Postscript From The Rat Catcher

 Well hello again, my what a surprise, I got around six pieces of scary art into a bag when I stumbled upon old friend “Revelations Of The Rat Catcher” which I had completely forgotten about, and which was not completely destroyed by the real rats like that piece with dice and most likely a map of Columbus. This large canvas can be read, though there is mold and a restoration of parts is required. I’m thinking I will not gift this work to the Columbus dump, rather take some time and think long and hard about who (or what) I deliver this piece to, most likely Fetter, but maybe I get up the guts to tuck it in a corner somewhere on the porch when I have my art show. There is an ominous prophecy on the piece, the meaning of which I’m not too sure, but at least I’ve got some pretty pastels anchoring a corner, so we’ve got that going for us.

I’m smiling now, no the rats didn’t win this one, maybe someone, somewhere knows where this piece belongs on the chessboard. I just moved my six pieces out to my can, so it’s the Puppet Master’s turn, we are playing a Queen’s Gambit this time. Michael should be back soon, Lily is waiting, and Legs is sleeping soundly. Here comes the weekend, the scary stack is getting smaller, and isn’t that a nice thing?

Let Whatever You Do Today Be Enough

 So good morning, dear reader(s), I come to you feeling perplexed about some situations I’m powerless to control. I’m trying my best to turn things over, much like flipping through the pages of my book that has arrived: “Jasper Johns: Seeing With The Mind’s Eye.” I’m facing issues like Leg’s declining health, Michael’s mother’s health, our financial situation, my friends I’m concerned about, just a host of things that bother me tremendously. I’m going to let go of orchestrating outcomes, and let my Higher Power’s will be done. Hopefully then I can find some semblance of peace. If that’s possible.

Now that “Primal Scream” is safely with Fetter, who has my full blessing to do whatever he wants with it, I may turn my attention today back to the moldy, scary stack of art in the basement. I’m figuring I can bag up a couple of pieces at a time and distribute them in the cans surrounding my place if there isn’t room to get the stuff all in our trashcan. No one is currently in the rental across the alley, so that trashcan is fair game—and Kientz has a can tucked back by his garage that I can reach. Of course everyone has Ring cameras installed these days (except us), so maybe I put on Michael’s black face-mask ski hat for a dramatic flair as I toss out my stuff. 

We are going to a Jackets game tonight, sitting in the Lower Bowl, and I’m excited to see fellow basement dwellers face off yet again as the underdogs against mighty Toronto. I don’t care if we lose. I’m just excited I don’t have to cook tonight, I get my chicken fingers with Ranch dressing, I think we get a free popcorn tonight, and whatever goes is fine by me. I love my team, I love being in the Arena, and maybe for a few hours I can forget some of my worries. I do so hope Michael can get out of the house for a few hours this afternoon, and maybe let me braid his hair so he doesn’t look like an Indian?

Just spoke to Dr. Sears about Leg’s breathing and he said get Legs to Med Vet today or tomorrow. Michael wants a more wait and see approach but I’m going to put my foot down and call Med Vet today. I’ll drive Legs there myself if I have to, I’m not afraid, I’m feeling strong and stoic about what needs to be done. Dear Legs, he just wants to go on his walk, OK Michael is back and going to take him. On his walk with Lily, he met Edwin the house cleaner, and I’m thrilled we may have found someone to help us with cleaning, which we desperately need. I just need to try and let go, I went to Michael and he hugged me, and assured me we would get Legs to Med Vet if necessary before our appointment with Dr. Sears next week. I’m so worried but Shawn told me Legs isn’t dying yet, nor is my mother in law, so I’m just going to relax as best I can.

So taking stock of what I’ve got today so far:

1. Med Vet phone number (still waiting for Puppet Master’s line)

2. Edwin the Cleaner may have come to our rescue (if he has a time slot for us)

3. We have seats for tonight’s game against Toronto (popcorn included)

4. I’m guaranteed a shower today, and use of my MAC blush

5. At least one moldy art piece is coming out of this house (extra large black trash bags have been located)

6. Our family unit of two people and two hounds is still intact, so treasure today while you can

***

So I guess I’m homebound today, which is fine. I’ve got my Jasper book, plus my Howard Finster one, and “America’s Yesterdays” and a host of other intriguing picture books to read. Still waiting on my Van Gogh book, but that will most likely have to be a birthday gift from mom, as Michael has put a temporary ban on my ordering things from Amazon (but Target may still be fair game). So it’s good bye for now, friends, try to find some light and happiness today. In the little things (and little blessings).

