Dear Reader,
It's funny. I was rereading some of my older posts from a few years ago, and noting how sad I seemed. I have been sad in many ways most of my life. I can remember feeling alienated and alone on the playground in First Grade! I have been in therapy for depression and other various problems since I was 16 years old. There have been gaps, until I had some kind of major crisis which got me "back on the couch," as they say.
I am in therapy now. I am also on anti-depressant medication; a good one that has a positive history. It does not impinge on my mental faculties, which I really need to do my work. It also hasn't had any of the negative impacts so often listed in the late-night medicine ads we see nowadays, with nice animations or little wind-up dolls.
I also drink too much. Yes, I am a drunk. Not an alcoholic; I'm not taking that medicinal term. I'm a drunk. I come from a family of drunks. It is genetic in many ways, and social in more. I've been through rehab, I know that drill. I really get no pleasure from it, and I don't "want" to, but I am choosing to drink these days because the pain I am feeling is so great, it can't be handled by medication, sobriety, or anything else I can come up with.
I had always thought that when my Dad died, my life would essentially be over. I would have no one who really cared for me left, and no reason to keep on living. I didn't want to hurt him by going before he did, but after he was gone, I figured it wouldn't make any difference. I was right about most of it, but I didn't anticipate getting my beautiful dog Hunny. She made life worth living, and she needed me. I think she also cared for me.
So, after Daddy died on November 11, I was okay. He had had a good life; he was 91 1/2, he didn't suffer (much) and I think/hope he went out the way he wanted to. Of course, I had sadness and a couple of episodes of deep depression, but because I had Hunny with me, I had an external focus and someone to care for. She even knew Daddy was gone when we went home for his funeral, but she worked through it, and continued to help me.
We got home to NYC, and got our new kittens on December 4, as planned. Hunny was becoming a great dog big sister to the kittens. We were getting close to a pile of kittens and dog, then I totally screwed up on Christmas Eve. We stopped at the grocery store which was part of our regular walk, to drop off a Christmas card to the night manager, who had always been helpful to me, and was a friend of Hunny's. He really liked her, and she responded in kind.
It is my fault she ran away. I attached Hunny to a trash container that I thought was heavy and stable, but was not. I was going into the store for no more than 30 seconds to drop off our card, and something spooked Hunny and she pulled the contained over and ran off. Part of the container remained attached to her leash, and clanked after her, scaring her further. After she ran across the uptown side of Broadway, her harness broke (I only found this out later, because the Manager I had left the card for followed after her and picked up the harness and leash where he found it, and kept it for me), and she then continued across the downtown side of Broadway, and 1/2 block on south. That was the last time I saw her.
Friends and I have been looking for her since. There have been some terrible episodes, which I may write down here just so I remember them. We/I have done all of the things prescribed by the various sources on the internet, and by other authorities, including a pet detective and psychics. I have tried to do more, but nothing has accomplished the goal of finding Hunny. I don't know if she is dead or alive. One psychic said dead; the other said alive. The pet detective said probably alive. My gut says alive somewhere. That doesn't make me feel better.
I am so blackly depressed that I can hardly move, or get out of my apartment. The only thing I have been able to do is go to work, barely.
I hate my work, so being in this mindset on top of it doesn't help. I wish work were an escape, and it is, in that I am miserable about something else besides Hunny when I'm at a client. Under other conditions, most of my clients would be considered cool, or interesting or even inspirational, but for me they are just a bunch of pains, who have no idea or appreciation of what I do for them.
Honestly, if I could think of a way of dying which didn't hurt, and that I knew was fool-proof, I would do it at this point. I am so tired of this struggle, and now I really have nothing to keep me going. My kittens will find homes. I've lost my girl, I have no friends, my sisters don't give a crap. What's left?
Sorry to be such a bummer,
Catbird
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Checking In, Sadly
Dear Reader,
It's again been some time since I've written anything here. So much has happened even since my last entry, I hardly know where to begin; so I'll begin back in November.
Everything was status quo, until my Dad died on November 11. Although this wasn't entirely unexpected, it still was very upsetting and traumatic. I got through my 11/13 concert, then went "home" a few days later. We got through the memorial service, complete with full military honors, and then I fell into a deep depression which lasted for a few weeks.
I was pulling out of that, and got a pair of kittens on December 4. This had been in the works since October; carefully thought out and considered. These were for both Hunny and me. My older cat has never gotten along with Hunny, and I wanted her (both Kootie and Hunny) to have a couple of kittens to interact with. For the dog it would be socializing with cats who grew up with her; for the older cat, it would be getting some interaction and exercise with a couple of younger cats. The kittens were (and are) doing well. They were fine with Hunny, and Hunny was learning how to gently interact with them. She never made any effort to harm them, but there was a learning curve because she was so much larger than they were.
We were getting ready to have our first Christmas on our own in NYC. Prior to this past year, we had always gone to my folk's home for Christmas, first alone, then with Hunny over the last two years. This year, because Daddy was gone, I decided it was time to have Christmas in New York at our home. Early in the morning of Christmas Eve, as I was dropping off a Christmas card to the night manager of the grocery store we go to, Hunny got scared and ran off. It is now the eighth week that she's been gone. This has been the most traumatic and heartbreaking thing I have ever been through.
I spent the first couple of weeks putting up flyers, following leads and sightings, trying to find the resources on the internet and elsewhere to get the word out that she was missing, getting her face out there. Then, depression caught up with me again. In addition to that, we had the worst spate of winter weather I remember in years; snow, cold, more snow, arctic cold, wind, a day of temperatures above 30, then frigid again. It's been awful. I spent a lot of time nearly paralyzed, unable to get out of bed or leave my apartment. I wasn't able to interact with the kittens; I was barely able to feed and clean up after them.
Looking for a lost dog in New York City is a very difficult process. It isn't addressed in the sites and documents one finds online; those are all geared towards suburban and rural conditions. In addition, there is no support structure in NYC for finding lost animals. There is no municipal department that helps with searches, or even picks up stray animals. The private animal rescue organizations only help after an animal has been picked up and brought in (by a citizen). The online resources are plentiful, but not really effective; they all rely on someone seeing the lost animal, then reporting it to the website, or listing it on the lost/found site, of which there are many.
Fortunately, I've had friends who have helped with putting up flyers, spreading the word among pet and dog organizations, and gotten the word out. I've also had help with the depression, but it's a tough slog.
I was beginning to feel a little better, and thinking I could start really getting out and looking for Hunny, until I got word a week ago that my youngest sister was in the hospital with liver disease. They don't know yet whether it's curable, or whether she will continue to decline. The last update I got, she also caught pneumonia in the hospital, and was intubated to help her breathe.
So, I am just trying to wake up every day, and force myself to get out of the house, if only to go get coffee and a roll. It takes every iota of will I have. And nevermind work. I have been managing to get to clients, but again, it takes everything I have, and I'm emotionally and physically spent by the time I get home.
I am hoping this will end soon. I keep hoping I'll find Hunny, but it's been two months. Of course I've heard dozens of stories about dogs returning home after weeks, months and even years, but this situation feels so much more hopeless than that.
As to my sister, I once told her that if she ever needed a body part, I would donate it. I might be giving up part of my liver; we'll see how things go.
Sorry for all of the bad news; I wish I had something more pleasant to report. I hope to keep things updated on a more regular basis, as well.
Catbird
It's again been some time since I've written anything here. So much has happened even since my last entry, I hardly know where to begin; so I'll begin back in November.
Everything was status quo, until my Dad died on November 11. Although this wasn't entirely unexpected, it still was very upsetting and traumatic. I got through my 11/13 concert, then went "home" a few days later. We got through the memorial service, complete with full military honors, and then I fell into a deep depression which lasted for a few weeks.
I was pulling out of that, and got a pair of kittens on December 4. This had been in the works since October; carefully thought out and considered. These were for both Hunny and me. My older cat has never gotten along with Hunny, and I wanted her (both Kootie and Hunny) to have a couple of kittens to interact with. For the dog it would be socializing with cats who grew up with her; for the older cat, it would be getting some interaction and exercise with a couple of younger cats. The kittens were (and are) doing well. They were fine with Hunny, and Hunny was learning how to gently interact with them. She never made any effort to harm them, but there was a learning curve because she was so much larger than they were.
We were getting ready to have our first Christmas on our own in NYC. Prior to this past year, we had always gone to my folk's home for Christmas, first alone, then with Hunny over the last two years. This year, because Daddy was gone, I decided it was time to have Christmas in New York at our home. Early in the morning of Christmas Eve, as I was dropping off a Christmas card to the night manager of the grocery store we go to, Hunny got scared and ran off. It is now the eighth week that she's been gone. This has been the most traumatic and heartbreaking thing I have ever been through.
I spent the first couple of weeks putting up flyers, following leads and sightings, trying to find the resources on the internet and elsewhere to get the word out that she was missing, getting her face out there. Then, depression caught up with me again. In addition to that, we had the worst spate of winter weather I remember in years; snow, cold, more snow, arctic cold, wind, a day of temperatures above 30, then frigid again. It's been awful. I spent a lot of time nearly paralyzed, unable to get out of bed or leave my apartment. I wasn't able to interact with the kittens; I was barely able to feed and clean up after them.
Looking for a lost dog in New York City is a very difficult process. It isn't addressed in the sites and documents one finds online; those are all geared towards suburban and rural conditions. In addition, there is no support structure in NYC for finding lost animals. There is no municipal department that helps with searches, or even picks up stray animals. The private animal rescue organizations only help after an animal has been picked up and brought in (by a citizen). The online resources are plentiful, but not really effective; they all rely on someone seeing the lost animal, then reporting it to the website, or listing it on the lost/found site, of which there are many.
Fortunately, I've had friends who have helped with putting up flyers, spreading the word among pet and dog organizations, and gotten the word out. I've also had help with the depression, but it's a tough slog.
