Can you coax your mind from its wandering
and keep to the original oneness?
Can you let your body become
supple as a newborn child's?
Can you cleanse your inner vision
until you see nothing but the light?
Can you love people and lead them
without imposing your will?
Can you deal with the most vital matters
by letting events take their course?
Can you step back from you own mind
and thus understand all things?
Giving birth and nourishing,
having without possessing,
acting with no expectations,
leading and not trying to control:
this is the supreme virtue.
10
Reading again the tao te ching. And my interpretations on it. This is not mine, but from the site linked.
Monday, January 30, 2017
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Malala
Malala Yousafzai.
She is why we can never give up, give in to fatigue. More compassion, and more and more.
My father was similarly feral. Which is why this all seems so personal.
What most troubles me are the women who insist on being feminine, and want to enforce that on all other women. Anita Bryant, Mrs. Albert T. Leatherbee, Phyllis Schlafly, all worked against us, preferring imagined privilege over real civil rights. And so we pay the price. We may well lose our right to vote, given that gerrymandering around women is very difficult. Not to mention not having to endure forced pregnancy to deliver unwanted children, likely to be abused and neglected. As a marginally wanted child myself, I assure you, I'd have preferred to be an aborted fetus than an unloved child.
Women are not all one. We cannot count on other women, we must each fight our own fight.
Whatever the horrors, we do what we can do. Steady our minds and ready our hearts, this is going to be a rough ride, and not everyone will survive. We go ahead with plans as usual, either because it will all get sorted, or we will be needed to help. Sanity intact. This is our role, we must do our best.
I begin to understand how people in wartime will act... oddly. Nobly or churlishly, or both. We go back to our roots of existence, instincts and reflexes. We will be here to protect, knowing the cost.
We need a society where heroes are superfluous.
She is why we can never give up, give in to fatigue. More compassion, and more and more.
My father was similarly feral. Which is why this all seems so personal.
What most troubles me are the women who insist on being feminine, and want to enforce that on all other women. Anita Bryant, Mrs. Albert T. Leatherbee, Phyllis Schlafly, all worked against us, preferring imagined privilege over real civil rights. And so we pay the price. We may well lose our right to vote, given that gerrymandering around women is very difficult. Not to mention not having to endure forced pregnancy to deliver unwanted children, likely to be abused and neglected. As a marginally wanted child myself, I assure you, I'd have preferred to be an aborted fetus than an unloved child.
Women are not all one. We cannot count on other women, we must each fight our own fight.
Whatever the horrors, we do what we can do. Steady our minds and ready our hearts, this is going to be a rough ride, and not everyone will survive. We go ahead with plans as usual, either because it will all get sorted, or we will be needed to help. Sanity intact. This is our role, we must do our best.
I begin to understand how people in wartime will act... oddly. Nobly or churlishly, or both. We go back to our roots of existence, instincts and reflexes. We will be here to protect, knowing the cost.
We need a society where heroes are superfluous.
Gendered
I want to look good, a bit elegant, but not really girly. Thoughts trundled on that gender is not just one thing. There is the body, and the sense of one's gender, orientation, and social gender. I'm definitely a woman physically, and have never wanted to be male physically, heterosexual with only a whiff of curiosity to my own sex - never enough to act on, but with a social gender androgyny. Maybe it was partly to do with only having brothers. But I have always been right in the middle on what girls vs boys are supposed to like and dislike. Hate pastels, especially pinks, but I did ballet. Liked climbing trees, but not rough play. I like theatrical make-up, but can't be bothered day to day.
And I think most people would rate themselves differently on those different aspects of their gender identity. From full feminine to full masculine, or right in the middle on each one, The research really doesn't know what normal is, has not been thorough about teasing out the individual variables, so to condemn any manifestation is idiotic.
I stand by this. And this.
What most troubles me are the women who insist on being feminine, and want to enforce that on all other women. Anita Bryant, Mrs. Albert T. Leatherbee, Phyllis Schlafly, all worked against us, preferring imagined privilege over real civil rights. And so we pay the price. We may well lose our right to vote, given that gerrymandering around women is very difficult.
Dragons
The Summoning of Dragons
A grimoire which had long been disregarded on the shelves of the Library at Unseen University.
It was rediscovered by Lupine Wonse, then secretary to the Patrician, through unspecified means of his own.
He then set into motion a complex plot involving setting up a secret society, the Elucidated Brethren of the Ebon Night with himself as Supreme Grand Master, and commissioned one of the Brethren, Brother Fingers (whose day job was apparently as a "capo di monty" in the Thieves' Guild, and sometime odd-job man at the University}, to go out and steal this book to order.
Wonse then discovered that a grimoire called The Summoning of Dragons does exactly what it says on the tin. In his excitement, however, he failed to read it all the way through to its slightly charred and flame-grilled last pages, written in the shaky hand of a wizard (Tubal de Malachite), who was at that point afraid for his life, and with good reason, giving the dragon a way back to reality, from which it took over Ankh-Morpork
It was given to the Librarian at the end of Guards! Guards! along with The Laws and Ordinances of the Cities Ankh and Morpork. It is now presumably hidden within the Library where no one will be able to find it.
- Guards, Guards. T. Pratchett.
Saturday, January 28, 2017
Greenhouse
So I needed a project today. Cut up cardboard to the dimensions of the windows to be removed from the porch, because I could not for the life of me imagine the greenhouse in 3D on a 2D page. Tape and a bit of finagling, and voila!
2' X 3' without counting framing or base, which will also be salvaged. Just short of 5' high, again, not including any foundation or skirting. Will easily add another foot to each side, I think.
Not large, by any means, but sufficient for my needs. Ventilation will be a challenge, and yes, I may invest in an automatic ventilation device, as suggested here. Keep the lettuce going through the winter, at least. Poly fabric for the triangle space under the roof, I think.
This is going to be a challenge, but I can't throw those windows away. That would be silly.
Wanted to build something today.
I am now Muslim, honorary. So should we all be. Like the Danes became Jews. I don't like Islam. But then, I don't like Christianity. Or Judaism. Buddhism is interesting, but I'd never join them. Hinduism confuses me, almost as much as the Jainists. The Sikhs are the best dancers, of course. But, so what? This is not supposed to be a country of thought police. Think what you want, don't impose it on others. Not that it's worked very often here, but that is the ideal, and the law. Malala Yousafzai is my new guru. If she can stay strong, what excuse do I have?
Generally, I'm not a religious person. I do wish the major religions would get in on the current fight, particularly the fundamental evangelicals - if they act like actual christians (Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers types.) The Mormons really should stand up for their refugee converts, at very least. Where are they? Haven't heard from them, are they afraid, or angling for advantage? Not a flattering stance, either way.
Let's build something this weekend. Something useful.
2' X 3' without counting framing or base, which will also be salvaged. Just short of 5' high, again, not including any foundation or skirting. Will easily add another foot to each side, I think.
Not large, by any means, but sufficient for my needs. Ventilation will be a challenge, and yes, I may invest in an automatic ventilation device, as suggested here. Keep the lettuce going through the winter, at least. Poly fabric for the triangle space under the roof, I think.
This is going to be a challenge, but I can't throw those windows away. That would be silly.
Wanted to build something today.
I am now Muslim, honorary. So should we all be. Like the Danes became Jews. I don't like Islam. But then, I don't like Christianity. Or Judaism. Buddhism is interesting, but I'd never join them. Hinduism confuses me, almost as much as the Jainists. The Sikhs are the best dancers, of course. But, so what? This is not supposed to be a country of thought police. Think what you want, don't impose it on others. Not that it's worked very often here, but that is the ideal, and the law. Malala Yousafzai is my new guru. If she can stay strong, what excuse do I have?
Generally, I'm not a religious person. I do wish the major religions would get in on the current fight, particularly the fundamental evangelicals - if they act like actual christians (Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers types.) The Mormons really should stand up for their refugee converts, at very least. Where are they? Haven't heard from them, are they afraid, or angling for advantage? Not a flattering stance, either way.
Let's build something this weekend. Something useful.
Trust
When we first got Eleanor, Moby was still going to the top of the tree. He does not do it anymore - too hard, too painful. But Eleanor learned that the top of the tree was His. After so long, we are trying to reverse that, so that she can enjoy it now. Putting her (hairball control) treats up there. So, she learns. She takes a while learning, but she takes what she learns seriously. As she took a while to learn we did not like her teeth on us, even if meant as affection. That was a good six months to extinguish, and she still occasionally checks if we mean... oh, yes, well, then.
It's been a long process of accommodation and adjustment, with two cats. And they get a vote. Two or three each. We don't get a vote at all. We accept this as appropriate. It's their house, we just live there.
She's learning. We know it will take some time. Have to earn her trust. Takes time to earn trust.
Clean
Moby staying close to us, sitting on me. He knows when he's really needed.
