Category Archives: social commentary

The Indictment.

March 7, 2016brain research, commentary, healing, human behavior, psychology, relationships, social behavior, social commentary, sociologyacademic pedigree, inappropriate dinner conversation, inferiority complex, inner child, mean bitches, psychological counseling, snotty behavior, superiority complex, The Bachelor, the responsibility of the licensed counselorruth ann scanzillo

In little over an hour from now, “The Bachelor/The Women Tell All” will air on ABC. This is the point, in the grande process toward “The Final Rose”, when all the jilted bachelorettes get to descend upon their alleged suitor with every grievance and moment of humiliation he’d brought to bear on their public life in a rush of female vilification that approaches the attack of a flock of buzzards. I, for one, on a night like this one cannot wait to be a mere spectator.

My online counselor and I had just completed our session. I’d asked him to let me read aloud to him from one of my blog posts, “Pedigree”, because I wanted him to know about something that had “happened to me.” To my mind, the incident about which I had written had happened to me, not because of me.

When I finished the read, I looked up at him. His face was contorted. He looked down, and shook his head. Then, he said that he felt like acid had been thrown at him. He called me snotty. He said I sounded, no; he actually looked right at me, and said it: “You’re a mean bitch!”

” It’s no wonder”, he added, “that you have so few friends!”

He also kept rubbing his forehead. It could very well be that he’d had a headache even before I signed on. If so, I am certain that it was made worse by my session, a fact that I would give him by way of compassionate concession. But, I realized that now I would be spending the evening processing that somebody who got paid to counsel individuals in the realm of human behavior had just called me a snotty, mean bitch.

Perception sometimes informs the agony of life.

I repeat: I’d asked him to let me read the blog post aloud to him, because I wanted him to know about what had “happened to me.” ; the incident about which I had written had happened to me, not because of me. He, on the other hand, insisted that I had behaved very passive-aggressively by starting the conversation, and aggressively by writing the follow up piece.

The community of psychologists and their corollaries’ consensus goes that, deep within the tangled mess we often see when we go inside, a fragile, tender child resides. We are told to fully see that child, to embrace that child, and to accept that child. That child is innocent.

At that moment, I felt like somebody just tore the skin on that child and inserted a poisonous penetrant. Psychic pain is not lost on me; in fact, in my trek through the jungle toward self-realization, I have become quite familiar with the sensation.

Where does one go, and what does one do, when one is told that others see, in the self we are trying to accept, only a snotty, mean bitch?

My first impulse is to shut down. In moments of extreme trauma, rather than act out emotionally as is my characteristic wont I simply go unresponsive. I sit very still. The muscles of my face cease any movement. I hide in plain sight, hoping that any and all external influences will retreat from their threat to my well-being.

But, being a seasoned, post-menopausal woman, I do have other options. I could take a hot shower. I could eat something that contains heavy creme and organic unprocessed cane sugar. I could meditate on those whom I love, or those who, over time, have offered the sincerest form of love.

Indeed. Even a trained counselor can have moments of lapses in humanity. Even those whose livelihood depends on the trust of the precariously healthy can make missteps. Forgiveness is the most magnanimous of traits. Time to employ it, with fervor.

Denial is only a temporary comfort. There is no place to really live in denial. Defiantly insisting, particularly at the top of my voice, that I am NOT a snotty, mean person serves nothing and nobody.

Having recently confessed, also in print, my total failure as a loving human, I’m hoping for further illumination. Perhaps the belief that we bring our own misfortune, that we invite our own misery, is worthy of contemplation tonight. I’d thought that opening the counseling session with a preamble about never having been trained in the social arts would carry some credence; apparently, when one asserts oneself in print, all bets are off.

Here’s hoping that the study in sociology presented at 8:00pm will purge me of any and all notions of superiority over others that my writing implies. After all, if one stable, otherwise healthy guy from a loving, supportive family can handle the challenge and condemnation coming at him from 25 angry females, an aging, single woman who struggles to remain relevant among her peers can certainly survive the perception of one man.

(there. I hope he’s happy.) (!)

Just Do.

March 1, 2016classical music, classical musicians, dance, drama, Good Food, health and wellness, human behavior, performance, psychology, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorizedaudience, Canellakis Brown Duo, creative fuel, Gary Viebranz, Music At Noon Penn State Behrend, selective attending, value of audience, Yodaruth ann scanzillo

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Last week, Gary Viebranz said something striking. Now, anybody who actually knows Gary will find that statement amusing; indeed, he says something memorable every time he exhales air. The man is a comic legend.

