Best Quote of the . . . Ever!

Be careful out there, people, and always be wary of clowns . . .

even when it's not clown season.

- Diane Sweet

Guest Blogger Today!

Happy! Happy! Happy! A long time mentor of mine stopped by yesterday and allowed me to coerce him in to working on a few of my house plants. Hank has had quite a green thumb in his day, and has taught me a great deal about growing things, especially about fertilizing them well.

The first thing we did was to make some self-watering planters, because I have a terrible habit of over or under watering my house plants. If you'd like the instructions, they can be found {here}. We modified the plans a bit, but not much.  

In the first picture you see: soil, 2 litre soda bottles (empty), screen circles to cover the holes, and felt strips to act as wicks.


The instructions are simple, really.

1. Cut the bottle approximately in half. 
2. Invert the top half. 
3. String a felt strip so that it will draw water from the bottom half up into the soil 
4. Insert the screen circle. 
5. Fill with dirt and plant. 

Hopefully I can keep these guys alive better. (Now I just need to outsmart the cats.)

Next, Hank took a look at my spider plant in the front window. It was getting dark by the time we got to it so the best picture I got was actually from outside. (Please pay no attention to my dirty windows.) You can see Hank in the background, almost hidden by the massive plant, and some of our Halloween decorations in the foreground.

He did a bit of trimming, but the good news is that I have managed to avoid damaging it, and it is in ripping good health.

Hank loves to nurture heirloom, rare, and just plain odd plants that he finds on his travels or through people he meets, and he gave me a pot full of seedlings. (I hope I do him justice.)

It's right there in the center of this not very clear picture.






My camera isn't very good and there is a glare from the lights, but here is a closeup.

From myself, my family, and 'Hank,'

Have a safe, fun, and happy Halloween!

Question:

Does this qualify as a Saturday Farmer's Market post even though it's on Thursday?

Listen . . .

With faint dry sound,

Like steps of passing ghosts,

The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees

And fall.

November Night 

 - Adelaide Crapsey 

Where is He?

Oh Noes!

BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.

The Haiku Society of America 

                        2013 member's Anthology, this world,  is out.

only enough rain                                                             autumn clouds -

to count the drops -                                                        what I think I know

false hopes                                                                        keeps changing

           Scott Wiggerman                                                             Susan Constable

           Austin, Texas                                                                    Nanoose Bay, British Columbia

Haiku anthologies remind me of that colorful hard candy my grandmother used to make at Christmas. Each color was a different flavor, like licorice, cherry, root beer, . . . But the colors were not really hints to the flavor. My Nana was crafty that way. You just had to trust, then sit back and enjoy.

Logic to the Rescue: Adventures in Reason (eBook) - Kris Langman

If you need help in illustrating logic and the scientific method to young people, this is a good choice.

Offered free by Nook, Amazon, and Kobo, and it was definitely worth more than I paid for it.

There are several books in this series, each tackling a different subject, but I've only read the first.

Having a library card and an eReader is a wonderful thing!

The 9th Judgement (audiobook) - James Patterson & Maxine Paetro

Do some lives have greater value than others?

Are some people really above all suspicion?

Does your chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?

10th Anniversary (audiobook) - James Patterson & Maxine Paetro

Some anniversaries are far more memorable than others.

 
11th Hour (audiobook) - James Patterson & Maxine Paetro       

I have always hated plots based on misunderstandings where people don't talk to each other. Have you ever found yourself screaming in your head at characters who won't listen to you?

You're a veteran cop for crying out loud! Act like one!

Luckily, it was a subplot, but it still distracted me from the story and pulled me out of the book.

I've also been enjoying some Short Story Collections.

Readers and Writers (audiobook) - Walter R. Brooks   

I loved the powerful and insightful stories, and they were narrated very well.

Ed Has His Mind Improved by Walter R. Brooks, was my favorite of the bunch, (I laughed out loud and the neighbors are giving me funny looks again) followed closely by Molly Giles' The Writers' Model.

