Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Friday, March 09, 2012
Friday, March 02, 2012
Thursday, March 01, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
HouseWives RULE the WORLD
My generation of HouseWives were NOT stay-at-home-Moms
just because nobody hired Women w/child care issues in those days.
We were busy at the YWCA, and hauling the kids to conferences and workshops
and marches where they could meet other children of Feminist Freedom Fighters.
Even single woman are lifelong HomeMakers, and in my Old Age,
I’ve chosen to marry my HouseHusband’s dead Mother’s house,
to help her pay the utilities and taxes so we can have peace
and sociable security together, without having to resort to prostitution.
Our Mothers and GrandMothers were HouseWives and Homemakers
even when they were widowed, so I have NO qualms about being a Feminist HouseWitch for an Old Sister who is saddled with HouseHusbandry. She’s older than I am by 11 months, but she’s the one who can still climb ladders to paint the woodwork, while I can still handle a broom. And we BOTH cook.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
NURSING NOTES
Sunday, November 20...Just figured it out…that I’m being emotionally blackmailed by the Cracker down the hall, to do for him so he doesn’t die. Gotta go into his stinking room, to give him a couple of MY B12 tablets and a yogurt slurpie, just to get him up out his pissy bed…OK, done by 10:30...now I gotta get my own breakfast of vitamins and herbal supplements downed with MY YOGURT SLURPLY…OK, feel better about being a smart ass to the Cracker’s demand the I’ve gotta go to Church w/him…heh heh heh…I snapped and told him that I am a Saint who doesn’t need or like to hang out with judgmental sinners.
It’s good to be back on the EastCoast, after so many years out West with v-dub hostile yuppies on Hippie Road…I surely would like to connect up with Onondaga Longhouse vibes, remembering the message from Dennis Banks’ time there, and his message that
“There’s a new wind rising, and it’s The Women !!”
Being in the Home of the Trail of Tears Tribes, has increased my Native Prejudice against the Southern mindset. Even my old hippie girlfriend won’t patronize the reservation owned tobacco and booze shops. Makes me see the taint of racial prejudice in her.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
HIGH NOON SATURNsDAY 10/30/11
Dressed and ready for a trolloping good time
with all my Ghosts on All Hallowed Eve,
all the way to All Saints Day 2012.
When We Occupy the Planet,
as IF We Sentient Beings
have ONLY another year and a day,
to rise up and accomplish
WorldWide transcendental social change,
and march with the Saints.
Dressed and ready for a trolloping good time
with all my Ghosts on All Hallowed Eve,
all the way to All Saints Day 2012.
When We Occupy the Planet,
as IF We Sentient Beings
have ONLY another year and a day,
to rise up and accomplish
WorldWide transcendental social change,
and march with the Saints.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Open Letter to Son of a Witch
Dearly Bobby,
It still hurts horribly trying to remember my reasons for leaving you behind, and I’ll always be ashamed of having been so cruel, but in that place and time I was very afraid that I was putting you in danger being a known women’s libber in such a provincial hometown. Remember when my softball team refused to give up the practice field to a boy’s team that had been rained out of their scheduled time, and the story made the front page of the sports section in the newspaper, headlined, DANDY LIONS ROAR? The sports writer didn’t know that it was the girls’ mothers who insisted that their daughters not leave the field, before I even got there, but the story blamed me for the rebellion because I was President of the N.O.W. chapter at the time, and must have been guilty of influencing my team to take a stand. I think it was soon after that, that I had a nightmare I still remember, of seeing a city salt truck roaring down that hill in front of Gramma’s house, plowing right thru our front yard with you kids in it. That was when I first realized that I was putting you in jeopardy of being harassed over my feminism. Then I remember the time Becky came home from school one day, skipping and singing “My mommie’s a nature witch”, over and over, in front of the neighbor kids. And I realized you kids and I could be targeted by reactionaries at anytime. I questioned myself about whether my politics were worth running that risk, and I thought NOT, but couldn’t shake the sense of commitment I had to the Revolution. I searched my soul trying to define exactly what I thought I could do about ANYTHING without a college education or marketable job skills, or even the motivation to add outside employment to my wife and mother jobs.
