Dignity

Enjoying the last of the grass strands in the roses. Possibly enjoying the roses as well.



Ignoring me with dignity, as long as the vacuum is out. He doesn't freak out about it, unless it's coming straight at him. But he hates any kind of organizing, probably rightly after having been through so many moves that disrupt his habits.

Entire

The universe does not hate us, nor care about us.
We are symbols, waves on the ocean, here then gone.
When we are wise, we see our own lives the same way.

Between existence and the void life flows back and forth in a wave.
Never the same, always the same.
The movement is the life.

Be silent, watch the fulcrum.

Entire.
A term rarely used now in connexion with beer but still seen on inn signs, etc. Before the introduction of porter in the early 18th century the chief malt liquors were ale, beer, and twopenny (a superior kind of ale sold at 2d. a pint.) The constant demand for a mixture induced the brewers to combine the flavours of these three in a liquor drawn from one cask. This was called Entire, or, being much drunk by porters and their like, Porter.
-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 332.

Glass

The tao is a clear glass, giving shape and taking color from whatever is inside, but not changing.
Tao is the space where everything happens, the clay from which everything springs.
Tao gives them form.

It lets them move in a direction.
It makes them visible.
It moves through them.

No one sees it, though it is always there.
Tao is outside of time.


So odd to interpret when I have no clue about the original language, and where scholars and poets have been so often. Yet, I still feel this is a valid exercise.

Roll

I'm cute.



Reeeeeeeally cute.

Could use a belly rub.

Headrollingflop is his way of telling us he trusts us, and rather likes having us in his home. And we are honored and amused.

Figured out to check the Roadside America site for the upcoming trip. Think you know about the States? Explore the real weirdness, and don't forget the Muffler Man!

Fuss

Making too much fuss of talent causes hard feelings.
Having too much incites theft.
Too many choices, too much stuff, decreases our ability to value what we have.

We live best by eating enough, and not filling our lives with trinkets,
Working our bodies, not straining for approval.

If we are satisfied with our basic needs, and the work of our hands,
How can we be tricked out of what we have?

Do what is necessary, there will be plenty.



Another broad response.

Vicious Circle. A chain of circumstances, in which the solving of a problem creates a new problem which makes the original problem more difficult of solution.
In logic, the fallacy of proving one statement by another which itself rests on on the first for proof.
-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963 p. 934.

I think I am, at heart, a Fortean Taoist. I believe in the inexpressible and the damned data, in as much as I can be said to believe in anything I don't know, or for which there is no hard evidence.

Arrangement

Moby made several meals of the grass fronds in the roses. They're getting a bit overblown, but still quite cheerful. Happy to share with the cat.

Arrangement in blue and black.

Ache

Good day at work, bad day inside my own head. Just a headache that would not dissipate, despite all the drugs I could lay on. Got to ask a young resident to undress. (He still had his gown and gloves on, and I was ready to tie up the trash bag.) A fellow nurse asked to try on one of the new hats, and I gave it to her to wear for the day, and assess it for comfort. She seemed rather touched, but I'm big on doing a kindness that, after all, costs me nothing. She loved the hat. They are quite good hats, they hold my hair back and just sit there on my head without drawing attention to themselves, except for compliments from cow-orkers. Surgeon took me by the hands to ask if I knew how he did this particular thing. I said, No, I forgot, and this wasn't the case scheduled in this room, so that particular instrument set got neglected. He assured me that HE was the one thing I should not neglect. I replied that it worked just fine for me most days.

Off three hours early, but it did not feel early at all. TGIF indeed.

Resolving thoughts about the lost friendship. Sour grapes, which is to me not a cautionary tale, but an instructive one. Can't have what you want? Rationalize that it isn't worth the effort anyway, and walk away without regrets.

Momentary anger, that I let dissipate like smoke. Thinking all the 'how dare you's and 'how could you be so's come through and pass through and be gone.

I will not make contact, nor harbor dark thoughts. We would probably not have met again in person for years, decades even. Not without a trip planned specifically to visit them. I begin to wonder if I had begun to read waning interest on the last trip, and I chose to think I did. Not because it's factual, but because it comforts me. Nearly fifteen years of friendship, gone. Ah, well. Maybe it had run it's course with me, as well. Another hindsight adjustment.

I've heard it said so often, that relationships are hard. I disagree. They take attention and good will, but they should not be hard work. They should be joyous and comforting, easy as breathing. When they become a long, hard slog, with no ease, then something is wrong. When both are pushing a heavy weight, the work gets easier. When each is pushing in the opposite direction, no use exhorting them to "push harder, relationships are work!"

Settling it in my head. Knowing I'm filing off corners to make it fit. No wonder I have a headache that will just not go away.

Gravity

We see the dark only because there is light.
We feel warmth only because there is cold.

Presence and absence are only meaningful together.
Hard and easy are how we take in our experiences.
A long stick, a short stick.
Up and down.
Top, bottom,
One side of the coin or the other.

Wisdom is not about choosing one or the other

Opposites appear everywhere,
But do not hold existence.
Gravity works, but doesn't make a fuss of it.
It happens, it just is,
Always there.



I took a lot of liberties with this one. Call it my response to it, not simply an interpretation. And quite by accident, opened Brewer's to -
Monism: The doctrine of the oneness of mind and matter, God and the universe. It ignores all that is supernatural, any dualism of mind and matter.
-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963 p.616.


There is more, but it's a longer entry than I'm up to typing in this evening.

Way

The way that needs constant words is not the way to understanding.
The word that can magically create, does not lead to the way.
The silent awareness is where understanding begins.
The holy name is the form, the mold.
Listen to the meaning, the substance inside.
Define and nail down everything, and we will miss the way.

Two ways of seeing from the same place.
This only seems confusing.
Which is obvious, which is hidden?
The door, or the way through.


Hog-shearing. Much ado about nothing. "It's a great cry and little wool, as the Devil said when he sheared his hogs."
-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963 p.457.

Test

Looking forward to our trip next month. We'll be able to meet up with N. Our friend who'd gotten stuck here, feeling like he had few choices, got a nasty shock, deprived of his job, and is moving out to the city he has yearned to live in for years. He has support from family there, and no worse job prospects than here. Amazing how, when one circumstance changes, what seemed like an unbearable weight can just roll away. When only one path is open, when you have to take it, it turns out to be pretty steep, but not nearly as hard in reality as it was in imagination. The further he pushes through, the more opportunities are opening up for him. We'll miss him, but we mostly want to see him happy in his life, in his work.

