Blood

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5


Rope the Weather trudged down the road, the smooth and blessed road to the Abbey, after three hard days slog through bramble and cold streams and no fishing connection to the known world, carrying a weakening child. Until the ditch and the log of uncertainty.

"I'm sorry I threatened to eat you!" Rope called down the road, "I just needed to scare you across so you wouldn't stop, you first in case that old plank broke under my weight!" But she shouted to the freshening winds off the ocean a few miles east, for the child had found her feet, and had, at least, run off in the right direction. Rope smelled rain, as well, and trusted that sense, despite the bright sun, a low golden slanting illumination throwing red shadows of the stunted trees in tattered autumn plumage.

She followed the doubled metal ribbon, hoping that over this rise some proof that prayers worked. In some inscrutable way, proof of some underlying and logical principle, she yearned for a wish to happen. The copse of pines obscured her view down the curving fall of the road, but the rainbow colors painted on the shed just off the eastern ditch answered her appeal to the universal principle. She loped down the asphalt, grinning. Then laughed aloud when she heard a carrying, singing voice.

"Hey! Hey,hey, hey!" The warbling screech drew her on, it's source still hidden. But she knew what made that noise. "Hey! Hey, hey, hey!"

"Mountain the Hermit, where are you? I can hear you," Rope asked once in earshot, of normal human voice, of the ramshackle leanto. Then she spotted the rags and greasy blonde braids, boney arms waving a frantic semaphore, off in a swampy hollow a throw away from the road.

"I found a little bird, you want her? You'll take her? You call me Bob the Hermit, I am Bob, the dream said so. I protected her, she's here." The skeletonous man, continued to wave, even when Rope came close enough to duck the flailing hands.

"I'm here, she is with me, um... Bob." Inwardly, she shrugged, call her Hermits whatever they wanted, even if they went for the old names, none of her business.

"You get her help, right?" Bob hovered, "Something going on with a storm. Can't connect to get a report, not for days now. Still recording, can't send it, no answer, no one listening!" His agitation took on a slower pace, and he sighed a forced sigh. "Still get me credit for that, right?"

Rope touched the fetal child curled on the ground between them, sliding her hands under the familiar weight. "Had the same trouble, yeah, I'll make sure you get your package." She lifted the shivering body. "Bob the Hermit, is there a cycle in that shed of yours?"

"Yes, yes." Bob said, and stared off to the west.

"Does it work?" Rope asked patiently, trying to make her tired arms settle the chilled body onto her shoulder.

"Uh hun." Bob murmured.

"Would you get it on the track for me, so I can get this child to the Abbey sometime tonight?" She asked, the patience thinning slightly.

"Need to get thee to the medics." Bob's face had gone slack.

Rope resisted the urge to touch him, knowing his potential reaction. "Bob, put the cycle on the rails, please." She ordered, firmly, calmly.

He nodded, as the rain pattered down among the three. "It's not fish."

He was right, thought Rope, but not quite rain either. More like blood. She put the girl down on higher ground, slipped the collapsible funnel and collecting bottle from a sleeve, as the crimson curtains descended, gleaming pink in the golden light. "Rather pretty, but it smells funny," she shouted in the roar of thickening downpour, the sky opening a vein, an artery. The fluid in the glass jar in her palm swirled scarlet, translucent, nearly opaque. Enough, she folded and sealed the apparatus, secreted both into inner pockets, and gathered her small, dense burden. Then she could hear the weak voice singing in her ear, about a fountain filled with blood, in a ceremonial melody well known in the Abbey. 'Bob' stood, transfixed.

"Bob!" Rope tried the order, after a few minutes as the strange rain slackened. No discernible response. She gave up. Through the now steady pink fall, she carried Leaf to the rainbow shed, opened the half dozen animal proof locks, with one hand, and shoved through the creaky door.

