***********
Skyline changes.
Blocking out the sun.
Haze of distant smoke
Fills the gaps.
Destruction breeds rebirth.
The trees savor the fire.
Never mind how.
It just does.
Ashes breed the Phoenix
Of nature undone.
Cyclical world knows how to
Survive by itself.
Leave it be.
It knows what to do.
Don’t rush the process.
The Phoenix will rise again.
~A
I have a few personal projects that will be incorporated into this blog. One will be a static page. The second will likely be just a post. Same for the third one. Then there’s the Big Kahuna. That one is semi-secret, namely because I want to try to get a grant to do the research. But it’s a massive project.
The first post project is about Medicare For All. I’ve had discussions on FB with people about what is being pitched and what I think it should have. Admittedly, I haven’t delved too much into it yet. It’ll take me a bit. I do know, from my own personal observations, that there are things from Medicare as it is right now that need an overhaul. My parents were on it, being they were older from the get-go. I saw issues with the system from my dad’s experiences in caring for my mom as her Alzheimer’s worsened. And for his own health.
I also don’t think what we have for Medicaid is perfect either. Same for private insurance. My ideal is to take the best aspects of all three systems and make THAT Universal Healthcare. But I’ll go into more detail later.
The second post project is more a personal observation of the systems in place for the homeless population here in PDX. Some organizations are doing just fine, others… well, they need a LOT of work. And an institutional spanking because they’re trying to do shit they don’t have the staff/funding/training for. I’ll do my best to dissect the good, bad, and the ugly.
I won’t go into too much detail about the Big Kahuna. But if anyone knows where a solo researcher can get a grant for a social science project, let me know. That one will likely surface over on a barely-started blog of mine that has nothing going yet. Life and all.
Then there’s the static page project. I can do a fair chunk of the searching for links myself, but if anyone knows of non-profits in their state/country, let me know. This project is about FERAL CAT RESOURCES. My intent is to list links and some info on TNR (Trap Neuter Release) programs in all 50 states of the US, hopefully Canadian provinces as well. And if there are any, overseas in other countries.
I think that’s it for now. I’ll try to get back to the poetry posts at some point as well. I just haven’t felt really super creative of late.
~A
To talk a bit about the holidays and not just begging for help… one trend I’ve noticed on social media this year in particular is that people complain about being lonely. It isn’t so much that they don’t have family or similar, but that they wish they had a significant other. I don’t. I’m perfectly and contentedly single and alone and all the more happy. I think what I have come to understand and many haven’t quite yet is that one really must be at peace with being alone and confident in that aloneness before they do contemplate finding someone to share life with.
Now, some of these people are also likely rather horny and want more than just companionship, but I’m Aromantic Asexual and even in some of the Ace groups I’m in, I see fellow Aces pine for someone to spend the holidays with and that they hate being alone.
For me, I have no solid interest in getting into a relationship. But I also know that sometimes the universe has a way of playing around and that there may be someone out there who gets it and would be a great life partner for me. I haven’t met that person yet, and that’s fine. I’m not ready for one. And if he wants kids, well, look somewhere else. My uterus is closed for business. Not like it was ever open for business. But I digress.
I’ll sign off for now. If all you can do is share my posts, that’s fine. But share often. It would be nice to sleep on my mattress for the new year.
~A
I have always been in the “Bleeding Heart Liberal” category. I knew at 15 that I was going to register Democrat. My parents were both registered Republicans. But from a time when Republicans were more liberal (Dad was an Eisenhower Republican) and Dems were more conservative. My mother was originally a Democrat, from back in the day before parties switched views. She switched to Republican, around when she married my dad. I think because her views were so conservative, he nudged her to change affiliation to match her views. Dad, however, was pro-choice and all the other stuff. He voted Republican, but man, he was liberal through and through.
By the time I was 18, I knew Democrat was where I belonged. Some of my views have a twinge of Libertarian in them, but I’m staunchly a Dem. When I got my voter ID card at 18, I showed it to my dad, who joked, “Where did we go wrong with you?” I knew he was messing with me in a good way. Remember, he was quite liberal and I am such my father’s daughter. He knew, in his own quiet way, that I was in the right spot.
