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Saturday, March 31, 2007
Fool
I'm glad yesterday wasn't today, because if yesterday was today, I would suspect it for an April Fool.
I thought I had the day off, having misread the counterintuitive codes for an odd shift as a day off. (H should mean Holiday, not 1100-2100.) I slept in, wrote quite a lot, ate cereal, drank tea, ruffled Moby, planned a dither downtown, all the usual day off stuff. At noon, I got a call. (Yeah, they didn't notice I wasn't there for an HOUR.)
"You are scheduled to work today."
Oh. Oh crap. On my way. Gathered, ran.
But it had been slow all day, and there was plenty of staff, so I did not so much as cover a lunch, everyone got a good laugh, much of it derisive of the charge for not just letting me have the day, or just coming in at shift change. Aside from needing to take my own lunch, not having eaten, I didn't really mind just hanging out, being generally helpful. Even at 3, K wanted the room I'd been assigned to, and I, feeling contrite, agreed, and was left momentarily free, again.
I was a second set of hands for a large trauma, industrial accident. Then helped with an injured child, or rather her parents who had been very brave for their child, but fell apart once she was under and they left the room.
"I feel so foolish!" Cried mom, as she wept, outside.
Two of us assuring her this was normal, she was fine, of course she's crying, she did wonderfully, the kind pedi surgeon stopped on his way in to rest a hand on her shoulder and promise his best, that the child will be fine in no time. Of course, including dad who was staying stiffly brave as well. Let her get it out, and offering comfort and distraction, as the nurse for the child was doing her work inside the room. Yes, that little one will be fine, in good hands, will heal.
I finish up two other rooms, clean up, necessary busyness.
Then I check at the desk, and there is another trauma, that will turn out not to be the simple washout promised. I call the wife, out of town, to ease the worried patient. We talk for a long while, (as anesthesia does their prep work.) I try not to scare her, let her take in just that he's injured badly enough to need immediate surgery. I was on that side with D, when he smashed his elbow, I know. The surgeon will call later, give her a full, accurate, informed account. I order her to eat a nourishing meal, distract herself and their child, play a game, watch a movie. Try to anyway.
In the cab (I couldn't deal with the T last evening) I realized that the last big trauma I did before leaving SLC involved two men crushed by a Jeep, lower leg injuries. Last night, I was involved in a trauma where two men were crushed by a cab, both with lower leg injuries. (Both made the news, or I wouldn't mention.) We will leave Boston three years to the day that we came.
Today, I shall meditate on the number 23, and the writer Robert Anton Wilson. I will read the whole of the wikipedia article on Aquatic Ape Theory, and the May issue of the Fortean Times. I will get on the T, and let my feet wander, open my eyes to other wonders.
While wary of rogue cabs and jeeps.
I thought I had the day off, having misread the counterintuitive codes for an odd shift as a day off. (H should mean Holiday, not 1100-2100.) I slept in, wrote quite a lot, ate cereal, drank tea, ruffled Moby, planned a dither downtown, all the usual day off stuff. At noon, I got a call. (Yeah, they didn't notice I wasn't there for an HOUR.)
"You are scheduled to work today."
Oh. Oh crap. On my way. Gathered, ran.
But it had been slow all day, and there was plenty of staff, so I did not so much as cover a lunch, everyone got a good laugh, much of it derisive of the charge for not just letting me have the day, or just coming in at shift change. Aside from needing to take my own lunch, not having eaten, I didn't really mind just hanging out, being generally helpful. Even at 3, K wanted the room I'd been assigned to, and I, feeling contrite, agreed, and was left momentarily free, again.
I was a second set of hands for a large trauma, industrial accident. Then helped with an injured child, or rather her parents who had been very brave for their child, but fell apart once she was under and they left the room.
"I feel so foolish!" Cried mom, as she wept, outside.
Two of us assuring her this was normal, she was fine, of course she's crying, she did wonderfully, the kind pedi surgeon stopped on his way in to rest a hand on her shoulder and promise his best, that the child will be fine in no time. Of course, including dad who was staying stiffly brave as well. Let her get it out, and offering comfort and distraction, as the nurse for the child was doing her work inside the room. Yes, that little one will be fine, in good hands, will heal.
I finish up two other rooms, clean up, necessary busyness.
Then I check at the desk, and there is another trauma, that will turn out not to be the simple washout promised. I call the wife, out of town, to ease the worried patient. We talk for a long while, (as anesthesia does their prep work.) I try not to scare her, let her take in just that he's injured badly enough to need immediate surgery. I was on that side with D, when he smashed his elbow, I know. The surgeon will call later, give her a full, accurate, informed account. I order her to eat a nourishing meal, distract herself and their child, play a game, watch a movie. Try to anyway.
In the cab (I couldn't deal with the T last evening) I realized that the last big trauma I did before leaving SLC involved two men crushed by a Jeep, lower leg injuries. Last night, I was involved in a trauma where two men were crushed by a cab, both with lower leg injuries. (Both made the news, or I wouldn't mention.) We will leave Boston three years to the day that we came.
Today, I shall meditate on the number 23, and the writer Robert Anton Wilson. I will read the whole of the wikipedia article on Aquatic Ape Theory, and the May issue of the Fortean Times. I will get on the T, and let my feet wander, open my eyes to other wonders.
While wary of rogue cabs and jeeps.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Connections
I blame James Burke.
Got to hear him speak, in person, once. An Impressive and genial and wonderfully lively intelligence. But this was later. First, I saw him on PBS.
He presented the world, a world likely to end soon, as a complex, interconnected, inscrutable, funny old place. As a construct in constant flux. When I first saw Connections, or maybe The Day The Universe Changed, my universe changed. I had been quivering on the tipping point. I honestly cannot say which came first. But something broke free, like the ice dams on the Scablands.
What is more, that change has never stopped, because I will never make assumptions about reality and expectations ever again.
I grew up with a concrete religion of absolute right and wrong, heaven hell limbo purgatory. Inescapable abusive, hard working, bring home the paycheck father, passive and judgmental, caring cooking mother. Assumptions like, 8 am is early in the morning, and sleep at night, and privacy is necessary, and I chose my own clothes, stay warm, have the sense to come in out of the rain, leave others some space, keep clean, don't shout.
I needed work. I needed to get back to school. I had unformed unease about the marriage I had chosen in ignorance. I joined the military, the part time one, National Guard. Raised my hand, and swallowed hard, allowed myself to be transported across the continent to a different dimension.
Where 0330 can be a time to start work. Where being woken for an hour in the middle of the night to be a fire guard is normal. Where I am told not only what clothes to wear, but precisely how to wear them, from moment to moment, what part of the floor not to walk on, when to take my boots off, when to instantly hurl myself face first onto the dirt, shower naked beside thirty others, ignore frozen toes, march through puddles, stand with my toes touching the heels of the boots of the woman in front of me, and scream my throat sore all day long.
If I let myself, I can feel all too well for those caught in the altered reality in this damned prolonged stupidity. I know, although only brushed by it, how profoundly changed they are and will be. I am in speechless despair that oozes into dark rage at those who refuse to understand the cost. Who refuse to give up their artificial assumptions about how they think it should be.
I began to breathe that first dark morning of Basic. Another time was the first time I kissed D, and he said "I love you." And when we decided to come to Boston. And when we admitted we wanted to go home, and that home was where our friends are. And when we saw Moby on the Animal Rescue League website, I knew he would be our cat. D knew when he met him. The first time I heard Sacred Harp. The first time I threw a cylinder in clay on a wheel. The first time I was lifted away from the earth in a plane. The first time I heard D play guitar. Thousands more as a nurse, first injection, first time cleaning up excrement, first incision. The phone call when D told me he thought he broke his arm, and later when Brenda told me it was a bad, bad break.
Each time, I opened my mind, and changed in response.
The universe transforms with every breath.
Got to hear him speak, in person, once. An Impressive and genial and wonderfully lively intelligence. But this was later. First, I saw him on PBS.
He presented the world, a world likely to end soon, as a complex, interconnected, inscrutable, funny old place. As a construct in constant flux. When I first saw Connections, or maybe The Day The Universe Changed, my universe changed. I had been quivering on the tipping point. I honestly cannot say which came first. But something broke free, like the ice dams on the Scablands.
What is more, that change has never stopped, because I will never make assumptions about reality and expectations ever again.
I grew up with a concrete religion of absolute right and wrong, heaven hell limbo purgatory. Inescapable abusive, hard working, bring home the paycheck father, passive and judgmental, caring cooking mother. Assumptions like, 8 am is early in the morning, and sleep at night, and privacy is necessary, and I chose my own clothes, stay warm, have the sense to come in out of the rain, leave others some space, keep clean, don't shout.
I needed work. I needed to get back to school. I had unformed unease about the marriage I had chosen in ignorance. I joined the military, the part time one, National Guard. Raised my hand, and swallowed hard, allowed myself to be transported across the continent to a different dimension.
Where 0330 can be a time to start work. Where being woken for an hour in the middle of the night to be a fire guard is normal. Where I am told not only what clothes to wear, but precisely how to wear them, from moment to moment, what part of the floor not to walk on, when to take my boots off, when to instantly hurl myself face first onto the dirt, shower naked beside thirty others, ignore frozen toes, march through puddles, stand with my toes touching the heels of the boots of the woman in front of me, and scream my throat sore all day long.
