Never Can Say Goodbye

 Yuck dear reader(s), I’m up in the dead of night again, after only about 5 hours of sleep. I had the most unsettling dream about running into my married lover from years and years ago—caused, of course, by staying up too late again, this time watching old re-runs of “The Office” which touched on a character who had been jilted by a girlfriend. My dream was kinda poignant, I told JMB that I had given him my heart and he would always have it, a naked lie, as Michael my husband has both my heart and my soul. My sister also outed me in the dream for having a used carton of cigarettes, and I swore to give them up that day. It’s so strange (and annoying) to be having these vivid dreams and remembering them. I could never remember my dreams when I was on the higher amount of Depakote, perhaps a blessing in disguise. 

I’m so confused, dear reader(s), about where exactly I am mentally these days. It kinda feels like I’m an actress on a big stage, like I’m back in High School in a school play. When I was psychotic and wandering around with a screw loose, I felt like I was being filmed and it’s not entirely like that but kinda close. I’m definitely not recovered from “the incident” last Fall, and I’m wondering how long a slog I’ll be on before I feel normal again. I have my monthly appointment with Dr. Levy tomorrow and I’m wondering what to report. It seems the pattern is I cobble together a stretch of good days with a good night’s sleep, punctuated with a night of vivid dreams and little sleep. It’s all affected by television and ads, it seems. My gut is telling me I’m on that same trajectory I was on during 2016-2017, and things won’t be completely normalized until the early summer. If true, that makes me mad, for we still haven’t determined who/what made me so sick last Fall. One thing’s for sure: we cannot blame alcohol or weed.

I hope I can continue with my art, which seems much more under control this go around. I’m thinking I take the ripped up flag “Cassandra Calling” to Fetter’s office on Thursday. Not sure I’ve got the energy to confront “Primal Scream” just yet. I remember when I brought a lot of my art to Peter Zafirides’ office way back in 2004. Wonder what he thought of it? Dear Peter, how are you doing? Shame I couldn’t be a good, ideal patient, and Michael was so insufferable you had to terminate your services. How embarrassing. God, Michael can be a real ass sometimes. 

So today I get my temporary crown taken off and the permanent one affixed. From the looks of the temporary, it’s a fairly large crown, making me cringe at the possibility of implants when I’m much older. Poor mom, she’s looking at one, maybe two more implants in February. What does that make, 11 total? Yikes, I hope I’m not headed in that direction! Fingers crossed that maybe given the fact that I have a better diet than her, I will have a better dental fate when I am old. Fingers also crossed that Michael continues to manage money well so we can afford my pricey dental bills of the future.

Politics, politics, politics, it’s infected my music now, here at 5:38 a.m. can’t I ever get away from it? I guess not. What do I expect, listening to the Blues at this hour. Better switch to Classical? Wonder if Katie is up yet, or if I go to the First Things First AA meeting at 7:00 a.m. Maybe I re-engage YouTube (with caution) or mindlessly scroll through Amazon Prime? I like being free of Wastebook, maybe I pick up a real book and start reading it? I did try reading that library book Michael got me, “Feel the Fear” (or something like that) but I found it, well, boring, actually. I’m kinda itching to get into my art books, so perhaps I start there. I must remember to get a Van Gogh book. I wonder if Michael will get angry with me if I order one from Amazon? Maybe I tell him I got through the “Fear” book and subsequently deserved the Van Gogh—but that of course would be a bald-faced lie.

Well, it’s almost 6:00 a.m., coffee is cold, what’s new. I guess I’m feeling better, yes, a tad better than yesterday. I’m meeting Arlene for lunch tomorrow to discuss universal healthcare and mental health initiatives—not sure Ohio legislators have the stomach to beef up mental health coverage in the state, but I’ve got some ideas on how to convince them. And no, we are not going to put the focus solely on children. That’s short-sighted and it’s a mistake. I’m interested in the big picture, adults very much included, let’s not let Nationwide Children’s Hospital dominate the show, shall we? Ah, agendas. So clear to see. I shall be quiet and let Arlene talk, but I am bringing a notepad and Sharpie pen.

Ok, that’s my early-morning musings for today. I’m sure I’ll need a nap this afternoon, and that’s fine because I have an easy dinner planned for tonight: Tuesday Taco Night, always a hit, easy to prepare, as I know it by heart. Have a good day all, rise and shine and all that. The early bird catches the worm!

Everybody Plays The Fool

 My friends, am I angry this morning, specifically at technology and people’s poor grammar. All I’ve been trying to do for hours is set up some simple massages for our staycation this weekend, and some company and their App—touted highly by Google—refuse to work on my Apple devices and it’s driving me nuts. Of course this massage outfit is run by some entrepreneurs on the West Coast, and we all know what kind of cracker boxes they are. I’m tempted to just give up trying to arrange this, but I want a massage so badly, it’s been years since I’ve had one…I feel manipulated by this technology, which is flawed and I know it. It just makes people angry, angry, angry and that’s not what we want—or do we?

I’m going to have to resolve things the good old-fashioned way, with a phone call. Person-to-person contact with tech support, yet again. Isn’t there some funny movie about tech support that came out in the ‘90s? I’ll have to ask Michael, as he made a living in Tech Support at Nationwide until that vicious female mid-level manager drove him crazy. Ah yes, vicious, insecure women, fingers crossed Soothe Massage sends us a male masseuse (if I can ever get ahold of them today).

It’s a gray day today, kinda dreary, the hounds smell houndy, I dream of getting away somewhere, anywhere. I guess I’m glad we are doing this staycation in Dublin this weekend, and the gals are bringing furs for all of us, as temperatures will be in the 20s. I know some will be drinking heavily, but I’m prepared with trusty phone numbers for Shawn, AA friends, mom, etc. I presently feel secure in my sobriety, it’s just the spiritual malady I’m having trouble sifting through, but I’m trying my best and that’s all one can ask for these days.

I’m finding myself missing Andi, for she would know how to set up massages, technology be damned, she never owned a lap top, and only hesitantly embraced an iPad. Andi would always help me when all the others wouldn’t, she never turned her back on me when I slipped into mental health hell two decades ago. But alas, Andi did have her troubles, and descended into her own hell herself, moving away to Connecticut and dying before I could save her. I miss you, dear friend, you should be joining us on this Dublin staycation, rooming with me, we’d probably sleep in the same bed, just like old times at the Lake House…why did you have to die, why wouldn’t you embrace the Higher Power, why wouldn’t you just surrender to recovery and see the light? Oh where are you now, dear friend, flying in the flock of birds over my head on my way up Kenny Road to see Fetter?

Well I just talked to mom and my mood has improved on this Monday. Sincere conversation, better than any pill me thinks, lifts my spirits every time. Michael is on his way to Katzinger’s to secure vittles for our lunches this week. Sweet Michael, my steadying rock, and Mom, soothing my fears and cloudy moods. I’m blessed. Have a good day, friends. Until next time.

McOllie (And Friend)

 

Ah dear reader(s), two squirrels have come to visit me this morning, busy scurrying up and down the telephone pole outside my window. Reminds me of Mr. Wong’s pet squirrel Ollie back at CSG in the early 1980s, who he would feed while simultaneously showing us the thousands of dollars he won from a recent trip to Vegas. Good ole Mr. Wong, rest in peace dear friend, I hope you are up in heaven teaching Andi craps and how to appropriately play the slot machines and tables. 