Sure enough, an old, reliable cycle, three wheels, bamboo in good shape, a tarp covered load compartment, and praise be, a windshield. Even a fresh straw bale on the shelf. Rope awkwardly pulled the tarp away, threw in a nest of straw, then unburdened herself of the wet child gently. "There, safe as eggs, little one. We'll be warm and fed by morning." She pulled the tarp over her, bumped the cycle out into the thinning rain, now clear water, as far as Rope could tell, and onto the road. Mount... um, Bob the Hermit disappeared as she latched the wheels onto the rails. She tied up her loose clothing to avoid the gears and settled herself back on the sling, fragile cargo nestled behind her, adjusted the pedals, knowing it didn't matter about light, now. Make her legs churn way, and the road would get them home safely. Assuming nothing attacked them or ran into them, Rope added to her assessment.

The gloaming land slid away around them.

Arrangement

Got a lot done. Calls, appointments, applications, arrangements. There are no, (zip, zero, zilch) repeat, no, RN positions at the VA hospital here, I called the VA administration for assistance, and this dismal fact was confirmed. The maintenance guy came, but the clogged/jammed disposal worked just fine for him. I discovered, and hopefully corrected, the insurance billing issue. I applied for a research job, and called and left a message about another one. I will also be looking for other kinds of work.

Got an urgent counseling appointment. She seems to think I am salvageable, and is willing to help mediate with my manager. I am not hopeful about this, but it may give me enough time to find a place to jump to. The message? Ah, all the stuff I already know, already believe in, but have lost touch with, neglected habits. Cumulative PTSD, to use my term.

So, positive action. A morning list, a mantra, mindset goals, all in the affirmative. And an elastic band, to snap on my wrist when I start looking for a reason for my irritation outside myself, to redirect myself to a calm and helpful response - just like dog training. I can't eliminate a bad reaction unless I have a good behaviour to replace it with. I know this. I knew this. I've gotten myself in such a bad knot, all I have are these nearly reflexive and overwhelmingly emotional impulses. Just because I don't act on them doesn't mean it doesn't seep through, tone of voice, facial expression, chaos generation. Self destructive, toxic habits.

And much as I hate the phrase, and the metaphor, I have to be a team player. I have to get along with people, help them, accept their help. I have to carry around a ball of calm and share that. This is going to get worse unless I tackle this head on, right now. I have to learn new skills, or the same ones I learned in the Army, when the Sergeants made everyone do it, so I could trust that I wouldn't be hanging out in the wind. I have to do the same now, but without that reassurance. I can only be a good person myself, no one can make anyone else do anything.

So, I will take the habits that got me through Basic. Be cheerful, be brave, be proud, be alert (the world needs more lerts.) Good words in my head. I've negotiated a little more time.

But, to be honest, the idea of being on Unemployment seems like kind of a relief. Not a good financial move, granted. This is exactly the wrong time to have to find a job, while stressed to breaking. I cannot continue to live with this distress, though. And if that is the only reason I can't hold down this job, I have to change and grow. No excuses, no rationalizations, no evasions. For myself, for those I love.

For D and for Moby.

Derby

One of the Sisters of No Mercy.


MIxing it up with The Leave it to Cleavers.


Last night, with ND, we went to see roller derby. I was kinda in a mood to see people body-checking each other. The atmosphere was warm and light, although the light was terrible for photos. We got a few interesting, but blurry photos. A little video, soon to come.

Normally, I'm uncomfortable with women dressing in revealing and silly fashions. It feels so... intrusive. I don't like to know, for instance, that a cow-orker wears thongs. The retro aesthetic prevailing in this venue, seemed funny enough, and unpretentious enough, to be delightful. Even the very short skirts and gold lame trunks, somehow the costume aspects, not to mention the knee and elbow pads, and the mouth guards, made it less provocative than playful. The motion, the flow, the sheer athleticism, the evident (if not clear to me) strategy of the competition, the way they kept getting back up so quickly, all made me admire everyone involved. I especially loved the pervasive puns, the rude humor, while all the team and refs obviously take the event seriously, but not themselves. These are bright and talented people with eclectic interests.

