Interiors

End of an era, the old phonebooth. This one is more than sadly neglected, the broken handpiece had some vegetation in between it's halves.


The first day it rained. Off and on and off and on and on. Something about the roads there, or the drivers who seemed remarkably sane and stayed to posted speeds, at least on US30, or the rental car a bit heavier than our own, but I had no anxiety about the drive along wet and winding roads. Good to get off my feet and out of shoes by the end of the trip. Then we wandered out to explore the damp town, without a map, but still found our way around just peachily.




We rather lazily just stopped at the Pig and Pancake the first morning. D ordered a western omelet, so when this came, he commented, "I was hoping some eggs would come with it." The almost exactly not unlike tea beverage was at least warmish. And D's meal turned out acceptable, after a while. Andrew and Steve's cafe the next morning was so much better, with excellent hashbrowns, the best French Toast I've ever tasted, and something much more like tea.




After the intensity of the beach, we stopped at Tokugawa Antiques to come down and warm up. Amazing gem of a place. Then off to the Columbia River Maritime Museum. Not sure of their photography policy, I only snuck in a few. That will get a post of it's own, later. Got hungry, so off to Rogue Brewery for lunch.

They had chocolate stout, the one beer I can never resist. And haut dogs, with chili, all done to perfection. That will get a post as well. Restorative meal, then back to the museum, it was that amazing.

Beaches

Wreck of the Peter Iredale.





South Jetty.

The very best part of the trip, although taking up the least actual time, was the time on the Oregon beach. Powerful winds, rain with sand imbedded, waves crashing. Complete resetting of the brain. Exhausting and exhilarating and exactly what we traveled so far for. If only it had rained more.

Moby did very well with ND hanging out with him, although he purred loudly for a good half hour after we got home. Then spent the evening chasing the mouse and flopping to be petted, alternately.

Intensity

Northwest coastal beaches are intense. Nice hotel in the off (cheap) season. The Columbia River is impressive.

Home, tired, relaxed.

More tomorrow.

Books

Ok, a long one for you to chew on. Not leaving town until Tuesday, but I'm going off line for my sanity, adjustment, to get everything done. And a simple exercise in self restraint. Oh, I'll still read comics, do the crossword, read email, but no blogging, reading or writing, no long sessions online for a week. Will do me good.

So, The Beeb listed Big Reads, which is a list of 100 books. No idea of the criteria, and it does have a British slant - which is fine by me. Most I have not read, some I will not read under any circumstances.

The presence of four Terr.... Sir Terry Pratchett books may seem excessive, but only if you only think of him as a funny fantasy writer. Night Watch, for instance, is nothing of the sort. The humour distracts those looking for serious novels, which they are, at heart. And well plotted, with rich language, and a handful of ungodly puns. He tackles death and finances, parent child relationships, the function of police in society, tyranny, and the persistence of human stupidity, greed and depravity. While turning phrases amusingly.

Huge swathes of the list are children's books. The ones I read as a kid, and have an affection for, with few exceptions, I will not read again. I will never read The Lord of the Rings again, despite having devoured the series perhaps seven or eight times in my youth. Likewise the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, and Roald Dahl's The BFG, Maltida and so on. Several in young adult series, which degrades the list for me. Winnie the Pooh is another story, I think it really IS for adults, I didn't like the original book as a child. Ditto Alice in Wonderland.

I tried, honestly I tried to read Harry Potter. Nothing really changes, nothing really matters, the prose is simplistic, I don't care about any of the characters, I will never read another word written by JK. And you can't make me.

Glad to see To Kill a Mockingbird, though, such an enduring gem. Likewise anything by Austen - even when the plots fall a bit, I love her characters. Less affection for the Bronte sister's melodrama, but I'm sure nostalgia plays a huge part in these lists. Grapes of Wrath is still readable. And I love Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

I don't think Catch 22 was Heller's best novel, and I read it in a war zone. No one actually reads War and Peace, any more than they actually read James Joyce.

No one should admit to reading Gone With the Wind. Clan of the Cave Bear I hated past all reasoning. D read The Godfather, and was disgusted by the turgid prose, and he loves the movies.

Many, I suspect, are on there simply because successful movies were made of them, Cold Comfort Farm, Bridget Jones' Diary, The Thorn Birds, Memoirs of a Geisha, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, and see a few above. (Gone With the WInd is a racist bodice ripper, trash, but worse.)

Very few off the list are books I would like to read. I know the vast majority, and have either read them, rejected them, or tried to read and threw the book across the room. I suspect this comes from having worked in libraries, I may not read them, but I know them, and know why I haven't.

You want the list? Masochists. Here Marked, Read, Won't, Threw, May, and Ignorant (me that is.) The Read pile is at 44. I looked up all the ones I marked Ignorant, and only want to read one of those.