Walked over to Trolley Square for a Clean Air Fair. Lots of solar, including our solar panel people. Mostly stuff we know about and are already doing. A native guy with a feathered stick, an elder and a young woman blessed the crowd and sang, exhorting us to take care of our earth, air and water. I was in silent tears throughout. The woman had a gorgeous and penetrating voice, she will stay with me in my heart. I do feel blessed, with a heavy burden.
Must summon up compassion for the less intelligent. Their way of life has been ending, and in their grief and confusion, they reached out to the wrong solution. Told it could all be fixed, they filled in the details with their own wishes. And they are still wishing. Attacking their Dream Hero will not persuade them, any more than shouting at a bride ignoring her bruises, that he's bad news, she's telling herself it will all be better after the wedding/first child... . Everyone around can see it, and deep in her heart, the truth lurks. But attacking her only buries it further down.
We have to speak gently to them, and coax them out, give them a safe place. Only then do we have a chance to talk with them, bring them around. Just as hard for us to do this, as for them to soften their defenses and admit their doubts. But this is the only path forward.
Especially when all we want to do is punch them. Desperation leads to confusion on all sides.
It's been a rough winter.
Friday, January 27, 2017
Screed
Quotes from comments section on Washington Post following story on the early and extreme leakiness of the current "presidential" admin.
Read at your peril.
and
A series of articles about why bullies are admired, with links at bottom for further explanations.
Read at your peril.
Anybody know when Obama comes back from vacation?
The Temp isn't really working out.....
and
In my 30+ years as a practicing mental health professional, I have never had anyone come through my door quite like Mr. Trump. Someone exhibiting the kinds of symptoms he manifests (delusional thinking, paranoia, impulsivity, hypermania, grandiosity, along with a host of other indications of emotional instability) would be deemed to be a poor candidate for psychotherapy and referred to a psychiatrist for a mental status evaluation. This is the person who, with the compliance of an enabling Congressional majority, is going to be responsible for the health and welfare of the American people. God help us all!
Dancing with Elihu
1/26/2017 6:58 PM MST
'Note: A Clinical Psychologist wrote the author to confirm (and expand upon) the dire analysis of Dr. Lynne Meyer and the concerns of the 3 Professors in this article. It is worth including here, especially her very unique perspectives on the role of Trump’s daughter Ivanka.
“Dr. Meyer is spot on in her assessment in the video. It is particularly good to hear her make the distinction between mental illness and personality disorders with their pervasive, inflexible, permanently fixed and incurable patterns of pathological behavior. This is one aspect of Trump’s problem that’s routinely misunderstood, even by some experts.
She also makes an excellent observation, among many, about Trump’s grandiosity being behind his refusal to have daily intelligence briefings.
Another, and related reason is the fact that he is cognitively so limited that such briefings make no sense to him (and that’s why he wants Ivanka, for example, or Jared with him during similar occasions, to help him understand what’s being said). Additionally, and also relatedly, his profoundly deficient attention makes it impossible for him to focus on any stimuli that do not provide him with adulation. He’s quickly bored by and dismissive of anything that does not have to do with himself.
The point about him getting worse in the future also cannot be overstated. An increasing paranoia combined with growing sadistic vindictiveness is pretty much a given. We have seen it consistently in other leaders, past and present, with this character defect.
And being so impulsive and without a conscience, he won’t stop for a moment before putting his primitive impulses into action. Those who believe that they can somehow “control” him, or that our democratic “checks and balances” can withstand the collusion between his personal pathology and that of his willing sycophants, are deluded, I’m afraid."'
A series of articles about why bullies are admired, with links at bottom for further explanations.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
Stroppy
In pain through the night, woke to gut turning itself inside out. Called in sick to work, and held myself together today. Not finished the menopausal process yet, despite promising signs, reset timer. THIS is the year I go through this?
I love that the Hindu gods have a fluid sexuality and/or identity. Even the very masculine ones, have a certain softness and breastiness to them. Mostly, I get befuddled by the complexity of their many stories and meanings.
Maybe we need Ganesh as well.
(paragraph deleted)
I'll be feeling better in the morning, as the hormones begin to ebb. Simply annoyed.
I love that the Hindu gods have a fluid sexuality and/or identity. Even the very masculine ones, have a certain softness and breastiness to them. Mostly, I get befuddled by the complexity of their many stories and meanings.
Maybe we need Ganesh as well.
(paragraph deleted)
I'll be feeling better in the morning, as the hormones begin to ebb. Simply annoyed.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Avalanches
Impressive amount of snow, which means water for the coming year. This is great.
As well as avalanches in the mountains and canyons. Roses ordered. Will still need to get prickly pear cactus. Beds for both ready to go. Giving up on most tomatoes, just Romas this year.
Cats definitely at a respectable amount of peace.
In our really amazingly happy home.
A friend used to say, you have have a great lover, a great home and a great job, but not all three at once. We seem to be there, but with the trouble in the world, maybe that balances out.
All in all, not quite disaster, yet. But we are wary, and braced, as the winds build up, and the front approaches. Doing all we can. As are many. Maybe we can hold the fort. Maybe not. But we are acting, and not giving up. Our names and lives are on the line.
Thinking of Thích Quảng Đức. A lot.
As well as avalanches in the mountains and canyons. Roses ordered. Will still need to get prickly pear cactus. Beds for both ready to go. Giving up on most tomatoes, just Romas this year.
Cats definitely at a respectable amount of peace.
In our really amazingly happy home.
A friend used to say, you have have a great lover, a great home and a great job, but not all three at once. We seem to be there, but with the trouble in the world, maybe that balances out.
All in all, not quite disaster, yet. But we are wary, and braced, as the winds build up, and the front approaches. Doing all we can. As are many. Maybe we can hold the fort. Maybe not. But we are acting, and not giving up. Our names and lives are on the line.
Thinking of Thích Quảng Đức. A lot.
Opposition
Ah, Sandra.
If one throws stones at the CIA, one might wish to Beware the Ides of March. Theoretically. Don't know why I mentioned.
Grief follows grief as
Year follows year and there is
No end to death but.
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
Psalm
Psalm 77King James Version (KJV)
In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord: my sore ran in the night, and ceased not: my soul refused to be comforted.
I remembered God, and was troubled: I complained, and my spirit was overwhelmed.
Thou holdest mine eyes waking: I am so troubled that I cannot speak.
I have considered the days of old, the years of ancient times.
I call to remembrance my song in the night: I commune with mine own heart: and my spirit made diligent search.
Will the Lord cast off for ever? and will he be favourable no more?
Is his mercy clean gone for ever? doth his promise fail for evermore?
Hath God forgotten to be gracious? hath he in anger shut up his tender mercies?
The waters saw thee, O God, the waters saw thee; they were afraid: the depths also were troubled.
The clouds poured out water: the skies sent out a sound: thine arrows also went abroad.
The voice of thy thunder was in the heaven: the lightnings lightened the world: the earth trembled and shook.
Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the great waters, and thy footsteps are not known.
In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord: my sore ran in the night, and ceased not: my soul refused to be comforted.
I remembered God, and was troubled: I complained, and my spirit was overwhelmed.
Thou holdest mine eyes waking: I am so troubled that I cannot speak.
I have considered the days of old, the years of ancient times.
I call to remembrance my song in the night: I commune with mine own heart: and my spirit made diligent search.
Will the Lord cast off for ever? and will he be favourable no more?
Is his mercy clean gone for ever? doth his promise fail for evermore?
Hath God forgotten to be gracious? hath he in anger shut up his tender mercies?
The waters saw thee, O God, the waters saw thee; they were afraid: the depths also were troubled.
The clouds poured out water: the skies sent out a sound: thine arrows also went abroad.
The voice of thy thunder was in the heaven: the lightnings lightened the world: the earth trembled and shook.
Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the great waters, and thy footsteps are not known.
Monday, January 23, 2017
Uxorious
On a more cheerful note, most men are lovely. Really, vast majority.
And seeing people who love each other is the most hopeful of all.
Love wins.
And seeing people who love each other is the most hopeful of all.
Love wins.
Monkey
Some women simply don't want children. And that should be sufficient reason to end a pregnancy.
The other reasons to end a pregnancy are far more pressing. And desperate women finding themselves impregnated have gone to desperate measures to stop this growth. No child wants to be unloved or unwanted.
No man, who will never have to put his body on the line should have any say. Nor any celibate priest. Or pope. And yet, men all over the world, in various cultures and times, have taken on pregnancy as subject to their wills. And not always in condemning abortion. The Roman husband had the right to "expose" any child born, no doubt as a moral imperative. Abortion is not universally condemned, and certainly not even usually considered murder. It's a matter of convenience or control, and the religion supports this, not the other way round.
Women die of pregnancy, if less than historically. Women lose their sanity over pregnancy. Women are marked forever by any pregnancy, even a wanted and healthy one. Children adopted are damaged, even if they overcome it and do well. Shall we go back to young women committing suicide because of pregnancies? Shall we go back to botched abortions? Shall we go back to a preponderance of abused and neglected and unwanted children? Or warehousing children with birth defects?
