Part I
Running sideways on the vertical drop, toes sinking into the growing deep moss at top speed, the elven girl hopped down onto a giant, bumpy tree root. She swung down and around with expert agility just in time to capture a chipmunk with her left hand as he attempted to jump away, squealing. “You're it.” she laughed. Willow dropped her companion, Neno, on the splayed root tangle, and he immediately started to wash his ears and fur with his paw and tongue. He acted nonchalant as Willow swung down to investigate a moving, strange, bright multi-colored light in the thick of the woods over the gentlest part of the river. Neno jumped down to follow Willow as soon as he regained his pride with his fur nail combed, puffed out to make him appear larger than the 4 inches he bragged of while stretched out to his limit. The rodent loved his elven friend; he darted to catch up. Did she really need such giant strides? Willow was 10 in human years, which is equivalent to a 1-year old in elven years. She was left playing with animals instead of doing important work with her elders. Soon Willow would be crafting her own hunting tools, practicing archery, tanning clothes, cooking and doing other drudgeries, but for now she could be free and just play. The lithe elf started down the slope toward the river following the light. It blinked then sped behind a small stream's waterfall that fed into the great river. Neno squeaked a warning, “Fae bad!” Willow didn't want a lecture; she lived for adventure. She had never seen a fairy before, they tended to come out only while she was sleeping. How much harm could a tiny light create? Water smashed down and around her; it was much stronger as Willow reached out, into the falling stream. The sun peeked through the branched, green canopy above which made rainbows dance around her. Droplets were sparkling as she engulfed herself in the mist. “Hey!” Neno yelled to be heard next to the blasting waterfall echo. His high pitched squeak caught Willow's attention and she was temporarily started out of her reverie. She grabbed her little buddy and tossed him onto her shoulder, to return her attention as quickly as possible to capturing the spark. The fuzzy slid into her quiver. Part !! Sierra Sunshine rode her pony slowly, over the crest of the little foothill as the sun slid into the golden, pink sparkles. She noticed none of the glorious beauty surrounding her, not the trees, the sky, or even the adorable country houses she rode past. Sierra was completely lost in her thoughts, scenes of the fight she had with her best friend, Nita Bug were playing over and over in her head. "Towhead", what did that mean, anyway? Sierra didn't even blink before punching her best friend right in the gut. They were on the playground, in front of everyone. No one was really paying attention though, and Bug punched her right back and that was that. They spun around and huffed off their separate ways right between the tall slide and swings. Neither of the blows did much damage, no wind was lost nor was there evidence of any physical damage. The yard duty teacher didn't see anything even though she was 20 feet away and looking right in their direction. The pain was mental. It had hurt Sierra's feelings. Bug even got off the bus at the bus stop on the other side of the hill so she obviously wasn't wanting to make amends. Sierra didn't know what to think, why would Bug call her names? They had never been in a fight before. Her parents weren't home, they were both working so when Sierra jumped on her pony instead of doing her chores only her brother noticed. He didn't even glance up from his role playing game. Wizards were needed in this nether world, an ogre had released the dragons and they were reigning terror on the elves. Who cared what his 9 year old sister did? She was a pain, anyway. Sierra was probably going to play with Bug, they were always involved in silly girl games while Byron was busy doing manly things, like starting a war with the slavers and saving fair maidens. A strong girl, Sierra had strawberry blonde hair and was "kissed by the sun" too many times if you asked her. The freckles made her feel self conscious. She cared for chickens, horses, steer, goats, sheep, geese and a couple of idiotic turkeys on their small family farm. They also had dogs, cats and a pond filled with gigantic catfish. Sugar, was her special pony. He was a gift from her dad, because she worked so hard. Sierra didn't know any other 4th graders that woke up before the sun, milked the goats, fed the horses, steer and chickens, then gathered eggs for breakfast. Sugar was her reward, and never was there a prize pony on earth that could compare. He would have to be her new best friend since Bug was obviously no longer a contender. Bug was what the other parents referred to as "different." She followed her own rules, spoke up when she wasn't supposed to and didn't even go to regular church. She got in trouble a lot. Bug's mom was Asian, Sierra's mom said they went to a temple full of monks and worshiped a golden Buddha. Bug never went, though, and said that it was all a load of crap anyway. She complained her mom only went to have lunch and hang out with her Thai friends. She wouldn't take Bug even if she wanted to go. Bug believed she had a native American soul. She believed the Great Spirit was everywhere, especially in nature. "Going to a building where people tell you how you'll burn is just a creepy way to spend your Sunday. I'd rather catch frogs, pick flowers and listen to the birds tell me a story." Sierra felt the same way, but she wasn't going to tell her mom that. There was no reason to get in trouble. They were usually too busy on their little farm to go to church every week anyway. Sierra's dad also worked too much. Sierra's family was old fashioned. Her mom was from Georgia and