I've been out of touch for a few days while I entertained my delightful loft guests, The Asian and her husband. We've been up to the wee hours of the morning evey night for the last three nights, eaten too much, exercised just right (if you count my swims) and slept too little.
They are on the road to Seattle now, followed by who knows where. They literally seem to be traveling by the seat of their pants -- not knowing exactly where they are going or when until they depart. The Asian kept knocking herself for procrastinating, but I personally admire this kind of travel. I think it is the best kind of trip you can have, so long as you see things you want see and do things you like to do along the way.
While here, I made sure they got good views of Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens by taking them right after their arrival to watch the sunset from atop Council Crest. We drank lemonade cooled by a load of frozen raspberries (picked myself last season) and spiked with a touch of rum.
This is an interesting thing I learned from spending time with my aunt and uncle in Kona. When I visited them there, they always ensured I saw the sunset on my first evening's arrival. They'd take me to the beach -- even if I'd just stepped off the plane -- and we'd sit in the sand, drink a beer or a glass of wine, and watch the sun drop below the horizon.
This was a way of saying, "There's always a moment for aloha." ... Please know you are welcome. You are our guest. Relax. This is the sunset. Isn't it nice?
It's a form of hospitality I learned from my aunt long ago. I had some interesting talks this weekend with The Asian, particularly around culture and hospitality, and I think I'll write about them at length later.
In the meantime, I'm tired. It's not that we did so much. In the end, it's good I ensured they saw Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens, because those were two of the places I thought I might take them during our visit. But as it turned out, they needed to do laundry. And having stayed up so late each night, I wanted to chill out and visit with them more than I wanted to drive to look at the volcano. (Perhaps they will hit it on their way back through.)
One day, we went to look at my college and then visited Powell's City of Books instead. The other, I took them to the lake, where we all went for a good swim, then D went fishing for a few hours -- while I read a book, chatted with The Asian and then swam by myself for a while again near sunset. The Asian and I saw a bald eagle take his perch above the lake. We had endless conversations, which were stimulating to me.
When they left this afternoon, it was like the power had been turned off to my place. I missed them instantly. But I was also fine with seeing them on their way, as the late nights (despite sleeping late into the mornings) have left me a bit tired. I need a full and normal night's sleep so I will be in good shape for tomorrow night. I have my final sessions with clients this week, and I really need not to be mentally tired. My brain needs a night to recover from the stimulation.
Where they head from Seattle is anyone's guess. They asked me about the Olympic Peninsula and about taking a ferry to Canada. They don't have to be home for another few weeks, and they seem prepared to arrive home at the last possible moment. I imagine they'll see a lot on their journey. I wish them safe traveling and good health.
...
Another type of departure altogether
Ingmar Bergman died on Monday.
Watching his Scenes from a Marriage in Couples Therapy was one of the best film highlights for me in a long, long time. It was intense, psychologically challenging and austerely filmed to artfully strip the relationship down to its unambiguous ambiguity. Really powerful.
Not his only work to admire, either. Think of Fanny and Alexander.
The man was a master filmmaker who cast a fearless lens on the human psyche. Hurt to watch sometimes, but isn't it just like life to be that way?
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Preparation (and play)
I've got houseguests -- or rather, loft guests -- coming to stay for a couple of nights. That has required an additional level of overhaul to my regular housekeeping.
I had to clean off my dining table. It has been substituting as a work table where I have been working on some art projects. It had been completely taken over by the art stuff about two months ago, and I have been living with it like that. I've been eating dinner at school or in one of my arm chairs. Or out.
It took a while to organize all the different things I've been cutting for a collage I'm playing around with. I've been afraid to put it away because of how I fear that the unpacking of it will make me reluctant to finish it. So I spent the extra time of breaking it down and putting it away in a manner that wouldn't dissuade me. I've come to realize that I need some kind of functional storage, probably tucked under the bar that separates my kitchen from the rest of the space.
Now that it's essentially cleared, I realize how much I've missed my table as the thing of beauty it is. Seeing the light reflecting off its warm cherry surface at night feels like a sight for sore eyes. It has been so covered with crap that I'm enjoying the return of visual order to my space.
I'll deck it with some flowers, and call it good.
Got a few other small things to touch up tomorrow. I'll wait for the light of day to put the cover back on my duvet. For whatever reason, it took the dry-cleaners almost two weeks to launder the cover and two pillow shams. I was bitching to a friend today about how much it cost me to have them drycleaned. But I have to remember that I got this lovely, embroidered silk duvet cover for $9.99, thanks to a bit of lagniappe from the Big Box Store. One of my best deals EVER.
Then, except for my messy desk -- whatever -- and an errant pile of library books or two, my place is looking pretty darn nice. I like my digs. I think it's important to live in a space that feels good to you. I would prefer a bigger space for some greater distance between my dining table and my bed, but I feel like this loft is just the right thing. For one person.
It'll be interesting to see how it is to have two more people in here again. Spitfire and her boyfriend stayed for a night or two when they passed through Portland on the way back to New Orleans. But my schedule and their other responsibilities in the area kept us from crossing paths until the evening. My friends are coming for a visit, which is different.
I'm really looking forward to seeing them. The Asian, who lives in the Bay Area, is an good long-time friend. We can go for years without seeing each other and months of not talking very much, but whenever we connect, our energy is just as engaged as it always has been. We've had our share of difficulties and faux pas, of course. But I sometimes suspect that our friendship was forged like one in battle. We met in the newsroom of a daily newspaper, which is more of an intense and politically insane subculture than a workplace. We came to know each other first as colleagues. Then came a friendship that has endured and developed its own integrity.
The Asian is also a wonderful philosopher, a poet and writer who brings a considerably different cultural lens to my life. As the only daughter of two Chinese immigrants who was raised in L.A., The Asian has on many occasions shared with me her experience of being treated as a walking stereotype. This goes all the way back to a pair of taupe pants she wore to work several times back when she was in her early 20s. The pants were not age-appropriate. She was trying to make herself look more serious or more "adult" because everyone took her gracious cultural posture and thoughtful manner as an indicator that she was a submissive push-over.
The Asian is anything but. Early on, I learned what a shrewd mind and a tenacious will she had. Very much like XGF when I think of it. Except that The Asian has a manner of speaking her mind that can turn everything on its head. For example, when I was talked to her about starting this blog and asked her what she wanted to be called, she told me, "Oh, why don't you just call me 'The Asian,' since that's all people seem to see when they look at me lately. Not even 'Chinese.' Just 'Asian.' We are not even bothering to distinguish these populous and influential countries and cultures from one another. We're just all one big lump. So just call me 'The Asian.' "
So it was spoken, so I made it. Even though I think it makes me look like I'm an ethnic idiot.
Anyway. She's coming to town, and I'm excited. If I may invoke another bit of ethnic referencing, when I sit and talk with The Asian, I sometimes imagine the experience is similar to how it might be talking with a young Maxine Hong Kingston. So I anticipate having my mind stimulated in some different ways than it has been of late.
Not that there's anything wrong with how I've been stimulated of late.
In fact, my mind has been quite stimulated, both by conversations with friends here and by ... some weird shit I still don't feel like writing about.
