Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Monday, March 30, 2015
Lightness
Just what I imagined. It makes no fuss, draws no attention to itself, only lights up the space with quiet elegance and efficiency.
And somewhat later...
It seemed appropriate this week.
And a moth.
Condolences
When someone grieves, there isn't really anything to say. We all wonder, what should I say? but there aren't any words that help, save, perhaps, accidentally. We can listen, though. We can be kind.
S lost her mother last week, part of why I went in on Wednesday, to cover her shift. She was there today, subdued but present. I said hi in the locker room, where she'd gone to eat her lunch in quiet, but left her alone. When we were done our day, she was in the staff room.
"Are you done for the day?"
"Yeah," she said.
"I'm sorry," I said, then massaged her shoulders.
"I'm really tight!"
"I can't imagine why... ."
She thanked me, I said, "well, it was that or bad jokes."
"I like those, too!" She let me hug her lightly, held my wrist a moment.
Nothing helps, but little acts of kindness don't hurt.
S lost her mother last week, part of why I went in on Wednesday, to cover her shift. She was there today, subdued but present. I said hi in the locker room, where she'd gone to eat her lunch in quiet, but left her alone. When we were done our day, she was in the staff room.
"Are you done for the day?"
"Yeah," she said.
"I'm sorry," I said, then massaged her shoulders.
"I'm really tight!"
"I can't imagine why... ."
She thanked me, I said, "well, it was that or bad jokes."
"I like those, too!" She let me hug her lightly, held my wrist a moment.
Nothing helps, but little acts of kindness don't hurt.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Chips
The stripping goes on. Even with a lot of spottiness left, the hall is brighter and warmer. Good thing I like it, because this is going to be a very long project. The surface reminds me of theatrical flats, which were always textured, rough paint, shading and variation - never flat gloss color. Looked much better under the lights. This does as well, and although I fully intend to get this to finished finish, the interim has a certain wabi-sabi charm as well.
Thinking of Chekov's Gun, and the sub-rule on stage, that the actors shouldn't ignore what the characters wouldn't, because the audience will focus on obvious errors, often thinking them Important Clues. A dropped piece of paper, a tipped glass, should be simply dealt with, in character, or no one will be listening to the dialogue anyway. Went to a version of Christmas Carol put on by a group that did a lot of improv. A Bratty Kid (a very loose interpretation of Christmas Carol) has a yo-yo, that falls off the string... then rolls aaaaalllllll the way across the stage to where Ebenezer and Ghost are standing, pauses, then rolls nearly aaalll the way back, pauses, then rolls again! The actors reacted to it the whole way, one screaming "IT'S POSSESSED!" Especially since it wasn't supposed to be in that timeline in that part of the stage. Funniest experience ever, to ignore it would have killed the moment. I don't recall how they ended it, I'm sure I was laughing too hard to pay attention, but it worked. Everyone took a few breaths, and continued. That they were all used to improv certainly helped, they had a trained reflex to just go with whatever happened. Still, this was a straight (comedy) play, all memorized lines.
And I think a variation of that rule is what is being broken when a director shows something obviously wrong to anyone who knows. Black Hawk Down, Meg Ryan's character supposed to have maxed her PT test, shown doing push-ups, none of which would have counted*. Let a stunt woman do it, easy fix, but no. Strangely, Lone Star did both. Showed an actual pathologist handling the bones found out in the desert, convincing because it was real, no actor would have done it as well. Later, fluffed it when a PFC with multiple things wrong with her uniform, wears her cap inside and salutes (badly) with it on, and the sergeant not only doesn't correct her, but also doesn't have her doing push-ups until the sergeant gets tired.
Watered the seeds, a few tiny bits of green, that I hope aren't weeds, but I can't tell yet. Must wait. All mud right now, hard to believe it will be all green. This is where a god really would come in handy, so hard to believe those tiny nubbins will be lush plants. The lettuce is showing nicely, though. Planting is such an act of hope, casting my seeds upon the soil. The first areas of digging and planting are reappearing, though, assuring me of life, at least this time.
Also hoping the Electrician (or someone like him) shows up tomorrow afternoon, and puts up the light. My hope is weak/my fears are strong/the darkness blinds our eyes.
*Well, it would have been counted as "One, one, one..." Never advancing until she got one right, then it would be "two, two, two..." until... well, you get the idea.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Expressive
Moby has an interesting face, and has always been remarkably communicative with us. We marvel at such a wonderful friend.
Counting
The verge is approximately 27 feet wide by 25 feet deep. So 675 square feet. 62.7 square meters. 75 square yards.
Seeds are in, watering intermittently, waiting.
Stripping paint in the hall. Again. That will be a long, slow process, rather like the garden. Feeling odd that I'm done with the major digging out there. Lots more to do, but no more big, down to the bottom, jobs outside. In here, the paint is waiting to be removed, the wood beneath ready to gleam.
Snoozing.
"Can you believe what I have to put up with?"
Seeds are in, watering intermittently, waiting.
Stripping paint in the hall. Again. That will be a long, slow process, rather like the garden. Feeling odd that I'm done with the major digging out there. Lots more to do, but no more big, down to the bottom, jobs outside. In here, the paint is waiting to be removed, the wood beneath ready to gleam.
Snoozing.
"Can you believe what I have to put up with?"
Accuracy
When Kurosawa made Red Beard*, he took his obsession with accuracy to an extreme. The cabinet filled with actual, period, Chinese medicines, even though they were never shown.
One of the very few shows dealing with the medical world I could find no fault with, which is where my assumptions start with historical medicine, but in this case, it was probably as accurate as possible. I don't necessarily think this is the best way to present a movie. The illusion of reality is no doubt sufficient. Still, that kind of attention to telling a real story with as much reality as possible, has to show in performances, in the patina.
