fit tightly into a bundle labeled Love. And nothing could show me how much I loved my son like the experience of losing him, even for a short time. I felt sick for several days, careening between fear and love, imagining all the things that could go wrong, all the things that were out of my control, how it would feel to actually lose him, be forced to live without him for the rest of my life. It was torture, a nightmare, imaginable only because I have such a terrific imagination. A blessing and a curse, the ability to imagine so vividly.
I have this event written in my pages somewhere, I want to go hunt for it now and confirm the dates and the locations. But I can do that later. For now, I want to stay with this feeling of grief and worry, but safe in knowing that he's OK somewhere else, out of my sight but still existing on another level, still with me, still sending me songs and ideas. And right now I can feel him, almost hear his voice, and while it hurts, it also gives me hope. Because I simply could not go on without him.
Monday, February 22, 2016
Phil Bird as a bully and what happened after that ...
11am Writing Practice 42° Boise
What a hell of a weekend! I got my feelings hurt by a former classmate Friday night and spent hours Saturday morning writing out eight pages of emotions and memories and piecing together our family's emotional sensitivities. Oh, and crying my guts out. I haven't had a weep-session like that in months, since before the anger attacks in October! Wow. So now I'm tracking down information about Emma Pennington's siblings and also the siblings of her mother, Abigale and her husband's mother, Rachel Riley McDaniel.
I was going to use this time today to write scenes for the books, start getting scenes typed out, just let them flow and get them down on documents. But first, the theory I'm dithering with ... it happened in my family of origin and I think it happened in my mother's family of origin. In each case, the mother had a least-liked child, one who was totally unwanted from the moment of conception. In my family, that was Gerald, in my mother's family, it was her. In both families, the rest of the family knew of this dislike but not overtly; it was an energetic dynamic at play, an undercurrent, and all family members reacted to it in the way that least-liked member was treated. Since I wasn't that member, I can see it from a different perspective now. I'm sure there is a psychological term for this dynamic and I wish I knew it.
I discovered it in a TV show called Lie To Me and I recognized it because I was the ill-favored person at Eddie's Diner for years and couldn't understand what was going on or why I was treated as I was my my co-workers. The owner, Phil Bird, didn't like me, had disliked me on sight when I was first hired by Kathy. I was 51 yrs old and still pretty cute, but he was in his late twenties and liked being surrounded by young, pretty girls. He likes the attention. He had no use for me and, in fact, found me repulsive, the very idea of hearing anything personal about me made him shiver. I disgusted him and I saw that on his face more than once, a flicker but no disguising it.
I knew this and I was uncomfortable around him, disliked working with him on Kathy's days off. What I didn't know was how his dislike of me affected everyone else who worked there. They all could feel the energy of his disdain for me and in order to get into and stay in his good graces, they also developed a disdain for me. They often spoke to me with disrespect, they ignored me, I was an outsider even after years of service. I was completely ineffectual there with no chance of advancement and yet I stayed on and even went in when they called, always did my best, remained cheerful in the face of it all and was confused and uncertain about what was going on. It was all too subtle for me, I'm as subtle as a sledge hammer ... no easy tapping was going to bring this situation into clarity.
And then I got fired. Phil made up a story about me, one that he totally believed, everyone rallied around him and wrote stories about me that did happen but cast me in the worst possible light. They sent them to the employment dept by way of making a case for my not qualifying to get unemployment. Phil wanted to be right in decision to fire me, that he had cause. But it was all petty crap with no solid truths and no written warnings to back any of it up. I got my unemployment and then I got hired at St Luke's. But that enraged Phil and he filed an appeal stating that I shouldn't qualify and a phone hearing was scheduled. During the phone hearing, he made his case that I had been rude to a customer and I could tell he believed what he was saying, he wasn't lying. When it was my turn, I told it from my point of view, I read a prepared statement and I gave him an out by saying that he must have been mistaken, he was at the register and I was talking to Jeana back by table #3, there's no way he could have heard the simple question I asked her and then the question I asked the customer that I had been accused of abusing. At the end of the call, I asked a question just to clarify what this appeal was all about, that Phil knew that I already had another job and was the appeal about my right to keep the three weeks of unemployment that I had already received, totaling less than $200? He paused, I'm sure hearing the way I was pointing out his pettiness, and then he said yes. Needless to say, I won the appeal, didn't have to give the money back and Phil banished me from ever going into his diner again. His instant and age-related dislike of me grew into a whole dysfunctional scenario that no one really understood. Until now.
In the Lie To Me episode, a young girl in a PE or gymnastics group at school was being bullied by her classmates and she attempted suicide. Turns out, the bullying dynamic was set up by the teacher, who disliked the girl and often chided her about her weight. To please the teacher, the other girls began bullying her as well, causing a breakdown and suicide attempt. When I first saw this, the light bulb went on in my head and I knew exactly what had happened to me at the Diner, that Phil had been the bully and the rest of them had joined in. This type of thing only happens in dysfunctional group dynamics, where the leader is warped, injured or immature in some way and doesn't know it.
How does this relate to my family and my ancestors? Ah, now it's going to get interesting!
"[To define a] genuine bully, look for a pattern of demeaning behavior by someone who deliberately and repeatedly puts their target in a position of weakness."
The next part of this discussion will focus on parent as bully, especially mothers. Because that's where I'm going with this. But this is Tuesday, a new day, and I want to write a scene. So I'm going to the next page and I'll write one. But first I'll copy this page onto a document and title it so that I can get back to it easily at a later date.
What a hell of a weekend! I got my feelings hurt by a former classmate Friday night and spent hours Saturday morning writing out eight pages of emotions and memories and piecing together our family's emotional sensitivities. Oh, and crying my guts out. I haven't had a weep-session like that in months, since before the anger attacks in October! Wow. So now I'm tracking down information about Emma Pennington's siblings and also the siblings of her mother, Abigale and her husband's mother, Rachel Riley McDaniel.
I was going to use this time today to write scenes for the books, start getting scenes typed out, just let them flow and get them down on documents. But first, the theory I'm dithering with ... it happened in my family of origin and I think it happened in my mother's family of origin. In each case, the mother had a least-liked child, one who was totally unwanted from the moment of conception. In my family, that was Gerald, in my mother's family, it was her. In both families, the rest of the family knew of this dislike but not overtly; it was an energetic dynamic at play, an undercurrent, and all family members reacted to it in the way that least-liked member was treated. Since I wasn't that member, I can see it from a different perspective now. I'm sure there is a psychological term for this dynamic and I wish I knew it.
I discovered it in a TV show called Lie To Me and I recognized it because I was the ill-favored person at Eddie's Diner for years and couldn't understand what was going on or why I was treated as I was my my co-workers. The owner, Phil Bird, didn't like me, had disliked me on sight when I was first hired by Kathy. I was 51 yrs old and still pretty cute, but he was in his late twenties and liked being surrounded by young, pretty girls. He likes the attention. He had no use for me and, in fact, found me repulsive, the very idea of hearing anything personal about me made him shiver. I disgusted him and I saw that on his face more than once, a flicker but no disguising it.
I knew this and I was uncomfortable around him, disliked working with him on Kathy's days off. What I didn't know was how his dislike of me affected everyone else who worked there. They all could feel the energy of his disdain for me and in order to get into and stay in his good graces, they also developed a disdain for me. They often spoke to me with disrespect, they ignored me, I was an outsider even after years of service. I was completely ineffectual there with no chance of advancement and yet I stayed on and even went in when they called, always did my best, remained cheerful in the face of it all and was confused and uncertain about what was going on. It was all too subtle for me, I'm as subtle as a sledge hammer ... no easy tapping was going to bring this situation into clarity.
And then I got fired. Phil made up a story about me, one that he totally believed, everyone rallied around him and wrote stories about me that did happen but cast me in the worst possible light. They sent them to the employment dept by way of making a case for my not qualifying to get unemployment. Phil wanted to be right in decision to fire me, that he had cause. But it was all petty crap with no solid truths and no written warnings to back any of it up. I got my unemployment and then I got hired at St Luke's. But that enraged Phil and he filed an appeal stating that I shouldn't qualify and a phone hearing was scheduled. During the phone hearing, he made his case that I had been rude to a customer and I could tell he believed what he was saying, he wasn't lying. When it was my turn, I told it from my point of view, I read a prepared statement and I gave him an out by saying that he must have been mistaken, he was at the register and I was talking to Jeana back by table #3, there's no way he could have heard the simple question I asked her and then the question I asked the customer that I had been accused of abusing. At the end of the call, I asked a question just to clarify what this appeal was all about, that Phil knew that I already had another job and was the appeal about my right to keep the three weeks of unemployment that I had already received, totaling less than $200? He paused, I'm sure hearing the way I was pointing out his pettiness, and then he said yes. Needless to say, I won the appeal, didn't have to give the money back and Phil banished me from ever going into his diner again. His instant and age-related dislike of me grew into a whole dysfunctional scenario that no one really understood. Until now.
