A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Life

A Day of Remembrance

2011-12-07T20:46:00.388-05:00

For people living in the United States, today, December 7, marks the 70th anniversary of the Japanese sneak attack on a U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii in 1941 which sparked the blaze that announced the U.S. decision to enter into World War II. Both my father and maternal grandfather fought in WWII in the U.S. Army- my grandfather in Okinawa and my father in the Burmese jungle with Merrill's Marauders where he received a Silver Star and a Purple Heart for taking schrapnel in his leg. Before he died in July 2002, sometime while I was in high school, I think, he gave me his Purple Heart in an old, hinged and cracked, plastic display box. For me, today also marks the one-year anniversary of our house fire.
At about 3pm, I arrived home from spending a lovely afternoon with my mother. We had our hair done together at our favorite salon, she a color touch-up and me, a great cut by the only person I will ever trust my hair to again, Anthi (call her, she's amazingly talented). Easing slowly down the winding street on the way to my house which sits nearly a mile back off the main road, I spotted my best neighbor waving to me from her driveway, and as I peered to the right, there was my next door neighbor standing between our yards also waving to me. Smiling, thinking how fortunate I am to be close to such wonderful people, I pulled into my driveway, eager to chat with my older and ever-wiser neighbor ladies. "Hey guys!"
"Gaby, your house is on fire!" My neighbor yelled from across the street, "Your house is on fire, you can't go in..."
"...You can't go in, Gaby, you can't go in the house!" my next door neighbor cried, entering into the yelling like singing a round of "Row, Row, Row, Your Boat".
"What? What? My house is on fire? Where?"
"The front, near the front- Gaby, you can't go in. The fire company is on its way! Listen Gaby, listen, can you hear the sirens? They're coming now, Gaby!" My across-the-street neighbor said.
I noticed that a man was also there working as a general contractor across the street, in the house directly across from mine. Running over to the front door, I could see smoke in the wall to the right of the door and between the large bay window. It didn't seem very bad and my instinct was to open the front door, but my neighbors and the man were yelling that the house could explode, which only made me more confused. It was all happening so quickly and I just couldn't process the totality of the moment, it was fragmented and weird. "Did you use my hose and try to wet the house?"
"No, we wanted to, but it's electrical, you can't wet it, you'll electrocute yourself!" one of the ladies said.
"Fuck it," I thought, "I'm not going to die, not today." My house is wood and I didn't care about the possibility of my house burning down and being electrocuted. I just thought that it made sense to wet the wood. The fire had already burned a hole in the lower part of the wall and was working its way up, so I sprayed the outside of the house and jammed the hose between the wall for a split second, just enough time to dampen it, but not long enough to stand around and get zapped. I ran to my neighbors who were standing across the street as sirens roared closer. I was in a panic and all of this that I've described only happened in a matter of about 2 minutes. And then, I realized, "My cats! My cats! The bird! They're in the house, they're in the house!"
"No, Gaby, you can't go in the house!"
I don't know what took me so long to remember the pets, but at that moment, I spotted a state police cruiser coming up the street and I panicked, knowing that I had to act, because once he parked, he would have prevented me from going near the house. So, I did what I think anyone would have done, I ran toward the house.
"Gaby, no!" They told me for what seemed to the 1000th time.
I charged past all of them and looked to the right at the young trooper pulling up, I remember his face well and met his eyes in a way that said, "I'm going in to that house. Yes, I see you and I don't care, because you are going to prevent me from saving part of my family."
Running around the left side of the house, I shuffled for my key to the back door. There were too many keys and I was wasting precious time. Trying two keys, I gave up, realizing that there was no more time to get it wrong. So, I used the outer side of my right fist to smash through the door glass, reach in, and unlock the deadbolt. "Cats! Cats!" I prayed that Fudder, the beautiful Lynx Point/Turkish Van/orange Tabby was outside, playing in the woods, which he loves doing. He prefers being outside, except in the very cold weather, but I've seen him trek through ten inches of snow. He has very long legs, a thick coat, and his body is muscular and sleek- he's fast and graceful when he runs. He's bright for a cat, pays attention to the world around him, making certain that everything is copacetic.
The smoke billowed, thick, black smoke was throughout the house. I had no idea it was so bad. I also didn't realize, despite all my elementary school training, that there was just no oxygen in smoke, at least not enough to safely breathe. A cat cried, it was Duchess, the chunky, gray, silky kitty and she sounded horrible, like wailing- a deep, awful ouch sounding cry. I yelled for her to come, but she was too afraid to move. So, peering in, I spotted her in the corner of the kitchen near the window. She was pressed against the glass. She was smart enough to know where the exit is and got as far as she could, she wasn't going back in to run to the door. I ran in and accidentally took a breath, "Uh!" The smoke stung my chest and throat instantly, choking me. Duchess kept wailing, mrrroooowwwwww, mrrroooowwwwww. I grabbed her by the scruff with my left hand to get a grip on the sixteen pound cat and put my right hand under her legs to scoop her up into my arms and I dashed out of the house. I tried yelling for Marlin, the more fluff than meat, squishy, orange Tabby who has an oral fixation and licks everything and everyone. I was most worried about him, because he is an aloof and lazy fellow who prefers sleeping in the comfort of my bed to the outdoors and I knew he was likely in my room hiding, too afraid to come out. Then, there was Kaka, my nine year old daughter's cockatiel who hates all of us because we are nice to the cats and it makes no good sense to him. I figured he would be okay, as her bedroom door was always kept closed.
I said goodbye to my house and walked back around the side to see the trooper walking toward me. "That's some cut you have, " he said, "Let's go have that looked at, okay?" I mumbled something incoherent and he put his arm around me.
I looked down at my right hand and saw there was bright, red blood covering the sleeve of my snow white ski jacket, bright green shirt, and could see drops of blood on my jeans and Ugg boots, "Shit, I had no idea I cut myself. But my house and my pets, there is a cat, maybe two in the house and a bird in the bedroom that's in the back bedroom with the closed door!"
"I'll let them know." He delivered me to a waiting ambulance and in the five minutes that passed, there were two fire companies, five police cars, and a neighborhood full of people looking on.
Not knowing if I'd have a home to come back to, I said goodbye to all of my stuff in a moment. I thought that there was nothing I could do except pray to the universe or to the firemen, or to God, or whomever could help to please save my house. The EMTs took one look at my hand and I knew from their reactions that it wasn't good. "Oooh, that's gonna need more than stitches." They laid me back, but I refused and called people while they wrapped my hand in a mountain of gauze. Just then, the school bus pulled up behind all of the emergency vehicles- my girls were home from school. I sprang to my feet, crying out for the kids. My neighbor came over and said she'd take care of them until one of our family members arrived. I felt somewhat relieved, but I wanted to cry.

At the hospital with a fresh wound

One of the EMTs, an older woman in her early 50s, asked me to sit back so she could administer oxygen. The ambulance was old, but the ride was free, thanks to our amazing, tiny community of volunteers. I was cold and shivering, they said I was in shock and had smoke inhalation. They brought me to an urgent care center where the attending doctor consulted a hand surgeon at a larger hospital via phone. I heard her tell him that I had no nerve damage or tendon damage, but that I had severed an artery that they had to cauterize. They stitched me and sent me on my way with an appointment to see the hand surgeon.

Zorro left his mark, five days post-op

When I arrived home, finally at around nine p.m., the night darkness was met with a giant hole in the front of the house the size of a door, but my house was there and it was fairly habitable. The front door was open and my family had a giant shop vacuum sucking up mud off of our laminated floors. I remember passing my brand new, beautiful, huge, cream and baby blue Aubusson-style wool carpet in the driveway, partially rolled and soaking wet on the open end and thinking it was likely ruined. I wanted to go back to the hospital rather than walk into that disaster. The kids were still at the neighbor's house and I asked about the cats and bird, "Kaka, Fudder and Duchess are all okay."
"Well, where's Marlin?" I said, desperately. I was tired of crying and didn't think I could handle anymore upset for one day.
"We can't find him."
I immediately began searching the house. "Marlin! Marlin!" I ran into my room and dove under the bed, not caring about my hand being in excruciating pain and wrapped like a mummy. There was Marlin, cowering behind storage boxes. He wedged himself in and was stiff with fear. Marlin and Fudder were rescue kitties, Fudder was a kitten and doesn't recall his homeless days, but Marlin was almost two and spent nearly three months cooped up in a cage at the Humane Society. When we adopted him, he had forgotten how to jump and was fearful and shy. We spent a long time getting him over his fears, and in a flash, all of his trauma was remembered and I had to pry him from under the bed where he lay, burying his face in my arms.
Two days later, I went to the surgeon for consultation. Through a battery tests, he determined that I required hand surgery, as I had, in fact, severed a nerve and was unable to feel any sensation on my little finger. He loved the fact that I ran in to save the animals and thought it made for a great story, seeing his face in my mind still makes me laugh. So a few days later, on the 15TH of December, I went in to a little outpatient surgical center for nerve repair. X marked the spot and was signed by the surgeon to indicate that we'd discussed that this was the right hand.
Being guided into the operating room by a warm and welcoming nurse, I entered the icy room with where the walls, floors, and high-tech equipment made me feel like I was on some other planet in the future between the stainless steel and cool color scheme. Laying down on the table, I had to stretch my arm perpendicular to my body, placing it on a rest, palm-side up. My left arm was being prepped for anesthesia. My doctor was peering into the neatest-looking microscope I had ever seen. He was noticeably more serious than when we met and even a half-hour prior in pre-op, he was still pretty mellow and jokey. He looked away from the scope, glancing over at me, and said hello with a nod. I was very nervous, which is not unusual, as I'm kind of a nervous person in general. The nurse saw me shivering and brought me a toasty, warm blanket from a smaller room. The anesthesiologist entered reminding me of Ken Kesey and making me feel a little better, in an odd way. He let the anesthesia begin dripping and warned me that I'd feel a sting. It wasn't a sting, it was like someone pouring molten steel into my vein. The pain was greater than my injured hand was experiencing and I yelled while wincing, "Ahhhh!" Within ten seconds, I was out.
The surgery was to take about an hour, but instead, it was a two-and-a-half hour procedure. "Gabrielle, Gabrielle..." I opened my eyes and shut them again, "Gabrielle, not in my wildest dreams did I expect to see what I saw when I was able to take a look," the surgeon said, as my glazed eyes tried desperately to stay open and focus. I really hate the feeling of coming out of general anesthesia, it's like being awakened from the dead- all the senses come flooding like calm water whose dam has been lifted. I just wanted to sleep. He continued, "So, the surgery took a little longer than expected because I also had to repair your tendon. I did not expect to see what I saw which was that about ninety percent of the tendon was severed." I looked on with my eyes crossing back and forth into my head with my ear resting on my left shoulder. "The tendon is made of these tiny, little pieces that are like super-thin leaves that all connect together. Yours was being held by one leaf. If it had completely gone, it would have meant a whole different ball game. You're very lucky, I can't believe it, it's just amazing."

A week later, after dealing with managing a soft cast, I went back to be fitted with a splint made from hydrothermal plastic that started out in flexible sheets that looked like smooth cardboard, but which softened to a thick taffy consistency upon heating in water. Once heated, it was highly pliant and could be shaped and molded in any fashion. Once air dried in a matter of minutes, the soft material hardens into a plastic shell like magic. The splint was hinged with metal grommets at the wrist bone, covering the top of my hand to the tips of my fingers with the larger piece extending the length of my forearm. My hand was positioned so that my wrist was bent at the natural bend with my fingers pointing downward. I felt like Iron Man.

On the 4TH of January, I returned to the doctor and had my stitches removed. Using tweezers, the doc peeled away the Zorro-shaped scab in one, painless piece revealing new, pink, tender skin.
Tired of the plain, bland plastic splint, I asked the kids if they'd cheer it up and paint it. My younger daughter painted hearts and rainbows while her older sister wittingly painted the letters O-Z-Z-Y across the place where my knuckles rested, mimicking tattoos that one might see on a burly biker. It was terrific and completely cheered me up. For several months after, I proudly brandished my colorful splint.

Immediately following surgery, I entered into hand therapy and there I remained, going two and three times a week until I was finally discharged in May of 2011. It was grueling and was unlike the sports therapy of which I was accustomed from my days playing college tennis with delightful massage, cute sports medicine majors stretching my lower back and hot tubs. This hurt and it was work. I had to learn to use my left hand for everything, writing was a tortuous feat and forget about going to the bathroom, what a nightmare. For weeks, I stayed hopped-up on oxycodone, Percocet, because the pain was not manageable with my preferred choice of ibuprofen. Narcotics are horrible, nasty demons and I have refused pain medicine through out my life because of my aversion to opiates. They made me feel physically nauseous and emotionally detached. I stayed in bed most of the time in a drug-induced slump of depression. After five weeks of drugs and after beginning to need to take the Percocet, they no longer knocked me out; in fact, I would feel stoned and energized. That scared me, so I went cold turkey and put the garbage away for good.

My hand, at first, was stiff from spending two months in a downward-facing position. I was unable to extend my wrist upward and could neither straighten nor bend my fingers any more than the position in which they'd been kept. Over time and after many therapy days of crying tears of frustration and pain, I regained nearly all the feeling and movement in my hand. Apparently, the flexor tendon and small finger surgery, according to my doctor, is one of the most difficult surgeries from which to recover. The only part of my pinky I can't feel is the outer corner of the finger tip, remarkable, since I had no feeling at all.

It took a long time for the smell of smoke to vanish from the house and all our belongings. While the pain was new, I spent weeks washing every clothing item and bed linen. We scrubbed the walls and ceilings and to my joy, we were able to salvage the carpet. A couple steam cleaning sessions later and it was brand new again. It's been a slow recovery for the house, as we were uninsured and have had to do the work ourselves with the constant reminder of the fire. There's still much to do, even a year later, but miraculously, all we lost was a chair. This is how my hand looks today:

It was odd waking this morning and realizing that today marked a day that will live infamously for my family and I. Typically, I'm not one for anniversaries or sentiment, but this was different somehow. The day triggered all kinds of horrible feelings of anxiety that I had since put behind me. The kids were oblivious and I never let on that the day was anything other than Pearl Harbor Day, which incidentally, their teachers did not mention.
Tomorrow, my mind will begin to calm itself and writing has probably been therapeutic, as I've been meaning to write about it for sometime, I just wasn't yet able to bring myself to the task of regurgitating events and emotions. For a moment this morning, I felt a flood of emotion and in writing this piece, I've noticed how much sadness and fear still lingers within me. It isn't fear of losing my stuff that lingers, it's how lucky we all are to still have a home and our lives- the anxiety comes from the innumerable "what ifs", the immeasurable possibilities that exist in any one moment...
Like Schrödinger's cat, I believe an outcome is determined by the perceiver- that all possibilities exist, but it's a person's thoughts that create individual reality, internally within the self as well as externally in the physical world around us. So it's vital that my mind discipline itself, thinking of the positive and releasing Fear.
The day of remembrance doesn't have to be filled with sorrow, it's only I who has decided to make that one moment or combination of moments more important than any other moment and that just seems illogical and foolish.
So, on this day of remembrance, I'm shooting for dementia at best, but I'll settle for denial... what, what fire? what surgery? I even bought a pair of rose-colored sunglasses. The world looks so much nicer when peering through them.

