Message title affectionately borrowed from one of my favorite ekoostic Hookah tunes that personifies what I am feeling tonight.

I was in my late 20's when I fell in love with Steven King while working the free clinic one autumn night during a Grateful Dead Show in San Francisco's infamous concert hall, Winterland. I had wanted to be out in the crowd dancing with "Jerry's kids," which was my favorite thing to do. But a couple of years prior to that show, I had married a strange and demanding young man who turned to be threatened by the thrall and the excitement that the magic hippie band generated among their avid followers. He was threatened, I believe, by the stars in the eyes and the dedication and energy of the boys and their fans, as he himself, he felt that he was a rising star of some level of popularity while volunteering at these rock shows to render medical aide as a Respiratory Therapist and an EMT. Very few deadheads needed his services during a Dead show. The clinic saw more than their fair share of highly stoned and tripping kids at these shows, but they required ministrations that he really had no ability to provide. He fancied himself a professional, a medicine man, short on patience with the kids that did not need his clinical medicine, but rather the understanding bedside manner, someone to gently talk them out of a bad trip and back into a good trip. That is where I came in as such sweet talking my strong point, and why I was as valued in my own right, as an EMT volunteer, I was almost as highly regarded as he was. He hated that, the schmuck...

But that evening was a quiet night in the clinic.Even my services were not in demand, though of course, it was not outside the realm of possibility that things could change at any moment and a naked tripper be thrown our way by Security, all of us hoping to keep the kid out of jail. Knowing that anything was possible kept us both hanging out in the near empty clinic awaiting just in case we were needed. I really wanted to go dance while things were slow, but HP didn't see it that way...

As I was an obedient wife and wished to maintain my good standing volunteering for Rock Medicine, in order to continue having adventures in the outer ridges of the Rock 'n Roll realm of concert staff, I repeatedly asked permission to go out in front of the door and dance to the music in the midst of the lobby which was full of other dancing kids buying T-shirts, and hitting up the snack concession's stands for pizza slices, over sized chocolate chip cookies, and cups of carbonated watery liquids to squelch cotton mouth. Repeatedly, my domineering spouse refused permission for me to take a dancing break, enraged that I had the audacity to ask more than once, repelled at the possibility that I might join the deadheads throwing caution to the winds with their antics and joy. Obediently, but sullenly, I stayed with HP in the clinic area, the music a distorted cacophonous din blurred by the closed door and the clinic room's lack of any acoustic amenities. A very few other staff members remained in the otherwise empty clinic, either too tired to go out and dance, or like my still-new husband, they failed to recognize the music's magic. My friend Barb stayed with us, not out of any sense of duty, but because her nose was stuck in a book that she couldn't put down. Eventually though, the lure of the obscured music brought her to her feet and she told HP & I that she was headed out for a dance.

"Can I look at your book while you are gone?" I asked, avoiding HP's disapproving gaze, ducking eye contact. If he held anything in more contempt than the music of The Grateful Dead, it was the concept of reading for pleasure. It was a pass time that he never faltered in his vocal vehement disdain-"a waste of time unless you are learning something that you can apply to your life, towards tangible improvement, in the here and now."

Barb had long noted the power struggle, as she knew and pitied me and and despised him. She seemed to slap the book jovially into my hands in open defiance of what HP did or did not approve of saying "Have at, but no way am I lending it to you until I am done with it."

It was Stephen King's "Salem's Lot," and prior to that night's reading, I do not believe I had ever read anything so profoundly disturbing and addicting. I, too, could not put it down. Vampire children scraping their fingernails at bedroom windows of their playmates, luring them away from hearth and home, into the darkly fictionally classic allure of the undead.

To me, it was an immediate rush to read it. I actually felt a stab of pain in my heart, when Barb returned from her dancing, and I had to return the book back to it's rightful owner. I had hardly paid any attention to my pain-in-the-ass narcissistic spouse the entire evening. First, as he refused to allow me to take dancing breaks out in the crowd with the music, and secondly and more satisfying, since the book caught my undivided attention. He picked a huge fight during the drive home, but my defense was self-explanatory. I had not left him to go dance with the hippies per his demands, and if the worst thing I did all night was to read a few pages from a borrowed book to amuse myself, then indeed, he would be still quite the lucky man.