Despite the preparation I was doing earlier today (including three loads of laundry, which I must fold before sleeping), I still took off the late afternoon and early evening for a swim in the lake. I had not been up to the lake this late in the day before, and it was simply marvelous. The warmest part of the day in this region is usually around 5 o'clock, which is just when we laid out our blankets and towels on the grass.
The friend who went with me is one of my classmates from practicum who I'll call ... uh... Another Aires, on accounts I seem to be finding friendships with these willful, independent-minded women in my life (my old friend Mountain Girl and S2 among who knows how many others). So Another Aries -- AA for short -- and I passed the afternoon with mainly lightweight conversation. I was in story-telling mode, entertaining her with the reason I don't date on-line (aka "The Woman with the Brown Finger Tip") and how I got hypnotized to bust my snake phobia.
Turns out we're both good at creeping each other out and getting creeped out, so I have a feeling the story about how the deepest parts of the lake (an extinct caldera) have never been measured and how a plane that crashed into the lake and was never found (even though it's a small lake) may have creeped us enough to shorten the first swim. Then, when I went into the lake for a second swim on my own, AA said as I walked away, "You'll get creeped. The water moccasins will find you."
I *know* there are no water moccasins in the lake. But I'm *not* so certain there isn't a monster in it. Or some strange outflowing river down in its blackness that might suddenly suck me under water and carry me away. Yeah, AA, the bitch, got me to creep myself out. I swam perhaps 150 yards before I going back in, the monster at my heels.
We hung out for a while. Laid in the sun. Talked. Then we had a relly stunning drive home through the country. Came back across the Columbia River into Oregon just as the sun was setting over the river: Mt. Hood picking up the first of alpine glow, a nearly full moon rising, the clear rolling hills, the greenery and the city surrounded by it spread out in a vista before us as we drove across the river. Just lovely.
I dropped AA off at her place and cruised on back home to walk the pup and get a burrito.
There are a few more chores to finish before I get to sleep. But I'm glad I took the time to play in the middle of doing all that. AA is a wicked gem of a young woman, and the lake water was so lovely and warm (by PNW standards) that I was able to forget everything for a couple hours and enjoy myself. Good work, and good play makes your UCM sleep good, too.
Once I make the bed...
I had to clean off my dining table. It has been substituting as a work table where I have been working on some art projects. It had been completely taken over by the art stuff about two months ago, and I have been living with it like that. I've been eating dinner at school or in one of my arm chairs. Or out.
It took a while to organize all the different things I've been cutting for a collage I'm playing around with. I've been afraid to put it away because of how I fear that the unpacking of it will make me reluctant to finish it. So I spent the extra time of breaking it down and putting it away in a manner that wouldn't dissuade me. I've come to realize that I need some kind of functional storage, probably tucked under the bar that separates my kitchen from the rest of the space.
Now that it's essentially cleared, I realize how much I've missed my table as the thing of beauty it is. Seeing the light reflecting off its warm cherry surface at night feels like a sight for sore eyes. It has been so covered with crap that I'm enjoying the return of visual order to my space.
I'll deck it with some flowers, and call it good.
Got a few other small things to touch up tomorrow. I'll wait for the light of day to put the cover back on my duvet. For whatever reason, it took the dry-cleaners almost two weeks to launder the cover and two pillow shams. I was bitching to a friend today about how much it cost me to have them drycleaned. But I have to remember that I got this lovely, embroidered silk duvet cover for $9.99, thanks to a bit of lagniappe from the Big Box Store. One of my best deals EVER.
Then, except for my messy desk -- whatever -- and an errant pile of library books or two, my place is looking pretty darn nice. I like my digs. I think it's important to live in a space that feels good to you. I would prefer a bigger space for some greater distance between my dining table and my bed, but I feel like this loft is just the right thing. For one person.
It'll be interesting to see how it is to have two more people in here again. Spitfire and her boyfriend stayed for a night or two when they passed through Portland on the way back to New Orleans. But my schedule and their other responsibilities in the area kept us from crossing paths until the evening. My friends are coming for a visit, which is different.
I'm really looking forward to seeing them. The Asian, who lives in the Bay Area, is an good long-time friend. We can go for years without seeing each other and months of not talking very much, but whenever we connect, our energy is just as engaged as it always has been. We've had our share of difficulties and faux pas, of course. But I sometimes suspect that our friendship was forged like one in battle. We met in the newsroom of a daily newspaper, which is more of an intense and politically insane subculture than a workplace. We came to know each other first as colleagues. Then came a friendship that has endured and developed its own integrity.
The Asian is also a wonderful philosopher, a poet and writer who brings a considerably different cultural lens to my life. As the only daughter of two Chinese immigrants who was raised in L.A., The Asian has on many occasions shared with me her experience of being treated as a walking stereotype. This goes all the way back to a pair of taupe pants she wore to work several times back when she was in her early 20s. The pants were not age-appropriate. She was trying to make herself look more serious or more "adult" because everyone took her gracious cultural posture and thoughtful manner as an indicator that she was a submissive push-over.
The Asian is anything but. Early on, I learned what a shrewd mind and a tenacious will she had. Very much like XGF when I think of it. Except that The Asian has a manner of speaking her mind that can turn everything on its head. For example, when I was talked to her about starting this blog and asked her what she wanted to be called, she told me, "Oh, why don't you just call me 'The Asian,' since that's all people seem to see when they look at me lately. Not even 'Chinese.' Just 'Asian.' We are not even bothering to distinguish these populous and influential countries and cultures from one another. We're just all one big lump. So just call me 'The Asian.' "
So it was spoken, so I made it. Even though I think it makes me look like I'm an ethnic idiot.
Anyway. She's coming to town, and I'm excited. If I may invoke another bit of ethnic referencing, when I sit and talk with The Asian, I sometimes imagine the experience is similar to how it might be talking with a young Maxine Hong Kingston. So I anticipate having my mind stimulated in some different ways than it has been of late.
Not that there's anything wrong with how I've been stimulated of late.
In fact, my mind has been quite stimulated, both by conversations with friends here and by ... some weird shit I still don't feel like writing about.
Despite the preparation I was doing earlier today (including three loads of laundry, which I must fold before sleeping), I still took off the late afternoon and early evening for a swim in the lake. I had not been up to the lake this late in the day before, and it was simply marvelous. The warmest part of the day in this region is usually around 5 o'clock, which is just when we laid out our blankets and towels on the grass.
The friend who went with me is one of my classmates from practicum who I'll call ... uh... Another Aires, on accounts I seem to be finding friendships with these willful, independent-minded women in my life (my old friend Mountain Girl and S2 among who knows how many others). So Another Aries -- AA for short -- and I passed the afternoon with mainly lightweight conversation. I was in story-telling mode, entertaining her with the reason I don't date on-line (aka "The Woman with the Brown Finger Tip") and how I got hypnotized to bust my snake phobia.
Turns out we're both good at creeping each other out and getting creeped out, so I have a feeling the story about how the deepest parts of the lake (an extinct caldera) have never been measured and how a plane that crashed into the lake and was never found (even though it's a small lake) may have creeped us enough to shorten the first swim. Then, when I went into the lake for a second swim on my own, AA said as I walked away, "You'll get creeped. The water moccasins will find you."