I may have to figure out my Roller Derby name... .


One of the Refs.

House

This is the house where I spent the first couple of decades of my life. I told D it is not as spacious as it looks. He laughed, but I hadn't intended to be funny.


My sense of alienation is pretty complete. I resent that I, as the newcomer, became the scapegoat. That my manager who "feels so bad" can't see that she could have both helped me, and expected that the complainers put effort into making a competent worker welcome. That eccentricity and social awkwardness are now sins too terrible to accommodate. That by encouraging complaint, she creates the very hostile work environment she claims to want to eliminate.

I'll get out, I'll find a place where I can be myself without being criticized, where my work speaks for me. Yes, this is defensive rationalization.


Bugger 'em.

Oh, and Sky's amazing comment, commentary.

Fitting

I'm not fired.

That's the good news.

I have to find a new job.

That's the bad.

In this economy. After having six jobs over the past six years. Spoke too soon about not having to move again, just don't have to move where we live. No boxes involved, at least. Three of those jobs were as a Traveling RN, intentionally time limited, let me add.

The why is difficult. I am not very good with female politics. I'm much more a misanthropic writer than a social people person. I'm good with groups of men, or evenly mixed groups, where competence is the prime value. There is no criticism of my work ethic. I don't really quite understand what it is that is rubbing everyone so wrong, but I am the one who feels the victim of petty, personal politics. The truth is somewhere in between, no doubt. I just don't catch the subtle messages women expect another woman to pick up. I read patients quite well, and surgeons, even anesthesiologists. And practical women.

It's largely a matter of a terrible fit, where I have been trying to keep my most necessary income by dancing on eggshells and battening down on every impulse and personal expression. Apparently, it's been seeping. And now, since I cannot change what I cannot even see to understand, I will have to find other work.

HR and Manager have offered some assistance, to get me toward research or QA, which might feed off my professionalism better, keep me in the same system. Monday will be all about phone calls and job searches and utilizing HR resources. I'm feeling sick already. I'm not kidding. I have some time, but the hiring process make take longer than I have.

I'm trying very hard not to feel a failure.

I'm pretty scared.

Lethargy

The next episode of the Fiction event will post Monday. With links to the previous ones placed for convenience. It's not like I haven't been thinking about it. But I have found a path that might get me to the next plot points.

My overwhelming desire to hunker and hide cannot win. This is not what I want to be about. Hard times or not.

Gamble

I was wrong. Good I didn't actually bet anyone since I'd have to pay out now.

It's snowing madly. Not much sticking, but I cannot call this just flurries. Damn. Not so much that I mind the snow, but I really figured we'd seen the end of it for this season. Thick, heavy spring snow. Ok, it's sticking know. I lose.

And I am hunkering down. Because I can. It is my scheduled day off, and I just want to sit and drink tea. Maybe I'll go Saturday to the animals, make up for today. Not feeling the energy. Feeling the sloth.

Rather nice to have the place to myself, though.

Long drive around the gas leak near my work yesterday. There seems to be an excess of chaos around here.

Shampoo

So, the hair dressers think people shouldn't shampoo every day. Not a real study, not real science, just anecdote and pseudo history, and open comments from everyone with an opinion. I'm sure there are many people, those with thicker, curlier, dryer hair than mine, with a good natural bristle brush applied, would do just fine washing their hair much less. But workers out in the dirt and weather, and those of us with thin, fine, oily hair, really like not having an itchy scalp.

Some of the skewed observations? That humans never before washed their hair daily. Didn't bathe daily either, but had skin diseases and parasites and itches. People in parts of Europe don't wash their hair every day. Neither did my mother, nor did I when I was a child, not allowed to. As soon as some gentler shampoos came out, and I was allowed to, my itchy scalp and stringy hair went away. A decent conditioner wouldn't come along for a few years, but that kept away the knots and tangles.