1. The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien  Read


2. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen Read


3. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman May

4. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams  Read


5. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, JK Rowling   Won't


6. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee  Read

7. Winnie the Pooh, AA Milne   Read


8. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell  Read


9. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, CS Lewis   Read


10. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë   Read


11. Catch-22, Joseph Heller Read


12. Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë   Read


13. Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks Ignorant


14. Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier Read


15. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger Threw 


16. The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame  Read


17. Great Expectations, Charles Dickens   Threw


18. Little Women, Louisa May Alcott  Read


19. Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres Won't


20. War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy Threw (carefully, don't want to hurt anyone)


21. Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell Won't


22. Harry Potter And The Philosopher’s Stone, JK Rowling   Won't


23. Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets, JK Rowling   Won't


24. Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban, JK Rowling   Won't


25. The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien Read


26. Tess Of The D’Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy May


27. Middlemarch, George Eliot Threw


28. A Prayer For Owen Meany, John Irving   Read


29. The Grapes Of Wrath, John Steinbeck   Read


30. Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll  Read


31. The Story Of Tracy Beaker, Jacqueline Wilson Ignorant


32. One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez Read


33. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett Won't
34. David Copperfield, Charles Dickens Threw


35. Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl   Read


36. Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson   Read


37. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute Read


38. Persuasion, Jane Austen Read


39. Dune, Frank Herbert Won't, and Threw (hate Herbert for another book)


40. Emma, Jane Austen Read


41. Anne Of Green Gables, LM Montgomery Read


42. Watership Down, Richard Adams Read


43. The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald Read


44. The Count Of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas Read


45. Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh Read


46. Animal Farm, George Orwell Read


47. A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens   Won't


48. Far From The Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy Won't


49. Goodnight Mister Tom, Michelle Magorian Ignorant


50. The Shell Seekers, Rosamunde Pilcher Ignorant


51. The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett   Read


52. Of Mice And Men, John Steinbeck   Read


53. The Stand, Stephen King   Read


54. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy Won't


55. A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth Ignorant 


56. The BFG, Roald Dahl Read


57. Swallows And Amazons, Arthur Ransome Ignorant


58. Black Beauty, Anna Sewell   Read


59. Artemis Fowl, Eoin Colfer Ignorant


60. Crime And Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky Won't 


61. Noughts And Crosses, Malorie Blackman Won't


62. Memoirs Of A Geisha, Arthur Golden   Won't


63. A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens Won't


64. The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCollough Won't


65. Mort, Terry Pratchett Read


66. The Magic Faraway Tree, Enid Blyton Won't


67. The Magus, John Fowles Won't


68. Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman Read


69. Guards! Guards!, Terry Pratchett Read


70. Lord Of The Flies, William Golding   Threw


71. Perfume, Patrick Süskind Won't


72. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell Won't


73. Night Watch, Terry Pratchett Read


74. Matilda, Roald Dahl Read


75. Bridget Jones’s Diary, Helen Fielding Won't


76. The Secret History, Donna Tartt Won't


77. The Woman In White, Wilkie Collins Won't


78. Ulysses, James Joyce Threw


79. Bleak House, Charles Dickens Read


80. Double Act, Jacqueline Wilson Won't


81. The Twits, Roald Dahl Read


82. I Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith Won't


83. Holes, Louis Sachar Read


84. Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake Threw (really tried to read, honestly)


85. The God Of Small Things, Arundhati Roy   Won't


86. Vicky Angel, Jacqueline Wilson Won't


87. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley Read (gods help me)


88. Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons Threw


89. Magician, Raymond E Feist Ignorant


90. On The Road, Jack Kerouac  Read


91. The Godfather, Mario Puzo   D Read, I Threw


92. The Clan Of The Cave Bear, Jean M Auel Read (hate, hate, hate)

93. The Colour Of Magic, Terry Pratchett Read


94. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho Threw


95. Katherine, Anya Seton Ignorant (want to read, now)


96. Kane And Abel, Jeffrey Archer Won't


97. Love In The Time Of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez Read


98. Girls In Love, Jacqueline Wilson Won't


99. The Princess Diaries, Meg Cabot Won't


100. Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie  Won't. Will Throw.

Affection

Affection was demanded in my original family. I had to be kissed and hugged, I had to kiss everyone present "good night" until I left home. I stopped giving a kiss good night to my parents at about age 13, so that I would not have to endure my father's embraces every night. I would kiss my mother only if he couldn't see.

Much as I love being touched and touching, I must have a choice, must give the choice to others. I take a while to warm up to people. In contrast to my ability to open myself up in writing, or for my patients, or for what I know will be very short term connections.

Probably why it didn't really bother me that it took Moby two months to decide to sit on me. And another few months to sleep on us. Only made me respect his discernment. For all that I can give a very energetic first impression, useful in finding jobs, I am really rather reserved by nature. Exuberant greeting is the compensatory act of a painful shyness, and a bone deep distrust of everything and everyone. I can push it aside with great skill, in my heart, I am closed and careful. Only those of proven integrity, over time, after much reassurance, get through.

This is not a trait I am proud of. Just one I have to deal with.

Thankfully, D took no offense, and kept laying out more proofs, until I could only be convinced.

