Science and Friction
So it's cold and icy here in St. Louis. The main streets are perfectly clear, but the side streets... oh my. Dropping L off at school involves a side street. For the past few days, I've kept the truck in 4 wheel drive. (thank the Gods for 4wd) But today, I assumed I wouldn't be needing it. I haven't needed it except to get down the alley to my parking spot. So I'm driving down the side street, having already dropped off my son, and I see before me a big patch of ice. The ice wasn't there yesterday. I thought, "Where did that ice come from." Then I thought, "It's only on one side of the road. I'm not in 4wd. Is the drive wheel on the left or right side?" Just about then, I started to slide.
Have you ever noticed how time slows down when stuff like this happens? I always seem to have plenty of time to think.
The truck slid gracefully down the street, angled slightly toward the parked cars on the left hand side. I noted the grey station wagon that my bumper was going to make a nice dent in. Mathematically, I was heading straight for it. Foot on the brake, knowing I had no control, I wondered why the anti-lock brakes weren't pumping. I sent out the thought, "Goddess, please let me miss the station wagon." And the truck shifted, ever so slightly. I cruised past the station wagon, went right through the stop sign, and gained traction in the middle of the street. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw the SUV behind me just beginning the dance I'd just gone through. So I put the truck in gear (I drive a stick shift, and I had put it in neutral right before the slide), popped into 4wd, drove across the street, and up onto the sidewalk.
Again, thank the Gods for 4wd.
The SUV also missed the station wagon. It fishtailed a little, corrected, and slid out into the street. It was neat to see the experience play out on the face of the mom behind me. Startled, determined, relieved (when I drove onto the sidewalk), and finally aggravated. I understood completely. The aggravation was from the bitch in the red car who was gesticulating wildly at the two of us. How dare we obstruct her passage by sliding in front of her!
People are funny.
Friday, January 30, 2004
Monday, January 26, 2004
Baking Bread
Last night: The city is covered in ice, but that's ok! I have food on hand. The men folks want sloppy joes for dinner. We are out of bread, but that's ok! I have yeast on hand. The recipes in The Joy of Cooking all call for scalded milk. I don't want to scald any milk. But that's ok! John can give me his bread recipe!
So last night I baked 2 loaves of bread. I have a problem with bread. It seems all I can make is sourdough Italian bread. It's quite tasty, and I'm always disappointed because I'm not trying to make sourdough Italian bread. So last night, I tried to make sourdough Italian bread to support some sloppy joes. I followed John's recipe, and somehow made a giant Hawaiian bread biscuit. It was really good and very dense. We ate the whole loaf. I had enough dough left to make another loaf, so I cut into it and drizzled honey in the middle and baked it up. L and I just tried eating it. It is the nastiest thing I've ever baked. It smells like papier mache. It probably tastes like papier mache, too. I've never eaten papier mache, so I wouldn't know. It's floury and thick. It weighs a ton. I'm afraid to feed it to the birds, it's so bad.
My bread was so bad...
How bad was it?
It was so bad, my son said, "You should throw the bread away, and burn the pan it was baked in, and salt the oven in which it was baked."
Thank you, thank you. That loaf of bread is, to date, the worst failure of my life. :)
So my question is, how did one batch of dough yeild such a disparity in loaves?
Like I said before, I have a problem with bread. :)
Last night: The city is covered in ice, but that's ok! I have food on hand. The men folks want sloppy joes for dinner. We are out of bread, but that's ok! I have yeast on hand. The recipes in The Joy of Cooking all call for scalded milk. I don't want to scald any milk. But that's ok! John can give me his bread recipe!
So last night I baked 2 loaves of bread. I have a problem with bread. It seems all I can make is sourdough Italian bread. It's quite tasty, and I'm always disappointed because I'm not trying to make sourdough Italian bread. So last night, I tried to make sourdough Italian bread to support some sloppy joes. I followed John's recipe, and somehow made a giant Hawaiian bread biscuit. It was really good and very dense. We ate the whole loaf. I had enough dough left to make another loaf, so I cut into it and drizzled honey in the middle and baked it up. L and I just tried eating it. It is the nastiest thing I've ever baked. It smells like papier mache. It probably tastes like papier mache, too. I've never eaten papier mache, so I wouldn't know. It's floury and thick. It weighs a ton. I'm afraid to feed it to the birds, it's so bad.
My bread was so bad...
How bad was it?
It was so bad, my son said, "You should throw the bread away, and burn the pan it was baked in, and salt the oven in which it was baked."
Thank you, thank you. That loaf of bread is, to date, the worst failure of my life. :)
So my question is, how did one batch of dough yeild such a disparity in loaves?
Like I said before, I have a problem with bread. :)
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Silly things I've done in the last 24 hours
Wrote about ecstatic trance, saved as draft, thought I'd lost it, found it by changing my entries view.
Read a blog, clicked a side bar link, read that blog and thought, "Now why did they link to this? Oh, right! It's someone they know!"
Commented on quality control with pregnancy tests.
Talked a lot in my sleep, but not loudly enough for my hubby to wake up enough to hear it. Which is a shame, because when I talk in my sleep I say funny things like, "This was supposed to be a time machine."
Wrote about ecstatic trance, saved as draft, thought I'd lost it, found it by changing my entries view.
Read a blog, clicked a side bar link, read that blog and thought, "Now why did they link to this? Oh, right! It's someone they know!"
Commented on quality control with pregnancy tests.
Talked a lot in my sleep, but not loudly enough for my hubby to wake up enough to hear it. Which is a shame, because when I talk in my sleep I say funny things like, "This was supposed to be a time machine."
Saturday, January 24, 2004
This is why I link to you guys!
Reading my blogroll relieved all my worries today. Yep yep.
Confessions of a Gradeschool Role Model wrote the most eloquent observation of prejudice I've ever read. It resonated with my experience of prejudice (being a redhead), showed me how much deeper prejudice can be, and had me view my neighbor in a totally new light. I'd thought of her as either painfully shy, or obnoxiously snobby. It never occurred to me that she might be frightened of being pre-judged because she was born in a different country from the one she currently lives in.
One Good Thing received an unusual birthday gift, which reminded me of the unusual gifts Hubby and I have gotten from a certain set of in-laws. Not the in-laws I blog about occasionally, the other in-laws. They have sent us: dirty coin cups from Las Vegas, everything that didn't sell at their yard sale (why did they have 3 avocado colored blenders?), freebies from every place they stopped at while touring the country, and... and... Chasmyn, you know what's coming...
A used George Foreman grill with old food encrusted on it. That's right. There I was thinking they had sent us a nice gift for once. I didn't care that the box was clearly used, therefore the grill was used. I've never minded getting a used gift. But they sent it to us with evidence that is was used! I wasted a lot of time wondering if it was some kind of subtle insult, before I realized I didn't care.
Numenous Thoughts knocked me to the floor with her post "Freedoms", and "costs" is pretty good too.
Abbreviated Abstractions also discusses discrimination. She takes a different tack, and hers is just as good.
and
Kensho Godchaser discusses "paganism" and turns a negative into a sparkling positive. (Oh yeah)
Thank you all for being. What better way to forget your worries, than to read a lot of thought provoking entries!
Reading my blogroll relieved all my worries today. Yep yep.
Confessions of a Gradeschool Role Model wrote the most eloquent observation of prejudice I've ever read. It resonated with my experience of prejudice (being a redhead), showed me how much deeper prejudice can be, and had me view my neighbor in a totally new light. I'd thought of her as either painfully shy, or obnoxiously snobby. It never occurred to me that she might be frightened of being pre-judged because she was born in a different country from the one she currently lives in.
One Good Thing received an unusual birthday gift, which reminded me of the unusual gifts Hubby and I have gotten from a certain set of in-laws. Not the in-laws I blog about occasionally, the other in-laws. They have sent us: dirty coin cups from Las Vegas, everything that didn't sell at their yard sale (why did they have 3 avocado colored blenders?), freebies from every place they stopped at while touring the country, and... and... Chasmyn, you know what's coming...
A used George Foreman grill with old food encrusted on it. That's right. There I was thinking they had sent us a nice gift for once. I didn't care that the box was clearly used, therefore the grill was used. I've never minded getting a used gift. But they sent it to us with evidence that is was used! I wasted a lot of time wondering if it was some kind of subtle insult, before I realized I didn't care.
Numenous Thoughts knocked me to the floor with her post "Freedoms", and "costs" is pretty good too.
Abbreviated Abstractions also discusses discrimination. She takes a different tack, and hers is just as good.
and
Kensho Godchaser discusses "paganism" and turns a negative into a sparkling positive. (Oh yeah)
Thank you all for being. What better way to forget your worries, than to read a lot of thought provoking entries!
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Snarking the State Of the Union
The road trip story is funny, this one's just bitter :p
Before I get into the body count, I'm going to express my support for the Democrats who disrupted Bush's speech with a standing ovation when he said, "Key provisions of the Patriot Act are set to expire next year." It was lovely seeing him open his mouth to go on, only to be stopped by a smattering of applause that grew and grew. The camera panned out so we could see the minority section of Congress on their feet and making a statement.
The Body Count
references to terror or terrorists= 20
references to killers, killing or killed= 11
references to war= 10
references to 9/11= 3
references to Osama Bin Laden= 0
Congratulatory back-patting, and reminders of his greatness:
"Because of American leadership and resolve, the world is changing for the better. Last month, the leader of Libya voluntarily pledged to disclose and dismantle all of his regime's weapons of mass destruction programmes, including a uranium enrichment project for nuclear weapons. Colonel Gaddaffi correctly judged that his country would be better off, and far more secure, without weapons of mass murder."
"When I came to this rostrum on September 20th, 2001, I brought the police shield of a fallen officer, my reminder of lives that ended, and a task that does not end. I gave to you and to all Americans my complete commitment to securing our country and defeating our enemies."
"I have had the honour of meeting our servicemen and women at many posts, from the deck of a carrier in the Pacific, to a mess hall in Baghdad."
"Last month a girl in Lincoln, Rhode Island, sent me a letter. It began: "Dear George W Bush. If there is anything you know I, Ashley Pearson age 10, can do to help anyone, please send me a letter and tell me what I can do to save our country." She added this PS: "If you can send a letter to the troops, please put 'Ashley Pearson believes in you.' "
Outright Lies
"The American economy is growing stronger. The tax relief you passed is working."
"You are raising the standards of our public schools"
"Our closest allies have been unwavering."
"Had we failed to act, Security Council resolutions on Iraq would have been revealed as empty threats, weakening the United Nations and encouraging defiance by dictators around the world."
"And because you acted to stimulate our economy with tax relief, this economy is strong, and growing stronger."
"The pace of economic growth in the third quarter of 2003 was the fastest in nearly 20 years. New home construction, the highest in almost 20 years. Home ownership rates the highest ever. Manufacturing activity is increasing. Inflation is low. Interest rates are low. Exports are growing. Productivity is high. And jobs are on the rise."
"We are providing more funding for our schools, a 36% increase since 2001. We are requiring higher standards. We are regularly testing every child on the fundamentals. We are reporting results to parents, and making sure they have better options when schools are not performing. We are making progress toward excellence for every child."
Scary Stuff
I'm not even going there right now.
The road trip story is funny, this one's just bitter :p
Before I get into the body count, I'm going to express my support for the Democrats who disrupted Bush's speech with a standing ovation when he said, "Key provisions of the Patriot Act are set to expire next year." It was lovely seeing him open his mouth to go on, only to be stopped by a smattering of applause that grew and grew. The camera panned out so we could see the minority section of Congress on their feet and making a statement.
