Vancouver's Shame

The sad truth to date..at least here in North America and much of the world really..is many addicts are treated with this “They’re better off dead anyway aren’t they,” attitude.

As is usually the case until you’ve lived something..compassion runs low..and addicts seem to be the lowest according to the inactions of mainstream society. This same society..usually the first to rally for the ‘underdog’ cause..has somehow missed the reflections of self when it comes to addiction. People are beginning to see that addicts bleed red and cry tears of salt like anyone else, but we’re a long way off from any real solutions. Change is always slow and the fight to bring respect to the tables of all peoples..the slowest of all.

I remember when I was living in Vancouver in the late 70’s, I’d heard a girl I knew from the streets was in the hospital having overdosed on heroin and pills the day before. While waiting to meet up with my dealer I saw her Asian boyfriend hanging around outside a popular restaurant where people would go to buy their drug of choice. I asked how she was; he said he didn’t know because he was afraid to go and see her in case the police wanted to ask him questions. Recently arrived from the east coast I was taken aback by his answer but knowing what I do today..I guess he was scared.. strung out and not taking any chances..real or imagined.

But still…

I went up to the hospital later that day, found out what room she was in and sat with her. She was comatose..there were no police anywhere..I didn’t think there would be..there was no one actually. I asked the nurses why she wasn’t on a breathing machine, they answered that she was breathing fine and would probably come out of it in her own time. I never did know here real name..as I said she worked the streets..a really beautiful Native American girl with the prettiest long, thick, dark and shining hair, she looked to be no more than 20.

I spent 4 days in the hospital going to visit her. Every morning I’d look for the straight backed uncomfortable wooden chair that somehow always disappeared from the day before, carry it over to her bedside, place it to rest on the window side of her bed and taking a seat I’d sit watching..keeping guard..as she slept her deep, deep sleep. I was told people can hear you when they’re in a coma so talk I did, asking her to come back, to squeeze my hand if she could hear me..to try and open her eyes. Always there was nothing, no response. I marveled at how normal she looked..how simply peaceful..not a machine in sight..anyone in passing would surely think her taking a nap, recovering nicely from some minor surgery perhaps..and not in the serious coma she really was. A quick glance around told me her neighbors were all elderly women in various stages of medical conditions, a typical sight in hospitals these days. For many..though unbeknown to them..it was only a transition stop on their way to a last residence on this earth..an old folks home. Their next home..the one not of this earth..would finally be a permanent one. Or so I hoped.

On the days that followed when there was no change. I resorted to bargaining with her, saying how we could be great friends and get our lives back, she could come with me to Montreal, we’d support each other, start a small business..maybe go back to school. I’d tell her that she was needed here in this world, she mattered and was loved whether she knew it or not, adding too that whatever she chose to do would be what was right for her soul, I knew that, but I’d rather she stuck around if at all possible.

I remember thinking how bloody sad is this..not one person she knew standing by her side..no wonder she didn’t want to come back. When I’d run out of things to say there would be the silence I’d grown used to..I heard nothing going on around us…it was our little world. I thought of many things during my time spent with her, of my own addiction, parents, prostitution, hopes, dreams, lovers and other strangers…of life and what it could possibly all mean.

Memories took me back in time 4 years I had just turned 16, to the day I woke in an intensive care room..my mind foggy and unable to get my bearings. Machines hooked up to almost every part of body..keeping me alive..breathing for me. I’d just come out of a coma and then darkness engulfed me again. The next time I opened my heavy eyelids an intense anger flooded me. My very first emotion..my first reaction to life..was contempt and bitterness for the people who took my much desired sleep from me. Still very stoned I imagine from all the barbiturates I’d swallowed. I ripped at the tubes running helter skelter through my body..yanked at the catheter catching my urine…the breathing tube removed I tried to speak unsuccessfully…my throat raw from tubes. I fought the life given back to me..then I passed out again.

On the 4th day of sitting with her I saw that her third finger was stiff (it couldn’t bend), and her breathing much more labored..there was a thick gluey phlegm starting to come out of her mouth..I would keep wiping it away and massaging her finger..instinct told me this was not a good sign.

I pushed the bedside buzzer for a nurse to come in. When she finally arrived I said "Come on this is not right, doesn't she more help than she’s getting..why is her finger like this and her breathing?" She looked at her then back at me with an empty stare and replied by asking if I was family and if not I really shouldn’t be there. Suddenly they cared who I was? Why, because I was rocking their boat that she may need more care. They knew bloody well I wasn’t family because I asked if they had her name when I first visited and every day since..at that point she was a Jane Doe. As long as I kept quiet, remained nameless, I was just another piece of furniture, like the sleeping doll in the bed I sat by. But I was alive, able to speak for myself, she could not. In hindsight I should have trusted my instincts and made them listen to me.

On the 5th day I arrived at 10 am as usual and headed past the nurses station to visit with her..as I passed I asked one of the desk nurses I recognized “How’s our girl doing today?” Without skipping a beat she looked up and said “She passed away a little before 8:30 this morning.” My stomach, suddenly not my own was lurching back and forth, my mind raced with questions, I was weak. An all encompassing anger raced through me and my heart sank as I said ‘What do you mean she passed away..she’s dead..what do you mean, I don’t understand?” “I thought you all said she would pull out of this, she’d be okay..why, why is she dead?”

Again I got the “This is not something we can discuss with you..it’s a family matter, we don’t control life and death we just try to help.” I just looked at her..at them all in disbelief and wanted to scream “You know damn well she had no family...did you even try..how do you feel inside that this young woman lay dead in your morgue right now..and you, we, didn’t even know the most basic of things about her..like her name?” She could have and should have gotten better treatment, you all know that, didn’t one of you speak up, give a little bit of a shit?”

But I didn't, what was the use, it was too late for her and I couldn't speak my throat choking back tears.

I could hardly catch my breath, eyes looking back at me without understanding, moving on to their next task already. My legs were shaking as I ran to the nearest bathroom, tears began to fall for this young life I had known all to briefly. Now in a place that cared not what she was or where she came from..finally at peace..as it should be.

