Library

To live in easy walking distance from this Library.

Trade-offs

I have lived so many places. Creaking old house with mice in the walls, 100 watt light bulbs overhead, toilet that stank of sewer after a rain. Typical post WWI tract house, with much patched plumbing and decades of paint. This is what I grew up in, my first bedroom a large bathroom converted into a small bedroom, with sloping walls and access to outside that birds occasionally found their way in through. High, small window. Heater grate leading down to a coal furnace that belched hot, dusty air all winter. Choo-choo train wallpaper changed to purple flowers in stripes. Creaking linoleum floors. Steep stairs bisecting the house.

I lived in older apartments in college, with more dubious wiring and constant late night party ruckus. I dreamed of shooting through the floor to silence the thumpa-thumpa and drugged cackling shouts, violent fantasies, pressing against my desperate, pillow muffled ears. I slept on foam on the floor that folded into a sort of chair in the morning. I had roaches scramble over my sleeping face.

My four months in a solid, concrete duplex in the North Woods sported a little field mouse, who came in every night to inspect me. And very touchy circuit breakers. Furnished, with a naugahyde sofa, horse-head medallion in the back rest.

Every place had it's problems, annoyances, dangers. A few had their delights, like the view from the agency-supplied 20th floor apartment in Boston. The birds and trees outside the last place we lived on 9th East (a series of three). The awful place with TWO bathrooms, that became the drop-in spot for friends. The place a block from a park with stream, and geese.

Here, oh, my. I watch the trains, and listen to them. Smooth trams that roll past with a low, mellow rumble. Wide expanse of sky. Windows, that when both open, bring the world inside, a whole wall of light. My mother would be horrified at the endless hallway, but this is a neutral, a block of walking out of the weather. I hear the neighbor's printer in the morning, but little else. I prefer the solidity, the modernity, the high ceiling that makes it all feel more spacious. Not another basement, not another high-rise, not another creaking, cobbled together mouldy make-do. Cleanable, workable, we made lunch together in the kitchen without irritation.

Moby has been up on the washing machine. We've only seen him jump down from there, but it seems a reasonable extrapolation.

Sleepy

Dealing with exhaustion, perhaps fatigue, today. No substantial nibbles on the employment front. Evaded the boss yesterday for a resumption of the pseudo-heart-to-heart.

I so wanted to get out this evening. Do something, go somewhere. I sat, then I had to lie down, then I crashed. With intermittent napping all evening, and I will be toddling off any moment now for a solid night's sleep. I hope.

Laughed a lot today, everyone was on one in my room. The normally rather reserved anesthesiologist smarted off at me first thing. The surgeon put out his paperwork and told me not to touch it. So I poked my finger at it. He petulantly tells me "don't touch it!" I keep touching it, and he shoves me, with a suppressed giggle. I say I'm gonna tell on him. Such a funny toddler moment. Scrub sassing me all day, messing with the surgeon about his hair, adding to the general wildness. Mostly, I just laugh. It's a rough, roll along, take it seriously at your own risk humour.

This morning, because I couldn't stay awake long enough last night when this started, I am still groggy. Slept ten hours, to D's less than two. Honestly, I would have shared. But even Moby on my ankles barely rippled my unconsciousness.

Hero

The Iron Giant is one of those movies that always leaves me in tears. D says if it doesn't leave one a bit wibbly at the end, they have no heart. He believes this is because it is about real heroism, not just action/adventure. A conscious act of bravery, with certain destruction, for the sake of another.

This is, of course, the difficulty, of heroes. In real life, they are often the folks who simply do what they do, unselfconscious generosity, with no regard for accolades. The don't want to be lauded, they want to get on after a cursory acknowledgement, maybe a quick 'thanks.' Or their families get to say "that's how he would've wanted to go."

In stories, they are destroyed. To the grateful, and grieved, relief of the rescued. A very uncomfortable place to live. A complicated relationship. Maybe this is why we tear down our cultural heroes. We want them a little selfish, tarnished, self-aggrandizing. We want to be the hero, not be saved by one.

It's all too big, too embarrassing, to need to be saved.

My brother Bill grabbed me when the car door popped open on the highway. No seatbelts, then. Just an older brother with great reflexes. I was perhaps three or four.



The kind of thing you remember.