This is what lack of proper health care for women means. Unwanted pregnancies, and dire choices. And rich white men who are nothing but contemptuous.
To call it "murder" is to impose a strict legal definition upon a complex philosophical issue. One that even "murder" means including exceptions and mitigations, and even exculpations that the anti-abortionists blind themselves to. A patriarchal one. Men meddling where they have no business. Or compassion. Or empathy. They care more about their theoretical fatherhood more than the actual women's lives, or lives of the children resulting.
So, I tell you truly. I would rather have been an aborted fetus than an abused child. I've turned my life into something worthy, thanks mostly to Dylan, but until I met him, given a choice... yes. I would have had my mother abort me. No question. I would put my theoretical life on the line. As men who feel they have a right to enforce this do not. Not their circus. Not their monkeys.
The other reasons to end a pregnancy are far more pressing. And desperate women finding themselves impregnated have gone to desperate measures to stop this growth. No child wants to be unloved or unwanted.
No man, who will never have to put his body on the line should have any say. Nor any celibate priest. Or pope. And yet, men all over the world, in various cultures and times, have taken on pregnancy as subject to their wills. And not always in condemning abortion. The Roman husband had the right to "expose" any child born, no doubt as a moral imperative. Abortion is not universally condemned, and certainly not even usually considered murder. It's a matter of convenience or control, and the religion supports this, not the other way round.
Women die of pregnancy, if less than historically. Women lose their sanity over pregnancy. Women are marked forever by any pregnancy, even a wanted and healthy one. Children adopted are damaged, even if they overcome it and do well. Shall we go back to young women committing suicide because of pregnancies? Shall we go back to botched abortions? Shall we go back to a preponderance of abused and neglected and unwanted children? Or warehousing children with birth defects?
This is what lack of proper health care for women means. Unwanted pregnancies, and dire choices. And rich white men who are nothing but contemptuous.
To call it "murder" is to impose a strict legal definition upon a complex philosophical issue. One that even "murder" means including exceptions and mitigations, and even exculpations that the anti-abortionists blind themselves to. A patriarchal one. Men meddling where they have no business. Or compassion. Or empathy. They care more about their theoretical fatherhood more than the actual women's lives, or lives of the children resulting.
So, I tell you truly. I would rather have been an aborted fetus than an abused child. I've turned my life into something worthy, thanks mostly to Dylan, but until I met him, given a choice... yes. I would have had my mother abort me. No question. I would put my theoretical life on the line. As men who feel they have a right to enforce this do not. Not their circus. Not their monkeys.
Sunday, January 22, 2017
Craps
Dylan's friend at work scored him some Sundance tickets. We went this afternoon.
Indie films are a bit of a crapshoot.
I expected at least better pacing from a Hong Kong movie. Which is about all I can say about it, because the first scene pissed me off enough that I didn't care what came next. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. We would have left, but we were in the middle of the row, in a full theater of intently quiet people, and the director and some of the cast. I opened my eyes a few times, and was dismayed at seeing the same character who was a dick in the first scene again. There was some shouting at one point.
Near the end, I didn't know how close, I was past all endurance, and scrambled out to run to the restroom. Then I paid rent to the theater via the concessions. Not cheap, but cheaper than the tickets that we didn't pay for anyway.
I don't necessarily think it was a bad film, as such. Just. Not for me, and not today, and not in a theater where I couldn't start, stop, fast forward through it. I did not rate it, since that would have been unfair. It seemed to be an allegory for a situation I've never encountered. Inasmuch as I saw it. The preponderance of natural soundtrack was impressive, but I should not have been able to tell from just my ears how many times actors were slurping noodles. It was beautifully shot, when I looked, mind. Arty, even.
And my gods, it was slow. Not just slow, but... as if it were in 2nd gear from beginning to end. The blurb said - like Jim Jarmusch. Ok, I've liked some of his. And they weren't wrong. But it was more like Jarmusch's documentary on the geological history of Roan Innish*, with David Lean as filmographer. Yeah, that slow.
When I was much younger, I think I'd've kinda gotten into it. I watched Eraserhead all the way through after all. Voluntarily. But as much as my general patience has expanded over the decades, my patience with movies has grown short and brittle. I need to be bowled over, and that takes a LOT. There was a period of about three years when I was in college, taking film classes, with several little film theaters in and around campus and at the DIA, and dollar nights at the RenCen, when I was probably seeing a good 5-7 movies each and every week, sometimes more. Some college students take drugs, or drink too much, I OD'd on movies.
Making it ridiculously hard for films to please me. I'd always wanted to do all the Sundance films, but money, timing, distance, conspired against me. I either didn't have the money, or I was working and couldn't schedule them. Eventually gave up on the idea. Well, now we've been, and I never have to do that again.
We did attend this one at the local theater, no driving up to Park City. It's a tiny spot, and a hard drive from here, straight upmountain. For those who marched there yesterday, there was a bit of an apology that they only marched 4 blocks. But, really, they marched the whole town. It's not large. And it's at 7K' elevation. And cold. Icy.
Oh. The movie. Not sure if I should mention. Well, only fair to let you know. Free and Easy, and this review.
Dark and cold today. Snow crusty, with more to come. Winter has come. Roses are ordered. Looking for prickly pear cactus next.
*Secret of Roan Innish. A movie I really liked, but, ohsoslow.
Indie films are a bit of a crapshoot.
I expected at least better pacing from a Hong Kong movie. Which is about all I can say about it, because the first scene pissed me off enough that I didn't care what came next. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. We would have left, but we were in the middle of the row, in a full theater of intently quiet people, and the director and some of the cast. I opened my eyes a few times, and was dismayed at seeing the same character who was a dick in the first scene again. There was some shouting at one point.
Near the end, I didn't know how close, I was past all endurance, and scrambled out to run to the restroom. Then I paid rent to the theater via the concessions. Not cheap, but cheaper than the tickets that we didn't pay for anyway.
I don't necessarily think it was a bad film, as such. Just. Not for me, and not today, and not in a theater where I couldn't start, stop, fast forward through it. I did not rate it, since that would have been unfair. It seemed to be an allegory for a situation I've never encountered. Inasmuch as I saw it. The preponderance of natural soundtrack was impressive, but I should not have been able to tell from just my ears how many times actors were slurping noodles. It was beautifully shot, when I looked, mind. Arty, even.
And my gods, it was slow. Not just slow, but... as if it were in 2nd gear from beginning to end. The blurb said - like Jim Jarmusch. Ok, I've liked some of his. And they weren't wrong. But it was more like Jarmusch's documentary on the geological history of Roan Innish*, with David Lean as filmographer. Yeah, that slow.
When I was much younger, I think I'd've kinda gotten into it. I watched Eraserhead all the way through after all. Voluntarily. But as much as my general patience has expanded over the decades, my patience with movies has grown short and brittle. I need to be bowled over, and that takes a LOT. There was a period of about three years when I was in college, taking film classes, with several little film theaters in and around campus and at the DIA, and dollar nights at the RenCen, when I was probably seeing a good 5-7 movies each and every week, sometimes more. Some college students take drugs, or drink too much, I OD'd on movies.
Making it ridiculously hard for films to please me. I'd always wanted to do all the Sundance films, but money, timing, distance, conspired against me. I either didn't have the money, or I was working and couldn't schedule them. Eventually gave up on the idea. Well, now we've been, and I never have to do that again.
We did attend this one at the local theater, no driving up to Park City. It's a tiny spot, and a hard drive from here, straight upmountain. For those who marched there yesterday, there was a bit of an apology that they only marched 4 blocks. But, really, they marched the whole town. It's not large. And it's at 7K' elevation. And cold. Icy.
Oh. The movie. Not sure if I should mention. Well, only fair to let you know. Free and Easy, and this review.
Dark and cold today. Snow crusty, with more to come. Winter has come. Roses are ordered. Looking for prickly pear cactus next.
*Secret of Roan Innish. A movie I really liked, but, ohsoslow.
Saturday, January 21, 2017
Period
End of the Women's March, messages left, on appropriate paper. I am enthralled by our young women. They have the guts. They will have the glory. They inspire me.
It may have been five months since my last one, but I'm all for the young women still facing a world of bastards.
When I was 20, working at the Detroit City Library, I got on the elevator with a guard. He cornered me and kissed me. I never got close to him again. Would not be on the elevator with him again. Never should have happened.
Men need to know these sorts of stories. Tell them. Girls need to know, so when (not if) it happens to them, they know how to react. We need the stories. We need to do better by our women, our children. Our young men. All of us, all of us.
It may have been five months since my last one, but I'm all for the young women still facing a world of bastards.
When I was 20, working at the Detroit City Library, I got on the elevator with a guard. He cornered me and kissed me. I never got close to him again. Would not be on the elevator with him again. Never should have happened.
