Puzzle

The video below is a construct. A bit of a joke. D had some music and a wild hair, and that's what happens. I think it very stylish. There are anagrams of Eric Ambler and Graham Greene in the credits. Alexi Sayle is the giveaway, of course. Would have been quite a show, though.



He has a wonderfully odd sense of humor, that still startles and amuses me.

Espiocrats

Friend

I met an old friend. We first got to know each other twenty three years ago. We chatted at the work picnic, (her sister and D work in the same place.) She dropped the friendship years ago, casually, unofficially, but quite clearly. It ached, but I respected her decision, even if I didn't quite know the reason. Perhaps I bored her, or vaguely offended her, or just rubbed her the wrong way over the years.

I wish I was a better friend, I have no real long term friends, other than Moira, and friends shared with D. Maybe I've figured it out, but can't apply it retroactively. I can only be where I am right now, and do what I can now.

Or maybe, as we get older, we settle to people.

D still seems happy with me, knowing me utterly. And Moby, when deeply asleep, barely stirs when I put my hand on him.

City

Civilization, cities, are a good idea. Human natural habitat. Of course, when they get too large, they become a black hole, sucking in the surrounding countryside and destroying both. But the idea, of gathering all our ideas together, mixing it all up, mashing us all together, works. Not pleasantly, not easily, often loudly and uncomfortably, but that jostle and thrum throws up all our best solutions and ideas. And food.

Talking with one of the residents about what rural Utah is like, he says it sounds just like the rural South, and that perhaps all such areas are alike. Insular, resistant to change, and not to put to fine a point here, dumb. "Conservative" meaning backward and willfully ignorant. Mean, bigoted and smug. NOT everyone, it's all a matter of concentrations, but the majority that sets the tone, and the rules. Big places, with lots of interactions, weed out those who want a small, neat little world where they can make others do what they want. Not that large, corrupt police forces and political machines don't try mightily, but they know they have to hide those manipulative tendencies under the guise of Service and Protection and Embracing Divertingly.... um Diversity.

Which is why, in the reality imagined for my fiction (long neglected), the City, is the online community. Physically, the city is the whole of a remnant of the human species who protected and salvaged the idea of Technology, as well as the means of production. But they live in small chains of towns, indistinguishable from farmland and orchard and ranches. All connected intellectually and creatively, with every other human on the planet. Raised one place, most people will get their higher education in another part of the world, raise children another area yet, and age someplace else, all the while staying in the same, diverse, city of ideas through the network.

We ate at a new Asian fusion restaurant (Rice) today. Thai curry with tamarind, with potatoes cooked to that razor edge between being still hard, and being mushy. I've never had anything quite like it, and it took me a while to definitely decide how I felt about it. A step outside my comfort zone.

We would all do better standing out there, every day. Just a step or two, just for a few moments, every day. Bravely. Curious and... tasting.

Chimes

Thursdays seem to be shaping up into long, long days. I could barely wake up this morning, D having to get me up when I didn't even hear my chime. Three times. Not unheard of, but unusual.

And I've been reading. A lot. Finding the stories comforting. Report to follow. I don't want to recommend a book until I know the ending. I've been known to permanently boycott authors for ending a novel badly.

My leg muscles are feeling worked over, lest anyone think tai chi is easy. Tomorrow, I will take time to practice.

Today, we stopped by the library employee picnic. Good folks, all in all. And I knew a lot, from my years there from my previous life. Glad to be with my genuine hair, felt right to look my age, evidence of the time lived. And although I thought about mentioning this blog undertaking, and a few other realities, I found myself asking others about their lives, and not wanting to talk about my own at all.

"Still doing the nursing thing." That being the extent of my sharing. Seemed enough.

Odd insight. Woman who once proved a staunch friend in my time of distress, politely kept her distance. And I realized, she doesn't really know how to talk about anything but chaos and troubles. When I returned from Gulf War I with D, and got stable and happy, she ceased to be a friend. I never quite knew why she pulled away, although I absented myself because I got very tired of her litany of the sorrows of people in her life - that I'd never even met - recited to me relentlessly. I think, now, that she lost interest in me due to my lack of personal drama. Fair enough, for both I suppose.

