I like books.
- Name: zelda1
I live in a small town and enjoy writing about the inhabitants. I spend most of my time perusing through used book stores looking for that one great book that I don't have; consequently, I have rooms filled with books. I am a book addict.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
The couple in townhouse four are gay men around my age; although, the one guy looks to be a decade younger. They have a fifteen-year-old son. The boy is sweet, and when I bake cookies, I give half of them to him. He is always all gothed out and thinks he looks scary or mysterious, but I’ve had teenagers and I know it’s a part of their life, not the gothic stuff, but being different. But his parents are in need of couple’s counseling. The younger doesn’t work, the older works two jobs. What little time they spend together is spent fighting or smoking cigarettes talking about fighting, I am not nosy, they are just real loud. Their son, hides in the back of their truck watching the stars. I say to him, what do you see, he names the constellations that he knows, I give him an astrology book, he says way cool. The younger of the two lovers wants to be my friend, he, I think, sees us as mutual in relationships, the stay at home, housecleaning part of the relationship. He asked me about floor cleaner, I say Lysol or bleach. He asks me why I am going to school, and I say to learn, and he says why put myself through all of it, and I say why not? He walks away and I say hey next time you hit your head on the cabinet door, you might want to go have a doctor look at it. He puts his hand to his black eye and says, thanks. Next time, I am going to tell him about shelters for abusive partners.
This new neighborhood is different than my other and the people are so young and have young people’s problems. I guess the fighting is what bothers me, and I wish they would stop. My husband says it’s none of our business, and I say it is, they are our neighbors. Relationships, especially those of neighbors, are really fragile and one wrong word or look or act can cause a rift that, if you’re lucky, will only result in uncomfortable silence in the parking lot, but sometimes it turns into a feud. So, I will observe, help if asked, and hope that soon, we get new neighbors, older neighbors. Like the couple in number five. They are too far away for me to hear, but they tell me they are glad that we are normal. I wonder what they mean, normal.
I am wanting to bitch, must be feeling better
Friday, October 28, 2005
When poor people get sick
Not that we have any fear of the antibiotic going anywhere, but the thought occurred to me, when I entered the emergency room and my husband displayed our insurance card, my Medicare card, and he was willing to pay whatever those two didn’t, right there on the spot, what if we were dirt poor and had no insurance, no money, no nothing. I was dying, or so we both thought, and I think I was close to death. What would the hospital have done? More than likely humiliated me, given me a not so close check up, and home with a prescription. I had means so they were really good to me, ran every test, gave me breathing treatments, IV antibiotics and fluids, talked kindly to me and held my hand. The doctor even came in and sat on the bed and patted my leg, talking about my lungs and telling my husband that I was going to be fine. They even offered me something to drink, and my husband something. They were so kind.
But what about those men and women who don’t have insurance or Medicare or Medicaid or another means of paying an expensive hospital bill, what happens to them? In the ER were several signs in two languages that said they would treat life-threatening illnesses but that was it, unless you have insurance or money. When I left, they gave me prescriptions and if I had no money to buy the medicine it would have done me no good. There are no free clinics in our area and if the poor do find a place to treat them, how can they ever buy the medicine. My antibiotics were over 200 bucks; of course I only paid 30 because of my insurance. I would hate to decide between medicine and food or medicine and rent or medicine and heat.
The university treats the students, but there are really poor people, who have no insurance, and when they get sick, like I have been, what do they do?
Shouldn’t health care be one of those rights we all deserve, not just the insured? On my way out of the hospital, a man and woman were bringing a sick baby in and the nurse asked for the insurance card before even looking at the baby. The woman cried. I just know they didn’t have insurance. I hope the baby is okay.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Friday, October 21, 2005
Free To Be Happy, That's What I Gave Them
Okay, I must confess, I like some Reality TV
Thursday, October 20, 2005
An alligator, a thong, and no sleep.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
They are just cars
One of my writer group friends has a pretty yellowish car and it’s a Jaguar and she refers to it as the Jag and I didn’t know what a Jag was or the prestige that went alone with having that kind of car until she picked me up at school. I was sitting on a bench and she pulls up and about ten people, who were standing around me, said, almost at the same time, wow look at that Jag. That’s how I knew it was my friend, and I said, oh that’s my ride.
It’s really funny how people put so much stock in the popularity of their car.
I had an older friend, much older than I, and she was what I would refer to as trailer park trash, but I liked her so much. She had this old worn out towncar, and she always referred to it as the town car. I don’t know, I guess if you have nothing and get something, even if that something is really old, you are going to be happy to express your love for that something.
My point to this madness is that an old man, who sits in the union trying to cruise for chicks, says to a younger nontraditional student that he has an MG, and I’m thinking a movie so I listen and she says really and he says yeah wanna go for a ride sometimes and she says yeah and he says cool and I’m thinking fuck what are they 15? I wonder if she went for a ride and if he had as much trouble getting into and out of the MG as he had getting up and down the stairs. Is it really worth the pain?
