Thursday, 31 December 2009

  • Resolutions: the Tradition

    I do not do New Year's resolutions.  It has been about 40 years, near as I can recall, since I stopped.

    I grew up in the tradition, in my family as well as school and the larger culture.  I remember being encouraged to write down a list of deeds and behaviors that I would resolve to either do or not do as I "turned over the new leaf" of a different year.  Coached by my mother, I resolved not to talk back or tell lies.  I resolved to write thank you notes for my Xmas presents and to send birthday cards to aunts and uncles.  These are the resolutions I recall, and I know there were many others, presumably none of which I kept for very long or with much consistency.

    If any of my subsequent changes in behavior originated as New Year's resolutions, I don't recall which they might have been.  By my mid-twenties, I had realized that these lists were futile in terms of motivation to change.  Observing my fellow humans, I concluded that putting off, for example, quitting some addiction or achieving a desired goal, for the beginning of a new year, was counterproductive.  When I decide to do something, or see something that needs to be done, I simply do it as soon as I can.

    I have been informed of the supposed reasoning behind resolutions, that a fresh new year gives added impetus to a fresh start in one's personal life.  Nonsense, I say.  No, that's not true.  What I really say is bullshit.  There is no inherent magic in the transition from Thursday to Friday that can help us do things we don't want to do.  Today is the last day of 2009 according to a calendar that is an entirely artificial device.  Tomorrow starts a new calendar year -- but not, by the way, a new decade as many people seem to believe.  The calendar had no year zero; decades, centuries, millennia, etc., begin with "1".

    But I digress, and since it is such a useful device in storytelling, I will not resolve to quit.  Even if I did resolve to quit, that would be no indication of an intention or motivation to quit.  That's what I mean about formal seasonal resolutions being counterproductive.  When a person becomes motivated to do something,. or forms a real clear intention to do it,  he or she just does it.  If one, rather, tells oneself, "Next New Years, I'll resolve to do that," in effect, one is saying he or she feels obligated to do it or thinks it is a worthwhile thing to do, but will not do it.  The promise to resolve to do it "next year" is just an excuse not to do it now.

    People who take their resolutions seriously have a further layer of counterproductivity to deal with and live down:  Emotions such as fear of failure and guilt over non-performance are toxic to self-esteem.  The cycle of putting off an important change for a new year because one is unmotivated to do it immediately, promising to do it, and failing to do it because one never intended to do it in the first place, is a soul-killing pattern.

    If you absolutely must make any resolutions this year, resolve to stop making resolutions.  It might not be any more effective than your other resolutions, but it will set up an interesting illogical resonance for your entertainment.



Monday, 28 December 2009

  • Oh... that's it... Mercury Retrograde!

     The expiration date on a credit card was approaching -- not the main one to which Greyfox charges his merchandise orders with the wholesalers , but the one that covers the auto-pay on our utility accounts, insurance, etc.  After a number of bills were lost in the the mail or stolen from our rural box, and the I experienced the distress and bother of late payments, I set up as many of our recurring payments as possible for auto-pay.

    Anyhow, the old card was about to be worthless, new ones came in the mail, and I phoned the 800 number to activate the new cards.  The man in India, coming on the line after I'd entered all the relevant numbers via keypad, sang something about bankruptcy and an "account manager," and put me on hold -- brass-heavy orchestral music.  After way too much of that, he came back on and said "they don't answer," giving me an opening to ask him what he was talking about with that "bankruptcy" stuff.  I asked if the credit card company was going bankrupt.  He laughed and said no, that we had contacted them, had given them our attorney's name and said we were thinking about filing for Chapter 7.  Then he tried again to connect me with the "manager."

    After a lot more brass than I wanted to hear, a woman who sounded American came on.  I told her that the other guy had said something about bankruptcy, and she said that we had told someone in their organization that we were, "thinking about filing for Chapter 7."  I know I didn't tell anyone that, and I'll go out on a limb and say I am sure that Greyfox didn't tell anyone that, either.  We have not discussed any such move between ourselves, and it's not something we'd have any reason to consider.  Business has been okay, our debt load has been decreasing -- no, nobody here said anything to anybody about bankruptcy plans.

    She asked me to wait "2 or 3 minutes," and put me back on hold -- mostly woodwinds this time, with some tinkling chimey things, much more tolerable than the brass.  When she came back on, she said the "bankruptcy has been removed," and for reasons she did not explain, transferred me to an "account specialist."

