Reasons I’m not posting.

I’m sick! Whine! Again!

We’re in some odd doldrumy weather, that went from two weeks of sun and blue sky and no wind to four days of heavy overcast. It was windy yesterday, and there was light rain last night and fog this morning, but really – it’s dull.

Nothing much is going on.

I so miss being on the road at sunrise. I long for that drive. I miss the mountains and the moon and the movement. I miss watching the world’s dark corners fill with light.

I haven’t been taking many pictures.

Nothing is happening, in that calendar of events sort of way. Things are happening, but they are mostly shifts in perception, or that sudden realization that there has been no crisis for several days. Or more correctly, that I seem to be able to talk myself out of even climbing up towards whatever high ledge is inviting me to jump. Dudes, I am calm.

The biggest thing that has happened here is that Stupidhead got it into his head that he really, truly had to burn some leaves. It is shockingly not necessarily illegal here. I know, because he checked with the chief over at the local fire station, who said that nobody has ever felt it was important enough to run a test case on whether leaves are considered rubbish or lawn debris. Of course, I later realized how stupid I was, being as how I rent from the city and now have this yard-in-diameter burn in my backyard. So we raked more leaves over it to cover, and will wait for the grass to grow in next spring, or maybe this fall still since we seem to have reverted to September weather.

So that was what it was, out in a beautiful night just past sunset, with the last blue holding in the west as we watched the white smoke billow up, sparks flying up to answer the stars.

A calm hand.

I’m reading “How To See Yourself As You Truly Are,” by his holiness the Dalai Lama. It’s a good thing to be reminded of such simple things.

If at the beginning and end of our lives we are dependent on the kindness of others, why in the middle of our lives should we not act kindly toward them? It is the pragmatic choice.

And the next page;

Violence does not accord with our basic human nature, which may lead you to wonder why all sorts of violence become news but compassionate acts seldom do. The reason is that violence is shocking and not in conformity with our basic human nature, whereas we take compassionate acts for granted because they are closer to our nature.

So. Another one of those things. That person over there is essentially compassionate. You. Me. Essentially compassionate. Born that way.

Something to take out into the world.

And holding.

Yesterday was sunny. Friday was too. For some reason I decided this was the new weather trend, and blew off responsibilities and went out and took pictures. And took a nap.

Today, in comparison, sucks. Cold and grey, but not windy. I have about three inches of maple leaves in my yard that I should attend to, plus those putting-away-the-garden things that still need to be done. Whatever.

I’m working hard on not reading political blogs. I still open them, but it seems like I get through two posts and I flinch and turn away. I tried to find information on my county’s Democratic Party, but I couldn’t. I tried to find out about the county’s board of supervisors, but there was nothing there. I think I might have found something to work on locally.

In my flu update; the county only has the live vaccine that is being used for small children and pregnant women. There is no word on the other vaccine coming. And, as predicted here!, the students on campus are not reporting to the nurse because they don’t want to be frog-marched into isolation. So, instead, they’re wandering around coughing. I’m sure I’ve been exposed. I’m kinda sure that that’s what I had last weekend. Regardless, I still kinda hate Goldman-Sacs et. al. for getting their vaccines delivered to them on a golden platter. Heads had better roll.

Stupidhead promised me his printer when he leaves, so I’m waiting for him to leave. I’ve worked up a new resume, and I want to start getting it out. Plus, I’m just generally waiting for him to leave. The benefits are greatly outweighed by the negatives. Greatly.

Fridays are good.

Daughter and I had a minor book party this afternoon. We went to the college library, and picked up our community member library cards.

For a few short months, I was cleaning the library – with no library card. Just think about that, me wandering around dusting, and all these books, and I couldn’t do anything about it. So, today, I got to look around in the card catalog, and then go down into the main shelves, and pick out books. Deep, organized, deep, beautiful shelves. A mass of books about the same size as the house I live in. When we were done at the college, we went to the town library and picked up books we’d ordered online.

Anyway. I got (among others) a great book on Thirties political prints. I hope to scan or copy or somehow steal some of the images and show them to you. And yes, we are re-living our own history – one I thought we’d had drilled into our heads well enough.

Until then, I have a question. Why is it that, with the Borg as a recurring threat, the Enterprise didn’t start carrying just plain old guns with bullets? And what happened to the Red Shirt thing?

