Lessons

One Word Aloud is now active. Stop by. (See link in the title line.)


Counseling again today. And I run smack into a known, but so far insoluble problem. How to connect to people when I have no shared interests. Food as a subject bores me, irritates me. If I could stay healthy with a pill (as the SF of the fifties promised) I so would. No grocery shopping, no cooking, no cleaning up after. And the people I work with? Gourmands, love the Food Network, wax rhapsodic over recipes (chemical directions, to me), and diet to fight their (mostly non-existent) fat. I draw away, and keep silent, rather than criticize or make negative comments. But this leaves them feeling like I'm pushing them away. Guys don't care if you contribute to a conversation, ask them about their team, and let 'em talk. Ok, only sports guys, but that's the analogous population.

But only seeing the "can't" doesn't help me join in. Which I need to. This is how I lay a groundwork of good will. I've never known how to do this. Nearly every work group I've been in, any subject I could find interesting was ridiculed or labeled snobbish, by those around me. Cats? People at work have no problem telling me straight out they "Hate cats." I've had my musical tastes ripped apart, old movies or challenging books - no good - I get blank looks at best. Maybe I need to be more like the devoted Trekkies who proudly wave their freak flag. My silence is, I think, what is being misread. It's a place for others to write their own insecurities.

So, my job this week is to come up with ways to join in. I'm leaving food, because it's fraught. My mother battled her weight with yo-yo diets and despair. There was intermittently not enough food in the house, and money for food always mattered. I don't like sharing food, or making it, except with very close friends. And even then, I prefer a restaurant. Food is a chore, of similar interest as vacuuming or laundry, only with the added element of money.

So, what else? I've never known how to reach out when I've been dismissed. Or how to find a way into a discussion where I have nothing positive to say. I can't even express interest without lying. But I must find them interesting as people, as human souls. I have to find the compassion to reach out in a way that is genuine, but not about the job.

Start by asking questions, sure. That's one thread.

I can't hope to interest any of them in what I love. That's never worked. And insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. This is where I have to learn to reach out.

Lessons not learned do keep coming back, in harder form. Dammit.

Ignoring

Imagination
Sits on a low dusty shelf
Ignoring my plea

Whirling

No fiction this week. Because I say so. Not doing well with the assignments either. Dealing with vertigo today, came home early with my head spinning. Not ill, just whirling gently with any movement. Hormones, or allergens, sinuses or ears, who knows. I've done this before, but usually it's very transient, as in a few hours in the morning, and vanishes. It's not been so persistent since I had full on vestibulitis after recovering from the flu.

Bugger.

Better be gone by tomorrow.

The sky was lovely last evening.

Wildcat

Lucy, Jean, Crow, Still working on your assignments, honestly.

Toast

In an effort to improve my apparently faulty communication skills, I attended a meeting of the local Toast-misters, with the intention of making a go of it, despite less than ideal first impressions. A lot of practiced smiles, the American flag set up, the prevalence of portfolios, all gave the impression of work meetings more than anything remotely enjoyable.

The Pledge of Allegiance I'd not expected, but I've done the army, standing to attention for the flag. Hell, the roller derby has everyone stand for the national anthem before bouts, admittedly the Hendrix version, but hand over heart the same as a baseball game. I let this slide. The meeting leader for the evening had a stilted joviality, but this is just one guy, let it go. They inducted new members, ok, ceremonial and rules of order, fine, formality has it's place.

Then the two prepared speakers. One young guy, difficulty with grammar and strange hand gestures, the spouted opinions grated, and my resolve began to waver. An elderly woman gave her speech on humor, lacking any humor, three jokes, one of which was baffling, the second poorly told, the third featuring an ethnic stereotype and a false premise. The hurting intensified.

Then a speaker setting up topics to assign for extemporaneous speakers looked around the room, and straight at me, and said he knew everyone there. This surprized me, as I'd not so much as introduced myself to him. One of his assignments was to give a pro-United Way speech. All I could think of was the trouble they'd run into a few years ago, with huge amounts of their contributions going to admin costs. And the heavy handed tactics used on me, as an employee. Thankfully, I was not put on the spot that evening. I prepared myself to politely leave, in case.

And finally, the evaluations. Ok, some credit for being encouraging. None at all for my purpose, since even the criticism seemed off base. No mention made of the ethnic joke being inappropriate.

I walked home with plans for the podcast idea. It had been so hard the last time I'd tried, using garageband. Mostly to do with my own unpracticed speaking voice. Time to try again, and stick to it. Beats enduring an endless Speech 101 class.

Kneecapping

It's not that I'm suffering badly, but the combo of swollen knee and work, has just left me pooped. Any kind of knee bend, squat or kneel is enough to elicit muffled yelps. On the way down, and on the way back up. Ice is my friend, as are anti-inflammatory drugs, elevation, the usual. Today, I have to go get on the cycle, since when one asks an expert for advice, and gets it, it is wise to then follow it.

It's the one on the right, which IS my right knee, because I have Photo Booth on mirror image. Very sad, doesn't look bad enough to get me any sympathy, but the swelling is largely deep in, restricting movement. Improving daily, but damn slowly. Night before last I couldn't tolerate Moby sleeping on my legs, so he got nudged off repeatedly. Last night he didn't even try, which is also a little sad, even if the result would have been the same.