Although I borrowed this from the library for my Nook, I would love to own it.

Malice Domestic, Volume 6 - Anne Perry    

Gardens are useful in sooooo many ways.

These stories are far removed from the explosions, chases, and shoot outs in so many murder mysteries - good and solid, old fashioned 'who done its.'

I would also add that the narration on this one is the best I've heard since I started listening to audiobooks.

For the Relief of Unbearable Urges (audiobook) - Nathan Englander    

"Despite their surface mixture of humor and horror, these are stories of ideas, offering complex meditations on Judaism through the eyes of an astonishing range of characters."

This is not light reading. But these are beautiful and powerful stories that demand attention and thought.

Carry On, Jeeves (audiobook) - P. G. Wodehouse   

This is a collection of charming stories, narrated (most of them anyway) by Bertie Wooster, labeled "a useless blot on the fabric of society" by his former valet, and a "wooden-headed blighter" by others.

Bertie also has a 'unique' perception of the world coupled with a profound lack of self awareness, and his prose has a charming cadence, rich in unusual similes, metaphors and 1920's slang.

Classic Sci Fi Stories (audiobook) - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, et. al.   

There is something about reading stories of the future, which were written nearly a century ago, realizing that you are standing in that future now, that the predictions were maybe not that far fetched after all, and some sound uncomfortably familiar . . .

 

Tales from the Fire Zone (audiobook) - Jonathan Maberry   

This was a very good read for this time of year. There were no Halloween themes, but there were plenty of 'spooks.'

Let's see: A werewolf PI, a little girl getting help on the path to being a serial killer by her imaginary (or were they) friends, a murderer convicted by the testimony of a ghost - with Holmes and Watson thrown into the mix . . .

OooOooOooOoo

Father Sergius and Other Short Stories (audiobook) - Leo Tolstoy  

It has been a long time since I last read Tolstoy, and I had forgotten how much I enjoyed his writing.

No murder mysteries or chase scenes or creepy creatures here, just exquisite portraits, or in this case snapshots, of human nature.

. . . and May Dog Bless You!

Meet Lucky, the loyal founder of Dog Bless You.

Dog Bless You supports nonprofits that pair service dogs with war veterans and individuals with disabilities.

Start here to explore and learn about all the lives that have been changed by a service dog. Enjoy photos, films, live cams, blogs, and more.

Also, 

A few dog quotes:

“Dogs’ lives are short, too short, but you know that going in. You know the pain is coming, you’re going to lose a dog, and there’s going to be great anguish, so you live fully in the moment with her, never fail to share her joy or delight in her innocence, because you can’t support the illusion that a dog can be your lifelong companion. There’s such beauty in the hard honesty of that, in accepting and giving love while always aware it comes with an unbearable price. Maybe loving dogs is a way we do penance for all the other illusions we allow ourselves and for the mistakes we make because of those illusions,”

 - Dean Koontz,

 The Darkest Evening of the Year.

“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring – it was peace,”

 - Milan Kundera,

 as quoted in The Canine Hiker’s Bible. 

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened,”

 – Anatole France.

“Dogs are minor angels, and I don’t mean that facetiously. They love unconditionally, forgive immediately, are the truest of friends, willing to do anything that makes us happy, etcetera. If we attributed some of those qualities to a person we would say they are special. If they had all of them, we would call them angelic. But because it’s ‘only’ a dog, we dismiss them as sweet or funny but little more. However when you think about it, what are the things that we most like in another human being? Many times those qualities are seen in our dogs every single day — we’re just so used to them that we pay no attention,”

 - Jonathan Carroll.

Such a Long Que . . .

Quote of the Day

 

Sometimes I sensed that the books I read in rapid succession had set up some sort of murmur among themselves, transforming my head into an orchestra pit where different musical instruments sounded out, and I would realize that I could endure this life because of these musicales going on in my head.
 

