New poem

Thursday, 12 October 2017 06:15 am
carose59: poetry (by Henry Gibson)
 Daffodil in the Snow

 

When spring comes, the daffodil blooms.

 

Dark days of windchill and sleet cannot dissuade her;

determined, she sprouts up through ground hard as hate.

Though spring seems so uncertain one can barely dream of it, she harbingers

the sunbeams.

Up through the snow, she forces herself,

holding her fragile blossom valiantly aloft in the freezing breezes.

 

She's a light when the deep night seems never-ending.

She sustains hope and cheer even as the sky pelts her with its blistering tears.

 

Crushed by winter's weight, she collects

sparkling bits of frostbite

hail

and freezing rain, wearing it like a diamondy wreath around her tired head.

 

Even in the barren, twilit days, her sweet green song of blackberry winter

never wavers,

and her heart—light and graceful as a summer swallowtail—flutters far above

the lowering clouds.

 

Snow-bound, she is still a daffodil, beloved cousin of the sun,

shining when even that daystar fears to face the storm.

 

 

 

Just as you, my dear, with your bright golden gladness,

have always been a lovely,

brave

daffodil.

 

 

 

—Monica Rose Kiesel

carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
They Have To Paint Me Red Before They Chop Me. It's A Different Religion From Ours. I Think.*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

It was the 1800’s. There was a young woman visiting a house in a desolate part of what I think was maybe England (there was a lot of Wuthering Heights in this dream as well). She heard stories about another house where something evil dwelt, an evil book, something with the doorway to Something Terrible. Naturally, she was curious and went to visit the house.

There she found a couple of old servants, a man and a woman. They were very friendly and greeted her warmly. This wasn’t what she’d expected, and it put her off her game a bit; she expected to have to pry information form muttering, closed-mouthed, hostile strangers and instead she was greeted with warmth and hospitality and treated like a friend. So she didn’t ask about the evil, which had begun to seem unlikely anyway. Or at least not very serious.

But there were odd things. The servants talked to someone who didn’t seem to be there, and there was a falling down castle ruin with a huge portrait of the Heathcliffish master of the house. It was at the top of a stairway that no one was allowed access to. The servants pointed this out as they took her on a tour of the castle. Naturally she wanted to climb the stairway, but the servants’ friendliness made it impossible for her to sneak away and do so. The girl was frustrated, but she was having a pleasant time and began talking about going back home and maybe coming to visit another day.

But then the master of the house arrived. In person, he was less Heathcliff and more Mr. Rochester in a good mood. He was very charming and wanted to show the girl around even more, and take her on a picnic. The evil was no longer in the portrait—which he took her to see because he was very proud of it—but was now in a dress and it would take you over if you wore it.

The four of them walked to the woods to have their picnic and on their way, it got dark out. That was deemed unimportant, they could have a picnic in the dark, and it wasn’t actually night; it was just dark in the daytime. The girl, who had been quite adequately dressed before was suddenly naked. This didn’t seem to bother anyone until the girl started to get cold.

So, out of the picnic basket the servants took a ruffly black dress with white piping and gave it to the girl. It was the dress of evil and the girl happily put it on. But nothing happened to her, except that the dress was too big and she had to gather it up in the front and hold it closed so it wouldn’t fall off.

Then she and the man were alone together in the woods and he was making love to her—in the old-fashioned sense, that is, talking to her very intensely about how much he loved her and wanted to have her with him, only he had this dilapidated castle and a haunted woods and something evil that lived in a candy box.

(It wasn’t that the evil was moving around, it was like the dream was retconning itself as it went along; every “change” changed not only the present and the future, but also the past.)

He’d also stopped being so Rochester and had become a nice but troubled man with a slight drinking problem. The girl wanted to stay and marry him.

Only she had to go back to the other house to get her things. She was very happy. In the morning she was helping the old woman with the laundry and in the basket they found the boc of candy with the evil in it. The girl was very happy, very light-hearted, and said she didn’t believe in the evil anymore and opened the box of candy. Only there wasn’t candy in it, there was soap, little decorative soaps. So she ate a piece of the soap and the old woman smile because the evil had been in the soap and now it was in the girl and things got every dark and there was going to be a sacrifice of two small rabbits and then the evil would take over the world.

The girl was still very happy, eating evil soap.

And that’s when I woke up.

Throughout the whole thing, there was an undercurrent of malevolence from the old couple. They wanted the girl to be possessed by the evil. And the girl didn’t seem to take the evil all that seriously, but watching, I knew it was serious and something terrible would happen.


*Ringo Starr
carose59: reviews (only independent source of information)
The movie starts with a woman receiving a manuscript from her ex-husband. He has written a novel and wants her to read it. She does and finds it compelling—she can't seem to stop reading it.

(If this were the beginning of a Stephen King book, that would be literally true and interesting things would follow. This isn't a Stephen King book.)

As she reads, we see the story of the novel. A father, mother, and teenage daughter are driving in the desert. Another drive does something rude, the daughter gives them the finger, and the other driver forces them off the road. This seems like a hobby of the other car's occupants, three young men who deliberately frighten the family before abducting the two women. One of the young men is left with the father. He drives him elsewhere in the desert and leaves him.

The police investigate. The two women were raped and murdered. One of the young men was killed in an attempt to capture him. The other two are apprehended.

The sheriff, who doesn't seem to have a lot else to do, lets the father assist in the investigation and questioning, and when the DA declines to prosecute, tells him that he has terminal cancer. The father doesn't seem to understand this, but eventually he works out that the sheriff would like to kill the two young men, with the father's help. This doesn't work out terribly well. The two young men end up dead and so does the father . . . I think. He was shot, anyway, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out who shot him. I don't know where the sheriff went. I don't think he shot anyone.

Intercut with this dreary story we have the story of the woman and man. They started off very happy, but apparently the woman became just like her materialistic mother and was dissatisfied with him and his failing writing career. So she had an abortion and didn't tell him about it, but he saw her in a car with another man. Then they split up. She marries the other man who has about as much depth as a model in a glossy magazine ad, and spends all his time being important. She is not happy with him, either.

At the end they've made arrangements to meet at a restaurant. He stands her up, either because he's still in love with her and is afraid of the depths of his feelings or to show her what it's like when your wife has an abortion behind your back and leaves you. I hope it's the first, because that's got the be the lamest poetic justice I ever heard of.

