I Too Want To Cry

This past week has been tough. I blame Michelle Obama for my having succumbed not to one, but two chocolate croissants within 15 hours (one in the evening and one the next morning.) This after not having touched croissants ever since Trader Joe's had stopped offering them, maybe a year ago. 2 for $2, made locally, seemed like a deal and we all know that cheap or free calories do not count. But my binge did not stop with those croissants. Despite having abstained from bringing home bread and dairy products for the last 3 months, my need for consolation made me devour not one, but two, then three tubs of Tapioca pudding, topped with my own spicy apple sauce and garnished with a medley of fresh fruit that featured figs and strawberries. This kind of fare can make me dismiss any notions of  fresh vegetables, not to mention meat and abandon any notion of a reasonably balanced, healthy diet. 

So back to our First Lady, surely an image of grace, poise and intelligence. A First Lady we could be proud of and with a 65% approval rating many are kindly disposed of. Certainly my facebook contacts  (no friends there) were gushing and sharing in their joy and pride, including the head of our local Upayah Buddhist Monastery.

What boggled my mind and created a storm in my heart and mind is especially the following of Michelle Obama's speech given at the Democratic Convention:

... "when it comes to his character and his convictions and his heart, Barack Obama is still the same man ... being president does not change who you are. No, it reveals the who you are."

Long  befuddled silence.

Really?

Guantanamo is still open, men are still imprisoned without due process despite Obama's promise to close the facility four years ago.  Admittedly the practice of water boarding and torture has supposedly ended, but Obama, a constitutional lawyer, is the same today as he was four years ago, really?

Despite winning the 2009 Nobel Peace price our president made Afghanistan his cause and shattered our hopes for real change. How can we justify President Obama's kill list?

Drone Attacks (according to US government)

Total US strikes since 2004: 337
Total Obama strikes: 285
Total reported killed: 2,524-3,247
Civilians reported killed: 482-852
Children reported killed: 175
Total reported injured: 1,204-1,330

President Obama, a constitutional lawyer, endorsed the hunting down and the killing and then unceremonious disposal of Osama Bin Laden, rather then demand proper due process, even deserving of the worst of criminals. In this way our President, the man I voted for in dire hopes for real change, continued to carry out the Bush policies, in deed not just in rhetoric.

When President Obama, the former tireless community worker, appointed Geitner he chose to support a corporate bail-out, really a give-away to the banks on cost of the people.

Michelle's husband just signed on Shell for the further exploitation of our earth - arctic drilling for oil. This the same man we rooted and hoped for four years ago - really? This is not the change we had seen coming, we had longed for, hoped for, wished for.

Our First Lady must cherish her own organic garden, but she endorses the appointment of a former Monsanto vice-president to the FDA. Due to her now public support of her husband and asking for four more years our pretty First Lady is complicit.

 Yes, we have a very photogenic, very charismatic First Lady with great oratory skills, but let us not lose sight of some very important facts while swooning over our attractive First Lady who must be smart enough to know truth from fiction. Vote for the Obamas, but not with rose colored glasses and not with eyes clouded by the mist of sentimentality and sweet nonsense. Vote for the Obamas because the alternative is just too grim to contemplate. Vote for the Obamas and work towards alternatives for the near future, for third, fourth and fifth party nominations. For this year's election we have no better choice then the Obama's and not voting should not be an option. Voting is our civic responsibility. Let's not gloss over the differences of red and blue, they exist. Let's not get stuck in wishful thinking, in wanting a world other then the one we live in. Michelle Obama's audience shed tears during her speech and I too wanted to cry - from my sense of betrayal by the Obamas. Such a charismatic, likable family, seemingly so genuine, easy on the eyes, bright and articulate. I will vote, likely with tears of bitter disappointment, but I will vote for the Obamas although I will take no pride,  while I really would wish that I could.

9/11

Dancing Girl With Dog

We should consider every day lost 

on which we have not danced at least once.

Nietsche

Dancing Girl With Dog

Sitting Boy With Dog

Tidbits

Cute little bunny crouched down low, tucked in it's long translucent pink ears and flattened itself to the ground. Hunkered down, it held still, played being a rock, and successfully avoided detection by my two terrible terriers, but not by me. Such observations may be the norm in the boonies, but they are not common for me living downtown for more then a quarter of a century.

