Just in case you've wondered, I'm still alive!  Physical and mental forces combined over the past week, to keep me away from my computer and my personal plot, this blog.  I've missed it and in doing so, I've missed the other fabulous writings by those in my "Brilliant Blogs" column.  So naturally, when I got back to my glowing screen, I went to them, to see what'd happened in their gracious gardens.

I was gob-smacked by what I read in John D's Storied Mind.  He'd received a "Brilliant Blog" award from Isabella over at change therapy, which he is richly deserves.  Part of the award process, is that once given, the blogger should then in turn award seven or more for the same recognition, as well as paste the award logo onto his/her site.  My amazement and smacked-ness was due to the fact that Mental Motes was one of his choices for the award.  Please do not understand this as any sort of false modesty; I'm proud of my blog.  But what flabberghasted me, was the company that I was in.  His other choices, most of whom are in my own "Brilliant Blogs" category, are writers that I hold in the utmost regard.

I admire these fierce warriors of words for their dedication despite mental health issues, their unflagging search for truth in a world full of lies, their devout honesty about their own trudge upon this mortal coil and the wit, humour, lessons, ideas, beauty, darkness and soul therein.  But I have a bitter-sweet, almost rich problem.  Actually two problems.

The first lies with the fact that I have absolutely no idea about computers.  As in, when I started this blog in April of this year, the only thing I knew was how to e-mail.  This has been an intense on-the-fly learning experience.  It was a couple of months before I knew how to cut/copy/paste.  My room-mate, who'd used computers in her job at The Sandpaper, fell about laughing when she realized my scribbled notes were not a neurotic hard-copy, but my way of creating back links, (another stunning revelation in my journey).  I guess I use the painterly approach, when it comes to this blog.  My paintings become richer through accidental mistakes, and the history of the brush mark and colours.

The problem here is that none of this "rich history" means squat on a blog site.  Rather, the inverse is true.  One can spend hours typing in the HTML, once you get a glimpse of what it really means, (which I found in an "Aha!" moment), only to find you've cocked it up somehow, but how?!  The result is wasted time away from the whole point of a blog; it's content.  I have this dilemma as I write.  I'd love to show the award on my blog.  But how?  To this end, I've spent many hours in fruitless search to a question that I'm not sure that I pose correctly!  So I thought that it made sense to at least write about it, rather than tuck it away.

The second issue that I have with this award, is that I'm great at giving compliments, whilst the complete opposite in receiving them.  My up-bringing was such, that any praise came with a caveat, such as, "You'd be so pretty, if you'd just...."  Or, "You've lost all this weight, but...."  "You write so beautifully, why does it have to be so negative?"  But most of all, I remember any time that I was simply just me, I was admonished for being myself.  When the rich parents of a childhood friend took us to a cricket match, where we gorged ourselves on the food in the pitch-front tent, I was asked to say what I thought.  My mother was horrified when I said that I cared naught for the game, but the food was fabulous.  She admonished me for a rude, ungrateful child, even though my friend's parents thought that it was hysterical.

This carried through into my budding adult-hood.  My mother was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer and went to Duke for treatment.  I left my job to stay with her, after her left lung was removed, for the ensuing radiation.  There, my father, my sister and I went to buy some work-out clothes.  I had picked out a large, charcoal gray T-shirt that my father posited, "In a colour that only Dano would like."  I also sported a navy T-shirt, emblazoned "DUKE", which caused a casual passer-by to inquire what I thought about Duke.  I mumbled something, knowing that this was about sports, a league I've never swum in.

My mother on hearing this, I thought, amusing tale of culture clash was incensed.  She quickly reminded me of my place:  an extremely grateful recipient of the brilliant hospital, ergo college of Duke.  That in the future, should I be asked again, I must put forth a resounding affirmative reply to any and all queries about Duke.  I would like to follow this up with a statement that I believe most heart-hardily:

DUKE SAVED MY MOTHER'S LIFE.

My parents are in a class that has been written about for time immemorial.  My father from a poverty-stricken Irish farm, my mother from Scottish parents who moved to the South of England.  They worked hard and made monetary gains.  I suppose that they never envisioned a child like me, that would harken back to the places they wished to forget.  I've learned about these people of mine through books and tales.  I exist, a burning ember of the anarchists that went before me.

I will be proud of this award.  I am proud of the wild ancestry that came before.  My Great-grandfather,  "The Great Thinker of Ireland", Francis MacNamarrah.  His child Caitlin, that married Dylan Thomas.  My Grandmother, abandoned by my own father, who survived two divorces in Ireland, days without food in the larder, and the greatest joy in my very early years.  A woman who as a child, was held up by the nuns in her school as the Devil's child; a product of my namesake that I've chosen, Dano MacNamarrah.