Fishbones and Milk

Mary Higgins Clark, 'Just numb my Mind'

Living in a communal building means sharing amenities such as garbage cans and recycle bins. This, of course, brings with it a number of untold points of contention and moments of dissension. It was during one of these 'bright-happy' moments when I was rearranging the order of the trash cans in an attempt to eliminate the aromatic bouquet of fresh waste that was persistently oozing through the slit in my bedroom window that I discovered someone had thrown away a brand new hard cover book.

Now if there is one thing I simply cannot resist, it is books. Of any kind. The following moment saw me waist deep flailing around in recycled trash in an attempted rescue of what is soon to be an extinct species. My new 'shiny' was none other than Mary Higgins Clark's newest best seller 'Just Take My Heart'. With naught but a small nick on the back cover the book was in perfect condition and with a few deodorizing sprays of oust to remove the lingering smell of old lasagne and stale beer I was sure that it would be good as new. Having never actually read Ms Clark, I was intrigued to see what she had to offer, especially knowing that practically every book she has written has been a best seller in the United States.

Her book begins:

"It was the persistent sense of impending doom, not the nor'easter that made Natalie flee from Cape Cod back to New Jersey in the predawn hours of Monday morning. She had expected to find sanctuary in the cosy Cape house that had once been her grandmother's and now hers, but the icy sleet beating against the windows only increased the terror she was experiencing. Then, when a power failure plunged the house into darkness, she lay awake, sure that every sound was caused by an intruder.

After fifteen years, she was certain that she had accidentally stumbled upon the knowlege of who had strangled her roommate Jamie, when they were both struggling young actresses. And he knows, that I know, she thought - I could see it in his eyes."

After reading that far I stopped. Was this some clever spoof poking fun at the nature of thrillers and the predictability of the suspense genre or was this truly as 'horrifying' as I feared? In order to allow her every benefit of the doubt, I continued to read a further two or three chapters and then I closed the book, made my way back out to the trash can, and dumped it straight back into the waste from which it had been extracted.

I feel a shame to admit that this terrifyingly numbing read had begun to compel me in the same way that an American television drama would. Its predictability and pure lack of mental stimulation was like a drug; while the fiction played its way out on the page before me, my brain slept the intoxicating sleep of the lobotomized.

So Ms Mary Higgins Clark trash you are and trash you shall remain.

A.

...because I can't sit still...

So, because I'm the kind of person that has constant 'ants in her pants' as my mom would say, I am trying out a NEW blog site. Please go take a look and tell me which of the two you prefer. I have some new goodies on the other page to peek your curiosity so, don't be lazy, click the link!!!

.A.

P.S
the new site is hosted by 'Squarespace' and it's really fantastic.

... SALE ...

 So, in true July 4th style, the Zazzle store that hosts my designs is having a sale.

17.76% off the price of all T-shirts! Just use the code ZAZZLEUSAUSA at checkout.

And just to remind you of what I have managed to eek out of my unco-operative wacom pen so far ...

 

Thank you to all of you who voted for my designs last time I posted. I was very touched by the huge 'vote' of confidence...I will let you all know as soon as I have won the grand prize and my products are selling for a mere $6.

Until then...happy 4th July!

-Alice-

A little creativity....

Because our money tree is having a very hard time surviving in this awful 'June Gloom', I have had to pull out all the stops. This week saw me sharpening my stumpy old pencils and wetting my ancient paintbrushes in the hope that my rusted creativity would perhaps hiccup to a small flame at the smell of stale water-colours and ink.

Actually, this being the C21st, all I did was fire up the old Wacom tablet and dredge up some old designs. I am now however, totally dependent on my adoring public, yes, all three of you loyal readers, for my imminent success. Please go vote for my designs that are currently on view at 6DollarShirts.com.

 

....Lush...

 ...murderous...

Many thanks,

Alice.

...my place in the universe...

Black Acid Betty. The Cattery. 2006

If you have been following this blog with any kind of regularity you will have gathered that I have an inordinate fondness for cats. When I am not molly-coddling those that deign to call me their own, I am pretty much at the mercy of a rather tenacious little feral gang that has set up camp outside my front door.

