Talking

Throughout my childhood, I walked with a child, the pregnancy lost the year before I was born, a sister I assumed. I talked to her, told her stories, helped her cross the street, reassured her. I had various names for her, none consistent, none that I can remember. She stayed a little girl always, finally leaving for good when I got into my twenties.

Sitting in class, all through school, I fantasized that my brothers would show up at school and take me out for the day. We'd go to the park, or for a drive, nothing big, just away. Dave was in the Air Force, joined when I was seven, posted far away until I was out of high school. Bill was gone the next year, to college then joined a commune, tramped across the states, then Europe and Asia. I missed the idea of them, wanted them to be more to me, had no other potential rescuers. No one to listen or care.

In college, I had a woman transported through time from when the Old Main building at the university was new, pre turn of the century. I explained the world to her, allayed her shock and disorientation, admired her courage for being a woman in college at that time. She slowly became less appalled at my brazenness.

I talk with Moira in the car on the way home quite often. I miss her daily friendship, but I never put words in her head, only know that she will listen, and understand.

I am still that child alone, craving both privacy and companionship, in equal measure.

Who

I have these conversations in my head. Inhabiting the lives of people I have read about. Entering their world as a kind of time traveler, Dr. Who, Angel of Death. Given this, I would have the real facts, not just the informed speculation of historians, in this imagining.

I talk with Abraham Lincoln the morning of his death. I tell him he would have died shortly of the illness that has plagued him so long, and it will be painful and prolonged. Instead, he will be assassinated that night, at the theater. This will grant him an immortality, as he inspires those who strive for freedom all over the world, for generations to come. Assure him that he succeeded, as much as anyone at this time, in this place, ever could have, and be at peace. Say his goodbyes, kiss his family, enjoy every moment of his last day. (Which, apparently, he did in fact do.)

I would talk with Jane Austin, tell her that her works would be wildly popular two hundred years after they were written, and she would be credited. That her illness isn't treatable for nearly that long, and if she had married, she would almost certainly have left an orphan and widower. Instead, her wit and insight would inspire women, and men, far more.

If this were real, I would of course ask more questions of them, but my imagination does not stretch far enough to consider what they would answer, so I go with just a message, comfort, hope.

~




There are witty wire critters and scenes at Bent Objects that made me smile all morning. I had to look through all his posts before leaving.

Conversations

All my life, I have conversations with the people I read about, absent brothers, non-existant friends. As quiet as I often am, I talk a lot in my head. It's not often a chosen sort of daydream, often I am haunted for a week or more with a particular cycle of interactions.

This week it has been with my long-estranged dozen-year-older brother, who always knew me better than I did, poked and teased, preached and nudged. He is the executor of our parents, or more accurately his parent's wills. I consider myself disowned and disowning, with no intention of grieving them again, or accepting any (if any) inheritance.

This week, in my head, they have both died, and I have to talk with Dave. I have to figure out how he gets ahold of me, what I would say, what he would say. I imagine him showing up at my work, insisting on needing to talk. Until I finally have him ask me what I want.

"I want to be left alone. I want to be believed when I say I want to be left alone."

And the haunting seems to finally fade.

There are other conversations, more to come.

Danger

Five Dangerous Things You Should Let Your Children Do

Right after that last post, I find that. And I agree. So liability conscious, this culture tries too hard to keep children safe from everything. At the cost of their experience. I whittled when I was a kid, sharp knife, whatever wood came to hand. Didn't make anything, loved to carve down a stick to a splinter. Cut myself quite a lot, and took a perverse pride in it. No seatbelts in the Studebaker, the door popped open on the highway once, and my brother grabbed me. I had my first glimpse of mortality. My brother took old clocks apart. I always had sticks to throw around, from the tree in the back yard. Got a nice scalp gash from seeing how high straight up I could throw one. We had Jarts, those steel tipped lawn darts. Dropped a few on my toes. Learned about gravity.

I have a theory that the rage in "Extreme Sports" is that imperative to play with fire and gravity and speed, not learned when it would only have left a few scabs. Delayed until it will maim and kill. I have heard that in cultures that use open fires, children are not warned not to touch it. An early small burn does the job much more effectively. Saving from harm steals the lesson away.

Professionalism

We have more and more friends with children these days. Normal, I suppose. But I grew up with very few other children, none on a daily basis. Not in the family, not in the neighborhood. It still amazes me that by some counts, I am still considered part of the Baby Boom, at which I scoff.

