Social Media Break

I took a spontaneous social media break on March 1st through today (June 21, 2024). I wasn’t sure exactly why I wanted to abstain, but once I did, I started to notice some changes within myself. My own thoughts and feelings became clearer to me and my intuition sharpened up even more than usual. It was a relief not to get lost in a turbulent sea of constant bombardment, with so many ideas, products, personalities and opinions rapidly firing at me like an automatic tennis ball machine set on high.

Things I realized:

I will not be able to change anyone else’s mind about politics and religion, and they certainly will not change mine!

I can still care about people in my life with different political and religious views, but it makes it harder to relate, as the stakes are pretty high, currently.

The personal is political, and sometimes it’s okay to step back and rest so I will have more energy at a later time. Even though I cannot change anyone else’s mind, the things that matter to me are worth fighting for, and social media can be utilized as a tool for change in the “real world”, even if it’s a small change…every little bit helps.

Media literacy should be taught to children early; before they get their first cell phone or venture online.

Some people notice when you’re not around, and some don’t (as in “real life”). Just as life is for the living, the algorithms are for the social media…the wheels keep spinning whether you’re on or off the ride.

“Real life” is more nuanced than screen life; you can explore it with all your senses, including your sixth sense.

I want to be creative because it feels good; art for art’s sake!

AI poetry stinks like a hollowed-out rotting pumpkin shell left on the curb for overdue trash pick-up…you can smell it a mile away.

I don’t want to sell anything, and I don’t want to buy anything; especially supplements from grifters.

I don’t want to sell myself, or buy anyone else, especially online grifters.

I don’t want to be “friends” with fake profiles (which also smell like hollowed-out rotting pumpkin shells).

Just as there is no place like home, I prefer being inside my own head more than being inside other people’s heads.

Dancing to music I love is a great way to get out of my own head; so is Yoga, meditation, playing the piano, writing poetry, and being creative on a daily basis.

Someone is always dying, and someone is always being born…it’s hard to keep up.

I don’t remember everyone’s birthday, and that’s okay.

Not everyone remembers my birthday, and that’s okay.

A little mystery is a good thing, generally speaking.

I fell in love with reading books again.

I went on a road-trip through California, Oregon, and Washington, spent time with family and friends, went to dinner parties and brunches, and didn’t photograph everything I did.

I ate delicious meals without photographing them.

Even though there is little documentation to prove otherwise, I still exist.

Some people may question whether I still actually exist.

Some relationships have a season…not every one needs to be maintained over a lifetime.

It’s okay to love some people from a distance; sometimes that’s the healthiest choice.

Synchronicity is real.

When I cut out all the noise, I can hear myself better: what I like, what I want, who I want to spend time with, what feels good, what doesn’t feel good.

Saying “no” is exhilarating; it feels like ditching high-school and spending the day at the beach.

I love visual imagery, and miss having some laughs and connecting with some people I don’t see in “real life” that often.

Being away from social media has felt like romping in a Spring meadow filled with butterflies, bunnies, and blooms…I feel myself dragging my feet as I come back.

Everyone is living in their own reality, seeing things from their own perspective.

We are simultaneously a collective school of fish in a vast internet ocean.

I’m grateful that my formative years were not lived online, because online didn’t exist.

Selfies bug me…they always have.

TikTok gives me a headache…like brain-freeze from eating Otter Pops too quickly.

I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.

Arguing with Ted Nugent fans is pointless; I have proven this to myself repeatedly.

Some people understand me better than others, online and in “real life”.

I understand some people better than others, online and in “real life”.

It’s okay to do social media really badly, scrappily, or not at all, although it’s a great place to find Twin Peaks memes, and this is very important to me.

I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself.

You’re not fooling anyone either, though possibly fooling yourself.

None of this actually matters when all is said and done, so just keep scrolling. Or don’t.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Puppets at the Magic Castle"

     Miss Linda experienced some surprising results from her dive into Chakra Balancing; the chakra that she originally assumed was permanently stuck didn’t appear to be blocked so badly after all, and the chakra she least suspected of being blocked was crying out for a little extra attention.

