Hold (Photo)

Confidence returns
with the strength, as the pain ebbs.
Both miss being hugged.

Spying (Photo)

Mostly, spying is waiting.

Symbol

On other blogs this week, a poem and a zen interchange, in which men treat women as symbols. She is dark and mysterious, all the yin qualities. On both, I commented that I am always jarred and irritated by male poets and philosophers, supposedly deep thinkers, tuned to their intuitive side, who cannot, or will not, see women as simply human. Augustine is a saint, a revered thinker in western ideas, who detests women. Buddhist nuns are treated as second class - culture beats religious ideals every time. Poets who try to describe the eternal, with the male being implied, and the female as the other to be interacted with. I remember feeling the rage when Joseph Campbell confused this symbolic feminine principal with actual living women.

Yes, yes, there are statistical differences when studying male and female populations, even after correcting for culture, assuming this is even possible. But an average man and an average woman in the middle of that bell curve will have much more in common than the extreme edges, of two women, even more so two men. Separate is never equal, wings and pedestals are artificial markers of imaginary variation. Shoving me up and out of the way is as bad as down and out of sight.

I will not tolerate women who shove men back out of spite. Men are not babies when they are sick any more than women. They are not, each and every one, stupid or mean, and although as a group they may benefit from a different reproduction strategy than women, that does not determine what an individual will do. Tit for tat argument is not rational or useful. A woman dating only men that fit this stereotype, should perhaps look hard at how she chooses them. Women like this will keep other women down, so that they can excuse their own inability to take full responsibility for their own ill judged choices.

I won't paint men with sunny yang phalluses, I won't paint myself with dark yin moons. We are too good at limiting our full humanity. Sure, tendency powers the global cultural norms, men in charge through force of arms historically, women enforcing through fear and convenience. But tendency is not determination.

Reminds me of when the teacher called for silence in class, and half the students would try to shout down the other half, creating no quiet at all. I figured the only effective choice was to close my own mouth, baffled that this was not obvious to everyone. This could all change this very moment, if we each took responsibility for our own choices, how we choose to see the world, the humans around us. Instead of shoving each other in boxes.

Down (Movie)

Ten seconds of snow to share and enjoy.

Watching (Photos)

The snow come down.

I was once told the only person she knew for whom weather was not small talk. Indeed, although I know "Hot enough for you?" and "How's the weather up there?" and "Raining cats and dogs out there" are trite stock comments of no earthly value, weather is not trivial. I have always experienced it as elemental, powerful, a matter of vital and emotional interest. I cried when it rained and I wanted to be outside. Thunderstorms thrill me, the green wash of sky that send down tornados, walking through deep, pristine snow still makes me feel like and intrepid explorer.

I get very irritated by the tossing about of the term Global Warming by the media, eager for an easy catchall. So many idiots on cold days try to wittily retort "So much for their Global Warming!" For years, we and our friends have tried to promote GCFU, Global Climatological Fuck Up. I would follow up with that whole bucket of environmental worry worms, but I need to sleep tonight, and get up in the morning. Thinking about it too much prevents both.

I remain fascinated by the individual cases, the floods and fires, landslides and tsunami, blizzards and tornados. I have NOAAon my menu bar, and I check it every morning before work. Not just the temp and forecast, but the dewpoint, and I look at the overnight readings, locally, and where our friends live. If I'd been better at math when I was young, I would certainly have been a meteorologist. All because of Mr. Novak and his morning blackboard forecasts, drawing sweeping cold fronts and describing pressure systems, his contagious enthusiasm feeding my particular interest.

I also love stories of escape from cataclysm. My own grandmother, terrified of thunderstorms, nearly died when the fireplace she'd been sitting near a moment before, was hit by lightening. The chimney collapsed and crushed her chair. And in nearly every rash of tornados, a baby is found in a tree, unharmed, far from home. A last survivor is rescued long after hope is gone, nearly crushed under debris after an earthquake, drinking rainwater that has trickled through.

The earth reminds us we are not entitled to our lives, nature gives not a damn whether we live or die, no precautions are sufficient in all cases. But there are loopholes, rogue waves, unprayable miracles.