Flash forward to this past week. A couple days ago, I got into a debate with a conservative woman from this shelter. Here’s where my pondering begins.
How can someone who is homeless/poor/etc and reasonably intelligent stand by politicians who are so vehemently against them? I’m talking about the Liar in Chief. I usually just use ’45’ to refer to him, and will do so the rest of this post.
How does a woman who served in the military and depends on the VA in all its brokenness support a man who cuts spending for the very system she uses?
How can someone who is living in a shelter that depends on federal grant money to help people say that the government shouldn’t be the ones who help the poor and disabled, but that churches should be?
The debate happened while we were waiting for the MAX train back from her first trip to IKEA is several years. When we got on the train, I was so pissed, I just started ignoring her. She turned to a man on the other side of her and started in about “ignorant liberals”
…
*twitch*
…
*twitch*
…
The one thing I got clearly from her was this: she got her advanced education later in life (a Bachelor’s in Science [B.S.] in something) and had dropped a class because the professor made something clear about some sort of view that was decidedly more liberal than conservative. She then went into how she was glad she didn’t pursue her degree when she was younger because she might have been convinced and brainwashed back then to agree with this more liberal view.
As with everything involving the women in this shelter (other than the backstabbing and lies some pull), it all has mostly blown over and she’s all smiles again with me. Meh. I’ll move on and chat again with her. Just not today.
This is why I ponder these things:
I am innately curious about the human condition and psyche. Always have been. Ever since I was out of diapers, I either had a camera in my hand or was observing people in how they acted, reacted, and interacted. I wanted to understand human behavior from the time I was really little.
I’ve long joked that I’m really an alien from another planet who was dropped off here to observe human behavior. Sometimes, it doesn’t really feel like that much of a joke. I’ve always felt different. Like I wasn’t the same. Not human. My physiology is the same, save for a few oddities, but I am essentially a human being. I just don’t feel like I am one.
I want to understand why people behave how they do, believe things they do, act how they do. I’ve always been the one who asked questions and looked for answers. As a kid, I was always pulling random things from the yard and putting them under our little 3x microscope. I wasn’t big on dissection once we got to that in school, but I wanted to learn about other things.
Why are we seemingly always at war with each other?
Why do we so easily fear and then hate each other because of differences?
I know that second one is partly why I feel so different. I choose not to fear the differences. I’m curious about why the differences are there, and want to examine those differences. I love and embrace my curiosity. I want to absorb and learn and experience those differences. And I’ve never understood why others don’t want the same.
To choose being informed over conformity.
~A
Something happened today.
Something that ripped me to pieces.
I want to believe there are humans
Who understand what being
HUMAN
Is like.
What being
HOMELESS
Is like.
My day was okay.
Except one brief moment.
That formed a black cloud
Over my head.
My soul is soaked through.
My heart and mind
Need to be wrung out.
The cloud weighed me down.
I wonder now.
Who among us
Has compassion?
A safe place for a woman and her cat?
When the world buckles underneath you,
Who do you turn to when it makes you fall?
When the help you need the most is not the help family can give you?
Where do you go?
When you scream for help, but there is
None to be found.
~A.
November 2017
SHHAAAAARREE MEEEE! Pwease?
So I must have been more tired than I thought when I wrote up last night’s blog post. I didn’t realize until this morning when I checked the stats that I’d forgotten to put anything beyond the date (sometimes I put that after I write). Whoops.
The usual stuff: need help saving storage and all my stuff, etc… yes I’m quickly running out of time here. Thursday is the auction and I need to prove I’ll have funds by the time they close the office at 6pm PST Wednesday. Yeah… only a few more days.Â
On to other things… there’s the big elelephant in the room. Mother’s Day. My mom passed away from end stage Alzheimer’s (total organ failure, etc) in 2013. But with her disease, this day hasn’t felt like anything special for a lot longer. Before that, it was ‘meh’ as we constantly fought. The two strongest willed people in the family… yeah, fireworks happened… a lot. I never got that mother-adult daughter relationship. It was stolen from me by a disease that hits the caretakers the hardest. She went to her death never seeing me as a strong adult who can do awesome things. She forever saw the four year old teaching herself to play the melody of the Star Spangled Banner on the piano without knowing how to read music, and yet, once learned, my mother actively discouraged me playing it.
