Stretched

Between us.

Staring at us.


We met with an agent last week. Articulated what we have talked about off and on over the years. What we want, what we don't. Mostly, it's been a process of elimination. We can't live too far from where D works, because he doesn't drive. So, a mile or so radius of location. Which suits me, so I don't have a bad commute either. No basement condos. We lived in some nice basement apartments, acceptable short term, but we're not going to buy one. We are not handy enough to get a fixerupper, so the functional stuff needs to be in good shape - furnace, windows, roof, basement dry, plumbing, electrical. Cosmetic aspects I can probably manage, in time.

I would like a garden, however small. In fact, a big yard would be more of a problem. We need just a little more space than we have. Right now 700 sqift* is just a little too little, with the bathroom through our bedroom. One more room will do us just fine, so about 1000 sqift total. We like enough light, we want a useful layout - decent flow. D would prefer a condo to have maintenance support, I am open but would prefer a home or townhouse, not wanting to deal with condo fees and homeowner associations.

And a place to put the car, garage, carport, or a place to put a heavy duty tent over it. Enough natural light. Newish furnace to be efficient, either AC or a swamp cooler.

Want to avoid squeaky floors, excessively tiny bathrooms, dangerous stairs, carpets - especially in apartment-beige, corner lots, ancient appliances that would have to be replaced quickly. After the one place we looked at yesterday, we added a rule of thumb - compromise on a number of things, but not a combination. One drawback, we can cope. Two gets iffy, three and we walk away. Because other problems will always crop up later on top of that. We want a place to live, it's not primarily an investment. It can't make us crazy within a year.

The cat needs a bit more space to run. We plan to net off an area outside for him.



*Sqift - Square Feet.

Laundry

Got three loads through.

Not getting my sweater right now, Moby has it. When he's done, he'll let me know.


Vacuumed. Recycled. Saw a couple of open houses. Nothing we could live in. Not that it matters, we are at least a year from being able to commit to a house. Not bad, but odd or old. One had a fridge from the 20s. The other was a store converted into a house, so the allocation of footage was awkward. Reminded me of some old, rural motels.

Still have towels to fold.

Monkey

This little pot is a survivor. Not a pretty one, an early effort. But for some reason it has survived. The whole phrase on it says, You get what everyone gets. You get a lifetime.

A few weeks ago, a rep was standing in the core with a look on his face that I get working with the surgeon he was working with that day. He was stressed and exasperated, being brave. I stopped, patted his shoulder, commiserated. Looked at him again, and decided he needed a hug. He was very touched, and it seemed to help a bit.

"I'm not usually a hugger, but you really looked like you needed it."

He agreed. He made a point to thank me later in the week when he was back (with a less frustrating surgeon.)

I'm not averse to hugs, I like hugs, but I don't like them forced on me. At all. Nor do I make a big deal of hugging other people. But once in a while, I give in to my instincts to reach out.

When I started at the current job, they used a term that grated on me to describe the "resource" assignment. A scrub and a nurse, usually, were responsible for making sure everyone gets lunch relief and breaks, and are available to turn over rooms, get supplies, whatever is needed. Done well, it is wonderful to have an extra pair of hands all day. Done lazily, it's a huge waste. Thankfully, most of the folks I work with are attentive, effective people. Most ORs and PACU's keep a spare person as a resource. But the term was Co-ho. As in Core Whore. Ok, meant to be funny, but it never struck me as such. So, I would refer to myself as Lunch Lady, or Floater instead. The last few weeks I came up with Core Monkey, and this term is being picked up. My hope is that it will replace the cruder, older word.

I do think words matter. But we all knew that.

Out

Out of tea, out of beer, out of pistachios.


But I do have more of all three.


So, a question. If my mother does insist on a relationship, pushes for contact, I have this idea. Not meant to be cruel, but will likely not feel good to her.

One requirement, she has to get to know me, not as I hid from her since I was small to refrain from alienating my only semblance of protection. Or dissembled later to protect her sensibilities and out of habit. But me, as I have lived, with my agnosticism, sexuality, tattoos, swearing, love of beer and Moby, - and criticisms of her. How? By reading this blog, a substantial, representative sample. IF that doesn't put her off, IF she still likes me after that, then, well, then I'll put whatever effort in to get to know her, as she is now. Call every week, even go out to visit as time and finances allow.

