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.

Zoe's Little Nightmare

Ok, it's almost 2:30am and as usual the cats are asleep on the bed.
Fletcher is on her pillow, dead to the world on the edge of the bed.

Zoe is in her usual spot, which is on my pillows, where I sleep.
All of a sudden I hear this *thud* and then hear Zoe hissssss
really loudly....at nothing. She just sort of flipped over and went back to sleep.
I don't know why, but it's cracking me up.
It's like she had a nightmare or something.
At first I thought that one of the cats' grooming sessions had turned into
another bitch-fight, but no, Fletcher is still sound asleep across the bed.

Man, I am *scared* now to get in bed with this freaky cat.
Wait til she finds out she has to get off my pillows.

It's a Tough Life

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

Yes, Thank God It's Friday

Well, "Water Day" went over with a splash
All the kids were so adorable in their little bathing suits.
Natalie, so cute...she asked if she could change in the storeroom
since someone was using the bathroom
and I took her in there but all she did was take off her little dress
and her bathing suit was already on.

I don't think she realized she didn't need privacy to do that.
There were Sponge Bob Square Pants towels all over the place
and Barbie and Hello Kitty towels
And I put sunblock on little faces even though...

The weather did NOT cooperate. It was grey and dull
and gloomy and cool - but the kids didn't care!
They ran through ice cold sprinklers and blew giant bubbles
and we had an awesome squirt bottle fight (no water guns or weapons of any kind allowed)
I got drenched! It was three against one!
They soaked Ms. D good
and I didn't have a towel!

Blake forgot his towel so I gave him mine
And my shorts were dripping.
So it was muggy and hot and cold and I was sweaty
and sticky and tired but happy in the end.

The played with wild abandon as their
kindergarten year comes to a close;
and mine as well. Oh what fun we've all had
together!

Just one week left...they 'graduate' on Wednesday
I've got to write out their cards this weekend
It's hard for me to think I'll probably never see these ducklings again
Yes, there will be many more,
but these were my first and you never forget your first class.

This was the best kindergarten I ever had!
We had Pajama Day
and Valentine's Day
and St. Patrick's/Leprechaun's Day
and Dress- Up Day
and Bubbles Day
and Water Day
and Birthdays
and Pizza Day
the Mother's Day Tea
the Father's Day Picnic
and dogs and cat and snakes and fish and even a chicken came to visit us
not to mention an entire mobile marine lab!
There was Ocean Day
and on Wednesday, the chicklets bought their first hot lunch
from the cafeteria.

It was soooooooooooooo cute.
They had milk, or chocolate milk, a peach, little chicken tenders, tator tots
and s'mores. 33 years later - the lunches are basically the same. They've thrown a piece of fruit in there for good health.
They ate with the 'big' kids - what a thrill!
I was helping them open their ketchup packets when I saw a little girl
eating alone and my heart skipped about 100 beats...
I was crushed immediately!
Funny, because luckily, I was never the kid who had to eat alone.
I always had friends to play and eat with.
Kathleen saw my face fall and assured me the little girl would be fine; she was social -
and sure enough she got up and just sat her little 6 year old self down at a table with other kids
That's confidence!
But I worry about the ones who don't have that confidence and to see a small
child eat alone in the middle of a huge playground with other kids eating together
is a heart-breaking scene indeed. There's just something so sad about it.

That same day I took the kids to Mrs. Johnson's 1st grade classroom
and Mrs. Johnson talked to them about first grade and what to expect
and told them not to be afraid.
They were going to have their own desks!
And a class pet! (A smelly gerbil or something)
I felt like saying, "And from here on out kids, it's pretty much work, work, work...."
But alas, they'll find out as they go along
and never even remember how good they had it at 5.

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

War is Hell, But Governments Are Worse

In the news now, a little over three years after the invasion of Iraq, another possible My Lai massacre. Haditha, Iraq. Word that American soldiers went apeshit and killed 24 civilians – even babies, without provocation. Dear God, shooting a baby? How do you do it? What place do you have to get to inside yourself? What monsters have we created of our own soldiers? What part of your humanity has left you when you are able to pump a bullet into an infant? It’s unreal and so wrong and sad that mere words cannot do it justice. My heart breaks for every lost soldier, every lost innocent Iraqi life. Oh God, especially the children. The waste is so magnificent and mind numbing. It is surreal. The lost lives, the lost futures, the grief that cannot be properly articulated.

