Romance and Valentine
Well, I was going to write about these same things, and went back to see if I'd already told the Cafe Trang story. And I had.
What did you write about last year at this time?
Friday, February 09, 2007
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Vow
Simply Wait has posted her Writer's Manifesto. And although I believe the advice Never trust anything that needs a manifesto, I had to dip my hand in. But then, she is a real, published writer, with a book out and another to come. She is my hero.
I've never been a snob about books, and will read any genre, any kind of book. That is mostly from shelving everything in a library. They passed through my hands, and I sifted through for anything that caught my eye. I cannot remember most of the books I've read, never bothered to remember authors until long after I'd read massive booktrucks worth. And yet, each one laid a layer of story onto my mind, added a facet to my life. Now, I can barely make myself read, even the ones I've read over and over. The ones I love. As I try to learn to write a novel.
The books I love, and have loved, have all had characters that I wanted to spend even more time with. Winnie the Pooh, Encyclopedia Brown, Ramona, Miss Marple, George Smiley, Cordelia Naismith, Granny Weatherwax, Bilbo Baggins, Philip Marlowe, Ford Prefect, Lord Peter Whimsey, others whose names are lost, but I would welcome them back into my life gladly. Idiots, the self obsessed, the utterly selfish, cheaters, liars, the mean and petty, are fine for conflict, but I don't want to feel obliged to like them, to spend too much time with them, not have them as the main character. I won't. Flawed, yes. Misguided or inexperienced, certainly. But if they gain no wisdom, and persist in blindness and stupidity, betrayal and greed, cruelty and violence, I want my time back. I know this is not what real life often dishes out, but this is why I want those stories, to hope on, to aspire to, to live for. I don't need shocking controversy, lurid intrigue and dangerous sex. I want humanity, and most folks doing the best they can with what they have.
The books I love have humor, even in the darkest moments. Le Carre makes me laugh out loud in the midst of disaster, "Jesus Christ only had twelve, and one of them was a double." Turns of phrase that surprize and amuse. Thick in Pratchett's fine novels, thinner, but still visible in Jane Austin, Christopher Moore's raunchy raucous humor overshadows the uneven quality of his work, for me. I love a light touch, wit and a wry peek. I consider humor to be indispensable to intelligence or sanity, and humorless authors infuriate me. I have been known to inflict such grim books with violence against walls, at high speed and with extreme prejudice.
The books I love languish in language. Eva Figes writes poetry in prose form, John Mortimer's imagery, Tolkien's experiments in linguistics. Chandler couldn't plot, but such twisty, funny verbiage, oh I forgive him much for that. I have tried to read authors with journalistic simpleness, and always feel manhandled, bored and angry at their dull cliches. I lose interest in their story, because they don't bother to search for better words to tell it with. More words, re-woven into new cloth, or spare words perfectly chosen and stark against a faint wash. It's not the style, but the intention, and attention. Lao Tsu's few words carry the whole world lightly.
The books I love teach me, challenge me, force me to see life from a different viewpoint. The Death of Attila by Cecelia Holland (one of those workhorse authors) opened my eyes to another realm. Ok, yes, there was some sex. But her very commercial historical romances caught my interest in history and the wider world. Grendel by John Gardener, all the Curdie books, Robinson Crusoe, Gabriel Garcia Marquez - all, The Trumpeter of Krakow, Bury Me Standing, Watership Down. Every book that asks more of me, expects me to think and see through other eyes, has changed how I look at the world.
The books I love end well. I read one, very enjoyable most of the way through, until the end. Which was stupid and wrong, shocking, but wrong. But then, Frank Herbert never could end a story, and Soul Catcher was my first hated book. I swore to never read another by him, and I never did. I got roped into watching the movie Dune, and I regret it to this day. On the other hand, Stephen King wrote Cujo, a plotted series of dominos that lead to the same ending, the death of a young boy, but it could not have ended any other way. I don't need a happy ending, but the right one, or at least a hopeful one. I object to authors murdering characters to get out of a bad plotline, but I have no issue with characters dying as an inevitable consequence of the story. It's a matter of internal consistency. I want most of the threads untangled, though no contrived miracles, and a few mysteries left over is the linger of a pleasant aftertaste.
What do I promise my readers? What can I promise? Less than I would like to offer.
I can endeavor to write characters that fascinate, but who are warm and human, and striving to live well. I want a light touch, a smile, a laugh, trusting my own amusement will leak through. I search for the right word, the evocative phrase, the subtlety of not spelling everything out - in triplicate, trusting to reader's intelligence. I can only offer my own experience, which is different enough from most people to qualify, I hope. I work hard to make the story whole, and end hopefully, and with a sense of rightness and completion, without gluing down every line.
I have not gotten the grasp of any of this, but I can just about touch it.
More editing in March.
I've never been a snob about books, and will read any genre, any kind of book. That is mostly from shelving everything in a library. They passed through my hands, and I sifted through for anything that caught my eye. I cannot remember most of the books I've read, never bothered to remember authors until long after I'd read massive booktrucks worth. And yet, each one laid a layer of story onto my mind, added a facet to my life. Now, I can barely make myself read, even the ones I've read over and over. The ones I love. As I try to learn to write a novel.
The books I love, and have loved, have all had characters that I wanted to spend even more time with. Winnie the Pooh, Encyclopedia Brown, Ramona, Miss Marple, George Smiley, Cordelia Naismith, Granny Weatherwax, Bilbo Baggins, Philip Marlowe, Ford Prefect, Lord Peter Whimsey, others whose names are lost, but I would welcome them back into my life gladly. Idiots, the self obsessed, the utterly selfish, cheaters, liars, the mean and petty, are fine for conflict, but I don't want to feel obliged to like them, to spend too much time with them, not have them as the main character. I won't. Flawed, yes. Misguided or inexperienced, certainly. But if they gain no wisdom, and persist in blindness and stupidity, betrayal and greed, cruelty and violence, I want my time back. I know this is not what real life often dishes out, but this is why I want those stories, to hope on, to aspire to, to live for. I don't need shocking controversy, lurid intrigue and dangerous sex. I want humanity, and most folks doing the best they can with what they have.
The books I love have humor, even in the darkest moments. Le Carre makes me laugh out loud in the midst of disaster, "Jesus Christ only had twelve, and one of them was a double." Turns of phrase that surprize and amuse. Thick in Pratchett's fine novels, thinner, but still visible in Jane Austin, Christopher Moore's raunchy raucous humor overshadows the uneven quality of his work, for me. I love a light touch, wit and a wry peek. I consider humor to be indispensable to intelligence or sanity, and humorless authors infuriate me. I have been known to inflict such grim books with violence against walls, at high speed and with extreme prejudice.
The books I love languish in language. Eva Figes writes poetry in prose form, John Mortimer's imagery, Tolkien's experiments in linguistics. Chandler couldn't plot, but such twisty, funny verbiage, oh I forgive him much for that. I have tried to read authors with journalistic simpleness, and always feel manhandled, bored and angry at their dull cliches. I lose interest in their story, because they don't bother to search for better words to tell it with. More words, re-woven into new cloth, or spare words perfectly chosen and stark against a faint wash. It's not the style, but the intention, and attention. Lao Tsu's few words carry the whole world lightly.
The books I love teach me, challenge me, force me to see life from a different viewpoint. The Death of Attila by Cecelia Holland (one of those workhorse authors) opened my eyes to another realm. Ok, yes, there was some sex. But her very commercial historical romances caught my interest in history and the wider world. Grendel by John Gardener, all the Curdie books, Robinson Crusoe, Gabriel Garcia Marquez - all, The Trumpeter of Krakow, Bury Me Standing, Watership Down. Every book that asks more of me, expects me to think and see through other eyes, has changed how I look at the world.
The books I love end well. I read one, very enjoyable most of the way through, until the end. Which was stupid and wrong, shocking, but wrong. But then, Frank Herbert never could end a story, and Soul Catcher was my first hated book. I swore to never read another by him, and I never did. I got roped into watching the movie Dune, and I regret it to this day. On the other hand, Stephen King wrote Cujo, a plotted series of dominos that lead to the same ending, the death of a young boy, but it could not have ended any other way. I don't need a happy ending, but the right one, or at least a hopeful one. I object to authors murdering characters to get out of a bad plotline, but I have no issue with characters dying as an inevitable consequence of the story. It's a matter of internal consistency. I want most of the threads untangled, though no contrived miracles, and a few mysteries left over is the linger of a pleasant aftertaste.
What do I promise my readers? What can I promise? Less than I would like to offer.
I can endeavor to write characters that fascinate, but who are warm and human, and striving to live well. I want a light touch, a smile, a laugh, trusting my own amusement will leak through. I search for the right word, the evocative phrase, the subtlety of not spelling everything out - in triplicate, trusting to reader's intelligence. I can only offer my own experience, which is different enough from most people to qualify, I hope. I work hard to make the story whole, and end hopefully, and with a sense of rightness and completion, without gluing down every line.
I have not gotten the grasp of any of this, but I can just about touch it.
More editing in March.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Ankle
Moby is a poem of frustration. I dreamed as he kneaded my hip with sparkling claws that I picked him up to trim the needle ends, but got too sleepy, and let it go. He walked on my pelvis, painfully, and mrrrrk'd at me to get up and feed him, play with him, give him full kitty massage, but I slept on, heavy and human.