Vacation

Finally getting a full week's vacation, after longer than I can remember. A going away, full change of location vacation. ND is taking care of Moby, because unlike in Boston, the cat sitter services here never returned our calls. And he needed a little cash, despite mild cat allergies. Moby likes him, in a very respectful way. And we know Moby pines for us when we are gone, we've seen it often enough. So, doing good all around. And D needs a vacation, after finally finding work after a year of searching, and his employers are being good about it.

So, off to the Great Northwest (the new one, not Michigan which used to be the Great Northwest, but everything shifted west long ago.) It all sounded wonderful last August when we were sick to death of heat and desert and dryness. Still sounds good, if not quite as urgent. The weekend to clean and sort, pack and plan. We are planners, which alleviates anxiety. I tend to take my watch off for vacations, and try not to ask D too often what time it is.

I will be finally meeting another blogger, Dale over at Mole, who has been abetting my writing for many years now. And this makes me want to back up and hide a little. For all that I can jump into many situations with courage, social meetings bring out every shy impulse. I know Dale will be kind, will be comfortable and welcoming, but I draw in, and wait to see, wait to touch his hand for a first time and decide then.

I had an acquaintance from naginata class who went off as an exchange student to Japan. We emailed frequently during his sojourn there, a difficult situation for him, and I invested a lot of time and intention - gladly. When he got home, he ignored me, until I showed up at his naginata class, and he rushed me, picked me up in a bear hug, not noticing at all that I went stiff, tried to push him away. Even if I weren't angry with him for his snub, I would have hated being grabbed. I left without a word, have never seen him again. The guardedness remains.

Yeah, I need a vacation.

Dentist

Nothing quite like a couple of hours in a dentist chair. I've never afraid of dentists, but it's hardly comfortable, not a vacation. I try very hard to be a cooperative patient, but I have a strong gag reflex, and whatever that bitter crap is that they use in taking a mold for a crown caused me to retch reflexively. Gah and yuck and ptoooey. A small swallow of whiskey, and some maple sugar seems to have erased that. Not going to the Humane Society again, and I mind very much. But I am not bringing my worst stress to them. Going Saturday to learn how to teach shelter dogs manners, that will have to suffice.

But, the worst is over, only the permanent to go in a couple of weeks, after the vacation. He did a perfect block, that lasted long enough. Mostly, I'm not numb now, no extraneous drooling, no real pain. I took a decongestant and naproxen before I went, and they called to have me come in early, so all worked out better than could be expected.

I have only the most vague memories of going to a dentist as a small child, mostly an impression of leather waiting room chairs, and a play area, and then being in the chair and spitting. I wasn't to see another dentist until my father got dental insurance when I was 17. I had a few cavities, and saw a very young dentist who put mountain posters on his ceiling, and his fillings have held up over the years. Had braces when I was 19 when another insurance plan got better. I saw another in northern Michigan, who filled cavities occasioned by my post parental home cola habit.

An army dentist from our unit worked on both of us, at a discount and by payments, when D needed wisdom teeth out, and I had an abscessed tooth. We were both very grateful for the care. Another job, but with insurance, meant more attention, preventative cleanings and all.

D is not so genial when it comes to dentists, has a much harder time of staying still and dealing with the tastes and stresses. Had more experience of them, being more firmly middle class and insured. Even more sensitive to pain since the multiple surgeries on his elbow, then hand.

Mostly, I am just grateful to be able to afford such discomfort for the sake of "teeth in good repair" as physical assessments phrase it. My nightmare is to have my teeth crumbling in my mouth. Now that one has, I'm not handling it as well as I would like. I'm feeling worried and tired.

Clipped

When Moby pulls away his paws, I know he doesn't want his claws clipped. When he starts mewing/growling, I know he is insisting that he doesn't want his claws clipped. When he avoids me for an hour after, I know he REALLY didn't want me clipping his claws, and didn't like HOW I did it either. Generally, I only get to the first two stages of objection.

When Moby stands in the edge of the kitchen first thing in the morning, tail up, not moving, and I pick him up, he purrs and noses my face. So I guess that he wanted the hug, and is feeling affection.

When we step over him in the middle of the hallway, and he hardly notices, I assume that he trusts us not to step on him. Likewise when I lay my head on his body gently, and he yawns, that he is expressing trust.

When I sneeze and he looks at me with ears back, looking startled, and we say "It's ok Moby, everything is fine" and he puts his head back down, it means he was startled, but accepts our reassurance.

When he mews loudly at the front door, and his tail is all bushy, and he startles and runs, he is bothered by something.

When he stares wild eyed at me, in wide stance, then scampers off when I move a little, I guess that he wants me to chase him, or otherwise play with him. When i chase him, then he stops and flops, it means he wins the game, and I must now give him a cat massage.

When I reach to pet him and he walks away, I guess he is not in the mood for squishy stuff. When he comes and sits by us, we guess he wants to hang out.

