Tinhuviel Artanis

So my weak trickle has dried up, and I am still short $240. I've already resigned myself to the fact that I'm probably going to go hungry in June; however, it's nothing new, really, considering I went hungry a good bit of the time in San Diego, thanks to having no access to food. Things will still be better eventually! I've attached a screencap from my move-in letter, of the expenses I owe. It adds up to almost exactly $1500. If you want to help with my GoFundMe Campaign, just click the picture with all those scary expenses to be taken to my page.  Also, please share with everyone you know.  Even if you can't contribute, sharing with those who might can would also be a great boon.  I'm seriously considering launching another campaign for Smidgen. She lost all power in her back legs this morning. It was only for about 30 seconds, but any amount of time in that condition is simply unacceptable. Yep, I'm not thrilled with what life is handing me and mine, right now, but we shall follow the mantra of the great Gloria Gaynor, and we will survive.

DISCLAIMER

What you are about to read is an account of some happenings earlier this year.  It’s not at all a pretty story, and could possibly be triggery to anyone living with a mental illness, or with someone with a mental illness.  Please proceed with caution

There is a not-so-happy little place called Alvarado Parkway Institute, in La Mesa, California.  I ended up there four times in 2016, the last time being voluntary.  The first three times were for suicide attempts.  The fourth was an attempt on my part to not try again.

API has many hallmarks you might expect to see in a movie like One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest.  They engage in something I call “punitive therapy.”  The logic, as I see it, goes a little like this:  Oh, your being admitted to our hospital?  Well, excellent!  We will make you as miserable as we can, until you straighten up and stop being a snowflake.  There are four wings in the hospital, the Open Wing, the Forensics Wing (where prisoners are housed, whenever they go batshit like the rest of us.), South Wing for the elderly, homeless, and extreme depression, and the North Wing, which houses the violent patients, suicide attempts, and perverts.

Barring Forensics, I was in every wing.  I got off easy the first three times, what with my reason for being admitted.  I spent a brief stint in the Open Wing, but was transferred to the South Wing a day later, because I’d had a seizure, and they could keep a better eye on me in that part of the facility.  The next two times, I was placed in South.

The fourth time, I asked to be admitted.  It was New Years Eve, an event that is closely associated with Aunt Tudi.  We used to sit and watch the ball drop and sip eggnog, as we discussed the passing year and what our plans would be for the new year.  I had already been rattled by many of the events that transpired during the last half of the year, and I knew that if I tried to tough the night out, I would attempt another suicide, just to stop the memories and grief.  I figured I’d stay for a few days until the dust settled, and I had already enrolled in a different insurance plan that would allow me to go to a different hospital

I was wrong.  I remained on the Open Wing for almost two weeks. at which time the Mother Unit was going to come pick me up.  But the day she was supposed to get me, she never showed.

I tried calling her to no avail, so I finally gave in and called Matt.  It was then I found out that the Unit was in the hospital and had been since the day before.  She had to get a stent in her heart, as she’s got congestive heart failure.  I lost my mind, which isn’t a good thing when you’re locked up in a place for people who have lost their minds.  I asked if I could stay a couple more days, which the doctor agreed to OK.

The next day, I finally talked to the Unit, having gotten her hospital room phone number.  We weren’t two minutes into the conversation, when she started fussing at me for turning Matt down for a ride.  I was called rude, inconsiderate, and so on and so forth.  I tried to explain that I decided to stay a little while longer, because I felt that Matt should be close to the Unit, and I was all the way out in La Mesa.  I was trying to do what I though was the right thing.  And I got bitched at.

Then I really fell apart.  And I made the mistake of telling my doctor that I was again experiencing suicidal ideation.  The next day, I was transferred to the North Wing.  The place reeked of putrified happiness.  My blood pressure sky-rocketed, so they had to give me an Ativan.  I was so freaked out in the Wing, I refused to leave my room.

Now API has communal showers.  You ask the nurse to open the shower for you, you clean up, come out, and it’s someone else’s turn.  Now, I have this issue with touching things that naked strangers have touched.  I can’t do it.  But the next morning, I was forced to do it.  On the other two wings, they were perfectly happy to allow me to take bird baths and wash my hair in the lavatory.  I was always clean.  I never stunk.  But this one particular nurse had it in her mind to make me shower no matter what.  She escorted me down the hall, then threw me into that shower, which induced another panic attack as a result.  Another Ativan for me.

As previously mentioned, I refused to leave my room, which meant I couldn’t attend group sessions, nor did I want to, as I had nothing in common with any of the other patients, and I didn’t trust them or the staff to protect me from them.  The problem is, they monitor your group activity and, if you don’t attend, they will keep you longer.  

Because of that, my doctor, who spent all of two minutes with me each day, kept me for another two weeks.  In the North Wing.  It got to the point where I requested to change doctors.  When he found out I had done that, he stopped my sleeping pill, which was the only way I could sleep in that hell pit.  And it’s the only thing that keeps Aunt Tudi from calling me in the night, since it was nighttime when she would need me the most.  

I spent the majority of January in this hospital, simply because I needed help with my depression and complicated grief.  But they made me worse.  I experienced a psychotic break from lack of sleep.  As I understand it, I was running down the hall, trying to find Aunt Tudi before she died.  At least that’s what they told me.  And I was nearly catatonic from sleep deprivation by the time I was discharged.

I finally got my shit together, though, thanks to the hospital under my current health plan.  They listen without judgement, they work with you individually, and they provide tools that help people with mental illness better manage their symptoms.