A lot of people seem to love this movie because of how beautifully it's shot. It makes me think of something Pauline Kael said, I believe about Cruising. It's like a rat in a Lucite box.

I am privileged

Saturday, 1 July 2017 10:41 am
carose59: dealing with people (the same as people who aren't different)
"It Was Sarcasm. I Won't Do It Again."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I was just taking the privilege quiz only I had to stop because statement two made me laugh uncontrollably.

Statement two is: "I have never been discriminated against because of my skin color."

The correct response is, "I don't know! I didn't ask!"

Because there were these girls, see, these black girls, who would circle me, back me into a corner and play the "let's pretend to be friends with this loser, then mock her when she falls for it" game. Were they doing it because I was white or because everybody else did it? Hell, it was a game the white girls played, why shouldn't they play it too? Or maybe it was my stuck-up, smarter-than-everybody else aura. (Fuck it, I was smarter than most of them, but I wasn't stuck-up, I was terrified and weird.)

This is not a situation where you can say, "Excuse me, but why are you doing this? I might need to know later." Mostly you can't do that because they won't tell you; they're busy pretending to like you and they'll deny they're doing anything at all but being friendly.

Do I sound paranoid?

I don't know why, when I was in the fourth grade, every time I went out for recess a little black girl in a lower grade—second? Third? Again, I didn't ask. It didn't seem appropriate, or particularly important at the time—I didn't ask why she came over and kicked me. Not just once; she'd spend the whole recess kicking me, if she wasn't stopped and I had no idea how to stop her. She was smaller than me—I was tall back then, and older. (Older than her; I wasn't older than I am now. That would make no sense at all.)

I have only the vaguest memories of this and they might not be mine. My mother worked in the school library and saw this happening from the window. The school administration wouldn't do anything about it because, apparently, part of reparations included little black girls being allowed to kick random white girls with no explanation. (I don't recall it hurting; what I recall is being utterly baffled.) My mother finally came out and dragged her away from me. I don't know if it happened again. I have blocked out practically all of that year of school, which you can maybe see why.

These incidents led to me being afraid of black people.

Mind you, I was already afraid of people in general—from the third grade on I was bullied by first white girls, then white boys as well. The incidents with the black girls prefriending me (Look! I made new word! It means: that thing people—usually girls—do when they pretend to be your friend so they can later mock you in a more personal way [because you've told them your secrets, or even just your likes and dislikes] and add how stupid you were for believing them).

Where was I? Oh, yes, that incident didn't happen until the eighth grade. In the meantime I had a lot of the same treatment from the white girls, but there was a big difference: I knew those girls! I'd been going to school with them since first grade, I'd been friends with them. (Why that changed, what happened exactly, I don't know. But being hurt by people you know makes more sense than being hurt by strangers. There's logic to it, it's not just chaotic. It's horrible, but it's less scary.) I didn't even know these black girls; I couldn't figure out what I could have done to make them want to hurt me.

There were no cultural differences between me and the white girls, nothing of any significance; that could not be said of me and the black girls. (It's really culture that causes misunderstandings, not race.) I seemed not to be able to talk to anyone without saying something wrong (smarter, stuck-up) and if I couldn't do it in a culture I understood, what chance did I have in one I knew nothing about?

I think that's when I started to freeze. Don't move, don't make eye contact, don't speak, just wait until they get bored and leave. Because running wasn't an option, and neither was fighting back. I couldn't even be rude, even though everything I said was interpreted as rudeness anyway, stuck-upness, superiority.

I think of myself as having a lot of privilege because I came from people who read a lot and thought outside themselves. With a high school education, I can talk to people and have them think I went to college. But I'm still mostly scared all the time because I do not understand other people at all, and that target feels like it's still on my back.


*John Dortmunder
carose59: movies (the real tinsel)
First off, I enjoyed it. It was formulaic, and the Alien formula is: one spunky heroine plus one questionable artificial person plus one HHGeiger alien. Shake well and pour over outer space.

The first two movies had personable actors and memorable characters. The next two at least had Sigourney Weaver. (I found the third movie abysmal to the point that it nearly tainted my fondness for the first two; the fourth was something of a curiosity, and Weaver's character was interesting. I value interesting highly.)

I fell asleep during Prometheus. That's not as meaningful when I say it; I used to fall asleep during movies a lot. I fell asleep during Gone Girl and I loved it. The difference is, I simply didn't care that I fell asleep during Prometheus; it seemed like a better use of my time. It was as though they thought, "What made 2001 a classic? Oh, I know, it was the boring stuff! Let's put in a lot of boring stuff, that'll give this movie what it needs to catch fire!"

(Catching fire wouldn't have been a bad idea, especially if it was sitting on the shelf next to Alien3.)

Covenant seems to be more along the lines of a reboot. Did you like the first two movies? Do you get annoyed when movies you liked are remade? If the answers to these questions are yes and no (in that order), you should like Covenant.

A ship full of colonists follow an SOS signal to the planet we saw in Prometheus. The movie has two! artificial persons of questionable trustworthiness, a spunky heroine, and a crew they want us to like so much, they had three! married couples in the mix. (One way to get the audience to like a character is having other characters like them. We have no vested interest in these people—which is one thing, but they're also replacing character we cared about, which is much harder. Having married couples—loving, happily married couples—makes us like them more, and ups the ante when one of them dies.)

If you saw Prometheus, David the artificial person is back and batshit crazy. The other artificial person is named Walter and I'm not going to tell you whether you can trust him or not. Both are played by Michael Fassbinder, and played well. And I very much enjoyed the meditations on creations and creating. I suspect we'll be hearing more of this.

The other characters are likable, though I could have lived without the captain feeling persecuted for being "a man of faith," especially since we saw no evidence this was true. It made him look paranoid—which might have been interesting if it had gone someplace.

Covenant started off slow, but I don't mind a slow burn. Action-wise, there was nothing we haven't seen before, but I didn't mind that, either; I think the movies are better when they aren't trying to be arty or smarter or whatever they were trying for with movies three and four. They can keep doing this every couple of years and I'll keep going.

