Park

We took a walk in a city park neither of us had ever seen before. The magic of the internet, let's one see the neighborhood. Only one bird in an ostensible "bird park", but a small creek, a green path, and a sign of confusion. "An expression of policy, then an acknowledgment of reality" quoth D.

Lydia

Joe in Vegas made me very happy today. Because he has this Marx on his site. So, I had to share with everyone.


Plus, it's educational.

Electric

Warning: Naked picture. Well, I couldn't wait forever for Jo(e).














More rested than what has become usual. Eager to exercise. Now singing the body...

Prowl

This space really does help.

But I grew weary of my own persistent distress. I could not see past it, could not get out from under it, and was sick of my own complaints. Like hearing one's own recorded voice droning and mumbled, too high and lacking resonance. I had one note. I had to hide for a while, stick my head into my socks.

Last night, I had an hour without pain of any kind. And I realized why I could only play one dull tune. I had not been truly free of that unacknowledged ache for... gods, I couldn't remember. And when I thought I was out of pain, it was only because I'd stopped seeing the accretion, like dust on the books or on top of the fridge.

I broke surface, after an intense therapy session early in the day, and an electro-stimulation device ever since, then my exercises in the evening. I stood there, with a golden wonderment, to announce to D and ND that I had absolutely no pain, gosh.

I wore the stim nine hours today, I was fine, it was good, I was fine, it was good, until the moment when, ok, ok, enough, get, GET IT OFF ME, GET IT OFFA ME, GETIT OFFAME! Well, internally, but I snagged a nurse for a quick break, and removed the stickers. Alone, I had a small come-apart. But I moved, all day, better than for a long time. Not strongly, but without the panic-inducing twinges either. Sore, still a long road, but the fog has lifted just enough for me to see the other mountain. Like the bear i'th'adage.

I hear the train wum-wum-whumping by out the open window, the hiss of traffic, and the internal sound of electric prickles and thrums, probing through, calling out the nerves to their duties. Moby makes no sound at all, but I spot him prowling past, and again, and back to check out the voices in the hall - ears perked, the staring at me, the hunch, the stalk, the bolt that says, "chase me." And so I must chase him until he flops down to say the game is over, he's won, and I must now pet his tum.

Cowardice

I've been struggling to be patient with the PT student working on me, with my physical therapist. He tends to want to let me off the hook, not push me through just because I'm reporting pain. And it is simply identifying. Pain, in itself, is just information. I need all the help I can get to keep going, not just give up because it hurts.

Again.

He's a young man, with the tendency of the young to believe they can be understood just by saying what's in their mind. I often stop him, demanding clarification. "Is this what I should do, or should not do?" I insist. He tends to run them together, or have me look at demonstration outside my possible field of vision. Or tells me if it hurts, I can do less. He minds my tears. I'm having to push him. I don't need a damn tissue, I need to keep going.

I know he's trying, and his compassion - in anyone but a physical therapist - would be touching. But I am doing this because physical therapists are the nicest sadists I've ever met, and I need that kind of goal oriented torture. In my own sore brain, this is irritating beyond my ability to suppress my snark. I try to be calm and communicative, and fail. I am so relieved when the therapist intervenes.

I do get a bit cowardly in the evening, after stressing the damage, after a long day, when I'm tired and at the end of what I can do. I have been known to kneel on the floor a half an hour, just building up the courage to risk the discomfort of standing up, or rolling up into bed. Only to feel foolishly whimpy when I do, and it doesn't hurt at all.

Moby slunk into the closet while it rained for five minutes. And stayed slunk for a good hour or so. I can only assume the pressure changes must bother his ears. He even let me hold him in my lap, as long as I stayed on the low step stool in the kitchen - the kitchen floor a 'safe' place for him when he's feeling stressed. He's just come out to prowl, but more rain is looming. He does not buy our happy attitude to rain.

"You people are freaks."

Juggle

Strange what time does, how it compresses under the pressure of intense activity, or stretches between the empty spaces. How fast ten hours can disappear, but leave the feet just as certain more than a dozen hours of running must've passed.

I want to be asleep, but it all hurts so much, and my mind is whirling. We were hard pressed today, and I was the resource for all the rooms. More than five and a half miles recorded by pedometer, all in fits and starts, not counting the standing, or what heavy item I was pushing at the time.

D massaged my back after I did my exercises, which seems to have helped immensely. I brush away the accretions, the archeology dig into the pain. Hard not to obsess, hard to talk about anything else, and I don't want to talk about hurting. This has taken over my life. Ah. This is why I hid it all from myself so long, such a temptation, to sweep it all behind and ignore it.

But I feel good about the work I did today, about being really useful, and all the plates stayed spinning.

Horses

If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.
If wishes were fishes, we'd cast all our lines.
If ifs and ands were pots and pans
There'd be no need for tinkers' hands.

If my aunt was a man she'd be my uncle.


For Blue Light, who so often inspires me. Not so long ago, I wanted what she wished for almost exactly.