It all began as an act of kindness to a very starving little animal who exhibited the most delightful manners and graceful charm. I now run a daily 'soup-kitchen' for all manner of down-and-outs much to the horror and disapproval of my neighbors. Much of the time these little beasties dine on the leftover scraps from the 'Indoors Royal Dining Establishment'. What with the Indoors cats being of extremely superior taste and finicky palette, most of the time these second hand meals are fresh from the tin. Knowing this, it is no wonder that word has travelled far, that the line at mealtimes grows exponentially and that the cats are becoming increasingly intimidating.

Black Acid Betty. Untitled. 2006

An incident this weekend however, reminded me of what it is about cats that makes humankind's relationship with them such a paradoxical one. Either you love them or hate them. There is nothing lukewarm about one's feelings towards a cat. Money has been a little tight around Dark Knoll of late and this weekend in particular was a rough one. So while my husband and I eeked it out on a peanut butter sandwhich I simply could not explain to all the little souls standing at the front door with their begging bowls in hand, that there was simply nothing for them. So I fashioned a delicious meal from some ground beef and rice that I scrounged from a neighbor. On offering this wonderfully sustaining gruel to my little beggar family I was greeted with expressions of such horror and disdain that I could only but laugh! After a few minutes in which they stared at me intently, trying to figure out if this was maybe just a test of character, they stalked off tin cups in hand.

Not a single cat even tasted my gruel. If I peep out the window now I can see it still, coagulated and crusty. Every so often a fly settles on it and then hastily pushes off. I have yet to see one of the gang. I think my soup kitchen has been closed down for the interum until our finances allow us to offer a more reasonable fare!

Black Acid Betty. Love Cats. 2006

...the blessed perspicuity of children...

Sebastien Brunet. I'm a monster? 2008. Digital Media

Every now and then, while rifling through the inexhaustible uselessness that is the internet, I stumble upon a little jewel. This image, tucked away in the recesses of some stranger's social networking profile has touched me so deeply that I felt I just had to share it with the world. 

We all know that children, not equipped with their own social 'etiquette meter', often act out the prejudices and fears of those that raise them. They can be horribly mean and downright malicious. Conversely, the trivialities of the social constructs and popular taboos so rigidly adhered to by parents are often overlooked by the curious innocence of a child.

Some of the most poignant moments in my own life have come from the gentle kindness and selfless affection of strangers' children.

So thank the universe for little children.

-A-

Holiday pleasantries

Today the U. S of A celebrates Memorial Day once again. I almost cannot believe it has been an entire year since I posted my last memorial day entry. This also means it has been more than a year since I last began this blogging endeavor. Sometimes one needs these little markers of time to wrestle us from the comfortable complacency that we slip into more often than we would like to admit.

Unlike last year, I shan't regale you today with any meaningful Memorial Day insights. I have unfortunately been too overwhelmed with propping up my own 'fallen soldier' for my thoughts to stray much farther than the four walls of my home. I do have a question relevant to today's proceedings however. Unfortunately no one has been able to provide an answer. Perhaps if I put it in my little 'bottle', throw it out into the great vacuousness of the internet, someone somewhere out there may have some ideas.

What is the appropriate Memorial Day greeting? Do you say "Happy Memorial Day"? Surely not, for it is not a 'happy' day.

Let me know.

A.

This week's Anthem...

Enjoy...

-A-

Hammering it Home....

Last week I wrote about adopting a more open-minded, less judgmental approach towards people. That very night, knowing nothing of what I had just written,  my husband showed me the video I have posted below. At first I thought it was a joke...

You have no doubt already seen it as it has traveled the web like a grease fire and the protagonist of the video clip is currently the world's sweetheart.

Goodness, what an enormous lesson she taught the world that night. If only we weren't as fickle as school girls we may actually have learned something about ourselves....

Alice.

'Paradise Lost' meet 'Dante's Inferno' ...

Gustave Dore. Illustration for Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy (1308 - 1332). 1867

Almost ten years ago now it was decided by those in the know that I suffered from Bi-Polar disorder with a splash of schizophrenia thrown in. In order to prevent me from attempting to buy a helicopter on credit, or work through yet another year without sleep I was swiftly medicated with an interesting and varied cocktail of anti-depressants, anti-psychotics and mood-stabilizers. Initially the meds were a godsend and I soon found myself back on track and managing, without hitch, a fairly ostentatious career.

