Tomorrow

My plan for tomorrow. I have a book, there will likely be a cat.

Stonewall

An Historian Goes to the Movies has written an eloquent post about the Stonewall Riots, an event that I have never read about before. Knew about, sort of, but never a full account.

Another story at PRI about school bussing in Boston, and how it should not have been done.

Forlorn

Sluggardly I act, put down IGR, Insect Growth Regulator, with D's efforts in equal part. Bait gel applied yesterday, multiple loads of dishes, some tamarind found leaking - "well, there's your problem." Laundry done, at least. Cleaning to come before bed. Roach abatement in progress. Focus of their intrusion discovered, cleaned, cleared, baited. Shit and dead discarded.

Got down more sunflowers, those lovely and vicious creatures. Promised myself ten, at least that many, lying on the verge to catch leaves and refurbish the soil until spring. Many scrapes along my shins from their spiny stalks. They pulled me down among them, upturning my balance, near the hedge. They do the soil a world of good, the birds love 'em, pretty and all, but beneath that they are tough and rough and muscular, not to be messed with. D smeared anti-biotic ointment on my abraded skin.

Craving a cold wet winter, but the climate is buggered all to hell, so it is a forlorn hope. Getting rid of two more weedy trees, to allow a back garden next summer. Pulling in greenish tomatoes to ripen on the sill, two at a time. Tree guys to be called after that fruiting is done.

Disappointments on the gardening struggles, lack of light and excess of predatory bugges and snails, seeds ungerminated and raised beds unbuilt, compost pile a mess and fence area a total loss. Still, strawberries flourishing in front, new grass sprouting and buckwheat re-seeding for the autumnal cover crop. Hope and despair together twining.

Burning good incense, the AC on for D's comfort (fighting a viral fling) waiting in faint desire for a cold snap and moisture.

Anon

What would I want as an epitaph? Nothing. Let the universe take me back and recycle my atoms, my thoughts, my deeds good and ill. Let me rot in peace and a few people perhaps will remember me for a bit. Someone to treasure bits and bobs from the estate sale, a bit of stuff I once bought, possibly from an estate sale from someone else, an artist, a craftsman remembered without being named. A thread of memory, of effect, a creation passed down, immortality of a sort.

"She left me a lovely bird feeder." That she got from a yardsale, that I got from who knows where before.

"I got a framed print of a Sargent." That he got from a yard sale that came from an estate sale, of a friend of a friend...

One day, our stuff will scatter, and we will be long gone, and that's as it should be.

I would be remembered without being remembered. Let the good will spread, anonymously.

Alone

I've never minded eating alone. No one was going to yell at me if I ate alone. I could read a book if I ate alone. No brother would make me giggle until I threw up milk out my nose if I ate alone. No other kid would get mean or mock my brown bag when I ate alone. A teacher once was very concerned about this, afraid I was being ostracized and bullied. I was, but mostly at home, and I was not particularly being shunned at lunch at school. Completely content to take my food off to an empty table and read as I ate.

No parent would correct my manners, nor any relative comment on my eating when I ate alone. No work politics, if I ate alone. I could skip food I didn't like if I ate alone, but once on my plate, I couldn't push it aside if the cook sat across the table from me, eager to see that I liked it. So, especially as an adult, I tended not to take much, preferring to be hungry rather than have to waste food or insult my host, (in-laws for instance) or eat something I didn't like.

And I ate fast, after a while. My much older brothers "raced" me eating, and always won. Especially when I could barely choke down the food I was given. I eventually made up for time, and swallowed without tasting as much as possible. Came in handy in Basic, when the Drills shouted us out "IF you can Taste it you are EATING TOO SLOW!" I was always the first done, with the reward of a few minutes by myself to walk back to the barracks and have the toilet to myself.

We still eat too fast, both of us. We do eat together, which is comforting, but often watching a show, or reading as we chew. It's as good as eating alone, but with pleasant company. Have to clean up for two, though.

Claws

Sweetness, no claws at all, surely not.


The progress on the (former) meth house is impressive. They stripped it to bare rafters on Wednesday, by last evening the plywood and some of the insulation were on. Today (no photos) the shingles were largely on, and I expect they'll be done by evening. The interior is stripped, so that light is visible through the house. And the debris pile builds, clears, rebuilds. What a job.