I used to wish for long sleek hair to blow in the wind. I'd be satisfied for long enough to tie back, and it will get there. The difference is my mother cut mine in a pixie, and I do as I like with it now. I smile at my old sense of drama, and prefer the practical. And if it doesn't grow enough, I'll buzz it all off, like I do now for D, who always said he would keep it shaved if he started losing his hair. Long keeps my head warmer is all.

I watch my skin grow dry, the cracks form where my expressions habitually are. I see the squarish faces of the women in my family peering out at me shyly. I smile back ruefully, humorously. I once wished for a pretty face, but mine will wear better, with such a prominent nose to hang upon.

I once wished for the delicate frame of the elegant and slender dancers. But I have never really broken a bone, a small chip from a toe, a maybe crack in a knuckle, peasant stockiness to withstand the inevitable shocks of rude life. The sweet birds are for me to protect and tend to, I will outstand them. The bole, branch and leaves all have their roles to play, one wishing to be the other is pointless.

I wish I'd had a warm and healthy love in my original family, but this too is a blessing. I will never make assumptions about love or relationships, never feel entitled. I will never put my foot completely in my mouth about other's relationships with their families, never pressure anyone into a conventional social role. I treasure my friends who form my family. I think about these dynamics all the time.

I used to wish myself more calm, more comprehensible, and I still do. But this is what I am, my reactions are not standard, off the shelf ones. The mis-reactions tell me all about those making them, and who to be careful of. My fluster is my shield against arrogance, an emotion that would bring me great pleasure - but no friends.

I once wished for heaven, but I have come to believe there isn't one. There is one human unit of time, a lifetime, we each get one. To want another is sheer greed. To want anyone else's life is stupidity. Make my own, and use the crayons I have, without worrying if the other kid has all the blues and purples and I have brown.

I used to wish for enough money, time, travel, excitement, all the extravagant joys. Oh, much of it would have been fun, I'm sure. But I have enough, and not needing to struggle would have been horribly harmful to me. I must have life to push against, or I would loll. I really am lazy, an enlightened laziness, but low energy all the same. Little motivated by money, much as I enjoy nice things, I tend to do less if it is still sufficient. Wealth would sap me of my motivation.

I used to wish everyone to be intelligent. But I have found that meanness latched to intelligence is far more damaging than stupid meanness, in part because it can disguise itself too well. Too much kindness leaves us unwilling to be unkind to solve a larger evil. So I think just a bit more intelligence and a bit more kindness wouldn't hurt, just enough to tip the scales a little.

I wouldn't wish for more wishes. I would wish for a bit more enough for most people, a bit more courage for everyone to open their eyes and look at themselves honestly, and just a little more rain in the places it's needed.

Theoretical

Theories get in the way of clearly seeing. We were talking about the video shown at orientation, of a group of people dribbling and passing basketballs, and we were instructed to count how many passes. Half way, a guy in a gorilla suit walks right through the middle of the group, stops, thumps his chest, then exits the other side. A wave of giggles as this happens. Video over, the instructor asks how many people noticed the gorilla. A bit over half of us, and the rest are baffled. They show the video again, and the rest of the class is amazed.

I have come to suspect that this is the problem with 'scientific method.' Gathering data, great. Testing, great. Even theorizing in order to design tests and organize data, fine. But when the theory takes precedence, the data gets edited to fit the theory, instead of the other way round. We fall in love with our theories, and blind ourselves to what is actually happening. Often, when the data shows a method not working, but the theory says it should, it's the theory that holds sway.

I have never heard a useful theory about love and relationships. There is someone for everyone. Just give up and love will come to you. The Ideal Man lists of young women, or the complicated theories about hypothetical women by young men - including staying out of the "just friends" category. Well, some people - loving and lovable people, never find a partner, hot lovers can grow into a contentedly sexless marriage, many marry just anyone who will take them and ruin two lives, live-in partnerships are not for everyone, the joyously married are widowed, there are toxic people who are incapable of love, the rules do not, in short, always apply. I suspect they rarely apply.

But theories can blind us to the truth in front of us. We should not sell while we can because we are not for all markets, we should not be for sale at all. What we dream of when we are sixteen is unlikely to give us joy at thirty, or even interest us at fifty. D and I should never have been together on the face of it. What seems like a deal-breaker at twenty might be a minor issue a few years later. "Cute" may not matter so much as mature beauty and strength and humor after a move or six. Religious differences, OR similarities, may crumble in the face of tragedy.

I think this is why D so appealed to me, young and inexperienced as he was when we got together. His theories were all about how he should be - honest, no game-playing, treating me well. He opened his eyes, and saw. The external facts were not relevant, in the space between us. That quality of seeing what is in front of him continues to hold us to each other, as I strive to do the same.

I see the gorillas. I watch for 'em.