We got a good walk through the park, as we didn't know which area had been reserved. Worth the effort just for an evening stroll, got us out of the house.

Chi

Went to my tai chi class. It's been twenty years since the last time, and my body remembers, though all the details have been long lost to time. My back eased and enjoyed the movements.

Twenty years ago. A lifetime ago, when living a different life. I didn't feel young, then. I could not see a way out of my own bad decisions and misjudgments. I don't know how much tai chi helped me escape under the fence and out, but those lessons played a part. Time to learn a new set, heal myself sustainably. As I am sure many of you will think, I am still young. Ish, at least.

I didn't expect to feel old yet. Growing up with elderly neighbors and family, then working with a geriatric population, I always saw old as starting in the seventh decade. And even that is readily adjustable according to health and habits. Smoking causes much faster aging, as does illness and injury, obesity and alcohol use. A meth addict is ancient at twenty five.

So, I must find my flexibility and wisdom, regain my health and strength. Begin anew.

Flop

Nothing quite as heartening as being greeted upon arriving home. In our case, by a cat doing the Large Flop Of Welcome.

And later, when he comes to sit nearby, because he wants to.

Ascendence

Our Sunday walk to the Library, on the most gorgeous of days. Rain in the morning, dramatic clouds and a breeze and mild warmth, more rain promising. So, we ascended to the Library roof garden, full of swaying grasses and little trees, to take in the geography of this city in a former lake bed.


If you cared about the 2002 Olympics, the stadium is visible in this one. If you don't care, it's still there.



Any idea what species of bird this is? Pretty, in a very plain way.

Blend

Growing up fairly poor, I so wanted so much. Decent, stylish clothes, for one. I never minded hand-me-downs, and cherished what mom sewed for me. I just wanted some really good classic pieces, wool coat, fine skirt, silk blouses, that sort of thing. Or a bit of nice, real, arty jewelry, to wear every day. A canopy bed, but instead of sky blue cotton, with lace and velvet drapery. What I had, but in lush fabric and in the colors I would choose. Nothing packed away, nothing in excess, just durable, day to day richness.

When I lived on my own income, I lavished myself with very cheap earrings and the better drug store lotions. I dreamed of having a huge wad of cash to buy out Pier I Imports. Back when they were much less commercial, more unique, and I bought a lot of dollar paper folding fans there. I still love dithering in consignment shops and new agey bookstores, crusty giftshops and handcrafted clothes stores. I even acknowledge that the prices on some of what most attracts me is probably fair. And I am unmoved to reach for my wallet. Where would I put it, wear it, use it? What I have is enough.

I had the first hint that I had no future as a shopper the year both D and I were working full time, and although we bought a very good futon mattress and threw a (seven year) delayed wedding reception, mostly the money just got socked away. When I could spend what I wanted, mostly, I didn't really want. Not enough to spend that much on it.

With my hours down, and student loans to repay, we are watching the pennies again. Not really hard, although the itch to buy things is there, until I actually go to have a little splurge. Then I discover, there is really not much I want. Earrings are pretty, but not really important. Scrubs at work mean I don't need daily outfits. A slightly larger apartment would be good, eventually, if our circumstances improve long term. I'd like a place for a desk, and maybe a big comfy chair.


Maybe. Nice. Not must, not necessary.

Oh, yes, we did get a blender. We had a place for it, and have used it quite a lot already. It was hugely on sale.

Leaning

Moby loves to lean. He stretches out, claims the bed as his own, squashes up against my pillow.

My back is crackling with ease today, much of what I began to think of as permanent pain has dissolved. Knots and adhesions evicted. Not everything, scars are not replaced with original tissue, but they can debulk. And depart in part.

Hips

Called off for today, disappointing when work seemed to have been picking up. On the other hand, I found my way to a very good, and fairly inexpensive, massage, and my hips and lower back feel better, if rather worked over. It's difficult to convince therapists to actually work where I have my pain, in those socially unacceptable areas of the body. She started there, with my permission, got the hard bits sorted first. The numb places, the ignored damage, woken before the rest emerged. I thought one side hurt more, but really I'd just been better at denying the messages from the left. Pain like a huge toothache, hot tense and searing deep in the pit of my hip.

