Lessons

The Hidden is always present. We don't know what lessons we are learning, until much later. We don't know what lessons we are teaching.

My father taught me that home was a dangerous place, and anger is the only option. My mother taught me the potency of negativity, and silence, as well as how to sew a seam and make a bed and iron a shirt.

One teacher, whose face I can see clear as day, but I can't remember her name, or which grade she taught, was so organized and gave constant quizzes and thorough, but fair, exams, that I took in how important consistency and stringent but reasonable expectations are. Her classrooms were calm, and I learned more from her than I can express. I think I imbibed her assured methods, although it took many long years before I could emulate them.

Another teacher, full of enthusiasm over science, made crap up for the sake of her story, never consulted notes, and proved to be wrong so often that a great deal of unlearning had to take place before truth had a chance. Many of my fellow classmates struggled with this for years. I caught her in a huge mistake, which she defended, so I held my peace, and resisted excessive credulity.

From my drill sergeants, I learned how to shout without anger, and not to expect anyone to care about my lame excuses. Do the job, don't get caught, keep my buttons done up, know which pocket I put things in.

From my wonderful anatomy teacher, that artistry serves many uses, enthusiasm pinned to real knowledge is a potent force, and the best things in life take a huge effort - but are doable. And coloring is not just for children.
(This was the main text book. And the teacher freehand drew the structures in chalk on the board, and colored them in with us. What a guy.)

And a nursing school instructor who loved to put on a flashy show, then ask for unreasonable projects. I made up a series of interviews with a geriatric patient (who was supposed to submit to hours of grilling and report a lot of very personal information) in my "neighborhood" (???) based on several people(aunt, mother, granny) I knew long before. Got an A. And she gushed about how much I knew about "her." How "she" was so brave, despite health problems and age. Really can fool some people, especially if they are very good at fooling themselves.



I learned from Dr. Evil, a transplant surgeon who carried around a chaos ball, and enjoyed using it, how to be awful and prickly. Eventually, he was my prime example of how NOT to be. My boogie-man.


And I learned from D loyalty, and not turning anger at those I love, and patience and steadfastness. Among a host of examples of kindness, trust and compassion beyond anything I'd ever seen before in my life. He shrugs this off, but I remember.

Oddity

Took me a while to stop and watch/listen to this. I think I knew I needed to really stop, and attend. This has got to be the coolest person alive today.


Although, I actually found the video about him re-learning to play guitar in space even more interesting. Probably because I've spent the last couple of decades listening to D talk about playing guitar. And learning to love gear lust. Well, that last didn't take long, I love hearing people gush about the tools of their work. I had a theater shop teacher once tell us to ask anyone about their job, and they'll talk your ear off.


Anyway, Chris Hadfield, not embeddable.


Hard couple of days. Continued gratitude being expressed around me that the Troublesome Scrub is no longer with us. Despite being short staffed, having to make concessions. Whew. I try to just listen, but I do nod agreement. Unfortunately our anesthesia director, for all his skill, for all that I would have him do my anesthesia (no question) - is a raving, slathering, toxic Republican. And he is making a meal out of the current scandal, turning on FXO "news" in the staff lounge - full volume. I take my oolong elsewhere.

I meditate on those above it all. Seeing the entirety.


And, as I accompanied Moby outside.

"Really, I could just go out myself, go do what you food-dudes do, I'm fine."

(Not going to just let Moby out. Too many dogs, tom-cats with territory issues, and cars, to let an old, gentle,long indoor cat, out to just fend for himself. He hasn't the balls, and that's not a character comment, but a simple fact. He doesn't know that, of course. But, we take him out, to his evident satisfaction. It'll do.)

... As, I was saying, I look at what I planted last year settling in, looking comfortable. The freshly planted still deciding where to put their roots, and if they like it here. And I see how, metaphorically, organic it all seems. And to trust my own sense of taste and eclecticism. Feeling very content about the whole experiment. Assured that I've done good for the soil, invited in worms and helpful bugges, dug deep and listened to the earth in this tiny spot. This is how I've always done it, no overall plan ahead of time, since I don't have the money to just get it all and put it in place. I have to take each piece as it comes, wait for the next element, arrange accordingly, and stay open to the next possibility. Making it up as I go along.

Mint and clover, rhubarb and flax, sunflowers and thyme, Turkish veronica and jalepeño, all together. Tearing up the plastic netting (probably the cheap sod laid down came that way.) Stacking up rocks. Waiting to see what will come next.