I did try to find a real job besides the volunteer work I did at the YWCA and NOW, but in those days, nobody wanted to hire mothers because of the absentee problems over sick kids, school holidays, or possible pregnancies, etc. and most jobs went to single women. I felt imprisoned and powerless and angry and frustrated, wondering why I had to care so much about being feminist, if I couldn’t do anything to make things better for women like me and my daughter. I think I might have been suicidal if I hadn’t had been so committed to feminism, and my daughter’s future in this world. What good would a dead mother be to a radical little girl, tho? What kind of trauma would I have imposed on you and your Dad? How confused and shocked the rest of the family would be? And it would’ve been a worthless gesture that proved nothing except my incompetence, if I’d had the guts to succeed. So, I decided that the only thing I could do was go out on my own, educate myself by experiencing knowledgeable people, exploring other realities, other ways of living, being independent, making my own way thru the maze, gathering insight and understanding, finding honest labor, paid or not, contributing to the common good where I could, finding out what’s important to other people, and why.
It wasn’t easy to be so brave, but it felt better than cowardice and despair, and I did survive even the trouble I occasionally got caught up in. I figured if I could make my own way in the world, it would be OK not to worry too much about you kid’s being able to as well, because the world has changed, and that’s what I’ve come back to remind you…to keep the faith, magic works, and everything’s gonna be all right because failure is impossible.
Dearly Bobby,
It still hurts horribly trying to remember my reasons for leaving you behind, and I’ll always be ashamed of having been so cruel, but in that place and time I was very afraid that I was putting you in danger being a known women’s libber in such a provincial hometown. Remember when my softball team refused to give up the practice field to a boy’s team that had been rained out of their scheduled time, and the story made the front page of the sports section in the newspaper, headlined, DANDY LIONS ROAR? The sports writer didn’t know that it was the girls’ mothers who insisted that their daughters not leave the field, before I even got there, but the story blamed me for the rebellion because I was President of the N.O.W. chapter at the time, and must have been guilty of influencing my team to take a stand. I think it was soon after that, that I had a nightmare I still remember, of seeing a city salt truck roaring down that hill in front of Gramma’s house, plowing right thru our front yard with you kids in it. That was when I first realized that I was putting you in jeopardy of being harassed over my feminism. Then I remember the time Becky came home from school one day, skipping and singing “My mommie’s a nature witch”, over and over, in front of the neighbor kids. And I realized you kids and I could be targeted by reactionaries at anytime. I questioned myself about whether my politics were worth running that risk, and I thought NOT, but couldn’t shake the sense of commitment I had to the Revolution. I searched my soul trying to define exactly what I thought I could do about ANYTHING without a college education or marketable job skills, or even the motivation to add outside employment to my wife and mother jobs.
I did try to find a real job besides the volunteer work I did at the YWCA and NOW, but in those days, nobody wanted to hire mothers because of the absentee problems over sick kids, school holidays, or possible pregnancies, etc. and most jobs went to single women. I felt imprisoned and powerless and angry and frustrated, wondering why I had to care so much about being feminist, if I couldn’t do anything to make things better for women like me and my daughter. I think I might have been suicidal if I hadn’t had been so committed to feminism, and my daughter’s future in this world. What good would a dead mother be to a radical little girl, tho? What kind of trauma would I have imposed on you and your Dad? How confused and shocked the rest of the family would be? And it would’ve been a worthless gesture that proved nothing except my incompetence, if I’d had the guts to succeed. So, I decided that the only thing I could do was go out on my own, educate myself by experiencing knowledgeable people, exploring other realities, other ways of living, being independent, making my own way thru the maze, gathering insight and understanding, finding honest labor, paid or not, contributing to the common good where I could, finding out what’s important to other people, and why.