Bulitt has a scene in surgery, with actual surgical staff, and wow, it looks familiar to me. Return To Me shows a hospital from the patient's family's POV, and they get nothing wrong, which works as well. Bringing Out the Dead shows bad, night, EMTs, and although what they are doing is wrong, it's the characters doing it wrong, not the movie. Well, and when John Goodman does CPR, he bends his elbows, but that's so John Goodman doesn't kill the extra, not because the character doesn't know how to do chest compressions properly.
D struggles with historical drama that misses the point, or simplifies to the point of inaccuracy.†
And don't get him started with guitar gear that is completely wrong. I tend to throw things at the screen when they get the medical stuff wrong, which really can matter when people assume it's somehow right. Our legal system is struggling with people who assume the CSI tech is perfect and unassailable, and it really isn't.
Movies don't have to present the technical details of these worlds perfectly, no need to let a fact get in the way of a good story. But they can elide, instead of showing the laughably wrong, without poo-poohing it as "Only a few people will know, or even notice!" Put it in the shadows, slide over it in a blur, don't show if you don't bloody know!
I worked with a woman who had twins, who were used as newborns in a tv show here, covered in strawberry jam. She told them the surgical paraphernalia was completely wrong, but they didn't care. She put the checks into her daughters' college fund, and shrugged.
Telling stories isn't about facts, it's about truth, which facts can obscure. So, sometimes, they need to be nudged aside - this is what fantasy is for, magic and science fiction. Clearing away clutter, to see the skeleton. Replacing that with the wrong facts is not a good answer, though. Leads to greater confusion, and frustrates those who do know the accurate facts. The lies that aren't necessary, the ignorance, only erodes trust in whatever truth the story might hold.
*A really amazing and wonderful movie, although long, that is well worth watching. If only for seeing Toshiro Mifune, in a beard, dislocating a guy's jaw, then putting it back in.
†See An Historian Goes to the Movies.
All of the material used for the town was about as old as it is supposed to look. The tiled roofs were taken from buildings more than a century old; all of the lumber was from the oldest available farmhouses; costumes and props were all “aged” for months before their appearance; the bedding (made in Tokugawa-period patterns) was really slept in for up to half a year before shooting.
One of the very few shows dealing with the medical world I could find no fault with, which is where my assumptions start with historical medicine, but in this case, it was probably as accurate as possible. I don't necessarily think this is the best way to present a movie. The illusion of reality is no doubt sufficient. Still, that kind of attention to telling a real story with as much reality as possible, has to show in performances, in the patina.
Bulitt has a scene in surgery, with actual surgical staff, and wow, it looks familiar to me. Return To Me shows a hospital from the patient's family's POV, and they get nothing wrong, which works as well. Bringing Out the Dead shows bad, night, EMTs, and although what they are doing is wrong, it's the characters doing it wrong, not the movie. Well, and when John Goodman does CPR, he bends his elbows, but that's so John Goodman doesn't kill the extra, not because the character doesn't know how to do chest compressions properly.
D struggles with historical drama that misses the point, or simplifies to the point of inaccuracy.†
And don't get him started with guitar gear that is completely wrong. I tend to throw things at the screen when they get the medical stuff wrong, which really can matter when people assume it's somehow right. Our legal system is struggling with people who assume the CSI tech is perfect and unassailable, and it really isn't.
Movies don't have to present the technical details of these worlds perfectly, no need to let a fact get in the way of a good story. But they can elide, instead of showing the laughably wrong, without poo-poohing it as "Only a few people will know, or even notice!" Put it in the shadows, slide over it in a blur, don't show if you don't bloody know!
I worked with a woman who had twins, who were used as newborns in a tv show here, covered in strawberry jam. She told them the surgical paraphernalia was completely wrong, but they didn't care. She put the checks into her daughters' college fund, and shrugged.
Telling stories isn't about facts, it's about truth, which facts can obscure. So, sometimes, they need to be nudged aside - this is what fantasy is for, magic and science fiction. Clearing away clutter, to see the skeleton. Replacing that with the wrong facts is not a good answer, though. Leads to greater confusion, and frustrates those who do know the accurate facts. The lies that aren't necessary, the ignorance, only erodes trust in whatever truth the story might hold.
*A really amazing and wonderful movie, although long, that is well worth watching. If only for seeing Toshiro Mifune, in a beard, dislocating a guy's jaw, then putting it back in.
†See An Historian Goes to the Movies.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Tarot
Long, long ago, I went to a tarot card reader. Met her at a fair, and visited her at her house. She was older, a bit flighty, but sweetly odd. She talked with me for over an hour, all about me. I knew what I was getting was a cold reading, but it was a very gentle one. I went, because I had no insurance, nor any way to get therapy, and I needed to be seen, listened to, completely, for a little while. And maybe get a bit of insight from a random source. Some suggestions for how to proceed.
I had no thought that she had any kind of special line of information, no psychic power, only that she was a keen observer of humans. There were no great revelations, none that I remember, only a calmness from being the center of attention in a quiet, private way. Perhaps a sharper one would have been more helpful, but this was cheap, cheaper than a massage. Strangely reassuring.
Today ran long, which is fine since it's been short today, and we are closed tomorrow. Patient with an unusual injury, which the surgeon repaired so that it will heal. Interesting stuff.
Reading about how rosacea may be caused by Demodex mites in pores, or their crap, or the inflammation in reaction to the excretions. Trying eucalyptus washes, see if it helps. Tea tree oil may as well. But I know eucalyptus works on dust mites, so I figured I'd try that first. My face is an experiment.
Cleaned the mantle (still amazed I have a mantle) of all but a few items, dusted and polished as well. So much better. The clutter away. Still haven't got the light up, the installer never scheduled, then offered a colleague, who has never even called. We're looking elsewhere. Bugger.