Often, when we feel most stuck, it is because we just don't want to look at a real, fundamental, solution. We just want to keep doing the same thing over and over, as it becomes a grudge match to make it work. Or we want the people around us to stop doing what they are doing, and everything will be just fine. And they simply won't cooperate. That is when anger becomes the most self indulgent trap, because it justifies our own cowardice and lack of imagination to step back and act differently, think in a new way, chose to feel calm in the midst of chaos. I've been in that trap, I know it well.

There is a story of a man at one of the lunch counter sit-ins during the Civil Rights Movement. White bigots mass around and tell the man "We're gonna do to you what you do to that chicken!" And the man picks up the piece of chicken, and kisses it.*
(Dick Gregory, thanks to Sky. )

The best way not to lose a rigged game is simply not to play. Let those caught in the game win. Let others have the last word. Choose "Other" and fill in the blank yourself. Resist every easy choice, and take the hardest test. It's not pass fail, it's always just a way to learn. Even when you get every answer 'wrong.'

Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is a sure sign of self trapping. We are all susceptible to addictive behaviour. Positive feedback loops are very destructive.

I've loved the Tao Te Ching from my first exposure to it. And when I read that it was given to children in school as an exercise to reinterpret, I thought about trying that myself. And have not yet done so. Perhaps it is time I begin. Alternating with entries from Brewers.

It's a test for me.


*If you have any other information about this story, please let me know. Dick Gregory, link above. (Sorry it took me so long to add.)

Everyman

Begin here. This spot.
Center of the universe.
Now, in this season.


I am touched by your outpouring. Hit a nerve, though, didn't I? Sorry about that. But I'm really good at hitting nerves. Which is why you read here, but imagine that in a friend. Yeah, I thought so. We've all lost friendships, and known that it was, at least partly, if not mostly, our own faults. We all have regrets. Our lives change in juttering, jarring, jangling, gaps of dismay, guilt and unpleasantly mixed feelings. We've all been there. You are not alone. And as much as I feel thus, neither am I. No more than we all are, ultimately.

And in this little reading spot where perhaps a score of souls drop in, in drib and drabs, this cozy nook for quiet, waving friendships, we all remembered our faded companionships. I imagine you with a cup of tea in an armchair in the corner, another browsing the shelves, overlapping perhaps a half an hour, a few minutes, then one leaves, then the other, and I stand behind the counter alone for a while as people on the street gaze in the window, examine something for a moment then decide to walk on. I'll close up when I feel like it, or just stay open because I have nowhere else to be. And I've got a good book. Or an idea to write down, anyway. Do the crossword, read the funnies, pet the cat.

Those are the numbers, about twenty regular visitors, with perhaps another twenty to forty more who happen here once, or off and on, and decide not to return, each day. Blame the vicissitudes of the search engines. None of the people I know from my ordinary life read here. A few have poked their noses in for a look, nodded in tolerant bafflement, then never returned. A woman who was my sweetest friend in seventh and eighth grade comes by, occasionally sending me an email to comment. A friendship that both of us remember fondly, and although our lives diverged, we left a space for each other, even though we neither of us knew it for many long years.

Please, think no ill of my now-former-friend. She made an honest, hard choice. She gleamed and basked in my harsh friendship for a very long time. I commend her courage, and will always love and admire her. Distance and life differences, the inability to talk in person, have broken us. There is no way to end any relationship that is not awkward and messy.

I was once dumped by a lovely man, in the most clean, complete and painful way. To this day, I hold it up as the paragon of taking it on the chin. His chin. We'd been dating for a couple of months, I was going through the divorce and he was a sweetly healing rebound relationship. Then I got the call that my unit would be activated to Gulf War I. He told me that evening that he would not be seeing me again. THAT took guts. But it was so honest, he was not going to let me hold out hopes, or let the circumstances try to soften the blow - but actually muddy the issue. Hurt like lemon juice after the grater went over my skin. But I dealt better with that clean cut than with any other rejection. To this day, I send blessings down on his head for treating me like the tough cookie I am. And letting me go when it would have been easier on him to draw it out. That such a good human being would like me and treat me with dignity, went a long way to showing me how to value myself. We really weren't a good fit, but we had a good time in that moment in between.

Then, I met D.

So, if you are reading here and you know the friend I mentioned in the last post, keep it to yourself. It doesn't matter. This is a common story. I tell it because I always believe that the more detailed personal stories are the most universal. We are Everyman when we describe the color of the buttons, the smell of the bread baking, the taste of the tears.

And if you are that now former friend, don't torture yourself. You made a decision, stick to it. Don't come by here anymore. Trust your instincts, trust yourself. Give it a year, if you want to reassess. For now, stay away, delete the bookmark, delete my old email, blacklist my address.

As Mrs. Cosmopolite says, "It'll never get better if you pick at it."

Ends

A friendship has ended, and I know now that I was right to have wondered if she wanted it to end before. It's hard to be the bad guy and tell someone you just don't like them that much anymore. The slipping of interest was obvious, but explainable as a temporary, circumstantial change, not permanent nor fundamental. A series of what should have been minor misunderstandings caused mutual bad feeling, mostly bafflement on my part. My suggestion that we assume mutual lack of malice and just wipe the muddle away and start fresh and lightly was given a mere few weeks trial, and I was told that her feelings had changed. A simple phone call was rejected because she had a hard time hearing me properly the last time we spoke on the phone, the word she used was "harrowing." I could pick at the details, but it wouldn't change the fundamental fact, I was no longer a comfort and joy to her. Nothing else matters, really.

I suspect I'm not much of a friend, not in the long run certainly. I have no real friends now, which grieves me. How I manage to keep a warm and loving marriage going is something of an anomaly. I'm cranky and opinionated and more than a little intense. I don't really tolerate fools or hypocrites with anything like grace. I'm well known for walking away from ties that pinch, i.e. my genetic family. I do make an effort to keep in touch, which seems not to be a virtue. One very old friend cut me off bit by bit, until there was no contact left. We met at a party about a year or so ago, had a lovely, warm conversation, exchanged information (we live two blocks apart) and she never made contact. I figured it was her move, and was unsurprised that she did not make it. On the other hand, I reconnected with a once very close friend after many years apart, and after a visit from her, decided I could not deal with all her excuses for why her life had gone astray, the same ones she'd been using for over a decade at that point. She did not need my pity, and I could not have hidden it long. Friendships falter on such shoals.

So, I am very grateful for all of you who stop by and leave a comment, think kindly of me, send art. (ahem.)