Men need to know these sorts of stories. Tell them. Girls need to know, so when (not if) it happens to them, they know how to react. We need the stories. We need to do better by our women, our children. Our young men. All of us, all of us.
Tides
Over thirty years ago. More like 35. I was in a play. The lead actress and I were rehearsing, and she looked me in the eye, and SHOVED me. I stepped back, no idea what she was doing, she'd never been unkind to me before. She shoved me again, I stepped back again, trying to figure out what was wrong.
She lifted her hands again, and I braced and lifted mine, ready to stop this bullshit if she ever...
"AHA!, I knew you had fight in you!"
Which, honestly, pissed me off. Yeah, I knew that. But. But. But.
I don't reflexively believe the worst of people.
And I don't like being offensive.
I'll give people the benefit of the doubt for a long time.
When I am done, there will be a brick wall.
Earlier, much earlier still. High school theater teacher described me as soft velvet, covering a granite rock.
I had to learn to look soft. My father imbued me with his rage. I'd rather be the same all through, so people don't step on me, then break their foot.
Maybe a lot of people are like this. Treated badly, given reason for rigid hateful fear, but forced to appear soft and gentle - obedience demanded. When they do react, it can get unpredictable. Wild flailing. Unreasoning fury.
I'm sure this is what fueled my father's rages. Whole body disintegration, snapped cable, whirling chain, shattered souls wailing in hunger and despair. Destroying everything blindly.
We must start at the bottom, re-build our sense of integrity and our institutions of justice.
We must sigh, roll up our sleeves, and start again.
She lifted her hands again, and I braced and lifted mine, ready to stop this bullshit if she ever...
"AHA!, I knew you had fight in you!"
Which, honestly, pissed me off. Yeah, I knew that. But. But. But.
I don't reflexively believe the worst of people.
And I don't like being offensive.
I'll give people the benefit of the doubt for a long time.
When I am done, there will be a brick wall.
Earlier, much earlier still. High school theater teacher described me as soft velvet, covering a granite rock.
I had to learn to look soft. My father imbued me with his rage. I'd rather be the same all through, so people don't step on me, then break their foot.
Maybe a lot of people are like this. Treated badly, given reason for rigid hateful fear, but forced to appear soft and gentle - obedience demanded. When they do react, it can get unpredictable. Wild flailing. Unreasoning fury.
I'm sure this is what fueled my father's rages. Whole body disintegration, snapped cable, whirling chain, shattered souls wailing in hunger and despair. Destroying everything blindly.
We must start at the bottom, re-build our sense of integrity and our institutions of justice.
We must sigh, roll up our sleeves, and start again.
Feminism
Ain't nobody taking this lying down.
Millions of women.
Well, maybe we needed this to realize how bad it was getting. Society taking us for granted, and we mumble and put up with it. As we are taught to do.
And cheers to the men who get it, which, honestly is most of them. Maybe not most of the ones who voted, but really, believe it, most of them.
As for the people marching, not hundreds. Not thousands. Not hundreds of thousands. Millions. The world has shifted, and women speak for all of humanity. Quieting, never silencing, but drowning out the bully minority. We can win out. We will.
We are the pressure that cracks the old ways. Lumps will remain, good only to remind us never to go back. So, tell the young women how it was. No contraception, blamed for pregnancy outside marriage, given no credit for it inside marriage, deadly abortions, no financial rights, no independent legal rights, fired for our bodies, abused and then dumped. All the blame, no authority. We should have been telling them, or telling them better. They need to hear the stories. Independence is the only way to liberty. Let someone else completely take care of you, and you hand over your choice, your humanity, your soul. And that of your children, too.
I know. I did it, although I didn't intend to. Isolated, intimidated, I walked on eggshells, and came out of it bruised and poor. Priceless lesson in the cost of freedom, which is far lower than the price of enslavement. Pay any ransom, liberty is worth it. My soul is worth more.
So, we pray to Shiva and try to endure, growing seeds of rebellion that will emerge undaunted in the spring.
Yes, we need feminism, because it is the beating heart of humanity. Your mother's blood in you, oh fetal one. When we protect the madonna and child, raise kids kindly and well, save the adolescent from sickness of body and mind, then our men grow up to be whole and compassionate. And the cycle of love throbs in rhythm, repeating and repeating and repeating.
The young are finally learning this. As I thought the young men of my generation were. Some were, not enough to endure, perhaps. Maybe just a few more, and the critical mass will be reached.
Year of the cock. Monstrosity gets a year, being torn apart by foxes. Then, stew.
*Fire Roosters are self-assured people. They possess powerful personalities and are notoriously dominant. In groups they are vivacious, amusing and popular. But Roosters can be conceited creatures, vain and boastful, with a strong egotistical need to constantly be the center of attention.
Addendum: People are leaving message on menstrual pads for the turnip! And bra trees. Feminism is ALIVE again!
Millions of women.
Well, maybe we needed this to realize how bad it was getting. Society taking us for granted, and we mumble and put up with it. As we are taught to do.
And cheers to the men who get it, which, honestly is most of them. Maybe not most of the ones who voted, but really, believe it, most of them.
As for the people marching, not hundreds. Not thousands. Not hundreds of thousands. Millions. The world has shifted, and women speak for all of humanity. Quieting, never silencing, but drowning out the bully minority. We can win out. We will.
We are the pressure that cracks the old ways. Lumps will remain, good only to remind us never to go back. So, tell the young women how it was. No contraception, blamed for pregnancy outside marriage, given no credit for it inside marriage, deadly abortions, no financial rights, no independent legal rights, fired for our bodies, abused and then dumped. All the blame, no authority. We should have been telling them, or telling them better. They need to hear the stories. Independence is the only way to liberty. Let someone else completely take care of you, and you hand over your choice, your humanity, your soul. And that of your children, too.
I know. I did it, although I didn't intend to. Isolated, intimidated, I walked on eggshells, and came out of it bruised and poor. Priceless lesson in the cost of freedom, which is far lower than the price of enslavement. Pay any ransom, liberty is worth it. My soul is worth more.
So, we pray to Shiva and try to endure, growing seeds of rebellion that will emerge undaunted in the spring.
Brahma is the creator of the universe while Vishnu is the preserver of it. Shiva's role is to destroy the universe in order to re-create it.
Hindus believe his powers of destruction and recreation are used even now to destroy the illusions and imperfections of this world, paving the way for beneficial change. According to Hindu belief, this destruction is not arbitrary, but constructive. Shiva is therefore seen as the source of both good and evil and is regarded as the one who combines many contradictory elements.
Shiva is known to have untamed passion, which leads him to extremes in behaviour. Sometimes he is an ascetic, abstaining from all wordly pleasures. At others he is a hedonist.
Yes, we need feminism, because it is the beating heart of humanity. Your mother's blood in you, oh fetal one. When we protect the madonna and child, raise kids kindly and well, save the adolescent from sickness of body and mind, then our men grow up to be whole and compassionate. And the cycle of love throbs in rhythm, repeating and repeating and repeating.
The young are finally learning this. As I thought the young men of my generation were. Some were, not enough to endure, perhaps. Maybe just a few more, and the critical mass will be reached.
Year of the cock. Monstrosity gets a year, being torn apart by foxes. Then, stew.
*Fire Roosters are self-assured people. They possess powerful personalities and are notoriously dominant. In groups they are vivacious, amusing and popular. But Roosters can be conceited creatures, vain and boastful, with a strong egotistical need to constantly be the center of attention.
Addendum: People are leaving message on menstrual pads for the turnip! And bra trees. Feminism is ALIVE again!
Friday, January 20, 2017
Shepherds
-Shepard Fairey
Our mayor is attending the local Women's March, at the Sundance Film Festival.
Most people are kind and decent. If occasionally confused.
Not over this fool virus. Three substantial cold sores on my lips and undernose. Charge nurse took pity on me, fellow nurse too, so I got to come home early to rest and soak in the bath, and drink hot tea.
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Stuffy
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
Blowing
Well, I made it to work this morning. Urged to just go home at 0800, so I did. Schniffles galore. Well, they had the people, and it is a fairly light day. I'm drugged and moping.
Probably in April, or just ahead of when we have a first scheduled plan with the contractors, I plan to salvage the window hardware in the porch. Maybe even the windows. Not sure what to do with them after that. Maybe a small greenhouse?
Anyway, I like the latches. And a friend made me promise to keep the windows when we first mentioned refurbishing the porch.
Actually, a greenhouse may be a very good idea.
Not today, though. Today, idly resting.
Part of what the monster triggers in me are the buttons installed by my father. So many echoes. And much of it I think stems from a functional illiteracy. That aggressive defensiveness, the illogical lies, so much a part of that lack of reading. The idea of looking up a fact, doing research, is beyond the comprehension of one who cannot read. Perhaps especially in a culture that relies heavily on the written word. Well, I'm pushing back in any way I can.
And blowing my nose a lot.
Probably in April, or just ahead of when we have a first scheduled plan with the contractors, I plan to salvage the window hardware in the porch. Maybe even the windows. Not sure what to do with them after that. Maybe a small greenhouse?