We wonder how this will be used, as a rental duplex? Someone got substantial capitol for this project. Hard to tell how they are going to recoup. The whole neighborhood is getting revamped, in fits and starts, which I suspect has happened many times over the last century or so. Never all down, never entirely posh, always working on it, patching and primping and disintegrating and re-sprouting.

Another from S's cat gifts. Moby-ish, perhaps as a kitten, if he'd been polydactyl and with a longer tail. Still, the attitude is there. And the painting is stunning.

Tomb

Remember me mentioning we'd seen the last 90˚F here? Fat chance.


Fair
91°F
33°C
Humidity 11%
Wind Speed SSW 8 MPH
Barometer 30.12 in
Dewpoint 29°F (-2°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Heat Index 87°F (31°C)
Last update 25 Sep 2:35 pm MDT

And it's that low autumnal glare making bad even worse. Climate is all fucked to bits.

So tired this week, dragging through, skipping all but essentials, conserving my meager energies. D has been coughing up a storm, caught something on the plane he figures. He enjoyed the Con, to an extent, but has no interest in ever going again. Introverts are us. Comic Cons are proof of natural selection, full of extroverts and exhibitionists and social butterflies. The other kind go once and call it good, so the concentrations of expansive fans go nearly 100% pure.


Susan sent the most apropos cat images, which I will share here, parceled out. Thanks, Herhimnbryn.



If I were to have a tombstone, this is what I want it to be.

Invisibility

Making progress on the spare room, at the expense of the back porch. Got a lock for it, since it's rather open to an easy break in. So, before I lock it, I check for cats, who love the space.



Moby, are you out here?

"(you can't see me.)"


"Quit lookin' at me, you CAN'T see me!"



okayyy...

Further work on the former meth house. Stripping it to the bricks. We could tell the roof was terrible, but it's even worse than it looked. Like they'll have to rebuild it, maybe all of it. By the end of the day, it was down to the (rotted) bare rafters. We just hope that whoever bought it has the money to complete the job. Wondering if it will still be a duplex at the end of the process.

Fud

The anxiety rose, displacing everything around, but disguising it's shape. I knew it to be the same creature, but not what was prodding it from the valley below the abyss. The beast itself remained long mumbling, undeclared. Finally, a tooth showed, and I knew. The key piece to identify the subject.

Food. That old monster. I knew it lurked there. Thought I'd worked it through to exhaustion. Not, apparently, enough.

Not just eating a meal, which was trial enough, with my father picking a fight with himself at us. The food itself lacked nourishment and taste. I hated meat, smothering it with ketchup when I could. My mother cooked it badly, overcooked, unflavored, the cheapest sort. Canned corn or potatoes were her idea of vegetables, which I (comparatively) liked, but they do lack a significant amount of fiber or vitamins. Much fried food, lots of white bread, and always dessert.

Grocery shopping was all about the amount spent. Little for anything fresh, much as I adored fresh fruit it was always too expensive. Sugar, flour, chocolate chips, sweetened condensed milk, always plenty of money for those. Enough for gallons of milk - which I hated most of all. Store bought ice cream, sure. Space Food, Vanilla Wafers, shortening, whatever she was dieting on at the moment... plenty for all that. She bought sugary crap with delight, and begrudged me a peach or two, carefully counted. All my life, I knew I was too expensive, and not worth it.

Nor was I trusted to cook a meal. My friends cooked for their families, sometimes required to. They took it as a burden, but I envied the trust given to them. Not that my mother's lessons on cooking would have been useful. She baked. She worried it all the time, that her pie crusts were tough, or her cookies burnt, or the cake a bit lopsided, but she knew she had a way with sugar, even if it didn't look pretty. Never ate more than a small amount herself, much as she loved it. Always on one or another diet, her weight going up and down - a genuine issue with obesity, but taken to an obsessive extent. Pulling me in it's wake. Still, dessert at every meal.