In the Lie To Me episode, a young girl in a PE or gymnastics group at school was being bullied by her classmates and she attempted suicide. Turns out, the bullying dynamic was set up by the teacher, who disliked the girl and often chided her about her weight. To please the teacher, the other girls began bullying her as well, causing a breakdown and suicide attempt. When I first saw this, the light bulb went on in my head and I knew exactly what had happened to me at the Diner, that Phil had been the bully and the rest of them had joined in. This type of thing only happens in dysfunctional group dynamics, where the leader is warped, injured or immature in some way and doesn't know it.
How does this relate to my family and my ancestors? Ah, now it's going to get interesting!
"[To define a] genuine bully, look for a pattern of demeaning behavior by someone who deliberately and repeatedly puts their target in a position of weakness."
The next part of this discussion will focus on parent as bully, especially mothers. Because that's where I'm going with this. But this is Tuesday, a new day, and I want to write a scene. So I'm going to the next page and I'll write one. But first I'll copy this page onto a document and title it so that I can get back to it easily at a later date.
Friday, February 19, 2016
What I decided about a new car ....
10:16am My Daily Pages 47° Boise
All week I've practiced going to bed earlier and I've done so good! Last night I went to bed at 10:40, lights off at 11pm, up once at 5am to take my ASEA and pee and then alarm went off at 7:20. I put my ball under my neck and went back to sleep, not waking again until 8:50. Here's my question of the day: How in the world could I be tired enough to sleep almost ten hours?! I do almost no physical labor, I exercise lightly and I stretch often. What is the deal here?
This morning while washing up and listening to Natalie Goldberg on CD, I got the idea that I could move to Sante Fe, New Mexico and be closer to Nathan and Ruth while not living next door. It would still be high desert, which I like, and it's an artist community, which I like and it's only a four hour drive to Colorado Springs. It may be way too expensive to live there, I'll have to check. But the main point came next .... I'm free to live anywhere I want. I no longer have to factor anyone else into my decisions. I can sell my stuff, half of it, keep just what I need and ditch the rest and take off. Or I could put most everything in storage and rent my house and take off with a go-kit in the trunk.
I probably need a new car, my trunk still leaks, a strut is blown, I was told yesterday when I had the tires rotated, the horn doesn't work, the keyless remote doesn't work, there's some kind of leak in the front seat on the floor of the passenger side but I can't figure out where it's coming from and there are several small oil leaks making little circles on my driveway. I don't think my sweet Sybil is going to last much longer. 22 years we've been together. Stephen was with me for 27 years, I was married to John and with him for 21 years. My car is the second longest live-in relationship of my life.
I've been thinking about a new vehicle, kept my eyes open for one, wondering what I would want. A pick-up truck? An SUV? A new Fiat? A van? Actually, a van never occurred to me until this morning as I'm considering travel. With a van, I could fix up a place to sleep, have all my stuff stored, have my bike on the back and even a tent and some camping gear. I could stay at KOA campgrounds, visit friends, get a motel once in a while and really soak in a tub and get a good rest. I could travel in a van, I don't need an RV. What an interesting idea. But not yet, I can't go yet. I'm writing a book now and must focus. Plus I have these cats. It would be much easier to clean house and stay here then it would be to live on the road like that. At some point I want to do that and it's nice to know I don't have to buy a big RV to do it. A van is the answer when the time comes. Note to self ....
So what am I going to do about my car? A carport will help with the leaks. She spends most of her time in my driveway and sitting under cover would keep her out of the weather somewhat, especially in the winter. So instead of buying a new car, I could invest in a carport. And you know, I like that idea! It also adds value to my house. For under $1000 I could have a metal one installed, but that wouldn't add value. I want a real carport, a pretty one that matches the house. I would love to have a light, too. I'm going to get some estimates. I don't want to go through another winter with no carport.
I'll keep my car. None of the non-working systems are unsafe except perhaps the horn. I could have that fixed at the dealership. I could also get a new windshield. Maybe that's what's causing the leaking in the front seat area. New windshields are fairly cheap, but I'll check. Also, I could have the body shop guy replace the back left taillight and see if that fixes that last of the trunk leak.
So here's the car plan:
1) Plan for a carport and get estimates.
2) Get horn fixed.
3) Get a new windshield.
4) Replace back left taillight.
Two of those items can be done at the body shop. One at the dealership. And get estimates for a carport. It would be much easier to get a new car, I could have one by end of day tomorrow. But I still wouldn't have a carport and I'd also have a brand new car payment and possibly higher insurance rates. I'll still keep my eyes open for vehicles and I'll start noticing vans. I really do like that idea.
So that's my pages. It's 11am already but I'm all warmed up and I feel good that I've discussed my car problems and have a plan. Yaaaay!
All week I've practiced going to bed earlier and I've done so good! Last night I went to bed at 10:40, lights off at 11pm, up once at 5am to take my ASEA and pee and then alarm went off at 7:20. I put my ball under my neck and went back to sleep, not waking again until 8:50. Here's my question of the day: How in the world could I be tired enough to sleep almost ten hours?! I do almost no physical labor, I exercise lightly and I stretch often. What is the deal here?
This morning while washing up and listening to Natalie Goldberg on CD, I got the idea that I could move to Sante Fe, New Mexico and be closer to Nathan and Ruth while not living next door. It would still be high desert, which I like, and it's an artist community, which I like and it's only a four hour drive to Colorado Springs. It may be way too expensive to live there, I'll have to check. But the main point came next .... I'm free to live anywhere I want. I no longer have to factor anyone else into my decisions. I can sell my stuff, half of it, keep just what I need and ditch the rest and take off. Or I could put most everything in storage and rent my house and take off with a go-kit in the trunk.
I probably need a new car, my trunk still leaks, a strut is blown, I was told yesterday when I had the tires rotated, the horn doesn't work, the keyless remote doesn't work, there's some kind of leak in the front seat on the floor of the passenger side but I can't figure out where it's coming from and there are several small oil leaks making little circles on my driveway. I don't think my sweet Sybil is going to last much longer. 22 years we've been together. Stephen was with me for 27 years, I was married to John and with him for 21 years. My car is the second longest live-in relationship of my life.
I've been thinking about a new vehicle, kept my eyes open for one, wondering what I would want. A pick-up truck? An SUV? A new Fiat? A van? Actually, a van never occurred to me until this morning as I'm considering travel. With a van, I could fix up a place to sleep, have all my stuff stored, have my bike on the back and even a tent and some camping gear. I could stay at KOA campgrounds, visit friends, get a motel once in a while and really soak in a tub and get a good rest. I could travel in a van, I don't need an RV. What an interesting idea. But not yet, I can't go yet. I'm writing a book now and must focus. Plus I have these cats. It would be much easier to clean house and stay here then it would be to live on the road like that. At some point I want to do that and it's nice to know I don't have to buy a big RV to do it. A van is the answer when the time comes. Note to self ....
So what am I going to do about my car? A carport will help with the leaks. She spends most of her time in my driveway and sitting under cover would keep her out of the weather somewhat, especially in the winter. So instead of buying a new car, I could invest in a carport. And you know, I like that idea! It also adds value to my house. For under $1000 I could have a metal one installed, but that wouldn't add value. I want a real carport, a pretty one that matches the house. I would love to have a light, too. I'm going to get some estimates. I don't want to go through another winter with no carport.
I'll keep my car. None of the non-working systems are unsafe except perhaps the horn. I could have that fixed at the dealership. I could also get a new windshield. Maybe that's what's causing the leaking in the front seat area. New windshields are fairly cheap, but I'll check. Also, I could have the body shop guy replace the back left taillight and see if that fixes that last of the trunk leak.
So here's the car plan:
1) Plan for a carport and get estimates.
2) Get horn fixed.
3) Get a new windshield.
4) Replace back left taillight.
Two of those items can be done at the body shop. One at the dealership. And get estimates for a carport. It would be much easier to get a new car, I could have one by end of day tomorrow. But I still wouldn't have a carport and I'd also have a brand new car payment and possibly higher insurance rates. I'll still keep my eyes open for vehicles and I'll start noticing vans. I really do like that idea.
So that's my pages. It's 11am already but I'm all warmed up and I feel good that I've discussed my car problems and have a plan. Yaaaay!
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Part One: My Early Life
8:50am Writing Warm-ups 40° Boise
It rained hard and woke me up at 5:30 this morning. The rain pounded at the windows of my bedroom, must have been coming from the west. The wind blew and the rain slashed for about ten minutes and then I was back to sleep and knew nothing more until the alarm went off at 7:30 --- time to place the ball under my neck and begin to wake up.
During my wake up practice, I was thinking about my earliest memories, trying to remember my mother in any way except asleep. Did she talk to us? Did she hold us, read to us, tell us stories? Did she sing to us? That last question gave me pause. She was a fabulous singer, she brought us to LA so that she could have a chance at a career using her talents. Why do I not remember one time when she sang to us? I remember her singing to Mark when he was a baby. She spent plenty of time rocking him and singing to him.
