Angel of Death

Just buried another friend today. Not Sally Jo. Her service was in Georgia last week. She has another one here in Tampa at the Sheriff's office mid April. I'm talking about my old outside tomcat, Skitty.

He's feral, had terrible manners in the house so had to live the bulk of his life out doors. The front porch was his domain. He had a house with a sleeping pad to stay out of the weather and he's been eating me out of house and home for the past few weeks. Then he started losing weight fast.

I found him on the ground unable to move and in a coma Monday. Put him in a box and sat with him until he passed. I buried him in one of his favorite sleeping spots and put a rock over him so the neighborhood dogs don't disturb his rest. I don't want to go into details because I'm still really upset.

I really need a break from all this passing and death. I need a chance to grieve one before there's another. So I guess I could call the last post "Three Funerals and A Wedding" now. I told friends that I'm feeling like the Angel of Death. The good news is that I'm fat and can't fly so I won't be visiting anyone's house.

(Note: The image above is "Field of the Slain" by Evelyn De Morgan, 1916

Two Funerals And A Wedding

No. I didn't get the title of the movie wrong. I just renamed it to suit my life. I just had my next sequal to the "Two Funerals" part as Sally Jo passed Monday, March 1st at 7:30 a.m. I'd been on the phone with her throughout the night talking into her ear as she was going through the mechanics of leaving.

Heavily sedated and in that coma we get to when it's close to time for the boat to leave, she could no longer respond, but she tried. Her sister Katy held up the phone to her ear while I cooed to her that it was going to be alright, that she could let go, and that I'd see her soon so save me a spot on the bench. Katy said she opened her eyes the first time I called when I told her I loved her and that she was a good friend. All I heard was Sal's moan.

I think she was trying to say, "EE-awk-eee!" It was our signal of hello to each other. I've had code words and signals with friends since being small. Always lets you know that the person outside the door really is of your tribe. Well. Sal's moan did sound a bit like EE-awk-ee! Or maybe she was just rearranging what was left of her spit under her tongue. She was pretty doped up. But the experts say that hearing is the last sense to go. I hope so. I wanted her to know that I was there with her in spirit and will continue to be.

The family had one service in Augusta. Another one will be held here. Sally asked if I'd write her eulogy the last time we had a phone conversation that made sense. I told her yes. Only I said, "Has a cat got an ass?" It's what she expects me to say as a definitive answer to the positive. I'm also getting some of her ashes to put on my altar down here at Dogpatch. I may have mentioned all this before. If so, forgive me. It's been a long month with all these life rituals going on and my synapses are fried.

The wedding part of the title comes in with a lot more joy. Longtime friend Jeannie Taylor asked me to 'do' her wedding gown. She brought me a traditional white 1980s number with a long chapel train, enormous leg-o-mutton sleeves, and 10 pounds of lace appliqués and beading. She wanted it emerald green. Dye is out of the question for acetate gowns as the fibers don't take it. So I got her to get some green pigment dye with a small jar of black pigment to drab it down from Dharma Trading Company. We both agree that it is one of the most gorgeous things I've ever made.

The dye streaked, pooled and puddled. It took heavier in some areas and on the appliquéd lace, tinted the iridescent sequins and glass pearls. You'd swear that fairy creatures imprinted themselves on it because I sewed bead eyes on them all over the skirts. I removed the damaged bead and pearl fall from the front and replaced it using some of the pearls removed and beads Jeannie had picked out.

There were three special strands: One for Shirley who was Jeannie's mentor and surrogate mother that had her star bead on it, one for me with one solitary vitrail teardrop I had for me, and I used real emerald beads and crystal for Jeannie. When she came down the staircase at the church, you could her an audible 'ah!' from everyone. She was just stunning! Her Cherokee coloring and wild mane of hair looked like she stepped from virgin forest into the room. I loved that she, along with her maids went barefoot. They also jumped the broom!

Her wedding theme was a Celtic one with her maids dressed in Renaissance Faire wear and the men sporting doublets and real Irish Claymore swords they used to salute. Jeannie carried a basket of ivy and herbs. I cried. I always cry at weddings.

The picture above is Jeannie at one of the fittings. I'll show you the finished project in a future post. All in all there are about 30 or more hours in the dress, hundreds of extra pearls and beads and several days of treating my skin to bleach to return it to my normal beige instead of cedar green speckles and blotches everywhere.

Suggestionss for reduxing a vintage wedding gown:

Think beads and embellishing for repairs and alterations. Instead of ripping seams and removing boning to take in the gown, see if you can pinch the seam up and anchor it on the outside with a beaded running stitch. Looks like it was built on purpose! I'll try to get some close-ups of what I did.

If the gown is too wide in the shoulders, try pleating over the very edge of the yoke towards the sleeve top and using the beaded running stitch to take it up. Hand sewing is diriguer because you need the control that can only be achieved by hand manipulating the ease of the fabric.

Instead of using the traditional method of removing the skirts and lining to shorten the gown from the waist, consider making a pleat in the bottom of the skirt or small, draped tucks and accenting them with appliqués or beads. Decorative hems are already a feature of wedding wear. You know my motto: If a little looks great, pile on some more!

The type of dyeing I did on Jeannie's gown is very eclectic and not for every taste. The color is purposely not evenly distributed and pooling and checking of dyes were wanted in this case. Don't consider dying your gown a different color unless you're into S&M, like having dyed skin and feet for weeks, have a huge yard or warehouse to do the chore in and at least 3 days to allow the dye to work and set. Oh. You'll also need a vat the size of a livestock feeder to accommodate the up to 24 yards of fabric involved. And a bottle of Advil for the backache of lifting and hanging 24 yards of wet fiber.

Rabbi

The definition of Rabbi can be summed up in the essence of one word - 'teacher'. I just found one in a comment from Pam. Whether Jewish or not, this blessed soul and his wife gave me another Life Lesson told in such a beautiful way. Would that all our lives and experience could be explained in parables such as this. Thank you. Both - Dina

Pam said...

I think you are a brilliant writer. Your story was very moving. I wanted to write something to help you understand how wonderful it was that you helped that little bird, but I am a terrible writer! So I asked my husband. Here is what he wanted me to tell you:

"There is a story from Jewish tradition, that in the beginning of creation the essence of God could not be contained by vessels that God used to contain it; the burst sprayed the universe with shards of Godness. It is believed that simple acts of loving kindness gather up the these shards and repair the world. Your actions in caring for a bird, a baby, one seen by others as insignificant gathered up a spark of Godness in the world. You have truly done the work that I believe the universe asks of us."

I hope this will be of some comfort to you.