I have D and Moby, I am blessed beyond measure. I shall focus on jokes and amusing stories for the next while. After today. Not today. Today I am just grieving and letting go, and realizing that a dull weight has been lifted. Earning back trust is no easy task, after all. I was willing, trying, but now, well, job over, cancelled, go home. Shrug and get changed, check out.

Engaging case to end the day, which passed the time so well.

Concuss

Listening to NPR on the way home Friday, concerning brain injuries among athletes. This is one of those issues that drives me nuts. Rattle a brain, give it a chance to heal. It's not THAT hard. For stupid sports. Ok, so there is a ton of money involved as well. Just like the massive cost of treating vets for their brain injuries. This really isn't that complicated. Let brains heal when they have been so impacted that they don't work properly for any moment of time. Put lives ahead of short careers.

There is a particular cry with a fresh head injury. I heard it in patients when in nursing school clinicals. Maybe it struck a nerve, because I remembered it from when I lost consciousness as a child around hitting my head on the fulcrum of a teeter-totter with my brothers and cousins on either side. To this day, I'm convinced it is why I have migraines. And I remember, viscerally, how I cried after. Soul deep, marrow deep, gut sobs, as voices told me I would have a "goose egg." They seemed echoed in the young man in the unit with the head bang, but with a history of narcotic addiction and so no drugs for him. One of those moments that will stay with me all my life. And the definition has loosened, not just lack of consciousness, but seeing stars, or other cognitive symptoms after a hit to the head.

None of this is new. But those with the money and power to insist on a standard of care prefer not to bother. Are they ever going to look like self serving idiots.

I sometimes wonder how much this damage still affects me.

Scald

You can have roses,
I'll chomp on the long grass fronds.
Hork 'em up later.


We took Ofuro baths a few times, years ago, here. A very American fellow gave us a tea ceremony. Awkwardly elegant. But he also explained to us that the tea should be made with water that was not boiling, because it "burned" the tea. In my mind, I rebelled at the word. It should have been "scalded." (The hot bath itself was wonderful, by the way.) There is something about large, all-American, long haired, white guys imagining themselves as tiny and exotic. Who am I to judge?



I do love words, the right word for the right job. Not that I'm not willing to use whatever is at hand for a hammer, or to verb a noun, or sillify adverbage. But, I like to keep repeats out of a paragraph, and if there is a proper technical term, I much prefer to use it. Burn is an oxidation process, or a rating of tissue damage, or subjective sensation. Hot water causes scalds unless the matter goes black - temperature sensitive paper going dark, skin goes red and blisters. There is searing and scorching and curdling, branding and charring, browning and sunburning, to go with over-application of heat. (I've been thinking of my days in the burn ORs lately.) Or appropriate application. Japanese teas may want lower temperatures for flavor, but that doesn't make caffeine (xanthines) more soluble in water at lower temperatures than boiling. Flavor is fine, but early in the morning, I want the stimulant. He could tell I wasn't buying his insistence that the less hot temperatures were the only way to treat tea.

That is why I love my native (and, sadly, only) language. There is always another word, with a range of meaning and specificity. More to learn, more to explore. There is no end to the vocabulary, new words all the time.


"The problem with defending the purity of the English language is that the English language is as pure as a crib-house whore. It not only borrows words from other languages; it has on occasion chased other languages down dark alley-ways, clubbed them unconscious and rifled their pockets for new vocabulary. "
- James Nicoll

Evelyn

I am reminded of my time caring for demented patients. I always simply met them wherever, and whenever they were, not worrying about trying to "orient them to time, place, person." I just played whatever part they assigned me, daughter, mother, friend, whatever, which seemed to be the right choice. I talked with the, often at cross purposes, but who cared. I had my head petted many times, as I adjusted brakes on wheelchairs, put feet in place, settled them onto the toilet or into bed. Took it as a kindly, parental gesture, a blessing. However tiring, it never upset me.

When Aunt Evelyn had her stroke, I, perhaps 13 or so, patiently answered her repeated questions, for as long as I was present. Long before good treatment, she had the best care available, in a hospital in Windsor, family around her. What time is it? Where am I? What happened? Every few minutes, the cycle began again, and I gave her an answer as though it was the first time she had asked. (Sometimes at that age, we have that kind of patience.) She eventually recovered with no apparent residual. I'm convinced it is because she is naturally left handed, and left handers tend to do better. They'd forced her in school to write right handed. I attribute her many health problems to this, and the scarlet fever. But she lived far into her 80s, felled by a cholangiocarcinoma. She always did everything up right. Tough old broad. I learned so much from her, that I have used in my job.

Dementia, Alzheimer's, both diseases so much harder on families than on the primary patient. Death of personality, but incomplete. Lost relationships, but without a proper burial. Incomplete grief. Partial amputation. A process of anguish, with elements of farce.

Guacamole

Spontaneously
Invited parents to lunch.
Good food. They seemed touched.


D's parents are good folks, kind hearted, thoughtful. Religious and a bit... hedged in by their beliefs. Visiting on a holiday can be somewhat fraught, with expectations we cannot meet properly. And we will not twist ourselves, less with each passing year. Pressure has eased from their side, as we all get older. Usually, when we meet on neutral ground, it's easier to talk about other things and be ourselves, and appreciate them for the gentle souls they are. I expect that watching their son still happy, and obviously well loved, after so many years, helps.

So when D suggested we go to lunch somewhere today and get a good meal, I thought, 1. Red Iguana, and almost simultaneously, his parents 2. So D called, just to see if they'd be interested. They met us there, and it was a lovely hour. A family with a small, beautifully behaved child sat next to us, to D's dad's delight. I am happy to see well attended children in public, this one was. And D's parents seemed to be rather touched that we called them out of the blue, for no reason, save to share their company. The cycle of obligation broken, affection works so much better.

Snow squalls interspersed with bright sun. Passive solar heating keeping the place cozy. Cat loves chasing the reflections from the laptop.

Poignant

1. If you blog anonymously, are you happy doing this? if you aren't anonymous, do you wish you started out anonymously so that you could be anonymous now?
I started out very anonymous, and gradually became less so, per my comfort level. I found no one I know at work, or friends, really gave a crap about blogs. These days, it's all about being careful on Myfaceinatweet. Anyone who knew me running across this site would, even without my photos of myself, know it was me. But for some reason, they don't. And I'm careful to keep anyone I write about very, very anonymous.

