Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Happiness is a Trailer Park Paved in Faith

Last year, I got my head bit off by an angry woman in a store parking lot because after she so kindly gave me directions to a street that I had been trying to find for well over an hour, I wished her "Happy Holidays!"
"Happy Holidays? It's Christmas! Why do 'you people' have to remove Christ from Christmas? He's the reason for the season!"
I've learned my lesson, as most trailer park girls have to, and this year I will keep 'Christ' in Christmas and 'Hanne' in Hanukhah and 'Kwan' in Kwanza and "Ram" in Ramadan and 'Solis' in Solstice.
This whole ordeal got my modular home wheels turning and I did some research...
It sounds like a plot that Dan Brown might have dreamed up: Christianity has nebulous but symbiotic roots in an underground pagan religion and the figure of Jesus himself was modelled on a pagan god worshipped by the Romans named Mithras.

*Some scholars have suggested that Mithras was born on the 25 of December, although this is more speculation than fact. Of course that's famously Jesus's birth date too, ("You people need to keep 'Christ' in Christmas!") but there is no evidence to prove that Jesus was born on that day either. It's more likely that the celebration of these religious birthdays was assigned to a date that was already a winter festival celebrated by the pagan population at that time.
*Both Mithras and Jesus were born of virgins. This is slightly problematic because a more widely-accepted legend has it that Mithras was born as a fully grown adult and emerged from a rock. If it's possible for a rock to be virginal, and I think it is, then we could say that this is a similarity.
*Banqueting was also a central part of Mithraism. Eating implements, animal bones and cherry pips are often found in Mithraea. The Last Supper is probably the biggest banguet ever written about, except perhaps the bbq's that happen annually under space 5's carport.
*There are examples of Mithraea underneath Christian churches in Rome.
*The idea of salvation also existed in Mithraism. On the Mithraeum underneath the church of Santa Prisca on the Aventine hill in Rome, there is some lettering that reads: “et nos servasti . . . sanguine fuso (and you have saved us ... in the blood that has been shed).
I am hesitant to say "Happy Holidays" here at the trailer park, let alone, "Merry Mithras."
It's seems cruel and unreasonable to ask folks to re-think the whole idea of Christ being born on December 25th...which might lead to the whole issue of the Wise Men and then of course the debate involving Santa Claus himself.
Happiness is a trailer park paved in faith. A homestead where we can be thankful for the season, the stockings tacked on the fake wood paneling, the honey-glazed hams, the Walmart bargains.
Space 11 places in nativity scene in her bay-window religiously each year, and all the figurines are Caucasian...
Well, I won't even go there!
Merry Mithras to each of you!

Friday, November 26, 2010

Allergic Reaction

So my dog is allergic to Prunedale. We have that in common. She endured, as did we, a 6 hour (usually 4.5) drive to my aunt's the day before Thanksgiving. Away from the trailer park she wakes up wide-eyed, itch-free and no paw-chewing. After weeks of sleepless nights wracking my brain with article after article on dog allergies, phone calls and emails to vets, blowing out my Google search, there is only one simple thing for me and my dog: TO GET THE HELL OUT OF THE PARK! We just need about 5-6 hundred thousand to buy a home in an allergic-free environment. Is that really too much to ask?
We survived Thanksgiving without slaughtering a turkey. (We chose a grass-fed cow instead.)
Today's headlines read: A NEW THANKSGIVING TRADITION. Beneath there is a picture of Leonard Coleman, bargain-shopper, having the salesman at Best Buy measure a 60 inch flat screen during the "Thanksgiving Evening Bonus-Buy Hour." America's 'traditions' leave a lot to be desired. Why wait until "Black Friday" to be the best consumer you can be? Why not ravage the stores on the actual holiday like you ravage a humongous turkey drumstick? Why wait until "Black Friday?" Go at half-time of one of the 3 televised NFL games; yet another wonderful Thanksgiving American Tradition.
The name "Black Friday" originated in Philadelphia, where it was used to describe the heavy and disruptive pedestrian and vehicle traffic which would occur on the day after Thanksgiving. Use of the term began by 1966 and began to see broader use outside Philadelphia around 1975. Later an alternative explanation began to be offered: that "Black Friday" indicates the period during which retailers are turning a profit, or "in the black."
Well, at least the word "black" is used in a positive context, sort of. Let's see, there's black cats, black crows, black humor, and of course "the neighborhood is changing 'cuz those people are movin in" kind of black...
Gone are the traditions of sitting with the elders (as Greg Mortenson tragically pointed out) or taking long walks in multi-colored leaves, or baking yummy delicacies form scratch... Shit, that's what Costco is for. They have one hellofa bakery!
Sitting here in my aunt's cozy, clean, 2000 sqaure foot home I quickly arrive at one single conclusion: I, like my dog, am allergic to Prunedale! I'm allergic to the Valero gas station where the boys with "GET 'ER DONE" bumper stickers meet every morning for coffee and a smoke. I'm allergic to the town library that has only 1 (never available) copy of Under the Banner of Heaven and zero copies of anything written by Anais Nin. I'm allergic to the jacked-up hydraulic pick-ups that the 16 year old wanna-be cowboys rev and race in front of the liquor store. I'm allergic to Nosey Rosey who lives next door and her mutt Sugar who takes a dump by my flamingo.
And I'm allergic to Black Friday. ACHOOOO!