Gerald and I were simply too much for her. I'm sure she spent a lot of time wishing she had never had children. We got yelled at a lot. We were on our own so much, we got resourceful. Wow, I just remembered why we got sent to live with Auntie Jan and other relatives in Oregon! I ate a bunch of big vitamin pills, I remember the taste. They must have had a lot of iron in them. When mom discovered that they were gone, she rushed Gerald to the ER and had his stomach pumped, only to realize that it was me who took them, not Gerald. Before that there had been several episodes --- me trying to cook pancakes and the horrible mess that entailed and then my adventures in hair cutting, scalping us both to the quick more than once. Scissors where magical and they had to be hidden from me or I would cut up anything I found. But the vitamin incident was the last straw.
There was more than one bus trip from California to Oregon, even one where Gerald and I traveled unaccompanied. I'm not sure of the timing of that one but I remember parts of it vividly. The bus driver hated us because we couldn't stop kicking the back of his chair. We were in his care and had to ride in the seat right behind him. We had coloring books and story books but I don't remember food at all. And that was a very long trip! We probably went straight north through Bakersfield, on to Sacramento then up to Portland. We were probably met by Auntie Jan in Portland. We would have had to change buses there and we would have needed help. Racking my brain, I think that had to be before mom met dad, that was how we got to Oregon after the vitamin event.
So how long were we with her in LA before she sent up back north? She met Dad in 1958 and they married on August 30th. How long was that after we were gone? I remember time spent in Baker with Uncle Pep and Auntie Colleen. A litter of puppies were born and we watched Uncle Pep crop their tails. I remember a meal that included corn-on-the-cob and being taught how to eat it. The house was green and it was on the corner of Clark and Campbell, long since torn down. We were given a nickle each and off to York's market we went and then on to the park with a bucket to catch crawdaddies. Crayfish, but we called them crawdaddies. Many a happy hour was spent in the Powder River where it ran through the city park. How old were we then? There were the five of us: Linda, the oldest, a few months older than me, then me, then Mike, then Gerald, then Kit, the youngest. Trying to fit the timing in with this memory is difficult. I turned five years old in April of 1958, Gerald was four in June. We were all so young! Could it really be true that we were riding the bus alone for 800 miles? That we were sent to the park at that age? Blocks from home? If not then, when? Mom came to get me after she married Dad the end of August. Just how long were we away from her? I wish I had asked her all this while she was still alive!
Interesting. I remember so much more than I thought, I just wish I remembered when. I haven't even gotten to the time spent with Auntie Jan and Uncle PeeWee out at Doobie Ranch in Keating. I know the timing of that one because I remember when Mom came to get us in September of 1958. Pictures were taken of a dress-up that Mom and Auntie Jan had with us. I might go look for them, I could try to figure the actual dates of that but it happened at the ranch, I know that for sure.
This will all be Part One. My early life and even some of Mom's early life. I have Auntie Jan's memoir to help fill in their early story. And the stories before that I have in the shed.
I gave notice on Studio 21 last night and Horace is cool with it. He's even bought those two chairs I got for free. $20 each, deducted from the March rent for #23. Score! So instead of paying $318, I'll be paying $114. Also, I have decided to pay off the Sears card and then transfer the Capital One balance to that card with a 4% interest rate for two years. I'll keep paying $50 a month for Wells Fargo or I could transfer that balance as well, consolidate and only have one payment for a credit card. I could have them all paid off in a year and save money on interest. Then whatever goes onto the Capital One card gets paid off monthly. That will be good for a credit builder. So all is going well for me financially. Finally!
OK, that's it. Good day with the warm-up! Yaaay!
It rained hard and woke me up at 5:30 this morning. The rain pounded at the windows of my bedroom, must have been coming from the west. The wind blew and the rain slashed for about ten minutes and then I was back to sleep and knew nothing more until the alarm went off at 7:30 --- time to place the ball under my neck and begin to wake up.
During my wake up practice, I was thinking about my earliest memories, trying to remember my mother in any way except asleep. Did she talk to us? Did she hold us, read to us, tell us stories? Did she sing to us? That last question gave me pause. She was a fabulous singer, she brought us to LA so that she could have a chance at a career using her talents. Why do I not remember one time when she sang to us? I remember her singing to Mark when he was a baby. She spent plenty of time rocking him and singing to him.
Gerald and I were simply too much for her. I'm sure she spent a lot of time wishing she had never had children. We got yelled at a lot. We were on our own so much, we got resourceful. Wow, I just remembered why we got sent to live with Auntie Jan and other relatives in Oregon! I ate a bunch of big vitamin pills, I remember the taste. They must have had a lot of iron in them. When mom discovered that they were gone, she rushed Gerald to the ER and had his stomach pumped, only to realize that it was me who took them, not Gerald. Before that there had been several episodes --- me trying to cook pancakes and the horrible mess that entailed and then my adventures in hair cutting, scalping us both to the quick more than once. Scissors where magical and they had to be hidden from me or I would cut up anything I found. But the vitamin incident was the last straw.
There was more than one bus trip from California to Oregon, even one where Gerald and I traveled unaccompanied. I'm not sure of the timing of that one but I remember parts of it vividly. The bus driver hated us because we couldn't stop kicking the back of his chair. We were in his care and had to ride in the seat right behind him. We had coloring books and story books but I don't remember food at all. And that was a very long trip! We probably went straight north through Bakersfield, on to Sacramento then up to Portland. We were probably met by Auntie Jan in Portland. We would have had to change buses there and we would have needed help. Racking my brain, I think that had to be before mom met dad, that was how we got to Oregon after the vitamin event.
So how long were we with her in LA before she sent up back north? She met Dad in 1958 and they married on August 30th. How long was that after we were gone? I remember time spent in Baker with Uncle Pep and Auntie Colleen. A litter of puppies were born and we watched Uncle Pep crop their tails. I remember a meal that included corn-on-the-cob and being taught how to eat it. The house was green and it was on the corner of Clark and Campbell, long since torn down. We were given a nickle each and off to York's market we went and then on to the park with a bucket to catch crawdaddies. Crayfish, but we called them crawdaddies. Many a happy hour was spent in the Powder River where it ran through the city park. How old were we then? There were the five of us: Linda, the oldest, a few months older than me, then me, then Mike, then Gerald, then Kit, the youngest. Trying to fit the timing in with this memory is difficult. I turned five years old in April of 1958, Gerald was four in June. We were all so young! Could it really be true that we were riding the bus alone for 800 miles? That we were sent to the park at that age? Blocks from home? If not then, when? Mom came to get me after she married Dad the end of August. Just how long were we away from her? I wish I had asked her all this while she was still alive!
Interesting. I remember so much more than I thought, I just wish I remembered when. I haven't even gotten to the time spent with Auntie Jan and Uncle PeeWee out at Doobie Ranch in Keating. I know the timing of that one because I remember when Mom came to get us in September of 1958. Pictures were taken of a dress-up that Mom and Auntie Jan had with us. I might go look for them, I could try to figure the actual dates of that but it happened at the ranch, I know that for sure.
This will all be Part One. My early life and even some of Mom's early life. I have Auntie Jan's memoir to help fill in their early story. And the stories before that I have in the shed.
I gave notice on Studio 21 last night and Horace is cool with it. He's even bought those two chairs I got for free. $20 each, deducted from the March rent for #23. Score! So instead of paying $318, I'll be paying $114. Also, I have decided to pay off the Sears card and then transfer the Capital One balance to that card with a 4% interest rate for two years. I'll keep paying $50 a month for Wells Fargo or I could transfer that balance as well, consolidate and only have one payment for a credit card. I could have them all paid off in a year and save money on interest. Then whatever goes onto the Capital One card gets paid off monthly. That will be good for a credit builder. So all is going well for me financially. Finally!
OK, that's it. Good day with the warm-up! Yaaay!
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
California, 1956
8:55am My Daily Pages 42° Boise
Worn out, I went to bed at 10:40 last night, turned off the light at 11:00 and got up a little after 8am. This was a perfectly timed night's sleep and it was wonderful. This is what I've been working up to for the past six months, this is the schedule I would love to be able to live with for the rest of the time as I'm writing books. These will be the hours that I shoot for. I know that seems like a long time in bed, but I read before turning the light off and then I breathe and stretch with the ball under my neck before I get up. The things I do for my health and my mind take time and it's important that I honor myself and allow the time. I love being healthy and my life habits, all of them, even the little details, make that happen.