Later today, tomorrow, I will be relaunching the One Word Aloud project. Or at least attempting the recording of same, which probably means Wednesday. I need to be able to hear how I sound, how I come across. Just as writing here has helped me clarify my writing, I need my own, and your, critical eyes, to practice tone, delivery, clarity in my speech and gesture. Not that I even need comments, just knowing someone might be watching, listening, makes it real, not just ideas in my head.

The Toast-misters meeting did not work out at all. I'm not going to spell that word properly, just so's you know. No reason to invite them here. More on that experience later.

Felix

Hard to believe it's been a whole week since my last foray to the feline colony. We had a huge influx of cats, mostly those screened and well enough to be adopted after a hoarder seizure of sixty animals. Some of our longer held cats were euthanized to make space. With kitten season upon us, that will happen more often, especially in this economy. Some of the Cult Cats will make good housecats, some probably will not, but Laura brushed and socialized, and I socialized and brushed a little.

No dog folks to get the bigger dogs to the outdoor kennels, so I tried to do it alone. Wound up dragged to the floor by one strong and untrained dog, leaving me with a bruised hand and knee. So, I got five dogs out, then back in, on this lovely spring day. I feel bad about this, but I did what I could. They wore me out.

Mostly, I gave some cats some sense of safety and love. Not a bad accounting for myself for today.


One of the newbies, very interesting vocalizations. I thought, "I'll call you Speak, because you do!" But she turned out to be Juliet.


Mimi is just a fluffball, a little feisty, and although you can't see here, an intelligent face.



Alfredo. A charmer, a lover, very suave.



Minty, another newbie, so tiny.


And Bork, who went home with a family who was told he was not good with other cats, and "whoa nellie" he wasn't good with their cat, so they brought him back. Well, at least they did bring him back. Gorgeous pattern, grey blue eyes, lap cat utterly, just happens to be the only cat in the universe.

This is why we only have Moby, because he is the Sole Cat of the Universe, and that's ok by us.

Sky

Herhimnbryn gave me this assignment.

Overheard conversations while buying the groceries. Post them on your blog.
Buy sticky labels, write your wisdom on them and then stick them in public places.
More moods of Moby.
Photograph the sky from your balcony every day at the same time for a week. Save the images. Make postcards of the images.

Be silly.


I haven't been in public places enough to do the stickies, but I will consider this a long term project. As soon as I manage some wisdom, too. People in grocery lines here don't really converse, except on their cell phones. Haven't overheard any good conversations anywhere this week. Have done several Moby Moods, as you may have noticed. And I am always silly, proof will have to come later. I wanted to ask my fellow cat volunteer to take a photo of me while I brushed one cat in a lower cage, while the cat in the upper one played with my hair, but she had her hands full herself.

I got five out of the last seven days. On Saturday, we were at Roller Derby, so I missed my 1915 time slot. And one day I just forgot until it was dark. Here are the five, though. Not sure how to make postcards, so I post them here. The sky is lovely, the frame for it, not so much. Still, I have a lovely view of the sky that my own eyes edit quite well.

Breakfast

Morning eased in on her sleep, cool autumn light lit the closed screens in sepia tones, seen through half open eyelids.  Dulled voices murmured in the small room, a clear voice expressed the early raga from the Pottage below - inside, animals snorts drifted in through with the weak sun from the outside.  She assessed her body carefully, half numb legs and feet, low aches and untried stiffness just across the curtain of movement.  The room felt stuffy to a nose used to the scents of dawn on the road, over-warm, but also carrying yeasty bread, unknown body scents,  and the hot smell of a brazier.

She opened her eyes the rest of the way, and examined her new home.  The frame to use getting out of bed, she hoped only a temporary device, curved over her, and she slid her hand along it, taking in the smoothness, the irregularity of the bamboo rods under tension.  Twinges announced themselves, and she listened impassively, shooing them away as insufficient to bother about.  She let her toes explore the soft, hemp cloth sheets under black wool blankets, not yet shifting her ragged body, listening to the voices, one low, familiar, and instructive, one faint and curious.  Turning her head carefully, she noticed the fluid bottle hanging, with the tubing neatly tied to it, empty as the alcove bed, bedding rumpled.  She looked again, and realized a large, black dog curled on the blanket, when thee snorted a little.

Fuzzy minded, she planned the steps to her position of vertical, self-log-roll using the hand holds and as swift a turn to standing as she could summon momentum for, grunting involuntarily, swallowing a yelp, and she stood on her recalcitrant feet.   Hinge stood smiling at her, with a frail, bald child in an oversized white knit shirt that came to her ankles, where the orange cat George circled.

"Good morning."  Stone smiled,  looking down carefully.  "You are looking much better today."  And to Hinge, "Does she understand?"

"Her English is good, if a bit biblical compared to what I know from my pre-A radio recordings. Pretty close to Abbey, it'll do." Hinge rubbed his hand over the scraped, scabbed little head. Her dozy, light brown, and very bloodshot eyes blinked acknowledgement. "Candle will be by after breakfast, to examine her, and you, with Old Doc.  You are going to love that more than giving birth,"  he laughed.