Monday, November 22, 2010

A Dream in my Heart

There's something almost seductive about coddling a mug of "brown stuff" when you are up at the crack-o-dawn. As if in prayer; a full-on Hail Mary, I speak directly to the Goddess of the Peaberry, whose effects I thirst for like no other!
The myth of the Blue Moon originated sometime around 1946 and people jumped on it like mosquitoes on a bug-zapper. Overnight, you could hear everyone in every town across this great land of ours saying, "Oh! That only happens once in a blue moon." Songs were written and hearts were broken and Blue Moon became a household word...
Blue Moon
You saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own

The thing is, last night's blue moon was no more blue than I am straight. It was a vanilla pudding white. And this whole myth, lie, dramatization causes me to wonder what else do we as humans take and run with? Of course,
you and I know that it is totally plausible for someone to turn water into wine, right? We especially know this after several glasses of wine. But is it really believable that a snake could actually speak to a woman or that a man could walk on water? And what about this John of God from Brazil now the subject of a full-length documentary, several books, DVD's, and Miracle Vendor of crystal beds which you can purchase for your home using your credit card or Paypal! Fucking Oprah even sent "her team" there to be healed! Check out the link I have attached below. This guy is a solid miracle! Or myth! Or lie! I have come to believe and accept folks that it is all in the eye of the beholder. Erich Heller once said, "Be careful how you interpret the world: It is like that." And if we were open to the idea that we don't really see things as they are, but as we are, then perhaps our self-righteous arrogance would begin melting away.
Perspective... Mine. Yours. A Nation's. A World's.
Last week, I was walking my dog in a park in a nearby town where you don't wear blue or red unless you want to get shot at, and a woman came out of her adobe-clad house with 3 doglets, only one of which was on a leash. Instantly, one of the dogs bolted at my dog and was aggressivley barking and growling. I scooped my dog up and asked the woman to please put her dog on a leash as it was obvious my dog was freaked out...She said, "This is a dog park, lady! Don't bring your dog here if you don't expect to run into other dogs." Mustering all my patience and digging deep for a logical perspective, I asked her politely to just take them to the other end of the grass so I could depart. She puffed her chest out at me and told me to "Fuck off!" She reminded me in her macha voice that I didn't know who I was dealing with...
(Obviously, she didn't know she was dealing with trailer park girl.) "Look, my thinking is, yes, this is a dog park but all dogs are required to be leashes. It's an ordinance and created to ensure safety." (My persepctive.) "Don't tell me what to do! Take your fucking dog somewhere else, bitch!" (Her perspective.)
So I did. (My intelligence.)

love, peace, and an objective perspective to each of you!


Friday, November 19, 2010

Life is Good

Kimmie from space 6 ran out of her unit the other day with so much jubilation I thought we had pulled out of Afghanistan...
She couldn't wait to tell me that her and Tommy had upgraded and that they now have a 1989 Rockwood Driftwood Class A Motor Home  that features so many upgrades including a much roomier cab, Frigidaire microwave, extended overhead cabinets and a barrel chair that's kinda this "Merlot" color.  
Seems her husband Tommy has now joined an RV traveling group called Trailmanor Trailblazers and they will be heading out to The Gold Country over Thanksgiving if the weather holds.

