Kill

We heard Eleanor jump down, then a squeak. An odd noise from her, or... a mouse. She then thumped about a good while, even making crunching sounds... yeah. We both knew. I had to get up, but didn't want to interrupt, she knows her business, and loves what she does. We eventually turned on the light, so I wouldn't step in it. There it was, right where I would have walked.

It was 1230. We got back to sleep.

Picked it up and threw it away, praising our little fluffy killer for her prowess.

"No! Wait! I wasn't done with that!"

Sorry, cat. And well done.

Microbes

She rolled herself across, feeling the sun ripple around. She felt too hot, ill. How long had she been feeling so sick, she wondered. She felt for the microbes, who thought in all times, from their ancient beginnings as her first life, to the small moments of their mutations, aware of the tiniest vibrations of their own atoms. Not great conversationalists, but informative.

She remembered the trilobites, her first glimpse at herself. They told her of her shape, and she began to understand herself. They sickened her as well, changed her atmosphere forever, and new creatures appeared. She still missed them, caressing the marks of their existence in her book of stone. Funny beings, tickled when they shimmied over her, and she smiled in memory.

Then much more complex life, eager and inventive, huge and curious, adaptable they played their wits against her. She loved their feathers, some managed to fly, some dipped in and out of the seas, so many variations. Her old microbe friends eagerly surrounded them, grew in every crevice. When they got too much, as they did, she would shudder, pull her ice caps over, shift her plates around, and drowse a while, to wake refreshed, to find new life had formed again.

The insects in all their variation joined in the chorus, swarming and beautiful. So inventive, and musical. They told her stories of herself she'd never have imagined, bridging the time perception gap, she began to appreciate the glory of a single day, or a short season of summer. Brief, twittering stories, but so many of them.

She'd liked all the feathers and fur after the last thorough scrubbing. Such intelligent minds those birds and mammals. So smart, the corvids and cetaceans especially. She slowed her perception of time down, those apes, they changed it all, intentionally. She'd tried to keep them in check, but perhaps only half heartedly. As they tried to keep the other adaptable animals out of their way, but held a sneaking affection for, such as rats and ravens. She loved their art, that spoke of their adoration of her. She admired how prettily she sparkled on the night side when their cities lit up. She felt such love when they visited her moon and gazed back upon her, letting her see herself for the first time as a whole and gorgeous place.

But this, and she slowed her time down to their scale, this was all wrong. An acute fever, with no signs of let up. Worse, they were turning more heat on. A discussion with the microbes, to help her remember how to do this.

She let the heat build and break, flooding her dry land, and ...pulled. The ice grew, much more rapidly than before. Her plates shifted, long held gasses spewed, long dormant microbes woke and greeted her. She grew somnolent and obtunded, knowing she would wake to find very different forms growing. She vaguely hoped some of her brightest crows and whales, cats and humans, weeds and roaches, would be clever enough to survive, like her sharks and crocodiles. Oh, she sighed, the poor trilobites.



She grieved the loss of her experiments, the odd side projects and small batches. But she would remember, when she woke, surely, she'd remember and try them again with new materials. She hoped the talkative humans would be there when she woke. She knew most of the insects would be. Anyway, the microbes would give her a full report. For now, she drifted off, slowing, shifting, turning.

Plop

Eleanor curled up asleep on my arm last night. I turned, she dropped off me, and seemed not to even wake, although a minute or so later, I felt her stretch against my back. She does love sleeping on/between us. The bed is hers at night.

Moby woke Dylan up, mrrk'ing in the wee hours. I heard him, but could not make myself stir. Moby tried to jump up on the bed, so Dylan managed to rise and provide food.

I've taken to talking to Moby as though I were Jeeves.

"Would sir like his food here, or in the kitchen?"
"How is sir feeling this morning?"


Long, hard couple of days. Generally queasy, shaky, my shoulder spasming. Sleeping a bit better, though.

Snowed from early Monday. Icy roads on my way home, but fellow drivers keeping distance, moving slowly. Cleared about 6" off the car. Earlier, the route had a number of black ice slide-offs and crashes, two busses rear ended by cars. I left an hour later, and apparently there had been plows, possibly salt trucks, and the drivers in a mad hurry were already gone, leaving the more patient of us.

