LES Artistes

Superstarr HealthCare

2009-09-18T18:50:00.000-07:00

I'm starting a new writing project about Endometriosis. The other day I had to drop Dave Ramsey. He spent five minutes on his radio program ranting about how universal healthcare would be "socialism." It was disgusting and I navigated right away from his website, where I'd just been planning to drop $200 for tickets to his live event.

Universal Healthcare is no more socialism than offering healthcare to active and retired military personnel. I've been the beneficiary of government healthcare most of my life, first as a military dependent then as a college student, then as a private citizen who prefers to utilize clinics. In fact, and this is a total aside, my life was never put at risk until I hauled off and used private physician care. Those guys nearly killed me!

When this president was campaigning, he made the rather poignant commitment to making sure every American had access to the same healthcare as members of Congress enjoy. Think about that for five seconds. The same people who are exhorting the "evil socialist unDERtow" of HealthCare for All are on a government healthcare plan. They will keep that healthcare plan if they are voted out in the next election.

Personally, I could appreciate having access to the Federal Employees Health Benefits Program (FEHBP). There are millions, yes, MILLIONS of people covered by FEHBP. The surly government worker at the courthouse, she is covered by FEHBP. The disinterested gossip at the Federal Building...he has it too. If you're between the ages of 24-34 in all likelihood you're reading this without insurance. If you're in certain California or New York markets you may have catastrophic coverage. Catastrophic coverage does precisely what it says, if a piano falls on your head, you're covered for a few hospital days.

More than likely, if you do have coverage you don't know what isn't covered until you need it. I work in medicine, the only people who can get the healthcare they need are 1. covered by the U.S. Government or 2. coming from another country and paying cash. I've heard individuals on the street railing about not wanting to pay for "welfare queen's kids" to have health insurance. They are crazy. Definitely crazy. The Welfare Queen? Her kids, they are already covered. If she smokes crack and snorts heroin and drinks antifreeze and her child is born with every developmental disability ever conceived, her child is covered for LIFE.

The nice college graduate who married her high school sweetheart and is starting out in a career on the bottom rung and finds herself expecting a baby? She will cut prenatal pills in half, skip sonograms, go through a very nervous pregnancy, and walk out of the hospital owing $20,000 or more for the labor suite because she does not have health insurance and in this country, if you are young (under 65) you are not deserving of basic medical care.

I'm a 30-year-old woman who has lived with a chronic illness since I was 13. I've never worried much about money and my healthcare - I've always had the benefit of the U.S. Army's healthcare plan, and when that was over, I was very gainfully employed in the career of my dreams. It wasn't until I went through the dot-com bust, lost my job after a less-than-successful surgery, and found myself living off of my investments that I even got curious about healthcare. So, I did what any enterprising young woman of 25 would do, I changed careers and started working in medicine. The things I've seen are frightening. Most physicians have no idea how to help their patients navigate the frightening world of American healthcare.

I have seen newly employed men lose their jobs and find out that the benefits they payed for were retroactively canceled after they suffer some terrible accident. The insurance company would much rather cut a guy a check for his premium than pay for his surgical care when he's been in a car accident.

I have seen hardworking people forgo care because their insurer won't approve it. Thankfully I can say I have dedicated no small amount of my life to fighting on their behalf, but I've seen it every day of my life, I've seen it.

I have had riders placed on my insurance policies. A Rider is a clause in a policy that exempts the insurance company from paying for any care related to a condition. Most policies, unbeknownst to the well-meaning purchasers, carry riders for pregnancy.

My riders put my health care in my hands. I negotiated with physicians for rates and used "cash is king" as my motto. I have been fortunate to have the cash to do this successfully, but I have spent thousands of dollars, on top of insurance premiums, deductibles, out-of-pocket maximums and co-pays for the privilege. When a surgical error resulted in 6 additional surgeries, I was relieved not to have significant financial responsibility as the hospital bills rolled in. I was not without day-to-day grownup life responsibilities, and I kept the secret fear that my insurance would drop me on a whim. I sat in a hospital bed, emaciated and drugged, working on my laptop because I feared losing my job in addition to losing my health. It wasn't an irrational fear, it had a precedent in my real life experience.

I whittled away my nest egg and, in addition to the infantilizing effects of prolonged recovery, I could have ended up homeless and haunted. I've not recovered from the damage done while I was under anesthesia. I may not ever recover. Thankfully, I didn't walk away with tremendous debt. I'm very, very fortunate. There but for the grace of God went I.

How would a government health care plan have changed my life or my experience? Not a whole whopping lot, other than perhaps giving me real means for recourse with the surgeons by implementing tort reform with regards to health care. During the time period when I was self-insured, it could have saved me about $10,000. As I prepare to return to school, toting along my injuries and diminished ability to work, I would have greater confidence that I could continue to take care of myself in the myriad small ways I must.

I believe in state sponsored health care plans. State sponsored, in this instance, meaning government regulated and controlled. To say this does not exist is to ignore the tens of millions of Americans currently enrolled in Medicare, Medicaid, Military Benefits, Retiree Benefits, Federal Employee Benefits, State Employee Benefits, Prison Health Care (yes, the serial killer who scored life in prison gets medical care while you fret about co-pays) and various other health care plans.

I do not have a classy ending to this post. I don't have a classy ending to my life, or the stories I have witnessed or participated in as I've grown up in America. I look with great optimism at the resolve of a President whose mother died while wondering how she would pay for the medical care she received. There is something to that, having someone in the White House for whom health care is not an abstract issue that concerns the proletariat, but an issue that has broken his own heart and hit his own pocket at the worst time imagineable. That's the best advocate I can think of in the bloviated, self-involved world of Washington.

Today is not the day

2009-09-10T21:27:00.000-07:00

For the healthcare blog. I'm tired...still.

I am at the ranch, which is infinitely more interesting than being at my home. AT the ranch, someone or something is always up to no good. Tonight one of the horses went on an unauthorized walkabout. Freaked the little sister out. She went all Death Con 5 on the everyone. It was pretty funny.

The horse was recovered in a pasture where she was enjoying some new-growth grass and a rub down or something because she's all soft and warm to the touch now. Perhaps she was abducted by aliens like Cartman and had an anal probe.