Dandelions

I have brothers, two men who have the same genetic parents. I have no living relationship to them. Two people who loomed large in my early childhood, lived in my imagination long after, until the reality emerged and the fantasy faded. I have told them every secret, every care and worry - but only in their absence.

It's not completely gone, the habitual conversations with idealized brothers. I still reflexively want their attention and approval, interest at some perceptible threshold. Proof of life? Or working through ossified, imagined slights? They make no effort to contact me, and I wonder if they even know I am estranged? I've faded from their worlds, that part of my existence vanishes even from living memory. They are hardly real to me, as I must be a mere footnote to them.

Trouble is, I don't know. I surmise. Like all loss that involves even the loss of knowing. Will they one day contact me, demanding to know how I could turn my back on them and their parents? Or have they let me drift into the realm of footnotes, 'oh, yes, and we have a sister, but we have lost contact'?

So, I live with the unknowable, as we all do. I try to allow the illusions to pass through, blow them along like dandelions gone to seed.

Face

Often, when I am thinking, I have been misread. The kind of people who take these things personally have accused me of being angry when I am simply pre-occupied. My father often accused me of sulking or pouting when I simply pondered. I have no idea what I look like at these moments, I can only extrapolate.

I believe I am not easy to read correctly. Not that the hostile and oversensitive don't see themselves reflected in my blank look. It's a phenomena that utterly baffles me, as I remain as oblivious to my expression as I am to the vestigial Canadian "oou" that creeps out when I am tired. (I can tell I've said Hoouse or aboout because D grins, then denies I've said anything faintly Canadian.)

Being surrounded by engineering and ADD type guys, I have little feedback when I might be looking grimly grouchy. They don't see it, they wouldn't read into it, and certainly wouldn't take it personally.

It still amazes and frightens me how often others claim as fact that I am angry, when I am still. How often they attribute malice to my face when I am making a mental list of tasks. At the breathtaking audacity of their assurance that they know what I am feeling and thinking, when I would never presume to tell them their minds. (Amazing they can live in anything so small...)

I have no idea what goes on in such leaky people, that cannot see that what they have in their hearts has nothing to do with me.

Pass

Dale writes about the feeling of 'passing' as a man.

I get it. My own sense of displacement mirrors his. But not quite the same.

I've never felt comfortable with any homogenous group. Children were a horror to me as a child. Women irritate me when they gaggle. Men in teams succumb to the worst group-think. Medical people can only talk shop, or the most mainstream of pop culture.

Given this, it should not surprize that I have never really had a circle of female friends. I thought for a long time that I really didn't much like women - because I could never get along with more than one at a time. The exception, I thought. Army women were refreshing - tough, boisterous, funny, willing to not take anything too damn personally. Figured nurses would have to be much the same, right? Ha. No. Oh, some, yes, certainly.

But I don't fit with women. Never wanted children, don't see the point of make-up, crafts bore me, I really like the guy I married, cooking is for fending off starvation, shoes are to protect my feet, and on and on.

Nor do I much connect with typical men. Don't like sports - at all, nor motorcycles nor cars save in the most practical sense. I can shoot, but could never hunt unless I had to for basic food. Not into home repair for fun. Not going to flirt, although I had a phase of my life - oh, wait, those were Army guys - who like no-frills women who talk dirty.

In general, though, I pass better with men. I can keep up just enough, am enough of a brassy smart-ass, to hold my own with the rough wit. With women, most women and definitely when they are bunched, I bite my tongue carefully. Very few - including those who come to read here, and of course Moira, can I just let my thoughts pour of of my mouth and expect to be understood - or at least given benefit of the doubt.

What this means is that my own social identity is androgynous. I feel no need to be feminine, nor particularly masculine. Even as a small child, I liked swishy dresses in the same way I liked capes and flags, just for the movement in the wind. Not to be girly. I liked getting dirty, but not being hurt and tough like the boys, despite being considered a tomboy. I knew I wasn't. I chose each time, quite apart from gender. I happily squished ants, but cried over dead birds and squirrels. I had no fear of a neighbor boy's snake, nor of a teacher's tarantula, but ran in terror at a wasp.

My idea of myself as an individual, resistant to the musts of others, has grated against the world all my life. I don't make friends easily, but the ones I have are amazing people.