Lily was busy last night peeing on my recliner, and Legs keeps having dumps wherever he sleeps. Guess we are all a mess here, so fingers crossed Michael finds us a house cleaner soon. All I seem capable doing lately is writing my blog, drinking coffee, grocery shopping and cooking, with occasional trips to mom’s to do my art. Recovery from “episodes” is a bitch, and can take months and months, plus this medicine I’m on has terrible side effects so there’s that to contend with on a daily basis. I take comfort in the books that surround me, even though I can’t read them. I can though look at the pictures, and remember back to the time when I first saw them. Maybe just having books in shelves is part of the healing process, and saved recipes in my NYT Cooking app. Completely tidy storage will never be my bag, but so be it. I’m just going to do me and see where the dice lands.

Speaking of dice, I know on one of those paintings in the scary stack down in the basement I affixed some dice up in a corner…the piece is almost destroyed, but the dice are intact. Who knows what I was trying to say. Maybe a comment on soon to be established Hollywood Casino? Oh, I just need to relax about the basement art, yet I know it’s down there and I want it out. I guess we just start with the Barbie piece and get that to Fetter’s office pronto and go from there. He said he’s seen some disturbing stuff in his day, so maybe I just stop worrying about it. We shall see.

The Blue Jackets have a contest going on now where the winner gets to go to Vegas…I wonder if they are offering accommodations at the Luxor where we stayed when we went to Vegas years ago. Sweet Michael, he was approached and tag teamed by ladies of the night Cinnamon and Jasmine in the hotel bar, while I was up slumbering away in my Fredericks of Hollywood fishnet catsuit. What a trip that was, Michael kept me on a strict gambling budget of $60.00, all of which I lost in the slot machines. Oh well. Michael did well at the tables and we had a wonderful, romantic steak dinner at the Charlie Palmer Four Season’s Restaurant in the Mandalay Bay place (I think that’s the name?). Wonder if we will ever make it back to Vegas to catch an America’s Got Talent act? Or maybe a burlesque show at the very least.

No, something tells me I’ll never get out of Ohio, save if I grab the bull by the horns, just get my own credit card from Chase Sapphire and sneak off to the airport and fly away…but alas, I’ve done that out of state traveling on my own and I only got as far as the outskirts of Detroit with an APB out for me. Nope, traveling solo ain’t the way to go for me. Guess I’ll always need a chaperone. Such is life.

No real plans for today, save for cooking my standard brunch and a NYT roast. The Cincinnati Bengals are playing the Kansas City Chiefs, but I don’t really have any skin in the game. I know that Wastebook football group I was in was filled with Chiefs fans, so I’m obviously drawn to my Who Dey homeboys to take this to the house and win all the marbles. Joe Cool Burrows is always fun to watch, so we’ll see what he has up his sleeve. Sunday football. It’s an American institution. Have a good day all. I’m gonna try.

The Right Stuff?

 

So alas, dear reader(s), me thinks my Zooms and YouTube are now overrun by cops and imposters—even Peter Gabriel is now missing, and you know when he’s gone, we are all in trouble. Things started going south for me lately when I started innocently questioning what was up in Licking County—guess that place is off limits, but oh no, you know I’ve got what it takes to take it to the limit one more time. To the unseasoned eye I might appear a touch paranoid, but oh no, I’m as cool as the cucumbers they are giving out at the Brown Bag Deli down the street. Never felt saner in my life, just a curious feline in all matters concerned. So for now, I’ve left YouTube and it’s back to (safe?) Classical on Pandora. Here’s hoping the Mad Ad Men keep themselves in order this morning.

Looks like perhaps the sun will be out today, which is nice. But it’s certainly chilly outside, making me long for a vacation in a warmer clime somewhere, anywhere. Michael keeps threatening to move us to Florida, but I don’t want the stress of hurricane season (and all that accompanying trauma), not to mention I don’t want to leave my family and friends behind. Maybe I could call North Carolina home, but all the Boomers are invading as we speak, driving up real estate prices. Plus they get dicey weather too.

Oh where is the right place for me? My hospital den room at 235 E. Columbus Street, for the rest of my life? This house is crumbling apart, why can’t Michael see that, or why, in the very least, won’t he do some cosmetic repairs to the chimney and paint trim so I don’t indeed go nuts again? I keep having to flee away to temporary sanatoriums like Chip’s place, or ritzy hotels in Dublin, grabbing food from Cameron Mitchell along the way. It’s no wonder one might want to flirt with boozy dreams along this Road Less Traveled. I’m starting to get upset again, and I must keep my cool, if for nothing less than mom cannot handle anymore me bitching about my woe is me tale.

I guess I’ll drown my sorrows in my cooking. I’m making buttermilk pancakes and sausage for brunch; probably chicken sausage and apples for dinner or maybe a mushroom and potato paprikash. Not sure yet. I’ll keep trying to evade the noisy, intrusive news as best I can. Maybe I’ll call Shawn as I’m now kinda afraid of Zoom cause there were some really distressing folks in that Dual Diagnosis Zoom I attended last night. I want to stay connected to AA, but if I don’t feel safe there, I can no longer go to meetings. The people hosting the Zooms appear to have no control over triggering talk and it’s harming people. 

Yes, there are many, many sick people roaming around our country, and our current hospital system isn’t equipped to handle all of them. America, supposedly the greatest country in the world? Hah. This place is infected, cue up The The, and try to find some sane person in Washington who has the key to unlock the trunk holding the secret to how we get out of this mess. (Hint: the trunk is a time capsule.)

Bah, my mood is slightly darkish again, can’t seem to find the right music to lift my spirits this morning. Need some Chopin or maybe a Russian composer who I cannot spell his name correctly (but you know who he is). I’m going to try my damndest not to bark at Michael this morning, I must remember he is trying. Today I’m just going to try to be pleasant. Heaven help me. Heaven. The home of the heart.

Doubt

 

So I come to you, dear reader(s), this evening after a somewhat difficult day. Although I enjoyed myself immensely with Brother Chip and his beautiful wife Kristen last night, I was disturbed to hear my dear niece Piper has fallen ill and is in the hospital. Prayers go out to Pipes, who I hope recovers soon. It’s strange, I was awoken near 6:00 a.m. this morning by dog Tebow barking, and when I crept downstairs to pet him he emitted a low growl, but then came up to me for a pet. Boo was completely silent, in her cage, allowing me to drink my morning Joe in peace.

After a wreck on Broad Street coming out of Granville was cleared, mom and I made it back to her place, then I continued home. I wanted to stay and work on my art, but a sense of doubt in my abilities had started to take root, hatched by an insidious creature who probably hitched a ride on mom’s bumper. I found anger, just irritability and discontent building inside of me—and I took it out on Michael, making childish demands about money I know he cannot fulfill presently. But I backed down after dear friend Alicia swooped in, offering to whisk me away to a staycation in a Dublin hotel next weekend. 

Presently this doubt in my artwork is kinda eating me up. My stuff is incomprehensible, it’s in your face, some is angry, some highlighting rejection, pain, loss, confusion, maybe insanity, maybe truth? I have this unbelievable anger with Facebook, Zoom bombers, most of 2016-2017, medication, psychiatrists, stigmatizers, MeToo, cancel culture, televised news, greedy sharks, just a host of characters. Sure, maybe it goes back to being mad at the trio of Dad, Uncle Bill and Papa, but no, that analysis is too fucking easy. 