The Body Count
references to terror or terrorists= 20
references to killers, killing or killed= 11
references to war= 10
references to 9/11= 3
references to Osama Bin Laden= 0
Congratulatory back-patting, and reminders of his greatness:
"Because of American leadership and resolve, the world is changing for the better. Last month, the leader of Libya voluntarily pledged to disclose and dismantle all of his regime's weapons of mass destruction programmes, including a uranium enrichment project for nuclear weapons. Colonel Gaddaffi correctly judged that his country would be better off, and far more secure, without weapons of mass murder."
"When I came to this rostrum on September 20th, 2001, I brought the police shield of a fallen officer, my reminder of lives that ended, and a task that does not end. I gave to you and to all Americans my complete commitment to securing our country and defeating our enemies."
"I have had the honour of meeting our servicemen and women at many posts, from the deck of a carrier in the Pacific, to a mess hall in Baghdad."
"Last month a girl in Lincoln, Rhode Island, sent me a letter. It began: "Dear George W Bush. If there is anything you know I, Ashley Pearson age 10, can do to help anyone, please send me a letter and tell me what I can do to save our country." She added this PS: "If you can send a letter to the troops, please put 'Ashley Pearson believes in you.' "
Outright Lies
"The American economy is growing stronger. The tax relief you passed is working."
"You are raising the standards of our public schools"
"Our closest allies have been unwavering."
"Had we failed to act, Security Council resolutions on Iraq would have been revealed as empty threats, weakening the United Nations and encouraging defiance by dictators around the world."
"And because you acted to stimulate our economy with tax relief, this economy is strong, and growing stronger."
"The pace of economic growth in the third quarter of 2003 was the fastest in nearly 20 years. New home construction, the highest in almost 20 years. Home ownership rates the highest ever. Manufacturing activity is increasing. Inflation is low. Interest rates are low. Exports are growing. Productivity is high. And jobs are on the rise."
"We are providing more funding for our schools, a 36% increase since 2001. We are requiring higher standards. We are regularly testing every child on the fundamentals. We are reporting results to parents, and making sure they have better options when schools are not performing. We are making progress toward excellence for every child."
Scary Stuff
I'm not even going there right now.
Ok. Bush sucks, Persephone is ill and Chasmyn lost power last night. It was down all over her section of the city. It's back now. Hail Eris!
Road Trip
I had forgotten how much fun a road trip could be. Those simple, one-day jaunts of my adolescence seemed so far behind me. I'm a grown-up now, I live by the clock (snicker), I can't be wasting time driving to nowhere, right? Oh, so wrong!
Chasmyn got a call from a rancher who raises organic cattle, they were culling the herd again; would she like to buy a side of beef? You bet she would! Lots of people got on the beef-buying bandwagon this time around. My family tossed in $100.
The next 2 weeks were torture for me. It pains me to buy meat from the grocery store when I know the good stuff is just around the corner.
Yesterday was the perfect day to pick up our processed half-cow. It was nice and cold all day, so the meat wouldn't thaw during the trip. The processing plant is in Perryville. I'd never even heard of Perryville before. It's way down highway 55. I was picturing a tiny town of 1,000 people, pick-up trucks with gun racks, maybe even a little red schoolhouse. "This should be quite an adventure in people watching!" I thought.
Chasmyn picked me up before 9:00, and we were off. The 20+ miles from my house to Arnold went by in an eyeblink. I had forgotten how easy travel is when you have company. We chatted about everything and nothing, drinking coffee while traveling a nearly empty highway. This was my first road trip with Chasmyn. (How could we have known each other for so long, and never road-tripped together?) I learned a lot from riding with her. As usual, I pointed out wildlife along the way. Some things never change. Every time I spotted something, Chasmyn saw it too. I marveled at that.
Most long trips for me go like this, "Look, a hawk! Oh. You missed it. Look, a cow! Oh, you missed it. Bunnies! You missed them." etc. With Chasmyn, I'd say "hawk!" and she'd say, "I see it!" It was fun! So we whiled away the miles, doing all the neat road trip stuff. We visited a rest stop to stare at the map. The bathroom had auto-flush toilets and an
automatic sink. Whoa! All you had to do was soap up, the sink did the rest. It rinsed your hands with warm water, and dried them too. (warm water in a Missouri rest stop???) I felt like I'd stepped into a science-fiction novel.
We finally get to Perryville, which had neither gun racks, nor a little red schoolhouse. It had a Wal-Mart instead. It also had a new looking community center, a beautiful retirement community and a welcoming feel. When I think rural - I think Carbondale. This place was as far from Carbondale as could be. The last of my reservations with Chasmyn moving to rural Minnesota vanished in Perryville. If most of rural America is like Perryville, move me there!
The processing plant was outside of town, and it wasn't what I'd expected either. It reeked, yes; but the place was nice. I had expected a gore-splattered butcher and a bunch of frightened animals, or a tiny little shack as a front for the meat that was discreetly murdered elsewhere. What we found was a pleasant small business and a nice guy in tight jeans. I mean 1980's tight jeans. I wondered if he had plans for reproducing, because his nuts sure weren't making viable sperm in those Levi's. The funny thing is, I didn't notice a thing until he turned around. My ever observant eyes spotted the worn mark of a chew canister on the right pocket. The left pocket was not as worn as the right, but both sides would eventually match. The left pocket now held the chew. It's amazing, the things you can tell from looking at a man's backside. I could tell that he never carried a wallet there, but he'd only just recently switched chew-holding sides. From the way he walked, he was comfortable with the canister in either pocket. Nice butt, by the way. I would have been all over him in the 80's. (Ooh, I just had a thought. I've been assuming it was chew... it could have been a round tin of mints, or even hand balm. Gasp! Assumptions are bad things)
Anyway, He loaded 300 lbs of meat into the trunk for us and my, what a wonderful sight that was! Mmmm, meat. He asked if we wanted the heart, liver or tongue. Chasmyn and I both paused, lost in our own thoughts. I don't know what she was thinking, but I was weighing waste vs. getting my family to eat unusual cow bits. I decided, yes, I did want the tongue and heart. Chasmyn took the liver, somebody might want it. I've never had tongue before. The Joy Of Cooking tells how to prepare it, so I'm gonna cook it up and take it to Grandma. Kudos to Chasmyn for the idea!
On the way back to St. Louis, I saw the strangest (for me) sight. I'd been looking at wildlife in the fields we passed, and I saw a cat! In the next field I saw another cat! It's not that I didn't think cats lived on farms, I've just never seen one in a field before.
So there it is. My adventure in Perryville; complete with tight jeans, kitty cats and cow tongue.
Road Trip
I had forgotten how much fun a road trip could be. Those simple, one-day jaunts of my adolescence seemed so far behind me. I'm a grown-up now, I live by the clock (snicker), I can't be wasting time driving to nowhere, right? Oh, so wrong!
Chasmyn got a call from a rancher who raises organic cattle, they were culling the herd again; would she like to buy a side of beef? You bet she would! Lots of people got on the beef-buying bandwagon this time around. My family tossed in $100.
The next 2 weeks were torture for me. It pains me to buy meat from the grocery store when I know the good stuff is just around the corner.
Yesterday was the perfect day to pick up our processed half-cow. It was nice and cold all day, so the meat wouldn't thaw during the trip. The processing plant is in Perryville. I'd never even heard of Perryville before. It's way down highway 55. I was picturing a tiny town of 1,000 people, pick-up trucks with gun racks, maybe even a little red schoolhouse. "This should be quite an adventure in people watching!" I thought.
Chasmyn picked me up before 9:00, and we were off. The 20+ miles from my house to Arnold went by in an eyeblink. I had forgotten how easy travel is when you have company. We chatted about everything and nothing, drinking coffee while traveling a nearly empty highway. This was my first road trip with Chasmyn. (How could we have known each other for so long, and never road-tripped together?) I learned a lot from riding with her. As usual, I pointed out wildlife along the way. Some things never change. Every time I spotted something, Chasmyn saw it too. I marveled at that.
Most long trips for me go like this, "Look, a hawk! Oh. You missed it. Look, a cow! Oh, you missed it. Bunnies! You missed them." etc. With Chasmyn, I'd say "hawk!" and she'd say, "I see it!" It was fun! So we whiled away the miles, doing all the neat road trip stuff. We visited a rest stop to stare at the map. The bathroom had auto-flush toilets and an
automatic sink. Whoa! All you had to do was soap up, the sink did the rest. It rinsed your hands with warm water, and dried them too. (warm water in a Missouri rest stop???) I felt like I'd stepped into a science-fiction novel.
We finally get to Perryville, which had neither gun racks, nor a little red schoolhouse. It had a Wal-Mart instead. It also had a new looking community center, a beautiful retirement community and a welcoming feel. When I think rural - I think Carbondale. This place was as far from Carbondale as could be. The last of my reservations with Chasmyn moving to rural Minnesota vanished in Perryville. If most of rural America is like Perryville, move me there!
The processing plant was outside of town, and it wasn't what I'd expected either. It reeked, yes; but the place was nice. I had expected a gore-splattered butcher and a bunch of frightened animals, or a tiny little shack as a front for the meat that was discreetly murdered elsewhere. What we found was a pleasant small business and a nice guy in tight jeans. I mean 1980's tight jeans. I wondered if he had plans for reproducing, because his nuts sure weren't making viable sperm in those Levi's. The funny thing is, I didn't notice a thing until he turned around. My ever observant eyes spotted the worn mark of a chew canister on the right pocket. The left pocket was not as worn as the right, but both sides would eventually match. The left pocket now held the chew. It's amazing, the things you can tell from looking at a man's backside. I could tell that he never carried a wallet there, but he'd only just recently switched chew-holding sides. From the way he walked, he was comfortable with the canister in either pocket. Nice butt, by the way. I would have been all over him in the 80's. (Ooh, I just had a thought. I've been assuming it was chew... it could have been a round tin of mints, or even hand balm. Gasp! Assumptions are bad things)
Anyway, He loaded 300 lbs of meat into the trunk for us and my, what a wonderful sight that was! Mmmm, meat. He asked if we wanted the heart, liver or tongue. Chasmyn and I both paused, lost in our own thoughts. I don't know what she was thinking, but I was weighing waste vs. getting my family to eat unusual cow bits. I decided, yes, I did want the tongue and heart. Chasmyn took the liver, somebody might want it. I've never had tongue before. The Joy Of Cooking tells how to prepare it, so I'm gonna cook it up and take it to Grandma. Kudos to Chasmyn for the idea!
On the way back to St. Louis, I saw the strangest (for me) sight. I'd been looking at wildlife in the fields we passed, and I saw a cat! In the next field I saw another cat! It's not that I didn't think cats lived on farms, I've just never seen one in a field before.
So there it is. My adventure in Perryville; complete with tight jeans, kitty cats and cow tongue.
Monday, January 19, 2004
Disquiet on the Home Front or The Grandma Situation
Mom called tonight. She wanted to know my plans for tomorrow. She and Aunt #2 are looking at a care facility tomorrow for Grandma. A week or so from now, Grandma will be turning 86. She has been living in senior housing for a decade. She is lucid and in reasonable health. However, Grandma doesn't eat or drink enough. A few weeks ago, she passed out in the grocery store -because she was severely dehydrated.
