Sunday, May 25, 2008

There is a Toxic Waste Site, and It Is YOU!

Out of curiosity, and on the recommendation of a co-worker, I brought a product called Patch-It. They are individually wrapped sticky patches, a detox system, that, as the directions recommend, you put on the soles of your feet just before bed. The claim is that they remove toxins by stimulating acupressure points. They are for anyone who “wants to get up in the morning with a spring in their step after a good nights [sic] sleep” (I am already skeptical when the grammar and punctuation in promotional copy are wrong). Okay, I tried them, and by morning they had collected some awful-looking black stuff from the clean soles of my feet.

The problem is that there is no explanation of exactly how and why this works. I want to believe, but at the same time, I’m suspicious. I always have my rip-off antennae pulled to full length. These patches remind me of an experience I had, or witnessed, some years ago:

I accompanied a roommate (she’ll remain anonymous because I’m sure, though I haven’t seen or spoken to her in many years, that she would not want this known) to the storefront of a gypsy fortune teller on the east side of Manhattan. You know the ones. They’ll remove a curse as well as your purse. Well, anyway, I went with my roommate on her second trip. Madame Whoever-It-Was had given her an egg on the previous week. She was supposed to put it under her bed (which she did), the Madame said, at which time, evil would be drawn from her and into the egg.

I thought it was pretty fantastic (not as in terrific, but as in preposterous), but I went anyway, out of curiosity. Well, the gypsy-lady mumbled a few words over the egg, pressed it to my roommate’s solar plexus and suddenly cracked it into a small glass bowl. Lo and behold, there was some sort of glob of black, hairy, stringy gook mixed with the white and yolk. That, the gypsy-lady said, was the evil curse, now removed. And yes, her purse was quite a bit lighter.

Now, pulling these patches off in the morning reminded me of the cracking of the egg.

So, what is this shit? True toxins? And why would toxins be excreted through acupressure points? Are they the result of a chemical reaction between the ingredients in the patches and the acids in my skin? Hmmm . . . Research is called for. In the meantime, I’m going to try them on the palms.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Pushkin Visits the Vet, Too

Pushkin and I went to the vet today. He was great, a real trouper, given that the day was cool and rainy and that he’s unaccustomed to being outdoors. Whereas Zora was a wild woman, twisting and turning and leaping (she had to be restrained with a blanket and muzzled for x-rays, Pushkin was relatively calm. All it takes to subdue him is lots of rubs and strokes. He weighed in at 15 pounds, but the doctor said that was okay because he’s a big cat. Unlike Zora, he doesn’t have a heart murmur (so no x-rays were really needed before he got a shot of cortisone for asthma. (He’s such a bully; I hope the dude doesn’t go into “roid” rage.) Unfortunately (or maybe not), Dr. Jacobson saw a dark spot on each pupil. She examined him closely, trying to see if the spots were raised. They might be (1) nothing but some inherited characteristic; (2) the changing of color; or (3) possible melanoma, or something that might turn into melanoma. Hmmm . . . I have to keep an eye on the spots and call Dr. Jacobson on Friday.

Now, my inclination is to indulge my hunger for medical/veterinary knowledge and troll the internet for information about eye melanoma in cats, but I’m not going there this time. I’m not going to act as if I should be prepared for my cat having eye cancer. I won’t worry or suffer about anything that hasn’t happened. I won’t worry about the mere possibility of anything.

My cats have been through a lot with me: depression, a devastating fire, staying with crazy people (to whom I am, nonetheless, grateful), moving four times within the last six years. All of the cats I have ever had (8 including present company) have been my teachers, my sounding boards, my sometime reflections, my friends. They’ve been the catalyst for my examination of and speculation on life beyond human life.

Okay, gotta go. Someone's calling for hugs, rubs and treats. (I promise not to turn this into a CatBlog.)

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Operation Baghdad Pups

I heard about Operation Baghdad Pups on a talk radio show tonight. The story of a soldier who had been with two others when they were killed by an IED. He cried every night, and in order not to disturb the others, he'd go outside. A stray cat began to go to him, to sit on his lap, to lick his face and purr on his lap. This is a part of the animal-human bond we don't often think about -- the healing power of animals in wartime. One soldier said that her working dog, a German shepherd, was "the light of her life." The following was taken from the Baghdad Pup website:


Operation Baghdad Pups began with an email received on September 11, 2007. The desperate words of the U.S. soldier serving in Iraq told of his desire to get the dog, Charlie, he and his regiment had befriended out of the Middle East before their tour of duty ended. Because it is against regulations for troops to befriend an animal or transport one on a military flight, the likelihood of the determined soldiers succeeding alone seemed doubtful. Operation Baghdad Pups began with an email received on September 11, 2007. The desperate words of the U.S. soldier serving in Iraq told of his desire to get the dog, Charlie, he and his regiment had befriended out of the Middle East before their tour of duty ended. Because it is against regulations for troops to befriend an animal or transport one on a military flight, the likelihood of the determined soldiers succeeding alone seemed doubtful.