Still..I wept for what was not hers on this earth..common decency and respect during the last days of her life, people to comfort, to say it’s all going to be okay..even if it wasn’t.

That day I spent in a park..under the shade of a great Cedar tree; a warm healing sun made its way through dense foliage to warm me every now and then, breathing fresh, clean, alive air. They wouldn’t let me see her again. I didn’t use that day..I was young, and I was learning what the world really thought of addicts. My future would hold many a lesson on the travesties done in the name of ‘ridding this world of drugs and their users.’ I called the city morgue for 3 months asking if anyone had claimed her body for burial. Before I left Vancouver, homebound to Montreal I called one last time. I was told a family member had been reached but no one had ever claimed her, so she was given a burial in potter’s field. I had asked to be notified if this would take place as I would’ve liked to have been there..no one ever called me. In truth though I buried her that day in the park..she was free..I felt her go..I felt her for a very little while…and it was good.

They (street people), called her Rose and by the way..within the week I saw her boyfriend arm in arm with a new gal. As we passed each other he looked up and asked if I’d heard Rose had died. I just gave him a sad little smile, nodded yes and went on my way. I guess rather than face the pain he’d moved on..as junkies and many people..are want to do during times of enormous stress.

Our time together was well spent I’d say..two strangers thrown together, ones life ending, the other a witness to her final hours..who after 4 days were as close as two people could be in a very special way. She said nothing..she said everything. She the teacher..I the student..her lessons done..mine just begun.

I think of Rose often during the course of a year..her pretty still face comes back to me. I long ago stopped asking why her..or others and not me, those questions are out of our hands, serve no good purpose. All we can do is accept that which we cannot change and when we know better, try and do better.

Rest well sweet Rose…you are remembered.

A Cat's Christmas - Tree Decorating 101

If you love cats as I do you'll appreciate the efforts of these two talented felines, Iris and Fern..as they go about showing us their tree decorating talents. Funny stuff, you'll get a kick out of it .

It is with great pleasure that I give you your instructors on how to assemble and decorate a Christmas tree,  Iris and Fern - 2 fluffy tailed kitty sisters'

Click here

http://www.fluffytails.ca/christmas.asp 

Great Cat Christmas Cards:
Click here

Have a
 everyone!


 

The 2006 Canadian Blog Awards

Voting has started for the 2006 Canadian Blog Awards. I'm nominated in one category..and that would be for my post 'On Any Given Highway' in the 'Best Blog Post,' category. If you liked the story..you can vote here once per day until Round One is complete. Once you get to the voting page you have to scroll down to the 'Best Blog Post' Category.

See what all this blogging does to a gal..I've never entered things like 25peeps before or been

nominated so I gots to get this competeing with my fellow man woman out of my system..hehe..still kinda fun though.

Even if I feel silly asking for help with it..I'm still on 25peeps

just barely though. The only reason me & Bella the Doberman are there at all is due to

you kind folks who take the time to wonder over there and click. Self-clicking is frowned

upon..grounds for disqualification even. Tsk tsk...where is their sense of fair-cheating.

Many thanks for your support.

25peeps.com...again and a petition for my fellow Canadians

25peeps.com Yep I'm on there again...probably won't stay up long with this one. Click away if you can..appreciate it. Bella the Dobie looks damn good doesn't she.

Click here to get to the above picture at 25peeps..and thank you.
http://www.25peeps.com/r/2346

Now on to a matter of a more serious nature regarding the last 3 living Canadian Veterans from the first World War. The Dominion Institute would like to see Prime Minister Stepen Harper offer a state funeral to the family of the last veteran.

If you think this is petition for a state funeral for Canada's last great war Veteran is a good idea, you can sign the petition here:

PETITION

http://www.dominion.ca/petition

What better way to honor and say thank you to these vets past and present. The petition will be sent to PM Stephen Harper.  

War Museum.
http://www.warmuseum.ca/cwm/cwme.asp

Saturday Photo Hunt - Theme 'Safe.'

 
'Safe' in my parents arms..those were the days..I
wish they'd never ended.

Ugly's Story

 Ugly's Story is a little further down.

First off I want to really thank everyone who clicked on 25peeps.com..I was knocked off yesterday..but had fun while it lasted...so again..thank you thank you thank you!

     I'd of been ousted long ago. Although I am no girlguide when it comes to the reality that sex sells..it's just strange to see it at work with your own body as the seller. I mean that it's happening at this time in my 'later' life (am no innocent) but those are stories for another day. In truth I've had fun with it and I suggest anyone with a little need for 'exposure' take a picture of their favorite erogenous zone..and have a go..like I said..no face covers your identity...no harm done.

Okay..continuing on to 'Uglys Story'..it's an anecdote on my blog that will always have its own page. I'm reposting it here today cause not many people visit the sidebar pages and because stuff like this needs to be read by as many people as possible

No one knows who wrote this story..or whether it is fictional or not..suffice to say it's not far from the truth...and that would in some cases be putting it very mildly.

Too many creatures on our planet are horribly abused on a daily basis. Until it stops completely..stories like this need to be out there. We are 'all' reponsible to either report immediately or act ourselves when we have knowledge of or are witness to abuse on children, animals, the elderly and sexual or domestic violence.

For today the story is about an animal..I give you:

Ugly's Story

 Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love. The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly.

 To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, and his left foot had appeared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner. His tail had long age been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would constantly jerk and twitch.

Ugly would have been a dark grey tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoulders with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction.”That’s one UGLY cat!”

All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave.

Ugly always had the same reaction. If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around feet in forgiveness. Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love. If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.

One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbors huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly’s sad life was almost at an end.

Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twisted grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white stripe of fur that ran down his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. I must be hurting him terribly I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear-

Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps compassion.

At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.

Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly. Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful.

He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply. To give my total to those I care for.

any people want to be richer, more successful,well liked, beautiful, but for me, I will always try to be Ugly.

~Author Unknown~

If you have or had an animal that you loved with your whole heart, please remember the strays and those who weren't lucky enough to meet you. Don't turn a blind eye, as hard as it is to see, sometimes even a kind word can be something.

