hello. i'm jenny page. long ago, i had a kick#ss band in bakersfield cali, the dusk devils. you still can find dd music online. i'm from a wonderful family & now live in the mountains of cali with my dear spouse, whiteboy james, aka james or other names i won't list here. we're as happy as two nuts can be. life's an adventure, a chore, a beauty, a choice, a turn -- short, but as good as you make it (in this culture, anyways), so let's not forget that!
Monday, January 06, 2014
arghh!! yayy!!
yesterday we missed being part of this year's elvis show, but finally got to visit max at the hospital. thank you, art fein, for inviting us to be part... maybe next year, we hope! how encouraging it was to see max spring from bed, severely gaunt, "a skeleton trying to jump out of a man," as he said, but eyes bright & spirits high. he knows about the gerson cure (www.gerson.org) & has friends already who are having him juice, & if soul can restore health, max will be restored... then we ate at our favorite long beach restaurant & as we strolled back to the car in the night, i snapped this pic for max from a beautiful window display; he'd said next time we visited to bring him a flower, so why wait? we looked at baubles in the window, i oohed & ached (i'm not very girly, but i DO love glittery things; donna used to crow, "kaw! kaw!"), we came back here & i recorded 2.5 songs i've written, until it was too late in the eve to be able to continue... later in the eve, we watched "the office" & i became obsessed, as i do periodically, w/RL stevenson's "open letter to rev. dr. hyde" (http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/281) & read it out loud at such length, poor james was driven outside for a while, i think, then this morn brought james to long conversation w/his long-time sober lawyer uncle, the one who was friends w/elvis (he actually has several family members who were friends with the king) & has called me "his cousin bettie page" (yes, she's a family cousin) & i made breakfast burritos & there i go, blablablaing again... a quote from stevenson's novella: “quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm. ”
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