Rip-off Alert

If you live in Maine, please be aware of what happened to us: We received 30 gallons of propane from Maritime Energy, our usual company, on Friday, December 5th. We had to pay in advance, which is a change from the past.

We just got the receipt in the mail. We were charged $4.05 a gallon for the propane. According to the Associated Press, the Governor's office states that the average price for propane in Maine on December 1st was $2.85.

I don't know how many other companies are ripping off their customers. Here in Maine, you can't switch companies easily if you use propane. You use a particular company's tank. It belongs to them. Another company can't come fill it up. I could have asked the price, but I had no suspicions that I was about to be ripped off. If I had known, I would have had to ask them to remove the tank, call another company, and have them install theirs.

Here's what they have to say for themselves on their website: "Maritime's Mission: To provide friendly, reliable service and quality products at fair prices to assure customer satisfaction and loyalty."

Addendum: We'd like to report this to whatever authority one reports such things to. I guess Maritime Energy doesn't use Google Alerts! Maidenform most certainly must. Their customer service is excellent beyond the call of duty and I will write about it at length some time. I wasn't even that "upset" about my non-optimal bra! But, I am angry about being ripped off by my local propane supplier. Have I heard from them? Not a word. I was a bit anxious about posting this. Dick and I double checked the facts above, just in case they had any issues with me writing this. I have written the facts and just the facts, ma'am. Of course, I have also written that I'm bothered by the facts, but there's nothing wrong with that, as far as I know.

Sometimes the superficial is not

Perfume. Just the word conjures up the trivial and superficial in most people's minds. What could beat it, in the category of superficial? Mascara beats it hands down. Those weird contraptions that curl one's eyelashes. Having a discussion about the relative merits of hair gel versus styling putty. . . Oh, the list is endless. What's the most trivial thing you can think of (and what's the most trivial thing that interests you greatly)?

Well, today, perfume lifted my spirits considerably.* I am not wearing something I'm all that thrilled about, but still, just thinking about perfume instead of my personal suffering was a sign that I could transcend my drama. I even got myself to walk a little further than I felt I could go, just to get my hands on some Guerlain Jicky, which wasn't right at my fingertips.

Jicky, which I've written about before, sometimes is a disappointment. It's quite refreshing, but can bring to mind the scent of Lemon Pledge. Once I think of that, like getting a bad song stuck in one's brain, it's hard to shake.

Perfume certainly can be trivial. It isn't to the companies who make it, but I don't care about that. And I don't particularly care for the celebrity scents (okay, I dislike that phenomenom tremendously). But, perfume is somewhat like watching birds for me. The stuff has the power to lift me out of my mood, to transport me to another place, and even to disgust me, which in itself is no mean feat.

It occurs to me, that if I lived in New York City, I might have walked to Aedes de Venustas, even if it practically killed me, to raise my spirits. Unfortunately, a stroll to the Freedom General Store would not have the same affect. Eau de Whoopie Pie? Vienna Sausage Pour Moi? Non!

Hey, I do have a couple of scratch tickets in my bag. I'd forgotten! I got them from my big ten buck win on Friday. I'll go scratch them. I bet I don't even win two bucks, but who knows? If I hit it big, every one of you will get a wonderful gift. I'll be back.

Photo note: How to Use An Eyelash Curler.
I dare you to come up with something more trivial than that!

*As did some wonderful people who helped me when I cried for some help. I can't thank you enough. Really. It's remarkable, really, for without the Web, it wouldn't have been possible.

ADDENDUM: I won five bucks. Not enough to buy a new mattress, unless I traveled back in time. Perhaps I'll figure out how to do that if I stay up late enough.

The color of pain and beauty

According to the American Chronic Pain Association website, I am "non-functioning". I agree.

Is this blog entry a cry for help? Probably.

I'm scared, and that might be worse than being in pain. Hell, I can stand a little or even a lot of pain. But, from reading various articles on line, I am bewildered by the lack of care I am getting, though there are so many people without appropriate care that I shouldn't have a scrap of bewilderment in me.

I have areas of complete numbness in addition to pain. This sounds bizarre, but I can stick a fork into my right foot and not feel a thing. There are other places where I am totally numb, too, but I'm not going to sit here sticking sharp objects into my skin to check them out.

According to what I have just read on line, I have at least three conditions that call for an immediate consultation with a neurologist. Yet, I don't have a doctor's appointment for 13 days, and I know that this appointment is only to arrange for a referral to another doctor. Just knowing this is frightening to me. I'm living one hour at a time, in essence, and there are a lot of hours until the 22nd of December.