Anyway, I like the latches. And a friend made me promise to keep the windows when we first mentioned refurbishing the porch.
Actually, a greenhouse may be a very good idea.
Not today, though. Today, idly resting.
Part of what the monster triggers in me are the buttons installed by my father. So many echoes. And much of it I think stems from a functional illiteracy. That aggressive defensiveness, the illogical lies, so much a part of that lack of reading. The idea of looking up a fact, doing research, is beyond the comprehension of one who cannot read. Perhaps especially in a culture that relies heavily on the written word. Well, I'm pushing back in any way I can.
And blowing my nose a lot.
Monday, January 16, 2017
Bob
Bob Dylan is such a pervasive part of my life. His songs covered by Peter, Paul & Mary my first conscious exposure. And for much of my life, I preferred the covers. His songs sung in the car on road trips. Blowin' in the Wind certainly. The early protest songs.
Most of my life, never really thought about him specifically. He wasn't a popular performer when I was a teenager or young adult, listening to the radio constantly. Still being covered by other singers, so there was a undercurrent, background.
Dylan plays guitar. His parents were more referencing Dylan Thomas, but he occasionally liked to say they named him after Bob Dylan and followed the Grateful Dead around. Given his parents, this is high comedy. Although, they are cool enough to get the joke. His first guitar teacher called him "Bob." He wasn't a particular fan, although he was aware. One birthday early on, I got him the collected guitar tabs of Bob Dylan. It became a favorite for him. And for me. Prolific and poetic. It was half a joke, glad it turned out not to be at all. We watched the 30th Anniversary Concert. I completely fell in love with Oh, Mercy.
I've come to prefer Bob's rambling, nearly atonal, singing. Even the early stuff.
KRCL played When The Ship Comes In when I was on my way to work Friday morning. And I felt stronger for it. He deserves all the honors. He still writes to us.
That the whole wide world is watchin'
(&)
Kindness wins.
Most of my life, never really thought about him specifically. He wasn't a popular performer when I was a teenager or young adult, listening to the radio constantly. Still being covered by other singers, so there was a undercurrent, background.
Dylan plays guitar. His parents were more referencing Dylan Thomas, but he occasionally liked to say they named him after Bob Dylan and followed the Grateful Dead around. Given his parents, this is high comedy. Although, they are cool enough to get the joke. His first guitar teacher called him "Bob." He wasn't a particular fan, although he was aware. One birthday early on, I got him the collected guitar tabs of Bob Dylan. It became a favorite for him. And for me. Prolific and poetic. It was half a joke, glad it turned out not to be at all. We watched the 30th Anniversary Concert. I completely fell in love with Oh, Mercy.
I've come to prefer Bob's rambling, nearly atonal, singing. Even the early stuff.
KRCL played When The Ship Comes In when I was on my way to work Friday morning. And I felt stronger for it. He deserves all the honors. He still writes to us.
That the whole wide world is watchin'
Then they'll raise their hands
Sayin' we'll meet all your demands
But we'll shout from the bow your days are numbered
And like Pharaoh's tribe
They'll be drownded in the tide
And like Goliath, they'll be conquered
(&)
Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
Don't block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There's the battle outside raging
It'll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changing
Kindness wins.
Sunday, January 15, 2017
Cinco
The front door light switches are now in intuitive order, we've both used them properly, without thinking about it. Only took us five years. Storing much more in the basement, to keep the back room clearer for construction. Again, turning it into half workroom is delayed. Our tree finally packed up and down there as well.
Friday was the Houseiversary, still hard to believe we've been here so long. Still getting to know each other, still in love. Which includes each other and both cats, house and garden.
Salvaged two christmas trees to compost branches and use the trunks for uprights for the grapes. Researching making raisins. Already dreaming of spring digging. And building, obviously. Dylan starting to work on taxes.
We organized the music room, and cleaned up a ton of dust. Flow is so much better. Apartment living ingrained in us some habits not always useful for living in a house. We set up his desk and guitars with those cramped ideas. As new items came in, they were stuffed in, bit by bit. What needed to happen was a complete reorganization, which didn't. Until yesterday. That's fine, all part of the process.
Getting a case of the schniffles. Oh, joy. Possibly instigated by dust.
Trimmed cats claws, to their mild dismay.
So glad to have Monday off, need to rest.
Friday was the Houseiversary, still hard to believe we've been here so long. Still getting to know each other, still in love. Which includes each other and both cats, house and garden.
Salvaged two christmas trees to compost branches and use the trunks for uprights for the grapes. Researching making raisins. Already dreaming of spring digging. And building, obviously. Dylan starting to work on taxes.
We organized the music room, and cleaned up a ton of dust. Flow is so much better. Apartment living ingrained in us some habits not always useful for living in a house. We set up his desk and guitars with those cramped ideas. As new items came in, they were stuffed in, bit by bit. What needed to happen was a complete reorganization, which didn't. Until yesterday. That's fine, all part of the process.
Getting a case of the schniffles. Oh, joy. Possibly instigated by dust.
Trimmed cats claws, to their mild dismay.
So glad to have Monday off, need to rest.
Saturday, January 14, 2017
Salt
Getting happy about the porch project. Contractor seemed to think it a small and reasonable set of ideas, and our budget adequate. He actually made suggestions before we asked, specifically regarding keeping all the light coming in. Still, won't be until May to start it. Have to contact the city about grey water from the washer. Going to do some of the Demolition myself. And painting, decorating, obviously. Who could manage my ideas of embellishment?
We fixed the light switch near the front door today. The switches are in the counter intuitive order for the porch light and ceiling inside light. We just (ha) switched the switches. And, IT WORKED!
Yesterday was a difficult day, but a huge boost to my professional ego. I've run busy rooms before. Liver transplants, trauma IM roddings, ortho-oncology disarticulations. But a revision total elbow is at the bottom of that top ten list. Counts, takes all I can give, not quite as hectic. Nice to know, I still got it.
Reorganized the Music Room. Much vacuuming of the rug and mopping of the floor. Much better flow, now. Also plastic sealed the window, which should keep it warmer.
Not eating well this week. Too busy. So we went to Hong Kong Tea House for a nourishing and tasty lunch. Dim Sum for me, pepper chicken for Dylan. Fried shrimp balls, sesame balls, lotus patties. Mystified at the salt and pepper shakers on the table. The soy sauce makes sense, the rest... um.
I have never in my adult life owned a salt/pepper shaker. I've never been an autocondimentor*. My mother owned several. Not sure where that became the norm. Certainly the very wealthy have had salt cellars and pepper mills for hundreds of years.
Dylan wondered when it became a commonplace, and I have no idea. Thinking perhaps post WWI, with it showing up as a souvenir all across the US. My family was certainly NOT middle class, but right on the edge of lower class and official poverty. I've not as an adult much added salt to my food. Although I used salt as a kid, as well as ketchup. Have not used ketchup as an adult, either. Bought it, moved the bottle from place to place, never used it. Always having a bottle in the kitchen -seemed the right thing to do -buying one, right up until the next to last move here, when I questioned the why of it all. When on the off chance Dylan wants a bit of ketchup, he picks up a packet or two at the grocery store deli. Otherwise, we use salsa.
Not that I've never in adult life, added a lot of salt, certainly never in a shaker. Or it may be to do with not eating at a dining room (nay, even kitchen) table. We normally eat on the sofa, in front of the TV. Which, come to think of it, once my brothers had moved out, became the norm in my childhood. Tray tables in front of the TV, watching George Perot Presents (boring travel show). Beat the hell out of being screamed at during meals, so that was fine by me.
We normally only eat at tables, formally, when we eat at restaurant. Otherwise, it's on our knees, as it were. We do have a low table, and we watch tv, movies, documentaries, whatever Dylan finds. This works for me.
Salt and Pepper mill
Shakers on the tablecloth
Meals at a table.
Watching Samantha Bee on Full Frontal today, while folding a mass of paper towel salvaged from work†. She brings up the joke of the Turnip being unable to read. And it rings true. My father could not read well. And the resonances begin there. I think both are functionally illiterate. A deep defensiveness, and judgmental core. Makes so much sense. Like when you know what alcoholics are like, and you can always spot them. Obvious, once you get the code.
Cheered by the fact that nearly 80% of my country hates the Trample Thinskin. Both major parties hate him, too. Harm will happen, but the resistance is intense, and growing. Like the avalanches locally. Lots of avalanches, too much snow all at once.
Trying to keep up hope in the midst of chaos and stupidity. Which has always been there. Trouble of being a dyed-in-the-wool feminist/liberal all my life. And moreso now. Age has not mellowed my leftist leanings. Pro-abortion, pro-diversity, pro liberty and equality. Eat the rich, although that would be tough going, and fatty (or stringy!)
*someone who will put salt and probably pepper on any meal you put in front of them regardless of how much it's got already and regardless of how it tastes.
