There are a lot of people I’d like to call a jackass. Immature jackasses. Short-sighted jackasses. Cut-the-cord jackasses. Grow-A-Spine jackasses. But I’d have to say it all with venom in my voice, and whenever I taste just a drop of that poison, I remind myself to rise above it. That they can stay stuck in their jack-assery world, lie to themselves about their behavior or their actions, and I get to choose a different path.

But nothing made me laugh harder last night than hearing President Obama call Kanye West a jackass. It was just so refreshing. There was none of the venom, it was part of conversational banter, and he just called it like he saw it. Like everyone else saw it. And that’s good enough for me. So if you’re being a jackass, just think about this: you’re keeping company with the crazy.

When I was 10, my parents were subscribing to Newsweek. And I vividly remember the issue that arrived after the …massacre is the only word that comes to mind…. that took place at “Jonestown”, the cult church that had relocated to Guyana with about 1,000 members.  Jim Jones was their leader, and I still remember seeing the photos of all the children, and being pretty horrified by it all. I asked my father about it and he explained the whole cult thing to me, and that yes, even all the little kids were dead. I imagined if I had been there, and could I have run into the jungle to escape, or just pretended to drink the kool-aid and laid down to play dead. It made quite an impact, the article and photos.

Browsing a few months back, I put a documentary of Jonestown into the Netflix queue, and we watched it the other night. It was really fascinating, because there’s the whole layer of how it became so crazy, and then the roots of  how it started, because on the surface, it was basically a good idea, very forward-thinking, it seemed. Jim Jones believed in equality, and he encouraged people of ALL races to participate equally in his church. He became a major political force in California, and it was only after some investigative journalism did some of the seamy underside of his organization start to come out. But the dude was nuttier than a Planters factory, and it just boggles the mind, how people who were drawn in by him didn’t (couldn’t) question him as the train started careening off the tracks. And yes, this is just yet another reason I probably DO question things so much, because I’m intensely paranoid that I will be lulled into a false sense of security and the next thing you know, there’s a Dixie cup of kool-aid in my hand and I’m dying on the hillside.

What hadn’t stuck with me was the craziness of the murder of the senator from California, who had flown down to investigate Jonestown after so many constituents complained their family members were missing. I had no idea that had happened, and can only imagine the sensationalist manner it would be covered today.

Turns out, my dear friend Cindy has been exposed to any documentary or show ever made on Jonestown, thanks to her husband’s own curiosity with it.  We bantered about what the difference between a cult is – vs. say, the Westboro Baptist church, which I posit cannot arguably be a ‘real’  church, given the platform of hate and rancor they center on. It just makes me angry that the Phelps family can enjoy hiding behind the protections afforded churches in this country, versus the stigma and shame (and ATF raids) we collectively place on cults.

I’d enjoy a church tax break, so I’m starting my own religion, based on the Holy Trinity of Knitting, Tequila and Bacon.  I think it could really, really take off. And there’ll be no proselytizing or healing hands, no foreign countries for escaping, no white pantsuits or bad sunglasses. Just good times and gravy when appropriate.

Must say, though, I was a little amused that when I looked up the definition of “cult” at m-w.com, I was served a Google ad for the Jehovah’s.

Almost there. “the old normal”, I suppose.

Just continuing with drops and hoping to never experience this again.

No corneal damage, no scarring. Huge relief.

If you ever, EVER! have something bothering your eyes, get thee to an ophthalmologist.  Immediately!

I have my monitor ratcheting up the size of fonts to about…oh 48 point type, all the better to see you with, my dear… and I feel like I’m about 84 years old.
The latest & greatest: A Virus. Yep. It took over my face and my eyes, and so all the antibiotics in the world weren’t going to touch it. I finally had a semi-breakdown on Friday morning, because this sort of pain had reached ‘incomprehensible’ in my book. And I am fortunate enough, through my knitting world, to have connections to TWO eye doctors. My friend Jane reached out to me initially (and I was all, oh no biggie, I just got some drugs, we’re under control) and that was who I called first, trying to keep my voice out of ‘hysterics’ mode and to talk more than sob. She and her husband were traveling, so she put him on the phone, and he immediately determined that the drops I was on weren’t going to cut it. He instructed me to get new ones, and if things didn’t improve throughout the day, to get myself in to be seen.
Things didn’t improve. And so at 4:30, on a Friday, I’m calling (and again, trying to keep the hysteria low enough so I can actually communicate), and the husband of my other knitting friend agreed to stay late and see me.
Good thing.
It’s a virus, and I had scads of microscopic lesions all over my eyes, so many that they took pictures, and I’ll probably have my baby blues in a textbook or an article someday, illustrating Most Severe Case Evah. He prescribed anti-viral tablets, and off we went. Unfortunately, things had reached such a state that I was pretty well incapacitated. Light of any kind was crippling. Can’t watch TV, too much light. Computer- gah. Painful. So I slept. And returned to the doctor yesterday, who prescribed some anti-viral drops on top of the tablets, so now we’re really going after it. Today is the first decent day – my vision is still very blurry, but I’m not cringing in pain just because my eyes are open. I keep hoping every time I wake up that when I open my eyes, I’ll be able to see again, like ‘normal’.
I think I’ve learned quite a few lessons – one, is that pain needs to be paid attention to. I was in pain all of last week, but kept working, kept minimizing, kept slapping band-aids on my face and thinking it would go away. Pain in my family, growing up, was something you endured and you didn’t talk/whine/cry about it. In fact, the more you gritted your teeth and just got through it, the more admirable you were. (Perspective: my father pushed a VW Bus to the top of a steep, 40′ hill to get it jump started on the decline, so he could drive himself to the hospital for his appendicitis attack. Granted, it was that or die, but that’s legendary stuff where I’m from.) At my house, if you cried, you were being a baby. I hate how ingrained it is in me. But what this has shown me is that pain is a really good indicator -a warning light- that should be paid attention to, and it’s better to shuttle around to multiple doctors to figure it out early, than to wait and have something more serious on your hands. Two, never take your sight for granted. This semi-blindness has been equally sobering and terrifying. All the things I love to do – spend time online, watch tv, knit, feel sunshine on my face – to even attempt them has been frustrating and painful. Last, but not least, my husband and my friends rock. Hubs has done everything around here, and taken care of me as much as he can. Beth fetched my prescription, Carmen took me to the doctor – I’m grateful they’ve been there, and I know even more friends would pitch in if I called upon them. It certainly is a good reminder to me to be grateful, in all of this.
Oh, and we’re going to wait on enrolling Tripper or Polly into Guide Dog training. I think there’s been enough progress with my eyesight, and I can only imagine trying to walk in the park with one or both of them as my leader….. they’d be dragging me up a tree after a squirrel in 3o seconds flat…