The housing co-op called Aunt #2 and told her this wasn't the first time. Mom sat with her at Barnes Hospital's ER. Grandma waited 8 hours to be seen. I guess passing out when you're 85 isn't an emergency. While they were waiting, calls went out to the entire extended family; and mom tried to set up a care and visitation schedule. Nobody has decided which days they want, so mom and Aunt #2 are looking at moving her to a different facility.
They haven't asked Grandma's opinion yet. Maybe she doesn't want to move. Maybe her apartment gives her a sense of freedom. Maybe she wants to keep the possessions she has left, and doesn't want them parted out to the family... And maybe she does. I don't know, and I think she should have some say in it.
The new facility sounds great to me, but I'm not the one going there. It's right next door to a Catholic Church, so Grandma can go every day again. She is a very devout Catholic, and has missed church a lot in the past few years. She wouldn't have to cook anymore, because they provide all meals. Grandma has told me often enough how hard it is to cook for one, when she's used to cooking for 10. That's why she doesn't eat enough. Most days she can't be bothered to cook. When she gets hungry enough, she'll re-warm yesterday's leftovers. Meals-On-Wheels visits her 3 times a week. I think that's what she lives on. It's sad, and I'm dumping all my sadness here, so forgive me.
Mom tried to brighten the mood today, by telling me Great Grandma's table would probably not go with Grandma. Well, that's just great. I really do want that old Queen Anne card table. It's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma. I remember playing with the decorative drawer pull before I could see over the table. I remember taking out Great Grandma's canasta cards, after she passed away. I remember how no one would touch the table, much less use it, unless Great Grandma said they could. Gods, how I love that table! It's been chewed on by puppies, scratched by cats and played with by 6 grand children. and I want that table when Grandma is ready to give it to me, not when Grandma is forced to give it up. If it's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma, then it's also the only tangible piece of her mother. When it is passed down to me, should I pick up Grandma, help her climb into my truck and drive her to look at her mother's table? What an impossible thought! (Clearly, I haven't used up my melodrama quotient in this life)
I don't know what to say, or what to think. I want to wave a magic wand and keep things the same, and I don't even know if moving Grandma would be a bad idea!
I remember Great Grandma, living in the nursing home she once worked at. I remember how the sun lit up her hair and made it into a halo, the last time I visited her. I remember Aunt #2 telling me I would have to say something because Great Grandma couldn't see me. She was blind now. I remember the adults talking over my head as if I weren't there, talking about how death would be a mercy to her. And worst of all, I remember the looks from the other people in the home, as this huge loving family came to visit. I got in trouble for wandering off several times. We would be sitting in Great Grandma's room, and I could feel need elsewhere. Twice, mom found me in someone else's room, listening to their stories and looking at pictures of their grand children.
I don't want to have the same kinds of memories about Grandma. Life doesn't stagnate. Life moves forward, whether you want it to or not. I know age happens, and I should be thankful that Grandma is lucid and mobile. But oh, how I resist this change of scenery.
Mom called tonight. She wanted to know my plans for tomorrow. She and Aunt #2 are looking at a care facility tomorrow for Grandma. A week or so from now, Grandma will be turning 86. She has been living in senior housing for a decade. She is lucid and in reasonable health. However, Grandma doesn't eat or drink enough. A few weeks ago, she passed out in the grocery store -because she was severely dehydrated.
The housing co-op called Aunt #2 and told her this wasn't the first time. Mom sat with her at Barnes Hospital's ER. Grandma waited 8 hours to be seen. I guess passing out when you're 85 isn't an emergency. While they were waiting, calls went out to the entire extended family; and mom tried to set up a care and visitation schedule. Nobody has decided which days they want, so mom and Aunt #2 are looking at moving her to a different facility.
They haven't asked Grandma's opinion yet. Maybe she doesn't want to move. Maybe her apartment gives her a sense of freedom. Maybe she wants to keep the possessions she has left, and doesn't want them parted out to the family... And maybe she does. I don't know, and I think she should have some say in it.
The new facility sounds great to me, but I'm not the one going there. It's right next door to a Catholic Church, so Grandma can go every day again. She is a very devout Catholic, and has missed church a lot in the past few years. She wouldn't have to cook anymore, because they provide all meals. Grandma has told me often enough how hard it is to cook for one, when she's used to cooking for 10. That's why she doesn't eat enough. Most days she can't be bothered to cook. When she gets hungry enough, she'll re-warm yesterday's leftovers. Meals-On-Wheels visits her 3 times a week. I think that's what she lives on. It's sad, and I'm dumping all my sadness here, so forgive me.
Mom tried to brighten the mood today, by telling me Great Grandma's table would probably not go with Grandma. Well, that's just great. I really do want that old Queen Anne card table. It's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma. I remember playing with the decorative drawer pull before I could see over the table. I remember taking out Great Grandma's canasta cards, after she passed away. I remember how no one would touch the table, much less use it, unless Great Grandma said they could. Gods, how I love that table! It's been chewed on by puppies, scratched by cats and played with by 6 grand children. and I want that table when Grandma is ready to give it to me, not when Grandma is forced to give it up. If it's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma, then it's also the only tangible piece of her mother. When it is passed down to me, should I pick up Grandma, help her climb into my truck and drive her to look at her mother's table? What an impossible thought! (Clearly, I haven't used up my melodrama quotient in this life)
I don't know what to say, or what to think. I want to wave a magic wand and keep things the same, and I don't even know if moving Grandma would be a bad idea!
I remember Great Grandma, living in the nursing home she once worked at. I remember how the sun lit up her hair and made it into a halo, the last time I visited her. I remember Aunt #2 telling me I would have to say something because Great Grandma couldn't see me. She was blind now. I remember the adults talking over my head as if I weren't there, talking about how death would be a mercy to her. And worst of all, I remember the looks from the other people in the home, as this huge loving family came to visit. I got in trouble for wandering off several times. We would be sitting in Great Grandma's room, and I could feel need elsewhere. Twice, mom found me in someone else's room, listening to their stories and looking at pictures of their grand children.
I don't want to have the same kinds of memories about Grandma. Life doesn't stagnate. Life moves forward, whether you want it to or not. I know age happens, and I should be thankful that Grandma is lucid and mobile. But oh, how I resist this change of scenery.
*shudder* twitch twitch
I try to respect Christianity. I do try. I'll get myself all convinced that it is a fine religion, serving the needs of so many people. I think of the Christians I know who are lit up inside, glowing with love. I think of them and say, "See, Christianity is good." I love seeing people who have found a path.
You know you're on your path when you don't need to convince anyone to walk your path with you. I've been saying that for years. It doesn't mean religion is lonely, and it doesn't mean everyone should be solitary. It means when you've found the religion that fits, you're happy. When you haven't, you try to justify the rightness of your religion by making everyone else join.
I know, this seems to single out Christians, because they proselytize as part of their faith. And I've had pagans try to convince me that their path is right, and my own is wrong. I've noticed that if I have stepped off my path, I get all huffy and insulted. When I'm being my path, nothing they say offends me. I listen with interest. I feel happy for them, for finding what works... what fits their lives and lights them up.
Whenever a new church opens in my neighborhood, people knock on my door and invite me to attend. I always tell them, "Thank you! I have a church that I attend, but thanks for letting me know you're here." I generally add, "Welcome to the neighborhood." I don't tell them I'm Pagan, and they don't ask me if I've found Jesus. It works out quite well. I don't mind invitations. I do mind being told that I'm broken, lost or needy. Which brings me to today's point.
I was looking at some St. Louis Bloggers, and clicked on one described as, "A blog on my thoughts and such, and an ongoing photographic essay of St. Louis and various travels..." I'm an absolute nut for St. Louis architecture, of course I went to read the blog. Not as described, would be an understatement. (Yeah, when was the last time you read something here about fine arts, I know) The blog is pretty Christian, and completely inoffensive... except for this one bit. So I'm taking the one negative post out of context, from an otherwise decent blog, and copying it here for all to see.
"January 5, 2004 - 3:32:01 PM
I'm not sure weather to be happy or offended by this article on how fundamental Christian groups are working in foreign countries. Apparently we use all sorts of insidious tactics like humnitarian aid, education, and medical help to further our prosylitization program.
There was one quote in particular that gave me pause. I was reminded of the early objections of the Roman Empire against Christianity. The writer of the article said,
'What is objectionable in this fundamentalist campaign is not its desire to gain adherents, but in its determination to totally alienate their converts from all their traditions and all 'non-believers'. '
During the first few hundred years of the Christian church, Christians were murdered, not because we believed in a different God than anyone else. You see, the Romans allowed for all sorts of diverse pagan deities, but we were murdered because we had the audacity to declare that our God is the only true God. We survived then, prospered even. And we will prosper in Nepal too. I know. I've read the ending. We win."
See? I was all OK with this guy's opinion, until that last bit. The smug assurance of "we win".
I read the entire article about fundamentalist groups, and had no problem with it. Not once does the article encourage "murder". Toward the end, it mentions the legal battle between a women's group and a group of Christians.
here it is:
"Foreign funded fundamentalists are increasingly aware of the rising opposition by tradition-centred groups. (Buddhists and Hindus in Sri Lanka) to their activities and endeavour to camouflage their activities with a cloak of legitimacy. In Sri Lanka this has taken two forms. One is the presentation in Parliament of Acts to incorporate assorted fundamentalist groups so that they can pursue their subtle proselytization as a legal activity. The other is to use the 'carte blanche' given by the open economy to register their organisations as commercial enterprises.
The All Ceylon Women's Buddhist Congress (ACWBC) decided to face the legal challenge head on.
Two such Christian groups, based in Norway and Austria respectively, attempted to get their organisations incorporated in the laws of the country.
The ACWBC contested both cases in the Supreme Court and won landmark decisions rejecting their applications. It should be understood that this was no mere reliance on the duty of the State to protect Buddhism.
The point made by the Supreme Court was that while it upheld the freedom of worship of all citizens it could not countenance the establishment of bodies that would extend material and other benefits to those who converted to their set of beliefs. " thanks to the Daily News for the article.
I try to respect Christianity. I do try. I'll get myself all convinced that it is a fine religion, serving the needs of so many people. I think of the Christians I know who are lit up inside, glowing with love. I think of them and say, "See, Christianity is good." I love seeing people who have found a path.
You know you're on your path when you don't need to convince anyone to walk your path with you. I've been saying that for years. It doesn't mean religion is lonely, and it doesn't mean everyone should be solitary. It means when you've found the religion that fits, you're happy. When you haven't, you try to justify the rightness of your religion by making everyone else join.
I know, this seems to single out Christians, because they proselytize as part of their faith. And I've had pagans try to convince me that their path is right, and my own is wrong. I've noticed that if I have stepped off my path, I get all huffy and insulted. When I'm being my path, nothing they say offends me. I listen with interest. I feel happy for them, for finding what works... what fits their lives and lights them up.
Whenever a new church opens in my neighborhood, people knock on my door and invite me to attend. I always tell them, "Thank you! I have a church that I attend, but thanks for letting me know you're here." I generally add, "Welcome to the neighborhood." I don't tell them I'm Pagan, and they don't ask me if I've found Jesus. It works out quite well. I don't mind invitations. I do mind being told that I'm broken, lost or needy. Which brings me to today's point.