Oh, and how women would pile their hair on their head. Yes, and braid it and hide it under a hat. Daily brushing sessions, sure, for the middle to upper classes. The lower workers made do with much less, and weekly baths. Ever notice how little a problem dandruff is these days? Used to be ubiquitous. Simple daily washing away of dead skin works a treat. A few of the photos on Shorpy show how some women's hair used to look when washed rarely. Pretty obviously greasy, plastered down, and for many - stringy - as I remember my own as a child. The ones with thicker hair, different story. The directions from photographers taking school mug shots were not to wash hair that day. I had many ugly photos taken until I was responsible for my own shampooing, and ignored the instructions. May work just fine for kids with different kinds of hair, but for me, completely wrong.

Not to mention that I wash my OR hats every time I wear them, and I can smell which ones I've worn. I'm hardly going to go a day without washing my hair, since I am in close contact with patients. That area of skin doesn't need less cleaning, just because it's covered with hair, quite the opposite. At least for my hair.

I realize that different kinds of hair takes different care, and that is my point. I don't wash my hair every day because I'm told I must, but because I have discovered I must. Just as cats don't need water baths, but clean themselves and with a little brushing for the long hairs, there are probably people who could always just brush and that would be clean.

I do wish someone would do some genuine research into this. Because the anti-shampoo league is bringing out the Green stick of environmentalism. That makes me feel like I should reexamine my habits. But hairdressers? I've heard some ridiculous off the cuff advice from them, so that doesn't count as anything but irritation.


All for Green, but not for retro-nostalgic anti-clean.

Procedural

D's little procedure went well and expeditiously, leaving me with a reasonable wait. Full of The Price Is Right clamour. Then, when Animal Cops came on, an episode I'd not seen, two screeching children and one person with a perpetually ringing phone, and two women right behind me in a non-stop conversation in French.I'm not mad at people with loud children. Not as such. But their volume, suddenness and pitch, are physically painful, and very startling. People who sit too close, then can't shut up in public, I'm not ok with.

But, less than an hour and a half later, the nurse brought out a loopy D for me to take home. He's feeling fine, better in some ways, though tired. We ordered Chinese, which helped both of us, even if the Fortune cookie messages were trite and boring.

Ok, it IS flurrying quite a lot, but I wouldn't call it proper snow. Pretty much melting as it hits, or shortly after.


Glad I brought the sprouting grass and still unsprouted catnip in, but it took Moby no time at all last night to find it and clamber in for a nibble. Then he got the loose potting soil all over the arm of the couch. Which I'd just vacuumed. Ah, the joys of having a cat around.

Rant

2004


2005



2006


2007


2008

We found this place nearly a year ago, moved in May. And for the first time in five years, we are not packing up to move in spring.

We're not quite sure what to do with ourselves.

Modern

Moby took over D's laptop. Again.

There's some sign of warmth
It's just the power to warm
I'm lying on the keys
But I never wave bye-bye

But I try, I try

Modern cat, sits beside me
Modern cat, sits ignoring me
Modern cat, gets me off the web on time.

(Apologies to David Bowie)



The birds were casting about on the winds that blew through last night, continuing through today. Cleared the air a bit, though stingily left no rain yet. But the promise of a cooler week cheers me.

The cat grass is sprouting, although I'll have to bring all the pots in tonight, and perhaps much of the week, since it'll be frosty nights. Still gambling that we've seen the end of any appreciable snow. Flurries don't count, neither does snow on the mountains or benches. Only if it interferes with walking or driving... my rules. So there.

D is making sure I don't drive this weekend, not until I have to on Monday morning. This seems wise, so I accede. He can tell me what to do, as long as he's right. He is also allowed to tell the truth about my parents, since he got to see it with his own eyes, and can confirm that I'm not crazy for my opinion.

So, we slept in, and have spent the day pottering around. Feeling much better than yesterday, which doesn't take much. Cleaned up, went walking, much laundry washed.

Still very windy, dramatic clouds.