I grew up around adults, much older brothers. An aging family, who would be decimated year by year, providing me with funerals to meet the ones who survived. By the time I hit thirty, almost only my own generation of cousins, scattered across the continent, lived on. I have never met many of their children or grandchildren, distant genetic kin, of understandably little interest to me.

I never really liked children when I was a child myself. Unpredictable, violent, loud, I had little tolerance for behaviour in them I would have never gotten away with in my oppressive house. I thought them dangerous and rather stupid.

These days, I am much more in control of myself, more tolerant, more educated. I have had child development courses. I know about airway management in infants and children. I understand cognitive levels and behaviour modification. I know how funny this sounds, but children frighten me, and this is how I manage. They are little aliens protected by potentially vicious and touchy parents, I have to be careful.

I am competent with the children I care for (rarely now) at work. I try to make them smile, I never try to fool them into thinking I'm fun, they would see right though that anyway. They have my best care, I will keep them safe.

This came around in conversation this week, the realization that I treat children with professionalism. D laughed, and talked about how, when a toddler visited, I went into clear, calm teaching mode, "Now, this is how you can pet Moby..." Well, yes, after all, kids can be rough, and Moby's well being is my responsibility. Who knows what poor gross motor skills and inadequate empathy can do to our beloved cat?


I do keep my mind open that any of those children may grow into people I can genuinely like for themselves, in time. I watch for the personality beneath the immature creature, the flicker of unique character, and see that. I do not like children. But any kid that I like should know that they've earned my regard, not given it for youthful cuteness. Quite the opposite.

Thankfully, our friends mostly have pretty good kids, they are fairly well behaved, bright, not overindulged. I am resolved to be adult about it. It's just not a natural inclination. I have not a smidgen of maternal instinct.

Reward

I occurred to me today that I can't afford to hate my job. And I do love the work, I care about making a difference, doing it right. I tend to let the racket from management and the great complainers rattle me, and shake up the discontent.

I did total joints today, with a particular, and excellent surgeon. And a grumpy, and excellent anesthesiologist. I stepped up, and smiled, deciding to enjoy the day, despite pain, despite the fact that I only do these difficult double rooms about once every six weeks. Which annoys me because there is much to remember, and this interval makes it nearly impossible. Still, I've been doing this long enough, I can cope. Which my managers count on. The reward for a job well done, another, harder, job. Sure.

Not that I'm perfect, far from it. But I can correct, gather up whatever slack forms. A practiced hand. How long I will be able to keep all the balls in the air is unknowable. Best I enjoy it while I have my skills up. Focus and catch the wind while it blows.

Decide (Photo)

Butt, or email?

(Like I can't guess.)

Worry

I slept. I slept long and hard last night, a good ten hours. D did not. And had to schedule surgery for what we assumed was a soft tissue injury on his hand. Instead, it is a benign, but invasive tumor. At least I know he will have good people taking care of him, I will make sure of it. I worry. And worry more. It's a reflex.

Green (Photo)

He has lovely green eyes. He is a good friend to D today, who dealt with a fall on the ice, missed busses in bitter cold inversion weather, and excessive forgetfulness. Moby made him laugh. What more can any friend do in the face of frustration and bruises?

Nose (Photo)

I have no idea when I started to blog. Only that Moira got me started. I wrote long circuitous essays, posted them awkwardly, needing D to make it work. Yup, worse than blooger. I do know it's been a good four years or so. Those essays were the beginning of this site, much rehashed, a struggle to learn how to write coherently. Definitely easier to produce whole sentences and keep consistent tenses without massive rewriting now. I don't think I've lost any of my idiosyncratic phrasing, only made it more readable.

D took this photo of Moby the day I sent him an email titled, "When it snows, and it blows up your nose."

Before

... And after.

Our first photo of Moby, the latest.
The car begrimed, and becleaned.

New (Photo)

Let's pull up our socks, remember to write 08, read a new book, or write one, open our minds a smidge more, challenge an assumption or two, be a good friend, recycle more, have another cup of tea, buy a little less, care a little more, take a class, take a walk, take a chance, give a kiss, give attention, be cheerful, clear the clutter and take a deep breath.

The turning of the year on 1 Jan is arbitrary, but pick any point of a circle and call it new, eternity turns on such moments. This is as good as any.