My SIL can set her up with internet, she's on fecesbook so I know SIL's at least that computer savvy. I will send mother my old MacBook, if necessary. OK, so this has to include her dealing for the first time with computers, but that's just an unintended benefit to her (she probably won't see it that way.) She is 84, as far as I know never even had a debit card - only uses checks.

Is this unfair? Impossible? She may never really push, she has every right to refuse. But, if she can't bother to get to know who I am, I'm really not up to putting in the effort to placate. Do I open myself up to her so completely? Well, I'm fine with that, and it will be a bit like asking her to look at me naked. I'll stand naked before anyone, if necessary. She can mind what she sees, but I'm asking her to prove it with her version of love, thrown into my version. Can a mother and daughter find love in bare truth? I doubt it, but if she wants it, and is willing to get to know me, I will meet her more than halfway.


Will I take her equally naked? Yes. If she is game, I will.

Too much to ask? Only she can absolutely decide, of course. But for me to ask this, as a condition for future contact? I'm not threatening estrangement, just knowing it will happen, and informing her. I will not, cannot, pretend and perform, again. It's truth from here out, or I walk away.

She's the one who taught me that if the other kids were playing mean to just walk away. She's not been playing fair, and I walked away. I have no problem doing it again.

Seeing

Progressive bifocals, in 7-10 days. A professional expense. Although they will come in handy at the store, another place where I have to play where-to-put-my-glasses, so I can see. No glaucoma, good. Still have anime eyes. Bella Donna. A bit freaky, really.

D switched his schedule, which he can do easily, and went up with me, took the train, which goes directly there. I was immensely grateful to have him there, as somehow getting poked in the eyes got me very irritable. He held things, and my hand, and filled in a few forms. I tried mightily to keep calm, but failed a bit. The frames cost more than I hoped, but they are pleasantly funky, and more to the point, hug my head effectively. I am determined to get used to the lenses. Gotta do what you gotta do.

Back

As in the OR, it's not rude when a cat turns his back to you. See those ears? He's listening. Sitting close by.

Wound up scrubbed in all day, on some difficult - which is to say frustrating - cases. Didn't have the correct (proprietary) screwdriver to remove some hardware put in two years ago, although we eventually got it from the main hospital. Most of the rest of the problems had to do with my issues with my vision. Surgeon in good humor, considering. And considering that he is often rather cranky, especially on a day with a dozen surgeries. Short staffed, which is why I wound up scrubbed in, leaving us one short for lunches and resource. A PRN nurse circulated for me, which is never fun, since one winds up doing both jobs to an extent. Last case in my room ended as room #1 ended, the other two rooms came down within the next half hour, so room #1 staff and I helped clean up the last two. Sterile Processing was also short a person all day, so we all wound up in there getting them caught up. I put away freshly sterilized sets, wrapped all the light handles I could find, and all the drill sets, which finished me off. I cried "uncle" and came home at 6.

Tomorrow, I get my eyes checked, and I expect this will include bifocals, possibly trifocals. I'm at the point where I'm thinking, whatever it takes.

So glad to be home, cat and guy beside me. Feeling loved.

Perpetual

Pestery thoughts. My mother wanting to see me, which is unlikely. I'm not about to spend my precious vacation time going to Buttfuck, Texas to visit people I don't much like. I certainly do not want to inflict this bunch of kin on my beloved D. More, I would not want any of them here. I'm not convinced it will be a good idea for me to have reestablished contact. Had to, for the sake of my own integrity. The price may prove very high in peace of mind. Well, somethings just have to be paid.

The idea of unconditional love, un-reciprocated love, seems to me akin to perpetual motion machines. A lot of people convince themselves it's real, because of a core lack of understanding. It's seductive, it's so appealing. That it can't work doesn't stop a lot of people from believing that it can. They can keep on pouring out love, without ever getting anything in return, forever. A never emptying bottle. It's magic, martyrdom, a mystery. It's insulting bullshit. My reconnection should have been treated with wary courtesy, not full flood "love." I'm not the prodigal son asking forgiveness.