Hormones running about like obnoxious teenagers. Very glad to not have to take care of patients. Only myself.

Just read Groucho Marx, Private Eye, by Ron Goulart. A fairly standard mystery, but witty and breezy, with Groucho himself as a character, with quite appropriately Marxian dialogue. An easy read, started it last evening and finished this morning. Fluff, but quite good fluff. I will find more of them. Also got the new Fortean Times today, so I am contentedly en-couched, tea-ed, and reading.

Watched Mad Men as well. Not often I really get involved in series with such unlikable characters. Perhaps because so much of what seems miserable about them is externally imposed, by the times, by the social expectations. But this really doesn't explain it for me. Not fully. Archeology? History? Just the lurid fascination of a well presented train wreck? I honestly can't completely justify my abiding interest in this story.

Photophilia

Flop

When we first saw Moby on the shelter website, he was in the now familiar, flop-of-welcome, "I'm cute and furry" posture. Named Midnight, as the black cat of my early childhood was. We wanted a black cat, partly for simple esthetics, partly because we'd heard that black cats were generally smarter, and definitely because black animals have a harder time getting adopted. The coincidental name just added to it, if in part because it was such a stereotypical name for a black cat, and we knew he'd need a new one. We also wanted an adult cat, and a neutered male, just general ease, for the odds of getting a more mellow animal.

So, we got on the T, walked a few more blocks, and found the shelter. Smelled the many rabbits, heard the dogs barking, and saw a quiet, all black cat, hunched in the bottom cage as we walked in. Midnight, the same one, we were a bit afraid he'd be gone when we got there. We looked at all the other cats, a few kittens, and came back. The staff brought us to a meeting enclosure, and brought Midnight. I held him, as he wriggled, then escaped to the floor. Using no claws or teeth, just an insistent writhe.

"Look, can you get me outta here? I'm not going to suck up to you, but I really want out."

We were both charmed. We liked that we were going to have to earn this one. And that even in his urgency, he had no interest in hurting us.

We filled in their forms, they counseled us on what to expect, expenses, damage, time commitment. Thoughtful, but sure we could be a good home for him, left, with an appointment to retrieve him in a few days, after they'd approved us, and called our landlord. They put a chip in, continued his worming meds, and we waited for the call.

D had to go back by himself, because I was working every day, long days. He says Midnight crawled over his back in a bid for freedom, as he spent some time in the meeting cage as well, with him. Carrying the box, with an unhappily mewling cat, on the T, all the way back, strained his arms and his heart. For the next week, we only were sure we had a cat because of the jingling of his tags, disappearing food and used litter box. We'd find him under the couch, under the cabinet in the sink (6" of clearance), under the bed, and gently put a hand to him. He'd purr VERY LOUDLY, and no doubt anxiously, and we would leave him be. We had time, no rush.

Gradually, he came out, deciding we probably weren't going to hurt him, and that this beat being around all those barking, mewing things. During this week, based on fleeting meetings, we pondered what to call him. A real name, not a trite descriptor, a response to his personality. Much as I liked Socrates, it didn't quite fit him. By a roundabout series of free associations, the name Moby emerged, and we both thought it quite perfect. In part because of his preference for under, but that's just rationalization. He does know when we call out Moby, that we mean him, and his tail goes up in recognition.

We have had a few rough spots. He likes him a clean litter box, or he will find another place to go, preferably the tub, given the chance. Took us a while to figure that out. I learned not to shout around him. We are both quieter, calmer people because we feel this responsibility not to scare Moby. We make sure he has an Under to hide under. We've grown used to each other.

Five years ago, on 11 August, Moby came home with us. He seems to like us.

Distractions

Words slither away
Loss of electricity
No tea for breakfast.