Gesture

Pinks

A run/walk fundraiser† down our street.


(It is a thoroughfare, if quieter than many.) Mediocre 80s cover band* no doubt local, a half block away, loud reverberations in the neighborhood. Moby had to be out, watching, as the first 5K runners came through. Just watched, better part of an hour,sitting in the clover. Deciding I needed tea and breakfast, I left the guys out there, but Moby wanted to come in a minute later.

Then, he got in a bag.




†As someone in the field, I don't support any particular health oriented charity over any other. Good on them, but I'll just do my job as best I can. I do like seeing so many men being willing to put on pink stuff to support their women, though. Normalizing 'gendered' color, increasing androgyny, ain't a bad trend.


*But forgive the redundancy.

Warhol

Not Warhol. Went to a presentation at UMOCA last evening. Finally saw a whole Warhol film. I closed my eyes and wandered around my own thoughts. But the speaker made our day. He'd been presented as Warhol himself to visit several western universities, including my alma mater here, many years ago. Minor scandal. Hired to act the part, with no further direction, he apparently did just fine. Brought back as a Mondo Utah speaker. D has a great love of hoax stories, so this turned out to be just the ticket.

I got in the last Q of the Q&A.
"Do you think you gave better value than the real Andy Warhol?"
"That's what they told me... "

He seemed pleased at the question, and being able to brag a little. Allan Midgette seemed a strange and unique being in his own right, and I'm glad to have given him the opportunity to get another laugh out of the audience.

Very odd audience, as well.

As we left, the sky was orange, storm coming in from the east, sun setting in the west, a rainbow. Thunder and lightening, then thick pelting rain.

A little later, but still glowing.

Diagnoses

Hyperbole & 1/2 is back from the brink.

Depression is a bugger. And I don't think I ever had it, despite several diagnoses to the contrary. When I was with the ex, perhaps I was depressed, but it's more likely a refreshing of my PTSD from childhood. I was miserable for damn good reasons. I cried a lot, which was the distraction that confused the "experts." What I really have is mild anxiety. Anti-depressants never helped. Anti-anxiety meds worked wonders. But it's not a constant, daily issue. It's periodic. I would get myself gradually into a tighter and tighter knot. Then, I just wanted to dispose of myself.

I suspect suicide and suicidal thoughts are much like cancer - a catchall, descriptive term that doesn't really get to the root causes. Some people kill themselves out of that hopeless non-feeling, some out of anger at those around them, some out of pain, or any of the other situations that lead to desperation. Remorse, passion, despair, emptiness, all could lead by different paths to the same act of self destruction. It's a strangely comforting thought, when going through a long, difficult stretch, that one can make it end at will.

Every morning of nursing school, the alarm would go off, and I'd consider dying as an option, and opt instead to get up and keep going.

Having someone beside me who would be unjustly grieved, always weighed on the side of "keep going." As a young person, the idea of some kid finding my corpse, stopped me. I never liked the idea of someone cleaning up my mess. I didn't want to make the world a worse place, and I couldn't help but imagine how much that would have bothered me as a kid.

Ultimately, I deal with mild, periodic, anxiety. Beer is one of the better drugs, because it has a short half-life, easy to titrate the dose, and it's delicious. Valium causes too much sedation. Buspar is nice, but it's not supposed to be used as needed, although it did work that way for me. Still needed a prescription. For beer, all I need is my ID, or rather, my grey hair.

And I need to walk regularly, keep up my buddhist philosophical practices, and my self-calming exercises. Stay open, stay aware, take breaks, find the funny, pet the cat, love the guy. Dig in the garden.

Taking a little break. Passed the biometric enough not to have to have a coach.

D watching Bullitt. Surgery scene, that he's always liked. I watched, and sure enough, they seem to have a real scrub tech. Perfect sterile technique, and the way she loads a needle driver - then threads it! We have very few reasons* to thread surgical needles these days, but it happens under certain conditions. I've done it. It rang true for him, and I was able to confirm how genuine it was. Over 40 years, many details have changed, but the manual skills still look the same. Recognizable. Obvious. Extraordinary, since usually, I have to turn away from OR scenes to keep from throwing things. On the director's commentary, we could confirm what I could clearly see. They used actual hospital staff.

Off to sweep the garage.



*Plastic surgeons - old ones - still have all their sutures loaded onto reloaded needles. Occasionally, suture anchors require a second, threadable needle, but the surgeon loads that. All others are swedged on.

