I composed the -THE letter to Ok. DHS today, regarding Crazy Wanda, asking them to hurry and intervene in her case.

Anonymously.

Is that pathetic or what? At least cowardly, for if that letter does not do it, she will know who wrote it, and then we'll all have serious hell to pay round here.

.......AS WANDA AND I VISITED THE TALIHINA POST OFFICE TOGETHER,
CHECKING OUR MAIL, I STOOD BEHIND HER, IN LINE,
HOLDING THE MANILLA ENVELOPE OF HER UNDOING.......

Had one of the strangest dreams this morning, I've ever had. One that both woke me up, at it's end, and with a plot so intricate and well laid out, that I lay in bed remembering, reliving it again: Getting it down, understanding it, putting a moral to it.

The dream was unpleasant and garish and had a starring role for an older woman I do not know in waking reality. Honestly, after I did get out of bed, I came here to the internet, to confirm who it was who starred in this dream.

Bette Davis.

Or, more accurately, "Jane Hudson". It was Jane Hudson in a vivid morality play in my head. Odd, I have never watched the entire movie "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?"; and it was easily over 20 years ago. There was no "Blanche" in this dream at all- but there were alot of other people whom I also don't know in waking reality.

I drempt that there was a woman whose ego was just monsterously huge and out of control; this woman, played throughout my nightmare by Jane Hudson-Bette Davis, demanded adoration by everyone who knew her. In her own mind, she could do no wrong thing, no matter how atrocious.

{There is just no language or verb tense available for describing vivid dreams. For in dreams like this one, I had a sense of a past immediately; I knew from the start this woman's bad temper, her unmatched ego, and I knew that other people in my dream also knew these things}

The woman was some kind of celebrity, but neither a movie star nor politician. But again, she demanded and expected everyone who knew her to virtually worship her; and I understood that she expected even those who did not know her to also revere and worship her, from afar?, that is the feeling I had in this dream.

The dream began with a scene which must've been a waiting area, or a dressing room where the woman, some other people and I were awaiting for her name to be called. She would again sweep out, onto a stage somewhere to graciously be. I knew that I was to praise her at that and every moment in her presence, and the other people did so too.

Next, I remember that I was expected to write something on a blue, sparkly book for her; I remember writng "You've Never Been Second to Anyone" on the blue sparkly book, in fawning tribute to this woman.

She leaves the room. I "knew" that everyone really disliked this woman; it bordered on hate- but no one dared to ever, ever tell her anything but loving praise, for fear of her supreme temper.

Next, I am in my grandmother's kitchen, where my Mamaw is making a pastry dish for this woman. My Papaw is also there. And on every wall of my grandmother's kitchen, are pictures of this woman, or little figurines of her.

And the woman appears there, in Mamaw's kitchen, and she is enraged at her. The woman steps in front of my grandmother, and swings her arm at the bowl or something, and flour goes flying everywhere. The woman is shrieking at them, my grandparents, and she tears off my grandmothers clothes in her fit of rage. She continues to throw the photos of herself and the other tributes around that kitchen at them, derisively, condescendingly. The things of my grandparents' adoration of this woman are "not good enough".
Again, she leaves that room. I begin to sweep up the flour on the floor, thinking to myself that I must not look up, and see my grandmother's nakedness, standing there next to me. I concentrated on sweeping up the mess, and looking only down on that floor.

In the next dream image, another guy my age and I are going around room to room in my own house-- we have been instructed by the woman to remove every single item which had her likeness on it. It would seem that I had alot of things-- again, pictures, figurines and even a knick-knack stand of little items of her in one corner; this guy and I went from room to room, taking down every picture, unscrewing a big plaque-like thing from my hall wall.
She had demanded that every item must leave my house.

In another room in my house, there were many people singing a song to her, and it was something like the many verses of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" song, with each verse singing a differing virtue of this woman. But I knew that not one of these people really loved her, that they only sang in fear of her. This woman stood there listening to her song being sung, as my pal and I took out things with her image on them, outside.

The last scene of my dream is the point of morality, the point of irony:
Now, instead of my house, all these people and I were in a large room in a tall building, on an upper floor, and the woman has just left our presence. But then I see that someone has shot her in the stomach, killing her, and that her body is in a dumpster, behind the tall building, in a shaded alley way. A policeman comes into the large room on the upper floor where all this group and I are, and askes us if any of us know anything about the woman's death.
A prominent man in the middle of the group, tells the officer that 'No, nobody there had anything to do with murder, that we all are rehearsing a play.