Even many, or most, parents, (who I am willing to believe) are overwhelmed with a rush of protective urges toward their children, need to turn that pure emotion into a genuine interest in that small person, and accept interest in return. Because the better analogy to real love is of an electrical circuit. It has to go around, not just from one to another. And energy has to be put into the system. One must give, and accept in return, each has to strive to be worthy, and take everything given, and give everything in return. Both should feel hopelessly indebted, getting the best of the deal, unutterably grateful.

Even parents, maybe especially parents, if they want to love and be loved by their offspring all their lives, need to take that instinctive emotion - which needs another word, and gradually transform it into a real, loving, friendship. I've seen it happen, so I do know it is possible. My Massachusetts cousins seemed to do it by gradually including their children among the friends, until they were full friends, with only the memory of being kids in the relationship.

Real love is a verb, to treat each other lovingly. Anything else is a scam, a delusion, a wish. And wishes are as useful as wax screwdrivers and cotton candy anchors. And perpetual motion machines.

Closely

Hanging around.

House

Looked at an open house this afternoon, and ran into an agent we met, and very much liked, before. We'd walked into an open house, maybe a year ago, knowing that a house was a long, long time into our future, and liked her then. It was way too much house, and we were very upfront about not really being in the market at that point. Now. Well, now we are thinking that a year, year and a half from now, we might just as well own our own place. So we are getting our ducks hatched, with an eye to getting them in a row. Getting all the finances in order, meeting agents at open houses, training our eyes, educating ourselves. It's going to be quite a process.

Then we came home, ate lunch, I drank some beer, and with great trepidation, called my mother. Strange, how I did not recognize her voice. I aggressively changed the subject as she got weepy, telling me this was "the greatest day of her life." What? That the daughter who had to work herself up for a month to talk to her finally called? And even then, it took some Dutch Courage? But I went on Full Entertainment Mode, and jollied her along. All positive and amusing, the complete show. I could not stand her gratitude. I fulfilled my sense of duty. It's not love, but a functional kindness. She asked if I was still with D. Which rather shocked me. And when I told D, rather offended him. I assured him that, after all, she doesn't know him.

I'd begun to feel like I was worse than my brothers who couldn't bother to tell me, for me not to call her. She has sold the house (for less, in actual dollar amount than they bought it for in 1952 - this is Detroit) and her DIL is finding her an apartment near the oldest son in Texas. She will have family around her, and Texans who are notorious for being friendly. I gave her my phone number, since my brothers are not bright enough to find us in the online white pages. I have no compulsion to answer the phone if I don't want to. I can call as I feel necessary.

She assured me that at the end he (her husband, my ass of a father) did not suffer. And I know this is not probably true. Oh, he suffered, but mostly from his self inflicted anger and bile. Nothing to do with me, but I am content. I would not have inflicted harm upon him, and obviously wishing is less than useless, but it bothers me not at all that he had a difficult and lingering death. Brother and mother say that he went peacefully, the details tell a different story, one I have told to family myself. I recognize the platitudes, the code. In the end, we all walk that last corner alone, fast or slow, painful or peaceful, and I will accept whatever kind of death is mine. He would not have done so, of that much I am certain. He would have resented and whined throughout, worst of all, lied to himself and everyone around. I have seen the deaths of liars and dramatists, the chronic complainers and haters, I know he had that kind of death. He made it himself, then had to lie in it.

I always wished she would have a few years of quiet, without him. Despite the fact that he was her choice, and she stayed with him. But part of me would have appreciated her going first, and me being able to tell him exactly what I really thought of him. So, one sin my soul will not be stained with. She will have her son, her DIL, sometimes her granddaughters and great granddaughters to visit, no more snow, a far place.



So I sit, strangely unemotional, and a bit intrigued. What just happened? And why? I must wait and watch. But at least I feel I have done the Right Thing. For good or ill.

