Kettles

Tom asks, why not "hard landscaping... containers, pots, boxes and the like?" And I have to say, um, well, why would I? The soil is good, if long neglected. Clay is nutrient rich, all it needs is better texture. So I got one bag of peat moss (gz, I promise, just one bag, and this is Canadian stuff, not a shortage - although I know it's not renewable either) and a garden fork, using the leftover shovel and the neighbor's spade, and my own toil, some bulk clover seeds, as well as the seeds and plants I'd have needed otherwise, stolen leaves from the block, found rocks and sticks from the overgrown hedge, and I have got a garden.

Building raised beds is not something I could do, not having the tools, materials nor skills, not to mention interest. I may one day want to learn this, have a poly tunnel for winter, make the back porch a greenhouse while I'm dreaming, but that's not a realistic plan for now. Bringing the soil to life seems much more valuable than hauling in dirt for a potted planting.

And for the sake of this email from D while I was still at work -Moby wanted to go out for a while immediately after we got home. We spent a lot of time in the front garden, so I think he likes how it is now, too.

Not to mention that this neighborhood, although mostly safe, is very mixed. The logs left behind, that I put on the front lawn, were stolen. A nice pot would probably get walked off with. The chairs on the porch have stayed just fine. I cannot explain this.


Got some potatoes for baking, and sour cream, and snipped some of the chives that somehow came up under the board, after a poor showing last year. D amazed at how good they smelled, and I enjoyed the effect better than I expected. A comforting dinner.


Wednesday, I made several pots of tea. But about 8PM, it would not turn on. Dead, deceased, defunct. D walked me over to the store, and we found a new electric kettle. Lovely blue light. Getting the manufacturing oils (?) cleaned off has been a process, but improving.

I thought about just taking the water bowl kettle and using it on the stove. But it's slow, and we'd have to do something more efficient by summer anyway.

And Moby had an opinion about this as well.



"No."

Grandiose

I had such grandiose plans, until I dug the first hole. Hit the netting under (in?) the sod, then the hard clay beneath. My first gardening class helped me bring down my wilder dreams.

Yet, I've come such a long way. (Now, I can't get that old cigarette jingle out of my head, either.)


Cat enjoying the progress, on Wednesday. The rain since has been invigorating to the greenery.


Continuing to trim down my side of the hedge. Hedge sports a D.A./punk/side-swept 'do. Neighbor wants it higher, and I'm fine with that. I just can't maintain my side of it that way. Looks artier and more stylish with an asymmetrical cut, anyway. I just never want to let it get out of hand again, not on my watch. Photos of this do not show anything, so I won't post them.

Don't know why the second photo is a bit blurry, either. Best of several tries, as well. I'll muck about with it, see how it goes.

Different accrediting agency this year, so our mandatory training is rather a mess, spread out over the month.

Hegira

The shadow or the body, which has form?
Reputation or integrity, which lasts?
Triumph or humility, which teaches?


Pour love on concrete, it will not grow.
The hoarder will lose everyone.
Find contentment in yourself, and it cannot be taken away.
Know when you are rich, let the rest go.

This is peace.

Hegira (hej' i ra, he ji' ra) (Arab, hejira, the departure). The epoch of the flight of Mohammed from Mecca to Medina when he was expelled by the magistrates, July 15th, 622. The Mohammedan calendar starts from this event.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963. p. 444.


Taking up this thread again, after more than a year's disuse.


I first heard the word hejira from Shelby Foote, in The Stars in Their Courses, Jeb Stewart's roundabout trip to meet up with R. E. Lee. I also learned about Yael or Jael from Foote.



Artemisia Gentileschi had a lot to work through. Hers is my favorite Judith, as well.

Tango

Tango is for T.

In the twirling twists, twining twins are twee.



Then, think, thin thinker,

the thick thumbs that thunder.

Trade trikes, triple trinkets, trains trickle through.



To be T is to be tricky. To be the T is to be the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority. To be T is to Tango.


Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform, Tango.

Pouring

Didn't need to water, as the clouds burst. Filled the recycle bin to over-flowing, pouring off the roof. I'll scoop it out over the next week or so. Saturate.



The Epic Brewery has a tasting room, with food. So good, that D just wanted a sandwich from them this evening, I got beer to bring home. Cat sat on him the whole time he ate, we suspect that he liked the smell. He wouldn't have eaten any of it, but he stood on D's lap and sniffed. He's usually pretty polite about our food, wants to smell it and usually leaves with the evident impression "That's not food, you people are weird."



When the rain was bursting out of the sky, he stood on the porch, ears back, but intent. And not going back inside. I love how brave he's become, this cat who's been known to hide under the bed when rain is simply on the way. Now, he barely hides at actual thunder.

We've been watching a Mel Brooks retrospective. I've liked some of his work, some not so much, over the years. Never a huge fan, although Young Frankenstein is one of my favorite films ever. But interviews of him now, and a better understanding of his life means that I've grown very fond of him. How much love he puts into his work, how much intelligence is obscured by his fart jokes, how even the silliest of his stuff has a compassion for the oppressed. What I saw as sexism was a very conscious skewering of sexism, while still appreciating sexiness.

The weird thing is, he rather looks like my father, but shining through that is a bright mind and a warm heart, that my father never had. That I can see through that surface resemblance means a lot to me, that I am not still holding on to the old hurts so tightly.


Enjoying the rain. The cat asleep beside me. The guy who loves me beside him. Everything so green.

