i'm listening

Today I went to the beauty supply for stuff to make my feet look pretty. There's a spa upstairs, and downstairs in the store a new massage therapist was giving free demo massages. I opted for one, and when she got to working out what she had identified as a trouble area for me (my upper back), I got sick as a dog. I mean sick like Should we call the paramedics? sick. For about 20 minutes, I couldn't move, I was sweating profusely, my stomach was churning, my heart was pounding, and I was hot and dizzy. They brought me water, but I couldn't raise my head to drink it. I could barely speak. I heard the therapist say to one of the store clerks that my body was responding to the rush of toxins the massage had released, and that she thought I'd be okay, but to stay on alert in case I had a seizure. I heard that word, seizure, and started rallying the troops. C'mon, guys, I barked, we are NOT having any seizures in here, so buck up! Not a cell in my body seemed to pay me any mind, and I was so scared I was going to have to be carried out of the beauty supply, when all I'd wanted was nice feet. Finally, I felt the misery lift to the point where I could raise up off the chair, speak, and drink water.

I've never heard of anyone dying from having a massage, but the whole thing really, really blew my mind. I feel healthy, if a bit creaky, and I live under the delusion that I take decent care of myself. Obviously, it's time to step it up. I know I need more balance, and in times when I feel I'm transitioning, it's difficult for me to create it (but vital, seeing as I'm in my 42nd year of transitioning). I get that part of balance is catching up with myself, getting still. I don't think it requires so much, but the running, running, running, through constant mind chatter, is a hindrance. I'm a big believer in the mind-body connection, and I know that whatever was built up in my muscles didn't come entirely from the physical.

Anyway, I want to share this because A) It freaked me out, and B) I know I'm not alone in carrying toxins and emotional sludge around in my body. In working to release all that I can, maybe if I share a few things, and solicit helpful feedback from time to time, someone else will benefit too.

And, for the record, the therapist was ultra-professional, on the case, reassuring, calm, and yes I would go back to her. She told me things about the body and the way toxins move through it that were seriously news to me. Sometimes it's possible to immediately see why things happen, and this is a much kinder wake-up call than cancer or heart disease or some grim joker like that.

it runs in the family

And I'm hoping to get some of it.

At the end of a day during which two people asked if I've lost weight (ah, the goodness of black, then again, I have stopped eating my weight in junk food), and an old friend offered to fly me to a city that I am considering for relocation, I am thinking that people, they're not half bad. The Lakers are losing as I type. (Blame The Bubs for the fact that what little fandom I have goes toward the Celtics.) Life is sweet.

When I think about how sweet it is, I come around to Schmin. That kid. He's got star quality. I'm not just saying this 'cause he's my kid. He really does! He's always surprising me with the things he can do just out of the blue. Look.

He went and hiked Yosemite last month and decided along the way to become a whittler. This is his walking stick.

And its little companion.

He whittle-dee-deed his way up Half Dome and back down.

So far he's shown no interest in becoming my sewing buddy, but I'll bet he's got hidden skillz in that department too.

for lilia

midnight special

I be slow sometimes.

Last night I'm on one of those knitting tears when I start thinking it'd be nice to watch some music videos or old TV clips or something while working (you might see where this is going). Hmm. I wonder. Where can I find stuff like this? Hmm. La la la.... Hmm. I dunno... wait... maybe -- YouTube?

I'd been listening to Susan Tedeschi sing "Angel from Montgomery," so I looked up the songwriter, John Prine, and YouTubed him. From there, Bonnie Raitt's version came up (quite lovely), and then Linda Ronstadt was connected, so I watched some of her early performances, then some with the other Trio ladies. Somehow I went from there to watching Creedence Clearwater Revival perform "Midnight Special" (I do enjoy me some CCR), which set me to thinking about how cool it would be to see clips from the "Midnight Special" TV show. Before I could get entangled in that search, I noticed that there's a version of "Midnight Special" by Odetta. I thought, She's South African, I wonder what that will sound like. (Ellen, you maybe shouldn't be reading this.)

Where, oh where, did I get that Odetta is South African? My entire life I've been sure of this. Even the fact that Mr. Stevens met Odetta and processed her papers for the Schomburg and told me all about it had no effect on my misguided thinking. Her Los Angeles upbringing and Alabama birth were news.

When I played the video, I wondered where her Zulu accent went. I felt oddly connected to her, in that way that one does when one shares a cultural background and a country with someone, and finally this morning I decided to get on some Wikipedia and find out what was going on. It was the way she ends "Midnight Special," with a song I've sung a thousand-plus times in church, that had shaken the foundation of my South African theory.