I’m a mess tonight. Restless, irritable and discontent. Get my bed ready. Time for a Deep Sleep.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie?

 So Top ‘O the Mornin’ dear reader(s), I come to you from my hospital den room, where I spy snow flakes gently falling outside my window. Sweet Legs and Lily have been slumbering all morning, and of course I’m not disturbing them to get them outside for their morning constitution. Guess that means there’s a good chance Legs might soil his dog bed again, but I’ll be quick to clean it up before Michael comes downstairs. Talked to mom on the phone and we are both excited for our sleepover tonight at Chip’s house—perhaps we can make a fort in the basement after we get out of the hot tub? Anything goes!

Alas my High School clique text chain has been disrupted lately, what with people using Apple’s voice to text (pesky Tim Cook, wanting to ensure his phones won’t be outlawed in cars) and confusing everyone and setting off paranoia. Cancel culture, conspiracy theories, what’s the CIA up to, group think, COINTELPRO, it’s all very fascinating and thank goodness my old hard drives are up in the attic where I stored all my sleuthing into this back when the Backstreet Boys were touring around. I’m chucking to myself, loving the fact that hoarder-light Michael has kept all our electronics from years gone by. Clearly he’s the brains of our operation, though I’m not too shabby myself (winkedy wink).

I see Fetter today, and as always I’m looking forward to it. There’s much to discuss, top on the list is the plethora of old artworks I am remembering I did, and importantly if I dare to show those that have survived at my art show in May. I definitely want to hold a few back, to take to the Lindsay Gallery, though I’m guessing the dealer won’t have the nerve to display my most controversial works, which seem to only find a home in my moldy basement. I mean, who in this town dares to take on The Ohio State University besides me? No one, that’s who. If you do, you get an old musket pointed at your head, and few have the guts to stand up against a tree and face the firing squad like I did.

So there’s that to discuss, plus Michael’s current hair do, which is making me feel like Jack Nicholson with the Indian. We know how that ends, the Indian is the one who gets to run free at the end, with Jack left with Nurse Ratchett (mom’s name for herself as she was nursing Dad right before his death—or rebirth?). Though I should say Michael’s Indian headband (which he stole from me) matches his flannel shirts perfectly, so I’m at least happy with his dress. Wish I could say that about my own shabby threads. I don’t know why Michael’s hair is irritating me so, except to say this fucking (pardon my language) Depakote utterly destroys my beautiful curly hair, and were I free of it, I could grow my hair just as long as Michael’s. So it’s jealousy again, a sin, resentment, all that nasty stuff and today I’m going to wallow in it, at least in Fetter’s office.

Otherwise, I’m feeling pretty good today, got plenty of sleep so I’m ready for the day. Our basement is dry once more (after flooding yesterday), and Michael is going to do his own investigation of our neighbor’s shenanigans which may be at the root of our basement flooding problem. Better call the City, maybe an ambulance chaser too…perhaps we can get a little convoy on the way to court. Wonder what good ole’ Steve Smith from The Madison Press is doing these days? I should find him! He would know how to handle pesky neighbors. Au revoir all. Have a great day (and night)!

Smooth Operator

 An early good morning, dear reader(s), I am awake watching for snow outside (as ominously forecasted last night) but there doesn’t seem to be too much on the ground, it’s mostly just raining outside. Ah, the unpredictable weather of Columbus, it always has surprises in store for us, and more often than not things are not as too terribly bad as we might think. I slept fairly well last night, I cannot remember any nightmares, which is comforting. Legs though did give me a scare yesterday, he was having trouble walking, and was shivering (a sign of pain) so I immediately called Dr. Sears, who recommended an anti-inflammatory pain medication that I gave Legs. Wouldn’t you know, he got so much better, stopped trembling, ate heartily, and yes, barked outside. I’m temporarily relieved, though I know he is getting so old and I’m preparing myself for the day he leaves us…may we just treasure this time we have together.

I took a brief break from the wonders of the YouTube tech experience and just did a little I Want Eye Candy tour of Amazon—my, how intriguing some the merchandise photos really are, if you stop and examine them for awhile. My memory got jogged back to an art piece I did long ago, in acrylic, of an old rotary/push button (?) style telephone with a dollar sign coming across the ear piece (if this makes sense!); a gentleman bought it from me at the art show, I’m fairly certain I charged him $50 bucks for it. Goodness knows what he did with it. Get it framed, perhaps? I’m kinda intrigued by exploring Amazon further, not to buy, but to analyze with my “I Know That I Don’t Know” skull cap on.

I had a wonderful AA zoom last night, Meditating Over the Rainbow, with sponsor Shawn and a great small group of familiar faces. I tried my best to relax and listen to calming instructions on how to ease a troubled mind and get into the now. Our topic for discussion was “service” and I chuckled at the mention of cleaning ashtrays at meetings, for I remember 25 years ago that when I was fighting to get my 90 meetings in 90 days, it was my trusty Marlboro Lights that helped me hold it together. I was a mess. Most are quick to prattle off the dangers of/disgust with smoking, but if it’s a choice between alcohol or cigarettes in those early days of sobriety, hey, keep your cigarettes. Enough said.

I’ve been wondering lately if I’ve been knocking myself out too heavily with my OTC Simply Sleep…I keep conking out early and waking up before daybreak, and I’m not sure if that’s what I’m supposed to be doing? I know Dr. Levy doesn’t really want me relying on Simply Sleep at all, but he knows how important sleep is to my stability. I guess I’m worried that I’m addicted to the stuff, addicted to nicotine gum, coffee, my tea in the afternoon, cooking, oh just addicted to everything, and that somehow makes me a bad person. Unredeemable. Maybe the answer to this lies in some Amazon Prime movie, called “C’est La Vie” or “Voulez Vous Couchez” or something to that extent? 

The one thing I know is I’m still utterly uncomfortable with most news except what mom shares with me from The Wall Street Journal. It’s a trust thing, it’s a trauma thing, it’s a knowing thing that everyone, everyone, has an agenda they are trying to filter through a lens of someone else’s making. Maybe that’s what we are all left with in today’s capitalist society. Maybe that was my message in my telephone artwork I sold to that pleasant man years ago. Who knows. Who am I, but some formerly drunk, bipolar weirdo trying to survive in a world of mandates and controls. 

Sorry for my questioning darkness this early morning. Just waiting for daybreak. It’s an hour away, so off to YouTube I go. Or perhaps Amazon? Or Pandora? Oh, the places we can go!

I Know That You Know I Know

So I am beginning my work on the third panel of my triptych, the “canvas” of which is the black plastic tray to a extra large dog cage. I started laying out some pieces on it, then promptly had a dream about mom dying last night, so I guess we are off and running. This morning I decided to try and teach the AI at Google a little modern-day “swan song” of poetry, utilizing their videos and ads and my trusty index finger…not sure how the composition is going along or if anyone in Google’s data mining facility is taking note of it (that place to be explored in triptych Panel #2). The good news, dear reader(s), is I am chuckling over all this, as I am sick and tired of all the fear-mongering these days!

I noticed the most unfortunate graffiti scrawled upon the Sheraton Hotel down there at Third and State streets yesterday. It said, “Stop Cop City” (though might have been read as Stop! Cop City!)—regardless of the meaning, I thought it looked sloppy and was most derogatory to our wonderful Columbus Police Department, who I called to alert to the situation. I also tried to speak to the General Manager of the Sheraton, who of course was in a meeting so I left a message (subtly) threatening to call Channel 6 On Your Side if the graffiti wasn’t removed. I requested a call back but my phone has remained silent, save a few annoying spam calls from Hilliard and Dublin. 