Easier

Some dust abatement. So much easier now, than in the tiny, dusty apartment. Tidy now. Doesn't really take much to keep this up, even in a bigger place. Perhaps easier with a bit more elbow room. Wood floors, so much cleaner. I went out to take out the glass recycle to the garage (to be taken out tomorrow) and the garden derailed me.

I find the whole gardening process, the weeding, the watering, planting and piling rocks, feeds some needful part of myself. A few seconds becomes an hour so easily. Later, I mowed the buffalo grass on the verge, hacked out the dandelions and whatever that spiky weed is. Some day, there will be planting out there, but that's not even in the ten year plan. Still, I love being out there, and lose track of time in my immersion.

I'm amazed at how much better it all looks, after just one year. Better than I expected after three to five years. Never have I been so astonished at progress - at the same time so impatient for it.

I've given up on the rhubarb. This is not the place for it. A childhood experience that I cannot recreate. I don't want the huge stalks, never liked those when I was a kid. I ate the small narrow stalks, loved the sourness, and turned my nose up at the old, woody ones. I like rhubarb pie, but in a vague way - not really much caring for anything so oversugared these days. No, what I wanted was to regrow that moment, when I was out in the backyard, alone, eating a lovely, tart stalk of tender rhubarb, barely dusted off. But, I'm not in Michigan anymore, and it's best that way, really.


We are both just tired today, the exhaustion abated. Cat slept on me most of the night. Still, I slept well. D sat up, and Moby - as he does - sat in front of him to be petted. D got up, and I stretched over to take over. Moby looked at me, got up and nosed my eyes, then put a gentle paw on my lips. Unmistakable affection and care.

Looking toward another day off, possibly with thunderstorms. As well as a mild week with rain. Going back outside now, of course I am.

Exhaustion

The exhaustion is beginning to wear off, and I'm kneading away the stubborn knot. Simply very tired, now. We found a lovely little octagonal table. D was sore tempted by an 8" telescope for $50, but reluctantly walked away - since actually using it would be difficult to nigh impossible. I was entirely willing. I've more often regretted spending money on something unusable than missing out on a great deal that I'd never been able to use. Sad, though. Picked up a blanket and some fabric, couple of lamps, netting I will use to deflect the elm seeds - next year. $23 well spent.

Pulled up more plastic, laid down more clover. Moby spent a long time lounging in the shrubbery. Painted the back porch, imbedding coarse salt. Used some of the leftover paint, there is a significant amount of it. Dishes, laundry, nap.

Mild day. A blessing. A benediction. Respite.

Sailing

So tired, I fall asleep, then wake, feeling a compulsion to get up, do something. No sense to it, just this urge to move. So tired. Physically difficult week, my back is not exactly hurting more than usual, but I'm getting a tingling numb spot over my left hip joint, and there is a knot on my low back on that side. Anything indicating nerve compression worries me. Sneezing is to be dreaded, as the grass pollen starts to thicken the air.

Dreaming of being scrubbed in, the process of gowning a hoard. I woke feeling like my hands were gloved, double gloved.

There is a method to gowning a string of surcial team members. I scrub in first and set up, I gown and glove myself. There is a technique here. If they all come in together, the primary surgeon gets the first towel - then the first gown. If there are three or more needing to be gowned at once, towels are flung over hands, then gowns handed still folded, the surgeon gets gloved first, then shown the second pair to get on hizzer damnself. Then to the rest in general order of usefulness, fellow, resident, and eventually - the dripping and bewildered med student. This kind of clump is most common in a trauma, or when there is a teaching entourage situation. The former forces the prioritization, and the med student is lucky to be gotten to at all. The latter is just a matter of due process, and the onlookers will need to be watched and taught so as not to contaminate. I was taught to acknowledge everyone, though, so they know they will be gotten to, in time.

Rough night, woke too early after sitting up for over an hour. Stirred to D playing guitar softly in the other room, but drifted back into more dreams. Moby sleeping on me, walking on me. I've always enjoyed the feel of a cat walking on me.

Very rough week. The long weekend is most welcome. Yard sailing this morning.

Lorainne over at Hoarded Ordinaries, linked to Chris Hadfield (coolest person on earth)'s interview.


This is the least awful video of self gloving I could find.

Verms

One would think, after the long, hard, physical day I worked yesterday, I would take today to rest. And that was the plan. But I woke up at six, for a start. Took Moby out for a wander when D left for work. Went to the store for coarse salt - to roughen the surface when I paint the side porch this weekend, and wound up in the garden center. As one does.

When I got home with more plants, ahem, I went out just to weed a little, figure out where to put them. Started pulling up weeds, and plastic netting, and then digging a couple of deeper, ok, three deeper holes, amending, planting (poppy, geranium, lavender)and more weeding and pulling up netting. The exterminators drove up. Well, we had mice, and it was a contract thing. But they got rid of the mice, and reduced the box elder bugs, it's an old place, the house is alive with little creatures. Most of which are not harmful, but I'd rather not have mice and roaches, termites and ants. Millipedes, spiders and wasps are actually fine, and eat other things. Hopefully, the latter will return, and take care of the termites and roaches and aphids, while the mice find other refuges in the fall.

But when they drove up, I realized I should have stopped sooner. Feeling very warm, given that it's over 80˚F, bright sun, I need to be more careful. Really did more than I should have.

But, the load of leaves from last fall really jumpstarted the worm population. Digging is much easier, and the soil is much more loam than baked clay this year. The other side just has clover, which is no doubt working in it's own way. Fewer weeds, although my vigilance probably helps.