Gathering (Photo)

Many thanks to Pepper, who was a good friend to Moby, leaving our minds free to just relax. Oh, and a good friend to us. Mwa.

So, we pushed all the way through to home, over the objections of my back, and both our preference under normal circumstances, to stop frequently and take our time. The ramps to rest areas looked worse than the roads, my nightmare of winding off the road in a snowbank in the Middleofnowhere, ID, influenced this decision. We had sufficient wool clothing, food and water, but, really preferred not to need rescuing. About an hour from home, D found Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me on the radio, and we got to town around one, just as the show ended. Began to plan for our gathering of friends promised for that evening.

At least we ordered the cake before the trip. Picked it up on our way in. The bakery that did a Yin/yang cake for our reception - a request that caused consternation, but they made a grand, delicious, and memorable job of it. This time, a much more traditional treatment, which offset the quotation beautifully. It's from Mythbusters. It's been a hard year, with overwhelming failures for many of us, but not defeats. Changes of directions and foci. Bursting of illusion balloons.

Thumped home, I showered and went back out for food. Got the car washed, as it was under several inches of grime. Fried rice, good, locally made Italian sausages. Friends brought a veggie tray and cheese.

"Oh, don't want to use those, those are the good plates," said N.

"Use them, there are no good plates." Says I.

"But there are evil plates... " Adds D.

I don't have anything intentionally matching, there were enough dishes and utensils for all. As well as cake. And beer for those as wanted.

We all played Arkham Horror, fudged the rules, and beat off the Elder God before midnight.

Hot (Photos)

We enjoyed ourselves immensely, deeply. There is nothing to do in Lava but soak and loll. Somehow, this works a magic on us as no other place. It's cold, at night bitterly even with all towels over the windows in the 90 year old hotel. We leave our room door open, and the large house dog comes in to perform his rounds. Some sort of great dane shepard mix perhaps. Benign, not pushy. D reads the last Pratchett novel, and I enjoy their new wifi, on his computer, unable to remember my password to post here. I drink hot tea-flavored water and slow down.

I padded out through the frigid air to soak in the outside barrel, black water under a black sky, with a lit up L seemingly floating in the air, actually on the invisible night mountain.

We eat mild trucked-in food, iceberg lettuce, patty melts, pizza, thin burgers, leave Boston tips. D finds a ring nearly identical to the Kokopelli band that was my wedding ring - at the place that has the blankets and pelts and cowboy hats. I'd accidentally lost the first at work a decade ago. Idaho is a strange place of extreme beauty and bizarre kitsch, pockets of wonder in a fake fur coat.

The middle day, we went to the large springs, boiled and chilled. While floating, I had no pain in my back at all. I finally laid on the submerged steps in the hottest pool, my head held just above the water, ears and eyes covered, snow pattering on my chest and thighs, chin and backs of my floating hands, listening only to my heartbeat, until my brain swirled. D had to get me dressed, so.

Adrenaline (Photos)

All photo credits to D, because I was experiencing adrenaline rushes. Roads not good for the trip home. The car doing pretty well, but without snow tires, and with visibility so poor, and lacking my youthful indestructableness, I took it slow. Driving past a car and car with camper slid off sideways helped not at all.

More on the trip after I come down. Friends gathering for a Fuckitall tonight. Moby excited and confused at our return, finally managed to settle enough to eat. Again, when I pull myself together, credit to P who cared for him while we were gone, leaving our minds at ease.

Later.

Z

Enlightenment (Photos)

Moby was stalking his enlightenment this morning. Bright sun reflected off my macbook, fascinating him more than his micetoys. This went on for a solid hour.

My mom called the reflections on the kitchen ceiling from the sun off the dishwater the Kitchen Fairies, a game I loved. Apparently, cats do as well.

Environment (Photos)

Aplenty

This past year, for all it's difficulties, has had blessings aplenty.

Moby is happier, having gotten his rotten tooth removed. He loves his larger territory. We are fortunate to have him in our lives. All three together, we make a good family.

I got to spend time with Moira. Much to heal from, quiet moments, nothing important, everything vital.

Not having to take out a loan for the necessary car, and a vehicle that is turning out to be very well made and reliable. Material security.

All our friends, grown a little, changed, but still essential and welcoming. Kith of great worth, joy abundant. Who seem to think us worthy right back. Oh, and Moby likes 'em all. Greets and hangs out, in his cat way.