When he sees the fluffy white bath mat on the floor in the bathroom, he assumes it is there for him to pee on. When he pees on the floor of the bathroom, either his litter boxes have not been adequately changed, or he misses (like many males do) or he just doesn't feel like using the tub, this time. I suspect his perhaps neglectful former owner didn't take care of the litter as Moby would have liked, and he has a list of alternative toilet areas, in case.

It took me a while to realize this wasn't any kind of malice on his part. Fastidiousness, yes. And me yelling was just proof to him that I was crazy and erratic. Not that he was doing anything wrong, since cats, not being hierarchical, don't think in terms of appeasing a more dominant animal. But when they love, they love. Which is part of why neither of us have scratch marks.

Taking care of the cat at the Humane Society the last time, the other volunteer sprayed her hands with the disinfectant, and the cat I had freaked. It wasn't until I got home that I realized why. The abandoner had used the spray bottle to punish the cat. Cats don't respond well to punishment, most animals don't. This is not new information. Cats in particular simply see the punisher as an untrustworthy being, and become fearful.

But if you have seen the Moscow Cat Circus, or the Vegas Greg's Cats, it's all a matter of observation and patience, and love. The same intention behind dog training (maybe better described as dog communication), using somewhat different methods for a different species with a different social structure. It's respectful, and expectant and positive.

But many people don't even do this for their children. So, what can we hope for?

A change. Slowly, or when we get to a human tipping point, or whatever it takes. When we finally come to know that we cannot punish, that retribution is not effective, that we have to start right at the beginning, and we cannot ever assume we know what anyone else intends.

none

No fiction today. My head just won't cooperate.

Morris

Ok, so the good folks over at narrowboat: the green man posted this preview. What amazes me is the idea that this is not getting general release, not making the rounds of the film festivals. So, I'm doing my paltry part in helping this go viral. I want to see this. And then get the dvd in a few years, with a commentary track by Terry Pratchett. I can dream.

I also wondered if one of the reasons Morris is a stereotypical cat name, was because of the proverb "to bell the cat," like a Morris dancer is belled. Just a weird thought.

I've done it again, bookmarked a blogger, thinking I'd caught the feed, but didn't, so I've accidentally ignored the site for months, assuming she just wasn't posting. This has happened way too often, and I feel rather dull to have done it again.

When I mentioned in the last post about reading our animals, I of course meant projecting our own motivations onto them. People who say "my cat hates me" or "my dog does that on purpose to get back at me", and who mean it, are ascribing their own failings onto animals who have a much different agenda. Cats want what they want, dogs do what they need to do to ease anxiety, it's not all fraught with human manipulation. Moby stretches up to claw my butt, he wants attention for some reason, if he then braces and runs, he wants to play chase. He circles us in the kitchen, it's probably food. Lays nearby and purrs, wants to be petted or combed. That's pretty clear communication. It's that second layer of assumption that maligns them in their lack of our language.

Or as I put it, when Moby jumps up and away from us, I guess what he's saying is, "Gotta go. Cat things, you wouldn't understand."

Real

Finally watched Lars and the Real Girl, a movie recommended so strongly to me that I resisted actually seeing it for, well, years. The description of the film is so odd, the potential for it being done wrong so high, kept me wary. D felt much the same. We started the dvd ready to turn it off at any moment.

I think of Groundhog Day, which could so easily have been utterly tedious and maudlin.

But, somehow, they did everything right. The story is weird without mocking, always retaining it's humor. Warm without being sentimental, sad without indulging in manipulation, often implying rather than being explicit. A supporting cast of fully real characters. Lars projects kindness on his doll, and elicits great generosity in those around him.

One element of the story is how we imbue the things around us with personality. Teddy bears, action figures, dolls... the problem being when we think we know what other people are thinking, what their motivations are. We don't know what our pets are really thinking, though we need to try. We especially should never project our own fears and frustrations onto others, always reading the worst of ourselves in others, denying our own failures and angers.

Mostly, just assuming good intention is the best place to start.

Fraught

Head feeling weird.

The problem with having an underlying anxiety issue is that feeling ill is always fraught with questions of where it comes from. Is this all just stress reaction, or is there a real infection laying me low? And the answer always comes back, well, probably a bit of both. Feh.

D and ND got some really good Indian take-out last night, which after a day of a deep disinclination to put food in my mouth, turned out to be an enticing and nourishing meal. The left-overs made a great lunch today. I watch the snow come down, and here I am with no particular place to go, nothing pressing to do.

Save, maybe, finally getting the kitchen clean. Relatively.

Burl

Still fighting off the lingering goombah, as is my wont. A stronger constitution would make life easier, but so it goes, this is what I have. Like a swirling knot, a flaw, that gives me an appreciation for the marks left by suffering.

Friday the 13th. And Monday is a Federal holiday, so I get an extra day to rest. Oh, and Sunday is Half Price Chocolate Day.

As Isabelle offered me Interview questions, quite thoughtful and lovely ones, I extended the same to Jessica over at the Window Ledge. She answered with thoughtful and poetic answers, salted lightly with humor.

Lento

Still going slow. Staying home from the critters today.