Tommy's this special guy... Wears those white, tattered "wife-beater" tee shirts that my dad used to wear, 'cept Tommy wears them all day, from sun up to sun set. He usually pops open a Keystone about 8:30 a.m. and carries it around with him like snail and his shell.  Tommy doesn't really work.  He "tinkers" and "fiddles" and plans out various areas that need some "fixin up" then pops another and thinks about it...
Every year around this time, Tommy begins planning his Annual Front Yard Christmas Extravaganza.  Each year competing with himself to out-do himself.  Last year, he added a life-size blow-up Santa in full-on Biker Clothes riding on a Harley, Rudolf sitting up on his carport "takin a breather" and holding a Coors-Light in his front paws, and of course, the usual  array of elves. ( "I  find 'em on sale every January and stock up!")  His abundance of lights  caused a power surge here in the park last year, so he paid to have his unit re-wired to withstand the seasonal voltage.
Tommy's mother-in-law lives in the park. (Now there's another whole blog in itself!)  Every evening, Tommy revs his rose-colored 3- wheeler, puts Kimmie on the back, each with their own Keystone in matching Coolie-Cups,  and drives the few hundred feet to her modular...just for a visit.

I'm happy for you, Kimmie.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

How's Your Day Going?

Woke up this morning in need of a laugh and came across a joke that a friend recently sent me...

There I was sitting at the bar staring at my drink when a large, trouble-making biker steps up next to me, grabs my drink and gulps it down in one swig.
"Well, whatcha gonna do about it?" he says, menacingly, as I burst into tears.
"Come on, man," the biker says, "I didn't think you'd CRY. I can`t stand to see a man crying."
"This is the worst day of my life," I say. "I'm a complete failure. I was late to a meeting and my boss fired me. When I went to the parking lot, I found my car had been stolen and I don't have any insurance. I left my wallet in the cab I took home. I found my wife in bed with the gardener and then my dog bit me."
"So I came to this bar to work up the courage to put an end to it all.
I bought a drink, I dropped a capsule in and am sitting here watching the arsenic dissolve. Then some dummy shows up and drinks the whole thing! But enough about me, how's your day going?"

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Greg in 2012!

tpg: Spent the evening with some of the members of The Bad Girls Book Club; had a delicious and healthy meal at The Golden Fish and then listened to author, humanitarian and the man I want for President in 2012, Greg Mortenson speak to a crowd of close to 1,500! Three Cups of Tea has been read by all the military generals, many of our legislators and is now a required reading of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Wow. Not bad for a guy who simply wanted to climb a mountain, failed to reach the top, got lost in the boonies of Afghanistan, and decided to build a school for the girls in a remote village.

GM: The first word in the revelation of the Koran was “Iqra”, which means “to read”. What Allah said is that we should seek truth and get an education. I have talked to imams (person of leadership position) and nothing in the Koran says that girls can’t go to school. I would say that in the Hadith (teachings of the Prophet), it says that the ink of the scholar is greater than the blood of a shaheed (martyr).

tpg: General David Petraeus did read the book. (After his wife placed it on his nightstand with a post-it that said "Read before any military articles.") Petraeus said that he got three "bullet points" (Pun intended.) from the book: *listen more, *respect, and *build relationships. Personally, this seems a bit like simple common sense, but hey, I'm just a girl from a trailer park on the bad side of town... What do I know?

GM: The Lesson? People can be empowered. We are driven to help people, but it is necessary to empower people. There is a substantial difference between helping and empowering.

tpg: Amen brother! Same holds true here at the park...

GM: You need "local buy-in" for projects. The Taliban and other warrior groups tend to be reluctant to bomb a school they built themselves or that has very strong local support.

tpg: Makes sense! The Taliban does not wish to make another enemy by pissing off a village after blowing up their school! Speaking of pissing off, this may piss off my large, ever-growing male fan base, but Greg also said this...