After a day of sterile, good to have dirt under my hands. And pulling up the netting is like stripping wallpaper, or a peeling sunburn, one of those tasks that feed some deep part of the brain, compelling one on and on.


Worms. Gosh. Never, ever thought I would be glad to see worms. To understand all is to love all.

Fourteen

gfxzs43

Says the cat.

So,1 2

Cat again. Determined to sit upon my lap, even if on top of the laptop. Had to close down several things, cashback from a credit card and connecting to fecesbook to report a bug. After turning up the light.

Yesterday our new scrub tech started, untrained in orthopedics, so this is going to take some time. Short staffed, and then our core guy's friend called in for him. He'd been hit by a car, on his bike, left in a ditch - the parental lament*. Not dead, but concussed. We harangued the friend until she got him into the ER - since she described him as "incoherent." Nurses - this is how we are. He's got minor breaks, bruises, scrapes and as we well knew, a concussion. But not bad enough for him to be sent into the hospital, just home.

I ran around trying to do the essential bits of his job, and help everyone else set up their complex cases. After noon, the schedule was completely derailed by complications. I was the only one available for scrub breaks - and I have my limitations. Wound up nearly three hours in a case going badly because the surgeon needed a good resident, and had a first year intern with inadequate spacial skills, while that scrub took his own lunch, and gave lunch in another room for cases I simply can't do. A total shoulder replacement is not something one can just set up based on general principles. Too many specialized instruments, most of whom I have never been formally introduced to and do not know by any name.

After getting off so early Monday, I knew it was only fair that I stay to the (bitter) end. Clocking out at 2030 is my personal best for this place. Nearly 14 hours, and my eyes were refusing to focus closely. But the prickliness I woke up with had worn off. I certainly scrubbed at it hard enough. Not that I've achieved Enlightenment, but I can see it from here. Close enough for now.

Cat very happy to see me. Needs his claws trimmed.

And my Big Question about the Oklahoma tornadoes, basements, addressed at NPR.


*What if you're lying dead in a ditch!?

Ineffable

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

This is what I think is all too often missing from the question of god and religion. Only for believers is the existence of god viable, and they already have the answer. To look at the subject reasonably means asking a different question. What does this belief say about us as human beings? How does religion benefit, or hinder, a society, or humans as a species?

To expound endlessly on the nature of god is to count angels on pinheads or analyze the dreams of Sasquatch. Mysticism is an aspect of human thought, a way to continually push back the darkness, control the eternal chaos, so we can find a cozy chair as the storm rages outside. Answering the question accurately is far less important than formulating the question in the first place.

And I'm fine with the ineffable being left un-F-ed with.

Woke up remembering one of the most disturbing books I've ever read, by a people with a radically different way of seeing the world, and how the mysterious is conceptualized. Bury Me Standing chipped away any last vestiges of any possibility of faith. I'd always thought religion to be culture-bound, this was as alien as I'd ever seen. Unformalized superstitions.

Western Christianity strove for sense, with the odd leap of faith. Skipping over the math, the hard bits, the tl;dr. But trying to reconcile science with god, so god was studied along with chemicals and electricity, biology and geology. We'd break through, realize we were dangling in the air, and grasp the church in fear. While others kept chipping away. Other religions, in other cultures, have different purposes - unseen by devotees of course. Like placebos - works best when you don't look too closely. Or like taoism, that doesn't even have the conception of a godhead.

We want the world to make sense, we want someone in charge, frightened children crying for our parents. Even if the parent is neglectful and abusive, we dream of assurance and comfort. If absent, we imagine them trying to reach us. Perhaps getting past that fear is when we take our greatest leap of faith.

Rocks

Out weeding, ran the mower over the clover, pulling up plastic netting, three separate people stopped to comment on my cairns. To me, it just seemed a perfectly obvious thing to do with salvaged, found rocks. I loved building blocks as a child, never had enough of them. Piling up rocks is play.

We have become a landmark, apparently. I shall be known as "Piles-Up-Rocks."

Sadly, the rhubarb is ailing. Perhaps it will hunker down, and revive next year. That seems to be the way of it here. The iffy clover of last year is going gangbusters this year. Same with the meagre mints, sparse sunflowers, non-flowering Veronica, thin thyme. All are robust this Spring. I will abide.

Alive

Moby urgently needed to go OUT this morning, so I took him OUT. Later, we shopped, and he lingered at the door - took some dissuading. Got back, ate lunch, tossed the chicken packaging, and he scoooted out past my leg. I chuckled, slowly and calmly followed and picked him up. He 'gakkked' at me, but knew better than to struggle.

"No, you do not go outside naked."
"I'm not naked! I have fur!"

I don't get angry, nor upset. I chuckle and calmly tuck him under my arm.

Really a lovely day, a little cool, dark clouds and bright sun together. Rain possible but nothing so far. Can't blame a cat for giving it a go. Swept up the elm seeds, a sold ten gallons on the compost pile, well soaked. Next year the tree is gone, or I put up netting. Also need to do something better for the compost, the Ikkyah boards left behind are disintegrating badly. Looking at getting some wire enclosure.

Not getting much done today, aside from getting to Trader Joe's this morning. Made lunch. Idling and reading.

The whole Epic Brewing story is one I can add in my 2¢. I read about them, when they opened. Stopped by the first week, when there was still SOME beer. A minor news story, as the local rag presented it. New loophole in local liquor laws, so they started a strong beer brewery, three years ago. With great skill, mind. So, when we were on the tour, I asked if they had any idea of how popular they would be. They sold out all their stock the first week - what they reckoned would be three month's worth. No, I was told, they were in no way prepared for the response they got. They surpassed the Five Year Plan within six months, and at three years are well into the ten year plan.