Work, where I am scrubbing more, stretching my skills - and not coming up too short too often.

Next year, I will start with the yoga class for healing from injury. I would go today, but I am on call. Maybe I will try to arrange it anyway. This will be a doable process to stay healthier.

D will have access to the gym at his old college, he's already looking better after just a few times.

I will continue to write, though I am still asea about how to even start on the road to being published. This I may need to take a class for, certainly talk to an expert, get advice. This is the scariest of hopes. Plan? There ain't no plan.

The trip to soak, write, indulge in silence approaches. I have capsaicin patches for the voyage - tried one and it worked pretty well. D will bring the Martin, I will sing along on the enclosed porch over the Portneuf River.

We will talk the whole way in the car, reacquaint. We will miss Moby, but P will be here. A Fuckitall party when we get back. Have to order the cake that will say "Failure is always an Option" from the bakery that did our Yin-yang reception cake. They looked at us weirdly then, but made a lovely job of it, and a delicious one.

I will take photos.

Good Yule, a Brightening Solstice, Joyeaux Noel, hope kindling, warm blessings treasured over the noisy hurts and dark cold.

Muscle

"Give me what I need, not what I ask for!"

In the stress of surgery, at least when there is a difficult bit, like frustrating atypical anatomy, or unexpected bleeding, often surgeons simply want what will help, and the proper name eludes them. The automatic, inarticulate part of everyone's brain, takes over, as it should. An experienced scrub (yes, this includes me, however rusty I get doing mostly the circulator role) will simply hand them an appropriate instrument, regardless of what word they say. There are also hand positions to accept that instrument. This is all held in a common muscle memory, no doubt akin to athletic teams, trapeze artists, dancers, musicians in bands, construction workers, any group of people who do the same physical process repeatedly, with time constraints. I may fumble a new set of specialty implants, but in a crunch, my hands know what to do, and the flow happens.

I had this occur last year, not having scrubbed regularly for years, with residents on an ortho case. I needed coaching through the drilling and measuring for the hardware, but as soon as they hit an artery, they had clamps, ties and scissors in their hands before they could ask for them. And I felt alive to every nuance, passing three, four instruments at once as though I had extra hands.

Surgeons need to learn how to use a scrub as much as to use any piece of equipment. The hand out and back for a clamp or scissors, slightly curled as though holding a pen loosely for a pick-up (Debakey, Addison's, rat-tooth), palm open and down for a free-tie. D has leaned to take scissors and pens from me over the years as well as any surgeon. There is nothing more frustrating than not being able to just hand a suture, and I have hit knuckles sharply to alert them that they are hindering their own process. Only once have I had a resident ask how to do it properly, which I gladly did.

Last night I toppled a full pint of Tetleys beer across the rug, sent D to get towels. "The... the... blue one." He brought the blue hand towels, I got frustrated, shoved past, got the cheap fluffy one. Today, I apologized (again) at losing my patience. It was mostly at my own lack of fluency. He was returning all the towels he'd pulled out of the closet and dumped on the floor, rejecting them in favor of the more disposable ones. They are all blue. Instead of the cheap blue ones he takes to the gym, kept in the bedroom with his bag.

"If you'd told me the gym towel..."

"I know, that word got to me about five minutes late last night. Sorry. It's really obvious, though. I wanted the BLUE one. Give me what I need, not what I ask for!"

We laugh, understand, forgive.

Listed

I've got a little list.

Sleeping in until I am ready
With a cat curled behind my knees
Warm and snug
The lovely curve of a Martin guitar
Beside two strats and a danelectro
that D plays
and a uke that beckons me.
A story that fills my quiet times, stretching my imagination with ideas
a good mac that lets me do what I want without undue objection
Young scrubs who laugh at my jokes and don't treat me like I'm old

The odd resignation of a half grey head of hair
A red patterned dhurrie rug of wool and delight
Two green army blankets sewn together with purple embroidery floss
warm socks
silk long johns
a happy little car that cares not that it is snowing
smart, wise, funny fellow iFriends who prod me onward
Kith who give hugs
respect from difficult people
job security

The pattering gallop of cat feet
laughter in the next room of D and our friend playing too late
the new Arkhan Horror game and all it's monsters
Memories of other places, other times
trips to beaches and mountains, deserts, hot springs
Trivia on the way, laughter, love.
Obscure references shared and savored
Always being welcomed home, with delight
stories shaping our perceptions with humor
sunlight strong though the windows

Blips

The snow is piling up. Thunder and lightening last night, as snow fell over the rain. Not so bad driving home, following a plow a long stretch of the way. Out further south and east, the ice lurked beneath. Glad to be going in late this morning on more cleared roads, to be the Lunch Lady. I go into the room, take report, and take over, trying not to slow the process. A different mindset, skill set, learned hard at the Living History Hospital Museum. Very little scares me, these days. Will be working the 25th.

