MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons
An Angel in a Cat Suit

This is the story of a little cat who knew where she belonged and a young lady who was saved by the pure, sweet love of that cat; a cat named Zoe.

When I was 26 and in graduate school, my dad lived alone and was very ill. I thought he might like a cat, since he'd had one before - but it died. A friend of mine had a cat who'd just had kittens, so I took a female kitten to my dad. I named her Tamarin.

Frankly, Tamarin was not the most friendly cat. But she loved my dad, and my dad was no longer alone. Unfortunately, my dad accidentally let Tamarin outside one day before I could take her to get fixed. This 'accident' would have both sad and wonderful repercussions for us all. Tamarin didn't waste time finding a tomcat, and on March 28, 1995 she gave birth to 5 beautiful kittens.

The only problem was, what were going to do with these darlings? My dad agreed to keep two, and I fell in love with a little black and white kitten I named Moo Moo, because to me, she looked like a little cow. We decided to give the other two to one of my dad's friends who worked in a pet store.

I took Moo Moo home and we fell madly in love with each other. She curled up next to me in bed, and suckled on my earlobe - a ticklish and funny little feeling. I hope she didn't think milk was coming out of that ear! She was a feisty little girl, like all kittens, exploring every tiny aspect of my apartment.

One day, the time came for me to take the other two kittens to Michelle, at the pet store. I came to my dad's house with a carrier. We got one kitten in, but try as we might, we could NOT get the other kitten out from under the bed. It turned out that this kitten was my Zoe, though I didn't know it yet. She knew. She knew she belonged with me, and she wasn't going anywhere. She had actually torn a hole through the mattress and was hiding inside the mattress. I tried everything to coax this cat out. I couldn't fit under the bed, and she was too far inside the mattress for me to reach in and pull her out. In the end, we had to literally pull the mattress off the bed, stand it up and I had to forcibly remove this crying, wailing kitten. It was breaking my heart, but we had to do it. She cried like I've never heard any cat cry before. She looked at me like she couldn't believe I was taking her from the place she belonged. I put her in the carrier, drove to the pet store, and dropped the kittens off. It was hard, but it was over.

Life can give you the most blessed gifts, and also take away those gifts, cruelly and without warning. One night in May, I'd gone to the movies with a friend. I came home, and saw my precious Moo Moo literally hanging from one of the wrought iron chairs in the dining room. The horror of what was in front of me was indescribable. Moo Moo, my sweet angel, had tried to climb inbetween the bars and had gotten stuck. She'd broken her back; her spine was crushed. I gently pulled her out...she'd wet herself and could only crawl on her front paws. I rushed her, crying hysterically, to an all-night emergency vet, knowing the whole time there was no hope. And indeed, the vet told me - she was going to have be put down. I wept as if it were my own biological child. I held her and told her I was so, so sorry. I told her how much I loved her, and how happy she'd made me. And then she went to sleep.

The next month was brutal. I was already living a hellish existance....I was in graduate school, but I'd taken the year off as my health had deteriorated to the point where getting out of bed was an effort. I'd been struck down in late 1993 with what we now know is probably fibromyalgia. I was terribly sick; I was fatigued beyond measure, doctors couldn't help me, or didn't believe me, and on top of everything, I was taking care of my sick father. Some days, I didn't think I'd make it at all. I cried and cried for Moo Moo. I lived in chronic pain, I'd lost my beloved kitten and I wanted another kitten - but not just any kitten. For some odd reason, I only wanted a kitten from Tamarin's litter. My dad generously offered to give me one of his; but I couldn't take it.

One day in late June, I was driving over to my dad's to help him and for reasons that only the Universe knows, I swerved my car to the right - and parked right in front of the pet store where I'd dropped off the extra two kittens a month earlier. I have no idea why. I hadn't looked in any pet stores; I didn't want a kitten from a pet store. And yet I was compelled to walk inside. Once I did, I immediately saw our friend Michelle. She walked right over to me and said,
"Denise, isn't this one of your dad's kittens?" She was pointing to a cage, with Zoe inside. I was stunned. I said, "Yes!" And there was Zoe, screaming her little lungs out. To this day, I'm not sure why she ended up back at the pet store; according to Michelle, a woman adopted her, and then brought her back. Michelle told me she was a screamer. I didn't care. I wanted her. Although I have to admit, and this seems like such a shameful thing to admit, that I was afraid I wouldn't love her like I loved Moo Moo. I didn't like her face like I loved Moo Moo's. I felt shallow and awful, and yet I still wanted her.

I've had cats my entire life. All the crazy quotes about cats are mostly true. Cats don't have owners, they have staff. You don't own a cat, it owns you. Yet this was not true with Zoe. I brought her home, and named her Zoe, after the Greek word meaning "life." She was new life for me.