(If you want real spoilers, contact me privately and I'll happily give them.)
carose59: poetry (by Henry Gibson)
When you are lost, move slowly.
Stop at corners with no stop signs and look in all directions before you proceed
(with caution).
Read every word you see:
names on mailboxes,
license plates and unfamiliar, made-up sounding streets names,
signs: FOR SALE,
VOTE FOR,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARGARET!

Pause to look at the weeds growing in yards of heat-killed grass,
at window boxes of stagnant flowers,
at fences conquered by varieties of ivy you will never see again.
Memorize the strange shade of the cement and its peculiar cracks.

Listen to the not-quite-tuneless music coming from inside houses that could almost be the houses in your own neighborhood.
Speak to yipping dogs tied to front porches you might have sat on, if your life had turned out differently.
Watch bedraggled children running in shrieking play, broken toys in their hands.
The sun slants down from a strange direction. This is not your world.
You are only moving through it, off-kilter; a detour, as you try to find your way home.
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"Her Hobbies Were Hiding, And Lying About Hiding."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

It was like a British film noir—quirky and menacing at the same time. And it was almost entirely in black&white.

A man had killed most of his family. They lived in a small housing community made up of very small fifties era houses, and they lived in several of the houses—his parents in one with one of his sisters, another sister and her husband and children in another house, an aunt and another of his sister's in a third house. The man—whose name I don't know—lived in a house by himself.

When the dream started, he had killed everyone but the aunt and the sister who lived with her. The police were aware of this, but after talking to his psychiatrist, it was decided that he should remain where he was and the aunt and sister would need to hide. Everyone knew he was planning to kill them as well. The police were still investigating.

Then something happened with the aunt, but I'm not sure what, except she was bringing home groceries in the middle of the night. She was screaming

The police showed up to investigate some more and they took the aunt back into her house to hide while the man prowled around outside and stole her groceries. The sister, who was a little gir, was hidden more carefully than before; the police wrapped her up like a box of gift candy, with bright fancy paper.

(The wrapping paper is the only part of the dream that makes any sense, and it's the only part that was in color. OK, it doesn't really make sense, but I know where it came from. I've been watching That Girl, and the wrapping paper came from a bright spangly dress she wore in an episode yesterday.)

Once the girl was wrapped up, she became an actual box of candy and they put her on a shelf in the back of a closet.

Then the police decided to trap the man and actually put him in prison, so they sent the aunt outside to walk around so he could attack her, and they put the box of candy on the front stoop. They were still hunting him when I woke up.


This is the kind of dream I've been having lately, dark and menacing and full of gloom. I also seem to have them more when I sleep on my back.

I wish I could say it seemed unrealistic, but except for the girl turning into a box of candy, it all seems more than probable, women being expected to hide while men who want to murder them roam around free.


*Shawn Spencer
carose59: TV (but he doesn't know what he likes)
By Whom Do You Imagine Such A Sign Was Meant To Have Been Painted? The Municipal Signage Department Of Emerald City?*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The pilot for The Andy Griffith Show was actually an episode of Make Room For Daddy, Danny Thomas's show. Danny Thomas and Sheldon Leonard had the idea for the show—about a town so small, the sheriff was also the judge, justice of the peace, and I'm not sure what all else, and in this episode Danny gets stopped in a speed trap. Andy wasn't terribly bright and Barney was his cousin. (Barney remained his cousin for a few episodes, then they dropped that.)

One thing they found out really fast was that Barney was a funnier character than Andy, so for the good of the show, Andy Griffith opted to play straight man.

The Andy Griffith Show, is purported to be a warm, wholesome, family show. People might behave badly, but at the end of the day, they learn a lesson and shape up. Strangers come to town and find that the slow, small town life is better than their big city bustle.

And that's not completely untrue, but there's such an underpinning of meanness, I found myself stressing out as I watched the episodes.

Barny Fife is one of those characters we're supposed to like in spite of his unlikeableness. He's officious, he's a bully, he's power hungry, and he's incompetent. (In 2017 he'd make a fine president.) I never liked Barney.

And yet when Andy is deliberately cruel to him, I get very upset. Because, as I used to tell Pat all the time, "I'm not his friend! I can't stand him and I wouldn't treat him like that, but here's his best friend constantly undercutting him, ridiculing him, treating him the way I wouldn't treat my worst enemy! What kind of friend is that?" Yes, in a pinch Andy would come through for Barney, but it has been my experience that in an emergency, even strangers will help you out. Friends are supposed to be nice to you on a daily basis! Otherwise, what's the point?

So the show constantly put me in the position of having to feel sorry for a character I disliked. This is the same problem I had with The Mary Tyler Moore Show, only at least with that one it was almost always Ted doing it to himself. I didn't like watching it, but I wasn't saddled with conflicted feelings about the other characters, except for wishing they'd stop putting up with his crap.

For Pat, the problem was Andy's fathering skills. She said he was a terrible father, and the way he treats Opie in a handful of episodes certainly testifies to this. Andy's response to Opie's behavior when he doesn't understand it is to assume he's doing something bad. The first—and I think worst—case of this is a very early episode where there is a charity drive going on. Opie gives three cents. (He's about six years old, and this is the early '60's; back then, you could actually buy something with three cents.) Andy finds out about this and is humiliated—because it's all about him. When he next sees Opie, he's obnoxious and sarcastic—to a six-year-old who doesn't even know what he's supposed to have done wrong.

When Opie explains he's saving his money to buy a present for his girlfriend, Andy continues this passive-aggressive behavior. He calls him Diamond Jim Brady and ridicules him in front of other people. In the end—when he finally asks Opie for some details instead of clinging to his nasty conclusions—he finds out the present Opie wants to buy is a coat. His friend's coat is worn out and her parents can't afford to buy her a new one.

Yes, he's embarrassed by this. He should be. The thing is, we never see Opie being a really bad kid, so why would his father jump to a conclusion like this? And not just once. There aren't a lot of episodes like this, but there's definitely a pattern.

In one of the last episodes—one I remember from when it was on originally—Opie, at his new job, breaks what he thinks is an expensive bottle of perfume. He pays to replace it without the store owner finding out, and when the man discovers it (because the broken bottle was only a display filled with colored water), Opie tells him that he couldn't confess because his father was so proud of him. And because he'd be nasty and sarcastic to him if he found out, I thought.