The mountains got the snow, we have a thin undercoat, no need to even shovel.

Sounds

Moby curled asleep
Making sleepy cat noises
Eleanor bathing.

White

Reading old books exposes me to the phrase "that's white of you." Which confused and bothered me. It does indeed mean, white=good. Unbelievably offensive.

Fuck that.

I renounce my white skin as evidence of anything. Part Neanderthal, red highlights in my hair, red haired mother.

I'm brown and passing unintentionally. I'm not male, nor christian, and now, not white.

Caucasian is a meaningless term dreamed up by bigots trying for superiority. Why claim separation if one doesn't want ascendancy? There is no such thing as "separate but equal." I'm a mutt, and will not be otherwise labelled. We are human, we are not different species. Any claim to a special place in law or country is spurious and hostile. We all interbreed, we are all so genetically similar it would be easier to split a hair than find our differences.

That Europeans have more power has to do with the orientation of the continent, not any kind of inherent betterness. (see Guns, Germs, & Steel*) All a matter of luck and circumstance, not part of who they are.

I am not one of them. I deny them. I deny their fucking religion, and only by chance have a similar color of skin. I'm shanty irish and mediterranean french frog. Iroquois squaw bastard, white trash. Heretic and pagan. Not to mention bitch, whore and nasty woman. Damn the rich, white, christian men who feel entitled to power and money. Kneecap them all and damn their eyes.


"Too late!"




From now on, I'm purple.

Although, I can't do my hair. Until all chances for a rectification of the horror are done, I stay grey. My sense of humor on this issue is gone. Trying to keep it elsewhere.







*There's a series! I didn't know!

Jude

Moby beside me on the couch. Eleanor walked over, sniffed his ear, licked it. He was wary, ears back, waiting for the BOP! that never came. She settled down, and they more or less relaxed there for a long stretch. They have been both sitting by us on the sofa in the evening, one on either side, or on the back facing away from each other, for the last two or three weeks.

As usual for us when we extend hospitality, not as many people showed yesterday as we planned for. Only 6 of the possible dozen. Several out sick, one out of town unexpectedly. But those who came seemed to enjoy themselves, and we were happy to have folks around. Cats variously sociable, seemed to enjoy Dylan's cow-orkers as well. C especially, she kept stroking Eleanor's head and paws. Moby took a chair and listened politely.

Way over-planned, though. Getting stuff away this morning. Sent everyone back with their carb-heavy pot-luck offerings, "It won't get eaten, and I'd hate to waste it." Which is utterly true.

Trying to stay positive, beating back the looming despair. Pete's adventures helped, must stay happy and engaged. Pour out more love, more kindness, more generosity, no matter the cost. That is what will change everything. Every day, every moment.

Two of the people who visited are a couple we definitely want to have back just because. Smart, funny, kind and with very compatible tastes. M actually knew Dylan in high school, although it took them a while to realize it when they started working together. Only had a few classes together, sort of thing. Enormous school, too.

Going to shop local stores today. Will not buy anything from chain stores, save daily necessities, until after New Year. And looking hard at what we really need.


And more news. Here's to St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes.

We did shop small. Found this.

Gleaming

Front blew through last night, leaving snow and frost. Melting away now, but sticking in the mountains.



Cleaning. Lots of cleaning. Almost done, shining. All that catfur does dull the surfaces. Now the room gleams. Not going to do as much as I'd planned, since me relaxed in a less than perfectly cleaned house is better than me stressed and tired in a spotless place.

Slept in, stopping now for lunch and MST3K. Puma Man, now Pod People, more pain to come. "It stinks!"

The broiled chicken turned out very tasty and moist, although it took longer than suggested or planned for. No matter, worth it. Lots of chili-lime & ginger. Cats have turkey again, with a gap filled with chicken, since for a while there were only whole, usually frozen, turkeys available.

Looking forward to meeting Dylan's work friends. I know his boss, worked with her many years ago at the library. I love having people here, doesn't matter if I know them well or not. Here, I am safe and can be welcoming.

But today, just us. Everything's fine in here. Sanity break.

Adam

Home and not getting anything much done. One of those days. But, easily covered lunches at work, then home. Picked up groceries, and mole from Red Iguana.