"Oooo, can't wait.  Are you ever going to let me forget that? It's been, what twenty years now."  Stone asked, shifting her weight in a vain search for comfort.

"As soon as the rest of the bruises from where you gripped me go away."  Hinge answered, pouting facetiously.

"Aw, such a tenderfoot you are, I forgot," and she patted his arm, shaking her head sadly. "Is that our breakfast you are getting ready?"  She pointed to the brazier.

"That's what I'm here for.  Never trust my apprentice to feed you, even the dogs choke on it. I got bread and sausage and...  "

"Never tell me the menu, I'll eat whatever you stick in front of me," she interrupted.  "Or will if I can hold it up and perch somewhere..."  she took a few sore steps, and waved her hands in a mild desperation, as the skinny cat made figure eights around her feet, shedding as he went.

"Heh, I got you covered, and we'll get you something real built by this afternoon. Candle the Medic will be very certain about that."   He smiled in private pride.   And looked over to see Leaf the Foundling squatting by the hibachi, head cocked to one side, hands clasped like every Abbey child who learned about fire through burning experience, then gazed at Hinge the Dogman. "You want to help cook?" Another nod. Hinge rubbed his palms together in the joy of a teacher of a particularly bright student.

Stone rolled her eyes and shuffled toward the small room.

~

She lay exhausted in the hot, deep pool, taking in the glorious bath partially beneath the Abbey proper, and peeking out from under, onto the northern slope. Sandy textured tiles lined every horizontal surface, glassy tesserae in dark reds and golds swarmed over the verticals, all immaculate. A sense of a sacred space enveloped her. Surrounding the water, the washing alcoves around the walls, between them, openings to sunwell lit examination rooms - where she had just spent an eternity of pain. The bath being the reward for stoicism. She felt another body enter the water.

"Rope? It is you, oh, Rope!" Stone opened her arms, and her old friend waded into her corner, and wrapped her arms around her, and lifted her up in an enthusiastic hug. A startled yelp, and she eased her back to the water.

"Sorry, sorry, oh, my dear old friend. Hinge warned me and everything." Rope laid a hand on Stone's head, gently kissed the crown, and sloshed in beside her on the submerged wooden bench. "How bad?"

"Um. Wear and tear and arthritis, old fractures, bulges and whatnot, and about a half year of more of the same as today. They moved every single joint, while listening with some device, and not in a nice way. Then jabbed the needles in, ice, heat, I don't know it's all a bit of a blur." She shook her wet head.

"How's an old wanderer like you going to survive so much idleness?" Rope asked, making her own appraisal of what life on the road had done to the body beside her.

"Have you met the bug master, Roach?" Stone scrunched her eyebrows.

"I've heard tell, never spotted him. Living out at the Bachelor Spiral, I think."

"Lens the... Spiral I guess, says he came in for the winter, so might Roach the Bugman. I hear learning all the new found species - enough to work on the survey, will take as long as getting my back in good enough shape to go hunt the little critters in the spring. Don't look at me so dubiously, I have acedemic chops, just did them while moving around is all." She sneered at her friend. "You still riding the waves?"

"When I can, going out to the coast in the morning, batten down the weather station there, and get in some cold surf." Rope laughed a gleeful giggle.

"Not alone, please tell me not alone," Stone added, "Not this time."

"No, I got Bou to join me, maybe another meed for a last field trip." Rope reassured her.

"You know how much I want to come with you." Stone floated her puckering palms upward.

Rope reached out, and gripped a hand. "Next year."

"I don't believe in Next Year," Stone told her.

"I know what you mean. I'm not too convinced about last year." Rope added.


(Not how I wanted to end this segment, but all I can do this week. Amendments may come.)

February

From our vacation, the coast near Astoria. All to D's credit. Including the music and guitar playing.

Ritual

Went to Roller Derby again last night. When I got home (the guys stopped for sandwiches on the way) Moby "mrrk"ed at me, and had to be held, then brushed, then out on the balcony for a grass nosh. Later, as we sat around talking, he sat and stared, another cat entertainment. Later, he had a good go at the stuffed mouse. A full feline evening.




Over the past week or so, when I remember in the evening to brush his teeth, he walks around a bit, then jumps up on the stool or bed. To the point where I can say, "Ok, Moby, time to brush your teeth. C'mon up." And he does, and opens his mouth for the brush. Then spends the next half hour licking his chops. (Seafood flavor enzymatic cat toothpaste.) We've been brushing his teeth since a few months after he came to live with us. The vet told us to do this, and my first reaction of "You've got to be kidding!" turned out to be wrong. He never minded much, and quickly seemed to rather enjoy it.

On work mornings, when I sit to put on my socks, a foot up on my knee, he comes over to rub his face on my toes. Evident enjoyment. Only when I am up early to go to work, not other days. The Blessing of the Toes, I assume. D thought this very funny, when he was petting him one morning, and I put my bare foot up, and Moby's head came up, and he trotted over to do the Toe Rub, then returned to be petted again.

Not unlike the Ankle Love that once inspired a parody of a bad song.

Lint

And from Phil Plasma

1. Try writing a post where none of the words contain the letter 'e'.

2. Try writing a post where each sentence contains words where the first letter is the same in all but a few of the words, using a different first letter in each sentence.