Stop

Driving to work. Trying to be careful, since I have in this past week, forgotten my purse with ID, my bag with lunch, and taken both my and D's keys. (A brisk walk back from the car to correct in each case.) I see the flashing red and blue lights, and pull aside to let the police pass. But they follow me, I'm being pulled over.

I turn off the radio, open my window, turn off the key, take off my hat, put my wallet on my lap, put my hands on the wheel. I have no clue what I might have done.

A fellow nursing school student, and friend, once married to a cop, coached me on how to avoid a ticket. Be the easiest, most non-threatening, most compliant stop they've had all year. Not a guarantee, but those "yes sir"s count. And I know how to "yessir." No acting in this case, I had no idea what had happened.

"You went through that red light on the right turn at 5 miles per hour, in clear disregard for traffic law."

"I did?" I had no memory of the intersection, in my own head and not well slept, distracted. Gave my license and after some fumbling, my registration. He returned to the cruiser to check my record, and I sat stewing about how much this would cost, in fine and insurance, a moving violation, and I couldn't even remember doing it. All a blank of a dark, quiet intersection at 0dark30.

After an age, he returned, and said "I don't usually give warnings... "

I thanked him with all my heart, with a gulp of grateful relief, and replaced my license. As soon as the window was back up I began to cry and shake, my stomach churning. I drove the rest of the trip thinking of leaving sick. Left my wallet in the car, and wondered all day if someone would break in for it, or even steal the car.

Instead, I had a late start room with a good surgeon, a lot of much needed assistance, and a rather interesting day. I even got to scrub from noon on. I didn't even mind that I only had a 20 minute lunch. Wasn't an easy day, but all went well, or else there were people to make it come around right.

I am home now, my feet in intermittent spasm, and I am overindulging in alcohol. The drive home a mild anxiety attack throughout. No driving for me all weekend. Monday, I take D in for a procedure, so not work. They are going to give him drugs, which he will not enjoy, but is preferable to actual memory.

Tonight, I am imbibing ethyl alcohol. Getting out of my worried head. Moby is attacking the corner of the rug, and wandering in and out onto the balcony. Mild weather. Not that bad.

It'll do.

Betwixt

Sports

Our anesthesiologist kept the tv in the lounge on the Big Basketball Game today. His only subject of conversation and interest. G, the other nurse covering lunches today, shared my general dislike to disinterest in sports, harder on men in this society. But he confessed to having a Football team, the Steelers, but only because he came from there. I assumed this is like being a man from Boston, one simply must follow the Red Sox, it is mandatory, like having at least some Sam Adams beer in the fridge at all times.* We got talking about the sports we did enjoy, and why, and how much we missed the old Wide World of Sports, that very democratically showed them all. Games seen live are different, but so prohibitively expensive as to be out of range of ordinary people. I actually like AAA baseball seen in person, though I would never watch it on tv.

Which is how I got to appreciate fencing, and sumo, and ski racing, as well as arm wrestling - saw a guy get a dramatic spiral fracture of his humerus and radius in a match. Ew, but I'll never forget that. I've always loved the individual events, gymnastics, especially the uneven bars and mens rings - in which gravity is defied and the human body does impossible moves. I love the flowing beauty of ski moguls, as well as the half pipe - with snowboards, skates or bikes. Hockey, soccer and curling have that same wonderful movement, especially soccer (EU football) with the impressive athleticism of ninety minutes of running, while kicking a ball around. I probably like pool championships for similar reasons of flow.

Having taken some naginata, a Japanese martial art with their version of pikes, sabre, kendo, epee are all amazing to me.

I also have a soft spot for demolition derby, though not exactly a sport. I'm not usually a big fan of wanton destruction, but a small part of me craves such wastage, a frisson of fear of accidents. Log rolling and other work related demonstrations, like caber toss and sheep herding, are interesting for rarity value.

So many really cool sports around, and all that gets shown here are the money makers, the professional teams of Basketball, Football, and Baseball. Dull, corrupt and pointless. Mostly, dull.