If I let myself, I can feel all too well for those caught in the altered reality in this damned prolonged stupidity. I know, although only brushed by it, how profoundly changed they are and will be. I am in speechless despair that oozes into dark rage at those who refuse to understand the cost. Who refuse to give up their artificial assumptions about how they think it should be.
I began to breathe that first dark morning of Basic. Another time was the first time I kissed D, and he said "I love you." And when we decided to come to Boston. And when we admitted we wanted to go home, and that home was where our friends are. And when we saw Moby on the Animal Rescue League website, I knew he would be our cat. D knew when he met him. The first time I heard Sacred Harp. The first time I threw a cylinder in clay on a wheel. The first time I was lifted away from the earth in a plane. The first time I heard D play guitar. Thousands more as a nurse, first injection, first time cleaning up excrement, first incision. The phone call when D told me he thought he broke his arm, and later when Brenda told me it was a bad, bad break.
Each time, I opened my mind, and changed in response.
The universe transforms with every breath.
Nap
FYI, Moira's is turning into a lovely wee photo blog.
And I propose that we celebrate 3 April as Princess Caraboo Day.
Long ago, I shelved books for a meagre living, supplementing my student grants. On Saturdays, I always covered an eight hour shift at the main library, and on my half hour lunch, I would quickly eat, then shuffle into the sleep room. I almost believe this is a false memory, a dream, so antitheical to today's business practices. There it was, with four cots, shielded by screens from each other and the door, a dim table lamp. A place to rest, to elevate feet and take a nap. That short sleep always healed my mind, a reverent retreat away from my own churning worries.
The absurdity, that a library kept a place for employees to rest, but that a 24/7/365 -open hospital, with full night staff, does not even have couches. No place to lay a weary head, or raise swollen feet, save on a long quiet night, not in the lounge, but on the OR tables. Admittedly, the padding is quite good, but they are very narrow. And with the positive air pressure, and no warmers or draping, bone chilling.
The reason, I get asked this every week, that ORs are cold, is in part real, and in part perceived, and in part wind chill. The real part is that if we keep them too warm, the surgeons and scrub, in hat and impermeable gowns and gloves, or the circulator running around, get very warm if the temp is above 70, or indeed 65. Like having a heavy coat on a spring day. The perceived part, is that a patient who has not eaten, not slept well, anxious and in thin clothing, lying on a table, is likely to be cold even if it is 70. The wind chill has to do with environmental design and infection control. The OR gets the cleanest air in the hospital, which is pushed out to the rest of the place by positive air pressure, creating a breeze. So, it feels colder. Which is why we use warm blankets, warmed pads under, and warm air blankets over, leaving the room and staff cool enough not to pass out, while keeping the patient warm. Also, one of the side effects of coming out of anesthesia, as the body metabolizes the drugs, is profound shivering and shaking, usually transient, not harmful.
But I digress.
I love the Siesta idea, and I think afternoon naps should be more common. Perhaps in the North, with winter daylight so short, sleeping during the scarce light feels wasteful. But a nice five o'clock sundown snooze could substitute. Sleep should be valued, instead of disdained.
My brother, retired Air Force, all bluster and condescension, boasts that he only needs five hours sleep a night, why waste half his life sleeping? he tells me, as he mocks my love of a good nine hours a night if I can get it. (Military folks think 6 years is nearly half of the 20 to retirement, they don't add so good.) I think he lives his life half asleep, cheating himself of doing it right in the first place. Some research coming out - that chronic sleep shortage shortens life. Apparently, time spent sleeping is not deducted from a human life.
On my days off, Moby still wants to be fed at 5am, or 0430 for preference. He walks on us, checks my face to see if I am going to move. When not, he flops down on my ankles, goes to sleep, sure to wake when I do finally shift. Why waste energy walking on people? Take a cat nap.
Let's all put our heads down on our desks, and sit very quietly. Better yet, a mat on the floor, or stretch out on the sofa, put our abused feet up, close our gritty eyes, let our bodies settle and heal, let our minds make connections and our muscles unknot.
And I propose that we celebrate 3 April as Princess Caraboo Day.
Long ago, I shelved books for a meagre living, supplementing my student grants. On Saturdays, I always covered an eight hour shift at the main library, and on my half hour lunch, I would quickly eat, then shuffle into the sleep room. I almost believe this is a false memory, a dream, so antitheical to today's business practices. There it was, with four cots, shielded by screens from each other and the door, a dim table lamp. A place to rest, to elevate feet and take a nap. That short sleep always healed my mind, a reverent retreat away from my own churning worries.
The absurdity, that a library kept a place for employees to rest, but that a 24/7/365 -open hospital, with full night staff, does not even have couches. No place to lay a weary head, or raise swollen feet, save on a long quiet night, not in the lounge, but on the OR tables. Admittedly, the padding is quite good, but they are very narrow. And with the positive air pressure, and no warmers or draping, bone chilling.
The reason, I get asked this every week, that ORs are cold, is in part real, and in part perceived, and in part wind chill. The real part is that if we keep them too warm, the surgeons and scrub, in hat and impermeable gowns and gloves, or the circulator running around, get very warm if the temp is above 70, or indeed 65. Like having a heavy coat on a spring day. The perceived part, is that a patient who has not eaten, not slept well, anxious and in thin clothing, lying on a table, is likely to be cold even if it is 70. The wind chill has to do with environmental design and infection control. The OR gets the cleanest air in the hospital, which is pushed out to the rest of the place by positive air pressure, creating a breeze. So, it feels colder. Which is why we use warm blankets, warmed pads under, and warm air blankets over, leaving the room and staff cool enough not to pass out, while keeping the patient warm. Also, one of the side effects of coming out of anesthesia, as the body metabolizes the drugs, is profound shivering and shaking, usually transient, not harmful.
But I digress.
I love the Siesta idea, and I think afternoon naps should be more common. Perhaps in the North, with winter daylight so short, sleeping during the scarce light feels wasteful. But a nice five o'clock sundown snooze could substitute. Sleep should be valued, instead of disdained.
My brother, retired Air Force, all bluster and condescension, boasts that he only needs five hours sleep a night, why waste half his life sleeping? he tells me, as he mocks my love of a good nine hours a night if I can get it. (Military folks think 6 years is nearly half of the 20 to retirement, they don't add so good.) I think he lives his life half asleep, cheating himself of doing it right in the first place. Some research coming out - that chronic sleep shortage shortens life. Apparently, time spent sleeping is not deducted from a human life.
On my days off, Moby still wants to be fed at 5am, or 0430 for preference. He walks on us, checks my face to see if I am going to move. When not, he flops down on my ankles, goes to sleep, sure to wake when I do finally shift. Why waste energy walking on people? Take a cat nap.
Let's all put our heads down on our desks, and sit very quietly. Better yet, a mat on the floor, or stretch out on the sofa, put our abused feet up, close our gritty eyes, let our bodies settle and heal, let our minds make connections and our muscles unknot.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Continued
Or you can use the pre-done one, visual dna
(Why does blooger insist on reverse order?)
My revulsion
Too much stuff. Has been, and will further be, discarded.
My love
Of course.
my vice
Finding small silly things, and taking pictures.
my bedroom
Or rather ours. All three of us.
my joy
Friends gathered
Cont.
My art
Experiential and hard to put into words.
my music
Music self played is happiness self made. Even better if I can dance to it.
my treat
Finding unexpected moments, and sharing them
my freedom
Decorating my skin, for no other reason than that I want to.
Deoxyribonucleic (Acid)
There has been a visual DNA whatsit going around. But it was so much a misfit for me, the images were wrong, beside the point, misleading. So, I give you my version. A few at at time, for those without ultra fast connections.
My kind of excitement
Getting out on an ocean, or a mountain.
My kind of holiday
Hanging with Moira
My kind of drink
Tea with friends
My kind of landscape
Details and bright beauty.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Nurse
I've been told nurses are angels of mercy, or vicious harpies. Hospital administrators see us as bottom line destroyers, and doctors think of nurses often as hindrances and inconvenient beeps on their pagers, alternating with being fantasy servants, mothers and wives. Those who have suffered and been helped are effusive in their gratitude, those who have been rebuffed are bitter in their betrayal, as are those who have not found a new soft touch of indulgence. Hard to tell where the anger is justified, and when the appreciation is excessive.
The truth is, as life always is, much more complex, messier, not so easily contained. One surgeon I worked with loved to say there were two kinds of people, the ones who do and the ones who get in the way. He stopped saying it to me directly when I told him, "And then there are the people who always want to put people into two categories."
What we are, is a huge range of people who have anything from a diploma from a hospital nursing program to multiple PhDs, most have a two or four year degree, who have passed a state board license exam (usually on computer this decade), and keep up our education and hours of work as a nurse to required standards. We are men and women, young and old and between, working saving lives or selling medical crap, babysitting the abandoned in nursing homes, a shift a month, working from home or on their feet on a floor of acutely ill patients in a hospital 60 hours a week. Nursing admin, quality assurance, home health, counseling, supervisors, teaching new nurses. Paid barely above minimum wage, or solidly middle class. Married, single, with children or alone, taking care of parents or friends or pets. Practical and down to earth, or psychotic and manipulative, self important and petty, all together.
The one commonality is that we are often assumed to know everything, and are asked to translate medicalese, and care. I am glad to say, most of the nurses I know are glad to help in this. Glad to use our knowledge to improve the lives of those we touch. Most of us know our work, and do it to the best of our abilities. The vast majority of nurses are people I would trust if I were ill in need of their care. I much prefer a friend to ask me for a surgeon suggestion than find out the day of surgery that they've chosen a poor or frightening one.