Things changed when Don Knotts left the show, and not for the better. The show became "why Andy Taylor is grumpy this week." They had done shows like that before, with Barney sending Andy off to get some rest only to bother him every fifteen seconds with trivialities. I understand that it's hard to shift a character from straight man to comic center, but this is another form of humor that simply annoys me, and while I can watch an episode of it, three seasons of it was intolerable.

And the worst part was what it did to Andy's character. His playfulness disappeared; he became tense, shrill, and sharp..They emphasized Andy's already strong "what will people think?" tendency, to the point where he gets mean about things like Aunt Bee wearing a blonde wig (people will look at them! He doesn't want people looking at them! She cannot wear a wig!) It gets ugly. A show about a man who is constantly exasperated and impatient isn't funny. At least, not to me.

Other things Aunt Bee wasn't "allowed" to do included learning to drive and learning to fly a plane. In spite of Andy, she did both of these things.

Another problem was, the times, they were a changin' and there was nothing they could do about it. The show went into color. Music changed. Opie edged up on teenage. Outsiders with New York accents showed up, claiming to have lived there their whole lives. The town lost its charm and became as shrill and petty as Andy.

I believe my favorite episode was a later one where an old friend of Goober's had spent the whole episode making him feel small, with his bragging about how successful he was. Goober pretends to be more successful than he is and is humiliated. At the end they discover the old friend doesn't even own his own gas station the way Goober does, and Goober declines the opportunity to rub it in. He doesn't want make his friend feel the way he had. I thought that was sweet.


*Ronjlow

Being who I am

Monday, 20 February 2017 02:08 pm
carose59: the rose behind the fence (rose is a rose is a rose)
You Must Learn From The Mistakes Of Others. You Can't Possibly Live Long Enough To Make Them All Yourself.*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I always got the message I was too emotional.

It was a mixed message because in my family crying was considered a legitimate hobby. My mother and I would listen to Puff, the Magic Dragon and cry. It was a thing you did.

But there were also times when I would be told if I didn't stop crying, I had to go to my room. The only way I could force myself to stop crying was to hold my breath—and sometimes that wasn't acceptable behavior either. Since these were times I was crying because my mother was angry at me, being sent to my room was even more upsetting; I just wanted her to like me again and her response was to send me away. (Did she know this? Did I tell her? I don't know.)

My father just withdrew when I cried because it made no sense to him. Our relationship didn't find firm footing until I was in my thirties and he yelled at me for something that was in no way my fault. It was where the cold air ducts are in my house. His father and brother built the house before I was even born. My response was to yell back that maybe he should have said something to them at the time, something I couldn't have done, what with not having been born yet! He was fine with being yelled at, whereas me crying panicked him. After that we yelled at each other.

Anyway, I got the message early from a lot of people that stoicism was the usually the best behavior. Never let anybody see how you really feel because if you do they will mock you, punish you, or withdraw from you. That's probably part of how I learned to be funny, because making people laugh is a pleasant distancing thing. Humor is one step removed.

I'm actually going somewhere with this. I want to write about The Andy Griffith Show, but so many people feel the need to tell me I'm too analytical, I wanted to explain first why I'm so analytical.

I think some of it is the kind of mind I have. Also, I like winning arguments, and if you stay reasonable, you have a better shot at it. And then there's the too-emotional thing. Fixing a problem requires understanding it, so I started early trying to understand why certain things upset me. And a lot of things upset me. I watched a lot of TV as a kid, and a lot of TV upset me. The Andy Griffith Show upset me. Eventually, I figured out why.

My constant analysis of things annoyed Pat—it seems to annoy everyone—but I think one of our deepest connections was that, while it annoyed her, she still agreed with my analyses of things. We had very much the same outlook on how people should treat their loved ones, for example, and while she instinctively knew that she hated All in the Family for the way Archie treated his family, I could put it into words, and she did like that, and the fact that we felt the same way about it mattered.

People tell me, "It's just a TV show, it's not important, why are you wasting your time?"

Well, first off, it is important. TV shapes how we think and that is not unimportant.

Second, I'm trying less to understand the show than to understand myself, and that is definitely not unimportant.

And third, I enjoy it. Yes, I get annoyed, but it's like working a puzzle. Anyone who has ever worked any kind of puzzle for pleasure has, at one time, been annoyed by it: a crossword clue they can't figure out, a piece that just doesn't fit anywhere—anything. Annoyance can be fun. When I express this to people, the usual response is to try and "fix" the "problem." Except there is no problem. (And I've only just realized this as I was writing this, which is one reason I write.)

Another thing about annoyance is, it's good for depressives. Depression seems to make me, at least, feel antagonistic towards the world. If I'm down and you tell me a joke, I might laugh politely but there will be a part of me resisting your attempt to "cheer me up." It won't lift my mood.

But annoyance, like anger, can raise my energy level, and when you're depressed, anything that does that is good.

Anyway, be prepared. Tomorrow, and possibly the next day, I'll be writing about The Andy Griffith Show.


*Sam Levenson
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"OK, Let's Say Hypothetically That It's Not Hypothetical."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other night I dreamed all night long, involved, plot-driven dreams that exhausted me.

The worst one was about a man who murdered his young daughter. He drowned her and made it look like an accident. He dressed a wooden doll in her clothes—or dressed her in the doll's clothes, it changed—and put one or the other of them in the swimming pool, so it looked like the doll was just floating there, which sometimes it was. The body just floated there while everyone thought the little girl was missing and hunted for her. When it was discovered that the doll was really the little girl, the man stood by the side of the pool and pretended to cry.

I have zero idea where any of this came from.

Then I dreamed that I was going on vacation by spending a week at my friend Pam's house. (Pam lives walking distance from work, so there wasn't much travel involved. In fact, I think I walked over.) When I got there, we immediately did what you always do when you're spending your vacation in the same city you live in, with someone you work with: we changed into gorilla suits and put on ballerina outfits over them. Not tutus, the longer net skirts. I kept calling them bridesmaids' dresses. And then we spend the evening jumping up and down on the bed.

I really know how to live it up.

And I have zero idea where that came from, either.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I'm going through my usual spring-is-killing me instability. I know, you don't think it's spring. But under the ground, the plants are starting to do things, and inside me the same thing is happening and I can feel it and it's unsettling. I have lots of weird little aches and pains, I feel like crying, and I'm very, very cranky.

I saw Diane on Saturday and she's very pleased with how I'm handling this. It's not making me as nuts as it used to.