I had no thought that she had any kind of special line of information, no psychic power, only that she was a keen observer of humans. There were no great revelations, none that I remember, only a calmness from being the center of attention in a quiet, private way. Perhaps a sharper one would have been more helpful, but this was cheap, cheaper than a massage. Strangely reassuring.
Today ran long, which is fine since it's been short today, and we are closed tomorrow. Patient with an unusual injury, which the surgeon repaired so that it will heal. Interesting stuff.
Reading about how rosacea may be caused by Demodex mites in pores, or their crap, or the inflammation in reaction to the excretions. Trying eucalyptus washes, see if it helps. Tea tree oil may as well. But I know eucalyptus works on dust mites, so I figured I'd try that first. My face is an experiment.
Cleaned the mantle (still amazed I have a mantle) of all but a few items, dusted and polished as well. So much better. The clutter away. Still haven't got the light up, the installer never scheduled, then offered a colleague, who has never even called. We're looking elsewhere. Bugger.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Freshly
I put the freshly washed and dried sheepskin on the chair. Took Moby a couple of days to decide this was All Right. He'd taken over the chair I use in the kitchen when I have breakfast, so I had to use the other one yesterday morning. He's been groaning a bit more, so I daubed him with glucosamine/chondroitin, and turmeric this morning. He ran around with Eleanor when I got home this afternoon.
The rain is done, but the clouds linger pleasantly. I put down cilantro seeds, in hope. Now, the real waiting begins, two months to see if anything germinates and stretches out toe-roots to make themselves at home. Maybe less, given the apparent change in our climate.
More green emerging, to our delight.
Know
This took me a little while to mull. Then I remembered the google accuracy ratings. People who are frightened, lacking any insight, and wanting their truthiness all neat and comfortable. They might just want to go back to when Medicine was balancing humours, bleeding and mercury. I had to go look up The Authoritarians again. (Links at the bottom to free pdf of the whole book.)
And science is scary. NPR explains why we haven't got a real handle on cancer, because it's Complicated. Despite amazing advances in astronomy, it's a keyhole peek on infinity.
We really need to be smart enough to know that we will never know it all, nor even most. We have to learn to be comfortable with getting as far as we can, and watching the universe stretch away beyond our reach, unknowable and magnificent. Never be afraid to ask, to question, to explore, but always with the understanding that there will always damned data, because there will always be further complexity.
No petty god could have created this, not the sort who cared about being worshipped - nonetheless how.
Agnosticism is the only attitude that makes any sense to me, an awestruck, "dunno."
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Full
Raining, rain yesterday, rain this evening. A wet garden full of seeds.
Miserable, but mercifully short day at work. I can't explain, other than to say displaced anger is vile, especially for anyone in charge of anything. All over now, no repercussions, save the feeling I've been gut punched. Came home, and examined the ground, pulled a couple of sneaky weeds. Cleared away the dead leaves and stalks around the mint, showing off the brilliant green beneath.
Going in to cover lunches and breaks tomorrow, a full schedule, but not very long running. Still, good to get relief, and the relief, in this case me, will be appreciated. Thursday meager, and Friday empty. The surgeons will be attending Academy.
The house will be cleaner, and the garden more tended. I will get my head in a better space thereby.
My anesthesiologist today, a smart, feisty young woman, very short, Indian, talking about her husband's Tennessee grandmother meeting her for the first time. "What tribe is she from?" assuming she was Native American, not Hindu. Even after being informed, she assumed they would have to live on 'The Reservation.' Can't get her mouth around her grandsons' names, Dr.W says. But she likes her, and feels her grandmother-in-law does her best. Our scrub, P, tells of her grandson David, that the Pakistani side of the family calls Davi. When they once called him David, he minded, because Davi made him feel special to that side of his kin.
My paternal grandmother never bothered to say my name properly, and no, it's not hard to say in French - which she spoke. The very last of only two granddaughters, I didn't count compared to the two grandsons. There was another much older grandson, died as a child, long before I was born, and from what I could glean, pretty badly emotionally abused - well on his way to a personality disorder when the leukemia got him. Not being valued on that side of the family was no doubt a blessing, I escaped with only a few flesh wounds.
The rain falls, and the garden breathes, and I smile and shake off the the accretions. Weeding is eternal, and that's fine.
Miserable, but mercifully short day at work. I can't explain, other than to say displaced anger is vile, especially for anyone in charge of anything. All over now, no repercussions, save the feeling I've been gut punched. Came home, and examined the ground, pulled a couple of sneaky weeds. Cleared away the dead leaves and stalks around the mint, showing off the brilliant green beneath.
Going in to cover lunches and breaks tomorrow, a full schedule, but not very long running. Still, good to get relief, and the relief, in this case me, will be appreciated. Thursday meager, and Friday empty. The surgeons will be attending Academy.
The house will be cleaner, and the garden more tended. I will get my head in a better space thereby.
My anesthesiologist today, a smart, feisty young woman, very short, Indian, talking about her husband's Tennessee grandmother meeting her for the first time. "What tribe is she from?" assuming she was Native American, not Hindu. Even after being informed, she assumed they would have to live on 'The Reservation.' Can't get her mouth around her grandsons' names, Dr.W says. But she likes her, and feels her grandmother-in-law does her best. Our scrub, P, tells of her grandson David, that the Pakistani side of the family calls Davi. When they once called him David, he minded, because Davi made him feel special to that side of his kin.
My paternal grandmother never bothered to say my name properly, and no, it's not hard to say in French - which she spoke. The very last of only two granddaughters, I didn't count compared to the two grandsons. There was another much older grandson, died as a child, long before I was born, and from what I could glean, pretty badly emotionally abused - well on his way to a personality disorder when the leukemia got him. Not being valued on that side of the family was no doubt a blessing, I escaped with only a few flesh wounds.