Slower

Long week, exacerbated by lost sleep due to reading a good book. Snuff is a nice, tightly plotted story. With every imaginable loose end tied up. Knowing the author is facing the end of his writing ability, eking out every sentence, every book, adds a sad taste, and understanding. He's settling his characters with satisfying endings, like a parent wanting to see each adult offspring in a good job, loved, and more or less on their lifepath. A kind of fierce love, and anticipatory grief, lurks under the surface.

I did not go to the last two (of four) ukulele classes. The instructor is faultless in this, he was nothing but encouraging. But after the second class, when I could not make my hand remember the second chord, and the frustration kept me from picking up the instrument for a week, I feared going back would discourage me completely. The instructor tried, told me to take all the time I needed, not to worry if each chord took ten seconds to do, not his fault at all. But I was the slowest student. And I understand now the fear of being the worst student. So easy to get hopeless, not bother, because it becomes so baffling. When everyone around you gets it, smiling in understanding. And I battle tears of shameful stupidity.

Most of my life, I caught on quickly, impatient of teachers who slowed down to a crawl for the slow ones. I wanted to soar, and I was weighed down by them. This time, I was the dragging stone, and I had to cut the rope. D helped me here, thinks that any but private music lessons are pretty much useless because of this variance.

I can't do B chords. I can do simpler ones. I may one day manage more difficult ones, but not for now, not yet. I am slow and have no natural talent. This will be like solving sudoku at first. Lots of practice to get mediocre, but it's good for my brain. I am better seeing numbers now. Playing music, which I have never really been able to do before, even if I'm never more than so so, forces me to think differently. Staying awake, aware, open. This is the point, really.

And the unexpected lesson of compassion for the slower students who once so irritated me.

Snuff

The day ran long, with much to do. I could have left at 430, my room was done. But there was so much to be put away, then sterile processing needed hands, so I wrapped light handles and k-wires and jergen balls. Then I cleared up one room, and as I was really going to leave, the last room was nearly done, so I stayed (as most of us do) to clean up that one as well, until 6. There is nothing so lovely as finishing late and having everyone descend and have it all put away and wiped before one can come back from giving report in Recovery. I have to say this for the folks I work with, they do the job in front of them, and they work hard, and fast. No shirking, not most of them.

Home now, we had chip & egg, with salad. Sweet potato chips, broiled, but they are very tasty. S's chickens' eggs, so especially delicious. There really is a difference with better eggs, vegetarian, uncaged chickens. It seems like a luxury, but they are so much better than the poor battery chicken eggs. And compared to the price of steak or chicken, really not more, the better (more expensive) ones. Even D, who has never been a fan of eggs, likes these. So very fresh, and I know the chickens are well cared for, including what S calls "spa treatments." They get their feet washed, to prevent bacterial infections.

Have some Epic Scotch Ale, and it's lovely. D ordered Snuff, which came today. He must love me, he's giving it to me, to read first. I'm already chuckling, and having to read bits to him. Wilikins and Drumknot are providing humor in the first few pages.

I'll be reading tonight, and tomorrow. Busy. Backsoon.

Parentage

Usually, I'm fairly good at jokes. I remember punchlines, and my timing is decent. But sometimes I remember the punchline, and can't remember the joke. "I'm never doing that for two bucks again" is one, the other is "Artie chokes three for a dollar." The last came to mind, because I got some very nice artichokes today, have eaten one, the other is cooking now. I somehow figured I wouldn't eat two, but then decided I would. D is not a fan of the vegetable. I learned to eat if from a Cypriot Greek friend, long, long ago. I used softened butter with lemon peel spice instead of mayo this time. I can't remember the last time I bought mayonnaise. Anymore than ketchup.

We had lunch with D's parents. They are not quite the exemplars of my Massachusetts cousins - who have made all their children into friends, and all comers welcome - in a way neither D nor I had ever experienced before. But they are lovely people, mellowed over the years and become less presuming, more just folks. I am very glad of them. My MIL assured me she likes all her DILs, all five of us. I realized slightly later that I am the eldest and most senior of them. D's older brother has been married a few times, the latest seems to be staying - so far. The next younger is on #2. The next two are still with wife #1. And so I get to be both oldest and longest lasting. We take some pride in this, although only privately.