Therapy

D does all his OT (occupational therapy) as well as GPT (guitar playing therapy) and CPT (cat petting therapy), but his finger is still going to take a while to get back into the normal range. I admire his fortitude, and forbearance. He puts the lie to the men-are-bad-patients stereotype, which I have always hated as reactionary prejudice. Just ain't so. I'm much more wimpy about my poor auld back.

We managed to haul our agoraphobic asses out today, to see Juno. It's not for everyone, no. A small movie that doesn't seem to be doing much but show off clever dialogue, superficially Veronica Mars gets knocked up, it lingers in my mind. It seems to be about teenagers, and it is. Beneath that surface are the beating hearts of complicated characters doing the best they can with what they have. High strung, insouciant, varyingly committed to their lives and loves, half conscious of their motives and actions, reaching out, shutting off, suffering and surviving, being brave and acting brave, striving and resigning themselves all together. A messy story about love and life and the choices we make. With a funky little soundtrack.

Watching it, I thought about the Cusak movie High Fidelity, which I didn't like. A well made, well written piece about people I couldn't like. An excellent movie that I hated having seen. Juno might well be the antidote to it, the same film on the flipside, full of love and a desire to grow up, where High Fidelity was about undercutting love and staying irresponsible. Juno is also one of those rare stories where the most initially abrasive characters become, at the end, admirable and sympathetic. We are given the chance to understand how they are lovable, and why the other characters love them.

It's a hopeful little show.

Tableaux

Pressing

I worked with D's surgeon this week. I'm having retroactive walking nightmares. And very glad of this surgeon's knowledge. Let me 'splain. When we in the job have medical issues, we worry a lot. When it's our own family, those we love, it's pathological for us. We have just a little too much information, experience, and way too much imagination.

A patient with a finger infection, ok, bad enough to need surgery to clean it out. Other complications, but nothing really critical, I thought. Until Dr. G asks that some of the tissue go to pathology. "Might be lung cancer."

I laughed, thinking he joked, not unheard of from hand surgeons. But no, metastatic tumor in the digits is usually from a lung cancer source. Well. Um. D just had a tumor removed from his hand, benign. Report back, all as expected. But a frantic moment clutched my gut, as I realized that Dr. G knew this last month, as I did not. My heart went out to this patient's spouse in the waiting room.

D heals, swelling down, strength and mobility returning with therapy. He's worn with the pain, which I understand better now than when he had the shattered elbow to heal. We shall consider this our welcome to middle age.

I stopped in a lovely little shop, with D's encouragement, came out with a pointless bit of old silver for my throat. We'd already found a cool toy for C, who is hard pressed. When the losses pile up, best to give to others, take care of oneself, pet the cat.

Temptation

Carolyn Hax is an advice columnist for the Washington Post, today wrote the most beautifully wise, zen, piece, putting deeply philosophical concepts into the most down to earth language. The WP require registration, but I have never gotten spam because of them, so please, I believe it worthwhile.

The heart of her column? "Why we aren't more motivated to be wise in the face of temptation?"

I succumbed to my darkest thoughts today, lost hope and impetus. D joined me. It's been a rough month, emotionally and psychically, physically and financially. I used to think I got twisted by February because I record advancement of years this month. Perhaps it's just February itself.

I have a peek into the kinds of people who choose strange ways to kill themselves. Who leave the door unlocked, coffee pot going, note on the table, tarps to catch the mess. Strange death draws me in. The woman who drowned in a salsa making machine. The bungee jumper who measured the bungee from drop to ground, not allowing for any stretch, or his own height. The people who follow each other, trying to rescue the preceding person, into vats, toilet pits, wells, each succumbing to fumes in turn. Sexual antics in private planes leading to embarrassing death. I understand the fey mood, the reckless disregard, even if I always catch myself and pull back.

Cult

The younger of my two brothers, Bill, made me laugh. He comforted me when our parents fought once, playing a game in the basement, ignoring our father shouting at our mother. He read to me, and took me for the Easter egg hunt at Patton Park. I loved him fiercely. When he spent evenings away, then moved away to college, he left me bereft. At eight, I didn't understand why he wouldn't want to stay with his little sister. Abandoned to my fate, I had terribly mixed feelings of longing and abandonment.

