Vooman announced a blog and then immediately thought, ...Good God! I don't want to blog. I will expose myself and my, possibly, stupid thinking to the world, to ridicule, to laughter, to scorn. I almost wrote my first and my last blog. My last was going to me "My Mistake." After a few days, or has it been weeks, I thought...come on Vooman...you can't be that kind of coward...get out there and kick a little shit. Hell what can you do when you can't jog, can't dance, can't spend spend money (cause you don't have any) can't got out to dinner...What's left? Watch the tube that is 50% commericals?
Blog...blog...blob...blog. Who thought up that name? It sounds like someone walking in mud five inches deep. I've done it before when I was a kid and used to catch pollywogs in that muddy pond down in the field. It's the idea of an endless world out there that you can never get to the end of. At least a book has an end. You might start another one, but it does have an end. This internet has no end.
I will take it a day at a time, like AA. Like one blog at a time. I do not have to gorge myself on blogs or overdose on them. I will not make myself read one more and one more. So if I start this process slow...you will be patient with me. I am only Voomankind.
Vooman...That reminds me, I dreamed I saw a big hand come out of the sky and down on the beach, I took this to be the hand of God. People ran to the hand and started climbing it....almost to the elbow. I looked further on down the beach and it seemed people were flocking around a normal size person ...maybe a guru. I thought people were hungry for God....to swarm this hand like a bunch of ants.
A day or so later I dreamed water was falling over the edge to the beach like waterfalls all down the beach. So much water. I am only telling you these dreams because I will be weaving these dreams and what they mean, or if they came true, into my blogs. Sometimes I don't know what they mean for a week or so. But this is the Voo of me...so get used to it. Often times... my dream life is more active than my real life. My feet are getting a little heavy now...I'll blog on...tomorrow...or....
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
HEALTH CARE HAS BECOME A JOKE
Since my hands first went numb last October I have been trying to find out what is wrong and get some kind of medical help and answers. I went to emergency thinking I was having some kind of heart problems causing the blood not to circulate to my hands. They determine it was not a heart attack and not a stroke as the numbness was in both hands. I was released and sent back to my regular doctor who referred me to a nurologist. When I called the nurologist the girl in the office said they were not accepting any patients without suppmental insurance. I had lost my job some time again and was in the process of loosing my house and there was no way of getting insurance on my meager $610.00 SS payment. I was afraid by the time I got help in Phoenix, I would already be out of my house. My daughter wanted me come of California and I could at least take the grandkids to school. When I went to SS in California they said I was not illegable for help as they were going to count my daughter helping me out with the rent as income. In the mean time the numbness kept crawling up my arms into my spin and the back of my neck. Finally they gave me a Medi-Cal card that would help. I moved in Feb. and now it was April. The appointment they gave me was June 3rd. Feeling like I couldn't make it until June 3, I went to a 24 hr clinic and was referred to a nurologist. Since Oct, I have been to emergancy twice, had a heart stress test, five doctors and three nurologist and have not had one suggestion on what to do about this. Just..."No it's not this, it's not that." No mention of diet or exercise suggestion, not one treatment. And they wonder why health care expences is astromomical.
My nurologist cancelled my last appointment as I need one more test an MRI before they could determine anything. An MRI that I probably should have gotten the first time I went to emergencyor the numness in my hands and pain in my back.
Delay, delay, delay making more expense and more money for hospital and doctors. I feel like all these delay will cause permanant damage to the nerves in my hands, which might have been fixed with more speed. I wonder how many thousands more are subject to his same kind of non-treatment. I feel like shooting myself... for the first time in my life I understand suicide.
I am hopeful they will call with the appointment for the MRI in five days like they said they were going to. If not I get to call back and call back trying to find out what went wrong...again.
My nurologist cancelled my last appointment as I need one more test an MRI before they could determine anything. An MRI that I probably should have gotten the first time I went to emergencyor the numness in my hands and pain in my back.
Delay, delay, delay making more expense and more money for hospital and doctors. I feel like all these delay will cause permanant damage to the nerves in my hands, which might have been fixed with more speed. I wonder how many thousands more are subject to his same kind of non-treatment. I feel like shooting myself... for the first time in my life I understand suicide.
I am hopeful they will call with the appointment for the MRI in five days like they said they were going to. If not I get to call back and call back trying to find out what went wrong...again.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Harold Norse-Poet Giant Among the Beats
Harold Norse died, age of 92, in his sleep on Monday Jane 8th. I first met Harold when I went with Bukowski to his place on Venice Beach. I remember them sparking back and forth with lively conversation about writing. I have heard him say he taught Bukowski to write. (which I doubted) I think Bukowski came away with his latest poetry book that day which I later read. Harold moved to San Francisco and I remember him in the Taylor Hackford film chiding Bukowski about "giving the folks a 20's show."