The sun is rising now, and do I spy a little bit of blue sky out my hospital window? The neighbor’s dog just sounded off with a familiar bark, causing Legs and Lily to temporarily adjust their sleeping positions. I’m now listening to beloved jazz on Pandora, something I usually save for afternoon cooking prep but I just wanted to hear some soothing, comforting, silky note-playing this a.m. I don’t have too busy a day today, need to go to the grocery and buy things for the week. On Thursday mom and I are going out to Granville to have dinner with brother Chip and Kristen and spend the night. I’m to bring a bathing suit so I can get in Chip’s new hot tub—that boy and his toys. 

I’m feeling better about the scary art in the scary basement, and remembering back to when Andi said she glued a troll doll to the floor of her basement in the Connecticut house…true story? A clue? No connection at all? Alas, she passed away before I could get to Connecticut to see her basement but I wonder if neighborhood resident Ted Koppel ever did. Though Andi did tell me Ted was quite rude to her when she met him so I’m thinking he never met the troll. Oh well. Oh Andi, do you come to me in my dreams or are you the raven I saw at Speedway the other day? How I miss our crime-solving duo “Gumshoe” made possible only through the assistance of marijuana, which is supposed to be evil for me. According to my AA Zoom last night in my relapsed past I acted like a fool—but did we? Who, pray tell, was zoomin who?

But no, I know the sober life is worth living, don’t want my current, intricate house of cards to come crashing down. Michael’s on board now with the sober way (at least abstaining from the substances) so our marriage is intact, praise be to God. The bipolar medicine seems to be working, I can write and I’m doing art. In addition to my “Doggie Style” panel, I’m composing, “Mrs. Smith Goes To Washingtown” (titles, of course, subject to change). Michael introduced me to 1971’s “The Omega Man” with Charleton Heston and damn, isn’t that a great cult film, so inspirational for me! Perhaps it can help me heal from that disturbing Wastebook photo that tipped me over the edge and sent me to the nut hatch last November? We shall see.

Ah Wastebook, how shall the Supreme Court handle you and YouTube this year? Unfortunately, given the dysfunction in both Congress and the press, here comes the judge and that Bittersweet Symphony. Cue up the sax horns as everyone files into court. Maybe the Editor of National Lampoon will be there. Who knows. I wonder what type of suit he might be wearing, and of course, what hat. Daniel Crockett coonskin?

Ah yes, I just looked outside and the sun is here! I’m looking forward to doing the dog walk and having my grilled sandwich on stale sourdough bread. Laugh with me, dear reader(s), it’s all we rebel forces have got these days. Adios, au revoir, al vee de zee en. Good night!
 

Primal Scream

 OK, hold your horses, hold the phone dear reader(s), I went down to the scary basement yesterday and forced myself to confront the stack of some old, some damaged beyond repair, artworks I did in 2003/2004 and shiver me timbers there is some disturbing stuff there. Two pieces near the top of the stack that set the tone quite nicely are one with a nearly-nude OSU Barbie doll with rifles pointing at her; and another a ripped up plastic American flag laying over a pox-marked surface with the words “NEVER AGAIN” at the top of the canvas. I remember distinctly having these two pieces on display at my art show I had at the house years ago, and it’s no wonder some people got freaked out and quickly exited our place. 

These two pieces are very important because they capture my anger at having my journalism career utterly upended and destroyed by a number of factors: a vicious gang of harassing characters at The Ohio State University who effectively chased me out of the Journalism school (where I had a 4.0 GPA); and unknown other harassers who applied unbelievable pressure on me when I was a rising star cub reporter at The Madison Press in London, Ohio. I would go on to have a complete nervous breakdown and psychotic break, be diagnosed with bipolar disorder with psychotic features, thrown on meds, and the rest is history.

It’s extremely painful for me to reflect on having my dreams utterly ripped apart when I was showing such promise—all I want to do is take these two pieces (and indeed all the other pieces of my art in this house) and throw them in a huge Boren Brothers dumpster parked outside one of these McMansions under construction here in the Village. I honestly am questioning right now whether I continue on this current artistic journey I am on, for I don’t want to wade too deeply back into familiar territory. I can get very dark and I’m not sure that’s where I want to now dwell. I know perhaps I shouldn’t have confronted that scary stack of art at least until I had a few more pieces completed, but well, whoops, curiosity got the best of me. Yet again.

I talked to mom about the Barbie doll piece and we decided that I hold off on throwing it out and instead wrap it up in a black trash bag and take it to Fetter to discuss (and maybe have him “safekeep” it for me?). I mean, after all Fetter has one of the journals I hand wrote when I was completely off my rocker in psychosis back in 2017–why shouldn’t he have the most disturbing piece of art I ever did? I wonder what he will think of the piece…he is an esteemed graduate of OSU, he certainly knows the school and some of the thugs that are wandering around campus. He can be entrusted with my wretched commentary on those who have for years harassed bright women who sought to shed light on some of the questionable deeds going on at that place. The Ohio State University. Harumph.

You know, they say that rats are very intelligent creatures, and when we had that bizarre infestation in 2016 (you remember that one, led me to ECT at Ohio State), and they chewed through the dishwasher water line which led to the destruction of several of these pieces in this stack, I’d say it’s kinda amazing the Barbie one is still in very, very good shape. I won’t describe today everything that’s on the piece, but I’m going to give it the tentative title, “Primal Scream” until a better title comes to mind. The ripped up American flag I may call “Cassandra Calling” or something similar to that. I’ll work on some titles for the pieces down there in the basement, if I ever get up the nerve to look at them again.

So on that uplifting note, I bid you adieu for today. It’s very cold here today, with some snow expected shortly. Not sure if I want to do the dog walk today, poor Legs his paws get cold and he wants to go home as soon as he leaves the house. Oh well, off this loon goes. Perhaps I’ll meet some others in my flock today!

The Snowy Day

 

So good morning all, I write to you this morning as light flakes of snow cascade down outside my window. It looks like my neighbor across the alley may have installed some metal or wood contraption by his gate—or maybe it was always there and I didn’t notice it before? No one seems to be occupying that rental property…it has sat vacant for months. Wonder why? I’m also wondering why almost every single apartment I lived in was broken into: two in Washington DC (one on Church St. NW and one on 17th St. NW); my VW car stereo was stolen when I lived on Flower Ave., in Takoma Park, MD; my precious garnet serpent ring was stolen from a month-to-month rental I had on Town St. in Columbus; and a box of checks were stolen then there was a botched attempt to steal my answering machine all when I lived on City Park Avenue, also in Columbus.

I guess I’m wondering about the robberies this morning because last night was First Responders Night at the Arena. I seem to have had my fair share of interaction with the cops, though thankfully it was to report dastardly things done to me, not bad things I had done. Maybe these unresolved crimes are why I naturally like to try my hand at a little sleuthing of my own. The Jackets were definitely on a hunt last night, they played an outstanding game against San Jose, with Gaudreau, Patty Laine and Nyquist finally, finally showing us their stuff. I was thrilled with the victory and even Michael went ahead and purchased tickets to the Minnesota Wild game next month! They are giving out free hats that night so I really want to be there. You know me and my hats, LOL.