Bimbo- It's All in the Name

2011-12-03T10:40:00.005-05:00

Two months ago, my boyfriend walked through the front door holding two boxes of cookies from Entenmann's: Milk Chocolate Chip and Original Recipe.
"What the Hell is that? You're kidding me- they have two different varieties?" I scoffed, noting that both the cookies and the boxes were nearly the same with the exception of the flashy, red lettering on the "original" box.
A few years ago, I discovered that the cookies that were a part of my childhood were suddenly missing. Earlier in the year, a friend came by with a box of the "new" recipe and I was happy to see them back on the shelves. Not realizing the recipe had changed, I popped the whole, tiny, soft cookie into my mouth and started to chew. "Pttfffftttttttt!" I spit it out as my head hung over the kitchen sink. It was a disgusting display of manners, I'm certain. Especially, I'm told, for a lady. One other fact was also certain, I had never spit out an Entenmann's product in my entire life.
Making the Elvis lip, inadvertently and to the best of my ability, which ironically, is the same face I make when smelling something awful like the insole of my favorite pair of cozy boots, I tried the "Original Recipe". Voila! Perfection! My taste buds were so happy! My once-crushed, fond memory was restored like dry skin to moisturizer. One after another, the cookies disappeared and between the four of us, the box of about 30 cookies was gone within 30 minutes.
Logically, I was unable to process why a company would 1) cease production of a product high in demand, 2) create a new recipe that was not time-tested, and 3) then send them both back to the bakery to confuse and infuriate the consumer? So, I went to their website and saw the Entenmann's brand has been sold many times since the 1970s and is now operated by Bimbo Bakeries (click on "United Sates").
Comparing the two product labels, high fructose corn syrup, my self-declared sworn enemy, rears its ugly head farther down the ingredients list than the new recipe. The new recipe also adds disgusting potassium sorbate, soy lecithin, more artificial flavors, milk products, and more.
Original Recipe-
Chocolate Chips (Sugar, Chocolate Liquor, Cocoa Butter, Cocoa Processed With Alkali Dextrose,Vanillin, Lecithin), Flour Bleached, Sugar,Vegetable(s) Shortening, Partially Hydrogenated (Soybean(s) Oil, Cottonseed Oil), Egg(s), Corn Syrup High Fructose, Wheat Starch, Butter, Sugar Invert, Molasses, Salt, Corn Starch Modified, Baking Soda,Flavor(s) Natural & Artificial
Milk Chocolate Recipe (NEWish)-
Wheat Flour Bleached, Milk Chocolate Chips (Sugar,Chocolate Liquor, Cocoa Butter, Milk Skim Powder, Butter Oil, Soya Lecithin An Emulsifier, Vanillin An Artificial Flavor), Sugar, Vegetable(s) Shortening Partially Hydrogenated (Soybean(s), Cottonseed), Corn Syrup High Fructose, Milk Non-Fat, Wheat Starch, Egg(s), Corn Starch Modified, Salt, Baking Soda, Water, Carob Bean Gum, Flavor(s) Artificial, Potassium Sorbate Preservative, Lemon(s) Juice Concentrate, Caramel Color
Mind-boggling, ain't it?
I mean, who messes with a good thing but someone who is just asking for trouble? So, I thought Bimbo should know about it and went to their website to issue my comments. Concurrently, my boyfriend also decided to comment.
Mine read something like, "My family has been buying Entenmann's for 50+ years and has trusted the brand. The taste between cookies is substantial and I can actually taste the high fructose corn syrup which lingers and never satisfies. Please don't change a good thing because when it comes to the quality of ingredients in the foods I feed my family, I have no product loyalty and will cease buying Entenmann's products." That's the gist of it.
My boyfriend commented something like, "I was so happy to see the Original Recipe cookies back on the shelf, blah, blah, blah, kiss your ass, blah, blah, blah. Thank you, blah, blah" That's the gist of it.
I received an email from Bimbo:

We will be glad to document your request for this particular product. We place tremendous value on input from our consumers. Your inquiry will be used to plan our product variety.

You are a valued consumer and we appreciate that you took the time and interest to contact us. We hope that you will continue to enjoy our products.

Sincerely,
Consumer Relations Department
***This email is generated from an unmonitored mailbox. If you have further questions please, contact Consumer Relations at 1-800-984-0989.***

A week later, my boyfriend received mail from Bimbo. Inside, there was a nice type-written letter thanking him for his comments, a magnet, and several dollar-off product coupons.

Why, Bimbo? Why would you not also send me coupons and magnets? Criticism is your friend, Bimbo, your friend! My boyfriend did you no favors by pandering to your ego, Bimbo! I told you the ugly truth, that your milk chocolate chip cookies SUCK. I bet Warner-Lambert, General Foods, Kraft, Bestfoods, Unilever, and George Weston (all who have owned the Entenmann's name over the years) wouldn't treat a loyal customer this way! See, all you had to do was send me a few coupons and we wouldn't be having this rant, right now. I'd be lauding you, Bimbo. Further, my satisfaction comes cheaply with a couple bucks off of my next purchase, but nooooooo, there is nothing for Gabrielle, except the dissatisfying taste of your new cookies.

Do You Know What Today Is? It's My Blogiversary!

2011-10-22T00:04:00.001-04:00

On this the day of the 2nd anniversary of my blog, I found a poem by Lord Tennyson which I find apropos for the anniversary, the changing season, and also for the spirit of the times, as humankind is embarking toward a New Beginning. It was found in an old literature book intended for children called, "'round the Year in Myth and Song", written by Florence Holbrook, 1897:

Immortal

2011-09-14T23:22:00.003-04:00

Aching pain drills its way deep to center of her
solar plexus,
burning and twisting like a dull dagger,
thrust and lingering--
no helping hand to
release
agony;
Grasping, gurgling,
choking asphyxiation--
so much pain,
so much pain
pulsating with every broken
heartbeat,
pleading for departure;
Sinking in deep mire,
the floods overflow,
unable to drink from the fountain of
life.
Isis waits in futility for her to come, sit,
be lavished upon the throne,
instead,
eternity incinerates to ashes
when Fear impregnates,
casting torment,
invoking deaf angels
to carry her to Heaven or
Hell,
writhing, shrinking in abandonment--
Theseus found no joy in Ariadne,
and Dionysus has chosen
another.

Gabrielle Cianfrani
September 14, 2011
10:55 P.M.

B-I-C-I-C-L-E-T-A

2011-07-28T22:28:00.007-04:00

B-I-C-I-C-L-E-T-A
I'm your friend bike.

I'll take you to run the parks,
I'll help you grow and glide on two wheels.
On top of me the world is at its mercy
You run into me and the world below you.
Body in the wind, released by the thinking air,
For that to happen you just ride me.

B-I-C-I-C-L-E-T-A
I'm your friend bike.

Am I the company will do so,
Between streets, avenues, in the sea.
I'll buy you and helps you to enjoy
Popsicles, chewing gum, baseball cards and comic books.
The wheel and road wheel and the time it's back,
For that to happen you just ride me.

B-I-C-I-C-L-E-T-A
I'm your friend bike.

It very recently entered the fashion for real,
Executives come to me without stopping.
Everyone is worried about emagracer,
Even your parents decided to adopt me.
A lot of people lately has been riding me
But in a strange way I do not go out of place.

B-I-C-I-C-L-E-T-A
I'm your friend bike.

This song, by Brazilian artist, Toquinho, captures (in a rough and nearly literal translation to English) what bicycles have meant for me. From the moment it dawned on me that a bicycle meant freedom and inclusion, I wanted to ride. Don't get me wrong, I was a huge fan of the Big Wheel and had inherited one that my grandparents were given as a hand-me-down from Johnny, Chuckie, Danny, and Kevin's mom and dad- they lived behind my grandparent's northeast Philadelphia row home on the street that ran perpendicular to theirs. Our driveway backed the side of their house but was separated by a common drive. I drove that Big Wheel that had "YARDLEY", the last name of the family of boys, written in black, permanent ink in the center of the handlebars, until I outgrew it and wanted to be a big kid.

My aunt and uncle were only eleven and fourteen years older than I and were the first best friends I ever had. My uncle was already driving, but he enjoyed the leisure of riding bikes. So, when they started "ditching" me (they weren't really, but I loved them and couldn't understand why they'd want to go someplace without me!) to hang out with friends, I knew I had to learn to ride a bike.

A couple months shy of five years old, my grandfather sawed two blocks of wood to fit on each of my aunt's banana seat Schwinn bike pedals and screwed them in to affix them. The weight from the blocks would pull the pedals down, block side and I used to have to tuck my foot under the pedal and spin it in an attempt to catch the wood side-up. I was about two inches too short to reach the pedals and about six inches too short to reach the ground. I would ask him to take me outside two or three times a day on weekends and every night after work that summer. I was determined to ride.

The schoolyard at Samuel Fels Junior High School (now a high school) was surrounded by a high, chain-linked fence. We would enter from one of the three or so rear entrances. Typically, a couple games of basketball and one game of stickball were happening at any given time, and there was always someone running their dog in the L-shaped, asphalt-covered yard that ran adjacent to two city blocks and had scarce a tree planted near the fence with glass sporadically littering the ground. One could see the glass by the reflection of the sun that made it look like diamonds.

Growing like a weed, I asked my grandfather to take the blocks off the bike. I was also able to balance myself on the pedals, scooting off the seat, pedaling fiercely, always trying to go faster. The blocks were in the way.

That year, in 1981, my family and I moved to Deptford, NJ. Amazingly, the house was situated at the border of an enormous community park and sports complex that had a swimming pool, basketball courts, a football/soccer field, a hockey rink, bike loop trail, and best of all- a professional, American Bicycle Association sanctioned BMX track where riders came from all over to race or just have fun. I was in heaven, but I quickly learned that the pink Huffy was not up to racing standards with its banana seat, chain guard, kickstand, reflectors, and lack of pads.

When races were held every Saturday, I'd climb over our fence to watch the riders and I stopped an older girl who looked cool to me, she was wearing a GT racing suit and had blonde hair peaking out from her full face mask, "Hey, can you tell me what I need to do to make my bike regulation?" She was kind to entertain my question and told me everything I needed to do. She should have said, "Kid, get your parents to buy you a real bike."

I had $80 saved and made my mom bring me to Kmart where I bought a black pads, an orange helmet that was really for motorcycles, and the most important thing- a Haro number plate: 1. The helmet was $39.99 and when all was said and done, I was left with twenty bucks.

The next morning, I woke and found a screwdriver and wrench. Promptly, I began working to remove the kickstand. It was so difficult and banging my fingers against the metal, trying to loosen the assemblage was frustrating. After prying it off, I went to work on the chain guard, and then unscrewed the reflectors, put the pads on the frame, neck, and bars, attached the number plate and rode over to the track. There was a gang of boys and not one girl, none but I, that is. There was a killer starting hill that sat at a 45° and had long planks that created a starting gate. The kids would take turns, one dropping the gate while the other racers would balance their bikes, front wheel touching the gate with their feet up on the pedals. Ready, set... drop! It went something like- Down the hill, over a jump, into a left turn, over another jump, over the whoop-de-doos, into a right turn, over two more jumps, into a left turn, and then sprinting to finish. But I was little, so my memory is a bit skewed.

I hauled my pink bike up the back of the hill and moved to the gate. No one noticed me, it seems. I don't recall them even caring that I looked ridiculous with a giant, adult-sized orange helmet on my head and a bike that anyone would be crazy to take over jumps. Not sure that I could balance, I went up on my pedals and felt surprisingly stable. Ready, set... drop!

It took me longer than anyone to make it to the finish line, but I managed not to fall, despite being scared and not anticipating things like the painful force of impact on my little wrists and the fact that the enormous starting hill would propel me faster than I had ever gone and my legs could pedal. I hated those whoop-de-doos and hit every one with my front wheel. It would be a while before I was able to master the timing and finesse needed to fly and glide over them. The Huffy held up well until 1984 when I scored my first real bike after we moved to Philly, an all chrome Mongoose "Expert", an aesthetically beautiful racing bike that never saw real dirt. The track, unfortunately, had a rather sad ending and was eventually flattened by the township.

Now, I have my own kids and until yesterday, only one of them could ride a bike. Unbelievable, right? I mean, I half expected my girls to be riding bikes in diapers, but noooooooo! My kids liked playing with dolls and having their nails polished and had little desire to learn to ride a bike. It was a tomboy's nightmare. I just can't fathom that they'd have rather hopped on a friend's pegs than to have the freedom of movement, or that they like their parents enough to want to hang out with us. When I was eight and lived in Philadelphia, I was riding my bike up to Roosevelt Mall to go to the arcade and that was nearly two miles from our home and riding through the miles-long trails in Pennypack Park.

When she was almost nine, my now twelve year old, under peer pressure, learned to ride a bike with the help of an older friend. She's now become a fairly proficient rider, though I can't see her taking jumps. In fact, that thought scares the shit out of me- she'd have to be dressed in one of those Sumo wrestler costumes, you know, they're the ones that blow a person up like the Michelin tire guy.

Well, after trying for the past three years to get her to ride, my now nine year old had me convinced she would never ride a bike. It bothered me because I thought she was going to miss out on an entire part of childhood independence and lifetime enjoyment. So, two days ago, I saw the same girl who taught my elder daughter and said, "Hey, if you teach her to ride, I'll give you twenty bucks."

The next day at dinner time, the kids walked over to the teenager's house. In an hour, one of their friend's came running inside our house, "Gab, Gab! Come outside, quick, she's coming down the street!"

There she was, riding her pink Huffy with it's kickstand, chain guard, and reflectors, with a giant smile on her face.

Over the Quasi-Rainbow

2011-07-22T12:07:00.005-04:00

This morning, I awakened and immediately began house work. Before having coffee (blasphemous, I know), I washed dishes in the sink, unloaded the dishwasher, put a load of wash in, and folded clothes that were in the dryer. Even now as I sit, I am only one-third of the way into my first cup, a 16oz Disney mug that shows Tinkerbell in hair rollers and a nightie, holding her own mug with her left hand while her right hand is resting on her hip, appearing as I feel prior to coffee. On the back of the mug, it reads, "Mornings aren't Magical," hm, precisely.