This morning, while still in bed, I thought of the room I rented for classes, Studio 21, and I realize that I've cooled and no longer want to do that right now. I gave up guitar lessons on Monday and today I'll give notice on the extra studio. I'll keep #23. I love having it there even though I haven't spent much time there lately. I love having all that stuff out of my house and accessible somewhere else. And I love that I practice typing here in the mornings during the week. I don't need to teach classes right now, I need to heed the yearnings and just focus on writing and leave everything else be for now. I'll send Horace an e-mail when I finish here and give notice for the end of the month. He can begin advertising right now, no reason to wait. Maybe I'll help. Yep, I'm sitting here feeling that room and that idea and it has truly faded into nothing. If I do decide to go ahead and teach the EFT class on March 12th, I'll contact Midge and see if she still has her rooms on Orchard. The class is only two hours, I could do it here at home if I have to, if I decide to and if I clean! Ha.
I feel like my life is distilling. Maybe this is what it feels like to begin to focus on one thing and leave the rest of the ideas and activities behind. This is what I've wanted for so long, the ability to step inside and close the door, leaving everything that isn't THIS outside. There's no longer anyone to take care of, no one needs me, no one is dying and if they are, they haven't asked for my help in any way. I really am free to do whatever I want to do. I've been practicing the Superbrain Yoga technique for three days and something has indeed shifted in me. I'm ready to tell my stories and I'm ready to knuckle down and focus. Mornings are for writing and here I am doing that. Yes!
California, 1956
The earliest memory I have is of trying to wake my mother in the morning and not being able to get her to wake up past a few sputtering demands that I go away. It was dark so it must have been very early but we were hungry, my little brother and me. Since I was the big sister, it was up to me to lead the way in our daily lives and I was a relentless and creative leader. At only 14 months younger, Gerald was a willing accomplice and my first friend.
We didn't know at the time how young our mother was and how ill-prepared she was for life on her own, especially motherhood. All we knew is that we were hungry most of the time and supervision was light. Mom was only 20 years old, had two little children, a divorce and a fresh nursing certificate from a small school in Pendleton, Oregon. And yet here we were in Southern California, a thousand miles from the place of our birth with no extended family, very little money and a mother with dreams but not one clue how to make them come true.
I was born in 1953 in a tiny town Eastern Oregon, Gerald was born in 1954 in the same town. Later we would find out that our mother was born there too, in the very same hospital in 1936, which would make her 16 years old at my birth and 17 at Gerald's, turning 18 just a few weeks later. Our parents divorced shortly after that and mom often said throughout the years, "I was 18 years old, divorced, with two little kids. What was I supposed to do?"
OK, we'll cut and paste that over to a document and see where it goes. Good session this morning, although I did spend time looking at maps of LA trying to find the name of that first town we lived in down there. No luck so far but I'm open for inspiration, Mom. I hope you don't mind if I tell this story and if you do, too bad. I'm telling it. You know I love you!
Worn out, I went to bed at 10:40 last night, turned off the light at 11:00 and got up a little after 8am. This was a perfectly timed night's sleep and it was wonderful. This is what I've been working up to for the past six months, this is the schedule I would love to be able to live with for the rest of the time as I'm writing books. These will be the hours that I shoot for. I know that seems like a long time in bed, but I read before turning the light off and then I breathe and stretch with the ball under my neck before I get up. The things I do for my health and my mind take time and it's important that I honor myself and allow the time. I love being healthy and my life habits, all of them, even the little details, make that happen.
This morning, while still in bed, I thought of the room I rented for classes, Studio 21, and I realize that I've cooled and no longer want to do that right now. I gave up guitar lessons on Monday and today I'll give notice on the extra studio. I'll keep #23. I love having it there even though I haven't spent much time there lately. I love having all that stuff out of my house and accessible somewhere else. And I love that I practice typing here in the mornings during the week. I don't need to teach classes right now, I need to heed the yearnings and just focus on writing and leave everything else be for now. I'll send Horace an e-mail when I finish here and give notice for the end of the month. He can begin advertising right now, no reason to wait. Maybe I'll help. Yep, I'm sitting here feeling that room and that idea and it has truly faded into nothing. If I do decide to go ahead and teach the EFT class on March 12th, I'll contact Midge and see if she still has her rooms on Orchard. The class is only two hours, I could do it here at home if I have to, if I decide to and if I clean! Ha.
I feel like my life is distilling. Maybe this is what it feels like to begin to focus on one thing and leave the rest of the ideas and activities behind. This is what I've wanted for so long, the ability to step inside and close the door, leaving everything that isn't THIS outside. There's no longer anyone to take care of, no one needs me, no one is dying and if they are, they haven't asked for my help in any way. I really am free to do whatever I want to do. I've been practicing the Superbrain Yoga technique for three days and something has indeed shifted in me. I'm ready to tell my stories and I'm ready to knuckle down and focus. Mornings are for writing and here I am doing that. Yes!
California, 1956
The earliest memory I have is of trying to wake my mother in the morning and not being able to get her to wake up past a few sputtering demands that I go away. It was dark so it must have been very early but we were hungry, my little brother and me. Since I was the big sister, it was up to me to lead the way in our daily lives and I was a relentless and creative leader. At only 14 months younger, Gerald was a willing accomplice and my first friend.
We didn't know at the time how young our mother was and how ill-prepared she was for life on her own, especially motherhood. All we knew is that we were hungry most of the time and supervision was light. Mom was only 20 years old, had two little children, a divorce and a fresh nursing certificate from a small school in Pendleton, Oregon. And yet here we were in Southern California, a thousand miles from the place of our birth with no extended family, very little money and a mother with dreams but not one clue how to make them come true.
I was born in 1953 in a tiny town Eastern Oregon, Gerald was born in 1954 in the same town. Later we would find out that our mother was born there too, in the very same hospital in 1936, which would make her 16 years old at my birth and 17 at Gerald's, turning 18 just a few weeks later. Our parents divorced shortly after that and mom often said throughout the years, "I was 18 years old, divorced, with two little kids. What was I supposed to do?"
OK, we'll cut and paste that over to a document and see where it goes. Good session this morning, although I did spend time looking at maps of LA trying to find the name of that first town we lived in down there. No luck so far but I'm open for inspiration, Mom. I hope you don't mind if I tell this story and if you do, too bad. I'm telling it. You know I love you!
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
'California Dreamer'
10:10am My Daily Pages 49° Boise
Warming up out there, it will be spring soon and I've barely begun writing my book. I wonder how many more years I'll be at this before I get one ready to publish? At least I write every day and now that I'm writing this way, the process should accelerate. One would hope. The best part about this blog-typing, it's stored on Blogger, not on my computer. It's safer this way.
Yesterday was a holiday, President's Day, and I ended up staying home all day, went out only once to bring the garbage cans up. It would have been a nice day to go out somewhere, maybe take a drive, but I didn't. I was going to go to the studio and work on cards but I didn't. I showered and washed my hair and sat here on Facebook. It's amazing to me how busy I can stay just dinking around on Facebook! I did talk to my brother Jimmy for an hour, then later I talked to Clint for almost two hours. I watched a movie, finished watching a three part documentary and then caught the latest episode of Downton Abby. Final season for that show and that's too bad. But six seasons is respectable, for sure, and what a gem for future viewing! So there, that's what I did all day and I enjoyed every minute of it!
I started a new book on CD yesterday as I washed up. Natalie Goldberg, The Great Failure. I'm also reading her book, Writing Down the Bones. I'm getting the idea about how to write the memories and how to bring my family to life on the page. It's the details. Yesterday I wrote out the dates of when I lived in California. They were also the dates that my mother lived there and that Stephen lived there, all except his last few years where I was here in Boise and he was in North Hollywood. I can start in on my earliest memories in part one and go from there, ending up with a six part story.
I Googled 'California Dreamer' last night, I thought it might be a good name for the book, but I found out that it was another term for a blow job. At first I was repulsed and then I thought, really, kind of appropriate in a sad, sick sort of way. Stephen was a sex addict which may have come with the drug use or may have started in second grade when he beat his poor peepee up so badly I had to apply salve to it and warn him to be more kind to himself. It just occurred to me that he might have been trying to have an orgasm, knowing instinctively that there was more coming with that activity but, being so young, his body was unable to make that happen yet. Is this the kind of information I want to share with the world? In addition to all the other warning signs I got that he was different and possibly troubled, would it help someone else to know these things about my dead son? In the interest of being thorough, I'll not censer myself for the first draft. I'll just lay it all out there and then go back over it in the first edit and see what gets to stay, what gets altered and what has to be cut. For now, the working title of this version will be California Dreamer and that's that.
Now that I've written my warm up and my report from yesterday, I'm ready to go write some other stuff. This is fun, this morning typing. There's a whole different feel to this kind of writing and it's fast. I'm enjoying it and now that I've figured out to write in my spiral on the weekends, that I'm not abandoning it entirely, I'm satisfied that I can do both kinds of journaling, here and hand-written. I'm very happy with that.
OK, off I go at 10:49 --- I whipped this out fast this morning! Yaaaay!
Warming up out there, it will be spring soon and I've barely begun writing my book. I wonder how many more years I'll be at this before I get one ready to publish? At least I write every day and now that I'm writing this way, the process should accelerate. One would hope. The best part about this blog-typing, it's stored on Blogger, not on my computer. It's safer this way.
