Weed Garden Update

There have been changes to the “Weed Garden”.
As always there is hope that the wild flowers will emerge once again; this year I’ve added two new members to the collection.
There are red raspberries, that may provide a treat for the aviary community ( there’s little or no hope that I will be able to harvest anything) and central to the garden is a knockout rose bush.
For those that are not aquanted with variety, know out roses are the “mutts” of the rose community. These roses are not entered in the horticultural shows, no one hopes to add their name to this flower; mildly scented there are no perfumes made from them.
These roses bloom nearly year-round and to those that take the time to look they are so pleasing.
This one bush, in the Weed Garden, this mutt is the living memorial to my dear, dear mutt: Duchess. I can work in the yard, take my morning coffee and visit and talk to her and no one thinks I not (too) mad.
Knockout roses can make one a little less lonely.
I have a thing for mutts (genetically speaking; I’m a mutt too).

Peace out, pilgrims

Yep, September is Special

Being kind to oneself is the start of being kind to others, any other show of kindness is just show.

Tomorrow is the first day of Autumn.

Leaves are changing colors, Day light Savings Time will end.

I have begun my Halloween preparations.

This is Dystonia Awareness Month.  And to think you almost missed that…I have been aware of TD (Tardive Dystonia) for years now.

I have many things to be grateful for because of TD: My ‘Shedding “Spaz” status’ handle (I can talk to you here annd you’re not distracted by my spastic presence); I have saved a small fortune on dinning out, afraid to attract too much attention in restaurants (admit it, the people that are a little different always get your attention); I have become intolerant of unkind judgements of others toward the “imperfect”.

Not all aspects of Dystonia are the same.  Imagine waking up in the morning, getting out of bed, stretching and looking down at your toes…and that will be your pose…for the balance of your waking day.

You can be sure that the buttons of your shirt are well done, belt perfectly positioned…but unable to lift your head to look in the mirror; apply your makeup with the mirror flat on the counter, put on the finishing touches to a lovely face that no one will be able to see.  “Remember to make eye contact during the interview, hon.  Oh, sorry.  You’ll be great.”

That would be Cervical Dystonia…for some.

I have the distinction of being a lunatic and as such have been given “mood stabilizers”, “anti-psychotics” for years (read that decades) and I ‘suffer’ with Neuroleptic Induced Tardive Dystonia; at times I can’t talk, the vocal chords are constricted and don’t move, whereas my face doesn’t stop moving, my left arm and hand look as if I’m working on some elaborate chord progressions for my next ‘air-guitar’ concert.

Upshot, read the warnings on your Rx’s, talk to your doctor.  Some are born with Dystonia, some acquire it and like many motion disorders, there are treatments.

If you have been diagnosed with Dystonia, run do not walk to a neurologist that specializes in movement disorders and find someone (professional, friend, a chat room) and talk…self-induced isolation and demeaning oneself is not the answer.

There are times when I stop the jitters; when I sleep, when I’m concentrating on a project and when I meditate.

The best definition I have found for meditation is:

Sit softly in the silence between the noise of your thoughts.  This is meditation.  This is real love.

I have been away from WP for some time, caught up in my own muck and mire of depression and self-pity.  One of the “projects” that takes me out of myself are the few Vlogs I’ve done.  I have another to tape and post this afternoon and in honor of Dystonia Awareness Month, this will be sans the motion editing.  Be warned.

peace out pilgrims.

be ever so kind to yourselveskindness

Image from unknown photographer posted Feb. 2014, titled “Kindness”.  If anyone can identify the artist or the post please let me know so that I may properly credit and please, all, follow this person, he has the eye and the heart of a true artist.

Another Treasure From The Family Jewels

Many friends are confronted with things they don’t understand, don’t want to understand but they worry a lot.

My Grandfather (Grampy in this case Grampy Vogt) once found me hiding from something and asked if I was worried about it, “Yes.”

“Mikey” (there is only one other person that has called me that and lived), there are only two things to worry about: if you’re sick or if you’re well.

“If you’re well, you got nothin to worry about.  If you’re sick; you got just two things to worry about: you gonna get better or you’re gonna get worse.

“Now if you’re gonna get better, you got nothin to worry about.  If you’re gonna worse, you got two things to worry about.  Are you gonna live or are you gonna die.If you’re gonna live, you got nothin to worry about.  If you’re gonna die, you got two things to worry about; goin to  heaven or goin to hell.

“If you’re goin to heaven, you got nothin to worry about.  If you’re goin to hell, you’re gonna be to busy meeting the more interesting members of the family to worry.

“So, Mikey (same threat), you got nothin to worry about.”

 

peace out, pilgrim…be well and know that you are well loved.

Building a Community

Building a community requires a very large stock pot, water, a two to three pound stone and a heat source.