However, something else is magical: Color.

There's time to get personal later, but for now I'll ask the reader to gloss over the fact that I'm about to tell you that I live with my ex-husband, but that I also have a long-standing boyfriend- right, anyway... I digress and now, one may observe how important coffee is for my brain... ramble, ramble... This has nothing to do with anything, but it sort of does, and I'm certainly in an odd mood this morning.

So (echem), the ex (one of my best friends) was looking for a shirt and I said, "Your little, green t-shirt is folded on the sofa, if you want it."

"What green t-shirt?" he asked.

"You know, your soft, green one... it's over there," I said, pointing from the kitchen.

Walking into the living room, he moved to the sofa and bent over to pick-up the shirt. As he lifted it, his face scrunched and he moved the shirt to arms length in a scrutinizing fashion. "This shirt isn't green."

"What? Yes it is."

"Well, if I were to say, I'd say it was colorless. It's grey," he said, confounded.

"Dude, that shirt is green. Hey babe...," I said to my boyfriend, "what color is this shirt?" I said with a bit of an attitude in my tone.

"Definitely not green, it looks grey to me." he said.

"You're both fucking nuts!" I yelled, in disbelief. It was like some bad dream or crime story where one is blamed for a murder and must prove one's innocence.

"No, we're both color blind."

"It's all you other, crazy people just making colors all over the place that are confusing things," said the ex.

Ha! Now there's a twist!

Burnt sienna, cerulean, magenta, mulberry, forest green, maize, peach, apricot, tangerine... while the absurdity of his statement was clear, so too was his logic. He was right!

It reminded me of the movie, Pleasantville, where a brother and sister in modern times are given a special remote control that thrusts them into a 1960s family sitcom where the world is black and white, and shades of grey. The world gradually becomes color-filled as the teens' influence and "new" ways of thought spread through the minds of the colorless.

Certainly, this is all metaphor for spreading the concept that free-thinking and creativity, unbound, are perceivably positive characteristics- the tell-tale signs of a healthy, societal constitution. So, I wonder whether there is some sort of real, psychological effect on those individuals whom many colors escape? Does the world judge the 10% of people who are considered "color blind" as being narrow-minded?

It's not logical to say that this judgment is consciously directed; rather, it may be unconscious. What I have noticed is that those afflicted with the inability to physiologically see all the colors that exist in the world feel a sense of inferiority to some degree.

"Hey, your socks don't match."

"They don't? Well, it doesn't matter, I'm colorblind. I'm like the comedian, Steven Wright, who says that he doesn't match socks by color, he matches them by thickness. If they feel the same, that's all that matters."

Yeah, okay, make excuses for the fact that you're wearing one army green sock and one beige sock if that makes you feel better...

Or, maybe they've got it right and life is just simpler where one so bedeviled just let's it all go and says, "Screw it! I'm wearing this shirt because it feels soft and these pants, because they're comfy. I know in my heart that the shirt is lilac and the bottoms, orange, but my color confusion matters not, and you colorful folks can all hang!"

Have we color-seeing folks complicated the world, or is not such a Wonderful World for the color blind?

I see trees of green, red roses too (No, you really don't... and I'm not sure you can see this either! hahahahaha, just kidding)
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?"
They're really saying "I love you"

The Rainbow Connection by Kermit The Frog
True Colors by Cyndi Lauper
Color My World by Chicago
Silver, Blue and Gold by Bad Company
Rainbow in the Dark by Dio
Rose Colored Times by Lisa Loeb
Rose Colored Glasses by John Conlee
Karma Chameleon by Culture Club

The list goes on. In fact, here's an entire webpage dedicated to providing names of songs that have a color in their titles.

You color blind people, I hope this article doesn't make you see red, with your blue eyes cryin' in the rain, by the light of the silvery moon...

Putting the "Hysterical" Back in Hysterectomy

2011-07-17T23:13:00.010-04:00

Last week, my mother had a necessary hysterectomy. Several weeks prior, I was made aware that the procedure would take place and it made me a little nervous, because no one likes seeing one's loved one being hospitalized for even the most minor of reasons.

I began thinking about the surgery, not obsessing, but it was firmly planted in the back of my mind as being somewhat troubling. So, I did what I generally do with all of life's affairs, no matter how mundane or upsetting, and tried to find humor.

Hysterectomy sounds awfully like "hysterical". I wanted to look up the etymological origin, as the thought of tying the two together was a bit puzzling. The word comes from the Latin hystericus "of the womb" and " from ek "out" + temnein "to cut". Oh, okay. Well, that makes sense- still, I wasn't understanding the relationship to the word hysterical, Greek -ikos "in the manner of; pertaining to the womb." Well, I should have guessed:

Hysterical comes from the 17th C. when craziness or neuroticism was thought to be an affliction of the womb.

Evil women- yeah, we get blamed for everything: drought, famine, war...? women.

The days leading up to surgery moved quickly and on the morning of surgery, I went as a support person to my mom, who I had only seen in the hospital once when my brother was born. After about an hour of seeing two pre-op nurses, two O.R. nurses, an intern, and a resident, the surgeon visited to discuss the procedure (we later met the anesthesiologist). The surgeon said, "We're going to attempt to go in vaginally and hopefully with the two c-sections you had previously, there will be few adhesions to the uterus. I will remove the uterus and the cervix."

"Oh, you have to remove the cervix?" she said.

"Well, they're attached, so...," he paused, "Then, I will have to re-attach the vagina."

"Oh?!" My mother's eyes grew wide. My stepdad was with us and he's a relatively modest man with puritanical values, so I imagine he would rather have his intestines eaten by vultures while alive than to have to sit in that room with me. He looked away and I looked at my mother, then the surgeon and simultaneously, my mouth and eyes opened wide.

The surgeon continued, making a gesture with his right hand where his palm was facing up and his fingers were spread open, but were curled up like a basket, as if he were holding something and then said, "Yes, the vagina has to be re-attached, otherwise, it'll just..." he motioned, moving his arm downward, but retaining the shape of his hand, "...fall out."

OH MY GOD!

At that moment, I joined my stepdad and together, we shared a moment of instant, torturous embarrassment. I mean, holy shit! Not only wasn't I nor anyone else aware that this information would be shared with everyone, I had no idea one's vagina could just fall out. I gotta say that this has caused me an entirely new form of worry. I've become quite attached to my vagina and can't fathom such a horror.

For several hours, I worried about my mom in surgery and my stepdad and I did what any normal person would do after having to hear such information, we went to the bar. It was quickly realized the alcohol had no effect- nothing could penetrate the vagina, the thought that is.

At around 5:30, we were allowed to see my mom and the surgeon spoke to us and said that the surgery went as well as he had hoped and everything was great. I was a bit emotional, internally, but just sat silently and remained peaceful, waiting for my mother to open her eyes. Finally, about thirty minutes later, my lovely mom's eyes opened and I softly said, "Hi mom, the doctor said everything went great! How do you feel?"

"Where is my vagina?"

I looked at my stepdad, his eyes caught mine and then he looked down at the floor, shaking his head with his eyes wide, "What?" I said.

"Where did he put my vagina?" my mother asked, in a halfway coherent state.

"Um, I don't know, Mom. He didn't say."

Staying with Mom until visiting hours ended, while she mostly slept, I drove home to my kids who were very excited to hear the news as to how "Gram" fared. I told them everything went well and then, bursting with inner laughter, I just had to tell them what the surgeon said about the vagina needing to be attached.

My nine year old daughter stood up and said, dramatically, "Oh my God, my vagina just fell out in the shower... and it went down the drain!"

I almost peed my pants.

Life is wonderful, it's just so damned funny and I thought that I immediately had to blog the experience. So, I began thinking of possible article titles:

"Waiter, There's a Vagina in My Soup"

"Pardon Me, Have You Seen My Vagina?" and my personal favorite-

"Nothing Could be Fina'h Than to Locate My Vagina"

Ladies, take care of your vaginas and Mom, get better soon!

Stream

2011-06-24T14:22:00.002-04:00

In 1995, at nineteen years old, my life was guided by a continual need to question authority and structure. The disassembly of scaffolding of self was often manifested into forms of societal rebellion. As a young writer and poet in high school, I was accustomed to writing in set rhyme scheme and meter. My favorites were and still are, works written in the Romantic and Victorian periods of English literature- moving from the wild to the tame.

In 1994, a creative writing class at University of Maryland, Baltimore County (UMBC) was being taught by a renowned local poet, Michael Fallon. He was somewhat of a sensation and seemed like the guy to cozy-up to if one wished to grow as a poet... Why waste time? I had little desire to learn from academics with no real-world experience, so I vied for a seat, as a freshman, in his hugely popular class.

Fallon ripped me apart after the first week of class when I brought one of my sonnets in for him to read, "This is antiquated writing, nobody writes this way in contemporary poetry... rhyming, hmm. You have to get rid of the rhyming." I was devastated. I was a rhyming machine and damn proud. My ego was smashed to bits and at first, I thought Michael Fallon was a jerk. I mean, he didn't like my poetry? What the Hell was wrong with that guy? But I sucked it up and thought that maybe, just maybe he knew what he was talking about.

I started writing with no rhymes. Fallon told us, and I've never forgotten, that a single line of poetry must stand alone as its own poem. Meaning, that in the few words that comprise a single line, the words must be descriptive enough that it causes the reader's senses to ignite, without any other lines to support it. Glancing back over assignments marked by Fallon, I still think he was a bit harsh and too fond of succinctness. Everything had to have a point and flowery language was not tolerated; however, his lessons helped me grow and learn to be more bold, stepping out of imprisoned form and embracing the free.

After leaving UMBC, I moved back to New Jersey and my parents found me a little condo in Smithville. It was my first experience living alone and the Internet was a fantastic new way to gather information, including the Magic Mushroom Grower's Guide. So, I ordered psilocybe cubensis spores from a place in Washington state called Psylocybe Fanaticus and after several weeks, played guinea pig and tried them.

They were good. And while journeying with myself one day in 1995, I decided to write in a stream of consciousness and here's the result. I'm not sure Michael Fallon would like it, the words are too chaotic for his taste, but he'd definitely dig it a lot more than my sonnets and iambs:

Ask me can you feel the pain
shadows across the wall flightless in my outside into my conditional wipeout of dreams and reality gushing with the secrets of life's endless battle of wits and to which I am is no more isolation into the darkness of solitude binding hearts to souls in the seductive sensation of hope and wisdom allocating thoughtfulness every-other-day time and punctuality are not allowable partners in this relationship time is of the essence and ethical standards remain hostage to other people's inquiries into what life is truly about giving into the game of rules of the establishment forgoes and leaves us to guess in endless mind trances into the canker sores of life's twisted design for truly freedom rings its bell in the cracking embraces of the feeling misery incorporates dividing truth from a bunch of desolate desires and ambitions giving into the threshold of puzzle parts that the greatest artist in the world could not put back together again if destiny conducted assessments of each and every one of a hieroglyphic anecdote of symbolism and incongruities that would like to end its time amongst the white plains of the flower trees and apple blossoms in springtime amidst a retreat of the conscious and a festival of the senses delighted by the frequent sounds of laughter and weightlessness of the everything...

p.s. I still love writing poetry in form and find the discipline to be an art. It is much more difficult to write a line of descriptive, metered poetry than it is to write in free form. After having a discussion with a friend, we agreed that poetry is supposed to make sense of the chaotic, wild world, not add to it.

Photo by Katrina Mayo

Denial

2011-05-20T00:02:00.021-04:00

A woman sits
smiling eyes, staring,
a world of idealism
wishing, yearning--
Tattered memories
deny love's loss; however,
Truth knows not of denial.
Find her heart
buried beneath tarnished walls--
silver-plated dreams.
Passive feelings,
floating through skeleton halls

skimming sweetness but,
falling short of
materialized love.
Success in relations of
heart's joy,
barren--
wasted
futile desires, efforts.
Visions fade
becoming cataracts
of mind's eye.
Still--
lips stretch ear
to ear;
nose turns upward
in the face of destiny;
Musky odors of man
envelop insecurities,
as Truth, again,
must yield to
azure skies
glimmering with hope.

6 Feb 97

Young Lovers (For L.E.)

2011-05-03T12:05:00.006-04:00

Her naked body glistens in moonlight-
Morning dew envelopes supple, sweet skin;
Heat rising, escape the clothes I am in!
Beside her I lie, hidden from all sight.
Twist, bend, stretch'd legs toward crimson lips-
Part gently Love's door to heavenly bliss;
Extend warm tongue to meet her with a kiss;
Slipping slowly inside, warm fingertips.
Hummingbird extracting sweet nectar, deep
Penetrate, seizing the budding, pink stone,
Kindly pinch, tease, leave the flower alone;
Steal away quickly, their secret to keep.
Folded, concealed in her love's mad embrace,
Kiss warm tenderness- the lips on her face.

-Gabrielle Cianfrani 2003

Body Electric

2011-04-26T19:25:00.000-04:00

Body Electric

Turn on my Body Electric,

come-- brush against my quarks,

a chemistry explosively

revealed after dark.

I wish to be your lightning rod,

come ZAP! me in delight,

come in, explore, there's so much more,

find vision without sight.

So long, I've searched through galaxies,

and foraged through a maze

of lifeless, empty energy

forced stunted by a haze.

Get warped, consume my juicy space,

take journeys in my mind,

wrap warm lips around every

particle you can find.

-Gabrielle Cianfrani 2008

Fly With Me

2011-04-22T18:12:00.000-04:00

Fly With Me

Dancing alone, my eyes gleaming toward

starry, wondrous sky;

Twirling in counter-clockwise

motion-

Arms extended, hands reaching

opposite corners of the universe—

Fingertips longing for delightful taste,

Heaven.

Wishing for Love to raise me,

feather-light;

Toes lifting off soft, green

Earth;

Where separations fuse,

detachment evaporates like intense

Summer storm, quickly dissipating

into atmospheric tranquility.

Finding you, dancing alone;

A unique rhythm guiding your feet—

not unlike my own,

flitting steps;

Do you wish, as I, to know one song?

All along, designs were

placed, creating a masterpiece-

Universal ecstasy for our pleasure.

Fly with me,

I’ll meet you high above the clouds,

contentedly abandoning loneliness—

Intermingling independent movement,

weaving our heart’s strings—

a new tune—

Together, we soar.

Beautiful.

-Gabrielle Cianfrani 2007

I Am, or Am I?