    This one was a man, also evidently American, but the linguistic compatibility was offset by his tendency to lower his voice and/or drift away from his phone.  I suppose my asking him to repeat stuff was annoying to him, but I'd be willing to wager that he wasn't any more annoyed than I was.  He (the specialist) contradicted the manager woman, saying that the "bankruptcy" (which even in their misinformed opinion had never been anything but the rumor of a potential intention) would not be "removed," unless and until I sent them my name address, social security number, and account number in writing.  I told him that the other guy had said we'd given them an attorney's name, and challenged him to produce that name.  He couldn't, but he was adamant about needing the "request for removal" in writing.

    I wrote them a letter, got it ready to mail, then called the company by a different number to verify that the address I had been given was actually their address.  Where communication is concerned, I'm going to be in belt-and-suspenders mode for a few weeks, I guess.



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    The Condition of Muzak 2
    By Various Artists
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Thursday, 24 December 2009

Wednesday, 23 December 2009

  • Born in a Manger

     

    Luke, Chapter 2, verses 5-7:

    5He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. 6While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, 7and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

    5To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.   6And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.   7And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

    5 An Mary went wif him, 'coz she was gonna be married wif him an she was preggerz.6 When wuz time for teh baybee,7 it wuz a boy, so he wuz wrapd in blanket like burrito an placd him in fud dish, cuz innkeeper wuz liek, no room here
    kthxbye!

    According to St Luke the Evangelist (2,7) Jesus was born in a stable or at least in a place where animals were kept.  In fact the word presepio (Nativity Scene) comes from the Latin verb praesepire (to enclose, to hedge, to fence) and today it means manger or crib.

    The Low Latin word cripia, meaning manger, was the origin of the terms creche, crib, krippe, krubba, szopka and wertep meaning Nativity Scene respectively in French, English, German and Swedish, Polish and Russian.

    With time the tradition of the Presepio evolved in various phases. It was first found in churches, and this was the ecclesiastical period. The figures at first painted and then carved, were placed at side altars and chapels specially reserved for the Presepio, and during the Christmas Season the Presepio was decorated with lights and flowers. Later came the aristocratic period in which the tradition of a Presepio in the home became popular among the nobility and Nativity Scenes were ever richer and more pretentious, but also highly artistic. This tradition gradually extended to all the social classes acquiring an typically popular character which it retained.

    The two oldest depictions of the Nativity date from the fourth century.

    The first is a fresco discovered in 1877 in   the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian in Rome.  It decorates the funeral chamber of a Christian family that lived around the year 380.   In that wall painting, there are no figures representing Mary or Joseph, but only the child in the manger attended by an ox and an ass.

    I searched unsuccessfully for images of either of those paintings.  I did find one that is roughly contemporary with them, a fresco from a Roman catacomb, picturing Mary suckling baby Jesus, with the Star of Bethlehem overhead.

    St. Francis of Assisi is credited with popularizing the crèche tradition. In 1223, St. Francis was traveling to the Italian village Greccio, when the sight of shepherds in moonlit fields evoked images of the first Christmas. Inspired by the midnight scene, he beckoned villagers that Christmas Eve to light the sky with their torches, bring their animals, and re-enact the Nativity.
    christmascreche.org
    The source of this misinterpretation stems from approximately two hundred years after the birth of Jesus, when an anonymous Christian wrote an expanded account of the birth of Jesus that has survived and is called The Protevangelium of James.

    James had nothing to do with it. The author was not a Jew and did not understand Palestinian geography or Jewish tradition.  In that period many wrote books claiming famous people as the authors.
     
    Scholars date this particular novel to around the year A.D. 200, and it is full of imaginative details. Jerome, the famous Latin scholar, attacked it, as did many of the popes.  It was composed in Greek but translated into Latin, Syriac, Armenian, Georgian, Ethiopic, Coptic and old Slavonic. The author had clearly read the Gospel stories, but he (or she) was unfamiliar with the geography of the Holy Land. In the novel, for example, the author describes the road between Jerusalem and Bethlehem as a desert. It is not a desert but rather rich farm land.
     
    In the novel, as they approach Bethlehem, Mary says to Joseph, "Joseph, take me down from the ass, for the child within me presses me, to come forth."
     
    Responding to this request, Joseph leaves Mary in a cave and rushes off to Bethlehem to find a midwife. After seeing fanciful visions on the way, Joseph returns with the midwife (the baby has already been born) to be faced with a dark cloud and then a bright light overshadowing the cave.