 

Do you know of an abused or hurt animal that needs help right now?

Please, all you have to do is call the

American Society for the Prevention of Curelt to Animals

or

For the Canadian and International SPCA's click here

The creatures of our planet thank you from the bottom of their huge hearts...and so do I.

 

 

 

 

I'll get by with a little help from my friends..

I finally heard from 25peeps.com and have my pic up there..it looks like this:

http://www.25peeps.com/r/1778

Yes I know...I succumbed to a sexist picture..maybe next time I'll be brave and put my face up there. If anyone has some time and feels like voting for me and helping a gal out I'd much appreciate it

Once there you just click on the picture that looks like the one above. Here's the link and thanks much: http://www.25peeps.com/r/1778










Here's something that's actually pretty cool to watch. A guy took his picture for 8 years then put them all together in a video..It's only a few minutes long..talk about hair changes. It's called "Living My Life Faster,' see it http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1710434

There was a gorgeous Harvest Moon out in Montreal on October 6th...not sure if anyone caught it..but this is one of my fav times of year.

Technoarti Test Post

Technorati Profile

The Stuff Memories Are Made Of...

What always strikes me about estate or garage sales..is how what we 'own' really means nothing..like yesterday's news our belongings may as well be blowing off of sidewalks and into the wind.

Except for maybe one or two things...maybe.

In the case of the stuff belonging to somone who has passed it's even more apparent that it is so.I recall arriving at an aunts place right after she'd died..suitcases in hand..the first thing that struck me as I turned on light after light in her noiseless & dark little apartment..were a pair of her slippers. The soles still had imprints of her once living feet on them..they were placed neatly under her bed..heel parts sticking out where she'd left them so they'd be ready for her to slip into that next night.

The night of the day she died.

Like a good and loyal friend..is how they struck me. Perhaps it was the empty way I felt walking through her home..knowing she was gone..it too felt as if it (the apartment) knew the very short little German lady with the big big boobs..even bigger mouth and funny German accent pepperd with a southern drawl..would no longer bring life to its walls. Maybe that's why her slippers seemed..so..so connected if you will.

I went about the business of preparing for a funeral and that night when I arrived back at her place I headed straight for the shower stopping in the bedroom to pick out a change of clothes..as the room came into focus there they were again..waiting patiently..for a pair of feet that were long gone.

Surrounded by all of her things..they alone spoke to me of lonliness.

I stood staring at those lost looking yellow cotten terry cloth slippers for a very long long time.

Three days later after the memorial and contents of her place had appropriately been dealt with..I left Dallas..my aunt's ashes in tow besides me as I boarded the plane. She was going home to her final resting place in Germany..to lie besides they who had birthed her and those of her siblings who had passed on.

I was taking her half way.

What no one knows..even to this day..is her loyal and lonely slippers made the trip with her.

'We' are all that we have and even that is sometimes debatable. As inanimate as they may have been..if we're real, real lucky..we'll all have something as simple & true at the end; escorting us to a place that holds the promise we'll have more than only ourselves some day...just like my aunt had.

Rest well dear aunt..rest well.

Thanks much to Tui for the memory trigger.

Everyone's Favorite Crocidile Hunter..Steve Irwin Dead at 44

I was indeed very saddened to hear of Steve Irwin's death..and what bad luck was that..to be stung..in the heart no less..by a Stingray on a diving expedition for a documentary. Life need not imitate fiction with stories like this one.



From the Associated Press:

CAIRNS, Australia - Steve Irwin, the hugely popular Australian television personality and environmentalist known as the “Crocodile Hunter,” was killed Monday by a stingray while filming an underwater documentary on the Great Barrier Reef. He was 44.

Irwin was killed by a stingray barb to the heart on Batt Reef, off the remote resort town of Port Douglas in northeastern Queensland state, his wildlife park Australia Zoo said in a statement.

Crew members aboard Irwin’s boat, Croc One, called emergency services in the nearest city, Cairns, and administered CPR as they rushed the boat to nearby Low Isle to meet a rescue helicopter. Medical staff pronounced Irwin dead a short time later, the statement said.

Continuation click here


Deepest condolances to his wife child and family.

This Sweet & Bitter Pill..

called addiction..
how it changes all things, plans, outlooks, moods, loves, hates, times, laughter,
tears, goals, life & yes
even death.

As much as it made me crazy to not do..I didn't score last night..I waited until the last possible moment to call (a game I play to stay away), and last night my luck was having none of it. No one called back..yes I paced..swore..watched the clock mercilessly..dialed & dialed the number a hundred plus times..berated myself for wanting..for waiting..but I did achieve what I set out to do..not score.

This morning bright and early..

I could hardy wait to wake up..sleeping just on this side of the unconscious..eyes popping open at the exact time I knew the dealer of my chosen wares

switched his cell on.. as he prepares for yet another day of silent &

prolonged killing.

I sit here with itchy fingers..the cell staring me down..my eyes reflecting in its dark shiny plastic daring me to wait again...to try & put it off again..to go without again. Already thinking I'm not going to be able to abstain today..that's for sure..as my defeatest attitude rears its taunting head...beating down & out any & all parts of me who dares to try. Like a ruthless lover who you crave way to much..opiates beckon me to call for them.

If I can get through this day and not cop..ha..well that's a joke..it just aint happening.

Yes I could take alot of methadone and wait it out but the truth is I don't want to...I really don't. These stages we go through are mind boggling sometimes. I can resist for a long time and be doing perfectly fine for months on end with only juice (methadone), then I run into a pocket of time where all I want..crave..need and simply gots to have..is just one more glorious, delicious 'hug me all over and over and over again' hit. The feeling is unparalleled..the warmth flooding every cell of my being...there is absolutely nothing else like it..not sex..not love..not music..not laughter..not anger..not thrills..not all of the senses combined..not all of the above together times one thousand.

Nothing.

There has to be more to it than it's addictive properties..it's as if the dope is an entity unto itself..finding its legs its life when it enters our bloodstream..some might liken this to a vampire..a sucker of the soul..and they would not be far off. Still I say..if it is so..well bite me bite me bite me & fucking bite me again.

Please.