She also became the most loving creature I've ever known. I don't think she knows she's a cat. I think she thinks she's a dog...or maybe even a human. She stuck to me like glue - and she started suckling on my earlobe just like Moo Moo. She settled in like she'd always lived at that apartment - as if she was finally home. She didn't scream - unless I left the room. Then she wailed. She followed me everywhere. She became my shadow. And in no time at all, I fell in love again, and hard.

My dad used to call Zoe pure love. That's what she is. She is the most affectionate, loving cat I've ever had. She is terrified of strangers, but clings to me like I am her life. She curls up with me in bed and kept me company all the years I was sick. She is hysterical - she meows and makes all these sounds that actually sound like words. She is a riot! She gets so jealous when I talk on the phone and she lets me know it! She has a distinct personality and makes these funny little grunts if she doesn't like something. She sits on my chest and gazes into my eyes. She rolls on her back, waiting for her belly rub. She suckled my earlobe for years. She lets me hold her like a baby and gazes up at me with her beautiful green eyes.

Today, when it's time for bed, she lets me know by getting on my spot on the bed, curling up and going to sleep. She adores my spot on the bed. She won't sleep anywhere else. It feels a bit silly to be so in love with a cat. I know I'll never be able to explain how loving and sweet she is.

I know now why she didn't want to leave my dad 's house. I don't believe in miracles really. But I cannot explain why I stopped at the pet store that day. I cannot explain why Zoe seemed so determined to stay with me. I hesitate to believe in gifts from God, or the Universe, but I know this for sure: Zoe was a gift. An angel disguised in a little cat suit. And yes, I love her as much, if not more, than Moo Moo and I think she has the most beautiful face in the entire feline world. She has been with me for 11 years and I know someday she will not be here - it's a thought I can barely tolerate. But for now, she has been my best friend and I wish everyone could know such love from an animal. It is truly a miracle.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Happy Father's Day, Dad

This has been one of the most emotional weeks of my life.
It began wonderfully as I met Anderson Cooper, but as the week
wore on, I became more and more tired and emotional. I've
been helping a friend who had surgery, and I've gotten very little sleep.
I've been in and out of the hospital, doing two sets of errands, going to school and meeting with the tutor.
My kindergarten class graduated on Wednesday and today I said
goodbye to them for good (more on that later).

I've been waiting this week to hear if I made it into the Credential
Program for the Fall; I think I may have...I'm just waiting for the official word.
And Father's Day is Sunday....and exactly a week later is my Dad's birthday.
I've been happy, and up and down, and crying and not sleeping and worrying
and laughing and all over the place.

Oddly though I've really been missing my Dad this week; more than ever
and thinking about Father's Day more than I ever have since he died. This
will be my 11th Father's Day without him and really, I don't like these contrived
Hallmark holidays anyway, so Father's Day was never that hard for me. His birthday, which usually falls about a week after Father's Day, was always another story, because it was HIS birthday, and he died so young, at 53, and so
tragically.

My life is busy and honestly, I don't dwell on my dad that much. I've integrated
his memory into my life the best I can and every now and again, I'll cry (usually around PMS time) because I miss him. The first Father's Day after he died, my mom and I went to the cemetery and it was mayhem! I mean, there was serious
traffic and gridlock. And to prove how much I hate traffic, masses of people and no privacy at the cemetery, I just said, "Forget it. I'll come back on his birthday."
And I've never gone to the cemetery again on Father's Day.

I really cannot remember the last time I went to the cemetery. I don't go much because I don't really feel he is 'there' - I don't know where he is, if he is, although I pray to whatever gods there may be that he is at peace, one way or another. I do think of him whenever I see things that remind me of him; when meeting Anderson Cooper I noticed he was wearing a gorgeous and no doubt expensive watch; I immediately thought of my dad as my dad adored expensive watches and had quite a few himself. In fact, I think I have about 12 watches (though none that expensive) and I always joke I got the "watch gene" from my dad. My dad loved so many things in life, even when he began to live his life, at the young age of 38, in constant, chronic, horrible, pain.

He was an emotionally flawed man, there's no doubt about it. He lost his own dad when he was 12; I believe that scarred him for life. He was an only child, raised by a lot of neurotic women. His own father had been a violent alcoholic and sadly, my father succumbed to that role as well. So I have never sainted my father, or shied away from the truth that he had many problems. As a human being, he was flawed, mixed up, and troubled. He was dealt a shitty hand with his health. As a father, he made some mistakes, but by and large, he tried and succeeded with us more often than not.