Until a few years ago, I led a completely functional life and as long as I took my meds faithfully every morning and every evening, I could pass for a reasonably sane, if slightly eccentric, human being. As such, my 'mental health' is not something I have generally had need to openly discuss with people.

Unfortunately Bi-Polar disorder, like Alzheimer's disease, is a progressive condition and as the years passed I have found myself and my daily life increasingly dominated, if not by my condition then by the side effects of the medications. The meds for these disorders generally have a very short half life and as a result have to be taken at the same time every day. Miss a dose by an hour and with-drawls set in. Neglect to take the meds for a day and by the next morning I am crawling on the bathroom floor scraping blood from the tiles with my finger nails.

The meds are also prohibitively expensive which doctors seem to neglect to mention prior to committing one to a lifetime of pill popping (To be fair however, they do warn not to simply cease taking the meds for fear of stroke or death).

So after bankrupting ourselves in order to sustain my little drug habit, it was clear to both my husband and I that it was time for us to take the plunge. I had to make the inevitable descent into the depths of that societal morass that everyone, who believes themselves to be better, simply dreads - County Hospital.

We do not own a car and so I took a bus into LA on that day. For those of you who know Los Angeles, LAC-USC Medical Center finds itself in the Boyle Heights area of Los Angeles.  This is not an affluent suburb nor does it sport scenic landscape or tidy gardens. Starting out in quiet, leafy residential Pasadena, it was almost impossible for my overzealous imagination not to conjure up images from Dante's Inferno as we made our way through affluent South Pas and San Marino into Alhambra, Monterey Park and Boyle Heights.

On arrival at the Psych Clinic, I had without doubt arrived in purgatory. Not only was I in a full state of with-drawl, but for the first time since my diagnosis ten years ago, I found myself surrounded by others in a similar state of dysfunction.  One would imagine this to be comforting; is it not a fact of life that 'birds of a feather' come together for the simple fact that there is comfort in recognition and familiarity? This was not so for me. For so many years I had avoided this very situation, hoping that in ignoring others with my condition I could pretend to be more functional. Now, looking around at these familiar souls; some pale and jittery from a lack of meds, others comatose, some painfully still and waiting, one shamefully disheveled and spouting prophetic nonsense, I felt paralyzed by the realization that at one point or another I had embodied each and every one of these characteristics. 

Gustave Dore. Illustration for Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy (1308 - 1332). 1867

Soon I would be just as agitatedly pacing the room as the man talking to Jesus, and while I may only be privileged enough to hear the voices of kittens, my bloodshot eyes and pale countenance put me right in his league. While horrifying to see myself reflected in each and everyone of these 'maniacs', I simultaneously felt humbled in the company of these individuals who had each, in their own way, dispensed with all forms of social conventions and niceties. We all know that anyone or anything that does not conform to what we know or are comfortable with is immediately threatening and as such is alienated or ostrascised. I have spent much of my life in an unforgiving state of judgement and have alienated many. In the clinic that day I realised that I needed to learn generosity, kindness and most of all understanding. Because I do understand. And if I have learned anything through this experience it has to be that there is nothing more precious than someone who can forgive an outrageous outburst and understand an antisocial moment.

I have been judgmental, caustic and cold, but over time I have mellowed and am truly attempting a more optimistic outlook. I try to find positive reasons for every piece of shit that 'Life' enjoys hurling at us while sipping on her lemonade and nibbling delicately on tennis biscuits. My little trip into 'purgatory', was long overdue. Instead of waking up feeling sorry for myself as I have been doing for so long now, I wake up with the acknowledgment that I am thankfully still in command of much of my will. I retain most of my cognitive ability and on most days am fairly capable of taking care of simple responsibilities. I live in a loving, caring environment where others ensure that I have regular access to my medication and that I take it regularly. I have been spared visitations by the 'Voice of the Almighty' and am living an adventure that, while at times can be terrifying, should be embraced, accepted and shared as much as possible. I have led an amazing life, realized many of my dreams and have this  exciting new experience just waiting for me...

Gustave Dore. Illustration for John Milton's Paradise Lost (1667). 1866

-Alice-

Message in a Blog....

I've been struggling to blog over the past couple of weeks. I wish I could explain it away by citing laziness, but that would be too easy. Instead, I will confess that I experience large tracts of time when the dementia simply takes over and lucid communication is impossible. I formulate expansive, ground-breaking blogs in my head while washing the dishes or enjoying long showers but when sitting at my desk faced with a blank computer screen and an annoyingly expectant cursor, I can think only of how narcissistic the blogging process is and how I have always rallied against the expression of private thought and opinion on such public forums.

