In the Mirror of Ultimate Wonder

Renewing the year

2012-01-27T14:28:00.000-08:00

On New Year's Day, it's my tradition to take a walk, and to drag all my current house guests (and usually a few other folks) along with me. I say it's because I think it's funny to make people with hangovers suffer, but really it's because I want to begin the year with a glimpse of nature and a breath of fresh air.

This year we had a touch of Murphy's Law. The state park I was trying to head for, on the cliffs above a beach, was closed. The beach itself was mobbed because the weather was gorgeous. Friends who were trying to join us in the small time window before they had to take their own house guest to the airport suffered a damaged car when they attempted to find a parking place in a nearby lot. Other friends who were going to join us had to take the friends with the damaged car off to get another car so they could get to the airport...

Those of us who were left high-tailed it for a less crowded beach and went for a walk in the sand while a couple folks did their annual Polar Bear Plunge (80°F weather may not seem very polar, mind you, but the water was 57°F...). And I thought about the path I have taken and hope to take, and how it seems to always go in funny directions, not the ones I planned. And how the things I love collide with each other, make each other impossible to achieve. And how I am my own worst enemy.

Then, just as I began to become a bit frustrated and despondent at my own inner voice, the sun set. And for that one long moment nothing else mattered.

Pacifique

2011-11-15T09:56:00.001-08:00

Every day as I drive in to work I look at the Pacific ocean, first stretched out before me as I crest a small hill, then a blue blur to my left as I cruise along the streets leading to my workplace. Most days I take a walk to the cliffs at the glider port and look out at breaking waves, dolphins and seals, swimmers and surfers and the sun glancing off the water. Or sometimes it's overcast and the water's slate grey, brown pelicans skimming the surface and the sand damp and crunching under my feet.

I am fortunately to live in a place where I see mountains out my front window, canyon out my back window, and ocean every work day. It's a great gift to be in Southern California, and when I feel grumpy about the ugliness of the strip malls and the freeways I can remember to be grateful for the topography of my locale.

Looking at the ocean has a profound effect on me (and, I suspect, most of us). There is a sense of space that we don't always get in our crowded cities. And other senses too — depending on who you are, you might have a sense of cleanliness or of dirt; of adventure or of fear; of peace or of danger. I love the sensation, when I can feel it, of existing on a giant floating island, one of several gigantic islands drifting and floating on the watery Earth. And watching the water drift in and steal sand, seaweed and the unwary beachgoer's abandoned towel also leaves me with a great sense of the constancy of change.

I got a great opportunity to sing on an Internet charity single recently, via @tw1tterband. The recording window was right after my emergency appendectomy, a bit of a challenge for the diaphragm!, and the song turned out to be well below my soprano range, but I gave it my best shot. No idea if it'll be usable or not, but it was exciting to be part of the project, and makes me hopeful of more Internet music projects in the future. Excited by this, and by getting more and more familiar with my various music equipment and software, I really wanted to start doing more recording. There's a sense of 'running out of time', as one's singing voice doesn't last forever, I've written literally hundreds of songs, and I'm 46.

But it's not to be. We have already had to move the music and recording equipment out of the way to accommodate my mother-in-law, who can't climb the stairs to the guest rooms and will have to live in a curtained-off front-room for two months. Because we'll have so many other guests as well, there's really no place else to set up the equipment, and even if there were, I really need solitude to do music recording. I don't like having someone listening in on the process.

So all this means I need to make a transition. A sea change. I need to move temporarily out of my identity as a singer and songwriter and into my identities of writer, knitter, and hostess.

I am in process. I'll let you know how it goes.

Creative energies

2011-10-31T21:44:00.000-07:00

So Annie was right, of course — socializing takes away from alone time, which takes away from time to create. So we've had three house guests over the last month, and I've enjoyed them greatly, but of course simultaneously twitched for creative time. It's like being two people.

I used to take the Myers-Briggs test and get a different result on the first letter every time — extravert, introvert. I get different kinds of energy from being with people and being alone, and I need both. With only one kind I actually lose creative energy — that is, being alone for a week sounds great, but when it happens, I end up doing housecleaning instead of creative activities.

Need both.

Halloween is a rare opportunity to blend socializing with creativity. We didn't throw a party this year — with only three weekends sans house guests left before February, a nod to my overall sanity — but I determined to put on some kind of costume today so I could greet the trick-or-treaters in style.

It's a little hard to tell, but there are eyes all over my face (four extras besides my own). I spent about an hour on the makeup, dressed in black, and draped a multicolored scarf over my slicked-back hair. When I answered the door, I held a lightning lamp (poor man's Tesla coil) in one hand.

Nearly every single group of kids screamed. One said, "Trick-or- OH MY GOD". One just said "SHIT." Several kids forgot how to say Happy Halloween and said "Happy, uh..." or "Um, um, um, heh heh, uh, Merry Christmas."

I think I'm pretty happy with the result.

Practice begets better practice

2011-10-06T18:48:00.000-07:00

I've made time for a few GarageBand sessions this week to try and put some music together for the first song I've written in several years. After writing as several dozen songs a year for many years, my output tapered off, my health got worse and eventually I had several dry years in a row. I had begun to wonder if I still had any inspiration or ability to write songs.

But inspiration bites when you feed it, and what is interesting to me this week is that while of course my skills at GarageBand are definitely increasing with practice, so is my ear. I'm pretty lousy at arranging music, and I've long lost hope of finding a community of musicians locally who can help and teach me, but even the GarageBand loops were pretty useless to me initially. I'm starting to be able to hear songs a little better, to see better how some of the loops could fit into my mental "image" (I don't know what the right musical word for image is) and to begin to construct improved music. It's not good yet -- it's got a long way to go before it's going to be good. But it's improving. And somehow the improvement itself, the progress I am seeing there, is inspiring me. I hope I can keep making myself LET myself have time to do this.

Meanwhile I think we have two house guests coming over the next couple of weeks, which as Annie points out is a distinct distractor for me...

Is it ADD or just the way we all are?