Members of this Army regiment discovered the dog earlier that summer while patrolling a dangerous neighborhood on the outskirts of Baghdad. The malnourished and flea covered puppy, no bigger than a baked potato, was scooped up by a soldier who felt sorry for the pitiful orphan. Hidden in a tattered blanket, the puppy was snuck onto the Coalition Outpost. As the soldiers took turns secretly caring for the puppy the strong bond between man and dog grew.Members of this Army regiment discovered the dog earlier that summer while patrolling a dangerous neighborhood on the outskirts of Baghdad. The malnourished and flea covered puppy, no bigger than a baked potato, was scooped up by a soldier who felt sorry for the pitiful orphan. Hidden in a tattered blanket, the puppy was snuck onto the Coalition Outpost. As the soldiers took turns secretly caring for the puppy the strong bond between man and dog grew.


“Taking care of Charlie gave me something to look forward to everyday,” one soldier explained. “When all the guys got to playing with him we forgot where we were, the horrible things we had seen, and what we still had to go through. Charlie definitely made our time in Iraq more bearable. He was like a welcomed piece of home right here in the midst of Baghdad.”“Taking care of Charlie gave me something to look forward to everyday,” one soldier explained. “When all the guys got to playing with him we forgot where we were, the horrible things we had seen, and what we still had to go through. Charlie definitely made our time in Iraq more bearable. He was like a welcomed piece of home right here in the midst of Baghdad.”


Abandoning Charlie in this war ravaged country, consumed in hatred and destruction, would have meant certain death for him. “We all made him a promise that we would not give up. We’d find a way somehow to get him to a better life in the states,” the soldier wrote in that first email.


Operation Baghdad Pups has now successfully rescued Charlie and other dogs befriended by our troops, out of Iraq and Afghanistan. However, the logistics of moving animals from a war zone to a new home are extremely complicated and expensive. To learn more about these complicated hurdles each Baghdad Pup must overcome, visit the efforts page.




Canine War Hero, Socks, Lands Safely in U.S.
March 13th 2008


I am overjoyed, even speechless, about Socks getting home. He served with us and we didn’t want to leave him behind.


Washington, DC March 13th – Socks put his first paw on U.S. soil this morning at Dulles International Airport near Washington, DC. This four-year-old black dog with white paws has been serving U.S. units in Iraq for over 3 years as extra perimeter security at their Coalition Outpost in Western Iraq.

This is the sixth rescue through SPCA International’s Operation Baghdad Pups program. Operation Baghdad Pups is sponsored in part by online pet product retailer, I Love Dogs, Inc.

The unit Socks left behind was excited to hear of his safe arrival today.

“I am overjoyed, even speechless, about Socks getting home. He served with us and we didn’t want to leave him behind. It would almost be like leaving one of my fellow soldiers behind. I’m so glad he’s safe,” explains the U.S. soldier and Savannah, Georgia native who will be adopting Socks when he returns from Iraq.

Socks’ journey from stray to comrade is an amazing tale, but SPCA International and the unit determined not to leave him behind know only part of the story. Socks has been handed off from unit to unit moving through this Coalition Outpost. Each departing unit explains that Socks will be a great asset to the incoming unit and the newly arrived soldiers learn the truth of this declaration very quickly as Socks proves his worth and loyalty.

Socks, an Iraqi mutt from the streets, was given state-of-the-art training by the previous units he befriended and served. At the Coalition Outpost where he lives, the bathrooms are located outside the sleeping quarters. When night falls, Socks remains stationed outside the barrack doors and waits until a soldier needs to visit the facilities. Socks escorts each soldier through the night, ears perked for any sign of danger. Then Socks patiently waits until the soldier is finished and carefully escorts him back to safety inside the barracks.

SPCA International is interested to find out more about Socks’ story and, although he already has a committed home, they hope Socks has the opportunity to be reunited with some of the soldiers who first adopted and trained him when he was just a pup.