In my 'hood a sign on a gate on Gomez street reads Chien Lunatique which ought to scare any malevolent spirits away, although I do wonder how many of our local souls would comprehend the Gallic tongue? No linguistic skills needed I believe for this sign I have not yet put up, but might:

I chatted up a Linguist the other day while watching the light of yet another pretty, yet ordinary sunse while we hung out and about our community garden. The man, an obvious to me for no good reason foreigner, revealed that he was based on the East Coast, Boston to be exact, which might just be another country with it's different mentality. He came to our City Different on account of an invitation, a temporary job, to help establish a museum for native languages. As is so often the case, the project got initiated by a probably filthy rich white guy. While the Dineh (Navajo) people are supposedly supportive, the Tewa Native American Pueblo people are supposedly not. Who can blame them after the abuse they suffered not so long ago by white folks that stole their children and forbid them their mother tongue! They are, I am told, afraid that the sacredness of their way of life, which includes their language, will be taken away from them. Being an Anglo, the strange idea of a museum for languages immediately appealed to me. I will be curious to learn what will come of it.

On the political front, my TV is now permanently disconnected after repeated 6 month-intervals of non-use, my provider had enough and we parted ways amicably. This means that I do not have to follow the repugnant Republican drama and was successful in avoiding all of the speeches given at their convention, including the one given by our own governor, Susana. What caught my attention though was the Palinesque Bachman, who insinuated on the Piers Morgan show that single (but whole, not lacking a husband, thinking women) would vote for Obama, we have to assume on his  admittedly not insignificant sex appeal.  Meanwhile the properly married ones would vote for Romney. What an insult! A study supposedly claims that 60% of single women support Obama, only 31% are for Romney. So let me state publicly my support for President Obama, an antidot to the repugnant R & Rs.

Floppy ears may not be our President's most sexy feature, but I support him despite Guantanamo still holding prisoners for indefinite detention, without due process, despite his authorization to kill, rather then apprehend Osama Bin Landen, despite his choices in Afghanistan, and despite his outrageous  appointment of a former Monsanto vice-president and lobbyist to the FDA, and despite a lot more objections! We have no alternative for this year, none and we all know it. Those pushing to vote for a third party candidate are kidding themselves and are playing with very dangerous fires. A few votes could make a whole lot of difference this year. Are You In? It just so happens that I got an offer to work a voting station on election day. It will be another long day, but I do believe in our privilege and our right and our responsibility of voting.

Loot

This year's abundance started off with bright orange berries on bushes at our park I had not ever realized were edible. It took  my observing a blond Swedish mom with little kids picking some so as to make jelly (and complaining how many it took to make only a small batch) that I got the idea to give them too a try. Not a fan of jelly, I would grab a handful and place them on a pancake. The refreshing, subtly sweet and tart explosion of taste when grinding teeth would pop those berries was delightful.

Next came the apricots and they were littering the streets, it is a shame how perfectly good fruit gets wasted while so many still go hungry, especially in our state. So I have no compulsion about picking fruit off trees that overhang public streets and neither have my pups. My little Sumo-boy absolutely loves sweet and ripe fruit, but will reject any other kind. I fed them so many apricots in between gathering the fruit in to my basket, that I got worried about their intestinal plumbing. But all was well, my pups suffered no observable ill effect from eating too many apricots, hallelujah!

I worked those apricots in to a spicy compote concocted from a mix of spices that included ginger, cancer fighting tumeric and a dash of infection fighting cayenne, unbeatable as a topping to vanilla icecream (there did go my dairy abstinence, but not for long. Life is too short to worry about a slip.)

Apricots made in to a simple pie, what we would call 'Aprikose Waehe' is one of my very favorites, and a staple food for meat free Fridays.

In the back of our home we do have one pear tree and I got to gather a few pears, most though got eaten by birds or fell off the tree never having reached maturity. In fact I am rather surprised how much fruit never reaches what must be an inherent goal to any organism - maturity. I realize this may be just the same on a human level, oh no, this touches a personal soft spot! My friend Rui from Madeira Portugal used to make pear pies with an arrow root glaze and distribute them all over Amsterdam. Today I just lightly cooked the few pears so as to save them from the fruit flies. They will make for a welcome change as a topping over a hot breakfast cereal.

Apples are currently aplenty and I pick some up almost everyday, careful to avoid picking the too small ones, but rather give them time to fully mature on the risk of course that others may take them. Those green apples that grow in my 'hood are great for cooking, but a bit sour for eating raw. I discovered that apple sauce just like apricot compote makes for an excellent carrier for tumeric of which I hear more and more accounts of it's benefits, such as relieve from joint pain due to inflammation.