Heartbeats

Sore ears were so much of my childhood. My mother would put drops in them, and cotton wadding, and I'd lie on one side as long as I could, then she'd dose the other side. I remember one time they were so congested and then swaddled, and I thought the dryer was running. Complained at how long it seemed to be going.

Described the sound, Thud-thd. Thud-thd. Over and over.

Couldn't be the dryer in the basement I heard from the upstairs. No, that was my heartbeat. Oh.

Which creeped me out rather badly for a while. Got used to the idea, when my ears were stopped up, I could listen to my insides.

Turns out, that might be a very good thing.

I don't know if I would have been able to hear my heartbeat otherwise, I can't usually, not so that I'm conscious of. But apparently women who treat their body as an object to be modified to fit the fashion, definitely can't. And I've never understood them, wearing teetery heels and painfully tight clothing seemed incomprehensible. I've always lived in my body, maybe since that first time.

I look forward to new information on this phenomena. As my heart continues to thud-thd.

Beasts

Last night, we expressed the desire to sleep in this morning. Neither of us terribly hopeful, but thought it would be nice.

At 6, two neighbors were screeching at each other just outside our garage. Went on for several minutes. Moby acutely alert, one front paw on my shin, the other held to his belly, ears perked, eyes alarmed. When he finally decided that was quite enough and jumped off, I looked out the window to see if they were still there.

Huge Orange Cat and new-to-me young black cat - both still in the "And one more thing, buddy... !" stance. I tapped on the window, they scattered. Younger cat beneath the window and north, Orange Brute the other direction. I suspect they were disputing access to the garage. When I turned on the engine yesterday morning, Orange Brute ran out past me. I need to clean out the accumulated tree debris from in there, maybe slap on some paint to improve visibility. Orange Brute will still linger there, but with less of this smell.

Moby hates loud conflict.

Luckily, I was able to drift back off, which was lovely. Not often one gets what one merely wishes for.

Still have to do the biometric testing to get my health insurance discount. It really pays, so I do it.

Hacking up weeds, and plastic netting from the sod, in preparation for some soil and clover seeds. Flowers still being shy, but then, it is only early May. Put the geranium that survived inside for the winter, out by the tomatoes - to confuse the bugges. And to look purty. Pease are looking alive, chives appeared from unpromising beginnings last year, chard is knee high, tomatoes all surviving so far. Jalapeño seems content. Ravenna grasses alive, but small. Thyme returning. Turkish veronica from last May blooming away, intensely purple.

Yup, more clover and sweep out the garage. Sounds like a Plan.

Wit

Picked up The 2000 Year Old Man In The Year 2000.



If anyone thinks I'm pretentious, well, sheesh.

"A book with wit but no wisdom - you're laughing about nothing. A book with all wisdom and no wit... you might as well go to the library and take out a book by Schopenhauer.

Or rub sand in your eyes."

First page, laughing out loud.

Sat on the porch, each reading our own book. The above for me, The Bad Popes for D, as it rained, and rained, and rained. The gardens are happy. But it got a bit cold, and we came in. Which pleased Moby, who is now crashed on my lap.


Still not completely over his conversion to Lap Cat. It's been a year and a half now, can't quite believe the change.

Richness

When we were idling in Saudi in 1990-91, D suggested I read Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I had nothing better to do. Like riding a bike for the first time, I needed a hand, though. Names do not sit well in my brain, and no one in this book has just one. The plot is complicated. The language is circuitous, even deceptive. If D had not coaxed me through the first time, I'd have walked away from it. And missed an immense sense of accomplishment, and a rich and rewarding story I would return to innumerable times over the years. I was soaring.

I always read well, I could read at first grade level before I started kindergarten. But I was often an utter coward about it. Took me much longer than reasonable to pick up anything but a picture book. My first novel was called Gone Away Lake, only a few drawings every few pages. Hadn't realized the images would appear inside my own head. Oh, wow, was I ever hooked. Even then, the "classics" scared me. Until I worked in the library, I didn't even try. But they kept passing through my hands, flirting with me, and... well, it just sorta happened.

Hated books I was forced to read, Wrinkle in Time and Johnny Tremain aren't awful, but the mandatory nature of the class assignment ruined them for me. I think that was why I read through my school anthologies as soon as possible, so I could actually enjoy the stories, before being made to hear them slowly tortured aloud.

Great books can be very rich, full of references and clever knots. Sometimes, they are so out of time, there is no way for anything but a scholar to enjoy them, D describes Umberto Eco this way. Although he adds he is vastly tickled by the implied compliment. This is a man who read Vineland - Thomas Pynchon, out of sheer bloodymindedness. I read a paragraph and decided I'd gone past my limitations. One should be proud of reading difficult material just out of reach, occasionally.