her dad was from Texas. They were both southern raised, but moved to California before Sierra was born. All Sierra knew was that she was very lucky. She was blessed with the wondrous four seasons of her own lush and fertile foothills. The lands she grew up in were originally Native American, her family farm was near the "Indian Springs." Nita Bug and Sierra were constantly searching their properties for the actual spring, which they believed had magical properties. They had so much fun together pretending they were Native American, it was Nita Bug's favorite past time, and sometimes it felt so real, like they had gone back in time and they belonged only to the mother earth and father sun. Sierra's favorite game was searching for the flower fairies. Sierra had a lot of books her mom gave her about the fairies and each of their special and unique talents. Sierra only looked at the pictures of most books, but these were an exception, she wanted to memorize each detail about the plants and their healing properties. Sierra loved recognizing and comparing the actual plant to the painting in the book. She pretended she was the fairy depicted, and wanted nothing more than to catch a glimpse of a real fairy, or even better to be one. "No, mom, I cannot feed the steer, I'm busy healing this honey bee's hurt wing." Sierra frowned, Bug would have laughed at that with her. She missed her friend. As if her thoughts manifested matter, there was Nita Bug, only 20 feet in front of her bent over in the ditch, her derriere sticking up out of a patch of gold and orange poppies right next to the old gravel road. She was bent over in the weeds on her hands and knees as if she had lost something. This was strange and unusual, Nita Bug always had her head buried in a book, or was up in a tree. Her books were tossed in a pile right in the street, meaning she hadn't even stopped at her home after school. Why did she get off at this stop? This was Sierra's bus stop. Bug lived just around the corner, but the road the bus could go on only went around the other side of their big foothill. What was Bug doing? Sierra Sunshine was torn. She wanted to stop and talk to Nita Bug, to pretend nothing had happened at recess, but what if Nita Bug started calling her names? Would Sierra have to punch her in the face this time? Did they need to escalate this war to the next level, like she often did with her brother, (to get their dad's attention)? The thought of punching Nita Bug again hurt her heart. Sierra's stomach lurched, and she felt suddenly sick. Sugar noticed and stomped loudly. He snorted and swished his tail and stopped right next to Bug. They knew one another well. Nita Bug always brought him apples or carrots when she visited. He wasn't going anywhere just in case she had some hidden for him. Sugar started munching the grass. “No poppies, Sugar.” Sierra warned. She knew from her studies that poppies had hallucinatory effects, whatever that meant, it sounded terrible. “There it is again!” Bug cried out but to whom, Sierra wasn't quite sure. Her curiosity was peaked though, and dismounted. Nita Bug was crawling in the ditch, face deep in the poppies, The flaming soft petals swayed gently in a hidden breeze. They were not in the least bothered by the wild child within their midst. Mango colored poppies were Sierra's favorite Springtime flower. She recalled the images in her flower reference book. The closest match she could find was a little boy fairy named “The Horned Poppy Fairy.” The genus was a little different, but within the same family; a cousin as opposed to a sister or brother flower. Bug didn't even bother to look up when Sierra stepped right next to her head, trying to avoid the flower bunches, and step more on weeds. “Careful”, Nita Bug warned, “I think I have him trapped.” With that astonishing announcement Sierra dropped to her knees to see what poor creature Bug had in her clutches. It was not like Nita Bug to hurt any living thing, she even caught spiders in their homes and released them outside instead of squishing them like most people. An incredibly bright, almost painful sparkling light hit Sierra Sunshine directly in eyes and she was forced to blink, and she cried out loud. “You little stinker,” Nita Bug warned their attacker, “fight fair.” Was Nita Bug mad? She appeared to be talking to a chunk of rounded wood or what may have been a piece of jewelry or a broken piece of a mirror she had hidden under it. The reflecting object could have been anything, why was Nita Bug acting so unusually strange? Sierra, recovered from the light flash, still blinking and forgot about their personal playground misunderstanding. “What was that?” she asked, wondering if Nita Bug even knew. “It attacked me on my way home,” Bug explained without looking up, her eyes intent as a cat on a hummingbird. “I was reading and walking and this little sucker, this fairy or whatever it is, flew right in my face, stung me on the nose, then went around my head and laughed in my ear. He flew back to the front of my face, blinded me with a flash of light that stung both my eyes and then hid down here, under these poppies. I have it trapped with this piece of wood, I think. Did it get you?” “Something reflected into my eyes.” Sierra Sunshine answered, but wasn't quite sure what to say or do next. She could still see spots when she blinked, but if Nita Bug hadn't lost her mind, then there may be a dream come true under the rounded hollow of wood that Bug held . Time seemed to have stopped. Sierra Sunshine had been waiting for this her entire life, or at least for the years she could remember. The poppies began spinning before her, she was afraid she was passing out. Everything became blurry. The last thing she remembered was Nita Bug yelling, and the sound became further and further away and the words indistinguishable.