Then, I find this over at Futility Closet:

“The greatest pleasure I know is to do a good action by stealth and have it found out by accident.” — Charles Lamb

“The work an unknown good man has done is like a vein of water flowing hidden underground, secretly making the ground green.” — Thomas Carlyle

“Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.” — Alexander Pope

2. Describe an incident that shows your inner stubborn side.
As opposed to my outer stubborn side?

3. What do you really see when you look at yourself in the mirror?
A human being who has laughed and endured, the faces of the women in my family, my young self, the pores and dry skin. Same face I've been seeing for decades, really.

4. What is your favorite summer cold drink?
Beer. But I drink hot tea all summer, and that is really my beverage of choice.

5. When you take time for yourself, what do you do?
Write, mostly. Hot bath. Walk. Read.

6. Is there something you still want to accomplish in your life?
Just living moment by moment. Open to whatever comes up, better than the disappointment when a treasured dream turns out to be very different in reality.

7. When you attended school, were you the class clown, the class overachiever, the shy person, or always ditching?
I was the shy academic. If I'm in a class these days, I'm the clown.

8. If you close your eyes and want to visualize a very poignant moment in your life, what would you see?
I'm not big on poignancy. I tend to use that word sarcastically, like nostalgia and heartwarming.

9. Is it easy for you to share your true self in your blog, or are you more comfortable writing posts about other people or events?
I am all I have a right to write about. Not easy or hard, but what I feel capable of and what material I have to work with. I write about where my head is.

10. If you had the choice to sit down and read a book or talk on the phone, which would you do and why?
Read. I have a massive problem with phone reluctance. Even D and I only talk for a minute or so when we call each other,
"So, I'm on my way out, anything we need?"
"No, just come home. Is there anything I can have ready for you?"
"Put the kettle on?"
"I will. See you when you get here. Love you."
"Love you too. Bye."

About 99% of our phone conversations sound almost exactly like this. Books are lovely.

Beloved

Greeted by a cat,
Tail up, head butt, you are home.
Hugged, and belovéd.


Which is even better than a plain beloved.

Whether

Fugita Friday.


I miss weather reports. Our local news used to have a real meteorologist who would explain jet stream and likelihood of weather, and wear a white jacket for snow. I like meteorology. I had a teacher who would start each day with a map of the US drawn on the board, and a thorough weather report showing fronts and flow.

I like meteorology. That it's not as accurate because of cell phone towers. That we get more storms in large urban areas on weekends. How recently it became a real science, along with the railroads. That the tornado rating scale comes from Ted Fujita , a researcher who started by studying Hiroshima damage. I love thunder and lightening and strong winds. I once walked to work in bottle green tornado weather.

Nowadays, the local news sucks so badly. I have not watched it for my news for well over a decade, and the weather pisses me off more than ever. Mostly because I don't think it's decent news to editorialize on it, if it isn't over 80˚ F and sunny, they bemoan the bad weather. Well, that's boring weather, only to be expected in California and parts of the Mediterranean. Most of us live with the real thing, and however much we might bitch, don't really mind. Rain is good, snow is fine except for driving when it isn't cleared from the roads. A day isn't "fantastic" because of sun and warmth. Welcome after a long stretch of cold and gloom, but let's all live within our climatological means, people. And if it's on the news, keep your damn opinions out of my weather forecast. I'll complain privately if I want, you stay professional!

Sorry. Local news is trash. National broadcast news is worse. Who knows what is actually going on? Journalism is dead, at least on television. A few large newspapers, AP, BBC, are all that's to be had, all to be taken with a grain of salt. Sifting through, trying to make sense of it all. Or any small bit of it.

If they can't keep bias out of the weather, how can they claim a balanced view of anything else?

From Pacian, Too good not to add here.

Chatter

Easy warm silence.
Comfortable competence.
Words superfluous.



Had a rancher in for hand surgery today. Resident worried at how much dirt was under his fingernails. I suggested he wet one of our hand scrub brushes, and do a preliminary wash, which he did as the anesthesiologist did his thing. Not that it makes a real difference, a working man's hands have dirt ground in, every tiny cut with dark clays tattooed permanently into thick callus. The same for mechanics, the oil just ain't coming off. Ever. Probably not that much of an issue for infection, but I don't know if there are any studies on this. We put a glove over his fingertips, as a precaution. The surgeon mentioned brushing up on the kinds of infections that humans can get from cows.

My cotton OR hats have pretty much all worn out, the elastic is sprung, the edges growing frayed. So, having read my surgeon's hat all day, or the tag on it, I went to the same site, and for a quite reasonable price, ordered myself a few new ones. The tagline for the site is "You're going to look so cute!" Which is just silly enough to make me giggle. Got a red one, which I have not had before, although I do like red. Don't wear much of it, a pair of gloves, a few sweaters, more of an accent for me than a staple, but welcome.

January

January clouds
Black, bleak, blow dramatic.
Storms of a cold thaw




Another month of the retainer, more of the day than not. I admit, I have been stretching out the "while eating" time more and more, just to get out of the damn thing. But Straight Teeth doc says at least 16 hours, which I have easily done, each 24. All is more or less well. Must persevere.

Raw, wet windy day, not as cold, but it feels very raw and invasive.

Indulged in watching videos from the Engineer Cat Guys, (aka Yodeling Cats Guys.) Hard to believe anyone would think they were being abusive of their cats, so obviously affectionate, and obviously mellow cats who aren't bothered to start with. Moby wouldn't deal with it, except by leaving with great insistence. But I've known cats who can be handled that much, and it's cool. Cats who are mewing out of real irritation have a very different tone than the yodeling cats.

Idle soul, today. A minimal amount of vacuuming, one load of laundry, dishes run, then had to clean every glass. If we ever have our own place, we are getting the best dishwasher we can manage. Not much for a whole day, but there it is. Thinking of a nap.

Encumbrance

Walking in the door,
Disencumber, hang up bag.
Embrace and be home.


I have this routine, a hook I put the bag onto, as well as the wallet holding purse, take out the lunch dish, and worn hat dropped in the washer, hang up coat, hat, while sliding off shoes. Remove glasses, watch, snap keys to purse-strap. As though not really home until I can take all this off and put it ready for tomorrow. Wanting to hug D, and I do, depending on how much bulk I'm wearing, boots, gloves, scarf. Always good to have Moby wander out for a greeting. Takes me a little while to want to engage, talk. I want to simply be happy to be home. But I do need to decompress, stop being the one in charge, all efficiency and high-speed motion. Coast, and be myself, not Circulator! This takes me a while, depending on the day. Today, it took a while.

Weird day.