People came back, once they got more brewed, persistently. Thirsty folks around here. I was one of them. I even like their beers that aren't the kind of beers I usually like. Their Imperial Pale Ale is a wonder to behold. Although I still prefer the dark ales, and Big Bad Baptist is a force to be reckoned with. Everything has so much flavor, all done with evident attention and talent. They've kept up the quality, variety, and have not let it ruin them. Brewer mentioned on the tour that they keep it all very, very clean. No need, very obvious they are meticulous. They have 35 employees, and are opening a new brewery in Colorado. Seeing them do so well is a happy.

We are not our jobs, but our jobs surely shape us. I know when to do very clean (not quite sterile at home, although pretty close) and when to assume dirty. The bottom of any sink is contaminated/dirty. Our Own Bugges are not to be worried about if it's just us. If Dave is stopping by, I make sure anything given to him (even though he's probably no longer immuno-supressed) is very clean/sterile-ish. Floor nurses (ward nurses) call sterile what we might call clean. But it is as good as they can get. In surgery, we have to do better. If in doubt, throw it out.

Food prep is nearly if not quite as sterile as surgery.

I stood by the 80 barrel vats, listening to the yeast bubble, and felt a strange awe. Not sterile, but as clean as it needed to be. Alive.

Awesome.

Pipes

Off to the Living Traditions Festival this evening. The rain stopped a bit after noon, while we were touring Epic Brewing. D came along, and enjoyed himself, despite his being completely non-alcoholic. They have a lunch taste room (due to local laws - food must be bought and eaten to allow them to serve strong beer) with excellent sandwiches.

This girl no doubt danced earlier in the day.



We go for the Salt Lake Scots. Bagpipes, a vital point of agreement for a lifetime together.


They are very good. Quite a mix of players.


Some are more probably of Scottish extraction than others.


But, then, most bagpipes these days are made in Pakistan.

Serious group, serious leadership.



Stayed for these guys. De Temps Antan.



Those wacky Canadians. Correction, Quebecois.

Await

The rain began last evening,
so the world wears green,
waiting for roses.

Golden

Cat in golden glow of evening sun.


Statice holding out well.


We've earned our pennies this week. Yesterday, already short staffed and full scheduled, one nurse needed to do her CPR - they'd changed the time without telling her. So I scrubbed her out, already a half hour late. And I was the only person to cover the four scrub lunches. With one pregnant woman, and two rooms with x-ray - so she can't be in there, it took a lot of juggling and good will to get everyone a chance to eat. And I had to remember how to be a good scrub, because none of the cases running were simple, straightforward little surgeries. So I had to pull out all my rusty tricks and move fast. CPR nurse came back, asked to eat first. She took 20 minutes, and I broke out - took 10 minutes to eat (lest I crump before finishing) got the next two out for full lunches (45 minutes.) Pregnant nurse got the circulator lunches in two rooms, non-pregnant, non-scrubbing nurse got out the other one, and then got out the one other nurse who scrubbed for two break-times, so he could then relieve the last scrub tech.

Simple, really.

Today was much easier, if not much shorter.

As we sat together this evening, Moby leaned against me. I had my hand around his chest, my thumb under his armpit, my finger over his beating heart. He stretched his back leg over my arm, and rolled his head over, and I marvel at his trust.

Lessons

The Hidden is always present. We don't know what lessons we are learning, until much later. We don't know what lessons we are teaching.

My father taught me that home was a dangerous place, and anger is the only option. My mother taught me the potency of negativity, and silence, as well as how to sew a seam and make a bed and iron a shirt.

One teacher, whose face I can see clear as day, but I can't remember her name, or which grade she taught, was so organized and gave constant quizzes and thorough, but fair, exams, that I took in how important consistency and stringent but reasonable expectations are. Her classrooms were calm, and I learned more from her than I can express. I think I imbibed her assured methods, although it took many long years before I could emulate them.

Another teacher, full of enthusiasm over science, made crap up for the sake of her story, never consulted notes, and proved to be wrong so often that a great deal of unlearning had to take place before truth had a chance. Many of my fellow classmates struggled with this for years. I caught her in a huge mistake, which she defended, so I held my peace, and resisted excessive credulity.

From my drill sergeants, I learned how to shout without anger, and not to expect anyone to care about my lame excuses. Do the job, don't get caught, keep my buttons done up, know which pocket I put things in.

From my wonderful anatomy teacher, that artistry serves many uses, enthusiasm pinned to real knowledge is a potent force, and the best things in life take a huge effort - but are doable. And coloring is not just for children.
(This was the main text book. And the teacher freehand drew the structures in chalk on the board, and colored them in with us. What a guy.)

And a nursing school instructor who loved to put on a flashy show, then ask for unreasonable projects. I made up a series of interviews with a geriatric patient (who was supposed to submit to hours of grilling and report a lot of very personal information) in my "neighborhood" (???) based on several people(aunt, mother, granny) I knew long before. Got an A. And she gushed about how much I knew about "her." How "she" was so brave, despite health problems and age. Really can fool some people, especially if they are very good at fooling themselves.



I learned from Dr. Evil, a transplant surgeon who carried around a chaos ball, and enjoyed using it, how to be awful and prickly. Eventually, he was my prime example of how NOT to be. My boogie-man.


