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Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
This wasn't the first time I'd ever seen these steps. I've walked up and down the block they are on many a time and never found them to be photoworthy. But this time the light was right. Sometimes that's all it takes. A new light.
Two
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
Sound of the dog bowl
alive with disappearing kibble
your passive aggression
in the background your
rustling Sunday paper
Hiding behind locked door
lukewarm coffee by the side
of the bed, I slip and slide
riding rough shod over past
resolutions to do better
Their Garbage, My Treasure
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
You walk up Richland Street with two significant others: boyfriend and dog. They keep walking while you stop to photograph some dirty old pieces of linoleum and wood wedged between a wall and a garbage can. The picture doesn't look the way you imagined it would, which is both bad and good.
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
Yes, I admit I included a human subject here. But what attracted me? A split second of "coincental convergence" of lines and colors, more than anything else, I think. This woman and her dog match each other and, together, also match their fleeting backdrop.
It is my firm belief that the majority of dog owners "match" with their dogs and/or vice versa. Give that dog a plaid jacket and he (or her?) and his mistress could be fraternal twins.
Forgive me. I am doing what is known as the Pathetic Procrastinator's Post. Rambling aimlessly, avoiding working, chit-chatting about nothing much at all. What can I say of importance this morning? I dunno....
I have a hair appointment at noon. Four weeks ago I asked Jack if I should get a cut that added some softness around my face, maybe like partial wispy bangs (not full out bangs) on my forehead. He immediately said yes he thought that was a good idea. He was so decisive in his response, I believed him!
But last night when I asked him again what I should tell the hair guy to do today, he immediately said, "Get a cut that gets your hair OFF your forehead. Push your hair BACK."
Huh? I told him the only way it would go BACK would be if I glommed a ton of some sticky moussey product in it. Otherwise, it falls sideways and half onto my forehead.
Clearly he is of no help or use. Clearly I am clueless, as well. As is my hairdresser, who hasn't done anything fantastic for me in quite a while, probably because he doesn't include eye jobs or facelifts with his cuts.
What else? Marketing. Today I have to work some more at marketing the next session of Writing Salon classes. This is a neverending job. I always think it will end at some point, but that is delusional thinking. It does not. It never ends.
What else? I need to clean up the bedroom. And eat breakfast.
What else? Maybe I'll put a culture question out there. Should Jack and I rent all the back seasons of The Wire? I never watched it but now I'm hearing that it was a phenomenal show. Did I miss out on something great? Should we do a Wire marathon, the way we did our Six Feet Under marathon, oh so long ago?
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
Yup. I have enough interaction with strangers without also taking pictures of them. I spent several hours composing a letter to the HOA off and on over the last few days, responding to their various complaints, point by point by point.
By the time I was done with my meticulously careful attempt to answer responsibly, honestly, and conscientiously, and to offer solutions to their expressed concerns (some valid, I realize, but others trumped up and bogus, which irks the hell out of me) my entire body was aching with stress and exhaustion. Literally aching from head to toe.
As one of my favorite teachers wrote to me upon hearing of these recent woes,
"Unfortunately these HOAs can be difficult for anyone to deal with, anywhere. When I was working in the homeowners insurance business, I had a lot of clients in condos, etc. who ran into difficulties with these groups, who are often composed of people who just like stirring the pot and, more importantly, making rules. Lots and lots of rules."
I suspect this is one reason why I am drawn to take photos of non-human subjects. I find relief in the simplicity and serenity of simple geometric patterns, lines, composition. I find solace in the quiet solitude of stone, metal, light and shadow.
Isn't life a challenge? A neverending challenge!
My big dream: To live in a cozily isolated dwelling, surrounded by a moat, with a great huge drawbridge between me, my peaceful solitude, and the world at large. I am a recluse at heart. A solitary being. The dynamics, the messy and often distressing demands of socializing and "relating," whether "casual" or "heavy duty," don't appeal to me. Call me lazy, call me unfriendly, call me cold, I don't care. They are just too much fucking work.
I have a hard enough time trying to scrape past the surface of mySELF, trying to understand mySELF., let alone anybody else. Why would I want or attempt to understand the other crazy, mixed up people all around me? Or, god forbid, control them? Or have them try to control ME? What a nightmare. Jesus, I'll mind my own freaking business, and you mind yours, okay? And never the twain shall meet, comprendez? You go your way and I'll go mine. End of a nice and solitary short story.