2011-10-02T15:05:00.000-07:00

I spent about a year between 2007 and 2008 convinced I had adult ADD. I even went so far as to call a bunch of therapists recommended by my insurance company to try to schedule an appointment for help. Several of them were no longer accepting my insurance, and the rest didn't return my phone calls, so eventually I moved on.

I'm no longer so convinced it's ADD. When I look at the list in the last post, I feel more that it's simply the ever-growing list of projects coupled with the ever-shrinking number of years remaining in my lifespan that has me distracted. Every time I try to work on one project, the weight of the others on the list loads my shoulders and pushes my pen to the side. The trick is somehow to keep the competing projects in their workbasket while I'm focusing on one. But they are terribly jealous types and keep elbowing each other in the ribs and making noise when I'm trying to concentrate, and I take refuge in aimless Internet browsing and chatting.

Today I spent a chunk of good time working on Grasslimb. As usual I'm behind with responses, but today's work was rewarded with some fantastic pieces for the January issue. I'm mindful of the fact we have a friend staying with us from Thanksgiving to start of January, my mother-in-law from Thanksgiving to end of January and, intermittently, many other friends in the next few months, so it's important to give precedence to my projects when I can. Appealing to my own better angels. They're a bit crowded by the noise of the projects in the basket, but I know they're there.

Another new start

2011-09-28T13:33:00.001-07:00

I used to make quite a lot of fun of folks who kept telling the world every six months about their new plan to reinvent their lives. It felt like New Year's Resolutions or other things so swiftly and completely broken. I didn't really believe anything they said anymore after a while, and just smiled and nodded and knew their intentions were good.

Now I've become one of them, it seems. In an attempt to hold down the madness, I am going to use this blog as a place to think out loud about the many, many projects I want to be working on right now, and am not going to advertise my posts until I've really got something to show. If you're reading this, though, you will hopefully at least be entertained by the sight of me talking to myself in public.

I'm just like the crazy people you see on the street except I'm not using a cell phone.

Here's a probably-growing list of the many already-started creative projects I'd like to be working on over the next year or so:

Finish the research and the text for the book on making burekas
Assemble all my notes into some semblance of a family tree
Create a weekly podcast of lullabies called Lullaby Chair
Do some voiceovers for a friend's Internet radio show
Finish my second novel, Stepping on the Devil's Tail
Finish the play Charing Cross Station
Finish knitting hoodie cardigans for my friends' twins
Finish up Carson's winter cardigan
Knit a toy for Stasi's baby
Create the Lullaby Chair web site, including artwork by NotKeith and buttons by Wowser
Rewrite the Call Me Jan short story
Redo the banner for Jim Sallis' site in Photoshop
Prepare and publish January 2012 and July 2012 Grasslimb
Prepare a 10th anniversary Grasslimb book
Finish writing latest song
Record more of my music
Make a catalog of all the songs I've written
Fix Sandra's fingerless gloves to be longer
Knit vintage-style socks for Diane's doll collection
Create software for and conduct research on relationship of social media to charitable giving
Finish writing white paper on mediation in the workplace
Finish online class on technical management

Don't laugh. It could happen.

Phantosmia

2011-03-07T15:58:00.000-08:00

As some of you know, I have chronic bacterial sinusitis, and I've been on and off antibiotics and in and out of surgery for several years now. I developed a new, odd symptom last week: phantosmia , or olfactory hallucinations. In my specific case (and apparently this isn't uncommon), I "smell" cigarette smoke (actually it smells more like an ashtray) when it's not there. Sometimes this is related to epilepsy, a brain tumor or Alzheimer's; in my case, it seems to be related to the ongoing bacterial infections and the fact that most of the time, I have no or little sense of smell. (Interesting article on phantosmia here, btw.)

Phantosmia makes the world a puzzling place. First you search for the source of the odor — I was at first convinced someone was outside our building, smoking near a vent. I turned the HEPA filter in my office up to full blast, but to no avail. Then I began to realize the smell was following me everywhere, and it wasn't in my clothing or any other specific item.

In a lecture a couple of weeks ago that ran quite late, I became consumed with the thought that soon the lecture would end and I could "get out of this smoky room." I actually thought the smoke was giving me a headache! It took a while before I remembered that it was "only" phantosmia — and that there was, in fact, no escape.

I've only just started down this road: I had a week-long bout with it, then it went away when I started some stronger antibiotics, and now it's come back. From what I read, phantosmia is likely to be a long-term companion. I'm sure I'll come to terms with it at some point. For now, I am learning to cope in a world where there are no "No Smoking' signs.

Only a dream away

2010-07-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

Last night I had some complicated dream about some of my Twitter friends which involved some cigarillos and a barbeque, and a search for some mysterious object through a huge, dark, abandoned house.

Maybe it's not altogether odd that I woke up with Beth Orton's "Blood Red River" stuck in my head today.

V radio — the contents of my nighttime brain?

2010-07-19T08:40:00.000-07:00

Every morning I wake up with a song stuck in my head. Often, a second song hops in during the ensuing hour. They're never songs I've heard recently, and although they're usually songs I like, sometimes they're songs I detest or feel rather neutral towards. I have no idea what they mean, but since I seem starved for blog fodder lately, I thought I'd share a few of the recent ones with you.

They don't seem to have anything to do with my dreams. Last night I dreamed I was eating a bag of chocolate-covered crystallized ginger and that Rob was going to shoot me through the skull because he was no longer interested in me and he had a policy that in these cases, the woman must die.

This morning I woke up with "Across the Universe," closely followed by the Dan Reed Network's "Mix it Up" — both songs I happen to like:

Not a good sign.

2010-04-21T21:10:00.000-07:00

This is the label of the Vegemite we just finished. We had bought several gigantic jars back in... well, I guess it would have been 2001.

I did think at the time we were laying in a little too much to use in a year.

Vegemite doesn't go bad exactly. It just goes strange.

I do recognize that some of you think it's already strange. Or, for that matter, bad.

We have a fresh, smaller jar now.

Spring? Already? Yipes.

