About last night . . . and Gillibrand

Dear you,


The Dem debate last night started as I feared:  a long discussion of health care policy.  Not to dismiss the importance of this, but since the world is literally melting and environmentally “sick”, the debate point seemed silly.  I have listened to these coverage debates for decades.  The only forward movement has been the evolution of philosophy considering health care to be a human right.


But still . . . something strange happened as the debate moved along.  My support of front-running hard- core candidates like Harris or even Uncle Joe weakened.  Why?  Because Senator Gillibrand disrupted the game.  There she was, all dedicated, experienced, and true to her word.  And on a panel of dark-suited tough guys and dolls (Gabbard’s white suit aside), Gillibrand seemed stronger, the strongest.


Listening to and watching Gillibrand, I thought about El Woods, the character featured in the above photo, and recalled how she was judged as fluff, too pink/too blonde to be smart.  Well, we know how that heroine won the day.  And, in my opinion, Gillibrand won the day/the night too.  Unexpectedly.  In a pinkish dress.  All legally, seriously blonde.  And her voice?  Light and kind even when passionate or pissed.  Are all these details, these signs and signifiers of  the “feminine” causing us to admire but dismiss her for a power position like POTUS?  


I hope not.
Check her record.

Look at how she is out there on the ground.

Look at how she won elections in a Republican district.

Consider and reconsider.

I am!


Love,

Joyce

Moving on . . .

Dear you . . .


Today, for the first time since Hurricane Michael hit us on 10/10/18, I did not drive to Inlet Beach and feed/water cat Dinky and her daughter, Bastet (named for the goddess as pictured above).  I finally surrendered the task to a good local young man and his gal.  They love cats and I can give them a little bill-paying cash to cover their time and energy.  Finally, I managed to let this go, the last heart-task connected to the old Inlet Beach property.


I miss their little faces. 

I miss their resilience and fuck-all bravery as their space was slowly dull-dozed down to nothing.

I miss their gorgeousness.


As my friend Eric says, I have passed the torch.

That makes me torch-less.


Hail to thee, Bastet, mythic and real.

And hail to the fur-ball feline (Vivo) who made the journey with me to this condo life. 

Simple thoughts for the day,

XO

Joyce

Looking for beauty . . .

Dear you,

My morning sound-scape fetaured monstrous children screaming and running all over the condo landing . . . stomp stomp stomp scream scream scream scream.  This added to my annoyance after hearing how POTUS thought yesterday's hearing (Mueller testimony) went his way!  No sign of concern about Russian election interference.  No sign of anything but his usual spin. I was hating everybody and about to go all out misanthrope today.  But why should I swallow that poison?

So, as a remedy, my task was to find beauty in the local humanity scene.  I looked hard and discovered:

1.  My banker dude at the local branch is very cool and lovely.
2.  The man doing external wall repair on building #1 is working with a kind of grace and efficiency.
3.  The owner of a unit perpendicular to mine greeted me during a balcony encounter with an actual morning smile and wave (instead of the typical head-down-into-phone pose).
4.  And finally, I realized that are dancers all around us.

The last point and the photo aren't meant to be literal.  But there are those who artfully occupy this space, this body, and make everything beautiful.

Do you see them too?

Please look.  Better still, please "dance" through and into all things. I am on task to do that 24-7, even if my aged-attempts at chorus-girl high kicks lands me on the tile floor with a big, bad bang.  Just consider it pay-back to the monstrous kids down below :)

Happy Day and Love,
Joyce

Summer time, and the living is . . . uneasy

Dear you,


The hottest June on record and the hottest July follows.  Everything is burning and I visit the beach carrying a little purple umbrella, shading myself from the sun like a cliché Southern Belle.  Shading myself from the other nonsense that abounds is not so easy.


Where should I begin?


Should I begin with the fact that my president tells opposition politicians that they should just leave the USA if they don’t love him?  Should I begin with the fact that his rally last night in North Carolina featured pissed off pasty people, some shouting “send her back”?  (This, as you know, referring to Rep. Omar, who is, by the way, a citizen.)  Or should I begin with the fact that yet another green space on 30A here in Seagrove Beach is being bulldozed?


The above posited questions/topics are too intense for me at this moment, so I will keep it light and consider the latest weird action by Kellyann Conway, Donald Trump’s advocate and fact-shifter.  During a recent encounter with the press, she seriously asked a reporter what his ethnicity was.  Oh yes, she did.  The question was so blatantly dumb-ass and horrifying at the same time I had to giggle it away.  But this did make me consider the obsession of many “white” folks I know, their pursuit of ancestral knowledge.  There’s a dot.com for that and no doubt an ap too.