Sweet Emotion

 Well, so. Today is Thursday, that means therapy, and on this windy, ominous(?) day I think I might bring OSU Barbie “Primal Scream” to Fetter’s office. No black mold on that one, my most disturbing(?) of all my art pieces, though that’s open to debate, as who cares about some poor student chased out of the Journalism Graduate School when there are OSU football players to celebrate? Seeing as my Risperdal almost completely blocks any ability I have to cry over things that are important to me—Leg’s declining health front and center—I don’t think I’ll need any tissue as I discuss how ripped apart and absolutely furious I was to be harassed by the top brass at Ohio State, all males, holding the purse strings, laughing their way back to their 50-yard line seats while I paced around in a circle on suicide watch at the old Harding Hospital on 161 (May she Rest In Peace). 

Ah, memories of the way we were, do I leave “Primal Scream” with Fetter, or drive around looking for a Boren Brothers trashcan…all I know is I want to somehow come to peace with the fact that OSU is very likely still to this day, two decades after “Primal Scream,” chasing away women who brush up against that white male elite with box seats and loafers, with a soft mid-section, beer sippie cup in hand, chanting “Three Cheers For Jones Junior High” and all that nonsense. Perhaps I’m meant to join forces with these women, but I’m not going to pull a Lorena Babbitt (or whatever her name was—Google it). I’m much more interested in the Lost Boys, perhaps Lost Girls, maybe doing some matchmaking and pairing them up together. 

Jesus, screw meds, I really, really want the release tears give me, but no, I feel absolutely nothing except some mild annoyance and the occasional ability to chuckle when I see an Apocolypse Now brigade of police helicopters on their way to the Franklin Park Conservatory, like two days ago. I really wish a copter could set down in our disheveled patio, but maybe the police horse brigade might stop by during my art show, allowing people—should there actually be anyone here—a chance to pet the mighty steeds.

No, I’m not going to display “Primal Scream” at my house, in fact I don’t want to be present should it ever be displayed (which it won’t). I’m leaning towards just handing it over to Fetter, our esteemed OSU graduate (and football fan) to do whatever he wants with it, maybe store it in his basement, or better yet burn it along with the journal of mine he has containing mad ramblings about obsessions with Army Generals (and other creatures).

Ah, Insanity Art, let’s just build a big funeral pyre and burn everything, then gather up the ashes and bury them in a grave next to those in the cemetery next to the state institution for the insane. You know those cemeteries, the ones with markers listing only numbers for those buried there. Yup, right here in Ohio, Arlene is taking me to one this Spring, I can’t wait. Maybe I’ll bring some ashes to scatter. Or maybe not, I’m just angry thinking about OSU, lost dreams, outrageous behavior, messed up priorities, evil white men, you know the cast of characters and who always gets hurt. The one with the bleeding heart, maybe I need a tattoo after all, but maybe not.

Where do I belong, I don’t know, in the alleys I guess, with cysty Legs, slowly inching along, and with Lily, pulling hard, trying to get ahead but always facing resistance. Yup, that’s where you can find me now, or driving a late model car with stained seats. I’m not in Washington, I’m not doing the talk circuit, nope, I’m just one of the forgotten ones, who can’t seem to get anyone to e-mail me back with information I am looking for and need for my on-going art projects. Guess I’m on my own, so what’s new, maybe as a last ditch attempt I try to email someone at The Wall Street Journal, maybe they can help me follow the money (and find out who’s the Republican/Independent mayor candidate for Columbus). Or at the very least, get me the cellphone number for the Puppet Master’s office down in the basement of the Washington Post—you know all these reporters know one another.

Oh well, I see blue sky out my hospital window, and perhaps I can get the hounds rallied for a walk soon. Gotta call mom and see what she’s up to for the day. Keep on keepin on, ride through those emotional hangovers, help the Lost Ones to laugh, they need it. See ya.