You have all the ingredients of “Stone Soup” *.   Forgive me; there is another ingredient, an invitation to everyone (apartment complex, congregation, graduating/start class, etc.) with the assurance that they are welcome to bring others and their favorite ingredient for stone soup; pasta, salt, pepper, cilantro, a carrot, tomato, peas, cabbage, beef…; but just enough for them.

As the pot boils and the fifteen, thirty-one or fifty people laugh about the preposterous concept of stone soup and a few names are exchanged…the soup is ready (prepare for this by gathering as many and varied bowls you can find, thrift store, garage sales…no two alike).  Your soup may be enhanced with a few loaves of beer bread (three cups of self rising flour, 1 teaspoon salt, 1 can of the cheapest beer you can find; mix, put in a loaf pan, 325 for 20 min or so)

Enjoy the very tasty soup.  Its the variety, the individuality and total lack of expectation that opens the pallet to appreciate a wonderful dish. and everyone

And for dessert; gather up the pot, when all have had their fill, and all join in sharing the gallons remaining with those that have nothing, those you forgot to invite.

*”Stone Soup” a picture book by Marcia Brown

Package Full of Memories

 

Today’s post contained a peace offering from my younger, shorter, smarter and angrier little sister.

Carefully wrapped in brown paper was an old cigar box; it once held 25 cent cigars, individually wrapped in cellophane, their foul aroma lingered, this had been Dad’s.

I opened the lid, held tight by a small, sharp now rusted nail.  Glued to the inside of the lid was a picture of a half-naked brunette, pornographic by 1959 standards, with braids, a head band, arms crossed to cover most of her ample breast and wearing a fringed loin cloth.  It was a copy of a Vargas painting that had been cut from one of Dad’s Playboy’s.

And there it was…my heart, the book of questions.  A small black book, 3” x 5” five ring binder and on every other page a question, questions asked by Grampy Vogt.  “You’ll have to give these some thought, Mikey.  When you answer some, they’ll make you smile, some you may want to share with the world and others…well, those will be the answers you will be looking for.

“There are sixty questions.”

The extent of my depression is such that there are unimaginable gaps in my life, some are over years and looking back over an emptiness like that; to keep from going totally mad, I fill the voids with stories, stories that are consistent with the scars that cover my body and my mind.

Holding this book in my hand; I remember that conversation as if it were this morning, “Grampy, what if I don’t know the answers…where will I find them?  Mom and Dad think I should have a Britannica for high school, will that help?  Do you want me to give you the book back when I’m done, and you can grade me?”

“You keep the book, and there will never be any grading, not between you and me.”

The first question:

How would you define eternity?

I don’t have to look at what I had written, I knew the answer.  I had used and abused this wording so many times, that it’s now etched in my brain.  I don’t know if I read this, someone may have offered a direction; but I was 15 when I first used this, in a love letter to a 14 year old girl describing how my love would endure.  I used it again when 17, sitting on a rock in front of Walter Colton Junior High, holding hands with Jeanette DeH.

Once, every thousand years, a crow is born on a windblown rock of an island off the coast of Ireland, this single crow is born with a destiny; it must fly to the moon and seek out a single mountain on the moon’s dark side.  This mountain dwarfs Mt. Everest and is a single piece of granite.

This crow flies to the top of this mount, unseen by any man in all of history and sharpens his beak and returns home.

When those crows have worn the mountain down to dust; that is passing of but a fraction of a second in eternity.

Who/What Am I Today

The daily question: What am I going to do tomorrow.  How stupid is that?

0500, the SWMBO is showering, preparing for another day in the “orifice”.  The kids ; fed, moderately played with, walked and soon to be neglected for the balance of the day as I sneak away…to meditate…to meditate on the question: should I continue my studies to become a meditation instructor?  How stupid is that?

My turn to prepare for the outside world; the donning of the distractions; ornate rings on either hand (two for the right one for the left), several bracelets, leather and wood, outlandish socks, poly-chrome shoes, stylish cane and always a hat.  Always an odd old bird, but few see the tremors, the twisting and jerks, or so I like to think.  Like a four year old that makes himself invisible…by covering his eyes. How stupid is that?

This morning its take the octogenaria to the hospital, more tests…still no answers

I’ll wait ’til tomorrow to answer all my questions.  Really, just how stupid is that?

Illustration: Calligraphy-Zen Art by Qiao Sen

CalligImage

Why Fairy Tales?

In my “About” page I talked of writing about “My Family Jewels”, and then, for no apparent reason, I insert a 4 part story, a fairy tale.  What, may you ask, has this to do with The  Family Jewels.

I’ve pulled down an ancient tome, binding and pages worn through constant use: Anderson’s Fairy Tales, its first page has, in pencil, 5/6 in the upper right corner (an exorbitant price for the time) and across the balance of the page, written with a fine point Esterbrook fountain pen (that I came to know well):

“Dear Mike,

May the pleasures of these stories stay with you forever, and may be make life good fun for believing in “little men” and fairy tales-

Daddy

3 February 1953″

Fairy Tales are and have been a big slice of my Family Jewels.