†Disposable towels that keep the sharp edges of metal pans from breaking through wrappers during autoclaving. We save them rather than throw them away. I bring them home, fold and cut them. Saves a small fortune on paper towels.
We fixed the light switch near the front door today. The switches are in the counter intuitive order for the porch light and ceiling inside light. We just (ha) switched the switches. And, IT WORKED!
Yesterday was a difficult day, but a huge boost to my professional ego. I've run busy rooms before. Liver transplants, trauma IM roddings, ortho-oncology disarticulations. But a revision total elbow is at the bottom of that top ten list. Counts, takes all I can give, not quite as hectic. Nice to know, I still got it.
Reorganized the Music Room. Much vacuuming of the rug and mopping of the floor. Much better flow, now. Also plastic sealed the window, which should keep it warmer.
Not eating well this week. Too busy. So we went to Hong Kong Tea House for a nourishing and tasty lunch. Dim Sum for me, pepper chicken for Dylan. Fried shrimp balls, sesame balls, lotus patties. Mystified at the salt and pepper shakers on the table. The soy sauce makes sense, the rest... um.
I have never in my adult life owned a salt/pepper shaker. I've never been an autocondimentor*. My mother owned several. Not sure where that became the norm. Certainly the very wealthy have had salt cellars and pepper mills for hundreds of years.
Dylan wondered when it became a commonplace, and I have no idea. Thinking perhaps post WWI, with it showing up as a souvenir all across the US. My family was certainly NOT middle class, but right on the edge of lower class and official poverty. I've not as an adult much added salt to my food. Although I used salt as a kid, as well as ketchup. Have not used ketchup as an adult, either. Bought it, moved the bottle from place to place, never used it. Always having a bottle in the kitchen -seemed the right thing to do -buying one, right up until the next to last move here, when I questioned the why of it all. When on the off chance Dylan wants a bit of ketchup, he picks up a packet or two at the grocery store deli. Otherwise, we use salsa.
Not that I've never in adult life, added a lot of salt, certainly never in a shaker. Or it may be to do with not eating at a dining room (nay, even kitchen) table. We normally eat on the sofa, in front of the TV. Which, come to think of it, once my brothers had moved out, became the norm in my childhood. Tray tables in front of the TV, watching George Perot Presents (boring travel show). Beat the hell out of being screamed at during meals, so that was fine by me.
We normally only eat at tables, formally, when we eat at restaurant. Otherwise, it's on our knees, as it were. We do have a low table, and we watch tv, movies, documentaries, whatever Dylan finds. This works for me.
Salt and Pepper mill
Shakers on the tablecloth
Meals at a table.
Watching Samantha Bee on Full Frontal today, while folding a mass of paper towel salvaged from work†. She brings up the joke of the Turnip being unable to read. And it rings true. My father could not read well. And the resonances begin there. I think both are functionally illiterate. A deep defensiveness, and judgmental core. Makes so much sense. Like when you know what alcoholics are like, and you can always spot them. Obvious, once you get the code.
Cheered by the fact that nearly 80% of my country hates the Trample Thinskin. Both major parties hate him, too. Harm will happen, but the resistance is intense, and growing. Like the avalanches locally. Lots of avalanches, too much snow all at once.
Trying to keep up hope in the midst of chaos and stupidity. Which has always been there. Trouble of being a dyed-in-the-wool feminist/liberal all my life. And moreso now. Age has not mellowed my leftist leanings. Pro-abortion, pro-diversity, pro liberty and equality. Eat the rich, although that would be tough going, and fatty (or stringy!)
*someone who will put salt and probably pepper on any meal you put in front of them regardless of how much it's got already and regardless of how it tastes.
†Disposable towels that keep the sharp edges of metal pans from breaking through wrappers during autoclaving. We save them rather than throw them away. I bring them home, fold and cut them. Saves a small fortune on paper towels.
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
Golden
Getting this rose ordered for Spring. Hoping to get it established, then propagate it all over the place.
Planning to take a green cutting from my neighbor's grapes as well. That's several years of waiting, but that's fine.
Yes. I know Golden Celebrations in the light of recent... news.
Dylan dismayed that of all the sins and crimes, this one should hit. But that's how it works. The serious issues are too dark, the perversion is for mockery. Shows weakness that those looking for towers of angry strength cannot abide. It's sick and silly and for those with no stomach for deviance, it's icky. The fragile overblown egos can least take laughter at them. Undercuts power.
For so long, it's felt so dangerously serious, this is a crack to break apart the carapace. We just need to keep pushing and giggling.
Best one today from George Takei,
"Tinkle, tinkle little czar. Putin put you where you are."
Responses
"Dont piss on my leg and tell me it's raining."
And
NIXON:
No way you pull off a more scandal-ridden presidency than I did.
TRUMP:
Hold my beer.
NIXON:
Wait this isn't beer.
I'm a little frightened that I have almost more twit followers than I follow. Not liking this, really. Prefer anonymity.
Anyway, planning for spring, and roses, and grapes! Leeks and shallots, catnip and parsley!
Last week still snowing.
This week, warm and raining, and the messy aftermath of plowing.
Neighbor Mike out clearing ice damn at the curb by the parking spaces this morning, so I put on my wellies and grabbed a shovel. We got it flowing. At 45˚F, lots of melting. It rained through the night, dissolving vast majority of the snow. Looks to be colder tonight, he didn't want it to be an ice rink. Wonderful to have good neighbors.
Architect came by Monday to do measurements for Porch, Dylan not feeling well, so he was getting anxious about it all, and having to do it alone. We have the contractor coming by this afternoon, so maybe we can settle a few questions. Hoping to start the project in May. Long waits. We have done what we can do, for the moment.
Making catsoup today. Stopped writing about it because it's like noting every time I do laundry or wash dishes. Cats are generally happier and healthier. Eleanor prefers the canned food, but then she horks it right up, which she rarely does with the homemade. Still have to give Moby laxative, and watch the turdage. He's getting older, and nothing works as well as in kittenhood. We sympathize.
Tower
Many times in history a condition changes. Often it's too big to be seen by the people living through it. They break looms and throw shoes, but the change goes on without regard. Buggy whip makers lose their livelihoods. Department stores go out of business. The old dies and smells terrible as it rots, and the new life hasn't quite worked out the details, and the people in the transition suffer. Kings died in the trenches of WWI, Zombie empires. Modern life was never the same. Because their corpses are still rotting, and some people are still hoping they will revive and bring back all that was lost.
Because something is always lost. Cities and societies take a long time dying, even dead their echoes live on. Ancient Rome and Greece continue to influence and trouble us. The Crusades, for all that they shook up everything, letting the air in, planted seeds of resentment and mistrust, weeds that invade persistently.
Authoritarian rule keeps returning because it is easy. Let someone else decide. Obey and keep your head down is comforting. Requires no work, no thought. Always struggling to be better, to be fair, to re-think assumptions, is hard. Takes a lot of honest work to constantly flip around a situation, to see the other side, accept complexity and contradiction and ambiguity.
We say we want justice and kindness, but the price often seems too high, easier to stick to one's own kind and accept what we're given. "It could be worse" is a dangerous phrase. It's also why liberalism tends to shatter and squabble with itself, even in the face of monolithic evil. Easier to nitpick the exact level of one's open mindedness than come together to fight the real enemy.
And sometimes, it's simply a matter of the world changing. The Great Depression of the 30's was a global issue, no one person had much say. We fought each other, but the real problems were caused by a technological/societal shift effecting economies and resources. We fight over marshmallows on top of an exploding volcano.
The internet is still very new, we are not adapted to it. The benefits, and inevitable problems, it creates are still forming. The idea that all humanity is in this together is meeting massive clumps of resistance. They clog up the system. Perhaps like manure they will eventually compost and feed whatever comes next. Until then, there will be suffering, and some who will long for the past glories.
The printing press would not be stopped. Agriculture will not step aside to allow hunting/gathering to take back over. The dinosaurs are not coming back.
The Tower has been played. What comes next is unknowable. It will be different in ways we cannot imagine.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Fourohfour
Fiction.
We look back on that time through a different lens, we suspect. Global wars and horrors, without really big wars. And in several of the largest or most influential countries, corruption not seen for a century or more. And what brought it all down, leading to a great increase in egalitarian and peaceful societies, seems to have been a virus that cannot be determined. It may well have been several, for all we can tell.
Our researchers are a bit embarrassed that they were too busy at the time to locate anything like Patient #1. There were more important diseases affecting many more people, and their own funding was looking shaky at best. So they rather pointedly ignored the "man-flu" epidemic of billionaire white men.
Which is all it seemed to be, a bad cold running through the ruling parties of a number of countries, especially in the wealthy west. Later suspected to include corporate boards and Chinese and Russian bureaucrats, although even less data is available there. But no one seemed to notice at the time, or at least - not admit to illness. And they got well after a few weeks.