  - Orhan Pamuk

 

Feelings And Actions

- Cuttlefish

He felt he was in love again—so many years had passed
And every time he saw her face, his heart would beat so fast

It happened out in public—you could see it all along
But surely, it was out of love, and could not, thus, be wrong

He never hid his feelings—he was sure to let them show
And because he signed her paychecks, well, she couldn’t tell him ‘no’

He never went ‘too far’, of course—that anyone could tell
And if she felt uncomfortable, she hid it very well

He always was a charmer—he never was a jerk
He loved the way her hair would gleam, and she? She needed work.

He acted out of love, you see—it couldn’t be his fault
He saw it as a friendship… but she saw it as assault.

It was not up to her to make his boundaries clear; he was in a position of power over her. It does not matter what his motivation was; what matters is his behavior, and his behavior was inappropriate.

This poem was written by The Digital Cuttlefish over at Free Thoughts Blogs, and she has a very important story to go with it. Please click on over and see what she has to say. It just might change your perspective a bit.

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult. 

A Bit of Wisdom from Someone Who Knows . . .

The Top 10 Clues You Live with Chronic Pain:

10- You wish there really was a Dr. House, M.D.
9- You watch every medical drama and understand the medical jargon, the differential diagnosis and worse yet, half the cases sound like they could be yours.
8- Your doctors talk to you like colleagues, instead of patients, because you are so well-educated on your condition(s).
7- The “middle of the night” for you is actually more like 2 o’clock in the afternoon because you deal with “sleep issues.”
6- Doing your chores, sometimes literally means just getting out of bed and taking a shower.
5- Everyday feels like PMS. (For Women)
4- You carry more pills than a pharmacy.
3- Your moods change…frequently.
2- You forget things like…wait, what was I talking about?
1- Your doctor sees you and touches you more than your spouse! (Ba-Dum-Ching)

I may not be able to do a lot of things because of my pain, but one of the few things I can do without pain (usually) is smile and laugh.

What can you add to this list?

from: Tracy Rydzy, at Living With Chronic Pain. 
Her blog has a lot of useful information & ideas. 
Go check it out.

What Do You Think Halloween is Like in the King Home?

{Source}

Of the parrat and other birds that can speake

 - Nick Lantz

It is for certain knowne that they have died for very anger and griefe that they could not learn to pronounce some hard words. — Pliny the Elder

When you buy the bird for your mother
you hope it will talk to her.  But weeks pass
before it does anything except pluck the bars
with its beak.  Then one day it says, “infect.”

Your mother tells you this on the phone,
and you drive over, find the frozen meals
you bought for her last week sweating
on the countertop.  ”In fact,” she says

in answer to your question, “I have been
eating,” and it’s as you point to the empty
trash can, the spotless dishes, that you
realize the bird is only saying, “in fact,”

that this is now the preamble to all
of your mother’s lies.  ”In fact,” she says,
“I have been paying the bills,” and you
believe her until you find a cache

of unopened envelopes in the freezer.
More things are showing up where
they shouldn’t.  Looking out the back
window one evening you see craters

in her yard.  While she’s watching TV,
you go out with a trowel and excavate
picture frames, flatware that looks like
the silver bones of some exquisite

animal.  You worry when you arrive
one day and see the open, empty cage
that you will find the bird dead, stuffed
in an oven mitt and left in a drawer,

but you find it sitting on her shoulder
in the kitchen.  ”In fact,” she says,
“he learned to open the cage himself.”
The bird learns new words.  You learn

which lies you can ignore.  The stroke
that kills her gives no warning, not –
the doctor assures you — that anyone
can predict such things.  When you

drive home that night with the cage
belted into the passenger seat, the bird
makes a sound that is not a word
but that you immediately recognize

as  the sound of your mother’s phone
ringing, and you know it is the sound
of you calling her again and again,
the sound of her not answering.