Today, I got a splinter out of the finger of a fellow RN. And taped up the cut finger of one of the housekeepers. Today, I fixed boo-boos. I feel really good about that.
The truth is, as life always is, much more complex, messier, not so easily contained. One surgeon I worked with loved to say there were two kinds of people, the ones who do and the ones who get in the way. He stopped saying it to me directly when I told him, "And then there are the people who always want to put people into two categories."
What we are, is a huge range of people who have anything from a diploma from a hospital nursing program to multiple PhDs, most have a two or four year degree, who have passed a state board license exam (usually on computer this decade), and keep up our education and hours of work as a nurse to required standards. We are men and women, young and old and between, working saving lives or selling medical crap, babysitting the abandoned in nursing homes, a shift a month, working from home or on their feet on a floor of acutely ill patients in a hospital 60 hours a week. Nursing admin, quality assurance, home health, counseling, supervisors, teaching new nurses. Paid barely above minimum wage, or solidly middle class. Married, single, with children or alone, taking care of parents or friends or pets. Practical and down to earth, or psychotic and manipulative, self important and petty, all together.
The one commonality is that we are often assumed to know everything, and are asked to translate medicalese, and care. I am glad to say, most of the nurses I know are glad to help in this. Glad to use our knowledge to improve the lives of those we touch. Most of us know our work, and do it to the best of our abilities. The vast majority of nurses are people I would trust if I were ill in need of their care. I much prefer a friend to ask me for a surgeon suggestion than find out the day of surgery that they've chosen a poor or frightening one.
Today, I got a splinter out of the finger of a fellow RN. And taped up the cut finger of one of the housekeepers. Today, I fixed boo-boos. I feel really good about that.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Pants (Photos)
Disconcerting how cats stare at a person sometimes.
Moby explores a shelf, as the books gradually move out via media mail to D's parents.
And why did Moby decide to take a nap in a pair of pants on the sofa? He likes getting under beds or stools, but not blankets or other soft stuff. He slept there for over an hour, just his tail out. He doesn't even jump on the couch often, especially when one of us is already there. Who knows. The Mystery that is a Cat.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Glasses (Photo)
It's just that I don't wear them to read, so I don't think of them for the Photobooth on the 'pewter. But this is how I see myself.
Girl
This is not articulate, consider it thinking out loud.
I had a chat with a rep this week, on the subject of his preschool daughters, and schoolyard fights, and how girls fight dirty. It started as a discussion of tattoos, and I talked about getting mine when I was 35, which progressed to a debate on piercings, and then to earrings, and how I waited until age 16 to pierce my ears. I'd seen girls tug on earrings in the playground, and my own Granny had a ripped earlobe from just such a grade school girl fight, in 1898.
Girls are generally not taught to fight, or if they are it is in the context of "If a big bad man attacks you!" in which case, the only chance a small girl has is to fight dirty, bite, scratch, run, scream blue hell.
My own brother, attacked by assailants with a chain, walking home from a high school dance, spent a week in a hospital with a concussion, and became a bit obsessed with self defense. Being 11 years younger meant I soaked up his anxiety, his pupil in his version of martial arts. His directions for me were always of the, go for the 'eyes, testicles, shins' variety. Sensible, pragmatic, real life lessons. Meant I was even more terrified of getting in a fight with a girl, knowing they would fight me tooth and claw. When girls fight, there are no rules, other than to win by any means. Good survival tactic, but a debased sense of fairness bleeds into other aspects of life. As anyone who works with a large group of women, or watches COPS! Bad Girls Specials! knows.
Boys, at least at one time, were taught rules of fair play. Not that there were not plenty of bullies and that Us v Them rule for applying the rules. At least there were rules of some kind. Girls are taught not to fight, to expect kind treatment, and if that is violated, then unsheathe claws and defend. Or not. Today, girls in gangs are gaining notoriety for fighting harder and dirtier, using weapons readily, adding a special horror to the already pervasive and unrestricted male violence in poor and drug soaked urban issues. Any move is good, any lie that works.
Fighting is too important and wild an aspect of human interaction, to be left to chance. Ignoring female violence, or treating it as something aberrant or special, simply invites in further chaos. Martial arts, with the sense of individual accomplishment, controlled power applied fairly, could ease the erratically escalating brutality. Imbue in every child a moral compass of justice and fair play, in the deeply emotional atmosphere of ritualized violence. Do less, deflect, if possible, but win if attacked.
Animals apply this principle of threat and display, to avoid the damage of a maiming or mortal clash. Live to mate another day. Boys and girls need to internalize all these ideas, fairness, survival, risk assessment. A middle ground between false safety and drive by shootings.
What they have is ready access to images of violence, steeped in fear, given no handrails to steady them. All mixed up in sex and gender roles, and squeamish public education stuck in Evagelical Victorian illusions, parents absent or overwhelmed or abusive themselves, jangling against graphic video games and action movies, both boys and girls are expected to just know how to fight fair and be generous lovers, when they get their driver's license.
In our human passions, fighting and loving, we need most to be fair. Our cultures fail us when they don't bother to teach us how. Worse when we are expected to be weak, only able to survive by playing dirty. It's getting worse very fast.
I had a chat with a rep this week, on the subject of his preschool daughters, and schoolyard fights, and how girls fight dirty. It started as a discussion of tattoos, and I talked about getting mine when I was 35, which progressed to a debate on piercings, and then to earrings, and how I waited until age 16 to pierce my ears. I'd seen girls tug on earrings in the playground, and my own Granny had a ripped earlobe from just such a grade school girl fight, in 1898.
Girls are generally not taught to fight, or if they are it is in the context of "If a big bad man attacks you!" in which case, the only chance a small girl has is to fight dirty, bite, scratch, run, scream blue hell.
My own brother, attacked by assailants with a chain, walking home from a high school dance, spent a week in a hospital with a concussion, and became a bit obsessed with self defense. Being 11 years younger meant I soaked up his anxiety, his pupil in his version of martial arts. His directions for me were always of the, go for the 'eyes, testicles, shins' variety. Sensible, pragmatic, real life lessons. Meant I was even more terrified of getting in a fight with a girl, knowing they would fight me tooth and claw. When girls fight, there are no rules, other than to win by any means. Good survival tactic, but a debased sense of fairness bleeds into other aspects of life. As anyone who works with a large group of women, or watches COPS! Bad Girls Specials! knows.
Boys, at least at one time, were taught rules of fair play. Not that there were not plenty of bullies and that Us v Them rule for applying the rules. At least there were rules of some kind. Girls are taught not to fight, to expect kind treatment, and if that is violated, then unsheathe claws and defend. Or not. Today, girls in gangs are gaining notoriety for fighting harder and dirtier, using weapons readily, adding a special horror to the already pervasive and unrestricted male violence in poor and drug soaked urban issues. Any move is good, any lie that works.
Fighting is too important and wild an aspect of human interaction, to be left to chance. Ignoring female violence, or treating it as something aberrant or special, simply invites in further chaos. Martial arts, with the sense of individual accomplishment, controlled power applied fairly, could ease the erratically escalating brutality. Imbue in every child a moral compass of justice and fair play, in the deeply emotional atmosphere of ritualized violence. Do less, deflect, if possible, but win if attacked.
Animals apply this principle of threat and display, to avoid the damage of a maiming or mortal clash. Live to mate another day. Boys and girls need to internalize all these ideas, fairness, survival, risk assessment. A middle ground between false safety and drive by shootings.
What they have is ready access to images of violence, steeped in fear, given no handrails to steady them. All mixed up in sex and gender roles, and squeamish public education stuck in Evagelical Victorian illusions, parents absent or overwhelmed or abusive themselves, jangling against graphic video games and action movies, both boys and girls are expected to just know how to fight fair and be generous lovers, when they get their driver's license.
In our human passions, fighting and loving, we need most to be fair. Our cultures fail us when they don't bother to teach us how. Worse when we are expected to be weak, only able to survive by playing dirty. It's getting worse very fast.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Wikipedia
Via Spacecatrocketship. I have removed the obligatory numbers.
1. Go to wikipedia and type in your birthday, month and day only.
2. List events that occurred on that day that interest you.
1860 - Abraham Lincoln makes a speech at Cooper Union in the city of New York that was largely responsible for his election to the Presidency.
1560 - The Treaty of Berwick, which would expel the French from Scotland, is signed by England and the Congregation of Scotland.
(I am both French and Scottish.)
1864 - American Civil War: The first Northern prisoners arrive at the Confederate prison at Andersonville, Georgia.
(One of my nightmare stories from history.)
1922 - A challenge to the Nineteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution, allowing women the right to vote, is rebuffed by the Supreme Court of the United States in Leser v. Garnett.
(Not like there was, or is, anyone to vote for.)
1991 - Gulf War: U.S. President George H. W. Bush announces that "Kuwait is liberated."
(I was there, well in Saudi Arabia, this day.)
3. List a few birthdays.
1940 - Howard Hesseman, American actor
(The DOCTOR is IN!")
1899 - Charles Best, Canadian medical scientist (d. 1978)
(A real doctor.)
4. List a death.
1987 - Joan Greenwood, English actress and director (b. 1921)
(Amazing voice.)
5. List a holiday or observance. (if any)
Roman Empire - Equirria, horse races in honor of the war god Mars were held.