This Wounded Bird by Dina Kerik

A bird fell to earth tonight. It is a tiny creature and an otherwise insignificant event, really. It was brought down by my cats from the nest because it is vulnerable. The cats are following their nature to take advantage of the weak and available. Is it natural selection or a cruel streak? I hold the bird cupped in my hands. It is alive and squawking with alarm when I take it away from the cats. The hollow between my breasts makes a resting spot. It is quiet there. I hold the bird and it is still for so long that I have to check to see if the beating heart I feel between my fingers is the bird's or my own.

I was awakened from my sleep to retrieve the bird. The neighborhood dogs were talking about the mayhem taking place on my terrace under the moon flower arch I built out of bamboo. I told Karole and Tary that the arch is a vaginal arch, one for rebirth. I hope it can rebirth this bird with its gray and white and black feathers (all moon flower colors) from the carefree, joyous savagery of my cats.

I hum, soothe, and cry. I summon the Four Pillars of Nature. "If this is to be a death, let it be a small death befitting a creature of this size. No pain! No pain at all", I demand, crying. I'm feeling wounded myself.

"I am a walking wound", I tell Jan Roberts. She is a therapist and a good friend. She is much more than these things: One of those women to whom wearing a large soul is a natural phenomenon, like the honest face she shows to the world. But these two, counselor and friend, are the two that matter to self-absorbed me now. "I am a walking wound", I wail. I hope she can Band-Aid my psyche again this time, patch it up long enough for the strong ichor of me that lies in impotent pools about my feet to gain strength and rise up through these old bird legs of mine to heal the latest volley of outrageous misfortune.

I pick the bird up and it clings to my fingers like branches. I bring it inside cooing, cupping, consoling. "There, there", I say. And. "I know", I say, because I do. I stand in the dark kitchen looking out the window on the perfection I've tried to build here as if placing beauty just outside myself, a barrier arises between my soul and the dementia just beyond the fence.

Pots and plants and crystals and chimes and Tibetan bells that the wind plays like harps. Careful thought is given to the placement of certain things. An abandoned car tag and an old and dented Cadillac hubcap hung on a wall give a jaunty savoir faire to my huge prickly pear cactus tree. Other things are left to chance. A volunteer mulberry tree allowed to grow and flower finds a saucy Jeannie Taylor picking berries under the branches every year as part of her springtime rites. Another mulberry provides a different shade of green as backdrop to the bleeding heart with its riot of blossoms. The bleeding heart is from a twig I broke off Miss Alford's plant the last time I saw her looking over her shoulder at me with a flirty, girlish smile telling not to kill myself with work before she passed. Together, the pattern is joyous, an outside sign of my inside spirit - still hiding, waiting for safe times to come out.

So. Here I stand with this bird, both of us wounded; Summoning, coping, cooing. The bird does not protest until I try to place it in the basket, a Russian scarf on top, heating pad in the bottom. It looks like a package bound for market: Who will buy this bird? And who's coin is willing to buy me? I'm damaged goods, you know.

There always seems to be something unacceptable about me; something shopworn or broken in the eye of all the discriminating consumers who pass through the river of my life passing judgment on the goods, embarrassed by my peculiar standards of living. Don't they know they're at the bargain table where diamonds are hidden among the costume jewelry, Degas amongst the cheap paint-by-number art? I make the shoppers uncomfortable with my willingness to stare down the maw of the world.

"You'll starve without a job", they say. As if the dressmaking and the artwork I do seven days a week, often 16 hours a day to pay the bills is not work. And I keep planting pineapples, and limes, and pomegranates and eating fat tomatoes and squashes shamelessly making juicy life between my hibiscus and roses (the kind of roses I'm told that I'm not supposed to be able to grow here in Florida - I'm ALWAYS doing something that I'm not supposed to do according to the expert opinion of the great collective THEM out there). I cook up turnips, green beans I farm out of pots without help from DuPont, fry yams and bananas I grew with my own hands in real shit and sandy dirt. Now. I ask you, who's richer.

"You have no stocks, no savings", THEY say. But I'm a good and careful student and I see where history wipes out stocks and savings with a fickle overnight hand, authority takes up property through enclosure or feudalism in one form or another.

"Those who give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty OR safety", Ben Franklin said. He said this between trysts with his mistresses. There IS no security except in holding this bird cupped in my hands. THAT is my job. THIS is my savings.

We're all so angry and embarrassed and guilty at/around the poor and ill. We don't want to look at them because there is this part of us that's afraid that we'll have to DEAL with poverty and illness on a personal level. If we don't LOOK at IT, IT will not exist , either in ourselves or in our worlds. It's like someone trying to pull out of the parking lot in front of you into traffic. If you don't make essential eye contact with the driver, you don't have to perform the small act of kindness and let them in. If we don't SEE a thing, we can deny its existence. The truth is we're ugly and cruel to our poor and our ill. We don't see that.

"How dare they be needy! How dare they be ill! If they would get up off their asses, there would be no homelessness, no malingering illnesses, no poverty". These are the people you can not argue with. They are fools. No amount of statistical information, hard data, empirical evidence or facts of the matter will change their minds because you have touched the Trudy place in them.

Trudy, the bag lady in "The Search For Intelligent Life In The Universe" is a latter-day intellectual. I think Trudy needs to be up there with Pliny, Aristotle, Descartes, Goethe - you know. All the big names in philosophy-subject-to-change in the world as it is. She knows that the spiffy dressed up women on the streets of New York can't look her in the eyes because they fear to see themselves in HER place.

"How dare they be needy! How dare they be ill! If they would get up off their asses there would be no homelessness, no malingering illnesses, no poverty".

We praise Mother Theresa and her ilk with, "Yes! Yes! YOU will take care of all of THEM! Let's let Mother Theresa do it"! Then we don't have to get our hands dirty with their nasty little wounds and their mewling sounds of poverty. Then we don't have to see by touching them how close we all are to becoming bag ladies; we don't need to deal with the poverty in our own souls at all.

"You're too fat...drink too much....take up too much time..pain me with your illness..." What I really do is awaken your fears. They are reflected in my eye and you see it. You can give it a name because you recognize it when the mirror I hold up shows it to you. You hold your fear cupped in your hands beneath your breast like this bird.

It's like when you stub your toe on Something Big that you forgot was there on the floor and your other foot has to hurry up and complete the dance step. You are angry at the Something Big that has the audacity to be where the sole of your foot should be. You are angry with me for showing your fear to you. Then don't look! Simply feel and see if YOU can tell the difference between the beating of the thing's heart and your own.

How many of us have died in the burning times and pogroms and wars and coups and police actions because a stranger was afraid to stand next to us and timidly question the humanity of it? It is easier to slink away, blaming the victim for our crimes as we go. This salves our consciousness yet leaves an edge of the truth sticking out from underneath it like a trail of toilet paper following a bathroom shoe.

All that said, should I become involved with this bird? I don't know because I never thought to ask the question before I did.