Showing off the car
Sunday, October 16, 2005
He can switch points of view in mid paragraph and not confuse the reader. He is the master. McMurtry is the all time expert on writing in the omni pov and in creating these characters that you never forget. He has their dialect, their description, and their thoughts done in such a way that they are so real. I especially love his historical novels that border on creative non-fiction. I think one of my favorites is the Buffalo Girls. I attend a writer’s conference every year, well did until I started graduate school, but the town where he lives is only a couple of hours away so I go there and can stalk him. He is, according to my friend, one of the most down to earth people you will ever meet. Hopefully, I will find out for myself real soon.
Not just a drive, but a mission
While on our drive, we saw a big fat beaver sitting on the side of the road. At first I thought he was a raccoon until I slowed down and got a really good look and yep, big fat beaver. Mr. Zelda, knowing how much I love animals, says let’s stop and I’ll make me a new hat. Of course he was teasing. The eagles must already have taken off to warmer cliffs because I searched and searched and didn’t see a single one. I did, however, see a lot of hawks.
We stopped at a little country store and some men, who had been deer hunting, told about seeing a herd of elk. That’s nice, since they were all killed out and have only recently been put back into our forests. I just hope the hunters leave them alone.
One of the really disheartening sights are all the Tyson chicken and turkey houses that dot the hill's landscape. Not only are those poor animals being raised unable to move, but also the waste has to be contaminating the rivers and streams that are so abundant in the mountains. I wanted to run and open the doors and release the poor birds.
Nevertheless, the trip was wonderful, the trees are all turning and it was a beautiful drive. My husband is from Florida so he is in awe every time the seasons change plus he has never lived around mountains so this is really something. Every time we go into the rural areas he warns, “Don’t go down that dirt road.” Hell, Arkansas is almost all dirt roads.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
A day for nature
On that same trip, we parked on the side of the road near a low water bridge and waited and waited and hoped that we would see a road runner that had raced down the road with us and we wanted to see if it would come back out of the brush. A huge deer came out, though, and drank from the water. We were so close and I know he knew our car was human and dangerous but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he stared at us for a long minute and then walked off.
Most of what we see are deer and birds, and beavers, and squirrels, and the like. But sometimes, we get a really rare treat and see coyotes and wolfs and mountain lions and owls and turkeys, things like that. It is so nice and I can’t wait to get started. Maybe we can get pictures and if I can figure out how to put it on here, I will put them in the computer and on this site.
Life is good, but life with nature is so much better.
Back in the day
There was a black man who walked the tracks to go to town and he always spoke to us and we would hide. It was in the late fifties and early sixties and unfortunately for me, my mother told us horrible things about African Americans. When he passed by, we would run the other direction. By dark, we were home and our mom was just pulling the cornbread out of the oven. I tried to sneak my books into my bedroom. But she always saw them; the ones that I checked out, the ones that the librarian gave me for helping her mend the spines of the books and the ones that she gave me new, all books that I cherished and would read over and over. “Don’t know why you waste your time reading them books,” Mom would say. All the while, my brother’s nose was two inches from the television. But that wasn’t a waste of time.
Now, I have so many books that I don’t have enough space on the shelves. I am a book addict, I confess. I cannot drive past a bookstore, I must stop and at least buy one or two books and when I order from Amazon, it costs me no less than a hundred dollars and I buy used. The ironic thing about my childhood, the lack of encouragement and sometimes forbiddance of me reading books and the bigotry and prejudicial way my mom spoke about African Americans, well, now I read and read and read and most of the books that I read are about African Americans, written by African Americans and I suppose eventually I will focus my PhD studies on feminism and African American female writers. So, she may not have encouraged me in the correct way but she did push me inadvertently to do something worthwhile.
My little sister who is now 45 or so, tells me all the time that she wishes she had read all those books that I checked out for her, instead of looking at the pictures or waiting for me to read them to her. I tell her it isn’t too late to start reading but she says her skills are so rusty. Now that’s a shame. To let rust collect on your reading skills and I tell her to get the oil out, to start small and work her way up. Out of eight brothers and sisters, I am the only one that reads, the only college graduate, and the only one that has friends out side of my race and really I am the only non-church committed so to them, I am headed straight to hell. Won’t they be surprised when they or if they could after they die see that there is no hell.
Friday, October 14, 2005
The Trendy Disease
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Sins of our mother's
One day, after a class party, I was really happy, we had sugar cookies with frosting, and the homeroom mother gave us all extra, and I wrapped mine in a napkin to take home to my little sister. I always felt guilty if I had something that she didn’t get, so this time she was going to get a cookie too. Anyway, we were standing in line waiting and the homeroom mother and my teacher were standing talking, and they were talking about me and they were not whispering. “She doesn’t buy those kids shoes,” I heard my teacher say. I looked down at my dirty feet and wished they would just disappear. I wished they would melt and I wanted them gone and I wanted to hide and I wanted to cry but I wouldn’t cry. The home room mother says, “Doesn’t she let that old drunk live with her.” I looked at my friends they were all full of cookies and koolaide and party favors and were waiting for an answer. The tears were there and all I had to do was keep them from falling for a few more minutes. “Does Orville still live with you?” Mrs. Thompson asked. “Yes,” I say. “Did your mama marry him?” “No.” “hmmm, why not?” “I don’t know.” Please let the bell ring, let the bell ring, let the bell ring.