I’m thinking All The World’s A Stage And We Are Merely Players, and I’m wondering if maybe I should have explored the Theater Department at Smith. But no, I was all focused on Government and Economics, why, dear Lord, why? Those topics these days just put me in fits, what with the current mess in Washington and recession looming on the horizon. I told mom I thought the only solution was to see a split ticket run for President in 2024, and she replied Abraham Lincoln put all his enemies in his Cabinet, something that sounds like a very good idea to me. Maybe that’s why my first (I think) manic piece of art was a “mosaic” of sorts of broken coffee mugs, in an old window panel, including one mug from Key Bank and another from The Columbus Dispatch. Alas, that mosaic is long gone, I gave it to Andi, who rest in peace, is not with us anymore. Goodness knows what she did with it. Or who she gave it to…?

Fingers crossed a mosaic I did in sanity, “U.S. Mind Control Massive” is still up in the attic. That’s a pivotal piece I did back in the ‘90s, working away in the garage of the City Park place. I started my own little “business” called “Modern Mosaics” and had business cards printed up by Kinkos right there downtown. I’m chuckling because I also had business cards made up when I got sick that very first time back in 2002. They said “SWELL: Smart Women Educating Leaders to Listen.” I handed them out to various men I thought needed them. Guess all those ended up in some circular file in some basement. Hee hee.

Well, the snow is really coming down now, so I guess mom and I must reschedule our church visit. That’s actually OK, I have a Zoom with my dear Smith pals today, who make me laugh. Smith College, grrrrrrrr, they rejected my podcast interview discussing my recovery from alcoholism and bipolar instability. Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. Yet they have crooked Nancy Pelosi speak to students, while with their hands behind their backs take all that endowment cash from Republican donors and try to funnel it out to students coming in from everywhere BUT Ohio. Don’t get me started. I could write a book on this.

OK, Michael is up, so off I must go. Enjoy your Sunday, dear reader(s). And the snow, if you have some in your neck of the woods!

When The Cookie Crumbles?

 Good morning, dear reader(s), my mind is off and running this Saturday morning, what with my early morning work-out with the feeble minds at YouTube. I’m trying to remember that song I slow-danced to with Glenn Davis from Carmel, Indiana that summer after Seventh Grade at the esteemed Culver Military Academy—what a summer of young love that was, with Glenn coping a feel of my breast while we were watching “Brigadoon” in the school auditorium/movie theater. How excited I was! Ah, young love in 1979. Nothing like it. There were many intriguing young lads I met at Culver, including the son of one of the Monkees (can’t remember which one and can’t remember the son’s name). But oh, how I remember Glenn. My first true love…wonder where he is now. Perhaps selling real estate in Indianapolis?

This morning I would like to say a little something about “bipolar grandiosity” and whether it is something reserved to us bipolars or if indeed everyone, to some extent, gets a touch of grandiose behavior throughout their lives. I mean, yes, I was told at Talbot Hall rehab outpatient center that as an alcoholic I was cursed with thinking I was “terminally unique” so maybe I’m already hot-wired towards grandiosity, bipolar notwithstanding. But let me ask you, when you have that situation I told you about when I married a quilt pattern to a Wang computer coupled with the time I made love to my British lover through a U.S Department of Energy computer back in, oh, was it 1993 or 1994 (?), you kinda get the feeling that maybe you are a little bit different than the average bear (and in a good way).

Not sure why sex is on my mind lately, perhaps it’s all the old YouTube videos I’ve been looking at, making me remember my younger, wilder years. I’m of course on guard, because when a bipolar gets into hypomania their sexual urges get ramped up, they spend money, they can do very erratic things. I don’t think that’s the case with me, though I did take a rather serpentine drive to get to mom’s yesterday, instead of my usual route down Broad Street. Basically, I wanted to go by dear deceased friend Andi’s old house on Trashborne Rd., because yesterday I finished my first piece for the art show, “Ode to Andi.” I know she would have loved it, and I would of course given it away to her for free. 

I also think I’m done with a second piece, “Self Portrait: The Art Of The Deal” though I may still tinker with it in the coming months. The triptych is going to take longer to complete but I’ve got a basic idea in my head what I want to accomplish. It’s basically a love story (aren’t they always?), with numerous characters afoot. I have no idea if anyone will understand it and honestly I don’t care. Like mom says, do the art for me. But please, do not call it “art therapy,” I find that most offensive and I’m sure many other artists would as well. No, I’m not grandiose, it’s just I’ve studied a lot of artists over the years and I think I have a fairly good education in what art is all about. And I of course know beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Like, duh. 

So maybe we are all grandiose and I say let’s celebrate that! Definitely Michael, my modern day white Snoop Dog Renaissance Man is grandiose and I love him for it. Perhaps I get more comfortable believing in myself, trusting myself, forgiving myself? See that I have talents and an eye for seeing the world for what it is. I wonder if in the basement is the drawing I did at OSU Harding Hospital of a head, with text written all inside it. I composed it while a beautiful, older black woman was singing and playing the piano (?) I think? But no, how could there have been a piano inside the Harding nut hut? Perhaps I am just confusing that, it happened so long ago, almost two decades ago…

Well, enough of my reminiscing, it’s time to call mom and get the news from the WSJ. Hopefully she is Trusting Her Decisions, though maybe taking a little advice from me, the reluctant Cassandra. Enjoy your weekend, dear reader(s). Tra la la!

In Another Draw With The Private Pilot?

 A cheery good morning, dear reader(s), I’m reporting to you early in the morning again, after another match with the psychiatrist(s) (and detectives?) at YouTube, not to mention the computer graphics department, whom looks to be enjoying their role in today’s activity. I must say it looks like this particular match is a draw, which is always frustrating for the players. I’ve got to up the ante—perhaps I’ll get some inspiration by taking a slow ride down 5th Avenue, past the airport, on my way to mom’s this morning? Alas, my time is tight this morning, I’m on a strict schedule, what with a doctor’s appointment with Schumacher this afternoon to fit. I hope to at least do a little art today, or at the very least finish up the two chess pieces I am currently working on.

I must say I went to bed last night bitterly disappointed with my Blue Jackets and their play last night, but hold the phone, the fall guy isn’t going to be Elvis or one of those dear, sweet lads laying it all out on the ice night after night. No, no, no, we are going straight up to the top rungs on the ladder: Owner, General Manager and Coach, in that order. Perhaps saying the fix was in last night is a stretch, but if The Dispatch doesn’t haul out some serious investigative reporter (or, whoops, didn’t Gannett chase them all away) to figure out why we let Anaheim, a basement-dweller, come from behind and spank us 5-3 last night, I’m never going to read one of their rags again.

So yes, my dreams were all strange again last night, with me and Urban Meyer trying to figure out the fate of the 2024 election (without any help from the dysfunctional Fourth Estate). Sure there were sexual innuendos, flirting with infidelity, Al Gore references, my dreams seem to be power-packed these days. Michael was there, faithfully keeping some order present and I knew in my heart to stay true to my marriage vows—always. I’m blaming YouTube’s videos for all my sexual questioning, I can’t wait to see how the Supreme Court decides to handle them and Wastebook (don’t expect hog-tied Congress to do anything significant) when deliberation on their fate starts February 21. Fingers crossed the good, sanish minds at The Wall Street Journal will put their coverage of this case where it belongs—on the front page right under the masthead—so I have something to work with when I create my second installment of a triptych I hope to complete, commenting on the Fourth Estate. Not sure about the third panel yet. That may take some time.