I could care less what my ancestry is.  I am something from Europe, something from the Middle East, and something from the Mother Continent, Africa. (This is everyone’s home, no matter what nonsense they might be teaching kids in Oklahoma.) My last name is Fleming and I think my people were run out of Ireland.  And Dad said something about how during the Civil War his great-great-something or somethings was/were part of Quantrill’s Raiders, Confederate guerilla fighters.  Oh hell no.


If Quantrill is my ancestor, I want no part of that shit.


I make myself new every day. So, Kellyann, what is my ethnicity?


Again, I don’t care.  I do know my species, however, is devolving.  According to a piece in scientificamerican.com “Another point of view is that genetic evolution continues to occur even today, but in reverse. Certain characteristics of modern life may drive evolutionary change that does not make us fitter for survival—or that even makes us less fit. Innumerable college students have noticed one potential way that such “inadaptive” evolution could happen: they put off reproduction while many of their high school classmates who did not make the grade started having babies right away. If less intelligent parents have more kids, then intelligence is a Darwinian liability in today's world, and average intelligence might evolve downward.”    Considering that depressing factoid, ethnicity-niche is irrelevant.
  

Ciao for now!  I have to go handout birth control information pamphlets to our “guests” on the beach.


XO,

Joyce

Independence Day 2019

1776 . . . 2019

Dear you,

Sizzling July 4 here in Seagrove Beach.  Loaded with tourists, claiming everything as their own, even if this is not their home.  Perplexing, this instinct to travel in packs and lie to rental agencies about occupancy numbers.  Beneath me, a maximum four unit, at least ten random Alabama guests are stomping around.  They lied to the agency.  They just lie and think this is, well, fine because truth doesn’t matter as long as you fake-smile and say “howdy”.  Perplexing, that instinct too.  But this is a holiday, so I aim to pep up and enjoy.


However, this is hard to do.  The current President has staged a military style parade in D.C. and plans to speak in front of the Lincoln Memorial tonight, making this day his rally.  I am looking forward to all the satire to follow, especially graphic work that will no doubt depict the statue of Lincoln standing up and running away . . . or bopping Donald on the head and dislodging his comb-over.


Locally, on my drive to feed the remaining felines at Inlet Beach (a tiny cluster of brush to the West is what remains for their feeing haven), I noticed a group of four obese gals on 30A.  They wore identical tank tops declaring BORN IN THE USA.  I don’t think they were paying homage to Bruce.  I am pretty sure this was all about their feelings of superiority and claim to this nation because they popped out of someone’s vagina within our borders.  Perplexing, this instinct too.


I wonder what Benjamin Franklin or other brilliant founders would think about those shirts?  They probably would be struck dumb by the bad fashion and obesity.  Or maybe not.


2019 minus 1776 = 243

Two hundred and forty-three years of an experiment in governance and place.


The nation has gotten better . . . in big picture ways.  Yes, African Americans are no longer slaves, identities not limited by gender or strange religious codes are being acknowledged (slowly), and women are no longer property (sort of).  However, all those steps forward are matched by backlash and backward leanings.  (See the loss of reproductive choice in so many states; worse still, murderous racism and hate crimes continue.)  Perplexing, this devolution too.


Yet I know that the BORN IN THE USA tank-top gals and the Alabama slammers beneath my feet are down with this devolution.  And there you have it.  My dilemma:  How do I celebrate this nation that includes them, the ones I perceive as a threat to our progress?


I suppose I must simply LET IT BE.  And count the days until the slammers check out and SUV themselves back to the state of my birth.  The “ordeal” of “them” will end.  Perhaps this is just a bit of karma-lite since, really, I am the descendant of invaders too.  Just like them, I am a part of the project, for better or for worse. 


Here’s to the next 243!  Let’s hope it is for the better/best.

Love,

Joyce

I bought a condo on the Redneck Riviera and am perplexed by tourists from Missouri . . .

Dear you,

After my exile from the family Inlet Beach home, I bought a condo down the road, a county highway you may know as 30A, a smoke-and-mirrors zone doing its best to attract visitors with more money and more teeth than our average guest.  The complex is called Beachwood Villas in the Seagrove Beach zone.  I knew very few owners actually LIVE here, but I was in denial.  It is a cute place and I don't have to take care of the pool!  How bad could it be?  The guests are chilling on "vacay".  Most have small children, so the odds of them taking over the pool and blasting gangster rap at 2 A.M. are non-existent.

Nine months after purchase I can tell you this:  I would prefer pool partiers who blast gangster rap at 2 A.M.