Later this week, Socks will travel to Savannah, Georgia to live with the sister of the adoptive soldier until the unit‘s tour concludes and they can be reunited.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Why? How?

Why didn’t Hillary Clinton kick her narcissistic husband to the curb after his affair with Monica Lewinsky? Not a marriage, but a political partnership? Political expediency? An enabler? Co-dependent?

Why is “the first black president” unconsciously (or consciously) sabotaging his wife’s campaign with his uncontrolled temper and wagging finger?

What possessed her to tell the ducking-and-dodging-bullets lie?

Remember Socks, the cat? Buddy, the chocolate labrador? Also tools of political expediency?

Hillary’s campaign is in such debt that the Clinton’s might have to go on the dole when it’s all said and done.

I wanted to be excited about this campaign, about the historical nature of a woman and a man of color vying for the nomination; unfortunately, I won’t be voting because I am disgusted with politicians and the entire political system in this country. What is the real difference between Clinton and Obama, both of whom have taken lots of corporate money? How can change be brought about when one is beholden to the big money? I fear that no matter who ends up in the White House, it will be business as usual, and the paradigm shift that was promised will be forgotten by both politicians and the people they claim to serve. [sigh]

Monday, May 12, 2008

It's Raining, It's Pouring, the Old Man is Snoring . . .

It’s raining and cool, made cooler by the wind. So much wind that petals of tulips nearing their lifetimes have been blown clear of their stems, and in some case, clear of the gardens that gave birth to them. It's so cool, in fact, that the heat in the apartment is on (what a wonderful landlord!).

It’s a great day to meditate or chant, to read or watch rented film, to groom your animals and pamper yourself, to stand under your shower as if it were a waterfall, to peruse Craig’s List for work while you listen to NPR, or – dare I say it – sleep.

Look for work . . . Five of us were laid off last month, so now I’m collecting unemployment. Unemployment feels like free money. The Labor Department as Art Patron. No more paper checks and snail mail. Now it's direct deposit or bank cards. I’d really love to get some part-time or short-term work OFF THE BOOKS while I’m receiving unemployment benefits. Medical coverage until September 1st. Not so bad.

No more McJobs, McBosses, McPaychecks. I turned 60 in March. Not a McBirthday. I want soul work. Work that grows from the heart. Work that I can say I truly like/love. Working at home. Or working with and for animals. Or working with sounds, sights and words. That’s as close to specific that I can be right now, because I’m in that space between one thing and the other where not-knowing but being open are called for. It's where all possibilities lie. I believe this.

Friday, May 9, 2008

Zora Visits the Vet: A Case of Family Karma

This is Zora, who lives with me along with her brother, Pushkin, and her mother, Precious.


Two days ago, I took her to the vet because she was exhibiting what I thought were symptoms of asthma. This is a relatively new apartment for us. The windows face a beautiful garden and the street, the entire neighborhood, in fact, is filled with trees, grasses and flowers, and the three of them love to sit and watch the squirrels, birds, and the neighborhood cats who wander in and out. Pushkin has the same symptoms, but to a lesser degree. Anyway, I was worried because their other brother, Gadu (Armenian for cat), aka Mister Huggy, passed away a couple of years ago from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, a common form of mostly inherited congestive heart failure in cats. I always describe her as beautiful but skittish, and she lived up to her reputation. She escaped in the examination room, ran from one corner to the other and lept from the floor to the counter. Eddie, the veterinary technician, finally had to resort to putting a blanket over her and donning protective gloves in order to take her temperature, etc. She wasn't very vocal, just extremely physical, a little athlete, jumping, turning, twisting. Poor Eddie even had to muzzle her in order to take X-rays. When it was all over, the diagnosis is that she has asthma and a heart murmur, but her heart looks normal on the x-rays. Well, like owner, like cat. I have had a heart murmur for years and I, too, have asthma. And I believe the same is true for Pushkin (I'll take him in in a couple of weeks). Dr. Linda Jacobson, the veterinarian, has such a beautiful and caring manner of being and well as speaking. And the way she speak to the animals . . . And her reasonable fees . . . Zora got a shot of cortisone and she's doing well, now.

In much of the metaphysical/spiritual literature that I've read regarding the animal-human bond, the theory is that our animals often take on the physical or mental disorders of the household. They pick up on and act out the energy of the household. In Buddhism, there's a Japanese term, esho funi, which means that the person and her or his environment are one. In other words, whatever the condition, or vibration, if you will, of the person's life, that corresponding quality will be reflected in that person's environment, wherever it is, whoever it is.