Got a favorite niche sport?





*Yes, we did follow the Sox while in Boston, mostly so we knew what train to take depending on the game schedule. I never much liked Sam Adams, sadly. D is not a sports fan, but keeps up, because male culture defaults to sports. Which is why I know anything about babies or cooking or crafts, not out of personal interest, but to keep up the conversation with acquaintances.

Original

The bathroom in my original house opened onto the kitchen. This is an old house, WWI tract, much modified. Walls pulled down, cabinetry added, paint so thick it no doubt added to the structural integrity. So, the kitchen was right there. And because of grandfathering laws, no fan, just an open grill up near the ceiling for ventilation. No lock, either, until I was about twelve, then just a hook and eye affair. And a careless father.

Usually painted a high gloss pale yellow. Threadbare towels on the rack behind the toilet, my mother's Blue Grass dusting powder on the tank lid, various throw rugs on the floor over the years, white vinyl shower curtain with orange mildew. The tub with touchy spigots and erratic gouts of various temperatures. Two mirrored doors on the tiny medicine cabinets that would reflect each other if moved just right.

I do remember the potty chair, and how frightening the toilet was in comparison.

I remember sitting on the edge of the tub, dressed mind, the door open, as mom began to tell me Uncle Walt had died, when my father shouted over her shoulder, "Walt's Dead." Bastard.

I remember pinching my hand in the door to the towel storage, and knowing I would have a mark there all my life. I do. So far, I should add.

I remember reaching up to wash my hands in the sink, and playing with talcum powder in the water when no one seemed to be watching.

I remember a fist sized, oval cylindrical metal thing, that I was told was for sharpening razors. I'm not sure I believe this. But it did have a little crank that turned the inner gears.

I remember having what I now know were migraines, with the light off, and the ambient light from the back hallway coming through the grill.

The room that always left me a little anxious.

Spew

I heard the sound and startled, which spooked Moby - he moved to another spot on the carpet to keep horking up the chicken. D was already up, so I called to him, being myself asleep in all but a tiny part. It took a while to locate the various cleaning necessaries, including the vacuum, since vomited chicken really can't just be left til later, and getting myself up to at least half awake. It's five AM. As far as we can tell, Moby is not in more than mild distress. We return to bed, try to catch a little sleep, hear crunching of dry food, then more feline hork. We get up, clean up a much smaller spot, thank Moby for (as far as we know) always doing this out in easy to find spots.

D gave up the idea of any more sleep, showered, dressed, and walked over to the grocery store in search of wheat grass. Oh, and realized he needed milk as well, but that could've waited. When D got back, it took Moby a minute to realize, but he strained to psychically hurry D's bringing the grass to him. Much happy munching ensued, and he seems much calmer and more comfortable now, as much as one can really tell with a cat.

He's sitting next to D, under his hand, staying close.

Worried

Worried man with a worried mind. Quoth Bob. Acting as a paralyzing agent.

Can't find the camera.

Hours short at work, and not much improvement in sight. And it's all stopped being fun anymore.

Body of a cat in the street on my way to work this morning. Did not have the time to stop and find a number to call about it, but the poor thing was gone, as I doubled back this evening to be sure. I hope the cat's people find out, are not just left to wonder.

Nearly ran into a woman making a left turn in front of me, on my right of way. My brakes were good.

Want to get on the treadmill this evening, walk off a bit of the anxiety.

Dust in the air, along with pollen. The winter seems to be over, and I brace myself for the heat and bad air.

But I will plant some grass and catnip for Moby, and tomatoes for us.

Latrine

The Army was a revelation of toilets.

The one in the MEPS*, where I had to drink several colas in order to produce urine in front of the urine tester. A standard, and very clean, public facility, stalls, but with the door open. And me with a shy bladder. For the medical tests for induction. I somehow managed, though it took me a few hours. It became a strange sort of skill.