    A woman by the name of Salome appears out of nowhere and meets the midwife who tells her that a virgin has given birth and is still a virgin.  Salome expresses doubt at this marvel and her hand turns leprous as a result. After an examination, Mary's claim is vindicated. Then an angel suddenly stands before Salome and tells her to touch the child. She does so and the diseased hand is miraculously healed and the novel spins on from there.

    Authors of popular novels usually have good imaginations. An important part of this novel's story line is that Jesus was born even before his parents arrived in Bethlehem. This novel is the earliest known reference to the notion that Jesus was born the night Mary and Joseph arrived in or near Bethlehem. The average Christian, who has never heard of this book, is nonetheless unconsciously influenced by it.

    Ken Bailey also says that Bethlehem was too small to have a regular inn.  Mangers, usually made of stone, were present inside private  homes.  Archaeologists have found many of them.  Cattle, donkeys and sheep were brought into the houses at night, and stayed in an area with floors several feet below those in the family's living area.  Mary had relatives nearby, and scriptural references,  "while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered," suggest that they had plenty of time to find lodging before the birth.


    In Naples, Italy, the production of figures for Nativity scenes is a major industry.  In 2008 --

    ...Beyond the thousands of angel, sheep, Mary and Joseph figures filling market stalls before Christmas, craftsmen say Obama has become a top seller.

    "The ones we are selling the most of are those of Barack Obama, America's new president, along with his wife Michelle," said craftsman Genny Di Virgilio.

    Tradition requires that the nativity scene be built up over time until Christmas Eve, when baby Jesus is put in the manger as the very last element of the display.

    As always, figurine-makers provide a chance to choose a more light-hearted approach for the scene providing replicas of personalities who have made the news during the last year.

    Beyond Obama, they are also selling figurines of French President Nicolas Sarkozy and his wife Carla Bruni and even Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi.


    The traditionally designed grouping above is representative of many small tabletop Nativity scenes from the past century or so.  The stylization shown below is typical of an artistic trend away from realism in the symbolic figures, although few sets are as simple as these core trios.  Most people prefer to add animals, wise men, shepherds, etc.


     


    The set above, carved in Israel from native olive wood, can be purchased for $998US from Holy Land Treasures, but please try to restrain the impulse to buy.  Although that set is not as tacky as Rod Loranger's crèche below, it is, nevertheless, more than ostentatious enough, in its understated way.



    Loranger and his wife Dawn are infamous in Anchorage for their outdoor Christmas displays.  Neighbors have complained for years about the noise from amplified carols and the bright, flashing lights.  Every year, the display is attacked by vandals, but Rob and Dawn Loranger are impervious to art criticism and deaf to their neighbors' cries of distress.

    In 2004, according to the Anchorage Daily News, vandals, "slashed off the heads of Santa and Mrs. Claus, dolls that sat inside a miniature RV made to look like the family's real mobile home in the carport.  The thieves also stole a movie projector that flashes Christmas images on the garage door and made off with the key component of the nativity scene.  'They cut the wire on the Baby Jesus,' said Dawn Loranger, whose husband, Rob, makes many of the family's Christmas displays by hand.  After cutting Baby Jesus out of the manger, the thugs fled down a nearby bike path, flinging the kidnapped infant and the headless Clauses to the ground, said Dawn, who discovered the destruction when she awoke Sunday morning. 'I cried all the way to church,' she said."

    *sob*

    Again, I apologize -- to those with slow dial-up connections like mine, for using so many images in this post, and to those with high-speed connections, for making them thumbnail-sized so that they will all load, for me and for other dial-up users, before time-out.  Click any thumbnail for larger images.


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    True Story of the Nativity
    By Roger Moore
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Tuesday, 22 December 2009

  • The Ancestry and Evolution of Santa Claus


    Santa Claus has been evolving for more than the seventeen centuries or so since the lifetime of the Catholic saint whose name has been corrupted and  attached to this "right jolly old elf."  As we know him today, his story is an agglomeration of myths about the legendary gift-givers of several cultures.  One of Santa's "ancestors", the one who lent him his name in one corrupt form or another such as Sinterklaas and Sinter Claes, is Saint Nicholas of Bari, or, some say, of Myra.  He has been confused or agglomerated with, and has gained fame at the expense of, as many as seven other churchmen named Nicholas.