What’s so funny is, API’s motto is “A Culture of Caring.”  The only thing they care about is lining their pockets at the expense of both patients and the underpaid staff.  Don’t get me wrong, there were many good people at API, but they were overworked, stretched thin, and shown little, if any, appreciation.  You can’t mistreat people, then expect them to get better, or have morale, respectively.

One more thing about API:  They need to better train their staff to deal with people who are simply depressed, or reserve a place just for those with depression.  When you begin mixing vastly different people with a rainbow of symptoms, nobody wins.  I spoke with many fellow patients who were depressed, and they agreed that it was detrimental to their mental health to be in an environment where you're treated like a criminal or someone who has dissociated from the world.

I’m so glad I will never darken the doors of Alvarado Parkway Institute again.  I hope that someday, both the patients and the staff run amuck and burn this psychiatric bog of eternal stench to the ground.

I have an apartment. It will be ready to move in to on the 6th of June. Here's my latest GoFundMe update with the particulars.

First of all, THANK YOU to everyone who has so far helped with this campaign. Your generosity is truly humblings, and I hope I can someday do the same for you, or anyone who may need whatever help I can provide! Now, down to the nitty gritty. I was approved for an apartment at Stonesthrow in Greenville, South Carolina. True, it's not Asheville, but it's closer to my family and friends, both of whom I need more than trying to capture the happiness I felt in my childhood in Asheville. Sometimes, necessity and simple contentment outweigh dreams that may have run their course. The move-in date is June 6th. It is unfurnished, and I have no furniture of which to speak. I have the old dining room table that was made by Grandaddy, at least I think it's still down at the old house. That's it. Needless to say, if I have any money left after paying deposits, rent, and getting utilities and Internet, my funds will be reserved for things like a bed. I still have a long, hard row to sow, so please keep up what little momentum this campaign still has, 'cos I'm still $495 away from my goal, and I'm more than a little scared right now.

If you wish to help by contributing or sharing my campaign, please click:

Help Tin Get Rehomed

My Uncle Michael was a true vulgarian, as John Cleese might say.  In fact, you could say it was he who put me on the road to having my own foul mouth.  But, when I first witnessed his temper combined with his expert swearing, it was kind of terrifying.

It happened about a month after Granny, Aunt Tudi, and I moved down to Duncan from Asheville in June of 1981.  We moved into the small house behind Uncle Michael’s and Janice’s house.  It would end up being the house I would live in until 2013.  Needless to say, I was already out of sorts, having been hijacked to this hot, flat, hellhole from my beloved Smoky Mountains, but I tried to keep it to myself.  But the day in question made me pull Aunt Tudi aside and ask her if there was no way we could just move back home, because I was fairly alarmed at Uncle Michael’s behaviour!

Uncle Michael had built a small workshop where he’d do his wood-working and other crafty projects.  He was a master construction worker, just a hairbreadth’s away from being an architect.  Had he been afforded the opportunity, he probably would have been famous for his designs.  So, anyway, he had a big project he was eager to finish and pushed himself to stay in the unconditioned, ill-ventilated building, running hot machinery and exerting himself in his work…in the Summer…in South Carolina.  The temperature that day had reached the mid-90s, with high humidity.  The air was thick, and your sweat just stuck to you like hot honey.  Not a good combination for the work he was doing.

We were all outside working in the garden when we heard the skill saw suddenly stop and the door to the shop burst open.  There stood a shirtless Uncle Michael, covered in sweat, his skin a rosy red, the hair on his head standing on end from his pulling it up.  His eyes looked like they were glowing, I kid you not.  He screamed at the top of his lungs, “MY GODDAMNED BRAINS ARE BAKIN’!”  and he stomped off into the house pretty much speaking in tongues from the level of expletives shooting out of his face.

Janice and the kids seemed not to really be bothered.  Janice rolled her eyes and said something about getting him some tea, and followed him into the house.  I just stood there looking after them with my mouth agape.  What had just happened?

After spending the first few Summers in SC without any air-conditioning, I came to understand exactly what had happened, because it started happening to me.  The heat and humidity can drive you plum crazy.  It feels exactly like your goddamned brains are baking, and the only way you can express your misery is to pretty much do what Uncle Michael did that day.

After a while, I got used to Uncle Michael and came to admire the hell out of him, even his potty mouth, which I eagerly adopted when nobody could no longer tell me I couldn’t.  We bonded over such language, over music like ELO, and our mutual love for harming ourselves with hot peppers every Sunday on our way to the flea market, to see which one could hold out the longest from the pain.  

My mind has been fraught with so many memories of him over the past couple of days.  I still can’t believe he’s gone, but I am so deeply grateful that I got to see him and tell him how much I love him on Tuesday.  Honestly, I believed I would never see him, Janice, or any of my family ever again.  Even in the midst of grief and uncertainty, I’m focusing on the things for which I can be grateful, and carrying on from there, step by step.  It’s all any of us can do.

...that, and try to prevent our goddamned brains from bakin’.

As I was growing up in Asheville, I'd spend a great deal of time with my great-grandmother, Little Granny (she was 4'10"). Here's a picture of her mother, Granny Mehaffey, who was born on September 9, 1867, and fought a bobcat to the death in her 30s.  If I remember correctly, she was in her 90s when she died, and she had one tooth her head that she would use to eat apples! It's true that the Scots-Irish folk of the mountains are tough as goddamned nails. Nowadays, I'm thinking she would have to go a bit further into the Blue Ridge Mountains in order to be fully understood, since a lot of the language has faded over the decades. Granny Mehaffey probably sounded more like she was speaking a bastard version of Gaelic and German than the modern Appalachian dialect of today. Here are some words I used to hear her use, and some I even have used myself throughout my life. Those I've put in bold.

