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Chameleon: An Interactive ExplorationPart VI -- Reminiscing Anecdotally
-- Clarence Shepard Day, Jr., once-reknowned author, poet, artist, and outspoken supporter of women's rights
"My love for you is like the ocean: vast, volatile, and potentially deadly."
"The time to be happy is now. The place to be happy is here. The way to be happy is to make others so."
"For you shall go out in joy/ and be led back in peace./ the mountains and hills before you/ shall burst into song./ and all the trees of the field shall/ clap their hands."
"In the midst of movement and chaos, keep stillness inside of you."
I, A Woman
Prelude (Abbreviated Synopsis of the Synopsis of Technology and Me) -- Strophe -- Growing Up Rich (To The Manner/Manor Born) -- Manhattan! -- Music and Hippiedom -- Settling Down and Yuppiedom -- Technology and Careerism -- Wilderness Basics (Beasts and Heathens Part 1) -- Art and the Internet (Beasts and Heathens Part 2) -- Epic Coitus Interruptus -- Town/Community Life -- Frivolities -- Beasts and Heathens (Finale) -- Recoveries -- Reprise -- Joie Plaisir Eibr -- NOW (New Original Word)
2010 -- Commemorative for Gulf of Mexico BP Oil 'Spill'
___ 2010/11 -- The Test Drive
Especially post-stroke, I've had what seem to me odd interactions with the inanimate material world. One day, I said in tangled exasperation to Molly who was helping out with general cleanup, "It seems like things stick to me!" Without missing a beat or stray cathair, she responded firmly, "They love you."
And, in a blockbuster remake of "Back to the Future," it's legal again to buy and sell fresh eggs! Progress(ive) wins agin! Earlier last year, a rural caregiver related having to "make a run" with "an egg drop" for a needy friend....
Somewhat later, in a humorous pre-shopping exchange, I said, "Get yourself something if you wanna." Into the silence came, "I don't think the bag boy wants to come home with me." "Make an offer."
Another, in reiterating her commitment to assistance and protection assured me, "I can pull out a can of whup-ass good as anyone." And I believe her. Pretty incredibly, she did maneuver to "bitch-slap" the phone bureaucracy into providing specific long-overdue homecare services. It was a stellar moment for The People. Awed silence flew into the mindless vacuum that is The System.
An earlier and very impressive helpmate, one with an honors masters degree, had abandoned a circuitously similar quest series by breaking the final connection with a flatly calm and uncharacteristically rude summary conclusion of "You're just stupid," while I stared.
An informally fascinating storyteller and efficiently delightful care provider is a scion generations past of legendarily beloved Carter County "Red Fox" Ellis and of the original mountaineer family that owned the famed seven-state "Beauty Spot" vistaland (that later conceived the present generation!) of the Blue Mist.
And a memorable malapropism: "Tears are lethargic."
Another fun provider and single working parent raises chickens on her little border-town farm and, overwhelmed with fresh eggs, delivered from-scratch homemade spinach-bacon-cheese quiches along with clean folded and scented laundry.
One wittily helpful visitor relates receiving regular iphone instruction and other tech tutorials via her four-year-old grandchild.
A recently assistive and entertaining visitor -- an Obama-supportive friend from earlier Jobo days -- mentions, in trading standup witticisms, being a long-time D.A.R. member who traces her ancestry to an historically prominent general in Washington's Army of the Potomac and to a typically huge 17th century English Crown Eastern Shore land grant. As a widowed single working parent, she has raised three now-degreed adult children, two with Master's and the other working toward a doctorate.
And a later and memorable Jonesborough homecare witticism exchange....
"Your dishes are all washed."
me [leaning back, contentedly]:"Y'know, there's a 'half-full glass' side of all this."
"No there isn't. I just washed it."
Earlier, homecare R.N and speech therapist -- and working mother, Dallas, scouted and found, unasked, for a surprise treat amidst frozen food aisles the manicotti I craved and I telephoned her excitedly to show off when I could finally pronounce the "K" and "G" sounds from my once-paralyzed larynx. As a visiting child blurted out, my speech otherwise appears robotic from the strenuously conscious effort at articulate pronunciation. Consequently, I've resorted to typed ("pecked," one-handed) communications primarily for ease and clarity.
I'm fortunate in that my "tastebuds" and salivary glands -- and intelligent cognition -- were never compromised in the pervasive left-side devastation of the stroke, leaving a perfect analogy to the Body Politic lying-in-wait.
The colorful panoply of care providers have and do obviously enjoy here the cozily relaxed artsy-craftsy work environment -- cleaning, discovering and rearranging as they please a unique diversity of objects. My sole insistence is that wall-hangings not be arranged in battalion formation, but naturally and comfortably askew.
A delightful few have insisted I and my collections be "femmed up" with fragranced sprays and exotic smouldering pipe and pyramid incenses. "Magic potions" of semi-wild organics, including ground chia seeds and garlic, have been offered also to seduce the spirits of healing. Sweets from candies to cakes and ice creams to brown sugars and yams to puddings and pies have done their terms of dopamine service intermittently too. Along with creamy mixed drinks and thick liquours. And spiked coffees. Sundaes and banana splits. And rich dark Irish Stout. And the daily full-strength coated aspirin recommended by my surgeon, with which I add an OTC multi-vitamin.
A neighbor entertained us impromptu on a clear day by playing his banjo country-style, excellently. When I asked months later if he was still chording, strumming and picking, he lowered his head and mumbled, no, that the infant-toddler son he raises as a single working parent is jealous of the attention he gives it and that he has to sneak away with his (hidden out of sight/reach) strings to play!
Good buddy Tennessee-to-California artist John Charles brought his tiny original oil landscape [micro-painting] as a holiday gift and, a few months later, an excellent art drafting design book. He chose "Pacmen" from amongst my framed acrylics to exhibit in his formal studio gallery, for which he snailmailed a glitzy thank-you card.
Chicago-to-Appalachia-and-Lithuania artist Margaret Gregg brought a lushly crimson poinsettia plant, off which Lily promptly ate all the leaves in arty shreds. Our Main Street Presbytery donated one also from their holiday altar via a neighbor. Hardy Chris delivered farm-crafted ornaments, toiletries and freshly-made butter. Formal homecare has washed and fluffed all the stuffed animals so they are "next to Godliness" and neatly waiting around the reordered tree again to open their creative wrapped and presented presents.
Supervisory Medicare-attached homecare checks now in person thoroughly and regularly, and pleasantly, to review overall conditions and service status and to provide cheerily inspiring seasonal gifts and cards.
And from a Sign of our Times encounter [elsewhere] with a self-reported Republican female "man in a woman's body":
When I observed publically that those that band together to maim or murder are criminal co-conspirators, that individual called me a "Communist." After relating the story to a JBO neighbor later, I said in another context, "Pudding's as good as ice cream, right?" and she said adamantly, "No, it isn't! What are you, a Communist?"