    "St. Nicholas was born in 271 AD and died around December 6, 342 or 343 AD near the town of Myra in Asia Minor (Turkey).  He performed many good deeds and was a friend to the poor and helpless, and upon his death, myths soon sprang up about him all around the Mediterranean Sea. He was reputed to be able to calm the raging seas, rescue desperate sailors, help the poor and downtrodden, and save children. He was soon named as the patron saint of sailors, and when Myra was overthrown, his bones were transported by sailors to Bari, a port in Italy, where a tomb was built over the grave and became the center of honor for St. Nicholas. From here the legend spread on around to the Atlantic Coast of Europe and the North Sea to become a European holiday tradition regardless of religion."  (according to the Kids' Domain)

    Fordham University's online Mediaeval Sourcebook translates the story of Nicholas's death from Jacobus de Voragine's Golden Legend (written ca.1275, pub. 1470):

    "And when it pleased our Lord to have him depart out this world, he prayed our Lord that he would send him his angels; and inclining his head he saw the angels come to him, whereby he knew well that he should depart, and began this holy psalm: In te domine speravi, unto, in manus tuas, and so saying:  Lord, into thine hands I commend my spirit, he rendered up his soul and died, the year of our Lord three hundred and forty- three, with great melody sung of the celestial company.  And when he was buried in a tomb of marble, a fountain of oil sprang out from the head unto his feet; and unto this day holy oil issueth out of his body, which is much available to the health of sicknesses of many men.  And after him in his see succeeded a man of good and holy life, which by envy was put out of his bishopric.  And when he was out of his see the oil ceased to run, and when he was restored again thereto, the oil ran again."


    "The great veneration with which this saint has been honored for many ages and the number of altars and churches which have been everywhere dedicated in his memory are testimonials to [the church's touting] his holiness and of [Catholics' belief in] the glory which he enjoys with God."  (source:catholic.org)   [Bracketed asides are mine.]

    One part of his legend states that he once took pity on a young woman, or on two or three sisters,  either orphan(s) or daughter(s) of a poor man or of a poor widow, and, to save her or them from a life or lives of prostitution, he sneaked around one night and tossed a bag or bags of gold through an open window or down a chimney, to provide a dowry or dowries so that they could be honorably married off.  The gold is said to have landed in her/their shoe(s) or in stockings hung by the fire, originating the Christmas tradition of gifts in shoes or stockings.



    "A Nicholas, Bishop of Myra, attended the First Council of Nicaea in A.D. 325 (Nicene Creed establishing the trinity). That is all the first hand evidence known about Nicholas."[emphasis added - This and other italicised quotes below are from B.K. Swartz.]  ...Nicholas "was the patron saint of sailors and navigators and, hence, admired at the Dutch maritime center of Amsterdam, who made him a hero."

    St. Nicholas and the Low German god Woden became syncretized as a single figure. Prior to this St. Nicholas was portrayed as a youth with black trimmed beard. The Dutch also celebrated Woden (better known as the Norse Odin) who wore a full white beard, had a magic cloak and dispensed gifts to children. Woden was an Iron Age Indo-European god who rode a horse. Children placed their shoes and hay (to feed the horse) near the fireplace. Eventually Woden merges into St. Nicholas, corrupted as Sinter Claes."


    "Vladimir Duke of Russia (Kiev) visited and was baptized at Constantinople in 1003. Upon returning to Russia he made St. Nicholas his country's patron saint (this may have been a composite with St. Nicholas of Penora who died in the 7th century). He soon becomes associated with an arctic landscape and was popular with the Lapps and Samoyeds. This may be the result of the syncretization of St. Nicholas with the Russian winter folk spirit Father Frost. Father Frost has a long white beard, is dressed in furs and drives a sled drawn by reindeer."

    Father Frost's companion is Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden.

    After Myra fell to Islam, Italian sailors moved Nicholas's remains to Bari in Apulia (Sicily) in 1087.  In 1442, Spain conquered that area, and in 1556 Holland was united with Spain.  The mythical St. Nick then began vacationing in Spain with the other bishops.  Being overwhelmed with the task of keeping track of who's been naughty or nice, he employed a Moorish helper Black Pete, or Zwart Piet, as his clerk.