2011-03-12T11:50:00.016-05:00

On Sunday mornings, the Tibetan Buddhist Center of Philadelphia invites people to join in meditative practices, as well as holds group (sangha) discussions regarding various aspects of Buddhist thought and philosophy. Last week, after the traditional first-hour, the sangha, led by a senior teacher (when Ven. Losang Samten is away) in the Introduction to Buddhism series, learned of and discussed Vipaśyanā. This form of meditation practice is considered "insight" meditation where one thinks critically of the nature of reality, asking, "Who am I?" and "What is Reality?" While the question must not plague and weigh down the mind, it surfaces in daily life, bobbing up, like little fish in water.

In the last several minutes of the discussion, Jeffrey Carr's summary statement was inspiring when he said, "You only exist in relation to your experiences." What a profound statement- not so much profound in the words as it becomes when one analyzes the breadth of such a notion.

You only exist in relation to your experiences.

Not only will the meaning confound the truth seeker, it opens the clichéd Pandora's Box of self-inquiry. Certainly, people have delved, introspectively, into this realm as it pertains to self identity and the self in relation to the surrounding universe, for millennia. In building upon Jeff's comment, one may see that the individual's own experiences only exist, then, in relation to another person's experiences. If there is only one person, with no other existing beings, does the person exist? No. How can he?

This is reminisce of the ceremonial native North American sweat lodge experience where cool air ceases to be. One enters the lodge, fully knowing the idea of "fresh air"-- air that moves and flows around us and through us. Gradually, within the lodge, steam grows. There is no crisp flow that shocks one back into the safety and comfort of control of self and Ego, there is just steam. Thicker and thicker, it grows over many hours, and soon all one knows is steam and heat. It becomes what "is". There is no dichotomy, nothing to compare "this" to "that". Cool does not exist. Did it ever? One crawls from the claustrophobic womb of the lodge, the breath is taken and again, one remembers the meaning of "cool, crisp air".

From a sociological perspective, one observation is to extend this to greater society, recognizing that a universal interdependence exists. I cannot exist without I (you, me, they, we, he, she, they, us). Therefore, from a psychological perspective, one may also observe that because of this truth, it becomes a matter of life and death of the self that one have the ability to express his or her own life experiences.

It's no wonder that people act-out, demanding recognition of the self-- it brings material, physical validation to the very existence of the self.

This is me. This is you.

From the perspective of human maturation and growth, one finds it nearly impossibile to move beyond freeing that self that requires attention and validation and into a place of peace unless one finds satisfaction in believing he or she exists. If not reconciled, the self will continue to seek satisfaction and contentment in the world-at-large.

How one, then, identifies this lack of satisfaction determines that person's interaction with the rest of the "selves" that simultaneously exist alongside the individual. We are afraid. We are hungry. We are angry. We are love. We are compassion. We are peace.

So, what are you?

In 1999, I wrote a poem in response to my friend, Kelly, to whom I was attempting to convey that because of this interdependence we all all have with each other, one can then free one's self in saying that the "self" can then be defined to encompass all that exists. It has been published on the Zen Buddhist Order of Hsu Yun's website for ten years, after Abbot Chuan Zhi Shakya gave me precepts into the Order and named me, Fa Ming:

The Mask

The mask is placed upon the face,

yet envelopes all of me.

For with no disguise, how would your eyes

handle what they see?

I am yesterday, tomorrow, today,

I am all that will ever exist...

the tears you fear, the noise you hear,

a long awaited kiss.

For you I bend; to you, I extend

my million tentacle hands--

they grab you, feel you, show how to heal you

so you may understand...

Why.

I wear the mask, so you Can ask

Truth to seep into your mind--

"I am" is all you need to call

and Eternity you will find.

The Wiki is Leaking, Somebody Call a Plumber

2010-12-02T14:03:00.004-05:00

For months, mainstream media has focused on the Wikileaks website where tens of thousands of documents, videos, and other forms of media which would, otherwise, have remained out of public scrutiny have been released for societal purview. From this, comes the discussion of ethics in business.

In its own words, Wikileaks says, "Our primary interest is in exposing oppressive regimes in Asia, the former Soviet bloc, Sub-Saharan Africa and the Middle East, but we also expect to be of assistance to people of all regions who wish to reveal unethical behavior in their governments and corporations."

How one defines what is deemed unethical is arbitrary and subjective. One defines personal values and ethics according to individual and societal culture, norms, mores, and taboos, which are so deeply entrenched in one's self from an individuals moment of birth, one cannot assuredly say that what is for one is for many. Lest one confuse the meaning of ethics, it is important to state that, in this instance, ethics is defined as "the principles of conduct governing an individual or a group". Around the world, personal and cultural ethics have defined entire societies since the beginnings of "civilized" humankind. Currently, examples of societal cohesion are found amongst allied, global nations; likewise, others clash head-on in an attempt to reign over defining "right" and "wrong". From a worldly perspective to a personal, micro-perspective- as a world citizen and as a member of a local community, ethics guide decisions and courses of action within one's self and in the manner one conducts actions in the greater world.

In the case of Wikileaks, it releases private or secured documents and other media, which it deems worthy of public view, and it publishes the media without apology, shame, or regret. In the United States, there are corporate whistleblower laws that protect individuals' rights against retaliation from entities (financial loss, loss of life or liberty) which have violated laws of professional ethics. In the U.S., the belief is that corporations, acting as single entities, are not capable of policing themselves and that the government does not have the necessary resources to adequately monitor ethical behavior across the board. So, while it has regulatory commissions, it also recognizes the importance of protecting those whistleblowers with the understanding that there is a societal obligation and burden for all to maintain certain categorical imperatives; that is, those matters on which the majority of people agree. For instance, in the U.S., people by-and-large follow the ethics of the Ten Commandments- no killing, no stealing, no raping, no adultery, speak well of others, respect neighbors, and be a good citizen.

Is what Wikileaks does considered ethical? For the most part, society also judges what is ethical according to the good and positive results which can be reaped from the truth. Whistleblowers, in the past, have helped shed the light on grievous acts in order to protect others from wrongdoing. Because corporations and governments, enjoy certain societal power, therefore, having the ability to affect the less-powerful, society also holds these entities in a higher regard when it comes to being accountable and answering for its actions.

So far, the world has seen Wikileaks play games like a playground bully. The data and information it releases, at best, seems petty, gossipy, and only causes societal upheaval and mistrust. Furthermore, the most recent Wikileaks incident involving the release of foreign diplomats' confidential wire communications could have caused real, physical injury to those in the business of foreign relations. There are also real rules and laws that exist in world governments. In the U.S., this means that Wikileaks and anyone who steals and uses U.S. military classified secret information during wartime is in violation of the Espionage Act of 1917. Here, it is punishable by death.

The ethical question here is whether all information should just be available, without regard to whether the information can damage, ruin, kill, and destroy lives in reputations, relations with others, and financial condition? Is it Freedom of Speech, or is it a chaotic, bullying means to push one entity's idea of what is ethical?

It seems that Wikileaks is the gossiping family member who, as a source of his or her own entertainment, will happily let everyone know that no secret is safe. While some have said that Wikileaks is not responsible for leaking the information in the sense that someone else, not with the organization, is responsible for the information gathering, society expects that, ethically, if in possession of what is known to belong to someone else, there remains an obligation to return that which was stolen, no? This isn't a case of Enron where taxpayers and governments are being bilked, or polluted waters that have caused serious, environmental damage and genetic mutation in humans and plants as in past cases with 3M and GE, so where does society say enough is enough?

This recent State Department matter was none of anyone's business except for whom the information was intended. Foreign diplomats build relationships with people in areas around the world, in places the U.S. may or may not be seen in a favorable light. When we meet people, we gather information about them to try to better understand them, so we can find common-ground in an effort to support our own interests. It makes life easier. It is not a false relationship of use and abuse, it is what people have done in the entire history of human relationships. It is how progress is made.

Happy Birthday, John Lennon

2010-10-09T12:25:00.006-04:00

1995 was a year filled with John Lennon. Advertising media stormed the market and, miraculously, a never released Lennon song, "Free as a Bird" launched the new Beatles Anthology.

At the time, I was a junior in college and heavily into everything Beatles. To help solidify the personal connection I felt through Lennon's artistic angst, I discovered we are both Libra (born a week apart and, I, in the same year as Lennon's son, Sean, who was also born on his birthday). So, naturally, I named my cat "Winston" after Lennon's middle name and bought every album I could get my hands on, even vinyl was newly released and remastered. Looking back in time amuses as I pause to think about why 19 years old is so ripe for The Beatles... free minds, open hearts, awakening, peace. John's messages in his song writing and political activism were much more keen to my young brain than other Beatles, at the time.

As a lifelong poet, it turned out that 19 was also the perfect age to be this vessel of recycled energy that intakes information and then transforms it, pushing it back out to the world in a new way. In the two years since leaving high school and with a major in English, focusing on creative writing, classroom experiences lead me away from Romantic poets, rhyme scheme and meter. I found myself (smack!) at the end of the twentieth century writing free form and playing around with the visual appearance of words on a page and how the image could intertwine with the words to create a more encompassing meaning. I stopped writing unrequited love poems and began writing darker pieces that demanded social justice and which mocked authority. By 1997, nine of those poems had been published in several college literary journals.

Only fifteen years after his death, after just turning twenty, I wondered what would be if John Lennon were still living. I was driving home from Philly one night and lived in a place called Smithville which borders the South Jersey pine barrens. Moss Mill Rd. is a single lane road, excruciatingly dark at night and stretches 20 miles from Hammonton to Pomona through thick woods, which I frequently chose to take instead of the police-thick major highway where I could be more than bothered for smoking giant, smelly joints in my car. And on this night, December 28, 1995, I imagined a wonderful fantasy and wrote it down on paper. It's one of the nine that have been published and it goes like this:

Dear J.W.L,

Last night I was cruising down,

down that lengthy highway road

and I heard a voice rumble out,

"Any wish will be yours"

I kept driving, with a smile,

feeling depersonalized for a bit;

finally, I could Let it Be,

a great man'd be returning

I made the wish to be with you,

thirty years before this day

we'd been having a conversation;

a quantum leap into your eyes

I spoke all the right words,

thoughts I knew you had thought

but hadn't yet verbalized;

intrigued, we walked alone

The time came for me to vanish;

I handed you a thick envelope,

"Don't open this until Monday,

December eighth, nineteen eighty"

You looked puzzled, I only grimaced;

you asked me why

I said I could not say, the answers were inside;

I made you swear, you did

I kissed your cold cheek,

your arm touched my shoulder

moving down my arm, 'til our hands

briefly met- I was gone

Again, I found myself in my car

on that same, winding road;

parked the car, opened my door;

There you were, fifty-five years old

My wish came true

The world is a better place

The War is Over

Imagine that

_____

Here I am, 15 years later, still wondering, as many whom felt an affinity to who we knew as John Lennon, what about the world would be different if he were living. Perhaps, there is too much belief in Lennon as some super hero who, truly, could bring the world together as One. That might be true, but then, isn't it wonderful to imagine? There's nothing wrong with attaining to Lennon's vision, which will live in many hearts for eternity.

Space Invaders

2010-09-21T15:00:00.006-04:00

Several days ago, I was listening to Fresh Air with Terry Gross on NPR, where Terry interviewed Jeffrey Gordon, a professor who studies human microbial cells that are found in and on the body. The news item, Bacterial Bonanza: Microbes Keep Us Alive, first intrigued me and now, it has me deep in thought.

According to Gordon, human cells are not the only cells found within the human body. In fact, he states that human cells represent a mere 10% of a human being. What about the other 90%?

Microbes.

That's right, we are primarily microbial. Trillions upon trillions of cells comprise the human body, but only 1 in 10 is human. I have many questions I'd like answered:

So, what are we? What portion of our bodies is human? Are specific parts of the body solely human? What about the brain?

Not only am I forced to ask what we are, but also to ask whether they communicate with each other.

Furthermore, isn't it possible that humans behave in a manner that is intended to perpetuate the microbes? I mean, what if foods we crave are only a reflection of the needs of the microbes?

I also imagine a battle of Good v. Evil. Probiotics help bacteria grow, while anti-biotics destroy them. In people with systemic infections such as bowel diseases and candida, it's suggested that the good microbes have been replaced with bad ones. The bad ones crave bad stuff, carbohydrates, simple sugars, fats. The Baddies don't want you to be healthy, so they tell your brain that you'd rather have a piece of chocolate mousse pie instead of that nice, leafy, green salad.

People say they are "addicted" to unhealthy foods. Well, people, that's the microbes talking.

They also want you to procreate... spread your microbial self all over the Earth. So far, so good. This symbiotic relationship is working fantastically! And soon, we will conquer the world!

Right.

Then I was thinking about the concept of Self.

Myself, yourself, himself, herself, itself, etc...

That's kind of imaginary, no? Perhaps, we should all refer to ourselves in the 3rd person like this, "We (which, in this case, is just me) would like purchase those amazing Betsey Johnson shoes from Nordstrom," you know, the way royalty would do?

It's strange. I am Jungle Girl, you are you- I have had individual life experiences that tell me that I am separate from you and that I am an individual, unique unto myself.

We are unique unto ourselves... that is, my microbes and I.

I foretell new arguments arising:

"My microbes are faster than your microbes."

"Yeah well, your microbes came from that pork shoulder, they're fat and make you crap liquid."

Perhaps, this can be used a new line of defense, "Your Honor, it wasn't I who embezzled that 500 million, it was my microbes! I was outnumbered!"

What if we can open a line of communication with the microbes, like a consciousness expansion that allows us to heal ourselves at a molecular level. "You! Escherichia, Lactobacillus attack those cancer cells!"

Actually, research suggests that microbes do just that. Milk bacteria actually kills cancerous tumors. Some doctors inject good microbes in order to help rid a population of harmful cells. The harmful cells are defeated and the healthy cells grow. Just Google it- as there are far too many articles to list here. I like Google Scholar, as the articles are peer-reviewed sources.

This frozen microbe was thawed after 120,000 years... I don't know about you, but this guy looks pretty tough, like he's sitting atop an adversary saying, "What? What'd you say? No body talks to me that way!"

For me, survival of the fittest just took on an entirely new meaning.

Paging Dr. Huxtable

2010-09-09T22:24:00.008-04:00

There's something prophetic about that Cosby Show/Muppets bit.

A statistic I read this week in Time which originated from the American Journal of Medicine and the American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology, first shocked, and then, angered me. It stated that 31.2% of all births in the United States are performed by cesarean deliveries.

From a personal standpoint, I have experienced two births. One, a hospital birth and the other, a home birth- both were "natural" births where I declined pain medication and gave birth vaginally. I, myself, was born by c-section and I don't think that had any affect on my birthing decisions. However, I am perplexed regarding my mother's answer when asked why I was born this way, "I don't know," she said.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I can't remember. The doctor thought it was necessary for some reason, he recommended it. Then when I had your brother, they didn't want to risk a vaginal birth, so he was also born c-section."