It's good to be told that because honestly, I don't remember. It feels the same inside.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other evening I watched a German adaptation of The Colour Out of Space by H. P. Lovecraft. It seems to me that the colour out of space is always purple. The movie was in black & white, but the colour was still purple.

It wasn't scary; it was sad. I'm in that kind of mood, where horror is tragedy.


*Adrian Monk
carose59: common unhappiness (empty and aching and i don't know why)
"Well, If He Actually Went Mad—Or Thinks He Did . . . ."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

So, I woke up this morning feeling terrible in a vague, existential, maybe my body is on wrong kind of way. I spent a long time in the bathroom working crossword puzzles because that soothes me and will sometimes make all the bad stuff go away.

It didn't.

I got ready for work, even managed to hit the post office to drop off the latest Netflix DVD without screaming, or crying very much. Got to work.

I took my blood pressure before I left the house and I don't remember what it was.

I took it again here and it was OK, but my pulse was 115, which probably explained my headache. "I am having a terrible, no good, very bad day," I said to nobody.

Actually, what I said was, "I'm having a fucking panic attack." And I took my blood pressure eight more times and kept getting error messages, which my brain insisted on interpreting as the little machine looking at my real numbers and saying, "Oh, my fucking God, this cannot be right!"

Though it probably wasn't.

I considered the logistics of the emergency room. Methodist is close, but I don't know where to park. Community is a little farther but the parking is easy.

Leaving would be considered an incident and would go on my permanent record.

I told myself I wasn't ready to die just yet, then I started crying and took my blood pressure again. The numbers were normalish. My pulse was down to sixty-seven.

This crap has been going on for days now, and why not? My mother died and I'm exhausted and the people in charge where I work hate us all the way Donald Trump hates us. And the new slacks I bought are weird and I was late for my appointment with Diane the other day and just can't seem to get anything right.

And I'm disturbingly aware of the back of the left side of my head. It doesn't hurt, and I know what it is—it's a muscle thing coming up from my left shoulder, but when I'm scared it becomes an aneurysm waiting to explode in my head.

It's not an aneurysm.

As I was sobbing just a moment ago, head down on my desk, I was thinking that this was what I was supposed to be doing when I see Diane. Only what good is that, having somebody watch me cry? It's like having somebody watch you vomit when you have food poisoning, it's a symptom—a good symptom, you want to get the poison out. The crying is what brought down my pulse rate. I need Diane for other things.


I don't know why, but I always think of Kimberly in moments like this. I miss her.


*Randolph Carter
carose59: health matters (an intuition of mortality)
"Oh, Great, I Have To Work. I'm Always Working When The World Ends."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-


This isn't a menopause thing, it's a Cymbalta-withdrawal thing, and you have no idea how happy this makes me. I thought I was either dying or losing my mind—those are my default assumptions about anything that happens to me. An unpleasant chemical reaction to the lack of a drug in my system is like a picnic in the park compared to either of those.

I'm crying a lot lately, too. That could also be a withdrawal thing, or it could be just me going back to being me, and I can deal with it. Maybe this is also why I've been feeling sort of dizzyish lately. Cymbalta. Actually, lack of Cymbalta. Not panic attacks, not anxiety, an actual real not-dying thing happening to me.

You know what that means? It means I get to be nice to myself. It means I don't have to be stern and unforgiving when I can't do perfectly ordinary things like drive to the north side of town where I've driven many, many times before. I can stop feeling like a failure because my stupid behavior is being caused by an actual thing instead of just my mind suddenly forgetting that driving over a bridge is perfectly safe.

I cannot tell you how wonderful this is.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

In other news, I'm reading this book called, What Alice Forgot, and it's one of the things that's had me on the edge of tears. It's about a woman who gets amnesia and loses ten years of her memory—ten years in which she had three children, her best friend died, her beloved sister drifted out of her life, and she and her husband are getting a divorce. And she can't understand why her sister and husband seem to hate her because the last thing she remembers is being happily married and close to her sister. I feel so sorry for her, though it looks like things might work out.

It's a relief to actually cry about this, instead of just absorbing it and having the sadness be a part of me. Crying drains off the poisoned groundwater, of which I have oceans. Really, it's amazing I don't cry more.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I dreamed about my mother the other night. She was alive again—that is, had been dead and now wasn't. My mind is very stubborn on this subject. And I was so annoyed because she had all of these chores she wanted me to do, and then she tells me brightly, "And on Saturday you don't have to do any chores because we're going to spend the whole day cooking and baking," as though she was taking me on that picnic in the park instead of expecting me to spend a whole day in the kitchen. And all I could think was, "I don't fucking want to spend my day cooking! How is that not a chore?!"

And I was wondering when she was going to die again.

I hope I'm not supposed to feel bad about this, because I don't. I find it funny. I loved my mother, but we didn't have the perfect relationship and I spend a lot of energy not being angry—and not showing I was angry when I couldn't avoid feeling it—and I'm relieved not to have to do that anymore. I'm relieved to be able to feel the unacceptable emotions that have always been there.


*Dr. John Carter
carose59: food (a life spent making mistakes)
"That's Going To Be My New Motto: Wham!"*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I believe I've come up with a system that will help me with my buying-food-then-not-cooking issue.

I've been in the kitchen, washing dishes. I needed to do that because I need to cook because I have food that will go bad if I don't cook it and I have enough to feel guilty about. Today's a good day (so far) because I got everything I needed clean, clean. Now I can cook.

And I'm still thinking, "But when I go out, I could just pick up Boston Market." Because instant gratification. Because depression. Because I'd rather pretend I'm going to start writing any minute than chop vegetables.

I'm not going to. And if I do, I won't tell you.

Anyway, my system. I'm no longer allowed to buy food to cook if the proper dishes aren't clean. And I'm no longer allowed to buy take-away unless I then wash some dishes. If I go out for Chinese, after I eat, I have to wash dishes. If I can stick to this, I won't buy food if I'm going to have to delay cooking it until I feel good enough to wash dishes to cook it in. (I get a little high when I shop and in the moment I'm sure I'll dash right home and wash dishes. This is never the case.)

And this is the important thing, the important thing about all systems: it won't always work. I won't always be able to stick to it. I've come up with a lot of systems in my life. Some of them didn't work at all. Some of them worked for a short time before things changed in my brain. Some of them work periodically.