I've been asked about the title and photo for this space, and I don't really have a clear answer for either. When I started writing, I chose single word inspired essays, the colors, the senses. A fairly formal protocol, handrails as I began my practice. When I moved to blooger, I kept the form, which inspired the title, which was not already taken. The address was from the Police song lyric, One world is enough for all of us... . As for the photo, I have never so much as sat on a motorcycle. She is so alive and interested, capable looking, my muse. I have no more articulate explanation.

I've been asked about my job, and I must gently chide... . Check out the job and surgery labels, I write about it quite a lot. The meme label will probably answer most other questions.

As for where I have been.

I'm not one for "favorites," especially not movies, books or music. I change all the time, letting this go, picking that up. Although I do have beverage fondness. I don't feel much need to rehash endlessly. Once I've written out a subject to my satisfaction, I'm happy to let it sit there on the shelf. I've tired of many of the ideas I spent the first few years gnawing on here.

Teeth

Like I wasn't feeling old and crumbly enough. Comedy is all about pushing to a ridiculous extreme, so I gotta laugh. And remember my cousin Liz, who assures me that fifty is easy. And I'm only looking at 47. And both my grandmothers lived into their nineties. If this is only half way, I damn well better buck up.

Every day last week, motivating myself to get to work was an uphill drag. Work itself was fine, just getting past the door out of the apartment pulled. Yesterday, feeling much the same, and after wrangling with myself, I decided to take a mental health day. Right after I called in, I had a second cup of tea, and some goldfish crackers. I felt a crack and intense pressure. At first, I denied the likely. After brushing my teeth, I could feel the sharp edge of a broken tooth, way in the back. Not a lot of pain, although it began to ache all the way to my ear. At least I wasn't eating toffee or popcorn.

I am irrationally upset by the whole thing. My nightmare is to have my teeth crumbling. I'm not at all afraid of dentists, I am afraid of broken, rotten teeth. My first surgery in the OR was a kid getting a tooth extraction from the outside of the jaw, because the abscess had been so long neglected. I had an abscessed tooth many years ago, the clearing of which was amazingly painful. I believe in dental care. At least we have decent insurance, this time.

My dentist got me in by 0930, and got a temporary filling in. Repairable, the cap prep will start next week. I'm very relieved, and the filling very smooth, beautifully done. I thought about taking the extracted chunk of tooth, but what would the Tooth Fairy leave for me? A torn bill? A broken coin? I don't want to get on HER bad side.

Felt rather crappy the rest of the day, but resolved to make it in to work the rest of the week. Then, yesterday evening, I get a call at five, it's slow tomorrow, would I like to be called off? Well, I have the sick hours to cover, and this won't count against me, in fact I'll get credit for the low census day. Yes, oh, thank you, yes. Am definitely off, using the time to rest and heal, head and body both.

Moby ate some of the catgrass yesterday, and as expected, horked it up. Along with a broken red rubber band. No idea where he got that. Just good it came up.

Interview

Isabelle has kindly offered to interview her readers. And has sent me these wonderful questions to answer.

If any of you would like me to send you my questions of you, leave a request below, and you can post them on your site.


1. You’re obviously very fond of animals. What do you think animals give to our lives?


The awareness that we are animals too. That we can never really understand another living creature, but must try anyway. To let go of grudges, and respond to the kindness offered at the moment. To trust, but to base that trust on actions. That cute, furry little beings can fight with tooth and claw when threatened. That justice must be extended everywhere. That it's a rough life all over, but we can give each other comfort, moments of bliss, care and love, even, especially, in the midst of suffering. I love petting them, feeling their bodies relax under my hands, how accepting they are of pleasure.


2. What country would you most like to visit (that you haven’t visited so far) if it could be done by waving a magic wand and being there at no expense or trouble? and why?

I've always wanted to be in Istanbul (which is to say, Turkey) from the first time I saw a painting of the Hagia Sophia. It is a place that seems to have the deepest cultural roots, age and history, but soaring domes above. But I am a poor traveler, and my citizenship and gender would make that part of the world less than ideal. Still.



3. What was happening in your life when you were 18?

I was working at my local public library, graduated high school, then went to a radio broadcast program. I saw a good number of movies. I drove a '76 Vega that broke down a lot. Didn't have any good friends. Wanted out of the house and out of Detroit and away as far as I could get, but had few resources.


4. Tell us about your favourite book as a child.

I had a picture book of Winnie the Pooh memorized by the age of three. That was the last favorite, due to my constant presence at the library. I rarely read any book more than once, seemed wasteful when there were all those other books to read. I wanted them all in my head. I'd take out the maximum three at a time, read them as fast as I could, then go get more. Weekends were the hardest, because I often ran out of books first. Completely omnivorous in my reading. I did get into the Lord of the Rings books for a few years, immersion and escape.



5. Describe yourself as car, a food and a flower.

I think I drive the car that expresses me, which wouldn't surprize the guys at Car Talk. A stick shift, no frills, silver honda fit, no bumper stickers. Quick, efficient, attractive only in a very practical way, a bit dirty... yeah, that's as far as I can take that.

