Self Reflection

A short jaunt down the rabbit hole of self reflection; a regularly required, but not always pleasant journey.  Personal prejudices and biases are a part of human existence; a struggle we all face each day.  How do we counter our negative thoughts; our less than generous preconceptions? 

A friend once declared I was always "so damned sure of myself," not meant as a compliment, after I adamantly expressed an idea.  I entertained no internal conflict, no "on the fence" mentality, but rather the certainty of a passionately held view.  I am comfortable with these beliefs, and I have many.  This trait is not always endearing to my friends and peers.  The up side is I speak my mind in full honesty and transparency, so they know I'm not sugar coating a steaming pile of shit.  The downside is my blunt delivery can be off putting, to say the least. 

I believe we all struggle, daily, sometimes moment to moment, to keep our less charitable selves in check and strive to feed and water the kinder, more compassionate sides of our nature.  I'm optimistic enough to think we win most battles, most days.  I'm pessimistic enough to think vast swaths of Americans do not even realize a battle rages on or long ago surrendered any effort to even try.  Once you have jumped, head first, into the abyss and forsaken all your goodness, the truth is just some fairy tale only weak pansies bother fighting for. 

 

A Known Threat

Imagine a known threat. The US government is fully aware of this threat and has had much experience with repeated incidents of the same type over many years.  Now imagine hundreds, if not thousands, of mentally ill, angry, young White American Men, terrorists really, with journals full of plans and closets full of guns and ammunition.  The full force of the US Government, sworn to serve and protect, is leaving our dilemma in the hands of sharp, aware, conscientious grandmothers to handle.  That is their first and only line of defense. 

Perhaps it's time to place the grandmas of this country in government positions to try their hands at governing for a change.  Surely, even with zero experience (sound familiar?) this clusterfuck that is our current state of things could be no worse off, and may show drastic improvement.

The Broken Arm Adventure

It's been one year today since my slip on the ice skating rink road in front of my house.  Getting in my car, coffee in hand, I went down hard and fast, arm outstretched above my head flat, coffee unspilled, still in my hand resting on the ice.  I didn't think I'd broken anything, no horrifying "crunch" noises accompanied my hit, but I was wrong.  My first broken bone.  After lying on the street for a few moments in pain, I collected myself and crawled in to my car and continued to work.  I refused to pay for an Emergency Room visit over the weekend, but on Monday went to the work sponsored clinic and got a referral for an x-ray.  

Yes, fractured, in several places, the nonchalant Orthopod declared.  He was distracted, and unhelpful, but did advise I come back in a week for a follow up x-ray to make sure the bones hadn't shifted.  He wrote me a scrip for 10 sessions of physical therapy, to start way sooner than I thought practical, and a nurse fitted me with a sling.  Weeks later when my bill arrived showing more than $600 in "aftercare" along with the office visit and x-ray charges, I had to go through three levels of office staff to get them to agree to wipe it off my account.  Standard practice to heap on some future charges they told me, even if those were not anticipated, as in my case since I did not need surgery.  Ah, the joys of American health care.  

First and foremost, I must declare how thankful I was that it was my arm, and not my leg that I broke.  At the initial appointment for an x-ray, I saw two hobblers with broken legs/ankles.  It appeared our Helena lack of road plowing, coupled with thaws turning roads in to puddles of frozen water, had disrupted many a life that week.  

As a runner, a broken leg/ankle would have landed me on the sidelines for many weeks if not months.  Since my running start, on April 23, 1990, I have rarely had to take an injury break from running.  A true blessing.  The arm put me out of commission for a week from any exercise and work.  Desperation set in and I asked my daughter for Netflix recommendations for the down time.  I happily took up her suggestion of Offspring, an Aussie production following family drama of one Nina Proudman, a ditzy, magnetic ob-gyn.

At the end of the week, I set my mind to undertake some kind of physical exertion and took to walking, arm in sling, a 3.5 mile loop by the hospital while listening to downloaded podcasts.  These outings, although a different nature than my runs, satisfied my desire to stay active until I could resume running.  After a few brisk walks, then a few half run half walk treks, I resumed running my regular schedule, three miles, four times a week.  