2010-03-26T18:03:00.000-07:00

It's not that I don't love spring. I do.

And this year, unlike last, I can even smell the freesia. My sense of smell is still weak and still goes away at times, but that it's there at all: no small wonder.

I think my feeling of "ulp!" as spring approaches is twofold. For one thing, winter here, in semi-arid desert with three million people countywide demanding water, is never long enough and there is never enough rain.

But the other bit is simply the sense that changing seasons gives us that time is passing. I'm seized with panic — there's so much I want to get done. So many things I have planned to do before I die. And though I'm doing them — really am, every day, working on things that matter to me — it never happens fast enough and I never get enough of the things on my heart's-list done.

I don't know when I'm going to die any more than anyone else does. I think sometimes that I'm taking the whole "live for today" mantra a little too much to heart, trying to cram everything into every day and feeling disappointed and panicky and sometimes even angry when I can't. Because I do have to sleep (drat it!), and work (drat!), and that leaves a certain # of hours, in which I must also exercise and eat and shower and so on. And I am human. Really I do recognize this.

Rob has suggested that meditation might help me to be more accepting of myself and what I can accomplish. And he may be right. But I'll tell you something: nothing beats the incredible satisfaction of actually getting something done that I care about.

It's far from perfect, but what the heck. Here is a song I wrote back in 1994 and have finally made a first pass at recording.

And here is a pie-slice shaped ditch that I dug with my very own hands! Well, and a trenching spade. First serious yard work I've been able to do since my car accident back in 2003. Seriously happy to be able to do it.

It's going to be a raised bed. The blocks to build it with arrived yesterday.

It may be spring, but at least I have a little inch-work to show for it.

"Journaling"

2010-03-22T14:41:00.000-07:00

Perhaps the first way to get yourself to write more regularly is to write a journal. At least, many fine people say so, but I think it's kind of baloney. I have a secret belief that we only have so many words in us per day, and if you use them all up on blithering in your diary about the cute chick/guy that walks past your window every day and who works in an unknown department and whose name you'll never know, you might not have any left for your Undiscovered Great American/British/Indian/Australian novel.

The problem with my theory is that if it's true, it's also clear that the number of words-per-day really varies from person to person. I know people who write for a living and who write thousands of words every day, yet still have energy for email. Yet my friend Avon, who had a couple of stories printed in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine back in the '80s — I would kill for that venue — Avon does a lot of writing now in her job (she works in the field of philanthropy and she reads and writes grants and reports all day), and she admitted to me about ten years ago that she didn't really expect to ever write fiction again. She also doesn't do much personal email.

I don't know where I am on the continuum. The lazy end, whatever end that is.

Recently, a friend of mine strongly recommended that I start "journaling." I would like to take this opportunity to complain about the use of "journal" as a verb: I hate the use of "journal" as a verb. There. That said, I can see why one does it instead of saying "writing in my journal" or "keeping a diary." We are all kind of 30-second spots these days, aren't we? With Twitter and all?

(By the way, I love Twitter. For the great list of reasons Quiet Riot Girl posted, among others.)

I don't think I want to keep a diary. I talk to myself enough as it is, and I'd bore myself stupid with a diary. I also don't actually think it will work for me as a way of "clarifying my goals" (as my friend suggested). I have a few too many personal goals as it is and I don't think I need any help with that, thanks.

But I think there is some value in blogging. In keeping myself competent in use of the English language. And above all in trying to engage others, even if I fail.

Maybe it'll use up my words, and I won't write the Great American Novel. But right now.. well, I'm not writing much of anything right now anyway.

Which is exactly the point.

Fulares – oh, oh – cantare – oh oh oh oh…

2010-03-01T11:03:00.000-08:00

(Sorry for the earworm. It's really hard not to sing "Volare" when you hear the word "fulares.")

I am half Sephardic, and I carry the flag of Sephardic cooking whenever possible, because it is delicious. My father's family is from Turkey — my paternal grandfather was born on the island of Marmara, and my grandmother's family hails from Rodos/Rhodes (now part of Greece). My style of cooking is primarily Rodesli, because I learned from my grandmother. I thought I'd share with you how to make fulares for Purim. Warning: I'm not very good at it! But they still taste nice.

Fulares are basically just pastries; fular apparently means "scarf" — my guess is that's because of the long strips of dough. But when made on the holiday of Purim, fulares are little representations of the villain Haman. Some communities portray Haman, pastryologically, on a gallows. Mine portrays him in jail.
The part of Haman will be played by an egg.

These are huevos jaminados, very slow-cooked hard-boiled eggs that I cook for 12-24 hours. The whites turn pale brown, and the yolks may be a pale yellow to dark grey color. They taste far better than normal hard-boiled eggs — in my very biased opinion. Though my husband (who is not Jewish) thinks so too. But you can make these with regular hard boiled eggs if you want.

Fular dough is similar to bureka dough: One part oil, one part ice water, four parts flour. A little salt for flavor (you can add grated cheese too if you want), and perhaps a pinch of baking soda. Mix it together, then knead it a little and let it rest for a bit. I like to roll out cigars of dough and then let them rest before rolling them further. The dough is a pain in the ass to work with. Fair warning!

To make the fular, I start by making a little twist of dough for the base and feet of Haman.

Then I roll some of my cigars out nice and thin.

Holding the (unpeeled) egg in my hand, I wrap a strip of dough, starting at the bottom of the egg, crossing over the top, and anchoring it back down at the bottom, snapping off the excess.

Then I do the same crosswise (it's out of alignment here — I fixed it after the photo):

Finally, I put the little foot-twist I made originally into my hand, and set the egg onto it, squishing it down so it's stable, and use a fork to make toes on the feet.

These go in a 400°F/210°C (or so) oven for 18-20 minutes. I put them in a muffin tin to try to keep them from falling over. Some of them come out relatively okay,

while some, understandably in my opinion, appear to be taking a little nap in jail. I like how the guy on the left has his toes turned up. He is really chilling on his jail sentence.