(Pagans. Horsies.)
Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows
(My High School was St. Gabriel's. St. Gabe's)
5. Tag some other bloggers.
If you are in Blogistan, consider yourself tagged. Moira, if you like it, it is a low effort blog post.
1. Go to wikipedia and type in your birthday, month and day only.
2. List events that occurred on that day that interest you.
1860 - Abraham Lincoln makes a speech at Cooper Union in the city of New York that was largely responsible for his election to the Presidency.
1560 - The Treaty of Berwick, which would expel the French from Scotland, is signed by England and the Congregation of Scotland.
(I am both French and Scottish.)
1864 - American Civil War: The first Northern prisoners arrive at the Confederate prison at Andersonville, Georgia.
(One of my nightmare stories from history.)
1922 - A challenge to the Nineteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution, allowing women the right to vote, is rebuffed by the Supreme Court of the United States in Leser v. Garnett.
(Not like there was, or is, anyone to vote for.)
1991 - Gulf War: U.S. President George H. W. Bush announces that "Kuwait is liberated."
(I was there, well in Saudi Arabia, this day.)
3. List a few birthdays.
1940 - Howard Hesseman, American actor
(The DOCTOR is IN!")
1899 - Charles Best, Canadian medical scientist (d. 1978)
(A real doctor.)
4. List a death.
1987 - Joan Greenwood, English actress and director (b. 1921)
(Amazing voice.)
5. List a holiday or observance. (if any)
Roman Empire - Equirria, horse races in honor of the war god Mars were held.
(Pagans. Horsies.)
Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows
(My High School was St. Gabriel's. St. Gabe's)
5. Tag some other bloggers.
If you are in Blogistan, consider yourself tagged. Moira, if you like it, it is a low effort blog post.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Burlesque
I took D to see women dancing mostly naked last night.
One of those things-we-have-to-do-in-Boston-because-it'll-never-happen-in Salt-Lake. A group that performs burlesque, dances, removes clothing, winds up in thong/bikini and pasties right at the last, one at a time to some very good music. Themes and gimmicks abound, of course. Only a couple of these young women caused me to cringe, and only for a moment. Brash, confident, funny, over the top all. I give them credit. D admitted pure enjoyment. I hooted and laughed, while reflexively critiquing.
Problem, for me, was that only one was a real, obviously trained dancer. That, newest, performer was sexier with street appropriate, though short, trench coat on than most of the rest in nearly just skin. And I wanted the rest smoother, more practiced, taking belly dance classes at very least. The two who pretended coyness and the amateurish playing with prop flasks and beads grated slightly. "I'm hot-better-take-off some-clothes-porn-miming." The one dancer presented herself as I'm-going-to-dance-with-a-pool-stick-and-flirt-with-you. Oh, most of the others were grand, a deeply funny and disturbing Lizzie Bordan wet t-shirt bit, and another who did very alluring motions with long gloves.
All in all, it was a fun, tame, appealing evening. Not strippers as conceived today, no crotch focus, more on movement, breast flash and covered ass presentation. And an MC in a bright red zoot suit who encouraged hoots and catcalls, tips at the end of each act as each dancer walked amongst us, she now in robe, or long t-shirt, with a top hat as collection plate. Mr. Scratch kept the proceeding light, and oddly safe, admiring and only just so off color. Sensual titillating delight instead of raw sexuality. Room for imagination.
D has never been to see strippers, he seems satisfied that this is better. D has a sufficient imagination. I enjoyed watching him.
One of those things-we-have-to-do-in-Boston-because-it'll-never-happen-in Salt-Lake. A group that performs burlesque, dances, removes clothing, winds up in thong/bikini and pasties right at the last, one at a time to some very good music. Themes and gimmicks abound, of course. Only a couple of these young women caused me to cringe, and only for a moment. Brash, confident, funny, over the top all. I give them credit. D admitted pure enjoyment. I hooted and laughed, while reflexively critiquing.
Problem, for me, was that only one was a real, obviously trained dancer. That, newest, performer was sexier with street appropriate, though short, trench coat on than most of the rest in nearly just skin. And I wanted the rest smoother, more practiced, taking belly dance classes at very least. The two who pretended coyness and the amateurish playing with prop flasks and beads grated slightly. "I'm hot-better-take-off some-clothes-porn-miming." The one dancer presented herself as I'm-going-to-dance-with-a-pool-stick-and-flirt-with-you. Oh, most of the others were grand, a deeply funny and disturbing Lizzie Bordan wet t-shirt bit, and another who did very alluring motions with long gloves.
All in all, it was a fun, tame, appealing evening. Not strippers as conceived today, no crotch focus, more on movement, breast flash and covered ass presentation. And an MC in a bright red zoot suit who encouraged hoots and catcalls, tips at the end of each act as each dancer walked amongst us, she now in robe, or long t-shirt, with a top hat as collection plate. Mr. Scratch kept the proceeding light, and oddly safe, admiring and only just so off color. Sensual titillating delight instead of raw sexuality. Room for imagination.
D has never been to see strippers, he seems satisfied that this is better. D has a sufficient imagination. I enjoyed watching him.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Dressed
When I was small, I dressed very slowly. Not that I moved slowly, but I changed clothes to allow for as little skin as possible to be exposed. This elaborate ritual was an overreaction to my mother's modesty lessons. Largely, though, it was fear, induced by my father's lurid warnings of men who might be looking in my window, and not seeing just a little girl. I didn't completely understand his meaning, but I knew to be afraid, even if I was alone, with the door closed, the blinds shut, the drapes pulled tight and the lights off. How much more so when I was trying on clothes in a store dressing room. Which irritated my mother to no end, not because I was being modest, but because I dawdled so long.
For my mother, the only time I could remove underwear, save to put fresh on, was taking a bath, and sometimes for a doctor in his office. I slept in long nightgowns, and underpants. Always. As a toddler, in a bubble bath, with a wig of foam, my brothers were allowed in to see only if I left my underpants on in the tub.
All a bit paranoid, if erring on the right side, I suppose. But I have to wonder if there was some history, some transgression, there. One that brushed past me, as I felt the heat of the beast, hot breath on my belly, a near shame that, perhaps, protected me.
The skills, eventually brought up to speed, stood me in good stead when I had to dress instantly in the Army. In the morning, we were woken by speakers, "Wake up Charlie Company!" since we had to be decent by the time the angrily respectful male Drill Sergeants hit the floor. Shortcuts and efficient choreography long ingrained meant I was never caught out, always the first done, the most dressed, no threat. (We heard tales of Drill Sergeants losing their careers for indiscretions with recruits, the attitudes of the Drills indicated these were true, and the temptation much guarded against, by aggressively wide margins, by our Drills.)
Which also meant, when modeling for art classes, I went from nude:posed to clothed:observer in tiny seconds, much to the ease of myself and the art students. They expressed gratitude, telling me of other models who, on breaks, walked around the room, looking at their work, stark naked, which was very disconcerting to them. I went from object, to person-to-talk-with by joining their clothed state, restoring the balance after leaving the pedestal.
Much the same in the locker room at work. Nothing irritates more than that one girl who gets completely naked to change into scrubs in the morning. It's gauche, awkward, inexplicable, that breaking of the mutual illusion of privacy. Many of the other women complain their contempt and confusion at the exhibitionist - "Why does she DO that!?" My very thoughts. Why? And why does it feel so intrusive? I don't mind so much, I roll my eyes and focus on my own quick change, done with no nudity involved. I think less of them, avoid them later, wonder what kinks in their road led them to there.
I know which ones lead me to my flexible, cautious sense of modesty.
Aunt Alma poo poo'd my hiding as a small child on vacation, in her care. Her dismissal of my shame didn't work then, but it sprouted later. One never knows what a child will remember, will take into their heart, save for spring.
For my mother, the only time I could remove underwear, save to put fresh on, was taking a bath, and sometimes for a doctor in his office. I slept in long nightgowns, and underpants. Always. As a toddler, in a bubble bath, with a wig of foam, my brothers were allowed in to see only if I left my underpants on in the tub.
All a bit paranoid, if erring on the right side, I suppose. But I have to wonder if there was some history, some transgression, there. One that brushed past me, as I felt the heat of the beast, hot breath on my belly, a near shame that, perhaps, protected me.
The skills, eventually brought up to speed, stood me in good stead when I had to dress instantly in the Army. In the morning, we were woken by speakers, "Wake up Charlie Company!" since we had to be decent by the time the angrily respectful male Drill Sergeants hit the floor. Shortcuts and efficient choreography long ingrained meant I was never caught out, always the first done, the most dressed, no threat. (We heard tales of Drill Sergeants losing their careers for indiscretions with recruits, the attitudes of the Drills indicated these were true, and the temptation much guarded against, by aggressively wide margins, by our Drills.)
Which also meant, when modeling for art classes, I went from nude:posed to clothed:observer in tiny seconds, much to the ease of myself and the art students. They expressed gratitude, telling me of other models who, on breaks, walked around the room, looking at their work, stark naked, which was very disconcerting to them. I went from object, to person-to-talk-with by joining their clothed state, restoring the balance after leaving the pedestal.
Much the same in the locker room at work. Nothing irritates more than that one girl who gets completely naked to change into scrubs in the morning. It's gauche, awkward, inexplicable, that breaking of the mutual illusion of privacy. Many of the other women complain their contempt and confusion at the exhibitionist - "Why does she DO that!?" My very thoughts. Why? And why does it feel so intrusive? I don't mind so much, I roll my eyes and focus on my own quick change, done with no nudity involved. I think less of them, avoid them later, wonder what kinks in their road led them to there.