I remember reading Macbeth in high school. We also read it elementary school, but Mr. Klaus, my 11th grade teacher and super crush, went much more in-depth. We spoke of the witches forecasting Macbeth's demise, "none of woman born shall harm Macbeth," was the most poignant. Macbeth thinks he is invincible, as all people come from women.

Later, the reader finds that Macduff

was born by cesarean, and at the time, would not have been considered "born" of woman. For some reason, I took that kind of personally. Hm?

Initially posting the statistic on my Facebook page, I received a few comments that allowed me further introspection and understanding about why I was reacting so strongly to hearing, definitively, that 1 in 3 babies will be born to mothers who had to undergo major surgery unnecessarily.

Certainly, there are times when emergency procedures are a logical alternative to reducing infant and maternal mortality. Having, myself, believed that birth, labor, and delivery (not at all discounting anyone having been in the adoption process, this topic is strictly about a woman's experience in labor and delivery) are all monumentally important in terms of gained, natural, life experience, I have difficulty understanding why the U.S. treats pregnancy like an illness.

My mother and I had a conversation when it was decided we were going to birth our daughter at home. I was firm in my belief that as a healthy woman with a healthy baby, who was under medical care, and who was confident that giving birth was as natural as eating, sleeping, or any other innate, human/mammalian trait. Mom believes in medicine. Now don't get me wrong, I believe doctors have good intent and are 100% needed, but I do not believe that, under normal circumstances, it is necessary to involve medical doctors in the birth process.

"Well, you wouldn't have lived if you weren't born in a hospital," she declared.

"But you planned the date I would be born. If you had just had me when your body was ready, I wouldn't have been 3 weeks premature, and I wouldn't have needed that care."

On June 28, 2002, my cervix was dilated to 3 cm. My younger daughter wasn't ready to be born until the 16th of July. Today, the average woman will run to the hospital, after all, she can't wait to have that baby... 39.5 weeks is a long damn time to be carrying around a parasitic alien and like Sigourney, she wants it out.

She will be admitted and then the clock starts ticking. From the time she walks in the door, she has about 48 hours to decide what to do. She can go home. If she stays and her contractions are not regular, doctors will recommend a shot of Pitocin to artificially induce the labor. If the Pitocin works, she will give birth within 24 hrs. If not, she will be forced to have her flesh, fat, muscles, tendons, uterus sliced open. She will be given a spinal injection which will render her useless, in earlier years, she was made to lie unconscious- unable to see her new baby or nurse her baby, all of whom are born higher than a fucking kite. It's no wonder people do drugs, they were high the moment they were born (pain medicines, especially)... that's right, I'm making the stretch.

Somehow in our fucked-up, idiot minds, major surgery became easier to perform than giving birth.

A doctor has more faith in his ability to perform surgery than in my ability to birth a baby.

Not only does the doctor assume that something MUST go wrong, it is then assumed that I will birth the baby in a hospital where people go when they are sick, injured, and dying. My mother said, "The only cheerful part about hospitals is the maternity ward."

Precisely.

That's right, in the midst of the death and disease box are brand new, generally healthy babies who must immediately receive immunizations, preventing hospital-born infection.

Here is a chart I found that helps one visualize the gradual decline in obstetrics philosophy and practice.
In 1970, only about 6% of all women in the U.S. had performed cesareans.

Remember those Facebook friends who started me really thinking? Well, what they said was that, for doctors, c-sections are a matter of convenience. One friend said her doctor, "mentioned it as a way to know that she would deliver the baby (vs a random dr who is on call that day) and also as a way to have a convenient delivery for work purposes or so family could be there."

I would have run from that doctor, and thank goodness for sensible, bright friends who, with volition, know how to read and investigate without blindly accepting that doctors are as infallible gods.

I was also thinking about the money aspect of medical births. How much does it cost to deliver by c-section versus vaginally? Statistics I've read, say that it's about 2 to 1. Surgeons perform surgery, that's what they do, it's what they believe in... so, of course they're going to plug it.

Another argument made by c-section advocates says that the overall health of women and babies has increased with the rise in cesarean births. In its report on maternal health in the U.S., Amnesty International, it compared the U.S. to other countries where c-sections are not as commonplace, stating:

Maternal mortality ratios have increased from 6.6 deaths per 100,000 live births in 1987 to 13.3 deaths per 100,000 live births in 2006. While some of the recorded increase is due to improved data collection, the fact remains that maternal mortality ratios have risen significantly.

The USA spends more than any other country on health care, and more on maternal health than any other type of hospital care. Despite this, women in the USA have a higher risk of dying of pregnancy-related complications than those in 40 other countries. For example, the likelihood of a woman dying in childbirth in the USA is five times greater than in Greece, four times greater than in Germany, and three times greater than in Spain.

All I'm saying in all of this is that women should educate themselves before trusting a doctor more than one's self. Even if healthy women don't all rush to have home births, they should at least realize they can be empowered through knowledge and don't have to allow the doctor to perform unnecessary procedures like c-sections, faulty fetal monitoring, and episiotomies.

This isn't rocket surgery, people.

On a side note: As an M.P.A., I notice a correlation between Nixon's 1969 announcement of HMOs and the rising occurrence of c-sections. I also believe that all of our astronomical health care costs, across the board, are due to managed care.

Prozac Chemtrails Will Heal the Nation- A.K.A. We're Depressed and So Am I

2010-07-19T12:16:00.002-04:00

This is a rant that goes like this:

I feel like I should change political parties. My grandfather helped (along with several other men) to start the Democratic Party in Philadelphia, so for close to 100 years, we've been Democrats. Part of being a member of this party means, for me, that it's "the people's party"; this means, traditionally it helped the guy on the street find work, so neighbors could have good lives and so an entire neighborhood economy would be boosted, one secure, civil service job at a time.

I must confess, there is Libertarian blood running through these veins. Not a "Tea Partier", because they're a too emotional and passionate bunch... gets in the way of clear thinking, but I am a Social Libertarian- someone who believes in allowing people to govern themselves with as little involvement from the federal government as is possible. The Fed should be there when we ask for its involvement.

The dollar is devalued and the United Nations wants to dump the dollar as the global reserve currency. Do you know why, America? Because we allowed our dollar to be backed BY NOTHING REAL. It's all imaginary. There is no gold standard, because we have the Federal Reserve Bank. Our money is worthless.

States and municipalities should adopt their own currency. In Germany, there are 60 planned and existing local currencies. The Kingower, a Bavarian currency, has surpassed the Euro in Germany, with more people using the non-government-backed currency to keep their local economy healthy. We should do that here, to keep local business afloat during the economic depression we are in, here, in the U.S. Your local neighborhood bank (not Wells Fargo or Bank of America) would trade your dollars for whatever the local currency is, let's call ours the Pineback, since I live here, in the Pine Barrens. We would go to a locally run bank and for every U.S. dollar we exchanged, one would be entitled to $1.50 Pineback. Since Pineback is only accepted locally, it would force people to buy local while boosting local businesses. We did it during the Great Depression, well, umm... echemm.

I once knew a international financier (retired) who specialized in world currencies and he said to me, "The consolidation of currencies prevents healthy competition in the world. When I see the Euro, it makes me shake my head, because I know it will lead to one world government."

Well, our dollar is worthless and I'm just another disgruntled citizen who has a mortgage worth of educational debt and no job in sight. I might scream if hear that the Obama administration reports "unemployment claims are down for the ______ week in a row." Do you know why they're down? Because for most of us, there is no more unemployment available. We're not getting a dime and we wouldn't qualify for public assistance because we own homes or make too much money under guidelines, or we're just too damned full of pride.

Someone close to me said, "If you're starving, you'll take that $7.00/hr job." Well, why the fuck should I have to? If I take the $7.00/hr job, is the U.S. Dept of Education going to forgive my student loans from the public, State run university I attended, as I was deceived into believing in education and the "American Dream" of doing "better" than those who preceded me?

Can I raise chickens and cattle on my property and turn my lawn into an agricultural masterpiece to supplement my family's inability to afford the cost of inflated food prices without the neighbor association and zoning laws infringing upon my right and ability to feed my family? No.

Buy a gun, arm yourselves, and get to know your neighbors. You're going to need each other.

I could be depressed. It's likely, in fact, I would merely be mirroring my surroundings as we all fall into an economic depression.

The Prophet Paul... Paul Simon, That Is

2010-07-02T00:46:00.004-04:00

So, like, OMG! The other day, I read that Tipper and Al Gore are divorcing. I always knew Tipper was way cooler than her man. I mean, I can't imagine that Al is the life of the party, no offense, big fellah, but your wife hangs out with dudes from the Grateful Dead and is said to be not-so-bad on the drums. Anyway, yesterday, I read that police are reopening a criminal sexual assault case against the former U.S. Vice President of which the complainant claims that she was called to Al Gore's hotel suite to massage a guy named "Mr. Stone" at Hotel Lucia in October of 2006. When she arrived, she introduced herself as the therapist and gave her name and credentials and he responded, "Call me Al."

Well, Al requested an abdominal massage, which, according to the therapist and my own massage therapist friends, is quite unusual. You can read the entire police complaint in its entirety at the Guardian where one discovers, especially those of us who are rather empathic as to be able to place ourselves in another's shoes... or in this case, feel another's fear and horror as Frankenstein attempts to grope her.

So, I hafta tell you, I was dying... "You Can Call Me Al" the song from Paul Simon's album, Graceland, which was coincidentally released in October (the same month as Gore's improprieties occurred), foretells Gore's crimes nearly twenty years to the day! And the lyrics, oh the lyrics! Just feast your eyes on this:

A man walks down the street
He says why am I soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of my life is so hard
I need a photo-opportunity
I want a shot at redemption
Don't want to end up a cartoon

In a cartoon graveyard

Gone Gone
He ducked back down the alley
With some roly-poly little bat-faced girl
All along along
There were incidents and accidents
There were hints and allegations

Holy Shit, Paul Simon is a prophet. I don't even know what to say... speechless. What would be even better is if the chorus, instead of saying, "I can call you Betty and Betty, when you call me, you can call me Al," was really to say, "You can call me Daddy and baby, when you call me, you can call me Al." I must now listen to all of Prophet Paul's music in search for, what promises to be, more fortune-telling gems like this one. 'cause, Ladies and Gentleman, this is no coincidence! The song even ends in amens and hallelujahs... it's time to pray to Paul, y'all.

You can't escape the Prophet Paul, Al, your story has already been told and your fate, sealed.

Enough said:

:-) (there is a YouTube video posted above this, I was told that some of you PC users are unable to view it, so here is the link just in case it's not embedded here)

One Song

2010-06-30T16:37:00.006-04:00

All I can do is love the Universe- One song

sung in harmony;

Energies converging, melting away

separateness,

disrobing-

naked...

nothing to hide behind-

no thoughts, no masks,

no body.

This is a dream.

There is no here or there,

no Heaven or Hell-

just illusions

created by false Ego

which deems itself

apart

from another...

he cannot believe that I is We and We

are One,

the implications of such Ego-Loss

splinter his self-assured reality into shards of Fear;

a reality built on Ego and

Separation, specialness

Be better than, have MORE than-

competition is his life from

moments of first breath,

Run and never

stop...

be alone,

die

alone.

Denial that all are one,

denounces the Self;

Silly Man, thinking he had

Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition!*

2010-06-17T16:44:00.006-04:00

The treacherous debauchery of the BP oil spill has been under public purview since the explosion took place on April 20, 2010, about 40 miles off of the Louisiana coastline that killed eleven men and continues to kill ocean life, precious wetlands, migratory bird wildlife refuges, and an entire Gulf economy. Prior to two weeks ago, the public was lead to believe that approximately 5,000 barrels of oil a day (though the earliest estimates were set at 1,000 barrels a day) were spouting from a broken pipeline (210,000 U.S. Gallons/day). The public learned that number is much greater than it was lead to believe by BP when robot cameras, sent about a mile down to the sea floor, were broadcast live on the Internet and provided an even more startling insight.

While BP claimed it could only estimate and was unable to give an accurate portrayal of the amount of oil, all over the world, mathematicians and scientists studied the video feed. Tuesday, a government panel declared that, by their calculations, between 1.47 million and 2.52 million gallons a day are being released into the, once pristine, waters.

Scrambling to help, people discovered that human hair is one of the best ways to absorb oil. All over the U.S., people started sending in their salon hair clippings. After unsuccessfully attempting to shoot cement and mud into the pipeline to jam the 7,000 pound per square inch (psi) flow, the geniuses attempted shooting shredded golf balls and tires into the hole which, again, was a bust. By the way, the hair was never used. Alongside the golf balls, cement, tires, and environmentally shady use of chemical dispersants strewn about, BP rejected the hair, stating that it could not be used, as the environmental impact of hair was not known.

In other news, a giant, green and lavender (only upon close inspection could one notice his lovely colors) smelly-but-friendly sea monster has been spotted in the Gulf. It reportedly bubbled-up from the underground ocean of methane gas that scientists thought might exist beneath the waters. With tentacles and scales glimmering in an iridescent, black and reddish oil sheen, the sea monster, showing a strong command of the Queen's English, stated that he will gladly eat one BP executive per week until they figure out how to stop the Earth from vomiting all over all of us. Then, while facing the type of scrutiny a sea monster might encounter once making himself public, he fainted.

The Russians, accustomed to such disasters, suggested using a low-level nuclear device, a tactic they've used twice in the past. Some scientists claim that the immense heat created will literally create glass out of the sand and oil; thereby, stopping the flow. BP and the U.S. government are opposed, as they do not wish the oil to cease, but want to capture it. The sea monster is in favor of using a nuke, as he is lonely and needs the company of another beast.

*Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition

Photo Source: Momo The Sea Monster by Mia Mäkilä, 2009, acrylics on canvas (50×50 cm).

Psychedelic Psyciety**

2010-04-18T09:45:00.010-04:00

This week, a New York Times article entitled, "Hallucinogens Have Doctors Tuning in Again", highlighted the fact that "hallucinogenic*" chemicals such as psilocybin are being used in psychiatric research trials at world renowned medical facilities such as Johns Hopkins and UCLA. The purpose of the trials was to measure how a person who is in crisis due to, in the case of the article, receiving a cancer diagnosis may or may not be affected when experiencing an induced psychedelic state.

In the United States, psilocybin is listed as a Schedule I substance. This means that our government believes the chemical psilocybin has no medical benefit to people. Below, is the definition of Schedule I thanks to Erowid.org:

Examples : LSD, MDMA, Marihuana, DMT, Peyote, Psilocybin, Mescaline, Heroin

The drug or other substance has a high potential for abuse.
The drug or other substance has no currently accepted medical use in treatment in the United States.
There is a lack of accepted safety for use of the drug or other substance under medical supervision.