Well, since Zora has made her debut on the web, I would be remiss if I neglected to introduce her mother and brother, so here are Precious and Pushkin:



I know, I know . . . she's on a diet as we speak.

NoNoNoNo . . . he's just sleeping!

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

A Poem: The Ritual

I am afraid to stand in this forest

to interrupt hoofprints

photographed on the turf

A surge of birds gathers for a ritual

I cover myself with the blanket of their chants

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

A Story

I am a member of the Artist Conference Network, ACN for short, a group of artists who meet to support each other. During our meetings, we share our work, showing or telling. As a writer, I tell; however, at our last meeting I had nothing to read because of an unexpected occurrence. I had nothing memorized. I had nothing jotted down, so I was left with the telling of a real-life that happened some 40 years ago. I was surprised by the way I stepped backward in time and was able to recapture the feelings and sensations of that event. I became young, unknowing, fresh and open. It's something I've never written about before (fiction and poetry are my creative areas).

When I was 20, I left my family and the city of my birth in a huff. "I'm never coming back here again!" I announced as they stood lined up on the porch. And then, with great ceremony, I flung open the door of the taxi that would take me to the airport where I would board a flight bound for Kansas City, Missouri, for airline stewardess school. After 6 (?) weeks of intensive training, I came to New York to fly out of JFK. My foreign language, Spanish, took me to Madrid where I danced a faux flamenco on top of a tabletop, to Rome many times, where beat a Roman with a a box of shoes when he grabbed my crotch, and cursed the Nazis when a German hausfrau spit at my feet. My greatest thrill, however, occurred on a domestic flight, from New York to Cincinnati, Ohio.

Being one of the most junior flight attendants, I would be working the coach section of the Boeing-727. A ground agent boarded and called all the flight attendants together. He told us that HE would be boarding the flight soon. What??!! No! I was having an attack of tachycardia. When the agent said that HE would be boarding first, and though HE was a first class passenger that HE would be boarding through coach, I started to smooth my hair, brush and smooth my uniform, and make sure that my wings were straight.

I took my position at the door, and within seconds I could see HIM and His entourage coming down the jetway. At a distance, HE was gorgeous. Close up, HE was heart-stopping. I gave HIM my best smile, praying there was no lipstick on my teeth, praying that HE did not see the corners of my mouth nervously twitching.

I thought of the many times I heard him ask reporters, Howard Cosell, anyone, "Ain't I pretty?" HE was magnificent. His presence was overwhelming. He looked you straight on, right in the eye. Damn right, he was pretty. Tall, brown and powerful.

"Welcome aboard, Champ?"

He greeted me with the Arabic a-salaam-alaikum, and then added, Sister.

This is the truth: My knees weakened, and the sophisticated world traveler reverted to what she was -- a 22-year-old away from home for the first time and meeting the man whose lesson to her would be standing strong for principles in the face of adversity, in the face of possibly losing everything.

He asked me if I would be serving them in first class, and I explained to him the seniority issue, but told him that I would be up to visit. and then I watched
Muhammad Ali, Bundini Brown and others walk the length of the aircraft and disappear into the first class section. The other flight attendants see thrilled to have him on board, though I'm sure some of the crew members, cockpit crew, especially, disagreed viciously with his politics. Being a "sister," I decided it was my place to advise the first-class attendants against serving him the usual breakfast fare or sausage, bacon or ham. "And make sure," I said, "that there isn't any ham in the eggs."

When we finished our coach meal service, I went, as promised, and spoke to The Champ. This was during the time that his license to fight had been revoked. He was on his to defend himself to the Illinois Boxing Commission.

Before the flight was over, I presented him with two in-flight post cards and asked for two autographs -- one for myself and one for my grandmother. After he'd autographed the first, he asked for my grandmother's name. "Oh," I said, "the same as mine." I felt kind of bad lying to The Champ, but I wanted two for myself -- one for the wall and one for the wallet. My grandmother, who used to call Muhammad a loud-mouth Negro and claimed he would always be Cassius Clay, couldn't have cared less.

I have always loved Muhammad Ali, though I abhor boxing, and my love for him inspired me, years later, to do something I had never done and have never done since. The photos below tell the story.


(left) This is the sign I made for the Parkinson's Unity Walk in Central Park in the name of Muhammad Ali.
Planetary Citizen (right), a woman walking in the name of her husband (left)


The sign says: "I'm walking for my hero, Muhammad Ali,
The Greatest
of
Alllll Tiiiiimes."



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