     The chakra meditation series she utilized led her to start dancing (and even Miss Linda would tell you that she is not the most graceful of dancers, even though she studied ballet as a small child). Once she started dancing, she couldn’t stop. She called it “freestyle” dancing; some may call it “Ecstatic Dancing”…all she knew was that she lost herself in the music and the flow and really let her Freak Flag fly. As a doll, some of her movements were limited, but she did the best with what she had. She sometimes danced her way into a reverie, an altered state where everything was composed of music, and she was part of everything, and everything was part of her. She found it interesting that she could reach this state by the physical movement of dancing awkwardly to Depeche Mode and Tears for Fears in her bedroom. But there was something to it, and she now incorporated it into her daily routine.

     Now that she had somewhat decent shoes (whereas before she had absolutely none), she thought it might be time to venture out into the world and mix things up a little bit, as she had definitely had her fill of digging DIRT on her hillside. She happened across the Los Angeles Guild of Puppetry’s event: Puppets, Donuts & Coffee at the Magic Castle. Miss Linda was sipping her afternoon coffee when she saw this event listing and nearly choked on her beverage; this event was created in a higher realm, and was calling her by name.

     She scheduled an Access van pick-up, slid into her new Uggs and set off towards Hollywood the next Sunday morning, arriving breathlessly at the Magic Castle after engaging in a conversation about Drag Queen brunches, puppets, and which flavor donut was the very best of them all with a fellow Access passenger; they both concluded in unison that chocolate-chocolate-with-chocolate was the very best flavor of any and all donuts.

     Miss Linda hopped out of the Access van, bid adieu to her new friend, and trudged up the hill toward the Magic Castle. She had been there a couple of times before as a human, but never as a doll. She hoped her attire (she only had one outfit that fit her) was acceptable for the dress code. She was suddenly greeted warmly be a seemingly gay man who sized her up and asked, “Are you here for Puppets & Donuts?” She smiled enthusiastically while nodding her head, and he ushered her in to what he called “The Inner Sanctum”.

     She walked in slowly, taking things in…there were so many bookshelves filled with books, and lots of dark wood and red velvet and a bar that resembled the one in The Shining. There was also a small stage at the front of the room, but mostly people were milling about the individual cocktail tables with their donuts and coffee and talking animatedly; Miss Linda never knew puppeteers could be so loud, but they were a deafening bunch, albeit friendly.

     There were hardly any puppets there (she had been hoping for puppets galore). She was hoping she might blend in more easily if there were lots of puppets surrounding her. There were puppeteers and puppet dancers and stage-tech people and benefactors, but only one puppet, and he was in obvious developmental stages at the moment (he didn’t have any eyes). As her own eyesight was bad, she felt for him. She silently laughed to herself when she realized he was made of felt, so she was feeling for felt, although she herself was currently made of rubber so maybe things came full circle regarding empathy.

     One puppeteer showed her a photo of his puppet, and Miss Linda made the mistake of complimenting his “simplicity”. The puppeteer choked back a piece of his donut, and said he needed more coffee and quickly walked away. She later overheard one of the more advanced puppeteers compliment the same puppet photo, saying: “I really like him for his…simplicity.”  The creator responded, “Oh, thank you! I quite agree!” Miss Linda rolled her eyes, and started to feel her Marijuana tincture kick in.

     The meeting began to wind down, and Miss Linda inquired if she might be allowed to explore other parts of the Magic Castle. One of the women said, “Yes…if you go through that black curtain by the stage, you will be officially inside the Castle.” She gave Miss Linda a glance up and down: “I think what you’re wearing will be okay.” Miss Linda was not sure how to interpret that last statement, but she was happy to go through a secret black curtain on her own and leave these congenial (for the most part) puppeteers to their enthusiastic loudness.