Schedule I drugs may not be prescribed

In 2008, while attending the Horizons Perspective on Psychedelics Conference in NYC, Dr. Roland Griffiths, from Johns Hopkins, spoke to a packed and attentive audience at Judson Memorial Church regarding he and his colleague's research. At first, I was skeptical as to whether spiritual experiences could be induced in a clinical setting. I specify clinical, as one might logically argue that all spiritual experiences are induced through one means or other. I am not to judge the validity of these private, spiritual epiphanies, but I firmly believe that setting and tone often determine whether a person will have such an experience. To me, it is equivalent to someone swimming in a public pool versus swimming in the ocean, one is restrictive and confining and the other is expansive and free. I prefer the ocean.

Griffiths explained that they, too, considered set and setting. While the participants were, no doubt, in a hospital, Griffiths and his colleagues made certain to consider the fact that sterile exam rooms are less likely to aid one in achieving a positive psychedelic/spiritual experience. Colorful tapestries and wall hangings were used, among other props, to transform the space into something more like a cozy living room.

Last year, in 2009, I returned to Horizons and attended a day-and-a-half of entertainment and lectures on psychedelic drug policy and their uses in psychotherapy. Regretfully, I forget the name of the doctor who presented one of the most moving filmed interviews I have ever seen. The film showed a different doctor talking about her experience with cancer.

She was in her late fifties, perhaps early sixties. She was a medical doctor who had been diagnosed with a form of terminal cancer and was told she had only a short time to live. She explained that she was depressed, depressed enough to really have no desire to keep living or fighting, or to keep going through treatments. Cancer gave her the feeling that she was imperfect, somehow, that she was incomplete as a person, a failure. Then she entered into the psilocybin study.

She explained how the initial experience was a bit scary, but she also felt she had nothing to lose. Her few experiences with psilocybin had a dramatic effect on her outlook into life and death. So much so that her depression faded into complete contentment and she said something that will stay with me for the rest of my life, "I realized that I was enough."

That was so beautiful to me. It meant, to me and all of us listening and watching, that we're not lacking and that we are perfect just the way we are. I suppose hearing the words come from a person who was absolutely dying had a greater impact. I cried knowing that I and most people in the world seem to, forever, be in a state of constant discontentment and dissatisfaction. We are always seeking and striving to be "more" and "perfect", never realizing that we were always perfect. And just think, it took a drug that the U.S. government lists as being of no benefit to people to help a dying person find peace in her last moments of this life.

She isn't the only person I have heard of doing this. In fact, I know of several people, who at their moments of death, not only wanted to take these substances, but who actually did. D-lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD), 3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methamphetamine (MDMA), psilocybin, N,N-Dimethyltryptamine (DMT). In hospitals, medical doctors shoot people up with morphine, so they're completely in some other world, unaware and unfeeling of their pain and the fact that they are dying. They die in silence, unable to express their fears, sadness, and words of love to those who are left behind. My grandfather died this way and I often wonder if his end of life could have been beautiful, like the doctor and others I know, rather than ending it in a fog of despair.

While my personal beliefs are such that we should legitimately educate people about drugs and create environments of safety and family; whereby, people grow into knowledgeable adults who choose their own paths in life, the use of psychedelics in psychotherapy is a promising first step into welcoming the benefits of promoting a psychedelic society.

I pray for the day when our children are no longer taught that legal means "safe" and "acceptable" (in 2009, there were more than 22,000 alcohol related deaths), where cocaine and heroin are no longer lumped into the same category as LSD, DMT, psilocybin, peyote, mescaline and cannabis (substances that have NEVER KILLED ANYONE from their use alone and which have zero physical, habit-forming properties), and where I am free to make choices about what is best for me without fear that I or anyone can lose our freedom and liberty.

It's thanks to people like scientists Sasha Shulgin, Albert Hofmann, Roland Griffiths, David Nichols, and ethnobotanists like Terence McKenna, Christian Ratsch, and Rob Montgomery, and to drug policy advocates like Students for Sensible Drug Policy and the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies (which, just this weekend, held the biggest Psychedelics conference in 25 years in San Jose, CA) who have and will continue to tirelessly promote a commonsense approach to free our minds from believing we are anything less than perfect- as we are.

**Psyciety is a play on the word "society". *I place this term in quotations for the purpose of questioning the word, itself. A hallucination occurs when one sees something that is not there... a mirage of sorts. Psychedelic chemicals, however, do not induce hallucinations; rather, they alter our sensory perception. So, a bouquet of flowers to one under the influence of psilocybin is likely to seem much more vibrant and colorful. A hallucination would mean that the bouquet was never there to begin with.

The Vacuum of My Life: A.K.A. How to Really Suck

2010-03-17T13:45:00.017-04:00

From the beginning of time, my mother has been a self-

proclaimed cleanliness fanatic. When I was a baby, it wasn't so bad. That is to say, Mom was able to control my behavior, so she didn't yell. To keep me occupied, she might sit me in front of the television during The Price is Right which, according to her, fascinated me at the ripe age of 3 weeks. She might also plop me down on the wool shag, area carpet with geometric patterns in varying hues of orange (what I most recall), where I would itch (but could not scratch- being a baby and all), but my building blocks would be neatly contained, nonetheless.

Not until I was older did I understand what fanatic meant: No water droplets on the bathroom sink counter top, no grazing for food in the "closed kitchen", no sitting on her precious sofas to watch t.v. (we had our own bedroom t.v.s for Pete's sake! and we might, accidentally, sit improperly on her cushions), never cleaning my room or learning how to properly do my laundry because I was not permitted... though in fairness, Mom tried showing me the proper way to make "hospital corners" while making my bed, though I believe my jaw dropped and my mouth was hanging open while my mind wandered-off in 18 million other places- this is precisely why I still cannot make hospital corners.

But above all else- No walking on her carpet.

I know what you're thinking, "She can't be serious! I mean, the carpet? Isn't a carpet meant to be walked-on?" That's right. I'm not talking about some heirloom rug that's worth tens of thousands of dollars and is isloated in one, fancy room of the house. We're talking wall-to-wall. And one night in 1990, when I was feeling particularly brave and defiant, I walked on the carpet, sat on the sofa, and turned on the television. Mom came home and in a voice unlike her sing-songy, normal voice, sounding like a cruel Disney villain she said, "Who-walked-on-my-carpet?" She saw footprints and noticed the lines she vacuumed-in were slightly askew.

To think I could shield my children from the familial madness by becoming fanatically messy and careless would be a mistake. You can ask my daughter what "Gram" did to her when she was two and was eating a cookie in the kitchen (silly me, where else in Gram's house would she be eating it?). I have spent years undoing the trauma of Mom vacuuming the baby by insisting to the poor kid that the vacuum can be FUN! hahaha! Hop on and let's zoooooom around the room!

In my life, not cleaning the house has meant comfort. I've fought my love for the smells of chlorine bleach and Lysol and attempted to replace them with cooking spices, candles and fine incense. After a lifetime of deliberate avoidance and oppositional defiance, I realize only now that I am a Closet Cleaner. I don't mean that I clean closets, I mean that I've been hiding my love for all things organized and clean just to punish my mother.

Recently, a friend who has a background in clinical psychology said to me, "Grow-up."

In other words, when am I going to stop being like an obnoxious teenager who acts passive-aggressively toward her parent? Because not only am I, as an adult, trying to make Mom suffer, but I am also living in a manner and fashion which I find to be rather distressing and which others who live in my home must also endure.

No matter the extreme, whether fanatical in cleanliness or in being sloven, comfort is lost. I find the fact that I can't find my keys equally as distressing as a sterile environment. Both extremes promote fear, which to me, is not a desirable goal for one to attain. A home, for me, should be a place of love, respect, safety, and comfort.

The same psychologist friend believes that, innately, as people, we spend our adult lives seeking that which we believe we sufficiently lacked as children. I know that the concept is nothing new and that we act in many ways which subvert or drive our overall success as individuals. Where it is new, however, is when I apply the concept to my own life.

Continuing to plague the world with one's sense of entitlement and ownership while believing the rest of the world can go hang is wrongfully audacious. It is not one's job, responsibility, or right to punish anyone for attempting to or successfully squashing one's ego or sense of self. How childishly insane... and people do it all the time when they have extra-marital affairs, drop-out of school, fight and bicker, consume harmful chemicals, and kill each other.

For as we punish others for our short comings, we also punish ourselves because no one in the world is responsible for an individual except that same individual. It's not only others who suffer, we suffer too when we decide to sabotage our perfection.

So, if a person sucks, it's his or her choice. Suck it up! The Universe has given us everything we've always needed, though some probably have a hard time believing me. We've all been so conditioned from birth to believe that we are special and different and that we deserve to be special. But if "special" means that a person will do anything to force the hands of the world to carry that person's weight because he feels it owes him something, I promise the world will inevitably drop him time and time again. What a vicious cycle that could become; for, you will always be disappointed in your expectations. Poor, poor souls who choose suffering over peace- dissatisfaction over contentment, suck no more.

Reality is One, Giant Placebo Effect

2010-03-08T09:29:00.019-05:00

For decades, medical researchers have studied the Placebo Effect. Most people understand placebos to be "sugar pills" given to research participants in medical studies; oftentimes, medical research groups will be divided into two groups: one group will receive the actual treatment being tested, while another group will be given an impostor treatment, or placebo. Researchers use this method to test the efficacy of potential drugs by comparing and contrasting the results of both groups. Something that has fascinated researchers is that, sometimes, the placebo subjects' medical woes will dissipate or even disappear, especially in psychiatric trials. Now, new scientific data suggests that the Placebo Effect is much stronger than was previously recorded, which scientists are calling placebo "drift".

While some of this data is correlated with pharmaceutical research fraud, overall, this shift is significant enough to warrant concern in the research community. In the NPR report, The Growing Power of the Sugar Pill, data suggests that faith is a powerful medicine. Now, when some people hear the word "faith", it stirs serious emotions. Atheists and agnostics might fiercely defend their right to non-faith; while others whom welcome spirituality and religion, might welcome the concept.

But this faith doesn't require God or an absence of God. Rather, this faith deals with believing in science. People have faith when they go to the doctor that modern medicine will cure one's ails. Well, according to researchers, having faith that you're being cured might actually work. It's enough to skew data and make some scientist scratch their heads, because faith cannot be measured using the scientific method.

This news is welcome for people like me who would not consider themselves religious or sometimes frown at conventional spirituality, but who also accept that there are answers science cannot measure or answer. I consider myself a realist who takes full responsibility for my Self. This also means I believe that I can control every aspect of my Self, and not just deciding on whether to make a left or right turn, or choosing to treat people with common courtesy. I'm talking about the micro too: I should be able to control every aspect of my life down to a molecular level, and all with a thought. I can manipulate my external environment, so why not the internal?

Aside from placebo drift, I'm not the only one who believes this to be true. Tibetan Buddhists have believed the mind and body are interconnected for thousands of years.

Now, the test for me is to learn how to do it. How can I, with a thought, make myself hot and then cold? How can I, with a thought, heal diseases of my mind and body? If I can choose to control my external environment deliberately, I must also be able to use the same deliberation and presence of mind to control what is within.

We can already master our internal selves when we choose to be happy or sad, angry and passive- logically, I must also include the minute, microscopic, subatomic particles that make me who and what I am.

What effects do your beliefs have on your life? Perhaps a lot more than you think.

Image source: http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/04_03/014head_468x558.jpg

Does Anti-Matter Matter?

2010-02-19T14:11:00.004-05:00

As a person who loves Chaos Theory, the LHC excites me... of course, this is tempered with the reality that the monster will be sunk by virtue of its gargantuan size. Oh, but the possibilities! I imagine the LHC creating, in its infancy, a small bit of anti-matter that will be like hugging a tiger cub: The cub is so cute! Ooh, let's pet the kitty! Well, these mad scientists will keep feeding that kitty until one day it may, inevitably, swallow them whole. I'm rooting for the kitty. Let's create and uncreate at the same time! Let's SUCK! Let's never understand what we don't understand, but hope that we understand! Let's give the entire Earth Shaken Baby Syndrome!

LHC Ready for Duty Again

February 19, 2010 by Miranda Marquit

(PhysOrg.com) -- For the Christmas holiday, the Large Hadron Collider at CERN was shut down for a break and for a little technical tinkering. But next week, the hope is that the LHC will start up again around the 25 of February.

The Large Hadron Collider is used in experiments involving smashing particles together at high speeds. Just before the Christmas break, the LHC had sent particles careening into each other and resulting in energies not seen before. The hope later this year is to gradually get the LHC to the goal of 7 TeV, smashing the previous record. The collider is built for collisions resulting in 14 TeV, but that level probably won't be reached anytime in the immediate future.

Just reaching 7 TeV will take some time. Scientists plan to rev up the LHC slowly, starting initial beams at that produce relatively low energies of around 900 GeV at collision. CERN honchos want to avoid a situation similar to the explosion that marred the LHC's initial run in 2008. The hope is that a gradual warm up for the LHC will ensure that everything is in working order as CERN races the Tevatron in the U.S. to be the first to pinpoint the elusive Higgs boson.

The LHC is expected to help solve some mysteries in particle physics, as well as possibly provide information about other dimensions and further insight into the origins of the universe.

More information: CERN LHC: http://lhc.web.cern.ch/
via TheRegister / BBC

© 2010 PhysOrg.com
Image source: Julian Herzog via Wikimedia Commons

Couch Potato or World Olympian?

2010-02-14T17:45:00.015-05:00

In the spirit of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games, I am, hereby, recommending a new event that shows dauntless prowess, the use of strategic artifices that define the core of the competitive sprit, and one that will also promote global friendship, solidarity, and fair play*. Lugers, skiers, snowboarding freestylers, Beware!

That's right, Nintendo's Mario Kart for the Wii.

