Six Degrees of Admiration

(interior voice):  Are you really going to write this?
Me:  Yeah.  I've got nothing else to lose.
(interior voice) But you know what you're saying here, don't you?
Me:  I'll jump of that bridge when I come to it.  It's true, and that's all that matters.
Just so you know, this entry is dedicated to several friends of mine who have been criticized and crucified for being open and honest when expressing their feelings. I'll respect their privacy, and not use their names.  Whatever hell I get for this, is on me.

 When I first joined Facebook about two years ago, there was a section in which you could place some favorite quotes.   I chose a few, and then thought for a minute before writing the last one.  I knew it would open me up to teasing, but as I thought about it further, I figured at my semi-advanced age, let people say what they want.  I truly didn't care.  The statement was this:
"I will live and die a PROUD fangirl".  For those who've never heard that term, a little explanation is in order.

  I first heard the word 'fangirl'  in the late nineties, when  a dear friend used it to describe herself.  She was in her thirties, and I automatically thought it was a term used for older women who admired actors, or bands, or athletes.  A name that would distinguish themselves from being called a 'teenybopper'.  And of course, the use of the word 'girl' would just harken back to "Girlpower' another catchphrase that was popular at the time.

If you look up the word in the urban dictionary, you'll find this:

1.	fangirl	2110 up, 207 down
	A rabid breed of human female who is obesessed with either a fictional character or an actor. Similar to the breed of fanboy. Fangirls congregate at anime conventions and livejournal. Have been known to glomp, grope, and tackle when encountering said obesessions. Understandably, this horrified me more than words could say.   Was this what I wanted to confess to being?   HELL, NO!   I mean look at all the perjorative words in this   'definition' There's 'rabid', 'obesessed' and 'obessesions' (both spelled incorrectly btw), and and of course, the obligatory snipe at women who go to conventions (anime or otherwise) and write in on line diaries.   Then again, this was from Urban Dictionary.  They make fun of EVERYTHING, and I reminded myself of that after breaking things and screaming for about 20 minutes.  Still it ate at me.  To tell the truth, this description was suited more to males, and males who attend sporting events.   Living in New York you'll see stories almost daily about bad behavior at football, baseball and hockey games.  Drunken brawls, property damage, attacks on women, all in the name of love for 'my team'.  We've all heard stories about riots after championship games, haven't we? And, ok, I'm sure, in more than a few cases, there are women sports fans who have caused their fair share of damage.  Today, it's an equal opportunity insanity, for lack of a better word.    As I child of the sixties, I saw fandom everywhere. I was a little too young to remember the Beatles, but I lived through the fervor for the Rolling Stones, the Doors, and of course, Woodstock.   Back then, it was cool to be a fan, to go to a concert,  or a game, and scream your head off. It was customary to have posters on your walls in your rooms, and to talk about the people you admired, sometimes at great length.  It was a way to release tension, to have fun, and then, of course, go back to your normal life.   I'm not sure when being a fan became a bad thing, but I'll bet it was sometime in the late seventies and early eighties.  It started when Squeaky Frome tried to assassinate then President Gerald Ford, and  it pretty much went downhill from there, reaching it's lowest point with John Hinkley and Mark David Chapman.  And of course, the stories about a woman who repeatedly broke into David Letterman's house, and the man who stalked and killed Rebecca Shaeffer.     Suddenly, it was no longer cool to be a fan of someone, whether they be an actor, sports star, or musician.  Because of a few bad apples, the word 'fan' became a derivative of the negative term 'fanatic'.  To me, that's sad.     We're a nation of cynics now.  "Trust No One" is everyone's motto, and self love(and no, I'm not talking about that) is the norm. If someone admires someone greatly and talks about it(unless or course, they're a sports figure or political candidate) people view it with suspicion. Perhaps it's time to re-define what a 'fangirl' is. -She's someone with a big heart -She's someone who's not afraid to talk about how she feels.   -She's someone who's brave, and strong and loyal, and honest. -She sees the object of her admiration as someone desirable yes, but someone to be respected. -Finally she sees the object of her admiration as someone who's human, has faults, and she's not above talking about those, too.  That's what being a true fan is.  Loving unconditionally.   That's who and what I am, and that's why I will live and die, a proud fangirl. Sorry for the wonky margins on this entry.  I hate this computer. :( As always, comments are appreciated and welcome.