Can't read any of the Bronte sisters, who were amazingly popular in their time, and long after. To me, they seem very dated, old fashioned. Whereas Austin still feels fresh and relevant. Much matters when in my life a book came to me. I doubt I'd have read The Hobbit if I'd been 17 when I found it, but I was a bit younger, when it was just right. I hated the absurdity of the Alice books, until I was about 17, when the humor and silliness resonated. When I was still in a very churchy world, I could enjoy C.S. Lewis, a decade later, and it would have cloyed.

Charles Dickens (any of 'em) is a bubble & squeak, or haggis. Maybe kimchi. Don't mind that they exist, don't think I could actually swallow any of it. But it seems a cultural problem, not the author's fault. And I love the stories, told through other means.


Glad I read Colour of Magic right after coming off a jag of way, way, way too many fantasy books. Struck just the right note. It's not one of his better novels, a straight parody, jokes littered all over, Zotz.

Relishes

D feeling somewhat better, after some drugs to help him sleep, breathe. I'm teetering on the edge of maybe not being well. Not at my best at work, felt snappy and prickly. Simply coping, knowing I would have five days off, with an annoying half-hour's appointment to get a health screening that discounts my health care premiums. Then I get a call from the boss, mandatory meeting in the morning, 0715. Not to be moved. Ordering everyone in for this inservice. Many of us really pissed. But when she gets herself all mad, she cannot hear reason. Wonders, though, why she gets such negative staff surveys. She's a peach. With a worm. One of those tasteless, mealy peaches.

That she has posted it as mandatory means nothing, since every meeting for two months have been "mandatory" and she has admitted that it usually means she just wants as many as possible there. But she got a bee up her butt about the one tomorrow. If only I'd told everyone we were flying out of town this evening. Next time, I will give that story out. Got the call while running my room, caught me off guard, flat footed. Not that I'm any good with the instant lie, the snappy come-back anyway. I default to honesty.


Still, it's only an hour. And I'll probably wake up anyway. I plan to clock in at 0715 precisely, and take at least one potty break.

Reminded by a quiz of the books I've failed to read. And the aspect of reading that is akin to taste.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce, is an ultra rich cheesecake. One tiny slice, and I was amazed, but full. Knew I'd never finish it.

Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky. Turkish coffee. Interesting, but after a sip, way too strong, and I really don't like coffee. Learned the word petty, which was useful.

Harry Potter. An A&W plain hamburger. Loved them as a kid, from the drive-in across the bridge in Windsor, so we wouldn't hit relatives right at meal times. I didn't like meat, which barely figured. Thin patty, thick bread, ketchup, relish, sometimes cheese, soggy, just the right amount for a small child. I could stand one today, but not more. Really don't get why an adult would seek them out, save to share with a child.


Twilight. Peeps. Even the smell of it repels me. The thought of putting it in me is beyond possibility. Only good to ridicule.

And in the discussion that prompted these thoughts, I would like to add here, out of context, this.

Intelligent and well written does not equal dull and snobbish.

Silly does not mean only fit for children.

Bad writing does not mean fun and entertaining. Humor doesn't have to be stupid and ignorant.

Some classics are bound to their own time, but some speak wittily across the ages.

I knew there was a strong strain of anti-intellectualism in this country. Reverse snobbery. Anyone suggesting that good writing and honest stories with a moral compass, coherent plot and full fleshed characters, are "dull" and pretentious, preachy and too hard. I think good writing is easier to read, and hones the mind to relish the more challenging great writing. Which may take more effort, but returns far more. That some assume anyone reading a non-mainstream, non-best seller, non-morally bankrupt, non-cardboard populated novel - is faking it, and self puffed-up, a snooty smartass. Who has no sense of fun, and hates children and eats puppies.

Thing is, I like fluff, as long as it's good fluff. When I was between terms in nursing school, and could barely read instructions for soup, I read Robert Asprin, and Piers Anthony's Xanth novels. (I couldn't read Anthony today, too many themes of attraction to underage girls, that I didn't pick up on at the time.) But I feel that we live and die by our stories. And it is important to take in good stories that feed our souls, and try to keep the cheap stuff to a minimum. Just like food, most of the time, fresh, well prepared, spiced and savored varieties, balanced. The odd hershey bar won't be a problem, and will feed the part of us that isn't consistent, and is still five years old.