On and off I've dreamt of my dad for 10 years. The last words he said to me, in anger, desperation and rage, were "Fuck you." He was desperate beyond belief. He spent his final weekend trying to get out of this life. I would not help him. By Sunday night he had succeeded. I know that he did not mean to hurt me, and that he loved me. And yet in all my dreams, he has always been angry. For ten years, he's been angry. Sometimes he's alive in my dreams, and sometimes, eerily enough, he survives the gunshot wound to his head and lives on. It's creepy. I had my years of anger, shock, guilt, numbness. I have told him I forgive him. I know he just wanted out of the nightmare that had become his life. I am still waiting for him to come to me, one way or another, and not be angry. I want to tell him, it's OK. It's not that I condone what he did, or would encourage it, but I understand it. I'm so sorry that that's how his life had to end, and so, so sorry about the damage it did to our family. But I long for peace with my dad, and I am still waiting for that...from him.

When I was doing bereavement counseling for survivors of suicide, we told people, 'first you concentrate on the way they died...then you concentrate on the fact that they died...and finally, you concentrate on the fact that they lived."
It's especially true of someone who takes their own life; you have a tendency to focus on that for a long time - and it takes great effort to move beyond it. But it is possible. It is possible to share the life of your loved one without focusing on how that person died. Anderson Cooper said this about his 23 year old brother, who leapt from the balcony of their 14th floor penthouse - you really keep thinking about how they died.

But I want my dad and everyone to know I really only think about how he lived now. My dad and I had a lot in common. We both loved to read - voraciously. We both mainlined Pepsi like it was heroin. We both loved fine watches and I also joke I got the 'magazine' gene from him, as his house was always filled with every kind of magazine possible. I'm a little more picky, but still, I love magazines. We both loved sailing and watching the America's Cup. We adored our cats. My dad was a brilliant man, and I don't just say that because he was my dad. He truly was so very smart. He was the best salesman I ever saw; his ability to charm people was infamous. He was an incessant talker. THAT we don't have in common and I have to admit, it embarrassed me sometimes. I mean, the man could NOT shut up! He loved animals, and practically cried when he accidentally hit a cat in the road. He was a hard worker and was never really sick a day in his life until he hurt his back at 38. He took me to Indian Princesses, he tried so hard to help me with my math homework. I think it confused him; as bright as he was, algebra was just a bitch!

We grew a lot closer when I went to graduate school. He supported me whole-heartedly in pursuing my dream of studying art history; I knew why. It was because he had wanted to do so many other things with his life - but hadn't been able to. He married, and struggled with two jobs to make ends meet, and within 9 months had a baby daughter and wife to take care of. His dreams of astronomy and sailing and designing furniture went on the back burner.

I remember he adored Shakespeare and would often be in bed, going on and on about the latest play he'd read. He loved architecture and art, films and poetry, cars and planes, sports and Victory at Sea on the History Channel. The only thing he loved that I hated were guns. He collected so many guns, and never used one, except in the end. When he brought out a gun, I left the house. He and I would fight tooth and nail over the NRA. We would never see eye to eye on that issue.

He also started to love vodka, and when he hurt his back, got on a lot of pills. That was really the beginning of the end. Fifteen long years of suffering. Still, he came to all my plays, my events, my graduations. He bought me cars and he took us on grand vacations. He helped us carve pumpkins for Halloween and swore like the devil when he couldn't untangle the Christmas tree lights. I used to be so afraid of him; now, when I do the tree myself, I understand what he went through with those $#@#!!! lights.

As with other survivors, even after all these years, I am sometimes shocked when I think about what happened. It still seems surreal. I'll think to myself, "Did that really happen?" It did.

In the beginning, I didn't know what to do with the memory of my father. Was he a sinner or a saint? A monster or a good man? Should I demonize him or lionize him? It took me years to figure out - neither. Like everyone, he had flaws. Some were major. But basically he was a good human being. There is no either or or with people. We're all a mix of good and bad.

I just want him to know that all is forgiven. I want to tell him, please don't be angry anymore. I know you didn't mean what you said to me in the end. I hope and pray he knows this. Pain can make you say and do terrible things. Throw in drugs to the mix and it's even worse. Sadly, I understand that.

So this Father's Day, you won't find me at the cemetery. Maybe on his birthday. No matter, I know, if he is somewhere, he knows I love him, despite everything. And I'll celebrate his *life* and the life he gave me, instead of focusing on how he left life. That's what true healing is all about.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

It Is Indeed A Wonderful Life

Yesterday my precious little cupcakes 'graduated'
from kindergarten. I have to admit, this is all new to me, this graduation
ceremony business for such young kids. In 1973, they just sent us off for the summer and on to 1st grade.