To eat them, you peel the dough off and eat it, then crack and peel the egg and eat it with salt and pepper. So this is really all for appearances. I'm certainly no artist, but for some reason fulares just make me smile.

Hope you had a happy Purim, whatever you happen to have been doing Sunday.

Keep fingers or toes crossed a little bit longer

2010-02-15T20:19:00.000-08:00

I am not going to know anything new for a while about the mysterious thing of which I sort of spoke in the last post.

So instead, feast your eyes on this:

It's San Diego, peeps, and in San Diego February is really almost spring. These are little baby grape leaves, and in a few months they will become Mighty Tasty Yaprakis. (That's not my recipe; I use my grandmother's, which has pine nuts in it.)

I dug a trench this weekend, or more accurately, two of the three trenches necessary to create a quarter-round shaped raised bed, roughly 3.6 meters in radius. I'll be special-ordering some of these blocks (I am enchanted that the URL is "verdura-ho" — will I be a Verdura Ho if I use them? or is this more like "Wagons Ho!", or perhaps "Heave-ho..." but I digress) and setting the first run in the trench, then building up from there to a bit over half a meter above ground in height.

And then I will finally have a place to plant things, because, although we have over a third of an acre of land, all the topsoil was scraped off and it consists now of subsoil which is basically rocks held together by clay. That plus a multitude of rabbits = raised beds. I'm starting small, but having dug, now, a good 7+ meters of trench, I feel I can take on the world.

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While I'm here, let me put in a small plug for Grasslimb. The latest issue is out, with NotKeith splashed all over it and a lot of great poetry and prose for your readin' pleasure. This issue may be a little poetry-heavy, but it's good stuff. It's a print journal in a world of e-words, yours for the subscribin' (or you can just purchase a single copy if you like). Anyway, .

It takes a tag to get me to post, I guess?

2010-02-01T12:45:00.000-08:00

It's been months, but MarshaKlein at Skip to the End has tagged me with saying which character from a book I resemble most closely. And this turns out to be really challenging because I don't actually self-reflect (despite the 'mirror' of this blog's title!) all that well. I just have no idea what/who I look like to the outside world.

As a child, I identified passionately with Meg in Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time. But that was kind of a funny identification — Meg shared my stubbornness and troubled social interactions, but she was also far more prone to arguing (something I loathe) than I'll ever be. I also identified with Jo March in Little Women, but again it was a strange sister, since Jo has a fiery temper and I have... nearly none. I think it was just my way of trying to tell myself I was extraordinary — and to deal with my own sense of isolation.

Now? I have no idea what I look like to others. I (think I) see myself as a sort of odd combination of determined, with so many personal projects, and nurturing. Perhaps in the end I do resemble Meg as an adult. I'd rather like to think that I do.

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How's your 2010 looking? I'm hanging in, feeling strangely unsettled, as you do before a storm. I was ill again for a couple of weeks so I'm stuck back on antibiotics for a few months (they want to be sure I don't get anything else!), but I healed more quickly than in the past, and I'm feeling pretty good, to be honest. I'm trying to get my literary magazine, Grasslimb, to the printer (tomorrow I hope) and to finish reading two library books before they're due. We're trying to plan our trip to Australia (my requested dates were turned down by my boss). My research paper was rejected Yet Another Time and we've sent it off to try Yet Another Conference. I'm supposed to be working on my Twitter research on the weekends and I'm playing far too much Plants vs Zombies. I need to schedule several medical tests. I'm walking every day and looking at the beautiful ocean.

And there are other, very strange things afoot that I can't yet talk about owing to not want to jinx them. Keep a finger or a toe crossed for me, though, would you?

October

2009-10-16T18:53:00.000-07:00

I think I have established pretty well that I don't know how to blog. I can never decide whether I'm here to have a philosophical ramble, a critical exploration, a personal revelation or a music review. I have another blog where I just talk about my knitting, and that one is much easier — if incredibly dull to those of you who aren't obsessed with a needle, and I don't mean one that serves up dope to junkies.

Anyway, so where was I? Standing on the edge and hoping, last time I saw myself. I think it's going all right. I've lost 13 pounds, and I'm taking a walk nearly every day. Most days, I feel much more energetic and I managed to do a few interviews on cell phone use and finish a research paper I was writing with my friend and co-researcher Louise. I took a little action on the find-a-job-I-might-like-better front (though it's likely to be a year or more before anyone around here is hiring), and I took some action on the making-the-best-of-the-job-I-have front, so the daily grind is a little less grindy. I helped clear brush in the yard to protect us from wildfire. I'm reading a bit more. I'm singing a bit more. And I am now hooked on The Wire (checking it out from Netflix; we still don't have cable, so I'm always a few years behind on TV).

But I feel like I'm not kicking my own ass quite enough. I want to get back to working on the online course I was writing on how to manage IT staff — and the book I was planning on the same subject. I want to be doing more research on things (like Twitter) that interest me. I want to set up my music studio again, now that I have some of my voice back, and get back to recording. I want to spend more time on Grasslimb submissions, so they're not always six months late getting a response. I want to do about a bazillion more things, and wish I could just quit the dratted job and do it.

I just took a psychological self-assessment that told me that one of my unhelpful personal schemas was thinking you had to accomplish a lot of stuff to be a valuable person. I do accept that I have this problem. Unfortunately, knowing it doesn't make me want to do all these things any less.

Can I stand on the verge?

2009-07-26T17:01:00.000-07:00

Last year, two weeks after my surgery, I thought I was going to get well. I was going to get well and then I was going to do the things I had been forced to put on hold: I was going to sing again, and record more of my songs. I was going to exercise, and drop the weight gained from months of idleness. I was going to see my friends more and write more and finish my mediation credential and do research and damn it, get my life back.

It didn't quite happen. I did finish my mediation credential (this past April), I did do a little research, I was able to sing for a little while, I saw my friends more for a little while, and I even exercised a little (just walking) for a little while. And then I got sicker and sicker and sicker and then I was back in that operating room.