Enter the HOA. God how did I get myself into this? What blinders was I wearing when I went from what I thought was the worst hell on earth – renter's hell – to this new "I am a member of a homeowner's association" hell?" What veil of illusion did I allow to blanket my big wide innocent hopeful eyes? I bought my own home because I thought that meant freedom from having a landlord breathing down my neck and, on a very basic survival level (roof over my head) controlling my destiny.I thought I would finally be free to have control over my personal space and also over my business space. I would be able to do whatever the hell I wanted, within those private boundaries. Finally!
Well, crimeney and motherfucker. I'm starting to think this is a fate thing for me. A karma lesson. Some joker has put me on earth to suffer through battle after battle with my desire to NOT have to deal with the crap of human interactions. I dream of hermit heaven, and find myself smack dab in the middle of running a business that throws me into one annoying or frustrating or infuriating or mystifying human interaction after another. . . with, all too often, some fucking stranger who is either a busybody, a manipulator, a whiner, a liar, or...let's just lump everyone into the lovely all-purpose category of asshole.
I know, I'm being a cup-half-empty kind of a gal today. My vision is short, my perceptions are skewed, my insight into my Higher Self is cruelly limited. So sue me. Go ahead you mealy-mouthed, anal-retentive, pea brained moron, sue me!
Is there really anything worse on this earth than our having to learn how (or even just attempt) to walk through this world ACCOMPANIED? My dear (but also demanding of my time, energy, effort and attentions) Significant Other (aka Jackie Pie) believes in getting to know his neighbors. He's such a nice and friendly and giving guy. He willingly approaches this Herculean task (I see it as a Herculean task...daunting...viciously annoying) with great good will and optimism. I, on the other hand, must be dragged kicking and screaming, every single day, to the intersection of myself and Others.
To be continued (sheesh) . . .
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
Okay good. That's over with. The MRI went fine. The machine is hugely loud, makes all sorts of clunking and thunking and pounding noises. In the background, behind the clunkings and thunkings, it makes a steady beating noise, like it has a heart, a giant machine heart. But you wear ear plugs. And if there's an earthquake you are NOT closed in; it's like a big long donut, you can get out either end. Duh.
I don't know why my memory of it was of being enclosed...maybe because all you remember is darkness, because you are lying on your stomach with your face in one of those cushiony rings like massage therapist have, and my eyes were squashed closed. It's quite comfortable AT FIRST, but then you start wanting to move around and let the blood in your face circulate, but you can't because you have to stay really still for the whole 40 minutes that you're in there.
Now I just have to wait for the results, and try not to spend too much time asking myself a bunch of "What If?" questions. Fat chance!
Above is agave pic #3. I think it's sensuous. Erotic, actually.
Now back to the website update, which I'm working on while Sandra Bullock's Speed 3, "ship out of control!" movie permeates the rest of my brain. (The day before yesterday I watched Michael Clayton, which I thought was very good. Yesterday I watched In the Valley of Elah, with Tommy Lee Jones and Charlize Theron. Tommy Lee pretty much always plays the same character, but Charlize impresses me with her versatility as an actress, I must say.)
Happy Daylight Savings!
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
I'll post this, then be on my way to the MRI appointment. One hour in The Machine. A big cylinder. Lying there. Very still. Waiting, counting, bored and wondering what would happen if I got forgotten. Left in there. You know, like what if an earthquake hit and nobody let me out? That's why I told Jack to come find me if I'm not home by 1 p.m.!!!
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
Yesterday on the way up to the hill, I rediscovered cactus (agave? yucca? I'm not sure). My photos pale beside a few of the others, done by pro photographers (or so it seems to me) that I found on Flickr when I did a search for agave.
But that's okay. These beautiful, sensuous plants did my soul good. . . and helped fortify me for the job of updating the Writing Salon website, which I am now about to plunge into. It is one of the least sensuous activities in the universe.
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
Yes, I do occasionally look at and photograph people and animals, as well as at a plethora of inanimate objects. Jackie Pie and Olivia are my two favorite "animated" subjects. My son Will would be another, if he were ever here. I had a note from him yesterday, btw, saying he'd be leaving for New Zealand today, for almost three weeks. Then to Arkansas (go figure). Then Sweden.
