Monika Basile's Blog: Confessions of a Bleeding Heart - Posts Tagged "elvis"
A Little Less Conversation, A Little more Action...Please
There are a million articles about having “the talk” and most of them leave me with my voice stuck in my throat instead. I am wondering if maybe, there shouldn’t be a talk. Maybe we shouldn’t need to say, “Hey, do you actually want a relationship or are we fooling ourselves?” or “Where do you see this going?”
Part of me thinks if I am driving down a lone stretch of road, and there is nothing but gravel and leafless trees lining it with a bunch of unkempt creepy houses lined up in a row, and buzzards resting on tombstones, do I really need road signs to tell me where I am or if this is the place I should be? Will a flickering neon sign reading GHOST TOWN population 0 really tell me anything more than my very own eyes?
I think that is how it is with relationships too. If I am in a state of constant wondering where it is going, maybe “the talk” has already been spoken in the deepest silence. They say men are actions and women are words. Maybe women say so many words to come up with reasons for a man’s actions or inaction to simply make us feel better about what is standing clearly before us.
None of us wants to be fooled yet we fool ourselves into thinking that if we just “talk” it will turn out okay. We’ll get it all settled and then make some sort of plan to get to the next part of it. I think sometimes we women could avoid a lot of heartache if we truly looked at the relationship, non relationship, somewhat relationship—with our eyes wide open. I would hope we could actually see what the truth is if we shut up in our minds long enough to watch and observe. The mind chatter is a great distraction to what is truly happening.
I am guilty of this—this lying to myself simply because I want what I want. I think most women are. We are queens of making excuses and finding alternative scenarios rather than facing the truth. It’s because the truth can be painful and ugly and sometimes we think we won’t survive the truth. If we face it—we may have to give up the dreams we’ve been dreaming and let something go we may be holding onto very tightly. We have to give up the vision of the relationship we imagined and have the reality instead. Sometimes, we are lucky and it is better than anything we could have ever conceived. And sometimes it’s not.
If I have to ask a man if he loves me, then he doesn’t. He has made it loud and clear in one way or another. If I have to ask, “Do you want me in your future? Do you see me there?”—then I am not anywhere there and it has already been revealed. I just was not ready to look closely enough to see it at the time.
We wonder why “the talk” is such a hard thing to have. The reason is that it is difficult to ask questions to what when we already know the answers and especially when we don’t like the answer at all.
Of course there are exceptions—that’s a given. Some people don’t know what they want or where they are going or who they want to join them on their journey. I believe the majority must know exactly who they love and if they cannot necessarily picture their future, they know when they can’t picture it empty of the person they love.
Words are powerful but only when actions are behind them. We can all talk the talk until we are blue in the face—it doesn’t change what is not taking place. If nothing is really happening—then the reality is just that—it’s nothing.
Monika M. Basile
Part of me thinks if I am driving down a lone stretch of road, and there is nothing but gravel and leafless trees lining it with a bunch of unkempt creepy houses lined up in a row, and buzzards resting on tombstones, do I really need road signs to tell me where I am or if this is the place I should be? Will a flickering neon sign reading GHOST TOWN population 0 really tell me anything more than my very own eyes?
I think that is how it is with relationships too. If I am in a state of constant wondering where it is going, maybe “the talk” has already been spoken in the deepest silence. They say men are actions and women are words. Maybe women say so many words to come up with reasons for a man’s actions or inaction to simply make us feel better about what is standing clearly before us.
None of us wants to be fooled yet we fool ourselves into thinking that if we just “talk” it will turn out okay. We’ll get it all settled and then make some sort of plan to get to the next part of it. I think sometimes we women could avoid a lot of heartache if we truly looked at the relationship, non relationship, somewhat relationship—with our eyes wide open. I would hope we could actually see what the truth is if we shut up in our minds long enough to watch and observe. The mind chatter is a great distraction to what is truly happening.
I am guilty of this—this lying to myself simply because I want what I want. I think most women are. We are queens of making excuses and finding alternative scenarios rather than facing the truth. It’s because the truth can be painful and ugly and sometimes we think we won’t survive the truth. If we face it—we may have to give up the dreams we’ve been dreaming and let something go we may be holding onto very tightly. We have to give up the vision of the relationship we imagined and have the reality instead. Sometimes, we are lucky and it is better than anything we could have ever conceived. And sometimes it’s not.
