March Comes in Like a Liar

Spring is always questionable in New England. It's usually Winter (parte deux), followed by Mud Season, slowly warming along the way. There's something joyous about that time, standing in mud or slush with sun on your face, maybe in just a flannel shirt over a tee. This year, there was Early Summer in Winter. I've worn sandals or clogs all Winter, never touching a sock. And March has been a clammy liar with stringy hair so far. It's way too warm for my liking, though at this point I'm fairly sure I'll be bitching about no Winter and despised warmth until the next time the day's high is 23'F,

Beest had her physical, and the mandatory shots and then 2 weeks later, a scary episode. She was acting strange, which is much stranger than a regular cat's strangeness. Repeatedly jumping in and out of the recycling bin. Not eating all her food. She was constipated. I gave her pumpkin and she was better. Then last Thursday morning there were little splats of watery blood everywhere. Everywhere. She wasn't yowing but she had a crazy look in her eyes. To the vet she went. An anal gland had gotten infected and burst. She had a fever. She must've been in significant pain. My poor cat! The vet gave her a 2-week releasing antibiotic and a pain reliever. I didn't know anal glands were a thing with cats, I thought that was a "some dog breeds" issue. It's a week later and she's her old self. I'm now wigged out whenever there's a spot on the floor, which happens a lot because she's a slob and shakes her head with a mouthful of food.

Gal Friday's daughter had an interview at the Hershey School, so she's been gone. It's both relaxing and stressful to have nobody around all week. However, my neighbor has caretakers 24 hours a day now. People are in and out at every hour.They all have to yell because she's deaf.  I don't know what's going on with her, it's not like we were ever buds. She's close to 90 and hasn't been the same since breaking her hip last year. Her family's been around a lot, never a good sign.

Billy's dumped the Indian twice in the last week, first running into the curb at his neighbor's driveway, then getting back on it too soon. His sugar's thru the roof. I'd like to smack him in the chops.

The Primaries are something out of a dystopian story. I can't even- that way there be monsters.

My Bernie lawn sign came today! Yay!

We're having steak and sea scallops for Easter Sunday! Yay!

I quit smoking. This time it's for good- I'm just really sick of quitting. It's inevitable that I quit for good at some point, so why keep picking it up just to go through quitting again? No. I'm done. Even though I miss it and want one right now, it's not worth quitting again.

Fecebook has been fun, and horrifying, but once the Primaries are done I'm putting it on a shelf. The Beest book needs to become my full time job. Right now it seems important to be on there broadcasting info among groups, but I'm not going to be a Fecebook activist forever.

And life goes on, within us and without us.
Happy Spring, my fellow babies.
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On Emo's Death

Keith Emerson fatally shot himself in the head, in the wee hours of Friday, March 11th, 2016. He was scheduled to play 6 concerts in Japan next month, and even though he had a 'cover' keyboardist, he was depressed that the irreparable damage to his hands meant he'd never play as he wanted to and had once been able to, again. His arthritis and nerve damage caused unending pain. He'd had surgery 2 years ago, removing feet of intestines due to chronic diverticulitis, but still had digestive issues. And last week he had bronchitis. His longtime girlfriend came home to their condo on Friday morning and found him dead.

Keith's death has taken the wind out of my sails a bit. There's been too much death and sadness this year, and Friday in addition to Keith, it was the 5th anniversary of my brother Tommy's death. 2 amazing musicians, 1 of them able to get far, 1 not ever able to get out of the cage of his mental illness. Both forever dead on March 11th. I don't even want to talk to anyone. Haven't returned calls. This is a profound sadness, not one I can cry off. It's one I have to take off in layers, a few hours of silence here, a few hours of music there. It's not depression, I'm not hopeless. I'm very, deeply sad. Sad that Keith felt dying was his only option for relief from what was hurting him. Sad that we'll never see him doing something fab again, that he'll never see Rachel Flowers make the big time, sad that I never met him, sad that we'll just be going on from here without him. That's what gets me every time. The world just keeps going, one of us having dropped out of life. The news is sad with splashes of horrifying. People I love are hurting a lot. It's all very real and very sad. 

RIP, Emo. We'll miss you. Now get Chris Squire off his ass and make some music for us to hear when we catch up to youse.