3. Expound upon the virtues of collecting various forms of lint.


#1 (Just a haiku, which has constituted whole posts.)

Motors roar, radios boom
Trains run away on rails
Longing for spring mud.

#3

I've heard that homemade paper can be made from dryer lint. My one attempt was grossly inept, and utterly unsuccessful. If ever I can gather more useful tools and supplies, I'd love to try again. It feels like it really should work, and I love rough paper, would love to paint the sheets with black ink and brushes.

In the fiction, I have thought about how every human is studied, part of the data, not just a sample, but all knowledge becomes a very real collective consciousness, a massing of data to make decisions upon. At some point, even the lint in navels will be studied, and it may give them some small, but interesting, insight into how the world works. Regular clothing lint, most collected during weaving and fabric creation, will also be a salvaged commodity for making felts for screens and hats, tents and shoe liners.

Lint could be a love token between eccentric people, kept in each other's pockets, of course.

Crying uncle on #2 for now, but I'll keep it in mind.

Television

We watched So Long At the Fair last night, which was unexpectedly enjoyable. Just as it ended, the TV slid back, and the stand tipped, and down to the floor. I tried to grab, but only managed to take a chunk of skin out of my finger and watch as the case broke away from itself. The wheel of the stand had come out, when I'd moved it close enough so I could watch without glasses, and not noticed the escaped caster.

The institution of digital signals and prevalence of HDTV and LCDs means that the days of a decent, small television are over. What great timing. We'd hoped to keep this old one going until the prices came down, especially since we don't need a converter box, using a dish and Netflix for our Discovery Channel, Animal Planet needs. Oh, and USA for Burn Notice. Both of us too much tv children to go without. Although I have, at times, been boobtubeless, and read a great deal.

We also saw The Last Metro, one of those films I'd intended to see since it came out, and I rather wish I'd stayed in that happy state. The only thing worse than a WWII movie about the terrors of Nazi occupation, is a happy little sex romp about the terrors of Nazi occupation. Plot complications out of nowhere, inconsistent emotional relationships, the tired dramas of actors, all left me wondering why it got raves. Oh, it's beautiful, but flat and with a rather stupid story.

Still thinking about the other assignments, if I haven't gotten to yours yet, it's in the works, really.

Oh, and with a bit of research, and a trip to an Enormous-Box-Store, got a very nice, if rather too expensive but doable, little teevee.

Humble

Grievously, I came to a horrible realization this morning. And it goes back to 7th grade, and my "Today's Ism's" class. The discussions were knowledgeable and challenging, and I blossomed. I also treated a rather slow 8th grader with what can only be described as contempt. I rolled my eyes whenever she spoke, I cut her off, too interested in my own energized flow to consider the strugglers. And one day, she called me on it. Told me she saw what I was doing, and it hurt her. To my youthful credit, I felt awful, and listened, and changed.

To my 47 year old shame, I had to hear this again. I made a point to tell the young woman at work - who is not terribly bright, and very social, and artificially pretty (and probably very body dysmorphic), who told me I was doing better, last week. This morning, in a flash of remembrance, I thanked her from the bottom of my soul, and hugged her. She showed more compassion than I did. And I am humbled.

Blind

Ok, from Pacian the assignment, My question is simple, requiring only a one word answer: pick a world in our Solar System other than the Earth. For any purpose. Planets, moons, dwarf planets, asteroids, comets and Kuiper belt objects all allowed.

But not Pluto.

Io.


Chosen because it is the shortest, and the answer also is probably the shortest.

Raining

Knuckle just rolled over for a tummy rub, as though on a sofa at home. Good on him.


Ace really wasn't feeling well, and had not gotten a vet check yet. Will today. Had a series of mats in the fur along his spine.
In a short hair, a sign of deep neglect and long term stress. With Laura's wire brush, and Ace's patience, I got him brushed pretty well. A Great Cat.

Oliver just looked dirty, another sign of long neglect. Listed as "not housebroken" which also tends to mean neglectful ignorance. Cats who don't clean themselves are not lazy, they are badly stressed. Lovely Oliver.

Lookie, lookie, lookie, here comes Cookie*. Just wanted love in the form of head butts. Gorgeous.


And the newly named, by her new four year old friend, Polka Dot. Going home tomorrow.


Rained and rained and snowed a bit and rained some more. Dogs only out for short periods, so I stayed in with the cats.

Counselor told me a very apropos story, of survival, and dignity, and keeping one's values. That the worst can happen, nothing to do about that, but I can chose to be at peace, chose to be kind and compassionate, every minute of every day. Practical zen. Day to day tao.



*Cleo Brown.

Power

Sitting in candlelight, the power is off for the whole block, apparently. Good thing we went out to dinner this evening. Don't know quite when it went out. A lovely rainy evening to mellow out and be glad I have quite a few beeswax candles, and a very good flashlight.

We keep the flashlight in the drawer with the drugs. The usual kinds a good nurse keeps, for pain and inflammation, gas and diarrhea and GI upset, as well as my migraine meds. So, when I get up at night with my head in a vice, I can find and open the imitrex. Which also makes it very easy to find the flashlight when the lights are out. This is in a kitchen drawer, since bathrooms get too warm and humid.