In my almost mid-thirties, I was introduced to video games again. Don't get me wrong, I've never really stopped playing them since the moment my best friend, Richie, busted-out his shiny, new Atari 5200 in 1982. Up until recent days, I have owned a lot of gaming systems. The first was Bally Professional Arcade that we bought sometime around 1980 to hook-up to our 37" Magnavox. All of my friends had the Atari 2600, so they didn't know that the Bally's 8-bit processor kicked the crap out of their 2600s. Plus, the only games we had were Gunfight and Astro Battle. Then, after Richie and Eddie had their parents buy them their 5200s, I pleaded for a Colecovision which, quite frankly, was to make my pals jealous. I didn't know anything about the system, I just knew that it was bad ass. It also had a nice selection of games with nice graphics and a more integrated joystick. In 1985, my brother and I scored a Nintendo Entertainment System that was just awesome in terms of the numbers of released game titles. Then my brother had a Nintendo Gameboy, the first truly personal, portable gaming device.Then it was on to Sony Genesis, though I never left Nintendo and went back to a SuperNES with 16-bit graphics. I ditched Nintendo for a Sony PlayStation in 1995 (though kept our old NES games) and then upgraded to the the PlayStation II when it debuted in 2000. Then, in 2008, we received the Nintendo Wii as a gift with it's WiFi connection and wireless, motion sensing remote controls; and now, in my opinion, they have created one of the top-ten best games in the history of gaming with MarioKart.

But this isn't about the history of gaming systems, it's about MarioKart Olympics, dammit! Shh, I know, I know... nerd. You're thinking, "Jungle Girl sure is a giant geek." Yep, well, it's true. But just like black is the new white, geek is the new cool.

What's great about this game is that by using a wifi connection, one can compete with other racers regionally, or all over the world. Players can select from dozens of bikes and carts, all which have different stats like weight, speed, off-road ability, and acceleration. Depending upon the character one chooses to ride the vehicle, weight class plays a role in which vehicles are available. Players can choose to play as various game characters like Mario, Luigi, and Princess Peach, or they can select their own, specialized avatar, called a Mii.

Hackers, using the Homebrew Channel , can save applications to an SD card and then upload the data onto their Wii. Since the hack is just a software install, it's just as easy to restore a Wii, so just about anyone with a little tech-savviness can manage. There are cool applications like one that turns a Wii into a DVD player... hackers agree, and so do I, that if a consumer purchases a device, she should be able to manipulate the device in any way possible, especially when the device can be used to better suit individual consumer needs... proprietary software is like a technological chastity belt.

Well, the Homebrew Channel also has a hack for MarioKart. The hack allows players many means of controlling the game from altering the speed of vehicles, to choosing which special item one's Mii will permanently have, to increasing one's Virtual Rating (VR). I'm not sure why people cheat, I mean, what's the thrill in effortless winning... seems kind of boring, no? On the other hand, dropping bombs and other obstacles in the paths of racers can be funny and challenging, as long as they allow the non-cheaters to win.

It's been a year since I started playing MarioKart and this Jungle Lady finishes races in world class times... impressive, I know. Just kidding, all you non-MarioKart junkies.... but for you wieners who are also addicted... you just feast your eyes on this video and watch little Jungle Girl kick the crap out of everyone... without cheating.

In fact, this is a challenge to all MarioKart Olympians! Bring it on! Jungle Girl will bring home the Gold and send you all crying back to your world of unemployment.

Go USA!

ADDENDUM-

Just to let you know I'm serious, I'll race anyone in the world, legit players only, here is my license #, besides, I love new friends!

Mature Love

2010-01-16T17:05:00.007-05:00

At 19, a teacher who I'd kept in contact with since junior high, wrote me a poem. While it had been many years since we spoke, our friendship and fondness remained intact and developed as I grew. In fact, he never taught me in the classroom, but became someone who fostered my budding interest in English Literature and eventually, became a bit of a mentor and someone I have always admired for being so hard-working and successful in life since he was born.

I remember the moment when "Doc" (nicknamed for his Doctorate degree in Education) read his poem for me. Mixed feelings flooded my spirit: on one hand, I was full of immature embarrassment- seemingly unable to accept such a gesture of genuine love and appreciation; on the other hand, I was immensely grateful to have someone express, so beautifully, who I then was as a person when I was unable to see, myself, let alone to express as much in such an articulate manner. I wanted to snatch that paper right from his hands. It was folded, as if to say, "I was to be placed in an envelope and mailed," but it was pulled from a jacket pocket and unfolded. I extended my hand and Doc said, "I am going to read it to you, first."

Wow.

As a woman, I would do the same, now: I would read a poem to the person for whom it was written. Then, I could ensure that the intonation and feeling of my thoughts and words would accurately be expressed. That's what Doc wanted to do, help me to feel the poem. But even at 19, I was still just a girl... unripe for honesty's harshness, especially, when the honesty was intent upon me feeling what someone else thought of me, no matter how beautiful the thought.

I blushed. He read, gazing deeply and intently into my bashful eyes at every pause in breath:

Young Starbird

Thrust out of the black

with a silver glint... moving... radiating

Effortlessly moving away from the flock

and the noise

Maturing... Questioning

Distancing the Din

Seeing all... from afar

Still not forgetting the irreplaceable space...

She has left

In Awesome Wonder, she sets a forward heading

in search of deep meanings

seeking affirmation... yearning to be held... wanting to be held

just held

Looking for affirmation of her existence

through paper thin fragments of wisdom... she soars

smelling like yellow rose petals

and a new bathed baby

wrapped by her slow, sad, beautiful smile

Heavenly softness... gentleness

Gliding by... with an angelic twinkle

as a day brightener

for those who take the time to see her... differently...

for perhaps, the first time... to...

Listen to Her...

To help her with the Natural Shocks

To Know Her... in the Belongings of her Beautiful Heart...

and Face

She pushes into Life's love

while flirting with the stars

and

quietly

arms herself full

Womanly Status.

3/6/1996

I didn't know what to say... it was so-

Deep.

Doc asked me to write a poem for him in return, but to be honest, I was not able to write anything remotely from my heart with such clarity and conciseness of thought and feeling. And not only did Doc accomplish this, but he also delved deeper inside of who I was than anyone had ever done, even I.

This has taught me, over the years, that it takes a certain maturity to graciously accept Love. Immaturity brought Insecurity and Insecurity foolishly embarrassed... Maturity brought Security of Self which, in turn, brought the ability to Love myself as I love others.

Reading this poem now, at 30-something, I go over the lines again and again. Sometimes, I read the same line ten times. I feel safe in sharing with the world because, frankly, the words are simply words if you're a stranger to me- you can only imagine what something like, "Distancing the Din" means only so much as to be either remotely vague or completely amiss. But for me, I can hang on each word, waiting for the next word to come so that I can understand the totality and depth of Doc's words. I can hang on each word, finally, being appreciative. In the child's metamorphosis, Fortune arrives in the form of a Deep Breath... stopping and letting go of Ego and Self- an exercise in replacing them with grounded Truth and Wisdom, Compassion, and Love.

I promised Doc a poem and I'm finally ready to sit and dig deeply, in poetic form, as to what I want to say about a man who has dedicated himself to bettering the lives of all he has ever touched. He tempers a hard-edged, grounded, Semper Fi Spirit with the greatest of Love and Wisdom. He is the rarest gem and I, truly, must be lucky to know him. I'm grateful you're here, even if we had never met and you never touched my life.

Thank you, Doc.

Photo Source: Susan Morrison

The Golden Bird

2010-01-16T15:30:00.005-05:00

A dear friend wrote this amazing, lovely poem and I thought to share it with you:

From my Beloved eyes, through my eyes,

the fiery Grace of passions truth has appeared,

a golden bird of prey above me, ready to strike,

demanding I answer:

What is this Love, what is loved, her being,

her beauty, the scent of her breath,

what intent do we hold for one another?
Embracing, entangled, falling quickly together,

I behold my love, naked in body, naked in heart,

with such piercing vividness-

I could never describe
This bliss,

hidden sadness, her being,

her beauty, the scent of her breath, the taste of her mouth...
The fiery Grace of passions truth has appeared before me,

she is a radiant golden woman, ready to strike,

she demands I answer,

what is this Love?

C.R. Canale, January 2010

Shh, the House is Bugged... Better Call the Exterminator!

2009-12-29T19:48:00.013-05:00

First, it must be known that the following story is 100% free of any form of fabrication or exaggeration. In fact, there are no means by which one may subjectively interpret the event that occurred. Now, I don't mean to build this up to larger-than-life proportions, because the occasion that took place on December 28, 2009 at 6:42 p.m. only lasted approximately four minutes and some of you might find this story completely unremarkable, as you might believe the same could be true for you as did the lunatic who invaded my peaceful existence on one cold, blustery, winter's night.

A phone call came-in from a number unfamiliar to me. So I yelled, "Does anyone know this number? 496-22xx?" Nope. I answered it anyway. I've been trying to be conscious and gain control of my technologically-induced, anti-social habits that often dictate whether or not I feel like answering the phone. If the Caller I.D. says something like, "Outbound Only 888-333-3333," I never answer the call out of the sheer stubbornness in believing that if someone (or entity) is going to call my home, I should be able to return the call with the number shown. Other times, well, I'm busy and I can't come to the phone, or I just don't want to talk. Right, so this time, I answered the bloody phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, may I speak to J, please?" returned an older woman's voice, older than mine, anyway.

"He's not available, may I leave him a message?" I politely said.

"Yes, this is So-and-So (she gave her first and last name) and I was hoping J could help me with a problem. You see, I, we, have a computer problem. Well, we think it's a computer problem. Anyway, I called the police and they said I need a computer expert to help me. J has helped us in the past and this is really an urgent matter- it's really urgent. And please, this is an emergency, it's of the utmost importance. You see, I believe my computer is bugged."

"Oh," I said, "you mean you believe there is some kind of keystroke-logging software or spyware on your computer?"

"No," she said, "someone has bugged my computer or the room and they are listening to everything that happens. My daughter, Kristen, well J knows her, she had a friend come over and he wasn't someone I trusted. I really didn't know this guy and he seemed kind of strange to me. I'm pretty sure he did it."

Someone brought out the crazy and unleashed it on me... and the only way to combat crazy sometimes is to mirror the madness.

Oh, "they're" listening to you? How dare they! You must be so scared and feel so violated! Well, you're fortunate to have called me, as my friend Moe Fullov has a company that will come out to your house with Super-Hot-Infrared-Transmitters, otherwise known as S-H-I-T, and they will scramble the signal, so whoever is listening to you, will no longer be able.

But rather than act out the fantasy of heading over to her house with metal detectors and material to encase her house or computer room in a Faraday Cage, I thought it best to run like Hell and appease She Who Howls at the Moon by saying, "I'll be happy to give J the message."

J said he's dealt with this lady before and was very grateful I lied and said he wasn't home. The next time she calls, if ever again, I will tell her that I heard Bug Spray works well, especially the kind for flying insects.

Once We Conversate, You Will Be Illumified

2009-12-15T08:51:00.012-05:00

So, precisely one month ago, I landed a new job. It was a position for which I was overqualified and would be underpaid, but that I took because of what I deemed as being the non-profit's societal benevolence. On the second morning of work, my boss, a youngish African-American woman said in response to one of my task-related questions, "We are going to have a meeting at one (o'clock) and then we'll conversate some more." We'll do what? Do you mean converse? Oh, right, that's a brand of sneaker.

I quit that job after five days. No amount of scare tactics would work. You are lucky to even have a job in this economy, there is a 15% unemployment rate in the county. What about the holidays? You need money for gifts for the kids!

For many reasons including being too far from home and discovering, only after being hired, that I would be responsible for educating volunteers 2 nights a week, 2 months out of the year for 3 additional hours, on top of my regular work day without comp-time or extra pay, I also realized that my boss, with the same amount of education as I, was a solecist who would implacably chip away at my need to feign respect for her semblable authority.

Aside from bringing up negative feelings that made me wonder how in the Hell this woman could possibly be anyone's boss, it also had the opposite effect- I am going to conjure up my own list of bullshit words! Feel free to add to the list, but here is what I have so far:

1. Deprivate

2. Condemnate

3. Reasonified

4. Agreeance

5. Confirmate

6. Economified

7. Vocabulate and Vocabulize

8. Informate

9. Computate

10. Illumified

11. Confrontated

12. Romantical

13. Stupidify

14. Embarrassful

15. Referented

Hit me with some goodies and soon you, too, can be the arbiter elegantiarum, perpetuating and mocking the fine art of grammar.

When I Paint My Masterpiece

2009-11-20T22:39:00.016-05:00

Generally, I like to think I have an open mind. While I enjoy using verbal, critical sarcasm as a means of humor, ultimately, my goal is to remain objective. I try not to judge, but I also have very strong opinions. Which equates, for me, to meaning that each person has an equal right to personal choice, freedom, and happiness. It also means that these are inherent rights that are extended, as a categorical imperative, to all human beings and that I personally feel responsible to ensure that all people realize these rights. I'm sure our founding fathers would all have agreed.

Lately, I've been reading various, off-beat news sources that state Baxter Pharmaceuticals engineered the H1N1 virus several years ago, but I had no evidence the rumor was true... until now... and here too. It seems that Baxter engineered the virus while at the same time, it was also manufacturing a vaccine. In the U.S. patent document, Baxter says it created virus in labs in order to test the vaccine it was trying to patent. Also, back in August 2009, Joseph Moshe, an Israeli microbiologist, called into an L.A. radio show stating that he wanted to evidence to a State's Attorney that Baxter was shipping tainted vaccine as a bioweapon. It has also been reported that Baxter is infecting people, when in February of 2009, Bloomberg reported that Baxter “accidentally” sent vaccine material containing both live Avian bird flu and seasonal flu to multiple laboratories worldwide. Further, the NY Times reported that Obama invested in Baxter (an Illinois-based company) in the amount of 50K while he was a senator and that he passed some legislation regarding increased federal funding to combat avian flu. I also found this news video where scientist, Dr. Adrian Gibbs, who engineered the Tamiflu vaccine, says the H1N1 was engineered and is not some randomly occurring phenomenal instance of 3 viruses all coming together by chance (the Spanish flu, one component to H1N1 hasn't been seen in nearly a century).

My concern is simply that people are more concerned with acquiring material wealth than they are in believing that life is equal, no matter who we are and where we come from. Further, as a result of this greed, people will be injured three-fold; first, injury comes from infecting people with a virus, whether invasively or passive-aggressively (actually injecting a virus or through airborne means) and secondly, injury comes when a declared world-wide pandemic results in shoddy vaccine production that has little quality control and oversight, and lastly, injury is sustained when we, as free people are forced to take a vaccine either as mandated by law, or because we feel threatened and afraid that our loved ones are at risk for contracting the virus (some kids under 10 will have potentially taken 4 flu shots- 2 for seasonal flu and 2 for H1N1 because of the vaccines' limited efficacy in young children).

I'm no conspiracy theorist, but I do find that many, different sources of information are valuable when one is formulating opinions for the purpose of making informed, personal choice decisions. I approach information with a guarded cynicism and try, though difficult, to refrain from making decisions when I may be emotionally influenced- for good or bad. In this case, however, a lot of folks are just as skeptical as I. We're not crazy, in fact, our government leaders and people who profit from the pharmaceutical industry have done this in the past. And throughout the history of the United States, its citizens have been pharmaceutical and biological chemical guinea pigs. Is it so farfetched to think a company and its investors are more interested in filling their pockets than they are in saving human lives?