I know which ones lead me to my flexible, cautious sense of modesty.
Aunt Alma poo poo'd my hiding as a small child on vacation, in her care. Her dismissal of my shame didn't work then, but it sprouted later. One never knows what a child will remember, will take into their heart, save for spring.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Brushing
D just went in to brush Moby's teeth.
"Hey, kitty! Howya doin'?" I hear in a casual covering slight anxiety tone. More, "Ok, there you go. Now the other side... gooooood." He kisses Moby on the head, I just know this, and he comes out to exclaim, "We have such a good cat!"
Moby takes this rather better than either of us would have guessed when the vet told us to brush a ~cat's~ teeth a couple of years ago. If not busy (with, you know, cat things) he seems to sort of enjoy the process. It's seafood flavored, and he spends time afterward licking his chops. (Cats don't have lips, do they? We were discussing this last night.) I pretty much did the job for a long time, until I found myself forgetting, tried, late home from work - the usual excuses. And I suggested that Moby was sufficiently used to this bit of grooming, that I could use a hand.
Ahem.
No, no, he cleans the litter boxes as often as I do. Not to mention keeping food dish and water bowl (and water teapot) full. D's a good guy, no complaints. Even if he didn't read this.
Anyway.
D asked a number of questions, and found a better technique. He's rather proud of this unD-esque accomplishment. I'm rather proud of him too. He also got accepted into a PhD History program. Which is nice.
"Hey, kitty! Howya doin'?" I hear in a casual covering slight anxiety tone. More, "Ok, there you go. Now the other side... gooooood." He kisses Moby on the head, I just know this, and he comes out to exclaim, "We have such a good cat!"
Moby takes this rather better than either of us would have guessed when the vet told us to brush a ~cat's~ teeth a couple of years ago. If not busy (with, you know, cat things) he seems to sort of enjoy the process. It's seafood flavored, and he spends time afterward licking his chops. (Cats don't have lips, do they? We were discussing this last night.) I pretty much did the job for a long time, until I found myself forgetting, tried, late home from work - the usual excuses. And I suggested that Moby was sufficiently used to this bit of grooming, that I could use a hand.
Ahem.
No, no, he cleans the litter boxes as often as I do. Not to mention keeping food dish and water bowl (and water teapot) full. D's a good guy, no complaints. Even if he didn't read this.
Anyway.
D asked a number of questions, and found a better technique. He's rather proud of this unD-esque accomplishment. I'm rather proud of him too. He also got accepted into a PhD History program. Which is nice.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Bath
I once went to a bath house in San Francisco. Where else? A Victorian painted lady, converted. The cold dip - the sealed former stairwell to the cellar. A friend took me, and we got naked and soaked in hot baths, sat outside in the cool fog, and chatted amiably. Discussed nudity in this culture, and the joys of being outside wearing only skin, talked about our plans and schemes. A peaceful, small, sensory experience I treasure.
I have long remembered those women, comfortable with their various bodies, stretch marks, bulges, scars and tattoos. I have seen many bodies in my work, all shapes and sizes, desperately ill, or generally healthy, painfully thin or floppy obese, a 100 lb. pannis that had to be suspended over the OR table to keep it from pulling her body off the table. Boob jobs denied, and tummy tucks exposed, or begged for by the normal sized, the lies congregate. I have had lifelong opportunities to reorient my assumptions, that only the thin and pretty find love, that beauty is immutable and measurable. That bath drew it all together for me, brought me to the same level, included me. Not just reassurance for others, I could take my own advice, and be fine.
Among my insights: not all women have had abdominal surgery. I was amazed at the health of the bathers, the lack of scars, even in a population with an median age of about 35. I had to re-imagine the world. Many of the women there were apparently gay, as my friend would turn out to be a year later. Not a surprize to me, I'd assumed it when we first met years ago, until I was told she was married to D's friend. I thought "Really? She's not? Oh. Well." Left it there, not my business.
When those two divorced, amidst orientation confusion and embracing reality, I left the friendship behind for subtle reasons. I found I had nothing to talk to her about without that relationship to sharpen her. D lost interest in his friend, without her to soften him. They were the only other happy marrieds I knew at that time, and for both D and I, that break-up was painful and frightening. Neither of those friends were who we wanted as friends individually, despite their appeal for us, of them as a couple. Not flattering for any of us, but bitter truth. More proof, if any was needed, that getting married in high school is a bad, bad idea.
I still love that she took me into that place, so vulnerable, so safe, so warm. For me, so devoid of sexuality. I cannot speak for her. To live for a few hours in my skin, exposed completely to the outside, was about proof of my comfort with my body, with myself.
Not an exhibitionist, I would gladly pose for Spencer Tunick . Not pretty, not perfect, peasant stock Irish and French, I am at ease with a body no LA clothes designer wants. Not fashionable, but appealing, at least to the kind of person I wanted to appeal to. Enough.
I have long remembered those women, comfortable with their various bodies, stretch marks, bulges, scars and tattoos. I have seen many bodies in my work, all shapes and sizes, desperately ill, or generally healthy, painfully thin or floppy obese, a 100 lb. pannis that had to be suspended over the OR table to keep it from pulling her body off the table. Boob jobs denied, and tummy tucks exposed, or begged for by the normal sized, the lies congregate. I have had lifelong opportunities to reorient my assumptions, that only the thin and pretty find love, that beauty is immutable and measurable. That bath drew it all together for me, brought me to the same level, included me. Not just reassurance for others, I could take my own advice, and be fine.
Among my insights: not all women have had abdominal surgery. I was amazed at the health of the bathers, the lack of scars, even in a population with an median age of about 35. I had to re-imagine the world. Many of the women there were apparently gay, as my friend would turn out to be a year later. Not a surprize to me, I'd assumed it when we first met years ago, until I was told she was married to D's friend. I thought "Really? She's not? Oh. Well." Left it there, not my business.
When those two divorced, amidst orientation confusion and embracing reality, I left the friendship behind for subtle reasons. I found I had nothing to talk to her about without that relationship to sharpen her. D lost interest in his friend, without her to soften him. They were the only other happy marrieds I knew at that time, and for both D and I, that break-up was painful and frightening. Neither of those friends were who we wanted as friends individually, despite their appeal for us, of them as a couple. Not flattering for any of us, but bitter truth. More proof, if any was needed, that getting married in high school is a bad, bad idea.
I still love that she took me into that place, so vulnerable, so safe, so warm. For me, so devoid of sexuality. I cannot speak for her. To live for a few hours in my skin, exposed completely to the outside, was about proof of my comfort with my body, with myself.
Not an exhibitionist, I would gladly pose for Spencer Tunick . Not pretty, not perfect, peasant stock Irish and French, I am at ease with a body no LA clothes designer wants. Not fashionable, but appealing, at least to the kind of person I wanted to appeal to. Enough.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Bella (Photo)
For Mella. My view of 45.
Everyone else may want to shield their eyes.
Anyone else want to take up the challenge? Let those young women know how lovely they are, and to cherish it while they may? And know they can be happy and bulgy?
List
I should be doing stuff. But what I did was finally make a decent list of the blogs I read, love, and/or recommend. Down, under Moby. (Really shouldn't have put that list under the cat.)
It starts off alphabetical, for the RSS feed sites, then falters in the ones that don't, then does a full meander when I get to the ones I forget to read because they post irregularly, or so often I can't keep up on the feed, or whose writing is so intense I only dip in occasionally.
In short, the list is in generally random order.
It starts off alphabetical, for the RSS feed sites, then falters in the ones that don't, then does a full meander when I get to the ones I forget to read because they post irregularly, or so often I can't keep up on the feed, or whose writing is so intense I only dip in occasionally.
In short, the list is in generally random order.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Decisions
The decision has been made, by us, taking it out of the hands of the Unknowns Who Decide These Things. We confessed to each other our homesick dread of another new city, relieved that it was a mutual guilty urge. We looked each other in the eye, agreed, it's time.
If this city has taught us anything, it is that the city doesn't give a damn what we think of it, it's not personal. Whatever the nasty, inbred, small minded politics of the Theocracy of Utah, we can find a niche. The Big Dig City politics of moribund theftocracy is it's own special flavor of awfulness. Neither of us weirdos can change it one strawsweight. Not for not caring, but for our own survival.
Our old friends, even those who moved off to the Land of Eternal Summer, are within a day or so driving of Old Home. So, we are going back, wiser, more cosmopolitan, experienced and scarred. With stories to tell, photos to show, and with some regret. We will miss this place, but not for another few months. (Read as: this is a three month process.)
The plans are set, my old job - much changed - awaits, to my mutual expectation and heartfelt relief. I knew, but I hid the knowledge from myself, not daring to assume. Enjoying the delight of being welcomed back.
We look for movers and check Craigslist there for apartments, here to divest ourselves of excess baggage and boxxage. We have one way plane tickets for the three of us. We dread putting Moby in a bag for six or more hours, but we can hardly leave him behind.
I bite my tongue hard at work. I find myself as bad at keeping my own confidences as I am good at keeping those of others. If you work with me, and read this, please, let me give my notice myself. (I don't think any of them do, but I have to cover myself. I am, after all, a *Professional* paranoid.)
More to come.