Our community garden this year is devoid of cilantro, so no salsa for me so far, but I might look forward to an ear or two of corn. It astounds me that my downtown 'hood offers so much free food for the taking, something I had discovered only 2 years ago in 2010.

Domestic Goddess By Default

1:55 p.m.; Finally my chicken, inside a Dutch Oven, is now inside my real oven (not the toaster as initially intended.) This is my first use of a Dutch Oven and my first use of my real oven, probably since my separation from my husband two decades ago! Wrong side up though I had placed the darn bird I had to learn from my neighbor, the one that had gifted me with his outdated, but perfectly fine Dutch Oven 

(see earlier post Christmas In May.) 

A chicken ought to be baked breast side down, or else the meat will turn bone dry is what I just learned.

As a mature woman, some may think I ought to know how to bake a chicken by now. Well, I have avoided touching dead meat most all of my adult life. My husband was, and the man still is, a strict vegetarian despite the heavy physical labour he always enjoyed. (While I would bring home the bacon, most of my domestic partners would usually do the cooking. I would reserve my attention to the important task of eating.) Needless to say chicken in any form or manner was not a part of our menu. My X had shared with me that after having enjoyed a chicken as a pet, he no longer could stand the thought of eating one. Bless his tender heart. I feel quiet similar without ever having had a chicken as a pet. This need for killing life, making oneself more important then another form of life is trying to say the least. I abstained from all red meat and after a decade had only a occasional bites of chicken disguised and made unrecognizable as when covered in a heavy spinach sauce such as one usually finds at East Indian buffets.

All of this changed dramatically when I brought home Isabella-girl, decidedly a meat devouring creature and lover of gross raw bloody bones. 

Isabella sucking bone as if it were a lollipop in 2006.

So this is how an advertisement of a whole, organic, free range chicken, on sale, managed to catch my attention and imagination and succeeded in my bringing the bird home on impulse.

Only once, last winter, when I scored for our Occupy camp a whole chicken  from a farmer at the close of our farmers market,  not trusting the flimsy set up of our Occupy kitchen with the  preparation of raw meat, I resigned myself to the the making of a stew that I must say got rave reviews from our Occupy campers.

Back to the afternoon, I made myself a juice from a few of those apples I gathered in public parks, plus carrots, celery and bit of beet (powerful!) in order to use the pulp which I mixed in with garlic , lemon and herbs (some growing in my pots) for stuffing. As I rubbed the chicken with the mix on the outside god-dess behold, I found myself growing fond of this bird. It felt clean and trim to the touch and looked rather well proportioned, I go as far as beautiful, this bird of mine.

The aroma of the veggies was heavenly and attracted all three of my furry ones, including the Pretty Kitty (who tends to refuse my offerings of home made cooked food in favor of canned junk) to sit, stare, wonder and wait in great anticipation.

We all had our fill by now, even the kitty took a few morsels off my hand. The skin did not come out all nice golden and crispy looking, but none of us minded. The half lemon stuffed inside might have been a mistake as it did not blend perfectly with my herbs and veggies, but the meat came out perfect, moist and delicious.

5:55 p.m.: So it was a day that started out with an apple pie, made of course from apples gathered from public parks and streets.

It progressed to my having cooked the pears picked off a tree in the back of our home and in danger of being diminished by fruit flies. The day continued on with my attending to the Garbanzo beans that had soaked for more then two days and needed to be made in to Humus. Ah, I had no idea how much I might love beans when prepared to my liking, without too much salt or oil and no canned anything, please! (Not liking beans and not liking meat makes for a precarious diet.) My day passed with having accomplished nothing but domestic tasks once more, as if I had no pressing matters to attend to, such as anything that revolves around money.

AMEN

Ray Masterson - Vietnam Vet, Peace Activist

 BLOW UP BALLOONS NOT PEOPLE!

Ray surprised me when he started to entertain kids at the Farmers Market.

Ray trained his service dogs himself.

Dawson is "trained to only bite back" we are told.

Dawson now between 4 and 5 years old
has become the sweetest and most tolerant dog.

After all that sitting and waiting and being patient
 a bit of canine yoga is what the doctor ordered.

 Dawson's job is to navigates their contraption through traffic.