I'm two weeks out of surgery again and I still want to feel like I'm standing on the verge of reclaiming my life. That tomorrow, the first day I'm allowed exercise, I will take a walk and do a little careful floor work. That I'll start practicing with the band again in a couple of weeks, that I'll finish the novel left 1/3 completed, that I'll get back to my planned research. That I'll finally get off the antibiotics I've been taking for a year, get my energy back, stop having side effects. All those things.

And I want to believe it. My caution tells me not to expect too much, too fast; not to be too sure I'll be better this time, as this condition is a tough one to manage. But is it a mistake to have that half-light feeling of standing on the verge of a green-meadowed canyon or a sunlit garden once again?

A cup of tea and all who sail in her

2009-06-09T12:14:00.000-07:00

When I started this blog, it was at the behest of several other bloggers whose comments trails I had been using as my own personal blog — a bad habit. I had been meditating on my Internet longevity and thought that might give me some kind of interesting perspective on new media (it doesn't). I thought, I've been on board this ship of wonder since it first set sail: what if I looked back on my voyage? Would I have something to say?

But that's not what happened. Instead, I think, this blog became a refuge for me-in-melancholy — the place to admit some of the loss, the emptiness, the disruption in my generally-cheerful soul. I blogged about deaths of people I've known and people I've admired. I blogged about the loss of a job that I loved with a deep passion and about my troubled search to fill the intellectual void it left. I've not had a lot of readers or commenters, probably owing not just to the nature but to the style of my writing here, but I'm okay with that. I set up this blog with a different ID than my knitting blog, thinking that my knitting readers (there are a lot more of those) might not like to see the things I was blogging about here — the darker side of my moods — that is, I think I knew when I set this up that I was not going to be fascinating and intellectual here, but broody and introspective. But I hadn't admitted it to myself.

I have more sinus surgery coming up in July (fortunately it will be mostly endoscopic — just some incisions in my eyebrows) and I have different feelings about it this time. Last year I was absolutely terrified, desperately afraid of dying as I've always been, afraid of harm to my vocal cords (singing has long been a critical part of my identity), afraid in general of being unconscious, something I've never liked.

But now I've been sick for a very long time. My life has been curtailed, somewhat placed on hold. I'm still doing what I can of what I love and what makes me me, but there is much I can't do. I can't sing right now. I lack the energy to play instruments or do proper gardening or have sex or keep up with my correspondence. And I don't seem to be writing much — a few poems and half a short story since I became ill, back in August of '07. That seems so feeble; I hate that I'm leaning on an excuse. I get so I despise myself. I've experienced brief flashes of suicidal feelings, when I would think that I might not get well and might have to spend the rest of my life with this illness (which I suppose is still possible — there is no guarantee this surgery will work).

And my view has somehow altered. I'm not at peace exactly, maybe a little more so, and also, I think, somewhat number to the idea that I could go in for surgery and not wake up (it's not likely, but surgery always carries some risk). I do think a lot of it is numbness. I have put my desires, my urges, my cravings into iceboxes for now because they only make me sad. I feel like I care just a little bit less whether I make it through all this or not. (Please note: at this point, my illness is not in any way terminal.)

The funny thing is you can't shut the door entirely. Flowers keep on blooming in my garden despite neglect. I scrape out bits of writing, here or in people's comments trails (er, haven't recovered from that addiction), or on scraps of paper at my bedside, despite my inability to get a complete story finished and sent off. I'm still editing my literary magazine. I still water my potted plumeria and repot my little epiphyllum, even if I don't get the roses pruned. And I keep thinking of things I want to do "when I'm well," if and when that ever happens.

Not sure where I'm going with all this, but I'll sit down here with a cup of tea and try to figure it out.

The scentless world

2009-05-18T10:02:00.000-07:00

As you know, I've had chronic bacterial sinusitis (basically, an infection that won't go away) for going on two years now, and in the last five months it's gotten quite bad. I lost my sense of smell completely around February, a small thing in the scheme of things, I thought.

But it has turned out to be very strange. I have always had an overly sensitive sense of smell. Lying in bed at night, I would smell cottage cheese that had gone off in the fridge. Or I couldn't sleep, because there were mildewy towels in the bathroom. I doted on scented flowers, had no time for mere tulips or amaryllis — what was the point? — and loved perfume.

My beloved freesia came and went without me getting a single sniff this year. Roses began to bloom and I cut them and brought them in to look at, remembering the particular smell of each variety but unable to experience it. Food tasted dull, flat, so I ate too much in unsatisfied reaction. I quickly learned that, without odor, there were some foods that actually had no taste at all. Remember the old science experiments where you had to distinguish between raw onion, apple, potato with your eyes closed and a clothespin on your nose? Like that. (Really, because the congestion often feels like a clothespin.) I was miserable. I nearly cried when the freesia quit blooming.

Of course, many things are easier when you have no sense of smell. Clean the catboxes? Why certainly! Stinky bathroom? really? Doesn't bother me. Farty husband? Not a problem. I wasn't bothered by Rob burning toast, something he does regularly of a Sunday morning. Nor did I notice the decaying lizard (the cat likes to bring them inside alive and drop them, where they promptly run under immovable objects) that was stenching up the house, apparently, for a week or so.

But there are problems. Sense of smell is also useful. I didn't detect that the house has been smelling like mold for a few weeks, possibly a water leak which we now will have to investigate. I can't tell if food in the fridge has gone off, or if it's safe to eat. If I'm unsure about food, I toss it; about whether clothing has been worn, I wash it; probably I'm much more wasteful than I was.

And then I began to get flashes of smell.

At first, it was just a few seconds. I would suddenly notice a sort of sour odor, and quickly turn to something pleasant to see if I could smell it before the sense went away again. Sometimes it went away so fast I thought I'd imagined it. Just little glimpses.

One day my sense of smell came back for two hours. And it was awful.

When you haven't smelled the world for months, it STINKS. It came back while I was driving in my car. There is no rotting food in my car, no tipped-over water, nothing awful like that, and yet it stank. I walked into my office and it stank. People smelled, all of them, despite deodorant. And the bathroom, which is kept clean... was indescribable. I felt queasy. I no longer wanted to overeat; I didn't want to look at food at all. I tried burying my nose in a jasmine plant, but, unused to the overpowering smell, I was disgusted. I found it hard to concentrate on work.