Pain renders me stupid. I have no idea what to do. I can see that my physical inactivity is not good for me, but there are so many movements that cause such excruciating pain that I really can't motivate myself to get up off of this sofa and away from my heating pads.

By the way, the judgment of "non-functioning" was the "Quality of Life" assessment. I don't agree that I'm a ZERO on quality of life, but by their standards, I am.

I have nothing further to say (noted later: fat chance of that). I promised there'd be no more diary-like entries. Okay, I'm nearly desperate, so I broke my word. If there's anyone out there with any suggestions, I'll take them. Please don't suggest that I consider euthenasia.

I wanted to find a contemporary artist's work to grace the top of this post. I found an interesting site called the Pain Exhibit. It would not allow me to copy any of the work.

It's snowing outside and is quite beautiful. I watched the birds for a while. The juncos, which were written about so well (as per usual) on Turn Outward yesterday, were a lovely sight in the snow, as they always are. The dark gray of these birds is a magnificent color. It could easily be described as black, but it is not. I find this color quite rich. I note as I look around the room I am in, that I've painted the trim the very same color. This gray is the color of impending storms, slate, dusk, dust, and the tip of my cat's tail. Maybe I'll just post a square of gray. It is also the color of my mood, if you remove the beauty. I am moving in and out of the black hole of despair. The juncos, on the other hand, even if they are dark gray, are the opposite of despair, though who knows what goes on in their little brains. They are plumped up today, looking much bigger than they are. The temperature may have risen to a whopping 18 degrees from the -6 of last night, but the wind is blowing. It amazes me that the birds can survive in this. I saw some goldfinches, which I do not remember ever seeing at this time of year. I just flashed on these little birds wearing tiny down jackets, but hey, they are covered in down, now that I think of it. Duh.

Image note: Cy Twombly Unititled #19 Sorry, I don't know the year. Always loved what I think of his "blackboard paintings". Don't know why. Analysis is hopeless today.

Warning: Art, Sex, Violence (and jumbled thoughts)

I had just spent a good part of an hour poking around Netflix to find some movies to put in my queue. Vague thoughts about the sheer volume of violent films I've watched over the years wafted in and out of my mind. When I finished, I checked in at Bittergrace Notes, where I read Maria Browning's latest entry, on the play "Black Watch".

A word of caution (or an excuse, perhaps): My thoughts are muddled tonight. I am wary of writing, yet the urge is there, and noone is paying me to do a good job, so I shall proceed. . .

Some years ago, I took the 6:00am bus from Bangor, Maine to New York City. This particular bus line shows movies and serves snacks. The movies are usually comedies or Christmas films if it's the season. It's family fare. I don't recall many of the names of films I've seen on this trip, but suffice it to say, there's usually something with Adam Sandler in it. You get the idea.

On this snowy morning, I boarded the bus and immediately fell asleep. Upon awakening, I looked up at the movie screen and saw a rape taking place. It was 9:00am and we were watching "Rob Roy". Here is some of what Amazon's "essential film" review and synopsis says of this film: ". . .the intelligently scripted story takes place in Scotland in 1713. . .a tale of courage and valor destined to become an enduring movie classic." There is nothing to warn us, here (or on any other movie site), of the rape that we will witness.

The protracted rape scene was as beautiful, in my memory, as the rest of the film. How many beautifully choreographed rapes have I seen on television and in films? Too many to recount. I'm not going to mince words: most of us enjoy watching. Not because we like rape and murder, but because this is entertainment. The bad guys are killed, caught or punished, and so, we can feel okay about whatever enjoyment we derived from watching.

One movie stands out as an exception: Boys Don't Cry. The rape scene in this film is gut wrenching and painful to watch, as it should be. When I saw it in the theater, I could see people squirming in their seats. I have met more than one person who said that they did not want to subject themselves to this film or that they fast forwarded that scene when they watched it on DVD. If you haven't seen it, do so. Force yourself to look. Feel the pain and fear. See rape as it is - violence. We should be repulsed.

At the other extreme is the 1989 film version of Hubert Selby Jr's book"Last Exit to Brooklyn", where, if you read this New York Times review (along with every other review I just scanned) you'd be surprised to discover a slow-moving gang bang of the beautiful Jennifer Jason Leigh by a seemingly endless line of men in a vacant lot. As shocked as any viewer may be, I have heard from more than one person, and I will admit myself, to all the flak I may get, that there was something beautifully seductive about this scene of true horror.

