What He Said...

The Light Fantastic

Found at Whiskey River this evening:

The Ball
As long as nothing can be known for sure

(no signals have been picked up yet),

as long as Earth is still unlike
the nearer and more distant planets,

as long as there's neither hide nor hair
of other grasses graced by other winds,
of other treetops bearing other crowns,
other animals as well-grounded as our own,

as long as only the local echo
has been known to speak in syllables,

as long as we still haven't heard the word
of better or worse mozarts,

platos, edisons, elsewhere,

as long as our inhuman crimes
are still committed only between humans,

as long as our kindness
is still incomparable,
peerless even in its imperfection,

as long as our heads packed with illusions
still pass for the only heads so packed,

as long as the roofs of our mouths alone
still raise voices to high heavens –

let's act like very special guests of honour
at the district firemen's ball,
dance to the beat of the local oompah band
and pretend that it's the ball
to end all balls.

I can't speak for others –
for me this is misery and happiness enough:

just this sleepy backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at us
unintentionally.
- Wislawa Szymborska

Have Mercy

Sweet

While visiting BB this morning, I Googled the title of a piece of music he mentioned, Miserere, and found something all together unexpected: a heaven-sent voice paired with a voice that has garlged one too many rocks. I anticipated that I would find a piece of classical, sacred or operatic music. I found Bocelli and Zucchero. (To hear it as Allegri must have intended it, go here, then here. Prepare for goosebumps.)

That led to Pavarotti and Zucchero singing Va Pensiero .

It's like listening to angels singing with a frog. . .or with Dr. John. . .or Joe Cocker. I like the contrast.

Really got into Zucchero's Baila Morena: very New Orleans voodoo-scene.

Now, BB, put that sword away.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

The Way It Was

Several years ago, before the Butcher from Pittsburgh arrived, this is what a fall afternoon looked like, from the vantage point of my barn, looking toward the street where I live.

My house (and trees) are on the right side of the image. At the front of the neighbor's property is one of the two ginkgo trees that used to grace the neighborhood with bright golden yellow leaves each fall/autumn.

Sigh. . .

Post Script (3:36 PM): I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about this, but Mike is out in the alley, raking up all my oak, beech and serviceberry leaves that fell onto his grass. What the hell, and who am I kidding?! I'm chortling inside, all the while typing in a darkened room so that he can't see me sitting here, laughing my considerable - - - off.

God, I am such a mean-spirited so-and-so this afternoon. Please forgive my poor attitude.

Or not!

PPS: As penance for my glee at Mike's burden (they are my leaves, and I should have been the one raking them from against his fence...I guess), I scrubbed the toilet/WC, a job I hate with a passion that rivals my lust for chocolate. I'm not Catholic, but I might as well have been. I've got Catholic guilt. Well, damn, now I have to do penance for that! Will it never stop today?!?

Beats being depressed, though...with a stick!
(c) 2009 Text and images, Martha McLemore

Possum, O Possum!

Pogo?

The night of the Hunter’s Moon (which was late this year – 2 November), I heard a commotion at the back door. Something was rattling around in the recycles-tub where I put discarded glass awaiting collection. Donovan’s cat, Curly Joe, was peering out the bottom window into the dark. He was sitting up like a dog begging for a cookie, one paw on the window pane, the hair at the scruff standing at attention, his tail flailing side to side; was oddly silent, though, for such a vociferous cat.

Hmmm...what has his rapt attention, I wondered. I sneaked over to the door and flipped on the outside light. A huge, snow-white animal, with a big rat-like tail, was sniffing around the outdoor cat dish, looking for spills. Because of the size of this thing, I didn’t immediately recognize that it was a ‘possum. In fact, it wasn’t until it turned and faced the door, and I saw its distinctive pointy face, that I understood what the cat and I were watching.

This beast was easily twice the size of any ‘possum I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen aplenty. This guy was roughly 20” long from shoulder to butt, with another 6 to 8 inches of tail extending from there. Its head was about 8-9 inches long from snout to where the head curves into the crown, and maybe 7-8 inches across at the widest spot.

Its fur was stark white, all over; no brindle grey, as I’m used to seeing. Had jet black eyes about the size of nickels (about 25mm, I’m guessing). The only other color on the ‘possum was rose-pink, in a half-inch-wide scar that ran from its left shoulder diagonally across to its right hip. (Pink nose and toes, too, of course.) Sure would like to hear the story of that scar.

It looked like it weighed 18-25 pounds; could feed a family of four real easy, as some of my (very) distant cousins would say.

I tapped on the pane, trying to get its attention, but it ignored me, kept snuffling around for kitty-kibble. I turned away to grab my camera, only to see its naked tail rounding the gatepost, on its way down the alley toward the street, when I turned back. Without a photo, I knew this was going to become a “Should’ve seen the one that got away” tale when I told the kids about it.

Now I know what’s been eating all the persimmons from my two trees at the front of the house.