Hopped

Hard week, happily hopped home early when the schedule petered out. Moby being very cute, but not keen on being petted, preferring to be adored from over there. That kind of cat. Friendly, but not intrusive, likes to sleep on us, IF we are sleeping.




Sometimes, I still want to dye my hair black again. Or maybe purple or blue, if only I didn't have to grow it out. But I am content with being myself, it's all I have a right to. And that includes my hair and skin, as is, without concealment or distortion. I have also considered buzzing my head again, and again, I think I will just let my hair be what it is, for now. No more tattoos, although I'm open to the idea at some point. Just me, clean and tidy, but otherwise utterly as-is.


Three Years Ago.


Now.

Longer

Took in my staff tuition reduction form (for the tai chi class) today, and on the way back stopped in the shopping center with the Other Grocery Store - because they have wheat grass. Which always elicits from Moby the most beautiful double take of "OH! For ME?"

The other stores there are largely expensive and froufrou in the extreme, but I had a ditherment upon me, so I poked my nose in to a few. And found t-shirts with longer sleeves. Now, see, I took away from the (British) What Not To Wear a few principles, one of which being that very few grown women look good in very short sleeves. Unless very slim, and young, or very muscular and toned, most women would do better with longer, even 3/4 sleeves. But it's hard to find these days, as clothing stores are only interested in selling to stylish young girls, and only make larger versions because there is money to be made. Scaled up, but not properly designed to be flattering. No concessions made to maturity. Or women who prefer not to display an unshaved armpit. So, little capped sleeves, very cute on little girls, flirty on slim young women, make fatter, older women look like mutton dressed as lamb, and there is not much else out there.

So, I'm glad, I'm getting three t-shirts - on sale no less, dressier than the men's t-shirts I usually wear (because they are sturdier, and cheaper.) And I'm burbling this to the sales rep, who is probably about 23, and a good hundred pounds overweight - although she carries it well, and wearing, yes, well, a very tiny sleeved shirt. I think I managed to stop myself before implying insult. And it's not like I'm anything like well dressed myself here. The other woman in the store has even shorter sleeves, although she is my age, she does carry it better than I would.

I really don't like hurting anyone's feelings. Especially on a subject as frivolous as clothing. And my own status as not-at-all-fashionable puts me in the position of "who thehelldoes she think she is?"

Ah, well. Needed a few shirts. Most of what I have is old, stained, or both.

For some reason, this tattoo is not to be found on this site. So, in response to Trouser, the last, and possibly friendliest of mine, on the back of my calf.

Believe

There is a blog theme going around, about what I once believed that I don't believe anymore. And I found a great antipathy to the word Belief. I tried to write an essay for the NPR What I Believe, and came out with an awkward anti-belief rant. Needless to say, they never expressed any interest.

I don't think I ever quite got my head around God, although I was taught to believe without question. But when I lost a ring at age seven, and dared God to prove the existence of deity, and the ring wasn't found until nearly a year later, I'd spent all that time not believing - quite on purpose. Once the ring was found, I lingered in the ambivalence - until no longer required to believe by my mother.

Santa Claus I at least had physical proof for. Once I was told Santa didn't exist, and they couldn't afford to fill the stocking that year, I put up one on Christmas Eve, quite sure they were wrong, and there would at least be an orange in the toe. When there wasn't, bitterness filled the place where most people keep their faith. "You can't fool me, there ain't no sanity clause!"

Guardian Angels were more my speed, and that was more hope and comfort than actual belief. Like engineers' belief in ghosts in the machine. It's more a matter of, well, not literal belief, but something's going on beyond our ken, so gotta call it something, and no harm in propitiating whatever it is. I know something happens when people die, as well as when babies are born, I've experienced both as witness. It's powerful and utterly real, but I detest the idea of putting it in a box and defining it to tatters.

Oh, I've had a lot of thoughts, ideas that have been disproven or discredited, fears found to be misguided or ungrounded. I behave superstitiously, especially in the OR, not out of belief, but to back up preparations to be ready for worst case scenarios, or trusting my instincts - because I may have non-consciously sensed something that just hasn't made it up to the logical part of my brain yet. I don't rely on it, it's more of a comfort. Often enough I have averted, or lessened, problems because I got that extra battery, or second suture, or stood by during emergence for no obvious reason.