My home has become refuge for the halt and the lame of the world. They recognize me and come to me, Queen of the Lepers. I laugh when I see them. THIS is the City of Joy!

Here's Rachel, a 14 year old runaway victim on a bicycle headed for a destination on the other side of dangerous territory. I give her a ride through the war zone, some money, and very little advice. Her story is subject to change and her own interpretation. She is busy writing it now.

There is a solid black ball of fur with her eyes still closed. Newborn and as blind as I am with my trust when my neighbor hands her to me like a delivery room doctor. I am hooked. I am bonded. I don't NEED another mouth to feed! I bottle feed her night and day and try to determine if she's dog or bear or ape or otter. She favors all of these. When she finally opens her dark and milky eyes to the world and solemnly regards me, I know I have a dog here that will make something of herself.

Then there is this bird who felt the nature of me and settled into the hollow between my breast and clings to my fingers like branches with so much trust and for such a long time. He only protests when I put him in the Russian basket. Then, there is only me. Queen of the Lepers, Queen of the City of Joy.

It is the next day. I call all of the experts I know and ask how I heal this wounded bird. I tell them it's a juvenile, its mouth still large and comic and Hari Krishna yellow. It has taken to singing in the Russian basket by my bed when I talk to it. I laugh at the exuberance and encourage the song. We continue our conversation throughout the day.

Tina is a wetland scientist and can take the pulse of natural things. "Call the ornithologist at Lowery Park Zoo", Tina says after we mutually reject contacting a Grand Dame of the Audubon Society Tina knows of. We discuss it and agree that this is a woman best approached about birds at a charity ball when dressed in black and white peau de soie. Her field of expertise never takes her beyond the trees in upscale Beach Park. Never call her on a Sunday to ask about regurgitated worms for such a lowly creature such as this bird. It's not a member of some exotic, protected species. No flavor or cause celebre of the season discussed between socials and cocktail parties for the West Shore Registry.

I see by the light of the day that the wounded bird is a mockingbird male, plain and simple. Only the impersonal advice of some zoological medico will do. I call, am referred to an exotic bird care facility anyway. No. They do not know how to care for nor heal this simple and plain bird, but they'll tell me what to do nonetheless. I've been through this impotent road map of patronizing medical advice myself. This sounds familiar.

So. I mix up a paste concoction of fish food and canned Friskies and put pellets of it in the bird's huge Hari Krishna mouth. I'm awkwardly trying to find my own way to heal it. It is stunned into silence as I try to imitate a mother bird feeding her paste concoction of masticated worms. Tina told me to spit in it to help the digestive process.

But I cannot. I remind myself that I was spat on as I walked to the bus stop by three teenage boys driving around in a privileged car their parents bought for them with the proceeds of a stock portfolio and a medical practice. Needing to place me in their world, they laughed as they drove away. No. I will not spit in this bird's food.

I borrow a book from Shirley. I know that she'll have one when I call. She always has what I need on a shelf somewhere inside her house. She warns me against giving the bird water and recommends chopped up grapes and melon. I remember this. The advice that Shirley gives is always pitch on constructive.

I put the bird in a cage because I tried to free it this morning. It glided gracefully off of the porch to land in an awkward heap on the ground. I knew that the cats would be around for lunch soon. So. I put the bird in the cage. Not ready for flight just yet, he bows up, spreading his wings out to an impressive four inches to frighten me. Not ready for flight just yet. Not ready to fulfill the duties of being a bird. Me either. I cover the cage with the Russian scarf and say goodnight.

I am magic in my garden. I talk to birds that fly and land less than a yard away from my hand. I listen to their song to tell me who they are. "I'm over heee-rre", says the red winged black bird. "I know you are", I tell him. No ornithologist am I when I respond to "Pretty, pretty gir-rrl", from a flirty blue jay who lives in my bamboo. I laugh at the grackles that argue back and forth in the oaks. I called them the "Uh-huh, un-unk birds" until Martha told me they were grackles. Now I recognize their sporty brown feathered females and the iridescent black of the know-it-all males. I am never sure who wins their am-so, are-not arguments for it is all that they do. It concerns no one but themselves root and knob.

My magic touch extends to this quirk I have about breaking off twigs of this or that and having them take root and grow and transform when I stick it in the ground like Moses' staff. Everyone marvels at the lushness here. I take it for granted. Isn't nature supposed to be perfect? I expect it to be so. And it is.

I talk to the butterflies that land on my shoulder and pretend that I am Snow White trilling in a horrid falsetto for the huge dragonfly that lands on the finger that I hold up for her. She sticks with me anyway. I talk to the big brown wasp that traces circles on the back of my hand. I admonish him with, "I'll not harm thee nor thine if thee do no harm to me nor mine", as he writes his message with his path on my skin. Seven generations of possums have dined here and no longer scurry away like off-centered barrels when I open the door. I'm old news to them.

And one day not so long ago, when I was feeling very weak and very sick with the heavy metals that were coursing around my body in toxic levels at the time, I forced myself to get up out of the bed and put my shoes on. If I'd closed my eyes, I knew that I would have drifted off into a sleep from which no one wakes. I opened my back door and there scattered through the trees in my yard were dozens of vultures. There was a very large one perched on the grape arbor less than ten feet away. She spread her wings and began to back fan me. I could feel the breeze from her as she fanned and looked straight at me.

I always thought that angels should come for you when it's your time. All I got was a flock of vultures. I left the house and they rose up wheeling in large spirals overhead. Diana assures me that they were a symbol of the Great Mother in ancient literature and a sign of protection. I wasn't totally convinced. I also don't see the miraculous in all of this until it is pointed out to me.

I have been miraculous with this little wounded bird 'til now. The alarm goes off. The bird does not wake me up with the chirruping he set up all day yesterday in the Russian basket.

He is dead.

Did he like my Russian basket so like a cradle better? Did he die because I tried to cage his spirit the way others have tried to cage and define mine? Was the battering he took from the cats more than his frail little body and soul could take? It is all of these. It is is none of these.

He was a wounded bird.


(Ed. Note: The image is Mockingbird Baby, June 19, 2006 by Trisheroverton. The artist captured all the vulnerability that I wrote about in this single photo.)

Revelation

So. I got an email today from TS Slusher. Or somesuch name. The subject line read "You make me so horney just knowing you." Surely someone from my youth. Or maybe it's one of those weird skinny guys that gets turned on by cellulite and girth.

I'm A Millionaire

Received the following this evening. It was good news. I could definitely use the cash to supplement my art career. Spelling is atrocious. I've highlighted the ones I found. Maybe the dollar amount is a typo as well:



From:edward henry wrote:
Form Edward Henry Esq,
Solicitors & Advocates,
Block 10, Flat 5, Rue du,
Boulevard PB 51,
Togo Lome.