I *know* there are no water moccasins in the lake. But I'm *not* so certain there isn't a monster in it. Or some strange outflowing river down in its blackness that might suddenly suck me under water and carry me away. Yeah, AA, the bitch, got me to creep myself out. I swam perhaps 150 yards before I going back in, the monster at my heels.
We hung out for a while. Laid in the sun. Talked. Then we had a relly stunning drive home through the country. Came back across the Columbia River into Oregon just as the sun was setting over the river: Mt. Hood picking up the first of alpine glow, a nearly full moon rising, the clear rolling hills, the greenery and the city surrounded by it spread out in a vista before us as we drove across the river. Just lovely.
I dropped AA off at her place and cruised on back home to walk the pup and get a burrito.
There are a few more chores to finish before I get to sleep. But I'm glad I took the time to play in the middle of doing all that. AA is a wicked gem of a young woman, and the lake water was so lovely and warm (by PNW standards) that I was able to forget everything for a couple hours and enjoy myself. Good work, and good play makes your UCM sleep good, too.
Once I make the bed...
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Not such a good idea
When XGF returned my call this afternoon -- I had called demanding to know if she had given her life to Jesus -- she read me the riot act on two counts.
First, she wondered how I could ever take seriously the concept that she had started dating men "because it's the right thing to do, according to God." Well, I *did* think it was a joke, but the person who repeated it to me wasn't so sure. So I got concerned. There are plenty of weird things that have been going down with XGF this past year or so -- fainting spells, "heart attacks," getting lost on Mt. St. Helen's and needing to be rescued by professionals, etc. -- so I worry at times that just about *anything* is possible with her.
Anyway, she thought I was stupid for taking that comment seriously.
Second, she wondered what on earth ever possessed me to agree (truth be told: I SUGGESTED IT) to go camping on Mt. St. Helen's with The Asian and her husband.
"I do believe," XGF said, "that I swore I would *never* go camping with you again. You are *horrible* when you camp. Absolutely HORRIBLE. If you go camping with them, you have to be prepared that you may never speak to them again."
You mean they may never speak to *me* again? I asked.
"That's what I mean. The chances are they would hate you," she said. "If you want to keep them as friends, it's far better for everyone if they just go camping by themselves. I don't even know *why* you would agree to that."
Do the rest of you wonder just WHAT I could have done when XGF and I went camping together?
I guess that one time we went... I started.
"Twice. We went twice."
Twice? There was that time we went to Swift Reservoir. What was the other?
"We went with Karin," she reminded me.
Oooooh. The MacKenzie River. A repressed memory came to the surface. I grimmaced.
"Yeah, *that.* And I don't know WHAT I was thinking the second time I did that with you," she said. "You are simply AWFUL when it comes to camping."
If I went into the dark corners of my mind in search of those moments -- the things I said and did that got me such a bum rap with XGF -- I could probably recount some of them. They are moments of shame, I'm sure. One harrowing scene at a guard shack comes to mind. And then, there's the matter of setting up the tent. But let's not talk about that.
Personally, I think I've probably figured out some better ways to deal with the grizzly hostility that seems to be called forth in me by the experience of car camping in a large campground. I'd like to say that the jolly nature with which I pulled myself out of a nasty, brackish pond and sustained an attack by a porcupine tree in the Amazon is proof I've come a LONG way, baby. But the truth is: I had a shower (of sorts) and a bug-proofed, open-air cabana and a pleasantly cozy bed to which I would return that night. In other words, I wasn't "camping."
When it comes to that form of so-called fun, I've never gotten over some of the minor infractions I experience at the hands of mother nature, including an aching back from "sleeping" on the ground. (Quotation marks used to enhance the dubious meaning of the word under these circumstances.) I don't like getting dirty. Or, rather, dirty when I can't shower. Also, there is the matter of the unhappy odor I called "camp hooch" when talking to S2 about it this afternoon (before XGF's call).
XGF, however, sees these problems as the least of my concerns. In no uncertain terms, she suggested I call The Asian and her husband immediately and tell them I won't go camping with them.
"If you want," she offered, "I'll call them myself. I'll tell them what a mistake would be."
Apparently, it's a matter of public safety that I never go camping again. ... It sounds creepy when it's put that way. But I kind of like having that excuse.
I called The Asian and her husband and left a message. You know, I started, maybe camping isn't such a good idea after all. I've hurt my tailbone recently, and ...
First, she wondered how I could ever take seriously the concept that she had started dating men "because it's the right thing to do, according to God." Well, I *did* think it was a joke, but the person who repeated it to me wasn't so sure. So I got concerned. There are plenty of weird things that have been going down with XGF this past year or so -- fainting spells, "heart attacks," getting lost on Mt. St. Helen's and needing to be rescued by professionals, etc. -- so I worry at times that just about *anything* is possible with her.
Anyway, she thought I was stupid for taking that comment seriously.
Second, she wondered what on earth ever possessed me to agree (truth be told: I SUGGESTED IT) to go camping on Mt. St. Helen's with The Asian and her husband.
"I do believe," XGF said, "that I swore I would *never* go camping with you again. You are *horrible* when you camp. Absolutely HORRIBLE. If you go camping with them, you have to be prepared that you may never speak to them again."
You mean they may never speak to *me* again? I asked.
"That's what I mean. The chances are they would hate you," she said. "If you want to keep them as friends, it's far better for everyone if they just go camping by themselves. I don't even know *why* you would agree to that."
Do the rest of you wonder just WHAT I could have done when XGF and I went camping together?
I guess that one time we went... I started.
"Twice. We went twice."
Twice? There was that time we went to Swift Reservoir. What was the other?
"We went with Karin," she reminded me.
Oooooh. The MacKenzie River. A repressed memory came to the surface. I grimmaced.
"Yeah, *that.* And I don't know WHAT I was thinking the second time I did that with you," she said. "You are simply AWFUL when it comes to camping."
If I went into the dark corners of my mind in search of those moments -- the things I said and did that got me such a bum rap with XGF -- I could probably recount some of them. They are moments of shame, I'm sure. One harrowing scene at a guard shack comes to mind. And then, there's the matter of setting up the tent. But let's not talk about that.
Personally, I think I've probably figured out some better ways to deal with the grizzly hostility that seems to be called forth in me by the experience of car camping in a large campground. I'd like to say that the jolly nature with which I pulled myself out of a nasty, brackish pond and sustained an attack by a porcupine tree in the Amazon is proof I've come a LONG way, baby. But the truth is: I had a shower (of sorts) and a bug-proofed, open-air cabana and a pleasantly cozy bed to which I would return that night. In other words, I wasn't "camping."
When it comes to that form of so-called fun, I've never gotten over some of the minor infractions I experience at the hands of mother nature, including an aching back from "sleeping" on the ground. (Quotation marks used to enhance the dubious meaning of the word under these circumstances.) I don't like getting dirty. Or, rather, dirty when I can't shower. Also, there is the matter of the unhappy odor I called "camp hooch" when talking to S2 about it this afternoon (before XGF's call).
XGF, however, sees these problems as the least of my concerns. In no uncertain terms, she suggested I call The Asian and her husband immediately and tell them I won't go camping with them.