I used to think that the rage I'd been fed would always be who I was. That no one would ever be a long time friend, because when they knew the real me, they would know I wasn't worth having as a friend. I thought "sell while you can, you are not for all markets" when I married a man I had no passion for. I dreamed of acting for a living. I used to be afraid of the dark. I used to think all I needed to be happy was to live near the mountains or by the ocean. I thought 'smart' was my only quality, and would be all I'd need.

But I always dropped these thoughts and fears, in the presence of evidence to the contrary. Belief isn't like that. Belief hunkers down and plows through.

I stand alone without belief. I suspect I see more clearly, but then, I would think that.

Trades

Looking at Moby looking outside.

More dust abatement today, the accumulation and the recent heavy addition - which also brought the non-August weather for the energy to accomplish the tasks. Cat would prefer we never moved anything, dusted anything, nor brought out the vacuum. But he gets out of the way during. After, he looks at us like we are some crazy humans, but we are prompt with the chicken so he'll forgive us.

Took a walk up Memory Grove this morning. The last time we did that walk, the old trees stood, or lay tumbled, damaged by the tornado, and the whole place had a seedy air of neglect. The City had started to fight it's use as a prime gay cruising spot, but without making it attractive to anyone else. After the storm, locals have spent the last decade making it a well groomed garden, and in the upper reaches, an off leash dog area. We enjoyed watching all the dogs, and the bride with her wedding photographer, and a shady stroll along a stream.

There is a neighborhood adjacent, the first part of the park is, essentially, the verge in the middle of the street amidst this historic area. Full of modest, but old, historic houses. Many with Plaques. No doubt stringently managed by a community counsel, so that painting one's house there would involve several years of paperwork and wrangling. So while we admired the Quaintness, we also figured there would be little "bang for your buck" here. No double glazing, mostly small, cramped rooms, no central air, old plumbing, ancient wiring. Paying a lot for a very attractive avenue, but forfeiting comfort, safety and autonomy. Then we noticed the few apartment buildings, of the Ugly and Styleless variety, corrugated steel sides, probably built in the worst taste of the 60s and 70s, and cheaply. Those people would be paying a lot just for the area, not even the appeal of a charming old home.

We all do what we can, and make the choices available to us. Many people would think with our apartment, dealing the noise, unattractive view, and long hall walk, would be deal breakers. Covered parking, electrical grounding, professional management, a deep tub and a washer/dryer in the unit more than make up for that, for us. That, and they allow pets. That was a huge limiting factor for us, one that we gladly accommodate.

Moby will never live in a little cage again. He's home, he's our home.

Cool

The air cleared, the heat cooled, rain came in the night while I slept. An August respite, which I much appreciate.

Less so the loud party-ers in the hall at 0300, galloping and shouting - drunken hilarity and spilled drinks. Hall noises come right in, and there are at least two families with young children in this part of the building who must've been disturbed as well. Self-centered, useless people. Utter lack of empathy.


D never managed to get back to sleep, and it took me quite a long time. When I got up, I found myself in Tired But Must Do mode, which serves me well for Moving, and at work - when the last patient of the day needs just as clean and organized a room, and just as much energy from me as the first of the day did.

So I made waffles. After which D crawled to bed, and got to sleep for a few hours, and I got in laundry, ironed shirts, (they are cooler that way, the processing areas of the Library are not kept cool enough) got dishes washed, walked over to get more starch. Later, both awake, we got lunch, de-dusted the car, including a zip tie repair on the plastic bit beneath the bumper that always catches on the curb/stop thing in parking lots. Pulled out the sofa to vacuum behind (did I mention we had a dust storm?) and cleaned the windows, did more laundry, and a few other small tasks. D got me to stop after I got back from the grocery store with... oh, who cares? I finally gave in to the lack of sleep, despite this urgent impulse to do one more thing.

I don't know quite where this impulse came from, other than the whiff of September. Or my body kicking in to having a bit of actual, rarely seen, overtime, for the first time in many, many months.


