Archive for the The meaning of life Category

[I, Petunia] Not for sale; Decency

Posted in Communication, Confusion, Fellow Human Beings, Honesty, I Petunia, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Literary, Love Thy Fellow Man, MANNERS, Narcissisim, Petunia, Philosophy?, Regretful Human Behavior, Schemes, The meaning of life with tags on July 19, 2013 by Admin

A work of fiction, by Petunia Jablonsky, to be presented in serial format, a few sentences or paragraphs whenever… our attitude is the difference between an ordeal and an adventure.

I, Petunia, am not angry. I no longer feel anger, at anything; I am angered out and logic has prevailed. I am flattered in some cases and proud in others. The common denominator of what I, Petunia, feel is pity. I am absolutely content. I always survive. I have me to thank for being that smart, that logical, that strong, and I am that grateful for these gifts such that all I can muster is pity.

They say we teach others how to treat us, that we seek that is what is most familiar, that the first 3 months of a person’s life are the most important in terms of early childhood development, that we make our beds. I, Petunia, believe all of this. I believe I am the common denominator of all interactions i have in life and thus I merit some responsibility for my part in them. I did not choose my adoptive family but I did choose my partners in life and I taught them how to treat me. Once I realized this I set about changing. I’d always been working toward change, struggling to evolve, but it often seemed like shoveling against the tide. Sometimes if you cannot beat the mouse infestation you need to burn down the barn. My barn was burned down when I was robbed, emotionally beaten, and left for dead. It took a complete breakdown to rebuild where effecting change was unsuccessful. Thus, I would not change a thing that has ever happened to me and with me, because it is how I got here — to complete contentment, however modest.

“She always had her hand out”, explained my ex-brother regarding my years-long absence to one of our relatives in the state to the north, who listened and nodded, filing this tidbit away so as to tell me later.

greedIt was an absolute and absurd lie as he, the ex-brother, the “martyr”, had schemed and plotted over a decade or so to steal my inheritance because, as he’d reminded our entire family ad nauseum since the day he arrived as an inexplicably grasping, greedy, and sad infant, that he was “the good one”. He got off on being “the good one” as he had an empty life and so money and material gain, the reward of attaining all of these empty means, became both void-filler and lover of sorts. I used to be angry about it but after many years of rumination could muster only pity, though there was a time when I was all too aware of the fact that his daily walk from home to office meant having to walk past the huge marquee announcing the movie, “The Forty Year-Old Virgin”, during it’s run at the little theater downtown. Now I feel shame for snickering at that, and can muster only pity.

I’d never coveted money — preferring to spectate as others shamelessly and transparently fall all over each other, selling their souls and yet believing themselves absolved by way of a weekly trip to church or whatever justification they fabricate — and had let this happen while never believing it could happen, just as I had politely turned down the lawyer who had insisted I sue another ex, the sole ex boyfriend (of a list I can count on one hand) with whom I am no longer friends, for Malicious Prosecution, after he’d unsuccessfully sued me (not his first or last visit to that rodeo) in a case the judge had thrown out while shaming the DA for even daring to present such a travesty in an actual courtroom, though it had cost me $4800 to hire a dense lawyer; a criminal defense lawyer at that.

Lrainater I was told that the window clerk who’d allowed the bitter ex to even file the criminal complaint — an expansive and sad girl “not impervious to flirtation” — had been reprimanded, as had the clerk of courts who’d nervously allowed this farce to proceed from complaint to trial, and the DA who’d blushed when the judge had forced him to repeat the charges aloud, so as to emphasize the taint now blighting his career record.  The judge had later insinuated that he might feel inclined to award treble damages should I wish to pursue damages for the time and money I’d spent, but I declined, finding the idea unseemly.

220px-40-Year-OldVirginMoviePoster

I’ve forgiven both exes since, on my own and in lieu of any sort of apology or reparation though I have reached out and provided the opportunity, and have unloaded that baggage in a metaphorical dumpster, content to have my integrity intact, yet I feel the stories are forever mine to tell, as I am a fictional character and this, of course, is a fictional tale…

It was 2 am as my dog and I walked the dark mountain road through a monsoon reminiscent of the ones Tony and I had experienced in Chaing Mai, with rain of the sort that was not made of raindrops and did not fall, but rather drove and it pounded in sheets,  punctuated by thunder and frequent lightning which seemed to hit the ground dangerously close, and we were terrified. A car rolled up and I heard my name…

Some Beautiful work…

Posted in art, Artists, BUY LOCAL HOLIDAY GIFTS HOLYOKE MASSACHUSETTS, BUY LOCAL HOLIDAY GIFTS NORTHAMPTON MASSACHUSETTS, Honesty, lessons in Art, LOCAL WESTERN MASS ARTISTS, LOCAL WESTERN MASS HOLIDAY SHOPPING, LOCAL WESTERN MASSACHUSETTS ARTWORK FOR SALE, LOCAL WESTERN MASSACHUSETTS HOLIDAY SHOPPING, Love Thy Fellow Man, MANNERS, Special People, The meaning of life, The Process of Art, Thoughts on December 16, 2012 by Admin

that I felt I must share.

I have been following Tracey’s work for years and delighting as it gets better and better. Her use of color is astonishing  and her composition is delightful and yet mysterious!

Someday I am going to own a Tracey Physioc Brockett.

“On my Home Health visits I see the effects of war, the wearing down of age, the ravages of disease, the entropy of life. As well as stories of pain and loneliness, of loss, there is love, joy, beauty and above all hope. Sometimes when I am tired and overworked, I forget to look out the window as I drive, to see the sights. Sometimes, as when I am working with a profoundly deaf woman, it is the light streaming through an old window pane and onto a glass ornament that can spark us to look deep into each other’s eyes. At night, when I am exhausted I ask myself, is this all there is? To eat and sleep and get up and do it all over again, to dress and wash and settle people for the day? Is there a future for this planet where we have done such wonderous things, where there is so much incredible beauty that it makes me hungry for it, even as it is plundered and disregarded, where so many people are taken advantage of, or, worse, ignored? Then I pull out my colours and let my mind quiet, and I paint for all the hurt and beauty of the world. I can not know if it is enough for the future, but it is enough for the NOW.”

~Tracey Physioc Brockett

Tracey Physioc Brockett

Cricket, 2012
Tracey Physioc Brockett

For more work see her website at http://www.physioc.com/, and for mer musings, see her blog at http://physioc.blogspot.com/

Tracey Physioc Brockett

Slow Turn diptych, 38 x 50 inches acrylic and oilstick on paper, 2012

Diagram B; Tennis
30.5 x 31 inches
acrylic and oilstick on paper, 2012

FOR MORE CLICK HERE

THE KEVIN SERIES: American Kevinstand

Posted in Activism?, Adventures and Interludes, Exhibits, Important Social Issues, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Love Thy Fellow Man, Narcissisim, Obsessions, Philosophy?, Photoshopping Kevin, Popular Culture, Profiling, Science?, Special People, The meaning of life with tags on November 26, 2012 by Admin

Kevin’s wife Juli is my biggest supporter.

