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10 Things I Will Do This Year

4 Jan

1.  Eat more raw foods. I know, boring but since there’s a cancer/disease connection with what we eat & how our bodies react, I’ll just be bored to death with raw broccoli rather than keeled over in chemo. (Except on lemon bar Fridays.)

2.  Watch less news. I’m sooooo tired of the redundant, never-ending rambling of 24-hour news. I still groan when there’s “Breaking News!!!!!” that covers a police chase in Dayton, Ohio for the entire millions of viewers to follow who live nowhere near Dayton. With supposed interest.

3.  Tone my thighs. They’ve never been toned. They’re jiggly and plain annoying when I stare at them hard. I simply cannot ignore them anymore. I want them rock hard with nickels bouncing off of them and rolling across floors.  Carpeted floors.

4. Not wear a bikini. I’m so over it. I could care less if in middle age I can sport a spandex version of a bra & panties in public. At a beach. Or poolside. Who freggin’ cares? I’d rather focus on helping out people in various binds.

5. Stop saying stuff like “the homeless.” What is that? Who is that? People without a home to call a home are, well, people.  I dunno what it is precisely about that term but it vexes my innermost bits.

6.  Be more patient. (This one makes me a tad afraid. I’m beyond impatient. I glare at the back of people’s heads when they wait until after their 345,608 items are scanned across the checkout before deciding to begin writing out their check, which for some is like a thesis paper.) Less nostril flaring, more pretending to be OK with things.

7.  Imagine myself in other’s shoes. My BF of late has been teaching me this. I blaze through towns like a blazing fire. Or a windy wind. Or an itchy itch.

8.  Inhale less chemicals. I don’t know precisely how I will accomplish this but it sounds good. And healthy.

9.  Become wealthy. Yep, money is a big deal to me especially having been poor and poorer for the past couple of years. There. I’ve stated it: I WILL BE WEALTHY THIS YEAR, MONETARILY. (And I don’t care if it sounds materialistic or not.)

10.  Stop dwelling on yesterday/yesteryear. I’m so tired of explaining to myself what went wrong with everything under the sun. It’s like a cognitive disability.

There. What will YOU do this year?

(I know you’re out there; I have stats to prove it.)

Occupy It All!

31 Oct

THIS is the best, most raw and yet eloquent breakdown of Occupy Wall Street (OWS) I’ve read. As I was reading it I got goose bumps and thought, “I HAVE to re-post this,” and good thing because at the end the blogger/writer gave permission to do just that so here it is:

Occupy Wall Street, What Do They Want?

 

For the past week, Occupy Wall Street has been the focus of much media coverage, and community concern in New York City. Many people, myself included, have asked “Just what is it they want?” I received this unattributed missive, from a friend who knew I was looking for more specific information on OWS’s goals, and post it here as a subject for consideration. This is not an “Official Document”. To this point, as far as I know, there have been no “official documents” released from OWS, but this communiqué does present general concerns and demands.

What Do They Want?

You’re going to pretend you don’t know what they want? Okay. I’ll humor you.

They want jobs. There aren’t enough, because small businesses can’t afford to stay in business, or hire them, or pay for healthcare or retirement plans or the other typical parts of a compensation package that it takes to maintain a standard of living suitable for living in a first-world country. They’ve done everything they were supposed to do to earn a decent living and now they want the rewards that make the work worthwhile.

Let’s break that down.

Because of the cost of healthcare and credit, small businesses can’t compete with corporate giants. Corporate giants can outsource labor overseas at a fraction of the price. And are happy to do so.

Because of the greed of Wall Street, because of outright fraud from trusted financial institutions, because of the insane avarice of the five hundred family dynasties that have captured half the wealth from the sweat of an entire nation by decades and decades of constant niggling and lobbying and legislation from pet powermad senators and representatives and justices and key committee members for whom they’ve bought positions of influence…. Because of this, the system we should count on for justice, for providing equal footing among children no matter who their parents are, is warped beyond repair, draining every last penny from the pockets of those who are the most defenseless into the bulging wallets of those that have thousands of times more than they need. Because of this, there is, finally, just not enough money to go around, and the people — the flesh-and-blood human beings whose sweat is the lubrication for all of this mighty machinery — are starting to falter, and starve, and lose all hope for any reward worth their work.