I was looking at some St. Louis Bloggers, and clicked on one described as, "A blog on my thoughts and such, and an ongoing photographic essay of St. Louis and various travels..." I'm an absolute nut for St. Louis architecture, of course I went to read the blog. Not as described, would be an understatement. (Yeah, when was the last time you read something here about fine arts, I know) The blog is pretty Christian, and completely inoffensive... except for this one bit. So I'm taking the one negative post out of context, from an otherwise decent blog, and copying it here for all to see.
"January 5, 2004 - 3:32:01 PM
I'm not sure weather to be happy or offended by this article on how fundamental Christian groups are working in foreign countries. Apparently we use all sorts of insidious tactics like humnitarian aid, education, and medical help to further our prosylitization program.
There was one quote in particular that gave me pause. I was reminded of the early objections of the Roman Empire against Christianity. The writer of the article said,
'What is objectionable in this fundamentalist campaign is not its desire to gain adherents, but in its determination to totally alienate their converts from all their traditions and all 'non-believers'. '
During the first few hundred years of the Christian church, Christians were murdered, not because we believed in a different God than anyone else. You see, the Romans allowed for all sorts of diverse pagan deities, but we were murdered because we had the audacity to declare that our God is the only true God. We survived then, prospered even. And we will prosper in Nepal too. I know. I've read the ending. We win."
See? I was all OK with this guy's opinion, until that last bit. The smug assurance of "we win".
I read the entire article about fundamentalist groups, and had no problem with it. Not once does the article encourage "murder". Toward the end, it mentions the legal battle between a women's group and a group of Christians.
here it is:
"Foreign funded fundamentalists are increasingly aware of the rising opposition by tradition-centred groups. (Buddhists and Hindus in Sri Lanka) to their activities and endeavour to camouflage their activities with a cloak of legitimacy. In Sri Lanka this has taken two forms. One is the presentation in Parliament of Acts to incorporate assorted fundamentalist groups so that they can pursue their subtle proselytization as a legal activity. The other is to use the 'carte blanche' given by the open economy to register their organisations as commercial enterprises.
The All Ceylon Women's Buddhist Congress (ACWBC) decided to face the legal challenge head on.
Two such Christian groups, based in Norway and Austria respectively, attempted to get their organisations incorporated in the laws of the country.
The ACWBC contested both cases in the Supreme Court and won landmark decisions rejecting their applications. It should be understood that this was no mere reliance on the duty of the State to protect Buddhism.
The point made by the Supreme Court was that while it upheld the freedom of worship of all citizens it could not countenance the establishment of bodies that would extend material and other benefits to those who converted to their set of beliefs. " thanks to the Daily News for the article.
Friday, January 16, 2004
Addendum
I wrote the last post, and lost my internet connection right as I was publishing. I thought I'd lost it. I was both happy and unhappy about that. It is easier for me to write about my old neighborhood, than it is for me to write about my gifts. I don't believe I'm unique, or uber powerful, or put here to change the world. I really think I'm no different than anyone else. And then I get confronted with "evidence" that I am unique. I don't know how to be with that at all.
So every once in a while, I try to work it out on my blog. I try to express that I really like my life, and there are some things I'm really good at, and I admire the many, many, many things other people are good at. I see someone doing exactly what I can do, and I marvel at them. I love the interconnectedness of everything. I don't want to be unique. Unique people are lonely people.
Saying, "Look what I can do" feels like bragging. When I get uncomfortable about my talents, I make myself write it for the internet world to see. Sorry for using y'all that way. :)
I wrote the last post, and lost my internet connection right as I was publishing. I thought I'd lost it. I was both happy and unhappy about that. It is easier for me to write about my old neighborhood, than it is for me to write about my gifts. I don't believe I'm unique, or uber powerful, or put here to change the world. I really think I'm no different than anyone else. And then I get confronted with "evidence" that I am unique. I don't know how to be with that at all.
So every once in a while, I try to work it out on my blog. I try to express that I really like my life, and there are some things I'm really good at, and I admire the many, many, many things other people are good at. I see someone doing exactly what I can do, and I marvel at them. I love the interconnectedness of everything. I don't want to be unique. Unique people are lonely people.
Saying, "Look what I can do" feels like bragging. When I get uncomfortable about my talents, I make myself write it for the internet world to see. Sorry for using y'all that way. :)
Tangent
That last post wasn't what I'd meant to say. It went in it's own direction. That's ok.
What I'd meant to say is that I had so much magic around me as a child, and I never knew it. I thought magic was flashy, permanent, and the stuff of legends. I wanted a fairy godmother, but life was easy, and no fairy godmother came. I wanted to fly like Superman, dress like Wonder Woman, and save the world like James Bond. And one more thing... I wanted to do it all while maintaining my secret identity.
I wanted my own personal fairy tale, not realizing that I was already living it.
Magic isn't flashy, it's private. It happens best when no one is looking, or when everyone is looking; rarely in-between.
I look at my life, and marvel at the magic. Just yesterday, the wind danced with me. Birds fly right over my head, totally unafraid. I had a hawk follow me from my home to my son's school, and back again. I can look at people and tell them where it hurts, and why. I can touch those hurts from across the room and take away some of their pain, if the want me to. I can see your future and I can see your past. I maintain my secret identity. I'm not special. I'm just another stay at home mom.
That last post wasn't what I'd meant to say. It went in it's own direction. That's ok.
What I'd meant to say is that I had so much magic around me as a child, and I never knew it. I thought magic was flashy, permanent, and the stuff of legends. I wanted a fairy godmother, but life was easy, and no fairy godmother came. I wanted to fly like Superman, dress like Wonder Woman, and save the world like James Bond. And one more thing... I wanted to do it all while maintaining my secret identity.
I wanted my own personal fairy tale, not realizing that I was already living it.
Magic isn't flashy, it's private. It happens best when no one is looking, or when everyone is looking; rarely in-between.
I look at my life, and marvel at the magic. Just yesterday, the wind danced with me. Birds fly right over my head, totally unafraid. I had a hawk follow me from my home to my son's school, and back again. I can look at people and tell them where it hurts, and why. I can touch those hurts from across the room and take away some of their pain, if the want me to. I can see your future and I can see your past. I maintain my secret identity. I'm not special. I'm just another stay at home mom.
a nature of magic
When I was a child, I believed in magic. I believed in fairy tales, and happily-ever-afters. I believed that good things happen to good people.
And I wished like crazy for some magic to happen to me.
I had proof of magic, like all children do. I got coins from the tooth fairy and presents from Santa, and a book with a dragon in it -that I swore breathed smoke and winked at me when no one was looking. I didn't think I was special (or insane), I thought it was just like a dragon to hide in a book and wink at small children. I also thought dragons swiped princesses to teach them how to work. It would serve two purposes. The dragon gets it's scales cleaned, and the princess learns the value of work, growing up to be a good queen.
I could look at clouds and see herds of buffalo thundering across the sky. It lifted my spirits to know that the buffalo lived on, even though the cowboys killed them all. (that's kid logic for you) Mom would take me to the park and teach me to listen to the world. She never treated it like a lesson. She thought you should listen to the world because you could. She taught me that the planet, and every living thing on it speaks. I knew something she didn't know. Non-living things speak too. I would pick up rocks and ask her to listen to them, and she would say, "But it's just a rock. Rocks can't talk." And I would say, "Trees can talk. Grass talks. The wind talks. Why can't rocks talk?" She always said, "Well, because they're not alive."
As a very small child, I believed her. I told myself that I only imagined that rocks talk, just like I imagined dragons winking in books. It hurt to think that. So every year I grew a little more, and brought mom rocks; insisting that she listen better. Every year, she insisted rocks don't talk. I never gave up. A few years ago, when I really got into jewelery making, I brought her an assortment of rough gems. I put them in her hand, one by one, and told her to really listen this time. (yeah, I know. Shame on me for making my 50 year old mom listen to a bunch of dirty old rocks)
She said, "I don't know what I'm listening for."
So I taught her, the same way she taught me to listen to the trees, grass and sky.
She had forgotten how to listen with her spirit. I reminded her, with her own words. And when she remembered, she heard.
We sat with our heads bowed over this pile of rough gems, and she told me the nature of each stone she held. It was a magical moment. I love my mom.
When I was a child, I believed in magic. I believed in fairy tales, and happily-ever-afters. I believed that good things happen to good people.
And I wished like crazy for some magic to happen to me.
I had proof of magic, like all children do. I got coins from the tooth fairy and presents from Santa, and a book with a dragon in it -that I swore breathed smoke and winked at me when no one was looking. I didn't think I was special (or insane), I thought it was just like a dragon to hide in a book and wink at small children. I also thought dragons swiped princesses to teach them how to work. It would serve two purposes. The dragon gets it's scales cleaned, and the princess learns the value of work, growing up to be a good queen.
I could look at clouds and see herds of buffalo thundering across the sky. It lifted my spirits to know that the buffalo lived on, even though the cowboys killed them all. (that's kid logic for you) Mom would take me to the park and teach me to listen to the world. She never treated it like a lesson. She thought you should listen to the world because you could. She taught me that the planet, and every living thing on it speaks. I knew something she didn't know. Non-living things speak too. I would pick up rocks and ask her to listen to them, and she would say, "But it's just a rock. Rocks can't talk." And I would say, "Trees can talk. Grass talks. The wind talks. Why can't rocks talk?" She always said, "Well, because they're not alive."
As a very small child, I believed her. I told myself that I only imagined that rocks talk, just like I imagined dragons winking in books. It hurt to think that. So every year I grew a little more, and brought mom rocks; insisting that she listen better. Every year, she insisted rocks don't talk. I never gave up. A few years ago, when I really got into jewelery making, I brought her an assortment of rough gems. I put them in her hand, one by one, and told her to really listen this time. (yeah, I know. Shame on me for making my 50 year old mom listen to a bunch of dirty old rocks)
She said, "I don't know what I'm listening for."
So I taught her, the same way she taught me to listen to the trees, grass and sky.
She had forgotten how to listen with her spirit. I reminded her, with her own words. And when she remembered, she heard.
We sat with our heads bowed over this pile of rough gems, and she told me the nature of each stone she held. It was a magical moment. I love my mom.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
A redhead, her snake, and his food
Last night, I went to get snake food. I actually like buying snake food. It's an adventure, and I never know what I'm going to get. The reptile store has an earthy, sometimes pungent aroma. They have snakes, lizards, tortoises and turtles, alligators, spiders, scorpions and frogs. One week, I'll see geckos stuck to the glass of their 4 ft high cage. The next week the same cage will hold an emerald tree boa. The only constant is the cage that holds impossibly large pythons for less than $200. Sadly, people buy snakes, then get rid of them when they grow too heavy to carry around. I would love to give a home to some of those beauties, and it's not practical. The cost of their food would be too great. Which brings me back to last night.
It was windy last night. I could see the trees whipping around as the cold front the weather guy had warned us about moved in. And Sinbad needed food. I'd been putting it off for too long. I stepped out the side door, expecting a bitter wind.