During his second year in college, after having changed his major from chemistry to English to theater, mom even made him a black cape with red lining for the flair of it all, he disappeared. Then announced that he had joined the Children of God. He would fall out of communication for long periods of time, to send a letter from Pennsylvania, then England, then Portugal, Japan. This caused much praying and anxiety from our very Catholic mother, and a plunge into belligerent drinking from our dad. I struggled though childhood with this dark cloud, accused and pronounced guilty before making a single independent choice, while grieving for my lost brother.

In the midst of the early shock, the Jonestown Massacre flooded the news, and we imagined the worst. My young, impressionable brother would wind up dead in a brainwashing suicide cult. But he didn't, he tramped around Europe, had a grand time, and never considered the frantic and ate-up excuse for the family left behind. He escaped, and now I commend him. Then, I yearned for him, and talked to him constantly, argued with him, until he slowly faded from my memory.

He would be fine, living his own Christian life in what he described as a loose chain of communes, teaching children, and doing God's work, with no idea of the fevered imaginings of his mother, the raging of his father, or his small sister left to take the blame. To his credit, about ten years ago, we met, and he apologized to me, a deeply healing gesture.

But my fascination, my connection to stories of religious cults, Jonestown being the first, but Waco and Heaven's Gate and Aum Shinrikyo, all pound me in the chest like heavy artillery at close range. A reflex of fear and thrill, personally felt. Of a master manipulator gathering the lost and gullible to boost a gluttonous ego, and a sadistic mass suicide for the finale.

I feel this personally, and this is what I needed most to write about. This dark story is just beneath the surface, threatening to explode. I have written it clearly, I have tried to keep it secret, as it sits like a lump, refusing to be revealed, or hidden.

Pixies

Pixilation is not a phenomenon I have definitely experienced. The losing of an item, a thorough search, then a request for it's return to the spirits of place, with a return of the object where I had most definitely looked, not really. Losing, looking and finding, yes, but usually I can rationalize why I did not spot my glasses on the dresser, but D did, where I looked several times. Just the wrong angle, he's a bit taller, I didn't have my glasses on, after all.

I tend to think that this is a quirk in the human brain, the inability to see whatever is in front of our eyes, then a slight change, and it becomes visible again. Interesting enough as insight into how we perceive. I have little enough faith in my own memory and perception to think my keys are being hidden from me by a mischievous entity. There are times when it would be less personally insulting to blame the brownies. And there have been lost earrings showing up in highly unlikely places, long after I'd given them up for gone.

When I was eight, my brother and sister-in-law gave me a little pearl ring. I thought it was a real pearl at the time. Rather quickly, it disappeared. Desperate, I did as taught, prayed to God, and St. Anthony, even St. Jude as finding it seemed hopeless. I threatened that I would stop believing in God if He didn't help me find it. Six months or so later, I found it near the baseboard beside my bed. I reluctantly had to start believing again, sort of. The fake pearl had started to peel, and the metal tarnished. If a pagan guardian angel had hidden it from me, to point me to doubt, it could hardly have been done more effectively.

Pixies don't prank me, I suspect merely my own mind does. But I am willing to concede that others have a better case for external interference. If I had less clutter, this might all be clearer.

How would a unique gold ring, coincidentally engraved with the names of mother, sister, girl, thought to be buried, would wind up miles away, then inside a teleporting alligator, only to be found by the only surviving child of a doomsday cult?

Puma

ABC's. Alien Big Cats show up all over Britain, as well as all over the world, stealthily avoiding clear photography, leaving DNA samples, or heaven forbid being captured. Sadly, the chances I will witness a large black feline in the early hours of the morning in the English wild woods or hedgerows (as I imagine from Wind in the Willows) are vanishingly slim. There is a whole field for the unknown and out of place creatures, Cryptozoology. A rich vein these days, as new species are found, most notably in the DMZ between North and South Korea. The shadow leopard of Sumatra is a recent discovery. Yeti and lake monsters, chupacabras and mothmen all inhabit the liminal space between reality and myth. The big cats seem to me the most plausible as real.

Cats are elusive and mysterious when they live in one's home, able to vanish into a crack in the wall of reality for hours at a time. Panthers out of place could have more elusive skills. Domestic cats find their way across country to the humans they claim, even in new places. Or away to their own territory when the humans that claim them move away. Large cats could well be following ancestral paths, if they exist factually. Apart from people, but aware of us.