Hmmmm...

healthcare

2009-09-09T20:42:00.000-07:00

i'm going to write a blog on healthcare...tomorrow. tonight, i'm tired and my back hurts. there was a time when I would make such a remark, and some older coworker would tell me I was too young for back pain.

ha! i showed them! i have legitimate back pain.

but tomorrow. tomorrow i will write about healthcare. this matters to me from all sides and i want to write something i can be proud of.

listening to God Save the Sweet Potato Queens. Keeps me jolly.

Goodnight

Change your hair - change your life!

2009-09-08T19:55:00.000-07:00

That's one of my favorite sayings. It's true too. Today was a good day for not writing. I keep bullying myself, challenging and taunting myself to get back to editing, but I just broke out in a rash and that seems enough to put a pause to all activity. Plus, I'm tired.

I'm on the Ralph Lauren site. Gone are the halcyon days of cruising websites and waiting with all manner of anxiety for my purchases to arrive. I'm moving! I'm going to graduate school! I'm reverting to poor (by comparison) student life. I must refamiliarize myself with TJ Maxx. I've always loved a well-cut piece of clothing, I just can't afford to pay premium prices any longer.

I have, however, thoroughly vetted every piece of clothing in my closet. All that remain are items I love and feel good in. The closet is...sparsely populated. I'm inspired by my friend Fly-brother (Ernest White II, a desperately handsome fella) @http://fly-brother.blogspot.com/ who packed all his belongings into two carry-on bags. If I need to, I have no problem doing this, I prefer to travel light. But I've been living heavy for a while. I mean...don't crucify me for this, but I just realized I have no business tripping the market fantastic on eluxury.com or net-a-porter.com any longer.

This is going to take a real adjustment on my part.

Oh well. Onward and upward. I'm going to bed. I'm not going to dream of Vuitton or Louboutin! I am...I so totally am. And Bocchic Origine cuffs and raw diamonds. I'm going to dream of all of it...

What I have between my ears

2009-09-07T18:41:00.000-07:00

Is pretty awesome...

I'm writing while I wait for my novel to open. It's not looking good for the whole "finish my 4th round of edits" project this evening. I remain optimistic.

I have quite a few projects in the pipeline. At the moment, between twice weekly breakdowns of the nervous variety and looking up at the sky from the bottom of a hole not of my own making, I've been playing with my hormones for the betterment of my health. It's working wonders too!

In addition to all of this inside work, and lots of therapy, I'm also taking on the task of miraculously dropping 10-20 actual pounds. I'm reworking my wardrobe again, nearly 2 years after falling in love with Tim Gunn's infallible advice. Now, all of this will not be documented on Les Artistes. I think I will chart my advance on graduate school (yes, two years after declaring my bachelor's degree had expired, I'm finally doing something about it) here. I'll continue to rant and rave and post inappropriate things here, while exercising some diligence and focus on my new blogs, as yet to be named.

Regardless, I'm going to commit to something. I'm committed to writing on a daily basis 5 times a week. Hope someone out there will pay attention.

Redemption Song

2009-07-02T10:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I wanted to post a question for myself, it went along the lines of "is it better to write slowly and get there eventually or to pound them (the words) out and get there more quickly."

I stayed stuck on the matter for a while. Last night, the answer came and found me in an article from The Atlantic. It encouraged the labor, the long labor, of wordsmithing.

I have a song I discovered in a friend's collection that has been keeping me regular company for nearly a week now. The song has crawled into my consciousness and seems to be girding my spine and reinforcing my stomach, for I've found all kinds of courage I thought I lacked.

I started speaking up for myself yesterday, for my dreams. Yes, it's unrealistic to want to be a writer (of all things, a writer?) but real life is painful enough without abandoning your dreams in the process. Dear Reader, do you know what happens when dreams are ignored? They do not shrivel up like a raisin in the sun. No, they become the deepest, longest, most persistent nightmares imaginable. Or worse, they are unimaginable because the force it requires to ignore a dream, or to set it aside, is the full force of your being.

That's a lot of force. It is more force than the majority of people encounter, I am constantly reminded that a great many people never have to call on their basic will to live in order to stay alive. I find that, in itself, fascinating.

So, I'm working my dream. working, working, working. The long version of work, the type that redeems a soul rocked too hard by nightmares.

Love,

Camille

Happens to Be Black

2009-06-30T07:38:00.000-07:00

UNTITLED BY Glenn Ligon

This is what happens when I actually read the materials I stash away in my bags and back pockets. I learn new information, somehow it's right on time, too. To get the full effect, please turn on Cannonball Adderly's "Nippon Soul" album and read on.

B is for Black
A child of the civil rights movement, my mother believed that as black people we would use our natural talents and abilities to rise above adversity. Paradoxically, she also believed that blackness consisted of habits, not nature, and most of those that she associated with it were negative.

P Is for Proud
James Brown's "Say It Loud" was released in 1968. When it came on the radio, I could sing the "Say It Loud" part but I could only whisper, "I'm black and I'm proud." (camille note: hey, every little step will lead you somewhere...)

X is for X
When I was in my twenties, I met a member of the Nation of Islam who told me that since black people took the last names of their masters, we all had slave names. That was why, he explained, Malcolm Little had changed his name to Malcolm X. I considered changing my last name to X for a week or so, but decided that it involved too much paperwork and it would upset my mom.

*This is a quick excerpt from an entire alphabet of information from the essay Untitled by Glenn Ligon. It was a great first-of-the morning read and went well with my unpacking from a recent NYC weekend, the quick read of Richard Mayhew's work, and hanging of Tibetan Prayer Flags.

I'm wearing rainbow toe socks that reach my knees, this I tell myself, is in honor of Pride. But it's really not. It's in honor of the bright colors and my third pair of toe socks, which I hope to retain longer than the predecessors that last a week and two week respectively before being pilfered by friends and loved ones.

I fell in love with yet another dead person last night. Paul Darcy Boles' book 'Story Creating' has left me panting with the effort to keep my lust for his sentence construction in check. I've not yet thrown the book across the room in a fit of pique, so things are looking good, but I can't read it in public. I'm bound to corner some stranger and start reading (or worse, reciting!) passages.

Happy Tuesday!