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A year or two ago I found myself working in the midst of a large community of Alzheimer and dementia patients. Nurse Ratched and co. swiped mental capacity from the aging community at an alarming rate.
The MoCa, a basic test, was used to determine the extent of cognitive impairment in an individual. Because of urinary tract infections, the bane of mental capacity in anyone affected with any form of dementia, these tests results could vary greatly from day to day. The poor, confused community was not aware that their rooms were viable real estate for monetary negotiations; it wasn’t enough that they lost their health, their wealth and their independence. The director and her underlings were interested in the bottom line, which is how businesses thrive; but at the expense of the mental health and welfare of the people they provided care for. As an administrative social case worker, my job was to fight the system on behalf of the patients, without becoming one in the process. I feared the MoCa. I noticed myself starting to exhibit symptoms of Alzheimer's. My grandmother was diagnosed and deteriorated then passed at a rapid rate, within a few years. It does run in my family. I began noticing simple signs. I started spitting more when I spoke, yeah, gross. Watching your spit fly in the sunlit air during a business meeting is not an endearing quality. I looked it up. It’s what happens when your mouth starts to forget how to handle the synapses that pass from the brain. Brain fart became my middle name. I suddenly felt like I was continuously stoned, though I had been clean and sober for years. I do use caffeine medicinally, for migraines, so if you’re straight edge, I’m not joining your band. Caffeine did nothing for the fog I walked into every day. It wasn’t a physical lethargy but my quicksilver tongue and wit had somehow transformed into a methodical pattern of ingrained duties and habits. Words would be at the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t retrieve them, and would have to finally replace them with simpler versions. I noticed myself breathing more deeply, trying to move past the continuous folly of my lackadaisical mind. I convinced myself that I could adjust; that this horrific nightmare of using mediocre and predictable thought patterns would make me normal. Only I would miss the witty and sarcastic musings, but they were my pride and joy. My broken brain could skate on normal and no one but my closest friends and immediate family would possibly even notice. Simultaneously to my personal dilemma a great friend (not to mention a phenomenal drummer with over 50 years of experience) who lost his wife and his beautiful home on ten acres, lived close, was retired and looking for a past time that didn’t entail internet pornography or sleeping all day, every day or cleaning up other people’s dog’s poo. Even my half witted brain knew that rearranging our grannie house that we used as storage and turning it into a “jam room” would greatly benefit both of us. I had read in my elderly studies that music was sometimes the only thing a person could remember after their brain pathways became clogged with plaque. I planned to cure myself with music. My doctor buddy agreed. She said using your opposite hand to do things instead of your regular hand was proven to be beneficial for the beginning stages of dementia. Continuously learning by doing crosswords or puzzles could also strengthen the mind but no, thank you. Never been a fan of sitting still. Rich, my drummer friend, came over and we cleared the space. It took all day. He set up his drums, and we agreed we would learn a song together. I used to listen to the jukebox when I worked at Round Table pizza. In the mornings when I opened I would habitually throw on “White Rabbit” and sing along at the top of my lungs while vacuuming. Rich was from that era, that song was written by his soul brethren. It would take him ten seconds to learn it. That was the original plan, one song. Before we had a chance to work together again (Rich and I were both beaten and battered from moving around the piles of storage in the grannie house), my cousin, Jerry, called. I had visited his wife earlier in the week and he mentioned he missed hanging out with my husband. He said he was going to come over and play music with Dan. They lived together a long time ago, and my cousin played guitar while Dan, my husband, dabbled in congas. They spent their early adult years goofing off with beers and creating a sloppy barrage of garage medleys with whoever showed up to party at my Uncle Utt’s house. Sawittre, my beautiful, obnoxious and usually inebriated cousin, sang her heart out, though we often tired of her bad song choices, that were not the songs the other people were simultaneously playing. My other cousin, Art, played the drums. I heard he was quite good, but I never had the pleasure of jamming with him. I mentioned to Jerry that Rich had just set up his drum set at my place, and we made a concrete plan. Once upon a time, in a town far, far away (Oroville) we would party at Rich’s house on a hill. We played music until 3 in the morning. These were wonderful, open jam musical medleys. We camped and