The Dead played again the following night, and of course we were there to man the Free Clinic, but so was Barb, and she had finished the book. She brought it to the show for me, knowing I would most likely still be forbidden to dance. She loved to piss HP off, and I was desperate to hold onto something of who I was before marriage, despite my husband's demand that my role be limited to being his #1 obedient fan and devotee. He glowered as I slipped the book into my backpack, but said nothing, then. Later in the evening he forgot about it, and I let him. I didn't open the book until I was home alone and he was at work. When he was at work was the only time he allowed me to play music by The Grateful Dead or to read for pleasure. When he was home, he demanded and usually got my undivided attention. I have said it before and I will say it again. He was a very sick young man who was largely instrumental in me becoming a very sick young woman. I will still accept 1/2 of the blame, as he did nothing to me that in the end, I did not allow, but...we were sick. I almost allowed him to ruin my life.

But I didn't. My passion for the forbidden fruit flowered. It was only natural. And against my husband's wishes, I not only fell in love with the music of The Grateful Dead, but the writings of Stephen King...and whenever the rat was away, I would benignly play.

Fast forward 30 years to the new and improved me. Bubba watching the Red Sox slam the Indians in the living room of the house he built for me with our 3 wonderful dogs at his feet. He also fails to understand the joy I get from my music and my reading, but viva la difference! He lets me be me! I am in the bedroom, watching what I want to watch on my TV, with a book and a newspaper while surfing for fun on my lap top. Bubba has heard me babble for years about my enthusiasm for the works of Steven King, amused when watching me annually reread "The Stand", and shaking his head with a smile as I continue to repeatedly watch "The Green Mile" whenever TV gets old. He peeks into the bedroom to say:

"You should have been watching the playoffs," he grins, "They just had a close up of Stephen King and his son in the stands...Stephen King was reading a book, not even watching the game, and the announcer said his boy was a writer, too, but his name is Joe Hill, not anything King."

"Really? I missed them? I know Stephen King takes a book with him everywhere he goes. His boy is Joe Hill? I heard he had a son that wrote under a pen name-Joe Hill?"

"Ha!" He laughed, "You mean I knew something back about Stephen King that you didn't? Ha!"

Immediately, I googled Joe Hill, and captivated by the moment, my fingers danced over the keys, and carried away with the moment,(as I now often allow myself to be) before I knew it, I had ordered Joe Hill's "Heart Shaped Box" for a mere well-spent $8.00.

The novel took forever to arrive, but once it did, I devoured it within 3 days. Just like the books his Daddy wrote when I first fell in love him, and little Joe was a twinkle in his Daddy's eye, in this happy phase of my life, I fell in love with the writings of Son of King.

As soon as I finished Joe's book, I forced myself to get back to reality. I made myself call Wally World to ensure they had received the application I had submitted before the book had arrived. They called me back within the hour and asked me to come in for an interview in the morning.

I gave a great interview...when I left I felt strong and positive. The lady told me that it would probably take a couple of weeks, but they'd probably be calling me. But, it only took a couple of hours, and they called me back for a second interview the following morning. It too, was a great interview. Today, after getting word that I passed the physical and the back ground check, I was hired, and I still have a week off to celebrate. I start Halloween Day @ 8:30 a.m. and will work until 6:30ish p.m. just in time to join Bubba in pass out candy to the neighborhood goblins.

To celebrate, I ordered Joe Hill's "20th Century Ghosts," and consequently while surfing around, discovered that he has a published brother, Owen Hill, another, Son of King. Another King writer to discover and explore. A new job & 2 new authors to investigate! Does it get any better than this? As they both write with their father's magnetic dark fun draw, they are both indeed, originals onto themselves. I ordered Owen's "We're All In This Together," as I am now heavy into celebrating soberly. If the worst thing I do is restock my library, everyone around me, including me, will be quite the lucky folks!