Then the cleaning up. Always Doing The Dishes, which meant cleaning every surface, but without bleach (which my father banned because his sister used too much) which meant a bacteria smeared room that looked immaculate. I had to dry, usually. When I washed, the criticism, as I tired, became constant. This from the woman who made snide comments about beloved aunts who had dishwashers. "They have to wash them anyway? What's the point? So much expense!" Well, I think now, they only had to do a quick rinse, then the washer does the rest, rinsing and drying, and does it all better. Instead of in mucky water.

This evening, craving meat, I made myself a burger, with extra cheese. Better meat, good cheese, lots of spices, bbq sauce, tasted wonderful.

All the times told with words how loved I was, but actions said "you are expensive, you'd better be worth it." I knew we were fairly poor, I tried to be small and cheap, not ask for much, hedge every request, minimize myself and my needs without complaint. And stole peanut butter, because I was hungry.

And now? How do I feed myself? How do I nourish myself? No one taught me, I've been making it all up as I went along. I honestly didn't know how to fry and egg or steam vegetables or make a pancake. And I did not bake a cake, or pie, or cookies, as an adult on my own, with the odd exception that I could count on one hand over the last 30 odd years. Bought, not made.

I resist cooking well. Perhaps I need to do something different here. Not sure what, because the obvious answers repel me. Not taking lessons, not from people who see love as food. I can barely deal with the community gardens people when they go on about food prep as something wonderful. It's all so fraught for me. This past week I've cried at every meal, and still didn't realize that the food was the trigger for the emotions.

Honestly, don't know where to go with this. I sit in my kitchen, where my laptop is, and want to weep.

Duo

They have become very accustomed to each other. Friends of a sort, I suppose. Seem to enjoy being in the same space.

I sat on the toilet this morning, with the door open. Moby sat just outside, watching me. Eleanor brushed past him, circled the small room, swiped by him on the other side on her way out. He stirred not at all.

I like leaving the door open when I'm alone, not sure exactly why, but I feel safer. Prefer to close the door even with just D here, and absolutely close it if anyone else is around. Ex considered it an affront if I closed it ever, which felt intimate at first, but quickly became intrusive and oppressive.

Keeping each other's privacy is vital to real intimacy. Openness is lovely, as long as it's freely, mutually agreed, not imposed. Never demanded.

After what will be 25 years in November, I have always been treasured and respected, not to mention listened to, and I have reason to believe he feels the same. I got the better of the deal, though. No matter what D says. He's got me, I've got him. No contest, I won.

Silent

So quiet today.



Moby in the cat-trap, with prismatic ceiling. He's mewled for D, I suspect. Fussing without aim. Sleeping now, not a bad way to cope.


Got a massage, and was quiet then as well. In part because the therapist had a lovely natural silence. I used to take a heavy hand, glad to breathe through the pain for the sake of getting to the other side with all the knots untied. But over the past few years, I've found that sort of massage left me in more pain, more ill, too mobile. So, I ask for shiatsu, which is better. Today, took a very gentle massage, feeling - not quite fragile, but in need of softer handling. Not the sort of work I usually ask for, but I think it was exactly what I needed. Followed by a steam bath with eucalyptus. That was marvelous.

Wept a bit, not over anything in particular. Gratitude over tenderness, in part.

Missing D, of course. Keep wanting to tell him something. So, I send a note, knowing he'll pick it up once he has connectivity. I hope he's enjoying himself with his friend N.

Attended the street festival, which was a pretty good walk. Nothing much interesting, two poor bands, one was pretty good - very Western-country. The usual booths of jewelry, crafts, novelties, local politicians, public services and charities. Mild temperatures, but in full sun with all that concrete, I got way too warm. Thought about getting food there, but nothing looked appetizing.

Took down more sunflowers, dropped them on the verge, let them catch leaves and nourish the poor soil over the winter, while letting the birds continue to feast on the seeds. Figure out what I want to do there in the spring. Aside from clover, and whatever decides to come up. Putting in more crocus in the close north section, where the enormous stalks left divots and loose dirt. Even got a bit more of the damn plastic netting from the old 'lawn.'

Comfortable

We've always been most comfortable in each other's company, D and I. When he took work trips to SF, I would sometimes go with him. We have traveled without each other, to a couple of weddings, a family trip by me very early on. He's off to the Rose City Comic Con this weekend, and we are emailing/chatting madly.