• Afeared - afraid
• Ary - any
  
• Bald - a treeless mountain summit
  
• Blinds - window shades
  
• Blinked or Blinky - gone sour, usually in reference to milk
  
• Brickle - brittle (Little Granny always called peanut brittle "brickle".
  
• Cat-head - a giant ass biscuit
  
• Clean - used as an adverb meaning "all the way."  "I'll knock your damn head clean off your shoulders!"
  
• Coke - any cola, be it Coca-Cola, Pepsi, or RC.
  
• Cornpone - cornbread (I had a dog named Cornpone!)
  
• Directly - soon, later, after a while, when it's convenient.  "I'll call you back die-RECK-lee."
  
• Fit - fought, as in (and I'm not lying here) "I'm so tired, I feel like I fit fire (pronounced far) all day."
  
• Haint - ghost, spirit, hideous woman
  
• Holler - for hollow, the valley in between mountains
  
• Hull - shell, as in a nut hull.
  
• Ill - bad-tempered
  
• Jarfly - cicada
  
• Kyarn - carrion.  Anything that smells rotten.
  
• Lay out - to skip school or work
  
• Meeting - religious service, as in "Sunday-go-to-meetin'"
  
• Nary - none
  
• Peckerwood - someone you think is an asshole.
  
• Piece - distance, as in, "You'll find the gas station up the road a piece."
  
• Plum - completely.  "I'm plum wore out!"
  
• Poke - satchel (see its origins for real and true. ----->)
  
• Poke sallet - a salad made from the boiled leaves of the poke bush.
  
• Quare - queer, as in the original meaning of the word, which was strange.
  
• Reckon - suppose
  
• Sigogglin - wonky, crooked, out-of-whack
  
• Sop - gravy
  
• Swan (or Swannee) - swear, as in "I swannee!" usually said as you shake your head in dismay.
  
• Toboggan - a toque, knit cap
  
• Tote - to carry.  Also can mean a sack.  So you can tote a poke or tote a tote.
  
• Tow sack - a big burlap bag
  
• Yonder (Little Granny said "yander") - there, as in "over yonder."

I'm listening to a discussion about how college students are protesting ultra-conservative speakers at their graduation ceremonies, and many people on both sides of the fence are tut-tutting these young adults for choices, citing a lack of manners and an inclination to tamp down free speech.NO.These young people are realising what their parents should have twenty years ago, or more. When it comes to extreme views, based on hate and, these days, very thinly veiled, people like that have lost the luxury of being treated with manners, because they don't afford the same to the majority of their fellow Americans.

The time for so-called polite discourse is over, because these people never wanted that; rather, they want people to keep their mouths shut and listen to what they have to say, then toe the line. You can't fight madness like that by following a model the other side abandoned decades ago.  If freedom is to survive, those who treasure it and, especially, those who depend on it for their safety from these thugs, need to rise up, exactly like these college graduates are doing.

A huge chunk of Baby Boomers turned traitor ages ago, opting for the promise wealth over the ideal of true liberation. Generation X, my generation, is too jaded and complacent to be very effective at all, plus we were the first generation to grow up under the unsupervised shadow of the burgeoning Moral Majority, so many in our own ranks came into adulthood brainwashed, then did the same to their kids, who are even more dedicated to the theocratic movement, which was born out of an intolerance of de-segregation, not a love for foetuses. And the poor Millennials just don't get listened to, because they are so incredibly alien to the former gens, especially the Boomers. (I don't think they're alien, I love Millennials!). Is it any wonder they are choosing more aggressive tactics in a bid to protect what few freedoms they have left?

Was it rude for the graduates of Bethune-Cookman University to turn their backs on Nancy DeVos? That depends. Is it rude for someone who is part of a movement that intrinsically hates non-whites and justifies it with Jesus to presume to make a commencement speech at a college that was created because African Americans weren't allowed in White colleges? The new adult Americans realise something we older ones could not, or would not: You have to give tit for tat, when it comes to irrational, aggressive, narrow-minded people who are about as American as Al Qaeda. The new adult Americans are all Americans' safety net, the only thing coming between us and complete collapse into a Fascist Theocracy.

We should be thanking them instead of calling them names.

Even though I'd planned on doing it a little later in the day, on a whim, I just walked over to Not-Carl's Jr (HARDEES) to get a newspaper. As I was putting my change in, I heard a man behind me say, "Hey, I like your dog!" I turned around and there sat Bobby, my longtime friend Diane's boyfriend.  

"Bobby?!" I said, shocked as hell.

He stared at me for a minute and then said, "Tracy, is that you?!"

I had been trying to get in contact with Diane for the past two weeks, to no avail. Her line was always busy. He went into the restaurant to tell her I was outside. When she came out, we had a brief festive reunion and I gave her my phone number so she could call me, and I could tell her everything that's going on.

She's lived here longer than I have, and she has tons of connections, so I'm hoping she can put out some feelers for me a place to live.

Really, though, what are the chances? Diane and Bobby don't live in Duncan, they live in Spartanburg, approximate 15 miles away. What forces are at work that would lead me to go get a paper at that exact time, to find them there? It's a fast food joint, so the window of stumbling across them like that was minuscule! Surely, this is a bounty in disguise. I have to think that way. My other thoughts are not the healthiest in the world at the moment.

The following was handwritten during my trip from San Diego to Greenville-Spartanburg.