I was beginning to feel a little better, and thinking I could start really getting out and looking for Hunny, until I got word a week ago that my youngest sister was in the hospital with liver disease. They don't know yet whether it's curable, or whether she will continue to decline. The last update I got, she also caught pneumonia in the hospital, and was intubated to help her breathe.
So, I am just trying to wake up every day, and force myself to get out of the house, if only to go get coffee and a roll. It takes every iota of will I have. And nevermind work. I have been managing to get to clients, but again, it takes everything I have, and I'm emotionally and physically spent by the time I get home.
I am hoping this will end soon. I keep hoping I'll find Hunny, but it's been two months. Of course I've heard dozens of stories about dogs returning home after weeks, months and even years, but this situation feels so much more hopeless than that.
As to my sister, I once told her that if she ever needed a body part, I would donate it. I might be giving up part of my liver; we'll see how things go.
Sorry for all of the bad news; I wish I had something more pleasant to report. I hope to keep things updated on a more regular basis, as well.
Catbird
Friday, November 12, 2010
Seismic Change
Dear Reader,
My father died yesterday, Veteran's Day, 11/11/10. Appropriate, as he was a WW II veteran, and served in the US Navy for 37 years after that. He also served in the Coast Guard for several years after his retirement from the Navy. His career was primarily as a lawyer and judge. His WW II service was as a reconnaisance pilot in the Pacific.
I had my breakdown Wednesday night when I was told he'd had a stroke, which rendered him unable to communicate. For him, this was tantamount to death, but there was still some hope at the time he might recover some movement and speech. My feeling that he was going got stronger overnight, and was confirmed when I spoke with my sister at about 5:30 PM, to learn that he had died at around 4:30.
I'm preparing for a concert on Saturday, and trying to put together some items for his funeral. I need to do the concert; he would have insisted that I meet my committment to my group to sing. His approach to his own (and others') death was that, I'm gone, there's nothing you can do at this point about that. Whatever happens now is up to you; I'm done.
A lot of the emotion hasn't set in yet. I have a lot of regrets, and a lot of relief. But, I'm preoccupied with the concert and the fact I have to drive from NYC to West Virginia for his funeral and to help my sisters. I'll stay through Thanksgiving for them.
Going down there is a big production for me, and I've lost my drivers license, so that complicates everything, as I have to rent a car to get down there. What can go wrong will go wrong, as they say.
More later; I need to get some sleep.
Catbird
My father died yesterday, Veteran's Day, 11/11/10. Appropriate, as he was a WW II veteran, and served in the US Navy for 37 years after that. He also served in the Coast Guard for several years after his retirement from the Navy. His career was primarily as a lawyer and judge. His WW II service was as a reconnaisance pilot in the Pacific.
I had my breakdown Wednesday night when I was told he'd had a stroke, which rendered him unable to communicate. For him, this was tantamount to death, but there was still some hope at the time he might recover some movement and speech. My feeling that he was going got stronger overnight, and was confirmed when I spoke with my sister at about 5:30 PM, to learn that he had died at around 4:30.
I'm preparing for a concert on Saturday, and trying to put together some items for his funeral. I need to do the concert; he would have insisted that I meet my committment to my group to sing. His approach to his own (and others') death was that, I'm gone, there's nothing you can do at this point about that. Whatever happens now is up to you; I'm done.
A lot of the emotion hasn't set in yet. I have a lot of regrets, and a lot of relief. But, I'm preoccupied with the concert and the fact I have to drive from NYC to West Virginia for his funeral and to help my sisters. I'll stay through Thanksgiving for them.
Going down there is a big production for me, and I've lost my drivers license, so that complicates everything, as I have to rent a car to get down there. What can go wrong will go wrong, as they say.
More later; I need to get some sleep.
Catbird
Saturday, May 01, 2010
A Chicken in Every "Apt."
Dear Reader,
Sorry, the above title is a play on the phrase "a chicken in every "POT," one of the catch-phrases of the Great Depression (not the current one).
I am using it because at the moment, of all things, I have a chicken in my "apt."
My wonderful dog, Hunny, found it a couple of nights ago in Riverside Park, while we were on an otherwise uneventful walk. It was amazing that she found it, and then that she didn't kill it while she was chasing it around. I managed to get her under control, and when I got hold of "chickie," he wasn't even injured.
I didn't have the heart to leave him in the Park; he clearly was not a wild animal. So, at the moment, he is in my bathtub. Amazing.
More later. I need to go to sleep so we can get out into the Park tomorrow (sans chicken) and get some work done.
Never a dull moment,
Catbird
Sorry, the above title is a play on the phrase "a chicken in every "POT," one of the catch-phrases of the Great Depression (not the current one).
I am using it because at the moment, of all things, I have a chicken in my "apt."
My wonderful dog, Hunny, found it a couple of nights ago in Riverside Park, while we were on an otherwise uneventful walk. It was amazing that she found it, and then that she didn't kill it while she was chasing it around. I managed to get her under control, and when I got hold of "chickie," he wasn't even injured.
I didn't have the heart to leave him in the Park; he clearly was not a wild animal. So, at the moment, he is in my bathtub. Amazing.
More later. I need to go to sleep so we can get out into the Park tomorrow (sans chicken) and get some work done.
Never a dull moment,
Catbird
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Long Time, No Me.
I'm not sure why I've been incommunicado for so long. So much has happened. Two huge changes were the addition of Hunny, my dog, in July, 2008, and the loss of Big Guy, my wonderful cat, in August, 2008. But, that's over a year ago, and so much more has gone on.
This is just an interim post to try and restart this. I hope to do so soon.
This is just an interim post to try and restart this. I hope to do so soon.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Humane Humanity?
Dear Reader,
A few nights ago I saw the news footage they were broadcasting (MSNBC, at least) of the ill cattle being fork-lifted, and otherwise prodded, to their deaths, and subsequent butchering and distribution. This is why 143+ million pounds of beef (71,500 + tons/at least twice that many animals) have been recalled, although a lot of the beef from this particular processing center has already been consumed.
I was horrified by what I saw. Now, I don't "horrify" easily. I can watch TV shows like CSI and even "Dexter" without blinking, because I know it's fake. I can watch the "real crime" shows on Court TV and MSNBC because I know the perpetrators (mostly) have been caught. I can watch Freddy and Jason and all the rest; heck, I watched "Dark Shadows" back in my youth, when that was considered "bloody." What unifies all of these things I can watch is that they involve humans harming/killing/butchering other humans. Oh, yeah, and that they are, mostly, fake. So, as I look in shock and wonder at humans' capacity to torture and kill other humans, when I see humans abusing animals, who want nothing more than something to eat and a place to sleep, I am even more horrified.
These were awful images; they made me cry, and these days that's hard because of the meds I'm on. But what a terrible, heartbreaking sight: poor, sick cows being pushed, prodded, or even hauled by forklifts; shocked repeatedly by electric prods; mouths opening in pain. Thank heaven there was no sound on the tape, but you could see that the cows were reacting in agony.
What is wrong with humans? How can they think this is the way to treat other animals? How can humans do the things they do to even their domestic animals, like dogs and cats? How can anyone think it's okay to beat or drown or electrocute or choke a dog to death (Michael Vick)? How can people douse animals with gas or lighter fluid and ignite them? How can people involved in the meat industry treat living things this way?
I am not a vegetarian. I love a good hamburger, steak, hotdog, or even a good piece of chicken or turkey. I love eggs, and cheese, and other animal "by-products." However, it shocks me that there are so many horrible practices in the meat/food industry that, if they were common knowledge, would lead to a wholesale rebellion against the meat-factory practices as they exist now, and to a more humane, less industrial track for the meat products we consume.
The last time I had a reaction like this was when my younger sister told me that after Easter, most of the unsold baby chicks and ducks that are hatched for Easter basket sales are simply killed. The sidebar to this is that, when batches of eggs hatch and there are already enough (a full quota) of baby chicks/ducklings, the hatchlings are incinerated. That is, put by the tray into a furnace and simply burned alive.
This image has haunted me for years. I think it's why I stopped eating cornish game hens; tiny little chickens. Again, how can humans be so cavalier about other living things? I know that not all people, not even most people are like this. But so many "ordinary" people seem to see no problem with these sorts of atrocities. What does that mean; where does it come from?
Many folks didn't "get" why there was such outrage at Michael Vick's actions in his dogfighting career. It seems as if the Congress is more upset by sports "heroes" taking steroids, and only harming themselves, than by their killing animals and showing no contrition. I know there is a very active animal rights "movement," but sadly, most of the people involved with it, and most of the spokespeople, come across as unreasoning and unreasonable hysterics. They also always look like wild-eyed fanatics, with more than a touch of "hippie" to make the image even less attractive to the general population.
We are also dealing with a vast array of different cultural approaches to animals and their treatment. For example, apparently in some Asian countries, it is acceptable to torture dogs to death, so that their MEAT is tender for human consumption. Oh, MY GOD!
So, what to do? Treat my cats as well as I possibly can; be nice to the dogs I meet; try to provide a sanctuary in the Park for domestic and wild animals and their people; eat as little meat as possible, and never hunt or harm or kill an animal. Well, I'll make an exception for roaches; okay, roaches and flies and mosquitoes, but I allow spiders to make themselves at home!
Meow,
Catbird
A few nights ago I saw the news footage they were broadcasting (MSNBC, at least) of the ill cattle being fork-lifted, and otherwise prodded, to their deaths, and subsequent butchering and distribution. This is why 143+ million pounds of beef (71,500 + tons/at least twice that many animals) have been recalled, although a lot of the beef from this particular processing center has already been consumed.
I was horrified by what I saw. Now, I don't "horrify" easily. I can watch TV shows like CSI and even "Dexter" without blinking, because I know it's fake. I can watch the "real crime" shows on Court TV and MSNBC because I know the perpetrators (mostly) have been caught. I can watch Freddy and Jason and all the rest; heck, I watched "Dark Shadows" back in my youth, when that was considered "bloody." What unifies all of these things I can watch is that they involve humans harming/killing/butchering other humans. Oh, yeah, and that they are, mostly, fake. So, as I look in shock and wonder at humans' capacity to torture and kill other humans, when I see humans abusing animals, who want nothing more than something to eat and a place to sleep, I am even more horrified.