There Goes My Hero

2009-06-27T18:52:00.000-07:00

Today I flew to new york and took the M60 to 125th street. I've been in a fog of sleeplessness and grief over the death of Michael Jackson. I'm one of those holdouts who just didn't care what happened in his personal life because I loved his music and that was what he gave for public consumption. The rest - the allegations, the public furor, the judgment - well, frankly that wasn't much of my business and I didn't really care. I hated to see someone who was so obviously fragile get dragged through the labrynthine legal system, but there it is. You can't be great forever and that's just life.

I've been grieving. Sometimes I wonder why there seems to be a pall over my day, or my heart just seems less joyful, then I recall I've lost someone dear, whom I admired and loved from my earliest memories. And I am more gentle with myself. It is gratifying to hear his music blaring from streetcorners and to see photos of him populating the windows of shops and street vendor carts. It was most gratifying to see hundreds milling about the Apollo Theater writing their thoughts and peaceful journey messages on the walls surrounding the Apollo. It was the love I think he lived for, but never truly felt he deserved.

New York, the first city of my dreams; it is so wonderful to walk these familiar sidewalks, to reconnect with those who helped form me when I mostly resisted direction and suggestion. On the subway this evening I struck up conversation with William from Georgia, who had a slow southern-boy cadence and beautiful eyes. We talked about turning 30 and opening your eyes and realizing, "I don't have to screw up any more." Well, not the reckless screw ups. I'd wondered what turning 30 would do for me. It damn sure didn't feel any different than 26-29. Then I started to notice the sea change of the people around me. My close friends started forming close romantic relationships, having babies, discarding old philosophies and talking about stability. I began to consider all of those things. Now I carry the label of the one who almost died, but it's almost incidental to the larger questions being mulled over by all who surround me.

I don't have any answers, but life tends to provide those in time. Or time provides those if you keep living. Or both. Both. The trick is to keep living, resisting the urge to just exist or always take the easy way, and occasionally applying your heart to matters where the mind can make a wrong decision to see if it feels right.

Michael's death sucks an artist out of this world. That hurts. It makes those artists who defined and delighted recent generations that much more precious. It makes the act of creation that much more important - creation of life, creation of ideas, creation of change, creation of words on a page...creation.

A quote from the inimitable Toni Morrison: "I think some aspects of writing can be taught. Obviously, you can't teach vision or talent. But you can help with comfort."

Comfort. I like that word, especially as it applies to writing, which is just uncomfortable work. Today I wrote about my experience taking a year to write. It was maddening. I would sit down at my typewriter and the blank page would look back at me. I would sometimes be reduced to typing one letter for lines, just to put something on the paper, then I would expand that letter to include a vowel (the single letter was always a consonant) and then a word, then a sentence and I would switch off the part of my brain that lives to critique sentences so I could write a few more.

I produced a lot of pages that way. I also spent a great deal of time seeking solace in the world outside my windows, wandering the streets and striking up odd conversation with strangers on the street or at the market or on the MUNI to buffer the crowded loneliness of voices in my head. I thought the other day about babies and how my body seems ill suited to producing a version of my genetic code. I thought that my babies will have to be words, and deeds, and acts of love to share with the world, these things will have to survive me, they will have to speak for me when I can no longer speak for myself.

I think Michael left us a great, great deal to hear - great acts and great actions that speak on his behalf. When he lived, those actions and words were drowned out by his very act of continuing to draw breath while shrinking from the view of the world. Now that he is gone, the words, the actions, the memory of his life must stand on its own. It has great legs...and it moonwalks.

100 days, 100 nights

2009-04-03T02:43:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow I'm going to lay claim to some Cherry Red Espadrilles. Something about the color excites me. It's a wonderful substitute for the Python slingbacks I refuse to afford. I think of all the people on Kiva whom could prosper with a micro-loan worth 1/100th of the Slingbacks retail price and I shudder. Cherry Red Espadrilles, not so much shuddering. I can write it off as "self-nurturing." As Tara Lake told me once while we were fighting over a pink linen skirt at TJ Maxx - "Coogi-shop-aliya" determine your own retail future (or price Heh Heh Heh).

This month I skived work and checked out the King Tut exhibit. It was intriguing and I lingered like all hell over the jewelry. In a coincidence of fortune, LV has a collection of semi-precious stone jewelry that harkens to some of the lighter pieces from Tutankhamen's grave. Fortuitous? I think so.

It's been nearly one hundred days since last I wrote. I've been talking a lot, talking is a wonderfully dishonest method of communication. All of the noise blocks out the uncomfortable truths we wrestle with in our sleep.

My uncomfortable truths are piling up fast and hard. Ignorance really is bliss. I spent the past two years of my life walking on sunshine, singing Bananarama, and generally feeling at peace with the world. I miss those halcyon days.

I've been thinking about several career changes. It's Camille - I don't do static for any reason. The brain does not shut off. I suppose, more accurately, I'm thinking of expanding my career interests. Simultaneously expanding and narrowing. Entering new fields, but focusing on small areas within the new fields. It feels good to type that out loud.

I'm also a bit disappointed that my call center in Pakistan is having a lot of problems. Our call volume is largely to blame, but that means I'll have to start shopping call centers again, training management, and go through all the trial and error again. I prefer to the believe the first time is the worst so I may as well get on with it.

Well, I'll try to contribute with greater regularity, though I must warn, I'm not always pleasant.

To the surgeons who took from me what I didn't know I had

2009-01-29T20:06:00.001-08:00

A dedication:

It's almost like you had it planned
It's like you smiled and shook my hand
And said "Hey, I'm about to screw you
Over big time"
And what was I supposed to do
I was stuck in between you
In a hard place
We won't talk about
The hard place

But I don't blame you anymore
Thats too much pain to store
It left me half dead
Inside my head
And boy, looking back I see
I'm not the girl I used to be
When I lost my mind
It saved my life

It's how you wanted it to be
It's like you played a joke on me
And I lost a friend in the end

And I think that I cried for days
But now that seems light years away
And I'm never going back
To who I was

'Cuz I don't blame you anymore
Thats too much pain to store
It left me half dead
Inside my head
And boy, looking back I see
I'm not the girl I used to be
When I lost my mind
It saved my life

I think I cried for days
But now that seems light years away
And I'm never going back
To who I was

'Cuz I don't blame you anymore
Thats too much pain to store
It left me half dead
Inside my head
And boy, looking back I see
I'm not the girl I used to be
When I lost my mind
It saved my life

That life seems like
Light years away, light years away

Golden Brown Angel

2008-12-09T17:43:00.000-08:00

Well, here I am in the country. It's a good life. I like the emails. I'm probably more fond of the animals than anything. They are so lovvvvving. All lovvey dovey without any expectations whatsoever.