"If you want," she offered, "I'll call them myself. I'll tell them what a mistake would be."
Apparently, it's a matter of public safety that I never go camping again. ... It sounds creepy when it's put that way. But I kind of like having that excuse.
I called The Asian and her husband and left a message. You know, I started, maybe camping isn't such a good idea after all. I've hurt my tailbone recently, and ...
Monday, July 23, 2007
My missing blog
I feel bad when I see that I haven't written anything four or five days, especially because I know I have these readers who check on me regularly. I sometimes feel disappointed when a site I like stops updating, and I don't want to be one of them. Not yet, anyway.
This reminds me of a recurrent theme in the writing group to which I belonged for a few years after I first moved to Portland. Periodically, someone would suggest a writing exercise about "Why We're Not Writing." Yes, we had a writing group where most of the people -- all of them good writers (except one I'll call "Boston" for XGF's amusement) -- weren't writing. Except for the writing exercises we'd do in the group.
At the time, I had lost touch with my writing almost completely, save for what I did during our monthly meetings. For a couple years, I was creatively numb, having very little else move me to write so much as the topic of my brother in coma. And I didn't want to write about that for fear of what I might unleash. (Still don't, really.)
My travel journals were the beginning of my thaw. Then, I started this blog. And I have been faithfully writing on a daily or near-daily basis for a year and a half. Better than any private journal I've ever managed to keep. Apparently, having a bit of an audience moves me to write more frequently.
But what's going on with me now? If I took up the challenge of "Writing About Why I'm Not Writing," what would I find?
You know what's sad? I'm not even all that interested in finding out right this minute. I've had a long day at the Home for the Criminally Insane, and have been sitting at a desk for 9 hours reading textbooks and writing a paper. I do not feel like sitting here any longer.
In fact, a general adversion to my desk chair, thanks to an ailing tailbone, may be all that's wrong with me.
I feel like visiting with friends. I feel like watching an episode of "Man Versus Wild." I feel like doing yoga. I feel like just about *anything* than sitting at a fucking computer, staring at a fucking monitor.
I'm just saying.
(But a quick update: I played darts with YogaGirl and her BF on Saturday night and was trounced. The bristle dartboard I have here at home is apparently too nice a setup to practice on when it's plastic darts we end up playing with at the pub. ... The Asian's coming to town with her husband. We may go camping up on Mt. St. Helen's. ... I've got another swing shift at the Home for the Criminally Insane tomorrow, during which I hope to complete my paper on Clinical Considerations for GLB clients. Unfortunately, I'm a little afraid of the residents seeing the words "gay and lesbian" on the textbooks I'm referencing as I work on the paper. Several residents have, at times, expressed their anti-gay feelings toward me. Even though I am in the closet at work (remember the Criminally Insane part?), I don't want any flaring tempers. So I've removed the paper covers from the hardback, so the books look very plain. This is just one of those small things gay people have to worry about. ... And finally, I learned tonight that my sister has Multiple Sclerosis. I feel badly for her, but I don't know what to say to her or how to feel about this. I've suspected it for a while, but it is a disturbing thing to have concerned, mainly for my own self-absorbed reasons (fear of heritability). Either way, it sucks. That's all the news that's fit to print.)
This reminds me of a recurrent theme in the writing group to which I belonged for a few years after I first moved to Portland. Periodically, someone would suggest a writing exercise about "Why We're Not Writing." Yes, we had a writing group where most of the people -- all of them good writers (except one I'll call "Boston" for XGF's amusement) -- weren't writing. Except for the writing exercises we'd do in the group.
At the time, I had lost touch with my writing almost completely, save for what I did during our monthly meetings. For a couple years, I was creatively numb, having very little else move me to write so much as the topic of my brother in coma. And I didn't want to write about that for fear of what I might unleash. (Still don't, really.)
My travel journals were the beginning of my thaw. Then, I started this blog. And I have been faithfully writing on a daily or near-daily basis for a year and a half. Better than any private journal I've ever managed to keep. Apparently, having a bit of an audience moves me to write more frequently.
But what's going on with me now? If I took up the challenge of "Writing About Why I'm Not Writing," what would I find?
You know what's sad? I'm not even all that interested in finding out right this minute. I've had a long day at the Home for the Criminally Insane, and have been sitting at a desk for 9 hours reading textbooks and writing a paper. I do not feel like sitting here any longer.
In fact, a general adversion to my desk chair, thanks to an ailing tailbone, may be all that's wrong with me.
I feel like visiting with friends. I feel like watching an episode of "Man Versus Wild." I feel like doing yoga. I feel like just about *anything* than sitting at a fucking computer, staring at a fucking monitor.
I'm just saying.
(But a quick update: I played darts with YogaGirl and her BF on Saturday night and was trounced. The bristle dartboard I have here at home is apparently too nice a setup to practice on when it's plastic darts we end up playing with at the pub. ... The Asian's coming to town with her husband. We may go camping up on Mt. St. Helen's. ... I've got another swing shift at the Home for the Criminally Insane tomorrow, during which I hope to complete my paper on Clinical Considerations for GLB clients. Unfortunately, I'm a little afraid of the residents seeing the words "gay and lesbian" on the textbooks I'm referencing as I work on the paper. Several residents have, at times, expressed their anti-gay feelings toward me. Even though I am in the closet at work (remember the Criminally Insane part?), I don't want any flaring tempers. So I've removed the paper covers from the hardback, so the books look very plain. This is just one of those small things gay people have to worry about. ... And finally, I learned tonight that my sister has Multiple Sclerosis. I feel badly for her, but I don't know what to say to her or how to feel about this. I've suspected it for a while, but it is a disturbing thing to have concerned, mainly for my own self-absorbed reasons (fear of heritability). Either way, it sucks. That's all the news that's fit to print.)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
"Sport culture" and pink things
I did some serious "retail therapy" this week, first by picking up a few kitchen items and then by enhancing my "sport culture" look by taking what I expect will be my final visit to the Nike Employee Store.
XGF, who has worked for that fair athletic manufacturer for more than a few years, will be leaving her post there to attend graduate school at Rutgers, where she got a full five-year fellowship in pursuit of a doctorate. Sweet deal. But it means giving up her sweet-paying corporate gig and taking on the life of a graduate student. Swoosh, bang, boom! Massive change.
She took a few minutes of her day this morning to meet me at the store and let me in, slapping $160 in cash in my hand as I walked in the door. She commented that the last time she was in the store, she dropped more than $500 there.
Everything at the store is 50 percent off (and sometimes more when the store has "clearance," but it's not basement stuff you find in outlets. It's all Nike's collest stuff, cutting edge, style or performance shit, as well as being a source of Cole Haan and Converse.
XGF slapping that money in my hand was almost like giving me a gift certificate, except for that owes me the money. Nevertheless, I decided to make the best of the situation and went in on some clothes and equipment I've been wanting. I got a few tops that I won't be wearing until fall, but my cool deals were on the sunglasses. I fucking LOVE the style of Nike's sunglasses. There are easily a dozen there I could have bought. But I restrained myself to two, which even at 50 percent off represents something of a slpurge on sunglasses.
When I was showing them off to S2 this afternoon, I actually heard myself say, These bitches normally cost $150. These *bitches*? About sunglasses? Here's a photo. You decide. My frames are pink.
