tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27965943268343460182024-03-05T14:39:38.112-08:00Everything's Hunky Doryon asperger’s, veggie burgers, catalytic converters, celebrity impersonators, & the like. Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-81429858926470267082016-01-11T00:54:00.001-08:002016-01-14T23:09:05.757-08:00David Bowie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I am heartbroken, shocked, and not quite sure how to respond on hearing of the death of David Bowie, just moments ago.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So I'll write. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This blog was/is a way to post stories of my childhood, growing up with a mother who was a David Bowie impersonator. She hand fed my brother and I his music from the time we were born. Hearing his songs is like coming home for us. We knew every word like most kids knew nursery rhymes.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcbZkT-_I5-PKSfS2Jlv-zSzQIQCPeUqWQ7HuL4o1W-hvk-nkMeMU4ociWr69OBg7qGrTLONjx1qZ95UbAtRgPCYuivp9Gvza5R50hjPhTFvsSpT_OqksEnm8Bgmp8nBL4x_BfBe_flc/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-01-11+at+12.47.00+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcbZkT-_I5-PKSfS2Jlv-zSzQIQCPeUqWQ7HuL4o1W-hvk-nkMeMU4ociWr69OBg7qGrTLONjx1qZ95UbAtRgPCYuivp9Gvza5R50hjPhTFvsSpT_OqksEnm8Bgmp8nBL4x_BfBe_flc/s400/Screen+Shot+2016-01-11+at+12.47.00+AM.png" width="395" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #0000ee;"><u>Mum (Donn Shy) as the "Thin White Duke<span style="color: #0000ee;"><u>."</u></span></u></span></span></span></td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Having no idea of Bowie's state, I texted my brother the following at 5:27 p.m. PST this afternoon:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Cleaning house, listening to The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust. Reminds me of being kids and doing the same. And then--HOLY SHIT--what an amazing album! My God! What lucky monkeys we were to be introduced to this music when we were. Beyond comprehension."</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Mind you, I'd been listening to that album on a loop since yesterday. Driving to Ojai from Malibu, I cycled through Aladdin Sane, Hunky Dory, as well as TRAFoZS. When driving through Oxnard, the California town I grew up in, I sang Drive In Saturday loud--not a care in the world--reminiscing on the times we listened to the album on tape in Mum's Toyota Celica, then Suburu station wagon, driving that same road when we were all much younger. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Mum became Bowie night after night, performing at clubs and such. It was a bit annoying as kids because, hell, we were kids and just wanted our mum to be a mum. PTA meetings, award assemblies, sandwiches. But as adults, hell if we don't think she was a Badass with a capital "B".</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The week mum died (January of 2012)--I couldn't believe it--David Bowie graced the cover of Rolling Stone. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I bought it. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I kept it.</span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu1Nib-1Ih2LaM72GI7SFtSzgbbRsf1EY_NvNSYd6oVLSkt6EOH8whRKmkN1FvyoXoX6PifQGru9NSVWpki5Fx-9v6PgJ2gb49_IUm7ED_3_MgZy3A24cMD00_5Gwk2p9_qAfiVI98X6M/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-01-11+at+12.44.43+AM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu1Nib-1Ih2LaM72GI7SFtSzgbbRsf1EY_NvNSYd6oVLSkt6EOH8whRKmkN1FvyoXoX6PifQGru9NSVWpki5Fx-9v6PgJ2gb49_IUm7ED_3_MgZy3A24cMD00_5Gwk2p9_qAfiVI98X6M/s400/Screen+Shot+2016-01-11+at+12.44.43+AM.png" width="295" /></a></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">After my best friend, Great Dane Audrey, passed away, not long after Mum left this earth, I decided I was getting a tattoo. In fact, I was going to design that mother. And I did. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Mum's symbol in her illness became a butterfly. I had given her, just before she passed, a bracelet I had made with a butterfly on it and a print of a butterfly with the following quote:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Just when the caterpiller thought the world was over,</span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">it became a butterfly." - Anonymous</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She cried. And that memory is forever burned in my mind and when I see a butterfly approach me or my windows, "It's her," I say.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And Bowie. And then there was Bowie. And I sketched. And a butterfly came about with Bowie as Ziggy Stardust as the pattern it the butterfly's wings. And Audrey on the other side, soaking up the sun in a henna-like pattern. And I found one of THE best tattoo artists, Louie Perez at Shamrock Social Club in Hollywood, to finish the design and ultimately create what is now on my left arm for life. I'm so grateful for that and that he was available and up to the task.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksJcb8wRsF6mFffwLfTrtYIEwcJk2Sd4DNC1s2TGpRk0FBTPaiLNTKPWLN54dcRZDPES5257ygbeqq_LiMVUUHHEGpLIyWkzSl3AYdKoOWwLdZI2SjAFSAD4PARjf8yTJjgRbTSVz0H8/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-01-11+at+12.10.37+AM.png" imageanchor="1"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksJcb8wRsF6mFffwLfTrtYIEwcJk2Sd4DNC1s2TGpRk0FBTPaiLNTKPWLN54dcRZDPES5257ygbeqq_LiMVUUHHEGpLIyWkzSl3AYdKoOWwLdZI2SjAFSAD4PARjf8yTJjgRbTSVz0H8/s400/Screen+Shot+2016-01-11+at+12.10.37+AM.png" title="" width="397" /> </a></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yes, I'm rambling. I have no idea how to respond other than to say this one cuts deep, for so many reasons. And though I don't know what I believe anymore when it comes to the afterlife, I wonder if he is where she is and if she is finally able to ask him all the questions she wanted to ask.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I have a special keepsake of hers that I've been searching for for a week. It wasn't where I last put it, the special place where I have been keeping it. I pulled down every storage bin, looked through every file. No where. And was feeling quite devastated. How could I be so irresponsible to misplace it?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When the news broke tonight about Bowie's death, I decided to pull out my "Bowie is Inside" book to have a look, hoping to find a photo I could post to Instagram with my sentiments. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Out fell the keepsake. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I don't recall putting it in there, but must have. </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Or must I have? </span></span><br />
<br /></div>
Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-905244069542063602015-03-01T16:39:00.000-08:002016-03-22T20:53:38.862-07:00What's Harder? Losing the Dead or Losing the Living?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZZCVp2BTj2hX_GszYVUBcZnW0T83g7izd6X38BGRc8t4hh-RGtlVS8WWICR6-pVKF6z06RCa0n8DSLLyQAnzTQbF0hgkVAZLdxIuwRvsw4tPEmbNSQYEcJ7JozZz-s5QZd13DrW99fpA/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZZCVp2BTj2hX_GszYVUBcZnW0T83g7izd6X38BGRc8t4hh-RGtlVS8WWICR6-pVKF6z06RCa0n8DSLLyQAnzTQbF0hgkVAZLdxIuwRvsw4tPEmbNSQYEcJ7JozZz-s5QZd13DrW99fpA/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A hat, a couple of bloody t-shirts, and a plastic hospital pan.</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mum's life in a hospital pan. A plastic freaking hospital pan. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This is it. All I have in my possession from my 36 years of life living on this earth with my mother. My creative, driven, beautiful, yet tortured soul of a mother died in January 2012 from complications related to a rare stomach cancer brought on by her years of alcohol overindulgence. </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's been three years since Mum's death. It is strange indeed, but life has moved on, as it does. All of her things, her furniture, her clothes, her shoes, her knic knacs, her photos, her jewelry, her keepsakes, have all been moved into a storage unit at my step-father's job--I was told recently it's all being kept there without the owner's consent<span style="font-size: small;"> and could be found and dumped at any time. So, naturally, I'm panicked. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When I was young, before my step-father and sister entered the picture, Mum was an artist. She painted, sketched, played music, and for years worked as a David Bowie impersonator (which I despised at the time, but now of course realize how badass she truly was). She painted an incredible abstract depiction of Elton John that hung above our orange '70s sofa for years, and as a little girl I'd stare up at it and counted the shapes and colors. She created ceramic pieces that she placed throughout the home. I cannot imagine my childhood without picturing these pieces--pots, psychedelic cats, busts--giving texture and color to life's background. Her music album collection consisted of Queen, David Bowie, The Beatles, The Kinks, Adam and the Ants, Alvin and the Chipmunks. She'd place these albums on the record player and we'd clean house or play games or dance about like the crazy neighborhood freaks we were, and those memories are held dear to my brother Tony and I. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My step-father and sister never knew this woman. Only Tony and I were lucky enough to embrace her before she abandoned her for another persona. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Somewhere in taped up boxes in my step-father's work warehouse lie Mum's Kink's albums, her sketches, her ceramic creations, her Bowie costumes, her complicated yet intriguing history. Somewhere in those boxes (that can be gone forever at any time) lie my brother's and my baby pictures, our special newborn outfits, the blankets she made especially for us, and small keepsakes from our respective fathers. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bill and Kelli never knew these memories, these blankets, these fathers, these moments, this life. And yet, they refuse to let them go--to us, at least.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">..... </span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm working on a video project for disadvantaged children, connecting them with grown, successful mentors of sorts via video interviews. Starting in August of last year I was attempting to gather any equipment I could, and being on a tight budget, remembered Mum had loads of video and camera equipment in storage that wasn't being used and had sat there gathering dust for the past three years. If Mum were alive, she'd want to help. So I called my sister to not only discuss borrowing Mum's equipment for a few months, but also to arrange a special birthday dinner for her in Los Angeles.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After discussing the dinner in high spirits, I brought up borrowing the video equipment. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I don't want to keep it, just would like to borrow it for a few months. I know Mum would want it to be used and especially for something positive."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"No! That stuff is all MINE now. </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I don't care. </span></span>Not you, not Papa, not Tony, not me, NO one will touch any of those things. I'm locking them up in storage until I die!" she replied. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm not asking to keep . . ."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I don't care. No." Click. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That was the last time I spoke with my sister. And no, we didn't end up going to a special dinner for her birthday. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Months went by and after discussing the situation with my brother Tony, we decided we should give Bill, our step-dad, a call. After all, legally, my Mum's possessions were his, as they were legally still married before she passed (even though she told me just after her surgery that they were about to divorce). At this point, all Tony and I were looking to have is our baby pictures, our baby clothes, and a few knic knacs that meant something to us that they would have no clue of the significance. It would kill us if they ended up in a landfill next to soiled diapers and yesterday's treasures being picked at and shat upon by seagulls. No, please, no. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wish she'd written a goddamned will. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">His bottom line was, "I'll have the stuff moved into a storage unit. When we do that, anything that ha<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">s</span> your name on it I'll put it outside and good luck getting it." </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Trouble is, it won't have my name on it. Nor Tony's. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Before Bill gave me this incredibly generous offer, I had offered to help them move it. I offered to get dinner, pizza, and help sort through all of it. We could do it as a family. I told him I was in no personal rush to get it, but I wanted to be sure it didn't end up in the dumpster before Tony and I have a chance to go through it. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I don't ever want to see your brother again." He said. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Why not?" I asked. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Because I'm sick and tired of hearing about how bad I treated him."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wondered where he was hearing these stories as Tony and I had forgiven him long ago for the abuse. <i>Must be his conscience</i>, I thought. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, family members die, and I have to wonder if the most pain comes from losing the dead or losing those who are still alive and well. At least when losing the dead, there is a reason: car accident, long-standing illness, suicide, or in Mum's case, cancer.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">.....</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The hat I have sitting on the hospital pan represents a mum I didn't grow up knowing. It was her newer persona, the persona Bill and Kelli knew well and embraced, the persona loved and adored by her paranormal society colleagues, by her newer friends. I know my little sister would love to have this hat, and I'd gladly give it to her because I know how much it would mean to her. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But she won't talk to me. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">No reason. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-82241694332262641402014-12-29T00:15:00.000-08:002014-12-29T00:15:23.865-08:00Never Be Afraid.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #666666;">This.</span></span><br />
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-53937435373665042272014-12-06T17:16:00.001-08:002014-12-06T17:16:41.513-08:00Rights Are Nonpartisan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOVueinGIakR8zWiWJvrR2R3pA00Iw7AIV0dLCrPM8I4LXMuI7oHaqEt98rSGrOXzeLAnZPoJV1lIaSkEscaoVubf3tiktg1YB4xaaMI9EJVYFbhbqNcnpIwSQ6LXJP2qvcQKoXiqEIoA/s1600/quote18-bullying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOVueinGIakR8zWiWJvrR2R3pA00Iw7AIV0dLCrPM8I4LXMuI7oHaqEt98rSGrOXzeLAnZPoJV1lIaSkEscaoVubf3tiktg1YB4xaaMI9EJVYFbhbqNcnpIwSQ6LXJP2qvcQKoXiqEIoA/s1600/quote18-bullying.jpg" height="130" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was bullied in school. Of course I was. I was a weirdo. A freak. I
preferred reading the entire encyclopedia and discussing sedimentary
rock to playing hopscotch and wearing dresses. I ran around the
playground barking like a dog. Why? I watched my grandmother beat the
crap out of our Cocker Spaniel on a daily basis and he showed no pain. I
wanted to show no pain. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> What I needed was just one kid to stand up for me and say "stop it" to the bullies. Because once one kid does<span class="text_exposed_show">
it (especially a popular or at least a likable one), more will find the
courage to do the same. And there are far more non-bullies than
bullies, a truth we are too easily blinded from.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
But that's not usually how it goes down, is it? You see, a bullied kid
is more apt to be surrounded by others who look the other way due to
feeling uncomfortable or fear being bullied themselves. "Not my
problem." They'd say. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> All the while, they are next in line--as long as they remain silent.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
My bullying experience continued until one lucky day in high school, my
freshman year, a girl (a big, intimidating girl who may have been 6
feet tall) had heard a group of kids calling me names and throwing gum
in my hair. I watched from afar as she approached the group. Heard a bit
of yelling, saw some neck rolling, a push and a shove, and somehow,
from that day forward, I was never picked on in school again. Just. Like.
That. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> My guardian angel left my high school soon after that . .
. don't know why or where she went, or even who she was, but I never
saw her again. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> This is not a girl I would have probably bonded
with or hung around with at lunch or at dances. I don't think she wanted
that. We may or may not have agreed on much, but how would I know? The
important thing was she recognized that I was human, that I mattered.
That's all I needed to help me move through a time in my life that was
painful enough.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Did I deserve to go to school without having to
worry about if I were going to be beat up while walking home, or who
would be waiting for me around the corner to spit on me or punch me in
the back of the head? Of course I did. And so did every other student in
my school and ALL schools. Just as every citizen of this country and
every being on this planet and beyond deserves to have the same rights,
equally. Not just the ones you or I agree with. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Our rights are
our rights and RIGHTS ARE NONPARTISAN. If some of us lose them, <i>we ALL
lose them</i>. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span>
<div style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—</i></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Because I was not a Socialist.</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—</span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Because I was not a Trade Unionist.</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—</span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Because I was not a Jew.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Then they came for me—</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">and there was no one left to speak for me.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
-Martin Niemoller, </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
Protestant pastor who spent the last seven years of Nazi rule in concentration camps.</div>
</i></span></div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Think of this when you see a community other than the one(s) you directly relate to fighting for their rights. Turning the other way may stall the bullies, but it will
never stop them. Speak up. </span></span></span></div>
</div>
Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-17664188849588587252014-10-12T12:23:00.000-07:002014-10-12T18:06:01.470-07:00Always Opt to Be A Badass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE0lJbikHKzisCDZ_Crf3lA5dr_prBUk49kMOFWv9kevGiMke2vNPmwfxRwd8V4xAUgnFuWiqPcmAPKwruzQThebRXKT9WlGggz-4DnBOee22FGtwgkhG8NwASsmJluamH7qcr-4s_-jw/s1600/picture-111.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE0lJbikHKzisCDZ_Crf3lA5dr_prBUk49kMOFWv9kevGiMke2vNPmwfxRwd8V4xAUgnFuWiqPcmAPKwruzQThebRXKT9WlGggz-4DnBOee22FGtwgkhG8NwASsmJluamH7qcr-4s_-jw/s1600/picture-111.png" height="221" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From http://equalityiscoming.wordpress.com/</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Wearing the label we've been given, many of us tend to feel oppressed and "wish" to fit in. Do you not realize those who have been oppressed in history have always been intimidating to the ones doing the oppressing? </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The introverts, the aspies, the weirdos, the loners--look at those who have come before us who were similar to us . . . Mozart, Poe, Tesla, Einstein, Dylan, Akroyd, Kaufman, Daryl Hannah, Susan Boyle, David Byrne. Read about them and be inspired! </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Drop your story of the label that oppresses and be a badass. Pick up a guitar, a pen & paper, a brush & easel, a keyboard, a book. Take on a cause--be arrested for it, make a stand, speak your mind, share the deepest depths of your heart. Be embarrassed, be mysterious, be outrageous, be unique, be quirky--be YOU. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Those who "fit in" have never made a significant mark in history. </span></div>
</div>
Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-36885201730720700582014-09-10T00:12:00.001-07:002014-09-10T00:12:48.557-07:00Saying Goodbye & Unconditional Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTYTd1V1dZQtV7lR7bl-v8AkmVd_J6a-FR6B1y5KaIet3LFO1ugrTAyTBTWfjRA4mQgsX-wYCwcW6lP65dUP-7N-Xtw7VIj4DS1JjxxGk1qEu3ONwPiLw-w4_wMEJmVc5Gl57tF-ShsSg/s1600/10599534_10153516292849625_7345024183318809273_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTYTd1V1dZQtV7lR7bl-v8AkmVd_J6a-FR6B1y5KaIet3LFO1ugrTAyTBTWfjRA4mQgsX-wYCwcW6lP65dUP-7N-Xtw7VIj4DS1JjxxGk1qEu3ONwPiLw-w4_wMEJmVc5Gl57tF-ShsSg/s1600/10599534_10153516292849625_7345024183318809273_n.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Unable to accept its awful gaps, we still would live no other way. We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan . . . "</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> -Irving Townsend</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Said goodbye to my girl last night. "Just a dog" you say? I know not. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When everyone, family and supposedly close friends turned their backs on me, sh<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">e looked at me with love. When I was weak, she was strong. She never left my side, never lied, never manipulated, never gave a false compliment, never competed, never abused or took for granted our friendship. She was my teacher of unconditional love. She was a piece of me and always will be, though right now I feel empty. I can only rest in the thought that she is pain and cancer free. The struggle is over. </span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">Why do souls so good and pure occupy our world so briefly? And war addicts, criminals, ungrateful, mean people stay for so long? We have a lot to learn. Our teachers are all around us. So many locked up in shelters sleeping on concrete floors whilst the arrogant manipulators sleep on plush beds. These animals who ask for so little are our true teachers, our true friends. And of those teachers, Audrey was the best. I'll never forget her. <i class="_4-k1 img sp_LWp1MpKGrs1 sx_160c3b" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yP/r/90b8T5aM1AH.png); background-position: 0px -7850px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i></span></span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-71419094460899974762014-08-23T23:13:00.000-07:002014-08-23T23:14:38.386-07:00She Won't Eat. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I just want her to eat. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Something. Anything. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd1p_gWpqNzc3TZnJMXXAd8yN33EGzjedy74dlbLIXeIM0OBU_V6UlMLj6GJqWYZKgo9lTZek7XIrBnsalxbyVcNLVFq4VI9Eqo6WRTHlN8LIcyBPqPB_5B24B2EhwRI8Sdvk8EQGxKS0/s1600/10492455_10153363885929625_6474612175334530085_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd1p_gWpqNzc3TZnJMXXAd8yN33EGzjedy74dlbLIXeIM0OBU_V6UlMLj6GJqWYZKgo9lTZek7XIrBnsalxbyVcNLVFq4VI9Eqo6WRTHlN8LIcyBPqPB_5B24B2EhwRI8Sdvk8EQGxKS0/s1600/10492455_10153363885929625_6474612175334530085_n.jpg" height="400" width="300" /><span style="color: #666666; text-align: left;"> </span></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Just a few years ago, I was saying the same thing about my mum. "I'll make you anything you want, Mum. Anything. Is there anything you could imagine eating?" Everything we tried, she just couldn't. And she was 88 lbs. when she died in January of 2012. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My best friend for the past 10 years had a cancerous tumour removed in July. After several tests and stains, etc., the doctors couldn't give an exact answer as to what type of tumour it was and whether or not it was the type to spread. We hoped the removal of the tumour and supplements would do the job, as chemotherapy was not something I would put her through. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Her normal weight fluctuates between 95 and 100. Just before the tumour was removed she had lost her appetite and she lost 20% of her body weight. Post-surgery I was able to get her weight up to 90 lbs. and then two weeks ago her appetite again was lost, she began losing weight, so I took her to get an ultrasound. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Could the cancer have returned?</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Unfortunately, her stomach lining has thickened again and we found some nodules in her liver. Looks like the cancer has spread and there may be a new tumour in her stomach." She said. "You may want to talk to the oncologist and see what options you have to treat her. I'm really sorry for this bad news." </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Audrey, my best friend, is a Great Dane I adopted 10 years ago. She had been severely abused before I met her, and so had I. I suppose we rescued each other. When I was sat at the rescue organization looking at potential fur kids to take home with me, a couple was also there adopting a Great Dane puppy. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Can we see the mother?" They asked. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And out came an extremely thin, hesitant black Mantle Great Dane who looked as if she would dart away if anyone were to stand up or perhaps sneeze. Her bones were protruding. She had scarring on her back legs. What was her story? She walked straight over to me and lay her head in my lap. I felt an instant connection, cried, then signed the paperwork and took her home a few days later. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I had just recently lost a Great Dane puppy I had purchased from a breeder. Jude, a gorgeous Merlequin with crystal blue eyes, was 14 weeks old when he died due to a reaction to his immunizations that caused his immune system to attack itself. Jude went from vibrant, cheeky pup who enjoyed the crazies every now and again, chasing a ball, and jumping up on the sofa and peeing on it (grrrrr!!!) to a limp, lifeless puppy who couldn't even lift his head in the blink of an eye. He died within days at the vet's office despite treatment. "But I did everything right!" I thought. My partner and I at the time were completely gutted and still, years later, I can't hear The Beatle's "Hey Jude" without becoming emotional. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Audrey came just in time and we had a lot of work to do. She was deathly afraid of men. She needed to put on weight and had an infection in her teats that needed treatment. When my partner took her for a walk the second day we had her, she escaped her leash and ran out to Wilshire Blvd. in Santa Monica (a very busy street) and the police had to shut it down in order for a woman who worked for a dog rescue to gently coax her and catch her. The pads on her feet were bloody and torn. She was a mess.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then we managed to live together as best friends. She traveled with me on location when I was shooting the film <i>Evan Almighty</i> in Virginia. She supported me through a rough break up in which she was also separated from her "dad" and brothers, a Great Dane/Dalmatian mix named Bouj and Chihuahua, Man Lee. That was hard. It's still tough to think about.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She moved with me and healed with me in my little sanctuary in Malibu, where we lived, just the two of us, staring at the ocean and growing up together. Healing. Feeling and accepting peace. Enjoying life on our own for the first time. Hiking, walking the beach, waving to dolphins, building new friendships. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She moved with me to Philadelphia when I moved for another job. She completely accepted my new partner as her friend and new dad. And accepted a new sister, Greta, a Coonhound from Delaware, and her brother Man Lee who came back into the picture. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She loved and supported me through a two year bout of deep depression and the horrible death of my mum. She's never left my side.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She's become the best dog and friend I've ever met. I love her more than life. And now, here she is, thin again and won't eat. It's tearing me apart tonight. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm frustrated. I'm sad. I'm angry at her for not eating. I'm angry at the still unknown cause of this disease. I don't want to lose her. I don't want her to be in pain. I don't want to lose her. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We're trying turmeric, Essiac tea, L-Arginine, L-Glutamine, Ginger, Milk Thistle, Salmon Oil, and other alternative methods. Everyday I read something else online, run to the health store and add to our protocol. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But she needs to eat. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Have tried raw, organic meat of all sorts, cooked organic meat of all sorts, cooked chicken, organic canned wet food, fresh eggs from our hen, cut up veggies - she's gone from eating bits to eating nothing today but two or three bites of kibble. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So I'm writing this blog with no other point than to let my feeling explode onto "paper" while listening to Bob Dylan and eating chocolate chip cookies in a weak effort to comfort myself, just hoping and praying she'll suddenly want to eat the house and all its contents. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The more you love the more it hurts, I find. I don't want to let go. Not this time. Not now. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I'll never be ready. </span><br />