BICYCLES ARE VEHICLES NOT OBSTACLES

Oh, so true.

Find more images of Ray and his dogs here on flickr.

Moved To Tears

Roxanne Swentzell created this urn

in loving memory of her father-in-law.

Closed eye hugging of an urn

- such intensity of feeling!

I was reminded of the burials of my parents.

I was the one that placed my Dad's urn 

in to my Mom's grave.

This image expresses my feelings poignantly

All options of burial seem utterly unappealing.

Cremation certainly works against the Catholic belief

of the dead arising on judgment day. 

My Mom, bless her soul, 

was convinced she would need her body

come Judgment Day.

Disbursal of the remains in to the air,

like my friend who scattered her mother's ashes

across her land,

only for those ashes to descend

and to settle as dust on her furniture

- very unappealing.

Disbursal of the remains in to the ocean,

so the fish will ingest the loved one

while we get to eat the fish

- very unappealing.

Collecting the remains in an urn

to be cherished by loved ones

-  almost ideal.

For me personally though,

the last to remain of our lineage,

the epitome of our evolutionary line,

of our particular gene pool,

this will not be an option.

Santa Fe Indian Market 2012

Donn Clark

 American Indian Oil and Pastel Artist
www.donclarkgallery.com

Synchronicity

Synchronicity
The simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection
ORIGIN 1950s: coined by C. G. Jung, Zurich, Switzerland.

Wow, wow, wow!

On my way home from the plaza late last night in a deserted parking lot downtown, I happened to come upon one magnificent looking, tan, apparently young and healthy looking coyote the height of about my Isabella-girl, but a lot slimmer. Unhurried and unafraid the coyote kept on sniffing the ground after a quick check on me as I was about to peddle by real close. Thinking of my Pretty Kitty, most likely near by, still out and about during these mild summer nights, I circled back again and again around  the coyote. Trying to scare the beast away, I rung my bell wildly. Nope, this creature of god-dess showed no fear, but languidly retreated only a few steps to continue on while it held only a minimal proper cautionary distance. This coyote almost looked and acted more like a dog familiar in human habitats and utterly unconcerned.

Oddly this magical encounter happened after an odd chance meeting with a stranger where a conversation that started due to the appearance of roaches at the center of our plaza. Soon the conversation shifted to coyotes and this man's account of his personal experiences and his appreciation of their intelligence. He claimed to have seen coyotes climb trees (small Pinions) in pursuit of prey and said that the coyotes always outwitted the wolfs, acting in tandem, one as a decoy the other fetching the goodies. Feeling at first sorry for the cute bunnies demise, he eventually came to appreciate the natural order of things and learned to desist his desires to interfere.

From there the conversation moved on to more personal matters and we recognized a similarity in our experiences and learned that we were born less then a month apart, although on different continents and in different genders. We, and maybe a large section of our generation considering our friend's accounts, seem to share experiences of vacillating between despair one moment and elation the other. In our fifties we had suffered devastating loss of lovers, friends, family and - beliefs not to speak of financial security.

It was powerful to realize our commonality, to be reminded that we are not alone, but part of a collective conscience and a generation, maybe at a loss, but still able to laugh with and hug a stranger.

My mythic encounter with a gorgeous coyote, so close to home,  only stressed the importance of what had transpired that evening. 

Alternate Lives

I wonder every now and then, maybe too often, what other versions of my self might have looked like, don't you? What if I had actually gotten the notification of my acceptance to the school for Ergotherapy in Zuerich, Switzerland? 

One thing would be sure, I would not find myself in the financial pickle I am in now. But in the seventies there were no cell phones, there was no internet and keeping in touch was a whole lot more challenging, especially through international borders. Phone calls used to be very expensive and were not indulged in frequently. It's all water under the bridge now. I have no illusions, working within any Swiss institution would have proven nothing but challenging for me. 

I was a natural though at rehabilitation and had done outstanding work (if I may say so myself) in three different psychiatric settings when still in my teens. No doubt the glowing reports from an ergo therapist and co-worker had opened the opportunity for me, then an untrained, but very enthusiastic nurses aid, to get on a professional therapeutic track that would not involve open wounds and needles such as would have been required in nursing. I really loved working as a nurses aid, loved looking after the needs of others such as their intimate care as in bathing, grooming, and feeding. Of course, I took a particular interest in their psychological care. With  a wide open mind, I inquired about their thoughts, feelings, and sensations.