These were awful images; they made me cry, and these days that's hard because of the meds I'm on. But what a terrible, heartbreaking sight: poor, sick cows being pushed, prodded, or even hauled by forklifts; shocked repeatedly by electric prods; mouths opening in pain. Thank heaven there was no sound on the tape, but you could see that the cows were reacting in agony.
What is wrong with humans? How can they think this is the way to treat other animals? How can humans do the things they do to even their domestic animals, like dogs and cats? How can anyone think it's okay to beat or drown or electrocute or choke a dog to death (Michael Vick)? How can people douse animals with gas or lighter fluid and ignite them? How can people involved in the meat industry treat living things this way?
I am not a vegetarian. I love a good hamburger, steak, hotdog, or even a good piece of chicken or turkey. I love eggs, and cheese, and other animal "by-products." However, it shocks me that there are so many horrible practices in the meat/food industry that, if they were common knowledge, would lead to a wholesale rebellion against the meat-factory practices as they exist now, and to a more humane, less industrial track for the meat products we consume.
The last time I had a reaction like this was when my younger sister told me that after Easter, most of the unsold baby chicks and ducks that are hatched for Easter basket sales are simply killed. The sidebar to this is that, when batches of eggs hatch and there are already enough (a full quota) of baby chicks/ducklings, the hatchlings are incinerated. That is, put by the tray into a furnace and simply burned alive.
This image has haunted me for years. I think it's why I stopped eating cornish game hens; tiny little chickens. Again, how can humans be so cavalier about other living things? I know that not all people, not even most people are like this. But so many "ordinary" people seem to see no problem with these sorts of atrocities. What does that mean; where does it come from?
Many folks didn't "get" why there was such outrage at Michael Vick's actions in his dogfighting career. It seems as if the Congress is more upset by sports "heroes" taking steroids, and only harming themselves, than by their killing animals and showing no contrition. I know there is a very active animal rights "movement," but sadly, most of the people involved with it, and most of the spokespeople, come across as unreasoning and unreasonable hysterics. They also always look like wild-eyed fanatics, with more than a touch of "hippie" to make the image even less attractive to the general population.
We are also dealing with a vast array of different cultural approaches to animals and their treatment. For example, apparently in some Asian countries, it is acceptable to torture dogs to death, so that their MEAT is tender for human consumption. Oh, MY GOD!
So, what to do? Treat my cats as well as I possibly can; be nice to the dogs I meet; try to provide a sanctuary in the Park for domestic and wild animals and their people; eat as little meat as possible, and never hunt or harm or kill an animal. Well, I'll make an exception for roaches; okay, roaches and flies and mosquitoes, but I allow spiders to make themselves at home!
Meow,
Catbird
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
What Keeps Me Singing?
Dear Reader,
I haven't written much about my singing here; this past year or so has been a difficult one in that area, both personally and in my general involvement with my chorus. It's these things that frequently make me question why I keep singing.
Then, I have a lovely night like last Saturday night. I was invited to participate in a "gig," a fundraiser for a medical condition called ARDS (Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome). We were singing the Brahms "Requiem." I refer to this as a gig because I only had to show up for one rehearsal, the dress and the concert. No big pressure, a short schedule, in and out. No pay of course, but any time I get a chance to sing the Brahms with an orchestra, I'll take it.
I was called for this because someone told someone else that I was a "good" singer, and that I knew the Brahms. I'll take credit for the latter; I love the piece, and have sung it many times in concert, so have had the opportunity to memorize a lot of it, and work on subtleties like expressing the text (which is profound), understanding the entire concept of the work (which is complex) and really working on the musical nuances (which are many). I had some back and forth with the person who invited me as to the rehearsals I could attend, and ultimately, it worked out.
Because this was a "pick-up" gig, I had no idea who might be singing it, although I was told there were several Mannes College of Music opera students. The accompanying orchestra was also from Mannes, as were the two soloists. On hearing that the chorus was going to be comprised in part of opera singers, I was immediately concerned. The first rehearsal confirmed this; not only were several of the young women operatic singers, but they also didn't really know the music, although that didn't seem to stop them from singing everything full-blast. They also seemed to have no concept of tempo, dynamics, blend, etc. I was told that my "job" was to keep the tempo going, and try to provide some sort of "glue" to pull these voices together. I am not an operatic voice, so I knew I couldn't out-sing these women, at least volume-wise. In any event, I tried to do what I was asked to.
Rehearsals, no matter how well one knows a work, or how smoothly things go, are always tedious and laborious. And, you never really know how well a concert will go by how the rehearsals have gone. There is an old superstition that, if the dress rehearsal for a concert is BAD, the concert will be great. I have seen this happen. My personal belief is that when people are performing, the key is the audience. Being in front of an audience changes everything; adrenalin is pumping, you're more focused, you know you need to pay attention to the conductor, you're on a high-wire in some ways. This is one of the things that keeps me singing.
Another is that, apparently, I'm pretty good. Again, I'm not an operatic soprano, nor am I at this point at the level where I could earn a living singing. But as an "avocational" singer, I've been told I'm good; not only as a musician, but my voice is good, as well. I was surprised after the gig the other night when another singer who had been standing in front of me, a soprano, told me she loved my voice. Another woman then commented that I have a wide range (about 2 1/2 octaves or so), which really impressed her. I was honestly taken aback by this praise. I was just doing my "thing," singing with the tenors and altos during the rehearsals (to ground my voice), and then singing my part as best I could.
The problem, of course, is that I get involved in the groups I sing with in ways other than musical. This has been invariable; I join, I take on some small task, then pretty soon I'm involved with the Board or in some other substantial way in the operations of the group. And this always leads to problems: political or otherwise. If I could just stick to the singing, I'd be happy.
Maybe someday!
Catbird
I haven't written much about my singing here; this past year or so has been a difficult one in that area, both personally and in my general involvement with my chorus. It's these things that frequently make me question why I keep singing.
Then, I have a lovely night like last Saturday night. I was invited to participate in a "gig," a fundraiser for a medical condition called ARDS (Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome). We were singing the Brahms "Requiem." I refer to this as a gig because I only had to show up for one rehearsal, the dress and the concert. No big pressure, a short schedule, in and out. No pay of course, but any time I get a chance to sing the Brahms with an orchestra, I'll take it.
I was called for this because someone told someone else that I was a "good" singer, and that I knew the Brahms. I'll take credit for the latter; I love the piece, and have sung it many times in concert, so have had the opportunity to memorize a lot of it, and work on subtleties like expressing the text (which is profound), understanding the entire concept of the work (which is complex) and really working on the musical nuances (which are many). I had some back and forth with the person who invited me as to the rehearsals I could attend, and ultimately, it worked out.
Because this was a "pick-up" gig, I had no idea who might be singing it, although I was told there were several Mannes College of Music opera students. The accompanying orchestra was also from Mannes, as were the two soloists. On hearing that the chorus was going to be comprised in part of opera singers, I was immediately concerned. The first rehearsal confirmed this; not only were several of the young women operatic singers, but they also didn't really know the music, although that didn't seem to stop them from singing everything full-blast. They also seemed to have no concept of tempo, dynamics, blend, etc. I was told that my "job" was to keep the tempo going, and try to provide some sort of "glue" to pull these voices together. I am not an operatic voice, so I knew I couldn't out-sing these women, at least volume-wise. In any event, I tried to do what I was asked to.
Rehearsals, no matter how well one knows a work, or how smoothly things go, are always tedious and laborious. And, you never really know how well a concert will go by how the rehearsals have gone. There is an old superstition that, if the dress rehearsal for a concert is BAD, the concert will be great. I have seen this happen. My personal belief is that when people are performing, the key is the audience. Being in front of an audience changes everything; adrenalin is pumping, you're more focused, you know you need to pay attention to the conductor, you're on a high-wire in some ways. This is one of the things that keeps me singing.
Another is that, apparently, I'm pretty good. Again, I'm not an operatic soprano, nor am I at this point at the level where I could earn a living singing. But as an "avocational" singer, I've been told I'm good; not only as a musician, but my voice is good, as well. I was surprised after the gig the other night when another singer who had been standing in front of me, a soprano, told me she loved my voice. Another woman then commented that I have a wide range (about 2 1/2 octaves or so), which really impressed her. I was honestly taken aback by this praise. I was just doing my "thing," singing with the tenors and altos during the rehearsals (to ground my voice), and then singing my part as best I could.
The problem, of course, is that I get involved in the groups I sing with in ways other than musical. This has been invariable; I join, I take on some small task, then pretty soon I'm involved with the Board or in some other substantial way in the operations of the group. And this always leads to problems: political or otherwise. If I could just stick to the singing, I'd be happy.
Maybe someday!
Catbird
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Going to the Dogs!
Dear Reader,
I'm a cat person. I've been a cat person since we got our first cat, a black stray who got caught in a piece of outdoor furniture, in 1961 or 62 when my family lived in Albuquerque, NM. This cat got the original moniker of "Kitty," and despite my Dad's grousing and my Mom's threats to take him to the pound every time we disobeyed her, he came with us when we moved to Newport, RI, via West Virginia. As a kid, I had no idea how difficult this was; as an adult, I credit my parents (especially Daddy, who built Kitty's travel cage from a milk crate) with having the heart to take him with us (in the car, no less!), rather than having him get "lost" as they easily could have done.
Sadly, Kitty was hit by a car a year or so after we got to Newport. Predictably, it was during one of the worst blizzards on record. Unpredictably, when Kitty came home, obviously injured, Daddy took him to the vet, in the blizzard, to see if he could be saved. He could not. We were only cat-less for a short time, though. Soon, we got Tommy, and a couple of others, and I have had cats as my primary pets almost continuously ever since.