Because of this, it’s finally starting to hit the children of those who were rewarded for integrity and hard work. And retirees. And veterans.

Parents can’t afford to pay for worthwhile education for their children.

People can’t afford medical care or nursing care for their elderly parents.

Students can’t afford to pay back the loans they have to take out to get even a basic degree.

Students with degrees — and advanced degrees, which we’ve been preaching for ages is the key to success and a reasonable standard of living — can’t get jobs that would allow them to have a place to live AND food AND pay back their loans, and now there is no way to defer those payments or even seek the crippling relief of bankruptcy. Because you THOUGHT you were voting for “personal fiscal responsibility”, and what you ACTUALLY voted for was for the vampire banks to be able to suck the last drop of life out of your children.

The 40-hour work week — not a luxury, but a target for a good balance of work life and private life and social life and mental and physical health — is a joke. Some people can’t find one job, while others work themselves to death with one and a half, or two, or three — and still can’t afford healthcare or daycare or sick days, vacation days, or dropping spare coins into a savings plan. Or whatever joke a retirement plan would be. Everybody has something on the side to try to fill in the gaps and it’s not paying off. It just makes people literally sicker.

Look up the figures. Worker productivity: all-time high. Worker salaries: decreasing. Unemployment: sky-high. And STILL there is actual growth, but none of the proceeds make it to any American who isn’t a company officer. And if your share does increase, it’s at the expense of someone below you on the food chain.

“Work hard and you can get ahead,” is what we’ve been telling our kids since we pulled out of The Great Depression. But working hard doesn’t get you ahead anymore. It’s treading water at best. And maybe the reason you don’t hear the voices of all of those people behind you who have already fallen down the slope is because you’re concentrating so hard on not losing your footing while you watch your own feet slide backwards.

Trust me, though. You’re next. All it takes is an expensive, lingering death in the family. An illness that your own private death panel of an insurance company won’t cover. A car wreck. A fire. An altercation at work. A spurious lawsuit. A branch office closing. A corporate merger that eliminates YOUR job. Even bad weather. These are inevitabilities. You have already taken a number. You’re just waiting for your number to be called.

If you’re wondering why the media hasn’t been covering it, first, think of who owns them. The Free Press has all been bought up by corporations that are either owned by banks or owe money to them. Second, you really don’t want to hear about poverty, sickness, and starvation. You’ve been telling the press that for years. The media only reports on blood, sports, and celebrities because you have zero interest in anyone else’s pain or troubles. You have enough troubles of your own. You don’t want to hear it. You’ve ignored it. And now it’s in your own goddamn house and you still ignore it.

“How do we get out of this mess?” you ask. “Does anyone have a plan other than whining and chanting slogans and making broke-ass cities pay their cops overtime?”

Well, yes. There is a plan. And it’s a simple one.

1) Reinstate all the restrictions on banking and securities that have been removed since The Great Depression, seeing as those restrictions were put in place to prevent another one. You can see what’s happened with them gone.

2) Figure out why healthcare has gotten so damn expensive — in the USA alone of all the countries in the world — and fix that. I guarantee you that the insurance companies and drug manufacturers are at the bottom of it, so I suggest you start looking there.

3) Revoke any idea of the “personhood” and “rights” of a corporation. They don’t need freedom of speech — all of their constituent members already have that. They don’t need ANY rights — until they can also be held as responsible and accountable as an actual human being, who can be imprisoned and stripped of possessions and, in some cases, executed for the levels of villainy we’ve been seeing.