In a closed area for the chronic schizophrenics at a progressive psychiatric institution outside Zuerich, I took the afternoon coffee group as an opportunity. I directed their conversation away from me and towards each other and the results were amazing. Those men in their thirties and forties started to wonder aloud what schizophrenia just might be! Signs of life started to show were there seemed only dullness, it was awesome to behold.

One mute, rather cute looking younger guy blossomed from total withdrawal (rocking in a corner by himself, initiating contact only with a touch of the back of his hand to one other guy) to excited participation in the application of color, to thinking for himself and correcting an image that hung askew and to helping me with the laundry and the opening and closing of doors, all the while grinning from ear to ear.

I loved to engage patients with chores, rather than have them sit around and stare into space. I got flack for it too. Ah, the small minded, mid-level personnel that wants to follow the rules to the letter and insists to stay task-oriented on cost of the well-being of real people! During rare sunny afternoons they wanted me to put away the laundry, rather than take a small and able group out for walks and talks. When I mentioned the excessive sugar intake by one of our women that did have a tendency to violent outbreaks, the nurse got nightmares from what she considered inappropriate observations coming up from the lower rank, me. Of course, this was long before there were scientific studies that linked consumption of sugar to hyperactivity and the like.

Likely I was the first in all of Switzerland to introduce Tai-chi to some of those in my charge. I initiated all kinds of activity to open the breath and foster grounding. I did this too with my Dad in his last years. These days breath therapists are a common element of a therapeutic team. I remember too giving a thorough hand massage to one very old and very brittle lady, a former sales woman of silk in a very fine traditional Swiss establishment (Grieder) whose fist had closed up on her. Massage therapy had not yet been recognized officially in its many therapeutic applications. 

There was the time too when a fever had broken out and I had to stick those thermometers into various orifices, followed by the application of suppositories anally. I stayed at the bedsides determined not to get sick. It seemed that I had former life times of practice, it seemed so natural to care and to do what was needed. But I never wanted to become a nurse. They had far less opportunity to be with patients, but they needed to occupy themselves with management, meetings and of course the pharmacopeia of magical pills I so abhor. Yes, there was too a time when as a nurses aid in Switzerland I distributed the pills as it then was part of my job and inadvertently gave a dosage of ten times the strength of morphine to one patient, due to an error of proper preparation by the attending nurse. Luckily I recognized the trouble, realized that this patient suffered uncommon hallucinations and reported them along with vital medical information to the doctor.

Eventually, I did enter the therapeutic field as a professional in my practice as a massage therapist and aquatic bodyworker. I always considered relaxation only the beginning of a successful therapeutic treatment. I was fortunate to work outside institutions, one-on-one, on my own schedule. Blessed in many ways one may still wonder, what if?

Prelude

August 4th is a birthday shared by our US President and our NM Mayor - and my friend Christa, who invited me for the occasion to the opera. The spectacle of a double rainbow blessed us before the staged spectacle at our outstanding venue for the cultured people in Santa Fe.

Dressed in all purple, including kimono, wearing my 18-strand black, fresh water pearl necklace, I sat in the third row up front. Expensive seats that did not offer a view on those playing the wind instruments, the kind that somehow hold a particular fascination for me with their rich, deeply satisfying sounds. I could have thought of a lot of uses for the money my friend spent on me to accompany her, but who am I to look in to the mouth of a gifted horse. Well, true, I am the kind that would likely look in to a mouth, if only out of curiosity, and possibly refuse an offer, but not this one.

We heard a lot of singing in French during which I tried hard to practice my comprehension skills despite operas being operas and their dramas tendencies to silliness, if not the absurd. For the deliveries in Italian, the sounds simply washed over me, but the few German renditions did leave something to be desired in regard to accent. I must say I have heard outstanding German from Americans at our opera, but not last night. 

But opera is no longer what it used to be, the singers now look attractive and they can act. Truly I admired their groundedness and their lack of grandiose gesturing. The performances all seemed very restrained, but powerful and pleasing. One outstanding soprano singer and performer though cracked me up, as she looked like an incarnation of Fiona out of Pixar's Shrek, lovely.

off the net

So, a good time was had by all.

Woman With Kite

Cranky Old Man

To good to not share.
Off facebook
Posted by Scott Sonnon

What do you see nurses? . . .. . .What do you see?

What are you thinking .. . when you're looking at me?

A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,

Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . .. with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food .. . ... . . and makes no reply.