And I learned from D loyalty, and not turning anger at those I love, and patience and steadfastness. Among a host of examples of kindness, trust and compassion beyond anything I'd ever seen before in my life. He shrugs this off, but I remember.

Oddity

Took me a while to stop and watch/listen to this. I think I knew I needed to really stop, and attend. This has got to be the coolest person alive today.


Although, I actually found the video about him re-learning to play guitar in space even more interesting. Probably because I've spent the last couple of decades listening to D talk about playing guitar. And learning to love gear lust. Well, that last didn't take long, I love hearing people gush about the tools of their work. I had a theater shop teacher once tell us to ask anyone about their job, and they'll talk your ear off.


Anyway, Chris Hadfield, not embeddable.


Hard couple of days. Continued gratitude being expressed around me that the Troublesome Scrub is no longer with us. Despite being short staffed, having to make concessions. Whew. I try to just listen, but I do nod agreement. Unfortunately our anesthesia director, for all his skill, for all that I would have him do my anesthesia (no question) - is a raving, slathering, toxic Republican. And he is making a meal out of the current scandal, turning on FXO "news" in the staff lounge - full volume. I take my oolong elsewhere.

I meditate on those above it all. Seeing the entirety.


And, as I accompanied Moby outside.

"Really, I could just go out myself, go do what you food-dudes do, I'm fine."

(Not going to just let Moby out. Too many dogs, tom-cats with territory issues, and cars, to let an old, gentle,long indoor cat, out to just fend for himself. He hasn't the balls, and that's not a character comment, but a simple fact. He doesn't know that, of course. But, we take him out, to his evident satisfaction. It'll do.)

... As, I was saying, I look at what I planted last year settling in, looking comfortable. The freshly planted still deciding where to put their roots, and if they like it here. And I see how, metaphorically, organic it all seems. And to trust my own sense of taste and eclecticism. Feeling very content about the whole experiment. Assured that I've done good for the soil, invited in worms and helpful bugges, dug deep and listened to the earth in this tiny spot. This is how I've always done it, no overall plan ahead of time, since I don't have the money to just get it all and put it in place. I have to take each piece as it comes, wait for the next element, arrange accordingly, and stay open to the next possibility. Making it up as I go along.

Mint and clover, rhubarb and flax, sunflowers and thyme, Turkish veronica and jalepeño, all together. Tearing up the plastic netting (probably the cheap sod laid down came that way.) Stacking up rocks. Waiting to see what will come next.

Gesture

Pinks

A run/walk fundraiser† down our street.


(It is a thoroughfare, if quieter than many.) Mediocre 80s cover band* no doubt local, a half block away, loud reverberations in the neighborhood. Moby had to be out, watching, as the first 5K runners came through. Just watched, better part of an hour,sitting in the clover. Deciding I needed tea and breakfast, I left the guys out there, but Moby wanted to come in a minute later.

Then, he got in a bag.




†As someone in the field, I don't support any particular health oriented charity over any other. Good on them, but I'll just do my job as best I can. I do like seeing so many men being willing to put on pink stuff to support their women, though. Normalizing 'gendered' color, increasing androgyny, ain't a bad trend.


*But forgive the redundancy.

Warhol

Not Warhol. Went to a presentation at UMOCA last evening. Finally saw a whole Warhol film. I closed my eyes and wandered around my own thoughts. But the speaker made our day. He'd been presented as Warhol himself to visit several western universities, including my alma mater here, many years ago. Minor scandal. Hired to act the part, with no further direction, he apparently did just fine. Brought back as a Mondo Utah speaker. D has a great love of hoax stories, so this turned out to be just the ticket.

I got in the last Q of the Q&A.
"Do you think you gave better value than the real Andy Warhol?"
"That's what they told me... "

He seemed pleased at the question, and being able to brag a little. Allan Midgette seemed a strange and unique being in his own right, and I'm glad to have given him the opportunity to get another laugh out of the audience.

Very odd audience, as well.

As we left, the sky was orange, storm coming in from the east, sun setting in the west, a rainbow. Thunder and lightening, then thick pelting rain.

A little later, but still glowing.

Diagnoses

Hyperbole & 1/2 is back from the brink.

Depression is a bugger. And I don't think I ever had it, despite several diagnoses to the contrary. When I was with the ex, perhaps I was depressed, but it's more likely a refreshing of my PTSD from childhood. I was miserable for damn good reasons. I cried a lot, which was the distraction that confused the "experts." What I really have is mild anxiety. Anti-depressants never helped. Anti-anxiety meds worked wonders. But it's not a constant, daily issue. It's periodic. I would get myself gradually into a tighter and tighter knot. Then, I just wanted to dispose of myself.

I suspect suicide and suicidal thoughts are much like cancer - a catchall, descriptive term that doesn't really get to the root causes. Some people kill themselves out of that hopeless non-feeling, some out of anger at those around them, some out of pain, or any of the other situations that lead to desperation. Remorse, passion, despair, emptiness, all could lead by different paths to the same act of self destruction. It's a strangely comforting thought, when going through a long, difficult stretch, that one can make it end at will.

Every morning of nursing school, the alarm would go off, and I'd consider dying as an option, and opt instead to get up and keep going.

Having someone beside me who would be unjustly grieved, always weighed on the side of "keep going." As a young person, the idea of some kid finding my corpse, stopped me. I never liked the idea of someone cleaning up my mess. I didn't want to make the world a worse place, and I couldn't help but imagine how much that would have bothered me as a kid.