GM: If you educate a boy, you educate an individual. Educate a girl, you educate the community.
Educating a girl also means you can reduce the population explosion and reduce the infant girl mortality rate. In Pakistan, they use less than 2% of their GDP for education. There is no national initiative to educate all children. Meanwhile, the Taliban bombs about 3 schools a day in Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Taliban fears the idea of the "ink of the scholar is mightier than the blood of martyrs."
In the end, it is the tenacity of mothers who send their daughters to schools, often risking their lives to do so.
Education is the long term solution to terrorism because the Taliban recruits in the most illiterate areas, so the recruits are then more easily indoctrinated.

tpg: Greg when is the Grand Opening of your Campaign Headquarters? Sign me up. I have oodles of free time; well, in between the "septic tank over-flows", fire-lane parking violations, chasing rabid dogs, and serving the 3/60's to the residents that can't pay their rent...I am free to not only volunteer but lead your campaign for President of the United States of America in 2012!
We all should "fail" at climbing a mountain just once to see what our own potential might be..
To read more about Greg Mortenson,please check-out his blog at


Saturday, November 13, 2010

Welcome to the Black Hole

Finding myself in a dark cave-hole tonight friends....No one really desires to read a blog that begins like this! I apologize in advance... But it's a fact and the cave is dark, deep, damp and depressing.
Perhaps it's not a global crisis or spiritual phenomenon that has triggered such a venture over to the dark side, but it is telling and current nonetheless.

I am seriously considering removing myself from Facebook; Quiting Cold Turkey! I've become a fucking addict you know, but more consequential than that is the whole concept which falls short of true inter-personal interaction, communication, genuine understanding and just basic human contact. In other words, FACEBOOK SUCKS! There, I said it! You can justify it anyway you like my pals...GO AHEAD! Been there. Done that. But the truth? The truth is some rich, selfish punk-ass kid named Mark Zuckerberg (Born in 1984!!) became a billionaire overnight with this egotistical, superficial and superfluous way of relating. Oh! So your friend has 258 friends and her next door neighbor has 1,018 and I have 68. (I used to have more but I "de-friended" several over time when they've annoyed me!) and guess what? He, She, You, I, We don't actually know 2/3 of the people on our own F*@*&^n friendship list! What's that about?

So...here's the plot's outline: Recently someone's comment affected my "little trailer park heart" and I in turn unintentionally offended her, and she in turn was misunderstood by him; and he who we have in common, though, I haven't seen him in years, but still call him "friend," got hurt and though I've never even met her, she's my Facebook friend...or was.

My words came out all wrong. You know they did.

Ok! I'm just gonna say it no matter how unpopular it might be...

Friday, November 12, 2010

2 Hoes in the Carport

5:35 a.m.
So, it's fucking dark outside and my partner is up with 3 tools that I have absolutely no idea their names or functions. She is attempting to fix our kitchen faucet which went from full force to .006 pressure last night over a dinner of veggie burgers and cheese. To her right is a "Home Improvement" manual open to the "Do-It-Yourself-Plumber" page and to her left are all these "mystery" tools. I stumble out with gooey-caked eyes and one sole purpose in mind: MOVING HER OUT OF MY WAY TO MAKE COFFEE! (Which I can't do there, she cautiously reminds me, as there is no water pressure in the kitchen!) GRRRRR!!

In speaking with a close friend and fellow writer yesterday, I was reminded that my blog, or any blog for that matter, needs to be consistently written and sent out into the universe on a regular, perhaps daily basis or how in the hell will I build a following? Oh! Is that my purpose for taking on the identity of "Babbling Brook" or "Rambling Rose of the Internet!?!" That's as good a reason as any I suppose.
It wouldn't have been so strenuous to face the no water in the kitchen at a god awful hour had I not been up until some god awful time last night... I must have been in and out of sleep because at one point I was informed I yelled out, "What are we going to do about retirement money?" It was completely random and I guess the sound of my own voice woke me up and filled me with worry. "This thought is long over-due since you are a 52 year old woman now!" I heard my mother's voice speaking to me. So, what did I do? Well...what I always do when I'm in a panic about no water pressure in the kitchen or the statue we bought that is too heavy for me to lift alone or Space 17 wanting a phone call back regarding the video surveillance camera put up by his next door neighbor: I WOKE MY PARTNER UP TO HAVE HER MAKE IT BETTER!!! SHE in fact is the Queen of Logic, the Rock of All Boulders! SHE, and ONLY SHE, will ease my retirement worries...
"Go back to sleep, babe. It's all ok. We've never worried about this so why should we start now?" Her voice is always so serene...so reassuring! Yet, I know she's thinking "WTF? It's 2:00 a.m."

Ah. The life of an insomniac! Sidonie Gabrielle once wrote, "In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.” I wonder what stage I'm in?