THE KEVIN SERIES: Intricate Polychromatic Art Speak for Incongruous Fun Torturing Kevin

Posted in Activism?, Adventures and Interludes, Being a Virgo, Communication, Confusion, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Literary, Narcissisim, Pest Control, Philosophy?, Photoshopping Kevin, Special People, The meaning of life, The Process of Art, Therapy, Thoughts with tags on November 26, 2012 by Admin

An old image I found years ago:

which was then modified for an old blog post:
https://benigngirl.wordpress.com/2008/04/05/intricate-polychromatic-art-speak-for-incongruous-fun-and-conflative-prophet/

recycled for THE KEVIN SERIES.

THE KEVIN SERIES: Dissecting The Projectile Photshopping Opus Of My Muse, Kevin

Posted in Activism?, Adventures and Interludes, Being a Virgo, Communication, Confusion, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Literary, Narcissisim, Pest Control, Philosophy?, Photoshopping Kevin, Special People, The meaning of life, The Process of Art, Therapy, Thoughts with tags on November 26, 2012 by Admin

This is part of a new series I have only just realized I have been working on for days and which I shall post here as both intellectual fluff and bloggerly filler, as I slowly find my way past the crushing pain (I live with NINE herniated disks/sheer pain, daily) and back to the habitualities of blogging regularly.

This blog has been untended for some time yet I realize that with this sort of Spy vs. Spy relationship I have going on Facebook with my pal Kevin, I have created a series of artwork which should be shared with all, for Kevin says and does the craziest things.

After a grueling day spent posting about politics (which hurts my head, even to simply post that which I have observed, for posteriority) my brain needed an exorcism of sorts and so I made ART. I have a new muse, Kevin who, much like Dwight Shrute, is a farmer. Kevin is my muse. Kevin pretends to me angry about this, he rants, he raves, he threatens, and yet if I miss a day he starts baiting me which I smartishly recognize as begging for more.

Also, this is how my brain works:

And so, I present the new and ongoing series (until I become apathetic), Photoshopping Kevin. It begins with random photos stumbled upon in the interwebs and takes on a life of it’s own. So each opus shall include the before image.

I call this one, Dissecting the Projectile Photoshopping Opus Of My Muse, Kevin, With Identities Blurred.

Before:

After:

The Road to Hell Is Paved With Unwanted Ceramic Owls

Posted in Confusion, Fellow Human Beings, Philosophy?, The meaning of life, Thoughts on September 26, 2012 by Admin

An exercise in/of unfinished and unpolished fiction, with interspersed summary of Babbitt, by Sinclair Lewis — a brilliant parody of “idealistic” middle class life from the perspective of one man’s (aka, everyman) delusional self-satisfaction arisen from self-perceptions of “superior social standing”, materialism, and delusions of grandeur as derived from comparison between oneself and others  — courtesy of sparknotes.

On April 20 1920, dawn breaks over Zenith, a Midwestern town bustling with new skyscrapers, automobiles, and factories. George F. Babbitt, a 46-year-old real estate broker, reluctantly awakens from a recurring dream about his fairy girl, a slim maiden who fulfills his fantasies of being a “gallant, romantic youth.” In reality, Babbitt is a middle-aged, rather pudgy family man. His home, replete with all the modern conveniences, is located in Floral Heights, the middle-class residential section of Zenith.

Petunia was in the parking lot of her boyfriend’s office building, waiting. It was a small and nondescript one story building in a suburb well outside the big city where he evidently made a lot of money, but she had little interest in money — a taste she would never acquire —  though she worked at the plush corporate headquarters of a purposely snooty worldwide women’s fashion retailer. Petunia’s responsibilities sometimes included making copies of the buyer’s sheets for clothing purchased in China and marked up, for example, from an $8 purchase price and sold through their catalogs and stores for an end price of 98$, to women of a certain self-satisfied confidence like that of the women executives at the retailer, who, according to their oddly loud conversations while in line at the cafeteria, would wear their new garments to garden parties on the expansive grounds of stately homes, or weddings in which the bride would carry pink roses and the place settings would be marked by monogrammed green golf tees. She often wondered if the green tees would ever make it to a gold course and why these women never smiled. Petunia did not aspire to this world. It did not seem like much fun. In fact, Petunia would never fail to be surprised upon encountering those who did aspire to this life, and this would become a lifelong series of such surprises from what she thought of as unlikely sources.

The morning newspaper calms his agitated nerves. He reads it aloud to Myra, but only the popular society column interests her. Babbitt grunts at the praise heaped on Charles McKelvey’s parties at his lavish home. Myra hesitantly ventures that she would like to see the inside of his home. Babbitt asserts that Myra is “a great old girl” and states that it is regrettable that he didn’t keep in touch with McKelvey after they graduated from college. Babbitt kisses her before leaving for work.

Grumbling to himself at Myra’s desire to associate with “this millionaire outfit,” Babbitt exits his home to start his beloved car. He wishes he could dispense with “the whole game.” He doesn’t mean to be irritable, but he constantly feels tired.

While waiting for her boyfriend, Fred, to exit the building, Petunia watched his co-workers parade past the car. Some seemed startled at the sight of her behind the wheel because she was definitely not Fred, yet she was in his unmistakably very bright red car, but then they kept walking.

Petunia liked her boyfriend’s sense of humor, as well as the fact that she had met him once as a child while camping in another New England state, the one he was from, which made him seem more down to earth and where he would register the red Porsche he’d be driving when they would meet again years down the road. The car she sat in now was also red, though not as expensive as the Porsche would be. This one was registered in the town he actually lived in, also outside the big city, which he shared with 2 other very aggressive salesmen. The term “salesman” made her think of Rotary Clubs, Fuller Brushes, and the novel, Babbitt, by Sinclair Lewis, who also lived in that other New England state at one point.

Babbitt is first and foremost a parody of post-World War I middle-class American culture. The name of the town, Zenith, implies that Babbitt’s community views itself as the highest point of American civilization. Zenith worships the world of business: its skyscrapers, factories, and automobiles are symbols of rampant commercialism. Babbitt’s home is a miniature representation of the American middle class’s worship of material objects. It has all the modern conveniences, including an alarm clock blessed with all the latest technology.

One might think that Zenith’s gleaming, modern skyline and Babbitt’s slick, modern home imply that Zenith is indeed a wonderful, interesting place to live. However, Babbitt’s fantasy fairy girl reveals that Babbitt is dissatisfied with his life as a middle-class family man. The description of his house reveals that its sleek, modern appearance is just that–appearance. It is designed to show off the occupant’s wealth more than anything else. Lewis states that Babbitt’s house lacks the aura of a home, that it is as impersonal as a hotel room. He compares it to an ad in a magazine for “Cheerful Modern Houses for Medium Incomes,” further emphasizing Zenith’s empty commercialism. Lewis’s description of Babbitt’s house reveals the monotonous conformity of the American middle class. All of Babbitt’s modern household appliances are the “standard” possessions of his class. Babbitt’s house is simply a mass-produced, standardized symbol of middle class affluence. It is like every other prosperous middle-class house in Zenith and presumably like middle-class houses all over the country.

Petunia had the fancy red Saab because her Hyundai was in the shop, and Fred, her boyfriend of several months, had let her drop him off a work in the morning so she could drive to her own office. When she got to her office she’d not been able to get the key out of the ignition so she’d had to leave it unlocked while she ran to her desk to call his office. It turned out that Saab’s must be in reverse with the hand brake on in order to be able to remove the key. Everyone had a good laugh at that. When her boss saw the car she’d advised Petunia, “Marry that man”, but at 21 Petunia felt too young to get married.