Until the cardiac arrests and strokes and seizures that killed, quickly, and with remarkable thoroughness. Some a month or so later. So that by the time anyone made the connection, whatever (presumed) virus caused the illnesses, was spread through the population. And it killed the oldest, most rigid, and wealthiest men first. We've called it the DLG* virus, as a sort of joke. The good ole boy network, the patriarchy as was, vanished in a puff of snot. In a generation, the assumptions of millennia went extinct.
Oh, people noticed that the US House and Senate were left with only younger members, and them mostly all liberals, but old men dying of heart attacks doesn't immediately throw up red flags. Not like it made much difference in daily lives. The government ran just fine. Maybe a bit better. Ok, certainly better. Big companies simply shifted wives and younger people into positions of power, and they mostly made good, and much needed, changes. The few conservatives left were first referred to as nostalgists at this time, now a common term of contempt, or occasional endearment for demented grandfathers.
It all seemed, at this remove at least, to have happened rather quietly. The number of funerals should have been shocking, but according to the recorded obituaries, there was remarkably little fuss. Work got done. Civil rights improved massively. Wages increased, and the people flourished. The power brokers on top apparently were oppressive, and once gone, growth flourished. Laws limiting wealth above 10X the poorest wage were instituted without protest. The wars resolved, for reasons not entirely clear.
The population decreased, but not much due to the concentrated spate of direct deaths, which seemed to be enough for the climate change problems to resolve. Took about ten to fifteen years.
Yeah, so, this thesis for my CDC PhD is going to be a bust. All I can manage is this introduction, with a few files, because we really don't know why, and I'm never going to make my deadline, so I'm posting all the data I have at the link. Don't bother looking, there really isn't much there. I'm done, have to find another subject. Damn.
*Daddy's Little Girl, as in Will bring down the Patriarchy. I never said it was a good joke.
Art
Art reflects and comments upon our society. Presses for change, or longs for the lost past. All art.
I remember spending hours among the works at the DIA, soaking them in. If a tour was passing through, I listened to the stories. A lot of what I experienced there was amazing, but not a lot I would want to live in my home, day to day. I could tell the difference between the decorative, and the world changing art. Some managed to be in both worlds, but that was rare.
Art has a duty to challenge and subvert. Artists, however covert or overt, need to tell the truth to power. If only by exposing hypocrisy so subtly that their patrons cannot see themselves mocked. To bravely sing protest songs. To use their actor award ceremony to plead for decency and honesty from their government.
We may be jarred by the change in tone and style, but that is the point. Art should upset us, force us to see differently, question assumptions, anger the powerful and complacent. Art of every sort should expose the ugly lies, call them out, translate them, take away the spin. Doesn't matter if it's painting, sculpture, music, writing... and least of all the various forms of storytelling. We live and die by our narratives, anyone involved in creating those stories is particularly needed to be honest in the most obnoxious manner possible. That really is what they are for.
We need our allowed fools, however much their presence as Conscience hurts. Because they torment us. Those who object to ridicule and satire are dangerous.
But this is why politicians through the ages have attacked artists and actors. They know their power, and fear it. As well they should.
Re: Most recent scandal. Best comment so far, "Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining."
I remember spending hours among the works at the DIA, soaking them in. If a tour was passing through, I listened to the stories. A lot of what I experienced there was amazing, but not a lot I would want to live in my home, day to day. I could tell the difference between the decorative, and the world changing art. Some managed to be in both worlds, but that was rare.
Art has a duty to challenge and subvert. Artists, however covert or overt, need to tell the truth to power. If only by exposing hypocrisy so subtly that their patrons cannot see themselves mocked. To bravely sing protest songs. To use their actor award ceremony to plead for decency and honesty from their government.
We may be jarred by the change in tone and style, but that is the point. Art should upset us, force us to see differently, question assumptions, anger the powerful and complacent. Art of every sort should expose the ugly lies, call them out, translate them, take away the spin. Doesn't matter if it's painting, sculpture, music, writing... and least of all the various forms of storytelling. We live and die by our narratives, anyone involved in creating those stories is particularly needed to be honest in the most obnoxious manner possible. That really is what they are for.
We need our allowed fools, however much their presence as Conscience hurts. Because they torment us. Those who object to ridicule and satire are dangerous.
But this is why politicians through the ages have attacked artists and actors. They know their power, and fear it. As well they should.
Re: Most recent scandal. Best comment so far, "Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining."
Saturday, January 07, 2017
Movies
Ok, so have any of you seen Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner? It's been a long time since I've seen it, but it lives in my soul. Searing and complex and difficult. Like Bury Me Standing. Another experience to rattle my assumptions. Or Latcho Drom.
I remember in college, seeing so many movies, taking several film classes, my first subtitled films, changing my frames of reference over and over. Blew my mind wide open. The real source of my liberalism. My love of the 'foreign.' Although, I find French, Japanese and Czech the easiest to follow, Polish the most difficult (never got through Man of Iron.)
I figure in those years, I saw about 5-10 movies a week, for nearly 4 years. That was the reality I allowed in to my brain. Never looked back. The whole world opened. Samurai films, and Hong Kong cinema, the shady and artsy and obscure, all welcome.
There were Swedish children's movies on TV when I was small, dubbed, but with a clearly different point of reference. Maybe that's where it started.
Or the first time I was aware of people with dark skin, and my mother - with painful politeness, referring to them as 'colored.'
Or of ourselves as "shanty irish", and my father's co-workers calling him "frenchy." My own dark hair, when all the babydolls had short, curly, blonde hair. We are all different. I felt different from the 'white' society. So I identified with all the other 'minorities.' I felt most at ease at the downtown Ethnic Festivals, with other dark haired folks. Dylan says I'm an "ethnic Canadian." Just because I say house and about funny.
Not that Canada really has a history of ethnic tolerance, not with some groups. My dear Aunt Evelyn was not opened minded at all about Italians. Still loved her, but that part was not good. Like her volunteering for Birthright. Ugh. She's how I imagine Canada's inclusiveness, rather selective, really.
My neighbor's new son was born with Down's. I haven't shared this elsewhere. I think he's beautiful. They have a long, hard road ahead, though. Mom is looking better than when she shared this news with me. Two and a half year old daughter is a bright spark.
We are all different, and we are all the same.
I remember in college, seeing so many movies, taking several film classes, my first subtitled films, changing my frames of reference over and over. Blew my mind wide open. The real source of my liberalism. My love of the 'foreign.' Although, I find French, Japanese and Czech the easiest to follow, Polish the most difficult (never got through Man of Iron.)
I figure in those years, I saw about 5-10 movies a week, for nearly 4 years. That was the reality I allowed in to my brain. Never looked back. The whole world opened. Samurai films, and Hong Kong cinema, the shady and artsy and obscure, all welcome.
There were Swedish children's movies on TV when I was small, dubbed, but with a clearly different point of reference. Maybe that's where it started.
Or the first time I was aware of people with dark skin, and my mother - with painful politeness, referring to them as 'colored.'
Or of ourselves as "shanty irish", and my father's co-workers calling him "frenchy." My own dark hair, when all the babydolls had short, curly, blonde hair. We are all different. I felt different from the 'white' society. So I identified with all the other 'minorities.' I felt most at ease at the downtown Ethnic Festivals, with other dark haired folks. Dylan says I'm an "ethnic Canadian." Just because I say house and about funny.
Not that Canada really has a history of ethnic tolerance, not with some groups. My dear Aunt Evelyn was not opened minded at all about Italians. Still loved her, but that part was not good. Like her volunteering for Birthright. Ugh. She's how I imagine Canada's inclusiveness, rather selective, really.
My neighbor's new son was born with Down's. I haven't shared this elsewhere. I think he's beautiful. They have a long, hard road ahead, though. Mom is looking better than when she shared this news with me. Two and a half year old daughter is a bright spark.
We are all different, and we are all the same.
Loom
Tired of shoveling snow. Poor me, awwww...
Dylan was up on Thursday morning, out before 5AM clearing the back so I could get the car out, and the front sidewalk wouldn't be tramped to ice. I bragged on him at work. Warming later this week will help clear it, and leave a mess at the same time.
Thursday driving up to work was rough, but not too frightening. Left early, so traffic was light, and the plows had been out. Others driving in from further away had troubles, several arrived very late. Washboard roads, ice formed early in the process. And troughs of frozen slush nudged the car around, like those racetrack* amusement park rides, where the steering wheel is non-functional, direction determined by the center concrete/metal strip. I was driving about that fast, as well. Which is to say, slowly.
(Closest image I could find.)
Still, got to work fine, and by afternoon the sun softened and melted most of it. By Friday, more melting in the afternoon sun. Froze right back overnight.
Took Dylan in to work this morning, since it was -2˚F, and he had to take his guitar in to teach a class on Garageband. Which he's used since it first came out. Sadly, he's coming down with a cold. Poor guy.
Got the decorations from the yuletide packed. Tree stays a little while more, and the lights can wait until tomorrow as well.