Then all at once, as if to prove to the policeman that we all were indeed, rehearsing a play, he began to sing the same song with many verses, and with each new verse, more people there caught on to what this man was doing, and they too, played along, singing verses to a song, as if it were a scene to a play.

But this time, the verses sung were not adoring the woman, but had different words: Words in celebration that she was dead. And some people danced around in circles.

This is the woman who was in all parts of my dream:

Jeez, I'm freaking out, freaking out, I'm freaking out: The dream is still going on, right now, and I've been awake for two hours now, typing out this during a thunderstorm...

The very song to which Jane Hudson, as "Baby Jane" danced to in that movie, "Manola del Avapies (Tonadilla)", is CURRENTLY PLAYING ON MY SPEAKERS, from sky.fm, the classical channel.

I hate creepy shit like this.

RECIPE FOR 3-ALARM CHILI

Get out and dust off your biggest pot, or a Crockpot.

Go buy yourself these ingredients:

*1-1/2 # ground buffalo (Wal-Mart), or ground sirloin, or ground beef
*1 # pkg. mild or sage pork sausage
*1 large yellow onion
*2-3 jalapeno peppers
*1 pkg. "Lone-Star" brand chili 'fixins'
*1 # new, red potatoes
*2 cans of cheap chili, pinto beans, since I forgot to start soaking the dried beans earlier I got yesterday....
*1 can of "Hot" Ro-Tel brand chopped tomatoes/peppers
*1 12 oz. can "Hunts" brand chopped tomatoes
*1 pkg. bag, real Cheddar Cheese, in those long slivers

**********************************************
In Crock pot, or large, dusted-0ff pot, over medium heat,
add the following, IN THIS ORDER:

Buffalo and sausage; let brown only slightly, then drain off ONLY HALF THE GREASE;

--try not to drain this grease onto the floor where you will be cooking your masterpiece--

Add the Lone-Star chili 'fixins' to the meat

As this mixture is browning and releasing their magical, intoxicating aromas--

add the beans, from whatever source- either the ones you remembered to soak earlier, or the store-bought ones

Allow to simmer to a slight boil*, as you
Chop into small cubes, the new red potatoes, Vice President Dan Quayle,
and ADD THESE NOW TO BOILING, SEETHING MIXTURE

Chop into little, tiny slices BOTH the yellow onion and the Jalapeno peppers,
and ADD THESE NOW TO THE CHILI POT

NOW: It is recommended by 'Choosy Mothers' magazine,
of which I am one, that you allow this mixture to simmer on LOW heat
for about 47 to 62 minutes, just to make sure...

Remembering to Stir the chili mixture every 5 minutes or so, no longer than 15 minutes,
like I did back at Christmas time, and ruined that good
"Teflon" (HA!) pot I'd had for years. Have you ever eaten Teflon flakes?
Tastes like dried paint.

ADD THE two cans of tomatoes, which have been drained previously. Crud, did I forget to tell you that part?

Drain the cans of tomatoes by opening them a little, on each end of the can, and let them drain into the sink--
ADD drained cans of tomatoes.

TURN OFF THE HEAT, UNPLUG THE CROCKPOT, WHATEVER

Mix the ingredients fully.

allow to cool, as you yourself take a much-needed nap, for about 20 minutes-
*************************************************************************************
SERVES ONE, 12 times.

I shall endevor to write about my feelings more here, instead of Crazy Wanda, in future.

I have an awful decision to make, probably sooner than I'd prefer. But the conditions leading to my decision are becoming both intolerable and dangerous.
And to put off making that decision, is itself a decision, huh?

I am the last one standing in the way, of a neighbor being taken to a mental health clinic, or hospital, or to the nursing home. I am the last becuase I am her last friend. All the others, including Crazy Wanda's in-law relatives have distanced themselves from her. Despite her anger at me last month when I helped the law remove her brother from her home and back to the nursing home in Wilburton, I am again her friend this month, as she needs me.

I drove her to TWO different hospital emergency rooms this week, for zero physical reason. There is nothing wrong with her, until the ER doctor gets into the room, then she goes into these fake pains and worries; then when the doctor exits the room, why, Wanda reverts to her real self, and feeling great.