[Babbitt’s wife’s] entire outlook on life is heavily influenced by the middle-class worship of material objects, as her argument with Ted about the family car further reveals. Like many other middle-class college graduates, she is more in love with the idea of liberalism than anything else. Ted is obsessed with nice clothing, cars, and girls like other middle-class sons. Again, Lewis emphasizes that the materialistic middle class favors appearance over substance.

Petunia “liked” liked Fred but his friends intimidated her as they were all of the aggressive salesperson type and all talk was of money and commissions. Petunia had convinced herself that Fred was different despite the book on his shelf titled, “How To Dress Rich”, which she thought somewhat hilarious, especially the part about wearing the oh-so-obvious cravat. Petunia’s dress was from the Dress Barn in the same town as her office, but she thought it looked good enough, given the compliments she’d received. It was not her size but it was cheap and flowey so she’d gotten it anyway. Fred had said he’d liked it the last time she wore it.

They’d gotten off to an odd start as weeks had passed since he’d first called her just two days after meeting her in a bar downtown and she’d had been unable to accept his offer of dinner due to firm plans to go to her hometown for her brother’s birthday. She’d then heard from Fred weeks later only because one of the friends she’d been with at the bar that night had been dating one of his co-workers and had suggested they all four go out. They laughed a lot.

Babbitt’s diatribe against Verona’s “liberal” opinions and his reaction to the morning paper clearly indicate that he has few original opinions. Rather, his entire belief system is based on the opinions of his community, often absorbed without question from the newspaper headlines. His middle-class hubris is revealed in his empty diatribe against giving the poor “notions above their class.”

A few minutes before Fred finally emerged from his office building, a woman had walked by and had made a point of staring at Petunia as she sat in the driver’s seat. The woman seemed older than Petunia by six or seven years with a somewhat dated yet preppy dressage and hair which had obviously been blown out straight and set on rollers; women still used hot rollers back then. The woman lingered longer than might be polite and Petunia had the odd feeling that her own hair and dress were somehow not acceptable to this woman. Petunia’s hair was not styled, nor straight.

When Fred, who was a year older than Petunia, had finally emerged from the nondescript one story building, he’d seemed troubled — a different person from the extremely happy guy of the night before and that very morning. Petunia made some small talk yet Fred remained distracted, troubled. Finally Petunia asked what was wrong, to which Fred replied, “Jennifer, our secretary, just said that she saw you in my car and that you “don’t look like my type.” Fred seemed disproportionately unnerved and in Petunia’s mind she saw the book on his shelf.

Years later at another downtown bar near her apartment Petunia and a friend would bump into Fred (after an embarrassingly unsuccessful attempt to escape through the back door, thwarted by a security guard), and he would regale them with stories of having been cleaned out in his divorce from a woman named Jennifer, joking that he’d gotten nothing but an unwanted ceramic owl received as a wedding gift, adding that he could not recall from whom it had been given.

When the bar closed they’d have drinks on his friend’s large boat docked nearby — named for the business scam by which it had been purchased, a scam not to be divulged yet to be hinted at repeatedly — and have non-conversations about material things. The next day they would take a ride in the bright red Porsche registered in the other New England state to save money, and when Petunia picked a long blond hair off the seat and remark that she must be shedding, Fred would laugh and say, “No, I am sure it was already in the car”, and Petunia would be glad to get home.

Petunia would remember this decades later when a friend would say, “So, Jane asked me the other day (imitating a falsetto-ish voice), “Oh, is Petunia your new best friend now?”

Although Babbitt is quick to demand that the poor stay in their assigned place, he and Myra harbor a desire to move into the elite circle of the McKelveys. Myra wants to be invited to their parties. Babbitt criticizes the McKelveys as snobbish highbrows, but it seems that his criticism is merely a means to salve his bruised ego at being excluded from their world. Lewis implies here that typical Americans, regardless of their class, are obsessed with excluding those less fortunate, as well as gaining the acceptance of those more fortunate…

…despite the pleasure he seems to take in his affluent lifestyle and its accompanying symbols, he seems rather dissatisfied. He mutters that he would like to dispense with the “whole game” as he leaves the house.

Wonder Bred

Posted in Activism?, Adventures and Interludes, Being a Virgo, being defensive, Confusion, danger, Empathy, Fellow Human Beings, Get Informed, Honesty, Important Social Issues, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Love Thy Fellow Man, Non-Selective Empathy and Compassion, Northampton Police Department, Philosophy?, Regretful Human Behavior, Special People, The meaning of life, Thoughts, We Are ALL Peers with tags , , , , , , on September 19, 2012 by Admin

UPDATE: It seems that Mr. Sir and John counted fourteen policepersons in all on this fateful evening and so I thought this worth adding. Because so often people tend to exaggerate numbers and situations, it is my way to… what is the opposite of exaggerate? I am going to check the antonymary… I am going to go with understate. Anywho, I tend to always round things down as I find that hyperbole discredits the point one is trying to make. My memory of that evening is very clear though it is the emotional part of it that is most fixed. As we waited for forty-something minutes for the FOURTEEN policemen to decide what to do with us, I ruminated on the inherent hypocrisy of the situation, the shame, and the tragedy, while my ethnic companions counted cops over and over, as the numbers increased. Part of me doesn’t want to believe there were quite that many uniforms surrounding mar car but I know my companions to eschew hyperbole as well. I am not going to go back and edit the post below, so this update shall suffice as sufficient edit.

All that for a YELLOW light.

I have a friend, whom I shall call Mr. Sir for this post, and who is a rather wonderful mixed breed of African American, German, and Native American, which is rather evident in his features. Mr. Sir is a well-educated and accomplished sort of sir and holds a very prestigious position at a highly regarded art museum with a notable (7$s worth) collection of Fine Art. Often Mr. Sir is sent to other countries by this museum as trusted escort for priceless artwork — by the likes of Monet, to name a one — when this museum borrows or loans work from/to other prestigious museums. Museums do this, and the work being shared MUST be escorted for various reasons, all of them, like, totally important. He has also been sent to other countries to authenticate rare works of art ($729,000 worth of rare art on one trip alone) before his employers write the check, and is responsible for conserving six figure works, like when kids stick gum to paintings and whatnot.

Art is also “handled” by “Art Handlers” and shipping companies, but that good, bad, and sometimes rather ugly inside scoop is for another post. Mr. Sir is not an Art Handler though, yet our pal Biggie is, who is big. And strong.

Cowboy Curtis,  looking surprised, in a gold fine art frame. I kill me!

Mr. Sir has experienced his fair share of flights running late, resulting in his dashing through airports alongside said priceless works (think very large packages and/or crates) in order to make connecting flights and he has been stopped — due to the packaging and the features and the dashing — at a more frequent rate than other running airport people, the point being that he is among those who seem to attract such visual scrutiny in airports. Therefor, Mr. Sir is ever-s0-vigilant to shave on flight days, even if that means shaving at 3 am, because he has learned by the seat of his delayed-ass pants that the combination of facial hair plus dark skin color and exotic features can result in scrutinizinglied missed flights, and how often can one ask their employer to purchase yet another last-minute flight due to attention attracting (not ALL of it bad, actually) exotic features?