When you say in a loud voice . .'I do wish you'd try!'

Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do.

And forever is losing . . . . . .. . . A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not . . . ... lets you do as you will,

With bathing and feeding . . . .The long day to fill?

Is that what you're thinking?. .Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse .you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am . . . . .. As I sit here so still,

As I do at your bidding, .. . . . as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters .. . . .. . who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen . . . .. with wings on his feet

Dreaming that soon now . . .. . . a lover he'll meet.

A groom soon at Twenty . . . ..my heart gives a leap.

Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now . . . . .I have young of my own.

Who need me to guide . . . And a secure happy home.

A man of Thirty . .. . . . . My young now grown fast,

Bound to each other . . .. With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,

But my woman is beside me . . to see I don't mourn.

At Fifty, once more, .. ...Babies play 'round my knee,

Again, we know children . . . . My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me . . . . My wife is now dead.

I look at the future ... . . . . I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing .. . . young of their own.

And I think of the years . . . And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man . . . . . . .. and nature is cruel.

It's jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigour, depart.

There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,

And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells

I remember the joys . . . . .. . I remember the pain.

And I'm loving and living . . . . . . . life over again.

I think of the years, all too few . . .. gone too fast.

And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people .. . . . .. . . open and see.

Not a cranky old man .

Look closer . . . . see .. .. . .. .... . ME!!

 

This old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet. 

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre possessions, They found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. We will all, one day, be there, too!

PLEASE SHARE THIS POEM (originally by Phyllis McCormack; adapted by Dave Griffith)

Adulthood

These days I may act adult most often when I take out my pups for a walk despite my really, really not feeling like it, which may not be just a  simple matter of risking my life when walking on snow and ice attached to two exuberant pups. Being known as the "Dog Lady" because I am seen all around downtown with my 'terrible terriers' (nah, they are good doggies) I ought to take that label as a compliment, rather then an insult, as there are too many times to count that I would much rather hole up at home, then venture out.

Ingesting a spread of tofu/tahini/miso with mixed in greens like parsley and watercress (and of course added sprinkles of ginger, black pepper, cayenne, plus tumeric of late) on rye crackers or rice cakes, instead of coffee ice cream, makes me feel terribly virtuous and adult too. For over one month now I have been avoiding fresh baked breads including tortillas, along with most dairy products, but not all. Birthdays deserve to be celebrated with ice cream for however long the glow might last. Degustations, such as those Whole Foods samples of super expensive cheeses don't count, freely acquired calories never add up to anything, ever.

I seemed wise to my clients when I was able to comprehend and formulate hidden aspects of their psychological make up and coax along the integration of such 'issues in the tissues'. But really one can not claim the wisdom of an organism ones own.

For more on matters of maturity please check Friko's Living Like A Grown Up and find the original post of that same title here.

Now I do think the world could use more inspiration from the elderly, so let me share that my almost next door neighbor, a woman in her mid-seventies, announced to me only yesterday her eminent marriage to her college sweetheart. This same woman, only a few years ago when she was the ripe age of 72,  impressed me with her one-woman show of her own written material. While she touched me with her stories, she literally glowed on stage with her presence. She performed like a pro despite it having been her very first time ever to stand in front of an audience.

Meanwhile, my middle aged buddy expressed great relief when he discovered some gray in the nether region of his new love interest. They had been out celebrating his birthday while they had not yet shared their vital statistics and he was worried the age gap may prove just a bit  too much for her to bear. Proof of their acting like adults is their having dated for two months, but having abstained from going all the way.

Indoctrination by Poupetta

To smoke, as an act of rebellion, while being a teenager, does not seem rebellious to me at all. It is ignorantly giving in to indoctrination from both the immediate circle of friends and the huge, aggressive cigarette manufacturers assisted by the media.

I have often reasoned with myself that if our teenagers want to rebel against society, if they strive to become independent and think for themselves, so why on earth do they fall like flies into the vicious nets of nicotine advertising pushers? Indoctrinators who don't give a damn about anything at all but their greed for money and power?

If our children achieve the understanding and grasp the fact that they are being utterly manipulated-- played smoothly like the play-dough they used themselves not too long ago-- in the hands of those guilt-free companies & fancy executives, would they let themselves be used without a fight?
These companies, who despite the hypocritical label "hazardous to your health" on their products, become more sophisticated in masking their bloody claws into trendy, polished palavers, all in order to get our children as fast as they possibly can and turn them into addicts for life, would our children then so easily fall into these well calculated traps? If they saw the catch in time?