This was a long-planned, illegal, immoral, unjust invasion of a country that had nothing to do with toppling Saddam Hussein, or pre-emptively stopping his non-existent 'weapons of mass destruction' or the threat of terrorism, past or future. In fact, this corrupt, sick, corporate-whoring Fascist government was so hell bent on going to war with Iraq that now they've created a cruel, unending, hotbed of terrorism in a country that was essentially no real threat to us ever.

Democracy is a dream; civil war and relentless killing is the reality. The trial of Saddam Hussein proceeds like some kind of Dali-like circus. Who’s running the asylum? Dead children lying in bloody heaps. We've lost whatever credibility we had for whatever good we've done in the eyes of the world for invading a country without good reason (9/11 doesn't count - there's no proven connection between Iraq and 9/11) or U.N. support, we've killed well over 2,000 soldiers and tens of thousands of innocent Iraqis. Yeah, remember them? Men, women, children. Dead. Forever. Gone. A country destroyed at the cost of thousands of lives and billions of dollars. A country that has turned into Vietnam via attrition; yes, I'll make the comparison because I feel like it, and where's Walter Kronkite when you need him? The White House Press Corps are a bunch of pussies. They ought to just eat this administration alive. Oh but now we can rebuild the very country we destroyed by handing out nice fact contracts to companies like Halliburton and spend billions more, making the regime of men who caused this nightmare even richer. I doubt that'll ever happen with the way the killing is going. Whereas that money could've gone say, hmmm, to Africa, to helping to wipe out malaria, to Medicines San Frontiers, to the American Red Cross, to Oxfam, to Heifer International, to UNICEF, to the continued rebuilding of the tsunami-ravaged areas of East India, Sumatra, Thailand, or even to the victims of fucking hurricane Katrina - yes, people in OUR OWN COUNTRY.

Sure, it's nice to know a psychotic dictator like Saddam Hussein is currently wasting Iraqi time and money by not showing up to his own puppet court/trial and complaining that he's been wearing the same underwear for three days in a row. Pardon me while I simultaneously vomit and shed a few crocodile tears.If America was really serious about pre-emptively striking down leaders and countries we think are legitimate threats to our national well-being, why haven't we sent a few hundred thousand troops and SCUD missiles over to North Korea....or Iran….oh yeah, because they actually have nuclear weapons and might blow us to kingdom come. When push comes to shove, we don't actually fuck around with those who could truly fuck us over. Despite the massive lies of WMD, Iraq posed no threat whatsoever to the United States.

Retribution for 9/11? When you're sleeping with the enemy that's hard to come by. 19 out of 20 terrorists on those planes either came from or held Saudi Arabian passports. But who does Bush invite down to the OK Corral in Crawford for a little bar-b-que? The kings and princes from the family of Saud, who are as corrupt and evil as any single mad dictator. But they've got something we want: black gold. And then he has the gall, the fucking gall to tell us we’re addicted to oil and we have to change. Tell us something we don’t know. We’re addicted to oil? I’ll stop driving my car when you stop sleeping with the fucking enemy.

I'm old enough now not to see things in black and white. America has done great good for the world. We have also done great evil for our own interests and you don't even have to read Noam Chomsky or subscribe to Z-net or be a fan of Michael Moore to know that. Actually, perhaps a lot of people DON'T know that - or choose not to believe that America has tortured, killed, looted, pillaged, destroyed, controlled, and manipulated thousands of people and many countries for its own benefit. Isolationism is a moot point now; we're damned if we do and damned if we don't. Certainly we learned over 60 years ago that some madmen can't be ignored; Neville Chamberlain's attempt at appeasement basically allowed Hitler the power he sought and we know the price the world paid to destroy that monster and his killing machines. And yet still today, there are heinous dictators in charge of countries, destroying people's lives...and we do not get involved. We are not there to 'liberate' those people or give them a taste of 'democracy'. Probably because they don't have anything we want or need. If America truly cared about humanity, where were we - indeed - where was the WORLD 11 years ago as almost 1 million people were hacked to death in less than two months in Rwanda? We deliberately pulled our people out of that conflict, and played the isolationist card, because who cared if a bunch of Tutsi's and Hutu's hated each other and wanted to fight some tribal war? Something tells me though that if their blood ran black and could power a Hummer, you bet we would've been there with buckets in hand, draining those bloated corpses to the last bitter drop.