I have tried to walk a figurative mile in Mr. Sir’s various ethnic shoes yet I am merely able to  approximate what life must be like for persons of different colors and ethnicities, having been born a whitey through no merit of my own (I’m looking at you white people who feel superior for “winning” some sort of pre-birth lottery). Recently, however, I had a small taste of this thanks to the Northampton, MA Police Department. Thank you NPD, I am now ever more sensitized to the dubious perils of being non-white. Though having been pulled over in the south — by another baby-faced, blond-haired, blue-eyed officer — and astronomically ticketed for being a Yankee,  I know a wee bit of the helpless rage one feels at such injustices.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets profiled and finds their car surrounded by policemen wielding flashlights and a few rounds of hollow-point suspicion.

I don’t choose my friends by visuals; I choose them by their souls, how they make me feel about myself, and that which is abundant in their hearts. My companions on that fateful night are two of the most sensitive, sincere, compassionate, spiritual (by which I mean that they believe in and practice that which is truly good and beneficial for fellow humans, though not affiliated with any particular brand of religion), kind, generous, intelligent and evolved people I have the fortune to know. They are beautiful people, inside and out.

Mr. Sir, like many of his related relatives before him, has in the last few years been getting more involved with his Native American roots.  He grew out his adorable jheri curls and now sports braids, often sporting Naive American-ish clothing. Noooooo, not feather headdresses and immodest scraps of buffalo hide barely covering his manly bits, I mean “ribbon-ed” shirts and beaded necklaces. “Ribbons” in this case refers to hand stitched designs — by an authorized person — which signify one’s specific tribe and whatnot, including admirable accomplishments I believe, though not scalps of whites brought back to the rez, silly. I don’t understand all of it and so I will leave it at that. Mr. Sir goes to Pow Wows all over the country, participating more and more in Native American ritual and philosophy, which is about kindness, peace and forgiveness. They best believe in forgiveness, for what was done to those native to this land was deplorable; being slaughtered and herded onto fenced millifractions of what was once their own land. And it hasn’t ever gotten much better, though the slaughtering ceased ages ago.

My stash.

Mr. Sir always bring me back a satchel of sage blessed by a Medicine Man at the Pow Wows and I burn it for friends who need prayers. I swear sometimes it works. I have never been to a Pow Wow or even a reservation — not because I haven’t wanted to go, but because, “It’s not a fucking theme park”, and I get that.

Through Mr. Sir, I had the fortune to meet Gary Farmer, an accomplished actor (Dead Man, Adaptation, and Dances With Wolves — in which he uttered his now-iconic line, “Stupid Fucking White Man”, and who now tours North America with his band, Gary Farmer and the Troublemakers, and with whom I once did a pretend duet at a gig and furtherly for whom I am to one day do a documentary of his life as activist, actor and blues musician — our interview went THAT well. Mr. Sir plays in Gary’s band, as does his pal John, who is part of this story.

BTW, soon I will post here an interview I did with Gary Farmer over a year ago (shamefully delayed) and which I have since been editing down to an hour.  Our conversation was so fascinating that I didn’t want to lose a single sentence of it but, alas, 2.5 hours is too much.

AnywhatthehellwasItalkingaboutanyway, this post is about profiling in what had once been considered one of our most “sensitive” and progressive  towns here in “The Happy Valley”, and involves a traffic stop, a few police cars and foot/bike patrolmen, my car being surrounded by EIGHT policemen (there were no female police present, hence the term), and a subsequent verbal warning, after about 40 minutes in all of boredom and profound embarrassment for all involved (looking at you and your armed cohorts, Babyface).

The Northampton, MA Police Department at work; As seen in my rear view mirror.

It all started one night when Mr. Sir and his pal John and I were on our way back from seeing a band in Greenfield, Ma. It was a dark and stormy night… yet it was a clear and balmy evening.

John, the other passenger, was in town from Rio Rancho, New Mexico for a visit with his pal Mr. Sir, as well as for a reception; he was showing his work at an area gallery. John is a big guy, and has hair down to his waist. One can easily guess at his heritage. John also has a business crafting beautiful custom guitars and plays as a studio musician and in several bands including Gary farmer and The Troublemakers. A friend of his from high school in was playing at The Art Bank in Greenfield and so we all went to see her band and I paid 3$ for a airplane-sized bottle of water, while Mr. Sir and John each had a single $20 (ish) beer, as I don’t often drink and we’d been fairly depleted by the $10 cover charge.

On the way home we took the scenic route and as I approached the intersection of Main and King/Pleasant streets in downtown Northampton, MA the light suddenly changed from green to yellow, just as I reached the stop line. Rather than slam on my brakes — though I was in second gear and thus only going about 20 mph, having just stopped at the Cumberland Farms for a candy bar and thus having not driven far enough to get past second gear — I felt it safest and perfectly legal (it is) to just go through the intersection. As it is a short yellow light, it turned red just as my tires crossed the stop line at the other side of the intersection.  Just then Mr. Sir said, “Monkey (he calls me ‘Monkey’, because of this picture of me as a child, in which, logically, I look like a monkey), there was a cop right at the intersection on the left, facing us!”, and I said, “No problem. That was a perfectly legal maneuver.” But the cop had seen Mr. Sir’s ethnic face in the back seat window — they looked right at each other — and soon enough I saw the flashing lights in my rear view mirror.

I pulled over immediately, which un/fortunately was right in front of The Elevens ( a local bar popular with the young folk), and as luck would have it, half the bar was on the sidewalk out front providing us with an audience. It would later turn out that one of Mr. Sir’s coworkers was on that sidewalk, watching the whole show and wondering whether or not to jump in, being a sophisticate and well-connected and all that.

View from passenger side window.

Then there was a flashlight in my face, held by a young, very white face. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Yes, because I went through a yellow light.”

“Well, it was red…”

“It was yellow.”

As we spoke, his flashlight searched my car. A second cop then joined the non-fray, and his flashlight also got busy all over my car through the window on the passenger side, including into Johns face in the passenger seat, and all over the back seat including, as I noticed during one of my rear view mirror glances, right into Mr. Sir’s non-buffalo-hide-clad crotch.

“How much have you had to drink tonight?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure? Because..I mean, you ran that red light back there.”

“It was YELLOW. I had nothing to drink. Check me.”

“Well, no, I don’t really smell alcohol.. it’s just that…”

“Check me.”

His flashlight continued roving the depths of my car, breaking up his sentences as he divided his attention between what he was saying and whatever insidious contraband for which he eagerly searched. It shined into my eyes, down to my feet, straight into John’s and Mr. Sir’s faces. New flashing red lights arrived, reflecting off the rear-view mirror, and then there were a few more cops comically/cautiously nearing, elbows bent and hands twitching near hip-mounted gun holsters — while yet more approached the car, and us perps, from a different direction, suggesting they were not from the arriving/flashing car behind me. Perhaps they were on foot and/or bike? Northampton, MA has a few bike cops, because it is a very dangerous town. In all I counted ten cops, which suggests some of them had to be on bike or foot, as there were only two police cars; ONLY. I amused myself by picturing them all tumbling out of a single cruiser clown-style, while we waited. And waited.

“Go ahead. Check me. I give you my full permission. I had one small, over-priced 3$ bottle of water.”

I had handed over my license and registration, and so I added, “Run my license. I have a clean record. Perfectly clean.”

Me and my homies. Werd.