Now they've got cards for Pre-school graduations, kindergarten ceremonies;
of course they've also got cards for the death of your cat, new jobs, new houses,
divorce, remarriage, new apartments, joining the military...cards for your clergyman, card to wish your loved one well in rehab. I'm not kidding. Hallmark must be raking it in.

Nevertheless, I succumed to consumerism, and searched out 18 cards specifically stating the word 'kindergarten' and wrote an individual message to each of my ducklings; no doubt their parents will have to read it to them as it's currently a bit beyond their reading capabilities, haha. I filled coloured bags with 'magic' bubbles and candy and stickers and fun coloured pencils and erasers and all sorts of things that send 5 and 6 year olds over the moon.

The day was very emotional for me; it's been an amazing, glorious, eye-opening
experience working with and getting to know these little souls. They all brought their dad's white shirts, which we used as their gowns, and the teachers made the caps. They looked as perfect as any graduating class I've ever seen.

I brought my camera and pretty much took pictures throughout the day. We helped them get dressed, put their caps on and never a more precious sight have I seen. I couldn't have been prouder if they were my own children!!

There were three or four afternoon kindergarten classes graduating and they walked into the auditorium to "Pomp and Circumstance" and damn if I didn't feel the tears start to well up. The place was filled with beaming parents, restless siblings, smiling grandmas and grandpas. The kids had practiced several songs, which they sang perfectly...showing off their wondrous new abilities...counting the ABC's, counting by ones and twos and fives and tens...singing America The Beautiful while doing it in sign language as well.

This was probably the best graduation I've ever been to, because there was no speaker, no BS about setting the world on fire, or how horrible it's all going to be. I mean, what are you going to say to a kid going into 1st grade? After the kids finished singing, they walked off stage and shook the hands of the principal and vice principal and I took pictures as fast as I could.

I'd already taken pictures of them in class while they were getting dressed...everyone loved mugging for the camera.

Once everyone came back into the class, Marla handed them their 'diploma' which was a green certificate of accomplishment and the parents and families wandered in for pictures, cake and punch. It's funny, somehow they saw all my bags on the shelf with their names on them and just started taking them once they saw their names...not even knowing who they were from or what they were! Ah, kids. They just saw colourful pressies and so I grabbed them and started handing them out.

I hugged each child and told them I how proud I was of them, and how much fun I'd had with them, and how much I'd miss them. The only down side was Isabella. Poor sweet dear. I guess her parents came to the ceremony, but had to go back to work or something...so she was the only kid in the class without family, and she was wandering around looking for them...I found her and she was crying. Oh my little chick-a-dee! I whispered to her, "Bella, I know I'm not your mommy or daddy but I want to tell you that you are one of my favourite little girls in the whole world and I will stay with you." Once she saw her bag of goodies, she perked up.

So everyone had cake and punch and took lots of pictures and even though I will see them one last day Friday, today really seemed like the end. A couple of times I had to really hold it together - during the ceremony and in class. I never, ever dreamt I'd become so attached to these sweet little beings. I'm the last person in the world who thought I'd connect so well with children.

So thank you my sweet ducklings, for helping me find my bliss. Thank you for sharing your beautiful, open, creative souls. I can't help but wonder...what will they be like in 5 years? Ten? They will still be so, so young. I know I'll always wonder what happened to them...it's just the way I am.

I don't know what we're doing Friday. That will truly be my final goodbye. And off they go into the blissful summer....I know how blessed I was to do my field experience in this school. Let's face it - it was easy. Every child spoke English, so there were no immersion issues. There's money galore there - they've got everything they could want and need for the students. I know all schools are not created equal. I know this school is not representative of the majority of schools. This was easy. But I am ready for whatever challenges lie ahead of me.

18 little people showed me that I am capable and I am good at this. They need me, and more importantly, I need them. No, I do not look forward to the crap - the low salary, the bureaucracy, the corrupt unions - all things I had to deal with teaching college. But I finally know what I was meant to do. Jesus, it took long enough.

So congratulations class of '06! May you live long and be happy, healthy and always keep a little of the six year old inside you.

The picture, BTW, is Griffin, in class before the ceremony, being his usual crazy self. I adore him beyond words. He's a sweet, kind, gentle, energetic boy. And he loves the camera.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Phantasmagoria

There's a whole world out there...alive, breathing, sighing, heaving, pulsating like some giant monstrous heart...a hundred worlds, a thousand worlds, a million worlds of late-night coffee shops with fading linoleum floors and desolate truck stops on highways I have never travelled. I can hear the laughter echoing between worn-out bar stools, formica counters and lonely weeping willow trees.