Feelin' Alright? Not Feelin' Too Good Myself...

The last two days have been, well, for lack of a better phrase, perniciously awful.  Had another huge setback in my mom's and my relationship, brought about, of course, when she misunderstood me yet again.  I can't win.  
I lost two writing contests that I really wanted to win badly, mainly for their prizes.  One of them the judge didn't even read my entry.  He insists he did, but I see no evidence of him even visiting the blog.  I hope I'm wrong.   Fine, I'll admit I'm an horrible loser, which is weird for someone as non-competitive as I am.  To be honest,  the winner of one of the contests deserved it.  The other winner of a contest sponsored by a writing consortium, didn't even follow the rules!  I don't get it.  I have no clue
why I keep losing, why my submissions keep getting rejected, how I can make things better.  I'm a writer, it's the only thing I feel I can do well, but  if no one else sees it, where am I?
Oh the last thing.  I know he didn't read it because when I asked if he could give me any tips about what I did wrong, all he said was, "Sorry you didn't win".  Way to avoid the question, Butthead.
  Of course, and I can't understand the reason why, exactly, I can't give up.  I've submitted today, and worked on some stuff and while I may take a nap after I post this, I will probably work again, long into the night.   It's just my nature.  

In the meantime.  I'm going to post a few poems I've written.  Now, I do not labor under the delusion I will ever make any money with my poetry.  I just hope that people like them, and that maybe someone would occasionally pay me something, so I could buy shoelaces, a McRib Sandwich(they're back!-do NOT judge me),supply me with money for entry fees for yet another writing contest.  As I said in a post a while back, you go on.  You have to.

So, here are three horrible poems-Enjoy and remember.  I am a feedback whore!

Still Life

She sits on the bed

Untangling yarn

Pulling at snarls and knots

Smoothing them free

Bringing order to chaos

There's an ease to the process

A repetitive calm and a peace

A simplicity and rhythm

That makes perfect sense.

And when it's smoothed out

The threads can be knit together

Into something beautiful

And useful

And right.

It could be a reprieve perhaps

From other things

That are not as simple

Maybe, or maybe not.

Nevertheless

She sits on her bed

Untangling yarn

Interlude

And once again, I stop,

Somewhere

But not on Fifth this time

In fact, I’m not exactly sure

But still, you are the cause.

Lost not only in my head 

But in my heart

Not sure of anything 

Beside the thoughts of what was said

And what I know

And what I saw.

It’s late.

I need to go

(I want to stay)

I can’t decide

Everyone around me hurries past,

Their inner GPS shows them the way;

Mine’s on the blink.

The lure of your soft voice 

Cements me here

And I could live on that for days,

But not for life.

Resigned, I move again

Towards what, I am not sure,

But I’ll remember where I was

And I’ll come back

When we meet again

Somewhere.

Eulogy From A Late Arrival

It must have been some party

The afternoon you left

And I, tardy as always,

Caught up in ephemera,

I came too late to say goodbye.

I wanted to be there

To see you off

And wish you a safe journey

As you left for parts unknown.

Being late is not fashionable

When goodbyes are involved

The loose ends that are left

Dangle like shoestrings

And lie in wait to trip me up.

The unsaid words hang in the air

Unspoken thoughts haunt me in late hours.

Nothing to do but remember

And hope I run into you again.

May 15, 2011

For Warren. RIP

I wish I'd known sooner.

And now, to sleep.  Perchance to...nah, just sleep.

..

I Am A Writer---That's What The Voices Say

In October, I will celebrate my fiftieth birthday. Of course, knowing that I'm going to celebrate such a milestone has made me more thoughtful, and as I remember my life I realize, more than ever that the one constant, through everything has been my writing. Through everything, good and bad, my writing is what's sustained me, and so I thought I'd talk about how I made peace with the fact that in writing, I've found my passion, my vocation, and my reason for being on the planet.

So, let's travel back to where it all began. The location is my bedroom, in a little town in New Jersey, approximately forty-two years ago. It's eight thirty, and I'm in bed, with about seventeen stuffed animals, and I'm not sleeping. Instead, I'm making up stories for each of them, and you'd best believe that each one of them has a fully fleshed history. I suppose this was the first indication that I was a writer.