Is it just coincidence that 3 viruses, which contains one that hasn't plagued us since 1918, came together in some viral pool to mysteriously create what we now know as H1N1? Is it just coincidence that the virus has spread so widely and quickly since May of '09?

I, like many of you, want to believe that people have our best interest as human beings at heart, but I also have to be realistic. I must take the same advice I give to my children when they are worried about others liking them (we act differently when we do not follow our hearts and we forget who we truly are): Not everyone has to like you and not everyone loves you the way that you wish or believe they should. Be who you are: kind, wonderful, loving, creative, and beautiful.

No one should have the right to thwart our health and happiness as living entities who really only wish to live peacefully. This extends far beyond the topic of immunizations and pervades our entire existence as conscious executors of free-will.

As my freshman college English professor said, "Always question authority...," and I have always lived true to those words. We only have this body one time, we should be able to live fully- using all of our amazing senses to experience the world around us, rather than living one of death, suffering and fear. We all share the same responsibility to each other, as the human condition of freeing ourselves from enslavement has been our task since the beginning our human civilization.

Hi, My Name Is Jungle Girl- A Discussion About Self-Identity and Society

2009-11-02T10:27:00.016-05:00

Two nights ago, on Halloween, my friends and I attended an "undergroundish" party in Philadelphia that some would characterize as being a rave... it was in a huge warehouse, at a location that was kept hidden until the day of the party. There were performance artists, DJs mixing electronic music and playing programmed beats from computers (very few use vinyl records anymore, sadly), a rose petal, geodesic dome where one could feel the velvety, light petals falling like rain drops all over one's body, roller skating girls with hula hoops, wicked witches pedaling their bikes, tents, a lounge and grotto with exhibitionists baring their physical lust for one another on filthy mattresses and linens, drunk people, high people, clueless people, bright people, artistic people, beautiful people and some very confused people, all coming together as princesses, gypsies, elves, fetishists, vampires, and cheerleaders, devils, angels and me.

The night proved to be an extraordinarily valuable experience for my partner and me, for, in having a last-minute stroke of genius, he thought of a costume idea for both of us, "We should go as our own Facebook profiles."

"What a great idea," I said. Little did I know just how great an idea it would turn-out to be.

So, we went to a professional shop that enlarged our screen-shots with a Pro Photoshop plug-in and laser-printed the profiles onto a 30" x 36" piece of sign-quality, foam, whiteboard, punched a hole in both corners, and looped through some twine so we could wear the sign around our necks.

Because my partner and I are both keen observers of human nature, we quickly understood the complex, social phenomenon that was occurring from people's reaction to us, their perceptions of us, and our reaction to them in a way that I may find very difficult to describe, but I will try my best. I've decided that the best manner in which to explain what happened is to first give itemized examples of encounters we had with many of the party goers, then I will summarize my analysis:

1) The Ego- "Oh, you're both your Facebook pages? So what makes you so special?"

My mirrored-answer was, "The same thing that makes you special." The Moon's position was influenced by its movement through the constellation Aries, so the feeling in the air was Aries-like: people were egotistical, arrogant and oppositely creative, and childlike. My answer seemed to satisfy her question when she replied, "Wow, that's the best answer I've ever heard." LOL

2) The Clueless- "Are you a Dot-Com?" and "So are you guys advertising for the DJ?"

3) The Suspicious- "What are you protesting?" and "Those aren't your real names, right? I NEVER use my real name."

4) The Appreciative- "Great idea! I wish I had thought of that!" and "Can I take your picture? Will you friend me on Facebook if I look you up?" and "Can I actually read your pages? Let me use my light to see!"

5) The Repeaters- "I just poked you- and again, and again, and again!" (actually poking us). "What's your Status Update now?" and "Oh, here they come, here come those people with their 'posts' again."

What most fascinated me was the sudden realization that most of the people were living a paradoxical, almost schizophrenic, existence. For instance, most people have nicknames, but only in the party scene. Now, I know plenty of people who have adopted new names that are quite unconventional- but they own the names. Generally speaking, everyone calls them by their adopted names through all facets of their lives. While for most, it's difficult to tell grandma to refer to one's self as "Dancing Galaxylight", most of the people I met, only use these nicknames in one arena. One young man of about 20 years old said, "I have a Facebook page, but I don't use my real name. I don't want anyone from work to know about

me or find me."

Certainly, I have felt the same way. And I, myself, have been guilty of using nicknames; however, "Jungle Girl", for instance, is a name I've used for about ten years, generally when I am writing. It first described a type of music I enjoy and later, took on a new meaning regarding my love for the Amazon's rich and wonderful botanical secrets. In fact, people use pseudonyms regularly and it does not make one mentally ill, shallow or confused in the least. But in this context, the context of the party, something was very strange.

Party-goers say, "We come here to express our true selves."

I disagree... partially.

Sociologist/philosopher George Herbert Mead devised the idea of social interactionism; whereby, one's behavior is shaped by one's language and physical, environmental cues which are controlled by one's thoughts, ultimately To Mead, there is a generalized self that exists as a member of society and that is shaped by the external community. This self is what Mead called the "Me." We behave according to the social cues and norms of the community. However, while using social cues to guide behavior, one also has the ability to choose one's behavior. Mead called this, the "I". The "I" is what prompts us to make our own decisions, outside of the societal current. According to the same article, Freud went a step further to state that the determined "I" can make a decision that the "Me" eventually adopts, as in the way of pioneers or folks whose new ideas or discoveries forge a new path for all... so the "Me" becomes changeable and fluid.

In my mind, the logical conclusion must also be that the "Me" is the foundation of the "self"- it is our given name, our family, our community, and the lessons the world has taught us. The "Me" makes us self-aware, not be confused with self-conscious, by understanding that we are a part of something greater- that not only are we never alone, but that we must also consider others' right to exert their own "I". Because our individual experiences shape the "I", there cannot be an individual "right" or "wrong", but there can be a societal, "Me", right and wrong from which we gather our social norms, mores, and taboos.

So, while sitting at the rave with my legal name printed across my chest and with strangers knowing my name and even calling me by that name (I not knowing theirs), I suddenly felt unusually comfortable.

I was comfortable because I was Me.

I wondered if the "Dancing Galaxylights" in the room would have taken-off their clothes, dressed in drag, had sex, vomited, cursed, and were so high they couldn't speak would behave that way around Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa? Would they teach their kids that it is okay to be naked if grotesquely overweight, just because they should love their bodies, despite what others in society believe? Maybe some would.

But I'm wagering that the pseudonyms and the pseudo-selves who are students, financial advisors, professors, lawyers, doctors, bankers, are all Tom, Mary, Bob, and Jane in their everyday lives. It is unlikely that a lawyer named "Dancing Galaxylights" would be very successful.

When talking with a very bright party guest, he said, "In an aggregate community, let's say in a small community, everyone would know everyone. There would be no secrets. We would know all there is to know about who the best cobbler, baker, or farmer is and we would go to that person to obtain goods and services in order to satisfy our needs." Bingo.

At the party, the people who claimed to be expressing their true selves, in this particular setting, didn't even know each other's real names much of the time. They were shocked that we would dare use ours and some thought it downright boring to not come-up with a groovy monicker.

Aside from people who hide behavior according to an ever-changeable penal system that now punishes, but that someday might change, to me, the party people who wouldn't offer up their real names (and many did offer them after seeing ours) and who behaved so vastly different than they normally would if a part of regular society, were suffering. We do it all the time in society... take politicians for example, societal behavioral standards are much higher for those in positions of authority than for the common person, so they hide their true selves; otherwise, people might not like them and it would jeopardize their careers or personal lives.

Our society, in its age of technology, believes that somehow privacy should exist... but should it and is that realistic? Further, does a "threat" really exist or is it constructed by paranoid deviants who would rather hide behind computer social networks, only allowing some people to know who they are and what they have to offer the rest of us?

Perhaps we should all wear our profiles around our necks.

And a good rule of thumb for all you younger people who wouldn't normally strip naked in front of others unless you're high as a kite, love yourself, even if no one taught you- But first, that means, knowing yourself and what is best for you. Before you embarrass and lose yourselves further, ask this question: "Would I behave this way in front of my parents?"

If the answer is, "Yes," Hell, go for it. Get naked and have mom and dad join you and call you whatever the heck you wish. If not, perhaps, your real name ain't so bad after all.

Feeling Lucky? The Internet- A Curse or A Blessing?

2009-10-29T11:56:00.001-04:00

Internet, what a bizarre human invention. I suppose humanity, having created a vast, interwoven, social construct in the first place, would find a means of communicating to the entire Earth in a nano-second, eventually. The Information Superhighway gets us where we we want to go with the click of a button. Suddenly, access to information that formerly required the seeker to employ the manual, physical effort of going to the library, writing and mailing letters and cards, talking face-to-face and over the phone is available in a flash. We can accomplish so much more, can't we?

Well, just think about. We literally have the whole world in the palms of our hands and we never have to open the front door. What a blessing, indeed.

In terms of a prima facie stance on the benefits of the Internet, one may certainly agree that access to information, once limited by geographic location and attainable resources, is now completely bridged.

However, when we push the envelope (That's a paper enclosure one uses for privacy and proper handling of snail-mail) a bit more, we note that unforeseen problems arise such as the Digital Divide, the breeding of pervasive anti-social communication practices, and having people find us after years of us being engaged in the most successful vanishing acts of all time.

Look, I am the worst perpetrator, guilty of finding people to whom I haven't seen or spoken in upward of 29 years... being only 34 years old, you can see the problem. It's like some unannounced, unexpected stranger knocking on my door at 3 a.m. and I'm in my underwear with drool easing down my chin, and this person says, "Hi, remember me? Mind if I come in for a while and look in your fridge for something to eat? Oh, and I could really use a new pair of comfy socks from your drawer, you don't mind, right? I mean, after all, we did know each other at one time! Doesn't that mean something to you? If it doesn't, it SHOULD!"

God, how narcissistic of me. I'm so sorry. How dare I post pictures of people in their most awkward states from 20 years ago?

Because it's funny.

So, if you happen to be the lucky one whom I contacted, thank you for accepting my friend request and not ignoring me after forgetting who the Hell I was in the first place. Regarding those pics, I'm a sport, so if you have any fat pics of me from high school, let'er rip.

I would never give-up the feeling of finding someone I love or who I missed the chance to let him/her know I thought well of and wished the best to her/him, even if we were dumb kids who fought and hated each other. The greatest thing about spinning the Internet Luck Wheel, is that I can share memories... some were fond while others were shit; nonetheless, here I am, a part of each moment making-up the whole me.

Two days ago, I found artwork that my kindergarten class made for my 5th birthday. Each kid drew what they wished I would get. And now, as a parent, some of them made me cry when I realized the energy that was put into these little masterpieces was immense and was filled with innocence from a time before cynicism and jaded beliefs.

Some of the kids knew how to spell their complete names, first and last. I decided to look for them on Facebook. Of the four I found, three responded immediately to my email that included a photo of the artwork they made for me at Vineland Elementary School in Kendall, Florida.

Just as it warmed my heart, it seemed to have done the same for the folks I contacted. So, just like all of life, the Middle Path is always the best option when conducting ourselves throughout society- even if we're hiding safely behind our computers. It's not the Internet that's to be hated, it's the user!

I Cann Spel Rel Gud!!

2009-10-23T09:57:00.005-04:00

Yesterday, when my 5th grade daughter arrived home from school, as I do everyday, I checked her homework folder. The contents of the folder were two photocopied worksheets: one was math that was introducing the kids to algebraic equations, and the second was a spelling worksheet that gave their words for the week with the task to write the words two-times.

After I write this blog and calm down, I am heading to the school. Which, by the way, is considered a "Choice School". Here in New Jersey, that means that parents from outlying school districts can choose to pay somewhere around $4,000 per pupil to send their kids to an educational facility that is supposed to provide them with a better-than-average learning experience. The artwork shown above is an actual poster shown on the NJ Dept. of Education website and ironically, is the same school my children attend.

In 5th grade, my child's spelling list includes words like "there", "their" and "its", "it's". When I was in 5th grade at Rhawnhurst Elementary, our teachers gave us serious vocabulary words such as "belligerent"and "irate"... and because I was taught these words, I am aware that it's precisely what I am now.

My child's teacher, if this were a country that gave a shit, would be shot for worrying more about running a Talent Show than her students' education. My kid is programming her MacBook and writing movie scripts while you teach her words that my 7-year old knew in first grade. You wonder why our kids are unable to compete with children from around the world when this is kind of garbage they're teaching? That's because you're all a product of the same institutions.

If I wanted a mental slave for a kid, I wouldn't have taught her to read at age 3 and would have waited, like so many parents do, to let teachers do the job, believing that my duties as a parent entail giving my darlings a trendy wardrobe and cute hair.

So, fuck you, America, for the systematic dumbing-down of our youth.

Addendum:

At the same time I was mulling over the vocab words, I was also filling-out an application to audition for a popular show. Here are two pages from the application:

So, how many thousands of people have filled-out this application? If I'm not chosen to go through, they should at least hire me to proofread their documents.

Chekov was my Doctor

2009-10-21T14:12:00.000-04:00

I love foreign accents. In fact, every chance I get to speak in an accent other than my native northeast-but-slightly-more-like-a-news-journalist accent, that's precisely what I do... British, Scottish, Hindi, French, Italian, German, Chinese, even southern... you name it. And around my house, we all have fun speaking to each other, "You left your jacket en zee ozah hroom," is something I might say while raising my left brow while pointing in the proper direction.

Yesterday, I had a doctor's appointment and was seen by someone new. He read my name, I stood and followed him through the door and then down the hall, he only said, "Just this way." I mean, it sounded normal enough. Until... we entered the exam room and he sounded just like Pavel Chekov from Star Trek, "Ples tak off your clots from de hwaist up."

Oh my God, seriously?

My knee-jerk reaction was to immediately answer him back using the precise accent he'd thrown at me. Within one-nanosecond, I literally thought about repeating him, the pros and cons of doing so, and whether I could get a laugh- when I realized that it's probably not funny to a person who couldn't help but have an accent... so I showed restraint, which by the way, I hate doing.

Turns out, he was Albanian. I had to ask and not so tactfully or grammatically correct as to say, "Your accent is lovely..." Something other than, "Where are you from?" would have been nicer.

Well, soon enough, Chekov had me naked on a cold table in a dark hroom and was probing my chest... it was the accent, it made me hot and had Nothing to do with the fact that he was examining my heart.

A heart full of love for accents.