Speaking of inanimate objects, well, I don't really think of them as inanimate. I try to see the soul of things. Seriously. I walk around with my camera, thinking "Look for the soul, Jane. Look for the soul." It's quite the challenge.
I'll have more to say about soul later, actually, in relation to the "phytoessential oils" that I ordered yesterday.
Other breaking news: I finished doing my taxes. Also, one of the women who moved into my cottage came by yesterday with a pair of my shoes that she found somewhere in the house, left behind. I have no idea where they would have been and didn't have a chance to ask her, because she gave them to Jack when I wasn't here. They're good shoes! Red ones. Comfortable. Almost new. So sweet of her to bring them over!
And...on Saturday I go to UCSF for an MRI. Fortunately I'm not claustrophobic, so lying there in that big enclosed tube doesn't freak me out; it's just really really boring, and you have to be really still. Last time I did it (two years ago), I counted the seconds and minutes, literally. It takes about an hour. They shoot a toxic contrast dye into your veins which, I read recently, changes your DNA. But I decided to do it anyway. I'm skipping the mammogram and ultrasound, though. Did you know that mammograms exert around 40 pounds of pressure on the breast? Doesn't it just seem logical that if you had a tumor in there, which is about as strong as a vitamin gel capsule, it could be mashed OPEN by that much pressure?
Anyway, what I find more difficult than the actual MRI procedure is the wait, afterward, for the results. It's stressful. Every test takes an emotional toll, which is another reason I don't want to go overboard with monitoring. You can make yourself crazy with fear of what the next test will say. And much of the time, the tests are inconclusive. Our medical system OVER-TESTS. In my opinion. We put too much store in tests tests tests.
One good doctor is worth a whole bunch of stupid high tech tests. I saw one of those good doctors last week. Milton Rosenberg, urologist. Yes. I'm 55 and I go to a urologist. I last saw Miltie two years ago. He did a five-second manual procedure that FIXED me! (I was peeing a billion times a day, and oh how tiresome that was.) Miltie did not prescribe drugs or shots, although the TV commercials would have you believe that those are your only options for dealing with this issue. Not so, ladies. Not if you go to dear Milton R.
Not only does Milton fix you. He talks to you like you're a real person with a real mind. It had been two years, but as soon as he saw me, he started asking about Jack and Olivia. He also asked about my breast cancer (which he didn't really have to do, since it is totally unrelated to my reason for going to him). We chatted about ThreeStone Hearth, too. And I asked him how HE was, and he told me about his most recent health issue (now resolved, thank goodness). It was lovely. Personal. Human. AND: I didn't have to wait. My appt. was for 2:30 p.m. and that's when it happened. I was out of there by 3:05 p.m!
I've noticed that the wait time for my alternative docs is none to minimal. The more conventional the doctor, the longer the wait. At one point I said to Milton, "I don't have an oncologist. In fact, you and the the breast surgeon are really the only conventional doctors I see, now."
He chuckled and said, "I'm not really all that conventional." And I realized this was true. He looks conventional. His office looks conventional. But no. He's way more savvy and wise than that.
The other thing I now think about choosing doctors is that you have a better chance, when forced to choose from conventional docs, if you choose someone who is 50 or older. On first thought, I might have thought that younger docs would be more open to alternative stuff. But if they have been trained in conventional medicine, I doubt it. I'd rather find a doc who has had 30 or more years of experience, and who, from that experience, has figured out that medicine and healing requires a whole lot more than a battery of tests and a medicine cabinet full of prescription drugs. Their TRUE education as doctors comes not from medical school but from hard-won experience and practice.
This is true, actually, for all of us. I look back now on graduate school, and I see how small a thing it was. My masters degree in poetry is almost meaningless to me now. The most important things I ever learned about writing, I learned from practice and self-instruction and personal, private musings about the nature of art, creativity and spirituality.
Okay, must get to work. The next few days are "update the Writing Salon website" days.
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
February Sky in Frisco
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
“Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while a great wind is bearing me across the sky.” —Native American saying (Ojibwa tribe)
Today's View from Our Bernal Corner
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
Today's View from Our Corner
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye
Thank you
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