I can't remember a time when I didn't love words. My parents read to me every night, and I was so taken by stories that I taught myself to read when I was three. After that, my fate was sealed. I never went anywhere without a book in my hand and I started writing stories and poems when I was seven. At slumber parties, I was the one who'd make up the best stories. Relatives and friends alike would often ask, 'Where does she get these ideas?', and they'd often comment on my very vivid imagination. Oh, and let's not even mention the Imaginary Friend thing. I think I had one until I was at least fourteen.

I'd watch people everywhere I'd go, and even eavesdrop when I could, making up stories about their lives, filling in the blanks . In high school I worked for the newspaper, and in college, I wrote for the television station. I was in my element, and I loved it.

Then I graduated from college, and learned, what I thought was the truth, as delivered to me by my parents. "You're not a writer"-they gravely intoned, "unless and until someone publishes you.”

It's not that they didn't read my writing, my mom actually told me she thought I was talented, but both she and my dad agreed, writing wasn't a REAL job. It wasn't something you could do to make a living, it certainly wouldn't pay the bills. Not unless you were fabulously talented, or extremely lucky. To them, writing was only a hobby, and certainly not a career choice for someone who wanted to get ahead in the world.

For a while, I didn't listen to them. In my junior year of college, I switched my major from Communications to English. For the first six months after I graduated, I spent a day a week in New York City, looking for a job, at one of the big publishing houses. I would have even accepted a job in one of their mail-rooms, if they'd offered one to me. After many failures, and no success, I began to believe they were right, and resigned myself to trying to find a real job.

For the next twenty years I held every job known to man. I worked for lawyers, doctors, and held a myriad of other types of offices as a drone, a file clerk, or and administrative assistant. I'm still not sure what that means. Sure, I had money, I paid taxes, I was what most people would call a 'productive and responsible citizen' but there was one thing. I was miserable. I was what truly made me happy, every minute I was doing something other than writing. I was lying to myself. I was letting other people tell me who I was, and what I should do, and I really didn't see anything wrong with it.

Or so I thought.

Flash forward to three years ago. My twenty year relationship had ended, I was single once again, I was unemployed, and everything I thought was good about my well-ordered, figured out life was gone. I cried and slept too much. I didn't want to do anything but feel lousy . Then, somehow, between crying jags, pints of ice cream, and screaming into my pillow, I got an idea, an idea that wouldn't leave me alone. So, on a rainy afternoon, I opened up my Word Perfect Program, and started to write.

A few hours later, I was back in the zone. My muses were awake, my characters were talking to me, and I felt more at peace than I had in years.

Why? Because I'm a writer. It's what I've always been. Now, I'm not going to lie and say things have been easier since that day. In fact some things have been more difficult. I have a lot less money, I live in a smaller house, I'm not able to do some of the things I used to do, like go out to dinner every week.

Instead, I write. Sometimes, I write pages and pages, some days, it may only be a few paragraphs. Whenever I finish anything though, whether it it's a story, a poem, or a blog entry, I get a sense of accomplishment I've never gotten about anything else. Yes, I'm a writer, and I wouldn't want to be anything else.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some blank pages to fill.

My Last Open Letter to Alton Brown

I hope that you will read this with an open mind.  It's not my intention to hurt you in any way.
Dear Mr. Brown-
What I say doesn't come from a place of anger.  Anger is a useless emotion, except of course when it effects  positive change, and to be honest, I'm not angry.  I'm sad, and a bit confused at the fact that when you did tweet me, asking for an answer, and I offered it to you, you blocked me(@jeannys_shooter).  I can't say that I understood why.
  If you've ever read my Twitter feed, you would understand I have been a follower(I hate how that sounds ) since the beginning of Good Eats, in 1999.   I admired your work, your 'culinary point of view' -whatever that is, and your enthusiasm for your subjects.   I also admired your love of teaching.  I can't tell you how much I've learned from that show, the three incarnations of "Feasting On Asphalt" and, of course, "Iron Chef America" .   I want to thank you for all of them.
  Since you've been on twitter though, I see a change in your which, quite frankly would be none of my business except for the fact you put it out there.   You seem to be quick to anger, fast with the snark-or 'snarkliness' as you call it.   You still seem to take great joy in re-tweeting people who say nasty things about you.   I can't help but wonder if that's a way to get a attention, sympathy or a very odd way to display the self-deprecating humour that we have come to expect.   As I've said before all of this would be none of my business if it weren't shown in a public forum.
   That said, it's not the Alton Brown I know, the man I've met on numerous occasions.  The person who told me once, "When we are feeling the worst about ourselves, that's when we have to believe God loves us the most."  It is for these reasons, that's I'm worried about you.   You tweet about drinking.  You tweet about having no fans, how you weren't hugged enough as a child, how you need to lose weight.   You seem to open yourself up for criticism, then lash out when you receive it.   It's confusing, to say the least.
   Why do I care?   At this point I'm not exactly sure, except that in my gut, it seems to be the right thing to do.  For what it's worth, I still admire you, and I probably always will.   In fact, it's almost refreshing to see someone in the public eye be unafraid to honestly present themselves, good and bad.
  In closing, let me just say that whatever I did, however I may have offended you, I'm truly sorry.  It was never my intention to hurt or annoy you.   I wish you good luck in your future ventures.  Be well, sir, and know that you are always in my prayers.
Sincerely
Anne Mikusinski
Email-Walters_furry@yahoo.com