I didn't hurry home from work. Not exactly enjoying, but savoring, having the house to myself. Planning excursions tomorrow, a massage and a local street festival. I like being alone, but D has always been the guardian of my solitude. Never intrusive, a companion in quiet rather. Still, perhaps since the House, we have neither of us quite had sufficiency of a particular sort of silence.

I sent him photos (from my new toy) approximately hourly, through the day. He's dining with our friend who lives out there now.

We really are ridiculously companionable with each other, we suit so well. Even then, it's healthy once in a while to spend a few days apart, if only to appreciate.

Yesterday, he had an appointment near where I work. When I got to the car to come home, there was a note. "(Zhoen), I love you, D" which got me quite tearful. He also left his jacket in the car, so he wouldn't have to carry it home. Which made it all the better for me, since I like my romantic gestures without sentimentality, add a practical note and I find it so much more satisfying. No sugar floss wanted.



Got another note this week. Appreciation from a patient, I had time to chat and answer her questions, same name as one of her several sisters. Rarely get such praise, since the anesthetic drugs mean most folks never remember meeting me.



Nothing special that I did, but apparently it hit the spot. Waiting for a case, I was able to answer questions and spend some time.

Amazing how much an unexpected thank-you makes a huge difference.

Pouring

More cleaning, dealing with moths as well. Trying lavender as a deterrent, and vacuuming regularly. My ability to be house-proud is not strong, but I see the value. Cleanliness is the best defense agains the onslaught of invasive creatures. Not to be taken too far, since we all need some of that to be healthy, especially beginning in childhood. Eleanor has been enjoying chasing moths, and both watch for bugges, and mice. Live in the biome, sharing resources, keeping sufficient space clean for oneself is a compromise.

Dealing. Not that we are dirty people, certainly never that worried about clean. Now, we have to be more attentive, more careful. I wonder how people have managed over the centuries, to keep their inner spaces at all clean, with poor light and only water with the odd bit of soap. Servants for the wealthy, but even then, add more people into a household and the complexities increase. Not even that, by modern standards, when Versailles didn't even have facilities for taking a crap or a piss, stairwells were used. I imagine spring cleaning was when the light got strong enough to tell how badly winter cleaning went.

Other areas of needing attentiveness. While I understand with all my mind the need for a medically necessary diet, my heart still aches for a decent amount of childhood nutrition for myself. I have food issues, and they aren't pretty. Not clinically bad, more a reaction against my mother's yo-yo diets, distaste for vegetables, poor cooking skills (exacerbated by her husband's abusive complaining) and weird food impositions on my (disregarded) taste. Struggling to find balance, unexpectedly powerful revulsions and griefs arising.

Food for me is mostly a necessity, not a joy. I eat to live, and I really don't understand those who live to eat. Food is not a reward for me, not a motivator, a necessary evil much of the time. I don't much like grocery shopping, dislike cooking, and abhor cleaning up after. The simpler the better. I do like a good, tasty meal, aroma and flavor, and feeling nourished after. I like food in front of me, for me. Otherwise, it's like eating a picture of food... absurd. I get that other people love cooking, love talking about food, it draws them forward. They are rewarded by the very idea of pretty food. I stand aside with something akin to colorblindness, knowing something is there, but unable to experience it myself.

Put an aromatic meal in front of me, fresh fruits, nuts, and I will enjoy it all greatly. As much as anyone. Get excited over a photo, a recipe, a description? ... um. Not a whisper of pleasure, only a bored tolerance. Which makes food preparation an onerous chore on a daily basis. The odd holiday changes that, because I'm imagining what someone else might enjoy, which is much easier.

Watching the season turn on a dime, heavy rains pouring down, mountains getting snow, cool air pouring in. Pulling up my socks, buttoning up, starting again to be careful, reset and clean up.

Roachmare

I swear, I didn't think they were roaches. It's been a slow progression, and I had been working on a cleaner kitchen, and did put down bait traps. These are German roaches, which apparently prefer kitchens. So my old nightmare from cheap apartments near the university when a roach ran across my face one night - as I slept on a futon on the floor, is unlikely to recur. Different species. Frankly, I've been overwhelmed with all the stuff I've been trying to do, on top of daily maintenance and longer work days. Letting it slide, although I had been making up for lost mileage lately.