I write this and I want to not write this..I spend most of my time fighting what I've written here with every fiber of my being..denying..saying I'm okay..no not shooting dope anymore..I've grown

Bullshit.. if I'm being honest..if I am speaking truth..this is what comes out strong..this is what has walked beside me through it all..accompanied me to places no other would..through thick and thin..through times of everything and of nothingness..this is really how I feel...heroin is my passion..and sadly or nay..it's the only one I've ever found.

I have no desire to write..to be creative..to think..to feel..to 'do' anything..

but go and score.

Shameful revalations of the self indeed..

______________________________________________
Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death.
~Jean Cocteau~

This is Ground Control to Major Blogger's or Something a Little Different.

I've had a disturbing week and will blog about it soon..time is scarce right now..but I did want to add something here and thought this was kind of cool. Now I realise I sometimes have all the time in the world and many may find this task boring..but I kinda like it. So without further adieu I bring you a way to pass the hours and help the scientific world at the same time. Tres cool no. p>

The University of California at Berkeley's Stardust@Home project, is geared towards finding a small number of star dust particles which (could) have become embedded in an aerogel collector on the Stardust spacecraft as it passed through the tail of the Wild 2 comet. Since this task would take many years if they analysed the data themselves, they've invited us..the public to give a helping hand & eye. You need only view a quick introduction and take an easy test and register; to help them view slides from microscope images of the collector and report if there looks to be a possible particle present. And all this from the cozy comfort of your own pc..imagine how 'part of the solution & bigger picture' you'll feel

Yea..okay well..'some' of us will feel then.

Comet Flyby.

Understanding what powers a comet

Happy particle hunting one & all!

And for a little added pleasure try

What Year Do You Belong In?

Mine came back as:

You Belong in 1962

If you scored... 1950 - 1959: You're fun loving, romantic, and more than a little innocent. See you at the drive in! 1960 - 1969: You are a free spirit with a huge heart. Love, peace, and happiness rule - oh, and drugs too. 1970 - 1979: Bold and brash, you take life by the horns. Whether you're partying or protesting, you give it your all! 1980 - 1989: Wild, over the top, and just a little bit cheesy. You're colorful at night - and successful during the day. 1990 - 1999: With you anything goes! You're grunge one day, ghetto fabulous the next. It's all good!

What Year Do You Belong In?

Puppet-tear-Master

As an active addict there are times in my day when it seems the insane emotional ups & downs will never end. It's all about understanding and gauging our abilities to handle things..staying away from those situations we're uncomfortable in..at least until we are stronger..and surrounding ourselves with the simple stuff..or sitautons we can trust. Build over time..slowly...little tiny wee baby steps.

Ah 'trust' now there's a word that packs a punch in my world..it's one thing to not trust others..but when you can't trust yourself..you're really in a fix aren't you...yep..a nice tight spot all by your lonsome and of your own making to boot.

I think for at least a year (some more..some less..some forever and a day (like it's turning out to be in my case), after coming off of dope our emotions are so brand spanking new to us..really they've been in lock down haven' they ...pushed back by the dope that numbed/s them. Like just the other day I was watching this movie called "In Her Shoes,' I found my eyes starting to tear up every now and again..and there really wasn't anything that sad about it. I kinda laughed this nervous little laugh..wiped my eyes and mumbled to my stunned cats who were all sitting around the living room watching me intently "Yep mum is losing it for real..pay her no mind..she doesn't have a clue why she's going on like this either.' I hit the pause button and up I get..treking into the kitchen for some comfort food..shaking my head at my reaction. After fixing an extra large portion of comfort I gathered myself up and headed back into the living room..grabbed a box of kleenex on the way..hit the 'play' button and began digging into the bowl of 'double chocolate fudge ice-cream with jello..cream and fudgeo cookies' added to the mix. The cool sweet sweet mixture is doing its sugar fix duty and blurring the last few minutes from my mind.

All appears well in my world again and I laugh at some of the goings on in the movie. No sonner have I ha-ha-ed and forgotten when I spot teardrops hitting the melting pot of ice-cream in my bowl...then I just couldn't stop..all hell broke loose..they came out like a 40 day and 40 night flood..only unlike Noah's flood there seemed to be no end in site

I don't know about other people but for some reason when I cry the tear/s usually come out of one tear duct/eye. Only when things are really serious do I tear from both eyes..okay..well I was crying from both tear ducts like the rest of the world...a sure clue to me that something was indeed amiss. Now I'm all alone at home except for my beloved cats..yet I am not allowing myself to make any sounds..and my body is so stiff so tense you'd think I was standing at the frontlines of a war..crying but no crying sounds are coming from me. And maybe that's exactly what is was..the war inside of me begging for some outcome..any outcome..any reaction from my former self..only not this stiff..rigid piece of work I seemed to be.

I think to myself..why..why won't you help release all this pent up 'whatever' that's literally fighting to be heard..squeezing..bulldozing itself out of two teeny ducts in the form of salted tears and chemicals..screaming for release? So release.

There was nothing left for this former shell of myself to do but finally acquiesce..give myself permission to make some noise..to let my body shake..rattle and humble with a good old fashioned cryfest..yes that aught to do something..change something. Only when I do..the cracked gutteral noise coming from somewhere deep down inside of me sound so absolutely and completely foreign to my ears...I freeze up again..become silent..become the stranger..play the heart-less tin woman like in the Wizard of Oz..as if lot's of people are watching me do this..I clam right up..I actually turn red for myself.



I could feel my cheeks burning a deep shade of red..embarassed..bare assed..as if every one of my emotions..faults and fears were laid out for all the world to see. I felt groggy..dizzy..benumbed..like I'd been stun-gunned at the sudden realization.

I had forgotten how to cry

And I felt shame.

I felt shame..even when the only world watching..

was me.

When did this happen to me..when did I abandon my God or 'whatever given' right to feel..to show feeling..to be a feeler? Suddenly..as quickly as the tears had come..I felt fear..I was very, very afraid for myself...this self.




And how bizarre is it that I try and comfort others who have the guts to lay their souls wide open..does this mean I am a hypocrate..does this mean I can only 'feel' vicariously through them..and more importantly..how did the little girl that was me so long ago survive when she was no longer allowed..given permission to cry. Did she even realise it was being taken from her...did she understand the drug-walk that began so innocently in her very first year of adolescence would lead to this..all these 36 years later. Like some fairy tale twisted into a hairy-scarey-tale..gone horribly wrong..the ending is yet unclear.

I had become a puppet master of myself…controlling every aspect..covering every raw emotion..pulling my own strings.

And as human beings..we simply 'have' to do raw..we are good at raw..raw feeds our souls...without raw we are truly baked..finished..full of shit.

I was a mess...

am a mess..

but it seems for now anyway..life in all its abandon..savagery & glory is alotting me the time & space to attempt a do-over.. to learn....and practice..to thaw out from this self-imposed freeze..to find the raw inside again..and for that I am ever greatful.

Learn I shall..and in time...cry I will..like I was meant to.

Rockstar-Supernova

The new Rockstar line-up is in...the contenders imho so far..are Luckas Ross (28) from Toronto & South Africa's very talented Dilana Robichaux (34) with Icelands own Iceman, Magni & Aussie Toby Rand coming in 3rd and 4th.

Lady D aka Dilana

She Talks To Angels
Click above to hear Dilana do what I think is a signature version of The Black Crows 'She Talks to Angels.'


Here's her revamped & gutsy version of Johnny Cash's 'Ring of Fire.'

The best of July 18th's contenders:

Listen as last night (July 18th) Dilana did a memorable take of the Cranberries song 'Zombie.'


Lukas Rossi

Lukas Rossi did the Rolling Stones proud with his made over version of 'Let's Spend The Night Together.'

Magni surprises every week..here he is doing the Stone Temple Pilot's 'Plush,' and doing it well I might add.

Phil Ritchie giving props to Jefferson Airplane's 'White Rabbit.'


For a look at the other contenders click here: Rockstars


Zombie Lyrics
by Cranberries

Another head hangs lowly,
Child is slowly taken.
And the violence caused such silence,
Who are we mistaken?

But you see, it's not me, it's not my family.
In your head, in your head they are fighting,
With their tanks and their bombs,
And their bombs and their guns.
In your head, in your head, they are crying...

In your head, in your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie,
Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,
In your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie?
Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, dou, dou, dou, dou, dou...

Another mother's breakin',
Heart is taking over.
When the vi'lence causes silence,
We must be mistaken.

It's the same old theme since nineteen-sixteen.
In your head, in your head they're still fighting,
With their tanks and their bombs,
And their bombs and their guns.
In your head, in your head, they are dying...

In your head, in your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie,
Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,
In your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie?
Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, oh, oh,
Oh, oh, oh, oh, hey, oh, ya, ya-a...

Ode to the great Pooh-Bah Ramen or Prison Delight

Funny how a taste of something will bring with it a flood of memories..today 'soup' did just that for me. Here's a little anecdote going back to the early 1990's...during the days I spent as a guest of the federal government.

I just ate a bowl of an old junky/doper's and struggling students favorite..the must have 'sodium laden and loaded with artery-clogging palm oil' staple found in every poor mans cupboard. Bricks of dried ramen noodles and packaged powdered broth "Ramen Soup!" Chicken noodle of course with a little cayenne thrown in for extra tastebud 'zings.' Every country must have these soups..found in all super market's..convenience stores and goodie welfare grab bags across North America..4 for a buck..a quarter for one or down to 8 cents a serving if bought by the caseload. Actually aquired a taste for them when I was inside prison. Anyone who's ever done time knows how pathetic prison cantines can be and cafeteria grub can be worse..made more so if you lack the funds to purchase cantine. For the price..well..a convict could do worse. Cheese..any cheese by-product or something remotely resembling cheese is hard to come by and classified a luxory in the pen. To be served & savored but once a month..at least at the one I was in. Naturally for a cheese loving gal like meself..this just would not do. I had to figure out a way to get my bi-weekly hits of all things cheese like..preferably 'cheddary' cheeselike.

I scanned the cantine menu looking for ways to do just this when low and behold..be still my incarcerated heart..I actually saw they were selling CHEEZ WHIZ® (like that '® ' pretty snazey huh..hehehe) aka good ole american processed cheese. Pricey pricey pricey..but as it was the most luxurious item on the list save for cigarettes..I suppose it earned its place as a top pricer after the sit they try and pas s of as cheese in the cafeteria. A good thing I didn't rely on the 2.19$ a day I made teaching pottery for cantine..or I would have craved more than just cheese..for a looong..looong time.

Back to the recipie. As luck would have it..I managed to secure the much respected and sought after prsion j.o.b. of delivering cantine every first Tuesday of the month. This position is a biggy (akin to CEO-ship or close) and much envied because whoever had it..had their finger on the pulse of the goings on inside..an important connection in any prison. It was considered a position of trust by both sides of the fence..and too..both sides knew the importance to the prison population of having a cantine delivery go off without a hitch. As well it paid a whole 5 cents more than my Atelier (workshop) position. Always ccompanied by a screw (guard) throughout..my day started filling the orders in the commissary then packing the bags for delivery to the women. As you can well imagine..more than cantine made it into some of those bags. What I liked best about doing cantine was the glimpses it afforded into areas of the prsion no other inmate ever saw save for a small cleaning crew..the librarian and those doing time in said section. In some cases I saw and became the only non-guard face these women had bothered looking at in over 6 years. Women who could not be in the general population because of the nature of their crimes..who were spit at..jumped at every turn or held in total contempt..became real people to me. For those few minutes on the first Tuesday of every month they were no more the sum of their crimes..than I was mine.

I held that job for my whole stay..not a reference I put on my creative resume.. though in hindsight..perhaps I should.

On that first cantine Tuesday as soon as I signed off on the last order and returned to the stock room, I grabbed my own signed and paid for cantine bag filled with 2..yes you read it here first and you read it right...'2' jars of delghtfully bright orange Cheez Whiz; and ran..in anticipation..almost sliding on my own salivia..straight into my cell. Alas..I could not wait to prepare my version of 'Soup O' Gratin' that time. Nope I sure couldn't..instead I deftly unscrewed that sucker..the familiar and much missed 'pop' of the top was music to my institutionalised ears; and dipped as many fingers as would fit way down into the Cheez Whiz jar..scooping up as much as my fingers could hold into my mouth. I know..a tad piggish..but until you yourself are that hungry for a certain flavor..crave its essence..judge me not good people.

Ahhhh pleasure I tell you..pure..pure..unadulterated & unbiased pleasure.

I cannot begin to describe the changes my tongue went through that day..the tastebud sensations were like none other before. Know my friends..the tongue can and does go through heavy detox's in its own right. I am a witness. Damn that was good. It's a real keeper that memory

Opps..be back..someone is bugging my front door...

Back..25th june 12:21 am.

Have asked this question before..why do people not call before they come over..nothing gets me like that gets me. Okay so it never bothered me before my days of using..but that was so long ago there can't possibly be anyone who still remembers my 'open door' policy. Yes I was a far more social soul with energy to spare back then. Perhaps she will return one day...until then..call first!

I've lost all desire to finish up this post..but I'll run over the 'Ramen O' Gratin' to wrap this one up. As I was saying..when I first made this in jail the ladies went nuts for it..some of us hadn't tasted melted crusty cheese in forever. Right..so you boil your water and have the Ramen soup either in a deep bowl..or if it comes in a cup like it did inside..even better for this. Now smear your Cheez Whiz all over the top nice and thick like..then pour the boiling water to just below the last of the noodles..making sure not to touch the cheese whiz with any water (very important). Cover the bowl with something heavy and let it sit for at least 10 minutes. If it's a cup same thing. Find yourself a comfortable spot..grab a box of Ritz crackers for the cheesy liquid soup left at the bottom of the bowl/cup when you're done sucking up the noodles..and remove the covering. Voila..you have instant 'Soup O' Gratin'..nice and hard and melted cheese on top..soft springy noodles underneath..excellent flavored soup broth at the bottom..and majorly yummy I promise you.

May not sound like much to you now..but if you ever find yourself behind bars craving cheese..I betcha time served..you think back to this post here.

*smile*

Later gator's...have yourself a sensational day filled with flavors galore.




&



That's what prison soup is....M'm! M'm! Good!

It sure beats the hell out of



There's actually an art to the creating of Ramen soup taken quite seriously by folks in the far east. One of my favoirite movies is all about the making of the best ramen flavored soup. It's a 1985 Japanese film called 'Tampopo' the first Noodle Western (ha), by director Juzo Itami. In it ramen restaurant's' compete for business by trying to make the best broth to go with their ramen noodles. Now the instant soups I speak of in this post can in no way compete with the homemade..kinda like our instant soups here...still..I love them. Check this very unique and entertaining movie out if you ever feel the need to know about all things 'ramen.' Or even if you don't.



Tampopo

The Offical Ramen homepage with recipes et al.

In closing and however you choose to enjoy your soups..I wish you all very happy ramen-ing.

All Hail To Saint-Jean-Baptiste aka John The Baptist

June 24th officially signals the start of party time in Montreal..this week-end opens with a double whammy..the Grand Prix and the Fête Nationale (National Holiday); of Saint-Jean-Baptiste patron saint to our fellow french Canadians. All across this great country of ours the french express their cultural pride and rich heritage through colourful parades and high-spirited parties marking Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day. These celebrations combine the ancient rites of the summer solstice with the traditional celebration in honour of the Patron Saint of French Canadians, who was officially proclaimed as such by His Holiness Pope Pius X in 1908. To say nothing of the all-weekend drinking..dancing and whopping it up done on our fine streets by everyone under the age of 100...and probably some over.

Next week-end and right on the heels of old Saint Jean..comes Canada Day on July 1st...traditionally known as 'English' Canada's day to get down...but for now..this week-end belongs to the French among us..and in all truth they sure know how to celebrate a national holiday (better than we english do Canada Day imho).   

  Really though any good standing Canadian citizen worth their party animal weight in Molson Canadian or Labatt 50 (beer) will take advantage of a reason to party...be it in french english or franglais/franglish. So wherever one looks in this beautiful province of Quebec this week-end they'll see flags flying high & proud off of balconies..car antenna’s and glittering renditions of the fleur dis lis painted on childrens cheeks. Inbetween the world soccer cup games and revving Formula One engines on televison (and the streets-not formula 1's but souped up fakes)..music can be heard blaring out of open windows from Montreal east to Quebec city and all around the rest of this province.

Downtown streets are sectioned off so foot traffic can rule..and in broken french..tourists can be heard asking for the next cool place to find a drink after hours. The smells of french canadian cuisine and local homegrown skunk (marijuana) wafts from small intimate cafe's..and 3 in the morning may as well be 3 in the afternoon for all the time people are 'not paying attention to' this week-end. Young and old meld together to find equal ground and can often be seen dancing in the streets..toasting to each others health and trading recipes..some legal..some not so illegal if under a certain weight. Yes folks..it's a damn fine time in my city..when the natives are friendly and could care less what language you speak (most have mellowed in that area anyway)..wish you were here to taste of it.

 

    It's the kind of time I imagine our Quebec License plate slogan 'Je me souviens' or 'I will remember,' was made for..a time where nowhere else on the planet looks as good to me or could persuade me to leave.

Too bad it never lasts.

 

  As aforely mentioned..next weekend is Canada day...prior to 1982 it was known as Dominion Day, First of July, Confederation Day, and July the First. Trust the english to over-compensate eh..though now we like to keep everything nice and non confusing...so Canada Day it is. Canada's national celebration is always observed on July 1..unless that date falls on a Sunday. In which case it is observed the following day...in truth the two holidays coming back to back like they do gives cause for weeks long celebrations..so it doesn't really matter what day it falls on. People are taking more days off now than any other time during the summer. Unlike the July 4th celebrations of our neighbours to the south in the United States or our homegrown Quebecois Saint Jean Baptiste day..where partying is the name of the game..Canada Day seems to be celebrated in a more reserved manner...or so I have always thought. Still there are a few of us acorss this great country of ours who still know how to close and open a bar or two.

 

  Coinciding with next week-ends festivities is our very own and very excellent..if I may say so myself International Jazz Festival...it's always a guaranteed pleaser and swinging good time is usually had by all. The streets of downtown are virutally filled to their brims with seas of people..every conceivable nationality is represented and most are jazz lovers extrodinaire and those who happen to straggle in for the 'experience' of it..will be soon enough. Blues royalty, the 80 year old B.B King in the company of Garrett & Dutch Mason will privilage our ears this summer. And maybe..if I'm very..very lucky he'll do Lucille..whatever tunes the great pooh-bah King chooses to do..his marvelous sexy..whiskey tenor of a voice is sure to make old & new fans alike speak volumes about seeing him live for some time to come. Martha Wainwright's 'Bye Bye Blackbird' could make this gal cry into her drink if done at the right time..and the Neville Brothers 'Yellow Moon,' well it may just get me up on my sandaled feet. I'm hoping anyway..some of these songs will be played. These are just a few of the names whose voices will fill our fine cities hot summer streets this Jazzz fest. Wish you were here!

 

Happy Fête Nationale dear Quebec!

 

Later mes amis

The Angel & Her Devils

Visit Them here

You Darkness

You darkness, that I come from,

I love you more than all the fires

that fence in the world,

for the fire makes

a circle of light for everyone,

and then no one outside learns of you

But the darkness pulls in everything:

shapes and fires, animal and myself,

how easily it gathers them!--

powers and people--

and it is posssible a great energy

is moving near me.

I have faith in nights

~Ranier Maria Rilke~

Thoughts on the half-shell

Wild Horses by the Stones comes to me from an fm station..easily breaking through my lost in thought mood. It's a tune I've not heard in way too long. The song lolls my brain into remembering a time when the days melded into nights..one after the other...when the tip of a needle sliding under my skin and into my oh so protected veins was still a relatively novel experience for me. I hadn't realised yet how it would hang onto me..its grip on my very life-force..unrelenting..for decades to come. Refusing to let go with its dark whispers and promises of "I'll make it all better..I'll make it all go away..forever and ever..and day after day."

No thing will ever offer you more.

The music played on..coaxing the memories to come. Of a a sweet young man dancing on his mothers rosewood dining room table top..in his purple with black shooting stars..UK bikini underwear..and made to measure green spanish-leather cowboy boots. Fine boots they were..with even finer sexy flamenco-like heels moving up & down..up & down to the beat of some 'Ten Years After' song. That he was yelled at for leaving scuff marks behind on the poilished wood was little price to pay for the pleasure we had..the laughter and mad love we made afterwards...we were lost in each others bodies..lost in our own high minds..arms and legs entwined..intoxicating smells and it all seemed to go on forever..into endless nights and tomorrows. As promised.

And we were..for all the insanity of the day..of the times..so very interconnected.

I will always adore the old songs for that..for their ability to transport me back in time to a better..still believing and very alive place.


The dark almost moonless night is now comfortably cool after a hot & humid day. The heat comes on so suddenly these last years..it bombards..too extreme..no more the slow shifting of the seasons I remember so fondly from my childhood. Like the freeze..the summer too leaves no time inbetween for the blood to acclimate..no real spring and fall anymore. We should replace those two seasons with words like leap & shock. Yes..then the seasons would be Winter, Leap, Summer & Shock..that would be more honest..more like it really is.

Front & rear windows rolled down..allowing the thick stagnant finally cooled air of earlier to waft its way across sticky seats. Seeming to instinctively seek out my still damp & sweaty skin..drying me as it works its way to release through the passenger side & back windows...cooling me. The lone car I'm driving heads as if self-propelled down a quiet street whose once bright windows have all now grown dark..giving one..at least the appearance..the souls inside are bedded down peacfully for the night. As I drive slowly past them I wonder at that..at how peacfully some of them really are sleeping..if at all. How many lie with eyes wide shut..staring at ceilings..tense..quiet not to wake whomever lies beside them..thought after thought quelling any hope of their finding peace on this night.

How many..probably far more than I think..I was them once..albeit briefly..yet enough so I know.

It is late and I am driving towards the meeting..the dealer..the man..one of manyservers of brief delight and a liftime of pain. To he who can hand me my own idea of satisfaction in a papered powder that will help me get sleep on this night. It is ritualistic in nature this regimented routine of ours..of all dopers & addicts..it is the part of the game we are addicted to as much as the drug itself...this established pattern..this sacred custom...that any who do not partake of it would think insane...and they would be right. This point in time where goods and cash quickly exchange hands..anticpation building..blood pounding..knowing release is in the coming. Soon..so so soon.

Only to start it all over again.


To hear Wild Horses Click Here and either click 'Download or Play Now' a new smaller window will open..the song will load and then play.

Lyrics:

Childhood living is easy to do
The things you wanted I bought them for you
Graceless lady you know who I am
You know I can't let you slide through my hands

Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses, couldn't drag me away

I watched you suffer a dull aching pain
Now you decided to show me the same
No sweeping exits or offstage lines
Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind

Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses, couldn't drag me away

I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie
I have my freedom but I don't have much time
Faith has been broken, tears must be cried
Let's do some living after we die

Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them some day

Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them some day

Wild Horses by
(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

It’s That Time of Year Again - Northward Bound

   Laptoping it as a friend drives the distance to open up the country cottage for the summer.

Well technically this is a second visit..the first was in early spring when she and hubby went to turn water on..hook up gas and make the earth ready in preperation for the gardening of all things green..some legal..some legal in small quantities.

 

 

 At least the car is a smooth ride so typing isn't as all over the place as it could be..has been. We caught the beginning of traffic but for the most part beat it out of the city just in time. The white-lined highways are relatively empty but for a few environmental savvy souls who brave the 100 plus click trek back and forth to work everyday..winter, spring, summer & fall..and all for what? To say they don't live among the racing rats anymore. Actually yes..to say exactly that..don't get me wrong I'm a huge fan of country living and have tired my hand at it several times over the years. Yes fine folks..been there done that..unless you're within 20 miles either way it's very difficult to do full time..at least it was for me. I began to suffer burnout. I have several friends who do it and the lag from no sleep..driving all the bloody time and forced nights spent in the city because of emergencies..bad weather...car problems, etc. seems to take whatever peace & health one may reap and turns it into country stress.

 

Not for me anymore..this country living..although I love it to death and vow to return someday because it does make for a much happier & content Mary. I often miss it.

We're soon coming up on the tiny old english village that lies nestled in Quebec's heartland..one of thousands of small french towns just like it. A spectacular showcase of forest, rockface & water..the cottage lies smack dab in the middle of all that wild nature..20-25 short but steep..downhill feet to a lake that allows no motor boating or potential polluting paraphernalia inside of it...one can drink from this rumored bottomless lake..and we do...the water is sweet..earthy..fresh & ice-cold, it never disappoints. I always take loads back with me into the city.

It really is a little wonderland of nature..sometimes late at night..after smoking very decent but stinky Quebec homegrown skunk..we'll stand at the kitchen window and prepare for a show. There are not many television stations worth watching up there so it serves as our nature channel. I kid you not I've seen signs of nocturnal eyes and insects through this window that seem to come from another world..who knows perhaps they do. If it happens to be a full or close to a full moon the forest outside is bathed in its milky beams..making everything seem cloaked in a fog-like mystery. Yet surprisingly what needs to be seen is silhouetted..its shape standing out in sharp contrast.

The kalidescop-ish array of moth life outside will hone in on the small candle that burns bright inside the window..attaching themselves on the other side of the glass..repaying us in kind with colors..unique lovemaking..wing spreads and dances I'd pay to see. They sport designs on body parts to challenge even the most gifted artists among us. It sometimes looks like strange alien pseudo eyes are staring back at you..fixated..flapping its lids as the wings vibrate faster than the human eye can catch.

 

Their gift at camouflage and disguise is astonishingly impressive. We've stood there for hours on end watching..fascinated as a neverending display of bug life and such entertain endlessly. Truly a spectacle that if you've never witnessed before..you should make a point of doing before death takes you.

The only thing I dislike about coming up here during the damp months..is the black-flies & mosquito's..they are relentless those bastards are.   I couldn't believe this happend but last summer..on the last day of a week long stay I was eaten alive (or so it seemed at the time) by all manner of bus that snack on human blood for life...mosty the dreaded blackfly though. It was around 4 in the afternoon and I was packing the car for the trip back into the city. Doing it as qucikly as possible too..now keep in mind I'd been up there 5 days already and managed to only incur 2 or 3 bites which was amazing in itself. This particular area of Quebec is well known for its horrible black fly seasons. I decided it best to drive the 4 or 5 too heavy bags of trash down to the end of the long driveway..close to the highway..rather than walk. I figured I'd beat the bugs a little at their own game..nope I shoulda thought again..it was while there as I emptied the trash that the crime happened. Insanity ensued..they circled me like Crazy Horse and his warriors encircled Custer's and gang at his last stand. These bugs showed me no mercy..not but 10 short minutes later I was standing under the hose (trying to shoo them off of me) covered from head to foot in blackfly..mosquito (and I even think a bee got in on the act), bites. Pam came running out of the cabin with a canister of industrial strength bug juice killer and proceded to soak me in the stuff. All too late though the damage had already been done. "Shit, Pam..these bastards are dangerous..let's get the hell outta here while we're still alive!" Laughing we quickly locked down the house..whistled for the dog..jumped into the car and made like bats outta hell for the highway home.

   

 I swear as we drove out it seemed like an army of blackflies and whatever mercenary escort bugs they do their dirty deeds with..chased us out. Even Prudence..Pam's beautiful and pretty tough Rottweiler was freaked. As I turned around so I could reach down and pet her in the back..I murmered reassuringly scratching under her chin "Not to worry girl..we're headed towards citylife and safety..well from the damn bugs anyway." She was hunkered down on the floor of the back seat still cringing..but her stubby tailsaid it all..it was wagging for all it was worth.

Exhausted..we rolled 3 windows down so the air could blow..whatever bloodsucking stragglers had hitched a ride in hope of more 'methadone rich' tainted blood..into oblivion. The drive home was uneventful except for my constant scratching and accompanying sounds. After Pam dropped me off at my place and we said our goodbyes..I went straight into the house..kissed all 7..much missed kities one by one..then raced towards the bathroom..pealing off damp icky 'bug juice' smelling clothes as I went. The long cool shower soothing what ailed me for the moment.

Several hours later I began to cough..a few more after than I had a raging fever of 102 and climbling. Suffice to say I got horribly sick with a mysterious fever after spending a week there..perhaps it hit me so hard because I hadn't been up north in a couple of summers and had little or no resistance to their venom...maybe it was both lungs and skin taking in all that industrial killer bug juice spray..I am not sure. Whatever it was I've no mind to repeat the same thing this year. No..indeed not..I am prepared..more so than any Boy Scout or Girlguide ever was..I hope.

I actually wrote a post about it (link below) it when it happend..almost exactly a year ago next week..funny.
bite me…june 28/005 8:55..The Bug Chronicles 1

 

And then of course...there's the array of wildlife and insects who bedded down for the winter in the cottage and stayed way passed their welcome into the now. Soon we greet the spiders who wait hidden in warm & dark places to greet us.  

 Oh joy!  

   Wolf Spider (up close)...this creature came scattering out from inbetween folded blankets last summer at around this same time..with babies on her back to boot..they piggy-back them until the little itsy-bitsy darlings can manage on their own.

A wolf-spider mama with babies on board..apparently they have these blue-green eyes that reflect & shine at night.

They are quite visible even at long distances...occasionally and if we're very very lucky we'll see a spectacular show 'a la wolf-spider and familia.' Apparently when the female's young have hatched and she carries them on her back..each gives off an eyeshine of their own..making mama appear like she's wearing her own version of a very beautiful and glimmering disco coat.

           Wolf spiders (family Lycosidae) capture their prey with speed and power, aided by eyes that can see in four directions at once.

Oh more joy.