Not "sell when you can, you are not for all markets." Don't sell yourself short, wait for the best. I'm a freak, but in a good way.

Dampened

Quietly, without thunderous fanfare, the rain and cool came. Not a Kansas raging tornado-forming storming, not a Boston foggy drizzle soaker, but an intermittent damp cloth to cool the place beneath. Moby doesn't seem to mind the rain, here. Last place, he would've been under the bed the whole time. Today, not even bothered by the vacuum, sat in the window looking out, then curled to re-fur the sofa I'd finally gotten around to cleaning this morning.

I have been contacted about hopeful changes.

Desert (Photos)

This high desert has so far gotten NO rain out of these promising clouds. Wind, heat, but the rain never made it all the way down. It's well after 10PM, and we are still at 82˚F (28C). How about 18% humidity? Can you hear the noses bleeding?

This month has sucked for all who surround us. We all wait for rain.

Sink

My world is turning upside down, slowly. It's been happening for a while, as I held on to the tipping rails, not admitting immanent capsizement. I can't write anything, yet, but Revolution is in the air. In the literal, not historic sense. I anguished over the weekend, grieving and railing against injustice. Today, I spoke with a friend who feels the slipping deck beneath her feet as well. I would love to be asked where MY "loyalty" lies.

"With the Canadian Secret Service, if you must know."

Honestly, 1. D and Moby. 2. My friends. 3. My patients.

That's it. No sense being sentimental about the ship when it's sinking, just jump.


It's cooled enough to sit on the balcony. It's been a long, long time since I have sat out of an evening. Almost can hear the truck and bells bringing soft serve ice cream cones.

Lounge (Photo)

Dave and Kathy stopped by, needing to get out, despite their health issues. We all tried to both listen compassionately, and distract with humor. N also stopped by, and Moby, as he does, came out to be adored. He claimed Dave, greeted Kathy, chased the wooly mouse, demonstrated his attack kana (correction, kata) on the carpet, then decided to settle. The very soft pillow on his stool gave him a moment's pause, but feline ingenuity in comfort studies was rewarded with idyllic repose.

Festival

Answers

The Random music answers are up.

I got nothing more. It's been a bad week at work, nothing to do with my work, but the surrounding politics. Got called in this morning for four hours, which is actually a rare and therefore welcome, bit of time and a half on my paycheck. More than a bit of running, but with support, so, all is well.

Moby very noisy last night. Oh, the joy of having a cat.

Perch

Moby seems comfortable here, finding favored perches and corners, chasing, flopping. Seems to like having the window right down to his level. I dropped a book a few inches from him the other day, and he looked, idly, without a flinch. He can be such a nerveless cat, which I assume means he trusts us generally. Of course, at other times, a mere look will send him off on a tear.

D is playing guitar this morning. Moby on the stool at my feet, his ears swiveling attentively, his tail draped over my ankle.

We ate at the Living Traditions Festival, Navajo Tacos. Difficult, but so worth it. Even the beany aftereffects. Got to roll a bocci ball, badly. Didn't stay long, as there was a woman with three daughters on the other 'team.' In this town, that is a phalanx not to be around. Kids rule, mere adult couples wisely withdraw. It's all a bit rinky-dink, but in a good way.

Cheat

Please, before I post the answers to Random, PLEASE CHEAT!

I want to give credit for them, really, much more fun that way. So, c'mon, google the lyrics, do what you gotta do.

Dark

The ominous clouds dropped no rain on this valley.

Scribble

My first day off in the New Place, not moving nor working. For all the remaining clutter to be culled, it's pleasant, hopeful. We obtained a decent Scrabble game, which D has decided he does like, after all. I'd gotten him hooked on the daily crossword from the Washington Post, which we did while he therapied his hand. A tedious process that he diligently performed, and if I sat with him, giving clues, he could be nearly cheerful for the contrast baths. Funny, getting through college, and a Master's program, and persistent crosswording, will do to one's vocabulary and word-play. He's always been an intellectual omnivore, as have I, but not so much for words. He didn't beat me this time, but not by much.