    Santa Claus: is fat
    Sinterklaas: is not

    Santa Claus: comes from the North Pole
    Sinterklaas: comes from Spain (Spanje)

    Santa Claus: rides a sleigh with reindeer
    Sinterklaas: has a boat and a white horse

    Santa Claus: has elves to help him
    Sinterklaas: has Zwarte Pieten

    Santa Claus: puts things in children’s stockings
    Sinterklaas: puts things in children’s shoes
    tinbergen.nl 


    "In function Black Pete serves as a Dutch non-pagan version of the German knecht (servant) Ruprecht (Robert), a black sprite helping St. Nicholas as a disciplinarian of children. Ruprecht "appears in shaggy, sack on back (like later Santa Claus) and rod in hand" in the 16th and 17th centuries (Grimm, op. cit., p. 504, fn., compiled before 1844). The English counterpart of knecht Ruprecht, Robin (Robert) goodfellow is documented as early as 1489 had a loud laugh of Ho Ho Ho (W.J. Thoms 1839, in Grimm, op. cit., p. 502). Indeed numerous supernatural "little people" were associated with St. Nicholas at this time in German folklore, contributing to his eventual elfin status and collaboration with elf helpers."

    After the Reformation of the 17th century, many Protestants no longer accepted St. Nicholas as their Gift-Giver due to his ties with the Catholic Church.  Then secular Gift-Givers started to appear throughout Europe.  In Italy, modern children believe in Santa Claus, but they don't write to him to ask for gifts.  Instead, they write to La Befana
     
    Pelznichol AKA Bellsniggle is an elfin German figure who came to America with the Pennsylvania Dutch and merged with the Christkindlein or Christ Child, into Kris Kringle.


    Even into the first half of the nineteenth century, when Clement Clarke Moore or Henry Livingston, Jr. wrote A Visit from Saint Nicholas, the poem that begins, "Twas the Night Before Christmas," Santa was one of the little people:  "He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf.  ...a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.  With a little old driver...."

    Through the nineteenth century and into the twentieth he was really confused.   Depending on who drew him, he was sometimes elfin, sometimes human-sized or even oversized, fat or thin, wearing furs, or green or blue or purple.  After the Civil War he began settling down into human size. The elves became his helpers.  Since 1920, he has been wearing red and white.


    In 1907, a children's book printed the image below, an artist's vision of the future Santa of 2007:
     

    In 2007, the original painting of the Norman Rockwell cover below for the Saturday Evening Post was sold by Christie's for 2.17 million dollars.


    Some would say that the CocaCola ads have given us our current image of Santa.

    Snopes.com says it ain't so.  Thomas Nast's 1881 "Merry Old Santa Claus" was probably the inspiration for Coke's later version of Santa.


    What Coke ads and other mass media images, and the proliferation of department store Santas, have done is to standardize the image and end all that confusion over what Santa looks like.

    Again, I apologize for the proliferation of itty bitty pictures.  If their number annoys you, be assured that I made them small to try and compensate for that.  If their size annoys you, then your internet connection is surely faster than mine.

    I have a little gift for you.  Just click on it and enjoy.



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    O Holy Night
    By David Phelps
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  • Right now I'm a fringe dweller--truth teller--psychic (Isn't everyone?)--earth lover. I am evolving--low maintenance--high confidence. Three million people on this planet have higher IQs than mine, and three billion people on this planet have greater incomes than mine. I have no worries.

...and then...


What's this?
When I got out of prison in 1971, it wasn't long before I was on the road. I hitchhiked some, and I rode freight trains for a little while before getting back out on the Interstates where I felt more at home. During that brief time riding the rails, my newfound friends among the hobos told me I needed a moniker, a unique sign or symbol to scrawl on boxcar walls, sidewalks, fences and such to show that I had been there and/or to indicate which way I went and when.
Being recently liberated physically and having undergone a spiritual metamorphosis, I felt like I'd been a worm who had suddenly grown wings.
I was off the road for some weeks at my aunt Goldie's place in Morro Bay, California when I doodled up the simple drawing of a butterfly ascending that has become my signature.
My gallant Old Fart had it tattooed on his arm while we were on our honeymoon.

I am a semi-retired professional psychic, married to a shaman. We still work together, sometimes. For more information, click on the coyote below.

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Please let me first and always examine myself
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Let me love rather than be loved
Let me give rather than receive.
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Do your bit for
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myalgic encephalomyelitis
fibromyalgia
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Those who ignore the past are condemned to repeat it.

Reading an episode or two of my memoirs out of context might give a false impression of knowing what the story is about. It is a long story, and I'm not finished telling it yet.

When I first began posting these episodes, some readers thought the story was too wild to be true. As they have gotten to know me better, I think most of them have come to believe me. This is as true as any memoir can be, subject to the vagaries of memory. This is my life, to the best of my recollection.

If any of these links doesn't work, let me know. I will fix it.

Someone asked me what I get out of writing these memoirs, and a few people have asked me why I'm doing it in a blog.
Here is my explanation.