S2 crinckled her nose at them and said, "I bet they don't weigh a thing, do they?"
I handed them to her. She put them on, and I instantly regretted that she could not have been sunglass shopping with me. She would have loved it. Coulda built her forthcoming triathalon uniform from the eyeglasses down.... (Yes, S2, I meant "forthcoming triathlon.")
But let me tell you something about "performance:" I wore those glasses on my bike ride this evening, and I did not even remember they were on my face. Without a bottom frame, my vision was completely unobstructed, nothing was touching my cheekbones. It's style and technology that I'm sure *someone* out there is masturbating over. Not *me,* but someone. They are indeed "bitches," in all the best meanings of the word.
I also got some glasses that would no doubt fall under what seems to be Nike's coinage for a new niche market: "sports culture." There are fascinating new styles of shoes and shirts that are designed for people who are more interested in looking fashionable in their sport than having technical gear. An example would be people women who like to walk around in *cute* athletic shoes, even when they're not doing athletics. So the other sunglasses are sweet, highly versatile, athletic hybrid that happen to look really fucking hot on me, if I do say so myself. S2 agreed that they looked good (although she might debate "really fucking hot").
Anyway.
I also got some hand weights, which I have been thinking about getting for a few months. In the women's section, the hand weights were 3 pounds each, which is basically like lifting "air" in my book. Over on the men's side of the store, I found some 8-pound weights. Better.
When I was checking out, I commented about the light weights for women, wondering how a 3-pound weight could actually sculpt a mussle, and the girl at the stand said, "Yeah, they're really light." Then she eyed me and asked, "How much do you curl?"
I don't know, I told her. I lifted the box, which contained two 8-pound weights, and curled it. Obviously more than this. But I guess these will do for light toning.
"I curl 15 pounds at the gym," she said. "I'm sure you do more than that." She smiled at me and batted her eyes a little.
Aw, shucks! I think I blushed.
The other thing I took delight in buying was a recreational soccer ball that Nike seems to have made to go with my sunglasses, my pink cell phone and this darling little brown and pink Adidas tennis outfit S2 was wearing when she showed up. Here's my cute little prize, no doubt a soccer ball for the "sports culture" rather than a real soccer player.
I'm just saying. But it's cute. And the other day when I kicked Getting To Yes's soccer ball up a hill, I realized I wanted one of my own. So I got one that's pink.
S2 looks at the thing, turns to me with a twinkle in her eye and says, giggling, "You are *such* a girl!"
Did I mention that she was wearing a pink and brown tennis dress when she said that? (Over blue jeans, but still....) Who's calling *who* a girl?
That comment made me laugh, but it got me to thinking. Why *did* I buy a pink one? Is it because I thought it was feminine? Is it because I want to be thought of as girlish? Or is it because I thought it was gay? I think a pink soccer ball is rather queer, to tell you the truth. But it is also feminine.
To me, somehow, pink is the new lesbian chic. So I declare, anyway.
Well, I got the soccer ball with the idea that I would kick it around and not let it get eaten by my dog, the way the last one did. All I gotta do is find someone who wants to kick it with me. Seeing as how I don't have a good wall for kicking against. So anytime any of you here in town want to kick a ball around, call me and I'll bring my pink, lesbian chic soccer ball over to play.
Friday, I'll see XGF again -- this time for a meal that seems destined to be our "farewell" hanging out before she takes off for New Jersey. Meeting at a little diner we used to like to go to in the Pearl. A retro flashback seems the perfect place for a restrospective conversation. Should be interesting....
XGF, who has worked for that fair athletic manufacturer for more than a few years, will be leaving her post there to attend graduate school at Rutgers, where she got a full five-year fellowship in pursuit of a doctorate. Sweet deal. But it means giving up her sweet-paying corporate gig and taking on the life of a graduate student. Swoosh, bang, boom! Massive change.
She took a few minutes of her day this morning to meet me at the store and let me in, slapping $160 in cash in my hand as I walked in the door. She commented that the last time she was in the store, she dropped more than $500 there.
Everything at the store is 50 percent off (and sometimes more when the store has "clearance," but it's not basement stuff you find in outlets. It's all Nike's collest stuff, cutting edge, style or performance shit, as well as being a source of Cole Haan and Converse.
XGF slapping that money in my hand was almost like giving me a gift certificate, except for that owes me the money. Nevertheless, I decided to make the best of the situation and went in on some clothes and equipment I've been wanting. I got a few tops that I won't be wearing until fall, but my cool deals were on the sunglasses. I fucking LOVE the style of Nike's sunglasses. There are easily a dozen there I could have bought. But I restrained myself to two, which even at 50 percent off represents something of a slpurge on sunglasses.
When I was showing them off to S2 this afternoon, I actually heard myself say, These bitches normally cost $150. These *bitches*? About sunglasses? Here's a photo. You decide. My frames are pink.
S2 crinckled her nose at them and said, "I bet they don't weigh a thing, do they?"I handed them to her. She put them on, and I instantly regretted that she could not have been sunglass shopping with me. She would have loved it. Coulda built her forthcoming triathalon uniform from the eyeglasses down.... (Yes, S2, I meant "forthcoming triathlon.")
But let me tell you something about "performance:" I wore those glasses on my bike ride this evening, and I did not even remember they were on my face. Without a bottom frame, my vision was completely unobstructed, nothing was touching my cheekbones. It's style and technology that I'm sure *someone* out there is masturbating over. Not *me,* but someone. They are indeed "bitches," in all the best meanings of the word.
I also got some glasses that would no doubt fall under what seems to be Nike's coinage for a new niche market: "sports culture." There are fascinating new styles of shoes and shirts that are designed for people who are more interested in looking fashionable in their sport than having technical gear. An example would be people women who like to walk around in *cute* athletic shoes, even when they're not doing athletics. So the other sunglasses are sweet, highly versatile, athletic hybrid that happen to look really fucking hot on me, if I do say so myself. S2 agreed that they looked good (although she might debate "really fucking hot").
Anyway.I also got some hand weights, which I have been thinking about getting for a few months. In the women's section, the hand weights were 3 pounds each, which is basically like lifting "air" in my book. Over on the men's side of the store, I found some 8-pound weights. Better.
When I was checking out, I commented about the light weights for women, wondering how a 3-pound weight could actually sculpt a mussle, and the girl at the stand said, "Yeah, they're really light." Then she eyed me and asked, "How much do you curl?"
I don't know, I told her. I lifted the box, which contained two 8-pound weights, and curled it. Obviously more than this. But I guess these will do for light toning.
"I curl 15 pounds at the gym," she said. "I'm sure you do more than that." She smiled at me and batted her eyes a little.
Aw, shucks! I think I blushed.
The other thing I took delight in buying was a recreational soccer ball that Nike seems to have made to go with my sunglasses, my pink cell phone and this darling little brown and pink Adidas tennis outfit S2 was wearing when she showed up. Here's my cute little prize, no doubt a soccer ball for the "sports culture" rather than a real soccer player.I'm just saying. But it's cute. And the other day when I kicked Getting To Yes's soccer ball up a hill, I realized I wanted one of my own. So I got one that's pink.