What we have here is 50/50 mix.  Half of the guests are normal or even fabulous.  The other half is, well, deplorable.  And having studied the range of visitors for a while, I have compiled a top 5 "worst" list; it ranks the states who send the Villas the scariest people ever:

1. Missouri 

2. Texas

3. Georgia 

4. Louisiana 

5. Tennessee

Now, I am not including city people in this judgmental game.  And I am not generalizing about everybody in those states.  However, it is what it is.  Let's focus on the "winning" state, coming in at number one.  Why Missouri?  Because their representative visitors are maniacs who jam a "family" of ten into a condo.  Maniacs who have lots of emotionally whacked children.  Maniacs who throw their garbage bags ON TOP of the dumpster or just leave dirty diapers, pizza boxes, and "Naty-lite" beer cans in the parking lot.  Maniacs that I have to run out of the pool area at night because they can't read the "closed at 10 P.M." sign.

I am being unkind.  I know that.  But it is TRUE!  I know if I was visiting their state, I would bring my best self and be respectful.  But why would I vacation in Missouri?  Even if I could ignore their latest anti-choice/anti-female rulings and not boycott the state, why would I go there?  Other than the city of St. Louis, what draws the tourists?  I thought about this and decided to give the state another chance.  To find out where to go in good old MO, I "Googled" around for a while and found the following (compliments of insider.com):

Nuclear Waste Adventure Trail and Museum in Weldon Spring, Missouri

 

"This giant pile of rocks is essentially a mound of nuclear waste.

To be precise, it's 1.5 million cubic yards of hazardous waste entombed to create a small mountain that marks the spot that was home to the country's largest explosives factory turned uranium ore processing plant until 1966. After being left abandoned for over two decades, the US Department of Energy decided to cover it with rocks. Now, it features a museum and covered up TNT, asbestos, mercury, radium and radioactive uranium. Enjoy!"

A giant pile of radioactive waste.  Well, that would be an adventure.

I am not going there.

However, perhaps we locals experiencing the shock and awe of these "show me state" invaders can find ways to upsell that nuclear waste trail and museum. [What the hell is in that museum anyway?] If we dump money into their advertising attempts and build a big Nuclear Waste Adventure Swimming Pool next to the museum, then these Missouri folks might just "vacay" close to home.  And leave us alone!

We could do that!  Or we could just stop selling "Naty-lites"; that would be a deal breaker for our maniacal guests.

That is all for now.  I have to go clean the parking lot.

Happy June 26 to you all, even those in the top 5 list! 

Love,
Joyce

Happy Birthday in the rearview mirror!

Dear you -
 June 12th, I turned 64 and am happy to be on planet Earth (even as she melts and rages at us for being destructive jerks).  Procrastinating today and veering away from my little online-writing-tutor-gig, I googled fitness options here in my 30A/Seagrove Beach zone.  A website for a yoga-heavy joint to the west contained bios of instructors.  This one killed me.  I am a grown ass woman and (supposedly) not bothered by other people's eye-popping resumes/biographies, but this one made me feel really Type-B:

Prudence Bruns

Prudence followed an early interest in meditation and yoga in 1966 at the age of 18 when she started Transcendental Meditation®.  In 1966-67, she studied with Swami Satchidananda to be a yoga instructor, eventually opening and running the Integral Yoga Institute in Boston.  In 1968, she went to India to study with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and was made a teacher of Transcendental Meditation®.  It was at this course that she met the Beatles and they wrote the song “Dear Prudence” about her. After marrying and while raising a family, she began working in film as Art Department Coordinator for Woody Allen, and as a producer with artists such as Andy Kaufman, Pulitzer Prize winning playwright Paula Vogel, award winning directors Bruce Beresford and Alan Bridges and Tony award winning writer Hugh Leonard.  She is best known for originating and developing the feature film Widow’s Peak, starring her sister, Mia Farrow, Joan Plowright and Natasha Richardson.  She received co-producing credit. While continuing to teach Transcendental Meditation® over the many years, Prudence’s interest in yoga never wavered.  After raising 3 children, she returned to school receiving her PhD in South Asian Studies, Sanskrit, from the University of California, Berkeley, in 2007. She has published her memoir,Dear Prudence: The Story Behind the Song, a book on Ayurvedic pulse diagnosis along with articles on South Asian studies, world religion, Ayurvedic medicine and healthy living for academic journals and magazines.  She has presented at numerous conferences such as at Harvard University, University of Texas at Austin, University of Hawaii, University of California at Berkeley and taught courses at UC Berkeley and Rutgers University. She and her husband live in Seagrove Beach and have three children and four grandchildren.

The Beatles wrote a song about her.

All the other stuff might be mind-blowing to others, you know, like the PhD and Woody Allen thing, but I envy that muse moment!

Dear Prudence, good for you.  Now, can you please help me find a workout that has NOTHING TO DO WITH YOGA AND TRANSCENDENCE????!!!

Love,
Joyce