He has mewed more than ever all morning, though D fed him, but not quite as much wet smelly yummers as I usually do when I get up at five to trundle off to work by six. He has been carefully trained through intermittent reinforcement that one of us in the kitchen means better than kibble food. Happy kitchen activity. He knows he has to help That One, or The Other One to get the food down to him, a gentle paw reached up to pull the dish down to the floor. We occasionally get in his way, as he shepherds us to his due care and food.
As D was getting milk, Moby sang, to the tune Tainted Love (channelled through me.)
Sometimes I feel I've got to get you to, I've got to get you to to the kitchen and my food and the food you give to me Seems to go nowhere And I'm hungry now Though I walk on you, you just sleep at night (chorus) Now I run to you, stay right here and all this ankle love I'm giving I give you all a cat could give you Give me food yes just that food, in that dish there! Oh...ankle love, ankle love Now I know I've got to rub my head, and reach right up to you You really want to give more food to me open that fridge I need someone to open that can And I know love is being fed And I know that you love me that way. (chorus...) Just feed me please I cannot stand the way you tease I love you when feed me so Now I'm going to push you to the door Ankle love, ankle love Touch me if you want, but feed me too,I give you, ankle love..
Moby has now had a generous portion of lunch, and is sleeping happily, dreaming of chasing fluttering feathers.
He has mewed more than ever all morning, though D fed him, but not quite as much wet smelly yummers as I usually do when I get up at five to trundle off to work by six. He has been carefully trained through intermittent reinforcement that one of us in the kitchen means better than kibble food. Happy kitchen activity. He knows he has to help That One, or The Other One to get the food down to him, a gentle paw reached up to pull the dish down to the floor. We occasionally get in his way, as he shepherds us to his due care and food.
As D was getting milk, Moby sang, to the tune Tainted Love (channelled through me.)
Sometimes I feel I've got to get you to, I've got to get you to to the kitchen and my food and the food you give to me Seems to go nowhere And I'm hungry now Though I walk on you, you just sleep at night (chorus) Now I run to you, stay right here and all this ankle love I'm giving I give you all a cat could give you Give me food yes just that food, in that dish there! Oh...ankle love, ankle love Now I know I've got to rub my head, and reach right up to you You really want to give more food to me open that fridge I need someone to open that can And I know love is being fed And I know that you love me that way. (chorus...) Just feed me please I cannot stand the way you tease I love you when feed me so Now I'm going to push you to the door Ankle love, ankle love Touch me if you want, but feed me too,I give you, ankle love..
Moby has now had a generous portion of lunch, and is sleeping happily, dreaming of chasing fluttering feathers.
Panic
Alright, all over the blog medium there are those making a big joke of Boston's response to the mislaid ad campaign. The Boston Globe did a very thorough job of reporting both sides fairly. In other cities, the ads were in commercial areas, and were more easily seen close up. Not to mention that many of them are missing - perhaps not put up at all. Now being sold on Ebay. Nor is it widely reported that as these ads were found, they kept quiet, instead of calling the Boston Police and saying, "No, those are ours, just an ad campaign."
On one blog, the official response was likened to Mc Carthyism. Which is nonsensical, except tangentiallly to imply that Homeland Security is on a hunt for subversives, which it is. This was a safety response to suspicious devices on strategic, heavily trafficked areas.
And they were on bridges, hospitals, freeway supports. And noticed during the day, when the lights were not visible, and they were black boxes with tape and wires coming out. Seen from any distance, or from any angle but the front, they did indeed look like bombs
And, obviously, a bomb couldn't have an ad on it for camouflage. Had the cops just ignored it, and there had been a bomb... Maybe it was a little paranoid, but this is what we pay them to do, guard public safety, not "get the joke."
The guys hired to put them up are facing lesser charges, and I suspect will wind up on probation, or with suspended sentences. Turner Broadcasting is paying the costs - like if I did something stupid and needed wilderness rescue and was subsequently sent a bill.
The media got what it deserved, since generally doing a poor job of reporting it, and with a well deserved reputation for alarmism. Even so, those two guys really should have just shut their traps, instead of coming across as tools. Maybe it was funny on the other side of the country, other side of the world, out of context, but right here, not so much.
And, no, I wasn't thinking it was foreign terrorists. We grow our own violent nutjobs locally, abundantly, and that has nothing to do with Homeland Security (the Real New McCarthyism.)
Luke Helder and his plan to draw a Smiley Face across the US, in Bombs!
I went to a reinactment of the Boston Massacre last year, and was amazed and delighted, that they gave a fair account of the actions of the Redcoats. And the strong impression that the individual soldiers deserved to be exonerated - despite the colonists call for blood. Despite the lopsided version I was taught in school.
Go too far either side, and any argument falls apart. Only by fairly and thorougly presenting both sides is there any understanding. Given a clash of motives, public and private, beligerence, duty, expectation, and entitlement, it's amazing mass shootings don't happen more often.
Let's step back, gather evidence, think this through, refrain from ill placed mockery, pull back our claws, understand that nervous laughter is common, and not make any more enemies. Quit forcing and fighting.
On one blog, the official response was likened to Mc Carthyism. Which is nonsensical, except tangentiallly to imply that Homeland Security is on a hunt for subversives, which it is. This was a safety response to suspicious devices on strategic, heavily trafficked areas.
And they were on bridges, hospitals, freeway supports. And noticed during the day, when the lights were not visible, and they were black boxes with tape and wires coming out. Seen from any distance, or from any angle but the front, they did indeed look like bombs
And, obviously, a bomb couldn't have an ad on it for camouflage. Had the cops just ignored it, and there had been a bomb... Maybe it was a little paranoid, but this is what we pay them to do, guard public safety, not "get the joke."
The guys hired to put them up are facing lesser charges, and I suspect will wind up on probation, or with suspended sentences. Turner Broadcasting is paying the costs - like if I did something stupid and needed wilderness rescue and was subsequently sent a bill.
The media got what it deserved, since generally doing a poor job of reporting it, and with a well deserved reputation for alarmism. Even so, those two guys really should have just shut their traps, instead of coming across as tools. Maybe it was funny on the other side of the country, other side of the world, out of context, but right here, not so much.
And, no, I wasn't thinking it was foreign terrorists. We grow our own violent nutjobs locally, abundantly, and that has nothing to do with Homeland Security (the Real New McCarthyism.)
Luke Helder and his plan to draw a Smiley Face across the US, in Bombs!
I went to a reinactment of the Boston Massacre last year, and was amazed and delighted, that they gave a fair account of the actions of the Redcoats. And the strong impression that the individual soldiers deserved to be exonerated - despite the colonists call for blood. Despite the lopsided version I was taught in school.
Go too far either side, and any argument falls apart. Only by fairly and thorougly presenting both sides is there any understanding. Given a clash of motives, public and private, beligerence, duty, expectation, and entitlement, it's amazing mass shootings don't happen more often.
Let's step back, gather evidence, think this through, refrain from ill placed mockery, pull back our claws, understand that nervous laughter is common, and not make any more enemies. Quit forcing and fighting.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Blaze
Groundhog Day, then the Feast of St. Blaise, all in one week. Phew.
I've always rather liked Groundhog Day. My brother left for the Air Force on 2 February, I was 7. It made an impression. It was 1969, Vietnam War and all, he wound up in Thailand, fixing jets. I worried about losing him. Now, he is our parents' executor, and one day I will have to refuse whatever is left, if anything. Because despite being disowned, I am certain no documents have been changed, and, if there is anything, one third will be sent to me. I have been stewing about this today, and I don't know why.
Of course, if the Groundhog sees his shadow, that means six more weeks of winter, if he does not, then it's another month and a half.
Groundhog Day is one of those rare, perfect movies, that I can watch again and again (appropriately.) The premise could so easily have been tedious and awful, but was, instead, inspired. And Bill Murray's character, for all that he becomes kinder and more human, is still, at heart, in the end, a bit of a jerk. I read once that enlightenment doesn't solve our problems, is less comfortable, as we become more real. Opening one's eyes, and looking into one's soul to the bottom, is not heaven, not easy. Willful blindness, however, is fatal.
In the Catholic tradition is the blessing of throats on the Feast of St. Blaise, February 3rd. My mother always took me, and I knelt at the altar while the priest crossed those large cool candles across my neck, and fervently hoped this would help my sore throat. It was always a little disappointing that the candles were not lit. Not that I ever noticed any fewer infections, and I did get my tonsils out, but all day today, I wished I could have gotten my throat blessed. The new study suggesting that tonsillectomy has a protective effect on ADHD has had me thinking, perhaps blessings are indirect, and an extra infection or three got me my tonsils out, and may have helped my attentiveness.
Context, and viewpoint, as well as interpretation, define reality.
Now I imagine a Groundhog chasing me with two large candles.
I've always rather liked Groundhog Day. My brother left for the Air Force on 2 February, I was 7. It made an impression. It was 1969, Vietnam War and all, he wound up in Thailand, fixing jets. I worried about losing him. Now, he is our parents' executor, and one day I will have to refuse whatever is left, if anything. Because despite being disowned, I am certain no documents have been changed, and, if there is anything, one third will be sent to me. I have been stewing about this today, and I don't know why.
Of course, if the Groundhog sees his shadow, that means six more weeks of winter, if he does not, then it's another month and a half.