It wasn’t easy to be so brave, but it felt better than cowardice and despair, and I did survive even the trouble I occasionally got caught up in. I figured if I could make my own way in the world, it would be OK not to worry too much about you kid’s being able to as well, because the world has changed, and that’s what I’ve come back to remind you…to keep the faith, magic works, and everything’s gonna be all right because failure is impossible.
Nursing Notes: September Morning +17/SummerSwampSeason's back is BROKEN!!! YEA
Whew! Today has been a real piece of work to stress out a Saint, but I finally got the Cracker hauled away to the ER for very low blood pressure and signs of drug overload, and being a demented danger to himself and Others. He got really belligerent in my face when I blocked the backdoor, and called the para-medics to assist him down the cement steps without falling and cracking his head open, after I spent all morning picking him up off the floor, in between feeding him, and getting him showered and hauled back to his room to dress himself while I rested my still broken ankle. I feared that he was gonna push me thru the door to fall over backwards and crack MY head open, but get off scott-free from murder charges.
My REWARD for Courage and Discipline Above and Beyond Common Sense …
…a Bartels and Jaymes/POMEGRANATE RASPBERRY flavored malt cooler.
Damage Report: aggravated hernia ambulating the Cracker yesterday…Rx. A soak in the hot tub.
To do : scrub off bengay before soaking in spa water.
Update: It's turned out that the Cracker was double dosing his insulin, in MY KITCHEN, and I got stuck with one of his needles when I bagged up the trash...I told him he was my worst nightmare, and that I'd act to have him committed to a nursing home if he didn't call his daughter in Savannah to come pack him off to live with his grandkids.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Jahnean Jordan Pegasus 2010
I met my Nanny-goatee’d HouseHusband on a hippy goat farm in Humboldt County, the year I turned 50, broke my ankle, and became disabled, almost 13 years ago.
Before she returned to Georgia to tend to her sick Mother, she gave me $200 so I could Greyhound-it to Arizona the renew the tags on my Volkswagen, so I could vacate the job site and live on the street and river in relative safety, until I could finally retire to the Death Valley’s hot springs in Tecopa CA, on an SSI’ nutcheck, which I earned for being a ‘magical thinker’ and boycotter of Big Pharma.
Three years later Pegasus came thru the Desert on her way home from her last road trip while her Mom was still alive, to see how I was doing, and found me housebound, on crutches, with nobody to push my wheelchair. We had a lovely week together, back and forth to the hot springs, and I was sooo grateful and in love with her caring, that I popped ’the question’ and gave her a crystal engagement ring before she left for home to her Mother, where she shortly thereafter, made arrangements with an adopted son in Vegas to deliver a needed golf cart to my front yard, so I could toodle down the block to the dumpster and Post Office on my own. She’s never mentioned how much it cost, so I suspect her Mother was in cahoots.
Four years passed in utter comfort, until a city-trash family moved in next door, with a pre-teen boy who harassed me constantly for driving privileges, ungoverned by his hustling parents, and then my Old Hipi Road Dog died 2 years later. So when my daughter-in-law in Texas invited me to move into their backyard camper, and when my Son, who also lusted after the golf-cart, offered to come get it, and me and my last two dogs and cat, I jumped at the chance to meet my GrandDaughters, as well as get halfway to Georgia, so my Pegasus could afford to rescue us from a winter with NO HOT WATER, and so I could soak in her hot tub and help her pay the utilities and taxes on her deceased Mother’s money-pit of a house, during our old age together.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Remembering My First Saturn Cycle
When I was 30, I killed the motor in my family’s Vega station wagon, and replaced it with a ‘73 Gold Ford Pinto w/moon roof and a hot-ass-repair voucher in the glove box, left the kids behind, safely tucked with their Father in their GrandMother’s Pennsylvania hometown, and took off for the Jersey Shore to help my Gay Uncle, Jimmy Paul McBride, restore his Cabin Cruiser.
He later disowned me for editing the name of his boat, by painting out the B in OBLIVIA with house paint, leaving an apostrophe, to read the more Gaelic O’LIVIA, because before I’d left Home, I’d had a prophetic dream about being stretched out on the bow, hunting overboard trying to find him underwater.