I am starting a new job which looks like for the most part, that I will have fun doing, only 10 miles down the road from home. Working full time starting at a dollar and a half more than I made after 3 years at my last job. Soon, I will be qualify for benefits, however minimal. If I don't screw up, things are looking up. I am so excited, that I broke into the Halloween candy! Celebrating, after all, is in my blood!

It's not how much we have, but how much we enjoy that makes happiness.
I am enjoying more and more of what I have every day of my life these days. I know I too often re-visit the Hell that I went through before I got to this Heaven, but it keeps me humble and grateful for everything that is now my life. It is my blog-I can write everything and anything that I want to write in it. I've earned the right to advertise how far I have come, learning the basics the hard way.

I certainly hope to remember this attitude in days to come as, right here, right now, it is all coming together.

Again, I have lost the link between Blogstream and my email. Which means I cannot receive PMs that would normally go straight to email, or any notification that someone has left a comment on my blog.

This is not the first time it has happened. Maybe Lucy fixed it last time, maybe Pioneer fixed. Maybe it fixed itself. I changed nothing. Email notification and PMs were, then were not, then returned, and have now once again, been lost. I have tried to contact Pioneer, who I idolize & understand that he is a busy man...But the problem remains.

So if you send me a PM (the way I like to communicate most of the time with other Streamers), I will live in total ignorance of it's existence.

I do not begin to understand why this benefit comes & goes, seemingly, of it's own free will. I will upgrade, as recommended, once I am again employed...if said upgrade is a prerequisite of email notification, I am also limited according to the update's limitations...Javascript or something to that effect, I dunno. Regardless, I have to watch every penny until again gainfully employed, and I cannot get the 4 months of premium Blogstream for free even doe to my own computer limitastions.

I so want blogging to be a solace, a release, a way to find cyber kindred spirits...no hassle. It is sadly becoming a minor hassle. But I will roll w/it as best I can for as long as I can...or want.

So far, I do still want it.

Part 1. The Healing

It was yet another virus complete with non-stop pounding headache combined with lower abdominal discomfort that one does not really wish to describe, nor hear about. Almost a full week later my daze blurred with my life-long inante ability to suffer beautifully, I traversed the long 45 mandatory miles to seek assistance from my qualified medical professional. He supplied me with long overdue, essential medication, and while awaiting the pharmacist's complete attention, I managed, with some difficulty, determination and wandering, to finally find my way to The Electronic's Department...and there, the final ingredient to complete my healing process was discovered for the modest price of $7 and change... I, at long last, purchased the DVD "The Big Lebowski."

Part 2. Long Overdue

"Hey...at least I'm housebroken!" It is still beyond my grasp to comprehend the method in the madness that instigated my past history of procrastination. But things happen for a reason. Seeing this cinematic kaleidescope of preferred nomenclature Friday during my quest for recovery, the issue is that it came into my possession when I needed it most, to possess it during my most quintessential era of rehabilitation. It is a buddy movie, not a chick flick, and wonderfully, it works for me.

Part 3. Profanity- a matter of a point of view

The movie can not solve my problem with the F-word, only I can. And I have. It only bothers me if Bubba walks by and over hears the dialogue in the midst of the cavalcade. In another life, I was well-versed in the vernaculer, yet during my current era, I only utilize the words sparingly, rarely, on whispered, low-profile occasion. Indeed, to achieve the required "Duderino" mindset, I can roll with it. And the "Dude" mindset is not that of a nihilist, but one of living in the moment with the most benign of intentions, taking joy and solace where you are, and who you are. As the Dude teaches, and thus most admirably, abides.

Part 4. In Recovery-not really

I just feel a whole lot better after 4 days of proper medication, rest, mixed fruit juices,laughing, chicken and vegetables and repeat performances of all Dude, all the time, whenever Bubba is not in the same room. I am, as they say, on the mend, and back in the game. I retain the Dude attitude. Still mesmerized in what I am still learning every time, I review the revelations. After a weekend of tying the room together, with Columbus Day come and gone in more ways that I can count, I am ready for the morrow. A job fair, an inquiry regarding cover letters, a visit with Mother, picking up my Angel sister,as well as ensuring her way home, perhaps encountering my second Sweet Sister, skipping or having luncheon, hopefully packing a cooler (with serious health stuff, seriously), returning library books, T. S. Eliott, more Stephen King, & book on disk "The Good Guy" Dean Koontz's latest, not to forget, seeing and being validated by Cecile, helping out Mean Jean, who isn't, before returning home to my beloved in time for "Earle." Which, by the way, I feel was in part, inspired by the Dude, as is this New Season's Nerd Dude, "Chuck."