Dear Kerik,


I am Barrister Edward Henry Esq, a legal practitioner, I am the personal attorney to (Mr. David S. Kerik), a national Of your country, who used to work with Shell Development Company in Lome, Togo. He used to be my client .

On the 31th October, 2004, my client, his wife and their only daughter were involved in a car accident along Nouvissi express Road. All occupants of the vehicle unfortunately lost their lives. Since then I have made several enquiries to your embassy here to locate any of my clients extended relatives, this has also proved unsuccessful.

After these several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to track his last name over the Internet, to locate any member of his family hence I contacted you.I have contacted you to assist in repartrating (repatriating??) the fund valued at US$15.5 million left behind by my client before it gets con-fis-i-ca-ted (con-fis-ca-ted??) or declared unserviceable by the Security Finance Firm where this huge amount were (was??) deposited.

The said Finance Company has issued me a notice to provide the next of kin or have his account confisicated (con-fis-ca-ted??) within the next twenty one official working days.

Since I have been unsuccesfull (unsuccessful??) in locating the relatives for over 2years now, I seek the consent to present you as the next of kin to the deceased since you have the same last names, so that the proceeds of this account can be paid to you.

Therefore, on receipt of your positive response, we shall then discuss the sharing ratio and modalities for transfer.I have all necessary information and legal documents needed to back you up for claim.

All I require from you is your honest cooperation to enable us see this transaction through. I guarantee that this will be executed under legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law.

Best Regards.




Barr Edward Henry Esq.
Principal Attorney,
EdwardHenry Chambers
Lome Togo.

My Answer:

Date: Wed, 5 Dec 2007 17:24:06 -0800 (PST) From: "Dina Kerik" <xxxxxxxxxx> View Contact Details Add Mobile Alert Subject: Re: Kerik's Estate To: edwardh007@yahoo.com

The only Kerik I know of worth more than a million is a cousin, Bernard Kerik, former Chief of Police of New York City under Rudy Guliani. Would you like me to put you in touch with him? He's under Federal indictment for various tax and mob problems, but I'm sure he'd be willing to send you something.

Fetish

Cucamonga. I haven't said it in a long time and thought I should.

It's the name of a California town that always reminded me of calls we had to each other as children. Meant to be mysterious and Native American-like as we crept around the swamp and palmettos that surrounded the house. All of us had our own particular signal. Megaline's was 'E-awk-kee', Tootie Middlebrook and my sister Lynda's signal changed depending on how drunk they were on Silly that particular day - the more dumb and doofus, the better. Bobby and Billy Tilly's sounded an awful lot like farts and burps, but we ignored them. Their red orange hair made it pretty plain where they were amongst all the green without a call. Mine was "Cucamonga".

I know I must have heard it somewhere, but it became my talisman against all things dangerous and nefarious when I was very young. It also reflected surprize and angst as in, "Your mama is whistling for you!"

"Cucamonga!" I'd say. The child's equivalent of, "Oh, shit!"

Talisman's are very important to us as adults. Many of us college educated and grown up folks don't think we need such things, wouldn't admit it, but almost to the one of us, we have them: Rabbit Feet, a lucky coin, our daddy's sweater or our granny's afghan, we're all attached to something physical as a shield Against IT at some point in our lives.

That's why I took to making Fetish Dresses for friends and special occasions. I start with a Dolly Dress (* see explanation below) and then decorate the hem or edges or seams or somewhere with fetish charms. As I make the dress and string the charms, I think about the person who will be wearing it and what I want for them. I want protection, a sense of specialness, health and security, full bank accounts, and mostly just love. Lest the men in my life felt left out, I've made Fetish Shirts, too.

There's a sort of alpha state that I get into as I work and bead and embellish. I often light a candle because I realize that this is a special ritual piece, just as important as any surplice a priest would wear or asfidity and bag a shaman would have. The pieces that go on the fetish are important. After the basic ritual garment is finished I sit in front of all my embellishments in piles of trays around me and think of the person, what they need, what would be most efficacious to them. The resultant choice often looks like there's positively NO rhyme or reason, but I know that there is.

I start beading and they just fall into place, making sense as they are placed next to each other like a sentence in a long paragraph. This works with an unknown person as well, when I'm just 'called' to make a piece and put it out THERE.

I've had people run across a lot crying with outstretched arms as if seeing a lost child or parent. They go straight up to the dress, remove it from the hangar and clutch it as if someone else might try to take it. This happened at a benefit art sale for a local feminist book store. "Her" story was that she was to go home and would see the father who sexually abused her for years. She was to testify at his trial for molesting another child. She had 'asked' for a special something to protect her when in his presence in the courtroom so that she could tell him and the world how he had damaged her life and sense of innocence. She didn't find it in a department store and she'd looked.

Her Fetish Dress was a serene peacock blue linen with handmade Celtic Runes sewn and painted on it around the hem. I used: FEOH- Protection, to hasten all affairs to their next stage; ANSUR- Education, communication, writing and debate; RAD -Safety in travel; KEN -Physical well being, confidence; JARA- Help in legal matters, YR- Protection, to remove obstacles, PEORTH- Legacies, finding lost things; EOLH- Protection against the evil thoughts of others; SIGEL - Health, physical strength and self-confidence, clear thinking; BEORC- Domestic, family; TIR -Recuperation, healing, victory; ENG -Successful completion; DAEG- Growth. Of course it was HER dress!

Now there is this new one for Tary Peace's birthday. She almost didn't get it because I lost her measurements and had to cut it from memory. When she finally got them for me, the dress was a done deal and I used them to check it. I was pretty close. I took two days to choose her talismans and bead it - I have to be in the right place to work on it.

What you're seeing above is the finished work. Even though she's a water sign, her soul is like fire. I thought that the one picture I took below expressed this best. I discovered on this particular blog that the fetishes don't like to be photographed. The last shot is what happened when I tried to clean them up. I feel like I'm getting the 'call' to make five more!! If it's you, could you please let me know your bust/waist/hip measurements and your height? It will help.

(Note* The name Dolly Dress is what I call the very free flowing, draping dresses with odd hems and gores, I've made for almost 30 years. They came from a dream I had where I was Dolly Parton in a room full to the walls with dresses of the most beautiful colors and fabrics. My Dark Man applauded approval in the dream, so I started making them. Women love them. Men think they're sexy because they just slip over the curves of a woman like a whisper.)

Are you expanded enough from dinners today? Are leftovers haunting your refrigerators -- and your thighs? I was extra good today. Just ate fixings and extras and Martha and Jim Marshall's house - no turkey and no pie. I had several invitations, as I'm such a Queen of a guest, thank you for friends!

The holidays brought out the best and the worst in people, as usual. Back in my younger days, I worked in some high-toned restaurants. Easy money, no work to bring home. We always said that holidays and full moons were when all the crazies came out. This year, both almost coincided.