What can we do? What we can do is face the awful truth. Maybe this isn't like Vietnam at all. Because haven't you ever wondered why you rarely if EVER see the dead coming home? Where are the pictures of the flag-covered coffins lined up, one after one on aircraft carriers? Where is President Bush seen greeting those dead, saluting them and their families for sacrificing their lives for essentially a pack of lies and his own personal agenda? Oh that's right, he's back at the ranch, hiding out from Cindy Sheehan. And giving orders to absolutely, under no circumstances let the press photograph those flag-draped caskets being taken off those planes - because God forbid - Americans might actually start to realize people are DYING in this war.

Here is what I know for sure: The world is an infinitely complex, complicated place where even trying to live in the gray area is difficult at times. I believe most Americans, by and large and good and decent people. I believe too many however choose to plead ignorance and laziness and follow this government like lemmings, swallowing lie after lie while driving around in their fat SUV's. America has done tremendous good for many, and it has done some very, very bad things to many as well. Whatever our government has done over the years, there is no excusing or apologizing for 9/11. If our government supports Israel to the detriment of the Palestinians, that is wrong: but three thousand people did not deserve to die horrific deaths because of acts of governments they could not control. Apologetics for 9/11 are free to express their views but they live in a black and white world.

No matter the reason, or exit strategy, if there even is one, what I know for sure is that hundreds of thousands of people's lives have been destroyed by this senseless war. There are young men who will never, never get married, and never see their children grow up. There are young women who will never have children, never get married, and never have a career. There are children without parents and parents without children. There are mothers who have had to bear the absolute unbearable: the loss of a child, or God forbid, children. This is what I know for sure: President Bush's children, Dick Cheney's children, Donald Rumsfeld's children are all safe and sound. This is what I know for sure: War is hell, but what would any of them know about war?

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

And The Spaniards Dreamt of You Too, Califia

There will never be any real goodbye. I will leave you, but you will remain with me, always. There is no place far enough in this universe for me to escape you – to escape what you’ve done to me, to escape my feelings for you, however conflicted and mixed they have become.

You’ve broken my heart, you know that don’t you? You, who bore me onto these mean streets all those decades ago; for now - where once there was adoration, now there is anger, where once there was devotion, now simply despair, where once there was wonder, now silent weeping. I gaze upon you and you are a stranger now – and yet truth be told, I am the stranger now, in a strange place. How and when did it happen? Through changing seasons…mere seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years – you became another entity altogether – and now you speak to me but I know longer understand your language. You look vaguely familiar, but your charm, your allure, your sense of golden promise is gone and when I walk the streets, I know, I know. I am the stranger in a strange land. Your slow, insipid, subtle and obscene abandonment was cruel and it has left me with nothing but the ruins of nostalgia firing in the neurons and synapses of my mind.

I believed we would be together forever. I loved you once, with a madness, intensity, fierceness, a blindness, and an insane devotion that others laughed at. Who could love such a hollow land? Who could find truth in a city where truth is bought and sold to the highest bidder? Who could find beauty in this wax museum, this horror show of vanitas?

But alas, they didn’t know you. They never ran down Wilshire Boulevard at 1am; screaming, echoing laughter into the neon Hollywood night. They never sat, in serene silence, waiting for the hot kisses, the ashen caresses of the Santa Anas, the promise of those warm caresses, and passionate blazing infernos. They never sat and watched the palm trees sway in the azure breezes – the promise of diamond seas and eternity spread out before you. They didn’t sit in Venice, in the 50’s café, drinking Cherry Cokes and listening to Patsy Cline’s eternal sorrows on the old jukebox. They never drove 90 miles an hour down Pacific Coast Highway with the top down, the wind screaming in your ears, youth and time and immortality your best friends. They never drove into the dark hills of Beachwood Canyon, and heard the ghosts of a glamorous world now gone; the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the smell of stale cigarette smoke lingering in the jasmine-filled air, the soft music coming from warmly lit windows, the blue-glowing televisions flickering shadows on the walls of tin box heavens. They never knew you like I did. They never knew your glittering streets, the winding pathways of some forgotten paradise.