The little sister counts as an animal. LOL.

I don't sleep at my house. I wonder why that is. There was the whole "leaf-blower" incident yesterday morning at 7:30 am. Such an early hour seems a ridiculous time to have trim work done around the external of the building, beneath my bedroom window. But hey, I may have just been cranky. I doubt it though.

Not too much going on this way. This month's (belatedly started) project: Start a new business! Last month I wrote a novel. I suppose I don't know how to do things in a small way. We'll see how this turns out. I've told my biz partner I don't want to meet in person any longer, but that will shift. It's just, right now, you know, meetings are productive. While he's a joy to behold, one can only do so much looking before the shiny rubs right on off and you become immune to the accented handsomeness across from you. I'd rather be surprised and struck dumb for 3-5 seconds once every other month.

I placed an ad to replace that roguish employee of mine and in 10 hours I've amassed 400 resumes. I will evaluate them in small bites. It brought home for me the fact that this economy is *really fucked up.* However, for every door that is closed, a window opens. In addition to people peeling off jobs like clothes in South Florida, there has also been a reduction of dependence on credit by corporations and individuals. I think I rhapsodized in the past about LayAway making a comeback. The idea that people will own things again, things they work hard to buy with out an attendant 30% interest rate is entirely too exciting for me.

I don't think the Auto Industry merits a bailout, but let them have this cash now, everyone needs a little cash to see them out the door. I think they would be more innovative, much more quickly, if they were left to fend for themselves without this particular infusion of funds - the CEOs would go out the door and the Boards would get deeply creative in solving their problems. Such is life, one day they will pay the piper.

Does anyone else love Burn It Blue from the Frieda Kahlo soundtrack? That Lila Downs give me goosebumps!

Holy Shit, I'm almost done

2008-11-24T18:20:00.000-08:00

I've been going through changes. Ch-ch-changes. I've been questioning whether this first draft of the novel would ever happen, never mind the ridiculous word count I had to rack up over the weekend, the deaths of characters I didn't even like, but had grown comfortable with and therefore was crushed to lose, and general silliness on my part.

But I'm 10,100 words away from done. I can write 10,000 words in a day if properly motivated, fueled and intrigued by the story. I'm nearly there and I hadn't realized it. It felt as though I would be writing on this thing forever and terrible things would continue to happen to these people with whom I have spent entirely too much time in the recent months. They are familiar and familial, so even the positive events elicit deep suspicion in my little reptile mind. They just mind their business, the characters really do, they are just minding their business and I know terrible things will befall them before the next page.

It's stressful. But I'm almost done, then I can set this aside and get a little air from all their voices and complex social hierarchies and do something different. Praise god for something different.

Saving My Soul

2008-11-20T21:18:00.001-08:00

It's probably isn't a great big secret that I've been coming unstitched a bit here. Got a great (tipsy) email from this great guy I don't spend nearly enough time with and it made me feel heard in this big old world.

The other morning things were getting tight around my mind and I wrote an SOS email. Just to relieve some of the pressure, you know? And I got the best message from my new friend Michele. She just said, "You'll make it. Somehow."

I'm laughing, because it funny. There was actually a 4-point plan included in the message, but the jist was "You'll make it. Somehow."

And one of my best friends, her mother died when she was in elementary school so of course all of the adults around her promptly commenced to behaving like self-absorbed jackasses, leaving her to raise herself and battle in the neverending war of children who have been left behind. She's making it. Somehow.

Tonight I went to dinner at this very posh place. It happens on occasion. When it does happen my capacity to consume food is immeasurable. I'm a girl who likes to eat. I can starve if my life is on the line, but if I'm not in immediate danger, I'm eating that lobster mac n' cheese, fuck what cha heard. Anyway, the waiter was just too perfect. Maybe instead of gaydar I've developed cripdar? Dunno. So, I ask him about himself and he tells me in short order that he's in grad school and I ask him what he's studying and he tells me and I ask him why and he says, "Well, last year I was standing near my house and I got shot in the stomach and spent nine days in the hospital. And I saw so many people getting medical treatment, but not being treated like people. So, I want to be a hospital administrator. They took 7 feet of my intestine, and my family was there to advocate for me. But most of the people around me had decisions made for them they would not have made for themselves. I want to help change that."

My awesome Irish pixie of an aunt works for the state of Oregon adjudicating public assistance cases. Her belief is that if a person needs help, they should get it. This, of course, flies in the face of what most people believe. But she talks about going back 20 years in a person's case history to find that one flawed decision that led to them losing health benefits and she says, "if we can find that one mistake, that oversight, someone can get the treatment they need." She also said something that challenged my own assumptions (thank god), she said "people consider Medicaid a poor man's healthplan when it's really one of the best programs in the world."

Most of the people I see on Medicaid are good people. They have lived and they do their best, but in an overinflated economy, that doesn't get you too far. There are the few and far between who are professional system-gamers, but those folks are the same regardless of tax bracket. There is always someone trying to get over.

All this to say, there is so much wonder in the world. I'm happy to be here, to listen to more stories, and tell more stories and to keep learning in this life. Scars and all.

Optimistic

2008-11-18T20:56:00.000-08:00

"If things around you crumble, no you don't have to stumble and fall, keep pushing on and don't you look back." - Optimistic

I'm listening to Optmistic by Sounds of Blackness. I made an entire playlist based on this song. Things were going pretty badly for me last summer. I'd come home from the hospital full of tubes, holes, and other people's blood. I couldn't eat. I was subsisting on fingernail-fulls of bread and 2 oz. of broth diluted with water. I was in an interesting place where all the superfluous living stuff becomes just that, superfluous. One thing I didn't have much of was pity for myself. I hardly understood what I was experiencing, but I was determined to survive my series of calamities. My mother had assured me I was too mean to die in my one moment of abject terror and I had to just ride with that.