I must tell you how pleased and deeply indebted I am to Michael for working all day yesterday to tidy up almost all of the back patio and both porches! He did an incredible job (in such a short amount of time!), and keep in mind he was working with that left hand of his that has never properly healed from the fractures he sustained when he fell down the stairs in October of 2021. It’s an absolute miracle he didn’t break his neck in that fall, and that made a True Believer out of me in my Higher Power working in mysterious ways. Now all we need to do is touch up the chipped green paint on some of the trim outside and I will feel completely comfortable and happy to have visitors come to my art show in May. 

Temperatures in Columbus are dropping back down into the 30s today and this weekend. Snow is expected Sunday. Mom and I have plans to visit a very historic church here in Columbus, the First Congregational Church, next to the Columbus Museum of Art. This church holds a very special place in my heart, as it was once home to a very, very meaningful and helpful support group for me, the Bipolar Bears. I was told about it in 2002 (?) I believe by someone at Harding Hospital at OSU. In a small chapel-ish room we bipolars would gather I believe every Wednesday night at 7:00 p.m. It was there that I began my long quest to understand what exactly bipolar disorder was, how in the world I was to cope (no surprise, I eventually gravitated to a group smoking copious amounts of weed), and a journey to figure out who I really was. It was a true shame the group eventually had to break up—hastened by well-meaning and heartfelt attempts to incorporate Southeast patients into the mix. One guy got agitated and broke a chair and sure enough that was the end of that. (And yes, he had bizarre “eyelash” tattoos.)

So now the sun is rising, but it’s unfortunately obscured by clouds. I still have my frame of reference though, my view out my den window on Purdy Alley and I’m chuckling because my little “hospital room” here is at least warm and my John McCain closet bathroom is not too far away. I feel like I’ve got Vincent Van Gogh keeping a watchful eye over me, which is nice. I notice I do not have a Van Gogh book in my collection; hmmmm….we need to remedy that situation immediately! It must of course come from the same series of books mom collected (and I subsequently did as well), published by Abrams (though I thought it was something like Rizzoli?). Me thinks I need to begin trolling Half Price Books to hopefully find this treasure. Finding it on EBay is just way too easy.

Bundle up, dear readers. I may take the lint brush to my Ivanka Trump black winter coat and wear that to church Sunday…along with my leopard faux fur hat. Or maybe I’ll just come in thrift store threads. Anything goes!

Postscript

 Had a very interesting session with Fetter today, ending up discussing Lyndon Johnson and Rose Kennedy. I was sure to open up and tell him about that time in 2017 when I was outside on mom’s patio in my red Scotch plaid L.L. Bean robe, smoking a cigarette and drinking Starbucks coffee, and a big black helicopter swooped down right over me (true story!)—I looked up in glee, wasn’t scared at all, I thought it was an Army General come to visit me for awhile…

After our talk, I went for a scenic drive down through OSU’s campus, making sure to do a hat tip to the law school which rejected my application, despite Dad’s loyalty to the school for decades. Sure, I’ve taken note of classmates who made it into OSU Law, and I wonder wistfully how they are doing now. Me, I’m just a disabled weirdo trolling the alleys and humming rock songs to myself and the hounds. My bright light though is my husband and family, dear, sweet Michael he cleaned up most of the outside today, including both porches and most of the patio. He did all this with his injured left hand, an injury that won’t heal (unless he gets another surgery).

But let’s not dwell on the negatives, tonight my beloved Blue Jackets are off to an amazing start against Anaheim! Goals by Olivier, Roslovic and Blankenburg so far, with hits and a fight and it’s only first intermission! But let’s not jinx the game, Anaheim just scored, so I’ll bid you adieu for tonight. Sleep tight!

Inchworm

Good morning, dear reader(s), so I come to you extremely well-rested, after yesterday’s painful early morning wake-up. Many things are swirling through my mind, as I work to piece together why I got so, erm, “confused” (according to the hospital) last October/November. As I relayed previously, I now have a pretty bad “fear phobia” (for lack of a better descriptor) of Facebook, the national televised newscast at 6:30, highway driving, I’m slightly suspicious of YouTube (though it gives me good laughs), NextDoor, and also a few other things that I’m inching along trying to figure out as I continue on my recovery journey.

Something hit me like a lightning bolt yesterday morning, when I recalled how frightened I got back in 2020 when I was on a California AA Zoom meeting and was exposed to a Zoom bomber revealing his genitals during our meeting. It completely traumatized me, and I’m convinced this started the chain reaction of my fear phobia building inside of me. I’m finding myself right now extremely angry with the perpetrators, I don’t know who they are, I don’t care if they are bored, alienated teenagers from broken homes, how dare they violate the safe space of recovering alcoholics! I think someone should be studying all this, maybe fining Zoom (who raked in all that cash during the pandemic), I really, really want to know if there are other bipolars out there who have been traumatized like I have…

Let me tell you that right before I completely crumbled and had to beg Michael to take me to the hospital this last time, I slumped on the toilet in our tiny bathroom off the kitchen, feeling like I was with John McCain in a pit in Vietnam, it was so bad, so awful, I wanted to howl out for help but I knew no one would understand what I was going through. This, my friends, is why I feel so at home at Vets Memorial, why, although I have never formally served in the U.S. Armed Forces, I feel like I belong right there with the men and women who went through combat, some imprisonment, some death.

The twisted reality of bipolar psychosis/delusions/hallucinations/even “confusion” (probably anxiety-related) is in my opinion, probably similar to weaving your way through an explosive mine field. Maybe this is why now,  in sanity once again, I’m weaving my way through these Columbus streets, looking for answers to a long, strange trip I’ve traveled. In my basement are three or so large pieces of art that sit on a table directly underneath our dishwasher where the rats chewed through the water line—the cascading water almost destroyed them completely yet there are still moldy remnants of what I was trying to capture: a primal scream out for help. I to this day am frightened to look at those pieces, yet don’t ask Michael to throw them in the trash. Perhaps I will get up the nerve to take my trusty iPhone down there and shine the flashlight upon them…but not today.

Perhaps I will never get my retribution against those who have harmed me in days long gone by. I guess I have my sessions with Fetter to sift through all the wreckage and baggage I now carry. There is also my continuing art projects (note to self: do not miss the exhibit of veteran’s art at the museum!), plus continuing to push myself to read all my beloved books in my bookshelves here (starting with “Walker Evans: The Hungry Eye”). My healing process is going to take some time, but fortunately I’ve got family and a few good friends and acquaintances helping me along the way. I did get a reply from The New York Times that they are intrigued by my (subtle) suggestion of a story about influential cook books for young (at heart) minds. I hope they publish something—might finally get me to pay for a digital subscription to their newspaper!

Here’s to all those healing and recovering today. One Day At A Time.

The Usual Suspects

So I was awoken at 2:00 a.m. this morning by the most terrifying dream—I’m blaming Jimmy Kimmel, YouTube, that old run down (yet entirely enticing) Ohio Oil & Gas station on Parsons, the Puppet Master, Netflix, probably Bally Sports is in on the action, and let’s not leave out Columbus City Council (more on those ghoulish characters later). I have never, to the best of my knowledge had a terrifying nightmare startle me awake like the one I just had, replete with angry, male thugs trying to take my house, property and dogs away, storming through my house as I fought to cry out for Michael, who was somewhere off warming up the red VW GTI to take us on errands. And now, here I sit, up in the dead of night trying to recover, while Jimmy has his Monday night monologue about NextDoor tucked away in his pajamas, and he’s slumbering peacefully. Thanks for nothing.