There are stories of cats who take busses, or who round neighborhoods, waiting miles away to be picked up by their humans every day. Cats who survive in moving vans and shipping containers. There was a cat who lived at the Mt. Washington Observatory, a spot in the White Mountains renowned for it's severe weather, at the weather station. Cats appear everywhere but the Antarctic. Where humans go, cats hitch a lift, to see what's there. They don't really need us, but we seem to fascinate them.

Then there are the cats in the walls of old homes, mummified. Put there, presumably intentionally - as magical protection, I wonder if the idea started when a cat just got stuck of it's own accord. Because for all their grace and speed, they do wind up in untenable positions at times. Up trees, in cactus, down sewers, possessing a certain whathehellgiveitago attitude.

And there is a part of us as humans that feels a fierce protectiveness for the young of our own predators. Apes have been eaten by lions, yet Koko had a kitten. The human psyche, probably from before we were human, has absorbed catness into ourselves. A strange mix of affection and fear, the feline is part of who we are. As we see human faces in rocks and trees, we also see huge cats (& dogs) in the shadows. Large, black, terrifying cats.

Smelt

I had a recurrent nightmare of wading in shallow water, and tiny fish nibbling away my toes, unable to pull my feet out of the lake. Too many nature shows about pirana. These dreams faded by the time I started school, but I still have a strange preoccupation with fish, without actually liking them. Except to eat. When I first heard stories of fish falling from the sky, I thought about the story of Moses and Manna from Heaven, a miraculous rain.

Instead of miracles, falls of fish, whether of a single species or a variety, near water or fairly far inland are dismissed as the result of waterspouts and whirlwinds. Although in a few cases, this is probably accurate, it's rather like the stab victim - who was "just standing around minding my own business." Such a blanket excuse, a comfort, not in any way analytical or thoughtful.

Living creatures from out of the blue. Jan DeBlieu's Wind:How the Flow of Air has Shaped Life, Myth, and the Land, suggests that whirlwinds could explain some falls, but adding in the amazing insight that jet streams could easily move birds long distances, and so, I thought, why not fish? Charles Fort may have believed in teleportation of some sort. I much prefer a natural, if mysterious and unlikely explanation. A rare, unpredictable, but given just the right series of peculiar circumstances, and a small area will be up to their knees in anomalous frogs or smelt. Why not wind, which throws straws into trees and changes rocks?

Occam's razor cuts both ways. The simple does not always take into account all the circumstances, when the facts are bizarre.

What, I thought, would happen if a people are faced with regular falls of fish? What if they live by the best precepts of scientific method, observing and gathering data, not theorizing ahead of the facts? On the edge, in need of protein, as most human civilization always has been? I imagine them both logging the sizes and species, times, conditions, and then having a fish fry. What would this do to their worldview, their beliefs? Especially given the human capacity to normalize the extraordinary.

I will likely never experience a fish rain. But I would hope I would have the presence of mind to turn my umbrella up to catch as many as I can.

Times

All my life, I have watched for the oddness. The maple seed spinner that had a bump, the double yolk, the bread slice with the air hole, the M&N candy. I saw the Tooth Fairy, once. My mother loved tales of Seafaring disasters, Flying Dutchmen, as well as saintly miracles. Proof of the unique and inexplicable delights me.


If I have a faith today, it is that life is stranger than we can know. I think scientific method is the best human process, but that it is incomplete. The strangeness will not sit still for a good double blind study, which does not make it invalid. I know scientists themselves are prone to all that human ego is err to, from fudging the numbers to willful blindness for whatever does not fit their comfortable frame of reference, greed and lack of imagination. Which doesn't make them bad, it simply makes them Not Gods. There are Skeptics who worship them. There are Atheists who worship the idea of No God with the passion of the Orthodox. Such Atheists and Skeptics (the one note Believers in Anti-Belief, not the thoughtful well-let's sees) are just as rigid in their assumptions as the credulous believers, closing their minds and jumping to the conclusion they most want.