Instead, a strong warm wind swirled around me. It lifted my hair like a mini tornado and caressed my face as if to say, "hi". I suddenly felt playful and wonderful. The arthritic aches and pains I ignore daily just... disappeared. I felt like a teenager again. I stalked lightly through the backyard as if I were walking on air. Who knows? Perhaps I was, because that odd warm wind swirled around me all the way to the truck. Have I mentioned that I love being shaman? ;)
I drove to the Exotic Amphibian and Reptile Center (aka the snake store), still in that happy-playful mood. When I climbed out of the truck, the cold-front wind was, well -cold. Nastily cold. My lovely warm wind had abandoned me. The snake store stank to high heaven, and they were out of large mice. They had nothing but pinky mice. I didn't have enough cash on hand to buy the half-dozen baby mice Sinbad would need. The girl behind the counter suggested a small rat. I know Sinbad is big enough to eat a small rat, but I had avoided buying one previously. Mice are food, but rats are pets. They're intelligent, agile and capable of loving. I would feel really bad feeding a rat to my snake.
Of course, in the wild Sinbad would be eating rats, mice, baby bunnies and even rattlesnakes. It is a food cycle, don't ya know. So I bought a $2 rat. Looking at him, I realized how big his teeth could be, how strong his jaws, how potent his interest in surviving. (sigh) I asked the girl if I should "thump" the rat. She thought it would be a good idea, if I could stomach it. I decided I'd better find a way to cope with it. It's way too cold out to be taking Sinbad to the vet for a rat bite.
So I carried the rat out to the truck, wrapped in my coat to keep him warm. Don't ask me why I take such care of what is, clearly, no more than food. I just do. It's what seems right.
I turned up the heater, and headed for home. As I got off the highway, the wind began circling the truck. It had not abandoned me, it just didn't want to leave the neighborhood :) The wind, not as warm as before, but still nice; stayed with me all the way to the door. It even politely held the storm door open for me, and closed it behind.
I don't know why the wind chose to dance with me last night. I don't care. I'm grateful for it's gift.
Back to the tale of the food. I gave the box of rat to my hubby and explained about there being no mice. He was pleased. He'd been thinking of switching Sinbad to rats for some time. Now was as good a time as any. I told him about the thumping suggestion, and said I wasn't sure if I had the heart for it. By this time, hubby-man was playing with the rat. He was letting it crawl over his hand, and up his arm. He abruptly got up and took the rat to the bathroom with him. I knew what was coming, and a small part of my brain recoiled in horror. Good idea or not, it was deliberately harming a living creature. (now might be a good time to stop reading)
I heard a "thunk" from the bathroom, and felt all tingly and unpleasant. Our son asked, "Did you just thump the rat's head against the sink?" Hubby said, "Yes." That was apparently enough. Hubby headed toward the bedroom, carrying the now limp rat by it's tail. We followed. I really wanted to see Sinbad eat this monster sized piece of food. The rat began to twitch, kicking his hind legs. His eyes were still glazed looking, so we knew it was just reaction from the rat's now damaged brain. Every twitch sent little shocks of horror through me. The rat was dumped into Sinbad's cage, and we sat back to watch.
The poor rat had landed on his feet, and because of the kicking hind legs, began hopping around the cage. Had I been less shocked, it would have seemed funny. Then the rat hopped right into Sinbad's water dish. Hubby rescued it before it drowned. Good man. I don't think I could have handled seeing the poor thing drown. He laid the now soggy rat on it's side, and we watched the snake scent his way around the cage.
We left the room before Sinbad found his dinner. It wasn't interesting anymore, just kind of sad. Next time, I'm buying a mouse.
Last night, I went to get snake food. I actually like buying snake food. It's an adventure, and I never know what I'm going to get. The reptile store has an earthy, sometimes pungent aroma. They have snakes, lizards, tortoises and turtles, alligators, spiders, scorpions and frogs. One week, I'll see geckos stuck to the glass of their 4 ft high cage. The next week the same cage will hold an emerald tree boa. The only constant is the cage that holds impossibly large pythons for less than $200. Sadly, people buy snakes, then get rid of them when they grow too heavy to carry around. I would love to give a home to some of those beauties, and it's not practical. The cost of their food would be too great. Which brings me back to last night.
It was windy last night. I could see the trees whipping around as the cold front the weather guy had warned us about moved in. And Sinbad needed food. I'd been putting it off for too long. I stepped out the side door, expecting a bitter wind.
Instead, a strong warm wind swirled around me. It lifted my hair like a mini tornado and caressed my face as if to say, "hi". I suddenly felt playful and wonderful. The arthritic aches and pains I ignore daily just... disappeared. I felt like a teenager again. I stalked lightly through the backyard as if I were walking on air. Who knows? Perhaps I was, because that odd warm wind swirled around me all the way to the truck. Have I mentioned that I love being shaman? ;)
I drove to the Exotic Amphibian and Reptile Center (aka the snake store), still in that happy-playful mood. When I climbed out of the truck, the cold-front wind was, well -cold. Nastily cold. My lovely warm wind had abandoned me. The snake store stank to high heaven, and they were out of large mice. They had nothing but pinky mice. I didn't have enough cash on hand to buy the half-dozen baby mice Sinbad would need. The girl behind the counter suggested a small rat. I know Sinbad is big enough to eat a small rat, but I had avoided buying one previously. Mice are food, but rats are pets. They're intelligent, agile and capable of loving. I would feel really bad feeding a rat to my snake.
Of course, in the wild Sinbad would be eating rats, mice, baby bunnies and even rattlesnakes. It is a food cycle, don't ya know. So I bought a $2 rat. Looking at him, I realized how big his teeth could be, how strong his jaws, how potent his interest in surviving. (sigh) I asked the girl if I should "thump" the rat. She thought it would be a good idea, if I could stomach it. I decided I'd better find a way to cope with it. It's way too cold out to be taking Sinbad to the vet for a rat bite.
So I carried the rat out to the truck, wrapped in my coat to keep him warm. Don't ask me why I take such care of what is, clearly, no more than food. I just do. It's what seems right.
I turned up the heater, and headed for home. As I got off the highway, the wind began circling the truck. It had not abandoned me, it just didn't want to leave the neighborhood :) The wind, not as warm as before, but still nice; stayed with me all the way to the door. It even politely held the storm door open for me, and closed it behind.
I don't know why the wind chose to dance with me last night. I don't care. I'm grateful for it's gift.
Back to the tale of the food. I gave the box of rat to my hubby and explained about there being no mice. He was pleased. He'd been thinking of switching Sinbad to rats for some time. Now was as good a time as any. I told him about the thumping suggestion, and said I wasn't sure if I had the heart for it. By this time, hubby-man was playing with the rat. He was letting it crawl over his hand, and up his arm. He abruptly got up and took the rat to the bathroom with him. I knew what was coming, and a small part of my brain recoiled in horror. Good idea or not, it was deliberately harming a living creature. (now might be a good time to stop reading)
I heard a "thunk" from the bathroom, and felt all tingly and unpleasant. Our son asked, "Did you just thump the rat's head against the sink?" Hubby said, "Yes." That was apparently enough. Hubby headed toward the bedroom, carrying the now limp rat by it's tail. We followed. I really wanted to see Sinbad eat this monster sized piece of food. The rat began to twitch, kicking his hind legs. His eyes were still glazed looking, so we knew it was just reaction from the rat's now damaged brain. Every twitch sent little shocks of horror through me. The rat was dumped into Sinbad's cage, and we sat back to watch.
The poor rat had landed on his feet, and because of the kicking hind legs, began hopping around the cage. Had I been less shocked, it would have seemed funny. Then the rat hopped right into Sinbad's water dish. Hubby rescued it before it drowned. Good man. I don't think I could have handled seeing the poor thing drown. He laid the now soggy rat on it's side, and we watched the snake scent his way around the cage.
We left the room before Sinbad found his dinner. It wasn't interesting anymore, just kind of sad. Next time, I'm buying a mouse.
2 sleep, % 2 dream
Read that title, then shoot me. It's ok, really. I haven't abbreviated with numbers in my writing since high school, and the days of C Chat. (for the St. Louisans) Remember C Chat? Hubby-Man dragged me to a CChat get together at a park, and I never wanted to go to another. That was back when nerds were nerds. We're talking pale, thin, acne ridden boys with pocket protectors, here. I felt so incredibly out of place, standing next to the man I eventually married. From my asymmetrical haircut to my cute little pumps with bows on the toes, I did not fit. As a matter of fact, I was from such a different world, that most of the boys didn't even see me. That's probably why I didn't want to go to anymore CChat get togethers.
Anyway... I didn't sleep well last night. I had a ton of stories running through my head, plus the delightful "Jukebox Hero" by Foreigner as background. ...Standin' in the rain. With his head hung low. Couldn't get a ticket. It was a sold out show. Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene. Put his head to the wall, and like a distant scream; He heard one guitar. Just blew him away... etc. Is it running through your head yet? Muahaha. Shared pain is lessened, shared joy is multiplied!
I'm actually going somewhere with this. All the potential blog stories kept me awake, and I don't really want to write any of them. I want to write about nifty things. 100 things about me would probably bore everyone but me.
Read that title, then shoot me. It's ok, really. I haven't abbreviated with numbers in my writing since high school, and the days of C Chat. (for the St. Louisans) Remember C Chat? Hubby-Man dragged me to a CChat get together at a park, and I never wanted to go to another. That was back when nerds were nerds. We're talking pale, thin, acne ridden boys with pocket protectors, here. I felt so incredibly out of place, standing next to the man I eventually married. From my asymmetrical haircut to my cute little pumps with bows on the toes, I did not fit. As a matter of fact, I was from such a different world, that most of the boys didn't even see me. That's probably why I didn't want to go to anymore CChat get togethers.
Anyway... I didn't sleep well last night. I had a ton of stories running through my head, plus the delightful "Jukebox Hero" by Foreigner as background. ...Standin' in the rain. With his head hung low. Couldn't get a ticket. It was a sold out show. Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene. Put his head to the wall, and like a distant scream; He heard one guitar. Just blew him away... etc. Is it running through your head yet? Muahaha. Shared pain is lessened, shared joy is multiplied!
I'm actually going somewhere with this. All the potential blog stories kept me awake, and I don't really want to write any of them. I want to write about nifty things. 100 things about me would probably bore everyone but me.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
No Title
If you're unaware of the "Bryan Lamb is an asshat plagiarist" theme of the month; well, I'm sorry for you. You've been missing out. You can't read the majority of his plagiarism now, he deleted it wholesale, although the blog lives on.
However, Poundy wrote a lot of truly eloquent words about why you should care about this. If, instead, you'd like to expand your insult vocabulary, visit the "Bryan Lamb is a sorry plagiarist punk" guestbook. Created by the inestimable Sour Bob, it holds pages and pages of insults. Not your standard insults, either. You can giggle over great phrases like, "You are a waste of skin". (sorry, no name or link to give credit for that one)
If you're unaware of the "Bryan Lamb is an asshat plagiarist" theme of the month; well, I'm sorry for you. You've been missing out. You can't read the majority of his plagiarism now, he deleted it wholesale, although the blog lives on.
However, Poundy wrote a lot of truly eloquent words about why you should care about this. If, instead, you'd like to expand your insult vocabulary, visit the "Bryan Lamb is a sorry plagiarist punk" guestbook. Created by the inestimable Sour Bob, it holds pages and pages of insults. Not your standard insults, either. You can giggle over great phrases like, "You are a waste of skin". (sorry, no name or link to give credit for that one)
Festival Longings
So I'm sitting on the sofa, basking in the sunlight and leafing through an Azure Green catalogue. I don't remember requesting one, yet it came in the mail yesterday, and they have just about everything. In the bumper sticker section they had this, "we all come from the Goddess, and to her we shall return". Thus I've been chanting a song Chasmyn taught me ages ago. I'm a little surprised I still remember it. I learn chants at festivals, and promptly forget them.
