I'm tired of it
Mood:  down
Topic: Bipolar disorder
We just got word this morning that another of my uncles has died. That makes two uncles and a grandmother this winter so far, not to mention Captain Kangaroo. Maybe that part of the reason why I can't seem to get out from under this cloud.

God, I'm sick of it here.

And here's a thing. Every time one of those calls has come about another death, I've thought it might be my mother. The horrible confession is that I wish my mother could die. I'm so tired of her being alive but dead: She's been that way for almost my daughter's whole life. She's been in nursing homes or hospitals since 1995. That's a solid nine years of just keeping death watch for her. That's not something I'd wish on anybody.

It just pisses me off. But there's no one to be mad at, so the anger just folds back into the black cloud and I live here in this place with all yesterdays and no tomorrows and try to wait it out.

I was reading a website of a woman who lost her longterm partner in a sudden bicycling accident. She said that years later, while walking outside, it struck her that when she lost Ned, she lost her all her planned potential futures.

That hit me like a lightning bolt. I feel like that's what's happened to me, with this stupid crippling disease and the way it's taken my life away from me. When I became handicapped, I lost my planned potential futures. Now, I have a hard time thinking about the future, because I don't know if I'll be awake to deal with it.

I'd love to have a kiln to do some pottery, but what if we go to the trouble to get a kiln and set it up, and I get lost in the fog again and can't even do freaking pottery. I hate it.

People keep dying all around me, and I guess it's self-pity but dammit I feel like part of me is dying, too. And I can't mourn myself any more adequately than I can mourn my Uncle James O, or my Uncle Gene, or my Grandmother Herring.

All I can mourn is Captain Kangaroo and the little girl he opened doors for. She had no idea the doors would open into fog.

Everybody's Talking Jesus
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Hallelujah, Jeff Buckley
Topic: Religion
This week's Newsweek asks, on the cover, Who Killed Jesus? I'm getting a little tired of that question, especially since people seem to want to treat it as some Raymond Chandler whodunnit. Like 2,000 years later we're gonna find the single culprit, smear his (or her) name, and put everything right with the world.

Please.

I can tell you who killed Jesus, and you can take it or leave it. There's the easy answer: The world killed Jesus. The whole shebang. The total shooting match. All of us from the beginning until whenever we end in some distant future. We all killed Jesus, just like we killed all the other prophets and holy men throughout history. The blood is on all our hands. Mea culpa.

The harder - and I think more honest - answer is that Jesus died a suicide. Think about it. Jesus was God, right? And God is immortal. So even in a human body, the only way Jesus could die was to agree to it. So Jesus was complicit in his own death. We call that suicide.

Interesting.

Anyway, it's interesting to watch a Hollywood movie made by a pre-Vatican II Catholic being heavily marketed to fundamentalist Christians. It'lll be even more interesting to see what happens when it actually starts to hit theaters.

In the meantime, there's some interesting reading about it. Here's one of the more interesting ones I've read.

__________________

P.S. For lovers of the language, here's a terrific column from The Boston Globe.
At a Loss for Words

Ching ching ching ching
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: I See a Darkness, Johnny Cash
Topic: Nostalgia
Last week my grandmother died. So did Captain Kangaroo. I've been bothered ever since by the fact that I cried more for Captain Kangaroo than for my grandmother.

I loved my grandmother. She was an awesome lady. At 96, she had borne 13 children, all at home and most during Depression years, and seen all 13 of them grow to adulthood. Her husband died suddenly of a heart attack in his 40s, leaving her with four children still in school, but she just forged onward. She was a hard worker, big hearted and a lover of God. When I was a kid, she used to make a pair of pajamas or a nightgown for every grandchild for Christmas, and never had a pattern. Eventually there got to be too many grandkids - 35 - for that to be practical.

I loved my grandmother. She knew the names of all kinds of plants, and what they were good for. I wish I'd paid more attention to that. But by the time she died, she'd been on her way away for a long time. Goodbyes were implicit, if not outright. Everybody knew there wasn't much time left. So by the time she died, much of the grieving had been done.

Captain Kangaroo was another thing entirely. His death was a surprise, and even now I tear up every time I think about it. Why does a mostly fictional character (because let's face it - I'm grieving Captain Kangaroo, not Bob Keeshan) upset me more than my own grandmother?

I think it's because Captain Kangaroo was something almost mythical to me, growing up. To an only child living in a tarpaper house in the middle of cotton fields, Captain Kangaroo was a daily dose of magic. We could only get two channels where I lived - CBS and NBC - so Captain Kangaroo on weekday mornings was my only link to magic.

And I loved it. In flickering black and white, I loved the Captain's gentle ways. I loved Mr. Green Jeans and Bunny Rabbit and Mr. Moose and Grandfather Clock. I loved the ping pong balls and Tom Terrific. But most of all - most most of all - I adored Magic Drawing Board and Story Time.

Captain Kangaroo introduced me to books. I suspect he probably taught me to read. I don't remember ever learning to read - I just could. So I think I must have learned it from all those mornings of watching the Captain read "Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel" or "Millions of Cats" or that book about the guy with all the caps piled on his head, and the monkeys. Can't remember the title.

Captain Kangaroo opened the door for me to a wider world, and for that I will always love him. I suspect that if I were to see a red coat with white pocket decorations and hear those keys rattling in rhythm right now, I'd burst into tears. There's no way I can ever repay what the Captain gave that little girl in the cotton field, but I hope somehow he can know how much I thank him.

I loved my grandmother. She helped give me roots. But I adored the Captain: He gave me my first wings.

Fare well, Captain. Fare well.

No surprises
Now Playing: Hurt, Johnny Cash
Topic: Personal
Another quiz result that hits just a little too close to home:


Your wings are BROKEN and tattered. You are
an angelic spirit who has fallen from grace for
one reason or another - possibly, you made one
tragic mistake that cost you everything. Or
maybe you were blamed for a crime you didn't
commit. In any case, you are faithless and
joyless. You find no happiness, love, or
acceptance in your love or in yourself. Most
days are a burden and you wonder when the
hurting will end. Sweet, beautiful and
sorrowful, you paint a tragic and touching
picture. You are the one that few understand.
Those that do know you are likely to love you
deeply and wish that they could do something to
ease your pain. You are constantly living in
memories of better times and a better world.
You are hard on yourself and self-critical or
self-loathing. Feeling rejected and unloved,
you are sensitive, caring, deep, and despite
your tainted nature, your soul is
breathtakingly beautiful.


*~*~*Claim Your Wings - Pics and Long Answers*~*~*
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