I can hear footsteps crunching across the gravel in the dead of night and soft weeping fading down hospital corridors in the still, eerie sadness of 3 a.m....morgue doors closing, the sirens wailing, the keening of the bereaved, the wolves in the hills howling and the scent of some great despair filling the black and desolate cold air.

I can see it all, smell it all, the jasmine in the pre-summer winds, the stale cigarette smoke from dark and lonely alleys, from the darkness of my bedroom
the flickering blue TV the simultaneity of life assaults my senses and the sheer magnifent multiplicity of events....simply, ordinary events, brings me to my knees in refuge. The prayers begin to gods unknown and even unbelieved in, please release me from this wicked, aching, screaming din.

I hear the spoon delicately stirring the hot tea, the undulating motion of rhythmic fucking flashes before me, the screaming, thundering guitar solos in clubs in Amsterdam and London and far away lands, the bitter stench of hair dye and foreign cigarettes, cloves and pot and cheap cerveza bars, the drenching odor of stale beer and the stinking memories I can't can't can't ever ever ever forget.

Oh yes, they all come to me now as I rot between these four walls...I hear the distant echo of cars speeding down the street outside my front door and think, this is my story, this is all there ever was to tell....six o'clock shadows and the promise of eternity, the magical pink cotton candy sky bruising to deep violet, azure, gunmetal grey. I made the sun bleed and turned away; I caught the stars trying to escape and chaos is no great reward for believing with all your heart and soul in the great, grand theory of entropy.

I commanded the Gods and they did their part, but now...now it all lies broken and sallow, in sharp-edged shards and fucked-up compassionless regret, this ridiculous circus, this party of one, this lost girl of cruel neglect.

No man is an island unto himself, how wrong can one man be! I dream of lives unlived and lives forgotten and in the dream it is never really me. I hear the music, the notes come through the window and like feathers alight on shadows against the walls...have you ever realized how the whole of the world, the entire universe and every baby universe after that can exist in one tiny song?

I mean, did you ever listen to music that simply states the simple, long, deep, bitter want and nothing more than the whole of all your sad desires, all your crazy, pathetic needs and failings, and base animal wants....oh they all can be found between the first and last notes of one little song.

There are worlds out there...that beat and pulsate like strange attractors, strange and distant heartbeats that haunt me to no end...who are these people, where do they begin, where do they end?

The measure of time and rain-soaked streets, the measure of loneliness and faces you will never, never meet...yes, sometimes I think about all the faces I will never know, all the streets I will never walk upon, all the books I will never read, all the hands I will never hold, all the eyes I will never look into. These are the heartbeats that forever elude me, strange beasts I dream of and die for in dark bedrooms and on kitchen floors.

And I wonder, when the lights are on, when did it begin to go so wrong? How memories haunt and recollection stings! But neurons will not release the things I want so badly gone. I think about my best friend and how I have not spoken to her in 14 years, about how I walked away one day and never looked back, oh but that is not true, I have looked back again and again and the ghost is still there.

I am undefinable now, or am I? I remember the days when we defined ourselves by the kinds of clothes we wore, the kinds of shoes we wore...buying identities like groceries down on Melrose; a cross here, an earring there... a three hundred dollar leather jacket and all was well. Oh we could figure out how to get to the top of Maslow's triangle, to get to the bliss, meet the hierarchy of all our needs. We could call Heaven and Hell at will; we owned the world.

We built lives out of ink, paper, ash, who is to question, who is to ask? I do not travel those streets anymore; I am afraid of the streets and sidewalks and storefronts...the cruel spell of geography, the ugly call of topography. It only exists to remind me I no longer belong in that world, I have passed it now, and it has passed me. I do not want to slip by phantoms and ghosts and catch the reflection of a woman looking for a girl now long gone, for I am not good at making small talk with the dead.

I cannot find salvation anywhere, in any world, in any one, in any pill, in any glass or bottle or book or song. I lie in bed in the dark and dream of all the other worlds and wonder who is living, who is dying, who is eating, fucking, working, crying? Where does it begin, where does it end...?

I miss this girl who died inside; I never really got the chance to say goodbye. There was no funeral, no Sunday mass, no memorial or even scattered ash...she stayed with me because she did not know, she died so very long ago.

But now it is time to let her go, to bury her and send her on her way. There are worlds for her to haunt and roam, but this I know...I am no longer this girl's home.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

If You Listen Carefully, the Night Will Give Up All Her Secrets

It's 12:15 am
I have to get up at 3:30am
to take my friend Gena to the hospital
for surgery.
She has to be there early because she has some strange blood/bruising disorder
and has to have a slow IV drip before the operation.