Today, the drive will be slow, which my back complains of. The apartment management is slow to shovel in this place, not even bothering with the outside stairs, another annoyance. But they fixed the furnace and the disposal quickly, best not complain too loudly.

We will head up to Lava Hot Springs over the holiday week, I hope it snows on us while we soak outside in the springs.

Scientists really are cool. As evidence - Science tattoos.

No coherent thoughts, just dribs and drabs.

Configuration (Photos)

We had a little furnace trouble, put out the heating pad to warm Moby. The love continues. This morning, the pad was under the towel on the sofa. Later, it was like this. We are not sure how Moby managed this, but we know we didn't do it.

Shakespeare

Exit. Followed by a cat.

Miracle

A training exercise, I am handed this scenario.

I'm a colonel. I drank heavily the night before, and returned to my office instead of trying to drive home. On the way up, I fell down a flight of stairs, badly. Being a tough old bird, I manage to get back to my desk, where I now sit at six in the morning, where I am found by my aide, who assumes I only just arrived.

I have damage to my aorta, which is being tamponaded by my position. I am embarrassed, and although truthful when I am asked a direct question, I am to offer no information. They may ask questions about how I look from the judge, covered with bruises, and reeking of alcohol, but only told if they ask. If they lay me down, I pass out, and the judge will start a timer. If they get the mast pants on me quickly enough, I live. If not, they fail, because I have bled out.

None of the teams figure out what happened in this scenario, only one didn't kill me.

Health care, especially in emergencies, is a two ended rope. Embarrassed silence kills. Lies kill. More often, it's simply not speaking the same language, or having the same objective. It's a miracle anyone survives anything. Failures of imagination, failures of interest and rigor. Failures of training.

It's not science. True scientific, double blind studies are unethical. Take ethics out, and science does not flow in, only torture. Most of what we do is best-guess-work, practitioner dependent, skill, luck. Doctor confidence would have a salutary placebo effect, so quacks are often enough, successful, at least once in a while.

And yet, I would have the people I work with work on me, were I injured or ill. Because it's the best available choice. Because I know they care, and they know a lot of stuff not to do, and they will tell me the truth, as I will be forthcoming in telling them all the truth I can.

Not even close to perfect. But miracles happen all the time.

Awake (Photo)

Nodes

Lymph nodes are swollen.
Winter settles in, deeply.
Distress works outward.

Been overwhelmingly fatigued, with body aches. At least my airways are reasonably clear. Guilt, as work is pitifully understaffed. I allow the stress to accrete, dust gone greasy and hairy, resistant to half measures and good intentions. Damn old back is objecting, and must be coddled. I let my healing have what it needs.

More moments:

When mom started to tell me, and dad butted in to say "Walt is dead." Her beloved brother, my adored uncle, his perceived rival. My first real grief.

The first time I yelled back effectively at him, and the amazement as it (temporarily) worked.

Every time I was hired.

Telling my mom I was divorcing, and she offered sympathy instead of objection.

Seeing the ex at the student union, in the moment I was already changing direction, in a flash seeing his eyes darken. Glad, I used the moment as though it had been intentional.

Sitting at a table at South Station, no one to meet us, no place to stay, and after a few frantic tears, we discuss possibilities, and know we can cope no matter what.

Seeing my cousins walking toward us, familiar, friendly faces, as promised, to lug us and our baggage away to their home.

Seeing a photo of "Midnight" on the Boston Rescue League website, and knowing I wanted that cat.

When we both saw him in person, and both fell in love. Moby would take longer to be convinced.


Funny, how those moments so often come in pairs?

What are your moments, when your universe changes?

Fall

We always remember those weird days when our lives pivot.

The day I got my bed, and the call saying my guard unit was on alert.