     Hopped-up on sugar from a chocolate donut with chocolate icing and multi-colored sprinkles and a coffee, Miss Linda lightly skipped down the hallway of the Magic Castle almost ending up in a broom closet, but was soon accosted by a large female security guard, who looked her up and down in more ways than one. Miss Linda stammered, “I’m with the Puppets & Donuts crowd…they said it would be okay to explore the Castle.”

     “Yeah, those puppet people were wrong, Miss; you’re going to have to exit the Castle and stand in line and pay the entrance fee like everyone else.”

     Miss Linda sighed, and said she would go back the way she came, and do what was required of her (she knew security guards yearned for respect above all else, having encountered one or two of them in her day). But the security guard suddenly said (playing into Miss Linda’s hand), “You know…you’re already halfway there, so you can just go to the front entrance from inside here and pay that way instead.”

     “That’s so sweet of you, officer!” Miss Linda replied, batting her eyelashes at the woman. “I will go straight to the front entrance and pay right now!”

     “Alright there, little Missie!” the guard said. “You have a good time at the Magic Castle!”

     “Oh, I will!” Miss Linda said, thinking to herself: Pay?!

     She scrambled quickly away and conveniently got lost in the brunch crowd, ending up sitting with a family that included six children, so she inconspicuously blended in while she ate Eggs Benedict, pan-roasted potatoes, and a side of vegetarian sausage, then slipped down to the haunted piano bar afterward. One little girl kept staring at her as she ate her breakfast and made her feel more than a little uncomfortable, so she was relieved for the excuse to have an early afternoon cocktail.

     Getting situated on the bar stool wasn’t easy, but the puppeteer with the simply-styled puppet noticed her struggling and unexpectedly offered to help her up onto the red vinyl swivel stool. He apparently had followed the rules, and gone to the front of the Castle to pay in order to get back inside.

     Miss Linda complimented herself in her own mind for her ingenious frugality, then ordered a $20.00 cocktail, entitled a Mystical Margarita (which, unfortunately was mostly crushed ice, but still delicious).

     The simple puppeteer left to go wandering aimlessly about, and Miss Linda decided to stay and listen to the haunted piano play itself while screwing with people’s heads (its specialty…it possessed a wry sense of humor).

     Miss Linda swung her legs from the bar stool and sipped her drink wistfully. The piano played Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer”, and she was pretty sure that it was directed towards her. Several children poured into the room and started requesting really dumb children’s songs, and Miss Linda suggested they might want to tip the piano jar if they wanted the piano to play for them (she personally had no cash on her for tipping). The piano slammed on its keys, like it was angry, and then started playing one of the children’s requests. Miss Linda thought: even the piano is temperamental here!

     She took a quick selfie in the parking lot while she waited for the Access van to take her back home to Rancho Tarzanadu…her refuge. She may have shoes now, but the outside world, even the Magic Castle, was nice to visit, but she wouldn’t want to live there. She looked forward to turning her disco ball light on, and dancing with wild abandon in her own bedroom, where she was free to be whatever it was she was.

     At least for the time being, as the Republican party was trying to strip people of their rights and bodily freedom, especially in their own bedrooms, but that is just an FYI, on a long list of FYI’s going on in the background and spinning as the world turns and Miss Linda dances. She wondered if she could spiral-dance herself back into a person, in spite of all the global tragedy, and if that was what she actually wanted. She wondered if being a doll was just a convenient excuse to escape the outside world…a world of puppets and puppeteers, in a constant battle-dance amongst themselves.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda's Got a New Pair of Shoes"

     Miss Linda was feeling much better since she immersed herself in DIRT (Dramatic Intense Relief Today, hashtag: Soil Yourself), but was honestly finding the hard physical labor aspect of the business exhausting. It might have been easier to dig up her hillside if she wasn’t still a doll (she was), but she didn’t think so.

     It wasn’t so bad at first…her mind wandered, and she got lost in meditation as she shoveled spoonful after spoonful of dirt into a small bucket she could reasonably lug up the hill, but it took several trips up that hill to fill even one cardboard box of dirt, and after a few months of that the novelty of it had most certainly worn off. Plus, she’d been doing this barefoot during the Spring and Summer months, but it was October now and she needed some actual shoes.