My Father’s baby brother wasted that entire winter at the boatyard trying to impress me into his ‘Christian’ Coven…so when I trumped his naming power, I crushed his wizard’s ego. Last time I saw him, he was crumpled over a cup of diner coffee, sobbing to his rich Yew Norker Lady Priestess, who asked me to leave him alone w/ her, so I did. He was bemoaning the $500 cost of ‘repairing’ my ‘vandalism‘, totally missing the point. I found out later from my Favorite Uncle Jack, that Jimmy had tattled on me to my Dad, after years of being incommunicado, who just told me recently that Brother Paul had died young(only 13 yrs.older than me), 10 years later in the Port of New Orleans. So, I guess he got the boat afloat, and he’d survived his unappealingly sinister moog music rituals.
Too bad he‘s dead, but I’ll always remember him giving me The Spring Tour of the Big Apple, and taking me to the Top o’ the Tower restaurant at the World Trade Center where he bought me a Manhattan, then took me to a bar in Greenwi(t)ch Village to meet a witchy woman who gave me a gold earring, and introduced me to Perrier to sober me up before he took me home on the Ferry under the Statue of Liberty, where he “came out“ to me, and I had to tell him that I‘d known since he was a teen-ager.
At the first bar on the Jersey side, I called a pit stop to run in and BUY MYSELF the bartender’s version of his New Jersey‘s cocktail…a Brandy Alexander, which he served to me just as my impatient Uncle came in from the car, tired of waiting for me, only to pull up a stool and flirt with the bartender while I leisurely enjoyed the classy buzz of down-to-earth barfly entertainment.
When I was 30, I killed the motor in my family’s Vega station wagon, and replaced it with a ‘73 Gold Ford Pinto w/moon roof and a hot-ass-repair voucher in the glove box, left the kids behind, safely tucked with their Father in their GrandMother’s Pennsylvania hometown, and took off for the Jersey Shore to help my Gay Uncle, Jimmy Paul McBride, restore his Cabin Cruiser.
He later disowned me for editing the name of his boat, by painting out the B in OBLIVIA with house paint, leaving an apostrophe, to read the more Gaelic O’LIVIA, because before I’d left Home, I’d had a prophetic dream about being stretched out on the bow, hunting overboard trying to find him underwater.
My Father’s baby brother wasted that entire winter at the boatyard trying to impress me into his ‘Christian’ Coven…so when I trumped his naming power, I crushed his wizard’s ego. Last time I saw him, he was crumpled over a cup of diner coffee, sobbing to his rich Yew Norker Lady Priestess, who asked me to leave him alone w/ her, so I did. He was bemoaning the $500 cost of ‘repairing’ my ‘vandalism‘, totally missing the point. I found out later from my Favorite Uncle Jack, that Jimmy had tattled on me to my Dad, after years of being incommunicado, who just told me recently that Brother Paul had died young(only 13 yrs.older than me), 10 years later in the Port of New Orleans. So, I guess he got the boat afloat, and he’d survived his unappealingly sinister moog music rituals.
Too bad he‘s dead, but I’ll always remember him giving me The Spring Tour of the Big Apple, and taking me to the Top o’ the Tower restaurant at the World Trade Center where he bought me a Manhattan, then took me to a bar in Greenwi(t)ch Village to meet a witchy woman who gave me a gold earring, and introduced me to Perrier to sober me up before he took me home on the Ferry under the Statue of Liberty, where he “came out“ to me, and I had to tell him that I‘d known since he was a teen-ager.
At the first bar on the Jersey side, I called a pit stop to run in and BUY MYSELF the bartender’s version of his New Jersey‘s cocktail…a Brandy Alexander, which he served to me just as my impatient Uncle came in from the car, tired of waiting for me, only to pull up a stool and flirt with the bartender while I leisurely enjoyed the classy buzz of down-to-earth barfly entertainment.
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