As kids while we lived at home, in addition to cats we had the usual suburban zoo of other pets and guest animals: fish, turtles, mice, rats, rabbits, guinea pigs, ducks (little Easter ducklings who grew up), lizards of some sort, horses, and the occasional baby bird or other wild animal, who never survived, to great heartbreak. We never had a dog, however. We had a "guest" dog for a couple of weeks, a stray who ended up biting and who was taken to be "adopted." My youngest sister got a great dog, Bear, who was a yellow Labrador mix, at some point after I had moved away, and she was on the verge of doing so; he was sort of a family dog for several years until he ran away and never came back.
However, on my own, I have never had a dog as a pet; only cats. Make no mistake, either; I love my cats. I've gone through a few generations and a couple of major groupings. My first group was the 3 Amigos: Miss, Buddy and The Snotta. I acquired all of them in 1980, in various locations and under various (interesting) circumstances. They were a great crew, and as we went on, we became a little family. We were joined by Booboohead in 1990. Then age began to set in: Buddy died in 1993 of kidney disease; Miss went in 1995 from the long-term consequences of diabetes; The Snotta died in 1998 from the effects of a large, benign tumor in her abdomen.
In the meantime, I had taken in Winky, in 1995, after Miss died (owner didn't want her) and Kootie, in 1999 (again, owner didn't want her), after The Snotta died. I got Big Guy in 2000, when I saw him on Broadway in a cage, and decided I just had to have this cat. Nothing special; he looked like he could be Winky's BIG brother, and he had the most loving face, but no "breed" or "color." Just a regular guy, a Big Guy. The Booboohead died in 2003, of cancer of the jaw (inoperable). Winky died in October, 2006, of inoperable stomach cancer. Kootie and Big Guy continue in good health, although they should both be on diets. You try putting a cat (especially one who has ALWAYS weighed 20 pounds) on a diet!
But, over the last couple of years, I have come to know a great number of great dogs, and am starting to think about bringing a dog into the fold. This has been mostly due to my work out in the Park, and the dogs I've met have been mostly adult dogs, who have been trained and whose owners are loving and smart "parents."
I know that raising a dog from a puppy is difficult, and in some ways like raising a child, at least in terms of training the young one to be civilized. And, although I've had pretty good luck with adopting older cats (Winky was always skittish; Kootie hides under the bed for anyone but me; Big Guy is the perfect gentleman), I know that adopting an adult dog can be fraught with issues. Dogs seem to hang on to their pasts more than cats do, but again, I have met some terrific dogs who were adopted by their owners as adults, who have no issues at all.
Why would I want a dog? Well, although I know cats aren't really "moody," dogs, by contrast, are ALWAYS happy. Well, almost always. Once in a while a dog might be a little miffed because his owner isn't there, or because his dish is empty, but just as soon as his person comes in the door, or he gets some food in his dish, he's ecstatic again. Just look at a dog's face; some of the biggest smiles I've seen have been on pit-bulls, and other "scary" dogs.
Owning a dog requires one to get out of the house. Dogs don't do the "box" thing; they need to go au naturelle. In addition, of course, most dogs are too large to get sufficient exercise indoors; dogs need to run, jump and play, and they need social interactions with other dogs. They are, at base, pack animals, and I think their influence in many cases helps singular people have some social life. It's not as if I'm a troubled loner, but on the other hand, it wouldn't hurt to have some social interactions which weren't laden with other pressures, as are my work, chorus, and sometimes my Park encounters.
However, before I would take on the responsibility of dog ownership, I would (and continue to) think through both sides of the question. Could I regularize my schedule to walk a dog, and get him out to play enough? Doubtful at this point. Could I clear out enough stuff from my apartment to give a dog enough room to walk around comfortably? Not likely right now. Could Big Guy and Kootie deal with a canine baby sibling, or worse a doggy big brother? No way!
As with kids, I'll have to continue having a dog vicariously for now. Well, with kids, I don't have any other choice at the moment. With a dog, I'm going to take the responsible road, and not take one on until I am really equipped to do so. In the meantime, I love my cats, and am thinking about getting another one. That would fit better with where I am now. And I'll continue to enjoy the doggies out in the Park, around the neighborhood, in my building, and where ever else I run into them.
How much is that doggie in the window?
More later,
Catbird
I'm a cat person. I've been a cat person since we got our first cat, a black stray who got caught in a piece of outdoor furniture, in 1961 or 62 when my family lived in Albuquerque, NM. This cat got the original moniker of "Kitty," and despite my Dad's grousing and my Mom's threats to take him to the pound every time we disobeyed her, he came with us when we moved to Newport, RI, via West Virginia. As a kid, I had no idea how difficult this was; as an adult, I credit my parents (especially Daddy, who built Kitty's travel cage from a milk crate) with having the heart to take him with us (in the car, no less!), rather than having him get "lost" as they easily could have done.
Sadly, Kitty was hit by a car a year or so after we got to Newport. Predictably, it was during one of the worst blizzards on record. Unpredictably, when Kitty came home, obviously injured, Daddy took him to the vet, in the blizzard, to see if he could be saved. He could not. We were only cat-less for a short time, though. Soon, we got Tommy, and a couple of others, and I have had cats as my primary pets almost continuously ever since.
As kids while we lived at home, in addition to cats we had the usual suburban zoo of other pets and guest animals: fish, turtles, mice, rats, rabbits, guinea pigs, ducks (little Easter ducklings who grew up), lizards of some sort, horses, and the occasional baby bird or other wild animal, who never survived, to great heartbreak. We never had a dog, however. We had a "guest" dog for a couple of weeks, a stray who ended up biting and who was taken to be "adopted." My youngest sister got a great dog, Bear, who was a yellow Labrador mix, at some point after I had moved away, and she was on the verge of doing so; he was sort of a family dog for several years until he ran away and never came back.
However, on my own, I have never had a dog as a pet; only cats. Make no mistake, either; I love my cats. I've gone through a few generations and a couple of major groupings. My first group was the 3 Amigos: Miss, Buddy and The Snotta. I acquired all of them in 1980, in various locations and under various (interesting) circumstances. They were a great crew, and as we went on, we became a little family. We were joined by Booboohead in 1990. Then age began to set in: Buddy died in 1993 of kidney disease; Miss went in 1995 from the long-term consequences of diabetes; The Snotta died in 1998 from the effects of a large, benign tumor in her abdomen.
In the meantime, I had taken in Winky, in 1995, after Miss died (owner didn't want her) and Kootie, in 1999 (again, owner didn't want her), after The Snotta died. I got Big Guy in 2000, when I saw him on Broadway in a cage, and decided I just had to have this cat. Nothing special; he looked like he could be Winky's BIG brother, and he had the most loving face, but no "breed" or "color." Just a regular guy, a Big Guy. The Booboohead died in 2003, of cancer of the jaw (inoperable). Winky died in October, 2006, of inoperable stomach cancer. Kootie and Big Guy continue in good health, although they should both be on diets. You try putting a cat (especially one who has ALWAYS weighed 20 pounds) on a diet!
But, over the last couple of years, I have come to know a great number of great dogs, and am starting to think about bringing a dog into the fold. This has been mostly due to my work out in the Park, and the dogs I've met have been mostly adult dogs, who have been trained and whose owners are loving and smart "parents."
I know that raising a dog from a puppy is difficult, and in some ways like raising a child, at least in terms of training the young one to be civilized. And, although I've had pretty good luck with adopting older cats (Winky was always skittish; Kootie hides under the bed for anyone but me; Big Guy is the perfect gentleman), I know that adopting an adult dog can be fraught with issues. Dogs seem to hang on to their pasts more than cats do, but again, I have met some terrific dogs who were adopted by their owners as adults, who have no issues at all.
Why would I want a dog? Well, although I know cats aren't really "moody," dogs, by contrast, are ALWAYS happy. Well, almost always. Once in a while a dog might be a little miffed because his owner isn't there, or because his dish is empty, but just as soon as his person comes in the door, or he gets some food in his dish, he's ecstatic again. Just look at a dog's face; some of the biggest smiles I've seen have been on pit-bulls, and other "scary" dogs.
Owning a dog requires one to get out of the house. Dogs don't do the "box" thing; they need to go au naturelle. In addition, of course, most dogs are too large to get sufficient exercise indoors; dogs need to run, jump and play, and they need social interactions with other dogs. They are, at base, pack animals, and I think their influence in many cases helps singular people have some social life. It's not as if I'm a troubled loner, but on the other hand, it wouldn't hurt to have some social interactions which weren't laden with other pressures, as are my work, chorus, and sometimes my Park encounters.
However, before I would take on the responsibility of dog ownership, I would (and continue to) think through both sides of the question. Could I regularize my schedule to walk a dog, and get him out to play enough? Doubtful at this point. Could I clear out enough stuff from my apartment to give a dog enough room to walk around comfortably? Not likely right now. Could Big Guy and Kootie deal with a canine baby sibling, or worse a doggy big brother? No way!
As with kids, I'll have to continue having a dog vicariously for now. Well, with kids, I don't have any other choice at the moment. With a dog, I'm going to take the responsible road, and not take one on until I am really equipped to do so. In the meantime, I love my cats, and am thinking about getting another one. That would fit better with where I am now. And I'll continue to enjoy the doggies out in the Park, around the neighborhood, in my building, and where ever else I run into them.
How much is that doggie in the window?
More later,
Catbird
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Never a Dull Moment
Dear Reader,
I never cease to be surprised at how the most seemingly routine days can dissolve into whirlwinds of interesting, unexpected events.
Yesterday I went out to the Park to do some raking. I was late, as per usual, and beating myself up for it because it was a beautiful, and somewhat warm day for early December. As I was walking along the Service Road towards 101st St., I saw two men looking at something and pointing their picture-phones. As I got closer I saw something on the ground, near a tree; it looked like a bird, but I couldn't tell what kind, its condition, or anything else.