Yesterday, we really tackled the spare room, since cousins may visit. It was not within an hour of habitability. It may be now, if the back porch is excluded. Last night, we both got up through the night, and the roaches were having a party, which we crashed. I did not handle this well, since I finally got on and found out what we were dealing with. The very word is anathema to me, I dread and detest the little buggers. We cleaned as much as we could manage in the wee hours, and both dreamt of bugges.

More cleaning and a plan in place, more sealed containers, less on the counters, better composting and recycling systems. Thoroughly cleaned the mud room. All very distressing really. My gut loop-de-looping all day. Thinking about my mother's insistence on immediate dishwashing, and complete kitchen cleaning, for every single meal. She told me she hated facing dishes in the morning. I begin to suspect her mother did the same to keep down the pests, but that message was lost between generations. If I'd been told that was the reason, especially at night, to wipe grease from the stove every time and clean all dishes, I'd have taken it in as a great habit to form. Instead, I resented it, and slacked off. No more.

New sheets, new pillows, I lay down feeling worn and ill, only to see this.



Rainbows are always miracles, no matter what the simple cause.



Take my miracles where I find 'em. Knowing the science doesn't take away from the delight to the human eye. Quite the opposite.

Ninety

Remember when I said a week or so ago I figured to have seen the last 90˚F? Yeah, no hope. Dry and hot and I'm feeling it. The sun is low and harshing the mellow majorly. Looks like it will break into autumn sometime Sunday night into Monday morning.

Partly Cloudy
91°F
33°C
Humidity 10%
Wind Speed NW 8 MPH
Barometer 30.09 in (1013.4 mb)
Dewpoint 28°F (-2°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Heat Index 87°F (31°C)
Last update 12 Sep 2:53 pm MDT

More tomatoes coming along, small and slow, but tasty and welcome. I looked up over the back garden, all I could see were trees. We've decided to take out the last two elms that start on our side, since we can't do anything about the rest of them blocking the light. Also need to do some tlc on the window frames, many need paint and caulking, which I noticed while squeegeeing them. Cleaning out the back room (again, how does it get so bad so fast?) in preparation for a potential visit from cousins. Took three years to get to the point where we have to start getting rid of older and less functional stuff. The thrift shop will be getting some stuff, likely Wednesday.


D off to game night, I got home late and missed his email. Cats greeted me thusly.




Went to the First Baptist Church* rummage sale, found a roaster appropriate to the use of two people and one small roasting chicken.



And a buddy for Sebastian.



Sitting atop other yard sale finds.

This was one of the cleanest rummage sales I've ever attended, and it was a large space, a lot of clothes. Gotta hand it to the people organizing it, they did a terrific job.




*Their minister introduced himself, and his church, during the celebratory rally after the legal allowing of SSM in this state as - "...not that kind of Baptist."

Cull

After a culling of sunflowers, took Moby out at his insistence. He ignores the spiral hose, but sniffs suspiciously at the sunflower stalk I missed in the pick-up. They are tough plants, with heavy defenses. Going at this slowly this year, leaving enough for the birds.

Netted the strawberries, since there looks to be fruit forming. Enough space to let bees in, hopefully enough net to dissuade birds. Net from a yard sale, natch.



Still plenty of sunflowers left, some more derelict than others. And my rusty roses.



Moby had grass, for later horking up.

Chairs

I was going to come back here.

"No."



You were on the ottoman in the sun... I was going to sit here.

"Oh?"


"Um..."



"Nope."



Reading Death in a White Tie. The characters are amazing, none quite what they seem. Loving the snapshot of attitudes of their time, through Ngaio Marsh's wry eye. Dreadfulness of the sexual politics of that era. Just as bad in some circles now, if only because it's not codified, all subtext and confusion. All rooted in treating people as things.

Inculcate

More Scrub Jay video.

My goat milk cream cheese went moldy, again. I admitted to D that it's largely because I dole it out to myself slowly, which winds up wasting it. Described it as being so inculcated... and got stuck on the word. In the store, I had no means to look it up, and I wasn't sure how to say it, likely never having said it out loud. Pretty clear on the meaning, but not the etymology.