Saturday Farmer's Market - A Post in Time of Plague

Created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and now hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

UPDATE from Last Week:   

One of the things I love about my blog is that the upkeep is relatively easy. A little time spent doing what I enjoy, reading poetry and looking at beautiful things, yields so much for me to share with you.

But the Saturday Farmer's Market posts are a different story altogether. Most of them require actual physical labor of one sort or another. Well . . .



It has been a rough week and I'm afraid I haven't much to share. You see, late last week I developed a pain in my abdomen on the lower left side. Not much of interest resides there, so when it had finally incapacitated me, I knew just what it was.

An incubating alien had taken up residence in my abdomen and was in the process of digging its way out. Unfortunately, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of medical equipment and expertise failed to locate said alien neonate.

My doctor, to cover up his incompetence, declared that I have an infection, possibly diverticulitis, and put me on antibiotics. The alien seems to have a sensitivity to antibiotics, as the intense pain is beginning to subside. (lucky for my doctor)

But the upshot of all this is that I have done no work in the garden this week. I have barely even been able to water. And with all the new projects I have created for myself . . .

Anyway, as I seem to be (at least temporarily) on the mend, I should have something new for you next week. Until then, I will leave you with a poem.

A Litany in Time of Plague
- Thomas Nashe

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds open her gate.
"Come, come!" the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste, therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage;
Mount we unto the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

 Silence by john henry fuseli

After Reading the News These Days . . .

This Can’t Be

 - Bruce Smith

 

the place of consequence, the station of his embrace.   

Or else I’m not son enough to see

the innocence and the spiritual fiddlings

in the uneven floorboards and joists,

in the guttural speech of the pipes,

in the limp and the lack of heat.

All we need, all we really need is light!

And let there be a roof with no leaks.

Oh father landlord, fill up all our breaches.

He gives himself to the cracks; into the chinks   

my father lowers his bone,

the do-it-yourself funeral. He holds the wires   

in his teeth. He strips the insulation back.   

If it’s black, it’s juiceless; if it’s red, elegiac.

from: Silver and Information. Copyright 1985.

 

There is Something About a Cat in a Hat that Just Makes Me Happy.

Courtesy of:

Books of Adam

Buckroe, After the Season, 1942

 - Virginia Hamilton Adair

 

Past the fourth cloverleaf, by dwindling roads   

At last we came into the unleashed wind;

The Chesapeake rose to meet us at a dead end   

Beyond the carnival wheels and gingerbread.

Forsaken by summer, the wharf. The oil-green waves   

Flung yellow foam and sucked at disheveled sand.   

Small fish stank in the sun, and nervous droves   

Of cloud hastened their shadows over bay and land.

Beyond the NO DUMPING sign in its surf of cans   

And the rotting boat with nettles to the rails,   

The horse dung garlanded with jeweling flies   

And papers blown like a fleet of shipless sails,

We pushed into an overworld of wind and light   

Where sky unfettered ran wild from earth to noon,   

And the tethered heart broke loose and rose like a kite   

From sands that borrowed diamonds from the sun.

We were empty and pure as shells that air-drenched hour,   

Heedless as waves that swell at the shore and fall,   

Pliant as sea-grass, the rapt inheritors

Of a land without memory, where tide erases all.

from: Ants on the Melon: A Collection of Poems. Copyright 1996.

How to Write the Great American Indian Novel

 - Sherman Alexie

 

All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.

Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.

The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, perferably

from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.

If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender

and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man

then he must be a half-breed, perferably from a horse culture.

If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white

that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.

When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps

at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:

brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.

If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.

Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.

Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.

Indian men, of course, are storms. They should destroy the lives

of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love

Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust

at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.

White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.

Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian men

unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.

There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.

Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.

Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions

if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian

then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry

an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed

and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male

then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.

If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside

a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.

An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman

can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,

everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.

There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.

For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender

not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.

In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,

all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.

from: The Summer of Black Widows. Copyright 1996.