I got into the Park and walked towards the tree as the men walked away. As I rounded the tree that was the point of interest, I saw something amazing. Here was a red-tailed hawk, standing on a pigeon (thankfully, dead) and guarding it from intruders! He (presumably) had been working on his meal, if the feathers around him were any indicator. But he was now simply standing there, watching these large, two-legged animals gawk at him.
I was really entranced, but at least had the presence of mind to wave off a woman and her daughter, who were approaching with their obviously perky, curious dogs. They were thrilled when I explained what was going on; the Mom took a photo and the daughter was actually amazed. It's hard to get New Yorkers to react that way, but something like this brings it out.
I fussed around with my phone-cam; I had to delete photos to take more. I don't want to get a new phone, but I need a digital camera I can carry with me in the Park all of the time. Anyway, I finally was able to take some pictures of the dinner guest:
The left photo is a profile; the right is a face shot. If you look closely, you can see a little white feather in the tip of his beak. It was truly stunning. I could see, in walking around him full circle, that he had his tail (rusty red) and wings spread low so as to cover his prey. His head turned almost 3/4 of the way around as he followed me to be sure I wasn't going to try and take his food. I stayed around for a while and waved over folks and their dogs; all were happy to cooperate once they saw what was going on.
I finally felt the foot traffic had diminished enough so I could get along with my work. I had planned to work in that area anyway, so I first walked away to do the trash collection; I was then going to come back to rake some, and keep an eye on the visitor. The best-laid plans...
As I began to fall into my routine, picking up trash on my way to the benches to put my tool bag down and begin raking, a lovely dog who had come through earlier ran over to the hawk, who had felt safe enough to begin eating again. There was also another dog coming in, but it was the approaching lanky white dog who finally caused the hawk to grab its meal and fly off. Another, larger hawk followed; I can only surmise that this was either a parent or a mature male. I was disappointed to see the "dinner guest" leave, but relieved that he was able to fly. I had been concerned that he was on the ground because he was injured in some way; his departure indicated that he was fine.
The dog, Mattie (I think) was a beautiful and very happy greyhound. As she ran back to her owner, I was in the process of picking up a big stick and throwing it. Her owner also started coming over to me, I think to apologize for his dog scaring the hawk away. At some point Mattie started running to me and jumped up on me. Now, this is a tall dog; I thought she was an Afgan, until her owner told me she was a hunting greyhound. In any event, I got a doggie head-butt; she banged into my nose at full speed when she jumped up, and as I gave her a pet and said "hi" to her, I (and her owner) noticed there was blood dripping from me, profusely.
I've never had a major nose-bleed. No fun, mostly because there's really no pain, but the damn thing won't stop! To his great credit, Mattie's owner stayed with me until I stanched the blood-flow; fortunately, I had enough napkins on hand to keep up with the bleeding and finally got it under control. I think the poor man thought I was angry or something; I was so NOT angry. How could I get mad at a lovely, happy dog running over to say "Hi?" I could have been irritated because she was off leash, and "legally" all dogs in the Park are supposed to be on leash at all times (except in the dog runs). However, one of my "things" in my area is that I'm okay with dogs being off leash as long as the owners are certain their dogs will not run into the street, or attack anyone, human or animal.
So, my entire work plan for the day was gone. I finally was able to do some raking and managed to pick up all of the trash I saw, but this is how it goes sometimes. I got out late, but my timing was perfect for getting a great look and photos of the hawk; I met a lovely dog and a nice owner; I saw one of my Park friends and his dog; and ultimately, I got some raking done. I have to stop beating myself up for getting out late, as things always seem to work out. Boy, I love the Park!
More to come,
Catbird
I never cease to be surprised at how the most seemingly routine days can dissolve into whirlwinds of interesting, unexpected events.
Yesterday I went out to the Park to do some raking. I was late, as per usual, and beating myself up for it because it was a beautiful, and somewhat warm day for early December. As I was walking along the Service Road towards 101st St., I saw two men looking at something and pointing their picture-phones. As I got closer I saw something on the ground, near a tree; it looked like a bird, but I couldn't tell what kind, its condition, or anything else.
I got into the Park and walked towards the tree as the men walked away. As I rounded the tree that was the point of interest, I saw something amazing. Here was a red-tailed hawk, standing on a pigeon (thankfully, dead) and guarding it from intruders! He (presumably) had been working on his meal, if the feathers around him were any indicator. But he was now simply standing there, watching these large, two-legged animals gawk at him.I was really entranced, but at least had the presence of mind to wave off a woman and her daughter, who were approaching with their obviously perky, curious dogs. They were thrilled when I explained what was going on; the Mom took a photo and the daughter was actually amazed. It's hard to get New Yorkers to react that way, but something like this brings it out.
I fussed around with my phone-cam; I had to delete photos to take more. I don't want to get a new phone, but I need a digital camera I can carry with me in the Park all of the time. Anyway, I finally was able to take some pictures of the dinner guest:
The left photo is a profile; the right is a face shot. If you look closely, you can see a little white feather in the tip of his beak. It was truly stunning. I could see, in walking around him full circle, that he had his tail (rusty red) and wings spread low so as to cover his prey. His head turned almost 3/4 of the way around as he followed me to be sure I wasn't going to try and take his food. I stayed around for a while and waved over folks and their dogs; all were happy to cooperate once they saw what was going on.
I finally felt the foot traffic had diminished enough so I could get along with my work. I had planned to work in that area anyway, so I first walked away to do the trash collection; I was then going to come back to rake some, and keep an eye on the visitor. The best-laid plans...
As I began to fall into my routine, picking up trash on my way to the benches to put my tool bag down and begin raking, a lovely dog who had come through earlier ran over to the hawk, who had felt safe enough to begin eating again. There was also another dog coming in, but it was the approaching lanky white dog who finally caused the hawk to grab its meal and fly off. Another, larger hawk followed; I can only surmise that this was either a parent or a mature male. I was disappointed to see the "dinner guest" leave, but relieved that he was able to fly. I had been concerned that he was on the ground because he was injured in some way; his departure indicated that he was fine.
The dog, Mattie (I think) was a beautiful and very happy greyhound. As she ran back to her owner, I was in the process of picking up a big stick and throwing it. Her owner also started coming over to me, I think to apologize for his dog scaring the hawk away. At some point Mattie started running to me and jumped up on me. Now, this is a tall dog; I thought she was an Afgan, until her owner told me she was a hunting greyhound. In any event, I got a doggie head-butt; she banged into my nose at full speed when she jumped up, and as I gave her a pet and said "hi" to her, I (and her owner) noticed there was blood dripping from me, profusely.
I've never had a major nose-bleed. No fun, mostly because there's really no pain, but the damn thing won't stop! To his great credit, Mattie's owner stayed with me until I stanched the blood-flow; fortunately, I had enough napkins on hand to keep up with the bleeding and finally got it under control. I think the poor man thought I was angry or something; I was so NOT angry. How could I get mad at a lovely, happy dog running over to say "Hi?" I could have been irritated because she was off leash, and "legally" all dogs in the Park are supposed to be on leash at all times (except in the dog runs). However, one of my "things" in my area is that I'm okay with dogs being off leash as long as the owners are certain their dogs will not run into the street, or attack anyone, human or animal.
So, my entire work plan for the day was gone. I finally was able to do some raking and managed to pick up all of the trash I saw, but this is how it goes sometimes. I got out late, but my timing was perfect for getting a great look and photos of the hawk; I met a lovely dog and a nice owner; I saw one of my Park friends and his dog; and ultimately, I got some raking done. I have to stop beating myself up for getting out late, as things always seem to work out. Boy, I love the Park!
More to come,
Catbird
Saturday, November 24, 2007
"The Hurrier I Go, The Behinder I Get!"
Dear Reader,
I read the above title on a place mat, at some roadside restaurant in Pennsylvania Dutch country, decades ago when my family used to make cross-country car trips from New Mexico (or Rhode Island, I'm not sure) to my grandparents house in West Virginia. I remember it, and another phrase, "It smells LOUD, don't it?!" and nothing else, not the year, place, my age, nothing. Aren't words amazing?
I feel like I've been going "hurrier" for the past several months, and made little headway. I've had a few obstacles, though: another tree down in the Park, a major falling-out with my chorus, a tax issue that I finally have to deal with, my sisters visiting me and then reporting back to my Dad that I treated them badly, and on-going flare-ups of depression which impede me.
On the other hand, some good things have happened: I've developed a better rapport with a couple of clients, I've kept off (most of) the weight I lost last year (I have 5 pounds to re-lose), I've begun sorting and organizing a lot of my papers and crap in the apartment, I got 500+ bulbs to plant this fall/winter, and they have kept me supplied with woodchips, the cats are healthy, I seem to have made some new friends and become reacquainted with some old ones. So, the last few months haven't been a total loss.
Each of the above pros and cons deserves its own column, but I doubt I'll get to writing about all of them. I'd rather write about the good things than the bad; I fret enough about the bad things and I don't need to repeat all of that here. I will say that the situations with my chorus and my sisters (and Daddy, consequently) are on-going and painful. I hope I can resolve them at some point, but as I didn't even hear from anyone in my family for Thanksgiving, I doubt that situation will be resolved soon. Neither will my problems with the chorus, unless I simply switch my mind off, and "drink the koolaid" with the rest of them. I'll probably have to leave the group ultimately.
At the moment I'm caught up in trying to get all of the bulbs in before things really freeze over, and I hope to finish this weekend. I have a new pile of woodchips to start working on, too. I don't much like working out in the cold, although I've learned to dress in enough layers to stay warm, except for my hands. I generally don't go out if the temperature is below 30 degrees, unless the wind is down and the work I'll be doing is energy-consuming, like moving woodchips.