In searching for an image to use with this post, I learned a couple of things about ‘possums. They have opposable, clawless “thumbs” on their hind feet, the better to climb with, I guess. (Good guess, Martha, since they don’t throw fastballs.) They live, at most, 2 to 4 years in the wild, though most end up as road-kill long before their second birthday. (They’re like dogs: they don’t look both ways.)

They can’t control their feigning-death response to danger. A ‘possum’s first response is to open its mouth wide, which displays 50 or so needle-like teeth, and hiss to beat the band. Only when the threat doesn’t go away will its body fall into the coma-like state we call “playing possum.” This state can last for a few minutes to 3 or 4 hours. ‘Possums emit an extremely foul smelling green slime from the anus, which is enough – so I’ve heard tell – to make a bear puke for a week. (Such hyperbole, I know.)

My favorite ‘possum, ever, was the comic strip character, Pogo, artist Walt Kelly’s alter ego and best buddy. Pogo is sorely missed. The short-legged, foot-stool-shaped creature at my back door could have been Pogo’s great-Grandpa.

As for Curly Joe, he hesitates now before scooting out the door each morning. I thought it was because it’s colder out now, but maybe it’s because of the ‘possum. Can’t say as I blame him.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Frost

A couple of weeks ago, daughter Kareema took the picture above of the witch hazel blooming in the side yard. You can hear the flower pod pop open if you are standing near the shrub at the right moment.

She took this one today. We had a heavy frost on Sunday morning that caused most of the remaining leaves to fall off their trees. (Neighbor Mike probably is not happy with the winds we've had after that, which blew a good third of my leaves into his yard. Mike cut down all the trees in his yard, including my favorite, a ginkgo, several years ago because he hates leaves. I feel so sorry for the wind-deposit into his yard...not!)

I noticed how brown and withered the leaves are this morning, and was reminded of Robert Frost's poem, "Reluctance," which follows:

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question “Whither?”

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

...

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

American poet

(c) 2009 photos by Kareema Griest, text Martha McLemore

After the Storm

Stormy Weather

I have battled depression most of my life, and have been caught up in anxiety attacks more times than I want to remember. This latest round was triggered by a couple of things (I think; could be wrong): my daughter's situation, and signing divorce settlement papers.

I don't understand the mechanics of depression/anxiety disorder. While I can't speak to what happens in the brain that causes these bouts, I can tell you how it feels to be in one of them. It's like being in a hurricane.

In September, 1965, Hurricane Betsy hit New Orleans with winds of 125+ MPH. We were living in the Florida Avenue Housing Project at the time, in a second floor apartment. The FAHP is in the infamous (because of Katrina) Ninth Ward, near the Industrial Canal. That section of the city was in the direct path of the storm. In fact, the eye passed overhead. But, the story of Betsy and my family is for some other time. I bring her up because that experience is how I know what it's like to be smack dab in the center of a hurricane, and why being in one is such a good metaphor for the depression/anxiety attack I just climbed out from under.

It starts with a vague discomfort, not anything you can put your finger on really. Maybe it's a change in the brain's chemistry, its barometric pressure, so to speak. If not addressed right away, or if other stressors are added to the heap, the decline continues, becomes more uncomfortable, increasing a sense of uneasiness you can't quite shake, though it hasn't overtaken joy and fun just yet. You can still function fairly normally, but there is a growing dark cloud just over the horizon of consciousness: menacing, foreboding, stalking.

The first winds appear, blowing harder than normal breezes. Anxiety creeps into the picture. "Hey, this isn't right. You can stop this anytime now, God, okay?" You note that you are now officially worried, though you still might not be able to say why, exactly.

The winds become howlers, seriously different from gentle breezes. You notice you are becoming afraid, and decide to go inside and close all the windows, pull the drapes. "This will pass soon," you tell yourself, having completely forgotten other episodes, other storms which didn't pass quickly. Going through this storm is like going through one for the first time, if you don't take protective measures to head off the worst of it, or find better shelter to wait it out.

The first wave of screaming winds and horizontal, needle-sharp raindrops hits your shelter like a mega-ton sledge hammer. The building shakes and shudders, your spirit quakes in fear. Anxiety rises like floodwaters, creeping ever higher, almost out of control.

The storm knocks out electrical power and you are thrown into darkness. You've forgotten the flashlight, can't find it quickly, then realize you have no batteries to replace the ones that have died. Outside, the winds sound like you are standing at the rear of a jet engine running at top speed. You can't hear anyone else's voice, and your own thoughts are drowned out by the noise. You think you might die. You feel alone, despite being in a roomful of other people - friends, family, neighbors - who are experiencing the same storm as you. Survival fears place their frigid hands on your body and you are on the verge of emotional, physical collapse.

You scream at God; "What the fuck, Man?!" And immediately feel guilty for saying such a thing, but that's the least of your worries.

You realize, in the darkness, amid the Winds from Hell, that you have reached your breaking point. You begin to think there is no justifiable reason to continue struggling. The Unthinkable rears its head like the water moccasin that floated in on the rising floodwaters, about to strike.