Throughout all of this both Mr. Sir and John had been staring straight ahead, neither saying a word. They seemed oddly immobile, and even possibly nervous, which surprised me because one does not get arrested for running a yellow light. And that’s when it hit me — this, the two police cars, the ten policemen in total circling my car with flashlights, the lights GLARINGLY flashing, all of it — this is what happens to them, this is what they expect and are what they are used to, even for more minor “transgressions” than running yellow lights. This was a nearly inconsequential example of what it is like to be them, to be viewed with what seems an awful lot like an assumption of guilt, rather than an assumption of innocence, or an assumption of neither.

Were I, a white woman, alone, and had that light actually been red, I sorta doubt there would have been an extra police car and a few extra foot cops. I felt angry, embarrassed to be white, sad, and resigned. With the crowd waiting and watching from the sidewalk across the street — likely thinking this was some serious shit going down and someone was about to be cuffed and taken away, due to the sheer number of cops and cars — I felt shamed, demoralized, furious. I am grateful that I am not made to feel this way on a regular basis, but there are those for whom this is a way of life simply by virtue of their appearance and it begins at birth.

NOTE: Neither of my passengers wore gang colors, do-rags, or saggy pants; both were securely belted, seat belt and otherwise. Neither of them wore face paint or wielded bows and arrows. There were no battle calls, tomahawks, guns, knives, glassine packets, glassy eyes, or vicious dogs involved. No test tubes, scales, suitcases full of cash (else I might have had an adult-sized bottle of water at the bar, or even two), there was no cloud of smoke in the car, no odor, and no lawyers on board.

I forget what the blue-eyed cop with the fair and enviable baby-smooth skin said next, but before he walked back to his car to run my license I found myself blurting/explaining, “Look. My friend here had one beer at the Art Bank, and he works at ____. And this is our friend visiting from Santa Fe, who is a musician and artist. I think he had one beer as well.  We went to see a high school friend’s band and now we are tired and on our way home. That is all.”

The accessories make the scofflaw.

My young, fair, blond, blue-eyed cop joined the bulk of the group of now TEN cops — well, he joined five of them; four were in front, ostensibly keeping an eye on us, while the rest had gathered behind the car. I watched in the rear view mirror while they discussed “the matter”  for 20 minutes. Does it take that long to run a check? For 20 minutes we sat and waited, and I kept an eye on them in the rear view mirror as they discussed us while facing my car from the back. There seemed to be some brainstorming going on as they chatted back and forth, while looking at my car, at us, back at each other, some chin stroking going on, some harsh reproving glances, more chatting, and then FINALLY Blondie came back to my window.

“I’m going to give you a warning. This time. But [something something something] red lights [something something]“, to which I replied again, yet this time halfheartedly, “It was YELLOW“, and he nodded, handed me my license and registration, and walked away. No written warning, just a mere verbal warning.

I was a bored/exhausted nervous wreck as I pulled out back into traffic, and I had trouble seeing because of all the still-flashing lights, but then we were free, and we waved to the few dozen patrons of The Elevens still on the sidewalk as we drove off, at 5 mph.

All that for a verbal warning.

This is fucking hilarious!

In Which Paula Burns Her Head With Her Instyler and I Come To A Rescue, Of Sorts

Posted in Activism?, Adventures and Interludes, Advice, Being a Virgo, Confusion, danger, Fellow Human Beings, Important Social Issues, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Literary, Philosophy?, solutions, The meaning of life, Thoughts on August 1, 2012 by Admin

For a client (facebook friend) who required that a customer service letter be written after tragically burning her head with her Instyler (whatever that may, or may not, be, which is in question on my end) in order to alert the proper authorities to the hazards of Instyling hair:

[IMAGE LINKS TO SOURCE]

Dear makers of Instyler,

While using my Instyler yesterday — which I ALWAYS use with the utmost measures of care and precaution — I somehow managed to burn my head. I wholeheartedly believe (due to said care and precaution) that this is the direct result of a flaw inherent in the design of this implement and/or that it lacks sufficient safety precautions for mere mortals such as myself (though I humbly yet honestly assure you that I am an extra-ordinary person, exhibiting a cerebral capacity and wit not common to the masses, yet, as I must now also candidly admit, is perhaps but a mere smidgen below that [intellectual capacity] of Marilyn Vos Savant, whom I find to be, at times, overly obsessed with dry unbuttered facts, and a twee bit humorless, as does my friend Malraux, who once notoriously spit out an omelet fed to him by Jean-Paul Sartre composed of cigarette, some coffee, and four tiny stones, and who, yet, was able to see the profound humor in such an experiment, for Sartre’s Cookbook.

As you may by now have discovered vis a vis (added for affect, not pretension) my unmatched capacity for oxymoronic and enthralling run-on sentences, I am a multi-faceted and fascinating genius, and thus this accident — the unceremonious and unintended burning of my head (of which my horoscope* (reproduced in its full coincidental warning bell-ishness below) warned against this week, which has added to my new anxietal condition, for the wrath of the stars is vast and fierce) — is not likely to be the fault of a pedestrian intellect nor a careless use of said Instyler.

Perhaps hair was meant for self-protection, rather than serve as point of potential vulnerability, the maintenance of which, heretofore, herewith, and hereof/in can lead to catastrophe vis-a-vis flawed styling implements and their inherently herein-ted insouciant lack of the most basic human safety precautions and/or inherency-filled obstacledom to self-harm/foldment/spindlement/mutilation-ment, and so on and so forth, by way of desperate attempts to meredly adhere to ludicrously unattainable societally-imposed standards and measures (with applicable charts and graphs) of beauty? Such are the dramas, the potential traumas, the tortures of the mind, the conundria that Mr. Rogers never explained, which Captain Kangaroo never disclosed (because dude was absolutely into aesthetica, yet in a manner in which we were too meredly mortal to grasp) which torture me, keep me up at night, erode the last bastions (bastonia) of my sanity, as I insomniacally wonder  at the lost innocence that never was in this world in which we so dramatically and yet so shallowly live, in such an aesthetic manner. Werd. 
[IMAGE LINKS TO SOURCE]

While my grammatical tendencies may belie a jaunty disregard for the parameters of language and its regulatory aspects, I can assure you that one must be exceedingly well-trained in such grammaticalistic disciplines in order to thus nonplussedly swat them away with such a level of jaunty disregard, and thus, as it very logically follows, the masses are in the gravest danger lest safety measures be added to the Instyler.

Since the head-burning I find myself perplexed — a perplexion born of sheer terror and anxiety, which has resulted in a befuddlement of the most basic brain functions — by the simplest of appliances and tools. My anxiety has grown and has taken root like that of an aggressive climber such as a Clematis plant, perhaps, with a power like that of bamboo to voraciously take root and assertively unseat the foundation, in this case of my mind. I am utterly paralyzed by the thought of using my Swingline Stapler or grinding my coffee beans and as a result both my stapling and filing needs, as well as my nutritionary needs, are being less met with each passing, torturous hour, as my life devolves into complete chaos, directly opposed to my Virgoan tendencies and thus in opposition to the stars, the universe, life as I knew it.

The Instyler sits on the counter in my bathroom complete with attached piece of my burnt head and a pile of noxious odour (spelling used to insinuate my boarding school days in London), mocking me, mocking my un-Instyled hair, mocking my very existence as a now-damaged being. It cannot be long before my increasingly bizarre behavior will be noticed by my fellow Mensa members and soon the only club that would have me will have me no more, furthering my eddy-like clockwise-ishly (there must always be some Virgoan order, even in the throes department) descent into madness.