I witnessed two blow outs - one when a poor old woman with paranoid schizophrenia started a rucus at the supermarket. The staff was chasing her aroung a shopping cart. And the crowded store was not condusive to a road race.

This evening, on the road in front of my home, a couple got out of their vehicle to have a domestic. It escalated. I dialed 911 because the word 'kill' was mentioned a number of times punctuating the curses. They rolled off before the Sheriff got here. So much for good will toward (wo)man.

ATCs are doing well on eBay considering that I've kept my art separate from my eBay business. I want to start listing them here as well. There are just a few of the Flasher Series left that didn't sell or trade at the Gala Show. We had lots of traffic at the gallery. The two fire marshalls conservatively estimated a turnout on opening night of around 5,000 people. I stayed out front and attached straps to everyone of age and took donations at one of the two front entrances.

I have some new art projects in the works. Also found some of the old writing from contributors to the Deepwater Journal piled in a box. Have promises of brand new writings from some of my 'children' yet to appear. I've gotten lazy about showing off art and words. Maybe I'll hit up some of my artist friends for something new.

Dina Kerik. Mood: Digestive

Coon Children

The burble of fuzz you see above are various parts of three infant raccoons I rescued from the side of the road. They were camouflaged so well that only my sixth sense told me to back up and check the overturned cardboard box. They had been dumped this evening. Why would any fool think that three coon babies were capable of getting up, fixing themselves a steak and going on about life without a mother is beyond comprehension.

I'd been at Martha's all day putting together ATCs to list for sale. We really worked an eleven hour day and I was ramped up to getting something done when I got home. Instead, these fuzzy children have become my wards and my job for the evening. I called M to let her know that I got home, thank her for the day and to tell her about my roadside acquisition. M sez, "Call a wildlife rescue or you'll have three more mouths to feed."

See. Martha knows about my penchant for feeding every stray that comes along - two AND four legged. They all come. She knows that I have this invisible symbol stamped in my aura with, "I WILL" gathered in fluted script all around me. And you already know that I feed a menagerie, including two cats, assorted adult raccoons, possums and various birds right here on the porch and yard of Dog Patch if you've been a reader. What I haven't had time to mention is that someone else dumped a beautiful Himalayan male cat in front of my property and I've been feeding him for about a week. I need to figure out what to do with him. And now these coon children come.

After going on line to a veterinary college, determining their ages from a measurement chart and reading the extent of specialized care that they would take, including tube hydration and emergency feeding, I felt the best I could offer them was a towel laden bed to snuggle into for a safe night until tomorrow comes and a specialist could take over. They were not interested in organic soy milk - my only subtitute on hand in lieu of mother's milk.

George the cat needed an explanation and is taking it pretty calmly after I let her check them out and told her that it was strictly a temporary situation. I called every facility that I could think of, including the Sheriff's Office. I got two return calls that both promised to take them in the morning. So. Here they'll stay until then. Just in case you think I don't do my share, I end with a picture of one of the coons I feed regularly on the porch. That's my toe. He doesn't care.

Phewwww!

Opening night. Over 5,000 people showed up to look, shmooz, buy art, eat, drink and just be there. Thank Goddess that there's only one opening night! I worked one of the front doors taking donations, slipping on pink and yellow wrist bands and giving directions to the bano, "Ou'est dans la salle de toilets, ya'll?" (First wooden door on the left, ladies; Second door, gents).

Friends came. I hugged them over the counter. Some stayed for a bit with me. If they went inside, I never saw them again. I was supposed to work one hour and ended up doing at least 5. I'm not complaining, mind you - I'm glad that the show was a success and they definitely needed help!!

I would definitely do it again if they'll have me back and judge me in next year. But when I got home at 2:00 last night, I fell into bed and slept for 14 hours - right through the artists' luncheon today!

All of this has been said with a smug, self-satisfied smile!

Gala Press Night

So. I am recuperating from the last months frenzy of preparation. Still not settled back in my skin. I imagine that it will take me some time to regroup. But tonight was wonderful!! Gala held the private press party along with a private viewing for our site sponsors' circle of friends. Hard to tell who were the doctors and who was press. Most of the artists were recognizable. We have that certain elan, don't you know. Besides. I wore my high top PF Fliers.

I have found some kindred souls there. Their art is so cogent to me that I cannot ignore them. You already know that I'm in love with Martha Brooks Marshall's art and sally forth merrily anytime I can cheerlead her on. Her paintings are just flat world-class good.

Another artist I have a creative crush on is Apatx Latorre. Besides being a spiritually kindred soul, he has a painting called "The River" which is so close to my visual view of the universe, is so rich in metaphor and technique, that I would own it if I could! Oh for all the money in China!! Martha says he's Gustav Klimpt on steroids! I will ask his permission to show it here, but not before he says so. That you have not heard of him yet is just because he's been busy doing life and travel as he sees it. That he's exotically gorgeous AND loves his family devotedly has earned him heart space with me. I will shamelessly promote him as I do me some Martha. He's that good!

Steve Sperry is another artist just discovered. I like his quirky style that's so reminiscent of fractal art. He's got a fractured sense of humor and a boy-next-door charm in a craggy sort of way. You want to bake him cookies and slap him around when he does dumb stuff. And he cleans up nicely!

Cathey Conte follows the legacy of art in a dynasty started by her mother Margaret Conte. Cathey's photos are just microcosmic. And. I WILL own some of Candace Knapp's pieces!

There were several others at the show who awed me. I intend to cultivate them and just hang, hoping to absorb some of their goody. I am humbled to be counted among such incredibly talented people. If you're in the Tampa area, get your butt down to 3965 Henderson Blvd and partake. This is a huge happening and a movement. I love my place in the back of the wagon!

Opening is tomorrow night, Friday from 7 until 1:00 and they have an open bar, incredible fashion show/living sculpture, DJ's playing in 2 rooms, food, an enormous floor space and will also donate to the Humane Society. You really didn't want to go clubbing tomorrow anyway, did you??

(The picture is of me peeping behing Lotus Robe, one of 4 I installed in the show.)

Almost

Put some finishing touches on my 3 installations and one hanging for Gala Corina. The show this year is phenomenal !! I have already picked out my favorites and keep adding to the list. The venue is incredible, huge. The artists this year are pure cream! I've met some real sweeties!

So. Just a few more things to do before opening. I'm finishing up my series of Artists Trading Cards for the show. They're a phenom where artists created 2 1/2" by 3 1/2" mini art works and sell or trade them. This year, 40 plus of us are participating. We will trade each other for a set and the balance of the 96 we agreed to create will be sold to support the show. Go here to learn about them: http://www.cedarseed.com/air/atc.html

My series is called 'Flasher'. Each features a coat or curtain that must be opened or moved aside to view. Some 'inner messages' are benign, others stare right back at you. Next time, I resolve to spend more time on them so they're more complex.