Groundhog Day is one of those rare, perfect movies, that I can watch again and again (appropriately.) The premise could so easily have been tedious and awful, but was, instead, inspired. And Bill Murray's character, for all that he becomes kinder and more human, is still, at heart, in the end, a bit of a jerk. I read once that enlightenment doesn't solve our problems, is less comfortable, as we become more real. Opening one's eyes, and looking into one's soul to the bottom, is not heaven, not easy. Willful blindness, however, is fatal.
In the Catholic tradition is the blessing of throats on the Feast of St. Blaise, February 3rd. My mother always took me, and I knelt at the altar while the priest crossed those large cool candles across my neck, and fervently hoped this would help my sore throat. It was always a little disappointing that the candles were not lit. Not that I ever noticed any fewer infections, and I did get my tonsils out, but all day today, I wished I could have gotten my throat blessed. The new study suggesting that tonsillectomy has a protective effect on ADHD has had me thinking, perhaps blessings are indirect, and an extra infection or three got me my tonsils out, and may have helped my attentiveness.
Context, and viewpoint, as well as interpretation, define reality.
Now I imagine a Groundhog chasing me with two large candles.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Paranoia (Guest Writer)
You may have heard about the hullabaloo here in Boston.
A friend, a real writer, in LA, wrote this response, which with his permission I want to share with you here.
Michael Shields
Boston VS LA
So I noticed today that the Boston authorities were getting a lot of flak for a Lite-Brite inspired bomb scare that had everyone freaked out for a while, and thought I'd share something that happened here as an illustration that no matter how bad things are, they could always be worse...
A subway was shut down all day in Los Angeles recently because some homeless guy spilled mercury on the platform. He found the mercury in an industrial dumpster, and kept it because he thought it was 'neat.' And who can blame him? It is neat. Sadly, mercury is toxic as well as shiny. I mean, it's not going to ooze together into a cyborg killer from the future and destroy us all, but you wouldn't want to lick it or anything.
But here's where LA demonstrates that it can be completely incompetent in two entirely opposite ways in one night! Mercury Guy calls MTA and reports that he spilled mercury on the platform at 11pm, and the dispatcher was all 'sure, thanks, we'll get right on that' but he didn't report it and it was there all night, with people steppin' in it with their bunny slippers and poking the puddle with sticks and stuff.
Finally during the morning commute someone thought that mercury was acting suspicious and called 911. The cops found two janitors trying to clean up the mercury puddle with a mop (I bet that looked funny) and it was time for a TERRAR ALERT! They shut down the whole subway, and there was a manhunt for the Mercury Guy that lasted several days, until he finally read about it in the newspaper and helpfully turned himself in. Wouldn't that be weird to be the subject of a huge manhunt and not have any idea they were looking for you? They could be looking for you RIGHT NOW.
But anyway, the point here is that absolutely no one (that we know of) was hurt, which frankly, kind of amazes me, but THEY COULDA BEEN! So, in the future if you happen to spill meth lab chemicals or bomb supplies or somethin' sticky in a public place, when you call it in (before or after running like hell) you should probably explain WHY this is a problem to whomever answers the phone, in case he's drunk or watching TV or something. And if there are any terrorists reading this, don't get any bright ideas! Sure, some homeless guy off his meds may have outsmarted the City of Los Angeles accidentally this time, but we won't be fooled so easily next time! Because...because I said so!
A friend, a real writer, in LA, wrote this response, which with his permission I want to share with you here.
Michael Shields
Boston VS LA
So I noticed today that the Boston authorities were getting a lot of flak for a Lite-Brite inspired bomb scare that had everyone freaked out for a while, and thought I'd share something that happened here as an illustration that no matter how bad things are, they could always be worse...
A subway was shut down all day in Los Angeles recently because some homeless guy spilled mercury on the platform. He found the mercury in an industrial dumpster, and kept it because he thought it was 'neat.' And who can blame him? It is neat. Sadly, mercury is toxic as well as shiny. I mean, it's not going to ooze together into a cyborg killer from the future and destroy us all, but you wouldn't want to lick it or anything.
But here's where LA demonstrates that it can be completely incompetent in two entirely opposite ways in one night! Mercury Guy calls MTA and reports that he spilled mercury on the platform at 11pm, and the dispatcher was all 'sure, thanks, we'll get right on that' but he didn't report it and it was there all night, with people steppin' in it with their bunny slippers and poking the puddle with sticks and stuff.
Finally during the morning commute someone thought that mercury was acting suspicious and called 911. The cops found two janitors trying to clean up the mercury puddle with a mop (I bet that looked funny) and it was time for a TERRAR ALERT! They shut down the whole subway, and there was a manhunt for the Mercury Guy that lasted several days, until he finally read about it in the newspaper and helpfully turned himself in. Wouldn't that be weird to be the subject of a huge manhunt and not have any idea they were looking for you? They could be looking for you RIGHT NOW.
But anyway, the point here is that absolutely no one (that we know of) was hurt, which frankly, kind of amazes me, but THEY COULDA BEEN! So, in the future if you happen to spill meth lab chemicals or bomb supplies or somethin' sticky in a public place, when you call it in (before or after running like hell) you should probably explain WHY this is a problem to whomever answers the phone, in case he's drunk or watching TV or something. And if there are any terrorists reading this, don't get any bright ideas! Sure, some homeless guy off his meds may have outsmarted the City of Los Angeles accidentally this time, but we won't be fooled so easily next time! Because...because I said so!
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sick
I once had a GP tell me that I needed to be on anti-depressants, not something for anxiety, because I needed the right drug for her diagnosis, just like the right antibiotic for the right infection. I wondered how one cultures out depression, and which anti-depressants kill the depression bacterium.
Truth is, as often as I have been sad, miserable, despondent even, or how many times I have cried uncontrollably in front of doctors or managers or other authority figures, or as often as I have toyed with the idea of suicide, I don't think I have ever been truly depressed, as the diagnosis goes. I was on anti-depressants when I should have been getting divorced. I tried them again when a manager was following through with me on anonymous complaints against my attitude, while I was dealing with a back injury, and the death of my beloved aunt. (Prozac interfered with my fine motor skills, bad when I am passing a scalpel and suture needles.) What I was feeling, despite looking like a weepy limp tissue, was fury. What I felt, was actually, scared stiff.
Exercise always helps, though I often feel too knotted up to do what I need to do. When I was running, marching, not sleeping all through those eight weeks of Basic, I was miserable, but not depressed. Since needing to walk here without benefit of car, I have been more stable.
Alcohol is a depressant, but it also eases anxiety, used moderately. And since living here, I have used it as such. It started out as an experiment, and I continue it as functional. As with any drug, there is a risk, which I am wary of. But all in all, it does seem to help.
Mostly, I simply overreact to stress, internalize it, make myself sick over it. Well, when I was sick as a child, I was granted some respite when ill. It has taken me far longer to defuse that bomb than it took to build the mechanism. I still fight the impulse to hide in illness.
I always wonder, when I feel ill, if I am really sick, or if I am just coping out.
I'm never really sure.
Truth is, as often as I have been sad, miserable, despondent even, or how many times I have cried uncontrollably in front of doctors or managers or other authority figures, or as often as I have toyed with the idea of suicide, I don't think I have ever been truly depressed, as the diagnosis goes. I was on anti-depressants when I should have been getting divorced. I tried them again when a manager was following through with me on anonymous complaints against my attitude, while I was dealing with a back injury, and the death of my beloved aunt. (Prozac interfered with my fine motor skills, bad when I am passing a scalpel and suture needles.) What I was feeling, despite looking like a weepy limp tissue, was fury. What I felt, was actually, scared stiff.
Exercise always helps, though I often feel too knotted up to do what I need to do. When I was running, marching, not sleeping all through those eight weeks of Basic, I was miserable, but not depressed. Since needing to walk here without benefit of car, I have been more stable.
Alcohol is a depressant, but it also eases anxiety, used moderately. And since living here, I have used it as such. It started out as an experiment, and I continue it as functional. As with any drug, there is a risk, which I am wary of. But all in all, it does seem to help.
Mostly, I simply overreact to stress, internalize it, make myself sick over it. Well, when I was sick as a child, I was granted some respite when ill. It has taken me far longer to defuse that bomb than it took to build the mechanism. I still fight the impulse to hide in illness.
I always wonder, when I feel ill, if I am really sick, or if I am just coping out.
I'm never really sure.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Huge (Photo)
"Well, it was kind of harrowing, but it's over now. Moby got out and up a a tree. More onto a building, actually. It wasn't too difficult finding him, but it was a lot of work getting him down. Passers-by were understandably kind of freaked out. The Fire Department guys were kind of cranky about the whole thing. We got a picture while he was up there, though:" - D.
Now you can understand why we like to be so kind to Moby.
Click to see all the aberrant details. It's HUGE!
Friday, January 26, 2007
Soup
I join the throngs of uninspired writers this week. With aches and malaise that I really don't want to wax rhapsodic in righteous rant against. There is nothing lyrical about cold sores. Nothing indignation will ease. I just want sleep and soup.
Oh, well, the second thing the internet does well, recipes.
Cut up and brown hot dogs, I recommend Hebrew National, one of their sausages.
Boil water, and dissolve bullion, I like the vegetable Better Than Bouillon, but whatever you have works, in a soup bowl or very large mug.
Add cut up dogs to bullion, add a pinch of cayenne if you have a sore throat.
There, Hot Dog Soup. An accidentally found comfort food I invented a couple of years ago when I was ill a long time, with little appealing food in the house. I'm pooped. Going to lie down and sleep a long time.