Cherries

- Leslie Adrienne Miller

 

Rocked in my mother’s pregnant amble,

and born into forty-five years in the dark,

the egg this child was also swayed in the arts

of lovers I took before you, fed with me

 

in the public markets of Baltimore and Denpasar

on oysters and rambutan, woke with me each year

to new waves of wander, fish and flower,

liqueur of each region, and bread of each village,

 

each cup of moonlight in the long sward

between my window and the Wannsee.

The egg he was heard and voices

of everyone I desired and held itself

 

in some deep hormonal bloom,

taking whatever was remarkable

in my life into its possibility.

We learned not to hurry in Balinese rain,

 

to listen for the rumble of wild boar

in the Malvan woods. We climbed

into planes bound for cities we’d never

visit again and skin we’d summon

 

with sobbing. And so, my husband,

as you dream of owning this child,

remember that he has ridden in my fire,

bathed in my blood, and sipped

 

at the breath I drew the first

time I saw what Rodin had clawed

from stone before he turned from Claudel

and went home for dinner and a clean shirt.

 

Remember that this child is collage

of everything before you, frangipani

and escargot, five-for-a-dollar boxes

of macaroni, and French cherries

 

from an old woman in Auvergne

who insisted on the gift

because it was so marvelous

to see a woman traveling alone.

Source: The Resurrection Trade. Copyright 2007.

 

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

Artichoke

 - Joseph Hutchison
 

O heart weighed down by so many wings!

Saturday Farmer's Market - Change is in the Air

Created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and now hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

UPDATE from Last Week:  

I don't know exactly when the Saturday Farmer's Market posts are supposed to wrap up, but I still seem to have plenty to write about. So if you will bear with me, I will continue until I run out of material.

A strange flower
for birds and butterflies
the autumn sky
- Matsuo Basho 

Blowing from the west
Fallen leaves gather
In the east.

- Buson

  A cool fall night--
getting dinner, we peeled
eggplants, cucumbers.
- Matsuo Basho

Consider me
As one who loved poetry
And persimmons.

- Shiki

A caterpillar,
this deep in fall--
still not a butterfly.
- Matsuo Basho

 This week I did a little maintenance work that did not relate directly to growing things.

First up is the little wood burning stove that sits outside my front door. The food dish for the outdoor cats sits on it and it's a place to set things when fishing door keys out of a full purse. (The interior is also a handy place for a few garden supplies I like to keep on hand.)

It hadn't been painted in quite a while and was badly in need. After only one new coat it looks just like new. My garden cat (along with all the furry travelers who stop by) is happy as a fuzzy little lark.

You're probably wondering what those red things are and what they have to do with the garden. (So does every body else.)

For years I have been dragging a heavy hose around to do my watering, and I'm sure you know how much damage a hose can do to delicate plantings. I needed hose guards, and especially at the numbers I needed, they can be pretty expensive.

Plumbing isle to the rescue! (You'd be surprised how useful that section of the hardware store can be.)

My husband cut lengths of PVC pipe and topped them with 45 degree elbows. We painted them red and they work beautifully - protecting my plants (and sparking conversations). They were also in need of repainting.

We have another project in the works that will include these little gems. Stay tuned.

The little bed with the Japanese Maple needed a some work. The verbena had reached the end of the line. (You can see it starting to go in the picture on the right.) I expected it to last until the cold weather set in, but it didn't. So I pulled it out.

Luckily, this is the season for plant sales!

I was happy to find a cousin to my Pieris Japonica. This one has variegated leave and turns red in the summer.

The existing plant is on the right and the new one is on the left. I had seen one of these in a nursery years ago and couldn't remember the name. So I always called it the Lily of the Valley bush because of the ton of little white flowers that cover it in the summer.

My Jade tree is getting ready to bloom again!

I didn't know that they can bloom twice a year

- early spring and winter.

This isn't exactly winter, but it's a great surprise anyway, especially considering I almost lost it last winter.