Healed

All but healed. Even the teeth are nearly functional. Still not up to more than the softest of front teeth biting, but no longer feeling awful. The retainer working better than expected. The lip still has quite the scar, palpable, somewhat numb, but much improved. A tiny, barely discernible, visible scar, but the feel matters and the look does not. Function back to just-fine-thank-you-very-much. Two months from a through and through split, teeth banged, face stunned. Faces heal so well, so quickly, though it feels at point of injury as though it never will.

Everything heals, just as it irrevocably changes. Never the same, but a new normal, a different function.

Straight

Look straight in the eye.
Nothing above, nor below.
Democratic cat.



Let's see, this week - politics, check. Religion, check. Sex? Sex is good. If I'd been blogging in my late 20s, early 30s, there would be a tale to tell. Nowadays, it's not the kind of drive it once was. Nor the source of pain and confusion. It is something comfortable and contented. I could write about it as I do dishes or daily life, but it's a private subject, and not just my privacy, and so out of bounds. Affection seems more integral, more important.

Money. Ah, an often heated subject. D tended to be a careful spender, unlike my own extreme tight fisted miserliness. I learned to be a bit freer with cash, he a little more thrifty. We did not have a huge gap in attitudes. We inform each other of larger purchases, discuss, agree, save, bemoan our lack of wealth, but would not be filthy rich. We would be very responsible with a windfall fortune, based on our innate caution and distaste for risk. We visited Nevada, and put $2 into the slots, got $4 out and felt quite rich enough. Picked up an abandoned roll of quarters, and felt deliciously evil. We are not thieves, but we are not over the top honest always. D once liberated a book from his school library that no one had checked out since he'd been born. For a Brewer's, a justifiable act of love. I stole a pair of leg warmers, unintentionally - but I did not bring them back once I realized I walked out with them in my hand. They fell apart at first washing, negating any guilt.

All in all, living an honest life, mostly, is easier than building a foundation of lies that will collapse unexpectedly.

Lesson

Nine-year-old Christina Taylor Green was born Sept. 11, 2001. She died in an attack attributable to the violent rhetoric that is fashionably dividing the world, although the shooter was certainly just a looney responding to the resonances. Her organs have been donated to a young girl in Boston. Giving life as she leaves. This sticks in my mind, this generosity of spirit. This small saint. This occasion I really hope there are saints and heaven, just for her.

A boddhisatva.

Let go of the hate that feels as good as heroin and meth, and ruins us as surely.

A lesson in compassion.

Turn away from the anger. If every one of us, each chose kindness over hostility, every moment of every day, we could handle the occasional mental illness as the aberration it should be.

Take the time to consciously be kind, start here. Gentle ourselves. Eschew the easy pleasure of ranting and raging, even, especially, inside our own heads. Think well of others, especially those most difficult, most anger-trapped people. They need to learn, they need to discipline themselves. Calling them on it it one thing, allowing ourselves high dudgeon, judging their souls, quite another.


Understand, forgive, add peace to the world, one drop at a time. Breathe in calm. Breathe out serenity. Every breath.

The simple acts are the most difficult. The most worthwhile.

Alveoli

When they wear large gloves
Easy to stretch the latex.
Small gloves, not so much.

I always remembered Laplace's Law, because of this, I glove surgeons and residents and fellows. I glove myself as well, but my size is average (7.) It's much easier to stretch a size 8 glove (big dudes), much harder a size 6 (for the small females.) Laplace describes why. Those small sacs of the lung are harder to open than the larger ones, or the tubes leading in, they can get clogged and harbor bacteria or tiny, tiny, tiny particles of pollution, and set up a cascade of inflammation. Little balloons are harder to inflate than large ones.

Surface area and volume do not increase equally together.

Important to remember if you want a giant ant menacing the earth in your horror movie. If you care about accuracy, that is.




Application in medicine

In medicine it is often referred to as the Law of Laplace, and it is used in the context of respiratory physiology, in particular alveoli in the lung, where a single alveolus is modeled as being a perfect sphere
In this context, the pressure differential is a force pushing inwards on the surface of the alveolus. The Law of Laplace states that there is an inverse relationship between surface tension and alveolar radius. It follows from this that a small alveolus will experience a greater inward force than a large alveolus, if their surface tensions are equal. In that case, if both alveoli are connected to the same airway, the small alveolus will be more likely to collapse, expelling its contents into the large alveolus.
This explains why the presence of surfactant lining the alveoli is of vital importance. Surfactant reduces the surface tension on all alveoli, but its effect is greater on small alveoli than on large alveoli. Thus, surfactant compensates for the size differences between alveoli, and ensures that smaller alveoli do not collapse.

The Law of Laplace also explains various phenomena encountered in the pathology of vascular or gastrointestinal walls. The "surface tension" in this case represents the muscular tension on the wall of the vessel. For example, if an aneurysm forms in a blood vessel wall, the radius of the vessel has increased. This means that the inward force on the vessel decreases, and therefore the aneurysm will continue to expand until it ruptures. A similar logic applies to the formation of diverticuli in the gut.[7]

Tail

We are very glad Moby has always liked the tree. More or less at different times, but he's always known it was His Tree. We were always prepared to use it as a bookshelf if he was going to be a Cat about it.

I have always pulled his tail, as an extension of petting his back, as a massage technique, gently but firmly, with affection. And he seems to enjoy it, circling around for me to stroke him repeatedly. If he'd ever objected to it, I would never have done it, but he seems to take it in good part. His happy place is right above his tail, and when I scritch there, he stands still with his tail straight up, sometimes his head seems to move down to rub the ground in pleasure of it's own accord, and I stretch his tail out and up, completing the caress.

This is not the same as pulling a cat's tail.

Commandments

Commandments . Not exactly ten.

Where is the compassion?


2 I am the Lord your God, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery
Now there is controversy. That the Israelites were actually Caananites, who spent time in and out of the Egyptian sphere, depending on water availability. Not exactly slaves, but certainly treated as most nomads were by established agrarian societies. Either way, you're not my bloody god, you imaginary pastoral idea of deity.

3 Do not have any other gods before me.
Like, all the ones you used to worship? And still do, to be honest.

4 You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.
"Like that one you wear around your neck, carry in your pocket, or those of the country you are sponging off of." Who says I worship those? Just a bit of luck, decoration, whathaveyou.

5 You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me,
Nice god you got there. Baby killer.

6 but showing steadfast love to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments.
Gotta keep the political control somehow.


7 You shall not make wrongful use of the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not acquit anyone who misuses his name.
Even though you are not actually allowed to say that name.

8 Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.
Does this mean Saturday and Sunday, and what about long weekends?