I need to clean up my garden tool "storage area" in my hallway, and reorganize everything. That will be the winter project for the Park. I'm also trying to think of ways to get people to volunteer out there sometimes, aside from the 2 annual "It's MY Park Days." Parks and Riverside Park Fund don't always do such a great job getting the word out to the general public about activities out in the Park, especially work-related ones.
I beat myself up for not getting out early enough to do a good chunk of work. But then I find that I can only really stay out for an hour or so when it's very cold, so it all works out. It's part of my continuing battle with myself over thinking I'm not doing enough of whatever it is I'm doing at the moment. Confusing, isn't it?
More to come,
Catbird
I read the above title on a place mat, at some roadside restaurant in Pennsylvania Dutch country, decades ago when my family used to make cross-country car trips from New Mexico (or Rhode Island, I'm not sure) to my grandparents house in West Virginia. I remember it, and another phrase, "It smells LOUD, don't it?!" and nothing else, not the year, place, my age, nothing. Aren't words amazing?
I feel like I've been going "hurrier" for the past several months, and made little headway. I've had a few obstacles, though: another tree down in the Park, a major falling-out with my chorus, a tax issue that I finally have to deal with, my sisters visiting me and then reporting back to my Dad that I treated them badly, and on-going flare-ups of depression which impede me.
On the other hand, some good things have happened: I've developed a better rapport with a couple of clients, I've kept off (most of) the weight I lost last year (I have 5 pounds to re-lose), I've begun sorting and organizing a lot of my papers and crap in the apartment, I got 500+ bulbs to plant this fall/winter, and they have kept me supplied with woodchips, the cats are healthy, I seem to have made some new friends and become reacquainted with some old ones. So, the last few months haven't been a total loss.
Each of the above pros and cons deserves its own column, but I doubt I'll get to writing about all of them. I'd rather write about the good things than the bad; I fret enough about the bad things and I don't need to repeat all of that here. I will say that the situations with my chorus and my sisters (and Daddy, consequently) are on-going and painful. I hope I can resolve them at some point, but as I didn't even hear from anyone in my family for Thanksgiving, I doubt that situation will be resolved soon. Neither will my problems with the chorus, unless I simply switch my mind off, and "drink the koolaid" with the rest of them. I'll probably have to leave the group ultimately.
At the moment I'm caught up in trying to get all of the bulbs in before things really freeze over, and I hope to finish this weekend. I have a new pile of woodchips to start working on, too. I don't much like working out in the cold, although I've learned to dress in enough layers to stay warm, except for my hands. I generally don't go out if the temperature is below 30 degrees, unless the wind is down and the work I'll be doing is energy-consuming, like moving woodchips.
I need to clean up my garden tool "storage area" in my hallway, and reorganize everything. That will be the winter project for the Park. I'm also trying to think of ways to get people to volunteer out there sometimes, aside from the 2 annual "It's MY Park Days." Parks and Riverside Park Fund don't always do such a great job getting the word out to the general public about activities out in the Park, especially work-related ones.
I beat myself up for not getting out early enough to do a good chunk of work. But then I find that I can only really stay out for an hour or so when it's very cold, so it all works out. It's part of my continuing battle with myself over thinking I'm not doing enough of whatever it is I'm doing at the moment. Confusing, isn't it?
More to come,
Catbird
Sunday, November 11, 2007
So Much to Write; So Little Will To DO So!
Dear Reader,
I am sorry for my long delay in writing. I have been overwhelmed in real time, and overwhelmed psychologically also. At the moment, I'm feeling overwhelmed at what a pain this site is to format the text the way I want it to be. ARRGGGH!
So much has happened in the last couple of months; too much to relate here in detail. Or maybe not, but I hope to incorporate it into future entries. I can't write now; I will catch up soon, though.
More to Come, really,
Catbird
I am sorry for my long delay in writing. I have been overwhelmed in real time, and overwhelmed psychologically also. At the moment, I'm feeling overwhelmed at what a pain this site is to format the text the way I want it to be. ARRGGGH!
So much has happened in the last couple of months; too much to relate here in detail. Or maybe not, but I hope to incorporate it into future entries. I can't write now; I will catch up soon, though.
More to Come, really,
Catbird
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Timmmberrrrr!
Dear Reader,
Oh, it's been a tough few weeks out in the Park.
It's been a very rainy summer, and because of this, the trees have become saturated and heavy. There have been dozens of branches falling, all over the Park. In my area, about 4 weeks ago, a large limb fell off of one of the older trees, into the street. This was a big mess for Parks and the Dept. of Transportation to clean up. I found the remains when I went out to work in the Park that weekend; but this was only the first volley.
Two weeks ago, on August 24, I was out in the Park working late. All was well; status quo. I came out the next day, Saturday, and was confronted with yellow "Caution" tape and neon orange traffic cones in the main lawn space of my area. As I got closer to the cordoned-off area, I saw that there was a huge chunk of tree out along the curb of Riverside Drive, and many more logs and branches adjacent to the old American Linden that was the centerpiece of the space. In finally sank in that the old tree had lost its entire left, lower side; a huge swath of tree was gone, along with large chunks of adjacent trees that were entangled with the branches that fell.
After I absorbed the situation, I began to clean the area; pruning off thinner branches and stubs from the large chunks of wood that were on the ground; disentangling those branches from the shrubs on the ground; trying to pull all of the broken stuff together to be carted off. It was either do this work or sit and mourn; I decided to work. As I was pulling and tugging though, I got my feet tangled up with one of the logs on the ground; I fell backwards and landed hard on my tailbone area. It took a couple of minutes for me to determine that I had not compressed another vertebra (my T-12 had a compression fracture back in 1981; there is no pain comparable to that of a broken back), but boy, was I in pain. Naturally, I thought the best thing to do was to keep working, in 90 degree heat, with 90% humidity. What else was I going to do?
So, I cleaned up as much of the downed limbs as I could, and by that time it was dark. I came out the next day and did further work on what Parks had left behind. I had the sinking feeling, though, that the old tree was not long for this earth. After a few emails over the next few days, I got the verdict: the tree was too rotted out internally to stay up. What a disaster.
I had been fearing the loss of this tree for the last few years. When I finally saw the reality of it, I cried. There is a huge, empty space. All of the life that tree supported and promoted is now gone or has had to move away. Yes, there are plenty of other trees, but the Park has lost a major asset.
I think of trees in terms of biomass. If you look at a large tree, and understand that this huge thing is alive, it's really quite daunting. No, they can't move (although they DO turn towards the light, and DO gravitate away from buildings, and their roots grow TOWARDS water sources), but they do contribute to the life-force in their immediate areas. They go through life cycles just as animals do, and participate in the general environment in a number of ways. This particular tree, an American Linden (or Basswood) has a remarkable scent when it blooms in the late spring. It, along with the Little-leaf Lindens which line Riverside Drive, perfume nearly the entire Upper West Side for a few weeks every year. This may be passive, but the trees make their presence known.
The big, old tree is gone. I wasn't able to go out much last weekend, Labor Day, although I had made plans to do a large chunk of work, especially as 9/11 is looming, and it is the "Firemen's Memorial Island," after all. I hope I can do the work this weekend, to at least get the place looking greenish. Of course, taking down and carting away such a large tree has resulted in a lot of damage to the lawn and the area around the tree; huge ruts, bare spots, gouges. It's going to take a couple of seasons just to correct that damage. Replacing the tree, however, will take far longer. The first "ring count" was 90, which is probably a good ballpark of how old that tree was. That predates much of Riverside Park, and many of the buildings on the Upper West Side. I am hoping to hone in on a "real" age for the tree, and maybe even find some old photos. I'll have to relearn how to do research, but I hope to do so.
The one upside is that when they removed the tree, they ran a lot of it through a wood chipper, and left a huge pile of chips for use in the Park. They even left the chips in an area where it's useful to have them, and easy for the other volunteers and me to cart them away. So, the Old Guy will continue to contribute to the life of the Park.
Where is Treebeard when we need him?
Chipping Away,
Catbird
PS: Photos to come in the next entry, I hope. cb
Oh, it's been a tough few weeks out in the Park.
It's been a very rainy summer, and because of this, the trees have become saturated and heavy. There have been dozens of branches falling, all over the Park. In my area, about 4 weeks ago, a large limb fell off of one of the older trees, into the street. This was a big mess for Parks and the Dept. of Transportation to clean up. I found the remains when I went out to work in the Park that weekend; but this was only the first volley.
Two weeks ago, on August 24, I was out in the Park working late. All was well; status quo. I came out the next day, Saturday, and was confronted with yellow "Caution" tape and neon orange traffic cones in the main lawn space of my area. As I got closer to the cordoned-off area, I saw that there was a huge chunk of tree out along the curb of Riverside Drive, and many more logs and branches adjacent to the old American Linden that was the centerpiece of the space. In finally sank in that the old tree had lost its entire left, lower side; a huge swath of tree was gone, along with large chunks of adjacent trees that were entangled with the branches that fell.
After I absorbed the situation, I began to clean the area; pruning off thinner branches and stubs from the large chunks of wood that were on the ground; disentangling those branches from the shrubs on the ground; trying to pull all of the broken stuff together to be carted off. It was either do this work or sit and mourn; I decided to work. As I was pulling and tugging though, I got my feet tangled up with one of the logs on the ground; I fell backwards and landed hard on my tailbone area. It took a couple of minutes for me to determine that I had not compressed another vertebra (my T-12 had a compression fracture back in 1981; there is no pain comparable to that of a broken back), but boy, was I in pain. Naturally, I thought the best thing to do was to keep working, in 90 degree heat, with 90% humidity. What else was I going to do?
So, I cleaned up as much of the downed limbs as I could, and by that time it was dark. I came out the next day and did further work on what Parks had left behind. I had the sinking feeling, though, that the old tree was not long for this earth. After a few emails over the next few days, I got the verdict: the tree was too rotted out internally to stay up. What a disaster.