But it is her non-stop talking, and I do mean NON-STOP, that has me on the verge of seeking out mental health help from Adult Protective Services for her. When I walk up on her home's porch, I hear her inside ranting, arguing with someone years removed from the discussion.
She tells me about any insignificant conversation that she had 30 years earlier. With no point to her story, but only a segue to her next narrative. Ad infinitum.

It does not matter if I am in her presence, or if there's no one in her presence.

Her behavior is getting worse, or at least stranger than usual too.
I live approximately 6/10 of a mile North away from Wanda's home. She drove to my place here twice today, to ask me -in person- if I would drive to the store and buy her a case of bottled water. Twice. The second time, to hand me some money to buy it with, after I told her I'd first shower, 30 minutes earlier on her first visit.
The little grocery store is only another half-mile North away from me.
I Am Errand Boy.

She's lost her false teeth, somewhere in her garbage strewn home. And her neighbors have installed microphones in her bedroom. And in her car. And Thursday, she thought listening bugs were in my truck as well, as I drove her to the second ER in Poteau.

If that were all, she would only be 'kooky'. But her problems extend so much further...
She's told me about her 'rape', in 1948. That event seems to have warped her alot throughout the rest of her life.

I have an awful decision to make, probably sooner than I'd prefer.

Update:

Mrs. Spears, Junie laid down the law! With the use of the law. Maybe now with the attention of Latimer county law and DPS on Wanda, could she be next?

Ahhoooh, that's just great. I've just come from a visit with my neighbor Wanda. Around here, she is known as Crazy Wanda. For real good reason she's called that. But you don't dare ever to cross Crazy Wanda.

No. At best you tolerate Wanda and her non-stop talking. She will literally talk your head off, or she'll make you fantasize about the joy of killing yourself, about that time, usually around an hour or two into her meandering, drop-down stories.
Drop down stories are stories she begins telling, when something in the last story she was telling reminds her of yet another agonizing story. Therefore, no story she tells is ever finished.

But, I like her (I tune her out and interrupt her babble when something important needs to be said). And best of all, she likes me too. I am willing to come work around her house for her, as I did yesterday and today. She told me about her need to add more shelving space in her 64 sq. foot kitchen yesterday, and I went and bought her some nice steel shelves at Wal-Mart in McAlester, intending on assembling them today for her. And I have, and did.

Now, though, I know why she needs them, and it's bad. Very Very Very bad. very Bad Bad Bad.
Wanda has removed her older brother from the nursing home, where he'd lived since October last year... Unhappily. To live with her instead.

That's right, her older brother is Granpappy Spears, who is not crazy himself, maybe soon will be, but not now. He is still married to his wife Junie, Mrs. Spears, who could not deal with his Alzheimers any longer. Till yesterday.

Lordy! Lord, give me strength, because I know who it is who will really actually be taking care of him, of her, them both. My utter and lingering shock at seeing Granpappy there at Wanda's house is one OF THOSE SINGULAR MOMENTS in life. She is 75, he is 84 or 85 if he is a day.

All Wanda does is bitchand complain about everyone in her life, family included. All Granpappy does is sit around with his straw hat and dark green sunglasses on. Yes, inside too.
But he is an elder and commands my respect and my ear when he speaks.
Especially now, IF he can ever get an edge in word-wise, around Wanda.

Unlike his sister, who has told me the same story about some ice cream and Kool-Whip four or five times since last Sunday already. Today in her kitchen she SHOWED me the ice cream in question... as if I had never heard the story... or cared about it after hearing it for the first time.
[You do not want me to go there, believe me]

Did I happen to mention the Birthday gift she "got" me this week?
A serape blanket, that smells like kerosene.
No, I'm unwilling to ask why it smells of kerosene.
Afraid she will tell me, over and over and over and over.

This Is Not Good.

(continued from The Local Malcontent)

I have never done this before, maybe will never do it again. That's the way it is,
with a word like "maybe".

Maybe is it's own opposite. Maybe yes means maybe no.
# # # # # # # #

But for the music I promoted over at LMC earlier, it is true:

This soft, deep music is like no other-- it strikes me, it affects me on a spiritual level, causing my soul to leap up.
For it is not necessary to understand the language sung, to understand the intent of the song, of the chant. It is the language of my spirit, and I suspect of your spirit as well.

But, since there are no English words to direct the thoughts of most people, telling them what to think, how to react to the song-- it is somehow less, somehow inferior. Relegated to the "reservation" of one, maybe two public radio stations across America.

