As adults (now that’s funny), we are following all of the guidelines and filling out all the forms, and paying attention to what is the next step in basic survival, and at every turn we are stone walled.
And this is happening to everyone we know! I am pretty sure it is happening to everyone we do not know, also.
But hey! I bet we all got our taxes done on time, right?
In your life? Do you have a plan? A wish? A scenario?
Sometimes I do, sometimes I have no idea, but right now I would like to be floating in the stars listening to Arthur C. Clarke.
Tomas and I are lucky. For anyone who has been following this, you are well aware that there have been daily hurdles, caused by many people, and we are boxed in everywhere we turn.
However, we would like to acknowledge the human beings who are just as stressed and frazzled as we are, and are taking the time to work with us, or just talk to us, so we do not turn on the gas and call it a day.
THE PROFESSIONALS:
Dr. Phillip J. Bowman, M.D. M.P.H. of Beverly Hills, California.
Lawyer Steve White, of Reseda, California.
Dennis Dreith, John Burke, Guy Hubbard, and the rest of the crew at the Film Musicians Secondary Markets Fund, of Studio City, Ca.
Jo-Anne McGettrick, manager of the Recording Artists Royalties Fund.
THE FRIENDS:
Marsha Sorce and Pete Evans of Pagosa Springs, Colorado.
Doug and Sue Lee of Erie, Pennsylvania.
Robert Madigan, of Morro Bay, California.
“Jonsey” of Napa, California.
Renee Tracy and Rod Springer, of Long Beach, California.
Judy Fromm, of Hollywood, California.
Bill Rayman of Santa Monica, California.
Bob and Margaret Gremore of Los Angeles, California.
Carol Johnson of Hollywood, California.
FAMILY:
The Hartsky Family, of Hermitage, Pennsylvania, and Sharpsville, Pennsylvania.
This was written in the spirit of ending a hopeless day by taking note of all of the help, love, and support you have all given us for years.
Thank you.
Goodnight.
The prescient sci-fi writer Arthur C. Clarke died at his home yesterday, after recently turning 90.
We are both grieving, yet find solace that he might be floating in the very universe he wrote about. ( Book - “2001″).
He dies two days after Palm Sunday. Maybe Arthur C. Clarke and Jesus were brothers.
I have run out of words.
“Time, waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me.”
The Rolling Stones.
Tara is a multi-talented writer here in Los Angeles.
She works hard, and gets tired and depressed, not unlike most good writers.
BUT, if you Google her name, on the first page there is a Dr. Tara Zucker, psychiatrist, in Beverly Hills.
Oh, no.
Can she possibly have cloned herself?
I worry.
for reminding me to breathe when I am outraged.
for your Los Angeles Times article about memoirs.
for continuing to kick ass and take names.
for inspiration.
Yesterday, after all of the weather predictions of thunder and lightning, big storm coming, we shut down windows, got extra blankets for us, and had the two space heaters positioned at head and feet.
Today, the sun is shining, and the wind is cold. Schizophrenic, as always.
We had morning coffee, and went about the business of folding up all of the blankets, feeding the crew, the usual.
Hauled the metal table and chairs out to the front, for anyone to take. We were offered money for them, but it is Palm Sunday. Pass it forward.
Then the wide-eyed frozen ‘what to do next’ moment.
Tomas decides to clear off the unwatched TiVo, and, in the spirit of Palm Sunday, we think it might be relaxing to lie on the floor in the cold bedroom and watch a show. We get as comfortable as possible, then decide on a new experience. Let’s watch “Dexter!”
It may seem sick and twisted, but think about it - a show about a former serial killer now stalking and killing active serial killers.
Isn’t this break appropriate on Palm Sunday? Meticulous righting of wrongs, careful planning, for justice?
I am not sure, but it feels okay.
At least for now.
Tomas three days of passing kidney stones, slumlord/lady sneaking up at six-thirty a.m. taping 3 Day or Quit on door as Tomas is vomiting in the sink.
Mail last three days with post office stamp from slumlady/lord, all say same thing except her idea of what we owe is not consistent. Hmm.
Yesterday we manage to move despite pain, (band aid meds - no painkillers in house), and drive to Kinko’s, print out response countering monies owed.
This morning, at around seven a.m., I look out onto lawn and see that someone or something has knocked her “for Rent” sign down.
I try to get it back up, fix with tape, hope it stays up. Why? I do not know.
If I had the energy, I would sing, “I…Love A Parade”
This question comes into my mind when I have a moment of stillness, the physical and mental challenges have exhausted themselves, and I am just breathing, staring at nothing.
I know, I know, the reports are the cigarettes, the lung cancer, I read all of it, and the aftertaste of artificial reporting sticks onto my tongue every time.
Peter Jennings was asking the questions after September 11th that no other reporter would touch, he was not racing into the inferno of on-screen hysteria, he was shooting thoughtful questions straight into the black hole.
Then - my goodness, the timing! - he dies of lung cancer.
I will never believe the “official” cause of death. I believe he was silenced, and there are always the usual suspects, but they do not matter. Their time will come.
I have one truth. One emotion. Just one.
I miss Peter Jennings.
COLOMBO, Sri Lanka (AP) — Science fiction writer Arthur C. Clarke listed three wishes on his 90th birthday: for the world to embrace cleaner energy resources, for a lasting peace in his adopted home, Sri Lanka, and for evidence of extraterrestrial beings.
“I have always believed that we are not alone in this universe,” he said in a speech to a small gathering of scientists, astronauts and government officials Sunday in Colombo where he lives.
Humans are waiting until extraterrestrial beings “call us or give us a sign,” he said. “We have no way of guessing when this might happen. I hope sooner rather than later.”
The British-born author, who moved to Sri Lanka in 1954, has written more than 100 sci-fi books, including “2001: A Space Odyssey.”
Clarke, who suffers from post-polio syndrome and is confined to a wheelchair, cut a cake as Sri Lanka’s president, visiting astronauts and scientists sang “Happy Birthday.”
“Sometimes I am asked how I would like to be remembered,” Clarke said. “I have had a diverse career as a writer, underwater explorer and space promoter. Of all these I would like to be remembered as a writer.”
Arthur C. Clarke accepts congratulations on his 90th birthday Sunday.
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