Ultimately, I deal with mild, periodic, anxiety. Beer is one of the better drugs, because it has a short half-life, easy to titrate the dose, and it's delicious. Valium causes too much sedation. Buspar is nice, but it's not supposed to be used as needed, although it did work that way for me. Still needed a prescription. For beer, all I need is my ID, or rather, my grey hair.

And I need to walk regularly, keep up my buddhist philosophical practices, and my self-calming exercises. Stay open, stay aware, take breaks, find the funny, pet the cat, love the guy. Dig in the garden.

Taking a little break. Passed the biometric enough not to have to have a coach.

D watching Bullitt. Surgery scene, that he's always liked. I watched, and sure enough, they seem to have a real scrub tech. Perfect sterile technique, and the way she loads a needle driver - then threads it! We have very few reasons* to thread surgical needles these days, but it happens under certain conditions. I've done it. It rang true for him, and I was able to confirm how genuine it was. Over 40 years, many details have changed, but the manual skills still look the same. Recognizable. Obvious. Extraordinary, since usually, I have to turn away from OR scenes to keep from throwing things. On the director's commentary, we could confirm what I could clearly see. They used actual hospital staff.

Off to sweep the garage.



*Plastic surgeons - old ones - still have all their sutures loaded onto reloaded needles. Occasionally, suture anchors require a second, threadable needle, but the surgeon loads that. All others are swedged on.

Heartbeats

Sore ears were so much of my childhood. My mother would put drops in them, and cotton wadding, and I'd lie on one side as long as I could, then she'd dose the other side. I remember one time they were so congested and then swaddled, and I thought the dryer was running. Complained at how long it seemed to be going.

Described the sound, Thud-thd. Thud-thd. Over and over.

Couldn't be the dryer in the basement I heard from the upstairs. No, that was my heartbeat. Oh.

Which creeped me out rather badly for a while. Got used to the idea, when my ears were stopped up, I could listen to my insides.

Turns out, that might be a very good thing.

I don't know if I would have been able to hear my heartbeat otherwise, I can't usually, not so that I'm conscious of. But apparently women who treat their body as an object to be modified to fit the fashion, definitely can't. And I've never understood them, wearing teetery heels and painfully tight clothing seemed incomprehensible. I've always lived in my body, maybe since that first time.

I look forward to new information on this phenomena. As my heart continues to thud-thd.

Beasts

Last night, we expressed the desire to sleep in this morning. Neither of us terribly hopeful, but thought it would be nice.

At 6, two neighbors were screeching at each other just outside our garage. Went on for several minutes. Moby acutely alert, one front paw on my shin, the other held to his belly, ears perked, eyes alarmed. When he finally decided that was quite enough and jumped off, I looked out the window to see if they were still there.

Huge Orange Cat and new-to-me young black cat - both still in the "And one more thing, buddy... !" stance. I tapped on the window, they scattered. Younger cat beneath the window and north, Orange Brute the other direction. I suspect they were disputing access to the garage. When I turned on the engine yesterday morning, Orange Brute ran out past me. I need to clean out the accumulated tree debris from in there, maybe slap on some paint to improve visibility. Orange Brute will still linger there, but with less of this smell.

Moby hates loud conflict.

Luckily, I was able to drift back off, which was lovely. Not often one gets what one merely wishes for.

Still have to do the biometric testing to get my health insurance discount. It really pays, so I do it.

Hacking up weeds, and plastic netting from the sod, in preparation for some soil and clover seeds. Flowers still being shy, but then, it is only early May. Put the geranium that survived inside for the winter, out by the tomatoes - to confuse the bugges. And to look purty. Pease are looking alive, chives appeared from unpromising beginnings last year, chard is knee high, tomatoes all surviving so far. Jalapeño seems content. Ravenna grasses alive, but small. Thyme returning. Turkish veronica from last May blooming away, intensely purple.

Yup, more clover and sweep out the garage. Sounds like a Plan.

Wit

Picked up The 2000 Year Old Man In The Year 2000.



If anyone thinks I'm pretentious, well, sheesh.

"A book with wit but no wisdom - you're laughing about nothing. A book with all wisdom and no wit... you might as well go to the library and take out a book by Schopenhauer.

Or rub sand in your eyes."

First page, laughing out loud.

Sat on the porch, each reading our own book. The above for me, The Bad Popes for D, as it rained, and rained, and rained. The gardens are happy. But it got a bit cold, and we came in. Which pleased Moby, who is now crashed on my lap.


Still not completely over his conversion to Lap Cat. It's been a year and a half now, can't quite believe the change.

Richness

When we were idling in Saudi in 1990-91, D suggested I read Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I had nothing better to do. Like riding a bike for the first time, I needed a hand, though. Names do not sit well in my brain, and no one in this book has just one. The plot is complicated. The language is circuitous, even deceptive. If D had not coaxed me through the first time, I'd have walked away from it. And missed an immense sense of accomplishment, and a rich and rewarding story I would return to innumerable times over the years. I was soaring.

I always read well, I could read at first grade level before I started kindergarten. But I was often an utter coward about it. Took me much longer than reasonable to pick up anything but a picture book. My first novel was called Gone Away Lake, only a few drawings every few pages. Hadn't realized the images would appear inside my own head. Oh, wow, was I ever hooked. Even then, the "classics" scared me. Until I worked in the library, I didn't even try. But they kept passing through my hands, flirting with me, and... well, it just sorta happened.

Hated books I was forced to read, Wrinkle in Time and Johnny Tremain aren't awful, but the mandatory nature of the class assignment ruined them for me. I think that was why I read through my school anthologies as soon as possible, so I could actually enjoy the stories, before being made to hear them slowly tortured aloud.