But every step forward is a step forward. Not coming up with system is no solution. I have to learn to be optimistic in the right places: no in the grocery but yes with systems. Even if this only works once, it's still a time I got it right. This is what happened with my last system. It didn't dig me out of the housework hole depression pushes me into, but it made the hole shallower. That might be all I can do and it might not be enough, but I can forgive myself for the rest.

Also, I made eggs for breakfast!


*Lulu
carose59: TV (but he doesn't know what he likes)
"You Consider 'I Love You' A Punchline?"*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

So, I'm doing my semi-annual rewatch of The Dick Van Dyke Show, this time on Netflix. The last time it was on Hulu. Netflix is better because there are pieces included that have been cut for so long, some of them I wonder if I've ever seen before. It's comforting and exciting and it makes me sad. I want Pat to be here. I found the rented children!**

Last night I watched The Curse of the Petrie People. It's the one where Rob's parents give Laura a big, gaudy pin that's a Petrie family heirloom. Laura is less than thrilled by this and Rob's apologetic. And all I keep thinking is, "But you'd only have to wear it is when his parents come over, how terrible is that, really?" I do that all the time, with pretty much every fictional situation I encounter, try to come up with solutions to their problems.

This morning I watched The Bottom of Mel Cooley's Heart. In that one, Mel makes a mistake and Alan Brady screams at and humiliates him in front of everybody. They try to help the demoralized Mel, and part of that is getting Buddy to stop insulting Mel. Pat and I actually talked about that one, about Rob's rationalization of never tryint to stop Buddy, and we agreed that Rob was partly right. Buddy insulting Mel allowed Mel to be nasty to him, to take his hostilities out on him. He couldn't have done that if Buddy had been nice to him.

Although it was the kind of thing that happened on pretty much ever sitcom that lasted long enough, it was The Dick Van Dyke Show that brought about our arrangement regarding secrets. We agreed that if a friend told us a secret, neither of us would share it with the other without permission from the friend. That was not considered keeping a secret because it wasn't our secret. (We actually used this rule a couple of times. No hilarity ensued. No arguments, either.)

I think the tendency to try to solve the problems of fictional people is both the beginning of how a person starts writing fan fiction, and something that takes over your mind if you keep writing. Besides an internal editor that never shuts you, you also default to trying to work out inconsistencies. (Pat and I also discussed the whole is-Alan-married-to-Mel's-sister or vice versa question, but I can't remember what conclusion we came to.)

I also wonder about the real life stuff. There are a couple of episodes where Rob's brother is trying to resolve a "speak for yourself, John" problem he has. It's compounded by the friend he wrote the letters for having the name of James Garner. So every time he tells someone he's been signing the letters James Garner, he has to explan that no, James Garner is a drummer friend of his. This episode was written after Dick Van Dyke and Carl Reiner made The Art of Love with James Garner. I want to know whose idea it was to use his name. I want to know what he thought of it.

I know this all sounds stupid, but The Dick Van Dyke Show was part of our common language and it was important to us. If Pat was alive, I wouldn't be writing this because I'd have been talking about it with her while we watched.

But I would still be wondering about James Garner.


*Donald Hollinger
**There's an episode where Alan Brady is going to do an episode that's warm, so he's rented some children to sing with around a campfire. I could not for the life of me remember which episode it was and I didn't see that scene the last time I watched it all.
carose59: computers and other machines (what do you think you're doing dave)
"One Doesn't Usually See This Kind Of Behavior In A Forklift."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Many, many years ago, Pat and I got up one Sunday morning to discover the on/off switch on the TV was gone.

This wasn't a knob; it was a recessed button (like how a doorbell is), so it couldn't have simply fallen off. There was just a hole where the part of the button that protruded used to be. And there was no way to replace it. From then on we had to turn the TV on and off with the remote.

I still have no idea what happened.

About a month ago, something else happened.

I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when I noticed something strange about my shampoo.

There's a window over the bathtub and I keep my shampoo and stuff on the window sill. I was running low on one kind of shampoo, so I had the bottle turned upside down, but since the lid was rounded, it was wedged between the wall and another shampoo bottle. What I noticed was that there was a puddle of shampoo under the bottle. When I took the bottle away, I found that the lid had broken and was missing. I looked in the bathtub and found the pieces.

The bottle was where it had been; it had not been moved. But why had the lid cracked? It wasn't terribly cold, we hadn't had the cold snap yet; it certainly wasn't weight, the shampoo bottle was only a quarter full, and with the bottle being held up by the wall and another bottle, the lid wasn't even supporting the full weight. But the part I really don't understand is how the broken lid got out from under the bottle without disturbing it.

I could almost think Pat was messing with me.

There was an episode of The Twilight Zone where a little girl (and her dog) disappear into another dimension. Her frantic parents call their next door neighbor, who happens to be a physicist, to come help get her back. Whenever odd things happened, Pat and I would say, "I wish we had a physicist next door we could call!"

Maybe that's what happened to the bracelet that disappeared, it slipped into another dimension but it can't call out to me like the little girl on The Twilight Zone. I could use a physicist right about now.


*Martin Nash
carose59: politics (one of the f's)
Also, Yoko Ono Is Not Fictional.*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

There's a story by Harlan Ellison called Hitler Painted Roses. The story is about the idea that we go to heaven or hell based on what is remembered and believed about us by others, rather than what we've actually done. Hitler is not in hell because he's remembered as a painter. (That's my vague recollection of the story, anyway.)

I don't know about an afterlife, but that's certainly what this life is like. My favorite examples are The Story of the Two Flag Shirts, and Rock Star Reputations.

In the sixties (which includes some of the early seventies), Abbie Hoffman was a guest on either Mike Douglas or Merv Griffin's shows, I don't remember which. He wore a flag shirt, which was censored: a big blue dot was placed over it.

This wasn't because of the shirt, though, because Roy Rogers wore an identical shirt and was not censored. (Not on the same show, though that would have been incredible.) It wasn't about the shirt, it was about who you were while you were wearing the shirt. Roy Rogers in a flag shirt was a patriot because Roy Rogers was a cowboy hero. Abbie Hoffman in a flag shirt was desecrating the flag because Abbie Hoffman was a protestor. You are who people say you are.