In thus, this Dudette has hope, style, and grace in the promise of her future abidement.

"Beowolf" also appears promising.

Days like this, in early Autumn need to be cloned. Repeat performances should occur upon demand. They are delicious, cooling, uplifting, and they dare to foster hope and promise. Perhaps there will be more. And if luck holds, I will live to see more...this season and the next. Always, of course, providing that luck holds, I look forward to the morrow.

Headed for the library this AM, singing loudly all the way. Kind Petey sent me a tune-about drinking coffee in the afternoon and reading T.S. Eliot. And I dared to follow the suggestion. T.S. wanted to question and defy his society and it's constrictions by expressing his feelings, it would seem. It was not standard decorum in his day,early 20th Century America and England, to concentrate on or display one's feelings, but instead to maintain proper manners and dignity, pomp and circumstance. T.S., I am told, is responsible, the original author of what became The Broadway Musical "Cats." In his plays, it can be found as "OLd Possum's Book of Practical Cats". Now, that bit of information pleasingly surprised me, and I am looking forward towards some experimentation of my own, literary attempts at a type of osmosis and absorbtion. The librarian was so excited for me when she asked what works I wanted, and I told her that I wished only to discover. So, with her recommendation, I checked out "The Complete Poems and Plays,1909-1950" and then "Life and Works T.S.Eliot" by Sue Asbee. I know that in past English Lit. classes (always places I loved to be) that I have studied him, but time has worn away the particulars...I wonder if he would be the author that triggers my memory about "fog coming in creeping in like cats on grey, soft feet..." or something remotely akin to that...I recall that my instructor was as excited about that passage, as the librarian was that I wanted to discover T.S. I, too, hope to be excited.

And yet, inspired by the beauty of this crackling September day, I covered my bases. After the death of my father, against my therapist's better judgment, I had promised myself a "Stephen King Summer." I know I am not alone in being mesmerized by this "Master of Suspense," or this "Master of Horror", or however folks want to label him. A freak show at the Carnival? An upsetting ride through the Haunted House further on down the same path?...it matters not what others think. "The Green Mile'" "The Stand," "Hearts In Atlantis"...they do not have to work for you, as long as they do the trick for me. "The Tower" books, that of "The Gunslinger" confound (and borderline bore) me, but as his writings are, indeed, an acquired taste, perhaps I can learn to grow into them at a later time and place. Today, the library loaned me "An unauthorized guide to...The Lost Works of Stephen King" and the VHS of "Hearts in Atlantis"-a book I started shortly before leaving California the last time, and lost track of, and rediscovered and loved reading last month. It stars Anthony Hopkins, so I don't see how it can lose, plus there's a lil' note that "Ebert & Roeper" gave it "TWO BIG THUMBS UP!", so, I gotta guess that the odds are in my favor.

I could not pursue Mr King all summer, it would seem, without running into Mr. Koontz. They are birds of a feather (in my humble opinion), and of course, both collections on fiction hung out in the K's at the aforementioned local library. Now, I just finished two real stinkers from Koontz that I cannot recommend. I can only surmise that they were written very early in his career, and published after he had attained some fame. "Fear Nothing" and "Seize The Night," I would venture to guess were meant to be the first two books of a trilogy, but I feel Dean (no real disrespect intended) would have been forced to name the third book something like "Please Don't Bother"...there was plot potential, but so much unneccesary description, unlikely dialogue, and preposturous situations and short cuts, peppering the first two books that reading them was next to impossible,and following them, just plain was impossible...for the reader or for Dean. But I am fond of "Odd Thomas," and "Forever Odd," and I really enjoyed "The Husband," so today, I got "The Good Guy" on CD, and, "Brother Odd" the book, as my SK Summer is almost gone, and I will soon be forced back into the gray ranks of a working class reality, leaving no time for such adventures, so that I may continue to live my life in the manner to which I have become accustomed-which by the way, is a pretty doggone great life.