Great books can be very rich, full of references and clever knots. Sometimes, they are so out of time, there is no way for anything but a scholar to enjoy them, D describes Umberto Eco this way. Although he adds he is vastly tickled by the implied compliment. This is a man who read Vineland - Thomas Pynchon, out of sheer bloodymindedness. I read a paragraph and decided I'd gone past my limitations. One should be proud of reading difficult material just out of reach, occasionally.

Can't read any of the Bronte sisters, who were amazingly popular in their time, and long after. To me, they seem very dated, old fashioned. Whereas Austin still feels fresh and relevant. Much matters when in my life a book came to me. I doubt I'd have read The Hobbit if I'd been 17 when I found it, but I was a bit younger, when it was just right. I hated the absurdity of the Alice books, until I was about 17, when the humor and silliness resonated. When I was still in a very churchy world, I could enjoy C.S. Lewis, a decade later, and it would have cloyed.

Charles Dickens (any of 'em) is a bubble & squeak, or haggis. Maybe kimchi. Don't mind that they exist, don't think I could actually swallow any of it. But it seems a cultural problem, not the author's fault. And I love the stories, told through other means.


Glad I read Colour of Magic right after coming off a jag of way, way, way too many fantasy books. Struck just the right note. It's not one of his better novels, a straight parody, jokes littered all over, Zotz.

Relishes

D feeling somewhat better, after some drugs to help him sleep, breathe. I'm teetering on the edge of maybe not being well. Not at my best at work, felt snappy and prickly. Simply coping, knowing I would have five days off, with an annoying half-hour's appointment to get a health screening that discounts my health care premiums. Then I get a call from the boss, mandatory meeting in the morning, 0715. Not to be moved. Ordering everyone in for this inservice. Many of us really pissed. But when she gets herself all mad, she cannot hear reason. Wonders, though, why she gets such negative staff surveys. She's a peach. With a worm. One of those tasteless, mealy peaches.

That she has posted it as mandatory means nothing, since every meeting for two months have been "mandatory" and she has admitted that it usually means she just wants as many as possible there. But she got a bee up her butt about the one tomorrow. If only I'd told everyone we were flying out of town this evening. Next time, I will give that story out. Got the call while running my room, caught me off guard, flat footed. Not that I'm any good with the instant lie, the snappy come-back anyway. I default to honesty.


Still, it's only an hour. And I'll probably wake up anyway. I plan to clock in at 0715 precisely, and take at least one potty break.

Reminded by a quiz of the books I've failed to read. And the aspect of reading that is akin to taste.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce, is an ultra rich cheesecake. One tiny slice, and I was amazed, but full. Knew I'd never finish it.

Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky. Turkish coffee. Interesting, but after a sip, way too strong, and I really don't like coffee. Learned the word petty, which was useful.

Harry Potter. An A&W plain hamburger. Loved them as a kid, from the drive-in across the bridge in Windsor, so we wouldn't hit relatives right at meal times. I didn't like meat, which barely figured. Thin patty, thick bread, ketchup, relish, sometimes cheese, soggy, just the right amount for a small child. I could stand one today, but not more. Really don't get why an adult would seek them out, save to share with a child.


Twilight. Peeps. Even the smell of it repels me. The thought of putting it in me is beyond possibility. Only good to ridicule.

And in the discussion that prompted these thoughts, I would like to add here, out of context, this.

Intelligent and well written does not equal dull and snobbish.

Silly does not mean only fit for children.

Bad writing does not mean fun and entertaining. Humor doesn't have to be stupid and ignorant.

Some classics are bound to their own time, but some speak wittily across the ages.

I knew there was a strong strain of anti-intellectualism in this country. Reverse snobbery. Anyone suggesting that good writing and honest stories with a moral compass, coherent plot and full fleshed characters, are "dull" and pretentious, preachy and too hard. I think good writing is easier to read, and hones the mind to relish the more challenging great writing. Which may take more effort, but returns far more. That some assume anyone reading a non-mainstream, non-best seller, non-morally bankrupt, non-cardboard populated novel - is faking it, and self puffed-up, a snooty smartass. Who has no sense of fun, and hates children and eats puppies.

Thing is, I like fluff, as long as it's good fluff. When I was between terms in nursing school, and could barely read instructions for soup, I read Robert Asprin, and Piers Anthony's Xanth novels. (I couldn't read Anthony today, too many themes of attraction to underage girls, that I didn't pick up on at the time.) But I feel that we live and die by our stories. And it is important to take in good stories that feed our souls, and try to keep the cheap stuff to a minimum. Just like food, most of the time, fresh, well prepared, spiced and savored varieties, balanced. The odd hershey bar won't be a problem, and will feed the part of us that isn't consistent, and is still five years old.


I want to read a little more Joyce, a few pages.

Greta suggested Araby, and here it is.

Foxes

The story about the Air Force sexual assault prevention officer doesn't surprize me. Fox in charge of the chickens indeed.




When I was in the army guard, there was a warrant officer, Mr. H. older guy, who was put in charge of sexual harassment training. I think someone should have mentioned that it meant prevention, not promotion. He was an old creep who would corner the younger women and kiss them. He tried to trap me, but I knew what he was and how to avoid him. I did manage to prevent at least one enforced kiss he tried to plant on one of the smaller female PFCs. The next guy, Sgt E.W. to hold the position didn't do this. He just made smarmy remarks that left women feeling goosed. We all knew, saw the irony, but this is how the military works. Or fails to work. D always said "the army is a idiot."