Season’s Greetings.

Updated to add; We only had maybe 20-30 kids come to the door. More for us! Yay!

I need a re-enactment.

Two, maybe three hundred years ago, I was getting ready to buy my grandmother’s house. I invited my West Coast Friend and Other Daughter for an evening of going through the attic of a house that was bought during the Time of Great Hoarding, otherwise known as The Depression. The Thirties. You know, make do or do without? We spent a wonderful rainy blowy evening tucked up under the eaves, looking through boxes of “stuff.”

I’m not using “stuff” as a place-keeper; there is no other word for this collection. Scraps of fabric and of paper, old correspondence. Souvenirs from resorts, mostly in the form of little articulated puppets, or turtles made from shells with legs and head and tail held on loosely, so they would wiggle at the slightest movement. Pieces of cardboard wound with a few yards of thread, or string, or wire, and old pens that probably didn’t write so well to begin with. Stuff, put away for safe-keeping in a dry attic in old cigar boxes, or hat boxes, or boxes from even then long-defunct stores. Candy boxes too, the pretty ones with the satin ribbons. The rough construction was all done in fir; to this day when I smell a cut piece of the wood, it makes me feel safe and cozy. Yes, and a couple of pieces of fur, including the classic small creature biting its own tail.

So, centuries later, when I moved up here I emptied out the storage space I rented in the middle of my divorce. A lot of “things” had been put in there, boxes that would have to wait until I was a good deal more stable than I was then. And here we are, coming up on winter, and I needed to get my little red car put away for the winter so I could park outside the garage and off the streets, so we sorted through piles and boxes and big black garbage bags and tossed willy-nilly (oh, please, tell me my socks aren’t all in one of those bags that are gone!!!) and made a good deal of sense out of most of it.

One of the boxes was a tiny trove, of pictures from long ago with no names (“Is that a relative?” “Look at his ears”), calling cards with my grandfather’s name crossed off and my uncle’s name penciled in, a small jigsaw puzzle, an ashtray that maybe belonged on a smoking stand or in a car, a couple of broken combs, and this book;

It was a gift to my mother from her Aunt Marie,

complete with a quote from O.W. Holmes. My mother was as good about collecting those fond high school memories as I was (I pitched my yearbook when we cleaned out my parents’ house). But it’s stuffed full of “stuff.” I thought it had belonged to my uncle. When I realized it was my mother’s I couldn’t go on. Something was missing.

I need to be curled up in some little corner out of the rain with West Coast and Other Daughter. If you don’t mind, we’ll bring Daughter with, this time.

I know I said no more politics…

But this doesn’t count.

Once Upon a Time.

First this;

“I’m not some peacenik, pot-smoking hippie who wants everyone to be in love,” Hoh said.

And then Mr. Silbur’s response;

My immediate reaction when I read that statement has remained unchanged, and it is very simply this:

Why not? What the hell is wrong with that?

He goes on from there.

I’ve been finding goodish things, but I’ve got some alien disease that makes me think I’m pretty close to down for the count. Not flu. Maybe CFS. Maybe something unknowable. All I know is that the four days I’m going to get to take off for this will be about 26 days short of what I’ll need.

Ah, well. I can take comfort in all those stubborn people that have gone before me who will be clapping me on the back when I get to Valhalla, or some other stupid notion that somebody has stuck in my head.

Phrases I can live without, thank you.

Or why I’m cutting back on political blogs.

“I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

“Pearl clutching.”

“Huckleberry.” Okay, that’s not a phrase, and it might be in some way justified. But I always have to think a little about who the heck they’re talking about.

“GILF.” I know. Acronym, not phrase. Shut up or I’ll just rename the blasted post. But really, just exactly who are you mocking with this one?

From FDL;

The CNN poll found that Huckleberry is leading the GOP’s 2012 presidential pack, followed by the ‘Cuda, with Willard placing third.

Too much with the in-crowd. I have to stop and think who is being derided. I don’t get the point, and I don’t know who, if anyone, is looking for the person behind the curtain.

“The shrill one.” Krugman? I think. Somebody who pissed off somebody who has a big mouth. Buying Republican rhetoric. I don’t give a rat’s ass about *owning* this, or even that. I want to be given actual, Spoken-in-Big-Words information I can process.