I decided to sculpture Harold on one of my many trips to San Francisco to see my daugher. He lived around the corner from the Abandoned Planet Bookstore, run by Scott Harrison who had a foundness for all these old poets, as he had Jack Micheline and others in the area. Scott gave me the space to sculpture him in the back room of his store.
Over the next four or five sculpture sitting I got to know Harold much better and he told story after story about his past. I didn't stop sculpturing, he didn't stop talking and I was sorry I didn't have a tape recorder on as he told more and more. He was wearing his wig at this point, which I knew and in the sculpture it looks like a wig. Later after he went into the care center, he abandoned his wig and let his bare head show.
When we went out to eat Harold stuck strictly to his vegetarian diet which probably contributed to his long life. Even though his memory began to fail in his last year he could still read his poetry with absolute clarity.
A few years later when his Autobiography, MEMOIRS OF A BASTARD ANGEL was published. I thought it was one of the most honest book I'd read of a life, a homosexual life. After that came a huge collection of his poetry IN THE HUB OF THE FIERY FORCE from the Thunder Mouth Press. No one can read this book and not see the force, rhythm. beauty of his poetry.
He used to worry that his publisher or his friends were stealing from him...maybe they were.
He grieved that he had not gotten the same fame as some of the other Beats, but I think he was a giant among poets and will not be forgotten. My sculpture of him sits in the Beat Museum in San Francisco. You can see it there or...if I can master a picture on my blog of it, I will.
Linda King
I decided to sculpture Harold on one of my many trips to San Francisco to see my daugher. He lived around the corner from the Abandoned Planet Bookstore, run by Scott Harrison who had a foundness for all these old poets, as he had Jack Micheline and others in the area. Scott gave me the space to sculpture him in the back room of his store.
Over the next four or five sculpture sitting I got to know Harold much better and he told story after story about his past. I didn't stop sculpturing, he didn't stop talking and I was sorry I didn't have a tape recorder on as he told more and more. He was wearing his wig at this point, which I knew and in the sculpture it looks like a wig. Later after he went into the care center, he abandoned his wig and let his bare head show.
When we went out to eat Harold stuck strictly to his vegetarian diet which probably contributed to his long life. Even though his memory began to fail in his last year he could still read his poetry with absolute clarity.
A few years later when his Autobiography, MEMOIRS OF A BASTARD ANGEL was published. I thought it was one of the most honest book I'd read of a life, a homosexual life. After that came a huge collection of his poetry IN THE HUB OF THE FIERY FORCE from the Thunder Mouth Press. No one can read this book and not see the force, rhythm. beauty of his poetry.
He used to worry that his publisher or his friends were stealing from him...maybe they were.
He grieved that he had not gotten the same fame as some of the other Beats, but I think he was a giant among poets and will not be forgotten. My sculpture of him sits in the Beat Museum in San Francisco. You can see it there or...if I can master a picture on my blog of it, I will.
Linda King
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Rhythms of Self
I feel the rhythms of myself
might twist and wave
like ribbons in the wind
really very free
to flow here and there
maybe even to be released
and float away
to the great unknown
I think this body
that I am how trapped is
is only squeezing me physically
as my spirit becomes stronger
reaching out beyond all
walls of human learning
to something bigger
something more expansive
I have always questioned
this nailed down world of fear
so trapped in old beliefs of self
so trapped in good and evil
so trapped in youth and age
but the mind goes exploring
And I am finding no end to this
Ever expanding self
...Linda King 6/8/09
I dreamed last night of this chicken that was having a fit with feathers all puffed up. The chicken was looking a a six lane freeway wondering how to cross the road. As she was all puffed up along came a big white limo on the other side a big hand came out and picked the chicken up and pulled into the car and the car streaked away into a tunnel.
Those from spirit have alway called me "chicken little" because of my temdency to think the sky was falling. I know that this chicken "fit" is my own fears of the internet. The six lay freeway probably represents that, but even though I don't know where I am going...surely a big white limo can't be a bad sign.
might twist and wave
like ribbons in the wind
really very free
to flow here and there
maybe even to be released
and float away
to the great unknown
I think this body
that I am how trapped is
is only squeezing me physically
as my spirit becomes stronger
reaching out beyond all
walls of human learning
to something bigger
something more expansive
I have always questioned
this nailed down world of fear
so trapped in old beliefs of self
so trapped in good and evil
so trapped in youth and age
but the mind goes exploring
And I am finding no end to this
Ever expanding self
...Linda King 6/8/09
I dreamed last night of this chicken that was having a fit with feathers all puffed up. The chicken was looking a a six lane freeway wondering how to cross the road. As she was all puffed up along came a big white limo on the other side a big hand came out and picked the chicken up and pulled into the car and the car streaked away into a tunnel.
Those from spirit have alway called me "chicken little" because of my temdency to think the sky was falling. I know that this chicken "fit" is my own fears of the internet. The six lay freeway probably represents that, but even though I don't know where I am going...surely a big white limo can't be a bad sign.
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