Friday, April 29, 2005

rush, blood, head


my little buttercup
Originally uploaded by Sarah Lebo.
here is my house
my bed is my furniture.
my floor is my shelf! there are bags everywhere of unimportant things like party lights and votive candles (we had a party last week)
the picture does not accurately complement the real courtyard mileu. And you cant see the spiders or hornets from here.

I now live in an area that could be mapped out by Beck's "Que Onda". I am between the Vista Theater and Rudy's Barbershop; or, between El Gran Burrito and Tang's Donuts ("I saw a puppet at Tang's with a mullet and a popsicle"); or between Cap N' Cork ("Let's go to Cap N' Cork, I hear they have the new Yanni cassette") and Griffith Park ("Vamos al Griffith Park").
Viva Michael Bolton!

I have a mystery itchy patchy rash on periphery of my face. I feel like Eric Stoltz in M.A.S.K.

This week I was able to tolerate hard contacts for an evening out at the Smog Cutter (1/2 mile from my house) for Alex's birthday. It felt so wierd to have my face exposed to the elements sans glasses.

The topic of hierarchy within the hospital is taking up too much mind-time in my practice of late... I found myself at the bedside the other day admitting a patient, and the medical resident came over from the neighboring unit to do his assessment. I mentioned a strange rash I had noticed on the kid's chest, and this resident - though emanating the rich stink of being in a rush with his quick mannerisms and speedy speech - actually took the time to brush off my observation....he said "All it takes is one sharp fingernail to make all those scratches", and see, he said this after I had already passed along that this child has absent fingernails - no nailbeds. Of course, two minutes later, he has a revelation: This child doesnt have any nails, how interesting!.
The point here is not that I felt my assessment was being ignored because with some physicians that is just true. Nor was I just peeved by his brief patronization during what I had interpreted as an interdisciplinary bedside moment.
No, the point is, at work I keep noticing that I get wrapped up in *their* rush, and it physically makes me want to scream. Both at myself for speeding along beside them, and therefore enrobing myself in the manner of one subserviant, but also at them for their obvious disrespect.
You could say - and they would say - they are very busy, they have many patients to see. This is true, but my colleagues and I also have patients to see, medications to give, parents to talk to, teaching to do, discharges and admissions coming and going, dressings to change, other phone calls to make to other physicians, documentation to make, the bathroom to go to...and yet we RNs make an effort to accomodate that particular kind of stress related to time management on their end.

So now I will resist even more, and I say this to us all: I will not engage in passive aggression, but when I feel the rush coming up inside of me, I will halt and remind myself that it is not I who must meet them but us who must meet each other. If they don't slow down to listen, I will call them on it outside the patient's room.

I have to sleep in my furniture now. Tomorrow Coachella.

In some movies, Adam Sandler makes me cry.
Like Spanglish, which is not that good, but still.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

grown

smoggiest day since I moved here yet
earthquake this a.m. that no one but me noticed
have a new bed. big and for adults. i am an adult now.
moved into apartment shaped like a house
had a love affair with Target and bought magnolia-scented dish soap,
wooden hangers (further proof of being an adult)
made a list with Libby of details for our Great Spring Festival
of this coming week

will seal the deal tomorrow by buying my first proper non
cross-strapped bag. some call it a purse.
dont call it a comeback

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Yes, I go to church.


ellipse
Originally uploaded by Sarah Lebo.
Who told you I didn't? People are forever saying the damnedest things about me.
I don't go regularly; I go every 2-4 years. The city varies but the spiritual root always emanates from the same place.
Because you know, I think it is true that there are some who are holy who walk amongst us.
These individuals are human beings, yes, but are they are able to spread a rare kind of power in alternating forms of joy, integrity and passion.

So the choir numbers roughly in the 10-18,000s. It's that kind of choir.
Last night, my pew partners were the original two, which was the sweetest thing of all (Karen "Malkmus" Ma and Bonnie "Mullen Jr" Harrison).
Our two hour worship was fierce and loving, bedecked in bright lights and red wine.
Our beloved Stocky Irishman in Black, eloquent as per usual, used his lingual talents to devote the energy in the room to the sick of the world. A tear here.
At another juncture, he tried to bottle the energy in the room so that he could peddle it to the world's rich in such a way as to help the world's poor.
He said he had gifted the Pope with a pair of fly shades one summer. The Pope put them on and cocked his head sideways. Seemingly, the weight of the sunglasses pulled his head earthwards.
There was:
Electric Co.. And the Ocean! - The Ocean! I've never heard it live before: "picture in grey, Dorian Grey, just me, by the sea" - I think it's one of the simplest and therefore most efficient songs to lock down the anomie of adolescence. Sunday Bloody Sunday in the old school style: No more! (sing) No More! Wipe your tears away...
There was a grade A ho who jumped onto the catwalk when the Man was dancing with a girl from the audience. Bono grabbed his chosen girl's hand and began to run with her away from Ho, looking back every few seconds to check on Ho's progress. Security tried to take her down but Bono said (and it fit perfectly into the song structure) "It's alright, it's alright" and Ho then got on all fours and turned herself rumpwards. You could actually hear the audience stop singing outloud when her breasts appeared on stage. Only in Los Angeles, we said. And he said.
They closed with "40" and each man put his tool aside one by one (voice, bass, guitar) until only Larry (anointed with partial mullet, unaged, unchanged, pomade liberally applied, still loves Elvis) remained.
Then he was gone too and we went out into the night.
It sticks to you, nights like those. So good.
When I am a rich registered nurse, I am going to take one and all for an evening of singing out loud and love.