The first one in Reception Station for Basic had a shower that didn't drain, and no warm water. I took a cold shower in 6" of cold water, in "shower shoes", or flip flops, as though that would help anything in those conditions. The ones in our barracks in Basic were immaculate, due to our enforced vigilance. But flushing while anyone was showering caused agonized hoots and howls, as the hot water overtook the sudden withdrawal of cold to the tank. Once, my dogtags spontaneously disengaged while I was on the toilet, sliding from my neck and down and down and in. I looked in, took a long hard breath, and plunged my hand into dilute piss to retrieve them. Flushing them was unthinkable, no time to use anything but my hand - and that would wash. One of those moments when I realized that all the rules had changed, forever.

At one of the field stations, the toilets were doubled, with no wall between. The other woman and I turned our backs and IGNORED. Amazing how much one can live completely inside one's skin. All through a week in the field, and the three holers, and I had a significant lack of "unclenching." During the traditional mocking of the Drill Sergeants at the end of Rifle Maneuvers, I found, in the dark after the night fire, the most beautiful Port-a-Potty. There, in the privacy, in the dark, alone, wind whistling around, I had relief. To this day, I have a strange fondness for those self-contained privies.

The wooden constructions at our site outside Riyadh malfunctioned regularly. But they were real toilets in much graffitied plywood stalls. At night, the wind blew up cold on the porcelain, making the last night visit a bit of a chilly thrill. Then to bed down in the halls of the temper-tent, hoping not to have to go out again until morning. The marble ones, in the buildings the Saudis gave us for our HQ, were erratically plumbed, with a bidet - which we used for storage, since none of us knew how to use it as intended.

The one that sticks in my mind though, the one that keeps re-prompting this post, is the one in the E-club in San Antonio. The women's restroom had no doors on the stalls. Stall. I suppose that makes a weird kind of sense, for the MPs convenience, at least. Discourages use as a place to have sex, or use drugs. Takes a bloody minded trick of the mind, for someone like me, to just deal and go, necessary since I was drinking a lot at this point. First time I saw one of those huge toilet rolls, 2' diameter roll in a plastic dispenser. I had to laugh at the practicality. Of course, I was probably drunk at the time.

I don't know what it says about me, that this is what I can most easily visualize about those experiences. Feel them in my gut, in my water.



*Military Entrance Processing Station. The military does so love acronyms.

Bathrooms

Ha.

Well Typealyzer has rather got me pegged, I think.

ISTP - The Mechanics
The independent and problem-solving type. They are especially attuned to the demands of the moment are masters of responding to challenges that arise spontaneously. They generally prefer to think things out for themselves and often avoid inter-personal conflicts. The Mechanics enjoy working together with other independent and highly skilled people and often like to seek fun and action both in their work and personal life. They enjoy adventure and risk such as in driving race cars or working as policemen and firefighters.


Ok, maybe not firefighting. I let surgeons chew on me. And on my day off, put my hands in unknown cat's cages, and walk strange dogs. A minor key version, but given my deep shyness, my writing meets the aspirations I skirted in life.


I have been trying to write a post about restrooms/bathrooms/toilets for the past month, and have gotten overwhelmed. It amazes me how much I remember of them, how clearly I can recall these small, intimate spaces. I may just start a series, to the disgust of all and sundry. Because whenever I try to sample or generalize, the list gets unwieldy.

Our bathroom in this apartment is nearly ideal. The tub is deep and wide, with miles of room for my shower gel, shampoo and conditioner indulgences. The sink surrounded in black (probably pseudo) marble, has a huge mirror, making the room seem much larger. There is space for both of Moby's litter boxes (he also uses the tub, as cats do.) The toilet itself is pretty standard, with the cheap plastic set and lid, but it's well placed, which counts. Tile that is easy to clean, especially since Moby occasionally misses, and always flings litter all over. Not fond that it is only reached through the bedroom, but it does make it easier at night.

D set up a motion sensor nightlight, and applied red nail polish to it, so that we can see at night, not fumble for the switch, and still keep our night vision. Surprizing there isn't a ready-made commercial version, it's very functional. Occasionally, Moby trips it jumping into the tub or up on the sink counter at night.