MIL bothered on my behalf about not being told about my dead father. I really appreciate her being on my side. She also hoped I thought of them as parents. She is actually not quite old enough to be my mother, but I do think of them that way. On the way to meet them, I thanked D for sharing them with me. I'm glad to have folks.

I've not really felt any need for parents, not for a very long time. But for kinship, acceptance, yes. And that I already have.

Whites

Warm today, warmer tomorrow. Dammit, this is NOT how autumn goes. Still, cat is happy.


A confession, I've been watching this show about women buying wedding dresses in an upscale New York City salon. The drama and family interactions are fascinating. And part of me always wanted to try on posh gowns, a part of me that is still eight years old and would like a flowing tutu, crinoline, long swishing extravaganza.

When I was in a wedding as primary, I got an off white, lacy, calf length dress that was actually a skirt and top, from a department store, and did not cost more than $150. Eventually, I would get about $50 out of it in a consignment shop. I never considered anything more expensive. Very glad of that.

When D and I married, I owned a very nice teal dress, that I wore to his parent's living room, for the ceremony. When we planned our reception, seven years later, I looked for something poofy/formal, and failed utterly. A few steps into a Bridal Warehouse store, a brief bit of sticker shock and snowblindwhite* overload, I walked out. A mall store formal wear store, and several dresses later, I felt like a well wrapped sausage, not like anything pretty. Nothing fit in any way, but then, dresses have always been problematic for a wide hipped, broad shouldered, flat chested, plain tasted person such as myself. Not to mention cheap, and often poor. Skirt/shirt combinations are more flexible. Which is what I got.

When I approached my Confirmation, I had to have a dress. My mother was not about to compromise on that construction. It was the middle of the 70's, there was polyester knit everywhere, and none of it fit nor looked good. A long trial of a shopping began, and eventually ended with a dress with a green patterned smooth polyester top - sleeveless, sewn to a cream polyester skirt, and a boxy cream polyester jacket with a squared collar. Seriously, the best I could find, since red was an unacceptable color for a church ceremony, and I didn't want it too short. Actually, I didn't even want to do this, I was not sure about faith, worse, I was pretty sure I didn't want to belong to this church. And I had to wear this outfit that made me feel ugly. I was, 14, 15, it all blurs, but it all felt so coerced. The conversation with the priest to find out if I was ready to affirm my baptism was not at all what I hoped. He talked at me, and I had some real questions, which I realized he was not in any way prepared to answer. Form only, he talked about teenagers talking on the phone with god. Refusing would have made an already tense home situation explode, alienating my only semi-ally mother.

First Communion I had a real white frilly dress, and I did like it, and the veil. Wonderful costume. Too bad the shoes, bought long before to grow into, were still very large, and gave me blisters. A boring mass, like all masses, no moment of revelation when I had the host on my tongue, just a bunch of obnoxious children around me, and the pretty dress a slight compensation.

Maybe this is why I never much valued a lush wedding dress, despite a continued fascination with it as costume.


And this is why I don't contact my mother. Every time I think about talking to her, I wind up shouting at her in my mind for insisting on actions that should have been optional. Which I could have let go, if only she'd made any effort to actually bother to have any interest in who I really was from the moment of puberty or at any time during my adulthood. I reflexively edited everything I said to her, so as not to offend her. Because her unconditional love for me did not extend to my not being catholic, or being sexual, or having a drink, or anything else that she considered vital. Like not drinking milk at every meal, or wearing jeans, or not ironing shirts. Yeah, best to let it be. She'll only deny it, or beat herself up at me, or claim she doesn't remember, or say she didn't mean that by it.

Still tangled up in her. All very sad, with no solution. Or I want to rail at her about her sons' lack of human decency. At their half-assed non-attempt to reach me to let a woman know her father has died. Even if they knew I wouldn't care, this is essential, this is basic. That I had to call them still baffles me.

Humans, who can figure 'em?



*I"ve never looked good in white anyway. Had to wear white for nursing school, and it was not flattering. Glad to get into colored scrubs. Although, now that the hair has gone grey, it's not as bad.