Are we meant to feel guilt? I don't think so. When Pasolini's "Salo" (loosely based on DeSade's "120 Days of Sodom") was released, I remember, standing in the theater afterwards with some of my fellow (very young) art students. I felt queasy from watching this depiction of some of the most unthinkable acts of sadism. People were joking around, talking about how much they enjoyed the film, engaging in deconstructing it, completely unaware of what it's meaning might be, of Italian fascism, of Pasolini himself, of anything. It seemed cool to be able to watch this movie without flinching, as if the act of enjoying it was somehow a subversive act. What meaning does this have? That we are so numb to pain? Most of us were punks, and sado-masochistic themes were popular, but there is a chasm of difference between consensual sex play and enjoying rape, murder and torture, even if it is on film. There is pornography and then there is the pornographic.

We watch and read the news, see people beheaded, women shot in stadiums, watch endless shows about forensics. When we read or hear of Darfur, do we know that we are receiving information about reality? I think the answer to that is, perhaps, no.

We applaud films like Hotel Rwanda and Schindler's List, but when there was a Seinfeld episode about Jerry and his girlfriend making out while watching the latter, that was a brilliant piece of observation. Jerry's parents were shocked. But they shouldn't have been. It was just a movie. One of the film's subplots was the abusive sexual relationship of two characters (excuse me if I don't remember their names). It was something we should not have been able to watch, and instead it came off as something akin to an erotic S&M take on the relationship of Nazis and Jews.

Yes, I'm all over the map. I haven't seen "Black Watch". I probably won't. But when I think of all these beautiful men, as they undoubtedly all are, acting and dancing and singing, in spite of our right minds thinking of the horrors of war, we are again turning it into beautiful art.

I think of the boys (yes, boys) I've known up here in Maine who went to Iraq. They left this country with proud families and proud and strong hearts. They came back damaged beyond repair. They are not beautiful. Some of them cannot speak. Some of them do not want to speak. Their eyes are glazed. Their bodies are damaged. Their youth has been taken away. They have done and seen things that noone should have done or seen, and whether you think it was for nothing or for a good cause, it makes no difference. These boys I've known will not be dancing or attending plays. Many of them are just gone. If I were to write a play about them, I'd cast boys of all sizes and shapes, scrawny, brawny, short, tall, limbs missing, acne-scarred, bad haircuts, ill-fitting clothes, and set them on a sofa. There'd be little dialogue. Perhaps a television set would be on. Maybe CSI Miami would be on, and we'd see yet another beautiful woman who has been raped, tortured and murdered. The men who were once boys would not react, for hardly any of us do, and these fellows, a good many of them, are further numbed by prescription drugs, heroin and booze. This would not be a pleasurable play to watch. The conversation: "Pass me a brew, would ya?" "Get it yourself, you lazy douche." Someone might get it together to get up and go to the refrigerator or go take a leak. Maybe they'd watch a football game. It would be a pretty boring play. And it would, hopefully, be depressing. People might leave the theater. After all, we watch plays where dialogue is elevated, turned into art. Everyone is beautiful, or if they are not, they are charicatures of ugliness, beautiful people made into monsters. Reality is banal.

This ends with a whimper and not a bang. What can I say? I warned you that my thoughts were murky tonight. I feel strongly about these things. I'm not a journalist, nor an intellectual. I am unsure how to collect my thoughts. But maybe that's okay. I'm neither a film critic or an expert. I'm just a somewhat regular person who thinks a bit too much, and I have no conclusions to offer you.

So, that's it for tonight. I hope, at least, you'll think about these things. Maybe you'll have a conclusion or thought that I don't. In fact, I'm sure you will.

Painting Note: Artemisia Gentileschi (July 8, 1593 – 1651/1653) was an Italian Early Baroque painter, today considered one of the most accomplished painters in the generation influenced by Caravaggio. In an era when women painters were not easily accepted by the artistic community, she was the first female painter to become a member of the Accademia di Arte del Disegno in Florence.(Wikipedia)For an interesting analysis of this painting "Susanna and the Elders" (based on a biblical story), go here.

Addendum: All evening I have been racking my brain, trying to find the term for the type of art, such as that of Dennis Cooper, or David Lynch. I looked at these links, and others, to find the term. Is it merely subversive art? I think not. But I can not, for the life of me, conjure up what I know that I know. It is terribly frustrating. Please, someone, help me out here! And then, this discussion will grow. The topic of art, violence and sexuality is one I've been wrestling with for a long time. It's now on the table, but I'm missing a large piece of my vocabulary tonight.

Sunday sermon

Jan van Eyck "Man With a Red Turban" 1433



Guillaume Dufay wiki here.