Fortunately, at that almost-irrevocable moment of desperation, the eye of the storm arrives, and you go outside on your balcony for a breath of fresh air. It is still dark out, but when the clouds break for a few seconds, revealing a near-full moon, you can see just how high the waters have risen. You can hear the screams of neighbors on their rooftops, calling out to God, to anyone, for help. "Save me, save us," they yell. "Over here! We're over here! Please come save us!"

The eye passes and the storm resumes. You retreat back into your darkness, with the pleas of your neighbors louder in your mind, now, than the noise from the Winds of Hell. Their cries become your cry. "Please hear me. I am here. I am afraid. Help me."

Someone hears you. Maybe it is the Universe, maybe it is God, maybe it is the stronger Self that resides within your soul, your spirit. Who knows? Who cares?! Someone has thrown you a rope, given you fresh batteries for your torch.

Although the storm is still with you, the Winds of Hell are no longer the only sound you hear. Hope, at first a faint whisper, becomes the reassuring Voice of Reason, growing louder with every passing hour. You realize, "Hey! I'm still here!" (A big hug and thank you to Mary Tuel for that enlightening mantra/prayer.)

Daylight has banished the Darkness. Hope and Determination have kicked Fear and Desperation down the dungeon steps, back where they belong. By God! it feels good to be alive, to be out of the Storm of Despair.

Now is the time to find all my survival tools and get to work cleaning up the debris, making my shelter stronger for when the next storm comes.

Thank you, everyone, for the ropes you tossed me, the help and encouragement you have provided. I won't ever forget what you've done to help me weather this hurricane.

As blog-friend Joe Spado says, "Peace be with you."

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Taking Care of Mattie

This is Mattie, at about 3 years of age. She lives with me. More accurately, I live with her. She is my "other I." Mattie has a great deal of influence over my life, my decisions, my behavior and my reactions to stress. Sometimes this is a good thing; usually, not so much.

...
By the time this photo was taken, Mattie had learned to view the world through a veil of fear. You can see that in the sad eyes, the tentative smile, in this photo. She was watchful and anxious, even then.

...
Mattie was a battered and neglected child, subjected to physical, emotional and sexual abuse, to one degree or another, until she was nearly sixteen. That's when she learned what incest was, and put an end to it. Mattie can't remember who first molested her, but it started before she was five, her age at the first clear memory of it.

...
For those of you familiar with Maslow's hierarchy of human needs, Mattie never made it to the self-actualization stage of development. She hovers around the safety level, but reacts to threats to those needs as if she were being deprived of her physiological needs. She never is, of course, but you can't make a terrified three-year-old understand adult logic. (Who am I kidding? Sometimes this 62-year-old doesn't understand, either.)

...
That's why, when I awoke with chattering teeth and blue-tinged lips a couple or so weeks ago and discovered the house was a frosty 52F/11C, before I could put on a sweater and check the oil level in the tank, Mattie was already in full-blown panic mode. I think it had started when I noticed my lips were blue, only I didn't see the warning signs in time to avert the anxiety attack.
...
You see, Mattie remembers being homeless and having nothing to eat, or very, very little. She remembers being cold and hungry and scared for her safety. She remembers living in her mother's car and having to share small jars of baby food with her five siblings. (Her mother had left their father, again, but had enough money to buy a case of baby food. Mattie's youngest brother was about 18-months-old at the time, and could eat toddler stage food.) Each child was allowed one spoonful of food from the jar, three or four times a day, for what seemed like forever, but was likely only a couple of days. Mattie was eight at the time, but she has always reacted to stress as a three-year-old would - very self-centered, self-serving. She remembers living in abandoned houses, again with no heat and little food.

I'm going through a rough patch right now, financially and emotionally, but it is Mattie who suffers. I can tell her that what she fears was then, not now. That she has control over what happens, that she has access to help that she didn't have as a child, and that, because of all that, she will be okay. She isn't going to die. She will have something to eat. She can put on extra clothing if it gets too cold for her. I remind her that she at least has a house, but I try not to add, "...for now," because she would focus on the "for now" and think we are about to be homeless again. I also remind her that she is far better off than a great many other people worldwide, some of whom live in abject poverty in so-called Third World nations, and the millions of people here in the US, alone, being affected by the current depression. I know all that, as an adult, but Mattie just doesn't get it. When she's in a panic, logic and reason are as foreign to her as the French language is to me.

Sometimes taking care of Mattie wears me down and brings on depression. It was easier to deal with when Ex-B was here. I had someone to listen as I tried to sound out my fears, to talk my way out of the panic attacks. I don't know if he really listened, or cared, for that matter, but he did a good imitation of listening, and that's what I needed. I don't need sympathy or solutions. I just need to talk, to tell someone, anyone, that I'm scared. I probably won't be tomorrow, but I am tonight, and have been for several weeks. Everything will work out for the best. I know this is only temporary and will pass on sooner than later.

I just needed to talk. Thanks for listening. It helps, a lot.

Goodnight, Mattie.