The rain falls, and the garden breathes, and I smile and shake off the the accretions. Weeding is eternal, and that's fine.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Fruits
It occurs to me, now and again, that the worst sin in my religion of origin, is to know of god, and to reject him. As I have. Utterly. With the caveat that I cannot know if a god exists, since that is unprovable, impossible, and relies on belief. I don't think there is one, having seen nothing to convince me, but if there is one as I was taught, then I do reject him. If there is a better description, I may be persuaded of that existence, if not the need to worship said deity.
If I told my mother this, it would be worse, I suspect, than that I am disowned, estranged and persistently, insistently, so. As I have rejected her mothering and advice.
That her willful ignorance and emotional neglect are terrible sins in my eyes, would make no difference.
Best we leave each other alone. What, after all, would be the point. A woman of 90 is unlikely to become open minded, when she has never been so. Not my job, either way.
In the event of extraordinary insight and compassion, I am findable. I'll stick with the odds, though. I'm no gambler, especially not on long shots. I hesitate on 'sure things' to the point of inaction. I'll stick with the fruit of my labors.
Putting in cilantro Wednesday. I hear the snails don't go for it. So, it'll go near the damn hedge.
Good thing I don't believe in hell. I figure this life is all I get, make it good, one shot only. Not going to waste it on imaginary eventualities.
If I told my mother this, it would be worse, I suspect, than that I am disowned, estranged and persistently, insistently, so. As I have rejected her mothering and advice.
That her willful ignorance and emotional neglect are terrible sins in my eyes, would make no difference.
Best we leave each other alone. What, after all, would be the point. A woman of 90 is unlikely to become open minded, when she has never been so. Not my job, either way.
In the event of extraordinary insight and compassion, I am findable. I'll stick with the odds, though. I'm no gambler, especially not on long shots. I hesitate on 'sure things' to the point of inaction. I'll stick with the fruit of my labors.
Putting in cilantro Wednesday. I hear the snails don't go for it. So, it'll go near the damn hedge.
Good thing I don't believe in hell. I figure this life is all I get, make it good, one shot only. Not going to waste it on imaginary eventualities.
Place
"This is a good place for a rug. I think I'll take a bath."
(Clean corner visible.)
Washed the sheepies yesterday, they take a long time to dry. The fleece side is down, and it's still damp.
"Still smells nice."
This is the first time in a long time he's taken to the bed. I carefully placed the guitars there, not bothering him.
Emptied everything into the kitchen and living room, we are cleaning the music room.
Including much vacuuming, mopping, dusting and turning the rug. Which means D has to solve the cable puzzle. Again.
Off my feed today, but we've still gotten an impressive amount done. Smells better in here.
(Clean corner visible.)
Washed the sheepies yesterday, they take a long time to dry. The fleece side is down, and it's still damp.
"Still smells nice."
This is the first time in a long time he's taken to the bed. I carefully placed the guitars there, not bothering him.
Emptied everything into the kitchen and living room, we are cleaning the music room.
Including much vacuuming, mopping, dusting and turning the rug. Which means D has to solve the cable puzzle. Again.
Off my feed today, but we've still gotten an impressive amount done. Smells better in here.
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Tidy
Started in one spot, the coat rack. Cleared it of the heaviest coats and all the scarves, gloves, mittens. Dusted and polished the wood in the entry - bottom to top. Swept, mopped, washed the rugs, hosed off the boot mats, cleaned the windows in the front door and the window right next to it. Wow, sounds like more than it looks, I have to say. This is a very small area, but I cleaned the hell out of it.
Getting the house into shape, so that we can have guests, or a game night, or a copper party, is going to be a long job. I've been neglecting the inside for the sake of the front garden, because that had a definite time limit. Get it done very early, or it would be baked hard until next spring. So, the grime has accumulated. In no small part tracked in on my shoes from said soil. But the time has come, since there is nothing more to do until May. And I'm tackling it a few square feet at a time.
Speaking of cleaning, I often check my spam quarantine. Thankfully, my local isp is excellent at keeping what gets to my inbox minimal, and I have a substantial blacklist. Not against communists, mostly commercial, a few personal, and once a non-profit or social justice group gets your email, your inbox is never your own again. Sometimes, it works too well. So, I check the list without opening anything. I do see the subject and sender, though.
ARE YOU STILL ALIVE??
Great News, YOU ARE ADVISED TO STOP CONTACTING THEM!!!
Attention:Dear
This nymph wants you to date her
DEARLY BELOVED (PLEASE HELP HUMANITY)h
(sic, all)
Not to mention tax refunds I've 'overlooked'... from Canada. Where I have lots of family, but have never worked, nor paid taxes. Or attention needed from a 'Royal Bank.' The US has many odd quirks, but I don't think we have any "royal" banks, and I've certainly never opened an account in one.
I want to stay aware of the flavors of newer spams. Be familiar with the tricks and traps. Stay savvy and sharp. Despite not having computers available until my late 20s, I've done pretty well. As long as they're macs, of course. D had an atari when we got together, I got a mac to start nursing school, I posted on his friends' BBS before there was an internet. I rely on D as my IT guy, but I try to be a good user. I'm useless with most windows stuff, but I can learn a particular program pretty well, as I've had to for charting and routing images at work. Not unlike acclimating to different accents of people I work with.
I do know to try turning it off and on again.
A bit of hopeful news, apparently my boss is officially planning to leave in 18 months. D guesses we'll get to a point where she's basically checked out. I had to say, yeah, it's already happening. She's not an OR nurse, and has never shown any interest in understanding what we actually do back there. It would be really good if her replacement has some sense of having our backs.
Oh, and my Paypal account has apparently be closed. Funny, I never opened one.
Getting the house into shape, so that we can have guests, or a game night, or a copper party, is going to be a long job. I've been neglecting the inside for the sake of the front garden, because that had a definite time limit. Get it done very early, or it would be baked hard until next spring. So, the grime has accumulated. In no small part tracked in on my shoes from said soil. But the time has come, since there is nothing more to do until May. And I'm tackling it a few square feet at a time.