As suddenly as it had arrived, the sense departed. I cannot describe how relieved I felt. It was as if I had been listening to a terrifically loud band while jackhammering, without any ability to cover my ears, and was suddenly transported to a quiet soundproofed room.

I'm back on antibiotics now, so I am still getting occasional glimpses of scent. If I'm bending over my roses, that's pleasant. Otherwise, it is somewhat disconcerting.

I still hope to get my sense of smell back someday. At least, I think I do. But I know it'll take adjusting back to our current societal background smell level — and that, at least, I am not looking forward to.

Natasha Richardson and the death of dreams

2009-03-18T18:18:00.000-07:00

It was in "A Month in the Country" when I first fell for Natasha Richardson, her sidelong smile, stun-you-speechless beauty and aura of calm. I had her picture attached to the side of my fridge with cellophane tape (alongside a shot of Ellen Barkin, if I remember correctly).

I didn't see her in her other movies. Perhaps I wanted to preserve the character she'd played in my head; but the picture, tape-stained and yellowing, followed me from house to house to apartment to house until it finally crumbled to dust in a final move.

And now she's gone — as ethereal to me in the end as her picture. From a head injury, one of those terribly insidious ones where you don't know there's anything wrong until it's too late.

It takes me back to 1990. The headlines then read "DEAD BOY", someone's macabre sense of humor. Stiv Bators, once lead singer of the Dead Boys and then of Lords of the New Church, had died unexpectedly after being struck by a car in France. He had tried to go to hospital but after waiting for a long time, gave up and went home, where he subsequently went to sleep and never woke up. It was determined that, similarly to Richardson, he'd had an undetected concussion and probably bleeding in the brain.

This kind of death is so scary and so ridiculously tragic. If you'd caught it in time you might have been okay, except there was nothing to really tell you that there was anything to catch.

As Stiv sang, "There ain't no justice out there."

Winter in San Diego

2009-01-10T16:54:00.000-08:00

Just when you get sick of cursing the dark, covering your outdoor tender plants with old sheets before a frost, waking up in a 58°F bedroom and whimpering your way into your clothes, there's a Santa Ana and it's 80°F outside and you are striking sparks off everything you touch: your car, your pets, your armchair. This is a strange town.

It's a new year and it couldn't come a moment too soon. 2008 ended pretty well on the whole, but it was a challenging year and I'm ready for a new chance. Why the heck I put any store by a calendar date I don't know, but 1 January always seems clean and fresh. (Even if it's now the third anniversary of one of my favorite people dying. He would have savored the irony.)

I'm celebrating January by buying myself a couple of interesting albums (The Album Leaf's "Into the Blue Again" and Abigail Washburn & the Sparrow Quartet's unusual and wonderful first album), taking up a new hobby (learning banjo — I got one for Hanukkah) and revisiting an old hobby that I don't have time for (stamp collecting). I'm drinking jasmine green tea and petting the cat and enjoying the luxury of working in my study again (we had three sets of house guests in December, and my study is a 2nd guest room for when we have crowds). I'm finishing the last of the December high-calorie junk food and temporarily ignoring my waistline.

Yes, these are tomato blossoms in the northern hemisphere in January. We're still getting a few cherry tomatoes. Told you it was a weird town.

I tell you, I'd be a fascinating person if I didn't have to work.

Among my pleasures this month is rereading all the wonderful Armitage family stories in the recently released Serial Garden, by Joan Aiken. It's published by some of my favorite people, the inimitable Kelly Link and the lovely Gavin Grant, and you should get it for yourself and all your young friends. Every kid deserves to grow up with the Armitages.

I have a cat in my lap now. Purr purr purr.

This is going to be an interesting year. May your path be irresistible and delicious.

It is to laugh.

2008-12-03T19:51:00.000-08:00

So I've had this utterly unstimulating job for over a year, and I've filled in all the crevices in my life with as many extracurricular activities as I could: cognitive science research, working towards my credential in mediation (alternative dispute resolution), singing with a band, continuing to edit and publish a literary magazine, and knitting. I finally get to where it's time to write up the research, finish the credential, publish the January issue, etc. — not to mention holiday season, house guests aplenty, parties, Rob's birthday... — and what happens?

Work gets all exciting and crazy-busy.

It's not a bad thing. I've been made project manager for a huge, 10-year project (my university's conversion to IPv6, for you geeks) — dunno if I'll get to keep that, but it's extremely fun doing the planning for it. And there's a bunch of other projects on the fire, too, that I'm doing planning and cat-herding for, plus organizing the entire group's project list. Finally my brain is getting a little exercise (nothing like trying to budget 10 years into the future for technology!).

We had a lovely Thanksgiving — served Turkish food (an unintentional pun on not serving turkey, but I was amused anyway), had friends visiting from out of state, plus a friend from town and my parents and brother, then spent the weekend visiting guitar stores and trying out banjos. Because yes, I want to learn to play the banjo. Because I obviously don't have enough to do right now.

(We won't even talk about the week or so I spent evenings fooling around with a Java how-to book.)

Joy and dismay

2008-11-05T09:26:00.000-08:00

I went to sleep last night in a stew of jubilation and humiliation. To my great joy, Barack Obama was elected president, with the terrifically competent Joe Biden at his side. Some outside the U.S. won't have much familiarity with Biden, but let me assure you he's smart, practical and gifted at foreign policy — and a good guy. You will see more of him.

But California* — and two other states — have managed to institutionalize discrimination, by actually altering their constitutions to exclude gay men and lesbians from the right to marry. And this makes me sick at heart. And embarrassed for my state.

We've crossed one boundary — and installed another. We have had our hopes raised to the heavens and dashed on the rocks. Five couples I know got married this year whose marriages now fall into legal limbo. No one who knows them questions their love and commitment. But their government refuses their right to memorialize that love and commitment with the state as witness.

