And the beat goes on. And on. And on.

     Time for that "because there is no other human in my world right now, I have to write it down for strangers" overshare. Any time I think I have hit rock bottom, I find that I have sunk even deeper. I have not received unemployment benefits since June, and, after repeatedly calling the regular phone number (your case is still pending), writing emails, and finally finding the "secret" phone number they only answer on Thursdays and Fridays, I received a call that their ruling was put in the mail this morning (so no info before Monday). She wouldn't even give a hint what the ruling is. Looks like my measly $1000 a month total income is about to go away. 

     I met with a headhunter who said she would revise my resume from an education to business resume and send me an exemplar of a perfect cover letter - that was over two weeks ago. Along with that, she said that teachers rarely get a placement in the business world and if I was LUCKY, I might be hired through networking, but never by application.   I suppose that's just not her job since she met me as a favor to a friend and I don't count as a real client. I think can find my own resources for that, though. There are a ton of sleazy employment websites itching to show me the perfect resume. 

With God as my witness the surprise of my life will be if someone ever keeps a promise. I promise my company will coordinate the clean up of your house and contract with cleaners and restorers. I promise my company will assist you with cleaning your ruined house to prepare for an estate sale. I promise I will help you pack for an estate sale. I promise I will help you out with your resume and cover letter. I promise I will get back to you about that legal issue. I promise I will stay in touch with you about the felony burglary of your house. I promise I will call you back. I promise I can find guys to haul away the junk from your ruined house.  

Anyone with the Blue Cross S plan knows what has hit the fan in the past week, so the only doctors and hospital I can use are Methodist (you know, the ones that neglected my mother until she had bedsores, rotating  hospitalists, not one of whom saw my mother twice, and a hospice group that took vacation simultaneously - were you there for the live reenactment from Terms of Endearment?). Did I mention property taxes to the tune of $2400 or so? Finally, I think my entire inflammatory system has gone into shock. GERD like I've never taken Prilosec ever, pounding heart, flamethrowers being fired inside me, and when I bent over to brush my teeth my back went out on vacation. Every freaking muscle in my back is either in spasm (lower back) or knotting into trigger points (upper back). Waiting for eye tics and drooling to come next. I am so, so sorry for those of you whose day is ruined because you have to drive in heavy traffic or that someone at work gave you some attitude. I will trade you gratefully and with no complaints.

If you're happy and you know it, skip this post.

Okay, this one is a downer. That being said, if you're happy and you know it, skip this post.  I went to Memorial Gardens today to visit my mother's gravesite. It was a splendid day, a light breeze was blowing, and songbirds were singing in every tree. The grounds were beautiful, and there were several families there to visit their loved ones. Many, many graves had small American flags blowing gently in the breeze over them. As soon as I got to my  mother's grave, I plopped down next to her (on her left side - my side) and burst into tears. I wish they had been tears of grief or sadness for her loss or gratitude for her peace, but they were tears of shame and recrimination and helplessness for feeling that I had failed her so badly in her last weeks and that I have since made such a cock up of the life she worked so hard to help me make. I have no doubt she is not a peace - she is one seriously pissed off mama. She was not one to forget or forgive, so unlike a good Catholic who can visit the priest for the Sacrament of Confession, I left my confessions at the grave, but departed with only a sense of unending penances. No absolution. Maybe some of you wonder why I articulate something this personal in a public forum. The reason is that there is no difference between thinking it or writing it down in a journal or a blog if there is no one to read or hear it. Sometimes nothing will do but to indulge in Whitman's "barbaric yawp" just to confirm that I am still here. "Hello? Hello? Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home?" Damn you for giving it a name, angst, Søren Kierkegaard. I couldn't go to Greenfield or Trezevant to visit the rest of my family because I'm afraid to take a trip with the giant crack in my windshield. I think I will feel better when I go, though, because they were more likely to seek solutions than find fault. Maybe I'll gain some insight from them. Here's hoping I have an epiphany - preferably not one that blinds me while I'm on the road.