Tomorrow I am going to be Cranky Denise.
I also have the math tutor coming at 5:30pm
and I still haven't done 18 gradution gifts for my ducklings.

It's all going so fast.
I always knew it would happen like this.

The Man on The Moon Knew How Soon It Would All End

Tonight I met Anderson Cooper, he of Anderson Cooper 360 fame on CNN, and now he has written a book called Dispatches from the Edge. Although I've been watching him for over a decade, and adore his intelligent, witty, emotional reporting, I didn't feel like going to his book signing. But my best friend Jill talked me into it. We waited about an hour and half outside Book Soup on Sunset Boulevard, where a strange old woman stood in line behind me, talking my ear off. Then she suddenly stopped, pulled out a red rosary and started praying. She was definitely a different type of Cooper fan than I expected.

Finally we were allowed into the back room of the bookstore, where one of the employees was mixing her drink with a bottle of Jack Daniels hidden on the floor. In fact there was a lot of booze on the floor. I felt like walking up and asking her for a Cosmo. Drinking on the job; wow, is it that bad? Or were they planning a party afterwards?

I have, in my 39 years living in Los Angeles, and such celebrity 'hot spots' such as Malibu and Brentwood, seen, run into, eaten with, stood in line with, sold books to, passed by, driven by, more famous people than I can count. I've never spoken to any of them.

Tonight though, something really strange and surreal came over me and when it was my turn to have Anderson sign my book, I think I completely took leave of my body. He was so sweet, such a gentleman. He shook my hand, and said "nice to meet you Denise." He was so kind to everyone. He signed my book and I told him "Thank you for being a voice for the voiceless." We stared into each other's eyes; my god his blue eyes are even more beautiful than on TV. He seemed geniunely touched. He said "Thank you so much. That means so much to me." I said, "Your book is beautiful, thank you for writing it." And I was ushered out. I couldn't even stay to see Jill meet him. Security was tight.

The minute I walked outside, I half jokingly said, "I have no memory of that experience" to two men standing there. They laughed. I do not know what came over me. I have never felt that way in the presence of anyone, not even my beloved Church members. Let me tell you, Anderson could teach celebrities a thing or two about being gracious. He was so polite, so modest, so real. I felt as if I could not come back to this world. It was strange. It wasn't so much that I was startruck; I cannot even explain it. Perhaps it was the fact that I was in the presence of someone so real in a city full of so much fakeness.

It was the most other-worldly experience I've ever had. Ha! And he is my age and I am so intimidated? Is that the right word? No. I am grateful. I am moved beyond measure by the fact that he has taken the time to remember those who would be forgotten....in Rwanda...in Bosnia...in Iraq...in Darfur...in New Orleans and Mississippi. It was an honor to meet him and I will never forget how he looked at me when I thanked him for truly being the voice of the voiceless and forgotten. Yes Anderson, you have made a difference and for that, God bless you.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

A Nightmare on Celebrity Street

My nightmares are getting worse.
I dreamt about Lindsay Lohan.
And now, I'm off to Book Soup in Hollywood
to go with my friend Jill to see Anderson Cooper
and have him sign his beautiful book

This is only the second book signing I've ever attended.
Normally I have a "don't feed the celebrities" policy.
I will break it for Anderson, who's made me believe in
journalistic integrity again

And of course, for SK, who makes me feel alive
and happy and sad and glad to be.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Fly Me to The Moon

Tonight whilst I was studying science
(geology and rocks and minerals to be exact)
the movie "Fearless" came on TV.
I seem to actually study better with the TV on
so I just left it on, recalling so clearly
how I'd seen this movie at a theatre in Pacific Heights
in San Francisco with my brother in 1993.
God I love Peter Weir; he is definitely one of my favourite directors.
The Year of Living Dangerously one of his masterpieces I think.

Anyway, the movie is about this man, played by the oh so gorgeous
Jeff Bridges, who survives a horrific plane crash and afterwards
becomes 'fearless' an goes into a profound state of denial about the crash.

The scenes of the crash were so realistic and so horrifying;
yet I could not look away now, as I could not look away 13 years ago
despite my deeply entrenched fear of flying. In fact, it dawned on me
that it was yesterday, June 10, 1996 that my mom, brother and I
were returning from Hawai'i (a trip my mom thought would do us good
as we'd both just finished grad school and we wanted to get our minds
off my dad's death - as if that were possible).

And naturally, a little over 4 hours into the flight, I'd just
finished eating - a major feat for me as I'm usually too nervous
to eat on flights - though I've gotten better. Too bad the food hasn't.
And the credits were rolling on some Al Pacino movie called "City Hall" and
we were flying over the Pacific Ocean with about 45 minutes left
when I heard the loudest sound - it was like the plane had hit a building
but the plane itself was still intact. It is indescribable how loud this sound was; it drowned every other noise out and immediately we all knew it was BAD.