coffee, coffee, coffeee
My mom, when I was a kid, let me drink her left over coffee. After all the kids were off to school, and I was the only one home, she would pour her cup half full of coffee and half full of milk and a lot of sugar and while I ate my oatmeal, I would drink her coffee. I suppose that is one of my snuggly memories of my childhood. I don’t remember her saying a lot, but I do remember her pouring the milk into the cup and putting sugar in the coffee/milk mixture and handing it to me with a warning to be careful. I also remember her washing the dishes and sometimes I heard her sniffle and saw her wipe away tears. I wonder what made her so unhappy.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Finally, no more car shopping
Monday, October 10, 2005
Doctor's visits are the pits.
Friday, October 07, 2005
I don’t always talk about it, but sometimes, I write about it and when I write I put it away in a folder called secret. It was secret even when I was nine and writing on paper sacks tied together with strings and hidden in the back of my closet, then when I was older, in my diary, then in my journals, and now here it is about to be on my blog. Don’t judge me, don’t think I’m telling my secrets for the world to see, but I am, my psychiatrists thinks if I talk about it, the terrors will go away. I hope he is right.
I was nine and my mom, well she was working late at the truck stop. She was a waitress. I was in charge of my younger sister, who was five. We fell asleep while watching a western, on the sofa, in the living room. Our front door wasn’t locked, had no locks. It was really late, the television was off, that’s what I remember most, the television making that sound it made when the television station went to bed. I woke up and my mom’s boyfriend was carrying me to bed and I thought how nice of him and he put me in bed and I thought he was going to get my little sister, I had already gone back to sleep, then he did it. He raped me. When he left, I got out of bed and blood was everywhere, but I had to get to my sister and make sure she was okay and that he hadn’t hurt her too. I woke her and made her go with me to the bathroom and I left a trail of blood. I found a towel and tried to wipe the blood up off the floor, it was new bought just that day at the store, but it only smeared and I was getting sick. We got in bed and we hid under the covers and I kept bleeding, then I got feverish and started vomiting and my sister got me a wash cloth and I kept wishing my mom was home and I hoped I wasn’t going to get into trouble for all the blood and then she came home and she saw the blood and asked me why I was bleeding and I didn’t tell her, didn’t have the language to tell her and she made me take a hot bath and I was so sick and I remember seeing the water turn red. And she gave me a pad to put in my panties and it was so large on such a small body and she asked me why I was bleeding and I vomited and she gave me aspirin and then after a long while, I was getting sicker and passing out and she took me to the hospital and at first the doctor didn’t notice that I was only nine and wearing a pad, or that I had bruises between my legs, what he noticed was my appendix had ruptured and he was rushing me to surgery and then when the nurse was washing me with an antiseptic cleansers she noticed the bruising and the blood and she told him, and I remember hearing him telling my mom and she shook me and said what have you done? What have you done? Who did you let do this? That’s all I remember for about three days, until they made me sit in sitz baths to heal the stitches that they used to put my broken body back together, but the terror has stayed with me. I still remember it, still dream about it, still wake up thinking he is in the room. That night changed me, caused me to have fear and to never feel safe, made me dirty in my mom’s eyes and in my older sister’s eyes as well. I became the child who was raped or let someone rape me. My mom’s boyfriend continued to live with us until I was 11. I had to keep locks on my bedroom door and after begging for a year, finally, my mom put a lock on the bathroom door. When I was eleven, he tried it again, the rape thing, and I hit him with a broom and cut his ear, and then I told my mom either he had to go, or I was running away to Alaska. She made him leave and then she died a few months later. Even on her deathbed, she blamed me for what happened. So that is why I have the night terrors.
Okay, Okay, it's not that I am getting better as I get older, I am getting higher!
No more fantasy, from here out, it's reality.
who could fucking eat an egg now?
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Finally the girls are free.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
What the fuck would Buddah do? Can you tell me?
By the way, we have been looking at cars for about three months now and I just don’t see any speed in the process and if we don’t get a new one soon, he, Mr. Zelda, will be walking because he is driving my truck and I am driving my sister’s 90 year-old mother-in-law’s car that she drove around and around her house, forgetting how to stop until finally she ran it into the living room. It isn’t ruined and is fine, a one owner car with less than 50000 miles and it’s one of those huge cars from the mid 80s but, but, but, it’s huge and I want my little truck back. I want him to buy a car and let me have my truck so I can drive like and park with ease not from the end of a huge car that I cannot park except if there are no other cars on the street. See, I am getting upset, I have to think, WWBD, ahhh he would say, let us not fight but let us get a long and forget the cars and walk so as not to run over the little insects on the street and why do you need to pollute the air and he would be so right.
Maybe the bed thing is wrong and we should just sleep on a mat in the floor. Maybe.