May 8, 2017, 10:40 PM PDT
I'm on the plane, bound for Greenville.  It's hard to believe I've come full circle, and even harder to believe that I'm so happy to be returning to the South.  The Mother Unit brought me to the airport.  We did a one-armed hug to say goodbye.  Kind of sad, really, but I really didn't expect much more, if anything.

She and Matt are still in the process of packing, so they probably won't leave until Wednesday.  Losing Pinky took a physical toll on them, so they did very little in the moving department today.  I would have been the same way, had it been Toby or Smidgen lost to the wild.  I feel terrible that Pinky got outside.  Matt feels he did not surve the night, considering it was cooler than normal and rained cats and dogs all night.  Sorry luck, regarding the weather.  I can't help but think some karma was at work here, although I'm not at all happy with a little life being lost in the process.  It would have been better if Mama Bird had been the one to get out, since she might possess some rudimentary memory of her time in the wild.  Even if she weren't able to survive, she would still be better off dead, considering her ungodly time in captivity, along with fact that she lost her mate not long ago.

May 9, 2017, 7:40 AM EDT
Toby, Smidgen, and I just boarded the flight going from Charlotte to Greenville.  I transported the dynamic duo from the San Diego plane to the transfer flight in a wheelchair.  They're getting better treatment than I am on this journey!

The sun was just rising when we landed in Charlotte. It was an incredibly cathartic experience to see a blanket of green bathed in sunlight, muted by buttermilk clouds.  I haven't seen buttermilk clouds in years. Contrails?  Absolutely.  But no buttermilk.  I could even see the mountains - MY MOUNTAINS - from the sky.

We're about to take off, scheduled to land in approximately an hour, maybe less.  Cameron is meeting me at GSP, and is taking me by Wal-Mart on the way to Janice's.  I have reserved a hotel room at the Quality Inn for the next couple of days in order to give Janice more time to accommodate my hopefully brief stay with her and Uncle Michael.  I need to find more permanent arrangements as soon as humanly possible, but I've got to take at least a day to recuperate from the chaos of the past week; otherwise, I'm going to shut down and get nothing done at all.

I need to buy another pair of pants, some panties, and a couple of shirts.  Why?  Because my dumb ass packed all the clothes I have, including the ones I'd set aside to bring with me, save for the ones I'm currently wearing, and the movers won't have my stuff to me for about a week.  The last thing I needed was to have to spend more money I wouldn't otherwise need to.

I rode all the way across the country with my arms tucked underneath my tee shirt.  It was cold as all Sith Hell on that airplane!  The woman who shared the row with me was flying out to attend a funeral and had to bring her dog with her, a Jack Russell Terrier named Sia, who she feared would go ballistic if she saw Smidgen and, especially, Toby.  Thankfully, they didn't spy one another, having their vision limited tucked under the plane seats, so it was a very quiet flight.  I left the seat between us empty, and told her to feel free to use it and the tray table, if she needed.  We ended up using the middle tray for our beverages, which allowed for more room for our appendages.  If I could afford it, I would always buy two seats, pets or no, simply for the convenience just that little bit of space provides.  Alas, it would probably be cheaper just to fly First Class, if one had the money to throw around like that.

One of the last things the Mother Unit said to me before we parted ways was to point out that I would be amazed at how large the seats would seem, since I hadn't flown since my panniculectomy.  She was right.  I was able to sit sideways for a while, as I watched You Tube vides on the computer.  Of course, I'm still not over the fact that I'm sitting here in a large women's tee shirt and size 6 jeans.  What I want to know is where the rest of me ended up because, according to the laws of physics, there are 210 pounds of me floating around the observable universe in some form or another.

I can't believe that I'm almost finished with this journal.  It's a fortunate thing that I thought ahead and got an extra when I could afford it, so there would be no interruptions in my handwritten journaling once this one is full.  The only thing I need to do to make it ready to be written in, is to finish inking the owl cover, like I did with this journal.  The colours will be different, obviously, but the finished product should be just as pretty, if not more so.

Well, this was a short flight.  We are already about to land after only approximately thirty minutes in the air. It seems we spent more time on the tarmac than we did actually flying!  I can't wait to see Cameron and all my Tribe and family.  I just hope Cameron finds me okay, 'cos my phone is dead and I currently have no internet connection.  Ye gods.  

We just landed at 8:25 AM.  I'm home.

One more thing before I conclude this entry.  You know you're at an airport in the South, when about half the seats made available for travelers are rocking chairs.  The end.

After spending almost four years in San Diego, I have returned home to the South, and am actively hunting for a home in Asheville, North Carolina, my home town.  Despite my efforts to avoid this, I’m setting up this account to raise funds to help me swiftly find and pay for a place to live.  I’m aiming to obtain at least $1000, hopefully within the next week, which will cover travel costs accrued from searching, and most of a security deposit for a home.  I initially had enough money to make the move without incident, but my original plans fell through, and my last minute arrangements cost me $2000 that I had not expected to spend; rather, it was the nest egg I had to help me get around to find a domicile.  Now that that’s gone, I have had no choice but to turn to GoFundMe and friends.  So, if you can spare anything at all, it would be deeply appreciated.  I promise I will be updating on how the money is used and when I am settled in my new home.  To visit my campaign, you need only click on the screen cap below, or right here. Thank you in advance!

Yesterday, as the Mother Unit was walking out of the house, Pinky took a wild hair and flew out along with her, and up into the canyon. Mama fell apart. I rushed outside and was helping her call for him, and set out to try to find him further up the canyon, walking so fast, I almost passed out! Before I headed out, though, Matt rushed out to see what the commotion was about. When the Unit told him Pinky got out, he turned and screamed at me, "WHAT DID YOU DO?" Mama was quick to inform him that I had nothing to do with it, that I came after the fact and was trying to help.