This is where I began, so many years ago. You were so different back then; a bright young place with all the tomorrows in the world spread out before you. And as I grew alongside you, I learned of you, from you, explored you, loved you, through insane violence, through race riots, endless trials of the century, slow speed chases and nightly high speed entertainment. This is where I gave myself to you, unconditionally, as I breathed in air so thick and brown and dirty it seared my lungs, burned my eyes. I swallowed your poisons willingly because I could not take my eyes off the beauty that was you.

I loved you, even as you shook me to the very core of my being, the earth under my feet unstable, no promise of stability ever to come in this desert-cum-oasis of disingenuous promise. I let you corrupt me. I gave into your seduction. I fell for your empty promises. I believed in a tinsel-town world of glitterati and all your stinking, lousy lies.

Once upon a time, you were the Golden Child – the place of promise, of future, the ultimate conclusion to Manifest Destiny. They tried to strip you of all your gold, but they came anyway. The dream was the promise. Wide open highways, and the smell of orange groves for miles. Opportunity to be found around every corner. A man could bring his family here, settle down, build a home, find a life, and grow roots. And yet now…now you are a tarnished shadow of your former self; you are a third world country barely masquerading as a legitimate city. The disparities are brutal now – there is no chance for anyone but the bourgeoisie, the ones who hide behind their gated compounds. The rest of us are like the rats in the palm trees – the winds of brutal reality shaking us down, down, down. I barely recognize you – your streets are cracked and lead nowhere, your hubris is bringing you down brick by brick like the Tower of Babel – and now, now, all of your children all babbling – incoherent nonsense I don’t care to listen to.

You have no idea how much this hurts. To see the love of your life, broken, empty, hollow, the neon lights beckoning still, and yet you know that behind this Glitterdome is nothing. Nothing but the ruins of yesterday.

I keep trying to find what once was. It is pathetic and I know it. I am living on memories. I am living on nostalgia – in a fairytale I’ve created in my own mind. I keep coming back to you, searching, a desperate yearning in my heart for the connection, the feeling of home. It is not there. It will never be there again, as it once was. I will say goodbye someday. And yet, when the end comes, when the last bits of consciousness flicker through my dying brain, I will see you, in bits, in pieces, in the blinding sun, the screams of children, the azure seas, the palms swaying in lonely colonnades. And to you I will give my earthly remains, for in the very final end, I will come back to you.

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

It dawned on me that I never listed my 1o Favourite Things About Life, and I need to balance out the negativity with some positive vibes here. So here are....

10 Things I Love About Life (in no particular order really)

10) Animals. Especially, as everyone knows, cats, and little dogs. I must've been an Egyptian in a past life; my love of cats borders on wackiness. And yes, I'm coming out of the closet as a small dog lover. What I *really* adore are Jack Russell Terriers. I guess those would come under the heading of "Little Crazy-Ass Hyper Dogs." I know I probably could never handle one, but I see them, and I melt. I'm a pile of goo. I just adore wittle bitty dogs. I do like Labs too. I think animals are one of God's greatest gifts to us. It does bother me that I am not a vegetarian. I don't like to think of any animal suffering. But I can't seem to subsist on a purely vegetarian diet. Anyway, I think a lot of times I love animals more than people. Someday I hope to have a house with a big yard so I can get a dog. I won't trap a dog in my little apartment; plus Zoe and Fletcher would probably attack the poor thing. Especially Zoe. She knows she's momma's girl; she's sleeping on my spot in bed now. I gaze at animals the way other people gaze at babies. Screwy.