I also have a friend or two who don’t think women like me with pets instead of human children should celebrate it as a ‘mom.’ Even being hostile about it and saying they’ll unfriend anyone who wishes a Happy Mother’s Day to women who only have pets.
[Oh shit… Dragon wants a word…]
Look here, hun, just because I chose to not fertilize my damn eggs and put more dragons out there to devour stupid humans does NOT mean I’m not a mom. I pick up more cat shit from one cat alone in her entire life than you do changing diapers. Don’t even start with me. I step on toys, clean up errant cat poop, take her to the vet, feed her the best damn food I can get for her and her specific needs and issues, make sure she’s healthy and happy and clean and know what that furball gives me in return?
Unconditional LOVE. Laughter at her antics. Purr therapy when I’m stressed out.Â
I don’t need to bring more like me into this overcrowded world. It’s fucked up enough without more from my gene pool. So, you go do you, be a parent to human children all you damn well please. Just know that I’m over here saving animals and I don’t have to buy them clothes every six months and worry about how I’m gonna pay for their college. I may adopt a human child one day… when I’m damn well ready to do so.
You do you, and leave us pet lovers alone.Â
[shoves Dragon off the chair]
“GO BACK TO YOUR CAVE, DRAGON!”
Sorry about that. She can be a handful at times. Anyway….
Sooo… I’m taking things one nerve-wracking day at a time. Job hunting, etc. Never easy, but that’s life.
Nightly poem to be uploaded later….
~Amanda/Dragon
(yes, still need to save my storage unit. #crowdfunding)
Something I’ve noticed recently. Those of us who have pets in our homes can treat those animals very differently. Now, I’m not talking about those who abuse their pets. There’s a special level of Hell for them. I’m talking about people who love and care for them. Especially with cats.
It can depend on the personalities of the humans and the cats, but I’ve seen a range from basic affection to where I tend to be: if Portia (or Jack or JoJo while they were alive) is on me, I ain’t moving unless it’s a dire emergency. Lately, Portia has returned to what she used to do before we had to leave our apartment. Except now she does it a LOT more. If I’m in bed, she climbs up on my chest and naps there. She’s even expanded to when I’m on one side or the other… whichever side is up, she rests on that, with her head near my shoulder. I swear cats really are like putty… they can conform to whatever is needed. Not to mention the contortionist aspect of them cleaning or sleeping.
And my old chiropractor referred to ME as Gumby… I think the cats win.
I think this is why I get offended when people tell me to give up Portia because I don’t have a lot of money and no permanent home right now. She keeps me grounded. I have someone, even if “only” a cat, to live for. To try harder for. To keep pushing myself for. I can see in those people that they’re the type to abandon a pet, no matter how much they say they care for it. They don’t believe that pets are aware of loss and other emotions. But they do. They feel, sometimes even more so than us humans.
Years ago, while still living at home, we had two cats, Skunky (the B&W girl that shows up sometimes in my featured image) and Smokey (DLH brown tabby girl). These two were best of friends. They curled up frequently on the front porch (parents didn’t really want indoor pets) in almost a Yin & Yang cuddle. Virtually inseparable. One day, Smokey died. I don’t remember how. Skunky began to lose weight, was grieving the loss of her best friend. She didn’t move much, etc. We took her to the vet and made sure she was healthy (she was), but when we got home, I told my mother that we needed a new friend for her. She was grieving her best friend. My mother wasn’t too keen on my analysis, but days later, she brought home a three month old little grey DSH boy. The movie Gladiator was in theaters at the time. My brother came over that weekend, after seeing the movie, and it was decided his name would be Max, short for Maximus.
Over time, as Max grew bigger, we let him outside on supervised sessions. Skunky perked up and was eating more and gaining her weight back. By six months, he was neutered and starting to be outside more. Keep in mind that Skunky was at least 10 by this point, but she appreciated having Max around, even teaching “how to cat.”