We all come from the Goddess
And to her we shall return
Like a drop of rain
Flowing to the ocean
It got me to thinking. What I need is a cd of chants. I don't want long songs. Just quick little chants with music. Wouldn't that be ideal? Wouldn't it be great if you could get a cd of all the chants used in all the rituals of a 5 day festival?
I decided to google it and found, right off the bat, this: Chants and Music for the Solitary Practitioner. Oh, yeah!
Ideally, I'd like to listen to a bunch and download ($) what I want. That suits me better than buying a cd with chants and long instrumentals. Nothing against instrumental music, but for that I prefer classical music with a full orchestra. Give me the whole concert, or at least a movement. Let me hear the strings -from violin to cello, brass, woodwinds, percussion, and for gods sake, throw in some tubular bells! I like music that surrounds me. For some reason, singing a simple acapella chant surrounds me just as effectively as an orchestra. I love it!
Yes, today I will be buying some music. I've been missing out on an entire world of paganism, by thinking what's available is just like what was to be had in the 80's. Closed mind, and all that.
So I'm sitting on the sofa, basking in the sunlight and leafing through an Azure Green catalogue. I don't remember requesting one, yet it came in the mail yesterday, and they have just about everything. In the bumper sticker section they had this, "we all come from the Goddess, and to her we shall return". Thus I've been chanting a song Chasmyn taught me ages ago. I'm a little surprised I still remember it. I learn chants at festivals, and promptly forget them.
We all come from the Goddess
And to her we shall return
Like a drop of rain
Flowing to the ocean
It got me to thinking. What I need is a cd of chants. I don't want long songs. Just quick little chants with music. Wouldn't that be ideal? Wouldn't it be great if you could get a cd of all the chants used in all the rituals of a 5 day festival?
I decided to google it and found, right off the bat, this: Chants and Music for the Solitary Practitioner. Oh, yeah!
Ideally, I'd like to listen to a bunch and download ($) what I want. That suits me better than buying a cd with chants and long instrumentals. Nothing against instrumental music, but for that I prefer classical music with a full orchestra. Give me the whole concert, or at least a movement. Let me hear the strings -from violin to cello, brass, woodwinds, percussion, and for gods sake, throw in some tubular bells! I like music that surrounds me. For some reason, singing a simple acapella chant surrounds me just as effectively as an orchestra. I love it!
Yes, today I will be buying some music. I've been missing out on an entire world of paganism, by thinking what's available is just like what was to be had in the 80's. Closed mind, and all that.
Friday, January 09, 2004
Haven't had this much fun since Christmas
The most righteous Sour Bob, who encouraged e-mails to the plagiarist (who's name and/or link will not sully my blog) has set up a guestbook for us outraged peoples. I read all the entries and laughed so hard my tummy hurts. Then I realized I should have added my comments before I read all that gorgeous writing. I'm a decent blogger, and I am totally outclassed by some of those people. I love it!
You can read what others have to say, or you can tell off the sorry sack of shit. Or both :)
The most righteous Sour Bob, who encouraged e-mails to the plagiarist (who's name and/or link will not sully my blog) has set up a guestbook for us outraged peoples. I read all the entries and laughed so hard my tummy hurts. Then I realized I should have added my comments before I read all that gorgeous writing. I'm a decent blogger, and I am totally outclassed by some of those people. I love it!
You can read what others have to say, or you can tell off the sorry sack of shit. Or both :)
Thank the Gods for Blogging
Blogs are great for working stuff out on. I can type my heart out, knowing that someone, somewhere, at some time, will read it. It helps me to know I'm writing to an audience. It forces me to be clear.
Today, thanks to Chasmyn, I'm working out my thoughts on plagiarism. We don't think twice when we write, "I just read this great thing at NewsOnTheNet (insert linkage) and I'm reposting it here, and ranting about it" Copy and paste is pretty damned easy. I'm guilty of it myself. But I never take credit for it. I link to whatever I'm yacking about, and give credit to the authors. I never pretend someone else's work is my own. Why would I? I love finding good blogs and spreading the word about them. I love visiting a friend's blog and seeing they've added someone I discovered.
Now then. All original thoughts and ideas are copyrighted. Our laws say so. Even when an author (and all bloggers are authors) doesn't state that their work is copyrighted, it is copyrighted. When you copy someone's material, and pretend that it's your own, it is plagiarism. It is theft. And you are breaking the law.
Some dirtball in St. Louis plagiarized a well known blogger. Multiple times. The well known blogger has hired a lawyer. I applaud her. The second she puts up a paypal button, I'll be donating to her lawyer fees. (of course, this blogger has a lot of integrity, and may never ask for donations. If she does, I'll donate. In pressing a law suit, she's doing me and everyone else a favor.)
The dirtball recently removed the post that was the worst example of plagiarism, but guess what? Google makes copies. It's called a google cache. And until Google re-checks that tiny little blog, his theft will live on.
Blogs are great for working stuff out on. I can type my heart out, knowing that someone, somewhere, at some time, will read it. It helps me to know I'm writing to an audience. It forces me to be clear.
Today, thanks to Chasmyn, I'm working out my thoughts on plagiarism. We don't think twice when we write, "I just read this great thing at NewsOnTheNet (insert linkage) and I'm reposting it here, and ranting about it" Copy and paste is pretty damned easy. I'm guilty of it myself. But I never take credit for it. I link to whatever I'm yacking about, and give credit to the authors. I never pretend someone else's work is my own. Why would I? I love finding good blogs and spreading the word about them. I love visiting a friend's blog and seeing they've added someone I discovered.
Now then. All original thoughts and ideas are copyrighted. Our laws say so. Even when an author (and all bloggers are authors) doesn't state that their work is copyrighted, it is copyrighted. When you copy someone's material, and pretend that it's your own, it is plagiarism. It is theft. And you are breaking the law.
Some dirtball in St. Louis plagiarized a well known blogger. Multiple times. The well known blogger has hired a lawyer. I applaud her. The second she puts up a paypal button, I'll be donating to her lawyer fees. (of course, this blogger has a lot of integrity, and may never ask for donations. If she does, I'll donate. In pressing a law suit, she's doing me and everyone else a favor.)
The dirtball recently removed the post that was the worst example of plagiarism, but guess what? Google makes copies. It's called a google cache. And until Google re-checks that tiny little blog, his theft will live on.
Another Bush Rant but you should read it anyway
A few days ago, Bush came to St. Louis. Protesters were there, showing their objections to the change in overtime thing. Bush (supposedly) never knew they were there. Last year, Bush came to St. Louis. Protesters were there, showing their objections. Bush never saw them. I know he never saw them because they were kept on a side street a quarter of a mile away. This is happening all over the country!
It bothers me. It bothers me in a way I'm finding hard to express. Every other President I can think of has driven through crowds of protesters. Why can't this one? Is he afraid that someone will attempt to harm him? I doubt it. Is he unwilling to see the protesters? More likely. Will he one day declare, "Let them eat cake", being totally unaware of the plights and upsets of the citizens?
My in-laws go to Washington, and have dinner with every President. They were upset when Clinton was in office, because the "dinner" consisted of eating separately from the President, and watching He and Hillary walk past. They felt horribly snubbed because they were penned behind a velvet rope, and didn't even get to shake his hand.
(I agree, btw. It was horribly rude.)
Bush on the other hand, shook hands with everyone, let them take photos and even signed his autograph. My in-laws love him. They sent my son a framed photo montage, including a White House napkin signed by GW Bush himself.
I don't know what to do with the darned thing. L has taken it to school twice, which has only served to alienate him farther from his classmates. I think they resent him knowing someone who is special enough to go to the White House. (sigh)
I wish they'd sent the autograph of a President I like. We keep it in the closet "so the sunlight doesn't fade it". Isn't that awful?
My point is: GW will meet with other politically connected people, but he doesn't want to see anyone who doesn't care for him. I think he can't handle being disliked. I also think that if you can't handle being disliked, you shouldn't try to be President of the United States. When you're President, some people will actively hate you. Some will love you, and most will change their opinions on a daily basis. It comes with the job.
A few days ago, Bush came to St. Louis. Protesters were there, showing their objections to the change in overtime thing. Bush (supposedly) never knew they were there. Last year, Bush came to St. Louis. Protesters were there, showing their objections. Bush never saw them. I know he never saw them because they were kept on a side street a quarter of a mile away. This is happening all over the country!
It bothers me. It bothers me in a way I'm finding hard to express. Every other President I can think of has driven through crowds of protesters. Why can't this one? Is he afraid that someone will attempt to harm him? I doubt it. Is he unwilling to see the protesters? More likely. Will he one day declare, "Let them eat cake", being totally unaware of the plights and upsets of the citizens?
My in-laws go to Washington, and have dinner with every President. They were upset when Clinton was in office, because the "dinner" consisted of eating separately from the President, and watching He and Hillary walk past. They felt horribly snubbed because they were penned behind a velvet rope, and didn't even get to shake his hand.
(I agree, btw. It was horribly rude.)
Bush on the other hand, shook hands with everyone, let them take photos and even signed his autograph. My in-laws love him. They sent my son a framed photo montage, including a White House napkin signed by GW Bush himself.
I don't know what to do with the darned thing. L has taken it to school twice, which has only served to alienate him farther from his classmates. I think they resent him knowing someone who is special enough to go to the White House. (sigh)
I wish they'd sent the autograph of a President I like. We keep it in the closet "so the sunlight doesn't fade it". Isn't that awful?
My point is: GW will meet with other politically connected people, but he doesn't want to see anyone who doesn't care for him. I think he can't handle being disliked. I also think that if you can't handle being disliked, you shouldn't try to be President of the United States. When you're President, some people will actively hate you. Some will love you, and most will change their opinions on a daily basis. It comes with the job.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
Creativity
I love creative people. My hubby is creative, my friends are creative, even my family can be seen coming up with creative ways of doing things. When I was a child, my creativity marked me as "weird". My classmates were not interested in building a better mousetrap, and they weren't interested in seeing mine, either.
I don't know what they're doing now. I'll bet their lives are pretty mundane; whereas mine stays fresh and interesting.
Take today, for example. L got a rock tumbler for Christmas. Tonight we tossed some rough emeralds in it, along with rough grit and water, and set it to tumbling. It's really loud. L wasn't too keen on listening to it tumble away for the next several days. Heh, neither was I. :) Hubby put it under the bar in the basement. That muffled the sound some, but not enough. So he put it in the downstairs refrigerator. That deadens the sound quite nicely.
See? Only creative people would think of something like that.
I love creative people. My hubby is creative, my friends are creative, even my family can be seen coming up with creative ways of doing things. When I was a child, my creativity marked me as "weird". My classmates were not interested in building a better mousetrap, and they weren't interested in seeing mine, either.
I don't know what they're doing now. I'll bet their lives are pretty mundane; whereas mine stays fresh and interesting.
Take today, for example. L got a rock tumbler for Christmas. Tonight we tossed some rough emeralds in it, along with rough grit and water, and set it to tumbling. It's really loud. L wasn't too keen on listening to it tumble away for the next several days. Heh, neither was I. :) Hubby put it under the bar in the basement. That muffled the sound some, but not enough. So he put it in the downstairs refrigerator. That deadens the sound quite nicely.
See? Only creative people would think of something like that.