Yesterday was a holiday, President's Day, and I ended up staying home all day, went out only once to bring the garbage cans up. It would have been a nice day to go out somewhere, maybe take a drive, but I didn't. I was going to go to the studio and work on cards but I didn't. I showered and washed my hair and sat here on Facebook. It's amazing to me how busy I can stay just dinking around on Facebook! I did talk to my brother Jimmy for an hour, then later I talked to Clint for almost two hours. I watched a movie, finished watching a three part documentary and then caught the latest episode of Downton Abby. Final season for that show and that's too bad. But six seasons is respectable, for sure, and what a gem for future viewing! So there, that's what I did all day and I enjoyed every minute of it!
I started a new book on CD yesterday as I washed up. Natalie Goldberg, The Great Failure. I'm also reading her book, Writing Down the Bones. I'm getting the idea about how to write the memories and how to bring my family to life on the page. It's the details. Yesterday I wrote out the dates of when I lived in California. They were also the dates that my mother lived there and that Stephen lived there, all except his last few years where I was here in Boise and he was in North Hollywood. I can start in on my earliest memories in part one and go from there, ending up with a six part story.
I Googled 'California Dreamer' last night, I thought it might be a good name for the book, but I found out that it was another term for a blow job. At first I was repulsed and then I thought, really, kind of appropriate in a sad, sick sort of way. Stephen was a sex addict which may have come with the drug use or may have started in second grade when he beat his poor peepee up so badly I had to apply salve to it and warn him to be more kind to himself. It just occurred to me that he might have been trying to have an orgasm, knowing instinctively that there was more coming with that activity but, being so young, his body was unable to make that happen yet. Is this the kind of information I want to share with the world? In addition to all the other warning signs I got that he was different and possibly troubled, would it help someone else to know these things about my dead son? In the interest of being thorough, I'll not censer myself for the first draft. I'll just lay it all out there and then go back over it in the first edit and see what gets to stay, what gets altered and what has to be cut. For now, the working title of this version will be California Dreamer and that's that.
Now that I've written my warm up and my report from yesterday, I'm ready to go write some other stuff. This is fun, this morning typing. There's a whole different feel to this kind of writing and it's fast. I'm enjoying it and now that I've figured out to write in my spiral on the weekends, that I'm not abandoning it entirely, I'm satisfied that I can do both kinds of journaling, here and hand-written. I'm very happy with that.
OK, off I go at 10:49 --- I whipped this out fast this morning! Yaaaay!
Monday, February 15, 2016
New Focus: Life and Loss in LaLa Land
9:40am My Daily Pages 48°
How many times did I live in California? In a minute, I'll count them up, but right now I'll tell you why I ask. Yesterday, Valentine's Day, I got all tenderhearted and had a crying fit over missing Stephen. As I cried, I whispered, I'm sorry Stephen, as I often do when one of these moments attack and I'm sure I meant that I'm sorry I failed him, sorry I didn't save him, sorry for all the moments I was angry or disappointed in him or in something that he had done, sorry for not being the mother he deserved. As I sit here typing, tears fill my eyes. I'm always going to be sorry, it seems.
I also whispered, I'm sorry Mama. In that moment, I was sorry that I had failed her as well. I felt the weight of all my mistakes, all my yearnings to make it right, all my desire for love and acceptance, not just for me but for all three of us. In that moment we were connected, my son, my mother and me, like we had never been before, my two loves, the ones I would always miss.
As I sat weeping, the opening notes of a song began playing in my right ear, I heard them drift to me as if the song had just started playing on the radio or an mp3 player next to me. I listened and the song continued, clear and soft and the wonder of it coming to me like that seemed surprising, like a gift.
"All the leaves are brown .... and the sky is gray ... I'd been for a walk .... on a winters day ... I'd be safe and warm ..... if I was in LA ..... California Dreaming .... on such a winters day ...."
I sat there and listened to the entire song play in my head and I knew that Stephen had sent it to me. He had sent many songs to me since he died and each had started softly but usually I don't catch on until the song is in full swing. I tell people that I have a radio in my head and Stephen is the DJ just as he always had been in my car. He was the playlist king, he always had just the right music with him for any occasion. But this was the first time I had been quiet enough to hear the song from the beginning and recognize it for what it was: An answer to a question that I had been asking for weeks.
How can I tell this story? What is the theme? Where do I begin? There's too much information here, how can I tell what to write and what to leave unsaid?
With that song came the answers, the puzzle pieces of this story fell into place and it all made sense finally --- California is the key! Each one of us, my mother, my son and me, had a special story and relationship with California. It begins with my mother in 1956 and ends with Stephen's death in 2013. In a story spanning 57 years, I have a three generational epic tale to tell and most of that time, none of us lived in California but our feelings and yearnings were captured there and in a way, none of us ever left. Certainly Stephen never left. He died in North Hollywood and if the story were never told for real, his would drift into the ether as just another tragic tale of shattered dreams in the Land of LaLa.
So the new title for the story I'm going to tell is:
How many times did I live in California? In a minute, I'll count them up, but right now I'll tell you why I ask. Yesterday, Valentine's Day, I got all tenderhearted and had a crying fit over missing Stephen. As I cried, I whispered, I'm sorry Stephen, as I often do when one of these moments attack and I'm sure I meant that I'm sorry I failed him, sorry I didn't save him, sorry for all the moments I was angry or disappointed in him or in something that he had done, sorry for not being the mother he deserved. As I sit here typing, tears fill my eyes. I'm always going to be sorry, it seems.
I also whispered, I'm sorry Mama. In that moment, I was sorry that I had failed her as well. I felt the weight of all my mistakes, all my yearnings to make it right, all my desire for love and acceptance, not just for me but for all three of us. In that moment we were connected, my son, my mother and me, like we had never been before, my two loves, the ones I would always miss.
As I sat weeping, the opening notes of a song began playing in my right ear, I heard them drift to me as if the song had just started playing on the radio or an mp3 player next to me. I listened and the song continued, clear and soft and the wonder of it coming to me like that seemed surprising, like a gift.
"All the leaves are brown .... and the sky is gray ... I'd been for a walk .... on a winters day ... I'd be safe and warm ..... if I was in LA ..... California Dreaming .... on such a winters day ...."
I sat there and listened to the entire song play in my head and I knew that Stephen had sent it to me. He had sent many songs to me since he died and each had started softly but usually I don't catch on until the song is in full swing. I tell people that I have a radio in my head and Stephen is the DJ just as he always had been in my car. He was the playlist king, he always had just the right music with him for any occasion. But this was the first time I had been quiet enough to hear the song from the beginning and recognize it for what it was: An answer to a question that I had been asking for weeks.
How can I tell this story? What is the theme? Where do I begin? There's too much information here, how can I tell what to write and what to leave unsaid?
With that song came the answers, the puzzle pieces of this story fell into place and it all made sense finally --- California is the key! Each one of us, my mother, my son and me, had a special story and relationship with California. It begins with my mother in 1956 and ends with Stephen's death in 2013. In a story spanning 57 years, I have a three generational epic tale to tell and most of that time, none of us lived in California but our feelings and yearnings were captured there and in a way, none of us ever left. Certainly Stephen never left. He died in North Hollywood and if the story were never told for real, his would drift into the ether as just another tragic tale of shattered dreams in the Land of LaLa.
So the new title for the story I'm going to tell is:
California Dreamer
A Memoir of Life and Loss in the Golden State
OK, let's see where this goes. How many times did I live in California?
1) 1956, with mom and Gerald. Mom was a nurse and sang in night clubs when she could get gigs. I don't know a lot about this part of the story. I know she took pills, uppers and downers, and I suspect she had big dreams for her talent .... she had a beautiful singing voice, lovely and unique. She sent us back to Oregon when it became clear that she was in no shape to be a mother at that time. She was 20 years old, we were 3 and 4.
2) 1958, after mom married Richard, she came to Oregon and got me but left Gerald with Auntie Jan. I lived with mom and 'dad' in an upstairs apartment. They got me in the fall and I remember a Christmas there with them. I was placed in kindergarten and was doted on and spoiled and I loved being an only child. We moved to Oregon in 1964 and that's when my yearning for California began.
3) 1981, I met John Sandknop and moved in with him in Hanford, 30 miles north of Fresno. We married, had a baby in March 1983 and lived there until January 1984 when we moved to DC area with the Navy. The yearning began again.
4) 1990, we moved from Florida to the Bay Area in time for John to join ships company on the USS Lincoln and deploy yet again in March 1991. We left Alameda in December 1992 and moved to Chicago area for John's last job with the Navy. More yearning.
5) 1998, we fled Quincy, IL and went back to Hanford for a retirement job for John as a simulator instructor for new pilots at NAS Lemoore. We lived there until I left John for good in 2002 and moved to Oregon. California was finally out of my system, I knew I couldn't sustain my life in that expensive state and I went on a six year quest for Home, finally deciding on Boise, ID in 2007 and I've been here ever since.