Wouldn't our beloved children rebel against this despicable wickedness which robs them of their freedom, and in the long run of their heath as well, wouldn't they then boycott all those damned cigarettes? After all our children see us, their role models, adults who try numerous times to quit smoking, yet fail again and again and jeopardize our health. If only they would see the plot when there is still time.

My beloved Aunt started to smoke as a joke when she was only 16 y/o. Like everybody else she wanted to appear tougher than she was, she wanted to be popular. Throughout her life she inhaled large amounts of the addictive drug until her lungs were totally pierced and black with tar. She tried to quit smoking time after time, succeeded only for a week or so, went on smoking and continued to struggled for nearly 60 years. All in vain, she was doomed from her very first "supposedly innocent" cigarette.
I saw her agony, I saw her terrible suffering. I saw her die in horrible pain, totally in the merciless arms of the cruel lung cancer caused by nicotine.

If only our children could see in time the traps that are put out for them disguised as freedom of choice.

I still remember that cigarette which I deliberately took in order to aggravate my mom-- I was only 15 or 16 y/o at the time, it was my job to rebel against her, right?

It all started a few days earlier. Two of my high-school mates called me to have a cigarette with them in a hidden corner of the school yard. One of the girls, Yona was her name-- beautiful, thick long blond braid hanging heavily on her back, smart girl, bright in class-- was my idol, someone I looked up to and wanted to be as good as she, especially in mathematics, a subject I had always difficulties with. The other girl, Devorah, was already a smoker, as far as I can recall. Yona had always enough pocket money to buy cigarettes and so she offered me one. I took it and sucked on it, not really knowing what to do, but i didn't want to appear childish so I went on blowing some smoke. After a few minutes my mouth had a disgusting taste in it and I felt nauseated, however, I still didn't stop, all I wanted was to be like Yona, popular and at the top of our class. If she did it it was an act of boldness and daring which I admired.

I decided to buy a packet of mint flavored cigarettes, called Polaris at the time, mid 60's, and waited for the moment to confront my mother. The opportunity didn't take long to show up.
That Friday afternoon, after school was done for the week, Mom and I were sitting and discussing something which I can't remember now what it was. I opened my little brown leather purse, took out the unopened package of cigarettes, tore up the cellophane wrapping, pulled out a long, white cigarette, elegantly, so I thought, putting it in my mouth, waiting excitedly for the reaction of my strict disciplinary mother. I was ready for a wild fight and about to lit my liberating cigarette, my act of rebellion, when Mommy said very calmly:
"Alors, Poupetta, tu fumes maintenant?"... So I see that you have taken up smoking, huh..."
"Yes!" I said triumphantly, provocatively, anticipating the big revolution I had in mind, imagining my mother's fuming outburst and uncontrollable anger.
Well, come on, give it to me, Mom, my 15-16 years old energy boiled in me.

Well... I sat there, still holding onto that famous cigarette, but the spark from that friction I was delivering so eagerly didn't get on fire. Neither did my cigarette for that matter. It was simply dull. Mom said no more, so unlike her, I thought, she always lectured me, always. Why, only the other day she was praising Yona, who came for a visit, urging me to take after her studious nature, I who had nothing but the Beatles on my mind!

It was a total flat disappointment, no reaction was boring and so I didn't see why I should go on pretending I liked smoking when I actually despised the smell and taste of it. And if I couldn't even get Mom aggravated so why on earth bother at all.

"Here, Mommy, take it," I said handing her the brand new package of Polaris mint cigarettes.

This is a copy of Poupetta's post on flickr which I posted here with permission in hopes of making a difference, if only to one person.

You may like to check an earlier post of mine that relates to the theme of smoking here: A Poignant Moment

Aljazeera reports on Outsourcing Addiction: "Research shows smoking has killed more people globally than alcohol, AIDS, car accidents, drugs and crime combined. Despite the risks, tobacco profits continue to soar, reaching $35 billion in 2010, or the combined profits of Coca-Cola, Microsoft and McDonald's."... "It is predicted 80 per cent of global tobacco consumption will be in the developing world by 2030."

Luz

Small Town Living

I got my mom's tiny nail scissors, dulled by years of 'schnibbling' away at my furry companions, sharpened at the farmers market, finally. Told the guy too that he had pissed me off when he payed too much attention to his apprentice and none to me, not once, but trice about 3 years ago! He apologized and I shared some of my freshly gathered apricots with him before we parted with smiles.