Anyhow. Here's Odetta, singing "Midnight Special." It's just under 4 minutes long, and worth every second and then some. Oh, and if the singing doesn't get you, this is also a craft blog, so maybe the feather and fan sweater will.

Alright. I'm going back to YouTube to watch this Congolese singer named Nina Simone.

yowza

I gotta go. The dentist drilled a hole in my head for a tooth implant and boy oh boy am I in pain. I'll come back and try to be interesting tomorrow.

two on the needles

Today I'll post my baby sweaters in progress as a quickie.

The teal-y one is what I swatched the other day for Bubs's friends' baby, Africa. (Yes, that's her name. A continent full of beautiful girl names and her parents had to go literal.) The impossible to photograph red one is something my friend Carol offered to pay me to knit, a sweater for her new cousin. I'm so slow in knitting it that I might not charge her for it. I've got no interest in seaming that other sleeve (the first one has its share of lumps 'cause seaming ain't my thang). The lace panel is easy but takes too much thinking for me these days.

But lovely patterns, these:
Easy Baby Cardigan
Presto Chango

That's today's offering. I'm going to try to get to some e-mails. I received such wonderful, supportive comments/e-mails on St. Vincent de Paul, Savior of Man
that I want to send out some thank yous (as well as some overdue hellos). And if Blogger obscures your e-mail address so that I can't write to you personally, I'll say it here, Thank you. :) In fact, thanks for the love on all my posts. It makes this blogging thing precious and worthwhile.

dear god, two thumbs up

Alright so no bawling my eyes out the first night. Schmin came over and we watched Half Baked (we bought a cheap copy in Toledo 'cause we're into high art). I finished a book and a knitting project -- yes, a knitting project. Wow.

My friend has been through her own hard times recently -- the breakup of a 10-year relationship for one -- but the energy in her place is good. Schmin walked around a minute, then sat down and announced, No bad juju here. Today I went to Tarzhay and got some things to homify the place for myself.

Most of my things are still at The Bubs's, but tomorrow we're going to change that. I did lock myself out of there tonight. Walked out and clean forgot my purse because I was carrying a box and my laptop and I was fried. It's a good thing I had the keys to this place in my pockets. And that it's right around the corner. Can't beat that.

It's night two. Schmin and Froggy are here and we're watching The Last Dragon. Taimak at his finest. Me and Schmin are quickly making it safe for the cheesy ghetto classic around here.

By the by, you can still leave a comment here if you want a shot at some good stuff. I'm extending the deadline to Sunday.

returning the favor

Every single one of your comments on yesterday's post has meant so much to me. Thank you, ladies, for taking the time to offer support and good wishes. Meg, girl, you're so right. No one tells you how hard marriage really is. (And what's up with that?) It's wonderful, too. But boy, it can be something on the scale of life's bigger challenges.

I have so much packing to do and y'all know what most of it consists of. Books. Yarn. Fabric. Sewing machines. I knew this day of reckoning would come. I have to take some to my friend's place, and some to storage. Instead of feeling like a big ol' greedy pig, I am thinking of the message in the sand, "GOD WER BLESSED." We are. I am blessed with an abundance of things I love, and between that sandy reminder and your sweet comments, I see that I am due for giving something back.

Seems like a thousand moons ago, but it was only back in January. I left a comment on one of yaiAnn's posts and won a present to be made by her and given sometime this year as part of the Pay It Forward Exchange. One of the rules of entering was that I, too, would give away some no-strings-attached gifts on my blog. Here's the fine print, lifted from yaiAnn, and originated by I can't figure out who:

It's the Pay It Forward Exchange, based on the concept of the movie "Pay it Forward" where acts or deeds of kindness are done without expecting something in return... just passing it on, with hope that the recipients of the acts of kindness continue to pass it along as well. Here's how it works: I will make and send a handmade gift to the first 3 people who leave a comment to this post on my blog requesting to join this exchange. I do not know what that gift will be yet, and it won't be sent this month, probably not next month, but it will be sent (within 6 months) and that's a promise! What YOU have to do in return, then, is pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog.

I've got a gift list coming out of my wazoo, so I'll be exercising the option of giving either purchased or handmade gifts to three people, one of whom I've already chosen (and she doesn't have to pay it forward unless she wants to, sez me). For the other two, I'm thinking of two numbers. Leave a comment, and if your comment number is one of the two, I'll send you a gift (within a couple of months). I guarantee cuteness in whatever I send, and all you gotta do is say you want some. I'll leave the comments open for entries until Friday evening.