Last weekend, Sweet sister Kathy, piled Angel Sister Jan, & myself into her really nice car (a new gray something or other ) and drove us to Illinois to visit our favorite Aunt & Uncle, Gretta and Merle. It was a mixed bag of extreme emotions. Merle is my mother's brother. When he was very young, he victoriously overcame Polio. Now, that he is leaving middle-age behind, "Post-Polio Syndrome" has hit him hard...and there are no more victories to be had, other than Gretta's daily victories in her fight to keep him out of the nursing home, and out of harm's way within their home. And, oh, she fights these battles with such dignity, perseverance, and courage! He has lost more brain function than his Alzheimer's afflicted sister, my mom. And darlin', I cannot lie-in both beloved relatives,that is an unfortunate amount of brain function to lose. It is wasted effort to compare them or describe them, as there are good days and bad days, and for those of us left here to watch, there are mostly only sad days. Time has not been kind to either sibling. Both children of my grandparents, Ray and Hazel, are vacant, rambling, incomplete, and totally dependent on others to get through their remaining days with any semblance of comfort, or hope of pleasantly passing the time. Lordy! Lordy! After all I have seen this summer, I think that The Who said it best-"I hope I die before I get old..." Yet, somehow, I am already 55, and I still have got such a lot of living to do!!! So very many books to read, and movies to see, and adventures to be had...

After the heartbreak of Merle on Friday afternoon, and Saturday luncheon, Kathy decided we needed some cheering up. We had rendezvoused with brother Mark, and his wife & son, Kim and Ken, at Aunt Gretta's, and they followed us Saturday afternoon to revisit our childhood home in Illinois, Galesburg, birthplace of Carl Sandberg.

You cannot begin to imagine our excitement, or our luck! We found our big old white house redone in blue, with a hot tub on the remodeled back porch, and didn't the garage used to be off to the right, we asked each other? There were so many questions, and of course, no one was home. Mark spied a next-door neighbor returning from a fishing trip, and strolling up the driveway, as if invited, extended his right hand in greeting, and marched into the neighbor's back yard behind their returning fishing boat. We girls demurred for a few minutes out in the front yard already feeling we had invaded private property that was no longer our own, but then, we quickly followed Mark's lead, as we had nothing to lose.

This friendly neighbor, Todd, was the first in a line of wonderful surprises. He had been neighbors to Peg and Wayne(the current owners) for 18 years, and he knew that Peg would welcome our unannounced arrival with open arms, "She'll talk your ears off!" he laughed. But as she wasn't home, he got back in his truck and led our little caravan downtown, to where Wayne ran a favored local Italian restaurant. The evening meal was lovely, and Wayne phoned Peg who hurried home to await our arrival. It was better than we could have dared to hope for... Indeed, most pleasantly, she did talk our ears off, as promised, and she also gave us free reign to roam our old house at will. We were soon split into groups of 1, 2, and 3, alternately listening to Peg and her passion for the place, and then, straying off to explore old rooms remodeled, and long forgotten. It was my first major experience with a repressed memory, when Jan moved a fan, and opened a door, and we followed steps up into the attic.