I want to read a little more Joyce, a few pages.

Greta suggested Araby, and here it is.

Foxes

The story about the Air Force sexual assault prevention officer doesn't surprize me. Fox in charge of the chickens indeed.




When I was in the army guard, there was a warrant officer, Mr. H. older guy, who was put in charge of sexual harassment training. I think someone should have mentioned that it meant prevention, not promotion. He was an old creep who would corner the younger women and kiss them. He tried to trap me, but I knew what he was and how to avoid him. I did manage to prevent at least one enforced kiss he tried to plant on one of the smaller female PFCs. The next guy, Sgt E.W. to hold the position didn't do this. He just made smarmy remarks that left women feeling goosed. We all knew, saw the irony, but this is how the military works. Or fails to work. D always said "the army is a idiot."

When I was around 20, working at the Detroit main library, one of the security guards got in the elevator with me, and kissed me. Shocking, baffling, unpleasant, but it was not a time when it would have been considered serious. I told a few people, and all the other young women. I never got on an elevator with him unless with several other people as well. Kept him at a distance, became much more aware of my surroundings. That experience probably kept me safe at various times in my life. Not that I'll thank him for that.






(If you know the attribution of this image, please let me add it here.)

Timed

Long work dream, putting bandages on a large woman with a lot of fur. She seemed sedated or severely mentally disabled, but I talked through what I was doing anyway. For the last bandage, around her ear, she started talking to me articulately.


I took her to recovery, and a small woman with a sweater and brightly colored embroidered cap drifted into the OR hallway. I herded her back in, when I noticed she wore a scrub dress underneath. And she had a poofy dog with her. Dog had rubber booties on. I put my hand out to him, and she told the dog not to touch me. When it got closer, I realized it looked odd because he was covered in coban, only the nose and eyes and ears were free. Apparently to allow a furry dog into the area.

The wind kicked up last night. And over the beds where I planted seeds, the box elders dropped their seeds in their millions.

Not box elders, but I don't know what.




D has been ill all week, chills and fever, aches and dizziness. Some slow improvement. I went to bed early last night, tired and achy and coughing, slept 13 hard hours. We are only at work 2 days next week, taking some vacation time - well timed.

Rocks

Planting is substantially done. Poppy and scarlet flax, cosmos and sunflowers. Marigolds near the tomatoes in back, the geranium will go out soon. I need to harden it a bit first. Which I have not done. Jalepeño* plant, rhubarb, strawberries, hen&chickens. And returning from last year, chard, parsley, mint, thyme, Turkish veronica(?) with purple flowers, native veronica with bluish flowers, spiky weeds and dandelions. And another local weed I know not the name of. Also, there seem to be other plants from last year, but they have not declared themselves yet, only hinted from behind the curtain.

The green is clover. As I clear more of the plastic-net-infested sod, there will be more. There will still be some leftover grass, and always weeds. But mostly, clover, which needs less water, and is greener. I can mow it or not. The sacrificial tomato plant in in the upper right.




The rocks are fine, though. I stack them by whim. Cairns to forgotten gods.



*Which G from work refers to as djəll LAH pən ose. He knows better. Now he's got me doing it.

Connections

Some questions asked elsewhere.

Why read old books? Why art and science?

I've struggled with this one. Robinson Crusoe amazed me, when I read it about age 17. Adventure and resourcefulness, I wonder why I didn't notice the bigotry. Maybe I should pick it up again. Important to know where we've been as a culture. Jane Austen is still a clear, wry voice, crying out for love and freedom and hope. To know we have not changed much, that our humanity reaches across the earth, and far back into time. Perhaps to a point before we were fully human. This is what old stories can teach us, why it's important to look at both the incorrect beliefs, which may not be all that wrong. And to be stunned by the wisdom, the familiarity of the stupidity, the grandness and the pettiness to which we all are heirs to.

And arts are not separate from sciences. It all connects in the human brain, which is the only real tool we have, everything else are tools made by that tool. Ask a blacksmith why he always has to use the anvil. Science needs art to be explainable. Art gives insight to science. Art imagines it otherwise, then makes science prove it.

Why tell children the truth?
They will tell lies, because they have few other shields, and it is a kind of intelligence. Telling them truth, always, gives them a view of integrity and honesty to strive for when they are no longer powerless. Give them good information, or at least access to it, and feed their curiosity, then stand back. Amazing how much the young can do with a library card and a few adults willing to discuss anything.