Again, thank you in-the-flesh friends and blog friends alike -- there are no strangers here. :)

his own world

Early this morning The Bubs and I had to drive to Malibu to handle some unpleasant business. Afterward, he asked if I'd like to spend a little time at El Matador, a beautiful Malibu beach that means a lot to us. It's where he proposed to me. It's where I said Yes.

This week I am moving out of our apartment and into a friend's place. This friend will be working in New York until August, and generously asked me to housesit while she's gone (generously because it's more for my sake than hers). To speak plainly, The Bubs and I are separating, so it's not an easy time for me (for us). This July = 5 years of marriage, and 7 years together, and I'm trying to figure out what to make of it all, or if anything needs to be made. Maybe it just is what it is.

I get crazy and want to erase it all, forgive it all, kill to bring it all back together, kill to tear it apart, and this is in the course of, say, any given hour. But we have agreed to do things gently, and I am for that, and I live it as strongly and as often as I can.

I know I've said it, and our dear Oprah says it often enough, but A New Earth is a balm in a trying time like this. There is nothing you can ever need that the present moment cannot give you.

And so more and more I let it carry me.

Today, this is where I ended up:

With The Bubs, who likes himself an ascot when the occasion arises.

I was dressed for staying in the car and coming back home for a nap, but wearing my new hat, made especially for me by the woolanthropist, which gave me an element of cool right up there with The Bubs. I tried it on him for a minute, then took it back because it looked too good.

The Bubs is a tongue slipper.

Sometimes I forget that Bubs is his own world. Even now, I think of him as mine, mine, mine. He's his, most of all. I want the secret to how to love without devouring.

Hard to read it here, but someone wrote "GOD WER BLESSED" in the sand. We laughed at the spelling, but we got the message.

On the way out, Bubs picked some wildflowers.

And set them in a vase.

ghostworld

Comment of the week, from Heather, on yesterday's post:

...did you know that there was a ghost with you in that hotel room?
Look carefully at the top picture, he is wearing a hat!!!!! how scary...LOL

Heather, I'm cracking up at this one!

That's actually Schmin.

At the last minute, he was able to book a ticket and go home with me. He and my father, his granddad, are two party peas in a pod, and the minute Schmin heard Granddad was sick, he was determined to make the trip.

Even though we didn't book our tickets at the same time, Priceline was good to us and we got the same flights heading out. On the return, Schmin was scheduled to fly out an hour and a half ahead of me. His flight was delayed, and we got to fly home together too. Once he's in Toledo, Schmin is Mr. Popularity, so he helped me get set up in the hotel room then went his own way.

The hat thing is his latest fashion statement. He's done the rock star. Skater/Trucker Dude. The Preppy. And now he's doing what I've dubbed Bohemian Bum Chic, which he thinks is hilarious, but isn't that an accurate description? I mean, really. The fedora tops it off.

The photos were taken on the way to the baggage claim at Detroit Metro Airport. It's a trippy passageway between terminals. Groovy.

It changes colors. Watch.

Magic walls.
Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky Airport, where we had brief layovers, won't be outdone. They've got themselves a flying pig.

someone who kinda looks like me

My father and I at Easy Street, Thursday, 4/10/08

My goodness. I'm hourly at work now and really should be there making money, but I feel like I've been run over by a tractor. It's not just the time change, but the effect of the amazing technicolor dreamcoat experience known as my family. My father being the eldest of 11, there are so many of them. Were I to try to list all my cousins, I'd probably come up with different names each time. Just oodles of people, all coming at you in a random, chaotic non-order. It's all love, except when it's not, and it's loud no matter what.

I kind of have to gather it all, but I do want to talk about it some later. For now I can say that I'm happy my father is alright, and that I wholeheartedly thank you guys for your wonderful support. I'm glad some of you were reminded of family members in my description of my father! It's nice to know there's a character in (nearly) every family.

In the end, my father will be my father. Actually, he'll be Eric, himself. He will continue, as he likes to say, to test his resolve; drinking, smoking, getting high, gambling, running the streets, philosophizing, fighting with and looking out for his family (no one I know loves family more than my father does), giving us shit, and taking a break from it all when he feels like he needs to. One night, my sister cried to me, What are we gonna do about Dad? I said to her, We're going to let Dad be Dad, and we're going to love him no matter what. That's what we're gonna do.