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-54687157559387906652014-08-18T22:13:00.000-07:002014-08-18T22:15:39.972-07:00Who Is Responsible?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Who is responsible for equality?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for creating a kind world?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ending racism?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for teaching acceptance?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for peace on earth?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for teaching children?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for protecting the people?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ending child abuse?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for war?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ending slavery?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ending the drought?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for sexism?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for keeping our neighborhoods safe?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ending elder neglect and abuse?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ending high kill animal shelters?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ending animal abuse?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for teaching our children empathy and compassion?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for debt?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for hatred?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for fatal paparazzi chases?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for the invasion of privacy?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for suffering?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for crap television?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for working long, inhumane hours?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for deaths associated with texting while driving?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ___________ too much?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ___________ too little?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for bullying?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for hunger?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for encouraging youth?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for ending gun violence?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for slavery?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for fair wages?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for intelligence?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for the future?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for our planet?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who is responsible for loving?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You are.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We so often place responsibility in the hands of a very few, then blame those weak few when they don't come through with something they never personally agreed to do. We expect, then we suffer. Until you and I take responsibility for each and every concern we have in life, we cannot blame anyone but ourselves—not the President (a man), not the police (men and women), not the government (more flawed men and women, just like you and me), not teachers, not schools, not the media, not social programs. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What we buy, what we agree to (whether in word or in action), how we spend (or waste) our time, and how we act and react are our votes toward a world we are creating. Our votes. Our choices. Our power. Our world. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We must stop putting our own power in the hands of those who cannot be trusted with it. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We must be the change we wish to see in the world. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We mustn't add to the current paradigm with our own ignorance and archaic thinking that no longer serves us or the rest of humanity.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We must stand up, together, and not ask for, but create a different world. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We must stop asking permission. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We must start with ourselves. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We must stop complaining. Complaining is for the powerless. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">United we stand, divided we fall. </span><br />
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-12485861035121182392014-08-16T21:54:00.002-07:002014-08-16T21:54:46.005-07:00Thoughts on Gun Violence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I happen to live in an area where it isn't uncommon to come across a bear, coyote, mountain lion, or the occasional aggressive off leash dog. Because of the drought in California, many of these wild animals are hanging round closer to people. Because I walk dogs in areas where these creatures are in fact common, I'm looking into purchasing pepper spray or bear spray, for a "just-in-case" scenario—I want to protect the dogs, myself, and the wild creature as well from being injured or killed. <br /><br />As I'm searching for the best pepper spray with the longest range, I find myself questioning (in the midst of all the recent gun violence on the news), why humans don't often feel this way about one another—protecting ourselves <i>and </i>the life of the other person (who may or may not wish to do harm)? Why do people feel they have to shoot another dead when protecting their homes, their stores, their material possessions, their communities? <br /><br />Why not use a non-violent method on a person who is resisting arrest, running off with a stolen item, breaking into your home, or attempting to steal your car? Shouldn't we simply aim to disable the person just enough to put him or her in hand cuffs if they are resisting so they can be questioned, and go through the legal process? Isn't that how it should be, for police and for citizens? <br /><br />The news out of Ferguson, Missouri has had my head spinning in every direction the entire week. I've been at a loss for words (which I admit is rare), not because it is shocking (this type of hatred and violence goes on all the time and is rarely, if ever, covered by mainstream media), not because I don't have an opinion on it (quite contrary, indeed). It is because the issues surrounding it go so much deeper than the surface that one must walk through each stage of grief to even fathom the injustice. And with each step deeper a new injustice is revealed and more grief is walked through. It is a race issue, for sure. Don't say it's not. But more than that—much more than that—it is a HUMAN issue. A societal issue. That young 18-year-old boy, Michael Brown, was OUR little brother. Our big brother. Our son. Our student. Our teacher. Whether or not he stole something (no matter the cost) it was not anyone's duty, right, nor responsibility to take his life from him and from his family and loved ones. And a box of cigars was in no way more valuable than his life.<br /><br />When I was 16 years old, I walked into a drug store alone, picked up a tiny lipstick and pulled my hand up into the long sleeve of my oversized coat. "I wonder if there are cameras," I thought. After making the most animated of faces (to convince the "cameras" I was not finding what I was looking for so was leaving the store "empty handed"), scared as I'd ever been I walked out the door with that tiny lipstick in my sleeve. Was I caught? No. Have I ever stolen again? No way! That feeling was enough for me to not ever want to do it again. I still think about it and feel terribly guilty. Funny thing is, I don't even like lipstick. Never have. Imagine if I had been shot because of stealing. Who would have been taught the lesson? Is a box of cigars, a flat screen TV, or even a car worth more than a life? Any life?<br /><br />I've asked people who are pro-gun why they would find the need to have them. The most common answer is to protect their home and family members. Makes sense. Could this not be accomplished with non-lethal force? "How about when the other person has a gun. What to do then?" you ask. Excellent point, but is more guns the answer? Couldn't bear spray with a 30-40 foot reach be a better option than taking a life and having to live with that the rest of your own? <br /><br />Where is the logic in believing material things are worth more than a human life? Is it when we ceased being citizens and unknowingly agreed to be considered merely consumers? When did we begin to believe taking another's life is acceptable—that death is the only way to justice? Is death punishment? Is death a punishment when the moment one dies all is over for them but their families and loved ones suffer horrendously? Does this teach a lesson or does it simply manifest violence? If someone shot and killed my little brother because he lifted a box of cigars, you'd better believe there would be violence—there would be a lot of very angry people. And yet, he would be dead, unable to learn a lesson. There is no lesson in killing another, other than the fact that like me with the lipstick, you'll think about it the rest of your life and (hopefully) never want to do it again. Who deserves to die and what gives us, other humans with our own flaws, authority to kill?<br /><br />Could you live with yourself after shooting another dead, even if that person *intended* to harm you? I surely couldn't. We've got people wanting to proudly carry their weapons through stores to brag about their rights to bear arms, and yet, who needs to be shot dead in a store other than a person bearing arms irresponsibly and aggressively? Some people believe we need more guns. In schools even. And yet, I can hike on my own in the wilderness and be approached by a 600 lb. bear (who would rather enjoy having me or my dogs as dinner) and feel confident going out there being armed with nothing more than a $10 can of spray . . . seriously. I live. The bear lives. No violence. </span><div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Beyond race, beyond economics, beyond gender, beyond social status is a beating heart, a person born kind, a flawed human being just like you and me. How can we get to the bottom of these plaguing issues and repair them from the ground up rather than haphazardly patching them? </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">How can we re-humanize ourselves? </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><br />I don't know the answer, but I do know it is up to us to create change. We cannot rely on "them", the few we call "leaders", to make these changes. It must begin in our communities, one neighbor, one hug, one conversation, one kind act at a time. </span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-81505122768279478692014-06-22T13:58:00.001-07:002014-06-22T14:12:01.779-07:00Volunteering for Oppression: A Rant<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Bta_3OULEk524Kjh9cm2bPrl_mRXRfiyCEn-HJPR9j7C8ero0QY6UpyXO8AVi0eq1K0HjUHfBet5UWHHKuS9RdOPwl626DHc0TmBaSL0pDo2t-9UdI3YLlVOAFoT5IG-yUUCnn4OoPM/s1600/politics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Bta_3OULEk524Kjh9cm2bPrl_mRXRfiyCEn-HJPR9j7C8ero0QY6UpyXO8AVi0eq1K0HjUHfBet5UWHHKuS9RdOPwl626DHc0TmBaSL0pDo2t-9UdI3YLlVOAFoT5IG-yUUCnn4OoPM/s1600/politics.jpg" height="320" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">If anyone can name the artist of this cartoon, please share. I'd love to give credit!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We're angry. We're furious. "They've" taken our money, our jobs, our rights. "They've" built their warehouse store in our town and screwed the economy. Since "they've" been in office, so much has gone wrong. We're being lied to. We're being robbed. We're sick of "the right" and their preposterous opinions and we're sick of "the left" and their love for higher taxes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We're powerless, but we should stomp our feet anyway and get angry and blame each other. This is what the news media would like for us to believe. But, what's really going on?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Behind every label (liberal, conservative, 1%, 99%, neurotypical, neurodiverse, straight, gay, introvert, extrovert, etc.) is a human being with a heart, with feelings, with a family, with health concerns, with dreams, with abilities, with disabilities, with goals, with something to teach and something to learn, something to give and something to gain. But when a label is slapped onto a group of our brothers and sisters, our connection with them collapses—unless, of course, we also fit that label. It collapses because we take that one person with his or her thoughts, feelings, experiences, life stories, scars, talents, and weaknesses and group them with many, which gives the illusion of a threat—you know, that feeling one gets when walking alone down an alleyway passing a group of "others" who from the outside don't appear to relate. And the reaction is to seek and find a label that fits so as not to be bullied by the other label. And the grand illusion of separateness becomes a reality. Crips and Bloods. Democrats and Republicans. Red and Blue. Gay and Straight. Rather than seeing each other as humans that deserve fairness and equal rights, we view each other as a a label, devoid of human-ness, devoid of spirit, devoid of love. And we accept it. It's easier to buy "meat" in a pretty package in a brightly lit market than to eat a piece of a cow you saw killed in a slaughter house. Connection is always lost in the "other" label. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Remember Aesop's fable, The Four Oxen and the Lion? </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>A Lion used to prowl about a field in which Four Oxen used to dwell. Many a time he tried to attack them; but whenever he came near they turned their tails to one another, so that whichever way he approached them he was met by the horns of one of them. At last, however, they fell a-quarrelling among themselves, and each went off to pasture alone in a separate corner of the field. Then the Lion attacked them one by one and soon made an end of all four.</i></span></blockquote>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Would love to give credit to artist. Please share!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The moral of the story: <i>United we stand, divided we fall.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We cannot be divided individually—there are far too many of us, and boy, how confusing that would be for those who require putting us into categories in order to sell to us (remember, we are no longer considered "citizens" but instead "consumers"). But we can easily be divided into groups, separated, and pitted against each other like dogs in a dog fight, while the minority who we <i>believe</i> to be in power place bets and prosper over our blood, sweat, and tears. Fighting dogs have been trained all their lives to hate each other, yet the ones they should be hating are their abusers and those who put them in the ring to begin with. They are the same, having the same needs—food, water, shelter, and love. And any of those dogs could easily scare the hell out of all the people betting around the ring by bonding and turning against their abusers. But they don't. How are we any different? </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The good news is "they" (those who we perceive to have power) are the minority and WE (the people, all people) are the MAJORITY. Think about it for a minute. Seriously. My little town of 7,558 people outnumbers congress by 7,023! And as far as corporations go, <a href="http://mic.com/articles/71255/10-corporations-control-almost-everything-you-buy-this-chart-shows-how" target="_blank">there are only 10 major corporations in America that seemingly control everything we buy</a>. For now. Until we wake up.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Indeed, we may all have differing opinions, beliefs, and goals in life. It's true. But I bet if we looked each other in the eyes, barring all labels, and discussed basic human rights and needs, there is a lot more we, the people, can agree upon, versus disagree. Just like those bloodied dogs in the ring.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We all want jobs. We all want to enjoy the fruits of our labor. We all want safe, affordable housing. We all want good health. We all want to love who we want to love how we want to love. We all want community. We all want privacy. We all want food and water. We all want kindness. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We must awaken to the fact that "they" (the people perceived to be in power) cannot exist without us. Corporate executives and elected officials are in parasitic positions—benefiting only at the expense of our life energy. Yet time and again and on a daily basis we hand over our power to them, then complain and raise our fists in the air citing injustice, when we volunteered to be oppressed by buying that thing, eating that food, complaining only on social networking sites, and keeping our real voices down, and fighting with our neighbors over the labels slapped onto us like we're stuck sitting on the discounted shelves of a Wal-Mart. We scream "they" and at that moment become their victims. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And back to work we go. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We're taught to believe in this false paradigm since grade school so it just might take some work to convince us of the fact that we, as the people, have the power. We are the majority. Your neighbor hanging his American flag each morning is not your uptight, conservative enemy; he wants fairness, safety, and love, just as you do. Your neighbor sporting the Tibetan prayer flags and burning incense is not your dirty hippie liberal enemy; she wants fairness, freedom, and community just as you do. The gay couple down the road adopting their first child is not your enemy; they want safety, education, and love for their child, just as you do. The autistic woman walking to the bus stop is not so strange; she wants to make a living and experience kindness, just as you do. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's time to take back our power, one penny, one decision, one kind, loving act at a time. Our actions are our votes. We must find the sameness, not the differences, in our neighbors. Stop playing victim and realize the truth: your voice as well as your neighbor's counts and every action we take together is more powerful than any political or corporate agenda could ever be. </span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-1680581258340926422014-05-18T23:57:00.000-07:002014-05-18T23:57:14.858-07:00*Tough As Nails<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: <a href="http://www.blackheartcreatives.com/" target="_blank">Black Heart Creatives</a><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've never been clear as to how she found out the state of our living situation, but she did, and she, my temporary savior, came to pull me out of the circus tent that evening.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Aunt Norma was certainly a tough disciplinarian, but I didn't mind. Strict rules felt safe. She brushed my hair and put it into a ponytail, which I loved as it was out of my face—I never like the irritating, scratchy feel of hair on my cheeks. It drove me crazy. We had dinner at the same time each night. It felt like someone was looking out for me and I didn't mind her telling me I had to be in the house before the street lights went on and I had to stay in the yard. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She had children of her own, my twin cousins Natalie and Nicole. They were quite young at the time, not much older than three, making this arrangement for me a temporary one; her hands were full. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For my brief stay, I certainly felt loved and cared for but still my heart sunk. I missed Mum. I worried about her. I missed Tony. I felt a constant sickness in my stomach and chest, and had a hard time eating without feeling like it would come back up, though I forced it with my mind to stay down as I didn't want to get in trouble for wasting food. I fought tears as I realized no one would be there to look after my mother. Who was going to make sure she was up for work on time, eating dinner, and breathing? Would I ever see my brother again?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Aunt Norma didn't like when I barked, so I ceased doing it around her. She didn't need to be protected anyway. Tough as nails, she was. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mum sounded as if she were very angry with Aunt Norma that night, but I couldn't understand why. I was obviously an obstacle in her new relationship with Bill and surely Lynn the prostitute had loftier things to do than to dress me up in her leather and spikes on a Tuesday morning. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Excerpt from Chapter Fifteen: Changes | <a href="http://brandynightingale.blogspot.com/p/the-memoir.html" target="_blank">Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir</a></span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-23804117722344222382014-05-11T17:26:00.000-07:002014-05-18T23:19:40.305-07:00It Is Mother's Day. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mum, each day that passed since you've been gone I learn a little more, I grow a little more, I accept a little more. I'm coming to understand you as I can now see you in me. I love you and miss you more than I could ever say. I cannot say "Happy Mother's Day", because that would be a lie, and you know well I've never been a good liar. So instead I'll just acknowledge it for what it is, and say, "Today is Mother's Day. I'm thinking of you today and everyday. Wish you were here for Breakfast with The Beatles." </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Love and miss you Mum. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blackbird, fly. </span><br />
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-22940721405363816192014-05-07T00:31:00.000-07:002014-05-07T00:35:38.825-07:00Good Intention? Autism Awareness vs. Acceptance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I happened upon a video today posted by a well-known autism "support" website. The video was titled <i>Army of Autism Awareness Angels Flash Mob - World Autism Awareness Day 2012</i>. I knew when I clicked on it that "Flash Mob" and "Autism" couldn't necessarily mesh well, but I was willing to take the risk. Hey—I was bored. And it had been shared 21,582 times, so it must be worth it. Right?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh my. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let me begin by saying I am confident this group of people were very well intentioned and must have incredibly loving hearts to coordinate such a large scale event. It was quite impressive.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With so any people. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In such a public place. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With so many bright lights. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With such incredibly loud, obnoxious music. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">[Closing eyes and covering ears, hoping for Scotty to beam me up . . . ]</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If this group of people in the video were "aware" at all about autism and one of its main ingredients, sensory sensitivities, they would have realized this was an incredibly ridiculous spectacle. Sensory overload, at its finest. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A crowded mall with its bright, buzzing, florescent lighting, crowds of people, strong perfume, and a different genre of music playing in each store passed has the potential to push anyone (on or off the spectrum) into a full blown meltdown. Then you add the crowd, dancing, jumping, woo-hooing, and clapping next to an ESCALATOR (am I the only one that still gets a fright from these beastly things?) — I'd need an escape plan - pronto. They put children (not sure if they were autistic or not) in the middle of a circle and danced around them, clapping and woo-hooing (I'd have been on the floor at this point covering my ears, hoping anyone, the most evil of serpents even, would pull me through the floor to get some quiet in his warm bowels). And the grand finale: a group of hot, young girls ride down the escalator in tiny red t-shirts, short shorts, and high heels (seriously) holding small signs displaying the words "Army of Autism Awareness Angels". Did anyone even see the signs? Likely not, with the red colored shirts (which everyone knows the brain cannot NOT see the color red) - oh, and the hot girls, naturally. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This event would get a 10 in my book . . . if it were a demonstration of what causes an autistic to meltdown and isolate from the rest of society. A 10 if it were a demonstration to parents as to why their daughter is screaming and covering her ears, or why their son is hiding in the clothes rack in Macy's and won't come out. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Being "aware" that autism exists isn't helping anyone, nor is it even necessary. I think we've down-right saturated the media with knowing the word "autism". Even the label itself isn't really helping anyone as every autistic is different and it certainly isn't helping when the actual difficulties the autistic is having aren't even being considered (such as the numerous non-verbal children who consistently displayed head-banging behavior before<i> finally</i> being diagnosed with severe ear infections; or the kid who screams incessantly while covering his ears in Costco because the florescent lights are buzzing and blinking creating a sensory tornado in his brain and body). </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Children and adults, verbal and non-verbal alike, are often drugged, set aside, and not considered when it comes to our own feelings, wants, needs, and desires. Silly when something like a baseball cap in Costco does wonders (it does for me). Earplugs-brilliant. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Einstein (who many believe today would be diagnosed as being somewhere on the autism spectrum) didn't speak until he was four. In fact, mathematics historian Otto Neugebauer once told a rather charming, inspiring story about young Einstein. </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>As he was a late talker, his parents were worried. At last, at the supper table one night, he broke his silence to say, "The soup is too hot."</i> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Greatly relieved, his parents asked why he had never said a word before. </i> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Albert replied, "Because up to now everything was in order."</span></i></blockquote>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Imagine if young Albert had been institutionalized, drugged, or simply not listened to? </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Imagine a group of people decided to do a flash mob for "poor people awareness". Imagine them paying to have hundreds of t-shirts made to advertise the event, handing out food and drinks for the dancers, and holding the event in a place like Beverly Hills, California (not a very poor-friendly place). And imagine Victoria's Secrets models walking out in lingerie (nice to look at but inappropriate!) holding hand written "Army of Angels for the Poor" signs above their heads. How is any of this helping the poor? All the money and energy spent getting t-shirts made, food prepared, and money to pay the models could have easily gone to feeding or housing the poor. But no one asked the poor what would help. And we're all quite aware that the poor exist. Capishe?</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As good intentioned as these folks must have been, I don't think they realized at the time the contrast of their actions to what they were trying to raise awareness for. It is my hope that Autism Acceptance is the message more widely spread. It is my hope that all people, as good hearted as we often are, take more time to listen, to understand, to learn from one another. I'd much prefer someone take an interest in me as a person rather than spread the word about my overgeneralized label. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-86751907301306544832014-04-18T00:04:00.001-07:002014-04-18T00:04:47.802-07:00The Truth About Gurus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTI7bhgquIyOM8IS9zxIo3d-tLBUHaGaVASSTMp34x6g7dM41GF1PS-BCyK-3YFiLNQPOAmVBjI5EnPXX33q-d9edbj3It-6GYWHmp8x8zCD2QmbFrwTmrXa2z-S8ZQu32N8ovha2g1XE/s1600/love-inspirational-daily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTI7bhgquIyOM8IS9zxIo3d-tLBUHaGaVASSTMp34x6g7dM41GF1PS-BCyK-3YFiLNQPOAmVBjI5EnPXX33q-d9edbj3It-6GYWHmp8x8zCD2QmbFrwTmrXa2z-S8ZQu32N8ovha2g1XE/s1600/love-inspirational-daily.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Guru" chasers and "spiritual teacher" seekers: you know how amazing it feels when you meet someone for the first time and he or she says something that you would have liked to have said, or that you'd always wanted to say? Your heart beats a bit faster, your eyes twinkle, your smile cannot be hidden and you may even sigh with relief. "Finally, someone I can believe in." You then sort of bond for life. A mirrored thought, feeling, or belief creates a heartfelt connection — a friendship is born. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Gurus" are tricky in this way, as they know how to use this method effectively, to their advantage. The difference between a Guru and a friend is, the Guru has created a distance between you and them. Money, power, authority, fame. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The words spoken by these "teachers" is truth already living within YOU, which is why you get that super buzzing or blissful feeling when they seem to be speaking "the truth," falsely mirroring a real connection. I'm not saying another can't help bring your truth out. But real connection is a thing to seek, with another being on your same level that you owe NOTHING to — no money, no power, no authority nor submission. Just love and a MUTUAL admiration and respect. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Whether this being to connect with is your God, your dog, a friend, or all of the above, it's up to you in the end.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm glad my dogs don't expect me to pay to learn from them—I'd be in debt up to my ears. Though I wouldn't put it past them to be conniving little sinister bastards. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Perhaps they are planning $5,000 retreats and creating secret mantras now . . . ?</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">[Gulp.]</span></div>
Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-33088462273691530982014-02-17T17:43:00.000-08:002014-02-17T18:34:46.300-08:00I Don't Hate Cancer. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don't hate cancer. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, cancer was the effect that ripped my mum away from me forever in 2012 and I hate that fact, but I still don't hate cancer. No. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I hate what caused the cancer. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm not a medical professional, but from what I understand, we all carry cancer cells in our bodies. However, the strength (or weakness) of our individual immune systems determine whether or not those cells thrive, survive, and multiply. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Isn't cancer inherited?" you might ask. I certainly did. According to <a href="http://www.cancer.org/cancer/cancercauses/geneticsandcancer/heredity-and-cancer" target="_blank">The American Cancer Society</a>, "Only about 5% to 10% of all cancers are inherited - resulting directly from gene defects (called <i>mutations</i>) inherited from a parent." So, in my mind, it is fair to say most cancers have known causes. Now, </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have a few friends and family members who have been diagnosed with cancer and survived, and one who died of cancer complications, who seemingly did everything right. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In this piece, my focus is on cancers with known causes and risk factors . </span><i style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why do we hate it so?</i><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I hear it said all the time, see it posted on social media sites, see it printed on T-shirts and bumperstickers - "F*%@ Cancer!", as if cancer is always an invincible beast that mercilessly strikes random people for dead. Cancerzilla. Is that what we believe about 5% to 10% of cancers? Or do we simply prefer to believe that about all cancers? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">What about the signs posted all around us, on cigarette boxes, on buildings, in medical journals, on food and beverage containers, in the news? What about all the warnings, encouraging us to limit our time in the sun, to limit our sugar intake (cancer thrives on sugar, you know), to eat properly, to avoid alcohol? It's not often I hear hateful speech and "F" words being directed toward these cancer causing agents. Well, perhaps cigarette smoke - but usually it's not the cancer causing factor people complain about, it's the inconvenience to their senses. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;">So, I'm puzzled. </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We openly hate the effect of cancer but not the causes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;">But . . . isn't </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the cause the one thing we can do something about?</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />If you've read my blog or excerpts from my book, <a href="http://brandynightingale.blogspot.com/p/the-memoir.html" target="_blank">Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir</a>, you'll know my mum, Donn Shy, was diagnosed with cancer and died not three months later (for more on this, read my previous blog entry titled <a href="http://brandynightingale.blogspot.com/2013/10/what-causes-this-type-of-cancer.html" target="_blank">"What Causes This Type of Cancer?"</a>. The day she went in for surgery, her surgeon, after operating on Mum for a short while, informed my grandfather, Mum's husband, and I, that her cancer was not ovarian cancer as they'd first suspected, but a horrid form of stomach cancer. It had spread and the prognosis did not look good. She also told us the particular type of stomach cancer Mum had was caused by alcohol and tobacco use. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She drank beer daily and smoked every day since she was in her teens. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I later found out from the oncologist, Mum's diet (consisting of mostly highly processed foods) also contributed. Corn chips, fast-food, ramen - you name it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">She ignored all the signs. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">I feel I should mention, a sore spot for me is when I see people "toast" my mum on Facebook, saying things like, "I'm having this cold one for you Donn! Hope you're partying it up in Heaven!" when that very alcohol was her poison. If mum died of ricin intake, would people post online "I'm having this bit of ricin on a cracker for you Donn! Rest in peace!"? I surely hope not.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">It's easier for us to "hate" the thing we have no power over (late stage cancer) as opposed to change the things we can. We want to drink. We want to smoke. We want to eat groceries from the middle aisles of the market and then raise our fists against cancer when it hits, as if it came out of nowhere, as it it weren't an invited guest. Like a drunk that gets behind the wheel of a vehicle, then dies in an accident. We could say "I hate death!" but death is inevitable. We could say "I hate car accidents!" but what will that do? Knowing the cause, though, could help us to make better decisions in the future. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">"Hate". It's so final. So devoid of love, of connection. So full of inaction. If I've ever felt so strongly about someone that the word hate has crossed my mind as a seemingly viable option, I've always been able to make a better choice - as in either fix the problem by resolving it, or if the person was detrimental to my well being, I'd simply say goodbye. So, after attempting to save my mum's life by researching a no-cancer diet and lifestyle, rather than raising my fist in the air with a hate for cancer, I made some big changes in my own life. I said goodbye to most processed foods (oh did I love my sugar cereals!!!), hello to local veggies, hello to growing my own food, hello to regular check-ups. I give myself extra time at the airport in order to opt out of walking through the radiation emitting machine. Many of my life choices the past few years began with the knowledge of the causes of cancer. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;">I don't drink alcohol, I've never smoked, I stopped eating meat in 2007. Might I still get cancer? Yes. But I know I've made a grand effort at taking responsibility for my own health and worked toward a strong immune system. And if I receive a cancer diagnosis, I will not hate the cancer, but instead, see the cause (whether it was of my own doing or not) and understand it, and do my best to heal myself, if it's not too late. I'm sure I'll cry, and wish for better outcomes, and perhaps wish it weren't happening to me, but hate? There's no time for hate. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;">I am in no way attempting to simplify that which is cancer. As I said before, I am certainly no medical professional. I'm just curious as to why no one ever discusses hating the causes but only the effect. Now to really confuse things, not everyone gets cancer by eating processed foods or smoking or drinking or even sun bathing. Perhaps this is the reason no one wants to blame these causes - because it's not black and white. But why not take these factors into consideration? If you hate cancer so much, are you taking precautions? It's like entering into a close relationship with someone you know to be a liar. You can *hope* he/she won't lie to you, and he/she might not. But if they do, hating them, even though you knew their character from the get-go, seems kind of silly, no?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">Hating cancer cannot cure cancer. Talking of hating cancer does nothing. Having awareness of the causes and making changes can, possibly. This is where we can take back our power and put it to good use. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;">When in history has hate ever generated progress?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-511489720311157502014-01-10T10:19:00.000-08:002014-01-10T10:23:09.059-08:00*Modern Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Prior to her performances, I would observe her pre-show nerves while she was evolving into the glamorous rock star. I imagined it must have been a scary thing to go out into a crowd of young people and pretend to be someone else when you had a hard enough time just being you. Or maybe not. </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">She seemed to vibrate as she skipped through the house, smoking those tall brown More cigarettes in the red and gold box, one after the other, closely followed by a waft of grey smoke: he</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 21px;">r ghostly entourage. The apartment filled with the overwhelming chemical scent of Aqua Net Extra Hold hairspray and the distinctive sounds of Mark Garson on the piano playing Bowie’s Aladdin Sane. I’d sit on the floor just outside the bathroom’s open door, silent, as I loved taking in all of her smells and feeling the sporadic bursts of warmth from the hairdryer embrace me, burning the familiar scent of my mother into my mind forever.<br /><br />On this particular night, her stage was the middle of a roller-skating rink, and she dressed in a cream colored suit, a thin tie covered in Japanese characters, her hair short and feathered on top, and the hit song “Modern Love” was blaring over the loud speakers. Mum was David Bowie.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 21px;">Excerpt from chapter fifteen | changes | <a href="http://brandynightingale.blogspot.com/p/the-memoir.html" target="_blank">Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir</a></span></span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-29271004563554407702013-12-23T17:46:00.001-08:002014-01-10T10:32:39.619-08:00*Job Security (Time for Cheer)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’d never tell the other kids in the
neighborhood of our favorite game—not because I was ashamed of it, but because
it was sacred. Besides, if I did tell them of it, I’d undoubtedly be
interrogated, then told our little game was illogical and stupid. I, for once,
didn’t care how logical or practical or intelligent this was. It was
love, and the best we knew how. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She’d bought all of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZiNmVdFlIL4" target="_blank">Alvin and the Chipmunks</a>
albums and played them while we cleaned the house. We were always cleaning the house. I never had the heart to
tell her their shrieking voices made me feel like my eardrums were shattering
and brain imploding. We’d sing along to their Christmas album, imitating their
shrieks the best we could, “Christmas, Christmas time is here. Time for toys
and time for cheer . . .” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She had a very special way of getting us
to willingly engage in child labor. If it weren’t sing-alongs with the three
rodent evangelists of consumerism, she would set the alarm on the microwave and
say, “Ok, kids! Whoever finishes cleaning their special area of the house by
the time the alarm sounds wins!” She’d make a trumpeting sound as if she were
initiating a horse race, then exclaim, “And they’re off!” We would run around
like mad, giggling, one with window cleaner and paper towels, one with wood
polish and a dust rag, Mum with the vacuum, and we’d race to the finish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even though we'd caught onto her tricks, we never did complain. We wouldn’t actually win anything in particular other than a nice
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Excerpt from chapter fourteen | name of the game | <a href="http://brandynightingale.blogspot.com/p/the-memoir.html" target="_blank">Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir</a></span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-81302104777122784232013-12-01T11:59:00.000-08:002014-01-10T10:30:08.609-08:00Positive Thinking vs. Realism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;line-height: 21px">(The following is based on a Facebook conversation regarding author <a href="http://www.thersa.org/events/video/archive/barbara-ehrenrich-smile-or-die" target="_blank">Barbara Ehrenreich's lecture</a> exploring the darker side of positive thinking and the RSA Animate video that supports it, posted below.)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;line-height: 21px"> What I'm finally "getting" in my thirty eighth year on this planet is to see things, people, and situations exactly as they are. Nothing more, nothing less. No more adding my own made up stories (such as looking at a homeless person and creating in my mind a complete history causing an emotional reaction rather than simply connecting with that human being as an equal, or meeting a person who has a different political stance than me and making up in my mind that I "know" everything about them). </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;line-height: 21px"> Looking to a person's actions rather than words is not what we are taught as students in the current education system. The teacher is always right. . . not (as shown by this brilliant and hilarious display of <a href="http://imgur.com/jdntbDw" target="_blank">detention slips</a>). </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;line-height: 21px"> A favorite quote by Jiddu Krishnamurti is <i>"Do you know that even when you look at a tree and say, 'That is an oak tree', or 'that is a banyan tree', the naming of the tree, which is botanical knowledge, has so conditioned your mind that the word comes between you and actually seeing the tree? To come in contact with the tree you have to put your hand on it and the word will not help you to touch it." </i>Imagine what life would be like if each and every one of us decided to approach others and situations as Krishnamurti discusses approaching the oak or banyan tree. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;line-height: 21px"> My goal is to allow people to show me who they are, not tell. Like a book. If you pick up a book to read and have already made up your mind what it will be about, you'll always be disappointed. If you allow it to show you its story, you may or may not be disappointed, but at least you gave it the opportunity. I can admit much of my sadness and disappointment in life has had to do with creating a fantasy of who or what a person should be (starting with parental figures, teachers, and friends). "Positive Thinking" can get in the way of allowing people and situations to show their true colors. Once their bright and vibrant or dark and dreary colors are shown, you then have a choice. And you cannot be lazy when looking for the truth; it is a bit of work. But once you are aware of what is being shown, you can then, and only then, ask your self, "Do I care to pick up this book or will I choose to leave it on the shelf for someone else?"</span></div>
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</div>Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-66532318351841424222013-10-21T21:43:00.000-07:002014-01-10T10:31:47.832-08:00Childlike Presence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12px; line-height: 21px;">Image courtesy of Sweet Crisis | </span><a href="http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/Teamwork_g404-Red_Ants_Team_Work_p114900.html" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 12px; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">FreeDigitalPhotos.net</a></span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">The wind passing through the eucalyptus trees temporarily distracted my senses from today's harsh reality and took my mind back to a time where I found joy in closely observing minuscule insects go about their daily business of survival. They were steadfast and perseverant, my holy teachers. I sat upon decomposed granite, feeling tiny pebbles embed into the skin of my bare legs, leaving artistic indentations of which I'd later count and discover patterns. There was no hurry, nor any need to stand and present myself in any way that simply wasn't. I'd imagine the fallen acorn caps to be tiny hats for fairies, or castles for ants, or I'd organize them into miniature villages. </span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">These rare and most cherished childhood memories didn't consist of loud screams in bounce-houses, nor birthday parties with slightly creepy hired entertainment, but of quiet moments alone in the backyard of my grandmother's house in Santa Barbara, with the sun warmly caressing my face ever so gently and the wind moving through the trees making everything come alive, all at once. </span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">I wonder, are introverts born or made?</span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-28508880604042592062013-10-13T17:30:00.000-07:002014-01-10T10:35:05.995-08:00The Money Monster (When I Grow Up . . . )<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">At nearly forty years of age, I’m, once again, sitting on my sofa questioning what I want to be when I “grow up”.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">Right now I’m dissatisfied with my life. I’m thirty-eight years old, and admit I haven’t a dime in savings that is my own. No. I spent my savings on our wedding, on moving from the East Coast back to the West Coast, on supplementing the low paying job I accepted once I returned to California in order to escape working in the cult otherwise known as the film industry (of which I am convinced gave me PTSD with it’s perpetual long hours, disregard for human life, and egos much too large to ever please).</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">“We” have savings. But not really. It’s his. I don’t have the option to say, “I’m going to take $300 out of savings and stay at the Four-Seasons in Santa Barbara for a treat tonight,” or “I’m going to take $10 out of savings to send a used book to my half-sister as a gift,” or even, “Enough with the worry lines, I’m getting Botox.” We’re a team. And whatever consequences I reap, we both must endure (frozen face included). It’s frustrating. Yes, I sound like a child throwing a tantrum. But please, hear me out (if you have the heart and patience for first world problems). I feel I’ve worked hard for many years and have nothing to show for it, other than the few deep horizontal lines on my forehead and the low whispers of desperation I hear in my mind when I have an inspirational thought I must instantly reject due to my current financial situation.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">I am embarrassed to say (but what the hell, I’ll say it) that when I was in my early twenties, I was convinced I’d be financially successful by my current age. I’d worked hard to become a stand-up comic–surely I’d reach Ellen DeGeneres’ level of success by thirty-five—a house in Ojai and in Beverly Hills, ya, I could dig that. Surely I’d have my own television show or at least be good enough to participate in political discussions with Bill Maher. Though I wasn’t necessarily loving the idea of being known by all and having my sacred privacy ripped out from under me as others I’d known had experienced, I knew it would be a small price to pay in order to be assured I could go home to my humble yet cozy beach house where my loyal dogs and full library would be equally happy to see me. My white down comforter and candles would be calling my name by midnight, after an extra long soak in the bubble bath where I’d read a chapter of an intriguing story. All bills paid and vacation to a quaint cabin in the middle of Canada booked. I’d be safe and secure, without a worry, especially the kind surrounding the one force that I’d feared since I was a child—the almighty dollar.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">Money was a monster, or so I was taught. It was frightening and all-powerful, but we couldn’t run from it because as much as we feared and hated it, we desperately needed and depended on it. And because of that dire need, we all made an unspoken agreement to be lowly slaves to it. And now, as an adult, I thought I’d long escaped its sharp talons, yet I find as I sit in my full anxiety today with the brainwashed mind of a domestic abuse victim, I am still money’s slave.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">I’m not struggling to pay the bills as Mum did when I was growing up. She’d say, “Which bill should we pay this month? No lights or no heat?” Somehow a twelve pack of beer was never a concern, though. She’d say, “We don’t have money to send you to college, so drop it.” “We don’t have money to get your senior photos taken. I don’t care if it’s only $5.00.” “We don’t have $10 for that field trip, so no, you’re not goin’. End of story.”</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">No. Not any more. Thanks to the combined incomes of my hardworking hubby and I, the bills here are paid. I don’t have to fret returning home after a long day to find a yellow shut-off notice from the electric company posted on my front door. There’s never a time I turn on the shower shocked to find only freezing cold water. No government cheese and food stamps for us. Nope. My current complaint is about the freedom I’ve sought since I was a little girl—the freedom to look beyond paying bills and having necessities, and the ability to look forward to vacations, friendly visits, and comforting meals out. Having “the monster” makes the quiet times about the excitement of planning for fun times rather than struggling and worrying over bleak ones.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">I was born into this slavery—I didn’t choose it. And though in many ways I’ve come up out of the mud and mire by learning how to manage my own finances and paying off all debt, like many of those who grew up during the great depression still can’t be convinced toilet paper is strictly a single-use item, I can’t seem to shake the hold it has over me.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">I love to write. When I did stand up comedy, my favorite part of the process was writing because I’d get lost in it and everything I observed in life—whether it be the disgusting pink hue of an old woman’s strangely inappropriate attire, or the obviously confused fake Southern drawl of the café barista, I had a purpose, and that purpose was to write down anything and everything I saw. It may or may not have become something grand, but writing it down gave me a purpose, a motivation for leaving the house, for being out in public and interacting with others (not my natural forte at all, by the way—I take introversion to an extreme). <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Writing makes me feel high—really high. A really good, happy high. How quickly I forget it is the only thing to bring me up a level higher than the usual melancholic existence I’ve reluctantly held claim to since my early youth. And yet, I find I’ll go a week or more without doing it and in my seemingly hopeless stupor I’ll ignorantly ask myself once again, “What am I doing with my life?” I’ll say, “I’m not happy. I feel like my skin is crawling. I’m anxious.” I assume those who have taken a liking to working out regularly and eating well feel this way after taking a week or two (or year) off. It feels horrible. I feel trapped and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>stupid</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>for not remembering to take my daily dose of writing seriously. I’ve also, in my creeping, crawling skin, been known to say something along the lines of, “I can’t accept a life that is all about working at a (dead end) job, eating, sleeping, and going back to work, then dying! There has to be more to life for people than this!” <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">Not that there is anything wrong with that kind of life. Some people strive for that, and I admire them for it. Whatever floats your boat, I say.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">And just before I curl up into the fetal position ready to have that spectacular pity party (aren’t you jealous?), somehow truth whispers in my ear and reminds me of the passion that lies beneath the crawling skin, beneath the anxious heart, and beneath the never-been-botoxed worry filled forehead. I pick up my computer. Or, by golly, a pen and a notebook. And it happens. Magic.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;">What does writing have to do with money? <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Depending on whom you ask, everything and nothing. Stephen King wrote in (the most amazing,<span class="apple-converted-space"><i> </i></span><i>must read<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>memoir on the craft) “On Writing”:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i><span style="letter-spacing: -0.5pt;">“I’ve written because it fulfilled me. Maybe it paid off the mortgage on the house and got the kids through college, but those things were on the side–I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.”</span></i></span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; letter-spacing: -0.5pt; line-height: 24px;">Time and time again I’ve been told, advised, etc. that your passion should never be about the money, but about the “buzz” and the good it brings to yourself and perhaps others in the process. And often I put my writing aside because “the monster” will poke his head out of the muck and let me know how important it is that I have him in my life. And I work hard, and come home tired, and forget to write. And feel like (excuse my honesty) shit. I forget I am working so I<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>can</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>write.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; letter-spacing: -0.5pt; line-height: 24px;">. . . .</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; letter-spacing: -0.5pt; line-height: 24px;"> Well, my skin isn’t crawling. I feel pretty good actually. I just wrote 1,480 words in less than an hour. And I didn’t get any poorer doing it. Electricity is still on. Water is still hot. Down comforter still white. I can finish the laundry. Put together a fantastic meal. Perhaps no planning for that quiet cabin vacation among the wild moose of Canada, but I can certainly sit back down at my computer and get high . . . any time I want (and take brief breaks by viewing online photos of cabins in Canada and their accompanying neighborly moose).</span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-71634395230358337982013-10-06T13:14:00.000-07:002014-01-10T10:47:16.573-08:00What Causes This Type of Cancer?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Better days. 1978.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Written February 17th, 2012, edited October 6, 2013) I can't help becoming selfishly annoyed when I read posts on social networking sites by well meaning friends in regard to my relationship with my recently deceased mum. “Your mom was such a sweet woman.” “Her love for you really showed.” “You were so close.” Ugh. Do these people remember at all the many nights I cried because I couldn’t give my mum a call to say “hello” without her screaming at me, saying, “What do you want?!” or “Goddamnit, why do you always call me when I’m eating?! Can’t you call me at a better time?!”? I couldn’t have a conversation with her for more than ten minutes, as she’d turn something I said into a “judgment” coming from me, though judging was never my intention. She’d scream, not allow me to speak, then hang up, where I wouldn’t have the opportunity to right my supposed wrong, explain my intentions, nor apologize. I was always an annoyance to her, at least 80% of the time. An inconvenience. She had me at the very young age of twenty-one – I presume that could be quite inconvenient when you want to be a famous singer, or painter, or model, or . . .<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was always the “good girl” in my eyes.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>No drinking, no smoking, no drugs. Read, read, read. Save money, pay bills on time, have no outstanding debt. Eat healthy.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>I don’t know who I was trying to prove myself to as Mum would have much rather had me as a drinking buddy that could bitch about not having money, not being able to afford the bills, how my stomach hurt all the time, then grab a burger and fries at McDonald’s—to wallow in the mud together as unfortunate swine. <span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In this very moment, I am missing her so much that I half wish I had spent some time with her in the manner, as she wished. However, I know in my heart and mind that these activities are what ultimately took her life.<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As she was wheeled in to surgery on December 7th, 2011, my step-father Bill, my grandparents, younger sister Kelli, my husband Shyam and I walked her to her room. The nurses let us in to hug her and wish her the best of luck. We were told she’d be going in to have a hysterectomy as she had ovarian cancer – though they wouldn’t know until they went in at what stage her cancer was. As we were walking down the hall leaving her behind, trusting they would treat her well, she called out for my husband Shyam. She wanted to give him a hug. She always took a strong liking to him and it brought tears to my eyes that she had made that effort.<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“She should be done in about four hours, so sit tight.”<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Twenty minutes after she went under, Dr. Rodriguez entered the waiting room where we were anxiously awaiting the “good” news. Kelli had left for work, Shyam had left to run some errands, so it was just Bill, my grandfather, and I.<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“We’ve discovered it is not ovarian cancer that Donn has, in fact her ovaries are fine. We’ve discovered stomach cancer. There is a large tumor in her abdomen and it has metastasized to other organs in her body, including her intestines. This does not look good."<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After everyone began to hug, sob, and curse the heavens, I somehow gathered the brain power to ask, “What causes this type of cancer? Is it hereditary?”<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Well, there are mainly two causes. Either you’re of Asian descent, which your mom is not, as far as we know, or heavy drinking and smoking.”<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All this time, I’d been the bad guy when asking my mom to please stop drinking and smoking. She hated me for that. Hated me. She wouldn’t talk to me for months on end because I even mentioned the word “drinking” over the phone. I distinctly recall standing in front of her when I was 12 years old after catching her snorting a powdery white substance, saying to her "If you don't stop, it will kill you one day." I was right, and now I was livid.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-10343128788528032472013-10-03T18:19:00.000-07:002013-10-03T18:19:21.996-07:00*Disappointment, Please. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7VgBiLk8_48EgUwFn00SyqckY4GsacOuXTRCSTC1TMCkbGoGVN3dcCYES9kYGdj43SxvqjeAtrWUMvyJqkmC0QHeU7n1-X906kAMmyOQ-rcG_wtVFDjQDRvncgkeB2lVkGd3uiOitZ7w/s1600/disappointment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7VgBiLk8_48EgUwFn00SyqckY4GsacOuXTRCSTC1TMCkbGoGVN3dcCYES9kYGdj43SxvqjeAtrWUMvyJqkmC0QHeU7n1-X906kAMmyOQ-rcG_wtVFDjQDRvncgkeB2lVkGd3uiOitZ7w/s320/disappointment.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 200%;">“We’ll
be OK Mum, you can go, we’ll all take care of each other,” my sister and I
sobbed. We repeated this nonsense to her over and over and over. Could she
sense we were lying? In death, surely one gets closer to the spirit world and
can finally see through bullshit lies being told, I thought. I didn’t agree
with our promises at all, especially knowing the state of cold separation our
family had retained for years apart from the past few months when we were
forced to come together and care. My dream of being a close, caring family had
finally come true, but under these set of circumstances I’d gladly take the
disappointment I had come to know so well. I hoped we would take care of each
other, that the family environment we’d built the past few months would remain—that
I could continue hosting family nights with dinner and board games—but it
wouldn’t be the same without her infectious laugh, her charismatic draw, and
her special set of dysfunctions she unapologetically brought to the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 200%;">Excerpt from chapter
one | wild horses | <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9CWe%E2%80%99ll%20be%20OK%20Mum,%20you%20can%20go,%20we%E2%80%99ll%20all%20take%20care%20of%20each%20other,%E2%80%9D%20my%20sister%20and%20I%20sobbed.%20We%20repeated%20this%20nonsense%20to%20her%20over%20and%20over%20and%20over.%20Could%20she%20sense%20we%20were%20lying?%20In%20death,%20surely%20one%20gets%20closer%20to%20the%20spirit%20world%20and%20can%20finally%20see%20through%20bullshit%20lies%20being%20told,%20I%20thought.%20I%20didn%E2%80%99t%20agree%20with%20our%20promises%20at%20all,%20especially%20knowing%20the%20state%20of%20cold%20separation%20our%20family%20had%20retained%20for%20years%20apart%20from%20the%20past%20few%20months%20when%20we%20were%20forced%20to%20come%20together%20and%20care.%20My%20dream%20of%20being%20a%20close,%20caring%20family%20had%20finally%20come%20true,%20but%20under%20these%20set%20of%20circumstances%20I%E2%80%99d%20gladly%20take%20the%20disappointment%20I%20had%20come%20to%20know%20so%20well.%20I%20hoped%20we%20would%20take%20care%20of%20each%20other,%20that%20the%20family%20environment%20we%E2%80%99d%20built%20the%20past%20few%20months%20would%20remain%E2%80%94that%20I%20could%20continue%20hosting%20family%20nights%20with%20dinner%20and%20board%20games%E2%80%94but%20it%20wouldn%E2%80%99t%20be%20the%20same%20without%20her%20infectious%20laugh,%20her%20charismatic%20draw,%20and%20her%20special%20set%20of%20dysfunctions%20she%20unapologetically%20brought%20to%20the%20table.%20%20Excerpt%20from%20chapter%20one%20|%20wild%20horses%20|%20Everything%E2%80%99s%20Hunky%20Dory:%20A%20Memoir" target="_blank">Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-41997746481701527852013-09-08T16:57:00.002-07:002013-09-08T17:10:23.789-07:00*The Quiet | Part II <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs_31KBuyGFf1zEGefeARattD0NUgWVemSpaVbhF0AXJL2p_CLw79n90j7-U_bEK0sWqzatHqzVy2llsTZyFNg7PiFV-MAQjai7QgVKigtd1RqrNO7roShrVYwKlXC51tVcaEBO2BgniI/s1600/Little_Mute_Girl_by_Rickz0r.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs_31KBuyGFf1zEGefeARattD0NUgWVemSpaVbhF0AXJL2p_CLw79n90j7-U_bEK0sWqzatHqzVy2llsTZyFNg7PiFV-MAQjai7QgVKigtd1RqrNO7roShrVYwKlXC51tVcaEBO2BgniI/s400/Little_Mute_Girl_by_Rickz0r.png" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Art (love it!) found here: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://www.deviantart.com/art/Little-Mute-Girl-133251540</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #7f7f7f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’d always hated dresses. One simply
can not conduct explorations of insects nor properly study sand particles when
wearing a dress and white stockings, unless one finds the occasional beating
and screaming at from one’s very southern grandmother desirable. Stockings felt
scratchy, like a thousand itching flea bites. Make that a million. They made me
constantly aware of where my awkward, skinny legs were at any given time, made
me constantly worry about whether or not my underpants were showing, and made
me feel extra sensitive and irritated if the wind were blowing. And those warm,
Southern California Santa Ana winds were the worst, as I’d simultaneously have
to hold my dress down at my knees and pull my static electric hair down toward
my face in an attempt to keep others from noticing me and laughing. I’d imagine
creating contraptions to hold the dress down—a giant rubber band or possibly
custom-made Bungee Cords that would connect the bottom of the dress to my
shoes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #7f7f7f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh, those horrid shoes. I dreaded the
toe-pinching black patent leather shoes that were merely good for slipping and
sliding along the blacktop and falling on one’s face to the grand amusement of
those lucky enough to be donning more appropriate attire, such as sneakers or
the slightly acceptable Buster Browns. Nana would shine them up, straighten my
dress at the shoulders, and exclaim, “Isn’t that adorable?!” I had no idea as to
what “that” she was referring to. I surely had no desire to be considered “adorable”
nor a “that.” Perhaps gluing rubber erasers to the bottom of the shoes would
solve the issue, making me taller in the process.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #7f7f7f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Looking back, I see I was a pretty
intelligent kid with innovative ideas (at least for that age), but the concept
of reading, writing, and arithmetic on these particular types of days was far
from the reaches of my ability, as unbeknownst to me and surrounding adults,
the sensory receptors in my brain were malfunctioning. I’d find out many years
later my amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for the fight or flight
response, was defectively over-active. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selective_mutism" target="_blank">Selective mutism</a> turned out to be the
more appropriate term for why I was never able to get out the words “I want a
carrot” to the barking Doberman across the schoolyard when Mr. Hoyt, so well
intentioned, heroically attempted to cure me of what he saw as an extreme case
of the quiet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #7f7f7f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Excerpt from chapter five | Dear Mr.