When we got our car last year, apparently I put the license plate tags back to front. We got a citation for missing back plate tags. Doh. A nice $20 fine. I couldn't get the online payment to work, so I wrote to the available email, with this explanation (no request to excuse, mind.) I got a note back saying it could take five days to show, and let the unnamed person, return address simply "Parking", know, and s/he would reduce the fine. Well, it showed up shortly after, and it was only $5. I mean, I deserved a citation, and $20 was a lot for an innocent mistake. But down to a trivial $5? Parking, I am very grateful, whoever you are. We got the ticket while donating three boxes of books to the Library.

We got on the train (!) to go to Brewvies for lunch, and a movie. I will not, ever, I repeat, never, I repeat - louder for those in the back NEVER, recommend Harold and Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay. It's not good. The humor is low, low, low, and repetitious and a bit flat. A lot flat. But I rather enjoyed it, eating my jalapeño burger with chocolate stout. It's bad, no question. But they were bad with enough energy and heart, that I didn't mind. it's chauvinistic and plays with stereotypes in hamfisted abandon, crude and disgusting, lacking the rapid timing that kept the first one light and punchy. I should hate it. I really should. Instead, it's staying with me, like a call for justice and change inside a revolting, meagre joke. Do not go to see it. Please. The first one, perhaps, depending, with many conditions. This one will have to be my own guilty secret.

Now, I have to go study for ACLS.

Inclination

Moby menaces D during the Unpack.

The cars in our view of the parking lot are farther, and far less visible to the living eye than they appear to the camera. The green screening around the balcony sets up an interference pattern. Not that we have a panorama, - not paying nearly enough rent for that. But we can look out to the south, and watch the clouds roll in. A first/ground floor, but up from the drive by a good storey, as we are on an incline. Which made moving in SO much easier. Smaller, but better laid out. Very livable.

Fluffernutter.

Food loomed over my young life, fraught with little wobbly bits and strange textures. I was very squeamish about what I put in my mouth, cooking being a scant and hurried affair, a trial to my mother. Fried or baked chicken, fish on friday, hamburgers or meatloaf, with Seasoned Salt and corn flakes breading, ketchup a necessity. But my mother loved to bake, anything involving brown sugar, flour, nuts and vanilla extract, loved her right back. Nothing pretty, but much sweetness and joy. Dessert was for every meal, not just breakfast. Ok, no, but, still.

Butter tarts and chow mein noodle drops, pies and nut bars, cakes from mixes - but real frosting, fudge and brownies assuaged my malnutrition and hunger. Fresh fruit being too expensive for every day.

Christmas heralded a massive bake-off, to sweeten the family gatherings and lull us into a high fructose stupor. I would be allowed to mix and chop, measure and wash the limited utensils, until the honored old tins were wax papered and filled, taken out to the unheated, closed in back porch, a larder for high calorie sweets.

My treat was a wad of dough scraps from the crusts, to roll out, slather with margarine, brown sugar, and chopped walnuts, fold, repeat until immanent collapse, then stuff the raw concoction into my mouth. Heavenly wad of nutty, sugary joy.

A new surgical procedure reminded me forcefully of eating Campbell's chicken and dumpling soup after school, watching Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. I would shove the plastic straw through the semi-soft dough, and suck up the core through the lumen, leaving neat holes through, until little but a lattice of dumpling remained. (The procedure? Actually, you may be happier if I don't mention.)

After school, while mom went to pick up my father at work, I would snitch chocolate chips, and spoonfulls of peanut butter, licking them up together.

Wonder bread had amazing adhesive powers. So did Marshmallow Fluff, especially mixed with peanut butter to a uniform consistency, applied to the white bread, and mashed down into a solid lump. Called a Fluffernutter. Gods, I loved that, long, long ago.

My sweet tooth today is restricted to occasional dark chocolate, and a few daily chocolate chips. But I remember how wonderful it all tasted, then.

Random

This is it. Some were so obvious, but apparently only to the one setting the challenge.

Very good to all of you, Huzzah!

Step 1: Put your MP3 player or whatever on random.
Step 2: Post the first line from the first 25 songs that play, no matter how embarrassing the song.
Step 3: Post and let everyone you know guess what song and artist the lines come from.
Step 4: Bold when someone gets them right
Step 5: Looking them up on Google or any other search engine is CHEATING.