Food? At this time of morning? All I can think of is what I just ate, which is maple cream of wheat, half and half with wheat germ, handful of chocolate chips in. Keeps my borderline irritable gut happy, but with chocolate. So, the grossly functional with a dash of silly.

Flower. Funny, I've always felt a fondness for dandelions. Most people hate them, or at least consider them weeds, but they are a lovely yellow, and very sturdy. And then they go all white and delicate and ethereal and blow away. Wouldn't want a whole field of them, but here and there. Wouldn't want too many like me around, either.

Dinner

Rope hunched over the fire, her canvas bed bag of leaves and litter a little too close to the embers, but the goopy-eyed child on it needed the heat. The autumnal chill would turn to frost this night, clouds notwithstanding. Not rain clouds, no pink sky to threaten snow, not yet. A spit turned, sending sputtering grease from the carcass to flare in an irregular syncopation.

"So? You seem a little awake, breathing like you might take another breath, now." Rope laid a hand on the shivering body, cocked her head to match the orientation of the smudged, pale face, "do you have a language? Or are you a feral child, brought up by wolves, who wandered amongst suicidal murderers?" Her tone remained conversational, underlain with icy exhaustion, not ready to keep talking much longer, not able to stop. "Bladdered up satellite wouldn't relay my messages, only got enough to mark my gips, and I'm not sure that recorded. So, no help on the way, not even to meet us. Just you and me, kid. Think you will live til we make it to the Abby? Maybe if fool mule decides to go home directly, they'll send a posse on the road, meet us up, shave a few hours off, the bitter ones, that'll count, come to think about it."

Rope poked a stick into the edge of the campfire, dislodging a leaf wrapped package, opened it with ginger fingertips on a flat rock, and scooped out a bit of the mash inside, in a fold of green. "Not quite done, but good enough. Here, yams and herbs, in a chard leaf." The small hand extended, accepted the food, and smeared it into her mouth. "Nothing hot to drink, got nothing to hold water."

"Enku. Leaf." She smacked her lips, and nearly smiled in the flickering light as the grey sunset faded.

"She does speak. And at least one word of Abbey. Is that your name, Leaf?"

The child pointed to the wrapped dinner, "leaf," and sat up awkwardly, rustling the makeshift bedroll.

"Ah. Still, a good Abbey name, Leaf. More? Well, of course more, you need all I can spare, here. No other name? Traumatized or just shy?" The child looked like a squirrel carrying nuts, but Rope stopped herself laughing. "Or just got your mouth full. Coypu needs to be well cooked, so that'll be a little while yet." They ate in silence, watching the fire in the gloaming. "Got any more words?"

"You. Black madonna?" The exclamation erupted, followed by hands clapped over her mouth, stuffing spat food back in, coughing.

"Ha! I know that one. No, no, it's ok, relax, relax." She patted the bony back tenderly. "Well, I've birthed three times, and I'm as black as humans come these days, so sure. My mother, my bio-mother, would call you sacrilegious for that, especially applied to me. Her old religion. Real Lalibelan, escaped from her tribe, and I'm the catalyst. Were those your folks, all the dead ones?" A terrified nod. "Bible people, like my mother's people?" Another nod. "So, you understand what I'm saying to you?" A nod, a shrug, a confused glance in the gathering darkness, the wind rustling the surrounding trees. "Some, huh?" Rope pulled back the spit to test the meat. It pulled away to her satisfaction and mild surprize. "Eat, sleep, talk when you're ready. We got another two days walk, if the weather holds. And I'd love you do do some of it on your own feet."

"I'll call you Leaf the Foundling, for now. Wanna hear the story of my Mother?" She assumed she heard assent in the greasy snarfling. Rope the Weather settled in beside to eat her own New Rat, sent thanks to her mums who taught her to always keep spices in wax paper up her sleeve pockets - making the strong meat edible, and her dads for teaching her to hunt the beasties and watch for tubers. She plucked out the warmed rocks from the sand around the fire, to keep their feet warm, and listened to the wind in the sky, and the bats flapping after moths, rodents scurrying on their business, other animal and earth sounds she found familiar, but could not name.

She knew she should check the actual numbers, pressure and humidity, do a proper spotter's weather report, but her arms ached from carrying the child since midmorning. And she didn't want to get grease on the pad, since the connection had already glitched. In the morning, she promised herself. She threw the bones in the fire, added a thick branch stump, and snugged around the warmish, stinking body of her find, and remembered her Mother. Dream about her tonight, she thought, as cold sleep paralyzed her, tell the tale on the road tomorrow, like Chaucer's pilgrims.

Telecaster

We have a tax refund. After he got hired, D admitted he did, in fact, want another guitar, a Telecaster. As he played in the shop, another man commented to me that I was very patient, his own wife wouldn't tolerate waiting more than two minutes in a guitar store. I always figured this was part of our deal, and I do so love seeing D happy. I stayed with him as he dithered in guitar stores in Colorado Springs as we waited to be sent off to Saudi, Gulf War I.