The gas station ties into all this because I stopped in there yesterday (always knew I’d end up there some day) after my dental appointment and run to CVS to get my thyroid medicine and outrageously priced Progesterone. I had a most telling conversation with the attendant inside, who told me the United Methodist Church downtown has been busy buying up the old post office on Whittier, as well as several houses in the vicinity. The plan, already rubber-stamped by City Council (without telling nearby neighbors) is to put low-income housing right smack up in Schumacher Place. I found myself actually laughing when I heard the news, cause Kimmel effectively cut me off from bitching about it on NextDoor (though I may still go there to rile the neighbors up, after all Wastebook is only for amateurs these days).    So it’s a no-brainer that I should have a nightmare that someone wants to steal my house, and YouTube’s latest video for “Enter The Sandman,” yesterday morning’s feast, just put me over the edge.

Not sure what Bally’s is up to, but I fell asleep in my chair during last night’s hockey game, and I know from the October/November “incident” that my subconscious picks up what I’m hearing through the television and Michael’s iPad. Bally’s was calling the game, and I don’t know what Jeff and Jody were up to…normally, they are safe for the entire family, so perhaps Bally’s Sports is not a guilty culprit in my Sleep of Demons. Maybe I’m just fooling myself, I’m completely off my rocker and totally insane (always a distinct possibility) but no, Fetter assured me I’m fine and he, of all people, knows what I’m like when I’m nuts. Michael of course does too, but he’s quick to jump the gun and lightly gaslight me, from time to time. Fetter never, ever does that. I don’t feel crazy, I know psychosis, I’ve recently had flashbacks to it, that just doesn’t happen if you’re in psychosis. I guess I’m just really upset by this nightmare, and I know without a doubt the seed was planted by Kimmel’s show Monday night. Note to self: never watch ABC again.

I’m sitting here wondering how in the world I’m going to get through the day. I have a coffee date with Julie Schottenstein Saar at 10:30 a.m., then lunch with Arlene and Carol at 12:30 at Panera. I’m going to be exhausted, how in the world am I supposed to cook dinner? It would be one thing if I was one who could take naps…maybe, just maybe, I can somehow get a few hours rest before dinner time, oh please God, let me fall asleep when I get home from lunch! Absolutely no more drinking caffienated beverages from Starbucks in the afternoon (a tactical blunder made by me yesterday). Maybe no more talking to strangers, am I to be denied that fun as well? I feel horrible, under-rested, scared, kinda miffed, yet kinda wondering who’s also up at this hour besides me and the train conductor whose trusty horn I heard upon awakening.

Well I guess dear friend Katie will be up around 6:00 a.m., so that’s only oh, around two hours to wait for some conversation. Yes, yes, the 7:00 a.m. AA First Things First is a possibility—maybe I text dear sponsor Shawn (and good member of the United Methodist Church) before the meeting to inquire what’s afoot in Shumacher Place. But of course he knows, probably figured I wouldn’t find out this quickly, but won’t be surprised by my rooting around in matters perhaps best left to others.

Wearily, I bid you adieu, in this dark, inky night. Perhaps I’ll peek outside to see if there are any stars in the sky, and of course check on what that Devil Moon is up to. Seize the day, I’m going to feebly try to.

Smokin’ In The Sandbox

 So hello again, dear reader(s), I come to you this morning feeling a little fickle, like the sun is behaving here on this strange day in Columbus. Temps are supposed to be in the mid-50s (after a chilly, rainy day yesterday) and as you may or may not know, my moods can fluctuate with the weather. I’m feeling a tad cranky, what with continued political strife in this country and just a small handful of people jockeying to control the National dialogue on important matters. Alas, how I’m longing for a print newspaper to guide the day—perhaps there is one in some small, quaint town somewhere bringing the good, correct news we all so desperately want to hear…

I did have a great day yesterday visiting the National Veterans Memorial Museum on W. Broad Street. Good ole Q-FM 96, they played AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” as I was maneuvering my MIL’s car into a parking spot. I just sat there, listening to my favorite song, surveying the Columbus skyline, seeing Dad’s Army flag blowing in the wind, and had a wonderful belly laugh—I’m sure if someone saw me they would think I was nuts, but I didn’t care, I felt free, I felt happy and yes, I felt like I was home. I definitely took note of the POW flag underneath the American flag at the entrance, remembering back years ago when I was nuts and driving around downtown in the dead of night, and took a POW flag I had purchased at Cousin’s Army/Navy store and put it in an entryway to one of the Federal buildings (?). At the time, it made perfect sense to do so, and given today’s current state of affairs I’d say that “message” was entirely accurate!

Later on, Michael and I went to the Jackets—Rangers game, and although we lost I chuckled to myself for I knew early on that Andrew Peeke (No. 2) was going to make a big play and sure enough, he scored our only goal in the 3-1 loss. We did get a free shirt and Moo Moo Carwash, and the only SNAFU was in the Chestnut Street parking garage, where the owners were too cheap to just let us all out of the garage by opening up their broken gate. Note to self: find out who owns the garage and send an email!

Today I go to the dentist for a pricey crown to be put on one of my molars…I’m definitely not looking forward to it, but it’s the first of three procedures I have to have done on my teeth this year. I’m pacing all of them out throughout the year to ease the strain on our finances. I’m worried some of the meager monies from my art sale may have to go on my teeth, not the steak dinner. Oh, fingers crossed maybe the stock market will improve, or maybe mom can help, or perhaps I can use my $200 birthday check in May for some of this. It all makes me extremely nervous. Perhaps if Michael would tell me exactly how much money we have I would feel better, but oh, I just don’t want to know. It scares me too much.

I know why I’m scared of money, it goes back to long, long ago when I came back from Kazakhstan broke, unemployed, drunk, rejected by a lover, every employer in Columbus, it’s a tawdry tale maybe someday I will elaborate upon when I’m in a better mood. Just suffice to say we shall not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it, and yes, but of course, the lover’s name was Michael.

So here we go, into the cloudy blue yonder, come fly with me to the dentist’s office where maybe we can get some laughing gas. Catch ya later!

Hunting High And Low

 

Good morning dear reader(s), I am beginning my day with a little harmless investigation as to whether YouTube has a psychiatrist on staff—being one with a fairly good memory of the proper lyrics to songs I know and love, I may have come across some tracks that seem to be altered ever so slightly? I know the videos are now downright strange, replete with men dressed as women, actors standing in for the actual performers, it’s a real mess, if you ask me, and hopefully someone there at Google is trying to right this ship! Ah yes, everyone has their agendas these days, including of course myself. I’ll be working on an art piece commenting on the goings on at Google, Apple and Amazon, maybe throw in some commentary on Monsieur Bill Gates, who is busy buying up farmland as we speak. Has he come Back to Ohio? Gracious, I hope not. I’m happy with the current prices of my beef, chicken and pork, thank you very much.