So, one night, in lieu of crying with the fear I really felt, I downloaded Optimistic. The words came into my brain and I knew I had to hear the song. Art is just a way for us to reach one another, soul to soul, and my soul called out for help no one could offer. It called out for solace and encouragement. I listened to Optimistic every night, every day for 3 months. I added songs to the playlist, songs that would help me ease into sleep so I could get a couple of hours before I had to change dressings or empty bags or rehydrate, but it got me through.

And then, when the tubes were removed and I was allowed to move back home and reintegrate into the world as a pseudo-functional human being, I stopped listening. Utah Phillips has an album titled, "The Past Didn't Go Anywhere" and it's the truth. I thought that if I told myself that the illness never happened, and the struggle never happened, that I could forget they happened. I don't think forgetting serves me well. When I erase the memory, I invite the violence of my psyche to play out some truly demented fantasies. It's easier to acknowledge and manage my life as it really is as opposed to the careful PR campaign I wage out of habit and comfort.

My mentor tells me that I will change, my personality will be fundamentally altered. Thus far, that's the god's honest truth. I'm not as mean, but I'm also less tolerant. I wonder at myself, at my reactions. I watch in third-person shock and mild horror when I cannot dredge up empathy for others who are convinced they are having a crisis. I remember being in recovery after surgery number X and there was a woman a few beds down who was coming out of anesthesia, same as me. I was full of gaping holes and swelling body parts and she was screaming for her mother.

This was no spring chicken, either, it was some older lady hollering herself hoarse. "ohhhh mama, come get me mama!" She was so annoying. I asked the nurse to knock her back out. She was ruining my anesthesia high. That's how I feel about so many things now. People talk to me and they tell me about some small event that their limited life experience has made significant if only because it breaks the monotony of their days and I want to tell them to shut up. I have to resist the urge to encourage recreational drug use in others if only so they will sit down and shut up and leave me alone.

I suspect a lot of people out there in the world have real scars they cover up to look nice for the world. One of the most striking things about the medical work I get to do in the Caribbean is the preponderance of physical scars and disabilities. Ever notice how sanitized our streets are of people with visible physical ailments and scarring? I've seen some doozies, too, folks with half their bodies burned or machete welts across their faces. And I have a typical reaction, I flinch, then I feel really, really good. Because I'm looking at another human being who is carrying their scars and I know what that feels like. So, I relax and I listen and I feel the connection of soul to soul.

I appreciate AA folks who declare how long they've been sober. They wear it right there on their sleeve, fully cognizant that one small slip-up could send them back down the river. I wonder if they have an AA equivalent for the chronically ill. Because I know that one false move could send me back down a path of personal destruction I don't care to ever traverse again. Hi, I'm Camille, and I'm 11 months clean from endometriosis. Every day is a lot of struggle and I still don't know how I'm going to make it to tomorrow, but I'm happy to be here today.

And I can hear a roomful of people with their various histories say back to me, "Hi Camille." It feels good.

Weeee-hooooo!

2008-11-12T19:27:00.001-08:00

	1082

23

lab.drwicked.com

Another One Bites the Dust

2008-08-18T10:05:00.000-07:00

Watching Californication...no wonder so many employers feel like they can fuck their employees.

Wait, they are reenacting a scene from Secretary. I remember the first time I saw Secretary. I cannot share the details, but let's just say it was hot as shit in the theater in the Castro. S spanking...oh lord.

Quote of the night (and there have been a few) "WHAT? Don't you Knock?"
Response: "Huh? Don't you Lock????"

Fantastic.

So, I had to put a prospective friend on the curb today. he kept asking about my boyfriend and being invasive and c-r-a-z-y! I mean, I had to tell this fella to quit asking me questions because they weren't any of his business, had nothing to do with our friendship blah blah blah. I mean, FRIENDS. Not lovers.

I'm going to take a moment to rant here: WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH MARRIED DUDES? I just want to say, hold off on the marriage thing. I'm on the boat with dan savage, marriage in your 20s is generally a bad idea. Sure, through sheer determination and willpower you can STAY married but, yeah, you're probably going to be swimming through levels of shame and misery t-minus 5 years in. No matter what a banger you marry.

I see this time and time again. Fabulous woman, good enough fella, early marriage, life, pressure, and a diamond is not created, a fucking edifice of stone is constructed! And then it's all chasing tail and illicit adulterous affairs or fantasies thereof. I really wish people were more honest with themselves and one another.

I'm no critic of chasing tail and affairs - but unless illicit is your fantasy - in which case you and the wifey can playact that shit out - illicit is nasty and leaves a stain on the soul. Makes you feel ugly in little places that matter a lot.

Secrets can be sexy. Mystery is a turn on. But all this sneaking is for the dogs. Or maybe i'm truly not properly american. i've been corrupted by a childhood in Europe and there is no going back. Because I look at all this shit, men hiding the fact that they are...ummmm...MEN and women locking down the fact that they are (here's a real shocker) WoMEN is enough to make me sick.

Quietly, I need more men to cop to enjoying the occasional homoerotice stimulation as well, since I'm putting together a wishlist for the betterment of all mankind and whatnot.

Back to Weeds..

If I love you, I'll call you Lotus

2008-08-21T10:05:00.000-07:00

or Elise. Pick one.

I'm not feeling altogether hot, but I"m taking it easy. Being effective as hell from home. Really, they pay me to do this...

Saturday afternoon I'm going for a nice, long winding drive in my about-to-be-new baby Elise. Lotus Elise, that is. We have a sympatico I've not known with other cars (at least not in the last 2 months). Really, this is LOVE!

I just spoke with my newest Godfather, a car lover himself, with a lotus or two in the garage about how to buy, what to expect yadda yadda yadda. He was so happy I wanted one and was talking to him about it. It was really nice. We bonded a little more.

Okay, I'm off to figure out what sort of business I can run with an absolute minimum of effort.

Pavarotti makes sex so much better

2008-08-24T10:03:00.000-07:00

Hey, it's a quote from a movie (but it's also deadly true!)

Oh man, I am so freakin' hooked on elance.com. You can get so much accomplished, so easily. Wicked easy. Wicked fast.