This is how I've been treated the entire time I've been here in Southern California. Everything has always been automatically my fault.  

We never found Pinky...

When Matt got up this morning, I asked, and he said that the temp got so low last night, there is no way the poor bird could have survived. 

Pinky was my favourite of all the birds. He was a precocious little sonofabitch and was pretty much affection in flight. It hurts me that he is gone, and I can only take comfort in thinking that his last few hours were filled with a freedom he had never before experienced and that he died as happy as he could be, given the circumstances.

Matt seems to have had his spirit stepped on by the stiletto heel of karma. I'm grieved that it manifested in such a manner that a life was forfeit, and I sincerely feel bad for him, despite his jumping to conclusions about my involvement in the situation, as usual.  It was my profound hope that this chapter in all our lives would conclude without much upheaval. The last thing I wanted or expected was for some of us not to make it out alive, least of all one of the true innocents in this whole mess.

Fly free and joyfully, little man.
Stay safe, cradled in the arms of Nathor.
May it someday be we cross one another's paths again, in one form or another.

From My Handwritten Journal 

Instead of Ubering straight back to the house, I decided to try out the new shoes (spit) (if you didn't get that joke, you're not a real Twin Peaks fan, just sayin'.) and mosy over to Balboa Park. That's where I am currently writing this, cradled in the giant roots of a eucalyptus tree. I've taken pics to accompany the journal entry.  I tend to keep my handwritten journaling separate from the Cliffs of Insanity material but, in this instance, the twain shall meet, just for the hell of it. 

When I got to the park, I made a beeline for the playground.  The swings were empty, so I plopped my nearly 50-year-old arse down in one, and began to swing.  I did this for about 15 minutes, all the while listening to a dude play his flute.  After I finished swinging, I walked further into the park.  When I passed the flautist, he began playing The Fiddler's Irish Jig.  I don't know if he saw my green hair and opted to go full on Gael, breaking away from the Jazz he'd been playing exclusively up until I sashayed by, or if it was just an odd coincidence.  Being a perpetual "victim" of synchronicity, I'm not a real big proponent of coincidence.

I guess I should head back to the house now.  Margaret needs to talk to me about the move, and something tells me (like my body, duh) I'm going to need a bathroom sooner rather than later. 

A few minutes ago, the Egg Donor came in talk to me. She invited me not to ride with her and Matt up to Portland, because there's no room for me. She said that, with transporting all the birds, there was just no room for me, Smidgen, Toby, and our stuff.  So I guess I'll be paying a shit ton more money to fly out of San Diego on the 8th of May, instead of Portland a little later in the month.  I told her that was fine, I expected it, that I knew my place, and had known it for quite some time.

"It's one of the main reasons my depression got so out of control," I said to her.  "But that's fine.  I've made my peace with my lack of importance, so I guess that's it."

She just sat there, looking at the floor.  I then asked, "Is there anything else?"  

"No, I guess not," she said, getting up and leaving my room, closing the door behind her.  Apparently, she isn't happy with what I had to say and the frankness with which I said it.  Too bad.  I'm not going to sugar coat my words to ease any discomfort on her part.  Why should I?  She certainly hasn't sugarcoated anything she's said to me in regard to the move and just how unwelcome I truly am.  Oh, well.  They can take their nasty birds and drive off into the sunset, happy as clams.  I don't need them. 

As for me, I'll be just fine, one way or another.  And I'll be so much better in some areas, like being away from the constant reminder that my birth was a huge, huge mistake.  Just being free of Matt's endless unpleasantries is enough to plaster a wide Joker-like grin on my face.  If Aunt Tudi is able to witness how things have gone with the Egg Donor and me over the past four years, I wonder what she thinks of how the Egg Donor fulfilled her promise that she'd help me and be there for me after Aunt Tudi passed, considering some of my health issues, like the seizures.  Maybe if I were the size I was in the accompanying picture, there'd be enough room for me.  Then again, I wasn't much larger than this when she abandoned me the first time, so what-the-fuck-ever.  I'm over it.

I heard from Janice, who told me that it's gonna be Thursday before we hear from the lawyer about the house, so I went to talk to Mama about my options, which are bleak, thanks to yet another hypochristian.

So I suggested to Mama that maybe I could just stay with them for a month until I could properly sort the move, which I can't do because I have 38 cents in the bank right now. Besides, one way flights from Portland are several hundred dollars cheaper than ones from San Diego, so it would be a definite helps, since I'm gonna have to buy 2 seats in order to transport my fur babies.  

She said, "Well, I don't care, but Matt's sister has other ideas."

"What do you mean?" I asked, thinking that there just wasn't enough room, or something like that.  I'd met Matt's sister just a couple of weeks ago, and she was an extremely charming person...to my face.  Silly me!

"Well, she thinks you're a demon incarnate because you're Wiccan."

The move is now set for the 8th of May instead of the 1st, which will allow me time to do what I need to.  The plan now is that I'm moving my stuff up with Mama and driving up as far as Portland.  Taking only my absolute necessities, I'm taking Smidge and Toby and flying out from there probably mid-May.  Then Mama is gonna ship my other belongings to me piecemeal.  This is the plan, if the house situation with Janice falls through.

I find it rather sad that Mama is willing to do that rather than fight for me, but I've come to expect little else.  I know my place. As for Matt's sister, I'm starting to realise that assholery is not limited solely to Matt.  It apparently runs in the whole goddamned family.  Fuck them.