Maintaining my calm mood at work. Staying relaxed helps me as well. But I did have someone tell me they could tell I had my "stressed look on" when I was in no way stressed - at all. I told her as much, not quite sure she believed me entirely. Rather like when, as a kid, I got accused of being angry or "pouting" when I was just thinking, or had just drifted off. My father, in particular, yelled at me if he caught me reading, since he hated whatever look I got on my face then. And he just minded my reading, which was bad on him since I read anything I could get my hands on. Bad on me too, but in a different way.

Really hard to see much, with just candles. The computer screen is lighter, glad it's a laptop. I keep wanting to check websites or email, and have to remember there are no Internet Fairies to magically bring my connection over the air. No, the router needs electrical power. Sigh.

Felt awful having to tell an intelligent friend that the multiple forward email was a scam. This is so human, of course, to be so smart, yet hold irrational beliefs. We just cannot stop the stupidity in anyone, often not even in ourselves, however hard we try. But we really do have to try. Actually, the people who are aware of their own areas of idiocy are usually in better shape than the ones who are sure they are brilliant and always right. The latter have no chance at all of improvement.


I'm working on some of the suggestions, worry not. herhimnbryn's are in the work. She, though, gave me tasks that last weeks. The sky photos from this evening were 15 minutes late, but will look exactly the same, since all that is visible is thick grey.

More when we have power, saving it for now.

Update, this is why. A traffic accident near 650 South 200 East at 6:40 p.m. affected a substation, resulting in a power outage for 1,078 customers for two hours.

Contemplative

Ruckus

The ruckus built, waking everyone in the Abbey not already astir. Hinge a black bear passed off the damp bundle into the waiting arms of a knotted washline of pale night knits making suggestions and sending young apprentices off for excessive supplies. Rope slumped, bedraggled and relieved on the bench just inside, a serene smile crept over her features. Hinge patted her shoulder, "I"m off to care for my dogs, then to bed. I'm sure I'm the morning shift." He headed off, his job this night done.

"Master Rope, come to the bath. I'll get your knits later. You are just knackered, eh? I've been so worried about you." Bouillon arrived to fuss over the limp figure. "What is that smell?"

Rope's shoulder shook as she laughed silently, signaled agreement with open palms, and nodded tiredly. The lean meed pulled the exhausted women up and draped her arm over his shoulder, batting away a thick, wet lock of hair. She still overtopped him by a few inches, and kissed the crown of his head, and ineffectively tucked the dreads back. Her voice whispered in a laconic but urgent slur, "Sal."

"Mule showed up yesterday morning."

More effort, but just a questioning look of exasperation from bloodshot, brown tinged eyes.

"Yes, with all your gear. Your journeyman got it all secured and recorded," Bouillon added, "I helped him a bit." He shook his head. "I know you're in bad shape, when you can't talk no more. C'mon." And he half carried her down and away, past the commotion at the spa door and down to the ofuro, muttering, "But I expect the whole story tomorrow... biggest story all year and I'm missing out." Followed by continued reassurances about collected specimens, weather reports on her pewter, cleaning her robe, and resigned complaints about having more patients to care for now, as pockets empty into his free hand.

The clamoring crowd drifted off to sleep in their beds. Now only the shaved heads of apprentices congregated in the spa clinic, Candle and the journeyman medic's overgrown locks marking them out as they set order. The small white body lay exposed on a padded table, warmed stones wrapped in lint snugged under her fragile arms, in her groin, bright portable lights illuminated the bluish skin, bruised, scraped and chilled, and threw shadows all over the variegated wooden floor. Sunken eyes hung closed, matted hair leaked pinkish mud, ribs showed slow shallow breaths. Hands inserted one end of a grey translucent flexible tube into her arm, attached to a hanging glass bottle of warm, milky fluid. Amazed conversations floated phrases. "I've never seen.... " and "How on earth did... " as the journeyman medic pressed a hissing oxygen funnel over her face, and slowly pushed the gas into her lungs with a sheep bladder reservoir.

They turned the body gently onto the side, and a communal gasp puffed. "A pressure sore, strange that it's so square. Middle of her back. Salt water dressings in the morning, right Candle?" Granite the journeyman confirmed. Others washed her with warm cloths, applied oily ointments, and laid black blankets over her, another clipped away at the hair, all laid their hands on her, willing her to survive.

A large black dog parked, unnoticed, beneath the table.


"She is definitely pinking up, now." Candle pronounced, after an hour of concentrated effort. "I think we can safely settle her somewhere for the night. Yes, clean and dry tonight, tomorrow on you, Granite the Medic." She searched the room, "Where's Bouillon?"

"Taking care of your other patient." This from the tall, and admittedly, hulking, man in the doorway. His black wool hung upon him, so he looked like an ancient monk, thick canvas trousers covered his legs. The white knitted slippers on his feet, with two red knotwork eyes each, and a hint of floppy ears, belied a complexity of personality.

"Good, Lens, that's where we're going. Keep all my hands in one room. Right next to your cell, Lens the Nightwatch. With your new neighbor." Candle made to send some apprentices up to get warmers ready, but Lens stopped her with a raised hand.