AIROS, "American Indian Radio On Satellite", has a listenership counted in the dozens; not
hundred of thousands or millions, of listeners. The link to AIROS is from Lincoln, Neb.
IT IS YOUR LOSS, NOT TO LISTEN, WHITE AMERICA!~!

White America has proven conclusively, that White radio music is superior-- with it's rap music, rock music and yeah even talk radio- ear pollution. And too many whitefolk would be afraid to listen to Indian music.
there are no commercials for Geico insurance or for Rudy stinkin Giulianinani.

sometime I will speak of the traditional, and accepted racial slaps to my Indian heritage... which I get from some of you on a daily basis... and am expected to benignly accept and laugh with you, at. Since we are only dumb American Indian, or Canadian 'First Peoples', you somehow expect us to roll with your flow(ing gibberish).
Honestly, If I had a nickel for everytime someone ever told me "I've got X-amount of Indian in me, too", I'd be a zillionaire.

"Well, good for you..." TMI, TMI, TMI
********************************

this would not be acceptable or popular reading, over on the Local Malcontent side of my blog. Where I feel I must color my speech, my words for you.

"racist". "separatist".

Ge Keshteh Shaa Chacta Eyh, "America".
Live with it, I'm Choctaw, "America".

Stairway to Heaven, Quick Trip to Krazy Town, Spoonful of Zowie

I've learnt a val. lesson. today. Periods. are. val.

And that if you or I decide to not give applesauce cakes to some friends for Christmas,
it is not right to take a tablespoon to the Duncan-Hines French Vanilla canned Icing.

I tis notasn Ack. BRrrrrrrrrrrrRfrerererererr!~ I asm shiogh! I can play the piano with otut a song at all!

CValories? 12,500 per tablespoon./ My take????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

the whoe lelelele can, nam, namehr4, man! lBZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I am the flashlight

Coincidence? Supernatural? Who cares?

Today is the 26th anniversary of my beloved grandfather's death. I miss him so much. Through my 12+ years of his company, he was my idol and my best friend; he taught me to hunt, to fish, he taught me of my Indian heritage and all it's pride.

I took a short nap yesterday afternoon, during which I drempt of him in a strange way. Before that, I had not dreamed of him, my granddad, my papaw, in years.

It was strange, dreaming that I was thinking of going to see him today, as a 38+ year old, instead of a 12 year old, and wondering if he'd think it strange to see me so much older, so much bigger, fatter, and worrying that he'd think it wrong to be bearhugged by another man.

I drempt of parting his hair on one side of his head, like I used to as a child, so he'd look more like me then.
Now, I pull my hair straight back like his always was, to resemble him. And I so look forward to my hair turning silver like his- I hope I never have to cut my hair short.
I am so happy that despite my weight, I resemble my grandfather; I see some of him each day in my window-mirrors.

Good eats for a week, for less than $ 10.00

Went to the Dollar Store, and got a 30-pack of corn tortillas, for $1.00. Got two cans of clams, two cans of chicken, all for $5.00. Got one box of Zatarains' rice and beans, another $1.25. And with tomatoes and banana pepper chilis from the garden, made a delicious meal (last night I ate only 8 clam tacos!!), with leftovers again for tonight!

In a saucepan, boil 3/4 C. water, and add one-half the Zatarains rice/beans mix, keeping it thicker than usual.
Stir, and cover, according to directions for 20 minutes.

In a small frypan, sautee the clams and chicken in olive oil. Add some purple onion if you like, here.

Make a homemade salsa, of the well chopped tomatoes and pepper-chilis outta the garden. I like lotsa black pepper on this, but knock yerselves out! Less is more, more or less.

Warm well the tortillas 0ver an open flame for authentic flavor, then pile on the ingredients.

JUST FANTASTIC! CHEAP TOO. SLEEP WELL TONIGHT.

This will be one of the songs played at my funeral, much to the dismay (or maybe not) of all 4 mourners.

Saloon

And if I can get away with that, I'll add
The Pine Apple Rag and then, as they wheel me out of church in my squeeky, copper-plated wheelbarrow,
an extra $5.00 will get Mrs. Teasdale to play
My alltime favorite Joplin rag, sort of a tearjerker, at the end of all things.
Except for the big dance, bonfire and cookout,
scheduled for 8 pm, that same night.