The later parts of the story make more sense if you know the back story. For starters, I was a sickly, intellectually precocious child.

I have written about:Various other bits and pieces of my childhood show up elsewhere: My father was my primary caregiver, first teacher, biggest supporter, and my partner in crime in pranks on my mother.
School started with kindergarten. When I was six, we moved from a little rented house into a bigger home of our own. Then my father died. My orgasm addiction began the day of his funeral, in 1951, when I was 7 years old.
I have written about the circumstances and aftermath of his death.

With help from family and friends, Mama struggles with widowhood.
After a brief reunion with her childhood sweetheart, she is single again.
Writing that story brought on some Q&A, and then
more motherhood Q & A.
I express my love for Mama and introduce our store.
Then I ramble on about education, illness, and puppies.
After that, Girl Scouts and 4H,
followed by summer camp, homesickness and a tornado.
Apparently, the first notice anyone ever paid to my mental illness was when I started playing with fire.
I wrapped up this phase of my childhood with a long entry about daredevil bike tricks, the onset of ME/CFIDS (I guess), movies and movie star crushes, making out in the back row of the movie theater, building a parade float, learning that the game is rigged, singing in a musical play, and appearing in a Hollywood movie.
When Mama gave up trying to run her own business, we moved to Wichita.
Then we caught a case of combat fatigue from my next stepfather.
I started junior high school and went steady with one boy after another.
For a while I had two romantic relationships at the same time.
Skipping around with several thematic entries that are more-or-less in sequence, I tell the story of a series of mid-1950s road trips between the Midwest and West Coast, and the museums and amusement parks we visited.
Midnight Radio is about Mickey Mouse Club, movie star crushes, becoming a woman, rock and roll and the blues, among other things.
An earlier entry covers a three-way schoolgirl shoving match referred to elsewhere. In an effort to finally get out of Kansas and on with the story, I tied up some loose ends. Later, I recalled that I hadn't yet told the story about ettiquette and new school colors.

Mama's penpal from Lonely Hearts Club invited us to Texas for a Panhandle Christmas.
The subsequent move to Texas wrenched me away from both of my boyfriends, threw me into being the new girl in yet another small town,
and brought a dreary winter of unattainable dreams followed by a brighter spring.
The next segment dealt with first aid, guitar players, ankle-deep ice water and USDA surplus foods. Then came baptism, B12 shots and burning drip, followed by an "inappropriate" friendship, two more boyfriends, hard cherry cider and the wrong dress.
Then, between episodes, I posted the self-analysis of a reluctant virgin.
The summer between ninth and tenth grades featured movie star fantasies, Tijuana bibles, cocker spaniel puppies, a blackberry cobbler with too much black pepper, and a vacation in Galveston.
In the tenth grade, I was prevented from studying Latin, my mother gave me a 3-speed record player for my fourteenth birthday, and I had a frightening experience with an IQ test.
Along with some complaints about life with my step-father and his old maid sister, I relate a brief retrospective of my unhappy school career and do a little bit of foreshadowing after telling about stealing my best friend's boyfriend.
I got stuck for months at this point in my story before I
broke through.
In the next episode, "Ford" and I go all the way.
Even though we didn't have to, "Ford" and I got married, had an itty-bitty honeymoon, and set up housekeeping together.
My husband and I, aged sixteen and fourteen respectively, became emancipated minors upon our marriage.
In the spring after our December wedding, we moved to Amarillo, where my husband found his first job and had his first extramarital affair.
Comments on that impelled me to post a little piece about neurochemistry and penis size.
Then came another inept suicide attempt, which I survived, and gave birth to my firstborn child.
The episode following that one takes us up to
the end of the 1950s.
After a series of beatings, the preacher told me that the problems in my marriage were all my own fault.
A few months later, I was rejected and thrown out.
I ended up down on the bird ranch for a family reunion.
I dont remember what came next, but soon my husband found the army to be an acceptable alternative to incarceration.
You might as well skip this episode. It is all about pubic hairs and fecal fingerpainting.
The next episode is about housework, holy rollers and aerobatics.
After Sacramento, I move to Waynesville, Missouri, and from there to Cheyenne, Wyoming,
then to Tacoma, Washington.

The stories of my early years, above, were written long after I wrote some of the parts that follow. This entire bloggy trip down memory lane began with my story of the '60s, starting with four episodes on how I became an expert shoplifter.

Part 1 starts with some back story about my getting married when I was fourteen, and continues with the love of my life coming along when I was seventeen.