Take a breath. Relax. Enjoy what you can. Appreciate the people in your life.

Today, I am practicing brevity. Thanks for reading!

An oddly great day

Both a preface and an addendum: I wrote this on Friday and took it down sometime over the weekend. I felt badly that I hadn't thanked a number of people who have graced my life in person. I also thought "no more diary-like entries." Now I'm re-posting it, without any changes:

Today is my birthday. I woke up, had a shower, and Dick drove me to the emergency room. On the way there, I noticed I had a lottery scratch ticket in my bag. Once in a while I buy a bingo card, because they take some time to do, and I have a good time calling out the numbers if I'm alone or in my head if I'm not (okay, sometimes I do this when I'm not alone). I have never won my two bucks back. Don't get all excited yet. I only won ten dollars. But it seemed like a good sign.

The hospital waiting room was blissfully empty. I only waited five minutes before I was seen. I stepped out to use the restroom, and when I came back, the doctor was there. He said something like "you seem quite mobile" in an accusatory voice. I was immediately on edge. The night before, I was in agony, but I knew I could get through it, and honestly, emergency rooms are usually nightmares after midnight. I'd prefer to suffer at home.

I didn't feel all that bad this morning, comparatively, but I knew I was getting worse, not better, and as I don't have a doctor's appointment until the 22nd, it was back to the ER.

Around here, and I suppose probably all over this country, people go to the ER with headaches and backaches, just to get drugs. So, I suppose seeing someone who said they were in so much pain looked suspicious.

But, this particular doctor was listening. I explained what had been going and he took me seriously. He seemed positive that he knew what the problem was. He wasn't going to slough me off on someone else. He said he was going to give me an injection in my spine. I asked, "Will that hurt?" "Not to me", he answered. I had to laugh. I said, "When I was a tattooist, I used to say that to everyone." Then he asked me if I knew this old tattooist, who had died years ago, which I did, and we talked about him for a while. It occurred to me later that this guy was smart enough to realize that a person who's heavily tattooed would not complain of so much pain if they didn't mean it (well, unless they were looking for drugs). But I wasn't. I was looking for help. The pain and numbness patterns all told a story that he understood, because, for once, someone was really paying attention.

I got my shot ("I guess you must be really scared of needles") and as the medication spread into my spine, the pain went down a couple of notches, even in places where I can't remember ever not having pain. I have had this pain for most of my life, and I have never had appropriate medical attention. I got used to it. I did a lot of yoga. I stopped bothering with doctors. But then, it got so bad I couldn't do any physical activity.

You don't need to hear the whole story, do you?

The thing is, I had a lovely day. I really did. After we got out of the ER, Dick and I went to a real hole-in-the-wall Lebanese restaurant where the food wasn't dumbed down for Yankees. I felt like I had left the country for an hour. I had a falafel and hummus sandwich on home-made pita bread. It was spicey and tasted like there might be an entire head of garlic in it.

Afterwards, I got a haircut. I looked a wreck; pale, bags under my eyes, exhausted. My hair even looked exhausted. I've dyed it one too many times and it's been completely robbed of any luster. No hope for it at all. In the past, I would have just shaved my head (see last post) but I felt like doing something new. A real "style". Quite frankly, it's awful. I'll never be able to do whatever the hairdresser did with that huge round brush and a blow dryer. Eh, it's only hair. I had a good time having someone wash my hair with some insanely fruity shampoo and being around folks who all seemed so animated. I said that the shampoo smelled nice. "Do you want to purchase some?" "No, it doesn't match my perfume" I was exhausted when we were through. I suppose staring in the mirror at my lusterless hair and tired face wore me out. And, I had been at the ER for almost three hours. But, I had to stop and buy a hairbrush.

We made one last stop to for birdseed and suet and headed home.

My mailbox was filled with goodies; a bottle of Annick Goutal Encens Flamboyant and another free book from Amazon, "The Housekeeper and the Professor" by Yoko Ogawa. This looks like it's going to be the first of four books I've received that I can actually read. The rest have been duds. An awful lot of junk is published, and I suspect an awful lot of good writing is not. Who are these editors?

We ate avocados and sourdough bread for dinner. I adore avocados, and they seem almost decadent when it's twenty degrees outside. What a pleasure.

I discovered dear TMC put up a birthday wish for the entire world wide web to see. This touched me greatly. I have met many wonderful people on the Web. I read and hear so much about the "bad side" of the Web, but you can find something bad in everything. I want to give my thanks for all of you I've met here. You are all special, and have enriched my life. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but tonight I think not.