Why smile when you are unhappy?
Ah, lots of research on this. As a kid, as a little girl in particular, I was ordered to "give me a smile!" I would frown harder. "Aw, is it really that bad?" Yes, yes it was, and their intrusion made it worse. Hard to get past that resistance. I didn't like my life, I was miserable, and smiling felt like a lie. Worse, I would be simply thinking, and get accused of scowling.

But smiles, the muscles moving up and scrunching, make the head and heart more cheerful. It affects everyone around, too. Act a certain way, and your feelings tend to follow. Those intrusive folks could have been dismissed, but I let them get to me and make me feel even worse. I still won't smile at a demander, but neither will I frown.

When I smile deeply, all the way to my toes, so it reaches my eyes, the joy comes up by capillary action.

Introvert

Will talk later...

Idling

A smattering of frost, but I'd covered the tomato plants last evening. The frost was on some of the covers. More probably snow. Will repeat the process tonight. I think they will survive.

Slow moving, not eager to move at all. Yesterday earned my pennies, and everyone in a rather pugnacious mood. Sassy, even. Spring hitting us, I expect. Everything feels colder, rough and raw, if only in contrast to the bright sun.

Measured and figured out how much area needs to be covered.



Got paint for the front facing, badly needed. Most of the paint is in good shape, but the winter blasted away at the western side. A guy at work was eager to take on the job. We'll pay him fairly, I know him well enough to trust he'll do a perfectly good job. I'm just not up to getting that high up. It is a somewhat different color, slightly darker, brighter, bluer, but it will mesh, not clash. None of the reds match, so I'm good with the green varying as well.

The names for colors is fascinating. The new one (not shown) is Monet green. One sample that caught my eye as I waiting for the mixing was named Baby Duck. I asked the mixer if it had real baby ducks. He said yes.

The sunflowers are sprouting madly, which gives me hope. More seeds in soil this weekend.

Remedy

Poor D has been suffering greatly with tree pollen. I'd heard that honey could help*, or at least be comforting†. And I know tea is good‡ for airways. Or at least not harmful. At any rate, warm beverages are nice when it's hard to breathe. D has never been a tea drinker, never appealed, and he grew up with the religious prohibition. But he was willing to try hot tea and honey as a medicinal. Indeed, it seemed to help a bit, which is all one can expect of home remedies - a moderate comfort when afflicted, but without side effects. He already takes antihistamines and decongestants.

This morning I brewed up a blend of oolong with this,



with milk and honey.

And for the first time, he tells me he actually liked tea for it's own sake. The aromatics - which he didn't realize he could actually smell through the mucous, somehow got through. Not to mention feeling appreciably better.

For the first time, in over 20 years, he has asked to share a pot of tea with me. Cool.


As for the allergies, I don't react much to the trees, the grasses will get me later a bit, but the fall weeds are my nemesis.



*Almost certainly not.
†A bit, adjusted for taste.
‡Well, can't hurt.

Eggshells

No, it wasn't wise, perhaps. Call it a calculated risk.

I planted the tomatoes. Also the strawberries, but Farmgal told me that was ok, and the nursery woman said the hen&chickens would be fine as well.



I planted all the tomatoes. Didn't realize there were so many plants, an even dozen. So, I put one in the back corner where nothing grew last year, and two in the front, where they will get more light, but less water. Three sacrificial plants. The soil really is in better shape this year, though. Loosened up, lots of last falls's dead leaves, thick snow pack melted into the ground, loads more worms. More sun coming through. I'm going to have to do some research on earthworms.

There is no indication of any kind of cold weather for the next week, and if there is a frost in May, I will use the dryer lint and paper bags, and snuggle 'em down for the night. I really doubt that will happen though.

Scattered the eggshells around, to deter snails. The peas are coming up, so is the lettuce. The rhubarb is alive and well. Everything is, frankly, looking hopeful. So I ran with hope.


The watermain leak was on city property, in front of the neighbor to the north.



All the noise of the backhoe bothered Moby...



not at all.

Uniform

Uniform is for U.


Undulating, ululating unsung U.

Uniting, universal and unifying.



Or sometimes undoing everything, untying, undying, uninspired and unkempt. Utah's University of Ungulates.






U is Up and Under. Usurping and unusual. Uzbekistan.



Utterly upbraided.





Cry uncle.

Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform.

Skeleton

Strange little week, one day running as fast and long as I could, the next day too much idleness. At least I had the chance to have a nurse training with me. Old(-er) nurse, new to the OR, which is an entire world to itself.