Reveille

 Well good morning, dear readers, I awoke very early this morning (4:30 a.m.) after falling asleep in my clothes during a very soothing AA meditation meeting last night. I felt great, and got myself showered first thing, like in days long ago at Culver when they awoke us (with a bugle perhaps?). Got the coffee made, and was all settled in with an intriguing playlist prepared by Google’s AI when Michael came down and disturbed all of my fun. Drats, foiled again. Regardless, I am not going to let him spoil all the fun Andy Warhol and I are planning to have with Google this morning. The dear folks at Apple are providing a little assistance, so hat tip to them for teaching me how to do a screen shot on my iPad!

OK Michael has gone back to bed so away we go!

I finished “Letter To Smith” yesterday, replete with sexual innuendo, and homage to Georgia O’Keefe, Julia Child, Jasper, Andy Warhol and Jeff Bezos—with a big bugger off to cancel culture, and my stamp of all the messiness of some of the students wandering around the well-manicured campus. I’m sure no one will understand the piece, though I fully intend to display it prominently at my art show in May. It’s actually a much “neater” piece than I intended, but I wanted to fold a little of OCD mom into the work, so she could have a little say in the commentary. I’m not necessarily angry at Smith, nor holding a grudge—what’s at issue is they refuse to pay attention to my podcast interview I did in 2020, discussing recovery from a very challenging dual diagnosis. So rather than phone them up and lodge a complaint, I just assembled this art piece, and if it finds it’s way to the Columbus dump (certainly not Jill Biden’s office), so be it.

Whoops, Michael is up again, clearly worried and concerned about some private things we discussed last night. Contrary to popular opinion, he is extremely, extremely sensitive, I have always known this about him, and he may spout off initially when he is presented with a dilemma, but he always then backs down and gives it some thought. I’m deeply concerned about him, I know he is troubled right now, and I know we will be facing some difficult personal decisions in the future. He may want to flee Columbus to avoid doing things, but I’m not going to let him—we are staying here, and going to tackle things one step at a time, with me turning things over to my Higher Power (except where solid action on my part is required). 

I think Michael is scrolling Twitter(?) right now, and God help him, I certainly don’t think that place has any good answers for him. Maybe he’s worried about money again, I don’t know, all he does is tell me to stay off Amazon, and that’s fine, I’m on my own analysis of Amazon’s logo, not what’s on their shopping site (at least today, I don’t think?). Dear Michael, another Lost Boy, what’s going through your head right now? I’m trying to look over at his iPad to see what he’s reading but I don’t want to pry and be obvious about my sleuthing…perhaps I just stick with my own iPad and my dance with YouTube and the ads which the programmers have selected for me, which are absolutely boring and lack creativity, really a shoddy job, if you ask me. If I were YouTube, I’d fire the ad staff and bring in some new blood, maybe hire some Gen Xers who didn’t serve in the military, rather bailed out from corporate culture and are now living off the grid in Idaho. 

Well the sun is now rising, Michael is pacing, everyone is tense, Legs is throwing up outside. I’m going worse case scenario that Apple stock is in the toilet, the futures market has tanked, Michael is secretly going to try and take a second mortgage on the house out, we are going to end up in subsidized housing, it’s the End Of The World, catch me now I’m falling, and let me give thanks to the nuns at The Villas for wrecking our serenity. Maybe someone put a pox on this place, but I thought I got rid of that when I got “Cassandra Calling” out of the basement and chucked it in the trash outside. Here comes another day of chaos, but I’m remembering sponsor Shawn said last night when you are in the pit, just get on your knees and say a prayer, so here goes:

Dear God, give me strength to navigate through minefields. Help me find a safe spot to sit and rest and take off my helmet and breathe. Help me to let go of painful things in my past and let go of trying to orchestrate outcomes. Dearest God, please take over and deliver things where they are meant to go. Help me to stay rooted in one day at a time and thy will, not mine be done. I struggle with this God, and it’s preventing me from doing the Steps. Dear God, please work through Shawn today, and help me to listen to what he tells me about getting out of the pit (with John McCain). Dear God give me the strength to do my moral inventory, both on paper and in my art, guide my hands, help me to ease my troubled spirit. 