And with that, my day ends. An odd day, not one that is the picture postcard of what a birthday might be like, but it was a very beautiful day in its way. And I want to thank my partner, Dick, for being the kind human being that he is. He gave me a card with a photo of two young girls playing dress up. Inside, besides the personal stuff, he wrote, "I'm the one on the right." The personal stuff is personal. Yes, some things still are.

Painting note: Jan Steen The Doctor's Visit 1626

Addendum: I also wore my brand new replacement bra. But I'll save that story for another post.

Why do I have to identify as anything?

I just watched a nice little documentary called "Gender Rebel". The hype for the film is "Three individuals shatter the confines of traditional gender identities. Watch the entire show online right now!"

Maybe I'm not easily shocked, but I didn't see any shattering going on. Eh, everything's got to be hyped. Too bad.

Random thoughts:

When a young woman considers surgery to have her breasts removed, her father says he might disown her and her mother is very upset. Why on earth would a parent care if their daughter has breasts or not? What if she didn't develop breasts as a teenager? Would they have given her up for adoption?

I think there are a hell of a lot of people who are gender fluid or not "identified as" male or female. Now that there's a word for it, genderqueer, more people are coming out of the closet about it. But, I dunno. Is there really a closet to come out of?

Am I genderqueer? Let's see: I don't have kids. I feel totally uncomfortable in a dress. If I'm wearing high heels I feel like a hooker. I feel vaguely uncomfortable with my hair the way it is now (longish). I prefer it in a buzz cut or even bald. I have never seen a mainstream movie or television show where I've identified with a female character. I wish I was flat-chested. I feel great in a men's suit. I love passing for a man, though I don't any more, since I've gained weight, grown my hair and developed big boobs. One of the happiest moments in my life was being introduced as an "honorary gay man" when I was the only female person at a gay men's weekend (long story). I had a blast when I used to lift weights at a macho health club at six in the morning. I liked that person I saw in the mirror - crewcut, wifebeater, and fairly big muscles for one so upper body strength handicapped as I. There's more, but it's too much information, and probably not in very good taste.

The list is long enough. These sounded like all the reasons the three young women in the movie gave for identifying as genderqueer.

Maybe it's a generational thing. I don't feel like I'm a Woman (with a capital W), but I certainly don't feel like a guy. I don't feel like anything. I'm just me. And that's fine. Maybe it's an age thing, too, 'cause I don't have a big driving need to find others "like me" to hang around with. I'm not scared of "being different" and I'm not above changing the way I look to fit in, even if I'm uncomfortable.

I suspect that if I was in my twenties now, things would be very different for me. I'd probably embrace boi-hood with open arms. But that ship has sailed, as they say.

After I watched Gender Rebel, I tried watching Beautiful Daughters, a documentary about the first all transgender production of the Vagina Monologues. It was really bothering me. Here was something I couldn't relate to at all. Seeing all those women in their coordinated outfits, their makeup, their perfectly styled hair. . .oh please! Is this what it means to be a woman?

In both movies, there was such an emphasis on clothes. How absurd. Does wearing a dress really determine your gender? I have always liked listening to music that boys like but I also love high-end perfume. So what? I've been told my odd and seemingly contradictory preferences mean I'm a gay man trapped in a woman's body and that may be true, but I guess I don't care enough to do anything about it. Never did. Well, okay, I have thought about it a little, but female-to-male hasn't been mastered surgically, and I really do not think I was born into the wrong body. Why do we have to be so black and white about everything!? I've never liked fitting into a box. So, I guess I'm not stepping into the one marked "genderqueer".

It's fine if you do. Please don't get me wrong. Go right ahead!

Years ago I picked up a copy of Kate Bornstein's hilarious "My Gender Workbook." My score was "Honey,you are a gender freak!" (or something to that effect). I also took a test online (now considered outdated by many) that was once mandatory for all men seeking sexual reassignment. Pretending I was a man, I failed miserably. Verdict? Don't even think of it (being a woman). What am I to make of that?

Well, the test was ridiculous. Again, lots of questions about clothes and makeup! So, I don't paint my toenails, never have and probably never will. Reassign me!

Photo note: Was going to post a pic of Annie Lennox, but ran into k.d.lang first, and I've always loved this pic. They both make me swoon.

Oddly, Lennox just blogged that she had "the worst pain she ever felt" in her back and her left foot went numb. She had surgery and is fine. Well, same here (without the surgery) on my right side. Could somebody get me an earlier doctor's appointment than the 22nd (which is just a meeting to get a referral??!!) Geez, I guess one needs to be a star to get some help!