I get doling out jobs - design a website, build an EMR system, organize my finances, authorize surgeries, answer my phones - and people keep saying "yeah, i'll do that."

So, then, I have to think of new things to do with myself. I want to work out, I want to write ad copy for some other stuff, I want to research best-sellers since I desire to write one, there's those languages I've been meaning to pick up and on and on and on.

Suddenly all these desires and dreams that seemed unattainable once I returned to this (greatly overvalued) real life of mine and the crap kept piling up. Other people's crap, no less. Quelle horreur!

Lol.

Okay, i need to nap. Apparently my raging infection has been throwing WWIII within my body and i've been cooking along at 100 degrees for the last few days.

I return to convalescing.

camille

I CAN COOK!!!

2008-08-27T10:02:00.000-07:00

For reals! I can cook!

I made fettucine alfredo with shellfish (not clams, the other ones) and artichoke hearts. so very yummy.

And i watched Penelope. I wish it had been longer. It was grand, though, and that durn James McAvoy - he's so pretty. Super pretty with an burr...if I'm ever single again I'm headed for the isles and gettin' me some! In a Lotus! Whew. Exhausts me just thinking about it.

I have been watching the DNC convention. I love the speeches. Rah Rah Rah. Bill still holds sway, he swayed me. And fuck whatcha heard, he and hills love each other. They appreciate one another. What's a blowjob in the face of mutual ambition, brilliance and the pursuit of power? You know he probably remembered Monica Lewinsky's name, but only because he's genetically incapable of forgetting names, not because the poor sad thing was memorable.

She was "the jump off."

Well, off I must go to read Dexter. We heart Dexter. Season's starting again soon.

P.S. Volver with Penelope Cruz kicked ass. It deserved the praise it garnered. i should stop hating

Yeah, I suck

2008-09-05T10:00:00.000-07:00

I did actually write a post yesterday, and the day before. But both days i was feeling emotionally upheaved and didn't post. I lost interest. you know it was bad when I just couldn't bring myself to write anything, anywhere. It was all very maudlin and tacky. I'm on the tail-end of it now, mostly I want to indulge in a couple of krispy kreme donuts and hang out with fun people whom I like.

I rearranged my living room last night. I love moving furniture, creating a new pattern within the confines of the structure. I like to say "change your hair, change your life" but I also believe in "change your furniture, change your life."

I think I've had a nasty case of inertia. I was doing alright, then, late last week the visigoth got all Visigoth-ish on me. He was "going through something" and since that is a rare occurrence and not particularly descriptive, it mostly came off as the prelude to a breakup. Please imagine how distressing this was to me on at least two levels. We have been so happy and then suddenly I had this surly, snarling mess on my hands. Apparently we are not breaking up, so after that was established, I needed a little "fall apart" time. Cause, um, whenever someone starts throwing crazy signals, I mostly get busy catching. The practical parts of breaking up I am quite adept at handling - housing, dissolution of financial whatevers, getting scarce for at least a year for the purpose of "healing" on both sides. The nice "I've just been through a breakup and travel is necessary" trips to new lands. I'm very good at all of that.

Anywho, that's all water under the proverbial bridge. Just the reason I've not been writing. Now I am, as my Jamaican colleague says, "trying to find some ambition." Until recently I have been chock-full of ambition, brimming with ambition, bubbling over with ambition. I suppose part of the problem is that I appear to be battling another (again, i mean good GAWD) infection. How is it that I went through a year of major surgeries, lived on a farm and played with the animals and generally made a nuisance of myself, but didn't get a single infection or side effect or take medication BUT now I have three infections of increasing strength and potency in one month?

Well, I think this is enough catch-up for all of us. I shall totter off and find some lunch and ya'll will do...whatever it is you do.

Do it well

What did I tell ya'll about how I work?

2008-09-07T09:59:00.000-07:00

See. I'm at work RIGHT NOW. I've been here for close to two hours. I'm just sayin...

So, it's Sunday and I'm going to take a moment to blast my little sister for not taking any pics of me with my fly new haircut (hint: I got bangs) and thus disabling me from showing you guys my fly new Betty-Page-esqe look.

Add insult to injury: I think little sister also flew away with my camera. I may have told her she could, but only telepathically. I think. I don't know, it was a long time ago. Like, last weekend.

The other day, my friend "J" got himself hit by a car on a bike. Again. How fucked up is that, that I have to qualify that statement. It is not enough to unveil the horror of a loved one's mortality with "he got hit by a car while on a bike." Oh no. I have to say "again." Because it's accurate and true. This is the second time (that I'm aware of, though he has disclosed 6 accidents, I don't know the details of them).

The key differences - he walked away from this one. In a sense, at least, I mean, he was ambulanced away but left the ER sore but able to perambulate on his own. The last time he got hit by a car he was not so fortunate.

That's what we're going to focus on, the fortunate part. Yes, i thought it was pure folly for him to commute on a bicycle, but I understood the economic concerns (even if they were mainly the result of a skewed sense of priorities, but whatever). I can appreciate staring death in the face and getting the glorious reprieve of "not this time." Thus, i am fortunate to still have my friend, in one piece no less, and that's that. Ya'll just send up a thought for the mysterious, accident-prone "J", who is really the best lunch buddy a girl like me could ask for (he believes in free food, listens like a pro, empathizes no matter what the situation, and has an attention span equal to or less than mine, and he's just damn interesting).

Another friend, "M", also got in a car accident. He totalled his car last week, so add him to your thoughts list. M is having what I have deemed an interesting life. We don't get to talk much, but he's a good guy and deserves warm energy.

Alright, well, that's my shoutout list for the week! Send all requests to...LOL.

Czilla

A wee political rant

2008-09-09T09:59:00.001-07:00

A wee bit Political
Category: News and Politics

I have to break down and post this. I've been having a great conversation with my friends online about this post and it's validity. Also about the relevance (or lack thereof) of these posturing scholars and "leaders" as Obama has ascended to the national scene. Read and Enjoy:

Obama and the Suicidal Left
Why the black intelligentsia needs to stop hating on
the Democratic nominee.