At the same time, I see immediate evidence that on the national level, hands will truly reach across the aisle for practical, better solutions to support the American people and to communicate with the world. Obama has promised to put both Republicans and Democrats in his cabinet, and his vaunted calmness — and ability to listen — may quiet the partisan storm and turn the mental energy of elected officials towards solving problems. At least, this is the hope that led me to donate to and vote for Barack Obama.

Maybe a little of this spirit will filter down to the states and let us overturn the discriminatory nonsense that's been written into far too many state constitutions. But it's long past the time when this kind of thing simply shouldn't have happened.

* — votes are still being counted; but it doesn't look good.

Adjusting.

2008-10-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

You don't have to read this. I just feel the need to write it somewhere.

I went to see my ENT/surgeon yesterday to look over last week's CT scans.

I had sinus surgery in May to re-drill my ethmoid (on the nose side of the eye sockets) and maxillary (in the cheeks) sinuses, which had become filled with scar tissue and infection. What I didn't realize at the time is that endoscopic surgery can't normally reach the frontal sinuses (in the forehead). Usually, problems in that area will heal after the other sinuses have been cleared. In my case, they have not.

Persistent infection in that area flared up a month ago. CT scans show that it has not healed and is still filled with inflammation and infection.

Surgery on the frontal sinuses is pretty serious, involving (among other nasty things) drilling holes through the skull in the forehead (I think I'll spare you the other details, which are grossing me out). My surgeon does not want to do this surgery, which is difficult, risky and has only moderate rates of success, if it can be avoided. However, chronic frontal sinus infection has its own set of serious risks, like brain infection->coma->death, so it can't be just left alone.

So the upshot is that I will be on antibiotics now long term. Basically they need to keep the infection under control, even if they can't cure it, otherwise they'll have to consider that horrible surgery. I might have the infection forever, it's just unclear. The headaches are likely to continue for the forseeable future.

Of course, I figure it's likely I've had this infection for years now, so I'm not sure why it's so challenging to digest this information.

After some thought, my resolutions are:

* try to be cheerful as much as possible. I ain't dead. I can still work and do stuff, even if antibiotics tend to make me more tired and somewhat icky-feeling
* look into more alternative accompanying treatments, such as guaifenesin and acupuncture
* try to be patient with myself for my lowered level of accomplishments

Not sure I'll be successful. But I'll try.

So tired. Like every year at this time.

2008-10-07T13:42:00.001-07:00

What is it about the Jewish holidays that suck all the joy out of me for a few weeks every fall? I mean, they are supposed to be holidays. That is, there should be something celebratory about them. And we do have huge holiday meals at my parents' house, and generally good visits with them.

Okay, I'm an atheist. And I don't much like spending 3-6 hours at a time in services. But is the 15 hours or so a year I spend on this really so much to give when it makes my parents so happy? And my dad blows shofar — can't really miss that. My dad is the awesomest.

Plus, I'm the vocal feature on Yom Kippur (I chant the morning Haftarah), and ego aside, people would seriously be sad if I wasn't there. They say things to me like "when I hear you sing, I know that I am forgiven." And, worse, "your singing must come straight from God. It makes my belief stronger."

This all makes me feel seriously wack.

I know I blog about this every year. Clearly in need of a shrink on this particular issue!

Horse pills

2008-09-18T13:07:00.001-07:00

I'm now on treble antibiotics for my dratted sinus infection (the one that wasn't supposed to happen anymore after my May surgery). TREBLE. I ask you. Plus, how do they expect you to swallow this many big pills with a sore throat?

Grumble, grumble.

On the plus side, I'm making progress writing an online class on technical management! And I just ate some chocolate!

Mm, chocolate.

(I may be said to be easily distracted.)

Even walls fall down

2008-09-14T09:52:00.000-07:00

When Nico recorded the songs for the movie Chelsea Girls, one of the tunes was "These Days," penned by a precocious, 16-year-old Jackson Browne. Forty years on, lines like "These days I seem to think a lot / about the things that I forgot to do / and all the times I had the chance to" and "Please don't confront me with my failures / I'd not forgotten them," take on a special poignancy after her death, at 47, from a disastrously weakened heart, a death that not even her late conversion to healthy habits could avert. "I wonder if I'll see another highway?"

If the song sounded precocious coming from the pen of a very young man and the lips of a young woman in 1965, and achingly prescient in forty-years-gone retrospect, it takes on yet another tone coming from 72-year-old Glen Campbell on his latest album, Meet Glen Campbell.

Campbell has the weight of years behind his interpretation, but the song loses nothing of its poignancy in his hands. Nor do the words of that 16-year-old sound at all foolish; Campbell's interpretation lends them gravity where they falter.

In Meet Glen Campbell, Campbell has recorded a set of popular songs from this generation and last. Some of the best work on the album: a fine-rocking reading of the Travis hit "Sing," two robust Tom Petty tunes, and a blissful take on Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life). Nothing here is a compromise or a dumbing-down of the originals. (In fact, I like Campbell's "Sing" better.)

I discovered the album because Campbell also covers the Paul Westerberg song "Sadly Beautiful," and I'm a huge Westerberg fan. Campbell's version is okay — could have been more heartfelt — but certainly it spreads awareness of Westerberg's enormous talent, and I can't complain about that.

A lively take on the Velvet Underground's "Jesus" ~~(and some may not know that Campbell played as a session musician on some early VU records)~~ and a sweet ending with Lennon/Ono's "Grow Old Along with Me" round out the album nicely.

If there's a weakness here, it's "All I Want is You." Like many U2 songs, the original was carried more by presentation than quality of songcraft, and in Campbell's hands the limitations of the song are all too evident.

There are a few personal touches on the album. In place of the line "It's just that I've been losing so long" (on "These Days"), Campbell sings "It's just that I've been healing so long" — perhaps a nod to his hard-won battle with drugs and alcohol. And the inclusion of "Angel Dream" may be another. Campbell credits his wife from saving him from literally killing himself (he nearly died more than once) with substance abuse. "I found an angel, I found my place," Campbell sings, buoyed by his trademark guitar and the excellent banjo work of George Doering. "I can only thank God it was not too late."