Moose

Getting cranky in my old age. But, well, I don't like to be messed with. Got a request for a submission from someone unfamiliar, and assumed it was spam. Convinced when they put a comment on this site. I distrust any kind of pushiness. Selling me a bill of goods, I assume. Always. Anyone trying too hard is intrusive. If it's not an outright scam, it's certainly not honest and legit. I continue to turn inward, hostile and distrustful. A fearful, nipping, growling cur. Raw nerves, all bumped.

I have come to the awareness that I will never make any income with my writing. There are way too many really good writers out there. I am not one of them. The business does not interest me. And I absolutely do not want to be the Nurse that Writes. No. Not even close. I will not, do not, can not represent other nurses, the way they think, their view of the work. I see it from a very different perspective that is not representative. I take it very seriously, but it is a job, not an identity.

The novel will never gel. I know this as well. I may allow myself to fantasize about it on long nights, but it's not going to happen. Not even close. Anymore than I will ever do a podcast of any interest.

Not going to class tonight. Have not played this week, aside from about fifteen minutes. Not up to the frustration of last week, not today, not tonight. I can't remember what an A or G feels like at all this week either.

If the call for submissions was legit, this was not a day for it. Bad luck them. I'm in too much of a mood of self immolation, hiding state of mind to react otherwise. This post belongs on the other site, but I don't care enough to move it.

Tasty

Watching Naked Science show about feathered dinosaurs. I think if I'd seen this as a kid, I'd have liked dinosaurs so much better. I love that D likes this stuff too. That they were colorful, funny creatures, capable of anything. No doubt including seeing color, and being smart and colorful. Maybe like mynas, they could talk as well. A whole pre-avian society.

It's all about chickens. Which came first? Well, I've long reasoned that the proto-chicken's ova mutated to produce the first real chicken - as an egg. The egg had to come first. Or, more pedantically, there have been eggs far longer than chickens. But, it does appear that chicken-like creatures have been around for a breathtakingly long time. Chickens can't quite fly, either. Humans ate chickens just like every other predator, probably from the moment they evolved. Mudflat chickens. Perhaps why everything edible tastes like chicken. The template for being tasty.

Chicken say, "Yeah, laugh all you want. I'll be here eating the cockroaches long after you are dust."

Almonds

For a long time, I have dropped almonds in my tea, and fished them out to eat them, the outer skin falls away, and they are warm.

I used to eat potatoes whole, and raw. Like eating an apple. With a little salt.

It occurred to me yesterday that, although I hoped for my mother's sake that he would die first, and she would have a few years of peace, if he survived her - I could tell my father off. Really tell him what I thought of him, use language to shock even him. Now, all that is going through my mind is my own reasons for detachment from her. So much I had to edit, couch, not say at all. And she often said, the less said the better. In this case, I think she is right, and I will live by her rule.

Watching Planet Word, Uses and Abuses, Stephen Fry listening to Brian Blessed swear a blue streak, both of us rolling with laughter. "Oh, shit I've said fuck, oh fuck I've said shit." I really don't swear much these days, but I love having the option, under my control.

Beans

Moments and days stream.
Time slipping through, my fingers
plunged into dry grains.






Have you ever been at a place that sets out dry beans, coffee or barley sort of thing, on the table? A couple of places here do, and I cannot keep my hands out of them. As I once loved bowls of pennies, or sand in the sandbox, or rice. Any large amount of small coherent things that are smooth and dry and move around each other. I've always been a very tactile person, and this is a powerful lure. More than fabric, more than large, waxy leaves, more than lustrous hair.

Pouncing

Watching.

He spots the ribbon.


Pounces. Cat wins. Cat always wins. Cat makes the rules of the game, which helps.


Snow and clouds, as seen coming out of work. On Thursday, when I saw how much snow stuck up there, I couldn't help laughing. The hot summer stranglehold is broken. There may yet be mild days, but the season has turned.