Speaking of cleaning, I often check my spam quarantine. Thankfully, my local isp is excellent at keeping what gets to my inbox minimal, and I have a substantial blacklist. Not against communists, mostly commercial, a few personal, and once a non-profit or social justice group gets your email, your inbox is never your own again. Sometimes, it works too well. So, I check the list without opening anything. I do see the subject and sender, though.
ARE YOU STILL ALIVE??
Great News, YOU ARE ADVISED TO STOP CONTACTING THEM!!!
Attention:Dear
This nymph wants you to date her
DEARLY BELOVED (PLEASE HELP HUMANITY)h
(sic, all)
Not to mention tax refunds I've 'overlooked'... from Canada. Where I have lots of family, but have never worked, nor paid taxes. Or attention needed from a 'Royal Bank.' The US has many odd quirks, but I don't think we have any "royal" banks, and I've certainly never opened an account in one.
I want to stay aware of the flavors of newer spams. Be familiar with the tricks and traps. Stay savvy and sharp. Despite not having computers available until my late 20s, I've done pretty well. As long as they're macs, of course. D had an atari when we got together, I got a mac to start nursing school, I posted on his friends' BBS before there was an internet. I rely on D as my IT guy, but I try to be a good user. I'm useless with most windows stuff, but I can learn a particular program pretty well, as I've had to for charting and routing images at work. Not unlike acclimating to different accents of people I work with.
I do know to try turning it off and on again.
A bit of hopeful news, apparently my boss is officially planning to leave in 18 months. D guesses we'll get to a point where she's basically checked out. I had to say, yeah, it's already happening. She's not an OR nurse, and has never shown any interest in understanding what we actually do back there. It would be really good if her replacement has some sense of having our backs.
Oh, and my Paypal account has apparently be closed. Funny, I never opened one.
Forever
And... I will dig no more for... well, not ever, but not again for a long time. Laid down about half the buckwheat and poppy seeds, saving the rest until May, just in case we get a frost that kills them. Bergamot and thyme down, they are frost tolerant anyway. The last bit really was very hard, with rocks in. Still not decided what to do with the concrete circle, wanting to keep it visible, maybe plant something specific there? Feeling quite accomplished, so satisfying to have it done, and all the weeds at bay.
Hoping, with good reason, for rain this coming week. Maybe it will break the dryness and rain all April long. Weeding will be a constant in my life forever. I'm ok with this.
Pease are coming up in the back, which cheers me. Sunflowers all over the front, which worries me. I want some, of course, but not a forest of them like last year. Interesting, cats loved it, good for the soil, but a bit much. Scarlet flax already showing their cotyledons, which is wonderful.
Now, the cleaning must start. Leaving the dining room until the light is up. Or Moby is done sitting in the ring.
"Nevermind. Not as interesting as I thought it would be."
Hoping, with good reason, for rain this coming week. Maybe it will break the dryness and rain all April long. Weeding will be a constant in my life forever. I'm ok with this.
Pease are coming up in the back, which cheers me. Sunflowers all over the front, which worries me. I want some, of course, but not a forest of them like last year. Interesting, cats loved it, good for the soil, but a bit much. Scarlet flax already showing their cotyledons, which is wonderful.
Now, the cleaning must start. Leaving the dining room until the light is up. Or Moby is done sitting in the ring.
"Nevermind. Not as interesting as I thought it would be."
Friday, March 20, 2015
Zeno
This feels like Zeno's paradox, I keep getting halfway done. Very heavy clay along this edge, many rocks and stones. More sod left, not as much of the woodchips. Really appreciating how effective that was in breaking down the hard soil, despite the proliferation of weeds. The last bit is proving tough chewing.
Did one case, waited for Dr.B's case in the other room, did our second case. Next case in the other room cancelled, so they took our last big case. Dr. M couldn't arrive early, so his case did not get switched to us, Dr. T's first, later, case cancelled, second patient unreachable - might cancel. So Scrub and I had nothing to do, our room was closed, and we hightailed it out of there about 1330.
So, I dug. Limited to one hour, per the kitchen timer. D came out to stop me, or alert me to stop myself morelike. I would have kept going, but I still had to water and take Moby out, and have dinner. Found a spoon.
Spring has sprung, officially, astronomically. Another halfway that doesn't feel like much. I'm planting the rest this weekend. Even if there is a bit of frost, the soil is so warm I don't think it'll matter that much. I'll keep some seed back in case, of course.
Did one case, waited for Dr.B's case in the other room, did our second case. Next case in the other room cancelled, so they took our last big case. Dr. M couldn't arrive early, so his case did not get switched to us, Dr. T's first, later, case cancelled, second patient unreachable - might cancel. So Scrub and I had nothing to do, our room was closed, and we hightailed it out of there about 1330.
So, I dug. Limited to one hour, per the kitchen timer. D came out to stop me, or alert me to stop myself morelike. I would have kept going, but I still had to water and take Moby out, and have dinner. Found a spoon.
Spring has sprung, officially, astronomically. Another halfway that doesn't feel like much. I'm planting the rest this weekend. Even if there is a bit of frost, the soil is so warm I don't think it'll matter that much. I'll keep some seed back in case, of course.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Miracles
D sent me this at work. The Miracle of the Sunbeam. I ran for over nine hours, with a quick break to eat just before 11am, a half hour to sit and have tea and a treat at 2pm, then back to turnovers and clean-ups and breaks for everyone. Fucktastic day. Left at 1630, but it felt like 8pm.
As I turned into the drive, D and Moby were sitting there beside. I waited, because a guy and his dog were coming along the sidewalk. Drove in, said "Hi, Moby" who in turn flicked not an ear, basking in the sun as he was.