Not my own shuffle, but D's whole collection of music on his computer. Which contains most of my stuff, but mostly his. Just mine would be way too hard, with a larger proportion of instrumental and non-English lyrics. This is not embarrassment for me, but a matter of excessive obscurity. Anyway, his stuff is so much cooler as a whole. Oh, and, go ahead and cheat. I would have to. I shall follow Udge's example, when he posted very similar lists, and add answers to the list as they are hit.


1 Some guys try to pick up girls, and they get called an asshole.
"Pablo Picasso" originally by Jonathon Richman I think -Udge,
We have the The Modern Lovers version, but yes.

2 All at sea again And now my hurricanes have brought down this ocean rain.
Ocean Rain, Echo and the Bunnymen

3 Nobody's fault but mine, nobody's fault but mine, If I don't read, my soul would be lost.
Nobody's Fault but Mine, Willie Johnson.

4 Can you see the real me, can you?
"The Real Me" - The Who. Dale and MB.

5 Worried man with a worried mind, no one in front of me, nothing behind
"Things Have Changed" -- Bob Dylan - am

6 When you look in the mirror, Wish you were somebody else.
Fa Fa, Guster.

7 I feel a hot wind on my shoulder and the touch of a world that's older.
Mexican Radio, Wall of Voodoo.

8 So Sgt. Pepper took you by surprise You better see right through that mother's eyes
"How Do You Sleep?" -- John Lennon - am

9 In the still of the night in the worlds ancient light
"When The Deal Goes Down" -- Bob Dylan - am


10 I returned a bag of groceries Accidently taken off the shelf Before the expiration date
"Dead," They Might Be Giants - Pilgrim Heretic.

11 I got an idea for a movie, and it goes like this.
An Idea For a Movie, The Vandals

12 You fly Out as your smile wears thin I sigh
Run So Far - Eric Clapton

13 It could be ten, but then again, I can't remember half an hour since a quarter to four.
Here it Goes Again, OK Go.

14 Covered wagon medicine show Take you to the place where the healing flows
"Medicine Show" Big Audio Dynamite

15. Feeling better now that we're through Feeling better cause I'm over you.
You're no Good, Betty Everett

16 I've got my clipboard, text books Lead me to the station Yeah, I'm off to the civil war
Slip Kid - The Who

17 She grew up in an Indiana town Had a good lookin' momma who never was around
Mary Jane's Last Dance Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers - Dale

18 Down, down, down you go, no way to stop.
Spiraling Shape, TMBG.


19 Hast Du etwas Zeit für mich Dann singe ich ein Lied fuer Dich
99 luftballons by Nena - Chiya.

20 Monday morning wake up yawning
Break an egg, bust my head, maybe it's a warning
Get Out of London - Intaferon

21 I bought a toothbrush, some toothpaste A flannel for my face
"Tempted," Squeeze - Pilgrim/Heretic.

22 With a purposeful grimace and a terrible sound He pulls the spitting high tension wires down
Godzilla, Blue Oyster Cult -MB due to diligent and proper research.


23 Mississippi Delta shining like a National Guitar.
"Graceland" by Paul Simon - Udge

24 A pair of stockings, a pair of shoes A record by The Moody Blues
Things You Left Behind, Nails - MB due to diligent and proper research.

25 I'd invite you back to my place It's only mine because it holds my suitcase
"Man in a Suitcase," The Police - Pilgrim /Heretic.

Shedding

Moby feels closer to Ceiling Cat.


You'd have thought, after all these moves, we were pretty pared down. I certainly thought so. I was so wrong. And I feel terribly guilty that all our friends helped us move so much crap that will now be ... relocated.

Books to Sam Wellers - see what we can get for them. The rest as Library donations. Well, D was building a scholar's library. We move on. Any clothes with bleach on them will go. Well, we kept anything warm in Boston because any layer was a good layer when the temp dropped below zero Fahrenheit, and then the wind came off the ocean to drop it just a bit more. Not to mention the necessity of having enough clothes to allow for laundromat trips not more than once a week or so. Having washer in our place means we can do just fine with no more than a week's worth of clothes. The situation has changed.

The last year we lived in a place with many drawbacks. I'm beginning to think the closet space was excessive and bad for this poor-girl's psyche. I am loathe to throw away useful stuff with more wear in it. Moving to a smaller place with smaller closets forces me to kick in to Discard mode.

We don't need as many dishes, either. Local charities with thrift stores will have a small windfall this week.