Years later, we would again suffer another loss. This time Max. There was another cat in the “household” by the name of Coco. Losing Max was hard, but he was roughly 7 at the time, so right in the normal age range for outdoor cat life spans. Coco helped with that loss. Skunky was still going. Certainly showing her age, though. I think one of the reasons she survived so damn long was because she loved anyone and everyone who came into contact with her. And those loved her back. She was at least 18 when she died. Likely older. She and her siblings showed up and adopted us. I was in my junior or senior year of high school, I think. She passed away around 2008 or 2009, which puts her close to 20 years old. Everyone in the neighborhood LOVED her and recognized her on sight. She knew she was dying and went off alone to do just that.
For me, my pets, which I’ve only had cats since moving out of the house in 2001, are a massive part of my life. They are my companions, my friends, my “kids.” Wherever I go, they go. I know different people behave in their own ways when it comes to pets. To some it’s “just a cat/dog.” But I don’t subscribe to that view. They’re my family.
~Amanda
*DLH: Domestic Long Hair; DSH: Domestic Short Hair
I’ve been away from the computer for the better part of Tuesday and Wednesday because I was downtown and spending most of the time at the old apartment packing up as much as I could.
Lesson 1: In dealing with stress and my own personal stuff, don’t forget the valium. (I almost went into a full panic attack breakdown yesterday)
Lesson 2: It may not seem to me like it’s a lot of stuff, at least in my mind, but to others, it is. The hoarding mindset is, in my opinion, a mix of genetics and learned behavior. My mother was this way and my brother and I are both like this to some degree. My dad kept mom in check (throwing things out behind her back) but neither my brother nor I do. I’m working on it slowly myself…. I’m aware of it and try to let things go. I know it isn’t wholly learned behavior because my other sibling is adopted and has the exact opposite attitude about holding onto belongings. Her attitude, even about my father’s cameras and photography, is that “it’s just stuff.” Family heirlooms mean nothing to her. Some may agree with her, but most people I know don’t. My mother’s pottery and my father’s slides and negatives are their legacy. They weren’t famous, but they were both damn good at the things they did. Yes, us “kids” are as well, but none of us have children…. to pass along their accomplishments so others may know of them is the least I can do.
Much like when my dad died, having to abandon some of my stuff (including a stool I made) feels difficult. One day I have these things, the next I don’t. When dad died two years ago, I had JUST talked to him the day before about different things and trying to go down to visit one last time for Christmas. The next evening, he passed away. Gone.
It’s difficult to let go. No matter what it is. Or who it is. Even if it’s a person you don’t really get along with. An abuser or ‘toxic’ person can even be difficult to remove from your life. There are many reasons why. I don’t know them all, but I know some of my own.
Yesterday, while starting to pull some of the things in the lower kitchen cabinets out to fill smaller nooks and crannies of a box, I found a small ceramic dish I’d painted some years back at one of those “paint your own pottery” places. I have two of them, one for Jack and one for JoJo. Jack’s is in his Memory Box along with his collar and tags. Yesterday, I found JoJo’s. Almost six weeks to the day of having to put her to sleep. I stopped cold. The other stuff was minor, normal store-bought stuff… but this was something I painted for her… a wet food dish with her name on it. It, of course, did not go into the box. I put it in the 2nd duffel bag that came back here with me last night.
Memories, keepsakes, things to remember others by. Those are important to me.
I’m working on the Letting Go part for other things.
~Amanda
* – There is some question with using the term toxic in describing someone. They may not necessarily be ‘toxic’ to some people, but to others they are.
SHARE ME!!
1st order of business: Yes, I still need space for Portia and myself to stay starting on Saturday the 18th or so. No dogs, close to transit, Oregon side of the river, close in PDX preferred but not mandatory. Can cook to help. Do some dishes. I’ll do my best to keep my stuff clean and organized. I have an interview tomorrow for a job, but even if I get it, it will still take me a bit to get funds saved up (unless I get initial funds elsewhere for a deposit, etc for my own place again). Just need fridge/freezer space for some food, and can’t let the cat outside.
I also need to get storage paid… $280+late fees…. I have about $60-ish right now…. any help will do. PP is fastest.
Memories: I was talking to a friend on FB on one of her wall posts about various movies and such, and it got me into talking about how my dad and I used to have this “competition” of sorts getting each other hooked on TV shows or introducing a movie.