D got a copy of the Fortean Times, many years ago. It took me a while, but once I started reading it, I converted. Found my true faith. Douglas Adams was a prophet A mobile point, always watching, never accepting any explanation as eternal writ. For what is there to write upon? Stone erodes, cracks, melts, what words would survive even there? People will believe anything, much of it just screwy, our own ability to conceive of the way life works woefully inadequate to encompass the infinite variety.

When I came to write a novel, how could I do other than dig into this rich source? Putting the story here could be an issue, since I do dream of publishing, one day. But the ideas that inspire me? Ah ha! That I can write about. I will reveal to you my secrets, all the Forteana that drives and populates my meagre attempt at fiction.

I change again, from long convoluted essays, to my explorations of Boston, to daily struggles and worries, and now, the far edges that have always fired my mind. Let's see where this one goes...

Ground

Probably, it's the unremitting snow, the dead of winter with February still to endure, and another year to add to my collection at the end of it, but I am very low on real hope. Slow at work, a general sense of low water - frozen hard. Itchiness. D having to be in the hospital twice in two weeks, and now the slog of physical therapy. Problems to be solved that cannot even be addressed now. The lull after crisis - my weakest stress point.

Gimme blood and crashing, agony and tears, danger and trauma, and I'm all over it, calm and efficient. Let the wave wash past, and I stand in the shallows and dissolve. Not that I need drama to be happy, quite the opposite, I love when all is spinning along nicely - oh yes indeed. But when the bad stuff hits, the waning aftermath pulls the rug out from under my sprung feet.

D tells me "It's going to be alright." Which is what he said all through nursing school, when we hoped to have a few dollars left after bills, and every other period of existential angst, and he is right. We will be alright, always have been. I have come to trust this, even if I still feel fairly awful. It's not alright now, but it will be, it will be.

He played his guitar a little yesterday, and now has six fingers to type with. And he tells me it's going to be alright.

Alright, then.

Task

D is the most genuine and appreciative person I have ever met. His gratitude floats me. For what feels to me the most obvious behaviour, I help. It's what I am trained to do. My experience is all about tackling a problem, planning out contingencies, making sure all needed items are present, and all present items are put to best use. It's all about organization, learning from errors and successes, and seeing possibilities. That hurts? That doesn't work? No sweat, I got three more up my sleeve.

Comes of a surgeon saying, this right angle isn't working.

How about a penrose drain, or, oh there's that weird little whatzit in the ear set...

Nothing like knowing about a wide range of specialty instruments when faced with atypical anatomy in peril, and a frustrated surgeon trying to do best job for the patient.

I have also come to view tasks without emotional baggage. I can mop a floor, wipe snot, assist on a regional block, or first assist a surgeon on a tricky bit of vascular repair, with equal satisfaction. The last is much more fun, but the first is no punishment.

My back only complained a little when I scoured the bathroom this morning, after Moby did such a thorough job of distributing a layer of litter on the floor, probably because there may have been some feline urine there. A Special Effort, since the boxes both have lipped edges to prevent spillage. Sorely neglected, save for surface maintenance, the bathroom now smells much better. The forced air furnace lays down a lot of dust on top of the moisture, leaving muddy residual and orange mildew - all gone now.

D has been remarkably dexterous with his left hand. Now that he is in a smaller splint, he can do more, but with more pain. He managed shaving once with his left hand, and this morning with his right.

"Am I bleeding? No? Well, any shaving you can walk away from..."

I help when I can, sometimes just because I am there and he is tired. I know that one, when I could stoop down, if I had to, one more time, but D stops me, and picks up what I dropped. I help him hold the sleeve of his parka, and he thanks me, again. He expresses his admiration and regard clearly, though I think I only do what I do. It doesn't take a lot of intelligence to pay attention and apply what I have learned. What is rare and wonderful is to be appreciated for the effort.

Moby is sitting in front of me, we watch the snow come down.

Thunk

The threads of the story are starting to unravel. I know where to put the ducks, and how the ring is found, and when the dark story is told. The snarl is still pretty tight, but there are a few loops, now.

D got the large splint off, spent hours at the doctor's office, got to the physical therapist's, and made his way home, all on the bus. He's hurting, but now he can wash, put on his coat, scratch. It's been quite a month, with a long painful stretch to go.