Scrubbed in all day, four long cases, and me aching and bruised. Swathed in x-ray gown and thyroid shield, sweating for ten hours. Glad to be home, glad of coolness. Up for several hours during the night. When I returned to bed, Moby jumped up as well, so I gave him a thorough head scritching, and he purred exuberantly, then went back to sleep on D. Snuggled so hard, D felt he was being shoved off the bed. Amazing how ten pounds of cat can have so much force, while snoring.

Padded

Full day, well done. Fell rather hard after the first case, but on a well padded bit. So, I will have a bruise on my thigh, but no other harm done. I did bump the O2 tank, which gave me a flash of worry. Those things can go off with a lot of energy, hit just right. Not like an ungainly fall would embarrass me. I think I'm pretty much immune to that kind of self consciousness.

At some point this morning, it snowed outside the windows, and word raced around. More like sleet. Still, when I walked out after work, I did not quite expect white mountains, perhaps another 500' up from there. Amazing, last Friday it was 90˚F.


Continuing to watch Inspector Lewis. Really, Oxford needs to stop offering Firsts and A levels in Creative Literary Murders. Especially the Practicum. Sheesh.


Ukulele class last night. Not surprisingly, I still can't play. Lost it at the first chord, to my frustration. But I continue to learn and get a lot of grounding that I will build on. Slowly, oh so slowly. I look at my recalcitrant left hand, and consider the value of training my brain in something new. Yes, well, I'll do the extremely difficult of the simple chords, and put off the impossible ones until later.

Heard about Steve Jobs on the way up. Thing is, when I heard about his diagnosis, I knew he didn't have long. No one lives long with pancreatic cancer. I'm just glad I got to hear him in person once. The Power of Steve was a Thing to Behold. He lived a very useful life, and that is wonderful.

Shed

Moby loves sitting between us, getting his chin scritched. He wraps around my hand and holds on. I gave him a thorough brushing yesterday, got a huge wad of fur off of him. He is not a heavy shedder, but once in a while he seems to be particularly itchy, and will just luxuriate under the brush.



The roses in front of our building. I'm trying to figure out how to do a manual focus on my oh-so-automatic digital camera. The light was strong and strange last evening.


No changes in the leaves, all either green or dead brown. I've seen this happen here before, when the first winter storm just strips the still green leaves, often breaking a lot of branches and taking down whole trees with microburst winds out of the canyons.


It's a lovely cool morning, lots of clouds, some winds. Moby spooked. The blinds blew in on him, and he stares accusingly at me, from the other side of the room now. I'm no help, I just giggle. Poor cat.

Cusp

The season is on the cusp of revolution, over the horizon, but sending harbingers. Change upon the wind, the last of the summer heat, grasping. Tomorrow, tomorrow should be much different, as the wet Pacific front resets all the switches. There may well be snow on the mountains by the weekend.

The gout of emotion and memory has ebbed away, leaving only grime and dampness. There needs to be a word for this, which isn't grief, not even for what wasn't. I'm long past wishing for a different past, or a different set of kin. I am the useful mess I am because of who they were, and what I managed to make of that.

What to call the reaction to the death of someone hated, but somehow important and entwined in one's life? It yanks, hard, on all the other memories. I thought I'd be joyful, relieved, eased in heart. Which is not how it felt. Maybe just because I have witnessed death, and although it causes me no fear, it has my respect. I know how people die, it is a solemn business. The sense of lightness, of a burden laid down has happened, but the weight was already mostly gone anyhow. The last stone, left on the grave.

Calling my brother was the right decision, no question. And I am pleased with myself that I handled that with calm detachment. I listened, asked questions, let him talk, gave away very little. I took in his story of the death of our father, and I translated it into my own version. Failed to get his email address properly, and he didn't make sure. Tried several versions, no response, which is fine. Well, can't say I didn't try. Sorta.

Soon, I will walk in the wind and rain, face into another year, another winter. They begin to blur, but I love the chill no less each time.

Ecru

Strange ecru boredom.
Dull, invariable brown.
Yearning for wild storms.

Dreamed I was in a weird, plotless sci fi film on an alien station under nuclear attack, with lots of corporate logos and a bad soundtrack song, a time-card that wouldn't work, and I had to babysit something - possibly several enormous cats.