The second story is about Jim Morrison and Simon & Garfunkel. Jim Morrison, as you may or may not know, was charged with—among other things—indecent exposure. According to John Densmore, Jim Morrison didn't expose himself, and was convicted of the things he didn't do and acquitted of the things he did do.

After his conviction, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel received an invitation to perform for some Christian youth group. They were both offended by this—their songs were not squeaky clean, they were existential protest songs! After getting stoned, they discussed what they could do about this, how they could change their image, and the idea of exposing themselves on stage was brought up. They both liked the idea, but they realized that it wouldn't matter if they did: the truth would never be strong enough to overcome their reputation, any more than it was strong enough to beat out Jim Morrison's and clear him.

People keep posting, "When will Trump voters realize they've been sold down the river." The answer is: never. They believe what they believe and they're going to keep believing it. Trump is who they admire because Trump is who they want to be like. They want to be allowed to be horrible, offensive people who can act they way he does without repercussions. (They want to be allowed to be, but they don't necessarily want to actually do it. They want to be able to say nigger with no repercussions, even if they never actually have the inclination to say it. They feel like their inferiors are telling them what to do and they hate it!!!)

They will never believe that he would treat them like this because they will never believe this one important fact: Trump and his people look at them exactly the way they look at illegal aliens and Muslims and gays and whoever else they see as unworthy and taking from them. Trump looks at them with the same hostility and couldn't care less if they die because they have no health insurance—obviously they should have made better life choices if they wanted to be rich and powerful like him.

Instead they will blame Obama and Hillary and the liberal media and anyone who doesn't agree with them. Even though we have as little power as they do, it will be our fault when their jobs disappear and they can't pay to see a doctor because . . . our bad thoughts are very powerful. I don't know. They've cast us in the role of the cause of all their problems and that's who we are now. Reality will not change that.

Their perceptions will not change because they don't want to know they're loathed the way they loathe people not like them.


*giandujakiss
carose59: politics (one of the f's)
"They Look Like A Bunch'a Fags. Not Really Fags, But Close. Gettin' There."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I've been reading about how, if Trump isn't given the presidency by the Electoral College, his supporters will become violent.

There are a couple of things wrong with that. The first is, they're already being violent, so that's not much of a threat. The second is, I don't like being extorted, and I'm particularly ticked off by an extortion that reads, "I'm going to beat you up unless you do what I tell you and even then I'm going to beat you up anyway." That's not even extortion. I don't know what that is. Maybe it's Trump extortion.

Trump supporters want to be violent. They're angry. They have a lot to be angry about—the delusional ones who think Trump is going to save them from the liberal elite do, anyway; we share a lot of the same anger-inducing situations: health care issues, job issues, things like that. They think Trump is going to save them and I know Trump is only going to make things worse for them. But they hate-hate-hate liberals, so it's not possible we could make things better for them. We're the ones who make things bad for them now. And we always will be.

We're looking at a red Presidency, red House, red Senate, and maybe a red Supreme Court. And if that comes to pass, things are going to get incredibly bad for anyone living paycheck to paycheck. And you know who the Teabaggers will blame?

Liberals.

Really. They will stand there, watching their designated saviors pass laws that take money, security, and health from them and they will blame the people fighting them. They will blame Obama (don't laugh, they blame him for 9/11). It will be all our fault.

Because we are in an abusive relationship with Teabaggers. The boss beats them up at work and they come home and beat us up. And then we're told by everybody outside what we did to deserve it. (I recently read that Trump is the fault of Democrats because we've been smug. Sound familiar? "And what did you say that provoked him to hit you, Mrs. Blue?")

And we try and find a way to help them because it's what we do because we're liberals. We want to save ourselves and everybody else. We want the world to be a better place and we think if it is, people will be better to each other and maybe even us.

I have my doubts. I know we have to save them; there are too many of them not to save and still save the country. But I do wish most of them would just drive the hell off a cliff. They aren't going to become nicer people and they're never going to be nice to us and I'm fed up with them.


*Joe Curren
carose59: amusements (a medley of extemporanea)
To This Day, No One Knows The Plot Of The Terror."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

So, I was going through stuff in my room and I found a bracelet that belonged to my paternal grandmother. She had very gaudy taste in jewelry, but this is one I'm fond of—it's a charm bracelet, with something like Italian charms on it, and it's kind of eccentric. I don't know why it was in my room—I don't keep my jewelry in my room—but there it was, in a small jewelry store box. I took it out and looked at it. Then I set it down on the bed to go back to what I was doing, and it vanished.

No, really. It completely disappeared. It's not on the bed, under the bed, or on the floor next to the bed. If it's gone farther afield, I have no idea how it did this. This happened over a week ago and I've looked for it several times. The box is on the floor, empty.

And Meg had nothing to do with it. He wasn't there when it happened and he's really not that interested in inanimate toys—except string. His favorite toy is the drawstring from an old pair of sweatpants.

On the other hand, when I turned over my mattress the other day, I found Pat's bathrobe. This makes about as much sense as the vanishing bracelet. The bathrobe was in the middle of the bed between the mattress and box spring and either I put it there or somebody who broke into my house did it. (Pat had nothing to do with it. She couldn't have managed it, and even if she could, I've worn the robe since she died.)

So I'm left with wondering why I lifted up the mattress and hid a bathrobe under it.


Maybe it really was one of the people who broke into my house. Maybe it was the Jesus guy.

See, the last time it happened, when I was walking through the house, I stepped on something sharp. It was one of the little spikes that holds Jesus to the crucifix. I only own one crucifix, the one they used when my maternal grandfather died; I've had it ever since. At the time I couldn't locate it, so I thought whoever broke in had stolen the cross but left Jesus, so I assumed it was a Protestant.

But I've since found that crucifix. So now I have an extra Jesus. He's in a pencil cup because I don't know what to do with him. You can't just hang him on a wall without a cross, and making a cross and putting him on it seems wrong. He seems happy with the pencils.

And all my assumptions about whoever broke in have been shattered. Who comes into your house to hide your bathrobe and leave Jesus on the floor to stab you in the foot?


*Jack Nicholson

This is my life

Friday, 2 December 2016 05:15 pm
carose59: adulthood (without being supervised)
"Well, A Person Who Thinks He Has Walls Is Infinitely More Interesting Than One Who Does."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Two weeks ago, I finally got around to seeing a lawyer to deal with the house. I called and left a message, he called back, and we made an appointment.