S2 looks at the thing, turns to me with a twinkle in her eye and says, giggling, "You are *such* a girl!"
Did I mention that she was wearing a pink and brown tennis dress when she said that? (Over blue jeans, but still....) Who's calling *who* a girl?
That comment made me laugh, but it got me to thinking. Why *did* I buy a pink one? Is it because I thought it was feminine? Is it because I want to be thought of as girlish? Or is it because I thought it was gay? I think a pink soccer ball is rather queer, to tell you the truth. But it is also feminine.
To me, somehow, pink is the new lesbian chic. So I declare, anyway.
Well, I got the soccer ball with the idea that I would kick it around and not let it get eaten by my dog, the way the last one did. All I gotta do is find someone who wants to kick it with me. Seeing as how I don't have a good wall for kicking against. So anytime any of you here in town want to kick a ball around, call me and I'll bring my pink, lesbian chic soccer ball over to play.
Friday, I'll see XGF again -- this time for a meal that seems destined to be our "farewell" hanging out before she takes off for New Jersey. Meeting at a little diner we used to like to go to in the Pearl. A retro flashback seems the perfect place for a restrospective conversation. Should be interesting....
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
When Worlds Collide
Some weeks ago, I was literally overwhelmed by a moment which was, at its core, probably the most poetic of my life. I shared it with no one; as experiences go, it was mine alone, unwitnessed by others. Had someone indeed been watching, it would have appeared to be no more than a silent pose, some still-life of a mundane act.
But within me, alone in my home on the Fourth of July, as I prepared to bathe after a sun-filled day at the lake, proverbial worlds were colliding. Without warning -- or as we might say in The South, I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when all of the sudden... -- I became an object of philosophical transmorgrification.
It's funny how these things happen. And if I described it for you straight-up, I'm afraid I wouldn't do it justice. So please forgive my decision to speak about it in analogy and metaphor.
I guess you could say I was awestruck by a thought. To boil it down as simply as possible, an idea entered my consciousness that forced me to consider how nihilistic my view of life had become.
I'm not sure where this all started. But what I do know is that one week before, a classmate with whom I'm developing a friendship said to me, "So, you don't believe there's a soul?"
No, I had replied. And after she left, I wrote this note to myself: Ascribing meaning and intent to the existace of 'energy' in the universe strikes me as the human compulsion to anthropomorphize everything.
A week later, I was asked to consider whether I really stood behind those words. It prompted some (pardon the euphamism) soul-searching of a magnitude to which I have never exposed myself.
This afternoon, I engaged in a lengthy conversation with S2 -- dragged out by my constant questioning and my stubborn resistance -- in which I admitted two consequences of this philosophical transmorgrification.
First, I described in apparently rather poignant terms the way I have come to view the world in terms of the fundamental isolation of the Self from all Others. I say "apparently rather poignant" not because S2 was moved, but because I was. Sitting there with my words, I felt the crushing sadness and solitude of that way of seeing the world. While describing my personal philosophy, I had the curious experience of observing it with sadness and also taking the first real steps toward releasing it.
Second, I spoke some words, wrenched out of me by myself at the bidding of S2's direct question: "What does your intuition tell you happened in that moment?" The answer to that question remains far too personal for me to discuss on this blog right now. Except to say that, for me, after I uttered them, I heard the distinct creaking of yet another closet door opening up, desperately in need of some WD-40.
Words are funny things. Between the mouth of the speaker and the ears of the listener, even without a second-language in the mix, so much can get lost in translation.
I let some of the rattiest, most unnerving words I've ever said come out of my mouth, and S2 looked unfazed. In fact, she said my turn of phrase was "beautiful." There was not so much as an eye-brow raised.
Still, though, I thought my world might crack open when I uttered the words. When I crossed a threshold I have been relucant to cross. When I came out (at least to my best friend, if not the rest of you just yet).
Yet there was no calamity.
Instead, there was S2, yawning every so often (thanks, I imagine, to my wearisome analysis), and saying upon our parting, "You have a busy life, UCM. A very, very busy innner life. Which is both a blessing and a curse."
I can see my way to the curse very easily. But the blessing? That is rarely so clear.
And when ideas, thoughts and experiences cause the delicate constellation of my inner heavens to shift, rushing worlds toward collision, my mind is inclined to shift into disaster mode. I assume everything is going to hell, and I want to dig into the rubble immediately and sort the living from the dead.
It's a noble instinct when lives are at stake. But when it's philosophy that has been thrown into tumult, even when the blast zone is wide enough to included the most fundamental and strongly held principles of one's world view, it would be wise to act from the outset as if the cleanup will be a long-term excavation. Like the delicate uncovering of remains at Pompeii.
This has been my struggle for the past week and a half. I wanted to do something to resolve my dilemma. I exhausted myself with a mental exercise, debating how much I believed my own experience. For now, I've decided to take my hands off he wheels a litle bit. Having "outed" myself to S2, perhaps I can now relax and employ a more useful approach in how I process this mysterious experience.
Step One: Let the dust settle.
But within me, alone in my home on the Fourth of July, as I prepared to bathe after a sun-filled day at the lake, proverbial worlds were colliding. Without warning -- or as we might say in The South, I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when all of the sudden... -- I became an object of philosophical transmorgrification.
It's funny how these things happen. And if I described it for you straight-up, I'm afraid I wouldn't do it justice. So please forgive my decision to speak about it in analogy and metaphor.
I guess you could say I was awestruck by a thought. To boil it down as simply as possible, an idea entered my consciousness that forced me to consider how nihilistic my view of life had become.
I'm not sure where this all started. But what I do know is that one week before, a classmate with whom I'm developing a friendship said to me, "So, you don't believe there's a soul?"
No, I had replied. And after she left, I wrote this note to myself: Ascribing meaning and intent to the existace of 'energy' in the universe strikes me as the human compulsion to anthropomorphize everything.
A week later, I was asked to consider whether I really stood behind those words. It prompted some (pardon the euphamism) soul-searching of a magnitude to which I have never exposed myself.
This afternoon, I engaged in a lengthy conversation with S2 -- dragged out by my constant questioning and my stubborn resistance -- in which I admitted two consequences of this philosophical transmorgrification.
First, I described in apparently rather poignant terms the way I have come to view the world in terms of the fundamental isolation of the Self from all Others. I say "apparently rather poignant" not because S2 was moved, but because I was. Sitting there with my words, I felt the crushing sadness and solitude of that way of seeing the world. While describing my personal philosophy, I had the curious experience of observing it with sadness and also taking the first real steps toward releasing it.
Second, I spoke some words, wrenched out of me by myself at the bidding of S2's direct question: "What does your intuition tell you happened in that moment?" The answer to that question remains far too personal for me to discuss on this blog right now. Except to say that, for me, after I uttered them, I heard the distinct creaking of yet another closet door opening up, desperately in need of some WD-40.
Words are funny things. Between the mouth of the speaker and the ears of the listener, even without a second-language in the mix, so much can get lost in translation.
I let some of the rattiest, most unnerving words I've ever said come out of my mouth, and S2 looked unfazed. In fact, she said my turn of phrase was "beautiful." There was not so much as an eye-brow raised.