4) If a corporation makes money from US labor, resides on US land, uses US agricultural resources, manufactures products or improves materials to be later used in production in the US, provides services to US residents using US infrastructures of road and pipes and wires and satellites, excretes wastes into US environmental resources of land or air and water, then it should pay taxes to the US people for the use, upkeep, and repair of the commonwealth and its valuable infrastructure. NO EXCEPTIONS. Practices allowing shuffling of assets overseas to prevent paying owed taxes should be banned as fraudulent.

5) The tax burden on individuals should be rebalanced. People need a certain amount of spare cash to live and eat and have a roof. Above that, the more you make, the more you should be taxed. Let’s be serious: If you can afford a car, you can afford to buy a bike for someone less fortunate so he can get to work and back. If you can afford a yacht, then you can afford to buy a couple of buses for your city municipal transit system so a hundred people can get to work and back. Everyone should pay their taxes. NO EXCEPTIONS.

6) The government is NOT FOR SALE. Huge campaign donations from individuals and corporations are nothing but bribes. EVERYONE KNOWS THIS, yet the Supreme Court says this kind of bribery is a right of free speech for corporations. MY ENTIRE ASS. Everyone knows this is a crock. Every two years, every four years, every six years, our elected officials go trick-or-treating for enough dribblings from the corporations and the wealthy — basically begging for their bribes — to buy television spots and talk shit about one another. They do this campaigning INSTEAD OF DOING THEIR JOBS. Every two years, every four years, every six years, people are elected based on the shininess of their ads and the cleverness of their sound bites and the number of newspapers they could get pictures of their faces in and, amazingly enough, nobody knows what anyone stands for. Except they’d really like you to buy a $1000 plate of spaghetti to help fund it all. Seriously, figure out where to draw the line and arrest anyone who crosses it. Dissolve any corporation that crosses it.

7) Who are we at war with again and why? Playing supercop policeman to the world is an expensive hobby. If our friends out there want us to do this, then they can help finance it. If we’re going to do it, we should do it for good reasons — not so we can sloppily slide tax revenues into the back pockets of our friends who make weapons and bunkers and tanks and jet fighters and armored transports or sell us oil on the cheap. As a non-economic aside, anyone who takes part in these things, as soldiers or US contractors or foreigners in US employ, should be held to our criminal codes, our Constitution and Bill of Rights, and our rules of civilized society no matter whose soil they’re standing on, or whether they’re in international waters — or any other lame excuse for weaseling out of being a human being and acting like animals.

8) Stop encouraging people to profit from someone else’s misery. This is just a guideline to measure things by. This means looking at the effects of rulings and legislation and corporate practices to make sure the people who are hit hardest aren’t the ones already at the bottom end of the economic spectrum, the sick, the young, the elderly, the disabled, cultural minorities, etc. Every time something slips past this test, our humanity takes another knife to the neck. People die from being poor, disadvantaged, depressed. Unchecked greed literally kills people.

So this is what those people out there chanting want. Maybe they’re not eloquent enough to say it — or maybe they’re just too angry to be coherent. Or maybe this stuff is too complex for a kid with nothing under his or her belt but a watered-down public high school education to even understand without a good run-up. But they have no hope of ever being paid what they’re worth, of being rewarded on scale with their work, of ever getting out from under the crushing debt you encouraged them to take on, and they’re unhappy.

And they’re doing all this for you, because you’re next.

Join them from your chair — or keep waiting until you have no choice but to join them on the street. Your choice.

PS:

If you think these words speak for you, use them. I don’t care about credit or attribution or any of that stuff. Just say what needs saying. Put it out there. Link, rephrase, cut-and-paste — whatever you need, whatever works. And good luck.

 
It’s time for me to leave the armchair and join the movement. You in?

Gold, Gold Everywhere

22 Apr

Yep, when I read this I get a bit twisted into a knot. Not a small, cute, I-learned-this-in-Boy-Scouts-knot, no. Rather a tight, peeved, nostrils flaring kinda knot.