With my brother, Laddy, at Easy Street again (hey, it's Toledo), Monday, 4/14/08

what a long, strange trip it's been

It was good to be gone; now it's good to be home.

chicago

Ch-ch-chilly!

saturday in the midwest

At a very low point in his hospital stay, my sister asked my father, Out of all your 61 years of living, which moments were your favorites? My father answered, This one.

Toledo today tells why I came to think of Prince as a genius. Years ago, he summed up the mixture of sadness, disappointment, and longing:

Sometimes it snows in April
Sometimes you feel so bad
Sometimes I wish that life was never ending
But all good things, they say, never last

It's cold, and I am decked in my California living clothes -- boots and a long sweater, but knees and head exposed to the elements, making me feel the chill all over.

I am in a place that wasn't here when last I was, Organic Bliss. Not a lot of organic going on. Lunch was on the happy side, but blissful, I dunno. The hot chocolate was pretty close.

Tomorrow, Chicago. I got peoples there. Peoples I haven't seen in ages and I don't know when I'll see again, so off we go. Yahoo Weather calls for morning snow with a high of 40. Really, I do love those people.

Thank you to everyone who commented on the character known as my dad. Yesterday he decided that medication and alcohol do mix. And guess what, they mix with shooting dice! And winning! And stepping backward in a show of celebration! And tripping over a branch! And falling down hard! And having to be carried home by my brother and cousin! And throwing up! And finally admitting defeat by going to bed!

Today he's at the junkyard, looking for parts for a Cadillac he's going to restore, so he's okay. Probably he's enjoyed every moment of these last few days, or most of them, at least.

meet my dad

Have I ever really told you about my father?

I've glossed over him before, but I don't think I've sufficiently trolled his depths here.

I adore him, but he is crazy. He's crazy in the way of people who live in worlds the rest of us don't see or occupy at all. My father's attitudes and positions are way out there, and we all know this, but he's intelligent too, and sometimes it takes work not to fall for the wacky things he says.

On top of this, he's completely inappropriate. Once you're, say, twelve, you're old enough to be privy to all kinds of stories that you'd much rather never be subjected to.

It took a long time for me to make peace with this. I've had to find a way to stay true to myself, while honoring him as my father. Plus, when I was in college, and it was evident that I was not going to go into the field of prostitution or drug addiction, he'd every now and then refer to me as a square. I am a very brown person, but this burned my ears bright red. Nobody wants to be a square. My father didn't mean it as a put-down; it was how he summed up how I saw the world versus how he saw it. Still, it irked me. I sure as hell wasn't going to shoot up to avoid the moniker, but I did develop the habit of not acting shocked when he talked to me about things that were, well, shocking.

I'll drop you into the middle of our conversation over lunch at The Olive Garden, where Toledoans go for fancy food, yesterday. Just the two of us, surrounded by polite company (read, white folks):

Dear old dad (DOD): But see, you can't cut cocaine like you can cut heroin.
Me (The Square): Well, I saw on TV that heroin is really cheap now. How'd it get to be so cheap?
DOD: Check this out. A kilo of cocaine will cost you around 20 thousand dollars. A kilo of pure heroin -- I'm talking about real good heroin -- could cost you 180 thousand dollars.
The Square: Wow. Then how can it be sold for so little?
DOD: Wait a minute. Let me finish. You can only cut that key of cocaine three or four times. That's it. You can cut it three or four times before it ain't no good no more. Now look at heroin. Heroin you can cut a hundred times. A hundred times! I've seen dudes cut heroin twenty-eight, twenty-nine times, and those dudes was third or fourth down the line. Three four other dudes had cut that same key before they did.
The Square: Wow. Whoa.
DOD: So you do the math. Look at your uncle. He used to pay 24 thousand for a key of cocaine. His gross profit off that key would be 42 thousand. After he paid everybody, he would end up with 18 thousand net.
The Square: Whoa. Wow.
DOD: Now heroin. You can make more than a million dollars off one kilo. That's how potent that shit is. You cut it so many times. And you have a guaranteed customer too. He won't come back often. But he will come back.
The Square: What do you mean he won't come back often?
DOD: If you sell a man a rock of coke at 8:30 in the morning, by 9:45 he'll be knocking on your door again.
The Square: thinking it over, then -- I wouldn't like a high like that.
DOD: Who does?
The Square: It's too short.
DOD: Right. But that's the way it is. Now. If you sell him some heroin at 8:30 in the morning, you won't see him again until 9 o'clock that night.
The Square: It's the same day! That's not often?
DOD: Not compared to coke! In cocaine the money is made off that repetition, that turnover. In heroin, it's made off that guarantee. You're guaranteed that the dude is gonna come back and buy more, because physically, he'll have to.
The Square: Wow. Whoa. Okay. Um. So that means heroin can cost more than cocaine but it's still cheap, because you don't buy it as often.
DOD: You got it.
The Square: But you will keep buying it.
DOD: Damn right you will.
The Square: Whoa.