I had gotten his name from the AFSCME website (that's the union I belong to, and union members get a discount). His address was listed as being on Alabama Street.

I saw that he had his own website, so I thought I'd check it out—I like to get my information from as close to the source as possible. On his website, his address was listed as being on Market Street.

So the day of the appointment, I drove downtown, parked, and walked over to the address on Market. I went to sign in and found someone had spilled coffee all over the sign-in sheet. I found this by sticking my hand in it. They'd also spilled it all over the lobby and there was a trail of it going to one of the elevators. Right about then someone who apparently worked there showed up, noticed the coffee, and went to get it cleaned up. I went upstairs and washed my hands in the ladies' room.

It was an interesting building. Built in 1955 (according to the cornerstone), it had been renovated and decorated with non-fuctioning clocks. I've never seen so many clocks with the wrong time on them. It was, as I say, interesting.

I waited until ten—my appointment time—nervous because there was no-one to check-in with and I couldn't figure out where his office was. I played out the worst-case scenario: I didn't get to see the lawyer today and had to come back. Oh, no! The world would come to an end. Or, I'd just have to come back at a different time. Anyway, at ten I called and left a message saying who I was, what time it was, and where I was, and that if either the time or place were wrong, I'd really appreciate him calling me back.

In a few minutes he called back. Right time, wrong place. He'd moved to an office on—you guessed it—Market. I told him I'd gotten the address from his own website, and he was quite embarrassed. He asked if I'd like to meet him at the City Market—a block away from where I was—and get some food. I thought that sounded good, so that's what we did.

We talked about the whole thing—which is really just probate vs no probate, depending on the value of the estate. His wife is in real estate and said the house looked to be between forty and sixty thousand dollars; fifty is the cut-off for not having to go through probate, and he said that with me being an only child (meaning nobody contesting my inheritance), we could squeeze by with the house being worth under fifty. I told him that the house was built just after WWII and the plumbing and electric has never been updated, and he laughed. "Definitely under fifty then," he said.

He outlined what he was going to do and I gave him a check for a thousand dollars, but I should be getting money back. It's all really easy.

I'm really glad to be getting this taken care of, but I'm particularly glad that I was able to handle the whole wrong-place thing so calmly. It was a little adventure. I got to see a cool building.


*Lillian Carlson
carose59: my mother's family (it seems to absolve us)
I Couldn't Go To A Queer Halloween Party Once Because The Only Rule Was You Couldn't Come In Costume And Darling, I Had Nothing To Wear.*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I've written this never-ending series of Wiseguy stories called Roadhouse Blues. I sort of thought I was finished a few years ago, but other stories popped up and I wrote them and did nothing with them (except the one I wrote for Christy; I showed it to her. Considering the number of stories I have that I wrote for/dedicated to her, Christy telling me she didn't think I was her audience is abso-fucking-lutely bizarre.)

Anyway, I'm writing on them again for reasons. But I'm breaking all the characters and at three of them are having meltdowns and I'm crying. This is effect and cause; I'm doing this because I need to cry and I'm a lot Irish and crying over imaginary people is what we do.

(I once wrote a story I only worked on when I was depressed or having PMS. And one I finished right after Pat died. You could wipe out a whole dealers' room of fans with those two stories.)

And in two days it's Thanksgiving and I've been invited by my cousin.

Pros:

1. I love my family.
2. The food will be good.
3. There might be a few moments of feeling like I belong.
4. It will make them happy. I guess. *shrug* They invited me.


Cons:

1. It will take four hours I could use for writing.
2. It will be loud and I will come home with a headache.
3. I will feel alienated and alone.
4. There will probably be a political argument which will leave me feeling even more alienated and alone. Unless I keep my mouth shut, in which case everybody will agree.

What I get when I see my family is sarcasm and whimsy. It's the language we all share; we're good at silly.

But it's like a garnish. Would you order an expensive dinner just for the garnish? (I might, because I'm like that, and if I had a use for the rest of the meal, like giving it away.)

It makes me so sad that it's this hard, that I do not feel a part of my family.

When my cousin in Texas wrote me that he had been thinking of coming to Indianapolis to look at train stuff (don't ask) (but now he wasn't because he was punishing us for something—again, don't ask), I wrote back and told him I'd be happy to go with him to look at train stuff.

He said he didn't know I was interested in trains.

I'm not. Except for liking to listen to them, I have no interest in trains. I'm interested in him.

I didn't tell him that because he wouldn't understand it!

And so it goes. I'm supposed to be interested in their lives when they're not a bit interested in mine. I'm endlessly weird, and as such, a source of amusement. I cause endless trouble by not enjoying my role as prop in the latest holiday special, sitting on the sofa and pretending everything is fine when nobody is talking to me (except my one cousin's husband who sees me as prey and wants to argue politics. It's fun. Fun. The destruction of our country is fun).

I want to say no and I want to be honest but I don't want to hurt them (well, yes, I do, but I also don't). I want them to actually be able to see me and that will never, ever happen and I need to stop wanting it but I don't know how.

And even if I tried to be honest, how many words do you think I'd get out? How many of my meaningless, incomprehensible words is anyone willing to listen to? I've written almost seven hundred right here. Nobody's going to listen to seven hundred words. Maybe I could pare it down to four.

I won't be happy no matter what I do, but staying home is a more productive use of my time. Sonny's having some serious PTSD, and Vinnie's throwing up from stress, and I don't even know what happened to Roger. It would be more fun to stay home and untangle those tangles and watch Humphrey Bogart. And I can make my own damn food.

(I did buy food. I decided to make smoked sausage and carrots and potatoes and onion and cabbage. I'm partial to red potatoes—I like the ones that are so small, you can hold two or three in your hand at a time. So I picked out a bag of small red potatoes. And I thought I'd get red cabbage instead of green, for no particular reason. And then, of course, when it was time to get the onions, I got red ones. I don't know if you've ever cooked with red onions, but they turn a sort of pale mauve, and from what I've read, so does red cabbage. I should have a really interesting-looking dinner. And while my family might find this funny, it would be in a despairing sort of way. Pat would find it hilarious. She'd hunt me down some red carrots, without me even asking.)


*Aaron Raz Link

October 2017

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