We know we will have to move this summer. This place is too far, with poor bus service (re-routing that happened a few months after we got here.) The wiring is screwy. The stairs always iced because of ice in the eaves. Barely adequate heating.

We await a good dump of snow tonight, over already iced roads. Off shift tomorrow, I plan to hunker down. My words thunk.

Payback

My teacher called me out of class, because I had not been doing my arithmetic homework for a long time. I did not know my times tables. I would be put in with the slower students in all my classes to make up the deficit. Shamed and devastated, I would have to work with my mom every day to get the damn numbers in my head. I'd been skating, unaware that there were consequences, thinking that my intelligence with words would be more than sufficient. The rope jerked hard, the truth cut to my third grade bones, with bitter tears, I learned.

Out of my depth again, trying to be an actor in a college program, stressed out, ill nourished, lacking coping skills, always patching with excuses, I was told plain truth. In class. "You are always sick, you always have an excuse for not being ready," said Fred. I wanted to crawl away, blasted with my own failure. Simple truth, through my tears, even then, I managed to thank him, defending him against the 'nice' classmates who called his words harsh. It would not be long before I was out of the program, and would begin the long hard climb up my anxious bad habits, long ingrained and unseen.

Again, thinking myself capable, making progress, learning to scrub and circulate in surgery, again I was called aside for an adjustment. Now, I know, this is a common experience, assurance is balanced with ability, both are necessary and somewhat independent factors in this job. Jarring, my life didn't shake beneath my feet so badly.

I have come to value my humility, and become better at self assessment. I get it wrong still, but not by vast amounts. It always hurts. I strive with all my heart to hear wake-up calls, to welcome in the prickly truths, even when wrapped in false judgements and personal attacks. A hard, hard gift to accept, but precious seen with open eyes.

And, well, every time I actually learn the lesson, I maybe won't have to be slapped with it AGAIN.

Moments

Mostly, I keep my mouth shut. Mostly, I don't say the smartass, obvious, confrontational comments that fill my mind. Honestly. Or I say them very quietly.

Every once in a great while, I have a moment, and grab it's lapels in both fists and spit honesty at it.

We were readying a room for a trauma, everyone intently preparing for the usual eventualities, not much talking, a team used to working together, aware of our roles. The trauma surgeon (in his last few months taking trauma call, to everyone's relief) barged in, shouting and blustering, telling us all to do what we were already doing. Disturbing the flow, interrupting our communications. Some dark child in me spoke up.

"Shut up. You are not helping." Matter of fact, and I was right. He harumpfed (the only time I've actually heard anyone in real life harumpf) and left until he was needed. I believe there is still a trace memory of that in his brain that keeps him from pushing me too far, to this day.

I was in the library restroom, washing my hands, and the woman in the next stall opened the stall door. She had used the toilet, and not flushed (sounds, understand.) I looked at her, and said, "I always wondered what people who don't flush the toilet look like." She shrank, mumbled some incoherent excuse, retreating to flush. She was young, well dressed, apparently clean, and I suspect will never leave a used toilet unflushed ever again.

In the grocery store parking lot, two young perky high school age girls were holding clipboards, approaching people, perkily. They spotted me, and one accosted me.

"Hi! I'm doing a survey! Are you a friendly person!?"

I thought a moment, and answered.

"No." And got in my car.

Using the ATM at the grocery store, two school age children were closer to me than to their father. Close enough to see my PIN going in, bumping into me a bit. I stopped, stared at them, finally telling them they needed to stand back. The father asked me in an affronted tone if he thought his kids were going to steal something, or what.

"Actually, yes. And I don't like children."

It didn't work, that time. He was angry and offensive, which merely confirmed my previously mild suspicion that in fact they were up to no good. But I did manage to keep the children back just enough. And I delayed that yuppy looking man enough to share the annoyance. Most of the time, my bluntness comes back to bite me, which is why I usually restrain myself. Once in a while, though. Once in great while.

Fine

Headed out to get gas in the car, not much feeling like it. A couple of kids walking through between the apartment buildings, boy asks me for "one of those." Long icicles drip from the eaves of our second floor overhang. I pick the longest one, and carefully hand it down to him, broken end first. His older sister, I assume, mocks him gently as he swings his temporary lance. "Just don't kill anyone with it."