9 For six days you shall labour and do all your work.
How many hours per day? Is that a 40 hour week? How about feeding livestock, is that work? How about the women cooking, surely we don't have to go hungry one day a week?


10 But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns.
So, a day off? Hey! Slaves are OK? Nothing like a consistent, ethical, moral code.

11 For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but rested the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and consecrated it.
Yeah, but, well, being a god and all...


12 Honor your father and your mother, so that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you.
What if my parents beat me, or fuck with me?

13 You shall not kill/murder.
What about self defense? Please define Murder, vs justified killing, revenge killing, accidental killing, legal execution....


14 You shall not commit adultery.
Define "married."

15 You shall not steal.
What if I have to feed my family, and the one holding the food is a cheat?

16 You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
Ok, I'm on board with this one.

17 You shall not covet your neighbor’s house; you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or male or female slave, or ox, or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor.
Covet? Or just want the same for oneself? What if I am a wife? So, you're not talking to me, right? Yeah, well screw you.

Weigh

Cat steps on my legs
Strides up, weighs down the blanket
Urges us to rise.


Both of us slept in, D after a few hours lost in the middle of the night. Moby does not approve, and will jump on and off and on, purring loudly, when he deems us lazy lay-a-beds. Got on the side table, we have not seen him do this before, and batted at the light pull, which we have. One way to wake in a good mood, to purrs and play, however pointed and insistent. We made breakfast together. Cat would like to go out on the balcony, but we love him too much to expose him to such bad air. Dismal light drifts in, we are warned not to breathe.


Finished Three Bags Full, as recommended by Dale. A full story, funny and a little sad together. Mostly, I love that it takes me into a different way of thinking, ovine in this case. I think I may use the phrase "Beyond all sheepy understanding" from now on. Possibly magical, or possibly not, I haven't decided, but it could be both.

Lingering

A day that lingers,
Overstays, eats all the chips.
Night, open the beer.

I'm glad to have a Monday off, and I'm glad to honor MLK, but I'd love to see a national holiday for Rosa Parks. A perfectly ordinary person who'd just had enough, and acted with dignity and courage.

Lost power last night, at home, everything blinking in the morning. (I heard it, actually, no idea what happened.) And as we found out - at work. With arthroscopy, having all the routing and scopes not working leaves us dead in the water. Had to restart everything, still had troubles. A surgeon out with an injured back, cases cancelled, juggled every other room to keep it all going. Still ran three rooms late, mine latest of all. I don't mind, I've not had a late day for a while, it was my turn and fair enough. And I will have three days off in a row. As granny always said, "blessed be." Yes, that is how she expressed enthusiasm and swore, both. She would be 121 this year. Except that she's been quite dead for the last 28 years.

Mucky

Breathing mud, and worse.
Lungs object to such abuse.
Would leave if we could.





Oh, and a reason behind the whole Westboro Baptist Church thing, with Fred Phelps. The first sensible reason I've ever come across. In short, lawyers, and a huge scam.

Paper

"So, whatcha doing?"
Don't worry, just a hot bath.
"Damn, humans are weird."



On paper, we did not look good. I was (am) seven years older, then in the middle of an unfinished divorce, "experienced" as they say. As was known in the unit. He had not had so much as a girlfriend before, religious (ostensibly), aside from our part time army gig, neither of us had a profession, degree, or decent job. That would take a while. Different backgrounds, apparently different values. And yet. And yet, we fit. Surface problems only. We do what we can to keep our impact light, given that we are city dwellers. We value wit and education. We are neither of us motivated by money - though it would be so much easier if we did a bit. But we also husband our resources, save money, live moderately, have little interest in ostentation or luxury. D loves having milk about, me - tea and good beer. We agree about everything important, saving only our taste. In food. Literal taste. Even that, I've learned to like peppers, he's, well no he hasn't really come to like any other vegetables. He'll always give my cooking a good go. He loves that I know about art, I that he knows about music. To start with. After so many years together, it's hard to figure out which of us got which ball rolling. Our lives joined, and we share our lives. Moby joined us, and centers us.

I really love that we are good with sharing from plates at restaurants. I eat his carrots, he eats my olives*.

*Now, now. don't be dirty you.

Wire

The shelter warned us, six and a half years ago, that cat can be destructive. Can be hard on furniture and rugs, make messes, bad odors, be loud and disruptive. Wise of them, really, they want their animals to have permanent homes. They actually called our landlord to make sure cats were allowed there. Moby simply never lived up to these worst case scenarios, aside from the odd spate of thinking outside the box* - as it were. He's beat the hell out of a few wooly mice toys, a small area of rug fringe damage, nothing to speak of. He's ingested string and ribbon, which we are now intensely careful to keep away from him.

So when D sent an email this morning that he'd found his earphone cord destroyed by cat, I was a little surprized, confused, and sneakingly proud that the warnings had finally proved a bit true at least. I expect they'd been dangling, tantalizing. Still, go cat go. And don't do it again.



Took a long, hot bath this morning. Moby jumped off the bed, came in, mrrk'd at me, reached a paw up to peer in, nose my face. I assured him I was just taking a bath, he wandered off reluctantly, baffled, but whatever. Since I've been out, he's been head rubbing a lot. I stopped him before I had my legs dry. He's done that to wet legs before, and hasn't liked it much.





Air crappy, again. Predicted to be much worse tomorrow. Can't be pleasant for little lungs, either.


*"Oooo, I could pee here."

Oximetry

I don't know what I dreamed last night, only that the dream finished like a good story, ended like falling into deep sleep after a long, productive day. If there were a way for me to give that night to D, I would gladly have spent a sleepless night in his place. But sleep can't be given. We can be robbed of sleep, but we cannot have it as a gift. Anesthesia is not sleep, no matter how often we call it that, no matter how much it looks like sleep.

Odd overheard question this week, a surgeon telling an anesthesiologist that there is nothing more to be researched in this field. Anesthesiologist aghast. He'd like to be able to monitor exactly how much of the drugs are functionally in the patient, for one thing. Oh, they can watch vital signs (pulse oximetry only generally available within the last 30* years) and carefully titrate all their drugs, but there is no way to know how much is metabolized, how much actually in the bloodstream. Better drugs, a lot of new information coming out of doing so many nerve blocks with ultrasound, reports of myalgia with succinylcholine, are all research areas. He even mentioned acupuncture. Surgeon agreed, and subsided. This is part of what I love about my work, seeing the edges of ignorance shoved back a little.

