But truth, cher ami, is a colossal bore.
- narrator, Camus' The Fall
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    dear reader/listener/viewer/enjoyer/co-conspirator:
    lest i be judged for it, i inform you now that this project continues to be a scratch pad, a space for experimentation

    in other words, enjoy what you find here, and feel free to participate, but try not to take anything personal, and don't believe that this project presents an accurate view of me or my life

    this is a window, certainly, but one that hasn't been cleaned in quite some time

    your view may be foggy, obscure...you may see things that aren't really there...

    --harold

    want some background music?
    please consider downloading my most recent music podcast.

    and yes, i love my mom and my dad;
    they've always been good to me, no matter what impression you may have received here

    they never locked me in a cellar or anything
     
    highlighted post from the archives: me rambling about a new job (from two years ago)
    i recently messed with the archives, so they may not work correctly, but you may take your chances:
    December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 November 2007 February 2008 March 2008 May 2008

    i once was an active member of the

    association of music podcasting

    musicpodcasting.org

    along with these fine music podcasters:

    all florida indies - bing futch
    audio gumshoe - rich palmer
    audio popcorn - krash coarse
    aural icebergs music cast - tiffany rapplean
    capital rock show - bucket aka jason
    darkhorse radio - alan carr
    ears to hear - jill lawton
    eclectic mix - george l smyth
    homegrown podcast - nic treadwell
    indiefeed - chris macdonald
    le jazz affair - sal calfa
    rubyfruit radio - heather smith
    sober cafe podcast - gracie hollombe
    sundown lounge - larry winfield
    tempo of the down - harold (that's me!)
    the darkcompass podcast - rowland cutler
    the fabrications podcast - matt macfarlane
    the phill(er) - phill ramey
    the radiozoom podcast - john bollwitt
    thepillarcast.com - jon tucker
    uc radio podshow - michael yusi
    zaldor's world - les zaldor

    ¡the text on this blog wants to leap out of its borders!

    this is...

    something that happened

    somethingthathappened.com
    		stories by harold j. johnson, in various formats - including text, audio, video, and podcasts
     
     
    Thursday, June 17, 2004  

    Another phonecall from the nursing home, the third call this week informing me that my mother is a maniac, tearing up and down the halls day and night, scratching and hitting and screaming, smacking eyeglasses off faces, sweeping paperwork off desks - disturbing everything and throwing the facility off balance, more Yang than Yin in the Tao of the place now because of this one reckless new tenant.

    With each incident the staff consults a psychiatrist and more medication is inevitably prescribed; then, as required, a voice on the phone informs me of the changes in mom's behavior and medication, emphasizing the necessity of the meds by describing the new scratches on mom's face, battle scars from her latest combat. Mom's so doped up now she's probably dizzy, the voice on the phone says, yet she stills waltzes the halls, her will never completely vanquished. It is difficult for me to imagine, mom in this state, because she's never been quite so violent around me - a little touchy at times but never outright terrorizing. Not that I don't believe the nursing home; I believe that mom's capable of terror when I'm not around, but it's still difficult to accept: my 54-year-old mom, demented and furious in a nursing home, Jack Torrance without a baseball bat but with boobs.

    The voice on the phone says mom is milling about the nurse's station a few feet from the phone, so I ask to speak with her. Hi mom, I say, I love you and she replies Oh! I love you too and I ask How are you getting along? (and I feel cruel and ridiculous for asking this) and mom begins to reply, but something violent happens on her end of the line, some disruption that steals her away from me. I hear a scuffle, followed by an Oh my God! and several other voices in conflict and shouting and trying to restore order, the sounds of objects or bodies crashing to the floor and a nursing staff momentarily in disarray. Eventually a voice returns to the phone, this time a different voice than before, quietly announcing that mom has struck, with the phone, the nurse-on-charge. Now they will place mom in (what sounds to be) a Jerry Bed, and I have no idea what that is.     6/17/2004 10:46:00 AM (0) comments





    Monday, June 14, 2004  

    Three homes in three months. Four hospitals in three months. My poor mother has been tossed about, a displaced leaf manipulated by the forces of a seemingly uncaring God or Nature, unnoticed and soon on the pavement, stomped upon and lamented for by family and friends. Too many new beds, too many unfamiliar faces, and now she's tired, too tired to notice the light that's still visible in her world. She still recognizes faces, but she speaks far less often these days, for when she speaks she is shocked by what she says, not understanding the words she utters though she understands their intended meaning, words that are clear in her mind but are obfuscated once spoken, meanings once light grown tenebruous through utterance. So she rages, she screams, she strikes and lashes out at the world, a world which has betrayed her with its illusion of permanence, however fleeting. 6/14/2004 02:18:00 PM (0) comments





    Wednesday, June 09, 2004  

    Mom tied down, Jesus-posed in the hospital bed, a new hospital, the third in two months. Two weeks she's harnessed while we search for a new home, this time a nursing home, the most frightening kind of place for a young man to admit his young mother - yet the Board & Care won't take her back, she's too aggressive, and another B & C will probably say the same after a few weeks of mom, so now it's the dreaded final resting place, that horror of horrors, the nursing home. Hoping against hope that it won't be the final stop, that there will be another, some miracle dwelling, an abode with a hearth and a garden and real dancing and music (not just feet-tapping snooze-muzak), a place mom can really call home again. In the meantime, we say, she'll have to check in to the horrible place (but we don't tell her that, of course), the only place in the county that will take her right now.

    Phonecalls from the social worker, under stress from trying to locate an available bed for a Medicaid recipient, and we have no other money, no savings, no house, no car, no assets and hospital records seeming to indicate an aggressive person (and of course mom's lashing out from all the confusion and turmoil from moving from place to place!), and now the social worker, growing steadily impatient and inappropriate in manner, indicating the hospital has no reason to be retaining mom, indicating that the hospital is not getting paid for its services, now telling us that we are to accept a facility near the outskirts of L.A. county (or perhaps not even in the county) or else...or else what? Take mom home, to our dormitory-style abode, which we tried for six months with disastrous results, so it's really no choice, it's the facility on the edge of the county, which may as well be out-of-state.     6/09/2004 11:07:00 PM (0) comments





     
     

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