But on the way (to get tomatoes and cheese) three men came toward me on the sidewalk. Average guys, late twenties, early thirties, middle America types, and one stares at me, finally catches my eye, smiles, says "Hi there!" and puts up his hand for a high five. I have given him minimal eye contact, from the beginning an expression of "leave me alone" yet he seems to expect me to touch his upraised hand. As soon as I am past, I quietly say "Who thehellare you?"

A full grown man, especially in the company of two other men, who accosts a middle aged woman, alone, on the street, with no kind of a hint of invitation, is a complete asshat moron. I'm sure if asked he would defend himself by saying "I was ONLY being Friendly!" When his actions were actually intrusive and threatening. Unsettling, always, when men on the street feel they have a right to my attention, to a response from me just because they want one, unearned, unbidden. Like being in Riyadh, and all the little touches on my hips, in crowds. Crowds not thick enough to justify real accidental bumps. Much more dense packing on Boston train stations and such brushes happened very rarely. They did it because they could, because I had no recourse, to put me in my place.


Partly Cloudy

60°F
(16°C)
Humidity: 51 %
Wind Speed: N 5 MPH
Barometer: 30.17 in (1018.30 mb)
Dewpoint: 42°F (6°C)
Wind Chill: 60°F (16°C)
Visibility: 10.00 Miles

Dustiness

A good day, although I felt as though I could have taken a nap at anytime. Dark, dramatic clouds all morning, burned away in hot winds from Nevada. Driving home, my little car was rocked by gusts, and dust hides the mountains like dehydrated mist. No rain will get down through air this dry, so there is little chance of a decent storm. Cooler tomorrow, though.

Breathing scratches, thick stuff to extract oxygen from.

Fair

91°F
(33°C)
Humidity: 7 %
Wind Speed: SSW 31 G 47 MPH
Barometer: 29.64 in (N/A mb)
Dewpoint: 18°F (-8°C)
Heat Index: 87°F (31°C)
Visibility: 7.00 Mile

Bottle

I guess I will have to stay now. Since the state liquor stores have this now. Never say die.






No, the colored bottles were not intentional. They just looked rather pretty with the light coming through. Using my homemade mixes for most cleaning, vinegar and water for shiny surfaces, alcohol and water with a drop of dishwashing liquid for the pseudo granite counters. Salt to scrub with. Figuring it's healthier for all of us, especially the smallest member of the family. Borax and baking soda does a crap job in the dishwasher, but we've switched to a phosphate free product. Makes us feel a bit better about our impact.

Also shows I've been watching How Clean Is Your House. I'm happy to say, as much as I'm no fan of housework, I do keep it cleaner, much cleaner, than anyone who has ever been on that show. But I know people like them.

Really

Last night I got home about 7:20, worn out, and D made me eggs, and sat with me while I soaked in a hot bath, and we did the crossword. This is love.

A headache woke me at 3, and I got up for water, realizing that all the time scrubbed in did not involve imbibing fluids. Nearly threw up, but the urge passed. D got up with me, claiming I had not woken him. I tried to open the balcony door for cool fresh air, but there wasn't any. Brain fried and half asleep I heard, but did not realize, he was letting Moby back in. Cat'd slipped out in that moment, and I only remembered this much later. D saw no point in bringing it up. He got little more sleep that night. I would give him some of mine, if I could. This is also love.


We saw (500) Days of Summer, and it pissed both of us off. Yes, we know that heady rush of early lust, of wanting to be adored, the overwhelming impulse to connect. But the characters were so essentially dishonest. She tells him she does not want to be part of a couple, but treats him as though she does. He wants a permanent relationship, but gives lip service to her preference, agreeing to no ties. It's all very shallow and wrong headed and drunken. So many little twists annoyed, not least of which is the fact that it's well shot, well acted but poorly conceived at it's heart. Overthought, and underfelt.