6) Stephen never did get California out of his system. He moved back with his partner in 2011 and he never left.
So, shall I format the story around those dates and include the houses we lived in, the parties we had, the fights, the dreams and plans and the epiphanies? Why not. It can be a story in six parts, the last one being Stephen's all alone.
So many stories have been told around that state, they all see so hack right now. How am I going to make our story uniquely ours? I can use each date above as the pole around which the story in that time frame wraps ... like a May pole, I'll weave the story in and around the date and location while filling the details in time around them.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Time stands still and life goes on.
9:36am My Daily Pages 31° Boise
I'm being bad this morning. I went to Facebook first a half hour ago and am just getting to my pages. Last night I wrote a post and then used it to reopen my Practice Happiness blog and I wanted to check on that to see what the comments were. 21 people visited the blog and no one left a comment. Connie left a comment on FB and I took the time to answer her. That was good. And then I posted a photo and birthday greeting for Stephanie since today is her birthday. Anyway, I'm here now and ready to write and so I shall.
From my bed this morning, I clicked on my cell phone and listened to Stephen's song, Right As Rain, and wondered again if that should be the title of his book.
Then it would be a biography and not a memoir. Or I could write it as creative non-fiction. It would be good to have a song to go with the story. "Forever is so far away ... but then again, so was today." Also, the subtitle could change as the story unfolds. I've certainly done enough writing and remembering since he died, I should be ready to write this story. And I am, really. I keep saying I am. Am I?
Stephen liked the words, The Void. In my young life, I liked The Chasm. In many ways we were similar and both tortured in our own ways, struggling to be ourselves but not knowing, really, who that was, and so failing to drum up support for our efforts in our families. Both of us had families that didn't really pay attention, parents who were so different and so narrow, mine with religion, his with the military. It's surprising to me how similar in feel those narrow lives were. Conservative, structured, opinionated, right. Right as rain. And yet we were both so wrong for the families we had.
I never really looked at it like that before. His story is also my story. My story is also my mother's story. We're all connected down through time. Time stands still and life goes on. How both of the statements can be true is beyond me but I do feel the truth of them.
Points to ponder. But for now, I need to prepare to go get Stephanie's little dog, Olie, and take him to the groomer for her while she joins her family at her grandmother's death bed. I was 53 when my Granny died, Stephanie is 44 today. Granny was 44 when I was born. Poor Stephanie. I hope she can take this loss, it's just the beginning. She still has the rest of her family to say goodbye to and she's so sensitive!
I'm being bad this morning. I went to Facebook first a half hour ago and am just getting to my pages. Last night I wrote a post and then used it to reopen my Practice Happiness blog and I wanted to check on that to see what the comments were. 21 people visited the blog and no one left a comment. Connie left a comment on FB and I took the time to answer her. That was good. And then I posted a photo and birthday greeting for Stephanie since today is her birthday. Anyway, I'm here now and ready to write and so I shall.
From my bed this morning, I clicked on my cell phone and listened to Stephen's song, Right As Rain, and wondered again if that should be the title of his book.
Right as Rain
The life and death of Stephen B. Sandknop
Then it would be a biography and not a memoir. Or I could write it as creative non-fiction. It would be good to have a song to go with the story. "Forever is so far away ... but then again, so was today." Also, the subtitle could change as the story unfolds. I've certainly done enough writing and remembering since he died, I should be ready to write this story. And I am, really. I keep saying I am. Am I?
Stephen liked the words, The Void. In my young life, I liked The Chasm. In many ways we were similar and both tortured in our own ways, struggling to be ourselves but not knowing, really, who that was, and so failing to drum up support for our efforts in our families. Both of us had families that didn't really pay attention, parents who were so different and so narrow, mine with religion, his with the military. It's surprising to me how similar in feel those narrow lives were. Conservative, structured, opinionated, right. Right as rain. And yet we were both so wrong for the families we had.
I never really looked at it like that before. His story is also my story. My story is also my mother's story. We're all connected down through time. Time stands still and life goes on. How both of the statements can be true is beyond me but I do feel the truth of them.
Points to ponder. But for now, I need to prepare to go get Stephanie's little dog, Olie, and take him to the groomer for her while she joins her family at her grandmother's death bed. I was 53 when my Granny died, Stephanie is 44 today. Granny was 44 when I was born. Poor Stephanie. I hope she can take this loss, it's just the beginning. She still has the rest of her family to say goodbye to and she's so sensitive!
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Kaelen's Sentencing
9am My Daily Pages 33° Boise
My alarm went off at 6:30 but I didn't begin to wake up until 7:30, didn't rise until 8:00 and now I'm just now sitting down to my practice. That's my new name for these pages ... writing practice. Of course that's what I do. But now that I think of it, I actually report my life as if it were a diary and I philosophize as if it were a journal and I plan my days and my projects as if it were a planner. The term "pages" covers what this is quite well, really. So it's not about practice at all, not here, not this. These really are my daily pages and that's that. Writing practice will have to be something else. Perhaps I can use my spiral pages for practice. I'm reading Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg and she's got all sorts of ways to practice writing. I may try some of them.
Today I have to get going, get dressed and get to the court house to be a witness to Kaelen's sentencing. He needs to see me there. If he's going to prison, I need him to know that I'll be lending him my support the whole time. I'll write, send books as I can, bring or send writing supplies. I'll visit when it's allowed. At least once I will, just to see if it's a good idea.
This week has been way too busy, too many other things to do besides write or make cards. I have a stack of prints ready to trim and affix to cards and then glitter but haven't had time. I don't like being this busy, I want to focus on my writing and my art. I'm not good with too many diverse things going on in a day. I'm not good at multitasking. But it's OK, after today, there should be time. In addition to the courthouse, I have errands to run and then the gym at 3pm. And I have yet to practice playing my guitar! But at least I got plenty of sleep, I should hold up for the entire day. I was so tired last night, I went to bed at 10pm, lights off by 10:20. That provided me with ten hours in the sack! Holy cow, how could I be that tired?!
Well, I better scoot. Bye for now.
My alarm went off at 6:30 but I didn't begin to wake up until 7:30, didn't rise until 8:00 and now I'm just now sitting down to my practice. That's my new name for these pages ... writing practice. Of course that's what I do. But now that I think of it, I actually report my life as if it were a diary and I philosophize as if it were a journal and I plan my days and my projects as if it were a planner. The term "pages" covers what this is quite well, really. So it's not about practice at all, not here, not this. These really are my daily pages and that's that. Writing practice will have to be something else. Perhaps I can use my spiral pages for practice. I'm reading Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg and she's got all sorts of ways to practice writing. I may try some of them.
Today I have to get going, get dressed and get to the court house to be a witness to Kaelen's sentencing. He needs to see me there. If he's going to prison, I need him to know that I'll be lending him my support the whole time. I'll write, send books as I can, bring or send writing supplies. I'll visit when it's allowed. At least once I will, just to see if it's a good idea.
This week has been way too busy, too many other things to do besides write or make cards. I have a stack of prints ready to trim and affix to cards and then glitter but haven't had time. I don't like being this busy, I want to focus on my writing and my art. I'm not good with too many diverse things going on in a day. I'm not good at multitasking. But it's OK, after today, there should be time. In addition to the courthouse, I have errands to run and then the gym at 3pm. And I have yet to practice playing my guitar! But at least I got plenty of sleep, I should hold up for the entire day. I was so tired last night, I went to bed at 10pm, lights off by 10:20. That provided me with ten hours in the sack! Holy cow, how could I be that tired?!
Well, I better scoot. Bye for now.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Indiana:1880something
8:21am My Morning Report 28° Boise
I have until 10am to writing this morning. Then I have to eat breakfast and get dressed to hop in the car and drive to Ontario to meet my cousin Joe at an antiques mall and pick up one of his lamps for a customer here. It's foggy out this morning and gray ... drab. Looks like a great day to stay home all day in front of my vid-fire and live in my mind, writing about my memories, trying to make them into a book.
Yesterday I began outlining some high points in my life and either I have some amazing memories or I'm enamored with myself and think my experiences are more interesting than they are. I never before thought my life was worthy of a book but losing Stephen has made me dive deep into it, looking for answers as to why he was so tortured and what part did I play in it? --- and how could I possibly have headed it off had I known more? Now, after over two years of exploration and writing, I see that my life has been more complex then I could imagine. It really does feel like I've lived a movie script instead of a life! Only this particular movie is way too long to be an average movie, it would have to be a 6 part mini-series.
Part One .... April 1953
I am born to a 16 year old mother in a tiny town in Oregon. My people are poor but vivid, possessing keen intellects combined with sharp humor --- Descendants of the Scots (McDaniel) and the English (Adams). My own father seems to have been German (Hesseltine) and since he's still alive, I should ask him about that. I know very little of my fathers line or my grandfather Adams line. My lineage through my mother and grandmother is where I'm most familiar and I guess that's where the story will come from.