So, to teach through persistent instruction. Culcate from to tread, from calyx - heel. Ground in with a heavy heel. Yeah, that's what I thought. Save some for tomorrow, stint myself. Which is in general not a bad idea, but taken further becomes a harmful self-denial. Better to balance between greed and deprivation. Letting food rot to save it doesn't quite work.

Eat one peanut now, save one for (slightly) later.

Got an artichoke, ages since I've eaten one. Eat it tonight, after I'm done drinking tea. The two do not get along on the tongue.

Oh, and yeah. Labor Day. Fly your red flag, comrade. Good for a day off work.

Seems

This comic from the excellent Candorville struck a nerve. My own family was also so much about seeming. Without seeming to be bragging, of course. Not the keepingupwiththejoneses middle class seeming, but the poor-but-proud seeming. Paint the house white every few years, mow the lawn every week, shovel the snow, work hard at the job, keep the car running, ironed clothes, shined shoes, mass on Sunday, in dress clothes. Never wear nightclothes, or curlers in one's hair, outside.

Nevermind that the husband is screaming at everyone, behind closed doors, no doubt still audible to neighbors. Ignore the fear and bias. So what if the ample food is tasteless and nutrition free. Both coming from families who couldn't even manage the seeming sometimes, perhaps that felt like a lot. I have a strain of it in myself, much diluted now, I notice it occasionally. That double side of not wanting to appear above myself, still keeping up some appearance.

At the work party here last year, Denise started cleaning forks for the dessert, and joshing me for not having enough, as so many younger people don't. I was puzzled, said nothing, checked the drawer, and there were still plenty of forks. Her assumption of superiority, especially since she was wrong, bothered me then, bothers me now. Why else, but that I'd done the work to be competent, and wasn't even given credit? Maybe she was getting back at me for not having a corkscrew.

And I worry about the homeless folk who walk this neighborhood being angry at me for having a house when they don't. The pair having a highly irrational and strangely amusing argument over their shopping cart in our driveway last night. She kept dropping something metallic that rang on the concrete.

"I don't need a servant. I don't need you as my servant to clean my house and I don't even have a house, and you're black and I bet you're related to Denzel Washington!"

Read Tied up in Tinsel by Ngaio Marsh this week, an insightfully oblique commentary on social class and money. Not pointed out in the text, just sitting in the background drawing no particular attention to itself.

Woke up thinking about inheritances. Not money, not valuables, but small objects. A cane made by my maternal grandfather, who died before I was born. I expressed a child's desire to have it for myself one day, and was sharply told it would go to my brother - who actually knew his grandfather - so it meant more to him. So, I didn't get a grandfather, and therefore don't get his cane either? Something similar for a little candy dish. No her DIL would get it, not me. When DIL died while I was in high school, I knew better than to ask if I were next in line for it. Everyone got there before me, I didn't count. And in the end, when the earlier ones were gone or didn't want the item, I wouldn't get it because someone else was closer to them, younger relatives. No one bothered with such niceties when I was the younger relative.

Why couldn't they have just said it wasn't nice to ask for someone to die? But they'd remember that I liked it? Why slam a small child, tell her she wasn't going to be worth it, that everyone else was more loved, more important, more to be considered? I valued them so much I wanted some little item that they loved to hold in my hand, and my hand was slapped away as being greedy. Wasn't greed.

Ultimately, all for the best. Less baggage, would have been broken as I escaped from the ex. Easier now to escape them. I had a copy of The Habitant and Other Poems by WH Drummond that my mother loved. I don't know why I had it. At some point, my oldest brother mentioned it - thinking it long lost, so I sent it to him. He was so grateful. For me, it felt like a farewell gift, releasing me from obligations I'd never incurred. There was so much talk of inheritance in my family, funny because there were no riches. Squabbling over trifles. Taking things, since love wasn't really on offer.

Maybe this is what I like about yard/estate sales. I'll take the treasures and earn my own love, not for seeming, for real.

Opossum

Via Arbroath.

Winds continue, milder. No apparent rain. Could still kick up this afternoon. Definitely cooling a bit, not hitting 90˚F again for a while, I hope. Settling in for a long weekend, cleaning and resting in turns.