Oh, well, the second thing the internet does well, recipes.
Cut up and brown hot dogs, I recommend Hebrew National, one of their sausages.
Boil water, and dissolve bullion, I like the vegetable Better Than Bouillon, but whatever you have works, in a soup bowl or very large mug.
Add cut up dogs to bullion, add a pinch of cayenne if you have a sore throat.
There, Hot Dog Soup. An accidentally found comfort food I invented a couple of years ago when I was ill a long time, with little appealing food in the house. I'm pooped. Going to lie down and sleep a long time.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Technical
My Uncle Walt used to include me in his informal speeches on aerodynamics, engineering, violins, ships, and hatred of metrics. Although I scarcely had the vocabulary to follow his explanations, I soaked up his words eagerly, feeling honored that he bestowed such knowledge on me, assuming I could actually understand him, and I tried to remember, and to ask intelligent questions. Which is why I knew about the Spruce Goose when I was seven. He gave me a cutting off his omnivorous curiosity, and I nurtured it in myself.
D loves guitar gear. He will go on about it. And even though I cannot play any instrument (no, not even zills, nor my simple dulcimer, I have tried, honestly) I know far more about guitars that I did 16 years ago. I pretend no expertise, I defer to D's deeper, more energetic knowledge. I love to listen in on technical discussions, and I do learn.
Many of our friends have computer science degrees, or work in the field, or both. I cannot thereby fix your computer issues, but I have learned not to fear the technology, and know to make sure everything is plugged in before calling IT. I feel no need to contribute to their litany of complaints, but I like the assumption that I am not one of THOSE users.
To me, when knowledgeable people speak to me as an equal, or at least as an interested and intelligent person, I am honored that they consider me worth their breath and effort to explain. I like when surgeons take the time to show me this interesting break or abnormality, or "This is the nerve root you were protecting..." I have a lot of the background to understand this, of course, but I am not a surgeon, and this is cool stuff.
Uncle Walt used to say he had just enough information to be dangerous in just about any subject. My prickly gift , and only inheritance I will see from any of my family, was from my erstwhile Fairygodfather. I like to think he would laugh, and nod sardonically.
Though he probably would not forgive me for liking the whole metric system.
D loves guitar gear. He will go on about it. And even though I cannot play any instrument (no, not even zills, nor my simple dulcimer, I have tried, honestly) I know far more about guitars that I did 16 years ago. I pretend no expertise, I defer to D's deeper, more energetic knowledge. I love to listen in on technical discussions, and I do learn.
Many of our friends have computer science degrees, or work in the field, or both. I cannot thereby fix your computer issues, but I have learned not to fear the technology, and know to make sure everything is plugged in before calling IT. I feel no need to contribute to their litany of complaints, but I like the assumption that I am not one of THOSE users.
To me, when knowledgeable people speak to me as an equal, or at least as an interested and intelligent person, I am honored that they consider me worth their breath and effort to explain. I like when surgeons take the time to show me this interesting break or abnormality, or "This is the nerve root you were protecting..." I have a lot of the background to understand this, of course, but I am not a surgeon, and this is cool stuff.
Uncle Walt used to say he had just enough information to be dangerous in just about any subject. My prickly gift , and only inheritance I will see from any of my family, was from my erstwhile Fairygodfather. I like to think he would laugh, and nod sardonically.
Though he probably would not forgive me for liking the whole metric system.
Cling
LJ reminds me to let go of my symbols.
I rather think I need to hold on to a few.
At some period of my childhood, I collected the TV Guide covers, the only magazine in our house. I suspect there was one marked, pretentiously "Collectors Edition!" And I clung to it. I taped them up on the slanting wall of my room, for a couple of years, Lucy, and the cast of Barney Miller, and every Season Preview! Until, one day, for reasons I can no longer recall, my interest waned, and I decided this was unutterably lame, and ripped them all down, threw them away. I believe I kept a few, for a while, then tossed them, as shabby and pointless, as well.
I wore my mother's (resized) baby ring until I wore a wedding ring. That pretty gold band I kept past the divorce, in my purse, which was stolen, and then I regretted not pawning it for a few useful dollars. The silver band D gave me for our marriage, with Kokopelli dancing, I accidentally threw away. Asked to scrub in to hold retractor, I became ill, and had to rush out, and home. Only after I got home did I realize my ring was gone, in the pocket of the scrub top, never to be found. I found a little silver ring this past week at our hotel gift shop, and wear it as a gift from D, but I know it has a good chance of being lost before too long.
I look at my possessions, and know I must denude my life again. As before, I intend to keep the old, eclectic collection of christmas tree ornaments, treasured images entrusted to pine trees, packed in tissues in a potato chip barrel, family leftovers, old neighborhood ladies donations to the only family in the street with children, a glass lantern that once lit up, that belonged to Granny. Now in a salvaged kitty litter plastic tub. They feel like a trust to pass on again. I keep some of my pottery work, a wooden child's chair from the Windsor School District (remaindered, rescued by Uncle Ernie.) Single items from various phases of my life. The dulcimer that needs to be tuned, that I do not play. A carved wooden chest that I have often considered selling, but D likes it, and the small drawers hold items we don't want to lose. The treasures that survived the Ex. And what I missed, what I grieved? Recipes and photos.
I once shaved my hair off, as a long treasured curiosity, for the practical reason that I was so deeply stressed by my newish job and D's shattered arm, that hair was one less thing to worry about. After a few years, I went through the annoyingly long and irritatingly ratty process of growing it out a bit, the only reason I have not buzzed my head more often. I was shocked at how many women told me "OH, I could NEVER do THAT!" I assured them it was quite easy, although the re-grow phase was a bit difficult. I had to give up my image of myself with dark chestnut hair, as I dyed the grey black as the next best choice. Now I ease myself to a new reality, with temporary brown until there is enough grey to be transformed again.
My face changes, showing mom and aunts, in my mirror every day. I find not vanity, but a kind of mesmerism in my photobooth images, as you may have noticed. A kind of miracle I still have my breath. After almost losing that, and knowing that it will be asked of me again, one day, I find I can do that. Hurts, grievously, achingly, but, I can. We all can. Certainly prefer not to, but we can. We can discard all our possessions, shave our heads, walk naked into the world, and find we still exist, with more left than our greedy selves can imagine.
And if, tomorrow, all I had burned to the ground, and I was left standing in my pyjamas, holding Moby, D holding me, I would grieve. Lift my shoulder, drop a few tears, and replace all my ID, again, and start all over, again. All a matter of practice, I think.
I rather think I need to hold on to a few.
At some period of my childhood, I collected the TV Guide covers, the only magazine in our house. I suspect there was one marked, pretentiously "Collectors Edition!" And I clung to it. I taped them up on the slanting wall of my room, for a couple of years, Lucy, and the cast of Barney Miller, and every Season Preview! Until, one day, for reasons I can no longer recall, my interest waned, and I decided this was unutterably lame, and ripped them all down, threw them away. I believe I kept a few, for a while, then tossed them, as shabby and pointless, as well.
I wore my mother's (resized) baby ring until I wore a wedding ring. That pretty gold band I kept past the divorce, in my purse, which was stolen, and then I regretted not pawning it for a few useful dollars. The silver band D gave me for our marriage, with Kokopelli dancing, I accidentally threw away. Asked to scrub in to hold retractor, I became ill, and had to rush out, and home. Only after I got home did I realize my ring was gone, in the pocket of the scrub top, never to be found. I found a little silver ring this past week at our hotel gift shop, and wear it as a gift from D, but I know it has a good chance of being lost before too long.
I look at my possessions, and know I must denude my life again. As before, I intend to keep the old, eclectic collection of christmas tree ornaments, treasured images entrusted to pine trees, packed in tissues in a potato chip barrel, family leftovers, old neighborhood ladies donations to the only family in the street with children, a glass lantern that once lit up, that belonged to Granny. Now in a salvaged kitty litter plastic tub. They feel like a trust to pass on again. I keep some of my pottery work, a wooden child's chair from the Windsor School District (remaindered, rescued by Uncle Ernie.) Single items from various phases of my life. The dulcimer that needs to be tuned, that I do not play. A carved wooden chest that I have often considered selling, but D likes it, and the small drawers hold items we don't want to lose. The treasures that survived the Ex. And what I missed, what I grieved? Recipes and photos.
I once shaved my hair off, as a long treasured curiosity, for the practical reason that I was so deeply stressed by my newish job and D's shattered arm, that hair was one less thing to worry about. After a few years, I went through the annoyingly long and irritatingly ratty process of growing it out a bit, the only reason I have not buzzed my head more often. I was shocked at how many women told me "OH, I could NEVER do THAT!" I assured them it was quite easy, although the re-grow phase was a bit difficult. I had to give up my image of myself with dark chestnut hair, as I dyed the grey black as the next best choice. Now I ease myself to a new reality, with temporary brown until there is enough grey to be transformed again.
My face changes, showing mom and aunts, in my mirror every day. I find not vanity, but a kind of mesmerism in my photobooth images, as you may have noticed. A kind of miracle I still have my breath. After almost losing that, and knowing that it will be asked of me again, one day, I find I can do that. Hurts, grievously, achingly, but, I can. We all can. Certainly prefer not to, but we can. We can discard all our possessions, shave our heads, walk naked into the world, and find we still exist, with more left than our greedy selves can imagine.