Had my own ignorance shoved back as well. Removing metal from patients is not about electro-cautery (bovie) grounding issues. As the bovie is today, there is no issue of burning, only the much older models, with poor systems for grounding, were a problem. With current (ha) gel pads, even large amounts of implanted metal, the electricity does not cause burns. The machines simply won't function if the pads pull away. So, we remove rings to avoid swelling, and tape down piercings that won't come out to avoid pressure sores or loss of the jewelry. NOT, as I had always been taught, because of burns. And bipolar devices have never been an issue, as are used in arthroscopy, laparoscopy, and most hand cases, since the current is only at the tip of the forceps or coagulator.

Just as our newer c-arms, especially the mini c-arms, are just not much of a hazard as we use them in orthopedic surgery.

I also learned just this year that ortho means "right" or "straight" not bone, as I'd always assumed. In medical terminology, it's used as though it means bone, but that's Osseo, not ortho. I'm not going into how I missed the Pedi part. All greek to me.






*Pulse oximetry only became standard of care in the US in 1987. Imperfect as it is still. Glad I graduated nursing school after this.

Sand

A day that won't gel.
Watery, formless, empty.
Sit down, drink good tea.


Sand.

Glitter

Snow drifting around
Glitter snow globe souvenir.
Not even falling.

Twinge

Twinge went my shoulder.
Discordant muscle music.
Hips twanging along.



On the other hand, my teeth have suddenly started feeling quantum leaps better. Like they've settled in, with enough new bone holding them. I can even bite (gingerly) with the front two. I can worry less, now. Small storm blew through last night, a bit of snow, air better, though the inversion is trying to build up again. Bright sun warming up a small cat.

Asian

Cardboard cylinder,
Pur-eh from the Asian shop.
Keep-things-in keepsake.


Used the first one to pack yule ornaments into.

The tree's home most of the year. Then into the closet. It only knows happy times.


Our dishwasher is lousy. Our sixth, in various apartments, the only one we can't get to work properly. So once in a while, we do dishes by hand, in waves. This is the last batch. After cleaning the fridge today, as well.


Air and light bad. Unbreathable murk, not even letting proper light through. Blue discernible directly above, thick smog down here. Moby doing a fine job ignoring.

Soaps

Bothered by the No Soap experiment guy. Glad it worked out for him, like those who go non-shampoo on their hair. Some can, obviously. And I feel defensive about refusing to even try it. I don't use make-up, perfume, lotion only in the dry of winter - all products the vast majority of women won't even go out of the house without. And now I'm being out-naturaled by no-soapers.

Ain't gonna happen. I like soap. I like shampoo. I remember as a kid only washing my hair once a week. I have a school photo of my lank, greasy hair hanging like limp string. That was the year I started pushing for more frequent washing. I remember how common dandruff was. I remember how itchy my scalp was. I do skip washing my hair two days at a time when I'm at work, because I'm wearing a hat. Remember when everyone always wore a hat? It was on it's way to dying out when I was a kid, as the shampoos boasted of being "gentle enough to use everyday!" Oh, glory, I could have a clean head every day.

Yeah, we evolved without soap. We evolved with specific species of head and body lice. We evolved in small roaming bands of hominids. We didn't evolve to live in enclosed buildings with a lot of other people, we just made up most of our environment for the last couple of thousand years. We evolved without hats.

I keep thinking of the wedding some of our unit were invited to in Saudi. A tribal woman sat behind me with her little girl. Spiffed up for the wedding, in an elaborately embroidered dress, her hair braided and coiled. Clean, certainly, brushed and styled, but also flat against her head, dull, oily. Her best, and her hair looked like mine when I was a child and hadn't washed it. Not a criticism of her, just evidence that not all of us have the kind of hair or skin that thrives on our own body oils.

Seen the same in the Shorpy photos, a class of girls, a shop of women, and some have lush, curling hair, some have thin, uncooperative stuff, like mine. I suspect some hair, some skin, does do better with just water.

Should we all use less soap, get into the dirt more? Maybe. Some of us. Fewer chemicals, surely. Stop with all soap? Not me.


Also read an article in a waiting room, about older women who "do it right" by staying stylish - but classic, letting their hair be it's real color etc. i.e. Judi Dench, Jamie Lee Curtis, Well, cool. Then ruined it for me by declaring that for an older woman with grey hair to be appropriate, she must keep it short. Well, there you go. I should be myself, but not if I want my hair long. Loved long hair all my life, and always berated for it, never right. Buzzed it very short for a few years, that was wrong as well. Expected to get a cut and perm to be an adult, right along with stockings and skirts. All these artificial requirements having nothing to do with my own preferences and life.

I don't know why it irritates me so much sometimes. Hearing my parents' voices in my head, probably. They never go away, do they?

Ova

Eggs are my stop gap, but still good, food. D has a touch for making soft, lovely scrambled eggs. I do a more crunchy fried egg, sometimes even with yolk intact, the white all browned - "Slap in the face." Getting better eggs makes a difference, as well. Worth the extra buck or so, spread out over a half dozen meals.

It wasn't always so. My mother made poached eggs, in an aluminum poaching pan, four little cups suspended above the boiling water. I detested the globby white, and choked it down first, to leave the tasty yolk as the last bit in my mouth. Boiled eggs were not as bad, with plenty of salt on the rubbery white. Deviled eggs were for company, and paprika helped get the albumin down. The yolk was the only bit I liked.

I made eggs for myself badly, on my own at first. Survived on eggs and ramen. When an acquaintance made breakfast for us, I watched her egg frying technique with great attention. That helped. The ex was very proud of how he made (actually- ruined) eggs, turning them into crumbly, tasteless, masses of denatured protein. When I came back from Basic and wouldn't eat them anymore, he was quite put out. Army mess halls usually did a very good eggs, any style, and that's when they became a staple in my diet. With tabasco. Eating in diners, traveling, eggs are reliable. I've had inedible hash browns, horrible waffles, but the eggs have never been the culprit in a bad breakfast out. A local pub makes Eggs in Purgatory. Fried in a slice of french bread, with hot marinara, hash browns, bacon. When it's good, it's marvelous. When it's bad, it's still edible. (Only available for brunch, and the cooks are not equally good.)

A gentle touch, reduce heat a tad, dash of salt, or a bit of lemon pepper, Cholula and cheese, maybe a slash of salsa, all good.

Dinner

"What do you want then?"
Eggs, I say, as usual,
When I'm late, hungry.

Crap

Seriously, all those who come here to read who like poetry, (which begs the question of why you visit here) GO right now over to Blue Abstractions. Meet my dearest friend. She's doing A River of Stones, and I'm in awe. She deserves a few more comments, some encouragement.