See, I’ve discussed being flat broke and struggling before on this blog (see “starving artist” or “being broke” tagged posts) and I sadly resorted to selling not some but all of my random gold. I had gold from 1985, necklaces and a few rings. There was even a ring (perhaps a wedding band) I once found in 1997-98 in a hallway near the women’s bathroom in a high rise building I worked in in Arlington, Va. I did everything I could to find the owner. I typed up a flier and put it in the hallways, taped a copy in the elevator. No takers. So I ended up holding on to this ring for years.

I even sold that.

It was about two summers ago when I kept seeing WE BUY GOLD! signs everywhere, and I mean everywhere. I think I saw one on a funeral home foyer. At first I scoffed at such claims. TOP PRICE!! My personal stash of gold was tucked away– the ’85 gold, the found wedding band, the cartouches I purchased in Egypt with mere touches of gold on the lettering. I was desperate and there were WE BUY GOLD!! signs everywhere. I had ignored them for as long as I could; it was time to act.

So I sold my stash o’ gold to a jewelry store in Fairfax, Va. Yep. Even as I was walking through the door I felt dirty, odd, disheveled. I was carrying in a name necklace that I had since 1985. I mean, I was probably wearing that necklace when Pretty in Pink was in theaters. I’m positive that I watched Ally Sheedy throw that awful piece of “pickled” bologna against the wall in Saturday detention in The Breakfast Club in that very necklace that bore my name on it in a flowery gold square shape that I purchased all by myself in Georgetown.

SIGH.

It was all too much. But I took my bits o’ jewelry in and laid the tiny pile on the counter. Suddenly several sets of eyes shifted towards me and then my pile o’ gold. Hands swiftly touched the jewelry while it was examined and I think sniffed by a man in a suit.

Long story shortened, I left there with probably $76.12 in my pocket and to be perfectly honest the 12 cents is an embellishment.

I felt even dirtier and crappy and I imagined that’s what people all over the nation must feel like when they take a family heirloom or their precious whatever in to a pawn shop because right then and there they needed gas or to pay their light bill or get their car fixed.

So now I’m gold-less and still a starving artist and when I see a John Hughes movie I get all misty not only because I miss the ’80’s but my gold got not only underpriced but lost with it.

I still have my silver, though. All 5.8 pieces of it. And nobody’s gettin’ it.

Triple A, My Friend

30 Jul

OMGosh. Can I say how much I LOVE Triple A??!! And no, this is certainly not a paid advertisement.

My car wouldn’t start yesterday. This is what went down…

I had pulled over into a shopping center parking lot because of a huge downpour slash thunderstorm. (Sidenote: I used to be terribly afraid of t-storms as a child and I would crawl under my bed where there were springs and metal wires and I would get my hair caught in aforementioned metal and one of my grandparents would have to come and remove the mattress to my twin bed and once they had to cut me out via hair loss. Now I’m down to 1/4 that afraid of t-storms. Instead of crawling beneath a bed or furniture I cringe really hard and tighten my shoulders and squinch up my eyes and ask forgiveness for my sins.)

So anyhoos, I pull over and wait the ugly angry storm out and since it’s like 1,000 degrees outside I kept turning my car “half-on” and getting some a/c. Wellll, seems my aging battery didn’t like that too much, for when the storm was finally over I turn the key and klumpt. Nothing. Nadda. Ugly. Me. Skeered. Panicky. My car’s life flashed before me. I wondered if I’d made that last will & testament to Dog Town. I quickly mused on the suburb I was in, how far away I was from my friend’s house that I’m currently staying at. (“Currently staying”–that’s an oxymoron.) Crazy, irrational thoughts traipsed through my mind.

I think a horror movie of a girl who broke down on the side of a dark road near an alley in Modesto in 1978 in a red Datsun on a hillside at 2:48 in the morning when she should’ve just left the party earlier passed through my head. Nevermind that it was daytime and I was nowhere near Modesto.

Breaking down slash having car trouble always, always unravels me. Suddenly the car I could love so much is a big metal burden of magnificent proportions. I snarl at it and talk mean to it. Then I panic because I know it hears me and could act even uglier. I tell it to act right or else. And then I purr at it like a kitty and stroke the dashboard and coax it to start right now or else!