If I have to ask a man if he loves me, then he doesn’t. He has made it loud and clear in one way or another. If I have to ask, “Do you want me in your future? Do you see me there?”—then I am not anywhere there and it has already been revealed. I just was not ready to look closely enough to see it at the time.
We wonder why “the talk” is such a hard thing to have. The reason is that it is difficult to ask questions to what when we already know the answers and especially when we don’t like the answer at all.
Of course there are exceptions—that’s a given. Some people don’t know what they want or where they are going or who they want to join them on their journey. I believe the majority must know exactly who they love and if they cannot necessarily picture their future, they know when they can’t picture it empty of the person they love.
Words are powerful but only when actions are behind them. We can all talk the talk until we are blue in the face—it doesn’t change what is not taking place. If nothing is really happening—then the reality is just that—it’s nothing.
Monika M. Basile
The Elvis XFiles...
When memory fails there is always Elvis. Really.
I work at a retirement village and I carry an Elvis purse. In the assisted living area, which consists of many dear folks afflicted by Alzheimer’s, dementia and other awful brain disorders, I have noticed a constant. It’s Elvis. For all the treasures of memories that may have been forgotten, these sweet elderly ones—they remember Elvis.
A lovely lady one day came up to me and hugged me. She kept pointing to my extra Elvis bag—the one I carry my paperwork in—the one where Elvis is dancing to jailhouse rock in black and white and his name is outlined in red. She pointed and smiled widely and kept touching the bag. “Elvis!” I said and she nodded vigorously and clapped her hands.
She kept creeping up and touching it and then shaking her head. “I know! I know. I don’t have the right words.” She frowned and wrung her hands.
I patted her hand and told her I knew just what she was trying to tell me, that Elvis made her happy a long time ago, that she loved his music, that he was handsome( I figured that one out when she blew my bag kisses.) She clapped again and smiled and hugged me and then went on about her business.
My purse catches the eye of many. Through the nursing pavilion I walk and random strangers comment. A woman in a wheelchair says, “Oh I know him!” and shakes her finger at me and rolls her eyes. Some hate him and some love him but it seems in most cases that Elvis is someone not easily forgotten.
Recently I made the mistake of putting my purse down in the lobby of the assisted living facility. I was waiting for my interviewees and kept having to run across the parking lot to the healthcare area since they kept showing up in the wrong place. When I returned, my purse was gone. I checked everywhere and could not find it. One of the directors contacted everyone whom might have possibly come in contact with it. “No one has come in. I swear it. I have been sitting here and look each time the bell goes off. I can’t imagine where it might have gone.”
I tentatively inquire if one of our residents might have taken it. Not accusing anyone of stealing, and I try to explain the reaction that Elvis has been getting. He shakes his head and says he doubts it. The nurses and CNA’s say the same.
I can’t seem to keep it all together anymore when I start thinking that my car keys are in my purse, my debit card, my single credit card, my ID and my work ID’s and everything that will be so difficult to replace. I go outside and cry for a little bit and start making calls to figure out a way to get home. I am utterly unprofessional with the ones I am to interview and thankfully my coworker had taken over.
When I finally composed myself and went back in the building. The director shouts, “We found it! You won’t believe where it was!” he proceeds to tell me how it was pressed up against a wall in the fake bushes so you could not see Elvis’s face—hidden away. Obviously the resident was someone who didn’t care for Elvis.
“I told you that somehow Elvis is a weird fascination to our folks. No matter what they may have forgotten, they remember him. And I think too they remember if they liked him or not.” I laughed, happy that I didn’t have to start replacing bits and pieces of my life.
It isn’t the only place I find Elvis to have some sort of healing property or soothing ability. I also work in a group home for seriously mentally ill adults. Here, we play Elvis and it does wonders to improve moods, especially mine.
I recently realized that whenever I am stressed out with the ridiculous amounts of unnecessary paperwork, my coworker slips the ”I Am An Elvis Fan” CD into the player and suddenly I get into a rhythm to get the work done. In the dining room there are feet tapping and folks are singing off key and a bit of magic permeates the air. The music lifts us all up.
I remember once when I was cooking in the kitchen I had Jailhouse rock playing. I heard laughing and stepped into the small mudroom where the CD player was only to find our elderly gentleman client dancing the jitterbug with one of the ladies and both were smiling and laughing and clapping their hands.