It might be because I’m not feeling well. But lately I’ve been looking for answers and explanations and a star to hook my wagon to, and I end up wading through gobbledygook and clannish tropes and spittle-flecked anger. It’s vaguely amusing on a good day, but if you look around, there aren’t so many good days and a lot of people don’t have the time.

Maybe it’s a lack of mercy, or something. A failure to recognize other humans? I don’t know. Time to get away from this poison.

No traction.

I met with the physical therapist for an evaluation today. No mention was made of the glory that is traction. It’s early yet. I did have to sign a piece of paper that said I understood that there might be pain involved with this therapy, so I guess Morticia will have to be satisfied with that for a little while. The nasty sweet young thing did tell me I’m developing a dowager’s hump.

I really want to live a long, long time, so I can smirk.

She asked me how long it had been since I stretched. I answered truthfully, since I’d hurt myself by stretching. She smirked at that, too.

Please. A long, long time.

But anyway. She believes she can help me, and that I will stand straight and my spine will no longer rotate.

In other meanderings. I was trying to find out if I had been exposed to this H1N1 thing. I was tracking down a long-ago Minnesota murder case, the T. Eugene Thompson case. (Oddly enough, T. Eugene wasn’t murdered; his wife was. But he had hired someone to kill his wife, so his name gets stuck on it.) My father was a court reporter back in the day when real men did it with pens. He was working the Thompson trial, and didn’t want to let anyone down by getting sick, so he got one of those new-fangled flu vaccinations. I saw him close the door to the master bedroom suite, and I didn’t see him again for a week. But, not remembering the year, I got reading an article about a book recently published about the case called Dial M; The Carol Thompson Murder Case. The author got talking about all the people with personal connections to the case getting in contact with him. He mentioned a rooky court reporter who got thrown into the case just in time to hear the testimony of the man who committed the murder. So I sent the link to my brother, who wrote back;

And, talk about eerie coincidences, I just got back from the doctor. I have flu (actually, it was flu, now it’s pneumonia).

I suppose I’d better call him, eh?

And yes. No flu on campus, but the local schools are about to shut because of absences. Flu, strep throat, a bad cold that’s going around. And no flu vaccine up here till November 13th at the earliest, and it will be cut-throat stuff to get it. No rationing, no prioritizing.

I’d best sharpen a knife….

More metamorphosis.

A busy week, it was.

I took a grant proposal class on Saturday. A great class, intense, interesting. Woke up those “change the world” demons that I pretend I don’t have. I was meddling in everybody’s stuff all week. The one lesson that I took away from the class was to work small, to keep the problem small, to look at one little bit of the problem. Keep it simple, in other words.

Boy, I suck at that.

Daughter and I went to Duluth Saturday night to stay in a hotel with a long-time friend of mine. She surprised us by bringing along her – my other* – daughter. I can imagine what people were thinking. “Oh, look. Two women with their not-quite-accurate clones.” It was great. We stayed up till three in the morning talking. We ate good food that we didn’t have to cook, and finished it off with pumpkin shakes from Culvers. We stood around and took pictures of each other. A real world moment that I’ve been needing for a long time. Three, four years at least.

Thursday I went to see my not-so-local but awesome nurse practitioner lady this week, about fatigue. “Vitamins!” she says. “More water!” she says. But as she’s poking around, (prodding all those little tender points that no longer hurt thanks to the anti-depressants unless you poke them! Stop!) she says, “Your shoulders are incredibly tight. How do you feel about physical therapy?” After my squeals of delight died down, she said “I’m really fond of traction, myself.” We shared a bonding moment.

I was telling Daughter about it, and how excited I was, randomly exclaiming “Traction!” for several hours, until I realized; I have become Morticia.

The sun is shining today after a week of me singing, “The sun will come out tomorrow.” Haven’t seen it since last Sunday, when it looked like this;

We watched sailboats in the canal, spinning in circles to hold their position waiting for the bridge deck to go up. Someday I’ll be on one of them, or some other ship sailing. I don’t know how yet. Maybe this way. I get shivery just thinking about it.

*Looking back at the weekend and Other Daughter makes me reconsider my long-cherished belief that humans aren’t a controlled experiment. Or maybe I should just put it down to “there’s more than one right answer.” Whatever. It was great.