9) Music. Where would I be without music? Some of the great moments of my life have been listening to music at concerts. I'll never forget my first real rock concert. 1986 at the Hollywood Palladium. It was like a drug; I was hooked. Music has saved me, it has been with me as I've grown up from a really scary kid to an even scarier teenager to a fairly decent functioning adult. Music has given me, what I like to call, "Top of the Triangle" moments. In college, we learned over and over about Abraham Maslow's "hierarchy of needs." At the top of the triangle, was self-actualization. I feel like it is nirvana, bliss, almost leaving your body and going into another state of being. Some concerts have done that for me. And yeah, love 'em or hate 'em, The Church are always, always going to be The Band for me. Not The Band with Robbie Robertson, haha. But The Band apart from all other bands; the music apart from all other music. Stupid bastards. I've loved 'em, I've hated them. I've even pseudo-fought with Marty and turned my back on them. But if anything has been the soundtrack to my entire life for the last 22 years, it's the music of The Church. Their music has found a place in my soul where nothing else has ever been. There are holes in my soul, and that music filled one of them, and for that, I guess I should be grateful, no matter how irritated I get with them sometimes.

8) Men. Oh god, this is a complex one. Because ya know, naturally I love 'em and hate 'em sometimes. But biology will out I suppose. So many things to love about men. When you're in love, it's everything they do that you love. Of course there are the obvious things; the sex, the kissing, the intimacy, the meeting of minds. Sometimes I like to think of men as great works of art; if I find a man attractive, I just like to look him. It doesn't even have to be in a sexual way. I just like appreciating their beauty. But they still need to learn to ask directions, put the seat down, and why do I meet so many men allergic to cats? Damn. I can't be throwin' the furry babies out. I like the fact that I want a man, but I never feel I need to have a man validate me. Also, I need a MAN man. I'm not quite sure what that means. Not in a John Wayne sort of way - let's put it this way - my last serious relationship - this guy wanted to move in here, and get married. It wasn't going to work for various reasons, but the worst one was that I was more of man than he was about too many things. Is that sexist? Oh well. So be it.

7) Laughter. This may seem odd, coming from someone whose blogs often read like Sylvia Plath's diary. But I love to laugh. I have an entire collection of comedy DVD's I watch constantly because hey, Reader's Digest said it best, laughter IS the best medicine. Laughing with your friends over stupid stuff is great. Laughing so hard you can't breathe, your stomach hurts and you get that fabulous endorphin rush - beautiful. I don't think scientists know why we laugh. WHO CARES? It feels good.

6) Philanthropy of mind and body and spirit. Sure, I admire Bill and Melinda Gates for the money they give to make the world better. But it's people like Medecins san Frontiers - people who put their own lives and health at risk to help others I admire. They are my heroes. It's easy to give money away. It's harder to dedicate your life to people living in war, poverty, disease. I admire anyone who sincerely tries to make this crazy world a better place, no matter how small. Whether it's by helping sick people, writing a beautiful piece of music, holding a dying person's hand, taking in a stray animal, teaching a difficult child...sure, there's something in it for everyone, there always is...but as Martha Stewart says, it's a good thing.

5) Art - Naturally this would have to be here. Why would I bust my butt to get an M.A. in art history if I didn't adore art? Especially paintings. Especially the art of the Baroque period, the Renaissance and the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Caravaggio, Rembrandt, Caracci, Vermeer. I almost wept when I saw The Death of the Virgin by Caravaggio in the Louvre. Manet's Absinthe Drinker. Renoir's beautiful young girls. Raphael's sweet Madonnas. The Dadaists, the Surrealists, those crazy Futurists. Frida Kahlo. Ernst, Dali, Marc. David Hockney's swimming pools. Degas' dancers. And naturally, the greatest sculptor who ever lived...Michelangelo. The Pieta. To see that in St. Peter's is to see the face of God. Such brilliance is almost incomprehensible. My art. How I miss it sometimes.

4)Family and friends. Oh sure, half of them are nuts and those half you're usually related to. Half the time they drive you crazy, and you probably drive them crazy. But as independent and anti-social as I can be, where would I be without my family and friends? My parents, who sacrificed so much for me so I could have so much opportunity. My brother, who despite ignoring my emails for weeks on end, is the only other person in the world, who knows me so well, who remembers my dad like I do. My mom, who is my hero, despite some wretched fights we've had. And my friends, present, future and past. They put up with me. They love me. The infuriate me. I infuriate them. We laugh, we cry, we shop, we eat, we trade war stories and we help each other through life. I'm starting to sound like a fuckin' Hallmark card here.