And in showing her the ropes as I know them, I articulated to her in work terms, the kind of universal insight I've been taking in lately. How difficult it is to learn, or teach, when you can't slow the process down to watch it carefully, but have to take it at speed, and just catch on as best one can. How each person can only bring their own mistakes and experiences and biases to the student, and each one has only their own demons to show the learner.

I keep thinking about how what bothers us most in others is a reflection of what we know, deep down at least, what is most wrong in ourselves. This is why compassion for others is essential to the growth of our own souls, because what we abhor in others is a form of what is most lacking in ourselves. Whenever we complain of others, we aren't complaining about them, but exposing some weakness, some flaw in ourselves. The more we fight this, say it's different, I'm not like that, that's not my problem, the more we can pinpoint what it is we see. Because it isn't a clear mirror, it's just twisted enough that we don't recognize ourselves in it. And that is exactly why we are so frightened. Maybe it's an exaggeration, or reversed, or stretched out, but it is still, always, us. Me.

And only by treating it like a frightened cat, a beaten child, with great tenderness, can we coax it out, and understand the ignorant and feral fear. Everyone searching for enlightenment knows that compassion is important. I think this is why. The demons are not out there, never were. They are inside, and like hallucinations, we see them as external. We have to kindly nurture ourselves, gradually brighten the closet, and let the skeletons out to dance.

lie

she's a good dude to lie on

sit

oh, let us sit upon the dude and talk of not a thing

Forgotten

Like Mr. Rogers, I change clothes when I get to work. Into something much more comfortable, scrubs like cotton pyjamas. Shoes are much the same, but I have shoes that never leave work, with good arch supports and insoles, orange, stained, often with blue covers on. And more times than I like to think, I will sometimes take my everyday shoes off, pull on scrubs, and them put the outside shoes right back on, only to look down because I've noticed that the shoes are still warm, and have to try again.

I've never forgotten to remove my cap and put on the cotton OR hat - tucking my hair inside. That would be like forgetting pants - which I also have never done.

No, but I forget to put on my pouch before I close the locker. Have to open it up again, put it on. Has my scissors and pens, and it's where my ring and watch go if I scrub in. Because I once threw my ring away putting it in the scrub pocket. At the end of the day, worn scrubs are dumped in the laundry bag in the locker room.

Having a lock with a thumb position combination instead of numbers has been wonderful, since my hand remembers, when summoning up numbers was always an iffy proposition. Especially first thing in the morning - before 0700, or after very long days.



I have forgotten to wear my jacket home after work on warm days with cold mornings. I've left my ring & watch in the pouch at work. Or my necklace when I take it off and drop it in there as well, because it's irritating under the thyroid shield when running the fluoro.

After I lock the car, I clip the keys on to my purse* strap, where it stays all day. As I leave, I slip my badge into the outside zip pocket, where it stays when I'm not at work. These sorts of habits are part of why I forget details less now than when I was younger, lose fewer things.

My clothes I lay out the night before, mostly developed that habit so as not to wake D in the morning in small apartments. But mostly because I don't trust my morning brain, and try not to stress it out too much.



*A very small baggallini, very practical.

Glowing

Work has been odd, albeit more peaceful, these last weeks. One woman who left on vacation right before the fired tech(FT) had her come-apart at the manager, came back today, and stories had to be told. The surgeon I scrubbed for had also not heard the story - but had been asked to write a letter of recommendation for FT.

I asked, "I hope it wasn't glowing."
"I wouldn't think so," he answered.

Which is to say, he kept it guarded and a smart manager or HR department would easily have seen it as hardly a recommendation. But we also heard she'd been hired, so maybe they deserve her. Odd thing, surgeon also said he told our manager not to hire FT, and FT bragged loudly that surgeon was her buddy and loved her and they went way back - when she was first hired. And now we are hearing that all the surgeons were complaining about her, but manager dismissed their concerns. As well as ours. Charming.

You'd think, in this economy, a good job would attract a lot of good people. Hard to understand how our pool of applicants is so small. The ball is being dropped somewhere in the process.

Slower this week, and last. The first lull we've had in a very long time. Not unwelcome.

Blanket

Blanket on pillow on chair
by window with sun, add cat.
Warm blissful moment.

Meander

It's a strange process, walking a cat. It's more a meander and wait proposition.

To the corner of his territory. Which is actually the neighbor's yard.


The fence is now letting in light, since I've removed three of the thick boards. It's a snug little neighborhood, with back fences all abutted.


Moby does love being out in the long, spring grass, listening to the birds, eating the grass.