TheRoot.com
Updated: 2:59 PM ET Sep 2, 2008

Sept. 2, 2008--During the Democratic National
Convention in Denver, I sat on a panel about hip-hop
and politics with a number of well-read and highly
regarded thinkers in the black community. At one point
a fellow panelist commented that it was impossible to
criticize Barack without being considered a sellout.
That statement inspired a thread of commentary echoing
the sentiment.

Let me say this much: I'm a believer in firm critique
and the virtues of skepticism toward anyone who holds
a position of authority. I publicly disagreed with
Obama's FISA vote and his decision to campaign in
Indiana as opposed to traveling to Memphis on the
anniversary of Dr. King's assassination. But my
response to that line was simply to ask: Why it is
that a group of progressives would spend about 40
minutes discussing how to critique Barack and
virtually no time discussing how to elect him?

Unless John McCain has suddenly become a more
attractive option, perhaps those priorities should be
shifted.

The GOP has won 7 of the last 10 presidential
elections largely because of the success in creating a
big tent. They manage, however improbably, to get an
unemployed factory worker to vote for the same
candidate as the millionaire CEO who just fired him.
Progressives, however, have the opposite of a big
tent—we have a funnel. We take the broadest
possibilities and narrow them down to just a handful
of ideologically correct, if absolutely unelectable
also, to mitigate the pain of defeat with the balm of
our untainted ideals.

I thought about that conversation again, after I heard
Cornel West and Julianne Malveaux savage Barack
Obama's acceptance speech. Malveaux went hypertensive
because Barack never mentioned Dr. King by name
(despite the fact that he had two of MLK's children
and Rep. John Lewis speak about the March on
Washington and that only the absolute dimmest of bulbs
could not know who that "young preacher from Georgia"
was.) West fulminated that Obama had left out a
critique of white supremacy and missed the symbolism
of the moment. And worst of all, he noted, "no one was
crying."

Between acting in The Matrix and launching his rap
career, Cornel West has gone soft around the middle. (camille note: is that soft around the middle of the brain, cause the man left his sense somewhere in Ethiopia during that ill-fated marriage a few years back)
The kind of symbolism-laden speech he wanted is what
candidates give during their inaugurals, not their
acceptance speeches—unless they're 15 points up in the
polls. Obama is running neck-and-neck with a GOP
cadaver, and he was virtually required to give the
kind of nuts-and-bolts speech he delivered on
Thursday.

In truth, we've been seeing this strand of thought for
months among black intellectuals. My friend and
brother-in-arms, Mark Anthony Neal, accused Obama of
"cheapening his religion" when he resigned from
Trinity, but made virtually no mention of the fact
that Obama had put his neck on the line by defending
Jeremiah Wright in March, only to see Wright and
Trinity ignore that gesture, dismiss Barack as a
"politician" and repeatedly inject themselves into the
campaign. Jesse Jackson threatened to manually
castrate Obama for giving a speech that was far more
even-handed than the few lines quoted from it suggest
and completely in line with a series of "personal
responsibility" speeches Jackson himself gave during
his 1988 presidential campaign.

Obama has been giving inspirational speeches. He's
built an amazing grassroots machine and brought people
into active political engagement who had sworn off
politics long ago.

But conventions are about winning elections, plain and
simple. (That was something that Hillary's most
die-hard supporters missed also—their hopes of a
nomination fight harked back to an era when
conventions actually had something to do with policy.
At this point they are closer to Broadway productions,
with everyone memorizing their lines and dancing on
cue.) There are still heated arguments in smoke-filled
rooms—they just take place in May and June, long
before the first delegates have even begun packing.

I was hoping that Obama would avoid the kind of
emotive speech we all know he can give and deliver
exactly what he did: a basic outline of his policy
positions. The measure of Obama's connection to those
movements West was talking about is not whether he
mentions them in his acceptance speech, but whether he
prioritizes the progressive civil rights and
anti-poverty platform he's outlined in his platform.
(Does the fact that he's the only candidate in eons
with a program to employ ex-offenders and reduce
recidivism or one where poor pregnant women can
receive home visits from nurses to reduce infant
mortality mean anything to us?)

Perhaps the most biting irony is a kind of reverse
affirmative action, where Obama seems to face a higher
bar for support than the white candidates who preceded
him. The Congressional Black Caucus and black
progressives asked virtually nothing from Kerry (at
least not publicly) and not much more from Gore, yet a
former civil rights attorney who has litigated
employment and voting discrimination cases has to pass
a "good faith" test.

On some level, you understand the logic of expecting
more from your own people, but not the logic that says
you should road-block the path to election.

William Jelani Cobb is associate professor of history
at Spelman College and author of "The Devil & Dave
Chappelle and Other Essays." His blog, "The Delegate,"
appeared on The Root last week.

The Great Assistant Search & Weird Relationships

2008-08-02T19:57:00.000-07:00

First off, I'm addicted to fucking Kerli wasserface, MGMT, and Danny Elfman. I am similarly addicted to the Savage Love Podcast. At least once a day I nearly cough myself to death laughing at the callers. I keep trying to think of something to call about, but all I can think of is "Dan, you're the best. If you ever slip up and want a woman, let's give it whirl!"

Wait, my fave call was today, episode 80-summat. This lesbian calls in and says she stole her best friend's wife and they are soul mates, but it ended the friendship and now she dreams about her best friend. She tried to contact the friend via a mutual friend and the ex-bf got so upset that she ended the friendship with the go-between (disembowel the messenger!) So, Dan's response is...

"Fuck You. You stole this woman's wife and you still want to keep your fucked up emotional meathooks in this woman and she wants to move on with her life. You got the girl and the price you paid was LOSING YOUR BEST FRIEND you whiny, crybaby, codependent asshole! Leave her ALONE."

Yeah, I was in the shower when I heard that and nearly had one of those made-for-tv slip n' falls in the tub. Fist pumping and all that jazz. Where are the g-damn boundaries? People need boundaries.

On an unrelated, but somehow relevant note, I've decided to farm out my life. I suck at work mainly because I'm more interested in the higher-level functions of work - developing and executing strategy - i would rather undergo another surgery with insufficient pain medication than listen to one.more.fucking.patient rifle through a calendar to see if a surgery date "works" for them, or answer another insipid question from my receptionist of questionable intelligence, or put out yet another fire for my scatter-brained boss/boyfriend. I think most people are given too many options, hence my inclusion of this video from Google Speaker's Bureau:

..