For the better part of the last month, the weather has been the same 80 high/60 low every damn day. Three more days of it, and then, possibly, maybe, it will all change.

Gulf

Know how to be forceful,
Without losing careful sensitivity.
Flow with the streaming life,
Let life pour through you.

Unstoppable, finding your way,
Innocent and open.

We see the bright,
Because of the dark.
We reflect the patterns.
Be a clean mirror, live truthfully,
Sounding and echoing the infinite.

Accept praise,
Keep humble balance.
Find your lowest level.
As water does, so does the tao.
Percolating up, evaporating into clouds,
Raining down. Everything returns to unmarked forms.

When a block becomes a letter, it is useful.
The wise use their words well, but say little.
Keep starting over cleanly.

Gulf Stream. The great, warm ocean current which flows out of the Gulf of Mexico (whence its name) and, passing by the eastern coast of the United States, is, near the banks of Newfoundland, deflected across the Altantic to modify the climate of Western Europe as far north as Spitzbergen and Novaya Zemlya. It washes the shores of the British Isles.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, pg. 423.

Shaking

Yesterday it got to 90˚F. So strange for the sun angled so low and the heat so high. Last hour of work, very nauseated and dizzy, got some anti-emetic from recovery before I left, sat on the cold tile floor of the locker room until it kicked in. C, who got me the drugs, spotted me on my way out, and told me to keep the AC on the whole way home. Excellent idea, nevermind the extra gas this time.

Good thing too, or I might have missed, or rather hit, the idiot jaywalking though the traffic who ran out from between stopped cars to my left into my lane without looking, on her cell phone. About three car lengths from an actual pedestrian crossing. Thankfully, I did manage to stop, as did the guy behind me. But it was close, and I still don't think she realized.

D feeling much the same, so we ordered Chinese, and kept each other miserable company. Watched some Inspector Lewis, for the sake of Kevin Whately and Laurence Fox, and other actor spotting. Certainly not for the ridiculous plots. Comfort food, comfort show. Anti-histamines against the massive amount of sage pollen, a hot bath, crossword puzzle (well, half done) and sleep. Both much better this morning.

When I say I grew up going to funerals, it's not really an exaggeration. Big families, I was the youngest child of a youngest and second youngest child, so by the time I came along, the great aunts and uncles regularly died off, and that was how I got to know most of my extended kin, the cousins - mostly maternal, but some paternal as well. Between high school and college, I lost both grandmothers, a few uncles. A funeral meant a funeral home, everyone gathered, a bit sad at first, then the stories would start, then the jokes and laughter. A large, loud clan, maternal side very funny. Maybe being small, I didn't catch all the undercurrents and resentments, or didn't take them seriously. Like holidays with everyone together, all I can remember is the play and laughter and ease. It all felt fun and joyful to me, so much different from my own house.

And I think some deep part of me expected this experience again. Impossible, of course, which I knew as soon as I realized what was missing. There will be no community to make it feel normal, no mutual acceptance. I can tell no loving, humorous stories of my father, only sad, explanatory tales of how it all went wrong. Raised by his older brothers, his own father dead by the time he was in his early 20s, poor education, functionally illiterate. A man who probably should never have married, certainly never raised children. He could have been the good guy in the neighborhood who shoveled snow from the walkways, helped fix cars and bikes, pulled funny faces at the kids and bullshitted with the other old guys at the diner every morning. He wasn't really a bad person, just a bad father - a bad father to me, to be precise.

I didn't find out until a few years ago, from dear Mass cousin, that my father and eldest brother were not liked. Because my father was one to get on the floor and be silly and roughhouse with kids - that they all seemed to think Uncle R wonderful. I thought the show he put on in public was effective. Only so much later did I realize that they could see through it. They just couldn't DO anything about it.

The drinking from the fire hose of memory eases, down to a steady stream. Endeavoring to slow it further, until it's down to a few drips and trickles. Seeing my way through. Nothing has really changed. But life does feel a bit lighter, now that the shaking is over.


Awaiting autumn appropriate weather, expected within the week. Not today, though.