And if, tomorrow, all I had burned to the ground, and I was left standing in my pyjamas, holding Moby, D holding me, I would grieve. Lift my shoulder, drop a few tears, and replace all my ID, again, and start all over, again. All a matter of practice, I think.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Iguana (Photo)
Decor from the lovely and wonderful Red Iguana, again. Gotta love that black velvet, with little lights in.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Easy
My father was impossible to please. Though my mother, for her own peace, certainly tried. I can only suspect, that, given constant negative feedback for large or small effort, she put as little energy into her efforts as possible. Especially over time, as her good will eroded over decades of derision and snide disappreciation. This was evident in her cooking, which elicited much scorn from him. Perhaps she was never much of a cook, but his criticism certainly degraded her inspiration.
I thought about this, growing up there. Needing to perfectly iron white cotton handkerchiefs, lest his fellow factory workers look down at him for having a few wrinkles in his snot rag, ill-ironed by his ungrateful daughter. Or if I did not shine his shoes, worn black leather, huge in my small hands, to his unattainable satisfaction, both to be worn to work, removed and re donned after, or for Sunday mass. My resentment for him grew each time I had to put a hand in his shoe to buff it to some kind of shine.
I have met many unpleaseable people since. No surprize that some have been surgeons, though less than you might imagine. Beyond high maintenance, these surgeons snip and snarl, yell and throw instruments, and no effort is appreciated. An occasional thank you is treated as an ironic miracle, not genuine gratitude. One of which, Dr. Evil shall we say, sounded out "hurryhurryhurry!" as a regular cry of exasperation at the careless incompetence of all the idiots around him. I once confronted him.
"You know, when you say that, it actually slows us down." I said to him, quietly.
His reply, "I know," in a quiet, self satisfied admission of manipulation, told me much.
Likewise, scrub techs who, upon returning from lunch, snort derision, and shuffle items around, as the person who set up, tries to defend their own organization, and finally just breaks scrub, leaving the other to fall into ignorance pits. Or, when asked to assist that person, will do the absolute minimum. Hard not to. I worked just as hard for the difficult as the easy, for the sake of my patients, but the difficult stole more of my energy, adding chaos and distraction.
And then, there are those surgeons who want what they need, but when that isn't available, make do. Flexibility and imagination as a fortification of their intelligence, they say "That'll do" or "I can make this work." even if the reason the item is not there is purely their circulator's error. And with them, we try harder. I worked regularly with two of this temperament. I strove to have everything imaginable ready for them, went to great effort to make their lives in the OR easier, because they made it worthwhile. They did not criticize - only instructed, when I failed, and gave generously of their praise when all went well. My work meant not only good outcomes for my patients, but acknowledgment of my competence, with better effect with less effort over time. There was a kind of joy, as in a shared burden, gladly borne.
D is easy. Oh, he apologizes for his lack of attention, messiness, mental absences, or being a bother. I don't mind any of that, I find it endearing, because he is grateful, and is so obviously pleased with whatever I do. There was a time when he was happy that I had frozen burritos available, and he gladly nuked them himself. (He's trying to eat better now, or I'm sure he still would be perfectly pleased.) He would no more think to criticize my housecleaning deficits than he would expect to suddenly even begin noticing that vacuuming needs to happen. He is constantly surprized and glad when I make dinner, or bring him home some needful gift.
"Oh, thank you so much. You're wonderful, you know." He tells me, with all his heart.
So, when I thank him for running the dishwasher, or doing laundry, I get "Well, it's only fair." I try to express my appreciation sufficiently, generously. He is better at it than I am. I am learning.
It's one of those nameless virtues, because it is not just gratitude. It is a talent for being happy, for being pleased in a way that returns the pleasure to the giver. A grace of making the most mandatory work a freely given gift, turning a chore into a fountain of bounteous plenty. And yet, I begin to think having both high standards, and being easy to please is a true path to a good life, and real happiness.
I struggle to learn this.
I thought about this, growing up there. Needing to perfectly iron white cotton handkerchiefs, lest his fellow factory workers look down at him for having a few wrinkles in his snot rag, ill-ironed by his ungrateful daughter. Or if I did not shine his shoes, worn black leather, huge in my small hands, to his unattainable satisfaction, both to be worn to work, removed and re donned after, or for Sunday mass. My resentment for him grew each time I had to put a hand in his shoe to buff it to some kind of shine.
I have met many unpleaseable people since. No surprize that some have been surgeons, though less than you might imagine. Beyond high maintenance, these surgeons snip and snarl, yell and throw instruments, and no effort is appreciated. An occasional thank you is treated as an ironic miracle, not genuine gratitude. One of which, Dr. Evil shall we say, sounded out "hurryhurryhurry!" as a regular cry of exasperation at the careless incompetence of all the idiots around him. I once confronted him.
"You know, when you say that, it actually slows us down." I said to him, quietly.
His reply, "I know," in a quiet, self satisfied admission of manipulation, told me much.
Likewise, scrub techs who, upon returning from lunch, snort derision, and shuffle items around, as the person who set up, tries to defend their own organization, and finally just breaks scrub, leaving the other to fall into ignorance pits. Or, when asked to assist that person, will do the absolute minimum. Hard not to. I worked just as hard for the difficult as the easy, for the sake of my patients, but the difficult stole more of my energy, adding chaos and distraction.
And then, there are those surgeons who want what they need, but when that isn't available, make do. Flexibility and imagination as a fortification of their intelligence, they say "That'll do" or "I can make this work." even if the reason the item is not there is purely their circulator's error. And with them, we try harder. I worked regularly with two of this temperament. I strove to have everything imaginable ready for them, went to great effort to make their lives in the OR easier, because they made it worthwhile. They did not criticize - only instructed, when I failed, and gave generously of their praise when all went well. My work meant not only good outcomes for my patients, but acknowledgment of my competence, with better effect with less effort over time. There was a kind of joy, as in a shared burden, gladly borne.
D is easy. Oh, he apologizes for his lack of attention, messiness, mental absences, or being a bother. I don't mind any of that, I find it endearing, because he is grateful, and is so obviously pleased with whatever I do. There was a time when he was happy that I had frozen burritos available, and he gladly nuked them himself. (He's trying to eat better now, or I'm sure he still would be perfectly pleased.) He would no more think to criticize my housecleaning deficits than he would expect to suddenly even begin noticing that vacuuming needs to happen. He is constantly surprized and glad when I make dinner, or bring him home some needful gift.
"Oh, thank you so much. You're wonderful, you know." He tells me, with all his heart.
So, when I thank him for running the dishwasher, or doing laundry, I get "Well, it's only fair." I try to express my appreciation sufficiently, generously. He is better at it than I am. I am learning.
It's one of those nameless virtues, because it is not just gratitude. It is a talent for being happy, for being pleased in a way that returns the pleasure to the giver. A grace of making the most mandatory work a freely given gift, turning a chore into a fountain of bounteous plenty. And yet, I begin to think having both high standards, and being easy to please is a true path to a good life, and real happiness.
I struggle to learn this.
Head (Photo)
There is a story that the reason the Monkee's movie was named Head, was so that, when they made a sequal, they could advertise... "From the people who gave you Head!"
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Songs (List)
Airplanes are increasingly miserable places to be. The discomfort becomes nearly unbearable after a while. I lost it waiting in the airport, and had to find a place on the floor to lie on my coat, and put D's over me, and shut my eyes and slept a while. D's happened on the plane out of Denver. And I was so glad for the christmas bonus five years ago that afforded the ipod. D played the "21 songs that can make me happy, even on a plane." Here they are.
Maine -- John Linnell
I Wanted To Be Alone -- Sam Phillips
Who Do You Love? -- Bo Diddley
I Fought the Law -- The Clash
I Can't Be Satisfied -- Muddy Waters
Jeanette -- The English Beat
Ouvre ton coeur -- Cecilia Bartoli
Holly Like Ivy -- Pete Townshend
After Midnight -- J.J. Cale
Werewolves Of London -- Warren Zevon
Another Thing Goin' -- Jill Sobule & The Brian Woodbury Songbook
Save it For Later -- The English Beat
Rock the Casbah -- The Clash
Holding On To The Earth (New Version) -- Sam Phillips
She's Lost Control -- Joy Division
Hava Nagila -- Dick Dale
Dreaming From The Waist -- The Who
Pablo Picasso -- The Modern Lovers
As he shared many of them with me, tethered by podline, we danced in our tiny space, sitting down, and life got a little better. Our musical tastes are not identical, but I deeply admire his. Unlike one person on PostSecret this week ( "Sorry honey, I hate your taste in music." . ) I also did all four sudoku in the online mag. Well, I was not going to enjoy the movie with Kevin "Waterworld" Costner.
Maine -- John Linnell
I Wanted To Be Alone -- Sam Phillips
Who Do You Love? -- Bo Diddley
I Fought the Law -- The Clash
I Can't Be Satisfied -- Muddy Waters
Jeanette -- The English Beat
Ouvre ton coeur -- Cecilia Bartoli
Holly Like Ivy -- Pete Townshend
After Midnight -- J.J. Cale
Werewolves Of London -- Warren Zevon
Another Thing Goin' -- Jill Sobule & The Brian Woodbury Songbook
Save it For Later -- The English Beat
Rock the Casbah -- The Clash
Holding On To The Earth (New Version) -- Sam Phillips
She's Lost Control -- Joy Division
Hava Nagila -- Dick Dale
Dreaming From The Waist -- The Who
Pablo Picasso -- The Modern Lovers
As he shared many of them with me, tethered by podline, we danced in our tiny space, sitting down, and life got a little better. Our musical tastes are not identical, but I deeply admire his. Unlike one person on PostSecret this week ( "Sorry honey, I hate your taste in music." . ) I also did all four sudoku in the online mag. Well, I was not going to enjoy the movie with Kevin "Waterworld" Costner.