Part 2 is about love and fear, lifesaving and ESP.

In Part 3, I finally get to the story of how I learned to shoplift.

Part 4 winds up that story, seeing me in and out of, first, jail and then the boobyhatch.

After that, I look at my psychological state.
In the next meandering piece I'm stabbed with a fork, paid for ironing money; I drink too much sloe gin and orange flavored vodka and experience date rape and probably gang rape, too.
The saga continues as I get Marie out of foster care and she leaves with Bobbi. Then I write about remembering pain.
At age nineteen, I learned to shoot craps at Rusty & Dusty's Pad, assisted by PK and precog.
Next I tell Statch's Story, weaving in bits about prostitution, VD, and JFK's assassination.
After that, an emotional basket case, I meet my second husband and have my first son.
Then I start a career in nursing, leave it to go to Japan, meet another soulmate, end up in another loony bin, temporarily die, and say goodbye to my son.
Back on my feet, probably too soon, I get a great job, relapse and lose it. Then I meet Jim Rose, go to work in a couple of bars, almost become a Saigon bar girl, screw up another relationship, overdose, and get to hear a shrink describe the whole course of my life in one succinct phrase.

The next series covers the years I rode with Hells Angels and two other One Percenter motorcycle clubs.
I started with a historical
and cultural sketch
of outlaw bikers.
Right at the start, I almost became a Hells Angels Mama.
Saved by being ripped off for VW's ol'lady, I learn to show class, and meet Janis Joplin.
I build a trike and ride it to The Magic Mountain Music Festival, and adjust to life as the captive gourmet.
During our move from California to Oregon, I'm turned out by Gypsy Jokers.
Reposting that rape episode for a Featured_Grownups challenge brought many comments and some questions, which I answered ironically, with a lot of info about and images of outlaw bikers. The biker gang rape became a subject that won't go away. I wrote about how odd it is that I have come to be viewed as an expert on bikers, and followed that with my take on the minds of men in gangs.
After responding to a question about my feelings on rape, I told about the show bike
I helped to build, and my first acid trip. Special people show up in the next episode, and I tell about a wild week of ripping, running and gardening with Little Carol.
The best weekend of my biker years comes next.
Then I take another look at my psychology and make a desperate break from VW.
It failed, but finally I get the help I need to get away.

Then, after an interval of terror, I'm not a biker broad anymore. Suddenly I'm a speed freak!
Fast and frizzy, with mirrors on the ceiling, I'm threatened with an axe by Mrs. Ken Kesey.
Then we have fun with meth and intense psychic experiences before things fall apart.
After some time in jail, I'm free and homeless, but my first Tarot reading reveals a way out.
In a flashback episode, I tell some of the details of that homeless period.
Then I start building a reputation as a psychic, impress some naive kids as a "human encyclopedia," manage unwillingly to stay off speed, get involved in Vietnam War protests, develop a foolproof plan to keep from being separated from Hulk, and end up in the (little) big house.

When the bus delivered us to Oregon Women's Correctional Center, Mrs. Burt met us at the door with a red rubber douche bag. In a brief digression, I confessed to being under the influence of fairy tales and soap opera.
Then I wrote about some things I have learned since then.
O.W.C.C. and confinement in a community of women, gave me a new perspective on my sex. In the first memoir I posted on Xanga, I told about my clashes with the unwritten rules in prison.
In response to some complaints from readers that there was not enough sex in my blogs, I agreed and offered in my defense the excuse that
there was not enough sex in prison. Music and meditation were as important in prison as elsewhere. In a segment that started out to be about feminism, I wrote about violence in prison, practical jokes, friends, breast reduction surgery, and my Tree of Life bedspread. That brought questions, which led to an entry about Kabbalah. After a prison riot, some OOBEs, and two trips to the Parole Board, I'm free.