So I call Triple A. (Ever notice that people often write “Triple AAA”?) They say they’ll be there “by 3:06” which was sort of funny to me. 3:06? Not 3:00 or 3:30 but “3:06.” So I sit there in my burdensome car and I think all kinds of neurotic thoughts.

What if it’s something major. Like the engine?

What if it’s the alternator? OMGosh. I don’t have alternator money!

What if Triple A never comes and I’m still sitting here at midnight and the shopping center’s closed and the police plant some stuff on me and find a reason to arrest me and–

Who’s that guy over there in the plaid shorts? And plaid shirt? Simultaneously?? My eyes hurt.

Geez, I’m hungry. I could use a hoagie right now.

Good thing I peed before this happened.

What if I have to get towed? Glad I have Triple A PLUS.

What if everything under my hood is broken?! How much does a bike cost? Gas sure is expensive these days.

I wish I was rich. I don’t care what people say about money doesn’t make you happy. TRY ME.

Gosh, this mosquito bite is really itching right now.

I wonder what the square root of 65 is.

Then, as if heaven has heard my neuroses, the Triple A van comes rolling into the parking lot and I run to him. I run to him like Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard. I’m this close to opening my arms and jumping in his lap. And kissing him on his cheek. And proposing marriage. Or offering him lunch with the coins I have in my kiddie cup, my emergency fund that purchases Slurpees and closes many poverty gaps on the road to fundraising slash art life.

But I don’t kiss or land on his lap or anything like that. He gives me a jump. My battery’s dead. He tells me not to stop on my way home for anything unless I want to need help again. Not those words, but you get the picture. I was gushing that it was “just” the battery. I was so happy to hear that engine turn over once he put those jumper cables on my weak baby metal. As I drove I had post-jump neurotic thoughts.

A year ago I had enough money to just buy another battery. What am I doing with this poverty art life? Why haven’t I had better “luck” yet? Is God peeved at me? Gosh, I’ve bitten my nails down so far I don’t even recognize my hands anymore. I sure wish I could just pull over and get a donut but, wait, I can’t cut the car off. That guy right there driving the Jaquar, I wonder what HE has in the bank. I’ll bet he doesn’t have to worry about the cost of a dang car battery, not to mention having two nails in one tire. I wonder if he’s hiring. Maybe I could do an old fashioned lemonade stand to raise money. I’m pathetic. I hate life. No, wait, I love life. I hate this. I wish I would just win this radio contest. I could really use paper money right now. My ankle itches but I’m driving and can’t scratch it. That would be awkward. And perhaps dangerous.

Oy. What a summer so far.

How to Not Go Crazy When You’re Broke, Flat Broke

30 Jun

I have like $3.68 in the bank. Yep. I’m broke. It’s hideous. I’m terrified. God help me. Now please.

Just a short while ago I had so much money I would laugh out loud. Laugh out loud. I had equity from a house I sold so I started doing art full-time and was able to fund my mental illness art ventures easily. Then poop hit the fan within a few years and here I am back at square one, only my square one never really looked like this. I mean, I at least could get a job easily back then, a so-called “real” job working in an office shuffling papers and making copies and sending faxes. I at least had a place to show up to and when the phone rang I could answer it and say, “Thanks for calling [insert evil company name]. This is [Doomed in Left Brain World].” I could at least have health insurance within a matter of weeks. But now? It’s just ug-lay. It’s been treacherous. Backwards. Sinister, even. I mean, who will hire an artist who’s been doing this foreign, odd thing called ART for the past five years?? On my resume when they see “freelance artist/writer” it’s as if I’ve inserted “leper/unicorn woman” or “freelance freakazoid/chronic slobber” in the space.

I used to hear stay-at-home moms lament on the difficulty they often experienced trying to re-enter the workforce because they’d been out raising their babies for a couple of years. Potential employers simply weren’t biting stating that they had “no (recent) experience.” 