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Death and Rot and Death

There will be no cheer in this post. Just a warning. As if the title didn't give it away.

At chemo today, Mare's doctor told her there were 3 spots of cancer in her brain. So this really is it. She's not taking any more treatments, and meets with hospice tomorrow.

Speaking of hospice, the grapevine has it that my old bitty neighbor is going to one. I've no clue if this is more than a rumor, or if as usual it's cockeyed, and she's going to a nursing home, or it's all just bullshit. She has 6-8 people of varying services in every day, perhaps it'd be smarter to have her in a facility.

The February death anniversaries finished today with the 21st of Ian's death. I'm waiting on a reading through a double-blind mediumship test. I sent a piece of his sweater for the medium to use to psychometrise. Some time soon I'll be getting transcripts of several readings and "spirit drawings". I'll choose which are closest possible matches, and later on they'll send me the complete reading and drawing meant for me. With all the dead peep in my life, who knows if Ian would be the loudest in the crowd. But I'm curious to see what if any results come from this. My mother gave him that sweater and he wore it all the time, and she was the Spiritualist so you'd think she'd yell the loudest to be known. We'll see soon.

I'm pretty damn sure that our existence doesn't end, but it'd be nice to get some independent data.

I'm tired of all this death and rot and death. I'm sure you are, too.
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Conditions Apply

Had one of those accidental early morning deep conversations. You know, when you're sitting in silence with a cuppa waiting for your computer to wake up. Someone says something and things go sideways into heavy.

"There's no such thing as unconditional love."

"What?"

"There's no such thing as unconditional love."

"I dunno, I think there is, in some instances."

"Well, that's conditional itself. People change, instances are subject to change, always nullifying the unconditional part. People are judgmental as hell, and will even walk away without warning. So there's no such thing as unconditional love. It's another lie we believe that just makes us unhappy."

"Jesus Christ. This early I'm thinking and hearing this?" ( I think this, I don't actually say it, there's just a thoughtful pause).
"Well, shit. But yeah. Ya got a point."
Disabused of the notion of unconditional love in the abstract, but possibly still applicable once in a billion chance instances, I burn my lip on hot coffee and get online.

Februranty

It's nice to know that some things remain in an ever-changing world. February has always either sucked or blown and this year's edition is no different.

On the heels of the 19th anny of my mom's death came the news that my old friend Mare probably has countable weeks left in this dimension. Her siblings aren't hearing what she tells them and she's angry and frustrated. Even Billy keeps coming up with crackpot cancer cures. At least her hub and kids get it. The cancer treatments she's endured made me sure I'll never do them. She's fought every inch, but it was 4th stage ovarian cancer when found, and there's no real treatment for it. This is how my mom died, too. I've known Mare since 1986, she was Mom's friend and favorite daughter before I ever met her. Mare's cousin and I worked together at the Restaurant School, and laughed at this weird connection. Mare took the weekend trips with the p's that I had no interest in, was at all the family get-togethers. She did the life choices Mom thought I should do. After the p's died we were down to holiday cards. Then Facebook happened, and we reconnected, and then she got the diagnosis. This is suckage of a supreme order.

The Shire's closing looms, and after perusing the rules for the new Red Rover building, I'm not going there. Claiming Beest as a "comfort animal" is ridiculous, and no, I won't live anywhere that I can't practice my personal beliefs. So screw it. I don't know where I'll go, or what's even within possibilities, so that process starts tomorrow morning. This blows. Hard.

The last few weeks have been productive writing-the-book-wise and it's been a saving grace. I'm also 100% sure my writing sucks, my ideas suck, I suck, and I'm wasting my time even thinking I could do this. But on it goes.

There are great gaping holes in my life where people used to be. Again, February. The month of purification and what survives among the dead.

If I can't eat normal food again soon I'll go nuts. Since quitting tobacco, I'm a bitch on wheels anyway. Take away everything but soft and overboiled stuff with no spices and imagine what a delight I am. I can't stand myself.

And to wind up this rant, the weather is a miserable wet smelly old blanket that was laying in the mud under the snow and has now been dragged out into the yard by the dog, where it's been pissed on repeatedly. There has been no Winter. 2 days of cold is not Winter. No Winter= no pain relief.

I hope things are better where you are and that this year so far has been healing and hopeful. Whatever else, we abide.
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