"No. Your other patient, Rope the Weather got a bit frayed bringing in this lump of excitement. Bou got her to the baths. This one is for me. Right next door, you say?" He scooped up the child in one hand, held aloft the attached fluid in the other, to sail off majestically, and surprisingly fast, leaving the apprentices to snatch the flotsam of warmers and bedding in his wake. Out and up, the walkway trembled under the weight of his bunny slippered feet. He knocked with an elbow, then entered the already lit, and apparently empty cell. The hushed sound of a half dozen people trying to be quiet nudged into the space.

"I'm just in the pot room, Candle, not moving unnecessarily. But I could use a hand at this point," called a strained voice. "Oh, and the cat showed up, in here as well."

One of the apprentices, having laid the warmer down, scurried over to the door, "Um, I'm Dado, I'll help you... " and went in. After a few thumps and quiet conversation, both emerged tentatively. "See?" The cat stayed hid.

Stone made a slow stagger toward the nested child in the high alcove bed, spasms halting her progress, even with the gentle meed at her elbow. "Ah, the sick lame and lazy all together. Are you Lens of the Spiral?"

"Yes, I am. Welcome, neighbor. I brought you a roommate." Lens smiled until his eyes disappeared behind folds. "I'm here for the winter, we didn't insulate the Spiral windmill." A deep chuckle, as he swept his long straight black hair back into the tie it had escaped from. "I think I like Lens the Spiral, due for a change, ha. Oh, hey there Bill." The dog stepped gingerly over the doorstep with only front paws, scanning and sniffing, until focusing on the alcove. The apprentices moved aside watchfully, until Bill took up station beside the child. "I don't want to tell him not to stay."

"No, no, he's fine. Apparently I have the party room. Since I'm confined, might as well meet everyone here." Stone laughed carefully, and let the meed walk her back to bed.

"Ok, everybody, shoo. This is the job for Nightguard!" Lens flapped his hands and emptied the room of all but the two recumbent patients, a guarding dog, and an unseen cat lurking at the edge of the pot room. The breathing of the girl became audible, wet and a bit harsh, but steady. Lens turned down the lights, so only a single red LED shone in the darkness. He pulled out an old book from a pocket, shrugged off the hooded robe to reveal a much embroidered woven shirt, and settled down on the rug, to read, and sit vigil.

Treasure

Working on the fiction, may post what I have tonight, and then edit it or add to it later. It just keeps begging for more details, connections, wanting to go further.

I will start with Dale's assignment (Will you do the same on your site, or do you want a different question from me?) It turned out to be more difficult than it sounds, Tell me about something lovely and unexpected -- something that you found, or something someone brought to you.

First thought was the KJ doll brought back from Thailand by my brother in 1969/70, a Thai dancer in green brocade with silver threads, golden temple shaped headdress, in classic pose, maybe 6" high. Despite being "only to look at" she was a doll I treasured, so graceful and colorful. Eventually lost in a move, or abandoned, honestly. An unexpected gift, since we were not a family for souvenirs.

When we were in Gulf War I, on my birthday, I got a little To Any Soldier letter, full of paper cranes, from "Bill" which is my other brother's name. I still have a couple of them. Brother Bill was the one who gave me my treasure chest, years ago.

One very cold winter, I found a lovely black wool hat in the grocery store parking lot, mushed into the muddy ice. I took it home, rinsed it out, and used it for a week. Until Dave lost his good wool stocking hat, and I passed on my gift to him. Seemed the only right way.

I think I will be able to add to the list of these blessings, over time. Thanks for the reminder, Dale.

Iron

Having pulled my head (Smmmpuuuck) out of my stressed out rectum, I have come to a number of realizations, some of which see previous angsty posts. The knowledge that I get no free rides, cannot charm myself out of trouble, can't lie to my personal advantage, is one of the well disguised blessings. Not that I didn't get away with some stuff as a kid, but it was mostly in matters of chocolate chip stealing. Anything more serious, and I always got caught. My working theory has been that all the rules apply to me. There are some folks to whom most, if not all, of the rules just will not stick. They can, actually, get away ignoring them. Really, I suppose some of the rules don't work on me, either, but I'd be hard pressed to enunciate them. This need to live an honest life, swallowing whole every hard lesson, lest I have to get beaten with it again, isn't an easy path, but it does leave me regretless. Maybe it's just because I feel the consequences so acutely, and others do not. Or I can imagine the consequences so graphically, and prefer to avoid walking on glass to picking out slivers.

It's all of whole cloth, and mine is duck, canvas, worsted, not pretty, but made to endure. The endless patches merge. Best get on with it.

I seem to have gotten stuck in my own head. So, would you make requests of me? A subject, a question, an assignment? Answer the same on your sites, if you want, or ask for a different prompt back from me. Please, I have to get out of my head a bit, it's stuffy in here.

Do

One of the most important, THE core lesson from the counseling, is that we can't just stop doing anything. Parents can't stop their kids taking drugs, smokers can't just stop smoking, we can't stop being disrespectful or stop being angry. For the same reason we can't just stop eating junk food... without replacing it with nutritious food. We can replace any of these behaviours with other actions, other thoughts, other habits. Can't stop a dog barking, but you can distract and retrain it to play or lie down instead. I couldn't just stop yelling at other drivers, I had to create an imaginative insult and speak it in the sweetest possible tones - which made me laugh.