I have cut out pictures of Elvis all over the group home though I am sure that makes some higher up angry. But I don’t care. My clients find it amusing. I even hung my spare velvet Elvis painting in the hallway when one of the clients kept removing and hiding the picture that seemed to bother him. The Elvis painting never gets hidden.
There is something about Elvis that brings people back and maybe sometimes it simply brings them back into the living. That mystery may never be solved.
Monika M. Basile
I work at a retirement village and I carry an Elvis purse. In the assisted living area, which consists of many dear folks afflicted by Alzheimer’s, dementia and other awful brain disorders, I have noticed a constant. It’s Elvis. For all the treasures of memories that may have been forgotten, these sweet elderly ones—they remember Elvis.
A lovely lady one day came up to me and hugged me. She kept pointing to my extra Elvis bag—the one I carry my paperwork in—the one where Elvis is dancing to jailhouse rock in black and white and his name is outlined in red. She pointed and smiled widely and kept touching the bag. “Elvis!” I said and she nodded vigorously and clapped her hands.
She kept creeping up and touching it and then shaking her head. “I know! I know. I don’t have the right words.” She frowned and wrung her hands.
I patted her hand and told her I knew just what she was trying to tell me, that Elvis made her happy a long time ago, that she loved his music, that he was handsome( I figured that one out when she blew my bag kisses.) She clapped again and smiled and hugged me and then went on about her business.
My purse catches the eye of many. Through the nursing pavilion I walk and random strangers comment. A woman in a wheelchair says, “Oh I know him!” and shakes her finger at me and rolls her eyes. Some hate him and some love him but it seems in most cases that Elvis is someone not easily forgotten.
Recently I made the mistake of putting my purse down in the lobby of the assisted living facility. I was waiting for my interviewees and kept having to run across the parking lot to the healthcare area since they kept showing up in the wrong place. When I returned, my purse was gone. I checked everywhere and could not find it. One of the directors contacted everyone whom might have possibly come in contact with it. “No one has come in. I swear it. I have been sitting here and look each time the bell goes off. I can’t imagine where it might have gone.”
I tentatively inquire if one of our residents might have taken it. Not accusing anyone of stealing, and I try to explain the reaction that Elvis has been getting. He shakes his head and says he doubts it. The nurses and CNA’s say the same.
I can’t seem to keep it all together anymore when I start thinking that my car keys are in my purse, my debit card, my single credit card, my ID and my work ID’s and everything that will be so difficult to replace. I go outside and cry for a little bit and start making calls to figure out a way to get home. I am utterly unprofessional with the ones I am to interview and thankfully my coworker had taken over.
When I finally composed myself and went back in the building. The director shouts, “We found it! You won’t believe where it was!” he proceeds to tell me how it was pressed up against a wall in the fake bushes so you could not see Elvis’s face—hidden away. Obviously the resident was someone who didn’t care for Elvis.
“I told you that somehow Elvis is a weird fascination to our folks. No matter what they may have forgotten, they remember him. And I think too they remember if they liked him or not.” I laughed, happy that I didn’t have to start replacing bits and pieces of my life.
It isn’t the only place I find Elvis to have some sort of healing property or soothing ability. I also work in a group home for seriously mentally ill adults. Here, we play Elvis and it does wonders to improve moods, especially mine.
I recently realized that whenever I am stressed out with the ridiculous amounts of unnecessary paperwork, my coworker slips the ”I Am An Elvis Fan” CD into the player and suddenly I get into a rhythm to get the work done. In the dining room there are feet tapping and folks are singing off key and a bit of magic permeates the air. The music lifts us all up.
I remember once when I was cooking in the kitchen I had Jailhouse rock playing. I heard laughing and stepped into the small mudroom where the CD player was only to find our elderly gentleman client dancing the jitterbug with one of the ladies and both were smiling and laughing and clapping their hands.
I have cut out pictures of Elvis all over the group home though I am sure that makes some higher up angry. But I don’t care. My clients find it amusing. I even hung my spare velvet Elvis painting in the hallway when one of the clients kept removing and hiding the picture that seemed to bother him. The Elvis painting never gets hidden.
There is something about Elvis that brings people back and maybe sometimes it simply brings them back into the living. That mystery may never be solved.
Monika M. Basile