Does that make me crazy? Probably....

Yeah, I know.  Not the best subject heading for a post talking about how May is Mental Health month, but my small group of loyal readers understand my sense of humour.  At least, I hope they do.
  Anyway, so.  May is MHM, and as everyone who reads this blog knows, I live with a long list of diagnosis which make my life, for lack of a better word, interesting.  Things lately have been rough.  Issues with family and friends, getting final closure of a long term relationship, pining for my dead husband, have made many things hard to bear.
 The other day I walked into Barnes and Noble and saw a BOOKCASE full of the Infernal Book.  I wanted to scream.  So many people have told me in the past few weeks "This book is what people want." If that's truly the case, I'm screwed.   I can't and won't write that stuff.  It goes against almost everything I believe.
  Like I said this past week has been a mess.  So, last night, after crying for at least an hour, I called our County's Helpline.  Their advertising reads, "Feeling hopeless? Call----" I've had bad experiences before with them, people were short and occasionally downright nasty to me.  This time was no exception.  I got put on hold just as I started to cry because another line was ringing.   This is about the 5th time this has happened.  In frustration, I hung up .  When I called back I was told "If you're NOT suicidal, I have to answer another line, " in the most uncaring tone possible.  Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.  I found out this morning that the people who staff this line are PAID.  Again WTF.
So, I wrote a letter to the editor this morning.  I don't know if anything will come of it, but, here it is.

 To whom it may concern-
  I am a consumer of mental health services in Poughkeepsie.  While I am blessed to have Dr. Scott Barkstrom, who works at the Mental Health clinic at St Francis Hospital as my primary therapist, I am only permitted to see him once a week.  Since I live with major depression, there are on occasions, other times when I need to speak to someone.
 As F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "In the dark night of the soul, it is always three in the morning." and it is often late at night when I am feeling most hopeless.  As the clinic is not open I have availed myself of The Department of Mental Health's Helpline, and therin lies the the problem.
  I'm not sure who trains the people who answer the phones, but in the last few times I have called, I've been met with indifference,combativeness, and impatience.
 There have been many times that I've been put on hold because another line was ringing regardless of how upset I'd been.  This happened again last night, and in frustration, I hung up.  When I called back I was told, quite abruptly, "If you're NOT suicidal, I have to answer another line".   I was shocked, stunned and hurt  by this response.
  People who suffer from Mental Illness need compassion and patience.  If Helpline is ONLY a number to call when an individual is feeling suicidal, the advertising should state that.
  It's only through the grace of God that I am here this morning.  Strangely enough, it was this incident that almost made me forget my own problems and want to bring this to people's attention.  I can't imagine what might have happened if another, person maybe more distraught than myself would have received this sort of response.
  In closing, I just want to say I'm not writing this to complain, but to shine a light on this problem.  I hope that Bill Cuscak, who is the supervisor of Dutchess County Helpline will read this letter, and hopefully implement some real changes.
Thank you.
Anne Mikusinski

Like I said, I don't know if anything will come of it.
Monday I'm going into NYC, just to have a day away from everything.  Whether I come back or not, remains to be seen.  I understand it's very easy to 'get lost ' there.

In the mean time, listen to this song---it kicks ass.