The other day I was "walking the park" taking note of the surplus of kitsch that surrounds me when I couldn't help but notice the new puchase at space 33: A life-size reproduction of a Dauschend; authentic in color, poking it's head of a Shasta Daisy Shrub! At first siting, I was prepared to write 'em up for 2 park violations: No Pet Agreement on file and Dogs Unleashed and Unattended! Of course, I must admit the fake dog fits in perfectly in space 33's yard which includes about a dozen gnomes, heart-shaped birdhouses made of the finest plastics, and 3 USA flags; one so large you could use it for a picnic blanket!
Unsure if you are aware of this fact, but in trailer parks there are no garages, only carports. We actually bartered to have ours included in the sale price when buying out "unit." Last weekend, we were doing some gardening; I in the side yard and my partner in our Zen Garden (aka Meditation and Cocktail Area) I yelled over the fence, "Honey do we have a hoe in the carport?" This voice sounded back, "Only if you are in there, honey!" She's a kick, isn't she?
7:45 a.m.
David arrives from Classic Drains to access and repair the kitchen faucet.
8:02 a.m.
David gives me a bill of $97.45 after finding a clogged aerator in the tiny piece at the opening of the faucet. He "included the 5% Senior Discount in the price" though he made a point of clarifying that "he knew I wasn't a senior."

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

An Afghan, A Dog and a Bowl of Onion Soup

Tonight's the night to relax and damn it, ponder. What could possibly be better to expedite this than being curled up with the soft, cotton-knitted afghan your aunt made, a rescue dog that sleeps blissfully in her Martha Stewart bed, and a medium-size bowl of home-made (moi) turkey, onion and cumin soup? Nada! Nada could be better, and as life would have it...I will slurp my soup (because I can!) and let you know a secret that I've been holding... It occured today while Delilah and I headed out on our routine walk over the dirt trails behind the 'ole tralier park.
It's a secret because well, I debated whether I should share it with you all because in sharing it, there is the possibility that you might find it trite or laughable or even insignificant. Of course, I could give a flying-fuck if you find it trivial or meaningless!" LOL.

So, I have this history with butterflies. Wen knows this, and now you do. In high school, my mother bought me everything with butterflies on it: stationery, tee-shirts, jewelry. I bought her butterfly decorated Hallmark cards in return. It was "our thing."
When I turned 18, I got a small tattoo on my right ankle of a butterfly in flight. (If you had seen the guy who held the ink, you would understand why all he got to see was my right ankle!) My mom never out-grew the whole butterfly thing even though I did. For years she sent me things adorned with the winged-creature, framed my butterfly poems and even decorated several birthday cakes with icing images of the orange and black moths. After she died in 1996, I had two very strange incidents happen... One where I was washing my car, a 1975 convertible VW Bug, WITH THE HOOD DOWN!! As I'm spraying away, a monarch lands on the head-rest of the passenger side and sits there. I continue spraying, wiping, moving from one side of the vehicle to the other...and the damn thing doesn't move. "Hi, mom." I heard myself saying. That was in 2001 or 2002. Back then, I continually asked for "signs" from her. It happened a second time at her gravesite in 2005. I was planting flowers, cleaning up debris and re-arranging items left by friends when it landed and stayed without a flutter for a seemingly endless amount of time. I even intentionally "shooed it!" Anyways, so on the trail today Delilah, my senior deaf dog with all sorts of "issues" and I were walking at a snail's pace and a monarch landed on the dirt in front of me. It didn't move. I walked by it and so did Delilah and that thing stayed fearlessly planted! I remained intently fixed on it, and when it finally flew up and away, I attempted unsuccessfully to locate its air-path. Then, out of nowhere, it landed on my sweatshirt! On the left side of the lapel to be exact! And you know it! It stayed. It stayed and stayed even as I continued walking.

So aloud, I told her about my day...about this new pooch we've rescued...about my unquenchable desire to be published... about the daily happenings in my extraordinary relationship of now 16 years...and about how much I appreciate her near if only through this "sign." All this, I uttered outloud, as if the surrounding eucalyptus trees could be trusted with a secret as well as you...

Monday, November 8, 2010

Stick A Needle In

Steven Hayes was sentenced to death by a Connecticut jury today for his role in the deadly 2007 home invasion that killed Jennifer Hawke-Petit and her two daughters. This was a unanimous decision. Not 41 minutes after the decision came down, someone posted on Facebook the following comment which was immediately followed by series of "likes" from the woman's friends...
"Steven Hayes gets the death penalty! Thank God! Erase this bastard from the planet!"