Then, I did a maintenance assault on the ivy, driving it back as close as possible to the lost fence. How did I manage last year, when it was at least knee deep, up on the windows, no walkway even discernible? No wonder it took so many attacks. At least the borax killed all the stuff rooting in our foundations, none of that came back, and the bricks are clear. Whole lotta snail shells in the central clumpiness where there must be a fence. Filled the garbage bin. Nasty, irritating stuff it is too.

Finally figured out where to find a before, since I'd failed to take one before reducing the ivy. In the inspection report. Not quite the same angle, and it's a tiny Before photo, but it shows a bit.



After the first pulling away.



And today.

Lookie-loos

Language Hat* writes about looky-loos. I know the word as a rather mocking way of calling out the nosey parkers, gawkers and rubberneckers. I know I've used it occasionally over the years, I certainly heard it growing up. Usually as a plural, too. As in 'a bunch of lookie-loos.'

Reminds me of this song, though.












*Because I love enthusiastic experts, and language. I rarely comment there, as I usually have nothing to add, but I soak it all in.

Raining

Lost boys. Angry, fearful, lacking compassion - callow youth. Absent, abusive,neglectful, useless parents, one or all off the list, as many as apply. The tower snipers, the mad bombers. No excuses for them, a lack of humanity at the core. Bullied, lacking an inner life, they lash out against the world. Burn the universe away. Destroy to purge oneself of unease. They are not innocent, and need to be held accountable, but so do those who should have raised them.

Some are born with a deep resilience, paying back kindness for kicks. Some will turn out mean despite reasonable handling. But put the both together, and the conscienceless and evil emerge. A monstrous wave, a positive feedback loop, beyond normal comprehension.

I remember feeling like that, as a young 'adult' on my own, feeling helpless and furious, fantasizing picking off people from a tower. Distanced, a mighty force of destruction. And I was one of the tender kids, crying at other's hurts. I couldn't help thinking about how the people on the ground felt, and the people who loved them grieving. Still imagined myself mowing them down on bad days. D admitted he could understand the urge to walk into his middle school and riddle everyone with bullets. That rage exists in many of us, the toddler frustrated and denied. Most of us are taught, or have enough in us to learn empathy. Some are not, and it takes little more to lead them into violence.

That the parents of the brothers who apparently killed and maimed in Boston are denying and blaming is more frightening. That the uncle seems to get it, and hangs his head in family shame seems to reinforce the idea - he could see it happening, though perhaps not the scale of reaction. These brothers were taught to blame. The kind of family bubble I understand too well. The more abusive, the thicker the isolation, the further from our collective understanding of reality and compassion. Perhaps the older brother was schizophrenic, or merely a bully, and the younger went along in a blind hero-worship. The truth will never be known, only inferred.

Too often, marginal parents wrap the cloak of parenthood around themselves, rejecting any intrusion. But the raising of children is precisely what society needs to check on. Well raised children have a better chance of being good neighbors, spouses, parents, friends, leaders. Every child should have a mass of parents, all checking on each other, integrated, educating. Every child should have the right to a rich, safe childhood. Education, opportunities, nutrition, shelter, clothing, health care, kindness. One or two parents cannot do this alone, for them to defiantly assume they can and no one should look in on them, is beyond stupid. Children need friends, aunts and uncles, grandparents and teachers - as many as possible. The more the healthier.

The rain pours. Let it rain.

Victor

Victor is for V. As in Victory, and victorious,

and Victoria the Queen.


V is valuable and valiant although perhaps a bit vain. Sometimes just vein.



Vigilant and verbose and full of variety, it will vanquish the villains in a vice of vermillion.




Among others, V can save and give, believe and retrieve, sieve and deliver.

Victor, nearly invincible.

Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor.

Thumbs

Cold week, not objectively that cold, but the cold that cuts through, gets in and under. Weird week, more dark disturbing dreams, of a rape and murder, waking with no idea where I was. Oriented myself with difficulty, fell back into dreams of dementia, writing myself notes about what I forgot, then losing the notes. Head and neck pain throughout.

I rarely ask our dear scrub tech with the great hands and pain magnets at the end of his fingers, but today, I asked. He thumbed my neck for a long time, and I did feel much, much better. I try not to abuse his skill and kindness unless I really need to, but today was the exception. He's a good guy, and a musician - hence the strong and effective fingers. One of those people with a good touch.


Dithering, tired, achy, not in anydamnmood. Disturbed and distressed.

D will rub my sore neck with tiger balm, and all will look better in the morning.