Home
We got back from our visit to Salt Lake, our old home. The place was far less strange, even with the changes, than we expected. But the point, and the need, was to see our friends. And they came through, as they have so often before, to fortify us for the coming change, and the unsweetened end of this phase of our life. Talking with such kind, amazing, smart funny people, who we love so dearly, soothed our loneliness, and gave us hope. Never has such a dry, cold place (Temps in single (F) digits) been so warm and welcoming.
If it hadn't been for Moby waiting for us, I would have wanted to stay another week. But we watched him, mostly sleeping, on the Mobycam, and worried.
Now, for the unpaid commercial message. Boston Felines, our beloved cat sitters. They came in our apartment, to feed and reassure Moby. And when we got home, there was a little decorative chinese food box with small, but really good cat toys. A note that said.
"Moby was a treat to care for. Thank you for the opportunity. We hope to have the privilege again soon."
And progress notes any nurse would be proud of (with the addition of being spelled properly) with little check boxes for Fed, Fresh water, Appetite, Litter scooped, litter changed, pooped, peed, medication given, treats, brushed, play/petting, hiding newspapers, mail, plants watered, security check, and for us Filled humidifier. Also, a printed note, urging us to call at any time, when we got in, and leave a message to say we are home. Partly, of course, so they don't come back if we got home early, but also, if they are needed for another day, they could schedule another visit. Thorough and professional and kind.
~
Thursday afternoon
Fed X, Fresh water X,
Filled humidifier X
Play/petting X
Appetite - very good.
Moby met me at the door. He was anxious to eat and then retired to the bed. There he enjoyed some pets. He's doing well today.
Friday Morning
Appetite - Very good, wet food gone.
Moby is most interested in his food and bathing on his throne (the stool with blankets where he often sits -z.) this time. He has no interest in playing or teeth brushing. He'd going alright. All's well.
Friday Evening.
Appetite - Moby enjoyed his dinner and then went under his throne to clean himself. He's not being social tonight. : (
Saturday Morning
Appetite - Good appetite.
Moby was happy to get a few pets, then his breakfast. After eating his can, he went under the chair. I tried to play with him, but he was really not in a playful mood. He is a sweet boy!
Saturday Evening.
Appetite - Good.
Moby is not too interested in our visit. He rec'd fresh can and didn't go near it during our visit. He just hung out as we tried to tempt him with toys etc. All is well.
Sunday Morning.
Appetite - Good.
Moby is in a great mood this morning. He's not into play or food, just pets. He's doing well and I'm sure he looks forward to seeing his mom & dad.
~
I'll give them the "mom & dad", although we don't think of ourselves as his parents. More like good friends, respectful roommates, despite the somewhat dependent role of his being an indoor cat. His feelings about our homecoming were a bit mixed, but he gradually settled to us again. Our coming home at midnight (a couple hours later than planned) may have added to our disorientation.
Home is not a place, but the people in it. Even if one of them is a cat people.
All is well. Or else we are working on it.
If it hadn't been for Moby waiting for us, I would have wanted to stay another week. But we watched him, mostly sleeping, on the Mobycam, and worried.
Now, for the unpaid commercial message. Boston Felines, our beloved cat sitters. They came in our apartment, to feed and reassure Moby. And when we got home, there was a little decorative chinese food box with small, but really good cat toys. A note that said.
"Moby was a treat to care for. Thank you for the opportunity. We hope to have the privilege again soon."
And progress notes any nurse would be proud of (with the addition of being spelled properly) with little check boxes for Fed, Fresh water, Appetite, Litter scooped, litter changed, pooped, peed, medication given, treats, brushed, play/petting, hiding newspapers, mail, plants watered, security check, and for us Filled humidifier. Also, a printed note, urging us to call at any time, when we got in, and leave a message to say we are home. Partly, of course, so they don't come back if we got home early, but also, if they are needed for another day, they could schedule another visit. Thorough and professional and kind.
~
Thursday afternoon
Fed X, Fresh water X,
Filled humidifier X
Play/petting X
Appetite - very good.
Moby met me at the door. He was anxious to eat and then retired to the bed. There he enjoyed some pets. He's doing well today.
Friday Morning
Appetite - Very good, wet food gone.
Moby is most interested in his food and bathing on his throne (the stool with blankets where he often sits -z.) this time. He has no interest in playing or teeth brushing. He'd going alright. All's well.
Friday Evening.
Appetite - Moby enjoyed his dinner and then went under his throne to clean himself. He's not being social tonight. : (
Saturday Morning
Appetite - Good appetite.
Moby was happy to get a few pets, then his breakfast. After eating his can, he went under the chair. I tried to play with him, but he was really not in a playful mood. He is a sweet boy!
Saturday Evening.
Appetite - Good.
Moby is not too interested in our visit. He rec'd fresh can and didn't go near it during our visit. He just hung out as we tried to tempt him with toys etc. All is well.
Sunday Morning.
Appetite - Good.
Moby is in a great mood this morning. He's not into play or food, just pets. He's doing well and I'm sure he looks forward to seeing his mom & dad.
~
I'll give them the "mom & dad", although we don't think of ourselves as his parents. More like good friends, respectful roommates, despite the somewhat dependent role of his being an indoor cat. His feelings about our homecoming were a bit mixed, but he gradually settled to us again. Our coming home at midnight (a couple hours later than planned) may have added to our disorientation.
Home is not a place, but the people in it. Even if one of them is a cat people.
All is well. Or else we are working on it.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Enroute
I sit here on the floor, more stretched out than is possible on those horrible bolted down seats, staring out at the snowy tarmacscape, the gangway, the trucks and men in winter overalls, yellow lights and white sky. My bags are within arm's reach. I just ate a large pretzel and water from a 7-Up bottle, and a bit of D's sandwich. I feel the anxiety shadows that have built up here over the last month, and add my own. I want to be home. Time has dilated, though I have taken no mind alterning substances. Just OTC pain relievers.
And why did I put myself through this?
For friends. For connection and understanding and warmth. For rolling conversations that soothed and healed my worried mind. We feared we might have gone too long, but our beloved friends welcomed us back, and let us ramble on at them, and shared themselves as generously as always. Hugs made all absolutely worth the trouble.
I still want a teleporter.
And why did I put myself through this?
For friends. For connection and understanding and warmth. For rolling conversations that soothed and healed my worried mind. We feared we might have gone too long, but our beloved friends welcomed us back, and let us ramble on at them, and shared themselves as generously as always. Hugs made all absolutely worth the trouble.
I still want a teleporter.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Nose (Photo)
Who am I?
The sum of my genetics and experience and biological development.
The resonances of souls touched or sensed.
Memories of contacts and lessons, memories of future backwashing around.
The anxieties of this society, in this moment, and the individuals within.
My inherent personality, humor, capacity for insight, intelligence, love, imagination.
This breath in, out, in.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Why
Why do I do this? Why do I bare my heart and spill it all out all over the world?
"The less said, the better." Said my mother. Often. I obediently, and prudently, closed my mouth. I listened. Closely. With intent.
I was an only child in the neighborhood, the youngest child by a decade - so, in effect, I grew up alone. I talked to myself, to entertain myself, to practice for social situations - not successfully. I lived my life inside myself, my only refuge, my only psychic safe place. But, damn, I was lonely. I had no illusions about the reality of my imaginary friends, nor my poor aptitude for making real friends. Books were a great solace, so I read a great deal, omnivorously. I daydreamed, always peopled my inner world richly.
All my life, even as a child, others have taken me aside, and told me secrets. I listened. Sometimes I judged, usually not letting them know I disapproved, because I wanted to hear more stories. Not that they sought me out for friendship, only a listening ear, a stranger to bounce their anxieties on, a safe confessional without comment, and without any need for absolution. And I kept their confidences. Even after they did not.
In my work, I know intimate details of other's lives, I know more than their own families, in one narrow view. I listen, and do not overshare my own stories. A mention, to elicit more from them, but always aware that, it is all about them, right then.
So, when I come home, I babble. Not breaking confidences, but to iron out the puzzled creases.
I started these essays to tell my stories to a friend, whom I did not wish to bore. And what you see, what she saw, was the trail of how my mind works. This is the shape of my brain, the curls and meanders, the sights I have seen, the realizations I have stumbled over.
All those who come and read are welcome, to whatever they can glean. But, I write this for Moira. And when I know she isn't reading, is "turtling", I tend to write less, here, and send her juicy emails directly, to spur her to write back. I write very much to her taste, to entertain her, to shock and amuse her. She has very good taste.
The writing has taken on a life of it's own, and beckons me on, with the promise of another tale. I cannot be silent, refuse to shut up. The more said, the better.
"The less said, the better." Said my mother. Often. I obediently, and prudently, closed my mouth. I listened. Closely. With intent.