If this were a movie, I'd begin filming in Indiana. 1880something. My great grandmother Rachael Riley McDaniel is getting on a train with several trunks and the two youngest of her children. The three oldest are married and are staying behind with their families. Rachael is a widow. Her husband has recently died, Had McDaniel, and she is intent on starting anew out West, Spokane, Washington, where her sister and her family moved several years before. (I have this story in a box in the shed somewhere, I should dig it out). I just love this story and find it so inspiring! The intrepid Rachael taking her life in her hands and setting out on a journey to a strange land, leaving everything safe and familiar behind. I love the idea of writing this story as the beginning. I'm certain that our lives and what we experience begin well before our births and carry over long after we die and in this way we are connected to humanity, to the whole of life as we think it is.
Maybe everyone has a huge story to tell. Maybe that's why we all love stories so much, love hearing about how others came about, what happened to them and what they did about it. There's room in life for all stories and I'm so very pleased to be working at telling mine --- the story of me and my family, the ones before me and the ones who came after.
My genetic history ends with Nathan. I can't tell you how sad that idea makes me. After all I've been through in this life, there is one person standing between me and oblivion. In the big picture I know that it doesn't matter what little bits of genetics flow from the past into the future but it still makes me sad to think that none of my little bits will go forward except by way of words on a page. I have toyed with the idea of asking Nathan to contribute to a sperm bank so that at the least, there would be that much to carry forward even if we would never know if any of it were used or even fruitful.
I know, I veer all over the place. I'm constantly running around the pool, trying to find just the right spot to jump in. I get a toe in once in a while and then jerk it back out again and then continue my pacing. What I want is in the pool, so many people and things bobbing around. It's all so interesting and distracting!
OK, this has been fun, the third day of typing my pages instead of handwriting, and I'm happy and encouraged by the results and how fast I can do this. Now if I want to come back and yank something out of this to use in the big story, I can do that at any time.
Bye for now ....
I have until 10am to writing this morning. Then I have to eat breakfast and get dressed to hop in the car and drive to Ontario to meet my cousin Joe at an antiques mall and pick up one of his lamps for a customer here. It's foggy out this morning and gray ... drab. Looks like a great day to stay home all day in front of my vid-fire and live in my mind, writing about my memories, trying to make them into a book.
Yesterday I began outlining some high points in my life and either I have some amazing memories or I'm enamored with myself and think my experiences are more interesting than they are. I never before thought my life was worthy of a book but losing Stephen has made me dive deep into it, looking for answers as to why he was so tortured and what part did I play in it? --- and how could I possibly have headed it off had I known more? Now, after over two years of exploration and writing, I see that my life has been more complex then I could imagine. It really does feel like I've lived a movie script instead of a life! Only this particular movie is way too long to be an average movie, it would have to be a 6 part mini-series.
Part One .... April 1953
I am born to a 16 year old mother in a tiny town in Oregon. My people are poor but vivid, possessing keen intellects combined with sharp humor --- Descendants of the Scots (McDaniel) and the English (Adams). My own father seems to have been German (Hesseltine) and since he's still alive, I should ask him about that. I know very little of my fathers line or my grandfather Adams line. My lineage through my mother and grandmother is where I'm most familiar and I guess that's where the story will come from.
If this were a movie, I'd begin filming in Indiana. 1880something. My great grandmother Rachael Riley McDaniel is getting on a train with several trunks and the two youngest of her children. The three oldest are married and are staying behind with their families. Rachael is a widow. Her husband has recently died, Had McDaniel, and she is intent on starting anew out West, Spokane, Washington, where her sister and her family moved several years before. (I have this story in a box in the shed somewhere, I should dig it out). I just love this story and find it so inspiring! The intrepid Rachael taking her life in her hands and setting out on a journey to a strange land, leaving everything safe and familiar behind. I love the idea of writing this story as the beginning. I'm certain that our lives and what we experience begin well before our births and carry over long after we die and in this way we are connected to humanity, to the whole of life as we think it is.
Maybe everyone has a huge story to tell. Maybe that's why we all love stories so much, love hearing about how others came about, what happened to them and what they did about it. There's room in life for all stories and I'm so very pleased to be working at telling mine --- the story of me and my family, the ones before me and the ones who came after.
My genetic history ends with Nathan. I can't tell you how sad that idea makes me. After all I've been through in this life, there is one person standing between me and oblivion. In the big picture I know that it doesn't matter what little bits of genetics flow from the past into the future but it still makes me sad to think that none of my little bits will go forward except by way of words on a page. I have toyed with the idea of asking Nathan to contribute to a sperm bank so that at the least, there would be that much to carry forward even if we would never know if any of it were used or even fruitful.
I know, I veer all over the place. I'm constantly running around the pool, trying to find just the right spot to jump in. I get a toe in once in a while and then jerk it back out again and then continue my pacing. What I want is in the pool, so many people and things bobbing around. It's all so interesting and distracting!
OK, this has been fun, the third day of typing my pages instead of handwriting, and I'm happy and encouraged by the results and how fast I can do this. Now if I want to come back and yank something out of this to use in the big story, I can do that at any time.
Bye for now ....
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Practicing
9:39am My Morning Report 30° Boise
OK, second day with my new plan. Up a little later than I wanted but still within reason. I tried getting up earlier for a few days in a row and I did not like it, could not get going, felt tired and my eyes didn't want to function. It seems that I can't navigate my days without just the right amount of sleep and even getting enough sleep but rising too early bothers me. It might be a habit thing. Maybe I can adjust if I just go slowly and creep up on it.
Tomorrow I have to get up early enough to fit it all in before leaving to meet cousin Joe in Ontario at noon. So I have to leave here by 11am, which means I'll have to get up by about 7:30 in order to get it all done and be ready to leave at that time. 40 minutes to wash up and make the bed, an hour or so of writing, eat breakfast, clean up, get dressed. I can do all that in 3½ hours, surely.
I added some full caff to my coffee blend this morning thinking a little extra caffeine would help with my mornings. Just a little extra, not the whole caff thing. So we'll see how that works for me. And later today I will call Baker City and try to get it straight for our high school reunion, hopefully booked at the Geiser Grand Hotel on Main Street.
Yesterday I had my first guitar lesson with Alan Watts. It was very interesting but hard. I'll need to practice at least 20 minutes a day in order to get my fingers broken in to this new activity, build up some calluses. I'm in it for the long haul and I hope I can learn to love it. It certainly is a whole new language but not just for the brain, it will also be informing the body in a whole new way. Last night I dreamed that I was playing the cello again only I was facing it and doing it all wrong and yet is still sounded good. Maybe that dream was telling me to keep at it and trust the process even if it feels all wrong.
Also yesterday, I went to the Vista office to bring some paint supplies to #22 where I had spackled the day before and the job was done but not well. Whoever finished it didn't sand the spackle patches, nor did they dab the patches with primer. They just painted over my patches and called it done. Dang. Well, that's it for me, no more trying to help Horace with that building. For one thing, it's work that I don't enjoy and for another, I just don't have time. But I would have time if I enjoyed it ... I know. But I don't so that's that.
With the advent of my new writing practice, typing my morning report, I should get comfortable typing again and be able to take off on my book soon. I do feel bad about abandoning my notebook. It's laying there, close to me, and as I continue to type here, it will accumulate days of blank pages. I'll have to try to write in it in the evenings maybe, a whole different kind of report. So far, this typing is good and I'm doing OK with it. Look how fast I've filled this page! I wonder what my word count is. There's another place I could be putting these posts, 750words.com, where my word count would show up. But that site costs $5 month and this place is free and has my name on it. If I wanted to, I could begin to blog again and actually post things for others to read but right now I don't want to think about that. I just want to practice typing so that I can practice writing books.
So that's about it for today. The cats are pissed, it's overcast and chilly out there and I haven't let them out yet today. I also just remembered that I haven't cleaned the litter box! Yikes! But this was fast and effective, this typing. I'm better at it than I thought I would be, very few mistakes, the words just slide out and if one is incorrect, it's easy to fix. I guess all my practice on FB has helped, too. But it's kinda nice to just sit here and blather on, knowing no one will see it and I don't have to justify what I'm doing to anyone, anyway. I'm free to do whatever I want to do and so I shall! I think I'll close this up and go clean the litter box and refill by coffee and come back here to see about writing and planning a book. Which one of the 7 or 8 that I have in me will come out? That is the question of the day. And will I be able to stick with one until I get it done? Another great question!
OK, bye now! See you again tomorrow. There's always more to report and this is a fine way to do it.
OK, second day with my new plan. Up a little later than I wanted but still within reason. I tried getting up earlier for a few days in a row and I did not like it, could not get going, felt tired and my eyes didn't want to function. It seems that I can't navigate my days without just the right amount of sleep and even getting enough sleep but rising too early bothers me. It might be a habit thing. Maybe I can adjust if I just go slowly and creep up on it.