There's tons more shit that bothers me, but here's a sampling. 

When someone here in San Diego says, "It's a beautiful day!" It's always a so-called beautiful day in San Diego. People lose their shit and flock to churches when theirs a steady rain! Okay, I might be exaggerating a little but, damn, they do act like it's the end of the world.
 

The dude who attends my therapy groups, who identifies as a "warror for Christ." I don't thinkhe's as extreme as the Army of God, but he coule well be in the Salvation Army.  That​ doesn't really matter. What matters is, he's manipulating group sessions to bear witness and passively shut down anyone who has a differing, non-xtian opinion. He declared yesterday that his relationship with Jesus Christ made all things better, and I wanted to ask him that, if Christ is helping him so much, why is he seeking assistence from psychiatric professionals? Should he not be right as fucking rain, a bright and shining example of our lord and saviours eternal mercy and love*?

Hot flashes. I've been having them a lot lately and, last night, I got up for the bathroom, and a wet imprint where my body had lain was there, perfectly formed, on the sheet. My pillow was soaked. I'm actually battling dizziness from dehydrytion because I can't hydrate enough to accommodate the excess sweating. I'm not a sweater. I don't like to sweat. That is one thing I like about Southern California more than anywhere in the South - no humidity, and therefore, not nearly as much sweat. And if you do sweat there, it doesn't linger because the air is so wet, it has nowhere to go. No, in the California deserts, it evaporates quickly and coolingly.

Shamers. No one has any right to reprove anyone else for doing something they find unacceptable. It's none of your business, you fuddy-duddy! Even worse are the shamers of those doing something the shamers themselves used to do. Non-smokers make me want to set them on fire. And don't even get me started on former fat folks terrorising those who are still overweight.  How dare you? You know how hard it is, but you can find a smudge of spite your heart big enough to compel you to engage in a soul-scarring activity. Good for you! May it come back to you threefold, all in the form of fat.

Kids. Disrespectful, bullying, little walking Petri dishes that are often too loud, too smelly, and too ugly for proper public consumption. Their parents are even worse, especially if they feel entitled simply because they rutted and bred.

Whatever country I'm living in now. I don't think it proper to call it the United States of America, because we certainly aren't united on anything, and the state we're in is the State of Disarray. Whatever my fate, though, I refuse to go down without one hell of an 80s movie-style female Pagan Rambo fight!

Every action is a prayer to the Goddess. When we make a simple dinner, when we look fondly on a friend, when we light a candle, when we touch a lover - all these can be rituals to the goddess. All we need is consciousness. We must be aware, as we perform the actions that sustain us in our daily lives, that we embody the energy of the Goddess. And that we art, from choice and through strength, to empower Her presence in this world.

Thus, when we enter our car to drive to work, we become the Goddess entering her solar chariot. When we cut our sandwich, we break bread in the ancient tradition of communion. There is no action that is not part of Her grand and glorious worship. Let us live each day to full awareness of that truth.

- The Goddess Companion by Patricia Monaghan

• Sat, 12:24: The Cliffs of Insanity https://t.co/9nN4wPe339
• Sat, 21:35: 2 + 2 =... https://t.co/eo313stPHq
• Sun, 03:26: Testing Testing https://t.co/j2bYNQgIO4
• Sun, 04:34: Herne https://t.co/RngJCOVsBd

This is only a test. I am attempting to find a decent, convenient, lazy user-friendly client/application for posting entries here on Dreamwidth. I am currently beta testing dw_beta for this post. We'll see how it goes. I'm not confident. I shouldn't be so hard on something I'm only now trying. It's just that the choices for clients in a MacBook World are grim at best. I'm just spoiled by years of lovely Semagic. And I hate change.

I am officially migrating from LiveJournal to Dreamwidth. The transition is going to be difficult, but it's past time. If I'm unable to transfer all the massive contents of The Cliffs of Insanity here, I'm going to leave it up in an archive capacity, but I will no longer be posting there, except for the occasional Twitter update, until I discontinue that as well. The Cliffs will have turned 15 years old in June, and I was thinking of making the transition at that time, but I have much to write about and many events to account, so the change must be made sooner rather than later.

• Wed, 14:26: RT @FrankieRockett: SHRIEKBACK! First live gigs in 25 years depend on Kickstarter and YOU! https://t.co/WjWgLjCchJ #Shriekback #live
• Thu, 08:49: RT @shriekbackmusic: we're close, real close, but still lack crucial cigar https://t.co/xmrq4R5iwy O sweet baby Jesus, give us closure...

• Fri, 12:32: RT @Dolma_Lotus: #Shriekback !!!! https://t.co/2SeyUJAMlQ

• Fri, 17:54: RT @neiltyson: Odd that our measures of animal intelligence are often tests for what we do best, rather than tests for what they do best.

In late December, I requested an Uber ride up to the store. A handsome, middle-aged gentleman named Moises picked me up. I began a conversation with him, because I loved his accent, but couldn't quite pinpoint the origin. He told me that he was from Iran and that he was a movie director who made a film that that government did not like. For his trouble, he spent a year in jail and, afterward, it was hard to make a living doing anything.

So he legally immigrated to America and is now essentially a taxi driver, after being a creator and visionary. He told me he missed his family and that most of his money goes to them and to save enough to bring them over to him, hopefully next year.

I advised him to go to Mexico or Canada before it was too late. His optimism and faith in the way the United States is supposed to work was heartbreaking.