It was simply deafening. Immediately all the electricity went out
and I remember looking down at the floor lights going up the aisle
and thinking, this can't be happening. What was happening? The most
frightening thing is no one seemed to know...even the flight attendants
were running up and down the aisles looking out the windows - really
not the most reassuring image. I distinctly recall one getting on a phone -
no doubt talking to the pilot. I felt like screaming, "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Is this your idea of a disaster/emergency plan? LOOKING OUT THE GODDAMN WINDOWS!???" I mean, why didn't they just have the passengers do it and make a game out it. "Oh I'll put $100 on the tail."
"No Bob, I think it's the hydraulic system."
"Hey put me down for $500 for the left engine."
"No, no, I think the wings fell off."
MY GOD.

I remember I was sitting on the aisle, and I looked across at an older
couple sitting in the window seats and said in small voice, "What was that?"
They just smiled wanly at me, and didn't say anything.
Inside, I was frozen. I was gone. My mother grabbed my hand. She leaned over to tell us she loved us. My brother kept saying we'd be OK, we had two more engines. And Delta, those fucking assholes, never told us anything.

My mother says a woman behind me was crying. I didn't hear this.
I didn't hear anything. I kept thinking, oh who will take care of my babies,
my cats....and dad, I'm coming to see you a lot sooner than I thought.

You know it's never like you picture it will be.
I always imagined, with my panic attacks and fear of enclosed
spaces, 30,000 feet up, I'd be screaming. But I wasn't. I sat
silently in my seat, looking straight ahead. I did not pray.
If I said any kind of prayer, it was that it would end quickly.
Please God, just let it happen. Don't let us sit here and suffer and wonder. Let it happen now. Please God. I can't take the waiting.

Later we found out the engine had exploded and caught fire.
The only thing those fuckers said to us, about 20 minutes after it happened
was that when we landed (ha, if we landed) we'd see a lot of emergency vehicles
on the tarmac. Waiting no doubt, to see what kind of landing we would make.
And in my head, the chant went on. I don't want to die I don't want to die
I don't want to die I don't want to die.
But still I was silent. I'd moved to a place deep inside myself.
The same place I went to after I found my father dead.
I was practical and efficient; waiting for the coroner, signing his papers, talking to the police. Oh I'm a peach in a crisis. It's daily life that's a bitch.

I also thought what everyone must think, at one time or another.
This can't be happening to me. This can't be happening to us!
This kind of thing only happens to other people. True.
Until one day you become The Other People and it is happening
to you.

No one on the plane screamed I was told; it was very quiet.
And the scariest thing I thought was that it doesn't happen fast;
it probably rarely happens fast.

Pan Am 103 probably happened in an instant, pray to God.
And you always think, well, if I go, it'll be quick.
Not always. In fact sometimes there is an eternity of agony.
And so when those images from inside the crashing plane flickered
across my television set tonight, I sat and watched them, mesmerized
and I started to cry and I didn't know why.

I have, like so many people, thought so much about the people on the 9/11 planes...we know some of what happened on United 93. But what of the other planes? How much emotional and psychological terror did those poor souls
go through before oblivion blessfully took them away?

When we landed, I could see the flashing red and yellow lights of the fire trucks
and ambulances and the entire plane burst into spontaneous applause.
And I have never seen an entire jumbo jet full of people get the hell out of their
seats so fast. They stood up, ignored all the rules and the only thing that made me smile, was seeing a guy standing behind me, a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other, waiting to get off. I thought, "Oh fuck it buddy, just light up!"

I grabbed my things and left my mom and brother behind and as I left the plane
the flight attendant went back into Robotic-Perky mode, saying goodnight, thank you for flying Delta. I said "Thank you for taking ten years off my life and scaring the shit out of us." Seriously, they acted like nothing at all had happened out of the ordinary.

I was never so happy to see LAX in all my life. I was even happen to go into the bathroom. I went into the stall and just leaned my head against the door. But I did not cry. I never felt more alive. Everything was illuminated. Everything held some kind of strange inner glow to it.

We got our bags and got in the shuttle to take us home.
Ha - that's what you should really fear. The airport shuttles. This was the time when they were working on the new 105 freeway and it was dark and our shuttle driver was driving like he was in the Indy 500 and I leaned over to the driver and said, "Are you sure this freeway is finished?"
I don't think he thought I was serious. I was.
Because in the dark, it looked like we were going to sail off into oblivion.
And the lights in the San Fernando Valley glowed and glittered and everything
was a miracle. Stoplights, road signs, drustores, houses, apartment buildings, everything I looked at - it was like the first time I'd ever seen anything in my life.