I keep looking at the living room, knowing I need to at least vacuum, and I sit. Putting it off. Delaying. Lowering my expectations.

Dylan and I have been together for 26 years this week. We count our activation date, always have, since we have not been apart more than a few days, none that we have not at least spoken to each other since. Amazing, to be so compatible. He's a lovely human, and we fit together so well. Not the same, but so complimentary. Easy as breathing. Not a moment's regret, only gushing gratitude.

Given up on saints and attendant miracles. False gods and disappointing religions. Best grow a backbone, eschewing wishbones. Unless you have to fly, of course.

Work the problem. So, practical saints, Adam Savage and Chris Hadfield. Work the problem, and Failure is Always an Option. No guarantees, no illusions other than the ones we create to delight.


The petition to the Electoral College is up to 4.6 million. Our Hail Mary Pass, our Last, Best Hope. But hope is a mocker, ask Pandora, and everything cycles. So we hold on to those we love, and Keep Calm, and Carry On. Never letting those who would make America Hate Again an inch on our souls. Especially not to the Squeaking of Ass Trumpets.

So, on the Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, we will do what we feel we need to, and let the rest go. Staying relaxed ourselves is more important than chasing down every last dust bunny. There is food. There will be warmth. Perspective, although not total, is what keeps it all alive.

And spoons. Especially hand carved applewood spoons. And mole. Enough mole.

Chili, too, with tortillas.

Turkey

Another full day, but doing hands, and with a surgeon I enjoy working with. So, I wanted to draw a turkey. Then I thought, no, I want to draw a handprint turkey.




This was on the whiteboard with the count and everyone's names.

Cheered me up.

Going in to cover breaks and lunches tomorrow, voluntarily. Taking care of each other. Then start earnest cleaning when I get home.

Spoon!

A spoonful of welcome.

I was at work, and Dylan sent a message that a package had arrived. I was baffled. I asked him to open it. The bafflement continued. When I got home, although the spoon delighted me, the note with it would not get through to my tired eyes. Not until the next day, with a strong light, was I able to read the writing, and remember.

Flask had mentioned sending me something. Well, much as I resist general gifts, I love real gifts. When someone has just the right thing for you. Or when I have found something that clearly belongs with someone I know, which is best of all.

So with gratitude, delayed a few days as I struggled to extricate myself from the thick tar of the past week, please meet the spoon. Hand carved from an apple tree, with a story to tell.

Thank you. It's perfectly wonderful, arrived at just the right time.

Madonna

Friday evening the traffic thick from some stadium event at the U, a stunning sky, and plenty of time to safely capture the moment.

Game night, which is really just an excuse to chat. Through a circuitous route through the MEETUP site, we now have a twice monthly gathering of a few interesting people, and sometimes an RPG.

The HRT has taken the edge off the hotflashes and night sweats already, enough that I've been getting significantly improved sleep. The worst of the fatigue eroding.

Had a work/army dream last night. In sort of barracks, in BDUs, lost my cap, but woken by the core tech, because he wanted me to wake up the other scrub tech - an involved process involving rubbing spoons on her hands, exacerbated by not knowing where she slept and needing a large C-arm and the rest of the barracks, to find her. Had to get permission from one of my tall surgeons, who was much taller in the dream (he gave me a weird fist bump) to go to the PX to buy a new hat. Instead of a typical store lay-out as is usual for a PX, it was very much a flea market, and I couldn't find anyone selling the proper hat to match my old style camo pattern of the rest of my uniform, one guy had only a couple of hats - obviously used, with names marked on them. He finally found me one that was similar enough, but had huge earflaps/face swaddling, that he showed me how to fold up so that it would look right. Then I had to find proper insignia.

Lots of cleaning this week, Dylan's work colleagues coming over for Thanksgiving Friday. I've not been up to any sincere cleaning the past two weeks.

There is a petition to the Electoral College to elect Hillary Clinton. Given current showing, it's got a chance. I've signed. If you have a vote here, please read it and see if you can sign it. Of course, they are the persecuted ones, poor rich white men, not getting all the power they think is their birthright. Dylan remembered a quote from a few years ago, "The last living Republican will claim his children are spiting him by getting stuck in his teeth."

Which of course brought this Goya to mind.