3) Traveling. It's tough, traveling. Especially as you get older, you get more settled in your ways, you get extremely attached to your own, perfect bed. (That would be my perfect bed). If you hate to fly, like I do, it makes it even harder. Also, with the unpredictability of my fibro, traveling can be rough on me. But I wouldn't trade my travels for anything. Traveling is the best education a person can have. God, just open your eyes, your mind, take in other cultures, be open, talk to other people, see the great art of the world, the great buildings, the history, the magic, the wonder of it all. I've traveled extensively through America, which I think more Americans should do. Geographically, this is a magnificent country, with some fantastic people. I hope someday to return to Europe, and to go to South America, Africa and Australia. I don't care how tired I get, how badly I hurt, I'll never stop traveling as long as I'm able to.

2)Books. Well if you know me, you know I love reading. And books. And bookstores. I'm like a junkie with a book habit. I used to read mostly fiction. Then suddenly I became a non-fiction person. So now I mostly read true crime, history, biographies, current affairs, etc. I cannot imagine not reading. I love the look of books, the feel of books, the weight of books. I can't throw any book out. Moving is a total bitch because of my books. I've left most of them in the huge library wall in my mom's living room. And still I have a ton of books all over the apartment. I've been in loving with reading ever since I learned to read. Books ARE your friends. I actually KNOW people who don't like to read. They don't read. I don't know how they live. Are they aliens? Maybe I read too much. But it soothes my soul. It is travel by thought. By the way, I HATE that song. HATE. It is not only the Church's worst song, it is one of the worst songs of all time.

1) Life itself. Well, I guess it sounds stupid, but again, given the sorry nature of so many of my blogs, and my tendency towards low-grade depression, you'd think I'd be kinda down on life. Yeah, I find it hard sometimes. I don't like chronic pain. I've had a few seriously tragic moments in my life. But despite it all, the good, the bad, the ugly, I can still say, it's fucking worth it. It's a grab bag - we don't know the cards we're dealt and sometimes I want to pound the earth with frustration and sadness...but I wouldn't opt out for anything. What's the alternative? As much as I long to believe in an afterlife, and sometimes do...I can't imagine it at all. So I get scared. Because who knows? This life is all we do know, and all we have. And for better or worse, this may be it. I hope not. I do long for something after this; I've always felt this was just part of the deal; that this is leading up to something else. But even if it isn't, this is it. I'm glad I'm along for the ride.

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

MadameBastet-firing-neurons
Sweet Mary mother of Jesus! Ok, Steve Kilbey's not the only one having blogger problems today. Something's up with E-blogger. It's taking eternities to load. I've tried to load the page about 10 times. It's moving at a snail's pace. What, is everyone pissing and moaning on their blogs at once?

Monday. What a crap day. Woke up late, had an fight with a FAX machine and lost, gave and arm and leg for a tank of gas, was late to work/school and the kids were grating on my last nerve. Poor things. It wasn't their fault Ms. D was in a shitty mood. I had ZERO patience. My behaviour management techniques ranged from yelling "STOP IT!" to "SIT DOWN." I'm surprised I didn't tell them to grow up and shut up. LOL! I did say, "In 9 days you will be 1st graders. And 1st graders don't act like this." That excites them. The prospect of being in 1st grade is so thrilling! Ah, my little ducklings, how I hate to see you scatter and move on, but such is life, and we must. Sometimes I think, "I'll probably be teaching children that aren't even born yet." Maybe their parents haven't even met yet.

Maybe I'll go insane by then. I have The Offical Headache From Hell. I've taken some aspirin but so far, no luck.

I've decided I may have some extra testosterone in me. Not really actually, because I had my hormones tested and they're fine...but last night I was watching my new favourite show, "Entourage." God I love that show! It just struck me, is it a 'guy' show? Maybe. I seem to like a lot of 'guy' shows and movies. Take "Swingers." Brilliant. Genius. So money.