***

I will let Michael solve his problems. I will always listen, but I will move forward and work on my problems—mostly spiritual and intellectual—and get rid of stupid diets and eat sensibly and work on myself. I see Shawn at 1:45 p.m. today, and we can talk openly and honestly about why I am clinging to self-will and not turning things over to the care of God. What this means is we have to do a reading of Step Three again, so I shall bring my ”12 and 12” where I have underlined and circled the most important parts. I’m trying, I’m not giving up, even though it appears everyone around me is playing games (or in the gaming business). Oh, it’s all fun, to a point—except when John McCain gets involved and gives a big thumb down to everyone in the room.

I see out my window the sun is shining and the “No Parking” sign is obscured, so I guess it’s all systems GO today. Michael is back to bed, whether he’s tossing and turning is his business, whether he talks to the strict nuns is his business, whether I troll the alleys and City dump is my business. I am kind, I am compassionate, I am open, I am willing. I’m still working on the honesty piece (aren’t we all), but my art is honest, so there’s no problem there. It’s a beautiful day, I’m clean, I’ll be taking the hounds for their walk and getting some exercise. I just gave Legs his pain pill so we will let that settle in and perhaps he can go for a longer walk today. We shall see. So I bid you adieu, Trust In Your Decisions, Don’t Die In Darkness, and all that advertising stuff. Signing off, me and Andy, off to some warehouse in Columbus. Later friends.

Moving Ahead

 OK, so let’s pretend like yesterday didn’t happen, I had a terrible day, dear reader(s), just upset, malcontent, so hard on myself, all that yucky stuff that seems to happen on Mondays (in winter, particularly). Today is a new day, and I have plans to go to mom’s to read her some of my Freshman year letters from Smith that Kristin gave me, plus work on two more art pieces, “Letter to Smith” and the third triptych panel. Mom will have had time to read the Smith Alumnae Quarterly, and perhaps she will like to contribute to my art? (Hee, hee.) We both are curious about that lawsuit against Smith that the conservative student lodged last year, or the year before—the one profiled on Fox News. I’ll be sure to ask mom to Google where that case stands right now. Can’t find any mention of it in the liberal press.

I’m keeping a very close eye on Legs, who is getting more spurts of feebleness yet still is hanging in there. He insists on his two walks every day, and is eating and drinking with gusto. We give him a pain pill every day, and I can just tell he’s not ready to leave us yet. I know when the time will come; former companions Big Lou and Miss Nell taught us what to look for and sent us the signs when it was time to go. I know it is going to be tough to say goodbye to Legs, but he will be with my other beloved hounds waiting for us at the Rainbow Bridge some day. I do worry so about Lily and how she will handle Legs being gone. We shall just have to take it one day at a time, as always.

I fell asleep in my chair last night, I don’t remember exactly when, but I do recall sweet Michael waking me up and sending me upstairs to bed. I know I was tired from that staycation, I didn’t get the best of sleep being in a bed other than my own. I’m glad to be home in my own environment, even though it’s messy and we desperately need a house cleaner. Fingers crossed Michael will locate some cleaners for us, and not chase them away if they request more money after a series of deep cleans (should that be required). The last cleaners said we were the messiest house they had, something that made me deeply embarrassed and wanting to hide in a closet.

Poor and messy, perhaps that’s my lot in life. Let’s give thanks to the bipolar meds, which make me feel like I’m in tar and can’t pick up after myself. Can’t tell you how many bipolars I’ve talked to who have to live in cluttered, dirty environments—who’s gonna compensate us for all the cleaning bills we have to pay to get a little respect for ourselves? No one, that’s who. Grrrrr.

Yes, I’m flirting with a continued bad mood today, and I definitely don’t want that. So how to turn this beat around? Go to YouTube and listen to playlists dreamt up by AI? Perhaps. I ordered a meaty Jasper Johns book from Amazon, seeing as I’m planning on paying homage to him in a new piece of art. He is deeply influential on my work, I would spend hours in the Museum of American Art in Washington, DC looking at his stuff when I was in my 20s. Ah yes, I have my favorite artists, I wish I could own a full cabinet of coffee mugs emblazoned with images painted by my favorites. 