Forgot some of the little people I made for Swept Under to pin in falling out of pockets and from under the back train of the coat, but I'll take them with me tomorrow when I go to help sort and wrap the ATCs. Interested in doing your own ATCs??

So. I'm done. Almost.

(Ed. Note: Here's a short how-to video to get you started doing your own.

http://video.yahoo.com/video/play?vid=1098982549&fr=yfp-t-471 )

Deluge

Covered. Up to my gills in expectations. None of them necessarily extrapolated from the outside, but held to my bosom dearly, seriously. Knowing that if I did not complete the tasks laid before me, that I will be eternally damned.

It's an art show. Not a gamma ray bombardment. Still, I'm stressed. Why do this to myself? Are you kidding? I LOVE it! The detritus of creativity is fulsome even when it is rushed. You always get a high from creation.

Cleaned as part of the crew for Gala Corina Saturday. I say this weakly because I felt like the 5th teat on a boar. So many more competants abounding while I carried my cleaning supplies in the obligatory box from one destination to the other. I am not needed.

Should I celebrate or feel guilty? Get it done, oh vagrant youth with the body that doesn't tremble on a ladder. Paint walls until your clothes take on the tint of the pigment and the joints that don't freeze up into uncomfortable position have covered the 9 mile stretch of need to be spruce. Vacuum and pound and connect electrical circuitry until you have everything singing at the end of a switch. I'll sit over here and watch you.

The deal is, we're supposed to work as artists at Gala Corina. To participate means that you have to donate in kind to the drona of the show. I can give, have the will to, but the fact is that the flesh that is willing to create is less likely to perform on cue when called upon for physical labor.

Okay. Let's call the cat black here. I cannot participate much beyond a creative level. No matter. I have put out my soul in the month before making a new work. Swept Under. My labor hours are counted etherically. More about that later.

Deadline

I spent the last three days doing this when I should have been working. I am continually reminded how much I hate deadlines. How many more of them do I need before I learn?

Progress

I am making progress on the first project for Gala Corina. More details are coming through and I'm now adding a thin, red piping around the black wave accents for 'Swept Under'. I want the 'water' to look oily, thick and impenetrable on the bottom of the coat. Nothing for it but to use black Egyptian cotton. I used linen on another coat called 'Midnight Seas' when I wanted to accent the highlights of the moon on the ocean surface under the ship on the back and it worked well.

Made a mile of red bias for the piping and accents and the bases for both the outer layer and lining of the coat are together, if not pressed. I'll do that tonight. I used extra fabric for godets matching the stripes on the outer layer and lining that will look like a huge swell when the coat is worn in performance. I learned this trick ages ago when stage costuming to give that floating look like Frank Langela coming over the foggy backlit bridge or opening his cape on stage in an old Dracula take off. The air picks up the extra large bottom of the cape and makes it span out because of the bias. The air literally plays the hand of the bias.

Hopefully, the camera will be up and fully functional so I can show you what I mean. A picture is worth....

Research on the figures for the counterpane inside that Lufthansa gave me is sobering. The numbers of disappeared, sold into slavery and kidnapped for the sex trade and slave labor is appalling. I mean. My god. It's the 21st century NOT Medieval Europe or the American South of the 1860s!

Chihuahua

There he stood at the Delta Airlines gate, fatigues wrinkled and the polish waning on his combat boots from the 26 hour plane ride. Amazing how long a plane ride is on top of the planet when you could hook a string on them and pull them through the planet so much more quickly.

He's still beautiful! Almond shaped green eyes, head full of thick brown hair, broad shoulders. Mom always told me he was a spit for the old heartthrob actor Stewart Granger. Whatever. My Bobby's back home from the war.

He dropped his duffel bag and carry-on and ran for me. We were all over each other in 3 seconds flat. Yep. Absence does make the heart grow fonder. And the panties drift to the floor. After our long reunion weekend, we went out visiting old friends, my parents, the little tropical secluded park with clear springs and orchids where we used to go spooning. We made love on the hill and then discovered my butt had covered the copper headstone of the old park ranger buried there. Hope he enjoyed the worm's eye view. We certainly did try to wake the dead. I wanted to make my soldier happy.

And he was happy, but reserved those days. I often caught him looking at nothing, seeing nothing, and yet acutely aware of every fly buzz and door slam and change of temperature. If I spoke to him then, he would startle and spin on me wildly, arms up in an awkward pose as if holding something out in front of him. Then he would settle. Lord knows how many quarts of adrenaline coursed around that body then!!

Can't remember the exact occasion and why we were playing lawn tennis on the hill next to the park, but there we were with friends. Beautiful Fall weather with just a hint of chill in the air. Someone handed Bobby their new baby chihuahua puppy to admire while he waited for a serve. A bit of the haunted look left his eyes as he marveled being able to hold the entirety of the little brown thing in the palm of one hand. One of the guys yelled, 'Heads up! Incoming!', an unfortunate phrasing and meant as a joke.

Bobby reacted by dropping the puppy and volleying the ball back with a double-fisted volley so hard that it landed across the parking lot, the look of wonder replaced by grim panic and clenched jaw. This all happened before the pup hit the ground because, you see, a soldier is ingrained with this action/reaction thing. It gets in their cells after being a warrior. If they shave those cells off, new ones grow back with their beards.

The puppy yelped and Bobby gently picked it up as we all ran over. One of the tiny little back legs was obviously broken, twisted at an odd angle and already beginning to swell. The little thing just whimpered and shook in Bobby's hands. The woman who owned the new pup started screaming and yelling. "You broke it, you bought it!!", she rails at him. He looked absolutely stricken.

Everyone is discussing where to take the dog for care and someone suggests a close by emergency vet clinic. The dog gets there, is treated, sedated heavily and goes home with us. He's nervous and never really the same trusting being. I'm talking about the dog here but it applies to my guy, too. Bobby disappears shortly afterward.

When next I see him, he's wearing my dad's old 1950s sports coat. I still have it, moth holes and all. Cream colored wool with navy blue and red specks sprinkled over it like nonpareils on an Uncle Sam cupcake. The wide lapels and heavily padded shoulders date the coat and make him look even more broad shouldered than he is.

"Where have you been?", I ask. He looks calmer now, but distant. The edginess is gone replaced with something else I can't quite put my finger on.

"I could have killed that puppy", he looks at me and turns to walk away. He's escaping me, the injured dog, and himself.

"Robert Allen Wujick", I yell in my best authoritative voice. "It was an accident, a reaction. It's to be expected. You just got back from a place where split seconds mean the difference between coming home or not. It's just not your fault and the dog will be fine."