It's comical to me how some Christians (this woman does in fact list her religious identity as "Christian" on her Facebook profile), would "thank God" for "erasing someone from the planet." If there is a God, and I certainly do not profess to know, I am certain she/he/it/spirit/wildflower/cloud-of-magic/jesus/allah/buddha would NOT advocate death in any form including the USA'S government sanctioned death penalty. Granted, what this man did was savagely cruel, barbaric and beyond my heart's understanding. However, finding the solution in erasing him from the planet leads me to research just where we as a society went wrong starting with documented reports from the Educational System...
"Steven was hyper-active and on medication by second grade. It was noted he instigated bad-behavior in others, consumed inedibles (WTF?) and had a very short attention span. He got mostly D's in Special Education Programs and rarely went to class in middle school and high school, dropping out by 12th grade." He is quoted as stating he "just didn't fit in." His younger brother, Matthew Hayes, recounted in a letter read today in court, how the man now facing a death sentence burned him on the stove and held a gun to his head when they were children.

According to Eric Goldsmith, the psychiatrist who interviewed Hayes for about 37 hours on eight occasions, Steven was beaten on a regular basis by his father, molested by his babysitter and turned to marijuana and other substances as early as 10 years old to self-medicate.

Goldsmith traced much of Hayes’ behavioral problems to his abusive father. Goldsmith said young Hayes saw his father beat his mother regularly and that he, too, was hit, along with one of his brothers, Matthew. Whenever the father thought Steven or Matthew had done “something bad,” the two boys were forced to go into a room together and “duke it out” until one of them admitted to the misdeed. The “guilty” son would then be severely beaten by his father.
Goldsmith said Hayes reported Matthew suffered a broken leg in one such assault.

Hayes’ mother became increasingly depressed and alcoholic. She decided to leave her husband before he could physically abuse their youngest child, Brian.
The father and Matthew moved to New Jersey, while the mother raised the other two boys. But Goldsmith said Steven's behavioral problems continued.
He was committing burglaries by age 14 to support his drug habit and was sent to a facility for troubled juveniles.
At 15, Hayes was sent to a psychiatric hospital. Upon release, his drug habit continued and his crimes became increasingly more barbaric and extreme; the worst being the rape, torture and murder of the Petit women in 2007.

So, how can one find comfort and solace? Well, simply erase this bastard from the planet, apparently, and stick a needle into his veins.
Yet, does that really bring consolation?
We have found no solution in holding the educational system, the juvenile court system, the law enforcement system, his parents, the babysitter at all accountable. THEY in fact will not have to look at how and when there was a break-down and just where their own responsibilities lie.
Absolutely no one was there for Steven as a child! NO ONE!
You call me a bleeding heart liberal?
Hell yes! My heart IS bleeding, first and foremost for The Petit women, but also for Steven, and for a nation whose social systems are broken, malfunctioning and dare I say, to blame.

Friday, November 5, 2010

What Makes the Hottentot So Hot?

Courage! What makes a king out of a slave? Courage! What makes the flag on the mast to wave? Courage! What makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist, or the dusky dusk? What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder? Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder? Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the "ape" in apricot? What have they got that I ain't got?

It occurred to me, while jiggling the ice cubes in my tonic and gin last evening, that my own self-centered brume that I live in day to day is lacking in courage.
Oh true! It takes a certain amount of bravery to walk the ass-kickin streets of this trailer park on a Friday night! (Or any night for that matter!) I'll grant you that. And I am always taken back by the gallantry I put forth when attempting to subdue the "devil boy" at space 8 that seems to already possess extreme anger-management issues at the age of 10. But after reading (link attached) this story of a very courageous 5 year old and his equally fearless mom, I can see that there is zero valour in being a trailer park manager! Certainly, my faithful followers might like to differ when recalling the time I had to clean-up the "gifts" left to me by the septic tank over-flow...gloved with latex and pushing a wheelbarrel containing a shovel and a super-sized bottle of Clorox, I single-handedly scooped the shit off space 22's gravel and weed-infested lawn, then doused the entire area with bleach...NOW THAT TOOK COURAGE!