I'm not sure why he thought we should wait, but he expressed delighted surprize that I said "of course" to his getting the guitar he has wanted - today. I've always wanted to have a guitar for him under the christmas tree, but that's not really practical, since he'd still want to play the actual, particular instrument he chose first. This, "yes, sure, now is good" answer is the only way I can meet that ideal.

He's been playing all afternoon, telling me all about the history of guitars, including the Curt Cobain effect on cheap vs expensive guitars in the '80s. I have a good working knowledge of guitars because of 18 years with him. I have to admit, it really has a good, distinctive sound. He has not stopped thanking me, and expressing his "wow."

I also admit, it's good to still qualify as the "cool girlfriend" after all these years. The guy in the store, who D talked to more later while getting the guitar, made sure to tell him that I was "a keeper" and why. I just figure it says a lot about who D is, but, still, well. I do like to give D lots of reasons to still want me around. I know he'd love me no matter what, but my side is to always earn it, never take it for granted. He does the same for me, much better.

War

I grew up hearing it, "Let the leaders get in a ring and fight it out!" From my mother as well as my father, his brothers, all the old men in the neighborhood. A perfect solution to war and international conflict. Yeah, that'll stop war, change the reflex to violence. More personal violence. Perfect example to the rest of us. Go back to the principles of personal vendetta and fists.

I have on my email sig files this quotation,

"Problems that remain persistently insolvable should always be suspected as questions asked in the wrong way."
- Alan Watts

And I think this is a prime example. War, especially modern, mechanized, total war is not the answer. But neither is peace at all costs, not without a fundamental change in humans as a species. Conflict and chaos stir up the stagnant and complacent. Stupid and wasteful as it is, much as families grieve the deaths of their soldiers, expensive as the rehabilitation that follows, it does serve a function. And until we find another way to make drastic societal revolutions in the face of national injustices and ingrained corruption some other way, I suspect it will keep erupting. And not just for good reasons, but as an option that is always on the table.

Would we really want a president who would punch out a prime minister, then let both still govern? Could arrest both on assault and battery charges. The kind of behaviour disciplined in grade school. How many bullied children would choose rule by athletes? We hope more for politics from heads of state, when they fail, making them get in a ring with boxing gloves is hardly addressing the problem. It's as useful as imagining the stimulus package as a stack of $100 bills stacked in a pile. Money is as much a creation of mutual fiction as the glory of battle, approaching it with simplistic logic is applying the wrong set of rules.

Arranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

Shoo

I dreamed I came home to a house, expecting to see a few cats, and there were none. Nor could any of the people around explain why. I walked upstairs, thought I saw Moby on our bed, except the size was wrong, and it turned out to be a large, black, very friendly bouncy dog. I coaxed him out and down the steps, returning to shut the door, and look for Moby, who was nowhere to be found. Later, I went back up to look for something for D, and the dog had snuck back up, and I scooted him out again. After a long search for D's item, Moby did appear shyly. I got so mad, that someone brought this dog to Moby's home, scared him off his own bed, and now wouldn't admit it. None of the people in the edges of the dream would take responsibility for the dog, but were chastising me for getting the dog on a leash to take him to the shelter. Nice dog, just big and energetic, not the dog's fault, not angry with the animal, but whoever thoughtlessly brought him in. The dream drifted off without action.

This house of my dreams is based on the house I grew up in. Whenever I dream I am in a house, it is a version of that one.

I have signed up for a training class, teaching shelter dogs manners. I think I will do more with the canines once I have better skills, it can't be all just acting authoritatively and watching It's Me Or The Dog stuff.


I've become aware that my age is showing, some bad photos this week. And it's not just that I'm looking at another birthday, there is a marked qualitative change, not just the grey hair either. I figured the drain of a few years with persistent pain is no small part of this. Worry over jobs and income. The slight easing actually is worse for me, as I tend to hold together tight in a crisis, then fall apart when the worst is over. I'm feeling crumbly this week.

Near

Both home, tired after work, but Moby comes and sits nearby, to give comfort.

Polydactyly

First the circling, then perching, relaxing, then exploring. A cat with a few extra toes on each foot. Like a certain baby in the news.

Newbies

Mostly all new cats. L and I continue to name and rename, she grooms the long hairs, I do the shorts. She uses rose gardening gloves, fingers cut out, so I followed her example. I'm less hesitant about touching all the cats now, and they've saved me a lot of scratches and a number of bites. I get spoiled, because Moby doesn't bite or scratch.

Fluffy and very, very friendly and excited to be OUT! (Thought of the name Max, have suggested it to my volunteer boss.)


The other cat, paired with the one above, so active I couldn't get an unblurred photos. Suggested name, Millie.


Timon, a huge, wonky eyed, long term resident. Very sweet, badly in need of a good home.


Omar, oh, so soft, very fun and gentle.


Clarie who would gladly have just laid in my arms for hours and hours, just flopped and purring.

Mood

Findings

Rope the Weather pushed through, branches catching on her black trousers tucked into sturdy scuffed high boots. White cuffs and collar, hems, flashed out from the edges of a slim fitting boiled wool jacket, long coattails flowing behind, the stylishness belying the practicality of the tuxedo-like garments, with unexpected pockets and little to snag. She betrayed her own annoyance every time she shouted out.