Time for a few black madonnas.

Haile

Haile Selassi* is a curious sort of saint, god, reincarnation of Jesus. As least among Rasta. But I want to pointedly put forward a saint of darker skin. Whatever he was, how he was seen is the important bit.

I've been thinking a lot about being white. Not any way I've ever identified myself. Although clearly, my pale skin is how I'm identified. But I'm also shanty Irish. My father was dubbed "Frenchy" among his factory co-workers. My cousin assures me that we have at least one, recent, Iroquois ancestor. Likely more, the French who settled there, routinely took native 'wives.' I never felt one of the privileged, nor any claim to that. Really don't understand where that attitude comes from.

I actually resent being lumped in with those who think light skin is special, entitled. I want to make a point of being among the hated groups. I don't want to have to be brave or self-sacrificing, but I want to be prepared to do so.

Once, long ago in another life, I did not fight back, but whimpered and begged, afraid of being hit again. That moment is seared into my mind, when I was not brave nor bold. Perhaps it was the right decision at the time, for myself.

If ever asked to decide between my own safety and someone else's, I hope I will act to protect. I hope we all will.

Friends in town for a conference came by for breakfast this morning. My idea, to cook bacon and eggs, muffins, tea and fruit, here at home. Lovely to talk with people. Eleanor visiting everyone. Nice people, very old friends, so welcome.

Went to see a college student production matinee of Arcadia, Tom Stoppard. More than a bit uneven, but some of the actors were quite good.

“We shed as we pick up, like travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to it. The missing plays of Sophocles will turn up piece by piece, or be written again in another language. Ancient cures for diseases will reveal themselves once more. Mathematical discoveries glimpsed and lost to view will have their time again. You do not suppose, my lady, that if all of Archimedes had been hiding in the great library of Alexandria, we would be at a loss for a corkscrew?”
― Tom Stoppard, Arcadia

*Haven't read this entirely, I'll get to it sometime soon.

Rita

The last week at various times.

The sense of viral incursion is waning, but my fatigue remains. The hot flashes have gotten me to a breaking point, with no physical, mental or emotional reserves. Dylan got me an appointment today, and I'm taking Susan's advice to try HRT patch. I really thought I could ride it out. Also going to try to see my old therrapist for a touch-up visit. Basta.

Going for St. Rita today.

Glow

Moonglow, lamp low
All I need is a rainbow
And true love
Just like sugar in my coffee

Moonbeam sleeping
All I need is a sweet dream
And true love
Just like honey in my tea

The sky says goodbye
With the wink of an eye
Bright blue yawning to the west
Windows are shining
As the sun goes down fighting
And the houses on the hill
Are getting undressed

Moonshine dreamtime
All I need is a goldmine
And true love
Just like sugar in my coffee

The sky says goodbye
With the wink of an eye
Bright blue yawning to the west
Windows are shining
As the sun goes down fighting
And the houses on the hill
Are getting undressed

Moonglow, lamp low
All I need is a rainbow
And true love
Just like sugar
True love
Just like honey
True love
Just like sugar
In my coffee
Coffee
Coffee

Agatha

St. Agatha and St. Lucy both carry their bits with them. Exemplifying how society cuts women up into parts and serves them up.

Let us pray to them, to make them whole, and ourselves.



Yet, it is the male* stare that threatens and condemns.


Light it up, show it for all the world. All us humans are more than just the sum of our parts. Let us all be whole. Let us all be one existence.

Or, perhaps, let us not get fixated on our attributes. We are all only part of the whole, as we are each everything.

There was a woman in Basic, very young, obviously had some sort of brain damage. We all theorized she might have had fetal alcohol syndrome. She once left dirty underwear on the floor right before inspection, thankfully someone caught that before the officers arrived. She never could manage to make her bed, was forever being dropped for push-ups. Much as she annoyed us all, we did what we could to keep her going. And not just because we'd have all been punished for her errors.

Protecting the vulnerable, this is what saints at their best inspire us to do. Sacrifice our comfort to keep them safe. Stand up against violence, even when it means losing our eyes or our breasts.

Let's keep our wits about us.




*Aggressive, entitled males, mind. An obnoxious minority.