We moult.

Very uncomfortable, but with the promise of relief.

Anyone want a collection of Fortean Times?

Territory

We Are Here. Every cell in my body aches and drags, but we are here. Not all of our crap is, but we'll need the help of friends and a truck for that.

We'd gotten the first load, stopping to do the final, official fuss, get our keys, do the walk-through. Set up the litter box, make sure Moby had an Under. Went back for the next load, filled the car as it started raining in Earnest (a small town in rural Utah.) All the movement and rain mean Moby was crouched under the sofa when the time came to leave. I got on the floor and peered in on him.

"C'mon Moby, time to go."

And he came to me, as if to say, "Oh, ok, don't leave me behind, I'm coming."

D got in the back seat beside my stool, surrounded by bags and boxes, got his seatbelt on, and I handed Moby to him. As we drove, Moby was quiet, tried to settle, nosed toward my shifting elbow a few times, then found the floor behind D's feet, and curled. Unlike any other time in the car, where he mews piteously "I don't like this, I don't like this, I don't like this, I don't like this..." the entire journey. Only when we were a block away did he start in on "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" and "Ok, that was fun, can we stop now?" He didn't like the hallway, and wriggled out of D's arms, then slunk uncertainly. We got him into the apartment (flat), and he hid in the closet for the next eight hours.

Ever since, it's been tail up, chasing, doing the Big Job of marking all his new territory, getting it all properly furred. The new windows are acceptable, and the large bathtub is a favored spot. Food is forthcoming, water, a bed to be Under, and it's just another Move, happens every year at this time.



D's parents generously brought their vehicles, which meant we got the bedframe here, so we have not had to sleep with just the aerobed on the floor. All the guitars are here, so we are home.

Acceleration

There are phases in everyone's life when change comes fast. Spurts of months as kids, days as infants, but it doesn't stop. My mother went from a kind of eternal middle-age to elderly in the span of six months.

These last four years have left their mark on me, changing my view of myself. For long years, I felt no different at 27 than at any other age. Today, I feel older than that. I know that I think differently, and see the world from a different angle, than I could in my twenties. Not better, not wiser necessarily, but differently. I feel I have also lost a certain kind of mental freshness, knowledge skips me past improbable possibilities.

I know that a six year old can see what I no longer can, physically. More, because they lack any filters. But I see more because I know what to look for, how to interpret and recall. I have learned how to see and listen, but this blinds and deafens me to sound and sights that I have learned are usually unimportant.

I can't hear a lot of new music, because it all seems such a re-hash. But then, I've always had to search for music I liked, and can no longer settle for, nay tolerate, oversold pop. Movies pall, because they are remakes, or telling the old stories - perhaps as well, but not better, and I've seen them. I'm choosier, not because everything today is crap, but because I've seen all that crap before. Adolescent struggles with acceptance and vanity don't speak to my main concerns.

Nor does gross-out humor affect me. After all, I've cleaned poo, while telling my patient not to worry, this is what I do, no big deal. Or cheered on farting after a colonoscopy, straight faced, encouraging. I tell the incontinent not to be embarrassed, not in front of me, I clean up far worse. And women coming for surgery that starting their period at this moment is apparently mandatory - since it happens so often. And I will be mopping up later. Helps to really not mind, not to be grossed out at all. Guts the humor of a fart joke.

This from a kid who couldn't stand to clean out the soaked oatmeal pan without retching.

I listen to younger folks, and older ones, to keep my peripheral vision. But it really is comforting to talk with others who can see the world from this midrange, where the changes are constant, but subtle, hard to see or describe to those starting out or ending up in the swirling edges.

Every change of direction is an acceleration.

Sit

I sat down for a few minutes, and Moby hopped up, settled in to be petted, holding me still to rest. Much progress made, today. Making a certain cat very unhappily ruffled. My job for an hour was to soothe him, and let him calm me.

Bears

There ain't no bears in there. But an old motel pool/play area right next to the best Mexican food on earth sports an aging, enthusiastic, and peculiar billboard slowly falling to embarrassing bits. Including a ghostly gnome. For years, I thought it was part of a miniature golf course, seen from inside the restaurant. But waiting to go in for lunch, we were able to examine it more closely. It's a little sad, and gobs of strange.