Brain stunned tired.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Nearly
Heart and head feeling better, but my body couldn't be arsed to pipe up and stop me as I did way too much this morning. Still, this is all I have left. Which is a solid 2-3 hours work yet. Then planting. I got boxes to put down, but I'm not sure I'll have the wherewithal to apply them.
I was about to finish up, when I found a round, cement remainder, of what I guess is an old sewer. Some metal near it, the smaller circle is metal. Maybe a foot below the level of the drive.
So, I had to figure out what it was before I could pack up for the day. Still not sure, of course. Sort of sad that I'll have to re-bury it.
Threw some water on the thyme seeds. Put lettuce in the raised near bed. Enjoyed the croci.
The Broken Stuff Found pile grows. Yes, that is a tennis ball.
I may need to do a mosaic. Sans tennis ball.
Oh, and the light. Heh. We took the old one down, and D realized there wasn't a ground, the new one wasn't going to work properly with the botch above, in ancient plaster. So we called the place we got it, to see if they have a recommended installer, which they of course, do. An added expense, but neither of us have the kinds of egos that stop us getting help if needed, and it's not unreasonable. If we were putting in some cheap, lightweight, off the shelf, in a box, light, we'd've just repeated the botch. But this is a beautiful thing that will outlive us, and deserves to be put in properly. Not sure when, so we capped the wires and pushed everything aside until Install Guy can do this. Our arms are going to be happier in the end, anyway. So, saves us a doctor's visit, maybe even a surgery! Who knows?
I was about to finish up, when I found a round, cement remainder, of what I guess is an old sewer. Some metal near it, the smaller circle is metal. Maybe a foot below the level of the drive.
So, I had to figure out what it was before I could pack up for the day. Still not sure, of course. Sort of sad that I'll have to re-bury it.
Threw some water on the thyme seeds. Put lettuce in the raised near bed. Enjoyed the croci.
The Broken Stuff Found pile grows. Yes, that is a tennis ball.
I may need to do a mosaic. Sans tennis ball.
Oh, and the light. Heh. We took the old one down, and D realized there wasn't a ground, the new one wasn't going to work properly with the botch above, in ancient plaster. So we called the place we got it, to see if they have a recommended installer, which they of course, do. An added expense, but neither of us have the kinds of egos that stop us getting help if needed, and it's not unreasonable. If we were putting in some cheap, lightweight, off the shelf, in a box, light, we'd've just repeated the botch. But this is a beautiful thing that will outlive us, and deserves to be put in properly. Not sure when, so we capped the wires and pushed everything aside until Install Guy can do this. Our arms are going to be happier in the end, anyway. So, saves us a doctor's visit, maybe even a surgery! Who knows?
Monday, March 16, 2015
Uniformation
"Patty I thinkVia Patterns.
I think that’s a urine sample"
These uniforms would make my job even weirder. Glad I just throw on scrubs and a cap and start running.
Warm, dry, dusty weather. No substantial rain in sight. Not auspicious for a garden, even a drought resistant one.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Amelioration
"About that unprovoked and vicious attack... "
"Whatever."
"I was excited... and... "
"Just relax."
"'N'kay."
No energy at all today. Bit of a rough night, especially for D. We are already getting smothered with tree pollen. I dug not at all this weekend. Just as well, the yard waste bin is full. I sprayed acetic acid on the weeds in the driveway, and took both cats out in turn. After Eleanor came in, she sniffed Moby, then bopped him, then went into a full on attack, which I stopped by growling. She slunk off. Not ten minutes later, they are sharing a sunbeam. Nothing like a common enemy.
I declared a fiat, since we have an Occasional Tyranny in this house. We used to declare someone Movie Dictator when looking for videos in shops (like they used to have.) To keep the time spent deciding to less than the time spent watching the movie. My fiat goes, "We are not touching the lamp until Wednesday."
Neither of us capable of the physical nor intellectual process of doing this correctly without breaking something, so, no matter how much we want it done, it ain't happening. I have Spoken. This helps, because without a Declaration, we would tend to talk ourselves into it, and get in trouble. We discussed it first, of course. But when it seemed like we were going to go against our better judgement, I Declared. We want this done well, and may never have to do it again in our lives, waiting a few days is only sensible.
We do take turns, although no one counts who was Tyrant last. Our most frequent edicts involve dinner, or when to stop working on a project.
Tonight, drugs for all the humans, hot showers/baths, massages and anything else to ameliorate our distresses. Likely another overstuffed week, because the following week is surgeon conferences, and a thin schedule for us. Given that there isn't a holiday until May, this stands in.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Possible
Two full days scrubbing, and my eyes just aren't happy about that. Between my own diminishing vision and the amazingly bright LED surgical lights, I just can't scrub, in my glasses, that much without painful blur. Spent my day off digging, which is good for soul and mood, but hard on the old body. Especially followed by a 22 case day being the runner - I give breaks and lunches and open and fetch and clean, from 7-6. Thankfully, we had enough hands on deck, even so, a long, runny day.
Friday I was in a room, with sufficient help and time to turn over, but with three complex, what I call 'possible, possible, possible' cases, still running about madly. Surgeon does not know what he can do, and won't until he gets into the joint. Scrub and I keep anything chargeable on stand-by, and try not to open too many sets that we might need on the next case. Still have to take some sets to sterile processing to clean and re-sterilize for the next, as soon as we are sure they are done with needing them on the previous. Funny, interesting, sweet patients, make this all the easier and harder together. I always want to do my best for patients, but sometimes I want to do even more.
It's a delicate balancing act, requiring attention and intention. Scheduled to 1730, it's also a matter of not wanting to be too late going home. We wound up doing pretty much the same for the last two knees, repairing one meniscus, and using donor bone* on both. Interesting, but at the end of a week with the time change, everyone visibly fatigued and brain numbed.