Apricots are in season and are dropping off trees on to public streets where it is legal to gather them. So far I collected three big bowls full, but darn it takes a lot to fill one jar with compote.  I still lack enough for freezing, much less to pass on to the nearby shelter. I have had apricots for breakfast, lunch and dinner, almost, everyday of late. In Switzerland we eat big platters of fruit pie on meatless Fridays. Here is how I make my kind of Aprikosen Waehe:  

I cup of organic spelt flour, maybe half and half with organic whole wheat flour enhanced with some sesame seed and wheat germ. 

Mix to a dough with a bit of water, braggs and sesame oil (careful of too much kneading.) 

Press in to a pie form, oiled also with a bit of sesame oil, so much better tasting then olive oil and a lot healthier then butter. 

Cover with almond pieces or more traditional hazelnut meal.

Place in heated (toaster-) oven for about 10 minutes.

Decorate pie with halved apricots, squeezing in as many as possible.

Place back in to oven for another 10 minutes.

Pour one egg sweetened maybe with sugar, or tangerine juice, added lemon juice, maybe vanilla and/or cinnamon, including a tablespoon full of yogurt or rice milk - or not.

Place back in to oven for another 10 minutes.

Voila, Aprikosen Waehe ready to eat in an easy half hour!

I love living in a small town where the fruit falls down on streets, ripe for the picking, where the conductor will wave at us from a passing train and where the security guy will stop to check in on how things are and will share the latest news, some relevant to the 'hood, but some more personal. I have not yet dared to ask about Sam's teeth, he had them before, but no more.

The Face of Patriotism

 

sweet,

simple minded,

 slightly silly

delightful in small dosages.

Jim

 

Jim can whistle 

and yodel.

In One Morning Only

Out on bike with Sumo in my bright butterfly dress, one guy took a shot and called me "beauty" (rare for me) and another smiled and recalled aloud O'Keeffe (did I look to him like an open flower, lol?) 

Outside Trader Joe's (the American version of the German Aldi) I hitched my bike to the same post, at the same time as an 84 year old cyclist (he revealed his age to me upon my prodding) but he tied his bike with a string and said he could not afford to shop at Trader Joe's. He said he had to resort to the dollar store, but not for food I exclaimed. 

I had just splurged on another Orchid I should not afford. The sprite old man told me he could not afford to get impatient as he painstakingly worked to untie the knot he had made in his string earlier. So busy, he offered me a story. With glee the skinny, a bit frail looking, little man told me how he gave a dollar to a person that had asked him for money - only to find a dollar just steps away. He promised more stories the next time we meet.

One sweet, smiling older lady in lace filled a little basket with apricots picked off the side walk. She planed to simmer them down with a bit of liquor and to pour them over her ice cream. So inspired I filled a poop bag with apricots found at our favorite park, further away from traffic. I plan to bake them in to a pie of sorts ('Aprikosen Waehe' - what the devout Swiss Christians eat on meat-free Fridays.) The first few fruits though were devoured happily by my pups. 

In the park with both of my pups, we came upon one Native American splattered out on the grass, limbs in all directions, face down, a nice bike with even a nicer crate and belongings scattered in the already hot sun. I was relieved to note slight movement of his ribcage. To intervene or not? I tried to walk on, but could not. I asked the man if he was alright. He nodded yes. Not too hot? No. The man started to stir. Then explained that a thirty-something old man had offered him a drink. He had fallen unconscious and had gotten cold during the night. He had moved in to the sun to warm up. I picked up his bike, gathered his belongings (a nice pair of earrings, he might likely be an artisan from one of our surrounding pueblos in town to sell his art.) I wished him well. He thanked me, offered me the earrings and got up on his feet, as I already had walked on down the path. Oddly my pups never barked at this somewhat strange body on the ground, I like to assume because they knew him to be good.

The morning not yet over, I brought my Isabella-girl, my first canine companion, a rescue dog, my source of too much worry and anxiety for a consultation to a Pet Intuitive right across the street. A luscious, laughing, big bosomed lady assured me that Isabella was just fine, not at all grossly overweight like my Buddy Ed tried to impress on me last night at the dog park. "You are killing her" he had told me! Both advocated to feed my pups separately for a while at least. I promise I will.