Neighborhood News
You may have seen it on the local news. I was busy doing things that were more fun than watching tv, and sadly missed it. However; I did not miss it this morning.
My days go like this: Get up, watch the sun rise, wake L, go out in the bitter cold to start the truck, drive son to school, yell at traffic, etc.
Today, as we drove down Michigan Avenue, we saw a disgusting sight. One whole corner of my neighborhood was cluttered up with stuff. I saw things neatly lining the curb, and first thought, "Oh dear, an eviction."
Evictions always bother me because people think the things are there for the taking. I actually once saw a little girl trying to guard her family's stuff, her parents frantically throwing things in a truck, while scavengers darted in and swiped things like the tv and end tables. It's theft, plain and simple, and I think it's made worse when people steal from someone who is now evicted. It sickens me, and I usually cry when I see an eviction.
So today I saw an eviction, but what was out there lining the corner went a full block. I saw a ton of black trash bags, boxes full of old magazines, and crap that looked like it had been salvaged from the dumpster. I saw at least 3 junky tv stands. The trash went down to the alley, and around the corner to the CCBF. That's the Carondolet Community Betterment Federation. It's run by some nuns from the Sisters of St. Joseph. They work their habits off to keep my neighborhood nice.
Ok. So I saw all this garbage and thought, "No. It couldn't be an eviction. Some elderly pack-rat must have died, and the landlord threw all the stuff out... I hope it's a trash day, because the CCBF is gonna have fits over this mess."
See how I turned it into a nice, comfortable story? I felt really bad for the imaginary pack-rat who had perhaps died from the cold in his or her sleep. It was a sad, uncomfortable thought; but slightly better than thinking about eviction. Then I came up with an even better thought. Maybe all the apartments were vacant, and the landlord was fixing the place up. That would certainly account for the impossible amount of trash lining the curb. Yes. That had to be it.
I drove L to school, ran some errands, and came home around 10:30. The junk was still out there. When I went to get L from school, it was still out there. When we came home maybe half an hour later, it was gone. Not one scrap was left. It looked like the sidewalk had been swept, it was so clean. I felt a surge of pride for having the CCBF taking care of my neighborhood.
Mom called at 5:00. The mess was at the top of the news. (shows how exciting St. Louis is, doesn't it?) What happened was one person was $4000 behind on his/her rent, and got evicted. It was a 20 year accumulation of stuff. The scavengers had already been there and gone by the time I drove my son to school. The city showed up with, I'm not kidding you, a front loader and several dump trucks. They loaded up all the junk and took it away. The media had a field day videotaping it. Now they're raising a ruckus about how terrible it was that this person's possessions were unceremoniously carted away to the dump. What were they supposed to do with it? Should the police have guarded the trash bags and boxes until the evictee could move it all? The news people think so.
I didn't catch the news, only the commercials, but they made it sound like a lawsuit was already in the works.
I saw what was out there. It was trash.
You may have seen it on the local news. I was busy doing things that were more fun than watching tv, and sadly missed it. However; I did not miss it this morning.
My days go like this: Get up, watch the sun rise, wake L, go out in the bitter cold to start the truck, drive son to school, yell at traffic, etc.
Today, as we drove down Michigan Avenue, we saw a disgusting sight. One whole corner of my neighborhood was cluttered up with stuff. I saw things neatly lining the curb, and first thought, "Oh dear, an eviction."
Evictions always bother me because people think the things are there for the taking. I actually once saw a little girl trying to guard her family's stuff, her parents frantically throwing things in a truck, while scavengers darted in and swiped things like the tv and end tables. It's theft, plain and simple, and I think it's made worse when people steal from someone who is now evicted. It sickens me, and I usually cry when I see an eviction.
So today I saw an eviction, but what was out there lining the corner went a full block. I saw a ton of black trash bags, boxes full of old magazines, and crap that looked like it had been salvaged from the dumpster. I saw at least 3 junky tv stands. The trash went down to the alley, and around the corner to the CCBF. That's the Carondolet Community Betterment Federation. It's run by some nuns from the Sisters of St. Joseph. They work their habits off to keep my neighborhood nice.
Ok. So I saw all this garbage and thought, "No. It couldn't be an eviction. Some elderly pack-rat must have died, and the landlord threw all the stuff out... I hope it's a trash day, because the CCBF is gonna have fits over this mess."
See how I turned it into a nice, comfortable story? I felt really bad for the imaginary pack-rat who had perhaps died from the cold in his or her sleep. It was a sad, uncomfortable thought; but slightly better than thinking about eviction. Then I came up with an even better thought. Maybe all the apartments were vacant, and the landlord was fixing the place up. That would certainly account for the impossible amount of trash lining the curb. Yes. That had to be it.
I drove L to school, ran some errands, and came home around 10:30. The junk was still out there. When I went to get L from school, it was still out there. When we came home maybe half an hour later, it was gone. Not one scrap was left. It looked like the sidewalk had been swept, it was so clean. I felt a surge of pride for having the CCBF taking care of my neighborhood.
Mom called at 5:00. The mess was at the top of the news. (shows how exciting St. Louis is, doesn't it?) What happened was one person was $4000 behind on his/her rent, and got evicted. It was a 20 year accumulation of stuff. The scavengers had already been there and gone by the time I drove my son to school. The city showed up with, I'm not kidding you, a front loader and several dump trucks. They loaded up all the junk and took it away. The media had a field day videotaping it. Now they're raising a ruckus about how terrible it was that this person's possessions were unceremoniously carted away to the dump. What were they supposed to do with it? Should the police have guarded the trash bags and boxes until the evictee could move it all? The news people think so.
I didn't catch the news, only the commercials, but they made it sound like a lawsuit was already in the works.
I saw what was out there. It was trash.
Monday, January 05, 2004
Frustrating and Depressing stuff
Sick, wounded U.S. troops held in squalor article written in October.
The Bill of Rights Defense Committee lists cities, counties and states that have passed resolutions, ordinances or ballot initiatives protecting the civil liberties of their residents. The numbers are depressingly low.
Articles relating to the Iraqi War body count, vaccine problems and poor medical care for our troops
Sigh. There's a site out there called Fear Bush. Well... we could fear him... or we could do something about him. We could try and get him impeached, or (gasp) we could vote him out of office.
Sick, wounded U.S. troops held in squalor article written in October.
The Bill of Rights Defense Committee lists cities, counties and states that have passed resolutions, ordinances or ballot initiatives protecting the civil liberties of their residents. The numbers are depressingly low.
Articles relating to the Iraqi War body count, vaccine problems and poor medical care for our troops
Sigh. There's a site out there called Fear Bush. Well... we could fear him... or we could do something about him. We could try and get him impeached, or (gasp) we could vote him out of office.
Lucid Dreaming, oh yeah
I was dreaming this morning, but I wasn't paying any attention. My alarm went off and I slapped the snooze, that being the entire reason for having it set so early, I like to con myself that I'm getting bonus sleep.
I slapped the snooze and went back to my dream, only I was awake enough to be curious what I was dreaming about.
I was dreaming about Pathways, a pagan supply store in St. Louis. More specifically, I was dreaming about two women working in Pathways. They were having a discussion about the prophecy that had been made about their store. The prophecy foretold of an Irish woman who would, if treated right, bring blessings to the store. This reminded the lucid part of my brain that I haven't been to Pathways since they moved to South County. I decided to go (dream) shopping there.
I put myself into the dream and entered the store. One of the women looked at my red hair, and I got great service. I was trying to think of an appropriate way of telling them that I wasn't who they hoped I was, without giving away that I'd over heard their conversation. Since I wasn't in the store while they were talking, admitting I knew about the prophecy would just convince them that I was who they hoped I was.
I saw a woman walking across the parking lot toward the store. She was short, round and old. She had a walking stick. She was dressed entirely in black, and her outfit was the most spectacular thing I'd ever seen. It had fringe and sparkly geegaws all over it. Everything was the kind of black that sucks in light, yet as the doodads swung in the wind they were almost iridescent. Can a thing be iridescent without reflecting light? In my dream it was.
I thought to myself, "There's your Irish woman," and went to the checkout. While being checked out, the lady behind the counter asked me, "Are you, by any chance... Irish?" I gave my usual, "Nope! I'm Welsh." Both women looked a little crestfallen and a little pissed that I'd fooled them. (No, I didn't fool them. They had fooled themselves.) To make them feel better I offered, "Well, I'm a teeny bit Irish, but no more than I am Native American." And then, before I could shut my mouth, I pointed at the woman in black, who was just reaching the door and said, "There's your prophecy." I got out of the store as quickly as I could. I'd made it to the truck when I remembered I hadn't bought any herbs. I always buy herbs when I go to Pathways. So I headed back to the store. Inside, the woman in black was raising a ruckus. Literally. She was squawking and flinging shit on the walls. She had deliberately messed herself and was actually flinging the stuff around. I went in and projected calmness so I could buy my herbs in peace. Both employees were behind the counter, clinging to each other and expressing outrage. The woman in black turned and looked at me, poo in hand; and I felt her think, "That's ok, I'll wait."
I bought my herbs, got out, and pondered what I'd seen. The second the door closed behind me, she was raising a ruckus again. Part of me wanted to help the employees of the store, part of me wanted to butt out and leave them to it.
The desire to help overcame wisdom, and I went back to the store. There was something about the woman in black. I knew I should recognise her, but I couldn't place her. The store was immaculate, except for the brown patties on the walls. The woman in black stumped up to me, using her walking stick to support most of her weight. Her hands were clean. She looked up at me with glittery dark eyes and said, "You're nothing." And I laughed. I knew that I was supposed to feel bad. I knew the women behind the counter were supposed to hear her judgement of me, and agree with it, and I was supposed to feel bad. But I didn't. I laughed and said, "I'm not here to be something!"
The woman in black said, "If you stop this, I'll make sure they remember."
I said, "And I'll make sure they forget." Thinking that, with time, I could go back to flying under the radar of the St. Louis Pagan community.
Then her familiarity clicked. I said, "I know you. You're Crow!"
She smiled, showing her old lady teeth, and turned into a beautiful black crow. She flew up to my fingers, rested there long enough to shit on my hand, and flew out through the (closed) door.
Then the alarm went off again and I got up.
What an unusual dream. The women at Pathways can handle anything that comes through their door. They don't need my help. I thought the whole thing was pretty funny.
I was dreaming this morning, but I wasn't paying any attention. My alarm went off and I slapped the snooze, that being the entire reason for having it set so early, I like to con myself that I'm getting bonus sleep.
I slapped the snooze and went back to my dream, only I was awake enough to be curious what I was dreaming about.
I was dreaming about Pathways, a pagan supply store in St. Louis. More specifically, I was dreaming about two women working in Pathways. They were having a discussion about the prophecy that had been made about their store. The prophecy foretold of an Irish woman who would, if treated right, bring blessings to the store. This reminded the lucid part of my brain that I haven't been to Pathways since they moved to South County. I decided to go (dream) shopping there.
I put myself into the dream and entered the store. One of the women looked at my red hair, and I got great service. I was trying to think of an appropriate way of telling them that I wasn't who they hoped I was, without giving away that I'd over heard their conversation. Since I wasn't in the store while they were talking, admitting I knew about the prophecy would just convince them that I was who they hoped I was.