Fantasy | <a href="http://brandynightingale.blogspot.com/p/the-memoir.html" target="_blank">Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir</a></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-56175138214220910912013-09-07T20:46:00.000-07:002013-11-03T11:57:13.188-08:00*The Quiet | Part I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9F7Dyr3ZaBS_XRueMih6ch7ESmeKUaS3VFk6MSqbmE7l3DtXObFhY2nB0c3oLbPsnIH6hMwuKud_Z0CQVpRkVwSqpI65zoh38Cq6lugdDhtuJQIEhyDpNisSXcisDOQBoskUR71CJVzA/s1600/il_570xN.247393905.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9F7Dyr3ZaBS_XRueMih6ch7ESmeKUaS3VFk6MSqbmE7l3DtXObFhY2nB0c3oLbPsnIH6hMwuKud_Z0CQVpRkVwSqpI65zoh38Cq6lugdDhtuJQIEhyDpNisSXcisDOQBoskUR71CJVzA/s320/il_570xN.247393905.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia;">“Just say it, as loud as you can to
that big dog over there. Go on, say it! ‘I want a carrot! I want a carrot!’”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia;">There I sat, stiffly and nervously
upon an orange plastic chair that had been placed on a table top in the front
of my first grade classroom. My sweaty little hands were tightly gripping both
sides of the chair bottom as if the next step were spontaneous hydraulic
ejection. Regardless of having no parachute in my possession, I had climbed up
onto it at the request, or rather, demand, of my teacher, Mr. Hoyt. He said I
was too shy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia;"> Tiny bursts of hushed laughter popped
up like Whac-A-Mole about the classroom. The tiny hushed bursts might as well
have been nuclear explosions. Devastating.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia;">My throat ached. It felt as if it
were closing, stuffed with a big ball of uncooked dough that was rising by the
second. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights was extra loud, as all of the students
stared at me in attempted silence, waiting to hear my since hidden monotone
voice for the first time. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia;">Nana had made me wear a dress that
day—a navy blue dress, with white lacing along the bottom and tiny navy anchor
design across the waist. Those anchors were the only things mildly acceptable
about this horrid nautical themed torture arrangement. “Oh, you look darling,”
she’d say, with that strange, southern accent and seemingly smashed vocal cord
sound that only really tiny people seem to share. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia;">At least ship anchors had a logical
purpose that I could comprehend, so I’d stare at them, giving my mind an
imagination workout and my eyes a perfect excuse to avoid uncomfortable contact
with others. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia;">Excerpt from chapter five | Dear Mr.
Fantasy | <a href="http://brandynightingale.blogspot.com/p/the-memoir.html" target="_blank">Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2796594326834346018.post-35373937840623651542013-08-18T23:41:00.000-07:002013-11-03T11:56:26.643-08:00Mr. Braveman | A True Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85EA43rhUDSGJNFTuFBXivCWji9XRx3e063Hz3bkWhbltQJ2gWfef6JFPvQQkMVssITMHtxuO0CP088MEjZe6eXnICXOZ8QHSnTxM6gF9s_Wf1aIIHHIUvqf2xKHo3xq4j_kZ7khYZ8E/s1600/chestnut-hill-holiday-lights-320uw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85EA43rhUDSGJNFTuFBXivCWji9XRx3e063Hz3bkWhbltQJ2gWfef6JFPvQQkMVssITMHtxuO0CP088MEjZe6eXnICXOZ8QHSnTxM6gF9s_Wf1aIIHHIUvqf2xKHo3xq4j_kZ7khYZ8E/s1600/chestnut-hill-holiday-lights-320uw.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lovely Chestnut Hill at Holiday Time</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">Mr. Braveman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">He was our next door neighbor in the charming Chestnut Hill
neighborhood of Philadelphia in 2009-2010. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">I moved to Philadelphia to work on M. Night Shyamalan’s film,
<i>The Last Airbender</i>. Prior to arriving, I researched the neighborhoods online,
seeking a quiet, beautiful, and perhaps historic place away from the city to
call home. Chestnut Hill proved to be the perfect spot; a quaint village
of parks, shops, and cozy cafes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">My rental home was directly across the street from the stunning
Pastorius Park where neighborhood dogs would convene and make plans to take
over the world. I watched the seasons change there, for the first time. I grew
up in California and had never watched the snow melt with daffodils peaking up
from under it. I’d never experienced a real thunderstorm. I’d never shoveled
snow. It was exciting. And I miss it now. So in my nostalgia tonight, I pulled
up my old address on Google. Who lives there now? Does it look the same? Is the
house for sale? How’s Mr. Braveman?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">Mr. Braveman had cats. A republican, he had a large American flag displayed in
his front porch window and a McCain sticker on his front door (let’s just
say, I didn’t vote for McCain). He was a lawyer. He smoked sometimes, and
when it was cold out, he’d smoke in his basement and the smell would seep in
through my vents. I’ve always hated smoke. It was annoying, but I never said
anything about it. He loved to garden. His backyard was something to envy,
attracting birds of all sorts. He had his very specific routines, and was
completely predictable. In fact, whenever I hear the song “Well Respected Man”
by The Kinks, I giggle, as certain words in the lyrics always make me think of
him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">Cause he gets up in the
morning,<br />
And he goes to work at nine,<br />
And he comes back home at five-thirty,<br />
Gets the same train every time.<br />
Cause his world is built round punctuality,<br />
It never fails.<br />
<br />
And he's oh, so good,<br />
And he's oh, so fine,<br />
And he's oh, so healthy,<br />
In his body and his mind.<br />
He's a well respected man about town,<br />
Doing the best things so conservatively. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">[ . . . ]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;"><br />
And he likes his own backyard,<br />
And he likes his fags the best,<br />
Cause he's better than the rest . . .<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--></span><span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I was afraid of Mr.
Braveman, at first. I had made up a story in my mind that he surely found me to
be a commie or a dirty hippie as I’d play Ravi Shankar through the house
and attempted to learn to play the sitar. And I’d better not mess up or he’d complain. “Keep it down!”
I’d tell myself. I’d scold the dogs if they made even a tiny peep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">He never once complained.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">And then, somehow, little by little, we began talking. About
cats. About dogs. My dogs loved him. He loved them back. He loved that we rescued them. We spoke of gardening
and how he purchased the house in 1975 for only $15,000. How he’d hiked the
Appalachian trail. How he’d served our country while in the Marines. We spoke
of his travels to exotic destinations. He had some amazing stories to tell. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">He took the train to work and would walk to the station both
ways, every single weekday. We had a horrible winter (at least, that’s what all
the east coasters were calling it. I called it ‘fun’), so the tall steps to our
homes would have a few feet of snow on them at times. When we could, we’d
shovel Mr. Braveman’s steps for him so he wouldn’t have to do it when he
returned home from work. He became a wonderful friend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">Just before we headed back to California, Mr. Braveman had just
finished a highly anticipated addition to his home. One wall was exposed brick and he asked my
boyfriend (now husband) and I to come over and “autograph” it. It was a
beautiful wall signed by others with loving and humorous notes. We felt honored
that he’d include us in this piece of history. He’d become such a sweetheart,
such a gift in our lives there. I found it hard to leave him. I cried. I hoped the new
renters would befriend him as we had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">We missed the place so much, we returned in November of 2010 to
take a stroll around the park, poke about the neighborhood, and pop in to
say hello to Mr. Braveman. There he was, on his front stoop, doing a bit of gardening, as usual.
We didn’t have his phone number, just showed up. And we asked if we could take
a photo with him. He agreed to it, thankfully. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDY0Nm-UkOTJDuIboWMmAq1nAWl6IubNjlJVPP3Jiw1QyDghI-uI-ylqpth5PLWydrOA_KXdhQ4rYKYruggcKz4hnm9Hd1Qu_6Axf6XsJYAXqHJZyD5mJ0P0aCm4zmKO0Z8pcwdypG7d0/s1600/DSC04050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDY0Nm-UkOTJDuIboWMmAq1nAWl6IubNjlJVPP3Jiw1QyDghI-uI-ylqpth5PLWydrOA_KXdhQ4rYKYruggcKz4hnm9Hd1Qu_6Axf6XsJYAXqHJZyD5mJ0P0aCm4zmKO0Z8pcwdypG7d0/s640/DSC04050.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444;">Nov. 7, 2010 - Future hubby and I with our dear friend and neighbor, Mr. Braveman.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">So, in my sentimental Google search this evening, I pulled up the street view
of our place. Yep, looks the same. Same blue door. Oh, how I loved eating spaghetti out on the porch during thunderstorms. Wow, I can’t believe that
plant survived. Then I panned over to Mr. Braveman’s house. Hmmm. No flag.
Where’s the McCain sticker? That’s odd. I then put his address in a Google
search. Zillow. For Sale. What? Mr. Braveman would never sell that house! He’s
been there since the year I was born . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">Obituaries. Chestnut Hill Local.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">David Braveman, lawyer</span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">David
Braveman, 72, a lawyer who specialized in trusts and estates, died Jan. 5
[2011] at his home in Chestnut Hill.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Mr.
Braveman had focused recently on health care litigation in his work with the
law firm of Pepper Hamilton.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Raised
in Corning, N.Y., he was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and
Harvard Law School.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He
had served in the Marine Corps for three years.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He
was an avid gardener, hiker and camper and had been an active member of the
Friends of Pastorius Park.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">I’m crushed. Was he alone? Was he ill? </span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">And at the same time, so happy to have known
this incredibly kind man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">I found another article, on <a href="http://articles.philly.com/2011-01-11/news/27021809_1_cats-marine-insignia-memorial-service" target="_blank">Philly.com</a>, an interview with his son, William, which revealed details about Mr. Braveman I never knew. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">He was a devoted Quaker; </span><span style="background: white; color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">he
was attracted by its philosophy of peace</span><span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">. He maintained a longtime correspondence with jurist and
philosopher Richard Posner since their days at Harvard Law School. They spoke
mainly of their love for cats. He started college at the young age of sixteen. He was a total smarty pants. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">Imagine if I’d allowed the story I’d made up in my mind to win?
An entire rich piece of life would have never existed. We are often too quick
to believe our own stories, even though they prove time and time again to only
get us into trouble. Our own stories are what keep us from loving others, and
especially loving ourselves. </span><span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #595959; font-family: Georgia;">I’m grateful, so grateful, to have had the wonderful Mr.
Braveman as a friend. I’m grateful, so grateful, I didn’t let the story win. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Brandy Nightingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02930098302800815574noreply@blogger.com2