I had been fearing the loss of this tree for the last few years. When I finally saw the reality of it, I cried. There is a huge, empty space. All of the life that tree supported and promoted is now gone or has had to move away. Yes, there are plenty of other trees, but the Park has lost a major asset.
I think of trees in terms of biomass. If you look at a large tree, and understand that this huge thing is alive, it's really quite daunting. No, they can't move (although they DO turn towards the light, and DO gravitate away from buildings, and their roots grow TOWARDS water sources), but they do contribute to the life-force in their immediate areas. They go through life cycles just as animals do, and participate in the general environment in a number of ways. This particular tree, an American Linden (or Basswood) has a remarkable scent when it blooms in the late spring. It, along with the Little-leaf Lindens which line Riverside Drive, perfume nearly the entire Upper West Side for a few weeks every year. This may be passive, but the trees make their presence known.
The big, old tree is gone. I wasn't able to go out much last weekend, Labor Day, although I had made plans to do a large chunk of work, especially as 9/11 is looming, and it is the "Firemen's Memorial Island," after all. I hope I can do the work this weekend, to at least get the place looking greenish. Of course, taking down and carting away such a large tree has resulted in a lot of damage to the lawn and the area around the tree; huge ruts, bare spots, gouges. It's going to take a couple of seasons just to correct that damage. Replacing the tree, however, will take far longer. The first "ring count" was 90, which is probably a good ballpark of how old that tree was. That predates much of Riverside Park, and many of the buildings on the Upper West Side. I am hoping to hone in on a "real" age for the tree, and maybe even find some old photos. I'll have to relearn how to do research, but I hope to do so.
The one upside is that when they removed the tree, they ran a lot of it through a wood chipper, and left a huge pile of chips for use in the Park. They even left the chips in an area where it's useful to have them, and easy for the other volunteers and me to cart them away. So, the Old Guy will continue to contribute to the life of the Park.
Where is Treebeard when we need him?
Chipping Away,
Catbird
PS: Photos to come in the next entry, I hope. cb
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Old Friends, Older Places, New Experiences
Dear Reader,
I have been marveling lately at how seemingly little progress I have made in my life in the past 51 years. At the least, I suppose I should be happy I'm alive, and leave it at that.
But, I look around me, and I see little or no movement in many areas, while other people's lives are progressing and changing, sometimes on a daily basis.
I have several long-term relationships, many of which have been continuous over years and decades, and some which have been periodic. The woman I work with has been a friend and colleague for nearly 30 years. I have another friend who cares for my cats, and whose progress I've watched for the last 30 years as well; we went to college together. I've recently reconnected with another old college friend, and have had other acquaintances and colleagues with whom I've been in touch for years. I frequently seem to run into folks I've known, then fallen out of touch with. Sometimes these circumstances are completely accidental, sometimes they are the results of outside events.
Recently, I met up with a former client. Her small company, which she essentially started out of her bedroom, was being sold to an investor for a lot of money. I was one of the first people to work with her early in the process, so I was invited to a party celebrating the sale. Fortuitously, the event took place on the Lower East Side, an area of NYC I lived in, yes, nearly 30 years ago. Actually, I lived there for a year, from 1980 to 1981. I then moved in to my current apartment, where I've lived for the past 26 years (!).
In any case, after meeting and greeting, I decided to take a walk around the "Old Neighborhood." I had been down there on occasion since moving to the Upper West Side, but usually always with time constraints; client meetings, other scheduling. This particular evening after the party, I had nothing on the schedule. So, I walked around St. Mark's Place, where, 27 years ago, I would go with my then-boyfriend to the Grassroots Tavern after work, and have a few. It was there, on the steps of a brownstone, that my second cat Buddy, a beautiful Siamese, was acquired. It was there that I got purple dye for my hair, but I only had the nerve to color the tips and sides. In walking around the other night, I finally found the Grassroots again! I had missed it on previous visits and no wonder: the exterior is as nondescript as it can get, but the interior was just the same as it was all those years ago. The bar was the same, the tin ceiling, wooden floor, old tables and benches. The beer list was a little upgraded, with some imports, but the icky popcorn machine was still there, too. I was amazed and grateful that the place had changed so little.
I contemplated how long I've lived in the City; how well I know some of the neighborhoods; how long I've lived in my apartment on the Upper West Side, and how long I would continue to live there. Probably several more years; I'm not ready to leave the City yet. And, in keeping with that mind-set, I got a new hole pierced in my right ear. My first ear-piercings occurred back in college, as part of a pact. This was the first new piercing in 32 years; along with last year's tattoo (more to come there, too!), I finally have the nerve to make these kinds of changes to my body. I've wanted a new hole (in my ear) for years; so many earrings, so little space!
Where else could someone my age go into a "Piercing/Tattoo Emporium," be treated totally respectfully, show off my tattoo (and have it praised, sincerely) and get a pain-free piercing for 16 bucks? I LOVE New York!
More to Come,
Catbird
I have been marveling lately at how seemingly little progress I have made in my life in the past 51 years. At the least, I suppose I should be happy I'm alive, and leave it at that.
But, I look around me, and I see little or no movement in many areas, while other people's lives are progressing and changing, sometimes on a daily basis.
I have several long-term relationships, many of which have been continuous over years and decades, and some which have been periodic. The woman I work with has been a friend and colleague for nearly 30 years. I have another friend who cares for my cats, and whose progress I've watched for the last 30 years as well; we went to college together. I've recently reconnected with another old college friend, and have had other acquaintances and colleagues with whom I've been in touch for years. I frequently seem to run into folks I've known, then fallen out of touch with. Sometimes these circumstances are completely accidental, sometimes they are the results of outside events.
Recently, I met up with a former client. Her small company, which she essentially started out of her bedroom, was being sold to an investor for a lot of money. I was one of the first people to work with her early in the process, so I was invited to a party celebrating the sale. Fortuitously, the event took place on the Lower East Side, an area of NYC I lived in, yes, nearly 30 years ago. Actually, I lived there for a year, from 1980 to 1981. I then moved in to my current apartment, where I've lived for the past 26 years (!).
In any case, after meeting and greeting, I decided to take a walk around the "Old Neighborhood." I had been down there on occasion since moving to the Upper West Side, but usually always with time constraints; client meetings, other scheduling. This particular evening after the party, I had nothing on the schedule. So, I walked around St. Mark's Place, where, 27 years ago, I would go with my then-boyfriend to the Grassroots Tavern after work, and have a few. It was there, on the steps of a brownstone, that my second cat Buddy, a beautiful Siamese, was acquired. It was there that I got purple dye for my hair, but I only had the nerve to color the tips and sides. In walking around the other night, I finally found the Grassroots again! I had missed it on previous visits and no wonder: the exterior is as nondescript as it can get, but the interior was just the same as it was all those years ago. The bar was the same, the tin ceiling, wooden floor, old tables and benches. The beer list was a little upgraded, with some imports, but the icky popcorn machine was still there, too. I was amazed and grateful that the place had changed so little.
I contemplated how long I've lived in the City; how well I know some of the neighborhoods; how long I've lived in my apartment on the Upper West Side, and how long I would continue to live there. Probably several more years; I'm not ready to leave the City yet. And, in keeping with that mind-set, I got a new hole pierced in my right ear. My first ear-piercings occurred back in college, as part of a pact. This was the first new piercing in 32 years; along with last year's tattoo (more to come there, too!), I finally have the nerve to make these kinds of changes to my body. I've wanted a new hole (in my ear) for years; so many earrings, so little space!
Where else could someone my age go into a "Piercing/Tattoo Emporium," be treated totally respectfully, show off my tattoo (and have it praised, sincerely) and get a pain-free piercing for 16 bucks? I LOVE New York!
More to Come,
Catbird
Saturday, July 28, 2007
What IS Work?
Dear Reader,
The "Tree PIt" project is done! Thank heaven! I think if I'd had to go out there again and dig in those pits or mix, haul and dump any more mulch, I would have collapsed. As it was, each time I went out there to work, along Broadway between 102nd and 103rd Streets, it was hot, humid, smelly (car exhaust, dog pee, etc.), dirty, and sometimes aggravating. It was also satisfying, at least when folks didn't think I was doing "community service," or was hired to do the work. While I was preparing and spreading the mulch, I had the cooperation of my building, in that I had tools and space to work in. The mixing (I did a 2-color mulch, red and black), hauling and spreading was tough work, though. I didn't realize when I took this on how hard the work would actually be.
But what is work? The "work" I do to earn a living is, in and of itself, easy. Bookkeeping and accounting. It's numbers, math, organization, memory, repetition. I'm very good at it. The part I'm not as good at is dealing with clients who have no idea what it is I do, or worse, think that they understand my work. Then, I have to explain to them that they are idiots, without actually saying that. Bookkeeping is one of those tasks that everyone thinks they can do, but, as I have been told by clients, don't have the time to waste on. So, they have me. And, as I am "only a bookkeeper," I am not their equal, intellectually or in any other way, so they frequently believe.
As you may imagine, I don't get much satisfaction from this. So, I take on other tasks; I guess they would be called hobbies or, in the case of my gardening, exercise. I essentially approach these in the same way I do my work. I determine the work to be done, I formulate a plan to accomplish the work, and I do the job and get it done. Sadly, many of these "non-work" jobs are more satisfying and fulfilling than my income-producing work.
Whatever the situation, I work hard. I try to get my daily goals accomplished, even when I'm out in the Park. I love talking with folks while I'm out there, but I worry that I'm losing time "on the job." I had the same thing happen while I was out working on the tree pits. I don't want to be rude to people who stop and chat, however, so I have taken the time from my work, and made a few new friends.
So, what is work? And why can't work be fun, or at least fulfilling, and produce a sense of satisfaction at the end of the day? The tree pits were really hard work, but the sense of accomplishment and yes, satisfaction I had when I walked along them afterwards made it worthwhile. I occasionally have these same good feelings when I develop a really good spreadsheet, or reorganize a company so that the management can actually see how they are doing. But those upsides in my "real" work are few and far between.