     She discovered that trying to find the right doll shoe was nearly impossible, especially since she had turned into a doll from the 1960s for some reason (this was just a guess…she’d never seen a doll like herself before). She had a medium arch for moderate heels, but she was much larger than a Barbie doll, and did not have flat feet like these “American Dolls” (whatever they were). She finally found a three-pair package of small Ugg boots at Amazon, and snapped them up not only for their obvious practicality, but because they were literally the only shoes/boots that might remotely fit her. They would have to do.

     Obviously, she would much prefer Mary-Janes, but that seemed like too much to ask without quite a bit of prolonged research, so she settled on the Uggs and called it a day.

     Originally she was thinking of hill-climbing when she made the purchase, but Madame Stratus had unexpectedly left town, reuniting with an old college “friend” reincarnated into a romantic partner in Colorado, so Miss Linda was left shoveling (spooning) dirt by herself, while Madame Stratus was still collecting half the profits since it was her idea in the first place. Miss Linda was starting to feel like she got the rough end of the spoon. Additionally, the New-Age Hipsters who had been the most ardent consumers of DIRT had started to question the origins of it, and when Miss Linda tried to explain that it was coming from a hillside emanating a magical Vortex, of course they wanted proof of this.

     If she had been able to provide proof of the Vortex she would, but she’d been trying to find the entrance to it for years now, to no avail…all she had was her word, which was growing less and less acceptable to the New-Age Hipsters, which she found ironic, since they literally believed the Earth was flat, the moon-landing was a fake, and that Overlord L’Orange’s election was stolen out from underneath him by a Deep-State Pedophilic Cabal. They believed all that crap, but were skeptical about a magical Vortex on her hillside? They confounded her.

     Anyway, sales had been slowing down, and with the colder (for Los Angeles) months approaching, she thought she might just coast for a little while on her disability money and utilize the modest profits of DIRT until they ran out. She was also down one renter now, as Madame Stratus was posting romantic photos with her new lover on Facebook and Instagram, and it appeared as though she was there to stay.

     She decided to focus her energy on her two online Witch programs, and on healing her Chakras through a series of meditations that required a daily practice of a three-week commitment, removing any blockages she stumbled across. Miss Linda was as skeptical about Chakra Balancing as those New-Age Hipsters were about her DIRT origins, but she figured, what the Hell? Might as well give it a try…what could un-blocking herself hurt in the grand scheme of things?

     Miss Linda timed her morning marijuana edible to sync perfectly with a late-afternoon meditation session, and got a new notebook for the purpose of recording her results.

     As she dove into her meditations, she realized almost immediately that DIRT was composed of very first-Chakra stuff, and deciding to leave it in the dust almost instantly raised her vibrational level.

     The day she realized this, her Ugg boots arrived by carrier.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "DIRT"

     Miss Linda lost one of her long-time cat familiars, Tigre, to cancer, and was attempting to snap out of her bleak mood. She would prefer to wear black berets, turtlenecks, and enormous black sunglasses indefinitely, but also realized this was not the best plan for long-term health or peace of mind.

     She begrudgingly researched local Meet-up groups to widen her social circle, but could not find any of the following: Magicians and Magicians’ Assistants Mixers, Puppetry for Adults (non-pornographic), Witches High Tea (literal and figurative), Magical Realism Book Club (co-ed), Roller-Skating for Adults (non-pornographic), Existential Philosophy Wine-and-Cheese gatherings or Intermediate Levitation groups. Starting her own Meet-Up group sounded exhausting (not to mention the start-up fee), so she decided to remain in black mourning attire for a while longer, languishing on her balcony at night while smoking the occasional cigarette.

     Everything at Rancho Tarzanadu decided to break down at the same time she lost her beloved Tigre (during the first two weeks of January amidst a Mercury retrograde): the refrigerator, the house thermostat, the pool pump, the oven…all amidst a strange and intense Los Angeles monsoon, which climate experts predicted would only intensify over time; hence the need for black attire, the occasional cigarette, and Leonard Cohen records set to repeat on Spotify.