partied at our own little home made Hillstocks. Every holiday for years, that was our go-to place. When Rich’s wife died he was not able to financially sustain such a large property and he had to let it go. C’est la vie (et morte). Dan still had his congas, but he hadn’t touched them in years. His heart wasn’t in it. Rich was such a talent on percussion, we didn’t really need more drums anyway. I was really shy at first. I couldn’t get near the microphone. My voice scared me. My big mouth amplified? BAD idea. I just wanted to fight the on setting Alzheimer's my paranoid mind convinced me I had. A few musicians came over, a poet, a friend, a cousin, whoever. We had a blast. We danced we sang, everyone made up songs. The best by far was by Jackie and me--deep voiced and dark in hilarious heavy metal riffs. The grannie house was no party virgin, we did have many a swarray in that place back in the day, but it officially became a music room. We enjoyed the act of being crazy and once in awhile a true harmony would arise from our antics. Rich called them sandcastles. He said we build them and then they disappear forever. I became braver. I sang my poems, I only had about 8, but then I started writing more knowing they would be accompanied by melodies. My cousin knew a lot of songs from the 90’s, alternative grunge or folk songs. He was limited to Jack Johnson, Marcy Playground, and… Slayer. We were all learning together. I realized I sucked really bad at singing Jack Johnson songs, even when I memorized them. My vocal range and Jack’s just don’t sync. I sang them anyway. My cousin sang beautifully, but he was apprehensive and not confident in his ability. He got over it. Dan found a bass guitar that James’ mom purchased for him on a whim when James decided he wanted to play bass (then changed his mind after trying it). Dan loved it. He didn’t love THAT bass, but he loved the instrument, and he bought himself a good one. We were excited. With Dan’s background with playing the congas, he was a natural at keeping rhythm and timing. We had real musical jams with a guitarist, a badass drummer, a bass guitar and a vocalist, as horrific as she was (me). I was memorizing things, learning how to harmonize and kicking dementia’s ass. It was phenomenal. Rich’s daughter, Gayla, a great friend, and Jerry’s wife, who happened to be Gayla’s cousin, Natalie, began singing too (because if my sucky ass can do it, anyone can)! Natalie had a beautiful high voice, reminiscent of June Carter Cash or Dolly Parton and Gayla was a hard, girl punk rock queen. Before long I met a guitarist at the last farmer’s market on Del Paso Boulevard. For some reason, out of nowhere, a wild hair poked me and I grabbed a bunch of starter potted plants and drove to what I was expecting to be a Farmer’s Market but instead it was just two guys with a couple tables of vegetables. I asked them if it was OK if I joined them and they shrugged. I set up a table of my starter plants and started painting (I had mentioned before I’m not one who easily sits still). The commission piece I was working on included a large image of Hank Williams Sr. the country music legend. A well spoken gentleman began to chat with me about the artwork. I could tell from his vast knowledge of various genres of music he was a seasoned musician. I invited him to play with us, as it happened to be jam night. My husband was not pleased that I had invited a total stranger into our home. I felt that Rich, being as talented as he was, needed a musical companion to play with who had more experience than the clown party posse we had formed. I was right, Eric and Rich played together beautifully. They were from the same genre. Somehow a talented bass playing neighbor invited himself over. Dino lived a couple houses down. He could sing too. The three older men were given the grannie time slot of 4PM to 6PM, to play music that they all knew, and they sounded great. Walking the Dog, House of the Rising Sun, and other blues or classic rock songs were played well. The tunes were perfectly timed and pitch perfect but Rich was miserable. He liked the act of making music, not rehearsing music. Playing the same song 3 times in a row to get it record ready was cumbersome and made music NOT FUN to him. He tried to tell me, but I didn’t understand. Jackie named their band “Timeless Timeless Time” after the cigarettes Rich smoked. We thought it was hilarious. We added an extra time for the third person. The guys didn’t like it. Did we care? Dino suggested naming their band “Dino Rose”. “Isn’t that your name?” “Yes.” Silence. After 6PM the crazies (my crew, Jerry, Dan, Natalie, Gayla and myself, sometimes Jackie and Craig) would enter, and we would play alternative or punk or random things we were learning together. Rich drummed for us and we made music fun because we are fun. Rich felt our goofy energy and lack of care brought a bright element that gets lost in over rehearsal. Sometimes our timing was off. We went with it. That’s how it’s done when you’re live. We were live every Saturday. Sometimes we sang a song like a ballad, sometimes we sang it like a punk rocker on meth. Regardless, we always had a good time. Sometimes we played until midnight because the police in the hood