Aspirin was my only pain killer, I've never been a druggie except for a few fun times as a teen/early 20-something with hallucinogens and such.  Carefully moving my arm as I would a paralyzed small pet, I got as much sleep as I could and learned to use my left hand/arm for everyday chores. I chopped six inches off my hair for ease in brushing and learned to navigate the mouse with my left hand once back to work.  

It took a full eight months to get back to 100%, although the few months prior hovered at 90-95%.  Even now, when I shovel snow, it's been an exceptionally snowy winter, it still bothers me a bit.  Of course I neglected the typical physical therapy routine; however, I did stretch and move it regularly  to coax it back to normal. 

It's ironic after almost 28 years of running that it was the walk out to my car that caused my first serious injury.  Sure I've fallen running, usually a couple of times a year, more from not paying attention to the uneven sidewalks than ice, but it usually resulted in a skinned knee or the palm of my hand.  Or, if I was really on top of it, I'd manage to aim into green grass, or grab a fence to keep from going down.  

My goal is to run for a couple more years until retirement, then likely walk several times a week to keep the blood pumping and the heart strong.  I figure an even 30 years is a good place to stop. 

Sundance 2018

Past experience has taught me that there is usually one turd among the shining jewels, although not so this year, with one day to go. My least favorite, Sorry to Bother You, is a bizarre take on racism and our fucked up society and still has enough crazy, fresh scenes to keep it careening along. The twisted plot reflects a mad scientist at the helm, a correct assumption, as Boots Riley, the director, is quite a character. The portrayal of the always intrusive world of telemarketing hit some hilarious notes when showing the moments those annoying calls interrupt.



Lizzie, the story of Lizzie Borden of "killed her parents with 40 whacks" fame, stars Chloe Sevigny and Kristen Stewart (who I previously thought could not act, but I have since changed my mind).  As a native New Englander, I was perhaps more familiar with the history of the murder, which occurred in Fall River, Massachusetts, although I did not recall that she was acquitted of the grizzly crime.

A quick google search displays a crazed looking woman, leaving no doubt in my mind as to her guilt. Since there is no real reckoning of exactly what transpired during the murders, the director rightly took liberties filling in the time line and circumstances.  Additionally, the cast and crew visited (and bravely slept in) the real house, now a functioning bed and breakfast, booked years in advance. They concluded, due to the small size of the home, (unlike the expansive Georgia house used for filming) there was no way house maid Maggie could have been oblivious to what was occurring during the murders, even if she was outdoors washing windows, as was determined via witnesses.  Apparently the murders occurred 90 minutes apart, shedding doubt upon the claim of no complicity in the crime.  Portraying the father as a domineering bully, who forced himself upon the maid, seems wholly plausible as a potential motive for murder by a woman who was veering on the edge of sanity to start with.

An interesting tidbit is Maggie the maid moved west to Montana post-trial and lived to 82, apparently choosing refuge in far away Montana after what must have been a traumatizing experience, whether or not she was involved in the crime itself.

My favorite, Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot, is the true story of cartoonist John Callahan, who landed in a wheelchair after a drunken night of partying and resultant car crash, starring Joaquin Phoenix and an unrecognizable Jonah Hill.  You can't go wrong with Gus Van Sant in the director's chair weaving the story of Callahan's climb back to life after the devastating accident. Often funny and accompanied by the artist's cartoons, which he needed both hands to draw, it is a poignant story of reckoning and redemption. You'll cringe when you see Phoenix as Callahan racing around in his motorized wheelchair darting through traffic.  A must see.

Another standout, The Rider, tells the heart-wrenching true (although fictionalized) story of bucking bronc rider Brady Jandreau, whose young career came to an abrupt end with a dire head injury.  The cinematography captures the pain and struggle of Brady and the stark, expansive beauty of the Dakotas.  He shares the screen with his real life father and autistic sister, reflecting their familial ties. The many scenes of Brady with the horses is reason enough to see the film, although it is evident the creatures were not fond of having cameras in their faces.  This hindered displaying Brady's intimate connections with them, to the detriment of the film, since those bonds provide such a core element of his being.  In the end though, it is a beautiful film.