Decision

Moons

This cheered me considerably. I've remembered this commercial all my life, and although D believed me when I told him "Wednesday is Prince Spaghetti Day," he didn't know, really, what I meant. I remember it longer, from when I was a bit younger than Anthony himself. I so wanted to run through those streets. At that age, I thought he was in Italy, since the word "boston" meant nothing to me. Now, well, the North End looks much the same, including Haymarket - now that the elevated freeway built since has since been demolished. And I love that I know another place well enough to appreciate that. I wish I had another language, but at least I have more than one city.

My body is alive to all sensation, not much of it warm and fuzzy, as I work and pull it out of it's false complacency. I'd gotten the pain down to a low grumble that I could ignore, but it dragged on me, and now I'm tugging back, exposing it for the monster it is. And beating it with a poker. This feels like the first really promising event in a long process of just-hanging-ins.

Lemme 'splain. The physical therapy there has a traction device, wide belts on a computerized table that pull my up, up, and my down, down, in a gentle but insistent manor. Not pleasant, but by the next day, I'm able to move better. And I have some new and interesting exercises to do every day. Do 'em right, and it hurts down to the basement. Not in the best of moods then.

Last night was particularly clear, and about nine as we stood out on the balcony, D pointed out Jupiter. I didn't even have my glasses on, and when he brought me binoculars, I could see a bigger blob - frustrating. Part of me wanted to just give up, go back in, but I chose to be patient, attend. So, he got out the small telescope he's had since childhood, that we have brought along with us through all the moves (at my insistence.) After several surfaces (the AC fan, a bar stool) and difficulty aiming, he got it in view. I looked, and felt I couldn't see anything much. He looked again and said he could see three satellites. I tried again, and thought, no, that couldn't be.

"Are the three small lights... two to the left, one to the right, is that them?"

"That's them." He was beaming at me. My irritation fell away.

Sure enough. I've never been able to see much of anything through microscope nor telescope, and D says he's never managed to see Jupiter's moons before either. I finally was able to share his old love of astronomy, which delighted us both.

Moby was mostly interested in the grass and looking out at terrestrial activity, but happy enough to hang out with his odd friends.

Suit

D dropped his jacket and tie on the sofa, since they will need a trip to the dry cleaners before any more interviews. A warmish and humidish day, and a fast walk in less than ideal shoes. But a promise to hear tomorrow one way or the other from the library folks who interviewed him, along with two other candidates. He's not feeling like he's quite qualified, and is as afraid of getting it as of not getting the job.

We saw no point in shooing Moby off, since he is so content, and the suit is in need of laundering even before cat fur application.

Still hoping for rain, the last one has long ago evaporated.

No word, so we are assuming the job went to one of the others. A little sad, but some sense of relief. Hope for another position for later.

Or

Went to a different OR today, and kept my head above water. They tossed me in, with a floatation device (an experienced RN who was also helping out the scrub who was new to that specialty) and I worked. All went well, but also, many rooms came down. Cases done, and they didn't need me past noon.

So, when I got to the train, and no cars were at the end of the line, none appeared, I caught a shuttle a bit further down campus and decided to get my walk in. It was further, on a day that got warmer as I descended into the lower elevations, than I had anticipated. Pedometer counting, I got in a good 5 1/2 miles in today, less than half at work. This is a university on the side of a mountain. I still remember the term I walked it with a broken toe. Step, ow, step, ow, step, ow. Steep bits abound. As I got to our door, I felt pretty good that I'd made it, despite many moments regretting not just waiting for the train.

Moby has decided that if I am home, and sitting close, it's safe to eat. D apparently got home, and went out again, not expecting me for hours yet. Hopefully not too long.

Boy

Boy with a Coin. Dance that makes me want to dance.

Thanks ND.

Zed

Zachary was a zoologist who hated zoos. He played zither and zils. He considered climbing the Zakim Bridge the zenith of his life with the zaftig and zesty Zoe, his spouse.

His father zigzagged through Zanzibar as a Zouave. His children all moved near Zion park, often dressing up as zombies. He died under the wheels of the California Zephyr.

A zany zipper
zeitgeist of zymology
zen loves the zillion.


And that's it. Couldn't do Q, X, or Z over again.

Station

Secret Messages from D. His music, public domain video and voices from Number Stations. I think it's amazing.

Hug

Walked in the downpour this morning. Hoping for a bit of lunch, but on a holiday the places close were closed. Came home, called ahead, went out for a second time by vehicle, had a decent meal. When we came out, the sun was back, but this was autumn sun, not so intent on baking us to crisps. We'd have the balcony door open to let in the mild air, but for our neighbor with the stinky cigs, which I am pretty sure is banned in our lease, but the office isn't open today. And all the tenants are home.

Moby will let me pick him up, will nose my face and eyes, then want to be put down, thankyouverymuch. With D, he likes to be held a while, settles in for a good hug.

Pour

It's pouring. Thundering, lightening, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain. After a summer with none, this is blessing indeed. The heat is slaked, the dust and pollen down. Couldn't get a good photo of it, though I tried. Take it as read.


And this is a clip of John Lydon talking about the meaning of life.