I saw a woman walking across the parking lot toward the store. She was short, round and old. She had a walking stick. She was dressed entirely in black, and her outfit was the most spectacular thing I'd ever seen. It had fringe and sparkly geegaws all over it. Everything was the kind of black that sucks in light, yet as the doodads swung in the wind they were almost iridescent. Can a thing be iridescent without reflecting light? In my dream it was.
I thought to myself, "There's your Irish woman," and went to the checkout. While being checked out, the lady behind the counter asked me, "Are you, by any chance... Irish?" I gave my usual, "Nope! I'm Welsh." Both women looked a little crestfallen and a little pissed that I'd fooled them. (No, I didn't fool them. They had fooled themselves.) To make them feel better I offered, "Well, I'm a teeny bit Irish, but no more than I am Native American." And then, before I could shut my mouth, I pointed at the woman in black, who was just reaching the door and said, "There's your prophecy." I got out of the store as quickly as I could. I'd made it to the truck when I remembered I hadn't bought any herbs. I always buy herbs when I go to Pathways. So I headed back to the store. Inside, the woman in black was raising a ruckus. Literally. She was squawking and flinging shit on the walls. She had deliberately messed herself and was actually flinging the stuff around. I went in and projected calmness so I could buy my herbs in peace. Both employees were behind the counter, clinging to each other and expressing outrage. The woman in black turned and looked at me, poo in hand; and I felt her think, "That's ok, I'll wait."
I bought my herbs, got out, and pondered what I'd seen. The second the door closed behind me, she was raising a ruckus again. Part of me wanted to help the employees of the store, part of me wanted to butt out and leave them to it.
The desire to help overcame wisdom, and I went back to the store. There was something about the woman in black. I knew I should recognise her, but I couldn't place her. The store was immaculate, except for the brown patties on the walls. The woman in black stumped up to me, using her walking stick to support most of her weight. Her hands were clean. She looked up at me with glittery dark eyes and said, "You're nothing." And I laughed. I knew that I was supposed to feel bad. I knew the women behind the counter were supposed to hear her judgement of me, and agree with it, and I was supposed to feel bad. But I didn't. I laughed and said, "I'm not here to be something!"
The woman in black said, "If you stop this, I'll make sure they remember."
I said, "And I'll make sure they forget." Thinking that, with time, I could go back to flying under the radar of the St. Louis Pagan community.
Then her familiarity clicked. I said, "I know you. You're Crow!"
She smiled, showing her old lady teeth, and turned into a beautiful black crow. She flew up to my fingers, rested there long enough to shit on my hand, and flew out through the (closed) door.
Then the alarm went off again and I got up.
What an unusual dream. The women at Pathways can handle anything that comes through their door. They don't need my help. I thought the whole thing was pretty funny.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Duh..mbass
Some spark of clarity had me type "stories from my past" into google. Voila! All the stuff I was looking for yesterday. See, I search weird. I actually thought "autobiographical blog" would find well, a shitload of autobiographical blogs. Yeah.
One autobiographical blog, found under "stories from my past" tells the story of this poor guy's house catching fire, and the kindness of strangers. I'm bringing it up here because (heh) my life is still a soap opera. Interesting things happen around me. I'm lucky that I get to interact with life in neato ways.
Although Random Redhead is all about one decade, I have stories from my more recent past, too. The fire-victim-guy reminded me of my poor neighbor across the street.
This woman had problems. She moved onto our street after divorcing her abusive bum of a husband. She began dating a man who owned his own construction business. That's a polite way of saying he had a truck, a logo, and some friends. The man was a bit down on his luck, business wise; so he set his girlfriend's house on fire.
See why I live in the city? Stuff like that rarely happens in the county.
Living directly across the street from her, I noticed the smoke. The fire truck pulled up as I was grabbing the phone to call 911. It's nice to have a fire station a few blocks away. The firefighters did their job and drove away. Us neighbors polled each other for C's work number. Nobody had it. Nobody even knew where she worked.
I spent several hours fretting over my neighbor coming home and finding half her house gone. It just wasn't right. Somebody should tell her, and no one knew where to find her.
Around 2 in the afternoon, a Red Cross van pulled up outside her house. "How nice," I thought. I didn't know the red cross showed up for a simple house fire. I felt reassured. They would know how to council C far better than I would.
I waited. The red cross waited. C was working late. It was cold outside, and that van had been sitting there for hours. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I made a huge thermos of hot chocolate, grabbed some coffee cups and went out to the van.
The red cross comes prepared. They already had warm drinks, and everything else they needed. They were used to waiting. I was still standing by the van with my small offering of cocoa, when C finally came home.
I didn't know what to do, so I poured a cup for her and her daughter. The red cross people looked at me like I was a particularly smelly pile of dung, and I realized I'd committed yet another faux pas.
In hindsight, I think C was glad I was there. She hugged me, cried all over me, and didn't spill a single drop of the hot chocolate. She took me on a tour of her burned home, and we agreed the damage wasn't too bad. (the smell, on the other hand was awful) She didn't let the red cross help her until after she had walked through her house, drank some cocoa, used my phone and toured her house a second time. Only then was she able to acknowledge the presence of a charity.
I hope the red cross is used to that too.
Some spark of clarity had me type "stories from my past" into google. Voila! All the stuff I was looking for yesterday. See, I search weird. I actually thought "autobiographical blog" would find well, a shitload of autobiographical blogs. Yeah.
One autobiographical blog, found under "stories from my past" tells the story of this poor guy's house catching fire, and the kindness of strangers. I'm bringing it up here because (heh) my life is still a soap opera. Interesting things happen around me. I'm lucky that I get to interact with life in neato ways.
Although Random Redhead is all about one decade, I have stories from my more recent past, too. The fire-victim-guy reminded me of my poor neighbor across the street.
This woman had problems. She moved onto our street after divorcing her abusive bum of a husband. She began dating a man who owned his own construction business. That's a polite way of saying he had a truck, a logo, and some friends. The man was a bit down on his luck, business wise; so he set his girlfriend's house on fire.
See why I live in the city? Stuff like that rarely happens in the county.
Living directly across the street from her, I noticed the smoke. The fire truck pulled up as I was grabbing the phone to call 911. It's nice to have a fire station a few blocks away. The firefighters did their job and drove away. Us neighbors polled each other for C's work number. Nobody had it. Nobody even knew where she worked.
I spent several hours fretting over my neighbor coming home and finding half her house gone. It just wasn't right. Somebody should tell her, and no one knew where to find her.
Around 2 in the afternoon, a Red Cross van pulled up outside her house. "How nice," I thought. I didn't know the red cross showed up for a simple house fire. I felt reassured. They would know how to council C far better than I would.
I waited. The red cross waited. C was working late. It was cold outside, and that van had been sitting there for hours. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I made a huge thermos of hot chocolate, grabbed some coffee cups and went out to the van.
The red cross comes prepared. They already had warm drinks, and everything else they needed. They were used to waiting. I was still standing by the van with my small offering of cocoa, when C finally came home.
I didn't know what to do, so I poured a cup for her and her daughter. The red cross people looked at me like I was a particularly smelly pile of dung, and I realized I'd committed yet another faux pas.
In hindsight, I think C was glad I was there. She hugged me, cried all over me, and didn't spill a single drop of the hot chocolate. She took me on a tour of her burned home, and we agreed the damage wasn't too bad. (the smell, on the other hand was awful) She didn't let the red cross help her until after she had walked through her house, drank some cocoa, used my phone and toured her house a second time. Only then was she able to acknowledge the presence of a charity.
I hope the red cross is used to that too.
Watching History Unfold
A while back, we got a satellite dish. I've been quite pleased with it. It works great in the rain, the picture is never grainy, there is no static. We have access to all kinds of strange t.v. shows, too. Nothing good on TLC? That's ok, I can watch a cattle auction!
One of these little-viewed stations is the NASA channel. Tonight the Hubby-Man and I watched people watch their computers tell them what was happening with the latest go at Mars. Now pictures are coming in. Who needs sleep when I can look at pics of Mars? Not only do I get to view images from the rover as soon as NASA does, they have commentators! Wow.
I snicker loudly at those of you who still have cable. You'll have to wait for the pics to show up on the net. I'm seeing them now.
A while back, we got a satellite dish. I've been quite pleased with it. It works great in the rain, the picture is never grainy, there is no static. We have access to all kinds of strange t.v. shows, too. Nothing good on TLC? That's ok, I can watch a cattle auction!
One of these little-viewed stations is the NASA channel. Tonight the Hubby-Man and I watched people watch their computers tell them what was happening with the latest go at Mars. Now pictures are coming in. Who needs sleep when I can look at pics of Mars? Not only do I get to view images from the rover as soon as NASA does, they have commentators! Wow.
I snicker loudly at those of you who still have cable. You'll have to wait for the pics to show up on the net. I'm seeing them now.
Saturday, January 03, 2004
The Keychain
I've been thinking a lot about a keychain I once owned. That dirty white heart declaring, "My Life Is A Soap Opera!" will pop into my head at the oddest times. Mom bought it for me back in the early 80's. I kept it on my key ring until it fell apart. I kept it even when I didn't believe my life was a soap opera. I'd catch it's message while opening the door and think, "I'm trying to be special."
Now I'm doing it again. :)
RR began as an attempt to tell some amusing stories. It grew into a novel (or series of essays long enough to be a novel), and developed a purpose. To show the middle class what urban life can look like. I've hit a point that I don't really want to write about. I don't want to write about growing up. I don't want to share about discovering witchcraft, and my teen years were all about witchcraft. Not writing that feels like I'm only telling half the story, and keeping the juiciest bits to myself to boot. Adding witchcraft to the novel completely changes the direction and purpose of my tales. It drifts into the world of subjective fantasy. I would loose my audience.
Oh, I have a few stories about my teen years that would fit. I can (and will) write about sneaking out, lighting peoples butts on fire, stupid drinking incidents and ways I broadened my horizons with Rocky Horror, or meeting the male prostitutes who worked Tower Grove Park.
I find that now that I'm nearing the end of the book, I don't want to give it up. I don't want to stop writing, and I certainly don't want to put my baby in the hands of an editor. (sigh)
That's why I haven't been blogging recently. I've been busy procrastinating.
I've been thinking a lot about a keychain I once owned. That dirty white heart declaring, "My Life Is A Soap Opera!" will pop into my head at the oddest times. Mom bought it for me back in the early 80's. I kept it on my key ring until it fell apart. I kept it even when I didn't believe my life was a soap opera. I'd catch it's message while opening the door and think, "I'm trying to be special."
Now I'm doing it again. :)
RR began as an attempt to tell some amusing stories. It grew into a novel (or series of essays long enough to be a novel), and developed a purpose. To show the middle class what urban life can look like. I've hit a point that I don't really want to write about. I don't want to write about growing up. I don't want to share about discovering witchcraft, and my teen years were all about witchcraft. Not writing that feels like I'm only telling half the story, and keeping the juiciest bits to myself to boot. Adding witchcraft to the novel completely changes the direction and purpose of my tales. It drifts into the world of subjective fantasy. I would loose my audience.
Oh, I have a few stories about my teen years that would fit. I can (and will) write about sneaking out, lighting peoples butts on fire, stupid drinking incidents and ways I broadened my horizons with Rocky Horror, or meeting the male prostitutes who worked Tower Grove Park.
I find that now that I'm nearing the end of the book, I don't want to give it up. I don't want to stop writing, and I certainly don't want to put my baby in the hands of an editor. (sigh)
That's why I haven't been blogging recently. I've been busy procrastinating.
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