I was an only child in the neighborhood, the youngest child by a decade - so, in effect, I grew up alone. I talked to myself, to entertain myself, to practice for social situations - not successfully. I lived my life inside myself, my only refuge, my only psychic safe place. But, damn, I was lonely. I had no illusions about the reality of my imaginary friends, nor my poor aptitude for making real friends. Books were a great solace, so I read a great deal, omnivorously. I daydreamed, always peopled my inner world richly.
All my life, even as a child, others have taken me aside, and told me secrets. I listened. Sometimes I judged, usually not letting them know I disapproved, because I wanted to hear more stories. Not that they sought me out for friendship, only a listening ear, a stranger to bounce their anxieties on, a safe confessional without comment, and without any need for absolution. And I kept their confidences. Even after they did not.
In my work, I know intimate details of other's lives, I know more than their own families, in one narrow view. I listen, and do not overshare my own stories. A mention, to elicit more from them, but always aware that, it is all about them, right then.
So, when I come home, I babble. Not breaking confidences, but to iron out the puzzled creases.
I started these essays to tell my stories to a friend, whom I did not wish to bore. And what you see, what she saw, was the trail of how my mind works. This is the shape of my brain, the curls and meanders, the sights I have seen, the realizations I have stumbled over.
All those who come and read are welcome, to whatever they can glean. But, I write this for Moira. And when I know she isn't reading, is "turtling", I tend to write less, here, and send her juicy emails directly, to spur her to write back. I write very much to her taste, to entertain her, to shock and amuse her. She has very good taste.
The writing has taken on a life of it's own, and beckons me on, with the promise of another tale. I cannot be silent, refuse to shut up. The more said, the better.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Justice
With great intended compassion, this kind comment was made on a recent post,
"please don't say that you made this mess because of bad choices etc. sometimes one does not know any better and/or things get screwed up. The stupid patriarchy is to blame for for instance not making an escape possible without any help from outside...your inattentiveness or bad choice still not gave him the right to treat you this way..."
I lose nothing by taking responsibility for my own actions. Quite the opposite, I learn. I made this mess, it's my lesson, and I will not allow kindhearted intentions to ease pain, and thereby steal my hard won knowledge.
My accountability does not take any responsibility away from the ex's actions. Justice is not a finite quality that must be divided, parceled out in due proportions. I am wholly responsible for myself, he for himself. I can only speak for myself. I made a mess. I clean it up, and I benefit from my experience, I get the exercise, the sense of accomplishment. It's not a competition, it's my one and only life, and I will not relinquish my choices for ease.
I will not be victim. Wronged, harmed, yes. Not victim. He is to be pitied, I am not. I refuse any kindness that makes me victim.
I will not blame impersonal institutions, ignorance, nor passive voiced happenstance, because then I do not derive the benefit of the lesson. How can I avoid making the same mistakes again, if it is all another person's fault, just one of those things, all because of those men? I must take the pain of it in order to wring every drop of wisdom out of it.
Yes, our social institutions need vast improvement to provide better options. But I am not in politics or law enforcement, I live a small life. I can and will only speak to my own view. "My universe is my eyes and my ears, more than that I cannot say." To quote Douglas Adams.
Character and integrity comes not from what happens to me in my life, but how I respond to it. This is all I have, all I can offer.
That, and photos of Moby.
"please don't say that you made this mess because of bad choices etc. sometimes one does not know any better and/or things get screwed up. The stupid patriarchy is to blame for for instance not making an escape possible without any help from outside...your inattentiveness or bad choice still not gave him the right to treat you this way..."
I lose nothing by taking responsibility for my own actions. Quite the opposite, I learn. I made this mess, it's my lesson, and I will not allow kindhearted intentions to ease pain, and thereby steal my hard won knowledge.
My accountability does not take any responsibility away from the ex's actions. Justice is not a finite quality that must be divided, parceled out in due proportions. I am wholly responsible for myself, he for himself. I can only speak for myself. I made a mess. I clean it up, and I benefit from my experience, I get the exercise, the sense of accomplishment. It's not a competition, it's my one and only life, and I will not relinquish my choices for ease.
I will not be victim. Wronged, harmed, yes. Not victim. He is to be pitied, I am not. I refuse any kindness that makes me victim.
I will not blame impersonal institutions, ignorance, nor passive voiced happenstance, because then I do not derive the benefit of the lesson. How can I avoid making the same mistakes again, if it is all another person's fault, just one of those things, all because of those men? I must take the pain of it in order to wring every drop of wisdom out of it.
Yes, our social institutions need vast improvement to provide better options. But I am not in politics or law enforcement, I live a small life. I can and will only speak to my own view. "My universe is my eyes and my ears, more than that I cannot say." To quote Douglas Adams.
Character and integrity comes not from what happens to me in my life, but how I respond to it. This is all I have, all I can offer.
That, and photos of Moby.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Divorce
The one description of myself I could never have imagined as a child, especially in such a Catholic family, was Divorced. And yet, I am. Have been. I was. It is a point of distress, though not shame. I know too many others who have loved, committed, and lost. No longer a huge looming shadow in my life, but a distant landmark of my past.
I have been reading Carolyn Hax of the Washington Post for years now, and find her to be wise and funny, a lovely combination. This past week, there has been discussion there about a person who did not, after a month of dating, inform the writer of his divorce. I side solidly on the side of early, full disclosure in a relationship. Anyone I consider a friend knows of my marital past. I met D before that divorce was final, of course he knew that because he was unit clerk in our National Guard Unit, and had looked up my file. First Guard weekend after I escaped, I found him out to tell him I'd left the marriage, even though we were barely friends, and only in that context, at that point. I was never anything but honest and up front with D.
At the time, though I knew I had to leave, knew the danger was escalating, it was not really escapable without help. I tried for a year. Try getting an apartment without being able to leave a home number. I was living in an alternate reality, where he would beg me to stay, plead with me that we "had something." And throw clothes angrily on the bed in the early morning, to accuse me of worse sins. I didn't just tread on eggshells, I danced on broken glass. I dared not drink, though he drank too much. I was raped, though not - because there was no such thing as rape of a wife by a husband where I lived, then. I allowed it, in lieu of a beating. Although, I had only had slaps and a few bruises at that point, and a replica black powder pistol discharged into the floor. He'd always been drinking when he'd shoved or slammed me up against a wall. And always promised that was the last time. I was crazy. I was tucked down hard, surviving, sleeping beside my worst enemy, keeping him sated and mollified, until I could find a way out.
I was ashamed. That I had not managed to free myself. That I was living with this, and hiding it, putting make-up on the bruises like any battered woman on COPS! Making excuses for him. Then. I decided to tell someone, so that I would not allow another year to go by without getting out. And I found out that I had friends. Then he threw me back onto the washing machine, leaving bruises against my back, and where his fists grabbed my shirt, dead sober. Oh.
We went for the second time to the counselor, the employee assistance one for the library where I worked, though he had been fired. The counselor took me aside, asked me what I wanted.
"I want a divorce."
"You need to tell him."
He brought him back in, and I told him, as I had told him before, but without witnesses, he had not heard, had not believed. He drove home, the scariest drive of my life. And left, telling me he was getting beer, to get drunk. I called the friend I had told.
"I'm coming to get you."
"Oh, I'll be alright." I said, in my fantasy world.
"No, I am not asking you. I am coming to get you. Pack a bag." Dear Maureen. Brave woman.
I was still packing when she arrived, and then he returned. She told him she was taking me. He said that was probably a good idea, and tucked into his beer. We left. I looked up a lawyer. He smashed everything in the apartment, and showed up drunk at my friends' house, giving his pistol to them, claiming to be afraid he would hurt himself. They approached me, and asked why I hadn't mentioned his gun. I had no clear answer. I had to call my mother, and tell her that my husband had been hitting me, the one excuse she would have found acceptable for divorce. I never went back. I grieved as for an amputated, gangrenous limb. I felt a failure, a fool, a liar. All, honestly, true. I was hopeless and bereft. I lived in my friends' basement for two weeks, in search of an affordable apartment, and disrupting their relationship. I was not malingering, I took the first place I could, in a very tight housing market.
D knew all. I hid nothing from him as we approached each other so tentatively. I dated someone else for a few months, assuming D was too young, and I only saw him once a month, anyway, knew precious little about him. I was casting about, with that divorcee appeal that draws in men. It wasn't pretty, but it temporarily shored up my shredded ego. In that last week before we were sent off to Gulf War I, another friend, W, a Vietnam era vet took me to get gear, and I invited D along. W and D talked Robert Anton Wilson, and I was warmed by their connection. The ex was to meet me at the Library, where W's wife worked, with D to provide buffer - though he hadn't realized it (I'd mentioned, but not clearly enough). D briefly met the ex, not realizing the relationship, and went off to bid adieu to friends. (He felt terrible about this, much later. ) I was trapped alone to "say good-bye" to the not quite ex. I pulled away from a kiss, if not his smarmy hug. I was ashamed that I had ever wanted to be with this mess of chaotic manipulation.
The legal divorce came later, and a friend came with me. Ex did not show, although he signed the papers, partly because I paid him some alimony, which he accepted without comment. The judge asked me why, and I said because he drank too much.
He made a note.
He'd been stealing from me.
Another note.
"And he's been hitting me,"
He signed the papers, and stopped me before I could say more. I didn't cry, then. I had chosen the most concrete reasons. The most legal reasons. The lawyer assured me everything was done. My friend, L, one of several who I didn't know would be there, took me for lunch. Then I cried. I felt strange, and relieved, and empty. I wanted to kill myself and rejoice together. A huge door slammed shut. And a million others swung open.