     Miss Linda wandered aimlessly around the house, taking notes on what needed fixing next; there were rumors of tree-rat invasion (again!) from the film editor, who heard scratching inside the walls…Miss Linda sighed loudly, and jotted it down. The Mime mimed that the cos-playing Klingon neighbors’ palm trees were scraping the roof at night in the agitated winds, causing him to lose sleep, and possibly damaging the roof tiles…Miss Linda rolled her eyes and wrote it down. The German Dog Trainer complained that the drains weren’t draining properly in the backyard, leading to possible flooding and potential chicken-evacuation from their coop, and everyone was moaning about the new refrigerator not arriving until the end of the month, due to supply-chain issues stemming from the Pandemic.

     Fortunately Miss Linda was living on disability (originally due to legal blindness, then turning into a doll), but she definitely needed some more money under-the-table to fix this endless string of home repairs. As she didn’t want to lose any of her annoying tenants at this time due to raising their rent – every penny was already spent on previous repairs such as house-painting, tree-trimming, and taxes –  she actually thought of trying to find some kind of job, but thankfully Madame Stratus, the Cloud-Reader, talked her out of it: “Oh, honey…there’s got to be another way!” The two of them put their heads together over an oversized bottle of inexpensive Pinot Noir.

     “Look, honey…you’re a doll right now – keep your Disability money! There’s no telling how long you’re going to remain a doll, so don’t do anything crazy like getting a job, which could jeopardize your reliable stream of government cheese!” Madame Stratus advised, and Miss Linda nodded emphatically in agreement, after taking a large gulp of her wine. After all, who in their right mind would hire a doll with a hereditary eye disease?

     “What you need is a side-hustle, a cash-based business that’s easy to run from home, and I have the perfect idea, that we could work on together; it’s called “DIRT”: Dramatic Intense Relief Today, obtained by a grounding technique of placing bare feet on…dirt. It’s supposed to suck all the impurities out of your body like a magnet, and we have plenty of dirt to package up around here. All we’d need is a simple cardboard box, big enough to fit someone’s feet in, and we can fill it with dirt off the hillside for free. I’m willing to split things with you 50-50; it’s my idea, but it’s your dirt.”

     Miss Linda contemplated this while sipping her wine…the hillside was where Little Johnny and the FBI agents had disappeared a few years ago, but she had seen hide nor hair of the Vortex since it had sucked them in, so hopefully digging around on the hillside would be relatively safe; she thought that Madame Stratus, as a Cloud-Reader, would be aware of any doom-filled implications ahead of time.

     Additionally, the Republicans were making a huge fuss lately about cutting Social Security benefits so they could increase the National Defense budget, so it would be prudent for Miss Linda to have a cash-based home business to fall back on, just in case her Disability benefits got pulled out from underneath her due to QAnon infiltrating the government or nuclear war.

     “Selling…dirt?” Miss Linda mused.

     “No, honey…selling ‘DIRT: Dramatic Intense Relief Today!’”

     Dramatic Intense Relief Today sounded fantastic to Miss Linda; “Let’s do it! Let’s be dirt-sellers!”

     Madame Stratus raised her wine glass, “To selling dirt!”

Tigre...goodbye.

     My sweet, sweet boy…Big Boy, Tiger-Stripes, Akaar (your first name which did not suit you), Nestle-Toll-House-Chocolate-Chip-Cookie-Dough-Paws, Big Mitts, Scaredy-Cat, Three-Breakfast-Eater, Food-Stealer, Cat-Fight-Instigator, Female-Cats’-“Ladies-Man”, Big Bellios, Tom, My Darling, My Angel...goodbye.

     I adopted you as a teeny-tiny kitten almost thirteen years ago; you were found in an alley, and neutered “too soon” said the Veterinarian who took you in. You were screaming bloody murder in your cage, isolated from the other cats because of your vocal stamina. You were the last kitten they introduced me to; I took one look at you and said “That’s the one for me!” You were highly sensitive, and misunderstood…you had a rough start, Alley-Cat, Trash-Cat, my Beloved, Handsome Boy.