Sometimes it takes courage to just go out into the world.
At least on those dark, dispairing days... The Cowardly Lion was in pursuit of Courage and the authentic meaning thereof. This day, I think I'll join him in that quest.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Happy To Be Nappy

I was venturing to the "other side" yesterday to attempt accomplishments in the "errand department" when I noticed a beauty salon on the "bad side of town" with the name, "Happy To Be Nappy." I thought to myself, how gleeful. I wonder if happiness is really that simple; A cool hair-do and a deep engrained pride in oneself and one's culture...
Then my thoughts began racing, as they often do, to what about my time with Ms. Nin yesterday and her view of happiness? -That if the ABSENCE OF FEVER births true happiness, she would never attain it. Fuck. Depressing to say the least because I got the fever!!! The Giants fever! The dramatic fever! The bluestocking fever! The menopausal fever!! LOL.
And make no mistake about it, friends,
Happiness is NOT who takes control of the House of Representatives or which Proposition did or didn't pass..True happiness is a mug of robust, smooth, delicious brown java.
True that. I've arrived at this conclusion from more than 2 decades of precise and controlled research that included cupping and sampling a wide variety of "the bean" and not just your ordinary "on sale with a coupon" bean, but beans recognized as having the highest of global standards!
So... if only for a temporary, split bit second, I am happy today, pals.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Ms Nin Won't You Share a Glass...

Whenever I read anything written by Anais Nin, I want to sit right beside her; share a blanket and a glass of wine with her and talk about life. Her perspectives on love, inner-personal relationships and pain are perspectives worth inhaling, in my opinion. No one reads Anais Nin at the trailer park. This is disturbing to me in the most sacred of ways..what I mean is a kind of disturbance much like the abundance of Bud-Light cans in front of the laundry room on any given Sunday morning after a wild Saturday night in the park or the donation bags of "literature" left in the "community room" which include paperbacks by Nora Roberts, James Michener and several copies of the King James Bible. LOL! I stopped looking for Anais Nin's Diaries in those bags quite some time ago!!!
Ms Nin was a French-born novelist, passionate eroticist and short story writer, who gained international fame with her journals. (1903-1977) She had a long-time affair with American writer Henry Miller. When the affair with him had cooled off, she accused him of reducing all women to "an aperture, a biological sameness." I think this is one aspect of Nin that draws me close to her...causes me to "sit" with her and pour her and I another glass of wine!
Men love her erotic tone that weaves through most of her writings no matter what format or genre...but I love Nin for the self-educated feminist that she was.

She disassociated herself late in her life from the more political forms of feminism, believing that self-knowledge through journaling was the source of personal liberation. She did not have faith in exchanges in systems, "because systems are corruptible", and advocated journal keeping as a preliminary requirement for a liberated self. "So I feel the great changes in the world will come from a great change in our consciousness," she wrote. The last volumes of the diaries appeared posthumously in the 1980s. In one excerpt she wrote, "I only believe in fire. Life. Fire. Being myself on fire I set others on fire. Never death. Fire and life."

It is not at all an accident that Nin has re-surfaced for me at this moment in my life. Just last week, after seeing The Pat Tillman documentary, I had a small epiphany at a local coffeehouse in Monterey: The explosion that happens inside of me with regard to politics, governments and general mayhem of corruption and greed detracts from the fire I have inside of me to be a writer!
I have been drained, depleted and hung out to dry for years now due to my own energy going to the political spewage that exists, and not to nurturing myself as a writer. Nin writes, "And then the day came where
the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

IT IS TIME FOR THIS TRAILER PARK GIRL TO BLOSSOM! The bud has been way too tight for way too long! Every second lost in political gibberish and powerless thought and voice, could be directed toward self-exploration, documentation and creative analysis.
Hallelujah! "Anais! (We are on a first name basis now.) I hear you calling me!"
It's sort of like 'what will be will be' or 'move over baby and make room for what's important.'

You know I wonder how long I can sustain this way of focus...this path to myself through my writing...this understanding of the written word and the forms mine may or may not take?
We shall see. Several things need to fall into place: 1. Turn off the fucking television. 2. Visit several used books stores and stock up on my "wine buddy's" books and journals. 3. Just let the trailer park go to hell in a handbag! 4. Write.

"If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness, for I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation." -Anais Nin

Thanks for reading! -tpg