Nothing more frustrating to be told one is unacceptable, but with no indication of what to DO about it. That was the position I was put into, repeatedly, and nearly to the point of job termination. My manager has permanently lost my respect because of this abusive process, and not just mine. But that is her problem, and none of mine, not on a personal level.

And as for those around me whose behaviour would not stand any scrutiny? Well, that is their karma. And just as my screaming at other drivers not only doesn't effect them in any way, but rattles me to the point where I'm not a good driver either, the same applies at work. My irritation doesn't make them better. And I know this, I knew this, and I somehow forgot this, or didn't realize I was guilty of such unsettling action.

Manager is impressed with my progress in a week. Well, I'm not stupid, and I have not always been so distressed that I shared out my misery so. I know the path, I just got lost for a while. Really, really lost.

Process

My insight of the day. I'm a powerful personality. I've admitted as much before, but at core, I didn't really see myself that way, didn't believe it. In so many ways, I'm still that helpless child under my father's rage. No one listens to me, no one could be threatened by me. I'm so deeply shy and afraid, beneath the learned competence, who could really find me that strong? Today, after talking with the counselor, I can finally see. I'm not the little dog, tail between my legs, beaten and whimpering, often as I feel that way. So when I bark in fear and defense, I'm the bull mastiff, the Great Dane, and I am scary. As Bullwinkle says, "Don't know my own strength!" And I don't. And I'm the only one who can channel that for good, not evil.

Scales falling from my eyes.

When I got home, Moby needed attention. So the cats at the shelter will do without me today. Paperwork and forms and fiddly bits of data to collect. Because even if I learn all the lessons needed to be good where I am in this job, long term, I need a different kind of job.


And a nap.

Review

For those of you poets who come here to read, to my utter confusion since I haven't a poetic thread in my soul, may I recommend this issue of Blue Print Review.


As for me and my burnt out stress control switch, I have a counseling session this morning. I hope for practical methods to live without my automatic calmness, until it either regenerates, or I find work that doesn't need it so much. The worst seems to have abated for now. Thank you all for your encouragement, as courage is what is most needed.

Jolt

Warm sun on the balcony, grass and catnip left out to grow.

I have had my fellow staff, those who would not make petty complaints about a cow-orker, come to my defense. Just a few, but it counts. And I am slowing myself down, policing my reactions for stray anger hidden as righteousness. I now spread calm. Alert and Brave and Cheerful. And the Manager is hearing about it.

I might just pull this off and keep my job. Still going to keep looking for a new one, because you never know. But not going to just take anything. I have to stay and make this work, which is a hard lesson of great worth. No escape for me, I have to face this now, and every day from here on. Because there just are no jobs to be had. I can pounce on any research job that comes up. I can learn more about how to get published. But I have to put all my heart into making this job work today.

We've decided our dream trip will be to Vietnam. This is a long term plan, mind. Time enough to learn a little Vietnamese. Just have to stay employed, since we aren't going to win lots of money.

Couch

Bray

Yes, got it written early. May even do another chapter this week, but I'm not promising anything.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6



Hinge heard the arrival first, sitting by Stone's open windows. What he said was, "Huh."

"What?" asked the recumbent and tipsy Stone on the futon pallet.

"Probably, not sure. Go on, my Candle saw through that Traveler stoicism the moment she watched you walking, and instructed you most firmly about Abbey health and safety standards." Hinge pronounced, condensing Stone's rambling explanation for her immobility. "Then sicced the medic apprentices on you."

"Yup. Soaked me, pummeled me, cracked my back and needled me, then drugged me, gave me ale,and there's still one here to make sure I stay down. Yours, Bouillon, doing his medic orientation too. But you would know that." She pointed just her hand, without moving any other body part at the lightly snoring body in the alcove cot. "Got thirty six hours to, um, get the im, im, inflammation down so's thee "can see what she has got to work with here," so says your beloved tyrant." Stone reached carefully to the bamboo arch, pulled herself through pain to a more comfortable position, and laid back. "You are hearing something, Hinge, I know you from way back."

"Mmm? Oh, yeah. Rope the Weather's mule showed up a few days ago, still laden, no sign of Rope, no word from thee, no weather reports even. I thought the creature didn't have a voice, until just now. The stables are down here, below your window, and with the rain, the sound carries. None of my animals bray like that. And I just heard it again." Hinge's eyebrow bunched in consternation.

"Rope? Rope the Surfer? Tall, blue black skin, chaos magnet?" Stone asked, growing drowsy and distracted. "Rope saved my life, you know. Wouldn't have made it without thee."

"Where do you know her from? Nevermind, never met a Traveler who didn't know everyone. Thee is our Weather, now. There, hear that?" A hoarse animal cough from below the open window.

"Uh huh, sounds worried." Slurred the recumbent figure. "You better go... . Oh, and you still gotta tell me the Copper the Abbot deal."

As he stopped in the doorway he tossed back to her, "Easy, he ran a black market ring, the usual vices of favoritism, long time ago, but the challenges never stop after that." He slid the screen closed without adding, 'for your sin, too'. Stone heard it though, in his sure, quiet footsteps, all the way down the stairs. She again heard the weird braying of the mule she'd seen earlier, and the snoring of Bouillon beneath a black wool blanket. She watched the guy thoughtfully, through the blur of carefully dosed beer and accumulated pain, and remembered her oldest friend. Who made her laugh when all she wanted was to die.