If this city has taught us anything, it is that the city doesn't give a damn what we think of it, it's not personal. Whatever the nasty, inbred, small minded politics of the Theocracy of Utah, we can find a niche. The Big Dig City politics of moribund theftocracy is it's own special flavor of awfulness. Neither of us weirdos can change it one strawsweight. Not for not caring, but for our own survival.
Our old friends, even those who moved off to the Land of Eternal Summer, are within a day or so driving of Old Home. So, we are going back, wiser, more cosmopolitan, experienced and scarred. With stories to tell, photos to show, and with some regret. We will miss this place, but not for another few months. (Read as: this is a three month process.)
The plans are set, my old job - much changed - awaits, to my mutual expectation and heartfelt relief. I knew, but I hid the knowledge from myself, not daring to assume. Enjoying the delight of being welcomed back.
We look for movers and check Craigslist there for apartments, here to divest ourselves of excess baggage and boxxage. We have one way plane tickets for the three of us. We dread putting Moby in a bag for six or more hours, but we can hardly leave him behind.
I bite my tongue hard at work. I find myself as bad at keeping my own confidences as I am good at keeping those of others. If you work with me, and read this, please, let me give my notice myself. (I don't think any of them do, but I have to cover myself. I am, after all, a *Professional* paranoid.)
More to come.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Bagpipes
Another damn bunch of questions. Via Pacian.
1. Do you like cheese?
Not so much. Good mozzarella or very extra sharp cheddar, yes, at times.
2. Have you ever smoked heroin?
Never used heroin in any form. Smoked clove cigarettes one year, but stopped.
3. Do you own a gun?
I was once responsible for an M16A1, but it was not mine. I'm a good shot, but will not own a gun.
5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments?
No. I do plan out what I will say.
6. What do you think of hot dogs?
Eh. Good sausages, all beef Kosher spicy ones, make good hot dog soup.
7. What's your favourite Christmas song?
Coventry Carol. Minor key.
8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
Tea. Plain hot black tea.
9. Can you do push ups?
Yeah, but not as many as I once could.
10. Is your bathroom clean?
On most days. Having to have the litter boxes in there makes it less clean that I would like.
11. What's your favourite piece of jewellery?
Iridescent pink glass earrings.
Where's 12?
Twice past six.
13. What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?
Simple oddity, I assume. Shock and confusion.
14. Do you have friends?
Quite a few more than I often assume. To my delighted amazement.
15. Do you miss someone?
I miss all my friends very deeply.
16. Middle Name?
Evelyn. Not given at birth, adopted when I took on D's last name after we'd been married seven years. My aunt's name, with permission of her son my cousin.
17. Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment?
My feet hurt
Gods that chicken madras leftover from India Quality was wonderful.
I should go to bed.
19. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink:
Tea
beer
orange juice
20. Current worry?:
D's grad school prospects.
21. Current hate?
A woman at work who hates everything, and I am chum to her sharkiness.
22. Favourite place to be?
Beside D, with Moby on our feet.
23. How did you bring in the New Year?
I was asleep.
24. Where would you like to go?
Sailing for a week.
27. Do you own slippers?
Red terry ones. I never wear them.
28. What shirt are you wearing?
Night knits, blue.
29. Do you burn or tan?
Both. Neither since the last burn.
30. Favourite colour?
Purple, darkest bluest possible.
31. Would you be a pirate?
No, nor a mass murderer, nor a drug dealer, nor a torturer. I don't get the romanticism of pirates at all.
32. What songs do you sing in the shower?
Sacred Harp tunes, They Might Be Giants songs.
35. What's in your pocket right now?
I haven't got any pockets right now. Oh, wait, yes I do, and.... Tiger Balm.
36. Last thing that made you laugh?
30 Rock. Moby. D.
37. Best bed sheets as a child?
Had crappy sheets as a kid, the pilled up flannel ones that sparked in particular. Got good high thread count, and colored sheets only as an adult.
38. Worst injury you've ever had?
Herniated discs.
39. What is your biggest pet peeve?
I don't think about peeves anymore. People with lots of pet peeves.
40. How many TVs do you have in your house?
One. But three computers, not counting the ones in other appliances.
41. Who is your loudest friend?
Matt. No shit, there he was.
42. Who is your most silent friend?
K the potter.
43. Does someone have a crush on you?
D. If there is anyone else, I don't really care.
44. Do you wish on shooting stars?
Did as a kid, when I saw them often. And sang "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket..."
45. What is your favourite book?
Tao Te Ching, perhaps. No, not fair to have a favorite, it depends.
46. What is your favourite sweet?
Aside from good chocolate, I love maple sugar candy.
47. What song do/did you want played at your wedding?
We didn't have a song, but we had a bellydancer. Our Song is It's The End of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine).
48. What song do you want played at your funeral?
Lady of Spain on bagpipes. Or Scotland the Brave on accordion, either one.
49. What were you doing at 12 AM last night?
Sleeping.
50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up?
Ow. I really should be doing my back PT.
1. Do you like cheese?
Not so much. Good mozzarella or very extra sharp cheddar, yes, at times.
2. Have you ever smoked heroin?
Never used heroin in any form. Smoked clove cigarettes one year, but stopped.
3. Do you own a gun?
I was once responsible for an M16A1, but it was not mine. I'm a good shot, but will not own a gun.
5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments?
No. I do plan out what I will say.
6. What do you think of hot dogs?
Eh. Good sausages, all beef Kosher spicy ones, make good hot dog soup.
7. What's your favourite Christmas song?
Coventry Carol. Minor key.
8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
Tea. Plain hot black tea.
9. Can you do push ups?
Yeah, but not as many as I once could.
10. Is your bathroom clean?
On most days. Having to have the litter boxes in there makes it less clean that I would like.
11. What's your favourite piece of jewellery?
Iridescent pink glass earrings.
Where's 12?
Twice past six.
13. What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?
Simple oddity, I assume. Shock and confusion.
14. Do you have friends?
Quite a few more than I often assume. To my delighted amazement.
15. Do you miss someone?
I miss all my friends very deeply.
16. Middle Name?
Evelyn. Not given at birth, adopted when I took on D's last name after we'd been married seven years. My aunt's name, with permission of her son my cousin.
17. Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment?
My feet hurt
Gods that chicken madras leftover from India Quality was wonderful.
I should go to bed.
19. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink:
Tea
beer
orange juice
20. Current worry?:
D's grad school prospects.
21. Current hate?
A woman at work who hates everything, and I am chum to her sharkiness.
22. Favourite place to be?
Beside D, with Moby on our feet.
23. How did you bring in the New Year?
I was asleep.
24. Where would you like to go?
Sailing for a week.
27. Do you own slippers?
Red terry ones. I never wear them.
28. What shirt are you wearing?
Night knits, blue.
29. Do you burn or tan?
Both. Neither since the last burn.
30. Favourite colour?
Purple, darkest bluest possible.
31. Would you be a pirate?
No, nor a mass murderer, nor a drug dealer, nor a torturer. I don't get the romanticism of pirates at all.
32. What songs do you sing in the shower?
Sacred Harp tunes, They Might Be Giants songs.
35. What's in your pocket right now?
I haven't got any pockets right now. Oh, wait, yes I do, and.... Tiger Balm.
36. Last thing that made you laugh?
30 Rock. Moby. D.
37. Best bed sheets as a child?
Had crappy sheets as a kid, the pilled up flannel ones that sparked in particular. Got good high thread count, and colored sheets only as an adult.
38. Worst injury you've ever had?
Herniated discs.
39. What is your biggest pet peeve?
I don't think about peeves anymore. People with lots of pet peeves.
40. How many TVs do you have in your house?
One. But three computers, not counting the ones in other appliances.
41. Who is your loudest friend?
Matt. No shit, there he was.
42. Who is your most silent friend?
K the potter.
43. Does someone have a crush on you?
D. If there is anyone else, I don't really care.
44. Do you wish on shooting stars?
Did as a kid, when I saw them often. And sang "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket..."
45. What is your favourite book?
Tao Te Ching, perhaps. No, not fair to have a favorite, it depends.
46. What is your favourite sweet?
Aside from good chocolate, I love maple sugar candy.
47. What song do/did you want played at your wedding?
We didn't have a song, but we had a bellydancer. Our Song is It's The End of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine).
48. What song do you want played at your funeral?
Lady of Spain on bagpipes. Or Scotland the Brave on accordion, either one.
49. What were you doing at 12 AM last night?
Sleeping.
50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up?
Ow. I really should be doing my back PT.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Forgiven
I sat on the couch after we got home. D crashed on the bed - sleeping off the drugs. Moby hopped up beside me, and scrunched up. I laid a hand on his back, and he slowly uncoiled, until fully stretched out, then turned belly-up, front paws curled, under my hand. I indulged my ditherment with small claims court TV, and a cup of tea, keeping still to gently hold a moment of perfect peace. All is well.
The power was off this morning, soon our electrical bills will no longer be in the single digits, but it's only fair. A newish place constructed in what was basement, heated by the boiler on the other side of the wall, pipe noises our ears filter out by now. The electric meter had not been properly reading. D woke me in just enough time to make my tea and cereal, he'd been up for hours finishing his paper. Nothing by mouth for him. We set off early to let him complete writing, then print at the school, sans distracting workmen in loud, and presumably profane, Chinese out our door and window. I read a book about painting in the Netherlands between 1500-1600. I can always find interesting books in any library.