This was a gentle exchange. I won't even transcribe our conversation about crack, women, and sex. In fact, I won't even go over it in my own head again.

Today, a family barbecue, in my father's honor. Last night the guest of honor casually, and while reminiscing over how much he loved the man, told his baby sister and me that the favorite son of our family, his brother and best friend who was tragically murdered many years ago at 24, was not only a con man (which we figured), but also a bisexual prostitute (I am putting this in nice terms. My father's words went more like, That n---a would f--k anybody! I shall quote no more). He told us this like, Boy, that boy just tickled me! And then he left, leaving us to stare at each other.

That, my friends, is my father.

party over here

A miraculous healing has taken place. My father was released from the hospital yesterday, before I arrived. Today he's his usual crazy, animated, curmudgeonly, sweet self, and I am glad.

I should have braced myself for this. A long time ago, my mother was so close to death that the doctors asked me how long I wanted them to wait before they pulled the plug. Two days later she sent me to Wendy's to get her a hamburger.

My father isn't completely out of the woods. We're waiting for test results and such, but today we celebrated, and tomorrow we will celebrate again, because even though I am the child of comeback kids, life is short, and there is no such thing as forever.

good gets

I'm getting ready to head home to Ohio, but I wanted to post highlights from Sunday's b-day celebration. To recap, the celebrated were Maryjo and Darcy, the location was the lovely Descanso Gardens outside LA.

We enjoyed walking through the gardens, but we were definitely anticipating gift-giving time. We all knit, crochet, sew, quilt, or all of the above, Natalie does beading, and Ellen is a world-class painter. The gifts are always surprising, creative, and so much fun to unveil. Here are the highlights, including a sweater Ellen made for Maryjo (done up in 8 days!), Natalie's fantastic stitch markers, a coaster and T-shirt designed by Lori, and a recycled can bracelet that Darcy bought for Maryjo. The lotus flower was my other gift to Darcy. I bought it from this great Etsy shop.

These aren't gifts, but personal belongings too tasty not to show:

Maryjo's yummy ArtFibers "Cheesecake" yarn.

One of Natalie's wrist warmers made from Pancake and Lulu yarn. For her birthday, I gave her a yarn of the month club membership. This beautimousness was one of the yarns. I highly recommend this gift. Pancake and Lulu's yarn is among the most glorious I've ever seen, and Natalie had a blast receiving a "mystery" ball each month. (Plus she says it smells delightful.)

This is Lori's bag. Oh how I love it! These numbers are pure magic.

For the party girls and anyone else interested, the rest of the b-day pictures are here.

we bead in love

But if this turns into a stash, I quit.

tiny japanese

After our effervescent trip to BCAM, we ended our LACMA visit with the Japanese Pavilion, my favorite part of which was the Netsuke Gallery. Netsuke are tiny sculptures -- I mean tiny -- created to function as toggles for the boxes or pouches that men fastened to the belt (obi) of their kimonos, which had no pockets, to carry valuables and such. From the LACMA website:

The Raymond and Frances Bushell Netsuke Gallery on the plaza level gives the museum visitor the unique opportunity to view from all sides the miniature sculptures known as netsuke. Netsuke were used as both toggle and counterweight to help suspend hanging purses or boxes from the sash of a man's kimono. The Bushell collection contains an encyclopedic array of 836 works from the seventeenth to the twentieth century. Installations of netsuke are composed of 150 works grouped by theme and are rotated every three months.

I found a wonderful piece on netsuke here. It's brief, and very informative. In case you find yourself itching to know more (as I have), here's an interesting book on Amazon.

This netsuke is my favorite. She's Queen Mother of the West. (We are talking miniatures, so click to see more detail.)

Here are a couple others I liked. The first is an angel, lit upon a rice bowl. I tried to photograph more netsuke, but my trusty little Canon has its limits.

Netsuke feature unbelievable detail, and an incredible level of craftsmanship.