     You were always vocal…I could have entire conversations with you, and you would respond, give me your thoughts on a matter, or demand your food; you grew into a sixteen-pound gorgeous boy with luminous tiger-stripes and golden eyes…Tiger Eyes. Tigre.

     You have been with me through romantic heartbreak, my diagnosis of legal blindness, my mother’s death, her husband’s death, my sister’s husband’s death, the Pandemic, the Drumpf Presidency and its aftermath, job losses and successes, collage stress (!), the drifting-away of some old friendships, and my artistic pursuits put on the back burner because of so much loss, so quickly all I could do was muster up the courage to cope. You played the piano for me, when I was too despondent to lift my hands to the keys, let alone sing out loud.

     I will look for you in many places, in expected and unexpected places…in the bathroom sink, in the bathtub, on the kitchen table (“Bad cat!” – my response, purely performative for my house-mates’ sake), on my piano and keyboard, in the window, on “your chair”, on my bed, in my arms.

     Thank you for loving me unconditionally, and for being here as long as you could, through thick and thin, for not judging me or pointing out my many flaws, because I am, after all, just a human being learning as I go.

     To dismiss your passing as “just a cat” would be a gigantic understatement; you were/are an Angel sent here to teach me that love is the only thing that matters in this world. It is a painful lesson to learn (and re-learn), but all I can do is thank you for it, for making me more aware of what really matters in life.

     You are greatly missed, my sweet Tigre, Tiger-Boy, and you will always be loved.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Godforsaken!"

    Typically, all four dogs at Rancho Tarzanadu would roam about the backyard freely, but on this rare front-of-the-house- expedition, one of Miss Linda’s housemates, Gracon (the film editor Miss Linda regularly calls Garcon) was walking one of the German Dog Trainer’s dogs in front of the house while she was at work, due to the house-painter (the mysteriously wise and kindly Mr. On) working in the backyard.

     One of Miss Linda’s neighbors, Mrs. Dwight (the Republican) came barreling toward Gracon, who held up one hand and shouted, “Don’t approach me!” as the extraordinarily handsome dog barked his freaking head off while the determined Mrs. Dwight continued to storm full speed ahead.

     “What is wrong with you?” Gracon shouted.

     “Can you puh-lease not have your dog pee in my yard?” Mrs. Dwight insisted. “It stains my grass!” This was literally the first time Mrs. Dwight had ever said one word to anyone at Rancho Tarzanadu since they had all moved in…several years ago! (The Dwights, by the way, watered their grass every single day in the middle of a Los Angeles drought; they felt the water-restrictions did not apply to them, as they applied to everyone else, because they were somehow elevated in status in their own minds.)

     “Okay, okay!” Gracon exclaimed, backing away from her and turning to high-tail it back to safe ground; he was not fond of ranting pear-shaped women with helmet-hairdos on a good day.

     “Oh, and another thing – that color is Godforsaken!” Mrs. Dwight retorted, referring to Miss Linda’s house.

     “Super!” Gracon yelled (he had never used that word before in his life, but Mrs. Dwight inspired it). “Take it up with Miss Linda!”

     Now we all know that Mrs. Dwight didn’t want to take anything up with Miss Linda, so she walked briskly away in a huff.

     Garcon told Miss Linda about the exchange soon afterward, and Miss Linda was furious at first, at the gall, at the nerve, at the pettiness, at the Busy-body-ness, at the rudeness of proclaiming the color of Rancho Tarzanadu Godforsaken! How dare she!

     Miss Linda had dreamed of painting her house this color combo for years, and at just the right time, Mr. On showed up out of the blue and offered her a price she couldn’t refuse. He set to work immediately, painting the body of the house “Mid-century Gem” (aquamarine green), the majority of the trim white, and the piece-de-resistance: the shutters “Sangria” (which, let’s face it – is magenta). People had strong reactions, one way or another, except for the German Dog Trainer, Astrid, who didn’t react at all, which made Miss Linda think that she may be hiding something.