WHAT ABOUT THOSE 10-20 YEARS BEFORE WE WERE STAY-AT-HOME MOMS/ARTISTS/FREELANCERS?? HUH? What about those years?! I mean, gosh, how hard is it to handle papers and tell your boss he has a call on line three? How difficult is it to make a goofy Excel chart or type a letter to another snarky company goon? How hard is it to show up and have someone ask you to make their coffee or schedule a meeting every day?

Gosh. Get over yourselves with this “experience” hoopla.

So here I am with my less than $4.00 in the bank selling art and waiting (less and less anxiously) to hear back from literary agents about a cool book I wrote.  Being broke causes weird thoughts and even weirder fantasies. Why, I could easily find myself daydreaming about a car that doesn’t have a stuck window or about eating out–I’m talking anything on the menu I desire. Anything. And the tip? No problem. I find myself wondering what it would be like to just go into the grocery store and just buy cherries that are not on sale regardless of weight. I hate to weigh my cherries. I fantasize about when I had a house and my stuff wasn’t in storage and I could just go into a room and put my hand on something and not have to search for it while stuff tumbles down on my back or thigh or head. I dream about just going to the tire shop and getting a new tire and not driving around with not one but two nails in one tire that (thank God) right now only needs continuous air to keep rolling. The immediate needs list that I have is even ridiculous and embarrassing:

vitamins,  car battery, air filter, new tennis shoes, dentist, fix 2 car windows, new tire, watchband…

I’m late on paying my storage. I’m late (again) on my credit card payment. I’m late on healing from my childhood demons.

Being physically displaced makes one more displaced mentally. It’s like spending your life trying to catch up but while most everyone else is just running freely you’re on an obstacle course but with the same finish line. We live and learn, yes. So in retrospect I would’ve just taken the equity and went back to work immediately when I moved to another state (even though their workforce was crappy at best and they didn’t smile upon hiring, ahem, “Yankees” as much as their “own.” But that’s another post.) It’s just that I always wanted to get away from The Office and be free and artsy and tap into my inherent talents and make a serious go at it. Well, that backfired big-time. To the tune of less than $4.00 in the bank and behind on my bills and nail biting and daily fretting and, well, complete loss of grounding.

Each day I go out there and make a go of it. I’ve heard all kinds of feedback. People act as if getting a job that pays more than minimum wage is so incredibly easy for everyone. For an artist. We’re special, dang-it. Real special. We are the people that employers later wish they had hired because we become Oprah Winfrey and Bono and Dierks Bentley and Rachel Ray. Problem is, they can’t see all that when you’re lowly and desperate to be hired with your five years of freelance artist/writer on your resume. You’re useless to them now. Useless.

It’s so bad I’ve been eating those cheap noodles I ate in college. The ones with the little silver packet of mysterious salty powder that you stir into the finally relaxed noodles that you had to unravel with hot, hot water. Those noodles. I had to tweeze some white hairs out of my scalp last week. The audacity of them to show up now when I’m in crisis, reminding me that a clock is ticking loudly on my very life.

I may put a dollar and change in my account just to bring the balance up to a whole $5.00.

I greatly digressed.

HOW does one NOT go crazy in such a situation as poverty?

Wellllll, you keep calm & carry on. You eat those awful noodles (just not too often). You fantasize to break the self-defeating thoughts & depression. You pretend you’re in the future better place. You take Vitamin B COMPLEX. You get enough sleep. You leave caffeine alone. You press on in the path you have chosen. You laugh at cubicle dwellers (even when you have a cavity that needs to be filled stat). You–you–you believe in yourself when you’re cracking inside.

PUSH.

Rocked-Over Tennis Shoes

13 Jun
That’s it, I need new tennis shoes.  I’ve walked and walked and stood still and crouched in these shoes long enough. They’re actually rocked over. Apparently I “pronate.”  Had no idea what this meant until I went to a New Balance store in North Carolina and had my feet measured and gawked at by a random store employee.  I have to sell some art today to afford the newer pair.

Hoping for a good day out there in Art Land.

Perhaps I should hang a sign on my neck: