WELL, my parents' ghosts be damned: i shall eschew capitals herein, as if in homage to cummings, but actually to save possibly ten percent of my rapid hunt-and-peck enery/time.
This is my second blog, if you count my 2002 Jail Journal, which was typed and emailed to a wide and varied community of souls (burners and straights; deviants and straights, dope fiends and inventors and writers and straights), from whom my daily or biweekly ramblings elicited cards and letters, visitors, and money on my books. I (estimate, figure, reckon--there are actually several of us in here, and Miss Grammar don't speak for everybody) this new and living record, if i keep it up, should soon be keeping me up: cementing a community threatened by our imminent move, gaining support and advice and money and more love, and giving me a voice to ask and give help.
grover the woodcarver and i, legion but mainly nearsighted short intense women about sixty, must leave our own mortgaged cottage in the redwoods by february first, if you please, due to a complex arrangement with relatives who have taken over our unmanageable payments and plan to rent casa damascus out for big russian river bucks, and then probably buy it in a couple of years. huh.
on my mind: where will we go where i can still be on the radio in guerneville every sunday night with my laughing lady show, from ten to twelve, reading funny stories and poetry and rambling and playing music (streaming at kggvfm.org, 95.1).
---how will we ever pay rent on wherever we find to live?
---what will happen to the cats, black jack leatherback and grey yowling miss ninki?
---can we retain our wonderful marriage (ten years married, together for fifteen) and get through to the next new life together? he is grouchy and touchy and bossy and private; i am cranky or depressed or baselessly optimistic or glorious with performance attention (i sing, teach, do comedy, write, bestow wisdom, give mad rituals and parties).
---can i really get rid of half my collection of treasures and junk and stuff? i'm trying to sell, give away, donate, or shitcan half of all i own. then i plan to store half of what's left, small stuff, underneath the house here (okay with the new managers) and just take the basics (for me, that's at least a couple of truckloads) into the future, which i know exists, and through which, therefore, i will continue somehow to exist as well)
can i ever get over feeling sorry for myself?
will grover and i stop fighting over what to keep and start working as a team? (hint: we didn't get along after our bust, or in the stress of previous moves way back, or ever afor long at burning man. but we have complementary personalities and skills, so, assuming we're sane and assuming we can somehow hustle the needed helpers, boxes, money, medications, trucks, rental unit, time, buyers for stuff, and miracles.
okay: enough for now. i have to go and pack, clean, sing christmas carols at, dig it, a church, and make lunch and pay pg&e (&*$@ are as tedious as using upper case; why can't keyboards function the way i would have them?) and do some work on my book (details nest time) and get some socks on and make calls.
this is sadie damascus.....the laughing lady on kggv.....taiko macabre in the bones band at renaissance faires.....gravity cupcakes in cacaphony.....sarah hyman dewitt the noted editor proofreader and high-end descendant.....salibu magma of liars camp at burning man.....and a comical crone who pratfalls without volition but with elan,,,,,signing off on sally's first blog.
thank you for soon buying our products and thinking of us as a friend to look up to (5'1", but according to my weight, my ideal height is six foot four and a half inches). blessed be.