I'm also bummed about my chorus right now, so I haven't even addressed that work here. I hope that over the rest of the summer I can focus on my Park work, which is wonderfully satisfying, and carry some of that back into my other works.
Bottom line, I think, work is work, but some work is fun. And sometimes fun can actually be work. Should one have to work to have fun? At age 51, I should have the answers to these questions, but the sad fact is, I still haven't even figured out what I want to be. Sheesh!
More to Come,
Catbird
The "Tree PIt" project is done! Thank heaven! I think if I'd had to go out there again and dig in those pits or mix, haul and dump any more mulch, I would have collapsed. As it was, each time I went out there to work, along Broadway between 102nd and 103rd Streets, it was hot, humid, smelly (car exhaust, dog pee, etc.), dirty, and sometimes aggravating. It was also satisfying, at least when folks didn't think I was doing "community service," or was hired to do the work. While I was preparing and spreading the mulch, I had the cooperation of my building, in that I had tools and space to work in. The mixing (I did a 2-color mulch, red and black), hauling and spreading was tough work, though. I didn't realize when I took this on how hard the work would actually be.
But what is work? The "work" I do to earn a living is, in and of itself, easy. Bookkeeping and accounting. It's numbers, math, organization, memory, repetition. I'm very good at it. The part I'm not as good at is dealing with clients who have no idea what it is I do, or worse, think that they understand my work. Then, I have to explain to them that they are idiots, without actually saying that. Bookkeeping is one of those tasks that everyone thinks they can do, but, as I have been told by clients, don't have the time to waste on. So, they have me. And, as I am "only a bookkeeper," I am not their equal, intellectually or in any other way, so they frequently believe.
As you may imagine, I don't get much satisfaction from this. So, I take on other tasks; I guess they would be called hobbies or, in the case of my gardening, exercise. I essentially approach these in the same way I do my work. I determine the work to be done, I formulate a plan to accomplish the work, and I do the job and get it done. Sadly, many of these "non-work" jobs are more satisfying and fulfilling than my income-producing work.
Whatever the situation, I work hard. I try to get my daily goals accomplished, even when I'm out in the Park. I love talking with folks while I'm out there, but I worry that I'm losing time "on the job." I had the same thing happen while I was out working on the tree pits. I don't want to be rude to people who stop and chat, however, so I have taken the time from my work, and made a few new friends.
So, what is work? And why can't work be fun, or at least fulfilling, and produce a sense of satisfaction at the end of the day? The tree pits were really hard work, but the sense of accomplishment and yes, satisfaction I had when I walked along them afterwards made it worthwhile. I occasionally have these same good feelings when I develop a really good spreadsheet, or reorganize a company so that the management can actually see how they are doing. But those upsides in my "real" work are few and far between.
I'm also bummed about my chorus right now, so I haven't even addressed that work here. I hope that over the rest of the summer I can focus on my Park work, which is wonderfully satisfying, and carry some of that back into my other works.
Bottom line, I think, work is work, but some work is fun. And sometimes fun can actually be work. Should one have to work to have fun? At age 51, I should have the answers to these questions, but the sad fact is, I still haven't even figured out what I want to be. Sheesh!
More to Come,
Catbird
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Looking in the Rearview Mirror
Dear Reader,
I've been back in NYC for 8 days, and it feels like a month. So many things have happened; routine and not so.
I began the "Broadway Tree pit" project last Monday, right after work. It's remarkable how tiring simple digging, hoeing and weeding/detrashing can be. I started a course of yoga the next day, and did more "pit" work. Wednesday was routine, with a major downpour dumped in; I canceled 2 doctor appointments on Tuesday and Wednesday because I just felt overwhelmed.
Thursday was a long catchup session at a client; new workspace (again), new office manager (again), new systems (again). I love this client, though, so the anxiety is worth it.
Friday, prepared draft budget for my chorus for next season, working with almost no definitive information. What fun! What surprises me is that my hobbies almost invariably end up being "jobs," albeit unpaid ones.
I started taking care of a friend's very old cat on Sunday. This will be nearly a three-week stint. Also over the weekend, I got back into the Park. It was none the worse for wear, thankfully! In fact, I was amazed at how untouched things were. I was so grateful for that, but I was so relieved to be back. It was like "old-home" weekend, too; almost all of my dog/people friends came by, and I had many nice chats and catch-up sessions. My friend Linda and her dog Smokey (see this entry: http://catbirdeye.blogspot.com/2007/05/wonderful-day-in-neighborhood.html) came by for an extended visit and playing with his Kong. What surprised me was that when they came into the Park, he trotted right up to me, Kong in mouth, then waited for me to start playing. He is a great dog! Linda and I caught up, which was nice.
I have never been good at having a lot of "friends." I have had one "best" friend, and many acquaintances, but never several close friends. My "best" friends have been few and far between, and have always left one way or the other. My last best friend died a few years ago of Parkinson's disease. Nowadays, whenever anyone mentions sensations of what might sound like symptoms of Parkinson's, I get antsy and tell them they should get checked. It seemed to sneak up on my friend, and I would hate for that to happen to anyone else I know.
I spent the last week updating folks (at their request) on my "vacation" in WV. I mentioned first and foremost that I spent time in PA with my sister and her husband, and that I rode a jet ski! Honestly, I have been surprised at the reaction! People think this is a big adventure; I'm some sort of daredevil or something. I thought I was doing something pretty ordinary; I figured if I flipped the thing, I'd just end up swimming. Anyway, I've described the rest of my time away as uneventful, which it was, and untroubling, which it was not.
When I leave there, I take the burden of the place with me, and it stays with me for quite a while. I have worked hard to maintain connections and relationships with my sisters, and of course, Daddy. This has been a real challenge sometimes because the life I have here is so different and disconnected from them.
I know Daddy is happy when I come down, no matter how dysfunctional I seem to be. And, to him, it would not matter if I did anything to "help out," or if I just sat and watched TV all day; I know he is happy to just have me there. My sisters are another issue. If I don't "do something" while I'm there, I'm labeled "lazy, drunk, useless." It doesn't matter that I'm on vacation when I'm there. As far as they are concerned, I don't really "work" anyway. Yes, I don't wear a smock or a uniform; I don't clock in; I don't have someone else setting my schedule. So, I don't really work.
Anyway, as I drive away from there, and get back into the NY pace and routine, such as it is, I wonder when and if I will see them again, especially Daddy. I'm torn, because he has never abandoned me, and I don't want to feel as if I am abandoning him when he may need me. It's hard to know, because he will never say. What to do?
I want a motorcycle!
Catbird
I've been back in NYC for 8 days, and it feels like a month. So many things have happened; routine and not so.
I began the "Broadway Tree pit" project last Monday, right after work. It's remarkable how tiring simple digging, hoeing and weeding/detrashing can be. I started a course of yoga the next day, and did more "pit" work. Wednesday was routine, with a major downpour dumped in; I canceled 2 doctor appointments on Tuesday and Wednesday because I just felt overwhelmed.
Thursday was a long catchup session at a client; new workspace (again), new office manager (again), new systems (again). I love this client, though, so the anxiety is worth it.
Friday, prepared draft budget for my chorus for next season, working with almost no definitive information. What fun! What surprises me is that my hobbies almost invariably end up being "jobs," albeit unpaid ones.
I started taking care of a friend's very old cat on Sunday. This will be nearly a three-week stint. Also over the weekend, I got back into the Park. It was none the worse for wear, thankfully! In fact, I was amazed at how untouched things were. I was so grateful for that, but I was so relieved to be back. It was like "old-home" weekend, too; almost all of my dog/people friends came by, and I had many nice chats and catch-up sessions. My friend Linda and her dog Smokey (see this entry: http://catbirdeye.blogspot.com/2007/05/wonderful-day-in-neighborhood.html) came by for an extended visit and playing with his Kong. What surprised me was that when they came into the Park, he trotted right up to me, Kong in mouth, then waited for me to start playing. He is a great dog! Linda and I caught up, which was nice.
I have never been good at having a lot of "friends." I have had one "best" friend, and many acquaintances, but never several close friends. My "best" friends have been few and far between, and have always left one way or the other. My last best friend died a few years ago of Parkinson's disease. Nowadays, whenever anyone mentions sensations of what might sound like symptoms of Parkinson's, I get antsy and tell them they should get checked. It seemed to sneak up on my friend, and I would hate for that to happen to anyone else I know.
I spent the last week updating folks (at their request) on my "vacation" in WV. I mentioned first and foremost that I spent time in PA with my sister and her husband, and that I rode a jet ski! Honestly, I have been surprised at the reaction! People think this is a big adventure; I'm some sort of daredevil or something. I thought I was doing something pretty ordinary; I figured if I flipped the thing, I'd just end up swimming. Anyway, I've described the rest of my time away as uneventful, which it was, and untroubling, which it was not.
When I leave there, I take the burden of the place with me, and it stays with me for quite a while. I have worked hard to maintain connections and relationships with my sisters, and of course, Daddy. This has been a real challenge sometimes because the life I have here is so different and disconnected from them.
I know Daddy is happy when I come down, no matter how dysfunctional I seem to be. And, to him, it would not matter if I did anything to "help out," or if I just sat and watched TV all day; I know he is happy to just have me there. My sisters are another issue. If I don't "do something" while I'm there, I'm labeled "lazy, drunk, useless." It doesn't matter that I'm on vacation when I'm there. As far as they are concerned, I don't really "work" anyway. Yes, I don't wear a smock or a uniform; I don't clock in; I don't have someone else setting my schedule. So, I don't really work.
Anyway, as I drive away from there, and get back into the NY pace and routine, such as it is, I wonder when and if I will see them again, especially Daddy. I'm torn, because he has never abandoned me, and I don't want to feel as if I am abandoning him when he may need me. It's hard to know, because he will never say. What to do?
I want a motorcycle!
Catbird
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