I fear it is too late, domestically — it has been noticed by my husband, whom I now suspect of trying to lock me up in a room adorned by the most crazy and appalling yellow wallpaper under the guise of  “a relaxing week’s vacation in The Berkshires”, while stroking our cat, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, who smirks at me now  with utmost insouciance. He ( for Charlotte is a he) is the enemy, or is it my Instyler? I no longer have the mental capacity to tease such discernments out of this situation.

And how, pray tell, will I present myself to Berkshire society with un-Instyled hair?

Please, if you are human, help me. Please.

With utmost sincerity in run-on sentencery,

Mo Gareau

*Virgo Horoscope for week of August 2, 2012

Verticle Oracle cardVirgo (August 23-September 22)
A few years ago, a Malaysian man named Lim Boon Hwa arranged to have himself “cooked.” For 30 minutes, he sat on a board covering a pan full of simmering dumplings and corn. The fact that no harm came to him was proof, he said, that Taoist devotees like him are protected by their religion’s deities. I advise you not to try a stunt like that, Virgo — including metaphorical versions. This is no time to stew in your own juices. Or boil in your tormented fantasies. Or broil in your nagging doubts. Or be grilled in your self-accusations. You need to be free from the parts of your mind that try to cook you.
Whether it’s your time to ferment in the shadows or sing in the sun, fresh power to transform yourself is on the way. Life always delivers the creative energy you need to change into the new thing you must become.

[SOURCE]

ED NOTE: To me, Lim Boon Hwa is alliterationally reminiscent of Sis Boom Bah and thus it should be followed with a ! where appropriate.

SHARED POST: I AIN’T NO BROKEN WINDOW

Posted in Activism?, Empathy, Fellow Human Beings, Get Informed, Homelessness, Important Social Issues, Love Thy Fellow Man, Non-Selective Empathy and Compassion, Philosophy?, Regretful Human Behavior, Special People, The meaning of life, We Are ALL Peers with tags , , , , , , on April 2, 2012 by Admin

An important read from Arise For Social Justice, a “Western MA low-income rights organization which believes we have the right to speak for ourselves. Our members are poor, homeless, at-risk, working, unemployed & people pushed to the side by society. We organize!: voting rights, housing, homelessness, health care, criminal injustice & more!”

Why do we stigmatize fellow human-beings who are less fortunate? To look at them as unsightly is to be devoid of empathy for people who are just like us, yet not like us, yet possibly like us, for one big financial or physical catastrophe could take many of us down. Read on — “Jenise Standfield from the Coalition on Homelessness in San Francisco posted this essay online today.  Springfield had its own Broken Window proponent, former police commissioner Edward Flynn, who would have his officers take pictures of homeless people, so this article struck home to me.”

The person credited with coining the theory of Broken Windows policing died last month and people are starting to ask what Broken Windows are all about.  Those of us who have been identified as no more than a broken window are sick of it.
The Broken Window social theory holds that one poor person in a neighborhood (or, using social theorist James Q. Wilson words, “a vagrant or a drunk”) is like a first unrepaired broken window.  If the window is not immediately fixed, if the vagrant is not immediately removed, it is a signal that no one cares, disorder will flourish, and the community (warehouse) will go to hell in a hand basket.
For this theory to make sense, you first have to step far far away from thinking of people, or at least poor people, as human beings. You need to objectify them.  You need to see them as dusty broken windows in a vacant warehouse.
Wilson himself admits that his reasoning here seems unjust.  One drunk or vagrant suddenly becomes a score of drunks or a hundred vagrants.  They will destroy an entire community, and they will destroy an entire downtown business district and that is why we now have Business Improvement Districts with police enforcement to keep that neighborhood flourishing and poor unsightly people out of it.
TO READ THE REST OF THIS ESSAY, AND I WISH YOU WOULD, CLICK HERE.

The Practical Princess Part II

Posted in Adventures and Interludes, Being a Virgo, being defensive, Life Performance Art, Miracles, Obsessions, Self-defense for women, solutions, The meaning of life, Thoughts with tags , , , , on April 1, 2012 by Admin

CONTINUED FROM WHERE PART I LEFT OFF.

EXCERPT FROM PART I, ABOUT THE DINOSAUR TRACKS PARK OFF ROUTE 5 IN HOLYOKE:

“At times the parking lot is full, and it seems there is always a Subaru something-er with roof racks parked in the lot, as kayakers seem to use this spot as frequently as hikers, as well as families and sometimes people walking alone or mothers with a child or two. It seems safe, an innocent diversion even, far from the flats of Holyoke where I have my studio and where I exercise increased caution. So I thought nothing of taking my dog Jamoka for a walk there, that day a few years ago, a day much like today… beautiful, breezy, sunny, quiet..”

We’d been here often, perhaps daily at times, and at least once or twice a week, for many months. That there were days we left without having our walk because the lot was full — all the cars overcrowding the little arc-shaped slip of a parking lot seemed to reinforce that this was a safe and well-inhabited spot. Jamoka loved to walk out onto the sun-warmed rocks and down into the water where they made a little ramp, and then he’d lie in the sun and dry off, after first doggie-shaking off the excess water followed by that little butt-only wiggle-flourish he’d do and I’d laugh out loud every time. On the way down the path I’d throw sticks I’d collected along the trail and he’d gleefully run for them, tongue flying, through the woods and over downed trees, ultimately diving into the river and doggie-paddling triumphantly back with the stick held aloft in his mouth. I’d wade around up to my knees collecting and throwing the sticks that he’d drop just shy of dry land and then we’d sit and watch the dusk gather unto itself and start the uphill walk back to the car before the dusk actually began it’s show.

On this particular day of which I write, the tiny park was an especially glorious, quiet, and un-crowded retreat; as we’d headed down the trail I’d encountered only a very charming and smiley elderly man and his companion, a boy who was possibly his adolescent grandson and who was also very endearing — noticeably well-mannered, and eager to recount that which he’d learned in school about dinosaurs and tracks. The boy had told me all about the age and history of these tracks including how they rated in comparison to others he’d studied and encountered in his travels, as driven by his interest in geology. I remember being rather fascinated, thinking to myself “I must tell ___ or ____ about this! Who knew that dinosaurs _____-ed?”, yet that was all quickly erased, existing now only as blanks in my memory of that day, though for some reason I can recall almost all but those sundry dinosaur facts.

It was a ridiculously picture perfect day; the sun shined so brightly, the sky a  cartoonish blue — complete with such fluffy cotton clouds as those crudely shaped by a child un-self-conscientiously wielding an ample supply of chalk — and a soft breeze blew which I very much remember thinking of as “delicious” (I have always had a thing for wind), which, combined with the tweeting of myriad birds and the waves lapping against the rocks, seemed the most delightful cacophony of sights and sounds as we sat on the rock looking out onto the river. I felt consciously content, happy.

But then, though it was far from dusk, I felt a gnawing unease and decided it was time to go; I was hungry and had dinner plans that night for which I’d need to change clothes. Jamoka was ready for dinner.  As I gathered up the sweater upon which had served as seat cushion and picked up my cell phone, the one I always carried in my hand due to my aversion to carrying a pocketbook, I hoped that whatever dinner plans I’d made would consist of a cookout so I could get more of this lovely, breezy, near-perfect day.