Still, though, I thought my world might crack open when I uttered the words. When I crossed a threshold I have been relucant to cross. When I came out (at least to my best friend, if not the rest of you just yet).
Yet there was no calamity.
Instead, there was S2, yawning every so often (thanks, I imagine, to my wearisome analysis), and saying upon our parting, "You have a busy life, UCM. A very, very busy innner life. Which is both a blessing and a curse."
I can see my way to the curse very easily. But the blessing? That is rarely so clear.
And when ideas, thoughts and experiences cause the delicate constellation of my inner heavens to shift, rushing worlds toward collision, my mind is inclined to shift into disaster mode. I assume everything is going to hell, and I want to dig into the rubble immediately and sort the living from the dead.
It's a noble instinct when lives are at stake. But when it's philosophy that has been thrown into tumult, even when the blast zone is wide enough to included the most fundamental and strongly held principles of one's world view, it would be wise to act from the outset as if the cleanup will be a long-term excavation. Like the delicate uncovering of remains at Pompeii.
This has been my struggle for the past week and a half. I wanted to do something to resolve my dilemma. I exhausted myself with a mental exercise, debating how much I believed my own experience. For now, I've decided to take my hands off he wheels a litle bit. Having "outed" myself to S2, perhaps I can now relax and employ a more useful approach in how I process this mysterious experience.
Step One: Let the dust settle.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Why I haven't been writing (the brief version)
I don't really feel like writing lately. My brain is a bit too occupied trying to allow something to come into it to find the ability at the same time to generate clear, cogent or otherwise meaningful commentary.
However, I can provide you with a brief rundown, a history of recent events:
Three Dog Attacks: Yes, three. First two on the pup Brogan; third on me. The first of Brogan's dog attacks came on the heels a few days prior of a cat attack. So the pup is giving wide berth to a lot of animals we encounter on our walks. First dog attack came outside the coffee house, which seems to be the place Brogan has the most difficulty (and may explain why he's always crying when I tie him up out there; "C'mon! I'm a sitting duck here already!" is probably what he's been telling me in dog whimpering.) Anyway, some dog pounced on him while we walked past, and ended up hurting him (bruising) in the jowl.
Then, a few days ago, one of my friends invited me and Brogan over for evening cocktails and perhaps a run in the sprinkler for the pup, on accounts it was very hot. Her dog didn't take well to something Brogan did -- no telling what -- and a snarling tussle ensued, at the end of which Brogan was pinned down and bleeding from his mouth. He had a front incisor partially pulled out, which required surgery to extract completely. (My friend kindly paid for the vet bills. Thank you.)
This is a photo of the snaggle tooth left behind after the tussle with my friend's Blue Heeler. When my friend picked the pup up at the vet, she made sure the tooth came home, too.
While he was in surgery on Friday, I was taking a walk without him, doing my "stairmaster" routine up and down the Alameda ridge. As I finished (and was, of all things, approaching the coffeehouse), I encountered a dog I've seen (and been followed by) before a few times. It's a Weimaraner, about a year old and thus not full grown. It tends to be very playful and goofy, but this day, it was tied up in the front yard (not normal) and was barking at me (also not normal). I stopped in front of the fence and looked at it, made a peaceful shushing sound. It came up to the fence, right near the end of its rope, and sniffed at me. I was about two feet away from the fence and did not feel any sense of danger from this dog. Then, suddenly, it lunged its head over the fence and bit my arm. I was stunned, pulled my arm from its mouth and scurried away. In front of the house next door, I looked at where I had been bitten and was shocked to see blood bubbling forth from a hole in my flesh. I went back and stood in front of the house -- a good three or four feet from the fence -- and waited to see if the owner was home and would respond to the dog's continued barking. She eventually did come out, and we had words, none of which were satisfying to me. I think she was wasted or hungover, here at 11 in the morning. Later that day, I called animal control and made a bite report and attempted to find out if the dog does indeed have all its vaccines, as the woman claimed. I'll check back in a couple days. Animal control said they would be enforcing a quarantine on the dog and demanding paperwork from the owners, especially as they apparently have not licensed their dog. (This woman needs to take a lesson or two from my friend and at least should have showed a modicum of interest in my bleeding arm, rather than the weak, "Oh, sorry..." she managed. But, as I said, she was fucked up in some way.)
Seems I'm not in any immediate danger of going rabid, on accounts it typically takes 30 to 60 days for rabies symptoms to appear (10 days to a couple years on the extreme ends). General likelihood of rabies is very low. Despite the high population of racoons in my neighborhood, most racoons up here don't carry rabies. The greater danger is posed by bats. Of which there are also plenty of those around these parts. So ... hmmmm. Let's just hope the Weimy didn't have an encounter with any bats recently.
Right now, the main problem for me is the pain from the bruise, particularly where the bottom canines gripped but did not puncture my forearm. The location of the bite makes it a little painful for me to rest my hand in a normal position, including the one assumed in typing.
Inner Conflict about the Nature of Consciousness: This has possessed me lately. It is too complicated and too unweildy for me to write about right now. It is not really blog material. It deserves some *real* writing. Which is to say: Every time people ask me, "When are you going to write something?" and I get disgusted because I think my blog, my journals and the literally thousands of newspaper articles I've written do, in fact, count as "something," I must admit that at this point, I think I have never written anything that matters. And perhaps I should. But later, later.... And not in blog format.
Reading Something: I'm supposed to be writing a paper for Human Sexuality, but I have been sidetracked by a really magnificent and highly disturbing book loaned to me by the friend who has the dog that didn't like Brogan. It is an autobiographical piece about a really disturbing crime that happened in Oregon back in 1977, when two women sleeping in a tent at a park were run over by a truck, the driver of which subsequently got out and began hacking at them with an axe. The book -- Strange Piece of Paradise -- is both gripping in story and in its literary nature. I am impressed not just with how the author, Terri Jentz, has woven the narrative but with how vividly she brings it to life with beautifully saturated language. I read stuff like this, and I recognize the terrible shallowness that mars my own efforts with words.
The Lake, The Lake: I have spent a couple blissful days avoiding the heat and enjoying the Fourth of July up at a nearby lake that has made its home in an extinct caldera a bit south of Mt. St. Helen's. It is spring-fed, clear and cool with the occasional warm spot caused by thermal springs that issue forth from the hot underbelly of this volcanic region. Very nice. I am getting the tan I haven't had in 15 years or so. I am also enjoying floating. It is one of my favorite things to do, seeing as it is probably as close as I will ever come to being weightless in space.
The Travails of my Tailbone: Walking down a steep (and "unofficial") path at the lake on the Fourth of July, some loose soil and rocks gave way under my downhill foot, and I fell squarely on my tailbone. For those familiar with the ongoing Travails of my Tailbone -- which I broke more than 10 years ago and from which I have never enjoyed a *full* recovery because I keep falling on my ass or taking 22-hour rough and bumpy rides in the Andes -- this is not good news. I'm back with the ass donut. As I was inflating it in class the other night, one of my classmates asked, "Is that for stress?" Stress to *what*? I asked. Another classmate offered, "When I see those, I think they're for hemorrhoids." I sighed: Well, this one is all about the tailbone. ... I should be sitting on it right now, but I'm not.