Early, per usual, after our long walk to the hospital. With laptop and heavy coats, I plopped into the waiting room, to wait, while the nurse took D away. Did the crossword and sudoku, read the local free paper, then the remnants of a NY Times, which proved more interesting and readable than I expected. A review of Into Great Silence - which I now want to see. The obit of Frank Snowden, who promoted the idea that anti-black bigotry was not a feature of antiquity. The abuses of Guest Worker programs and inadequate legislation. Even tried Will Shortz crossword, but took up D's research first, the Pia Casa in Venice during the sixteenth century. Overheard an elderly, and very pale woman, and her daughter, talk with a middle aged black woman about black hair care and styles. Heard every tiny sound from the restroom attached to the waiting room, which I decided to be amused by.
D appeared, sleepy, but no worse for wear, his esophageal stricture stretched for perhaps another couple of years yet. He ate the packaged pudding, amazed I'd remembered a spoon, as we waited for the cab. Home, made soup for my own lack of lunch, and we quietly settled, comfortable in each other, forgiven any useful activity the rest of the day.
Egg drop soup, leftover nan, leftover cake, the pressure gone, for today, for this evening. Tired, yes.
Fortunate beyond words.
The power was off this morning, soon our electrical bills will no longer be in the single digits, but it's only fair. A newish place constructed in what was basement, heated by the boiler on the other side of the wall, pipe noises our ears filter out by now. The electric meter had not been properly reading. D woke me in just enough time to make my tea and cereal, he'd been up for hours finishing his paper. Nothing by mouth for him. We set off early to let him complete writing, then print at the school, sans distracting workmen in loud, and presumably profane, Chinese out our door and window. I read a book about painting in the Netherlands between 1500-1600. I can always find interesting books in any library.
Early, per usual, after our long walk to the hospital. With laptop and heavy coats, I plopped into the waiting room, to wait, while the nurse took D away. Did the crossword and sudoku, read the local free paper, then the remnants of a NY Times, which proved more interesting and readable than I expected. A review of Into Great Silence - which I now want to see. The obit of Frank Snowden, who promoted the idea that anti-black bigotry was not a feature of antiquity. The abuses of Guest Worker programs and inadequate legislation. Even tried Will Shortz crossword, but took up D's research first, the Pia Casa in Venice during the sixteenth century. Overheard an elderly, and very pale woman, and her daughter, talk with a middle aged black woman about black hair care and styles. Heard every tiny sound from the restroom attached to the waiting room, which I decided to be amused by.
D appeared, sleepy, but no worse for wear, his esophageal stricture stretched for perhaps another couple of years yet. He ate the packaged pudding, amazed I'd remembered a spoon, as we waited for the cab. Home, made soup for my own lack of lunch, and we quietly settled, comfortable in each other, forgiven any useful activity the rest of the day.
Egg drop soup, leftover nan, leftover cake, the pressure gone, for today, for this evening. Tired, yes.
Fortunate beyond words.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Older
I'm older than I've ever been, and now, I'm even older. I have brown, temporary dye soaking into my stratified, cornified, squamous epithelium, as a transition stage to the profusion of grey. Women in my family either go grey early, or hardly at all, ever. I wound up in the early camp. Figures, I'm early for everything else.
Being early, invariably, has it's own set of realities. Interfaces with the procrastinators and invariably late can be an anguish of fury and self doubt, and a lesson in patience and resignation. Helping setting up chairs and getting the pickles out of tiny mouthed jars and into glass dishes, awkward chatting or peaceful usefulness in the last half hour of pre-party preparation. Getting stuck moving a heavy OR table into the room, or time to let the sleep drain out as thought gathers at 0645. Snagging a seat at a meeting, or standing around before the bagels arrive, and the room is changed. Waiting out in the cold and rain for the Publick House doors to open at 1210 for Sunday Brunch.
It's pessimism, assuming that I will get caught in traffic, the train will break down, I will forget the paperwork and have to go back, the line will be long. I don't want to be the one everyone stares at stumbling through the row in the dark for the play. Not that I'm fond of sitting through all the ads and previews at a movie - part of why I have grown so reluctant to see a film in a theater. The always late make the assumption that all will be well, a hopeful state of mind that seems easier, less stuck to heavy worries. But, having been on the side of waiting for those who know I will wait for them, I never want to make anyone else feel so small or disdained.
It's a trade-off, like any set of perspectives. Glass half empty, glass half full, glass twice as big as it needs to be, glass with plenty of room for a top-off. I experience life from this angle, occasionally getting up on a chair to see what it looks like from there, moderating, understanding. I've gotten less stressed about consciously being early, more content with approximations, knowing when late is expected.
The dye is temporary, a delay, demurring to my vanity, obvious, but soothing to my sense of time. A visual crutch, to slow me down, and not rush off to wait. The world is not out to get me, personally. Nor are my late friends. Nor am I out to embarrass them. I try to match every other step of my minor key allegro to their languid happy dance, infuse my intensity into a slow Chiftitelli.
Emulate Moby, in repose.
I dare you now to respond to this circuitous announcement of my 45th birthday with anything but Happy Birthday. In fact, I challenge you to post a comment most snarky and irreverent. C'mon, I know you can...
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Eccentric
My mother-in-law, when I said this place was no home, told me she'd have thought Boston would be the perfect setting for me (not in those words). I answered, I'd concluded that I would fit in nowhere. I was too essentially eccentric, that I could never count on a place where I would feel a deep sense of belonging. No place, no large group of people could ever be that kind of home, for me. D raises his hand to say, ditto, me too.
Our odd center, which we circle elliptically, is our sense of place, of belonging. We can put it anyplace, and we oval around our near centers of gravity. We wobble, spinning happily.
D never got the opportunity to tell anyone on Wednesday, "You missed a spot." I got smeared at the hospital chapel, vaguely disappointed. Nice lady, chaplain, both of us stood, she also, softly, reminded me to remember god's love. NO, no, no nonononono. That's religion and dogma and belief, hooey. I only know the power of ritual. Kneeling before an old priest, with a thumbfull of black ash, and he's not afraid to use it. When he warns me, in an "I've seen it and I know," graveled timbre, to Remember Man That Thou Art Dust and Unto Dust Thou Shalt Return, I feel marked, REMINDED. Oh, yeah. I wore my OR hat low, I had no need to advertise, enough to feel the grit.
I choose to savor that moment when no air was moving into my lungs, when I thought, This is a stupid way to die. It's not that I am replaceable and disposable that bothers me, when I am distressed. I am much more bothered that, for some, I am not. And no matter my discomfort, I must soldier on, no end in sight. I stare at 45, having taken care of two ninety year old patients this week, knowing both my grandmothers lived past ninety, aware that I may have as far to go as I have come so far. Daunting.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Spoon (Photo)
I like spoons, shiny ones in particular. I love the feel of a good spoon in my hand, in my mouth. The shiny fun-house mirror of the bowl. This one was a surprize.
Three weeks ago, I was getting low on my good tea. But I was too tired, it was too cold, so I delayed the inconvenient (like any errand here is convenient) trip to Coolidge Corner and the Indian grocery store to get the tea. Yeah, that was a great idea. I ran out this weekend, and had to make do with blah bags, good enough as a theophilline delivery system, hot, better than crap tea, but... oh. Despite the cold, and the sidewalks of churned frozen slabs of hardened slush, we got to the Trader Joe's, and the dark, narrow store with spices in bags, gods for sale, as well as loose tea. I usually get Taj Mahal, and did today, but added a box of Red Label, as variety, because I don't want to run low again anytime soon. This was the plan, before I stepped inside. I barely looked at the boxes, paid, left.
When I got home, I opened the box to pour the tea into tins. Only then did I notice the little special offer. As the last of the balled, dried leaves dropped into the tin, I felt for the "Free Spoon Inside." Sure enough, a nice little spoon, with their logo. Huh. I'm sure I didn't notice the come-on before, it certainly had nothing to do with my buying that box, or I might have considered getting two of the Red Label. Probably not, but, possible.
Well, Spoon! (The TIck's battle cry. Arthur's is "Not in the face! Not in the face!")
Moby had to check out his bed on top of his stool, jumped from D's chair in an impressive display of virtuosity. (I was vacuuming.) I also swept up the tissue drifts that were forming around the waste basket. I am still snotty, but not glued to the bed anymore.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Iced (Photos)
I finally went to see the ice on the Fenway, having only seen the park in the dark for the last month. Wednesday evening, I slogged home through the 4-6" deep puddles of slush, avoiding it by taking the bus, then staying home, since.
Not exaggerating to call it an ice rink. The path was churned half ice, half ice water and grit. Safer, more solid at least, to the side. The 'snow' covered, as if by a tough plastic coat of ice, any foot prints would have been from Wednesday, since my full weight made no impression. More water means more free water for the ducks, at least. Compare.
Blanket
Not going to write about being sick again. I want to be tougher than this, want to feel good again, and it is so frustrating that I am not. But, this is pretty much normal for me, infections linger and my immune system is leaky and unreliable. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Relapse city.
Spent yesterday, lying down under a red wool blanket, coaxing the abc.com player to indulge me in all but the last episode of Day Break. An incredibly well written, and made, show about a cop living a day over and over, until he can make it come out right amidst LA gangs, political corruption, and everyone having a secret. It's also about love, with his girlfriend, his partner, his sister, and even his informer. And the people they love in turn. And about those motivated by power to violently oppose them. It's about being smart, and compassionate, and trusting instincts. And about how an innocent action can have unintended and catastrophic consequences. It is also infused with a sly humor, delivered by a peerless cast.