For those not poets, well, maybe I should expound a bit more on Middleman. Cursed tuba. Trout zombies, Lucha Libre villains, boy bands from outer space, fashionista succubi, vampire Russian puppets, it's got it all.

Too much politics at work today, all around, I ducked beneath - as per policy. Gods I hate politics, and I'm awful at it when cornered. So, I made not a peep of complaint about my assignment tomorrow, although I usually allow myself the right to a brief whine. Not this time. Something ugly going on in the wider hospital system, and I want no part of it. Must keep lips shut.

I need a good philosophical theme to do a proper essay on soon. As it is, this is what you get. And a crap pseudo-haiku later.

Middleman

The tree is still up. We got a few errands run, but not much. D made lovely chili. Air very bad today, inversion murk to breathe. Sore throat, maybe brewing some virus, maybe just the smog. Muddling about.

Just watched the Middleman series, via Neetflicks. A very clever show, only 12 episodes shot, the 13th is only available as a script online - but is satisfying even in that form. I think it's low ratings had everything to do with being on ABC FAMILY, a terrible mismatch. On any decent cable channel, it would be a huge hit. Belonged on the Syfi channel, even. Very funny, references all over the place, and something rarely seen - a real affection among the characters. Nothing forced, but a palpable warmth.

A small gem, not to be repeated. So glad we came across it. This is why the big networks are racing toward obsolescence. They want to be hip and relevant, but they just can't do it.

Hoping for better air by the end of the week.

Wheatgerm

A dash of wheatgerm
on the floor makes a poor beach.
I swear the pile moves.

Lethargy

Bored or sleepy?

Next to Cleanseliness...


Godsliness.

He clambered into the bed above while I wasn't looking, and is now invisible, even his ear tips. The tree will come down tomorrow. We aim for Epiphany, but I have tomorrow off to pack all our treasures away.


Worrying, again. As usual. I long ago accepted this as part of my character, not a flaw, so long as I don't pick at it and make it bigger. A professional skill, for me, to anticipate the worst case and prepare for it. Better to be ready and not need than need and not be ready.

The lethargy of deep winter lays on me. I have an alarm clock that chimes. Normally, I wake on the first chime and decide to wait for the second, or third to get up. Seven minutes, three and a half, and so on until it chimes rhythmically - which I rarely hear. I heard it this morning, all that got through the drugs of sleep. D let it do it's work.

We talked about it before I went to bed last night. Better I'm irritated with the clock than with him. And it really is. (My father used to turn on the 100 watt bulb in the upstairs hall that would glare in on me. I had been known to get up, close my (ill fitting) door, and go back to bed in a fury.)

For a while, when D started getting up with me, often before me, he would come in to wake me. Finding me less than cordial. I don't wake cheery. I don't wake verbal. I snarl at questions. Don't like to be touched. Doesn't take me a long time, but those first moments are growling, snapping nipping - if there is a target. The Alarm and I have an Understanding. D took a while to learn not to get in the line of fire. Bothered me to be angry with him in the early morning, left me feeling terrible all day. We've worked it out, we're fine now.

D often is awake very early, an insomniac of long standing. As is his father. He's more or less come to terms with it, with occasional very bad weeks. I always ask him if he slept at all. Only an hour up through the night, and got back to sleep is pretty good. The cat walking on him repeatedly, and never even returned to bed, not so much. I've been a "good sleeper" since early infancy, told I skipped the night bottle very quickly, even then preferring sleep to food. I take my occasional bad night as only fair.

Worried about my teeth today, strange feelings, pressure. Did the ice test on them as soon as I got home, and all is well. A Phase, no doubt. I do worry. It's what I do.

Posey

This ain't no poem,
But organized, condensed prose.
Insult not poets.

Smiles

One more task ahead.
Then another after that.
Smile, do, smile again.

Slats

Open slatted sun.
Turn back, the cat sits, basking.
Gazes back at me.


These are not for A River of Stones project.

This is.

King

We made it to see The King's Speech. Something wonderfully small about it. A small story of fear, and friendship. Of people doing their duty to the best of their ability. Smart people, witty folks, caught up in History. Not a Big, Important story, just one well told. The reasons for this one man's damage uncommon in specifics, but the casual cruelty to children normal at the time. Common still, if not considered normal anymore. Not dwelled upon, not revealed easily, no psychobabble explanations. Someone to root for, because there are so few people on his side.

Not important, because the role of King held so little real power, although meaningful to the people of that world.

I did keep imagining Helena Bonham Carter as Queen Mother, as an 80-90 year old, in pastel suits and large hats. Not hard.

A full, appreciative, and adult audience helped. D and I were probably the median age, not a child in the place. There was some very funny gratuitous profanity. Flashes of wit, laughs in the midst of tragedy, even during the speech opening the war. The best laughs are always then, when the alternative is tears.

Difficult, intensely human characters.

Pod

Kicking a seed pod,
round, organic droppings.
It rolls ahead, waits.

Pinkness

We wandered down to the art center last night, since they were having a free open house. A variation on karaoke, songs playing, and locals filmed lip-synching to them. The usual gallery to wander through.

And a white elephant gift exchange. We brought two items that we would find difficult to get rid of any other way, and picked up two gifts that, although wildly inappropriate for us, we can easily find homes for. The YWCA shelter to be specific. A new, small, very pink, but name-brand shirt, and pink cap, would no doubt be welcomed by a young girl who likes pink, and could use some new, bright, well made clothing. I did laugh when I opened it. Oh, the pink of it all.


Correction, it's from a multi-level marketing thing, for a pseudo-health beverage. I may just have to give it to a thrift shop instead.

And a very "heartwarming" movie DVD will also find a place there. D was hoping for a copy of "Twilight" when he picked it, and exclaimed as he chose his, "Oh, please let it be Twilight!" The women running the event grinned, pretty sure, but not entirely certain, that he was being sarcastic. He was actually hoping it was, so we could run it with RiffTrax.

Snowed on us lightly, quite cold when the wind kicked up, we were not out for long. The official events downtown were of little interest to us, so we gratefully accepted the hints of staff as to which gifts were tickets to "Eve" and left them to others.

All in all, the first year in a long time we were not eager to see the back of. We are glad for our jobs, not having to move, generally good health, no drama. An inoffensive year, pleasantly unmemorable, no lasting harm done.

Very cold last night, down to 6F (-14C), not counting the wind chill. Left the heat on at 66F, and it came on several times. Passive solar heating working fine this morning. Moby enjoying sun-bathing, as well as the typical cat-bathing.