He turns, smiles that smile that lets you know that it's not a smile and shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. None of us will ever be the same. That's what they do to you. And you know, it don't mean shit. It's for absolutely nothing. It's money. Just about money. Absolutely nothing.", and he walks away. This time, I don't see him again. Ever. Now. On to reality.

You see, Bobby brought his coping mechanism home with him like lots of vets do. He self treated his raging case of PTSD with injectable cocaine between his toes so he could keep it to himself. I was so naive that I didn't know until the cops showed up at our door on Crenshaw Avenue to get back the stuff he stole from the stockroom of his job to fence for drugs. I learned about the cocaine and it's hiding place when he tried to flush the kit and it's contents down the toilet while I was talking to the cops in the living room. He showed me how the soldiers took apart a Burma Shave can and stashed their drugs inside with paper towels around them so the needles and spoon didn't rattle.

He then took to private enterprise selling marijuana from our front porch hidden in plain site in jars between my begonia plants and African violets. Still naive, I let him water the plants as he insisted on doing.

I found out about the marijuana market when a high school friend ended up being the telephone repairman come to fix the beeping and outages on the phone. He came back in the house and showed me a wiry little gadget taken from the big telephone box across the street. "This is your problem," Whitey said. "It's a tapping device to listen in on your calls."

The man in the black suit and hat reading a paper in the green Ford Fairlane on our side street reading the newspaper during the hottest of Florida days suddenly made sense. The driveby's of police cruisers that I applauded as just keeping our dicey neighborhood safe with extra patrols also got real clear for me. I quit waving and smiling at the cops. I was being watched. And tapped. Don't let anyone tell you that the spying on Americans is just a latter day anomaly, it's modernity in the Patriot Act.

I confronted Bobby on both of these drug related issues. We eventually temporarily separated over the drugs, the heartache of a miscarriage, and his inability to sleep because of night terrors and hold a job. Then I really never did see him again. He was beheaded when his van left the highway along Alligator Alley and went straight into a tree. He was coming back to Tampa with a load of recreational drugs and fell asleep at the wheel.

I still carry a spot of him on my left thigh. A 2" X 4" bit of jungle rot he gave me brought back from the war. It itches a lot. It's brown. I dutifully put antifungal's, steroids, melaleuca alternifolia on it. Nothing can kill it. It stays there right on my thigh. After all this time 40 years later. Right on the place he used to like to put his hand. 'The perfect armrest,' he said.

Bobby said they used to pass the time between patrols and skirmishes playing poker. Life is kinda like that. It really is a poker game with bluffs, steely eyed determination and the luck of the draw. So.

I'll see you, Bobby. And raise you one Chihuahua.

(Note: This is a cautionary tale. History repeats itself if we do not learn from it. Part of the above is my dream from last night. My current spate of standing on street corners holding anti-war signs and activism probably brought it on. You figure out which part. The rest is a recounting of life after he returned from Viet Nam in November of 1967. There are no good wars. Vietnam killed Bobby just as sure as a bullet, only slower and much more painfully. I had a good old cry. I guess you never do get over grieving. Or maybe I haven't done enough of it. )

I'm An Artist. Again.

So. Martha Marshall took me by my little hand almost 20 years ago when I announced that I wanted to 'do' an art show. I corraled her into doing this since, a: I'd never been in a real art show, and b: didn't know how to 'do' it, and c: had never been to art school, and d: passed along the fact that we all hang onto someone when we need to get our sea legs under us.

My sister, Linda clung onto me for balance at our tap dance lessons when we were gangly little girls, me only slightly more graceful and able to stand on my one leg while the other did a step-ball-chain. So. I clung onto Martha.

Now. That Martha consented to hit the ball and drag Fred with me is a-mazing in itself. She's like this world-class, very well known American artist who exemplifies hard work and success. The fact that she's been my friend for almost two decades makes me puff up big with pride. Google Martha Brooks Marshall or even just Martha Marshall and you'll see what I mean. Her works are all over the planet and she has at least a dozen shows and projects going on at any one time.

She's generous with more than just me. She mentors others about their art like a mother hen, pushing, coaxing, giving art supplies and instant support and tries to pass along what she's learned. She's no dilletante about that.

Okay. So almost 20 years ago, I decided I wanted to show what I call my Dream Coats. Back then, this title was exclusive to me and my work. Now, the phrase is kind of hackneyed. I could truly call mine Dream Coats because the ideas for them, nay, the entire design, color, writings and construction come to me in a 3-D, Panavision and Technicolor dream. If you're a past reader of my blog, you know that my dream life is very vivid, rich and detailed.

An alter personality I call Miss Lufthanza (because the 'voice' she uses in my dreams sounds very much like a stewardess on an International flight giving directions for the exit, fasten your seatbelt and no smoking signs), does a sort of drum roll in my sleeping brain and announces that I'm about to get instructions for a coat. I ignore many of these because there's just not enough time and material to make them all. As Martha says, "So much art, not enough lifetimes".

So. Lufthanza shows me in my dream mind a coat. I get to scan inside seams for construction details, the colors, materiels and then she gives me a counterpane that is mostly to go on a panel inside the back of the coat next to the wearer's back so it gets absorbed. The pockets turn inside out so I can see if anything is to be written there. All I have to do is wake up, sketch it, write it down and make it. As I said, many of them never get made. But I'd done a few and wanted Marty to show me how to get them out in the public to be seen.

Sometimes, there are moving parts and lights in them. One coat called "Paper Dolls with Bishop's Mitre" featured a photo of me in my underwear pushing a vacuum and several paper doll figures with various forms of women's roles - like a June Cleaver mother, Nun, School Girl, Las Vegas mannequin complete with crystal chandelier headdress, a pinup coming out of a cake all lit up with flashing lights, Maids, Teachers, Professional Call Girls -- you get the idea. There were also a pair of silicone breast implants next to a Frederick's of Hollywood ad for a padded butt enhancer.

I played "I want a Paper Doll" by the the Mills Brothers on a continuous loop and hung a purple and white Bishop's Mitre above the coat for the installation. It won best of show but was not allowed to travel with the rest of the art because it was considered too controversial. Secretaries are scary you know. Or maybe it was me in my underwear.

Another one is my signature piece. Called "Lotus Robe", it has 3 very detailed lotus blossoms petaled in 3-D parts with metal dew drops, crystal stamens and a stuffed fish in a pond in the train of the coat. Several other fishes are swim between the layers of the pond. The fact that this piece is brilliant shot violet and hot pink makes it one that you can't sneak around in. That one's won me lots of ribbons, money and has been worn on stage by director Anna Brennan, been the bride's coat at a wedding and has appeared at several operas. I have no idea where it is now. I'm hoping to find it in some of the mountains of fiber and trims I have here at Dog Patch.