Captain Pickett in my barracks, middle of the night, saying "They've bombed Baghdad."

D calling me at work in the middle of the night, to say, yes, yes I do want to live with you.

D telling his mormon parents that, yes, actually, we are living together.

The day his mom called saying D'd been hurt, and he called shortly after, first asking me "How are you?" Only after a confused moment telling me he broke his arm.

Brenda saying "That's a bad, bad break."

The day my father threatened me with disownment, and I took it as a promise.

The day we decided to go to Boston.

The day we decided, regardless of which grad school, if any, said yes, that we would move back to where our friends are.

Moments of free fall.

Boil

The end is here.

D is leaving the PhD program. His health is suffering after too long struggling through the long hard slog, to an unwanted result. But getting through the end of the semester proved dizzyingly steep. He will yet complete the MA in History thesis, which he had abandoned to swallow this semester. This hour, back against the wall, he has decided to stop. With my full agreement.

When I was 3 1/2 years toward a theater degree, and suffered an ignoble slap, one of only two actor-students out of a class of 28 to be rejected for an audition, I quit. I walked away from the idea of a life on stage or before the camera, threw away a BA and the scholarship. The ex took it as a personal betrayal. I felt it as a failure, with no plan to replace the dream. It would be five years before I made a move toward the nursing degree.

I trust that D did all he could do. He will find work, and hopefully regain his now sore, raw love of history again. This was the last week of the push, the paper he came to detest, the class with a final, too little time, now abandoned. I am on his side. I am immensely proud of him for all he has accomplished. A BA, an MS, almost an MA, acceptance to the PhD program.

Just wish my back wasn't flaring, my sinuses clogging, my gut trying to turn itself inside out. I feel guilty taking a day off, with so much distress at work these days. I hear stories about the new hospital, and sigh in relative relief that I stayed in the old one. All is unsettled, but it's not the hellish chaos of a move to a new, badly designed, disorganized place, with staff abandoning ship to save their lives and sanity. I am a sponge for ambient emotions.

Such relief. A little sad. Change underfoot.

We will go up to beloved Lava Hot Springs before New Year. A traditional new start, a moment's pause to reorient, a boiling clarity.

Toy (photo)

Ostensibly, this is to have good toys for the increasing number of children of our friends to play with while they are here.

Honestly, I always wanted to have little cars, but being a girl, was given dolls, or as I got older, games and stuffed animals. I liked soft furry creatures, and I asked for games, but I also asked for matchbox cars. Last year, at the Other Hospital's terrific gift shop, I found Automoblox. Wooden and plastic, sturdy wee cars, that come apart and mix bits. When they came out with mini car three sets, I let my inner eight year old have the credit card.

As a result, I have seen D when he was eight, with appropriate sound effects. Moby chased the cars, but didn't know what to do with them once he caught up with them. I feel a deep satisfaction in this simple, well made toy.

Any child who comes is welcome to play with them, without restraint. Or age limits.

Koan (Photo)

God is a koan.

People say they believe, but what exactly do they believe?

If they can define it, clearly and concretely, that is most certainly not god.

The way that can be defined to death is not the way to life.

If they cannot define it, simply making an "of course" as a premise, they are begging the quesiton.

I don't believe in the bible, the koran, the book of mormon, the bhagavad gita, nor suttas, as fact. They are all the fiction of their cultures, holding truths about the human condition, pointers toward wisdom and theories about correct behaviour, striving for joy and compassion. As such, useful.

But they are too often used as coercion, government, graven words to be worshipped literally. Those with a cruel axe to grind wield those books. Excluding whomever offends with the twisted words of their gods. I know this is wrong, though I do not claim to know the right way for anyone save myself. And even I do not know, I only walk on.

Assuming an all powerful, all knowing force, without due consideration, is mindless and foolish. Assuming there is no all knowing, all powerful force, without due mindfulness, is merely argumentative.

Atheists, as used today, are Believers of the first water, along with Evangelicals. Right along with virulent Skeptics and uncritical UFOlogists.

I don't believe in a concrete god, or a saviour god, or a personal jesus who is my friend who lends a hand, or sends me to hell. Neither do I reject all that is liminal and mystical and all the damned data. I am not a believer. I observe, assess, consider. Science, gathering first hand information, hard numbers, theories that fit the best possible data, is what I accept as the most useful method to comprehend the world. Science is a process, not an answer, which confuses the Believers, who only want answers. Science goes wherever it goes, Belief is baffled when the road takes a U-turn.