So, I'm on elance and letting people bid to do my paperwork. Take it all. I'll fax it, answer the occasional question for clarification purposes and not think about it any more.

Another weird relationship note: I have unwittingly been fueling fantasies. You know, I vowed to be more social, to experience more of life with this new, improved body/life of mine and thus far it's been interesting. This morning I got one of those weird phone calls from someone wracked with guilt over fuckall. I mean...nada, nothing. Wracked with guilt over lunch and a hug. Seriously, I just saw myself as a listening ear and friend for someone who was obviously on a search for something greater than the life he'd constructed. Apparently I was seen as hot, tawdry mistress material. If only people new how totally non-tawdry I am. I mean, my latest-greatest underwear purchase were Hanes bikini briefs and I must say they are a miracle of textile engineering. I love them. I will buy more tomorrow.

All of this exhausted me because I am suspecting that for all the resting and recovering I've done for the past year, I'm not out of the woods. I mean, I'm not actively ill or pained or cleaning sutures, but I'm easily tired and prone to "overdoing" it.

Oh yeah, does anyone know how levi's fit girls with asses? I shall post a link to my new favorite-looking jeans that I might purchase at the end of this week. I'm trying to decide on a size and may have to ask my alterationist to take my measurements, unless my little sister (who has a secret passion for sewing, wtf?) can do it.

http://us.levi.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3152310&cp=2069959.2075212.2075218&parentPage=family

I heart this song

2008-08-01T14:26:00.000-07:00

Came to work today to give myself a break from reading novels. I finished Tempest Tales by Walter Mosely (it was hilarious and inspirational, there is nothing the man has written that I've not read and loved and admired deeply) and got back into Gods Behaving Badly, which has gotten uber funny.

The line I left on:

Would raping you harm you? (Apollo)

Huh? (Alice - cold fear gripping her heart)

If I raped you, would it harm you? (Apollo)

Yes. It would harm me. (Alice)

Well, then you should leave. Don't forget your bag. (Apollo)

Hilarious. Really. The context is that poor Apollo has been hit with one of Eros' arrows and is in love with the mortal Alice. But Eros didn't have the heart to see through the rest of the plan and make Alice hate Apollo, so instead Apollo is in love and Alice is blissfully unaware.

Did I mention that Eros is now a born-again Christian? When his mother, Aphrodite, put him up to hitting Apollo with the arrow he actually asked "What would Jesus do?" Such a good time

You don't want to be a lawyer, you don't want to be a professor!

2008-07-31T19:48:00.000-07:00

Wow.

There is a tremendous amount of negativity in the world. Has anyone else noticed this? I googled "steps to go to law school" and came up with about 800 websites dedicated in whole or in part to discouraging people from attending law school.

Mmmmkay. Color me crazy here (it's not hard) but isn't the SCHOOL part the important bit? It's SCHOOL, a place where you LEARN. Actually, a place where you ARE INSTRUCTED IN THE FINE ART OF LEARNING.

For instce, I was not at a bastion of intellectualism for undergrad. That's the mild, pc way of noting that I attended a rather notorious "party school." I didn't know I was signing on for a party school, but I can say definitively that I'm awfully glad I did it. I learned to party, picked up some rather fetching career options and broke out into the world utterly prepared to hijack concerts at will AND edit the hot holy hell out of a piece of writing. Most of the people I knew were of above-or-well-above average intelligence and we spent a good chunk of our time admiring the hypersmart drug dealers who were working on their MBAs and Ph.Ds in Pharmacy to truly lock down their markets. There was always someone to admire, is all I'm saying.

As I prepared to leave school there was a lot of yammering about getting a job and prospects and I'd spent 3 years already listening to quite a few of my engineering buddies predict their income upon graduation and rant about EP (earning potential) of girlfriends. Eggheads. They so totally missed the boat. They didn't have nearly as much fun in school as I did, being locked away in the E-building, which wasn't such a bad place as I spent chunks of time there trying to sneak into the chemical engineering labs and see what I could muck up, and most of them didn't find the satisfaction in those Realized Earnings as they thought they would. Many entered the world of work and found that ridiculous amounts of money were not waiting for them, however utterly stultifying workplaces were. Go figure.

I spent most of college traveling, sleeping, recreationally exploring my campus and fellow students, watching clouds cross the sky, scamming free food, writing and wandering the bowels of libraries up and down the eastern seabord. If I couldn't be found it usually wasn't because I was in class (boring!) but because I was blowing the dust off of some tome and dancing little jigs because I'd found some obscure bit of analysis that confirmed my theories on whatever (generally alice walker and toni morrison and exploration of the supernatural in literature). I came out of school making a rather obscene amount of money to do something I would have gladly volunteered to do for the same amount of time every day gratis. And they fed me.

So, now I'm ready to go back to school and it seems the whole world is anti-education. In reality, there is nothing wrong with school as long as you understand some simple rules:

1. School does not guarantee a job - you do. School is the mind, jobs (and careers) are the heart and hands. They require human capital, as in, human you show up enough and you get a job.

2. School does not make you smart - you do. At best, school gives you exposure to smart people and an outlet for learning new things. At worst, you may pick up a nasty drug habit and a brand spanking new disease. Shit happens. School, like life, is what you make of it.

3. Attending college DOES improve your chances of increased income. If you're trying to climb economic classes, school is a handy-dandy way to do it. Yes, the stuff they teach you in class is helpful, but the REAL meat is in the stuff you learn from people in economic classes you aspire to. In school, you get to be around those people, observe and make forays into foreign worlds. You get to gather the tools of assimilation. You learn the language, mannerisms, cultural touchstones - you get exposure and possible acceptance. Again, human capital.

So, this is me going back to school. I'm not going to school for another or better job. That's hogwash. I'm going back to school so that I can spend time in libraries blowing dust and to give myself a break from working full time. No shit. I want to read and learn and become mildly insensible with useless knowlege, but I also want to sharpen my analytical skills and float a bit and come out with some letters after my name.

Cause really, there are few thrills as pleasant as having letters after your name.

Happy Skoolin!