I find decent wheatgrass for Moby. He's on the bed, staring out the sunlit window. I stand behind him, blow on the grass toward him. His ears prink, he turns toward me, then his eyes catch the treat, then his whole body surges toward the greenery. A perfect triple-take.

It's been very slow at work, which worries me. I've been sent home, and asked to leave early, twice this week. This transition jerks along, with no way to know how it will resolve. D coaxes away my anxiety, we'll be fine, we'll be fine.

I had to listen to conversation in the lounge, a nurse who just bought a 5,000 sq ft house, and all their woes about redecorating it. I can't even see her reality from here. Rather like the one in Boston who has only "white Lennox" ornaments on the christmas tree the children only see on christmas. "They have trees in their own rooms."

Yeah, we'll be fine.

Trade

I gave up parts of myself in the failed attempt at marriage, thinking it required, a compromise. I learned the error of this idea. Love doesn't expect amputation.

The subtle confusion of this is that in any shared life, old interests and activities do fall away. I once hiked the canyons, long all-day treks that pushed my physical limits and gave me a bodily courage I'd not had before. Now, I do not, and I do miss the aroma of campfire, sleeping beneath stars. I do not miss the aches, the cold and blisters. And I remember staying alone outside the tent watching the Perseids speck the black sky above the Badlands, while that ex retired beneath the tarp.

I don't dance as much as I would have liked, but that is in part because there is not a good folk dance group I can get to here. Nor a group that just wants to bellydance together for fun. I've had my time to waltz and foxtrot, including teaching it for a living.

I doubt I will travel as much as I dreamed, though I have lived in a few places. But, how could I leave Moby long enough to wander the world? If there is no spare cash for Istanbul, there would never have been had I struggled on alone, either. Much of what I will not do is as much my accumulation of injuries and aches, not marriage.

In return, I have company, a ready listener to my singing, daily belly laughs, cold feet to warm on cold nights, gratitude. Instead of a husband who will only believe what I say if he hears it from another source - then tells me in amazement what I'd told him, well. D believes me, listens to me, values my expertise as I treasure his.

The nurses were glad to be able to let me into the recovery room after surgery, because he calmed and immediately followed my instructions. He also repeated "I love you" interspersed with "I just want to wake up" and "How'd it go?"

I will trade a dance and a hike for affection and high regard, though never asked for it. Life is a deal. I got a sweet one.

Moby spotted a fly, and cornered it in the lampshade. Took him a while, but he got it.

Win

Pizza

My eight hours of work seemed like sixteen, yesterday. They went easy on me, and during a slow hour waiting for a case to be able to start, I crashed in the staff lounge. Then I had to pinch hit on a craniotomy, which, the surgeon assured me, at my confessed lack of a lot of experience, "It's not like it's brain surgery!"

"Well, actually Dr. P. ..."

Our friend N came by in the afternoon, to hang out. He's still dealing with a badly fractured clavicle due to fall with a motorcycle. We weren't here to help him, being still in Boston. But he arrived to help D, and they ordered pizza, something D "Could eat with one hand." (Needing to keep food in the stomach to tolerate pain meds and antibiotics - both of which seem to be working better than for the smashed elbow ten years ago.) They discussed surgical experiences. D napped.

More friends arrived with take out last evening, feeding me too. (Dave used to do IT for the Physics dept., and often told us that "Rocket scientists aren't rocket scientists.")

We are both sore and a bit cranky this morning. D needs a massage, but there are few positions he could tolerate to get one. It's less the surgical pain than the immobility and weird sleeping positions. And the general annoyance, "For the next two weeks." I try to suggest that thinking of it one day, one hour at a time will be easier, otherwise he has to carry the whole two weeks the whole time. This, of course, doesn't really help. The easy way is often not easy.

I'm doing all I can to make it less troublesome. Any suggestions for good, nutritious, one-handed food?

Why (Photos)

Moby kept D company, slept on him last night. The yellow block is to keep the hand protected and elevated. The x-rays are before, during and after. The mass, the mass cleared of soft connective tissue, then filled in with graft. Easy to see not much bone was holding his finger together in the middle, any (likely) break would have been shattering. Necessary.