It was written to be 13 episodes, a complete story. But because it confused people who were apparently expecting to be spoon fed, as the CSI franchise does, it was cancelled before being completely aired. As so many shows that give an audience credit for intelligence are doomed.
But I hear it will be shown on Bravo in the UK. (You Brits will love this.) And they are showing it on the network site as online streaming. A DVD cannot be too far behind. Because, although it never got the numbers to be a 'hit', there are enough bright folks to recognize it for the gem it is. I hope the DVD includes an interview with the writers. And I want to see their flow chart, which must be a dense page of swirling, multi-colored lines and polygons.
Looking up the cast on IMDB, I found the majority have at least one X-Files credit. Not terribly surprizing, it was a long running show with a large guest cast. Still.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Cuddle (Photo)
Lightly sandpapered, back to work, not missing bad tv (is there any other kind?), and wishing for a solid night's sleep. Soon, soon, soon. Moby has been taking care of both of us. The Boston storm of the year has made quite a wet mess, and the certain iciness of the morning awaits.
Shocked and numb about the shooting at the Salt Lake mall, close to where we once lived, so familiar. None of our friends were there, but could so easily have been. Random insanity, a bus over a cliff, a plane into the ocean, too big, unpredictable, uncontrollable.
Take shower, try to sleep.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Viral (With Photo)
Last night was a half dream of aches and congestion and a heavy cat. Each involuntary swallow a sharp scrape across open membrane. Nightmares flirted with drugged, exhausted semiconsciousness, tossed with anxious knots of memory. Snot drained onto my pillow, as I ran out of tissues. I tried to turn gingerly, to let both of my guys sleep.
I dreamed I was getting a ride in my parents SUV, having gotten my mom boxes of good tea, and hoped to lie down in the back seat and sleep. My father's driving was worse than usual, more like an average Boston cabbie, and as I woke I was angry at myself for going with them, and not with my friends just because I wanted to sleep. (No, my parents have never driven anything faintly SUV-ish.)
I woke for real about 4, journeyed to the bathroom, afraid I would not be able to get back to sleep at all, considered crawling to the sofa and watching bad tv. But I got back to bed, nudging Moby over a bit, putting a hand on D's back, and stumbled into a kind of doze, only waking enough when D kissed me to remember he was off to work this morning.
Later, I put out a foot to nuzzle Moby, and he licked my toe a while, and his muscular tail thumped my ankle reassuringly. I forced my way to the floor, joints screaming, to make tea and cereal.
After a few hours, and a shower, I began to feel I'd passed through the worst. My temperature was down to my normal low, my congestion sounding worse than I felt. So, the virus is losing to the mighty white cells. Tomorrow is a regular day off.
What is it about a simple, common cold, that always makes me wonder if I'm going to make it?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Lines
It's always darkest before you switch on the light.
No thesis proposal survives contact with the ... research.
"... Enemy." Says D.
I'm down with damn cold, but I still got it.
No thesis proposal survives contact with the ... research.
"... Enemy." Says D.
I'm down with damn cold, but I still got it.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Novelty
I do not read books with certain elements. Thrill killers, fantasy in trilogy, and adultery as a main theme. And this is not because I have not read them, but I do not now.
I went through years of reading the most gruesome murder mysteries, real crime, horror, until I was surfeited, deeply repulsed. It was a well for my anger, and served a purpose, but then it was enough. As mentioned, I still enjoy COPS! and some of the better police procedural shows, but not for the violence. I watch for the human interaction as they deal with the violence. I will read murder mysteries, if they are very formulaic, as a kind of anesthetic. The soothing familiarity of a staid old genre. I read Lindsey Davis' Roman mysteries more for the history and romance than for the puzzle, and not at all for the anger.
Fantasies were once my addiction. Started out with Tolkien, read over and over. Then all the rest who read Tolkien, and it showed. Working at a library meant rolling dice on whether I would be able to read a whole trilogy in order. Elizabeth Ann Scarborough was one of my last attempts, a long process of getting all the books in the series. Worth it, but so frustrating, that the next time I picked up one of those paperbacks on the twirling rack with the subtitle "Second in the Mythbender Royal Assemblage Trilogy!" I took a pass. The draining, sprawling generations of story became like listening to one of D's friends talk about Amber. (If you get this reference, fine, if not, don't worry about it.) And, despite repeated temptation, I have never again picked up a novel that was part of a series of three-or-more.
My intention to explain my distaste for adultery themed stories kept me up last night, in a nightmare about the ex. But I was the one who went outside to have illicit sex. I could not have explained it at the time as a bone deep hunger for affection and regard, but that is what it was. There was more sex with him, and painful yeast infections, and coercion, but it was like living on Doritos, I was full and fat, but starving. And, I had offered him an open relationship when we got married. Which he agreed to, but presumably, only for himself, although he never used the option. I'd specifically made no promise of lifelong sexual fidelity, out of a quietly prescient intuition that only having him all my life was going to choke me. Rationalization, but I had known, and had not vowed.
Since finding D, I have not so much as wanted to kiss another man. But in the early days, I was pessimistic about my ability to be faithful, loyal. I promised him, I wanted to be, but then, I hadn't really intended any of the affairs, before. They had indeed, just sort of happened. As the years have grown, and with a few, easily dismissed, temptations, I find I have as little interest in romance outside of D as with five part fantasies about thrill killers. I am well nourished, now. I still hug male friends, and enjoy standing near some of our young residents, but that is enough.
I see adultery stories as empty and soul eroding. Prurient interest in sin and debauchery, best indulged when young. I survived it, never to waste time on those paths again, as they lead only in circles. I don't object to them on principle, only that they leave me cold, wanting my wasted time back. I want to tell the neglected women having affairs to just end the marriage, or the joyful adulterer to just walk away, and not fuck up the lives around. I see affairs as symptoms of heartsickness, not as erotic adventure.
It's a matter of understanding. Which is why funny drunks are not funny, and beating kids isn't a joke, and rape isn't exciting, and Henny Youngman schtick is lame, blackface is not harmless entertainment but bigotry, and beating a spouse is not a justifiable custom. That sentence would not parse if read in 1930, for many people in power. But that there were jokes, meant that these subjects were at least, being discussed.
There is a four part fantasy novel in that.
I went through years of reading the most gruesome murder mysteries, real crime, horror, until I was surfeited, deeply repulsed. It was a well for my anger, and served a purpose, but then it was enough. As mentioned, I still enjoy COPS! and some of the better police procedural shows, but not for the violence. I watch for the human interaction as they deal with the violence. I will read murder mysteries, if they are very formulaic, as a kind of anesthetic. The soothing familiarity of a staid old genre. I read Lindsey Davis' Roman mysteries more for the history and romance than for the puzzle, and not at all for the anger.
Fantasies were once my addiction. Started out with Tolkien, read over and over. Then all the rest who read Tolkien, and it showed. Working at a library meant rolling dice on whether I would be able to read a whole trilogy in order. Elizabeth Ann Scarborough was one of my last attempts, a long process of getting all the books in the series. Worth it, but so frustrating, that the next time I picked up one of those paperbacks on the twirling rack with the subtitle "Second in the Mythbender Royal Assemblage Trilogy!" I took a pass. The draining, sprawling generations of story became like listening to one of D's friends talk about Amber. (If you get this reference, fine, if not, don't worry about it.) And, despite repeated temptation, I have never again picked up a novel that was part of a series of three-or-more.
My intention to explain my distaste for adultery themed stories kept me up last night, in a nightmare about the ex. But I was the one who went outside to have illicit sex. I could not have explained it at the time as a bone deep hunger for affection and regard, but that is what it was. There was more sex with him, and painful yeast infections, and coercion, but it was like living on Doritos, I was full and fat, but starving. And, I had offered him an open relationship when we got married. Which he agreed to, but presumably, only for himself, although he never used the option. I'd specifically made no promise of lifelong sexual fidelity, out of a quietly prescient intuition that only having him all my life was going to choke me. Rationalization, but I had known, and had not vowed.
Since finding D, I have not so much as wanted to kiss another man. But in the early days, I was pessimistic about my ability to be faithful, loyal. I promised him, I wanted to be, but then, I hadn't really intended any of the affairs, before. They had indeed, just sort of happened. As the years have grown, and with a few, easily dismissed, temptations, I find I have as little interest in romance outside of D as with five part fantasies about thrill killers. I am well nourished, now. I still hug male friends, and enjoy standing near some of our young residents, but that is enough.
I see adultery stories as empty and soul eroding. Prurient interest in sin and debauchery, best indulged when young. I survived it, never to waste time on those paths again, as they lead only in circles. I don't object to them on principle, only that they leave me cold, wanting my wasted time back. I want to tell the neglected women having affairs to just end the marriage, or the joyful adulterer to just walk away, and not fuck up the lives around. I see affairs as symptoms of heartsickness, not as erotic adventure.
It's a matter of understanding. Which is why funny drunks are not funny, and beating kids isn't a joke, and rape isn't exciting, and Henny Youngman schtick is lame, blackface is not harmless entertainment but bigotry, and beating a spouse is not a justifiable custom. That sentence would not parse if read in 1930, for many people in power. But that there were jokes, meant that these subjects were at least, being discussed.
There is a four part fantasy novel in that.
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