This weekend, while trawling the internet for pretty much anything that could grab his flailing attention, my husband stumbled across a news story that he thought may pique my interest (being the undaunted romantic that I am) and so he e-mailed it on to me. The news story tells of how a Spokane man and his young family, while walking along the river bank last weekend, came across a century-old bottle that, yes, would you believe held, safely nestled in its confines,  a well-traveled note.

 
Image stolen from The Spokesman Review with thanks.

When carefully extricated from its glass housing, this message penciled in 1913, did not spout love-torn poetry or a plee for help from a shipwrecked sailor, instead it yielded a simple note written to whomever should find it during its nautical adventures.

                                                    

   Rockford Wash.
                                                                  March 30 1913
Dear Friend                   
 
Whoever finds this bottle please write me at Rockford within the next.....and let me know where it.... Put it in...... (much of the rest is illegible, but one gets the gist)

Emmet Presnell

According to subsequent research performed on the message and the information provided within it, Emmet Presnell, the scribe,  was an ordinary cattle and wheat farmer who lived in the Spokane area. He never married nor had any children of his own. It is thought that he must have sent his 'message' around the age of 20, while herding cattle or wandering the banks of one of the subsidaries leading into the Spokane River.

Knowing about this man's life leaves me feeling slightly bereft and a lot lonely. The facts of his real-life story turn what was potentially a simple childish lark into something far more poignant and significant. One wonders how Emmet's life would have been altered if someone had indeed found his message  all those years ago and written him?

And so it is that this simple story of a man, who with faith and conviction cast his voice into the unmitigated unknown, has allowed me to see the value and importance of using my own voice. My silences are no longer acceptable. I should be thankful for the resources at my disposal and revel in the freedom afforded me by modern technology - knowing that every day my 'messages in a blog' are eagerly read with avid attention and care.

For that I thank everyone of you.

... in memoriam...

I received a wonderfully witty e-mail this morning the subject of which I have been wanting to flesh out in a blog for some time. Instead of bogging the message down with my own convoluted impressions I'll simply 'read' you the e-mail:

 

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
Why the early bird gets the worm;
Life isn't always fair; and
Maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge). His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition. Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims. Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement. Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason. He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers;

I Know My Rights 
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame, and
I'm A Victim

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.

Till next time...

~ Alice ~

...in silence I drown...

Lolly Jane Blue. Worms. Video: Sil Van Der Woerd. 2007

When my husband and I were still in the fledgling stages of our relationship and I had yet to graze my knees on the gravel road of 'real life', I spent much time critically analyzing, objectifying and theorizing life, the universe and everything. In fact, I made a living from objectifying, theorizing and analyzing. It was the way I had come to process the world. Like a courtier ever seeking Royal favor, I haunted the halls of those Ivory Towers of academic brilliance unaware that the higher one climbed, the more conflated the perspective and without doubt, the less perspicuous and commensurate one's views in relation to the actual world.

Imagine my horror then, when my husband turned to me mid-conversation and said:
"You think too much. Don't."
'Thinking' was my one achievement. It was what I did well! And yet here, in this place where my guts has dragged me with my heart manning the compass, my intellect had no home.

I spoke in tongues only a few could understand.

But then I remembered something I read once:
It reads like this:

" ...people shorten their thoughts so that they so not wander out into the darkness beyond tomorrow..."

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Carson McCullers*

Here there is no space for idle wanderings of the mind, or useless thought. Freud, Lacan, and Foucault are shelved while Darwin reigns supreme.

And I gag on the weight of the silence in my mouth, while the noise in my brain deafens me.

With time I have learned the language of this land. I manipulate my way through the turbid mess of incorrect grammar, lost 'u' 's, racial incongruity, and map my way through the physical actuality of each day, but still I am lost.

Still I am silent. 

I should be patient, in time I will learn to speak again.

Lolly Jane Blue. Worms. Video: Sil Van Der Woerd. 2007

Alice.

*The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers, is a MUST read. It is a hauntingly beautiful novel focusing on a cast of characters each of whom have to choose how to face their socially assigned life failures. You can buy this book through my bookstore (click bookstore tab on the navigation bar - find it on page 3). All purchases are internet safe and go through the official Amazon site.