Ok, first off, not all Christians have an issue with gay marriage. Second, if you are an elected official, you do not have to agree with a law to support it in your function as your job. Third, Ok, here's a bible phrase for you,

"No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money."

Your wages as clerk are keeping you hurting people, so resign and shut the fuck up.

Call it God and Government instead of Money, doesn't matter. Paid to do a job, then refusing to do it, just not ok. Say you don't hate "those people" til you are blue, they don't accept your beliefs all damn day long, doesn't change the fact that you are sworn before your God to uphold the constitution, and you ain't doin' it. If your beliefs stop you from performing your duties, you are honor bound to relinquish those duties. You can't have it both ways.

And you do hate "those people" because they don't care what you believe, and they are not stopping you from exercising your religion, but you are fundamentally hurting THEM. They just want you to stop you hurting them. They want you to get out of the way and let others sign their marriage licenses if you feel you personally can't.

So, CUT THAT SHIT OUT.

Flickering

When I got home, D tells me we had a guy from the city stop by to trim the tree. I'd put in a request early in the spring. They came to look at it, and told us there wasn't any need. I mentioned that it got shaggy and droopy once the leaves came out, so they said they'd look back later in the summer.

Apparently they did, and agreed that it could use some attention. This does mean the verge will get more sun, maybe better growth next spring.



Everything looking dry and shabby this time of year. Still, not all weedy like last year. Small progressions, awkward phases, eventual garden. The tall grass, erianthus ravennae, is gorgeous.

Short schedule today, so when I got home, we went out to walk in the wind. There is a lovely hint of fall amid rather harsh sun, a sweet note beneath the fingernails-on-chalkboard roar.

Haze
87°F
31°C
Humidity 15%
Wind Speed S 29 G 40 MPH
Barometer 29.78 in
Dewpoint 34°F (1°C)
Visibility 6.00 mi
Heat Index 83°F (28°C)
Last update 04 Sep 2:35 pm MDT

Happy that my strawberries are so happy they have a bloom.



Cats enjoying the autumnal sunbeam's reappearance. D sent me this one at work.



(I love the sightlines in this place.)



They are quite friends, now, I think.

P brought in a cake yesterday morning, rich and gooey, for her birthday today. "This is better than sex cake!" Our new scrub was very confused. "Is there such a thing? What is sex cake?" I was the only one who was clued in to her bafflement, "D, this is "Better-than-Sex" ...cake. I enunciated and paused clearly, and she got it. Poor dear, she is a Californian, new to this state, and it's very weird culture. She's in a near-panic about dealing with a winter for the first time ever. We are not helping, really. We are trying, but I think we are worrying her more. I'm going to get her some gloves and a scraper.




"What I am really saying is that you don't need to do anything, because if you see yourself in the correct way, you are all as much extraordinary phenomenon of nature as trees, clouds, the patterns in running water, the flickering of fire, the arrangement of the stars, and the form of a galaxy. You are all just like that, and there is nothing wrong with you at all."
- Alan Watts Still the Mind

Nellie

The oddest punk song, and one of my favorites. Speaking of elephants.



Whoa.

Shenanigans

Futzing around on their phones, a photo was taken, and another one. Or four.



They never saw it coming from my side.


A mandatory meeting tomorrow, but new manager sent out the message that if we aren't working that day, we can just cover the material and complete the test. I've done MH modules for two decades. I stopped in to thank her, and she was nonchalant. I asked if she would think it weird if I kissed her, she shrugged, "sure." We both waved it off, and I now officially love her. She added she would want me for the fire safety, and maybe mock code.

Told her, I'm happy to come for fire safety. And I think it's always good to do mock codes, good refresher, know the people, the particular supplies. And good for those of us who have done a number of real codes to work with those who have not.

But MH? Nothing has changed, I know it all by heart, and we are at extremely low risk. Vast majority of our cases do not use any triggering agents, minuscule incidence in our patient population to start with, and current monitoring means we'd pick it up very early when it's easiest to reverse.

Noticing myself with worsening word-finding again. Not sure what is triggering my ptsd symptoms, so I need to quiet down and listen to the stuttering little voice. Feel like sucking my thumb... trunk.