If you looked at my DVD collection, it's seriously testosterone-heavy. We've got:

The Deer Hunter
Serpico
Dog Day Afternoon
Taxi Driver
Mean Streets
Good Fellas
Full Metal Jacket
Apocalypse Now
Cool Hand Luke
Heat
Marathon Man
Dirty Harry (and the next two or three Dirty Harry installments)
Paths of Glory
The Warriors
The French Connection
Blazing Saddles
Dr. Strangelove...
The Taking of Pelham 123
Resevoir Dogs
Dogs of War
Pulp Fiction
Deliverance
Catch-22

Oh and a slew of horror movies. So I like war movies, horror movies and murder mystery movies. And everyone who knows me knows my love of all things mafia-related. Why? I am not a violent person. I don't advocate violence. I'm not for war. But I am fascinated with the concepts, perhaps. The cosa nostra has always fascinated me. It's dying out in many ways. It ain't like it used to be that's for sure. I am fascinated by the idea of these guys who live in a world with their own rules, their own morality, their own code of conduct.

Naturally I go see movies like this alone, unless I've met a guy who'll see them with me. My girlfriends think I'm nuts. It is strange, as I really, really am very 'female' - I enjoy being a woman ( that sounds so old!) and enjoy dressing up and being sexy and I thoroughly enjoy men - except when they're irritating the shit out of me, haha. These movies are like the opposite of the chick flicks. I'm into some of those too. But what *is* it with me and war? Of course, many of these movies are actually anti-war which is so great. Catch-22 shows the absurdity of it all, as does Dr. Strangelove, and of course Apocalypse Now and Full Metal Jacket show how war makes men into monsters. For some reason that reminds me of Francisco Goya's painting "The Third of May, 1808."

The painting shows a line of faceless Frenchmen cold-bloodly gunning down innocent Spaniards; Napoleon's brother was in charge of Spain then, and he feared an uprising by the Spaniards. These men were being shot and killed and they were falling in blood-soaked heaps on the ground. Goya, who despised war, said he painted it to show the true horrors of war, so that men would learn these horrors, and that there would never be another war again.

If only. Men do not learn. And I doubt they ever will. How cynical I am. I believe someday, thanks to the stupid fucks who created the A and H bombs, that we'll destroy ourselves, and the planet. If global warming doesn't do it first. It's a race to see which method works fastest. What a sorry lot we are.

Man have I just been all over the place with this blog today or what?

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

In The Valley of The Kings

Venice coffee shops and used record stores
Greasy spoons and the blue man on the moon
down on Broadway by the glittering sea
it was all like pharaoh's gold
in the Valley of the Kings.

There were vinyl dreams so melodic and sweet
and we were never too young, never too naive
to become enslaved by the strange geography
of the streets.

Remember when! Remember when!
You could feel! Angry happy sad raging insane crazy mad
as fucking hell about life, death, taxes, injustice, parking tickets
health insurance, AIDS, Rwanda
stolen elections and immoral wars!
Remember when you could feel....and now....

In your bedroom, bare walls and all
is the death bed and there lies quietly, so still
the American Dream, the death rattle echoing off the walls
Yes, the American Dream
flatlining finally after years and years behind the brittle
cries, the unheard screams
a custom-made cliche
but dying, leaving, going, gone just the same.

Hell, it wasn't as if you didn't help it along
I mean come on - remember standing in smoky rooms
of carefully measured discontent?
Wondering how to fuck without dying;
wondering how to pay the rent.

There were songs you loved and words you knew;
once you sang along and now you don't even want the radio on
anymore.
You gave years and years away like worthless currency
not knowing that nostalgia is simply brain chemistry
and love just a strange attractor; and memory itself
some kind of sad self-pity.

Now all the record stores have closed up and have gone away
disappeared into the future tense of technology
and Broadway by the sea is just another street
It's a game you play and you're getting so good at it now
just think dear lady once upon a time you didn't even know how.

Yeah, rock and roll could've saved your soul
but that was yesterday
And rooms hold ghosts
but they will never haunt you
like the words you gave away.