...ennui and iceblocks...

I have been utterly listless of late. I think it is the rain.

I love a good solid downpour that (this being LA) coats everything with a fresh slick of grime and heightens the acrid smell of dog piss that clouds every conceivable sidewalk and corner hedgerow. But, when it rains for days on end and everything becomes damp and moldy regardless of how high you turn up the heat, and the cats keep traipsing muddy paw prints over ever available surface, the situation simply becomes too tedious to bear.

I can't write, I can't sleep, I can't draw, I'm irritable, and cranky. I'm hungry, but I'm not hungry, I can't go for a walk because, well, it's raining; I'm wired from drinking too much coffee, but I'm still thirsty. I tell myself I'm suffering from 'writer's block' to justify the weeks of inactivity, but of course that is just ridiculous bumph masquerading for the fact that I'm overwhelmed by 'ennui' - a stultifying boredom simply exacerbated by the rain.

Finally deciding a glass of ice water should jolt me out of my stupor I head to the fridge and reach in for the ice trays only to find that they are both almost empty but for a few half-melted soldiers gallantly clinging to the frosty corners of their little igloo homes. Suddenly I'm transported back fifteen years. It's one of those breathlessly hot summer days when even the flies nagging furiously at the closed window pane is enough to generate a sweat. My sister and I used to spend those beautiful summers lolling around watching endless t.v. or reading one novel after another till my brain felt like it would explode; drinking long cold drinks and snacking on the feasts only a parent-stocked pantry could possibly spew forth. This was all to the utter chagrin of my step-father who felt that, as most teenagers before us, we should be earning our keep in the muck infested dairy. His displeasure was further aggravated on returning from an exhausting, labor intensive day to find EMPTY ice-trays. At the time I could never understand all the fuss. Today, standing in the middle of my kitchen, empty ice tray in hand my heart goes out to the poor man.

No wonder he was always so distempered!

So, this week's life lesson...fill the ice-trays people!

A.

Soap Suds in my Mouth...

Sir John Everett Millais, Bt, 1886, Bubbles,
Oil on Canvas, Lady Lever Art Gallery, Port Sunlight

I write you today, gagging still from the soapy film that lines the inside of my mouth at having been so wickedly disparaging in my last blog posting. I thank you all for your e-mails and comments and do appreciate your concern for the Toad's feelings, but let me assure you, Prince Toad is extremely well taken care of and happier than most. He receives daily foot massages, and after-work back rubs; he orders coffee from the 'kitchen' when his cup springs a leak; his immaculately manicured hands are rarely soiled by the grime and filth of daily chores and he certainly could not be bothered to read this blog.

 Besides, this is my blog and I shall write what I please! Oh dear, I think I just choked on a bubble...

Having got that out the way, I decided neutral territory would provide better subject matter for the moment.

This weekend saw America celebrate the grand 'Superbowl'. Coming from a country that simply lives for its primary sports; Rugby and Cricket, it has been extremely interesting to me to move to a place where these phenomenon simply do not exist. While I despise contact sport and all it involves, I must say that I have had to stop and ponder the age old question about the sociological value these team sports play in certain cultures. There is so much I do not understand about Americans, and probably never will, all owing to the nature of their sports being utterly different to that of my own country. What we so often fail to take into account when addressing the issue of sports, and particularly the culture of contact sports, are the peripheral activities that these sports engender. The enormous reach that these activities have into society makes becoming a social pariah extraordinarily easy...I find this unforgivable.

Anyway, as I am a pariah already, the Superbowl means a blissfully quiet day devoid of any traffic or human interaction. Unfortunately I am not exempt from all Superbowl mania and so have been treated to endless Superbowl Best Of 2009 Commercials all week. Having had to suffer my due punishment, I decided that I would post the only two I thought worth a moment's concentration.

While the Coca-Cola one was not a favorite with most I thought it simply brilliant. What an extremely apt representation of the wonderfully secret lives we all lead in this technological age. I was surprised to see that more people did not relate, and as such, appreciate the sentiment expressed by Coca-Cola in this advert. I also think its sneaky sub-narrative of how, we're all 'different' in our own way a lovely moral twist - well done Coke!

That's it for now.
Till the next one...

Alice.