Joseph Campbell offers the awkward, 'god is the word we use to describe the transcendent.'

I trust more the inarticulate than the certain. I trust more the action than the easy words. I trust more the small quiet hints than the bombast and assumptive.

By their works shall you know them.

Leave

Bully.

Leave.

Zero tolerance, after the third person who didn't like something I said, and decided to insult me on my blog.

Feel free to express your own, different, opinion.

But if I offend, just leave without comment. I don't need your chiding.

If I didn't think I was smarter than most people, I would hardly try to be a writer. This is my place to rant, if I write something that doesn't fit your nice, gentle opinion of me, too damn bad.

I am not nice. I am tough and difficult and flawed and angry. I am a bulldog, and I bite intruders.

Any more self-defensive attacks on me in the comments will be deleted. Immediately and permanently. Again. Go away. I have every right to be bitter, nagging, smug and a bitch, here on my blog. And you are free to delete your links here and mind your own fucking business.

Whatever (Photos)

Today, a pro-intelligent design lounge discussion. Bunch of believers, no point in even attempting educating, even if they wouldn't look down on me for trying. Seeing friends tonight, smart people, thinking people. I really, deeply, value our friends. And Moby likes 'em too.

Humbug

Bah. Humbug.

Bad enough the work christmas party was to be at a restaurant I would not have chosen, in deepest box-store neonville. Bad enough they lured us with white elephant gift exchange. (As pared down as I am after so many moves, I don't think I have an unnecessary item in the place. Nor would I want one back if I did.) Worse that they planned on karaoke. (A mystery deeper than why people voluntarily see movies with Will Farrell.) The worst part was that we were to be charged ten bucks a head for the privilege of attending this lame festivity.

I am cheered that too few of my cow orkers wanted to do this, so that the thing was cancelled. What gets me is the flyers up all over with a picture of The Grinch, and the sentence, "We've been Grinched!"

Who is we? Obviously a minority, who are now blaming most of the rest of us for ruining the party for the few planners who never asked people what they wanted and would be willing to pay for.

We are not buying christmas this year, again. Anyway, I have to work on the day.

I am reminded just how much smug, insular, entitled people get up my nose.

Moby has found the heating pad. It's love.

Flat

Yeah, another one. Feeling so sore and crampky and irritated by all and sundry. Instead of giving into negativity, I offer you an older photo of Moby with lol caption.

All I can think of is adolescent whining all my hates. I refuse.

Going (Photos)

Lest any of you think I exaggerated how much grey, and how much change. The above was from June. Dyed, then.

We are told to be ourselves, but not how to be ourselves. For a while, for me, that meant keeping the outside looking like I felt inside - intense, not lightly fading. And it's not just as youngsters that we have to try on different hats to see what fits, what reflects back to us who we are. How I express my real self in very different situations, as different aspects develop and grow, changes over time. "Be yourself." Very good advice, and completely useless, a destination without a map.

I find I do better if I get up fairly early in the morning. I don't enjoy it. Takes me a while to wake up. But when I sleep in, I drift all day, getting nothing done. Afternoon shifts leave me staying up too late watching bad TV, and sleeping until time to shower and run to work. Night shift leaves me humorless, hallucinating and crumbling. Not that I am naturally a morning person, but this is my work, and I have to find the closest approximation.

Darkness

We got Arkham Horror at the game store, as well as the new Illuminati supplement, Bavarian Fire-drill. In the hopes of a Game Night resumption. I want to get a cake from the folks who did our reception Tao cake to do one with "Failure is Always an Option" on it, which amused D so much, I will certainly have to. R is on a project that will not end until they simply give up on it. So, mid-late December, maybe a Solstice celebration, we will have a Fuck It All party. FIA.

All plans are coming to an end, derailment, but not waste. Retrenchment that is more like pruning. It's dark, but brighter than it was before we gave up the wrong dreams.

Cymbals

Man and his cymbals.
I miss a great guitar store
From a long ago.

Bed (Photo)

Any ungrammatical suggestions?

D cleared off the table by the window, I added the infrequently used warmcatbed. This apparently improved the fengshui of it all, and has become a new Favorite. Cozy, apparently. A bit disconcerting just to see his head.