Hinge the Dogman also saw the arrival first, through the dark rain of the autumnal night, the dim light of the cycle gliding up the coast rail road, because he walked outside the stables, in the direction Sal the Mule stared and wobbled her lips, and pricked her huge white ears. Bill the Dog already sat leaning against his leg, a warm presence that helped Hinge think. Candle the Medic followed a few minutes behind him, stood beside him in the slackening rain, laying a hand over his callused hand.

"Hinge, our apprentice sent me, your friend Stone sent him." This was a question, but Candle rarely asked questions as such.

"My bet is, that is Rope. Sal seems to think it's our Weather." Hinge stared, bulldog stare. He points to the wobbling pinprick of dim light. "Thee is not the type to go missing and not send a report. Get your medics out there, right, meet me." He dropped a quick, dry kiss on her cheek, and the solid body stomped out into the dark, followed by his furry shadow.

Candle the Medic grinned at the order, and the deep concern that it hid, for a person she knew he didn't much like, but respected deeply. As she strode off, she thought, a good one to love, her Hinge, their marriage would be a solemn and amusing ceremony to confirm a decade of rude affection. And warm feet at night, since Bill always slept across the foot of their bed. In the warm clinical air of the Spa she roused her journeyman medic out to the road. Another arrived shortly to lay out the supplies for injuries, IV fluid, wake up a cook apprentice for food from the Cafe, and bring blankets warmed near the ovens. Without really thinking about it, she already planned for two patients, an inspiration that would mean more paperwork later, such being life. She knew enough to trust these intuitions, and say a quick prayer to St. Murphy. The sole saintly watcher of the species, these days.

Hinge, it must be added, also smelled the change in the air before anyone else in the Abbey. (Or, perhaps Bill did, but if so, he never indicated as much.) The same odd, though not unpleasant odor of the red rain, registered. He didn't think about it much at the time, only later, when it mattered, did he remember when he first caught a whiff. But at that moment, he worried only for the small cold body that Rope foisted onto him with effusive gratitude, in the bleak night, as the rain turned to ice.

"Hinge, would you get one of the apprentices to take this back out to the shed of Bob, um, Mountain the Hermit, in the morning?" Rope asked.

He began to like Rope, at that moment, because he saw her exhaustion, knew she was cold nearly past shivering, and the toughness and practicality warmed him. When she then paced him all the way back to the Abbey, without complaint, without whining, he deemed her a good egg. The few grunts of pain as she trudged along only confirmed her worth to Hinge. She did lean a little on Bill, but the dog took it in good part, and kept her secret. Hinge loved the helpless and the sturdy, the middling folk struck him with discomfort.

The Abbey folk met them half way, and gathered them all in.

Charms

Amelie came on this evening, so we watched it. For the first time since we fell in love with the film, in a theater when it first came out. Perhaps afraid such a magical story would be too ephemeral to experience again, or too soon. Happily, the spell worked again, even with commercial breaks. I loved the many side notes, subtle color changes, meaningful sounds, touches of animation, offhand humor, the likes and dislikes of even minor characters.

And I want to solicit strange preferences from you, a la Amelie. And offer some of mine.

She hates ice in her water in restaurants, seams in the toes of her socks bunching in her shoes, and wobbly tables.

She loves tucking her hair behind her ears, singing a tune and having someone join in, and kicking stones on the sidewalk.

Mercy

One of the best days I have had in a long time, with a funny surgeon who is intelligent and reasonable. And the scrub who is having the same sort of issues with the Manage. Whom I like and trust - though we disagree and bump heads sometimes, we respect each other. In short, I know I was not with any of the people who may have complained about me.

Long day, so I'm pooped, but that's fine.

The next chapter is forming.

Not feeling so much like lurking under the bed or running screaming, so I'm calling it good.

Bit

Got bit by a cat today. Had on the rose gloves, or I'd have been hurt much worse. If I hadn't cut off the tips of the index fingers, I'd have been safe, but I need to feel that much. Total feline freak out, with no adequate warning. Washing the finger, soaking in cayenne, will be able to have a hand surgeon take a look at it tomorrow, if necessary. Staff were wonderful, and they had to net the cat.

I seem to have created a Chaos Ball, sucking in misfires and distress wherever I go. This is not external bad luck, this is all some lack of proper attention, some ingrained strain, some maladjusted behaviour. This does not expunge the reactions and complaints and mismanagement of others, but their error negates none of my responsibility. I can guess when I picked up the Chaos Ball, though I don't remember doing it. Like a rubber band ball, I'm sure I added to it gradually over the last few years. Like a rubber band ball, it bounces erratically, which is part of why I didn't see it for what it was. My mis-reactions have been intermittent, which fooled me into thinking I was the same as ever. Calm in a crisis, strong and capable and steady. Only, I'm not that anymore. Not reliably.

I only wish I could just find another job, that the world wasn't going through the same thing as me.

Alert, Brave, Cheerful.

Fluffy puppies, fluffy puppies, fluffy puppies*.





*Grant's positive imagery from the Mythbusters angry vs calm driving myth.