Since when did woke politics make it into Pandora ads on my Classical station? “Brown, buttery pistachio lattes from Starbucks?” Good Lord, it’s only February 2023, the 2024 Presidental election is more than 1 1/2 years away…not taking any chances, I guess. Wonder if other Americans are wise to how political hucksters are working their way into commercial product ads? Where’s Andy Warhol to suss through everything and perhaps give a lecture on how to educate ourselves on free will and power of making our own decisions ourselves?!

Woke politics. Maybe I need to just take mom up on her offer to educate me on the more conservative black voices around the country today. Or maybe I need to take Dr. Levy’s advice and avoid politics all together. Or maybe I find my own way down the middle, with the majority of this country. I know I’m in a good crowd—with the Independents—and as a woman, my kind decides elections. Case closed. Follow The Wall Street Journal, Trust My Decisions, they chose that moniker for a reason. I like it.

OK, that’s enough for today. Time to warm up coffee, take a shower, walk the hounds. Nibble on some cottage cheese and tomatoes because I feel fat. And so are the days of our lives. Adios.

To Diet Or Not To Diet

 Well, I’m back from the staycation, and sitting here very unhappy with my body and the way it looks. It doesn’t help matters at all that I ate with abandon over the weekend, or that I’m on these meds that cause significant weight gain. I know how to take off weight relatively quickly—drastically cut calories and carbs, measure everything, weigh once a day, I did that last summer and took off 25 lbs. in three months. But I would go on to get terribly sick and ultimately be hospitalized (triggering photo from Facebook expediting matters). Dr. Levy is telling me to exercise but I’m just not motivated to do that right now. I try to get daily walks in, but it’s cold outside right now, I hate gyms, it’s Monday, it’s February, you get what I’m saying.

Being sober now, I definitely enjoy food more, I like preparing it and yes, I like eating it. Maybe I’m addicted to food, heck I’m apparently addicted to everything and that makes me a bad person (cue up the woe-is-me music). Oh, it’s just a Monday after a “vacation” and I’m kinda depressed and hating myself. What’s new?

Some Words On Hotel Art

 Well hello dear reader(s), I come to you after a very restful sleep here at the AC Marriott Hotel in Dublin. My, what an interesting day I had yesterday, replete with the surprise appearance of Tiya the spiritual masseuse who brought wonder to me as she worked over my body with her masterful hands! As we discussed the importance of having God in my life, I did have to endure some pleasure/pain in my neck area, which was a mess of tight muscles that needed working out and Tiya delivered! She told me she was making a spiritual (or was it divine?) call on me yesterday, and I so, so appreciated and needed it.

I told Tiya that I very much wanted to go to a black church here in town to hear gospel music and meet some members of the congregation. I have been drawn to black churches for a very long time, for reasons maybe going back to housekeeper Lucy from my childhood. I spoke to mom last night about it and she is eager to join me—plus get her own massage experience from Tiya, who fortunately makes house calls. 

I explained to Tiya a little bit about my “quilted” seeing eye piece with black figurines and she very much wants to see a picture of it, perhaps display it in her spa, and maybe sell it for me! She also encouraged me to do more artworks about this Spiritual Awakening I had, and what I saw, though did offer up the caution that some have these type of awakenings and never come back—I’m thinking of my ancestor preacher Jonathan Edwards and what happened to him. Got booted out of Northampton, that’s what. Hee, hee.

So the photo accompanying today’s entry is of a piece of “art” on the wall next to my hotel bed. I think it looks like a morphed iPhone showing the way to an Open Door at the end of it. I know roommate Kristin probably hasn’t even noticed the picture, but hey, there’s still plenty of time to get her to the Columbus Museum of Art some weekend. I’m down to my last piece of nicotine gum, and the picture kinda captures the nervousness I’m beginning to feel about trying to get through this morning without my security blanket. I see the Open Door is there for escape—maybe the waiting box of gum at home, with Michael and the hounds? 

Yes, I’m ready to go home, how to nudge everyone along? Alas, must be patient. Again. It seems everyone is coming to Ohio…groundwork for the 2024 election? Definitely. I must stay put, as always, trying to steer clear of the land mines and just find my way to Tiya’s massage studio in Arlington. Or the one in Reynoldsburg. I’ve got options. Thank God.