Now the music's just too damn loud
though the words sound strangely familiar;
the meaning is unclear and the sad semiotics
of despair is the only melody you can hear.

You're a stranger in strange places now
You're a ghost, an apparition, a pathetic dream
Die die die you long to scream!
in cheap cerveza bars and cigarettes
fall limply from your lips and glow in the gleam
looking for a light is a bitch in these haunted spaces
there's no smoke no fire and you wonder
was it you that died first
or was it desire?

So you stalk the velvet crush, the glittering comedown,
remembering decaying downtown faces in crimson mirrors
and you fall like Alice but the story is much more grim
You tumble through time back to the event horizon.

And you still haven't figured out
how to black out
before the band leaves the stage;
and it's on someone's else face
that you watch yourself age.

Hollywood calls your name and laughs while you weep
Phantom fucks and full blood-burst harvest moons
universes that go bang! or collapse in the street
and you suck on nicotine for hours and dream of long-ago rooms
now long torn down and gone.

And nostalgia is just a dream, a memory
you once believed it was all real, it would last forever
the smell of cheap leather and sweat and smoke and tears
the spilled emotions on the table mixed with the leftover stale beers

It was beautiful here, once upon a time
We skipped down Broadway by the azure sea
We sang the songs and knew all the words
and we loved the pure and sweet sound of a 12 string
playing gently across the city at night
and it was like pharaoh's gold in the
Valley of the Kings.

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

Disenchanted

Everyone knows
that Sunday kind of sadness;
the pale decline of universal despair
that hangs delicately around the edges
of the dinner table, the laundry basket, the empty chairs...
as the pink-orange crush of dusk
drops slowly down
the velvet blanket of jasmine and musk
far away voices and far away sounds

And you knew
this
was
the
end.

The promise
was forgotten.
And the small, sad, empty feeling
you felt
watching The Wonderful World of Disney
staring through the windows at the falling darkness
and Tinkerbell in stardust flying away
comes back to you now...

...in cars and bars and steel gray cubicles
at high noon and in the shrill tinny banter
of silver spoons and conversations in conference rooms.

Everyone knows
that Sunday kind of sadness
sitting alone on the front porch steps
the sky bleeding pink into gunmetal grey
and you
listening to the distant hum of the dishwasher
the faraway rushing of the bathwater upstairs
and the television in the den ticking away
"60 Minutes"
(sometimes, you watched The Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew)
while Mom ironed your little shirts
and you knew
that it was over
again...

....like you do now
and you think how
you would've made Nietzsche, Sartre and Camus
oh so proud.

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

MadameBastet-firing-neurons
Earlier this evening, while ignoring the Evil Math Books
on the table, I was lying on the couch, channel-surfing.
I caught the last half-hour of the final Star Wars trilogy.

Which trilogy you ask? Oh hell, the most recent trilogy.
I purposely never saw any of those films; George Lucas
really frosted my cake with these 'prequels' and I had NO
interest in seeing what led up to one of the great films of
my youth, Star Wars. I preferred to pretend there were
no prequels, ha. But out of sheer boredom and a sudden need
to see how Darth Vader became Darth Vader - or shall I say,
how Anakin became Darth, I watched. I really only got to see him
have that neat CGI laser battle with Obi-Wan. Good casting there!
And then, and then...ewwwwwwwwww...so that's what happened to him!
He kind of caught on fire and was incinerated and his face kind of...
melted off.

However, I am now confused. Was he a machine? It looked like
his limbs, what was left of them, were robot-like or something.
Oh crap, that'll teach ME to come in on the last half hour of a movie
trilogy! Anyway, poor Padme, or whatever her name is. Pops out the twins,
Luke and Leia and then she's off, with funeral flowers in her hair.

And Luke goes to live with his aunt and uncle and
we end with those two glorious suns in the distance...
the same suns Luke looks at when he grows up and becomes
the hottie that all 10 year olds will swoon over.

Seriously. Someone answer my question. What was up
with Anakin? Did he have a metallic body? He was like this
pile o' goo, and then they gave him the DARTH VADER outfit
and voila!

I can't believe Jimmy Smits was in this movie. That was just wrong. In
so many ways.