So tonight Michael and I head to the Arena to see the icecapades of our beloved Columbus Blue Jackets against the mighty New York Rangers. I’ve got a good feeling about the game, I think it will be a very good match—we’ve got players back on the roster, and the boys are really playing with gusto (just need to play hard all three periods!). It’s Martin Luther King Day, so maybe special things are being planned for the night? I know there is a MLK March going on this afternoon, which I would really like to photograph but alas, we will be getting ready for the game. I’m remembering I did a drawing of MLK back in 2017, but I’m fairly certain I threw it out in the trash—must have been because I knew it was important and needed to “get it to the City of Columbus.” That’s how my psychosis plays out, anyways. What goes in the trash or away to someone, I consider the most important of all.

I saw that today Vets Memorial is offering a $1 admission to the museum and I’m really tempted to head over there. Last time I was at Vets it was in 1979 or maybe 1980, I went with Stephanie Skestos to see the AC/DC Back in Black tour and man, was that an incredible concert. I noticed Vets has a gift shop and I reallllly want to go there and purchase something! Oh joy! Michael said it was OK for me to go there today. So off I will go on another adventure, we shall see what awaits me this afternoon…

Yesterday I decided to contact the Food Editor at the New York Times to thank them for all the wonderful recipes that I have enjoyed preparing over the years. I also queried if perhaps someone could send me a list of the early cookbooks that inspired each of the staff to start cooking themselves—I’m most curious to see what books were most influential on them. Me, it was “Joy of Cooking” (of course) plus lesser-known Helen Corbett, and Barbara Longfellow of “Make It Now, Bake It Later” fame. I’d also throw in the “Cooking With Campbell’s” book I found at Ohio Thrift (I think the one near the old Cooper’s Stadium on the West side).

Temps are still on the cool side here in Columbus, so I’ll be bundling up soon to take Legs and Lily on their morning walk. Dear, sweet Legs, he is definitely slowing down, and I worry so about how we are going to handle losing him…but I know I’m strong, so is Michael and so is Lily. This is just Season’s Circle, moving round and round. Legs is still here, so we will enjoy every day we have left with him. Precious angel. Awroo I love you.

The Hungry Eye

 

So yesterday turned out to be a very interesting day, what with going to mom’s with Michael to meet niece Alexa—she showed me how to French braid Michael’s hair, which is getting very long indeed. I showed everyone the two artworks I am currently working on, and made note of young Parker’s comment that my found McDonald’s French fries container should be replaced with a wrapper from Wendy’s. Ah, what children can spy these days…I continue to be amazed by my grand niece (who reminds me a lot of myself at her age. Keep an eye on that one!)

Then Michael and I came home, I prepared some tacos and Rosarita’s refried beans, and we settled in to watch the beloved Blue Jackets win against Detroit! The game of course included a hat trick from Patty Cake Laine, which was a beautiful thing to see. What I most enjoyed was seeing Elvis our goaltender interviewed after the game, for he always tells it like it is—the team is struggling mightily this year, but still managed to get last night’s win. Preach on Elvis, we are with you!

It looks to be blue skies today in Columbus, though winter’s chill is here. I plan to bundle the hounds and myself up most likely this afternoon for their walk (I’ll let Michael take the morning shift). I think I’ll make avocado toast with poached eggs for brunch, followed by a Sunday roast for dinner. I’m feeling much more in sync with the NYT recipes now, which is good as I had such trouble with them last year. Speaking of New York, the Jackets take on the Rangers tomorrow night and we are going to the game. I have a good feeling about our chances, given that Captain Boone Jenner is back in the line-up. I’ll have my eye on several players (not saying who!) and I am curious if young Sillinger is out of the dog house and allowed to play? We shall see!

Hmmm….it looks like Phil Kientz has repaired one of the windows on his father’s place? Second story, I have a good view of it. If only that house could talk! What stories it must have. Some greedy buyer, they would raze it in a heartbeat, throw up some luxurious place for some wealthy manager of one of these mysterious corporations popping up in Columbus these days. I know Phil wants to sell, I just find that old house comforting to see. So few old, imperfect homes left in the Village. Aren’t they the most beautiful of all?

Had an interesting talk with mom yesterday about how I had, in the past, just given away the art work, drawings, and journals to people (or the Columbus Refuse Department) and what that was about…I’m a little intrigued that Colleen Duffy returned my self-portrait Manic Quilt, which I hope to show to the folks at Lindsay Gallery (if I get up the nerve!). Andi got some extremely important stuff, “Remain Calm All Is Well” and a piece with broken coffee mugs that is most intriguing (where is that now?). I’m chuckling because I really have no idea where most of my art is, who has it, is it at the dump, what’s in my attic and basement, etc. I do know “It’s The End Of The World (As We Know It But I Feel Fine)” is in the basement so that masterpiece (lol) is safe. I’m not sure whether I’m going to show that in May—no one seemed to get it when I displayed it years ago, and they probably won’t understand it now. Oh well.

Feeling good today, so off I go to my routine. Phone call to mom. Etcetera, etcetera. Have a great day, dear reader(s). Hat tip to you!

A Duel With the Puppet Master

 Good morning dear readers, I write this morning feeling kinda sour—Michael inevitably couldn’t keep away from that “Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer” movie on Netflix so I was exposed to many hours of that, and subsequently now have a touch of concern that maybe the cops I have been seeing around here lately are somehow involved in my alley treasure hunting escapades. I don’t feel paranoid, nor grandiose, just wondering if my artistic freedom is being messed with, something that could potentially make me upset. Don’t get me wrong, I have always, always loved the cops, supported them, they helped me when I was totally off my rocker in 2017 and ended up at the airport and approached a kind female police officer who I told I was sick and needed to get to the hospital. She called the squad and they got me to Mt. Carmel East, then eventually to Dublin Springs hospital, which was so much better than this last go around there in November 2022. But I’m sitting here this morning wishing I had never seen this Dahmer movie, wondering if now my writing and art is gonna go in a direction I don’t want it to go. 

I need to be free!

I’ve been getting irritated with Michael and I don’t know why. Well, let me take that back, I know why. He is not being respectful of my need to fully heal from this last, err, “experience” that got me hospitalized. He bombards me with his iPad noise, stereo noise and television noise all at once (normally that wouldn’t bother me) and all it makes me want to do is run up to my bedroom and hide in solitary confinement. No, I’m definitely not recovered, and it frustrates me to no end. I can just only hope that if history does indeed repeat itself that I will be completely stabilized by early summer. 

Well I just texted with friend Katie and she assured me I’m going to be OK, I’m doing fine, and if I wish to collect dirty items tossed along the alleyways for my art that’s perfectly AOK (though I should probably tell Dr. Levy, and I will). Funny, when I was in that prolific art period in 2004 (or around there), I walked the alleys with a black Glad trash bag, picking up trash which I brought back to the porch—don’t think I used it in any of my pieces, I think Michael threw it out? Speaking of throwing out, whatever happened to that piece I did in acrylic paint of the Seven Deadly Sins with a Masterlock padlock affixed? Who has that one? I know it isn’t here at the house, and I don’t recall having it when I had my art show here that one Trash and Treasures Day community yard sale years ago. So many pieces missing…where are they?

Ah yes, I’m thinking the Puppet Master (lol) got ahold of my loot so I will have to get into a little duel with him (it’s always a man) to win them back (or at least get my fair share of the proceeds). But who, pray tell, is the Puppet Master? There are many suspects, me thinks. I think I’ll ask Fetter, maybe he knows…and note to self: invite Fetter to my art show here in May and afterwards maybe we can watch “Idiocracy!”