As I stood up, thus signalling to Jamoka that it was time to go, I remember realizing how suddenly very quiet the area was, and wondering if the birds were all at dinner or having siestas.  Looking around, I realized everyone had left but for us — it was definitely time to head home. As we started from the clearing by the water toward the trees and the trail to my car, I saw something move through the trees, and then something else; my instinct told me it was not the elderly man and has grandson and I longed for the sight of them, as instinctual warning bells clanged in my mind.

And then a guy appeared, looking a bit shifty, and slowly there appeared another, and another. I felt that feeling  in my gut that I get when I know something isn’t right or when I hear a strange noise in the middle of the night which seems to be inside my home. They seemed about 20-ish or even late teen-ish, and looked to be the type one frequently sees in the flats of Holyoke, from my personal experience, and one wore a hoodie which pretty much obliterated his face, and which seemed odd for such an almost-hot day.

Now a fourth appeared, much heavier, sloppier, and I was closer now, close enough to see them give each other the side-eye as some signal seemed to pass between them. They each moved slightly, nodding at each other and looking toward me, forming a line across the only entrance to the narrow trail and, once in place, they all turned, almost at once, and faced me, looking directly AT me now, not merely toward me, and that’s when my being seemed to seize. I glanced at Jamoka to my left and he was not wagging his tail, which to me was a sure sign that he had a bad vibe. I wondered how Jamoka would protect me from 5 men.

And then there were 6, and I froze, as one last man appeared and stood across the last small gap between their human chain and the entrance to the trail, tilting his head back and looking me over through slitted eyes, spreading his legs apart as if expecting some sort of impact, as if to lower his center of gravity, with arms crossed and menacing expression.

I saw that now that they had all 6 of them assumed this legs-apart, arms-crossed, leering, determined, hard and hardened stance, and were all facing me, eyes on me, all on me alone, for a split second on Jamoka, gauging his strength and ferocity perhaps, nodding almost imperceptibly yet again to each other, slow smirks appearing on a few faces, a bored look on another, cheshire cat smile of anticipation or excitement on another, who seemed to lick his lips, with a resulting palpable tension in the air which seemed almost to thrill them as their body language said little yet everything; I was in danger, this was the only certainty, I felt extreme fear in every cell. I started mulling, figuring, running through every possible scenario and option, in what felt like minutes but which was about 10 seconds in reality. I was 12 feet away now and I heard no sounds but the water hitting the rocks. What had happened to the birds? How could the sun be shining and how could the cartoon clouds just… be there… as if nothing were wrong? Time seemed to stop, and my mind went into fast forward; and this is what I thought, for it is imprinted on my memory and has been relived in many a subsequent dream:

They will hear me call 911 and there is no way a dispatcher will get anyone here in time to help me, if I can even finish the call. Calling for help is useless. It would only take them a few minutes to attack. There is not time to explain to a dispatcher or to anyone where I am exactly. There is nowhere to run. They have me surrounded but for the water behind me. They cannot be up to any good. They have  spread out like a line of soldiers and they all have sinister faces, evil, they are frowning, why are they frowning at me? EVIL. Evil is here. I am done. What will happen to Jamoka? Will he rip them to shreds? There are too many. OH SHIT, A ROPE!? What is in that guy’s pocket? Am I dreaming. This is NOT happening. Denial will do me no good. Will they let me by? Maybe it’s not a rope, they don’t even need a rope. No. No. No. I can’t risk getting close enough to find out and I can’t turn around. I have to go through them. I have to get out. To hesitate is to show fear, fear would appeal to their worst instincts, these animalistic damaged “humans”. They will be excited by my fear.

I wonder if they know how to swim.  Maybe they don’t know how to swim… If they don’t know how to swim then maybe Jamoka and I can run and jump into the river and swim down river using the current to help move us move quickly and we’ll emerge on the riverbank farther down. Will Jamoka know to follow me? What if he doesn’t? I will not leave him. We are in this together. Why is he frozen like that? Then we will have to walk along Rt 5 to my car but that’s ok because cars will be driving by and will see me, or them chasing me.  My cell phone will get wet and I’ll have no way to call. I can run out into traffic. But what if Jamoka follows me into traffic? I wonder if that guy from the trophy house is out walking his dog along RT 5. It is usually at this time. But he can’t help me. He’d get hurt. He’d have no time to call the police either. His dog might be able to help. No his dog has only 3 legs.

Oh my god, they just took a step closer and spread out more. They are blocking every possible direction between me and the road. We are too low to be seen by passing cars. Why didn’t I notice everyone else leave? If I scream I wonder if anyone will hear me. What if I can’t scream, like in those dreams? They just moved toward me again. This is like a bizarre game of chess. One is grabbing his crotch, no, is he? He IS  looking at me, into my eyes, they are ALL looking into my eyes… there is no way that is not a signal. Is this how it ends? It can’t be.  It’s not fair, it can’t be, I have overcome far too much for it to end this way. Jamoka will be scarred for life by what he sees, or he could get killed trying to help me. SHIT. Who will take him in if he makes it? Dianna?

I wonder if, when my father sees this on the news, he will care at all. No, I doubt it. I guess Marty didn’t need to go to all that trouble to steal my half of the inheritance. It won’t matter now. See? He didn’t need to go to all that trouble. I wonder if he will ever feel at all ever guilty, or, sad. Will my father even mourn a little bit? No. I should have a will. Who will get all my art and all my belongings? What if the landlord takes them? No, I want my friends to get everything. Maybe my father will try to claim it all? I could actually see that. Marty stole my money but for some reason he wouldn’t give back my paintings though I asked him WHY the hell he would even want them, given that he admitted his theft and practically gloated about it. They would have my stuff on eBay in a week. But no, my friends won’t allow that, no way. He will tell all the relatives it was my own damn fault like he told me when I was chased by the 5 drunk guys in the North End after dropping Melissa at Logan Airport — and they LOVE her — so she’d not have to pay for a cab. Everything is always my fault. I got out of that potential gang rape when they yelled “LOOK! It’s a girl! let’s get some asssss”. But I had room to run and already had my keys intertwined in my hands, the vestibule key ready.

Why do I care what they will think after I am gone? They have never valued my life. This time I have no room to run past the group of guys and no key in hand to slide into the lock, just in time. Why is my mace at home? Where is my mace? It would never work with 6 guys. They could simply grab it and use it on me. FOCUS.

If there were only one of them I could try the moves we learned in self-defense class at UMASS. Maybe Matt is watching me from the beyond like he does and will send help. Grammie and Grampie are always watching me. I definitely have guardian angels, they saved me when I skied off that cliff; they turned me around in mid-air so I didn’t hit the trees head-first. I almost bit it then. Yes, they will help me. NO, I have to help myself. Maybe someone will show up any minute and they will save me. Maybe these guys will leave me alone. NO, that is foolish thinking, they have a plan, that much is glaringly obvious. Maybe they will just gang rape me and leave me? But if Jamoka attacks them will they kill him? No, cannot let anything happen to Jamoka.