Why does a good word like "rumination" have to be spoiled by association with a cow chewing its cud?

I have faked my way into the age of technology pretty well up until now, but I am stumped.

Where does one find liner notes in the digital age?

The Allman Brothers "Live at the Fillmore East"

Back when artists actually released LPs, there was always that big old album cover and often an insert that contained not only information about all the composers, session musicians, back up singers, and guests, but also told wonderful anecdotes about the writing and recording of the songs. If you were really lucky, you listened to an FM station with a DJ that shared even more anecdotes, the history of the artist(s), and probably some freaky gossip like the time Duane Allman swallowed an entire bottle of Coricidin D while pulling an all-nighter working out a cover of Statesboro Blues. Not gossip, BTW.

Now, performers (I hesitate to use the words "singers," "musicians," or even "artists") barely release a CD because almost everyone just downloads singles. Is there anything on those CDs except credits?

Is there any place online to find that old school information? If I want to know who is singing backup to Kanye West on "Gold Digger," I can go to You Tube and recognize Jamie Foxx. If I really want to know who is singing "Lover Man" with Duke Ellington and it's not on You Tube, I'm SOL and even if it were, I wouldn't want to bet money on knowing a songstress from the 1930s who doesn't get her own credit on the track title. You can bet your sweet bippy that if Ella Fitzgerald sang with Duke Ellington, her name was right there next to his. AND JUST WHO IS BACKING UP LES PAUL ON CARAVAN? That bassist probably went home complaining, "I've got blisters on me fingers!" See? If you had a great FM DJ or had read the liner notes, you would have just gotten that joke about the blisters.

This is what Google has made of me: an instant gratification information junkie. My friend AJG has just taught me a new tech-acronym: GTS. I had to Google it. Thankfully, it is the perfect expression for that compulsive need to get to Google NOW.

Sunday evening coming down, with apologies to Kris Kristofferson

Stay with me here. It's a bit of a meander - just like my drive this afternoon. It's been almost twenty years since I last went to my father's house in Tipton County, and, with the sun out in a blue sky, I decided to make my Sunday afternoon drive that way. I have been listening to a lot of post/pending apocalypse zombie/Cthulu type audiobooks lately, so I thought I would listen to something to cheer me up. I chose the Blind Boys of Alabama album, Higher Ground, which is a gospel-crossover album that I love because they cover a lot of soul and R&B classics. I started off with "People Get Ready." Nothing better. I took the turn to the house that I thought was right and reminisced about the few years that my father hosted an entire afternoon and evening of potluck, socializing, 4-wheeling fun for the Craigmont faculty. He never understood why I begged him to change the name of this annual faculty picnic, which he called "The Bush Bash." I was smiling to myself and enjoying the memories and thanking my father's father who passed on to me his sense of direction, because I drove straight to the house. Just as I passed the house and continued to the tiny Clopton United Methodist Church, Jimmy Cliff's "Too Many Rivers to Cross" was playing:

Many rivers to cross
But I can't seem to find my way over
Wandering I am lost
As I travel along the white cliffs of Dover

Many rivers to cross
And it's only my will that keeps me alive
I've been licked, washed up for years
And I merely survive because of my pride

And this loneliness won't leave me alone
It's such a drag to be on your own
My woman left me and she didn't say why
Well, I guess I'll have to cry

Many rivers to cross
But just where to begin I'm playing for time
There have been times I find myself
Thinking of committing some dreadful crime

Yes, I've got many rivers to cross
But I can't seem to find my way over
Wandering, I am lost
As I travel along the white cliffs of Dover

Yes, I've got many rivers to cross
And I merely survive because of my will

Okay, now the sun was setting, the clouds were covering the skies and I could barely see the road for the tears. Just about the time I worked my way back to Austin Peay Highway and turned south, the Blind Boys, Ben Harper, and Ben Harper's wah wah pedal came out to send me home to "Higher Ground."

Thank you God, for all our blessings, but today is a day for Psalm 100: "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with a song."

What would I do without other people's words?