"Fool mule! Sal, where are you? If you're headed home, you better have all that gear when you get there, Sal the Mule! Leave me out here three days walk from Abby!" Followed by snarls and yips of pain as brambles scratched and whipped at her face. Until she stopped, and sniffed, and her countenance changed, and silence engulfed her. She took a moment to tie back her dreadlocks, listening with her whole body, scanning. Then she saw the cinderblock, and walked toward it. She pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve, and covered her nose and mouth, and silently crept forward to what became a wall, then along it to a narrow opening, obscured with dead branches.

She shoved through, to crouch, to stare at her long repeated dream, a score of bodies with purple mouths and hands, mostly young boys, two men, a few ancient women -only they had their hair in elaborate upswept puffs, all like she'd envisioned. but the child in the old dream missing.

She dutifully pulled out her pewter, recorded her position, took photographs, finally noticed a large, decrepit building at the end of the filthy walled compound. The stench she analyzed in self defense seemed fresh-ish. Not more than a day old, less probably, given the warm sun. Her mind shut out further details, but the protocols moved her hands, and she pulled out the DNA swabs, and tested one woman - rictus pulling her lips away, a boy of perhaps thirteen but covered in bruises and scars, and she hesitated, with only one swab left, between the scrawny and pale white haired skeleton, and the face down slab of a powerful man.

She resisted the urge to laziness by the voice of her own dad, exhorting her to "always take the hard path, it'll wind up easier in the end, dear little one" followed by his infectious chuckle. She steeled herself and laid her boot, with an imaginary reverence, to the dead man's iliac crest, and shoved.

Beneath lay a pile of rags, and a small, nearly glowing, white arm.

Rope drew back, then leaned forward, and the tiny hand... moved.

Pushing the rags away with frantic hands, she uncovered a child, perhaps six years old, barely breathing, nearly skeletal, but terribly familiar. The child in Rope's nightmares, from her own childhood visions. She gingerly lifted the small body into her arms.

The swab still in her fist, she cocked her head to one side, and swabbed the cheek of the dead man, awkwardly around the stinking bundle of near life on her shoulder, secured the dropped pewter into a tail pocket, and, after a last look to memorize the scene for the forensics team and a potential source of salvage later, backed out of the wall opening, to begin the long trudge to the Abby, assistance, and expertise.

"C'mon little one, we'll figure all this out after we get you safe and warm and fed. Sal, you better be there when we get back. With all our gear. Mules, who ever thought mules were a good idea?"

Portrait

What would you have the painter put into paintings of you - apart from your loved ones - and why?

I found my way to Isabelle, who asked this question. And I love the idea, having seen so many portraits from all over the world, through the ages. Having posed as an art model, when younger and more tolerant of pain. And I think about why people choose what they chose to be near, to be seen holding, for all time. Not what the usual meaning is, why they wanted it. A friend mentioned seeing LA Ink, and a guy who wanted a tattoo of cheese, because he couldn't eat it anymore, and wanted to memorialize it.

I would, of course, have a black cat. Cats have to be earned, the good ones do anyway. They take time to trust and bestow affection, in their own time. Black ones are associated with many societal ideas that have nothing to do with who they are, aside from being smart. And they are beautiful in ways that are difficult to record or convey.

I would have bare feet, because that is my base, damaged and vulnerable and callused all together.

I would have a silver ring on my finger, an Army green blanket in the background, wear a dull red shirt and grubby faded jeans, to represent, in order, D's love, my military service, my OR experience, and my sense of working at anything needful. Perhaps a mac laptop peeking out from under a hand, no, under the cat, for my writing, photography, and my blogistan community.

Shifted

So, we shifted everything around, including two bookshelves and the couch, and took the futon sofa frame to the DI (read charity shop.) There is still sorting and closets to deal with next week, but the place feels much more open and workable now. Looking at small comfy chairs, nothing quite fits yet, but nothing much is open in this town on Sunday, and the furniture stores are at the far south end of the valley for the most part. NOT going to Ikea. I don't object to them as business, I just am repelled by their esthetic. I've seen many of their catalogues left at work over the years, and have never wanted one thing from them. Ever. D's parents gave us a lamp from Ikea that we both found creepy, which got broken in the last move.

D was worried that Moby would have trouble with the cat tree in the new location. I figured he's a smart cat, he'll figure it out. He did, no sweat. And he seems to love the couch in the new configuration. Funny, because when we first got it, he avoided going near it, didn't like the smell or the feel on his paws, something. Maybe the volatiles used in manufacture took a while to evaporate, who knows. He stretched out across half, while D and I sat on the other half, pleasantly squished together, eating the chili D made, with the tortillas I cooked. Not that I made, found. Uncooked tortillas, even a local product, just griddle up at home. The week we were wishing such a thing existed.


Mild week with decent air, feels indecent. End of the month, a few days in the Pacific northwest.