Thanks to me, he loved Down Periscope. He served on a sub at the end of WWII in a Balao class sub, the same class as the diesel sub used in the film. It started way back with MacGyver, Lethal Weapon movies, then JAG and NCIS, and so many others.
It got me missing my conversations with him. We talked about anything and everything. Other than my best friend (since we were 9, thank you), he was one of the few I confided in early on about the sexual assaults and other things that happened. We could talk openly about everything. He was that kind of person for me. While other women are closer to their mothers, I wasn’t. We had a strained relationship (putting it mildly). But dad and I? From my childhood, we were damn near inseparable. He encouraged my creative mind and endeavors more actively later on. But even as a child, he let me use him as my “dragon” while out “dragon hunting” in the field. He let me sit at his drafting table and use it for my own drawing. There were rules. I couldn’t use the big paper, but small stuff was fine. He’d let me watch him work on his side drafting jobs. Even if I didn’t always feel included in things, he did what he could.
As we both got older, our conversations leaned toward discussing the past and encouraging humor and creativity. I never knew he was so supportive of my music until months before he died. We may have had a skipped generation between us (he was in his mid 40’s, as was my mother, when I was born), but he was a wonderful person who did what he felt he could do to be the best dad he could. I seriously feel like that kind of connection is one not always found between father and daughter. Maybe I’m wrong. My dad was my hero, my cheerleader, and a whole lot of other things. When I was down, he nudged me to get back up and keep going. Keep trying. Don’t ever give up.
It’s been over two years now, and I wish he was still alive right now. He would be 90, but still stubborn as all hell and telling me to never stop trying. He’d likely try moving heaven and earth for me as well. He was that kind of dad.
~Amanda
I have my times when I do ask for help. I have to. I prefer being independent, but even I have to rely on others at times. But this doesn’t apply to my whole life.
Including today’s client, I’ve had a few clients verbally applaud me for doing furniture assembly. The stereotype of construction-like things is traditionally male. But I’m not exactly traditional.
I grew up in a fixer-upper house and was my dad’s mini-me shadow. I knew hand tools -and how to use them- by the time I started kindergarten. I was about that age when I “helped” my dad and siblings with the substrate plywood layer on the flat roof of an addition to the house. I wasn’t very good at getting the nails hammered in right, but I still helped. I grew up watching This Old House with my dad. I still watch it.
When I was 19 and moved into my first apartment an hour away from my parents, I soon realized I was in a bad neighborhood, and being a suburban kid mostly sheltered from all of that, I bought a chain to put on my door. For a few weeks, I asked my male cousins and my dad if they could come over and install it.
After a few weeks, I gave up asking and headed to the store to buy my own damn screwdrivers and tools. I installed that chain myself. That was a turning point for me.
Over the years I’ve built basic furniture (the guys at HomeD always look at me funny), repaired old furniture, assembled more IKEA than most people I know… you get the idea.
So most of the tasks I get hired for are for assembling stuff from IKEA and Wayfair (do NOT get me started on them). To me, it’s just something I know how to do. Nothing spectacular. It never really occurred to me that this was anything different than the norm.
I’m a computer geek and I assemble things. Two things that are traditionally male-oriented. What I’ve found in these gigs is that clients who are female and live alone appreciate that they can hire another woman instead of having concerns over their personal safety by hiring a strange man through an app on their phone.
It’s physical work. And with all of my injuries reminding me of their existence, I do walk away sore and sometimes in pain. Okay, usually in pain. But I enjoy helping people. I can’t stand for very long before the pain sets in, so retail jobs are pretty much out, but these occasional gigs are fine, as long as I have a day to recover.
I’m not perfect. I have plenty of failings. But I am empowered by the comments I get from clients. They appreciate that they’re seeing a woman doing tasks that aren’t traditionally “feminine.” Yeah, sometimes I wear skirts…. but I’m certainly not super-femme. I’m just me. Sometimes I need help, sometimes I don’t. I do what I can. And sometimes, that’s not “traditional.”
Which is fine with me.
~Amanda
The Great Penguini Speaketh 