But, beyond that. We were walking out of the Reed Union concert space, Penn State/Behrend following a wonderful performance by the Canellakis Brown Duo at his acclaimed “Music At Noon” Series last week (I missed today’s guests), and he said something to this effect: ” It’s nice when audiences appreciate performers, and performers appreciate audiences.”

I, of course, let being struck by that nestle in my ruminating lobe.

It’s funny. Have been almost embarrassed, as a fairly recent public blogger (just over a year and a half, this month) to admit how little I read published authors. Of equally awkward admission, having spent the past thirty years as a professional musician, I listen to far fewer fellow musicians than my colleagues. This is likely quite anomalous among performing professionals and writers. I do support them, and try to attend, but admit to finding what I need elsewhere.

Yes, I am devoted audience to two other art forms: drama, and dance.

Great acting absolutely fascinates me. I live for the story. Dance, equally so. Why? Oh, I love to dance, and had a blast taking some swing and salsa lessons; but, this scoliotic body, with these feet? Come on. I was definitely born to be audience in their room. And, when I am, nearly every moving image populates my imagination thereafter.

As for acting, well, I do dream. Would love to take a stab at a bit character. But, the sheer volume of memorized utterance is flummoxing; how they do it escapes me. Yet, what they do informs both how I think and what I create. To every single second of their offering, I am completely committed.

So, let’s just all relax. Stop the infernal, internal judging. If there’s a show, and you are busy creating, then you are where you belong. Be audience to just exactly whatever it is that feeds your fuel center. Take in what you need; then, go, and do. Please, do. Make something beautiful.

But, when you are the audience, immerse yourself. And, remember to appreciate your fellows, earnestly, even if it is in recording after the show. Locals, if you’ve never caught “Music at Noon” over at Behrend Campus, the quality is unsurpassed. Yes; even though some were born to write rather than read, to play rather than attend, just keep looking and listening.

And, then, like Yoda said: Just do.

p.s. While we’re at it: Actors and dancers: check out live music, in a genre unfamiliar. You might get some unexpected nourishment!

littlebarefeetblog.com

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The Climate of Corruption.

February 26, 2016civic commentary, classical music, political commentary, social commentary, Uncategorized2016 election, Bach, corruption, Democratic corruption, GOP, MAAD Magazine, political corruption, Political debate, Republican corruption, the Mega Church, the truth, Trump, voter fraudruth ann scanzillo

Yeah. Okay. Weak title. (How can corruption have a climate?) The grammarians will get me, right out of the gate.

But, kids, we live in one.

I’m letting Donald Trump pontificate while I practice Bach. Now, there’s a dichotomy.

Are we getting the frantic atmosphere, anymore?

The Gee Oh Pee boys are in full on playground recess rumble. The crowd goes wild. The crowd. Where’s the beer? Oh, there. Fill me up, buddy. Ya got bikers, with an assault weapon collection sitting in their den, standing next to the fresh frosh from Liberty U. Ya got the new monied real estate acquisitionists (mark that) spread trading on their iPhones, next to the women who just came out of the kitchen (know it.) Yeah, yeah. Stereotyping? I don’t have to. It’s the Mega Church meets MAAD Magazine.

When I hear that Washington will be completely upheaved, figuratively burned to the ground, OF COURSE I DREAM. But, then, I w.a.k.e. u.p. Because, the President doesn’t make a.l.l. the decisions. The President must collaborate. And, last time I checked, collaboration isn’t a bully’s strong suit.

But, actually, at this point, I even wonder if a single vote will ultimately count. That’s where I fall on this Friday afternoon. The technological revolution has taken over, and the drivers at the helm, bought and paid for to tweak the machines……I can’t decide if the Democrats will dictate, or the GOP, or Donald Trump, who could effectively buy anything(BUT WITH HIS OWN MONEY)……. I only know that the most cunning, the most stealthy, the most aggressive, and the most determined crook will likely pull the last lever.

God, bless America. Wherever you are, please remember us. We just woke up one morning to a glorious country, and grew up believing in it. Our parents did, too. They provided for our future, sure that this was the only place where we could hope to have one. How were we to know that the truth would be taken from us, and never given back?

Thanks.

littlebarefeetblog.com