I am a contemporary hunter-gatherer. Actually, more gatherer than hunter since someone else has filleted the fish. A banker’s box saves me time. I toss all my gathers into the box bareback. Three apples, one yam, tomatoes on the vine — you get the idea. (I rolled my eyes in disbelief when I once saw a man put one banana in a plastic bag.) It’s true that I put bulk foods and baby spinach into plastic bags. But one banana? The beauty of the box: easy in and easy out. The box goes from the supermarket into my car and, last stop, the kitchen counter. Images are from Faeries – Doorways to the Enchanted Realm.
Exhibit at Louis Carlos Bernal Gallery
Last week I drove out to see Construct: Putting It Together at the Louis Carlos Bernal Gallery (West Campus – Pima Community College). The exhibition, which runs through December 13, presents assemblage, collage, and fabrication. Sixteen artists worked with paper, wood, metal, fiber, found materials, and photographs to show their many talents. Joan Marum’s glossy mosaics created from soda cans take recycling to a higher level. David Andres, gallery director commented, “From visual arts to performing arts, putting it together is a means to arrange different concepts together in one cohesive piece. The title ‘Putting it Together’ comes from Stephen Sondheim’s musical ‘Sunday in the Park with George.’” See gallery exhibits and schedules at http://www.pima/cfa.
Back to My Blog . . . .
I abandoned my blog for the last many weeks and with good reason. In October my sister was diagnosed with cancer of her esophagus, the distal end. Chris’s world and mine became tangled in scans, tests, minor surgeries, home care, and trips the pharmacy. I’ve added new words to my vocabulary — esophageal, squamous cells, distal, endoscopy, ostomy tube, thoracic, jejunum, port, hydration, chemo pump, and radiation. What an overwhelming experience for both of us.
On Wednesday, for the first time in weeks, Chris felt strong and independent. She drove herself to a nail and hair salon and to her radiation appointment. Her energy level and increased intake of Osmolite kind of indicates the tumor is shrinking. Radiation and chemo end on November 30. We will have another appointment with Dr. Farid Gharagozloo, a thoracic surgeon at the UA Medical Center. Big-time surgery will be done sometime in December — hands-on and robotic. Lots of drama and extensive after-care.
Happy blogging and good health to all. My suggestion — cut out cigarettes, drink wine in moderation, and pass on diet sodas. The National Comprehensive Cancer Network has a website that provides information to people with cancer and their caregivers. Online and free printed guidelines – check out: www.nccn.org.
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Tucson Mermaid
Jim Kennedy checks my blog and asks to see new photos. Here’s one for you, Jim. The Tucson mermaid wearing a half wetsuit — 70° water temperature.
Summer Images
Utah and Colorado photograph beautifully year-round. My summer trip to visit friends gave me a chance to click my shutter a few times. I like to photograph quirky signs. I found two that worked for me. Although one sign had been shot to hell with bullets, both messages were clear. At Snowbird where I often skied, kids had summer fun bouncing on the trampoline.
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PARAPROSDOKIANS
A friend sent an email with a list of paraprosdokians, a rather long word that is easy to pronounce. Mr. P., once a Greek warrior, is linked to sentences using the idea of “beyond” and “expectation” — a yin and yang approach to word play. The first part of a sentence begins matter-of-factly. The second part delivers a punchline with an unexpected, nuanced ending.
— Some people hear voices. Some see invisible people. Others have no imagination whatsoever.
— A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station.
— Buy two get one tree.
— Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
— If I agreed with you, we’d both be wrong.
— A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.
— War does not determine who is right – only who is left.
— Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
— To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.
— I didn’t say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.
— Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy.
— You do not need a parachute to skydive. You only need a parachute to skydive twice.
— I used to be indecisive. Now I’m not so sure.
— To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first, and call whatever you hit the target.
— Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.
— Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana.
Which paraprosdokians do you like? I like . . . tomato is a fruit . . . and the one about skydiving.
The Stranger
My story begins in the west elevator of 211 E. 18th Street. I shared a top-floor apartment with Lynea, a travel agent also in her twenties. The six-story building had an elevator on each side of the lobby. On an April Monday after work, a black teenager slipped behind me as I turned my key to open the lobby door. The guy carried a delivery package and pushed the glass door open when the lock turned.
When we were in the building, I sensed his hesitation. He needed to know if I would walk across the lobby to the left or the right. I went to the left elevator and he followed. I pressed the Up button, the door opened, and we both got on. As soon as the elevator door closed, the two of us were locked in a small, soon to be dangerous space. He backed against the panel of buttons, and in one motion his right hand pulled a switchblade out of nowhere.
Of all nights, where the hell was Gus? The Cuban superintendent usually hung around the lobby to greet tenants as they came home. Since his wife left, Gus liked to make small talk and hint to the single women that he’d like a home-cooked meal.
I stupidly let a stranger follow me into the building. I stupidly did not turn around and walk back on to 18th Street. I never saw the kid outside. In fact, I only saw people walking closer to Second Avenue. Where did he come from? And, where the hell was Gus?
I stood in the elevator with an addict in need of a fix, that much I knew. I read those Daily News stories about women stabbed to death in basements or pushed off rooftops for a few dollars. I may have been stupid, but I had to stay smart enough not to be killed. Gus was probably shooting up in his basement apartment and getting high in his own druggie world.
— Give me your money.
I looked at his dark skin, bloody-red eyes, white teeth, and determined expression. Werewolf, I thought. His knife looked keenly sharp. I did not want to see my blood on the blade. He pushed the tip into the shoulder strap of my bag and asked for money again.
— Okay, okay. Just don’t cut my purse.
My hands trembled to slide the zipper open. I haggled for the bag on Orchard Street the day before. I’ve had the bag one day and this punk is looking to cut the strap. My left hand fished around at the bottom. I pulled up my wallet. I fumbled to open the bill section and took out some fives and a few singles.
— Is that all you got? He grabbed the wallet.
— There’s a twenty in there. I’ll find it.
He pushed the wallet back into my hand. I found the twenty dollar bill in the secret compartment. My insurance money for emergencies came right to the fore. In an elevator at knifepoint, I had the unexpected need for twenty dollars. Good advice from my mother, I thought. Always have extra money tucked away, she said, money you only use when absolutely necessary.
— Here. That’s all I have.
He grabbed the wallet again and opened the change pocket. The nickels and dimes were of no interest. My thoughts scrambled as he pushed the wallet toward me and pressed the Open Door button. As he stepped into the lobby, his left hand pressed all of the buttons and the door closed. I stood alone shaking and wimpering. I felt the upward motion of the car. What next? My mind tried to sort things out. The car came to a stop somewhere between the lobby and the 6th floor. The door opened and I faced the two men and a woman who called for the elevator.
— I’ve been robbed.
My hands shook and the loose change began to jump. Maybe from their own fright, nickels and dimes fell to the floor. One of the men walked me out of the elevator. They talked in concerned voices and took me to their apartment. I didn’t know them, never saw them before. The scenes were blurry, but I knew that the kid was gone and I was mostly okay.
— I’m calling the police. Would you like a drink?
— Yes. Yes, I would. I was on my way up when a kid got in the elevator. I thought he was making a delivery.
I sat on the living room couch and starred back over the last few minutes. Fright and surprise began to creep in as an afterthought. Most of all, surprise that I came away unharmed.
— You better let Gus know, too.
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Consider Writing 