Everyone tired, everyone at the ends of respective ropes. Got in 22 hours in two days. Not as much as some folks on Tuesday, who were there until nearly 8pm. We don't have an afternoon shift, which works most days. When it doesn't, we take the brunt.
This morning, I was awake at 0400, from bad, work, dreams. Couldn't get back down, which usually I can. My ability to cope down to fumes, and D is dealing with a minor, but painful, injury. Trying to help, but missing all my muddled clues, suggests several times that he can go pick up the lamp. A 'job' involving picking up a pretty in a shop with beautiful everywhere - not a chore at all, but a balm to my soul. I snarl and feel disregarded and hurt. Poor guy.
Eventually, we muddle through, and the lamp is home, ready to be installed. Tomorrow. Earliest. Must be done right, after all. It's beautiful, it fits. It has little jacks-like wing nuts! Can't wait to see the light from that lens lighting up the table. Which is the whole point. A lamp that is all about lighting up a space, while modestly looking quietly lovely.
I drag poor guy to the liquor store, and get saki and ale. I need to reset. Gently but persistently. Send him off to a musical gear swap meet. I'm just not up to driving it, especially since I'd be at a musical gear swap meet at the end. I gladly wander guitar stores with him, patiently finding a drum stool and day dreaming while he drools on guitars. But this is more than I can do today. We both need restoration. Finding our equilibrium, after being ruffled badly.
*We give the patients a card, so they can send a note to the family of the donor a thank-you. Lots of tissue, bone and tendon in our case, especially to young, otherwise healthy patients, making their lives and mobility so much better.
Friday I was in a room, with sufficient help and time to turn over, but with three complex, what I call 'possible, possible, possible' cases, still running about madly. Surgeon does not know what he can do, and won't until he gets into the joint. Scrub and I keep anything chargeable on stand-by, and try not to open too many sets that we might need on the next case. Still have to take some sets to sterile processing to clean and re-sterilize for the next, as soon as we are sure they are done with needing them on the previous. Funny, interesting, sweet patients, make this all the easier and harder together. I always want to do my best for patients, but sometimes I want to do even more.
It's a delicate balancing act, requiring attention and intention. Scheduled to 1730, it's also a matter of not wanting to be too late going home. We wound up doing pretty much the same for the last two knees, repairing one meniscus, and using donor bone* on both. Interesting, but at the end of a week with the time change, everyone visibly fatigued and brain numbed.
Everyone tired, everyone at the ends of respective ropes. Got in 22 hours in two days. Not as much as some folks on Tuesday, who were there until nearly 8pm. We don't have an afternoon shift, which works most days. When it doesn't, we take the brunt.
This morning, I was awake at 0400, from bad, work, dreams. Couldn't get back down, which usually I can. My ability to cope down to fumes, and D is dealing with a minor, but painful, injury. Trying to help, but missing all my muddled clues, suggests several times that he can go pick up the lamp. A 'job' involving picking up a pretty in a shop with beautiful everywhere - not a chore at all, but a balm to my soul. I snarl and feel disregarded and hurt. Poor guy.
Eventually, we muddle through, and the lamp is home, ready to be installed. Tomorrow. Earliest. Must be done right, after all. It's beautiful, it fits. It has little jacks-like wing nuts! Can't wait to see the light from that lens lighting up the table. Which is the whole point. A lamp that is all about lighting up a space, while modestly looking quietly lovely.
I drag poor guy to the liquor store, and get saki and ale. I need to reset. Gently but persistently. Send him off to a musical gear swap meet. I'm just not up to driving it, especially since I'd be at a musical gear swap meet at the end. I gladly wander guitar stores with him, patiently finding a drum stool and day dreaming while he drools on guitars. But this is more than I can do today. We both need restoration. Finding our equilibrium, after being ruffled badly.
*We give the patients a card, so they can send a note to the family of the donor a thank-you. Lots of tissue, bone and tendon in our case, especially to young, otherwise healthy patients, making their lives and mobility so much better.
Friday, March 13, 2015
Fret
"The Truth Shall Make Ye Free!"
"The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret"
"The Truth Shall Make Ye Frep"
"The Truth Shall Make Ye Fred"
The edition that melts lead over Tulip and Pin reads
"The Truth Shall Make Ye Fere."
"The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret"
"The Truth Shall Make Ye Frep"
"The Truth Shall Make Ye Fred"
The edition that melts lead over Tulip and Pin reads
"The Truth Shall Make Ye Fere."
Pterry
Long, long ago, and far, far away, I once read fantasy by the trilogy-load. Paperbacks, so easy to carry and read in corners. I'd grown tired of mysteries, never cared much for scifi, and romance - feh. So, I read fantasy, whatever came to hand. Often, this meant the second or third book in a series, and I began to weary of the exuberant conventions, always superlatives, always the most dire magic, destruction of worlds and miraculous rescues - that are never resolved enough to stop another book. And they all hinge upon each other.
I'd immersed myself in Lord of the Rings between 7th & 12th grades, an escape, and an education. I've never gone back to read them again. (I'm not interested in the movies, although I saw the first one against my inclination.) It spawned many others to write multi-volume sagas of magic and dragons, and for a while, I thought that was wonderful.
I don't know which one became the last, when I vowed to never read another part of a trilogy (or more), but the decision was made. I still read funny ones, Robert Aspirin, and Steven Brust (although even those... .)
So, The Colour of Magic became the antidote. Parodying a genre I still held affection for. Fell utterly under his spell in Equal Rites, Esk and Granny in particular moved into my head and never left. The rest stumbled in randomly, none needing the previous story to be a complete story. The characters flowed in and out, the jokes bled from one book to the other, but none depended on previous knowledge. I certainly never read them in order. A new book would sweep me up, preventing sleep until the final page.