Ever since I heard the news on the Muslim ban, I can't stop thinking of Moises. It's much more personal when you see the soul-rending results of the decision of an extremist mad man sitting pretty in the White House, ruining lives with the flick of a pen.

• Mon, 12:46: @truTVjokers #PunishSal @SalVulcano @BQQuinn @jamessmurray @Joe_Gatto You guys ROCK!

---

I'll only be posting a fraction of the images I took whilst in LA, but you can click this pic to access all of them, if you wish.  Also, the original size pics are only a click away from the pics I posted here, so get that mouse to moving!

Our only two forays into Touristville was our trip to the La Brea Tar Pits museum (the Mother Unit and I went to the pits last year, but did not go into the museum.).  I don't think I've ever been in the presence of so many bones and fossils.  It was awesome.

Then Andy needed to go to the Harley store to get his sister-in-law a shot glass that said Los Angeles on it, so we found ourselves battling the cast of thousands on the streets, who oblivious to nothing but the stars embedded in the sidewalk, and legendary locales like Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.  I stayed in the car while Andy ran his Harley errand.  I would only have slowed him down, and the clock was beginning to tick by then.

After escaping the tourist traps, it was off to House of Pies.  This is a great hang-out place, and my biggest regret is not actually getting a piece of actual flipping pie from there!  There’s always a next time, and a slice of blueberry cheesecake with my name on it, trust me.

Now, I was under the impression we were meeting only Paul, because Richard was in Las Vegas.  When I got a text on the way to the restaurant informing us that we were on for 3 PM, I thought it was Paul.  Andy and I got there a little early to get us a booth and, shortly thereafter, Paul showed up.  I was taken aback a little, because I had forgotten he’d shaved, so I was expecting the furry edition of the beleaguered Jack Cucchiaio.  We gleefully chatted for a few minutes and Paul and Andy got acquainted, when Richard Gale showed up, which surprised the fuck out of me.  I figured we wouldn’t have a chance to meet him, because he was out of town, and all.  He even brought me a Ginosaji spoon, which is the last thing I expected, because I contributed without requesting any perks.  The perk for me is to see this film come to fruition.  If I had my way, the people with the real talent, in my opinion, which is the only one that matters, would have endless funds for their projects, frighteningly organised promotional work, everything they need at their fingertips, and 100% creative control of their own work.  It was the only way to change the music business, which we’ve seen on almost every level, and I believe that’s how it’s going to end up in what we still call “Hollywood.”  Anyone with any shred of talent, and imagination, and a Tribe that will back them up no matter what will eventually own the world. Jeff Lynne found that out initially at Hyde Park.  He’s still being shocked by it all.  It couldn’t happen to a better person, except people like Barry Andrews and Richard Gale.

The Spoon of the Ginosaji has found a place of honour next to my baby dancing Groot.  Behold the oddest couple in fandom!

Our early dinner lasted longer than expected.  We talked movies, film-making, music, and general tomfoolery until it almost ran Paul and Richard late.  I thanked them for being two of about ten people on this planet to make me genuinely happy and laugh since 2011.  That means more than most everyone can possibly realise.

Richard introduced Andy to the wonders of Uber, which saved our butts as far as getting to the Hollywood Bowl in time, we took an awesome picture, courtesy of the kind cashier at House of Pies, and reluctantly parted ways, promising to do it again soon.

Both Paul and Richard are funny, talented, delightful souls, filled with stories about what it’s like to live and work in Los Angeles.  It was deeply insightful, none of which I’m sharing here, because I haven’t asked permission to share, and there are some things that just shouldn’t be public without the consent of the persons to whom it happened.

I will say that the Ginosaji movie is progressing nicely and is beginning to live up to its description as epic on a level that’s hard to imagine.  Impressed doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about the project.  I can’t wait for it to all be a reality.

Before heading back to the apartment, Andy wanted to go get the tee with the space cat invaders, so we hied down to the shop to find it.  Whilst there, I found a shirt that was so anti-this trip, I knew I had to have it.  I’m not one to buy frivolous stuff for myself, but I knew this would always conjure the memory of the grooviest birthday I’ve had so far whilst incarcerated in this current veil of tears, and it was only $10, so I took my chances, in more ways than one.  They only had the one shirt, and it was a woman’s medium.  Since I’m still having problems figuring out what can and can’t fit me, I decided to go for it anyway.  Luckily, it fit perfectly, so I wore it with my galaxy pants, because you can’t go to an ELO concert without having the cosmos nearby for their spaceship to have a place along which to triumphantly coast.

Jumping into our Uber with a tad of time to spare (we would have been woefully late, had it not been for Richard’s suggestion.  Thank you for that!), Andy and I were on our way to what I believed would be a defining Life Moment, and Andy was keen on a concert at the Hollywood Bowl.  He specifically said that he wasn’t tingly like I probably was.*  Since I tend to try to keep my emotions in check, my tingle factor was definitely present, but I did my level best to keep it together as we hunted for our seats, which was relatively.  The folks who work at the Hollywood Bowl are quite courteous and helpful.  They’ll also read you the riot act and not give you entrance if you have a camera that even vaguely looks professional.  Mine does not, but I didn’t want to take the chance of losing my camera, so I took my iPhone, which has a very good camera, so I wasn’t too very lower-lippy about leaving the camera at Brian’s apartment.

Andy’s phone had very little charge and he was responsible for the Uber ride back from Hollywood Bowl, so it was up to me to get as many decent pictures as I possibly could.  I even managed to get part of All Over the World, which was personally important, since it was Xanadu that officially introduced me to the Electric Light Orchestra.