I've ventured here before, in various forms

Gazes

Gazing out at the River. Having grown up with the Detroit River, an interlake connector, this wide, shipful waterway appealed greatly.


Just a drifted bit of wood.


Abandoned fortifications for Fort Stevens, last used during WWII. Never attacked anyone.


Seal lions. Very loud sunbathers.



Insha'allah.

Huge

Sometimes, he just seems HUGE.

Column

After the blasting beach bluster, we found our away up a winding road to the top of the town. The Astoria Column crowns a singular vantage point, gazing out over the Columbia River and off to the Pacific Ocean. I like the tone of their website, acknowledging the dated imperiousness of the endeavor, without disparaging the intention or the artistry.




The stairs to the top are currently being replaced, so we contented ourselves with photos. Again, mostly D's photos here.


Oh, and a crack running up the side.


And the weather returned, making the view disappear. We sheltered in their little gift shop as the skies unleashed a small but furious squall. D got a hat. The winds up there were impressive. Not to the woman in the gift shop, but she bemoaned the rain.



Probably just one more set from the trip. Still can't get my mind around actual writing. Too busy worrying, at the loss of hours at work, at the cost of my dental repair, at the state of the world. Glad we had the trip already paid for, or I'd have been sorely tempted to cancel. And we needed this time away so badly.

Bridges

These are all from D. The bridges along the way from Portland to Astoria. I drove, he took photos. But first, the bridge out to Rogue Brewery, on which we drove. A little hairy, but we didn't break it or slide off in the rain.

Right

A break from the vacation photos. Spent today with the kitties. I did get half the small dogs out for walkies, along with another volunteer. Gotta admit, they are not as physically challenging as the larger dogs. Just don't get as attached to them, though. Still can't warm up to chihuahuas at all. They'll all get homes, the small dogs here do.

One of those long, long, long cats. Stood up in a disquieting manner. But Magick purred and loved being brushed.


Jade was simply the most beautiful cat, who seemed utterly unaware of her amazing eyes, kohl lined. Just wanted love.

RJ is getting on, looks like an old battler, but really is just a cuddler, warm and affectionate. Much older, I hope someone finds him.


Misty is so reserved and quiet and gentle, dear and quirky.

Paco is enormous, mostly it's the extra fluffiness of his fur. Such an expressive face. And yes, he's sitting in his litter box. Many of the cats do this, or even hide under the blankets in their cages. It's a stressful place.

My favorite, Snorkle, a huge grey mix, who loves to just be held, seems to have found a home. With a very nice guy, who succumbed to his furry charms.

I come home, and pet Moby, who feels so solid and healthy, and his fur so smooth and soft. We do our best to do right by him.

Liverpool

Out the window of our nicely off season hotel, the marina and the Astoria-Megler Bridge. A few diving birds bobbed in the calm water around the boats, seagulls of much more staunch constitution, and more elegant calls than our urban Salt Lake duffers, circled and preened.


We got to the February northern beach just an hour or so after low tide, but there is still little left of the Wreck of the Peter Iredale, out of Liverpool.



I had to wonder if the heavy furniture aboard, now salvaged at the Columbia River Maritime Museum, may have been part of the problem.


The most amazing section of the museum, for us, was the central display in the front window. A setpiece of a boat canted at an angle to view the equipment best, with mannequins in full gear. Except that upon closer examination, it is what the rescue boat looks like in the high seas where the Columbia meets the Pacific, and lifesaving is learned and practiced. The impossible angle is what these guys take as a kind of normal. Videos of rescues and techniques plays beside it. We sat through a good half dozen before finally moving on. We pretty much concluded that the Coast Guard are the real badasses of all the US military. Then we got to wander around the lightship Columbia, moored next to the museum.


Language Hat has a very interesting and accessible to us linguistic dabblers, post on the persistence of Dutch. He's always amazing, of course.