After running the weed eater, I got my blower out, (Both are electric and very light weight) but my garden cat steadfastly refused to acknowledge the operation and move.





I was not happy with the Mums this year. Yes, they bloomed twice, but they also harbored bugs and the foliage looks terrible.

I had already pulled them out of the front bed and this week I pulled the rest out of the barrel near the Japanese Maple, replacing them with Shasta Daisies.

I like the contrast better too.

The sale also netted me two little Agave

- and now the family expects me to start making Tequila.

 

Me thinks they mock.

Chernobyl Year

 - Jehanne Dubrow

We dreamed of glowing children,

their throats alive and cancerous,

their eyes like lightning in the dark.

We were uneasy in our skins,

sixth grade, a year for blowing up,

for learning that nothing contains

that heat which comes from growing,

the way our parents seemed at once

both tall as cooling towers and crushed

beneath the pressure of small things—

family dinners, the evening news,

the dead voice of the dial tone.

Even the ground was ticking.

The parts that grew grew poison.

Whatever we ate became a stone.

Whatever we said was love became

plutonium, became a spark

of panic in the buried world.

from: West Branch, No. 66, 2010. Copyright 2010.

A Certain Kind of Eden

 - Kay Ryan

 

It seems like you could, but

you can’t go back and pull

the roots and runners and replant.

It’s all too deep for that.

You’ve overprized intention,

have mistaken any bent you’re given

for control. You thought you chose

the bean and chose the soil.

You even thought you abandoned

one or two gardens. But those things

keep growing where we put them—

if we put them at all.

A certain kind of Eden holds us thrall.

Even the one vine that tendrils out alone

in time turns on its own impulse,

twisting back down its upward course

a strong and then a stronger rope,

the greenest saddest strongest

kind of hope.

from: Flamingo Watching. Copyright 1994.

Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World

 - Sherman Alexie

The morning air is all awash with angels . . .
                                                          - Richard Wilbur


The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?

Who is most among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because

He's astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma,

I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps,
And then I remember that my father

Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom,"
I say. "I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—

How did I forget?" "It’s okay," she says.
"I made him a cup of instant coffee

This morning and left it on the table—
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—

And I didn't realize my mistake
Until this afternoon." My mother laughs

At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days

And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.

Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.

Those angels, forever falling, snare us
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.


from: Face. Copyright 2009.

A Breast Cancer Survivor Asks Prudence an Important Question:

Q: Breast Cancer Remission: I have been in remission for breast cancer for about four years now. I was fortunate to have good health insurance and a supportive network or friends and family during my treatment and recovery. Every October I grapple with the same problem: I feel no loyalty or desire to help out with breast cancer awareness funds.

To be quite blunt, I find most national campaigns to be impersonal, they do not score very highly on the charity calculator, and they were not there for me when I was suffering. I am also not particularly interesting in doing any of the 5Ks or other events in October. I find the best way to help breast cancer sufferers is to donate and volunteer at the local level.

Every year I get a lot of inquiries if I am participating in different campaigns or activities and when I say no, there is always a bit of an awkward pause. I don't really want to get into why I choose to support the local level more than national, and I don't want people to think I am insensitive to the needs of those with breast cancer. What is a good response to their inquiries?

A: Thank you for standing against this pink ribbon oppression. Both my grandmother and mother had breast cancer, and I, too, have no interest in buying pink ribbon yogurt, or participating in walks for the purpose of handing a big chunk of cash to overpaid executives.

You might like the books Pink Ribbon Blues and Bright-Sided, which explore both the dark side of big breast cancer charities and the incessant cheerleading imposed on breast cancer survivors. Mostly, you need a way to shrug off the inquiries. "I give to cancer organizations that help people in this community," should be enough to shut up most people.

But if you're up for it, you could do a little breast cancer education of your own and say that unfortunately, some of the big breast cancer charities do not use their money effectively.