When I was first out of prison, I went to college, where I met Stony. We lived in a haunted house,
then went on the run and had adventures, taking me eventually to Boulder, Colorado, and leading to a full pardon for my crimes. Two entries I had written earlier fit into the time period after OWCC and before Boulder.
They tell about my freight yard epiphany and the loaf of lettuce and head of bread trick.
Another entry, written later, details my freight train rides and a car wreck, and fills in a big gap left in previous episodes about that time.
A hippie family passing through Boulder gave me Mr.Coon.
We went farther up into the Rockies and squatted in a ghost town, and then lived at Colorado's oldest ski area until the end of my pregnancy.
In the next episode, I tell the story of how Princess Celeste helped me through one of the toughest days of my life.
After that, we have to move; Stony breaks Bill's arm with a fart; I plow through where snowplows spin their wheels; I party with the ladies; the real Stony pays us a visit; and then I'm on the road to Alaska.
The old truck got me as far as Salt Lake City, where I learned to evade perverts, Stony caught up with me and we drove a repo to Seattle.
We hitchhiked on a crab boat to Kodiak where
I needed an armed escort to go to the outhouse.
Then I described a dysfunctional relationship and
the metaphysical forces that led me to Alaska.
After an interview by a roomful of inquisitors, I start work at Open Door Klinic, and Stony comes back for one final blow.

With no significant other in my life for the first time since puberty, I throw myself wholeheartedly into crisis intervention counseling, and into the middle of a knife fight.
Mostly to keep Stony out of my life, but partially from grief, I fly to Seattle for an abortion and continue my work at Open Door.
Then we meet my co-workers Mollie and Steve and Steve finds me a second job.
That first autumn in Anchorage, I did crisis intervention on weekends and helped jailbirds return to the streets Monday through Friday.
Considering my ignorance and ill-preparedness, it's amazing that I survived my first Alaskan winter.
Adequate foul weather gear helped, but what really saved me was group therapy.
As spring arrived, I was audited by the IRS, found a couple of great restaurants, and paid an official visit to a local jail where I met another soulmate.
Then I explain
how he got there.
Around the time I'm getting to know Charley, wannabe shrink Harvey examines my head and I join Mensa.
Then I send plane fare to Hulk and we're a threesome.
Around the same time, I find an old friend and Stony comes around asking for help.
When I had resigned from one of my jobs, I hit a snag on the other one.
Suddenly jobless, I set out to explore Alaska on foot.
When I get home, Hulk moves out.
While I was looking for a new job, Stony got married, Charley made a perfect birthday gift for me, and I worked for a bit as an astrologer.

~~~~~

This is essentially where the narrative's continuity comes to an end, but it is not the end of my story. Links below are to stories of events that occurred between where the narrative ends above, and the present time.

my "last" brownie binge (mid-1970s)
In 1979, I found my eldest child Marie and we had an emotional reunion.
The rest of her story came later.
My first winter off the power grid (early 1980s) was traumatic.
I was poisoned by the Wintersgate Assassins' Guild (mid-80s)
I listed some traumatic events of the late 1980s.
I remember the wreck of the Exxon Valdez and its aftermath.
In '89, I killed Rocky, wounded Bullwinkle and rescued Cow-Winkle in the "moose winter" story.
Another entry displays a photo I took of a black bear cub and tells several bear stories.

A more recent wildlife encounter happened in January, 2005, while our comp was down.
Greyfox left a bulletin here when Doug shot the moose.
When we got the comp back, I wrote first about my initial emotional reaction to the moose stomping my dog.
My next entry had pictures of us butchering the moose in our front yard.

Autobiographical snippets from a few decades appear in a blog from 2002 about what I did for a living... and here's a little taste of life in Alaska;
...plus a few professional secrets.

When I was new to Xanga, I was asked about my Old Fart.
I responded with an abbreviated version of my entire matrimonial history (and, BTW, an explanation of how and why I had acquired an arsenal).
In response to another question about Greyfox, I went off on a tangent and told the story of our meeting, and about some culture shock Greyfox experienced on his first visit to Alaska.
Then I gave a bit of our karmic history.
That led into the honeymoon,
the "white man" in-joke,
Greyfox's gig as a nude model,
and our homecoming.
That story reveals a lot of interpersonal conflict that is no longer part of our relationship.
We started working that out after Greyfox diagnosed his own NPD.
You can also read about it from his point of view, and read a sweet story about how sweet we are on each other now.
Greyfox is married to me, but is not the same man I married.
He calls my place "home", but spends most of his time at Felony Flats.

Another, more recent, thread of my memoirs involves a 28,000-mile road trip that my son and I took during the school year when he was supposed to have been in seventh grade. I started with a backstory blog before getting into the Big Field Trip itself with Part One, Part Two
.... (to be continued-- )

Here is my take on
HAPPINESS

Astrologers can quickly get the gist of the story of my life from
my chart.
They and anyone else can see the basic gears and cogs that run my life, in the entry where I describe
my intensity pattern.
In the 3 decades between my first and second Saturn returns, I tended to just blurt out the voiceless echoes I heard in my mind.

Movies in Five Seconds or Less