I am divorced. I failed. I tried again. The triumph of hope over experience. Sometimes, hope is right.
Life has to be loved fiercely. Or it will destroy all.
I have been reading Carolyn Hax of the Washington Post for years now, and find her to be wise and funny, a lovely combination. This past week, there has been discussion there about a person who did not, after a month of dating, inform the writer of his divorce. I side solidly on the side of early, full disclosure in a relationship. Anyone I consider a friend knows of my marital past. I met D before that divorce was final, of course he knew that because he was unit clerk in our National Guard Unit, and had looked up my file. First Guard weekend after I escaped, I found him out to tell him I'd left the marriage, even though we were barely friends, and only in that context, at that point. I was never anything but honest and up front with D.
At the time, though I knew I had to leave, knew the danger was escalating, it was not really escapable without help. I tried for a year. Try getting an apartment without being able to leave a home number. I was living in an alternate reality, where he would beg me to stay, plead with me that we "had something." And throw clothes angrily on the bed in the early morning, to accuse me of worse sins. I didn't just tread on eggshells, I danced on broken glass. I dared not drink, though he drank too much. I was raped, though not - because there was no such thing as rape of a wife by a husband where I lived, then. I allowed it, in lieu of a beating. Although, I had only had slaps and a few bruises at that point, and a replica black powder pistol discharged into the floor. He'd always been drinking when he'd shoved or slammed me up against a wall. And always promised that was the last time. I was crazy. I was tucked down hard, surviving, sleeping beside my worst enemy, keeping him sated and mollified, until I could find a way out.
I was ashamed. That I had not managed to free myself. That I was living with this, and hiding it, putting make-up on the bruises like any battered woman on COPS! Making excuses for him. Then. I decided to tell someone, so that I would not allow another year to go by without getting out. And I found out that I had friends. Then he threw me back onto the washing machine, leaving bruises against my back, and where his fists grabbed my shirt, dead sober. Oh.
We went for the second time to the counselor, the employee assistance one for the library where I worked, though he had been fired. The counselor took me aside, asked me what I wanted.
"I want a divorce."
"You need to tell him."
He brought him back in, and I told him, as I had told him before, but without witnesses, he had not heard, had not believed. He drove home, the scariest drive of my life. And left, telling me he was getting beer, to get drunk. I called the friend I had told.
"I'm coming to get you."
"Oh, I'll be alright." I said, in my fantasy world.
"No, I am not asking you. I am coming to get you. Pack a bag." Dear Maureen. Brave woman.
I was still packing when she arrived, and then he returned. She told him she was taking me. He said that was probably a good idea, and tucked into his beer. We left. I looked up a lawyer. He smashed everything in the apartment, and showed up drunk at my friends' house, giving his pistol to them, claiming to be afraid he would hurt himself. They approached me, and asked why I hadn't mentioned his gun. I had no clear answer. I had to call my mother, and tell her that my husband had been hitting me, the one excuse she would have found acceptable for divorce. I never went back. I grieved as for an amputated, gangrenous limb. I felt a failure, a fool, a liar. All, honestly, true. I was hopeless and bereft. I lived in my friends' basement for two weeks, in search of an affordable apartment, and disrupting their relationship. I was not malingering, I took the first place I could, in a very tight housing market.
D knew all. I hid nothing from him as we approached each other so tentatively. I dated someone else for a few months, assuming D was too young, and I only saw him once a month, anyway, knew precious little about him. I was casting about, with that divorcee appeal that draws in men. It wasn't pretty, but it temporarily shored up my shredded ego. In that last week before we were sent off to Gulf War I, another friend, W, a Vietnam era vet took me to get gear, and I invited D along. W and D talked Robert Anton Wilson, and I was warmed by their connection. The ex was to meet me at the Library, where W's wife worked, with D to provide buffer - though he hadn't realized it (I'd mentioned, but not clearly enough). D briefly met the ex, not realizing the relationship, and went off to bid adieu to friends. (He felt terrible about this, much later. ) I was trapped alone to "say good-bye" to the not quite ex. I pulled away from a kiss, if not his smarmy hug. I was ashamed that I had ever wanted to be with this mess of chaotic manipulation.
The legal divorce came later, and a friend came with me. Ex did not show, although he signed the papers, partly because I paid him some alimony, which he accepted without comment. The judge asked me why, and I said because he drank too much.
He made a note.
He'd been stealing from me.
Another note.
"And he's been hitting me,"
He signed the papers, and stopped me before I could say more. I didn't cry, then. I had chosen the most concrete reasons. The most legal reasons. The lawyer assured me everything was done. My friend, L, one of several who I didn't know would be there, took me for lunch. Then I cried. I felt strange, and relieved, and empty. I wanted to kill myself and rejoice together. A huge door slammed shut. And a million others swung open.
I am divorced. I failed. I tried again. The triumph of hope over experience. Sometimes, hope is right.
Life has to be loved fiercely. Or it will destroy all.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Movie (Meme)
1. Popcorn or sweets?
Beer and Nachos, like at Brewvies.
2. Name a movie you have been meaning to see forever.
Our Man In Havana. Not out on DVD, or VHS, as far as I know.
3. You are given the power to recall one Oscar: Who loses theirs and to whom?
That popularity contest cum Advertising bonanza award is meaningless for defining quality. The best films rarely come close.
4. Steal one costume from a movie for your wardrobe. Which will it be?
Any Garbo costume.
5. Your favorite film franchise is?
Wallace and Gromit.
6. Invite five movie people over for dinner. Who are they? Why’d you invite them?
What do you feed them?
Michael Palin, Betty Thomas, Johanna Lumley, Tony Robinson, Jon Stewart to ask them questions. Because they are funny and intelligent, and very interesting people who have done more than be actors. I'd offer whatever I had in the fridge, don't want to worry about food when there is good conversation to be had.
7. What is the appropriate punishment for people who answer cell phones in the cinema?
Cellphones should ring once, then explode. Anytime, anywhere. Sat next to a guy who talked on his phone all the way through a movie, on a Saturday night. I felt too sorry for him to object. This is why I use Netflix.
8. Choose a female bodyguard:
Michelle Yeoh.
9. What’s the scariest thing you have ever seen in a movie?
The Last Wave freaks me out. And the scene from Kurosawa's Dreams with the ghost battalion coming out of the tunnel.
10. Your favorite genre (excluding comedy and drama) is?
Japanese Samurai by Kurosawa. I don't go by genres, more by director, and quality, and a sense of humor.
11. You are given the power to greenlight movies at a major studio for one year. How do you wield this power?
Pixar, for non child centered animation, Aardman as well. John Sayles as much as he wants. Terry Gilliam - to finish his Don Quixote, or anything else. And everyone who is making a movie who is not a Spielbergian Film Student Graduate type, with a movie at Slam Dance (or other really independent fest) can have a couple of million each. With the whole studio ad/distribution apparatus behind each. May not be good, but sure would be interesting.
12. Bonnie or Clyde?
Bonnie Hunt. Who is Clyde. (As for the movie, um...no.)
Beer and Nachos, like at Brewvies.
2. Name a movie you have been meaning to see forever.
Our Man In Havana. Not out on DVD, or VHS, as far as I know.
3. You are given the power to recall one Oscar: Who loses theirs and to whom?
That popularity contest cum Advertising bonanza award is meaningless for defining quality. The best films rarely come close.
4. Steal one costume from a movie for your wardrobe. Which will it be?
Any Garbo costume.
5. Your favorite film franchise is?
Wallace and Gromit.
6. Invite five movie people over for dinner. Who are they? Why’d you invite them?
What do you feed them?
Michael Palin, Betty Thomas, Johanna Lumley, Tony Robinson, Jon Stewart to ask them questions. Because they are funny and intelligent, and very interesting people who have done more than be actors. I'd offer whatever I had in the fridge, don't want to worry about food when there is good conversation to be had.
7. What is the appropriate punishment for people who answer cell phones in the cinema?
Cellphones should ring once, then explode. Anytime, anywhere. Sat next to a guy who talked on his phone all the way through a movie, on a Saturday night. I felt too sorry for him to object. This is why I use Netflix.
8. Choose a female bodyguard:
Michelle Yeoh.
9. What’s the scariest thing you have ever seen in a movie?
The Last Wave freaks me out. And the scene from Kurosawa's Dreams with the ghost battalion coming out of the tunnel.
10. Your favorite genre (excluding comedy and drama) is?
Japanese Samurai by Kurosawa. I don't go by genres, more by director, and quality, and a sense of humor.
11. You are given the power to greenlight movies at a major studio for one year. How do you wield this power?
Pixar, for non child centered animation, Aardman as well. John Sayles as much as he wants. Terry Gilliam - to finish his Don Quixote, or anything else. And everyone who is making a movie who is not a Spielbergian Film Student Graduate type, with a movie at Slam Dance (or other really independent fest) can have a couple of million each. With the whole studio ad/distribution apparatus behind each. May not be good, but sure would be interesting.
12. Bonnie or Clyde?
Bonnie Hunt. Who is Clyde. (As for the movie, um...no.)
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Chair (Photo)
I don't usually sit in this chair, since my back issues. Nor does Moby. This evening, I sat here to read. I got up to fix dinner. When I got back... well as you can see, Moby seemed to think this was a very good idea. Hours later, he is still there, fast asleep.
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