Being raised on various Classical composers (like Antonín Dvorak and Johann Strauss) along with the Beatles, the Carpenters, and early Electronica like Popcorn by Hot Butter, I was eating the opening act by the orchestra up like a thirsty dude in the desert who just found a water fountain.

When Jeff Lynne and his band finally took the stage, it was nothing short of a religious experience, especially since the opening song was Tightrope, which is one of the closest songs you’ll ever get Jeff Lynne to being cynical.  Even then, it turns out in the end.  Yes, I admit, I got teary.

All of the songs the band played were their classics, and they were played with precisions.  The only exception was the single release from the new album, Alone in the Universe, When I Was a Boy.  Despite his hearing the new album prior to the concert, Andy was very deeply impressed with Jeff Lynne’s autobiographical opus.

After the concert, I said on Facebook, “No words.”  Honestly, I’m still having problems putting into words the experience I had at the ELO concert.  It turned me into Ellie Arroway, no doubt about it.

I had a suspicion he might do All over the World, but knew there was no hope for Xanadu or the title track from Eldorado.  Jeff just doesn't consider Xanadu to be his best work, and Eldorado is just too obscure for your "basic fan", whatever that means.

There was one song that brought me by surprise, and that was Wild West Hero, which they did with the a cappella in tact.  I thought I was taping that portion of the concert but, unfortunately, I screwed that up big time.  Wild West Hero is my second favourite ELO song, specifically because of the a cappella portion of the piece.  You can hear the breath, albeit very slightly and you need headphones, in between each phrase in the song.  It makes it real.  It makes it human.  It makes it breathtakingly beautiful.  Anyone interested in seeing the concert, along with this exceptional performance, you need only click the embedded video here, with the masterpiece in question beginning at 50:30:

As Richard and I had discussed earlier, the subtly of sound makes all the difference in anything, be it music or film.  If you can’t appreciate that, you’re losing a completely vital portion of your creative process.  Unless it’s a silent film or sommat, then you have to be living in the 20s or be Mel Brooks!

I must freely admit that it was during this song that I lost my shit.  I never expected to hear Wild West Hero live.  Ever.  EVER.  EVER EVER EVER. And that harks back to my initial statement that you never know what’s going to happen in this crazy existence.  Ten years, I never expected to be in England meeting one of my heroes.  Ten years later, I never expected to be in the presence of my first ever hero singing a song that only hardcore fans know by heart and audiophiles need a cigarette after hearing it.

Just as I’d heard from concert goers from previous concerts, there were moments Jeff would forget the lyrics.  None of that mattered, though.  The audience, most of us who had already forgotten what we had for breakfast that day (except for me and the Popeye’s Breakfast I’m craving like crazy right now), filled in the blanks for him.  Besides, it showed that Jeff Lynne is human and aging along with his fans, both older hardcore fans, and his new generation.  It shouldn’t be held against him for interchanging the occasional lyric the man wrote 40 years ago.  We should all just be lucky he’s willing to get up there and sing it live for us, when none of us expected to ever see him on stage again, especially not in this capacity.

His typical banter in between songs was “Thank you so much,” with his thumbs in the air.  This wasn’t surprising, coming from a man who said four words after being cornered in a studio back in 1979, that made me fall in love with him.  He was ambushed by an interviewer who asked why the band were named “Electric Light Orchrstra.”  Jeff’s reply, short, sweet, to the point, was, “Uhm...well… why not?” Right then and there, I wanted to be an eccentric recluse.  Got my wish. Haha!  What surprised me was that, even after all the concerts he’s done since Hyde Park, and the worshipful reception he’s gotten every single place he’s played, he’s still shocked and humbled that so many of us are there for him, singing with him, celebrating his life like he never expected it would be.

Paul saw the band at their lowest point in 1986.  I wish he could have been there to see how drastically times have changed that ebb in their career, and see how the band was always supposed to be seen live.  Even though always called Electric Light Orchestra, the orchestral part would still be lost to the electric instrumentation, despite the sound department doing the best they could with what they had to work with at the time.  Technology has finally caught up with Jeff Lynne’s vision, and we who never got to see the orchestra during their supposed heyday, got to see and experience something that is unique and miraculous to our times.  We got to see ELO the way Jeff Lynne always envisioned it.  There were live bands, then there were bands whose light shone brightest in the studio.  What Jeff Lynne finally got to do was bring his fans into his studio and let us see, at least in part, what he sees in his mind when making the music we so adore.

Prior to the concert, Andy asked me what I thought their opener and encore would be.  Getting it completely wrong, I suggested Last Train to London and Mr. Blue Sky.  As mentioned above, Tightrope opened and the perfect marriage of Rock and Classic closed us out with Roll over Beethoven along with perfectly-timed fireworks.

It took us a while to get out of the area, and it was such a relief to get back to the apartment and just lie there, basking in the glory I just had the honour of experiencing.  Even though I was exhausted, I didn’t sleep the entire night.  My inner vision was too filled with astronomical imagery, and my inner song was pure harmony.  I figured I wouldn’t sleep the night of the concert, so I had it in my head to do all the laundry and perform any other duties to ensure Brian’s apartment was exactly as he had left it, or at least as close to that as possible.  The problem was, I didn’t know where the washer and dryer were and couldn’t find them.  Texting Brian, I revealed my intentions, but he would have none of it.  So I limited my restoration to cleaning everything I could, and triple-checking everything I could think of…  I haven't heard any complaints, so I'm hoping we left Brian's uber-groovy pad just as fabulicious as it was when we arrived.

*I would like to note that, by the end of the concert, Andy admitted to being more than a little tingly.  HA!