When I was around 20, working at the Detroit main library, one of the security guards got in the elevator with me, and kissed me. Shocking, baffling, unpleasant, but it was not a time when it would have been considered serious. I told a few people, and all the other young women. I never got on an elevator with him unless with several other people as well. Kept him at a distance, became much more aware of my surroundings. That experience probably kept me safe at various times in my life. Not that I'll thank him for that.






(If you know the attribution of this image, please let me add it here.)

Timed

Long work dream, putting bandages on a large woman with a lot of fur. She seemed sedated or severely mentally disabled, but I talked through what I was doing anyway. For the last bandage, around her ear, she started talking to me articulately.


I took her to recovery, and a small woman with a sweater and brightly colored embroidered cap drifted into the OR hallway. I herded her back in, when I noticed she wore a scrub dress underneath. And she had a poofy dog with her. Dog had rubber booties on. I put my hand out to him, and she told the dog not to touch me. When it got closer, I realized it looked odd because he was covered in coban, only the nose and eyes and ears were free. Apparently to allow a furry dog into the area.

The wind kicked up last night. And over the beds where I planted seeds, the box elders dropped their seeds in their millions.

Not box elders, but I don't know what.




D has been ill all week, chills and fever, aches and dizziness. Some slow improvement. I went to bed early last night, tired and achy and coughing, slept 13 hard hours. We are only at work 2 days next week, taking some vacation time - well timed.

Rocks

Planting is substantially done. Poppy and scarlet flax, cosmos and sunflowers. Marigolds near the tomatoes in back, the geranium will go out soon. I need to harden it a bit first. Which I have not done. Jalepeño* plant, rhubarb, strawberries, hen&chickens. And returning from last year, chard, parsley, mint, thyme, Turkish veronica(?) with purple flowers, native veronica with bluish flowers, spiky weeds and dandelions. And another local weed I know not the name of. Also, there seem to be other plants from last year, but they have not declared themselves yet, only hinted from behind the curtain.

The green is clover. As I clear more of the plastic-net-infested sod, there will be more. There will still be some leftover grass, and always weeds. But mostly, clover, which needs less water, and is greener. I can mow it or not. The sacrificial tomato plant in in the upper right.




The rocks are fine, though. I stack them by whim. Cairns to forgotten gods.



*Which G from work refers to as djəll LAH pən ose. He knows better. Now he's got me doing it.

Connections

Some questions asked elsewhere.

Why read old books? Why art and science?

I've struggled with this one. Robinson Crusoe amazed me, when I read it about age 17. Adventure and resourcefulness, I wonder why I didn't notice the bigotry. Maybe I should pick it up again. Important to know where we've been as a culture. Jane Austen is still a clear, wry voice, crying out for love and freedom and hope. To know we have not changed much, that our humanity reaches across the earth, and far back into time. Perhaps to a point before we were fully human. This is what old stories can teach us, why it's important to look at both the incorrect beliefs, which may not be all that wrong. And to be stunned by the wisdom, the familiarity of the stupidity, the grandness and the pettiness to which we all are heirs to.

And arts are not separate from sciences. It all connects in the human brain, which is the only real tool we have, everything else are tools made by that tool. Ask a blacksmith why he always has to use the anvil. Science needs art to be explainable. Art gives insight to science. Art imagines it otherwise, then makes science prove it.

Why tell children the truth?
They will tell lies, because they have few other shields, and it is a kind of intelligence. Telling them truth, always, gives them a view of integrity and honesty to strive for when they are no longer powerless. Give them good information, or at least access to it, and feed their curiosity, then stand back. Amazing how much the young can do with a library card and a few adults willing to discuss anything.

Why smile when you are unhappy?
Ah, lots of research on this. As a kid, as a little girl in particular, I was ordered to "give me a smile!" I would frown harder. "Aw, is it really that bad?" Yes, yes it was, and their intrusion made it worse. Hard to get past that resistance. I didn't like my life, I was miserable, and smiling felt like a lie. Worse, I would be simply thinking, and get accused of scowling.

But smiles, the muscles moving up and scrunching, make the head and heart more cheerful. It affects everyone around, too. Act a certain way, and your feelings tend to follow. Those intrusive folks could have been dismissed, but I let them get to me and make me feel even worse. I still won't smile at a demander, but neither will I frown.

When I smile deeply, all the way to my toes, so it reaches my eyes, the joy comes up by capillary action.

Introvert

Will talk later...

Idling

A smattering of frost, but I'd covered the tomato plants last evening. The frost was on some of the covers. More probably snow. Will repeat the process tonight. I think they will survive.

Slow moving, not eager to move at all. Yesterday earned my pennies, and everyone in a rather pugnacious mood. Sassy, even. Spring hitting us, I expect. Everything feels colder, rough and raw, if only in contrast to the bright sun.

Measured and figured out how much area needs to be covered.



Got paint for the front facing, badly needed. Most of the paint is in good shape, but the winter blasted away at the western side. A guy at work was eager to take on the job. We'll pay him fairly, I know him well enough to trust he'll do a perfectly good job. I'm just not up to getting that high up. It is a somewhat different color, slightly darker, brighter, bluer, but it will mesh, not clash. None of the reds match, so I'm good with the green varying as well.

The names for colors is fascinating. The new one (not shown) is Monet green. One sample that caught my eye as I waiting for the mixing was named Baby Duck. I asked the mixer if it had real baby ducks. He said yes.

The sunflowers are sprouting madly, which gives me hope. More seeds in soil this weekend.