Gertrude

Cats sticking close. Still feeling crappy. Had Moby outside for a short while, neighbor asked after me. A few minutes later, brought me out a mug of hot tea. Very sweet and kind of him.

St Gertrude has only recently taken over as patron saint of cats, but I can't think she'd mind.


Addendum. They stayed by me all day.

Francis

My favorite childhood saint, Francis of Assisi, beloved of animals. I loved animals, and wanted them to like me, they mostly didn't, save for Gigi, my aunt's poodle. He seemed to be a kind souled saint, human scale. A man loved by animals would welcome small shy children as well, I'd think. Something we all need.

Our cats have kept me company today, the threatening virus took over, abetted no doubt by the world worry of this grieving week. First time I've called in sick for a long time. I've listened to Graceland and Rhythm of the Saints*, all the 3Mustaphas3 I have, and now De Temps Antan. Reading Mary Beard's SPQR. Mostly resting and staying hydrated. I think every lymph node in my upper regions is swollen.






*Not an intentional theme choice, mind.

Jude

Saint Jude, Patron of lost causes.

Thinking of this event as chemotherapy. It will kill us, or cure us, but we are going to be mightily ill for a long stretch.

Blaise

Since I am struck dumb.

Feeling sucker-punched and betrayed.

42

Pterry is an unlikely saint, but I take him as a personal one. He often wrote about human frailty, gods and death, all with a pitch black sense of humor. Call him Patron Saint of Puns and Brick Jokes. He shone lights in dark corners, providing comfort for me. His DEATH filled a gap in my mind, personifying my own thoughts. His books continue to inspire and amuse me.

A difficult and angry person, who rooted for the wild spaces and the marginalized, in his own way. Against Gonnes and all but one Tyrant.

I wouldn't pray to him, but then I wouldn't anyway. His skeptical and cynical testimony speaks directly to my doubting soul. I don't think I've have liked to have dinner with him either, well not just the two of us. Maybe among a large group, me sitting off to the side listening. But as Neil Gaiman recounts, Pterry was not a jolly elf, but an angry man. His stories lead me on and give me immense comfort.

Not everyone's guru, but in an odd way, he was mine.

Him, and Douglas Adams.

Far

Dylan takes Moby for a walk. They don't go far.

We have a stool by the sideboard.


Which gets used.


By an old cat.



"I'm not old."



Cairns from above. Flowers that bloom in the Autumn.

Muerte

Feeling dark and a little ill, so let's prey to Santa Muerte, saint death. Patron of drug dealers, and likely murderers as well, at least according to the officialdom of the Catholic Church who disavow this one. Saint Death listens to the poor and dis-enfranchised.

Saints and gods pop up for everyone, maybe especially for sinners. Forgiving them, justifying them, expressing their anxieties, offering comforts. Harkening back to earlier gods, seeking vengeance, retribution for the lost. Angry saints, hungry ghosts, discomfiting the comfortable.

Make people desperate, and they'll grow their own hope. It may not take the form of a pretty and obedient martyr.

Mary

https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/11/02/mary-oliver-upstream-staying-alive-reading/

Mary Oliver


Pema Chodron


Terry Pratchett

Christopher

Lao Tsu

Muerte

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Muerte

hindu saints

Paw

I love how she puts out a paw to touch me.

No official St. Eleanor. Pfft. What do they know?

Consider this an extra post. With a link to a list of strange patron saints.

Perpetua

In the recitative of the Litany of the Saints, sung on Holy Saturday, and All Saint's Day were the pair of St. Perpetua and Felicity. I was told they were probably also apocryphal. With those names, I figured that sounded right. But apparently they are better than usually attested, however mangled their story has become.

But wow, what a different world view. Pregnant women, noble and slave, martyred, bucking a madly patriarchal model for... well, what did they believe? Surely not the even more woman-hating religion that the christian church would become. Maybe it seemed like it would offer more freedom when new formed. And did later editing change the tone of their stance, or did they even think in those terms? Or were these the actual words written by a Roman woman who converted fervently to a new cult that offered eternal life?

Something is clearly missing, or altered beyond modern comprehension. But their names scan so beautifully, perpetually and joyfully.

Saint Perpetua and Felicity, (pray for us.)


The church I grew up attending was All Saints. It's changed a bit, but not that much.