don’t care. Sorry neighbors, but just a tiny bit. Rich and Eric asked Dan to kick Dino out of the band. He was a raging alcoholic and he flaked on an actual gig they had set up in Colfax. He showed up after the no show at regular jam time sloppy annihilated, and called Rich an asshole and yelled at Eric. Eric is as mild mannered as a human being can be (unless you speak about his Rush Limbaugh newscast blasting neighbor, who Eric angrily wishes death upon). Dan looked at me incredulously, “Why do I get stuck kicking him out of THEIR band?” “I don’t know, It’s your house.” Ha ha ha. I enjoy Dan’s pain. He’s my husband, it gives me pleasure. Don’t judge. After Dan kicked Dino out of the Timeless Timeless Time he only showed up two more times wasted and totally confused. He finally got the hint, after Dan had to escort him off the property. He was a neighbor, though so he still glared at us when we walked by with our dog. Oh well. I was so glad he was bounced because I could stop hiding my microphone. His mouth literally sprayed dog shit smell on everything he sang into. We removed the casing of the mic he used and bleached it, but ultimately had to throw it away. I started smelling mics after that, and will no longer let ANYONE use my mic. Screw that. My spit smell is mine. I don’t want anyone else’s husband’s weiner or wife’s vagina smell on my mic. You never know what people do with their mouths. There’s salad being tossed and it’s not getting near my mic. You hear, me, Gayla? Natalie? Ha. Eric asked if he could jam with us, and he was a nice addition. He brought a little more structure to our shenanigans. We got him to loosen up, and trained his ears to endure student level vocals, bass and rhythm. Then we got better. After 2 years we actually weren’t totally awful and were invited to play at a couple of parties. We play near 70 cover songs. We can’t even play all of our riffs in a 4 hour session. An old man in a wheelchair, wasted on Oxy with mutated fungus feet even complimented my singing in Olivehurst. Haven’t heard of Olivehurst? That’s OK, most people haven’t. My uncle in Penn Valley said we could play at any bar. I’m thinking he’s speaking of the local bars in that neighborhood, (population 300). We were even missing two key members of our band that day that we played in Penn Valley because of an emergency appendectomy. I have totally gotten sidetracked. Did singing and learning to play music cure my early signs of Alzheimer's symptoms? No. But I can rock a rattle, a tambourine, play loose congas, and jam part of one song on the steel drum. I even jump on Rich’s drum set every time he smokes or pees. But that is not what made the symptoms disappear. I was fired from the social work position for standing up to a bitch-ass bully who was the number one ass-kisser of the director of the facility. It was the first time I had ever been fired but I could not have cared less, because I hated working with that unmedicated, bipolar nightmare excuse for a human in close quarters. I forgot to mention that I am physically empathic and actually absorb negative health issues (mostly pain) from others. I am not sure how to process or eliminate it, except by having no contact. As soon as I was no longer in close proximity with people suffering from multiple forms of dementia my symptoms disappeared. Something really great came out of it, though. I have a new appreciation and passion for making music. It became the whole crews regular therapy. Not every jam is magical but every now and then we can feel the vibration of true wonder in the notes and everyone is simultaneously riding that perfect wave. Fighting the urge to crawl back into bed, as least I can see some tangible space opening up in the filthy garage, that has been a moldy dark nest of secrets since I left 19 years ago.
I actually left when I was fifteen but I came back when I was seventeen. I dragged my 22 year old guitarist in-a-band boyfriend with me. They practiced in the garage a few times a week. They also practiced at Rinkor's house and then Dave Roden's house when he joined the band. It was called the Spaz at first. I really liked them. They evolved to High Gain and I didn't like them anymore. Fun funky beats were replaced by boring rock. I stayed for two years until I left again after that relationship dissolved into alcoholic garbage. I left again for 6 years but then returned for a few months before leaving again. The house was built in 1987. It's a beautiful, large space. I was thirteen years old when my dad finished it. It was his pride and joy. He worked downstairs, I assisted sometimes. My parents divorced, it was ugly, the same year I was raped. 1989. My mother suffered a nervous breakdown after the relationship was terminated. I left to help her get back on her feet. It doesn't make much sense, but I was doing everything for her, walking her to the bathroom, cooking her meals and keeping her alive, she was rotting and crying all day in bed. I thought if I left she would get up and take care of herself. She did. She got a little better. Mental illness in invisible if you don't know the signs. I have it too. |
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July 2023
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