They were funny, but serious, never taking themselves too seriously. And filled with puns and allusions and cranky characters with strange names, innumerable cleverly twisted phrases. Plots that cascaded trippingly to satisfying endings with (half)brick jokes attached, sometimes in a wizzard's sock.
I think Men at Arms was when I first realized he'd become a skilled novelist, hiding his deeply held opinions behind Nobby and Colon's silliness. The stories sluiced through him like our world's memes poured through Discworld.
DEATH, though, got in everywhere. Compassionate and disinterested, intensely curious and deeply patient, an extraordinary idea, strangely, fleshed out and given life. Children and cats knew not to be afraid of DEATH, the message being that Death is not fearsome, however final. A character with a fatal flaw, taken to a literal extreme, as was Pterry's wont.
He'd been wrapping up as many loose ends as he could, resolving as many of the stray plots, giving his characters good places to be, as much for their sakes as for ours. Putting his affairs in order, caring for all of us.
I weep a little, not out of sadness - that would be inappropriate. He had a good death, before the ravages of dying could strip him of everything. He didn't have to end it himself, in extremity of suffering. He created a world, gave us novel after novel, character after character.
Instead, it's a sense of importance, of passing, a wave of grief and gratitude. I've wept at every death I've ever witnessed, even when I simply attended the organ procurement, and they were in some sense already dead. I've cried a little at every birth, as well. That transformation, first breath or last, is powerful. Not sobbing nor wailing, but a few quiet tears, they just appear.
He spoke to me, and I love his writing, and will read it for many years to come.
I'd immersed myself in Lord of the Rings between 7th & 12th grades, an escape, and an education. I've never gone back to read them again. (I'm not interested in the movies, although I saw the first one against my inclination.) It spawned many others to write multi-volume sagas of magic and dragons, and for a while, I thought that was wonderful.
I don't know which one became the last, when I vowed to never read another part of a trilogy (or more), but the decision was made. I still read funny ones, Robert Aspirin, and Steven Brust (although even those... .)
So, The Colour of Magic became the antidote. Parodying a genre I still held affection for. Fell utterly under his spell in Equal Rites, Esk and Granny in particular moved into my head and never left. The rest stumbled in randomly, none needing the previous story to be a complete story. The characters flowed in and out, the jokes bled from one book to the other, but none depended on previous knowledge. I certainly never read them in order. A new book would sweep me up, preventing sleep until the final page.
They were funny, but serious, never taking themselves too seriously. And filled with puns and allusions and cranky characters with strange names, innumerable cleverly twisted phrases. Plots that cascaded trippingly to satisfying endings with (half)brick jokes attached, sometimes in a wizzard's sock.
I think Men at Arms was when I first realized he'd become a skilled novelist, hiding his deeply held opinions behind Nobby and Colon's silliness. The stories sluiced through him like our world's memes poured through Discworld.
DEATH, though, got in everywhere. Compassionate and disinterested, intensely curious and deeply patient, an extraordinary idea, strangely, fleshed out and given life. Children and cats knew not to be afraid of DEATH, the message being that Death is not fearsome, however final. A character with a fatal flaw, taken to a literal extreme, as was Pterry's wont.
He'd been wrapping up as many loose ends as he could, resolving as many of the stray plots, giving his characters good places to be, as much for their sakes as for ours. Putting his affairs in order, caring for all of us.
I weep a little, not out of sadness - that would be inappropriate. He had a good death, before the ravages of dying could strip him of everything. He didn't have to end it himself, in extremity of suffering. He created a world, gave us novel after novel, character after character.
Instead, it's a sense of importance, of passing, a wave of grief and gratitude. I've wept at every death I've ever witnessed, even when I simply attended the organ procurement, and they were in some sense already dead. I've cried a little at every birth, as well. That transformation, first breath or last, is powerful. Not sobbing nor wailing, but a few quiet tears, they just appear.
He spoke to me, and I love his writing, and will read it for many years to come.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
DEATH
The author died at home, surrounded by his family, "with his cat sleeping on his bed."
"How can we ever know the difference we make to the soul of the earth? Where the infinite stillness of the earth meets the passion of the human eye, invisible depths strain towards the mirror of the name.
In the word, the earth breaks silence. It has waited a long time for the word. Concealed beneath familiarity and silence, the earth holds back and it never occurs to us to wonder how the earth sees us. Is it not possible that a place could have huge affection for those who dwell there?
Perhaps your place loves having you there. It misses you when you are away and in its secret way rejoices when you return. Could it be possible that a landscape might have a deep friendship with you? That it could sense your presence and feel the care you extend towards it? Perhaps your favorite place feels proud of you.
We tend to think of death as a return to clay, a victory for nature. But maybe it is the converse: that when you die, your native place will fill with sorrow. It will miss your voice, your breath and the bright waves of your thought, how you walked through the light and brought news of other places.
Perhaps each day our lives undertake unknown tasks on behalf of the silent mind and vast soul of nature. During its millions of years of presence perhaps it was also waiting for us, for our eyes and our words. Each of us is a secret envoi of the earth."
- John O'Donohue
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Weeds
I've almost vanquished it, although I expect a long guerrilla war to drag on for years. I'd like to know the name of my enemy.
Two days scrubbed in all day, these guys are just not happy.
Nor any other part of my basic structure, really. I dug hard, and although not exactly less sore, no worse, and I think I kept myself loosened, along with the soil.
As I hacked away, a nice guy came up to talk to me. He started out introducing himself and handed me his card, to ask permission to run a metal detector over the dirt. I said sure, if I could keep any marbles he found. I hummed "Metal Detector" to myself as he worked. Rather nice having a bit of quiet company.
He found a handful of pennies and some keys, but seemed happy enough just to have someone to exclaim over his finds of tokens and a sheriff's badge (photos on iphone).
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