We have made a promise to each other, one in a series. No more Rom-coms. They always get it wrong. They never get the pouring out of words, the ease of jumbled stories filling up the space like puddles reforming to include each other. They never get the difficult times, when you see how brave the other person is, how they handle a crisis, how they comfort you in grief, how they gaze at you in deepest joy when you say you finally feel better after that food poisoning episode. How sweet to watch a grown man tell a cat good-night and good-bye and ask if cat has had enough sleep. Telling her you love her, as you come out of anesthesia.


Maybe we have a different view of this, because we fell in love in a war zone. Everything had meaning, there were no "party manners" as my aunts and mum would say. Start getting to know someone cold, hot, hungry, underslept, overstressed, undershowered, and still like them, you pretty much know what you're getting. Laying bedrock, rather than relying on the fluffiness of date-dreams. I have found more in D to admire over the years. We began treating each other as capable adults from the very beginning. We value strength and courage and maturity. And being able to make each other laugh, still. Even more so.

Tomorrow, I'm going to wrap his guitar stand, because the foam is disintegrating and getting on his guitars. Shhhh, don't tell him, it's going to be a surprize. I've already done it badly, but I'm going to do it neatly, and more long term, tomorrow.

Hell

Such a sleepy weekend, much needed by both of us.

Once, I thought a lot about what heaven would be, given that the traditional version would be static and dull and a kind of hell. It would satisfy my curiosity about all of life's mysteries, allow me to do all the stuff I never had the time or money or aptitude to do in life. But as I got older, well, I realized life was the opportunity for life. And once I knew everything, boredom would set in for the remainder of eternity. So I added in reincarnation, since that would offer more understanding and experience. And came to the understanding even that would not be all that simple, what is the point if there is no continued memory. Only long after did I come to the appreciation of the concept of nirvana, loss of self completely, my life poured out cell by molecule by photon back onto the world, into the universe.

Strange how I never thought of hell, save as 'what heaven would be as taught in christianity.' Hell as idleness and excess, the attainment of desire to completion. Perfection in all. No death, no rot, no losses, because out of those comes the fresh new, the space for change and trying it all again. Heaven and hell are imbalances, all good, all bad, all dark or light. Like those decorative dolls I was occasionally given as a child, to be put up, for looking at, not playing with. Prison? But for those whose lives spiral out of control, maybe not so much as the terror of gang life. Extreme poverty? Certainly, but I've heard people from such backgrounds speak of the great love of their family during hard times. Torture? No question - this is the source surely - the Inquisition's torments, of hell. But worse than bone cancer, global skin disease, psychosis?

A good vet center therapist told me not to compare pain.

Gods give me the mess and the means to keep it in some order then mess it up again. All a matter of which way I hold my life, how I chose to interpret each lesson.

Picked up an Andy Goldsworthy book at the library, and am drawn in and enchanted all over. The natural put into a definite order, then allowed to disintegrate again. Forms and lines of wonderment and meaning, then collapse and decay and another day to form again, in a different way.


Moby's doing better today. He's had a hard week, what with the head bonk, tail squash, then the aural assault of the fire alarm yesterday, during which he hid in the dryer. When I got up this morning, he slept curled on his favorite pillow on the couch, stretching out as I stroked him.



Addendum:
Hell is (500) Days of Summer. Hated it more and more as we walked home. Dumb, romantic (in a bad way), deceitful, mean, overwrought, misapplied, crap, crap, crap.

Class

A lifetime ago I took several Tai Chi classes. This was before I knew D, so yes, a lifetime. Always wanted to continue the practice, but in a very short period of time, the movements leaked from my memory. Yesterday the continuing ed catalogue appeared at work, as an employee I get a discount, so I combed through for a physical class I could attend. Many of them, the vast majority, were day classes, which is hopeless for me. But one worked, one evening one day a week, tai chi. With the added advantage that it's not entirely new. Movement to improve my worsening balance, strengthen my center without stressing my back. A gift of grace not to be overlooked.

I don't really need a class for mental stimulation. I do need this encouragement for exercise. Some days, this is going to be a difficult choice, to go to class rather than come home immediately. Some days, when work runs long on that evening, I will be late. But I will go, I will be there.

D made us breakfast this morning. He really is lovely.