- Dear Prudence, Slate.

Yes, it's October again.

Mammograms are important. There are locations around the nation and the world where women can receive a mammogram at low cost or no cost.  If you are in the US, here are a few places to start your search gleaned from various sources (cited):

* The American Breast Cancer Foundation’s Key to Life Breast Cancer Screening Assistance Program provides financial assistance to uninsured and underinsured women and men of all ages for breast cancer testing. Call their toll-free enrollment hotline, 877-Key-2-Life (877-539-2543).

* The American Cancer Society. Go to cancer.org, find the blue box on the upper right (“Find ACS in Your Community”), enter your zip code, and it’ll direct you to your local ACS office. They can tell you what resources are available in your area. Or call the ACS toll-free: 1-800-ACS-2345.

* The American College of Radiology - Search for these facilities in your area. The facilities that are participating will be listed with a pink ribbon designation.

* CDC's National Breast and Cervical Cancer Early Detection Programs: Offer low-cost mammograms and clinical breast exams to women between the ages of 40-64. States are legally able to narrow the age range, so call your state to find out if you are eligible for this program. They may also have information about other facilities in their area for younger women. Call toll-free 1-888-842-6355 (select option 7) or log onto the above Web site for information specific to your area.

* To find a certified radiology center in your area, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration Web site offers a list of facilities, which is updated weekly. Just click here.

* Planned Parenthood Clinics: Women can make an appointment for all types of low-cost or free health services, including breast health, with the clinic nearest them by calling 1-800-230-PLAN (800-230-7526).

* The United States Center for Disease Control’s National Breast and Cervical Cancer Early Detection Program (NBCCEDP) provides access to critical breast and cervical cancer screening services for underserved women in the United States. Their Web site lets you click to your state to find a local health care facility that offers low-cost mammograms for women meeting the income guidelines. Click here.

* The United States Government’s National Cancer Institute can direct you to a local resource for low-cost mammograms. Call them toll-free at 1-800-4-CANCER (1-800-422-6237). Be ready with your zip code. Click here.

* YWCA Encore Plus Programs: Services are provided on a sliding scale. Screening mammography is available to women 35 years and older who are medically underserved. Call 1-800-95-EPLUS (1-800-953-7587).

* Finally, try calling your local hospital. Ask to speak to a social worker. He or she will be the one who’ll know about the availability of low-cost cancer screenings and/or special campaigns in your community.

- CBS News, Liv Aware. Jezebel. This blog.

Donations are also important. 

But please donate wisely. If you would like to donate (time or money) try these:

* Breast Cancer Action - "We demand accountability." 

* See also: 'Think before you pink' campaign, demanding transparency in pink-washed product marketing.

"A cure is not enough. We have to prevent it. The cures we have aren't working."

 - Executive Director Karuna Jaggar.

 

* American Cancer Society - Donations intended for breast cancer research and screening can be earmarked to support NBCCEDP (the National Breast and Cervical Cancer Early Detection Program). They have focused heavily on social disparities as they relate to cancer diagnosis and treatment, and have awarded more than $113 million in grants to researchers looking into social disparity as it relates to cancer. 

 

* The National Breast Cancer Coalition - They aim to promote research into causes of breast cancer and the best possible treatment for the disease, access to treatment for all women, and encourage breast cancer advocates to speak up and stand up against the disease.

 

* The Breast Cancer Research Foundation - Ninety cents of every dollar donated to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation goes to supporting breast cancer research. (Komen only gives about 20 cents per dollar to research) 

 

* Unite For Her - Unite For Her aims to help breast cancer patients integrate other therapies that would complement the care they're being given by their doctors. Think acupuncture, massage, yoga, counseling, and other treatments that address a woman's spiritual and emotional needs during what could be a long and difficult fight against cancer.

The organization's aim is to "educate, empower, and restore."

Further Resources: {here}

My prior posts about BC: here & here & here & here & here & here.