"The playroom," I heard myself say as we ascended the stairs, and peeked over a railing, "We used to roller skate up here on rainy days...and play in the winter!" A room I had entirely forgotten came flooding back into my memory. We'd spent hours up there, with paper dolls, Barbies, and doll houses, and I now remembered groaning and whining, when the summer heats hit, forcing us to retreat to the lower floors. It came back to me in bits and pieces...but, come back to me, it did. What a rush! I have a vivid total recall of watching an old man through a playroom window one winter, struggling against the gale-force winds, fighting his way, head into the wind, gripping his hat, across the street from our house. I remember how he looked so old, cold, weak, and lonely, and maybe even, afraid...and how I felt so bad for him, so guilty, while I was warm and loved inside a house full of food and family..I couldn't have been much older than 10 or 11 then, as we left Galesburg the summer after I had graduated from the sixth grade...I could have spent hours wandering the house, asking questions and listening to Peg's stories...and she could have spent hours telling us her stories, I know. It was all pretty great. But again, never enough hours in the day or the night, and all too soon we were headed back to our suite in Peoria, with me asleep, like the child I used to be, in the back seat. Sweet sister Kathy's sweet husband, Bob,insisted upon picking up the tab for our 4 day, 3 night stay in Peoria, where we also viewed from the outside the home of another of our grandparents, Larry and Sarah, and our first home on Sheridan Ave., before Mark was born. We only saw these homes from the outside & one was better than well-maintained, and the other had painfully been allowed to be run down to a shadow of it's former style. Such is life.

The motel suite in Peoria was pretty wonderful, too. I only had to pay for my meals the entire weekend, so the manner to which I have become accustomed remains a very nice manner, indeed.

Sunday, we wandered into Metamora to meet with Dad's favorite cousins, Bev and Carol. The faces were vaguely familiar, but we really didn't know them. This was one of Dad's last wishes...that we attend the annual family reunion in Metamora...Rene had never allowed him to go, and all-too-soon, he was too old and sick to go...and then, all-too-soon, of course, Daddy was gone. But not before he had begged his children to go where he could not go...We did it for him. We knew nobody, but they made us feel welcome. It was all too clear though, had Dad been able to go, there were few folks that would have remembered him, let alone my grandparents, his folks. Time marches on, and rarely, at this stage of the game, is it ever pretty. I did meet a cousin who shared my migraine affliction... our symptoms fit to a "T," which was a close enough quirk of a stretch for validation.

I am always grateful to find something that validates my own affliction as there is no rhyme or reason for the attacks, and people are often suspicious that I am faking the headaches or bringing them on myself. I really have to learn to not think twice about what other people think...they think that it is all in my head? They're right! It hurts all over my head, especially starting in my right rhomboid muscle traveling in an unreal straight line up the right side of my neck, up the backside of my head on the right side, down the right side of my forehead, landing throbbing, stabbing and pounding behind my right eye...(had a recent run-in w/a non-believer, if you couldn't tell, but I hurt too bad to stick up for myself).

Well, this post got away from me,(again!), another novelette, but there was so much that I wanted to enter. Someday, when I am depressed, I want to be able to flip through my blog & find days like today, when it is almost all good, and try to get back to here from there. There are bound to be plenty of almost all rough times ahead, and I want to do all that I can to remember the good times. Most of early September 2007 was pretty good-I really hope that I can remember that. And not repress the memories, especially, those that are all good.

Here, in Nowhere, Indiana,the winds are balmy and cool to the touch. It is recommended that one immerses oneself into those gentle winds...and smile. The tops of the corn fields surrounding Bubba's lil green acre are burnished in orange. The contrasts of gold, rust and green keep ya' smiling. There is still Heaven sent music from friends to be played, words and picture to explore and exchange.

Three dogs, fat and happy prance around the safe, enclosed yard with undeniable grins adorning their slobber jaws. They can be tricksey. And fun. Well-fed, curious, loving sweet K-9 kids that enrich our present days with unconditional love. This is what counts, for us.

Right here, right now...we can be happy. Eat healthy, stay busy, burn energy from within, enjoy life.

The world cannot be saved by the likes of us...perhaps for the likes of us, but we are middle aged, and gratefully near-sighted, concentrating on what surrounds us in the now. Corn, Soy Beans, Pumpkins...Harvest Time is upon us. There is cause for joy and contentment. Allow it to come. To be. And we, on occasion, stop and be still, and feel the young Autumn winds sway our souls and save our days, and we can look forward to our tomorrows when the forecast is for more fair, cool weather to come, as far as the limited eye can see.

This is good. Rare. To be cherished. This is my life today, and it is more than fine & dandy...it holds promises of repeat performances provided we keep our prospectives...in perspective.