Gearing up to start the back porch renovation. Architect coming on Monday to do measurements. That corner of the basement beneath is cleared, the adjacent back room is nearly done as well. Getting all the ducks in rows, so that they can begin as soon as possible this spring.
It has occurred to me that we'd be better to save against the possibility of financial disaster. Which is not useful, really. Having a functional utility room, and avoiding broken bones from the basement stairs as we age, seems the better wager. Yes, I am struggling with my natural pessimism and stinginess. However potentially futile, we are going ahead with hope.
One of my ornaments is a tiny lump of coal I found in the back garden. Put it in a pretty purple net bag, hung it on the tree. To remind myself to not always be too good. And nothing good comes without the bad.
I've never been a perfectionist, despite knowing I needed to follow rules to avoid conflict. Left to myself, I prefer the raw and mixed up. When I made loop potholders as a kid (A kit given as a christmas present) I liked using ALL the colors.
Multi-colored was probably my favorite color. Plaid. In coloring books, I used all the crayons. Didn't turn out all that pretty, and I learned to limit the palette for best effect. But I still want to add all the food coloring into the pancakes, in the off chance that this time it would turn into a rainbow swirl, instead of grey. Thought the kids who were "mixed race" were much more beautiful than the pasty white ones. Still do. I'm a messy child, and being neat and tidy is largely a matter of training, not inclination.
We were at a grocery store the other day, and the cashier opened a register, called us over, but then seemed preoccupied. "I just cut my finger," she explained. I happened to have a band-aid in my pocket, so I gave it to her. "Are you a mom?"
"No, a nurse."
Pfft. Mom. Mother's aren't trained, they have to learn it or not on their own. I was taught. And with over 20 years of daily practice with surgeons with expectations, lots of patients, and very little patience.
Now is the winter of our discomfort, when we learn what we are made of.
*Ironic, because it was disappointingly dead slow. Take your foot off the pedal, and it stopped. Stomp on it, and it... crawled, very, slowly. But the jerk as the undercarriage got steered was jarring.
Dylan was up on Thursday morning, out before 5AM clearing the back so I could get the car out, and the front sidewalk wouldn't be tramped to ice. I bragged on him at work. Warming later this week will help clear it, and leave a mess at the same time.
Thursday driving up to work was rough, but not too frightening. Left early, so traffic was light, and the plows had been out. Others driving in from further away had troubles, several arrived very late. Washboard roads, ice formed early in the process. And troughs of frozen slush nudged the car around, like those racetrack* amusement park rides, where the steering wheel is non-functional, direction determined by the center concrete/metal strip. I was driving about that fast, as well. Which is to say, slowly.
(Closest image I could find.)
Still, got to work fine, and by afternoon the sun softened and melted most of it. By Friday, more melting in the afternoon sun. Froze right back overnight.
Took Dylan in to work this morning, since it was -2˚F, and he had to take his guitar in to teach a class on Garageband. Which he's used since it first came out. Sadly, he's coming down with a cold. Poor guy.
Got the decorations from the yuletide packed. Tree stays a little while more, and the lights can wait until tomorrow as well.
Gearing up to start the back porch renovation. Architect coming on Monday to do measurements. That corner of the basement beneath is cleared, the adjacent back room is nearly done as well. Getting all the ducks in rows, so that they can begin as soon as possible this spring.
It has occurred to me that we'd be better to save against the possibility of financial disaster. Which is not useful, really. Having a functional utility room, and avoiding broken bones from the basement stairs as we age, seems the better wager. Yes, I am struggling with my natural pessimism and stinginess. However potentially futile, we are going ahead with hope.
One of my ornaments is a tiny lump of coal I found in the back garden. Put it in a pretty purple net bag, hung it on the tree. To remind myself to not always be too good. And nothing good comes without the bad.
I've never been a perfectionist, despite knowing I needed to follow rules to avoid conflict. Left to myself, I prefer the raw and mixed up. When I made loop potholders as a kid (A kit given as a christmas present) I liked using ALL the colors.
Multi-colored was probably my favorite color. Plaid. In coloring books, I used all the crayons. Didn't turn out all that pretty, and I learned to limit the palette for best effect. But I still want to add all the food coloring into the pancakes, in the off chance that this time it would turn into a rainbow swirl, instead of grey. Thought the kids who were "mixed race" were much more beautiful than the pasty white ones. Still do. I'm a messy child, and being neat and tidy is largely a matter of training, not inclination.
We were at a grocery store the other day, and the cashier opened a register, called us over, but then seemed preoccupied. "I just cut my finger," she explained. I happened to have a band-aid in my pocket, so I gave it to her. "Are you a mom?"
"No, a nurse."
Pfft. Mom. Mother's aren't trained, they have to learn it or not on their own. I was taught. And with over 20 years of daily practice with surgeons with expectations, lots of patients, and very little patience.
Now is the winter of our discomfort, when we learn what we are made of.
*Ironic, because it was disappointingly dead slow. Take your foot off the pedal, and it stopped. Stomp on it, and it... crawled, very, slowly. But the jerk as the undercarriage got steered was jarring.
Wednesday, January 04, 2017
Molly
I grew up singing, my mother sang me lullabies, I sang nursery rhymes and popular songs and hymns. I doubt if a day has gone by that I haven't sung. Not that I would consider myself a good singer, but I can hold a tune and join in. In my childhood church choir, Sacred Harp for a while, that sort of thing.
I remember singing Michael Row the Boat Ashore and Petulia Clark's Downtown with my mother. For some reason, I was also taught Cockles and Mussels, with the last verse in a spooky minor key, which I loved. Which is fucking dark. A poor woman selling fish, and her body, on the streets, dying, coming back as a ghost.
REALLY dark.
In Dublin's fair city,
where the girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,
As she wheeled her wheel-barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive alive oh!"
"Alive-a-live-oh,
Alive-a-live-oh",
Crying "Cockles and mussels, alive alive oh".
She was a fishmonger,
And sure 'twas no wonder,
For so were her father and mother before,
And both wheeled their barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh!"
(chorus)
She died of a fever,
And no one could save her,
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.
Now her ghost wheels her barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh!"
Dead Oh, Dead Oh more like. Children lived much more dire lives, and not that long ago. Coded language, cockles and mussels, her parents in the same trade, prostitution in the family. Grinding, degrading poverty.
I remember singing Michael Row the Boat Ashore and Petulia Clark's Downtown with my mother. For some reason, I was also taught Cockles and Mussels, with the last verse in a spooky minor key, which I loved. Which is fucking dark. A poor woman selling fish, and her body, on the streets, dying, coming back as a ghost.
REALLY dark.
In Dublin's fair city,
where the girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,
As she wheeled her wheel-barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive alive oh!"
"Alive-a-live-oh,
Alive-a-live-oh",
Crying "Cockles and mussels, alive alive oh".
She was a fishmonger,
And sure 'twas no wonder,
For so were her father and mother before,
And both wheeled their barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh!"
(chorus)
She died of a fever,
And no one could save her,
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.
Now her ghost wheels her barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh!"
Dead Oh, Dead Oh more like. Children lived much more dire lives, and not that long ago. Coded language, cockles and mussels, her parents in the same trade, prostitution in the family. Grinding, degrading poverty.
Monday, January 02, 2017
Salami
This has been a lovely holiday. People over for Christmas Day, a work party at the library with old friends met, game people inbetween, a surprize visit, and a post-New Year pot-luck today. This last had the best food, I must say. Excellent cheese and salami, fresh pineapple and strawberries with a creamy dip, hot chili, and panettone. Not many came, but those that did were excellent. Eleanor being her social butterfly self, Moby doing a brief but polite greeting, then finding a quiet place. Lots of love and talk and intelligence manifest.
We're a bit tired, but also restored. Glad that our long period of social poverty is breaking away. Probably since we are reaching that age when people near our age have children of teen or college age, and they are missing hanging out. Not that I regret avoiding having kids, quite the opposite. But there has been a cost. Now, our path converge, with different people. The world turns, everything comes around again, nothing ever really lost.
We are the majority, those who cannot understand bigotry and misogyny, and are the heart of this country. And we like good salami, too.
We're a bit tired, but also restored. Glad that our long period of social poverty is breaking away. Probably since we are reaching that age when people near our age have children of teen or college age, and they are missing hanging out. Not that I regret avoiding having kids, quite the opposite. But there has been a cost. Now, our path converge, with different people. The world turns, everything comes around again, nothing ever really lost.
We are the majority, those who cannot understand bigotry and misogyny, and are the heart of this country. And we like good salami, too.
Sunday, January 01, 2017
Moby
"That's lot of Moby!"
"Yup."
This last year was very good for us, right up until the end. So, I will not whine about that. What is coming is unknown, there may be hope yet. There may not. Chili is cooking and we will finally cut the panettone cake tomorrow, when there are guys here.
I'm entrenched for resistance, I will stand. Moby will take a nap.
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