I am mentally ill. It sounds a bit shocking to hear myself say that. Such a notion had never even occurred to me, until recently. My unexamined assumption was that mentally ill people were the ones living in institutions, ranting and raving and disrobing in public. They were schizophrenic, psychotic, and secured in lockdown wards.
Is it me, or is every health care facility I take my elderly parents to secretly intent on killing them off? As a culture, we have moved from death as the ultimate taboo, through a stage of speaking openly about the dying process, all the way to the opposite position: “Death? No worries, mate, why keep putting it off?"
Apparently Slash was recovering from yet another heart-breaking ending of a relationship, and had spiked his spirulina/ pomegranate/kale smoothie with LSD, psilocybin, Ecstasy, Geritol and Pepto Bismal, and he was found wandering on Main Street, downtown Galapago, wearing a rabbit suit and shouting, “Free the Bunnies! Free the Bunnies.”
I keep her at home because after 67 years of togetherness I still want to be by her side when I go to bed and when I wake up; I want to kiss her good morning and (not always) have her smile and say “I like that” when I kiss her as she opens her eyes.
I’ll never forget playing “Tangerine Poker,” a card game my niece Julie and I made up as we went along: I would pick a card, and put the tangerine next to the salt shaker. Julie would put a card on top of mine, and peel the tangerine. My mother would study her hand carefully, look down at the table, and eat the tangerine.
By Guest Blogger lj rey: "When I was a young man I had a Winchester hanging over my bedroom door. I thought the right to bare arms had something to do with Marilyn Monroe in a sleeveless dress. Guns were the building blocks of manhood."
The whole world is having a collective anxiety attack. Post Newtown, the situation we all find ourselves in is growing more and more difficult, if not impossible, for us to bear. After the shooting, I entered a full-on crisis of faith, and I know I was not alone.
My mother lost her words in stages. At one point, she may not have known the name of that thing that cleans the rug, or the other thing that rings, but she knew to refer to both the vacuum cleaner and the telephone as “the machine,” which made its own kind of sense.
I am not a trust fund baby, technically, because I’ve never been the beneficiary of a trust fund, although I’ve recently learned that some of my closest friends have always assumed that I am. I can certainly understand their misapprehension: I am a baby, and I have always trusted that I will have funds.
A bit of advice. The next time you are cruising down I-95 at 70+ mph and you get run off the road by an unauthorized driver in a rental car with a suspended license be sure to point your vehicle safely towards a cedar tree.
Comedian Richard Lewis once began a performance by saying, "I just came from spending a weekend with my family; I can't tell you how glad I am to be speaking in front of 20,000 strangers." I don't like to whine and complain about my various physical ailments to my friends and family... much.
My elementary school friends, Melvin Limbaugh and Charley Hannity were always such blowhards. They had an opinion about everything. And they always agreed about everything, which I could never quite understand.
A friend of mine was speaking to me today about an ancient relationship, and commented, "That was during my food-throwing years." I asked for further details.
"Melons. I specialized in melons."
"Are we talking the whole melon, or little melon balls?"
"The whole melon; I'd usually crack it over their heads."
“Shootin’ the blues away” was the subject line. The email was from D., a new acquaintance I met at an art opening a few months ago, a 70+ writer guy with Parkinson’s. The content of D.'s email was a single line: "Would you like to go out in the woods and shoot some beer bottles with a .22 single action six-shooter?"
Forty years after the inception of "est," one of the original intensive consciousness seminars that launched the Human Potential Movement of the 70s, its graduates are reuniting at the Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles on December 17th.
I don't usually get headaches. (Photo to the left is not me.) So when I woke up at 4 a.m. for the third consecutive day with a splitting pain in the back of my skull, I drew the logical conclusion: terminal brain tumor.