I've since done many gallery shows, been invited by colleges and universities, even the State of Florida to participate in shows. Then I stopped. The reasons are too convoluted to explain here, but I've only made a very limited few since showtime. Most of them were for private collectors like hispanic artist Pedro Parra who wears his every year to the local gay film festival and other events. And Jan Roberts who heads up a national green movement owns one. Director/actor Anna Brennan finally got one of her own. My friend, Annie Shanahan owns the most of them and wears them around the house for empowerment. I'm willing her all the remaining coats because she loves them the most.

Now another flood of coats have come up and I can't ignore them. I applied to Gala Corina in Ybor. It's a very prestigious show and I knew that only the best of the best would be judged in. I've never been turned down for a judged show, but figured that this could be my first one since humility seems to be a theme in my life just now. Glory. I got in! They deposited my entry fee check and I'm a participant. I'm so excited I could pee my pants!!

I just started the first coat for the project this past weekend when I got notice. My coats are usually very attractive and it's only on closer inspection that you see the gaffs, barbs and uglies. This one is no different. If I can figure out how to get my camera loaded onto my new computer, I'll take a few photos for you to see as I construct it. It's called 'Swept Under'. When you see it, you'll know why.

(Note: The three coats above are construction pictures of "Elemental Fire", "Donatatus' Tragedia et Comedie", the the missing for now "Lotus Robe". My gallery pictures of the completed coats are buried on the hard drive of my defunct old computer.)

Zeitgeist

Now that I got your attention with my attitude, I've belonged to the Apollo Alliance Project for years. I'd love to introduce you if you aren't already familiar. The wars will stop only when there's no profit in fighting them.

I'd also like to forward a movie and a movement called 'Zeitgeist'. The movie is almost 2 hours long and can be watched in each of it's three segments. My friends Joan and Andi O introduced it to me. It cover ways in which we, the Great Unwashed are being curried for a world government run by the very wealthiest of people.

Some of it may be hard to watch, hard to swallow. But it will change your outlook and fire you up for revolutionary thinking. You'll start questioning everything. I've talked about the dumbing down of America forever, maintain that religion is crowd control, and know the pagan origins of many of Judeo-Christian myths. It may offend. Offense gets our blood up and snaps dendrites to attention. It makes your hair curl. It makes us think.

Part Two raises the provocative issues surrounding manufactured wars through the vehicle of terror and fear, how we were duped en masse into attacking Afghanistan and Iraq for hidden interests. The movie will ask you to use your logic to explain several very obvious malapropisms surrounding the 9/11 attacks. You'll get a short view of history.

The conclusion talks about entertainment and mind occupation and how media is a willing cohort in this plan. You'll learn about the banking interests that make up the Fed Reserve, the IRS, the North American Partnership treaty I spoke about the I.D.s being introduced in the Carolinas for at Wednesday's meeting.

Before you write this off as mad rambling, there are back up articles, references, a soon-to-be interactive feature with all materiels documented in the film listed in the links from A-list sources.

I hope you'll join me in watching it as you can, seeing it through to the end, forwarding it to as many of your upline as you can to spread the word. You'll know by the credits why Brandon is such an onclave of conservatism and sheep.

Helps to have a high rez 'puter screen to view it.

http://zeitgeistmovie.com/

Blessings,
Dina

Ed. Note: (I sent the above email to my activist group and my upline. I hope you'll do the same after the viewing. We all need awakening. The wake up photo was graciously shared with me by my cousing, Deb - thanks, baby.)

Falling

Seasons are changing. The Earth is getting ready to bed down for winter time. The leaves are turning ever so slightly on the trees. Even here in sunny Florida I can feel the turn of the seasons. You develop an accute nose when you live here. The sunlight gets thinner, longer. Doesn't look quite like blindingly brilliant midday in Miami Beach in mid July where any vulgar deed has to be examined under incendiary light.

There's also a tang in the air that is less of the ocean and more of the earth and mold. Things are going underground, including a friend or two.

Shirley died at 1:30 p.m. Tuesday morning. I'd gone over Monday while some of her friends were throwing her a cheese cake and cocktail party. Now. M'Lady was already in that coma state where you know that the person is out of the body, already packed bags, but keeping the sack of bones alive just in case someone needs a good shock.

After the crowds left, a few of us diehards sang pagan songs to her 'til about 10:00 p.m.:

The Earth, the Air, the Fire, the Water,

Return, return, return, return...

and

May the Circle be open and never broken,

May the love of the Lady be forever on your heart,

Merry meet, and merry part,

And merry meet again.

Shirley's sack of bones snorkled a few times, opened clouded eyes and glaced at us all and she wiggled her legs a bit as if dancing the spiral one more time. But she was already gone then. I knew it. I left.

Took care of business, a doctor's appointment in the a.m., mailed a few packages and arrived about an hour after she cut the cord. Ray looks like a spiked deer, lost and unsure of the next direction to travel. Judy, Shirley's daughter got in her car to go back to West Palm and check herself back into hospital for the pneumonia she was in for. Hospice counted the sacks of meds, checked the morphine and filled out papers. Jeannie and a nurse washed the body and put on her favorite oils. A long stem yellow rose was placed on her pillow.

I'm sure she was catatonic at seeing herself look ever so shitty bloodless holding a beautiful bloom. Three of us circled her and sang the goodbye cup to her and the crematorium was called to remove the remains.

I went to Joanne's Fabrics, the grocery store, saw a friend I haven't seen in ages and chatted her up. I wonder if any of them knew that I had kissed a corpse with lavender oil on her forhead not an hour or so before?

I'm happy. I mean, truly calm, singing happy. I did all my crying and wailing while she was going through the guts and nuts of dying. Now the deed is done, so are the tears.

I'll see you soon enough, my friend.

Appendix

Strange title to put with a protest picture. Makes sense when I tell you that I protest having an enlarged appendix in my Crone years. Cat scan says it's enlarged like the rest of me. Baffled appendixes are usually an adolescent things. What does this mean? Are the Goddesses trying to tell me that my second childhood is coming soon? If so, I'm ready to start playing.

The photo is one taken by the Move On folks at the war protest the other evening. I'm the dumpling on the right standing behind one of our vets and his flag. I'm hoping to show you less of myself in upcoming months. Martha and I are on a diet to pound of some pounds of flesh. We'll see if my non-existant thyroid cooperates.

I gave up meat a while back after having seen some video on how the meat industry treats animals. Before you write that off as bleeding heart shit, take a look at it. There's enough toxins, hormones and just plain wrongness to this to make you refuse to even look at a burger commercial. I seem to be turning into a late age hippie with social conciousness.

Sat with Shirley again this past week. Her open wound and the fistulas are actually looking better. You can no longer see into her inner workings like an ant farm but the yeast infection in her system has given her more blisters. I'm going to try to pick up another shift or two with my recalcitrant appendix in mind. I'll be closer to Brandon Hospital from her house.