We made it home and I joked about it to my friends.
I've told the story many times, but without much feeling.
The first time I flew after that Ride From Hell was January of '97.

I took a plane to San Francisco to see my brother, my mom and her boyfriend, who were visiting up there as well. I flew alone. Luckily going up, I sat next to a pilot. He was sweet, and I told him my story and he helped keep me calm.

Going home was another matter.
We took off in a nasty rain storm with a lot of turbulence.
I was having an anxiety attack on the plane; I could feel it.
I fucking hate turbulence. I don't care how 'normal' it is.
A woman across the aisle must have noticed my white face and my shaking hands. She kindly leaned over and said,
"Is this your first time flying honey?"
I almost laughed. What was I going to say?
I literally grabbed the flight attendant's arm and said, "Is this normal? Should the plane be shaking so much?"
She tried to reassure me, to no avail.
I turned to the woman and said, "No. I'm just not a good flyer."

What was I going to say? No, this is just my first flight since I had engine explode and catch on fire over the ocean coming back from Hawai'i. Why get everyone all upset?

Oddly, when I am scared, I start saying Hail Mary's and I am not even Catholic. Somehow, it comforts me. Mother Mary, who will take me into the abyss ....or into the light. I just don't want to go alone.

A month later TWA Flight 800 blew up leaving New York...for France I believe. All sorts of conspiracy theories abounded about that; missiles shot it out of the sky, etc. A while later, I saw a Dateline episode that focused on a woman who lost her husband and son on the flight. Her name is Anne Allen. Her family was traveling to France. But for some reason I can't recall, the father and the brother took an earlier flight, and Anne and her two other children, a boy and girl, would meet them there. It was heart-wrenching to see what this has done to the family.

I believe they did a follow-up story on her later...they were doing OK. What can you do? But I have never forgotten her. I have never forgotten her and her family. As Grant McLennon said (RIP)...funny how some people manage to stay with you, even if you've never met them. So ten years later I still wonder about Anne Allen and her family and how they are doing. I will always remember her.

So I don't know what happened tonight.
Reading SK's blog on flying was reassuring.
Sometimes I feel like the only idiot on earth who's afraid to fly. I know people who adore flying and it makes me sick! It's like somehow they're morally superior to me. But most of these people have never had ANYTHING happen on any plane they've been on. Wait until your engine blows up, wait until you're told emergeny vehicles are going to meet you on the ground and you are 29 years old and you've just buried your father.

Wait until you become The Other People.
So tonight, I think I cried, for the first time, over what happened.
I watched the scene inside that plane and I wept at how lucky we were.

I love travelling, so I will not let my fear cripple me. I take drugs, get philosophical about my own demise and just keep getting on those big tin cans
filled with jet fuel going 500 miles an hour. I still approach every flight like it's going to be my last - haha. Drama queen. My will is here, my cats will be taken care of, please bury me here. It's all worked out.

Flying is a lot like life. Hours and hours of tedium interrupted by brief moments and sheer terror. My advice? Bring tranquilizers and a lot of magazines.
As for the possibility of being taken hostage? The brave souls of United 93 taught me one thing. I may go down, but goddammit, I will go down fighting those bastards. That is one thing I'm sure of. I will not sit passively. At least I've made some progress, sad as it is.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

BREAKING NEWS

This just in:

Shocking news!
Violence persists after Al-Zarqawi's death!
Yeah, that's the thing about cockroaches.
You step on one,
ten more come out of hiding.

I watched the Lewis Black special on HBO last night.
It wasn't as funny as the one I saw in January but still
I loooooooooove Lewis and want to marry him!
Any man that can make me laugh.....
He was riffing on Dick "I am Satan" Cheney and his quail
hunting 'accident'
And talking about how tiny and helpless quail are.

It would've been funnier had I not started thinking about
how this fucking war criminal, this monster
had paid to go some rich bitch's ranch in Texas
with his rich corporate whore friends
and use buckshot to take down small birds for fun
while he and the Puppet (GWB) have sent our troops
into Iraq to be hunted by I.E.D.'s and to use 500 pound
bombs to hunt
innocent Iraqis.

His tour is called "Red, White and Screwed" and that
pretty much sums it up.
I'm going to see him live in August and I can't wait.
Nero fiddled while Rome burned
And all we can do is laugh while our leaders
have turned our country into a killing machine.

Well let's see I've managed to screw up my blog
Steve Kilbey has disappeared
I think we've finally annoyed him off his own blog
And I've still got insomnia.

Time for the drugs.