He's doing remarkably well with his left hand, or rather his "fret hand." Small mercies gladly accepted.

Surgery

This day started early, cold, but only mildly uncomfortable. It picked up speed, though. All is well... ish. D is snoring on the sofa, ice on his wrist, more or less comfortable. We were well cared for, but surgery is not benign, it's just better than the alternatives. D's finger x-rays are rather dramatic. Graft from his wrist, that itself required graft. I could hardly bear to be away from him, but I let everyone do their work without interference.

This is going to be a difficult month, much more for him than me. I'll just be worrying.

I'll start cleaning up around here in a few minutes, much to be done. For the moment, I am pulling myself together. We live.

Nun

One cannot be a catholic girl and not have at least a phase of wanting to be a nun. Usually after watching Bells of St. Mary's or In This House of Bede. I am no exception. The loss of the lovely habit, romantic, from an earlier age, rather left me bereft. I considered a cloistered, and habit'ed order, escape from the complexities of the day, a simple life. I intuited that it would provide me little relief.

I took to pleading with Mary about what was going on with my body, what was going on? How could I cope with all the mess, all the emotions, all the implications? I was terrified of pregnancy long before I'd ever so much as kissed a boy. I planned for a hysterectomy from the age of eleven, as soon as I was old enough to get it done. Little did I know I would have no decent insurance until I was over thirty. By then, I had come to terms with menstruation. Mary, the Virgin Mother oF God had nothing to say to me. The various virgin martyrs had nothing useful for me. Nor did the repentant adulteresses or prostitutes. I just wanted sex with a couple of men, to know what it felt like, what it might mean to me. And the BVM was just a statue, the snake under her foot, not crawling sinuously up her thigh.

My rejection of religion had much to do with my revelations about sex. It wasn't so bad, it often wasn't so good. But when it was, I touched the infinite more certainly than any excruciating boredom inside the walls of a church. That came later, though. Transcendent intimacy I only found long after the gods had faded from my view. I left regimented faith because it had nothing to say to a sensuous and moderate woman, save to marry and have children. I had other hopes.

Bible

Growing up in a Catholic home, and Catholic school, I have in my mind gone visiting through history the religious people they taught me to revere. Didn't always go well. Jesus could be either a gentle prophet, a little sad, knowing me immediately and taking me aside to offer his teaching. Other times, he was a misogynistic jerk who shoved me aside, depending on my age and state of mind. The older I got, the more cynical, telling him about the wars and atrocities committed in his name.

The saints were likewise a mixed lot, and my irritations with them grew over time. A few, like Augustine, I visited merely to annoy him, and lambaste him.

Most of my imaginings of biblical people are lost to me now, a working through of my own ability to believe and my need to know. I wanted the contradictions to evaporate, and all to grow clear and easy. No god spoke to me, no faith ever granted. For long years, I considered the afterlife might be a wandering across time and space, speaking to all the thinkers and writers, leaders and common folk, satisfying my boundless curiosity.

I have finally left this dream of my version of heaven at the wayside. I much prefer oblivion, a comfort I did not perceive in youth feels right, now.

The visit with Lao Tsu was largely silent, he, or maybe she, simply laid a warm hand on my arm, and I laughed.





(Wish I could have a conversation with the Blooger people, I want to know why my autofill is sometimes rejected, and they make me change everything to get back on my own blog. And no, I didn't "forget" my password, the bloody site just won't see it. But Blooger is harder to complain to than any god ever was.)

Gnash

And, of course, I have had a two year conversation with my characters in the stalled novel. They only talk to me about the rules they live by, their history in abstract, no specifics of their day to day, no sense of the stories they want to tell. I am listening politely, at the moment, as they tell me about how they handle funerals and raise children, and have sex, and teach each other. Not the stuff of the story, but the deep background that I try not to let bore me. But I want to know where they are going, where they will end up at the conclusion of this phase of their lives. I don't want to be the kind of writer that can't write an ending. I enjoyed C.J. Cherryh and the beginning of other writers (pick any SF/Fantasy trilogy+ series writer) that I will never read again, because they can't end their books. I don't want to be that kind of author. So, until I can find an end, this book will never be.

I gnash.

Honestly, I need some help here, and have nowhere to turn.

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.