     Most of the residents at Rancho Tarzanadu liked it, with compliments like, “It’s really bright! I can easily find my way home now!” and “It reminds me of Miami…gaudy like that!” and “It looks like a giant birthday cake!” and the Amazon delivery man said, “Cool house! It looks very 1970s!”. Miss Linda soon realized that Mrs. Dwight’s bland taste was all in her mouth, and set about plans for a drought-resistant blooming garden consisting of bright pink, red, and purple flowers bursting from all the window-boxes and the front yard. She carefully placed a sign that read “For Wonder” as a centerpiece, that one of her friends had brought back from Burning Man.

     Mrs. Dwight responded in kind, and placed not one, but two signs in her yard (she had her maid construct them); one read: “Dwight Lives Matter!” and the other, “Dwight Power!” (with a sketched upraised fist). The surrounding neighbors gradually became much more skeptical of the Dwights’ signs than Miss Linda’s wonder-inspiring one, and people also took note that the Dwight’s were always complaining…about everything!

     Miss Linda longed to plant high hedges between their houses, to block out their negative energy, but that would be expensive, and she had just shelled-out for painting the house. Manuel was the one who suggested (the only words he had spoken since returning from Guantanamo Bay: “Add more color.”

     Miss Linda contemplated this…more color?

     She decided to add a Malibu light collection, in varying shades of purple, red, and green, and also added some Christmas lights that would never come down; Garcon did the stringing and setting up.

     Soon afterward, Miss Linda awoke one rainy Sunday morning to the Dwight’s gardeners feverishly planting fairly large hedge-trees in a tight row that would soon block all view and any unwanted eye contact or communication from either party. Miss Linda sighed with relief, and gave the hard-working gardeners a thumbs-up from her alcove window.

     Manuel silently calculated with pencil and paper the cost of the tree-shrubs, and Miss Linda’s relative savings in choosing such vibrant paint colors: thousands of dollars!

     Mr. On walked by them as they sipped coffee in the garden and said, “You know…at first I wasn’t sure about these colors, but you have a good eye for color, Miss Linda! It blends in with all the nature.” He swooped his hand around the beautiful, freshly-painted paradise of Rancho Tarzanadu, and said with wonder, “It is a beautiful place, here…so secluded and peaceful.”

     Miss Linda thanked him, and also agreed that it blended well with “all the nature”, especially with the magenta Bougainvillea…and what was “Godforsaken” about that? And now, with the energy shield of the free hedge-trees, it would be even more beautiful, peaceful and private, with the Dwights’ negativity enveloped by the force of Nature.

"Godforsaken" (or "The Busybody's Lament"); Red Felt Heart Song Lyrics

Don’t approach me, Karen;

your energy is wearing!

Your beige and grays are barren;

what is wrong with you, Karen?

 

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

All my greens and sparkly blues — like a Harem!

All my pink-magenta hues — blaring!

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

 

Your house is brown and beige and gray, resembling doggie poo;

and it contains an even beige-er person — you!

Your taste is bland and limp and dry, like that of a rotting root;

and if you charge at me again, you’ll get my boot!

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

they’re heading at you, now...

you better watch the f*ck out!

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

my glaring colors shining bright,

throughout the pitch-black dead of night.

 

Don’t approach me, Karen;

your energy is wearing!

Your beige and grays are barren;

what is wrong with you, Karen?

 

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

All my greens and sparkly blues — like a Harem!

All my pink-magenta hues — blaring!

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

 

Your house is brown and beige and gray, resembling doggie poo;

and it contains an even beige-er person — you!

Your taste is bland and limp and dry, like that of a rotting root;

and if you charge at me again, you’ll get my boot!

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

sidewinding toward you, now —

fluorescent-green snakes with pink eyes.

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

so scurry back to your gray house,

you little busybody mouse!