Tomorrow I have to get up early enough to fit it all in before leaving to meet cousin Joe in Ontario at noon. So I have to leave here by 11am, which means I'll have to get up by about 7:30 in order to get it all done and be ready to leave at that time. 40 minutes to wash up and make the bed, an hour or so of writing, eat breakfast, clean up, get dressed. I can do all that in 3½ hours, surely.
I added some full caff to my coffee blend this morning thinking a little extra caffeine would help with my mornings. Just a little extra, not the whole caff thing. So we'll see how that works for me. And later today I will call Baker City and try to get it straight for our high school reunion, hopefully booked at the Geiser Grand Hotel on Main Street.
Yesterday I had my first guitar lesson with Alan Watts. It was very interesting but hard. I'll need to practice at least 20 minutes a day in order to get my fingers broken in to this new activity, build up some calluses. I'm in it for the long haul and I hope I can learn to love it. It certainly is a whole new language but not just for the brain, it will also be informing the body in a whole new way. Last night I dreamed that I was playing the cello again only I was facing it and doing it all wrong and yet is still sounded good. Maybe that dream was telling me to keep at it and trust the process even if it feels all wrong.
Also yesterday, I went to the Vista office to bring some paint supplies to #22 where I had spackled the day before and the job was done but not well. Whoever finished it didn't sand the spackle patches, nor did they dab the patches with primer. They just painted over my patches and called it done. Dang. Well, that's it for me, no more trying to help Horace with that building. For one thing, it's work that I don't enjoy and for another, I just don't have time. But I would have time if I enjoyed it ... I know. But I don't so that's that.
With the advent of my new writing practice, typing my morning report, I should get comfortable typing again and be able to take off on my book soon. I do feel bad about abandoning my notebook. It's laying there, close to me, and as I continue to type here, it will accumulate days of blank pages. I'll have to try to write in it in the evenings maybe, a whole different kind of report. So far, this typing is good and I'm doing OK with it. Look how fast I've filled this page! I wonder what my word count is. There's another place I could be putting these posts, 750words.com, where my word count would show up. But that site costs $5 month and this place is free and has my name on it. If I wanted to, I could begin to blog again and actually post things for others to read but right now I don't want to think about that. I just want to practice typing so that I can practice writing books.
So that's about it for today. The cats are pissed, it's overcast and chilly out there and I haven't let them out yet today. I also just remembered that I haven't cleaned the litter box! Yikes! But this was fast and effective, this typing. I'm better at it than I thought I would be, very few mistakes, the words just slide out and if one is incorrect, it's easy to fix. I guess all my practice on FB has helped, too. But it's kinda nice to just sit here and blather on, knowing no one will see it and I don't have to justify what I'm doing to anyone, anyway. I'm free to do whatever I want to do and so I shall! I think I'll close this up and go clean the litter box and refill by coffee and come back here to see about writing and planning a book. Which one of the 7 or 8 that I have in me will come out? That is the question of the day. And will I be able to stick with one until I get it done? Another great question!
OK, bye now! See you again tomorrow. There's always more to report and this is a fine way to do it.
Monday, February 8, 2016
New Journal Idea - Day One
9:30am
Last night I got the idea to get up and go straight to the laptop to begin my writing and not do my handwritten pages. I've been sitting down to the pages with a pen in my hand regularly since I moved to Hannibal, MO in 2006 and before that, sporadically since December 1994. I have so much written ... memories from my childhood, trying to piece together my own story, the daily events that befall a life and trying to make sense of all that ... books many times over if I could glean what's in my spiral pages. But they are another world, really, a world that I only get to with my pen and the open page. I need to get to that world through a different portal, one that can be accessed and saved in a format that I can use for other works. I need to be able to type my way in and then save it or take chunks out and use them in Word documents.
Already this seems foreign, another territory all together. I miss my pen! I miss the feel of paper under my hand. I miss watching words slide out and the sight of my own handwriting filling the page. I know that that was a habit I developed over many years and the thought of not doing it or missing more than a day occasionally makes me sad and nervous, like I'm lost in a huge, dark building. This typing accesses a different part of my brain and I have to train the door to that section so that is swings open at my will. Right now it's a little stuck ... I can rattle it but it won't open past an inch or two. But I'll keep at it.
I actually practice writing on Facebook each day and share my thoughts and experiences with others, especially the grieving mothers in The Compassionate Friends groups. I'm a member of two groups, one is the loss to substance abuse group, the other is the loss to suicide group. I was in the former group for many months before finding out about the later and it's the later, the suicide group, that tears at my heart each day. Those poor mothers! Some of those kids were so young, many under 15 years old and one as young as 11! My God, what could cause kids that age to kill themselves?!
The horror of suicide with these mothers and their young kids, mostly boys, is stunning and I cry every day for them. I seldom write a comment, I'm too shocked, my mind can't get a grip on what happened.
I think back to Stephen at that age, 13, 14, 15 ---- we lived in Quincy, IL from August 1995 to June 1998. He was 12 when we moved there and 15 when we left. Those were the hardest years, the beginning of his self-destruction, a process that would take him until age 30 to complete. I want to find a way to tell his story, our story, in an interesting way, a way that doesn't inspire horror or pity, but might lead to understanding and possibly save lives.
I watched him get enamored with suicide, with Silvia Plath and her stories and poems. As soon as he found out about the concept of suicide, it seemed like he wanted to try it, as if it were a drug or a food, something that he could recover from! And the idea stayed with him for the rest of his life, as if it were a fall-back plan when things got too hard, he could always just kill himself. No big deal, really. Where did he come up with that, I wonder?
OK, I got a start here, typing. I wonder if I publish this if anyone will see it or if I have to go post a link in order to call attention to it? Seems to me, this blog site has been abandoned long ago and setting up shop here for some journaling would be a safe place, like finding an empty building that no one is using or taking care of and just sort of move in, hoping no one will notice. I turned off the comments section so I'll never know if anyone reads this unless they come find me on Facebook. Until then, I'll assume that I'm private here in this building --- I like the idea that I'm finally using this space for something after all.
Last night I got the idea to get up and go straight to the laptop to begin my writing and not do my handwritten pages. I've been sitting down to the pages with a pen in my hand regularly since I moved to Hannibal, MO in 2006 and before that, sporadically since December 1994. I have so much written ... memories from my childhood, trying to piece together my own story, the daily events that befall a life and trying to make sense of all that ... books many times over if I could glean what's in my spiral pages. But they are another world, really, a world that I only get to with my pen and the open page. I need to get to that world through a different portal, one that can be accessed and saved in a format that I can use for other works. I need to be able to type my way in and then save it or take chunks out and use them in Word documents.
Already this seems foreign, another territory all together. I miss my pen! I miss the feel of paper under my hand. I miss watching words slide out and the sight of my own handwriting filling the page. I know that that was a habit I developed over many years and the thought of not doing it or missing more than a day occasionally makes me sad and nervous, like I'm lost in a huge, dark building. This typing accesses a different part of my brain and I have to train the door to that section so that is swings open at my will. Right now it's a little stuck ... I can rattle it but it won't open past an inch or two. But I'll keep at it.
I actually practice writing on Facebook each day and share my thoughts and experiences with others, especially the grieving mothers in The Compassionate Friends groups. I'm a member of two groups, one is the loss to substance abuse group, the other is the loss to suicide group. I was in the former group for many months before finding out about the later and it's the later, the suicide group, that tears at my heart each day. Those poor mothers! Some of those kids were so young, many under 15 years old and one as young as 11! My God, what could cause kids that age to kill themselves?!
The horror of suicide with these mothers and their young kids, mostly boys, is stunning and I cry every day for them. I seldom write a comment, I'm too shocked, my mind can't get a grip on what happened.
I think back to Stephen at that age, 13, 14, 15 ---- we lived in Quincy, IL from August 1995 to June 1998. He was 12 when we moved there and 15 when we left. Those were the hardest years, the beginning of his self-destruction, a process that would take him until age 30 to complete. I want to find a way to tell his story, our story, in an interesting way, a way that doesn't inspire horror or pity, but might lead to understanding and possibly save lives.I watched him get enamored with suicide, with Silvia Plath and her stories and poems. As soon as he found out about the concept of suicide, it seemed like he wanted to try it, as if it were a drug or a food, something that he could recover from! And the idea stayed with him for the rest of his life, as if it were a fall-back plan when things got too hard, he could always just kill himself. No big deal, really. Where did he come up with that, I wonder?
OK, I got a start here, typing. I wonder if I publish this if anyone will see it or if I have to go post a link in order to call attention to it? Seems to me, this blog site has been abandoned long ago and setting up shop here for some journaling would be a safe place, like finding an empty building that no one is using or taking care of and just sort of move in, hoping no one will notice. I turned off the comments section so I'll never know if anyone reads this unless they come find me on Facebook. Until then, I'll assume that I'm private here in this building --- I like the idea that I'm finally using this space for something after all.
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