Did they just take another step? Oh shit now 3 of them are grinning, smirking, look away, no don’t look away, act confident, be alert, think, did I just hear a zipper? My mind is playing tricks on me, they are screwing with me, warning me, that will be the end, snap out of it, do something. BE the Practical Princess. What would she do? She’d use her wits against them. She’d throw them an effigy dressed as herself, filled with gunpowder – how can I do that? They can’t be too bright, outwit them. Look confident. Someone is snickering, this is a game to them, they are bad, definitely bad people, EVIL, I need someone to show up right now, I will invent people, people very near, it’s worth a shot, How many people do I need? I can only pull off a few, maybe that will be enough, don’t over do it and make it implausible… I don’t have time to even dial out. I’ll fake it… now, it’s gotta be now… NOWNOWNOW, DO SOMETHING, nothing to lose, everything to gain… be confident…. DO SOMETHING. This will NOT be how it ends. FUCK THEM. 

“Hey Dean!”, I began cheerfully, after doing a little ‘oops’ maneuver, as if jolted by the vibration of the phone, and putting my phone to my ear as one finger pushed the green button twice thus dialing the last call, “Yeah, I am on my way… nooooo, yes, to meet YOU, yesss, at the parking lot…huh?.. yes, at the parking lot, like I said I would … yes, right now… (using that “duh” tone of voice, which I usually disdain)…

As I spoke, to a ringing phone, I started walking purposely and confidently toward the men, continuing my “conversation”, trying to act as nonplussed, as natural as possible, looking at the ground a few steps ahead of me as one does on uneven terrain, heart pounding, turning to Jamoka saying, “Come on little guy! Let’s go see Uncle Dean!”, praying they’d not hear the pounding of my heart, sense my fear, and call my bluff… it wasn’t perfect but it was a shot… make the call seem very natural, not an act…

“I am NOT late! I am NEVER late! NOoooo, bullSHIT, I AM here, yes, on my way up the trail… you ARE? Then why are you pretending you didn’t see my car? loser!….

By now Dean has mercifully answered though I cannot fill him in on what is going down, and he is saying, “What ARE you talking about, Mo? Are you ok? Where ARE you?…”

“…No, not at all. Yeah, well just keep walking down the trail and you’ll see me, we are heading toward each other… Yes! About 20 steps from the parking lot, right below the dinosaur tracks…”

Dean is now asking if I am ok, should he come to meet me? Do I mean I am at the dinosaur tracks on Rt 5?….

“Yes, exactly! …. what? You can? I don’t see youuuuuu? (craning my neck, looking into the woods over the men’s heads) Oh, well, then I am more like 15 feet away from you, no, not yet, but I don’t have my glasses… (squinting [hoping it is not too theatrical] into the woods between the two men closest to the mouth of the trail)….  Billy is here too? No, it’s fine that you brought him. I am surprised Mr. Vanity took an evening off from the gym. So where are we going for dinner?” (NOTE: Billy is not a Mr. Vanity type, I actually call him Mr. Fabulous, Mr. Sir, or Mr. Elusive, but I wanted to get the idea across that my men were capable)

I am hoping Dean thinks to jump in his car and head over to help me… knowing there isn’t likely anything he can do, yet feeling guilty if he does show up and ends up in danger too, knowing there isn’t possibly time for Dean to help, though he is not even a mile away…

“Wait, I think I do see you guys…”, (craning, smiling directly at the man chain, as if I am about to bump into my men friends)… “Wait, are you wearing pink?”

Fortunately not one of the men turns around. They are holding their stance yet I think I feel some nearly imperceptible shifting or un-spoken plan re-assessment…

At this point I was about a foot from the line of men blocking the trail and Dean hadn’t actually said he was en route but he was staying on the phone with me. Not more than a minute has passed since I “answered’ my phone. Time is moving too fast and not fast enough. That I could hear the fear and concern in Dean’s voice ever-so-briefly snapped me out of my act but then fear turned back to adrenaline channeled into my faux chipper “call”, but here was my big moment when I’d try to get past the men… it was the moment when I’d succeed, or not… FOCUS.

As I approached the human blockade I took a deep breath and said into my phone, “Well, this DOES count as being on time… I’m, like, a few yards away from you. Will you stop saying I’m late AGAIN? Uh-huhhhh…”, and as I broke through the human chain — at this most crucial and precarious fraction of a moment — deftly taking a casual diagonal side-step around the legs most directly in my way, and thus slipping nonchalantly between the middle guy and the next guy in line, I threw them a smile.  I smiled right at them and added a conspiratorial eye roll regarding the shit I was clearly taking on the phone for being late. And suddenly I was past them, almost free.

It took all I had to not turn around and to refrain from breaking into a run.  It seemed imperative to be confident, to not show fear, to NOT turn around, though I was tensed for the smallest of noises which might indicate that they had even merely turned around to watch me,  their prey, go; I consciously identified as “the prey” during this ordeal. I heard the single crackle of a twig but I did not turn around, instead I laughed into the phone at some pretended bon mot. The tension was achingly palpable and I feared that to run would blow my confidence act and trigger a chase, if they sensed fear they’d know I was meeting no one on the trail, my charade would collapse, so I continued the “call” all the way to the parking lot and then, suddenly, I was running to the car, shoving Jamoka in the back seat, and hitting the button that locks all the doors.

Even with Dean still on the phone (by now I had assured him that I was in my car, safe, though I would not feel safe for a long time) I could not feel safe till I had pulled out onto RT 5 and pulled into traffic gunning the engine, thinking at this point that should I get pulled over for speeding it might serve me well, that they might have time to catch the guys, but then my mind raced still, and I was simultaneously afraid to have to identify these guys and… for what? They’d not touched me. I was safe. And so I slowed down.

I don’t know if I stopped at Dean’s house on my way home as he’d suggested on the phone; maybe I did, or maybe I went straight home and locked the door, sobbing. I have forgotten all but for the contrast; the beauty of the day and how it so suddenly changed, about my evidently successful “acting”. To be that close to… to that which I could not allow myself to name, or to picture (though I ponder it still), was traumatic. I did grudgingly allow for a bit of self-congratulatory sentiment for my quick thinking, but yet, I cried at odd moments over the next few weeks, maybe even months. For to be that close to the possibility of a violent death, to the R word which is every woman’s fear, to contemplate all 100 pounds of me trying to fight 6 men, is all too much to ponder.

In fact, what began since that day, by way of forcing myself to focus on something/anything else as I  drive through that area, has become a somewhat obsessive game of sorts in which I delight with almost too much glee, on the how the trophies are arranged in the window of what we call, “The Trophy House”,  (many frequent drivers of Rt 5 along the Holyoke/Easthampton line will know the teeny house with the trophies in the front window, will know what I mean, instantly) to an unusual degree, calling Billy or Dean to report with awe and wonder that “Trophy Guy” has now moved all his trophies to the other window! Now they are in a circle! Now they are in a square! OMG! Today they are all lying on their side! Maybe he is cleaning? Maybe he no longer bowls and as such does not want them around as a reminder of his bowling days? Whoa, They are back! There is one less today! OMG, I saw “Trophy Guy” walking his dog and he isn’t limping!

I realize only now, as I write this, that the trophy house  and it’s myriad trophies has become symbolic of the extraordinary use of my wit in my conquest of the Six Bad Men.

So long as the trophies are there, in whatever new arrangement, they are a reminder that yes, I am The Practical Princess.

And I still call Billy and Dean to report on the ever-changing display of trophies in that teeny house near the tracks.

%d bloggers like this: