Optical Illusions

On March 31, 2014March 31, 2014 By dancingpalmtreesIn Autism, Back Alleys, Better Homes & Gardens, Broken Angels, cacophony, Catharsis, Damaged Goods, DeBorah, Depression, Developmental Disabilities, Diabetes, Disability, Dissonance, Edward Palmer, Fallen Angels, House Beautiful, Images, Inner-City, Inscriptions, John 21:18, Kinky/Nappy Hair, Koyaanisqatsi, Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous, Lyrical Family Memories, Mable Elizabeth Palmer, Mable Palmer, Optical illusions, profane, Rheingold, Sacred, Scars, Schaefer, soul, Stephen Vincent Palmer, Stigmata, Tattoos, Under belly, Unloved, Unwanted1 Comment

When I was a little girl during the 1960s my mother had a love affair with Better Homes & Gardens and House Beautiful magazines. However try as she might and my Mom was an excellent decorator (I believe she missed her calling) with two kids, a husband who smoked and various dogs our house was never as clean or as orderly as those pictured in the magazines. Periodically my 4’11” 95 lb mother would move those big heavy 1950s furniture from one end of the living room to the next causing my father great consternation when he tripped over tables or chairs that seemed to magically appear usually around Midnight when he got home from his late shift.

Though the houses and rooms were beautiful, they were only beautiful in an anti-septic, unlived in way. Pure white living rooms untouched by jumping muddy dogs, kids with drippy Popsicles, or cans of Rheingold and Schaefer beer cans making little rings on the end tables.

Everything is arranged, after all those pictures are photo shoots put together for maximum impact to the readers. Kitchens where nary a fried chicken or pork chop popped grease or soup boiled over. No cans of Crisco sitting on the counter-top. No spilled glasses of Kool-Aid, Orange Crush, Coca-Cola or Pepsi.

No smells of fish and chittlin’s being cleaned or bugs flying in from the holes in the ratty screens we put in the windows during the summer because we had no air conditioning. The pop and sizzle of the steel straightening comb being pulled through my Ultra Sheen saturated nappy kinky hair on a Saturday night in preparation for Sunday school in the morning.

Too perfect and we all know that life is not perfect. I like furniture to have character. Those little cracks, dents and chips give an openness and appeal that utter perfection cannot rival.

My family’s lives were not perfect. We were and are real people with real lives. Nothing is staged. My mother was a functioning schizophrenic alcoholic, my Dad was in a job that he found not fulfilling, my brother was born with Autism, I’ve battled depression since my teen years. No there are no picture perfect lives here. But now I’m no longer afraid or ashamed of my battle scars. I wear them proudly. I’ll take the nitty-gritty, those who society has deemed damaged goods, the unloved, the unwanted, the back alleys and the under belly of the business district at night, inner-city over Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous any day. I’m Blessed to be a Broken Angel.

As for disability Jesus said it best, John 21:18
Common English Bible (CEB)
18 I assure you that when you were younger you tied your own belt and walked around wherever you wanted. When you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and another will tie your belt and lead you where you don’t want to go.”

http://www.upworthy.com/a-gorgeous-woman-shakes-her-body-on-stage-and-the-crowd-goes-wild?c=reccon1

I’m Still Here

On February 27, 2014February 27, 2014 By dancingpalmtreesIn 50+, Acceptance, Alice's Restaurant, Catherine Townsend-Lyon, Character, DeBorah, Mable Elizabeth Palmer, Mable Palmer, Pharmacia Cornucopia, Pusherman, rabbit hole, Shinnyo-en Buddhism, Spirituality, Stigmata, Suffering, Suicide, The Walking Dead, Understanding, White Rabbit3 Comments

I’m Still Here…………

http://youtu.be/BbhEo-4_ETc

Today I am 55 years old. It is a Blessing to be this age. I have depression, anxiety and panic attacks. I’m also a domestic violence and sexual abuse survivor. I’m the person sitting next to you on the bus, subway, at work and in church. No I don’t want pity just acceptance. Recently I had a conversation on my Facebook page regarding mental illness. It was good sharing with my FB buddy who works in the mental illness field about the obstacles and hurdles faced not only by the mentally ill but their families. The government just seems to put more roadblocks in our way so we wind up taking many detours towards a place called Wellness. My mother Mable Elizabeth Palmer lived most of adult life as a functioning schizophrenic. There is a serious lack of support services for the mentally ill thus we read of all these horror stories in the newspapers but for the most part many mentally ill folks carry on with their daily lives. Despite all that I’ve been through as a child and again as an adult I’m happy to be alive.

Sometimes when I tell my story people who have these “happy lives” meaning a satisfying long term marriage, house in New Burbia, kids, grand-kids, successful careers feel sorry for me, pity or think I’m a walking tragedy living a substandard life. Not true! I live in full life in spite of my numerous desert and valley experiences. Perhaps an even fuller more substantive life than those who eat from silver platters. Mine is not a half-life of only the sunny side of the street but a full life that includes the alleys, back-roads, ghettos, and dimly lit streets populated with voices yearning to be head. I like it that way.

Nothing to be sorry about. Despite all the things my parents went through, especially my Mom’s battles with her demons, she was also an alcoholic, overall I had a good childhood. We have a choice to dwell on the sad past or the fond happy times of the past. I think about the good things. The fun stuff our family did when I was growing up. Of course now being an adult I have a different perspective. I was not so accepting myself when I was younger but age, maturity, experience and time changed my viewpoints.

It’s the government and people’s approach to mental illness that needs to be healed. It should not be a stigma. I readily admit to my struggles with depression, anxiety and panic attacks. That’s my life. It is not a tragedy.The tragedy is other peoples reactions and perceptions of mental illness. My Mom was a good wife and mother. I served my country in the Army, earned my BA in English, held down jobs all my life, went to church, now a full participant in Shinnyo-en Buddhism etc… It would be good if people with mental illness were more accepted. If there was more help for those of us suffering. If people would stop trying to impose their expectations on me of what happiness means. Everybody has a past. Everyone has a story. Life goes on. I’m just happy to be alive. Pitiful prayers, slapping oil on my head, telling me the latest New Age positive thinking strategy 12 Steps to Happiness, and sad sack face looks going tsk, tsk, tsk are an insult to my intelligence as a human being. It is what it is. Raw, exposed and uncut.

I have health insurance so I do have the option of returning to those mind-numbing anti-depressant drugs I took after my mother’s death but I choose not too. I choose the full gamut and range of my emotions and feelings as opposed to being a drug induced zombie. During the high points in life I love my odd slightly off center sense of humor. The times when I’m at my lowest are the times when I’m most creative. I’m a better writer, a better photographer because I know what it is like to live life in the margins, the outskirts of society, to be a misfit and an outcast. I’m drawn to people living alternative lives. That’s why I love Street Photography. I don’t want what’s staged, posed or set-up. I want real. The nitty gritty. The down and dirty. The quirky and unusual. If life was meant to be perfect happiness or total sadness the books of Job and the Song of Solomon would not be in the Holy Bible.

What would the world look like if gave a helping hand to the Mentally Ill by supporting organizations like NAMI, prosecuting men who abuse their wives and girlfriends and pulling the collars off ministers who are rapists. What if we weren’t treated like modern day lepers? Instead of further victimizing people living with mental illness write to your Congresspersons and Senators to create laws that will enable us to receive the treatment and support systems we so desperately need.

No I don’t need to be “healed” but our society does.

I’ll Cry Tomorrow

On February 23, 2014 By dancingpalmtreesIn Alice in Wonderland, Alice's Restaurant, Ambien, cacophony, Catharsis, Craving, Creativity, Delusions, despair, Dissonance, Dreams, Fantasy, Fears, Hallucinations, Insomnia, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Koyaanisqatsi, Mid-Life, Mind Altering Substances, Nirvana, Pharmacia Cornucopia, profane, Purgatory, Pusherman, rabbit hole, Redemption, Refuge, Rejection, Rescue, Sacred, Sanctuary, Scars, Shinnyo-en Buddhism, soul, Stigmata, Street preachers, Suffering, Suicide, Surrealism, White Rabbit

The Struggle of the Two Natures in Man George Grey Barnard (American, Bellefonte, Pennsylvania 1863–1938 New York) — The Struggle of the Two Natures in Man
George Grey Barnard (American, Bellefonte, Pennsylvania 1863–1938 New York)

The Struggle of the Two Natures in Man

George Grey Barnard (American, Bellefonte, Pennsylvania 1863–1938 New York)

We all face this struggle of good and evil within ourselves whether we acknowledge it or not. Refusal does not mean it ceases to exist rather it hides like a caged angry animal ready to leap out and cause destruction at the least provocation. The dual natures is an ever present battleground existing within our various selves. We are in one body a mixture of the sacred and the profane. We seek sanctuary from the island of lost souls populated but shades, ghosts of formerly flesh, blood and bone humans. We bear the stigmata and battle scars of imploding internal battlefields. Redemption and refuge will only be found by acknowledging our weakest points, applying salve and seeking greener pathways. Lest we fall into the rabbit hole. Drowning in quicksands of pride and stubbornness. Our decisions. Our choices. Help is available if we clasp the outstretched hand.

As the Apostle Paul states in “Romans 7:15-20

New International Version (NIV)

15 I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. 16 And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. 17 As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. 18 For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature.[a] For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. 19 For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. 20 Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it.”

I’ll Cry Tomorrow

Self-Trust, Inner Guide, the Knowing Voice Within, Strong Internal Core, Ignoring the Experts; These appear to be the latest Buzzwords in the ever present Self-Help craze that has been going on since the 1970s.

Well I beg to differ. I know I’m about to stir up a Hornet’s Nest but that’s what writers do, create controversy, ignite debate and hopefully make readers think. Much to the consternation of the New Age Gurus yes there are wrong choices and bad decisions.

I’ve learned to run major decisions by trusted friends and professionals. Got tired of making bad decisions which backfired on me. You need a few good friends as sounding boards because most of us cannot be objective regarding our problems, thus wrong choices. You need someone or several somebodies to hold you accountable, slap you upside the head and say, “Get with the Program before you Kill Yourself!!”

Friends, ministers, pastors, some co-workers and close family can give objective advice. Sometimes we are way too caught up in our emotions to make correct or wise choices. That guy may be so in love with yet who is violent and abusive is the wrong man. Time to take off the Romantic Blinders and see him as others view him. A violent, abusive, evil tempered jerk. Poor financial choices. Buying a home, car or some other big ticket item could be a very bad choice if you don’t have enough income to cover the outgo.

People have lost homes, jobs, their families and even their lives behind bad choices. The lesson is learned too late for correction. It’s like being a little bit pregnant. No such thing. As humans we are influenced by our fickle emotions, family backgrounds, how we were raised, and society’s expectations. We can’t see the forest for the trees.

For years I was a prescription drug addict. Though the doctors who liberally dispersed the pills are somewhat to blame the lion’s share of the blame is on me because I made the choice to keep taking them nearly to the point of death. Now that I’m in my mid-50s and living a cleaner life, yes my “Internal Core” has improved but it is still not as strong as it should be. Also I still must live with the consequences of previous dumb stupid decisions. Yes I’ve lived through being evicted from my apartment in Queens, been in and out of various hospital emergency rooms, I have a terrible credit rating, plus certain health issues that I’ll be battling the rest of my life. My Inner Guide was a damn fool and an idiot. No I should have gotten professional help. I put my trust in people who I thought loved me and who I assumed would help me. I made choices out of fear and poor health and an addled mind. Finally after seven years of struggle I’m beginning to see daylight. I know my limitations.

I also know that at any point I could backslide but I believe I’ve finally reached the point where I no longer want to live in the Valley. I want a Mountaintop experience. Trust me when I say this wisdom and insight I now possess has only come with fighting depression, fear, panic attacks, and anxieties. Once you hit bottom and you’re tired of living there you’ll find a way to go up. I learned to stop make excuses for my bad behavior, stand up for my rights as a middle-aged Black Woman living in a racist, sexist, ageist society, stopped dating men who don’t respect me, my dreams or goals and who really mean me no good, junked all the pills except for my high blood pressure medication, eat right, exercise and renew my faith. I’m now an active member of the New York Shinnyo-en Buddhist community. Through Buddhism I’ve become a stronger Christian. Truly I’ve begun to understand what it means to work out your Soul’s Salvation. The means of escape you seek is only a delusion. Life is meant to be faced head on. This life is only yours to live. No one can live it for you. Now I’m on a better pathway because I have a clearer more focused mind. I still have some setbacks but my life has improved 95% in the last two years.

Moving Forward.

Please check out the link for a Bio on the actress Susan Hayward star of the movie I’ll Cry Tomorrow. Susan Hayward a BadAss Brooklyn Beauty who even with her cracks, fissures and faults didn’t take shit from anybody. Susan Hayward’s story resonates with me. We are both Fiery, Hotheaded Strong Willed Redheads. Hers was natural. Mine is from a bottle. I Love actresses from the 30s, 40s, and 50s because they overcame so much and were some of the best actresses ever to grace the stage and films. Exotic Beauty, Fame and fortune do not always bring happiness, sometimes just a new set of demons to conquer. Ms. Hayward’s pain made her a better actress because she approached each role from her gut. My pain has made me a better writer. Like her there were times when I did not want to live. I wanted to leave this earth because the pain was too great to bear, yet God sent someone my way to save me and make me realize the foolishness of my actions.

I suffer no fools and I pull no punches. Shipwrecked. Lost. Perhaps. But learning to rely on G.P.S. ~ God’s Positioning System. Shattered Portraits, we picked up the shards, put them in the kiln to create an entire new piece of pottery changed but not consumed by fire.

Like her I struggled with substance abuse. Mine was prescription meds, hers alcohol. Like her I’ve had many failed romances. But through it all we Strong No Nonsense Women prevail, persevere and triumph over defeat. As the title of Susan Hayward’s movie states, “I’ll Cry Tomorrow.”

Ready for my Second Act.

http://youtu.be/jh_Q9BOVUyo

Reflections from the Woman with the Skinny Legs

On December 22, 2013 By dancingpalmtreesIn Catharsis, Diabetes, Ethiopian Goddess, Fantasy, Female Divinity, Feminine Divine, Goddess, High Blood Pressure, Joe Tex, Mable Elizabeth Palmer, Mable Palmer, Menopause, Negritude, Redemption, Refuge, Rejection, Rubenesque, Sacred, Sanctuary, Scars, soul, Stigmata, Suffering, Surrealism, Tattoos, Tummy, Walking Wounded, Wisdom, Woman, Woman with the Skinny Legs2 Comments

Reflections from the Woman with the Skinny Legs

One Thin Woman’s Hopeful Journey towards Cultural Acceptance

Skinny Legs And All – Joe Tex (Dial)1967

As a Black Woman who has been called skinny, bony, stick lady, po’ and various other negative names for years. I can understand wanting to fit in. I’ve actually had women especially Black women come up to me and tell me they hate me or call me some nasty names I won’t repeat. I remember gaining a lot of weight when I was in my 40s due to taking anti-depressants. Believe it or not I received tons of compliments from my African American co-workers.

Prior to my forties, when I was a young woman working in an office, co-workers would leave all types of cookies, cakes, snacks, even cans of Ensure telling me in a not so subtle way that I needed these foods to “fatten up” and become an accepted member of the tribe. If my weight suddenly ballooned to 195 lbs, something that is genetically impossible for me, but if those numbers did rise would my Black Woman Membership card arrive in the mail?

Right before I started work at my present job I stopped taking the anti-depressants. Of course I lost the weight. Sadness. Bullying from some female co-workers. One brother told me I had a body like a white woman. Someone else said I looked Asian. I love my Caucasian and Asian Sisters but like anyone else I want to be accepted by my own community. I want to fit in. Devastated. I cried myself to sleep many nights. I even tried to explain to my female co-workers that my thinness was due to genetics, which is true. My mother Mable Palmer never weighed more than 95 lbs in her life even after having kids.

BTW my mother had diabetes as does most of my family on my mother side. Many of my cousins my around my age, (I’m 54) have died from the disease. I had my own brush with death November 7, 2008 when I was rushed to the hospital from my job for extreme high blood pressure. To show you how brainwashed I was as I lay on the hospital gurney in the emergency hooked to a machine monitoring my pressure, my life passing before my eyes, I looked down at my thighs and felt shame because I was so thin!

Like most women I look like my mother. I carry her DNA. Also since I have high blood pressure I can no longer eat certain foods so that prevents me from gaining additional weight. I weigh about 117 or 120 depending. Am I a fat basher? No because I know from firsthand experience just how sensitive weight issues and the ensuing insults or assumptions can be. I want to know how my weight got to be a determination of how Black I am or how womanly I am.

Does everything depend on the size of a woman’s breasts or butt? Have I been banished to a leper colony of neo-Blackness? Is a woman not more than her body? When do we stop promoting the superficial and concentrate on substance. Sometimes I think my body type has made me an outcast. Does the fact that I’m slim make mean my membership in the African race has been revoked?

Eye of the Beholder

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8t5qwyWl0xw&feature=colike

I’m not handing in my Black card just because my facial features and body structure are considered all wrong. Oh by the way does my dark skin and nappy hair get me reinstated to the Land of Negritude? Define Blackness! Does it not run deeper than the outside package?

Finally I confided in one of the African American supervisors what I was going through. He reassured me I looked fine and said I looked good. He explained to me that some of the females at our workplace were jealous.

Then after 50 I started gaining a little weight. Thank you Menopause for helping me enter the realm of semi-Rubenesque. I was received back into the fold, somewhat but I still get those funny looks and comments not only at work but even within my own ‘hood.’

Books with titles like “Skinny Women are Evil” do not help the situation. I hate that our patriarchal society has pitted one group of women against others even within our own race. So if I was stacked, voluptuous, a “brick house” would I then hear the Gooble Gobble song.

One of Us – We Accept Her

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9C4uTEEOJlM&feature=colike

: Squats

Okay you know that I was intrigued by this picture. Anything to add curves to my stick frame. I looked up Squat videos on YouTube and found one that “Looked easy.” Not!! As I was doing the squats I could hear my knees Snap, Crackle & Pop more than a bowl of Rice Krispies. Maybe I should forget the Donkey Booty and just stay a “Black Twiggy!”

This is a Squat video by a Colombian Sister. Really now it would just be much easier to be reincarnated into her body!! LOL!! OMG!! Isn’t there an easier way to snag a husband? If I click my heels together 3 times will my stomach fat move downward towards my butt or upward to my boobs?! Dang my knees are creaky and clicking more than Savion Glover tap dancing!

Still trying to return to the Summer of 42. Not 1942 because I wasn’t yet born but age 42 when I had a nice hourglass figure. So I’ve been planking since Dec. 1st and now I will add Squats to my program. Let’s see if all this exercise results in romance when I turn 55 in Feb.

http://youtu.be/xK9jzjsTJts

I considered using one of my cats as weights but they would not cooperate and thought the better of that idea. Leave sleeping kitties lying on the bed. My cats already think I’m crazy for Planking. Now every morning Sylvester and Weezer take up a position in the Living Room watching me make a fool of myself and sometimes rubbing their little furry faces against mine.

The Journey Towards Self-Acceptance Continues

A Building at Rest ~ Goth Holiday at the Museum

On December 8, 2013August 16, 2017 By dancingpalmtreesIn Abuse, Ambien, Battle, Black Unicorn, cacophony, Death, DeBorah, deception, Delusions, despair, Dissonance, Dreams, Evil, Expectations, Fallen Angels, Fantasy, Fears, Grim Reaper, Hades, Hallucinations, hell, horror, Hotel California, Hypnos, Icelus, Insomnia, Instability, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Koyaanisqatsi, Limbo, Loss, Lost Souls, Malevolent, Manufacturered Reality, Memory, Midnight Marauder, Mind Altering Substances, Morpheus, Museum, Mystical Creatures, Night Bird, Nightmares, Oneiroi, Orpheus, Phantaso, profane, Protean, Purgatory, Rejection, Ritual, River Styx, Scars, Skeptic, sorrow, Stigmata, Suffering, Suicide, Surrealism, Swords, Thánatos, The Twilight Zone, The Walking Dead, Trifecta of Terror, Vampires, Visions, Walking Wounded, War, Werewolves, Wicked, Zombies6 Comments

A Building at Rest

The museum Thanksgiving Day 2012 –
the museum is populated by a wonderful yet mysterious quiet & peace undisturbed by the frenetic masses. Silences punctuated only by flowing water, the endless hum and shifting of building machinery.

Even normal noises can be unsettling. Especially those associated with people. The building has become a living breathing organism Uttering creaks moans sighs groans from nearly 150 years of footfalls, voices, radios, songs, cantatas, the chiming of clocks, exclamations of awe & wonder. Whispers from an Archaic Victorian century long past to digital diversity.

Oh what secrets lie transfixed within these silent walls yearning for release. The Hunger has been unleashed upon the populace.

The immortality of brick, mortar & steel record the march of ethnicities & nations who roam free these hallowed halls.

Sometimes the sudden interruption of footfalls becomes ominous, invading the sanctity of the Holy Sanctuary. Even the sound of my own steps is somewhat menacing. What spirits accompany me on perambulations among the saints and sinners?

The feeble burbling of the fountain stream’s half-hearted attempts to empty its essence, struggling to pollinate magnificent coins.

The day is at end, the light has faded. Now the night crew enters to continue the evening melody.

Reflections Goth Holiday 2013

Cadaver Mind A.D.D.

Heaving sighs and moans. Creaks, chrupping of brick, mortar, steel and glass pane windows. Blood oozes and drips from open wounds in Laymen’s red brick walls. Elevator doors open and a thousand wailing, howling, grieving souls swoop through the air and into the Medieval Court crying for revenge. Flight of the Valkyries. The Martyrs avenge their unjust and untimely deaths. Swirling and whirling like profane dervishes from netherworld’s portal of the undead.

Hail Mary Echoes from thousands of Knights, monks, Nuns, bishops, and church saints racing through Byzantium corridors. Spirits of Reliquaries issue forth warnings and admonishments to modern day savages. Reliquary Fingers of Blessing Inflict Pain Yanking Opening Death’s Door breaking off bits and pieces of flesh, bone, teeth and hair for deposit into ossuary banks.

Slats opening and closing mindfully as though giving some secret Morse Code. Dioramas of Death act out murderous suicidal dramas. Eagle slays Dragon plucking out blinded eyes from empty orbs.

Medieval castle built long ago by invaders long forgotten. A grand foyer flanked by two long hallways of Byzantine art leading into Medieval Sculpture Hall filled with statues of Madonnas, Saints, Mystics, Relics, and tombs from Egypt, Europe, Greece, Cyprus and South America. Kali goddess of the sarcophagus raises her many arms in Victory. Subterranean pipes hissing steam clanking unrest.

Secret panels opening up to Mausoleum subterranean chambers containing overturned ossuaries, bones bleached white scattered throughout the tombs.

Abruptly Angels on the Christmas tree come to life and like ravenous vampire bats attack unsuspecting visitors. Reanimated Reliquary Arms reach out to throttle throats of fleeing patrons. Fang toothed Egyptian mummies arise and break through display cases to satiate their ancient eon hunger upon frenzied victims. Their desert saliva spreading infection causing festering vile pus filled carbuncles to captive prey.

Emptiness and Futility of Life — Life’s ignoble Ending

Desire run rampant as sacrilegious effigies coupled and reached radiant necrophilia orgasm stone bodies now made supple. Mystics and Monks glowered lecherously all the while reciting Gregorian chants, dirges and cries for absolution filling the room with the intensity of their mating.

Gargoyles descended from illicit trysts with human females and warlock man beasts gave into the licentious behaviors’ anointing themselves and fleeing clienteles with seminal fluid oily slick.

Orgasm became an exceptional obsession.

Viscous gleaming blood, shimmering with glided preternatural flakes of light. Black Iris her breasts like soft fragrant pillows.