To Summarize: In fact, this is basically a long-winded excuse for why I'm not writing much on the blog: It hurts my tailbone to sit at the computer; it hurts my dog-bitten arm to write at the computer; I've been totally captivated by a book; and even if these things were not in the way, my brain is not organized enough to generate many words. I need a little time for things to settle down (and stop hurting). So don't give up on me yet, Fair Readers. Check out the archives if you're bored.
This concludes my long-winded excuse.
Now, please get off your computer and go forth into the world. It's more "real" out there than it is here.
However, I can provide you with a brief rundown, a history of recent events:
Three Dog Attacks: Yes, three. First two on the pup Brogan; third on me. The first of Brogan's dog attacks came on the heels a few days prior of a cat attack. So the pup is giving wide berth to a lot of animals we encounter on our walks. First dog attack came outside the coffee house, which seems to be the place Brogan has the most difficulty (and may explain why he's always crying when I tie him up out there; "C'mon! I'm a sitting duck here already!" is probably what he's been telling me in dog whimpering.) Anyway, some dog pounced on him while we walked past, and ended up hurting him (bruising) in the jowl.
Then, a few days ago, one of my friends invited me and Brogan over for evening cocktails and perhaps a run in the sprinkler for the pup, on accounts it was very hot. Her dog didn't take well to something Brogan did -- no telling what -- and a snarling tussle ensued, at the end of which Brogan was pinned down and bleeding from his mouth. He had a front incisor partially pulled out, which required surgery to extract completely. (My friend kindly paid for the vet bills. Thank you.)
This is a photo of the snaggle tooth left behind after the tussle with my friend's Blue Heeler. When my friend picked the pup up at the vet, she made sure the tooth came home, too.
While he was in surgery on Friday, I was taking a walk without him, doing my "stairmaster" routine up and down the Alameda ridge. As I finished (and was, of all things, approaching the coffeehouse), I encountered a dog I've seen (and been followed by) before a few times. It's a Weimaraner, about a year old and thus not full grown. It tends to be very playful and goofy, but this day, it was tied up in the front yard (not normal) and was barking at me (also not normal). I stopped in front of the fence and looked at it, made a peaceful shushing sound. It came up to the fence, right near the end of its rope, and sniffed at me. I was about two feet away from the fence and did not feel any sense of danger from this dog. Then, suddenly, it lunged its head over the fence and bit my arm. I was stunned, pulled my arm from its mouth and scurried away. In front of the house next door, I looked at where I had been bitten and was shocked to see blood bubbling forth from a hole in my flesh. I went back and stood in front of the house -- a good three or four feet from the fence -- and waited to see if the owner was home and would respond to the dog's continued barking. She eventually did come out, and we had words, none of which were satisfying to me. I think she was wasted or hungover, here at 11 in the morning. Later that day, I called animal control and made a bite report and attempted to find out if the dog does indeed have all its vaccines, as the woman claimed. I'll check back in a couple days. Animal control said they would be enforcing a quarantine on the dog and demanding paperwork from the owners, especially as they apparently have not licensed their dog. (This woman needs to take a lesson or two from my friend and at least should have showed a modicum of interest in my bleeding arm, rather than the weak, "Oh, sorry..." she managed. But, as I said, she was fucked up in some way.)
Seems I'm not in any immediate danger of going rabid, on accounts it typically takes 30 to 60 days for rabies symptoms to appear (10 days to a couple years on the extreme ends). General likelihood of rabies is very low. Despite the high population of racoons in my neighborhood, most racoons up here don't carry rabies. The greater danger is posed by bats. Of which there are also plenty of those around these parts. So ... hmmmm. Let's just hope the Weimy didn't have an encounter with any bats recently.
Right now, the main problem for me is the pain from the bruise, particularly where the bottom canines gripped but did not puncture my forearm. The location of the bite makes it a little painful for me to rest my hand in a normal position, including the one assumed in typing.
Inner Conflict about the Nature of Consciousness: This has possessed me lately. It is too complicated and too unweildy for me to write about right now. It is not really blog material. It deserves some *real* writing. Which is to say: Every time people ask me, "When are you going to write something?" and I get disgusted because I think my blog, my journals and the literally thousands of newspaper articles I've written do, in fact, count as "something," I must admit that at this point, I think I have never written anything that matters. And perhaps I should. But later, later.... And not in blog format.
Reading Something: I'm supposed to be writing a paper for Human Sexuality, but I have been sidetracked by a really magnificent and highly disturbing book loaned to me by the friend who has the dog that didn't like Brogan. It is an autobiographical piece about a really disturbing crime that happened in Oregon back in 1977, when two women sleeping in a tent at a park were run over by a truck, the driver of which subsequently got out and began hacking at them with an axe. The book -- Strange Piece of Paradise -- is both gripping in story and in its literary nature. I am impressed not just with how the author, Terri Jentz, has woven the narrative but with how vividly she brings it to life with beautifully saturated language. I read stuff like this, and I recognize the terrible shallowness that mars my own efforts with words.
The Lake, The Lake: I have spent a couple blissful days avoiding the heat and enjoying the Fourth of July up at a nearby lake that has made its home in an extinct caldera a bit south of Mt. St. Helen's. It is spring-fed, clear and cool with the occasional warm spot caused by thermal springs that issue forth from the hot underbelly of this volcanic region. Very nice. I am getting the tan I haven't had in 15 years or so. I am also enjoying floating. It is one of my favorite things to do, seeing as it is probably as close as I will ever come to being weightless in space.
The Travails of my Tailbone: Walking down a steep (and "unofficial") path at the lake on the Fourth of July, some loose soil and rocks gave way under my downhill foot, and I fell squarely on my tailbone. For those familiar with the ongoing Travails of my Tailbone -- which I broke more than 10 years ago and from which I have never enjoyed a *full* recovery because I keep falling on my ass or taking 22-hour rough and bumpy rides in the Andes -- this is not good news. I'm back with the ass donut. As I was inflating it in class the other night, one of my classmates asked, "Is that for stress?" Stress to *what*? I asked. Another classmate offered, "When I see those, I think they're for hemorrhoids." I sighed: Well, this one is all about the tailbone. ... I should be sitting on it right now, but I'm not.
To Summarize: In fact, this is basically a long-winded excuse for why I'm not writing much on the blog: It hurts my tailbone to sit at the computer; it hurts my dog-bitten arm to write at the computer; I've been totally captivated by a book; and even if these things were not in the way, my brain is not organized enough to generate many words. I need a little time for things to settle down (and stop hurting). So don't give up on me yet, Fair Readers. Check out the archives if you're bored.
This concludes my long-winded excuse.
Now, please get off your computer and go forth into the world. It's more "real" out there than it is here.
Monday, July 09, 2007
I'll be back.
Haven't updated in a week because it has been a PACKED week and I when I've felt like writing, I haven't had the time (and vice versa).
Including right now. I have the time, but I don't feel like writing. This is mainly because I am recovering from having been out on the town last night with Handsome Gay Male.
I have a lot to say, but not right now.
Love,
UCM
Including right now. I have the time, but I don't feel like writing. This is mainly because I am recovering from having been out on the town last night with Handsome Gay Male.
I have a lot to say, but not right now.
Love,
UCM
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