It's not too late for Campbell, either. Check out this album. When he sings, "I'm bound to be improving these days," I think you'll believe him.

EDITED: After Tim's query, I took out the line about playing as a session musician on VU albums because, although I can find several postings claiming that he did, I can't find a discography proving it. Folks tend to list session musicians on albums now, but that wasn't true in the '60s, and so the evidence is circumstancial.

Finding my way back

2008-09-06T17:41:00.000-07:00

Like many bloggers, I suppose, I have to actually work at locating my self-identity at times, buried as it becomes under the load of Everyday Life and its obligations. We love having house guests, but we've had them for close to three months straight now, and now that the house has quieted down a bit, I'm beginning to find my way back to me (ugh. And if that doesn't sound like a '70s song, what does?).

I got Grasslimb to press and into the mail, hurrah! I'm always proud and relieved to release it into the wild, and it's hard to believe it is my 13th issue. The quality of the work in it is the gift of my contributors — I'm amazed and humbled by the beautiful things they choose to send me. The lead fiction piece this time just stuns me. And if you buy a copy, don't forget to check out the artwork by fellow blogger NotKeith!

I'm ill again, of course. It seems that the surgery I had in May wasn't entirely successful, and I've got a doozy of a bacterial sinus infection. I stayed home from work for a few days, crept back Friday for a half-day, and today attempted to run errands and fell over afterwards. So I'm on my sofa, but I'm not idle; by turns finishing up some knitting, designing a new piece, reading a great noir mystery from the '50s, working a little bit on a new short story, organizing the photos from our trip, and going through some Grasslimb submissions. (Yes, I do realize I'm the poster child for ADD.) I am resting, honestly. But I really need to do these things to get back to myself.

And at the moment, I'm feeling, although ill, strangely centered.

Toting.

2008-08-14T14:12:00.000-07:00

We've been toting the MiL around the western U.S – she spends a couple of months with us every summer, now. We hit the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway; Palm Desert's Living Desert (kind of a zoo/botanical garden); Joshua Tree National Park; Lake Mead Recreation Area; five days in Yellowstone Nat'l Park; Grand Teton National Park; Zion Naitonal Park; and Las Vegas.

We also had Rob's childhood friend Brian with us, who we'd flown out from a small town in South Australia for five weeks. We had purchased a cargo box for the roof of Rob's Prius for our luggage, since Mum's wheelchair needed to go in the back (she's not handicapped, but very weak). To our grand surprise, even with a full cargo box and 4 passengers, we got about 46 miles per U.S. gallon. You can't beat that with a stick.

I can't say the trip was precisely relaxing, because at 87, Verna's needing a lot of time and attention for every task (just walking to the loo, opening its door, working the latch, unworking the latch, figuring out how to make the faucet turn on etc. becomes a gradual, two-person operation). I got up earlier than everyone else every day, laid out breakfast, and packed both my suitcase and hers. Rob and Brian packed the cargo box every day and shared the task of pushing the wheelchair, and Brian and I did a two-man job on getting Verna's seatbelt refastened every time we stopped (she doesn't have the strength to push it in far enough to 'click'). She got very sick in Las Vegas, with a two-ended stomach flu that needed a great deal of my energy, nursing skills, and paper towels, but she's better now.

And I'm exhausted — I've tried to get a little extra sleep this week, but I'm back at work by day and we are still trying to cram a lot of activities into their visits (they both leave this Saturday), so the evenings are pretty full. I guess I'll sleep on Sunday, or when I'm dead ;-) With luck, it's been a quality trip for them both.

I won't be resting here, though:

It was right next to a Big Boy restaurant. Maybe they were a little unclear on the concept.

Nothing to say?

2008-06-30T14:13:00.000-07:00

Apparently I haven't had too much to say lately, or not much to say to the world at large. But I haven't been idle. My mother-in-law is here for the summer, and we babysat my niece/husband's daughter (it's complicated) this weekend, and another house guest arrives in a week and a half. And I've been hard at work on my literary magazine, which goes to press next month. And I did some work on my research. And somewhere in there I did another mediation (working towards my mediation credential with NCRC).

And I asked my boss if I could go to 80% time. It doesn't seem all that likely she'll say yes, but it seems worth trying. I just have a lot of things I want to pack into my life.

So while you're waiting breathlessly for me to say something poetic or brilliant, check out your Swedish Furniture Name. Mine is either Sväleri or Svållery, depending on how often I hit return... and I might be a chair, a chest of drawers or a bed. You? Let me know if I should sit on you, kick you shut or let my cat nap on you in the comments.

Women, fire, and dangerous things

2008-05-25T09:45:00.000-07:00

By far the most compelling creation at the Maker Faire was Mutopia, a fiery moving sculpture that I had trouble tearing myself away from after dusk. It had the appearance of an unusual flower, some sort of Audrey II in Hades, but with more grace. Aching loveliness in scrap metal and flame.

On my return to real life I looked it up, and it turns out that Mutopia is a project of the Flaming Lotus Girls, a woman-led creative group that's been a staple of Burning Man for a while. Over 100 people are involved in their worldwide artistic installations.

Mutopia and its feminine glory reminded me of George Lakoff's Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things, a seminal book on cognitive categorization that I'd read as a Cognitive Science undergrad back in the '80s. The book is not so much about the title items as the way in which they become grouped together (for those of you who know Lakoff from his recent political writings, this is twenty years earlier, when he was making waves in the science of the mind), but it's hard, once you've read the title, to keep the associations from your head. Which is part of Lakoff's point — humans are constantly categorizing, putting things in boxes, making associations, grouping. We like to put things in boxes. Maybe it makes us think we understand them, have some mastery over them.

Patroclus has just finished a study in categorization in her Guardian/Observer Letters blog. For those who haven't been following, she worked her way through the letters column day after day, categorizing the writers into male, female and indeterminate. Her suspicion — "Given that men and women make up just about equal proportions of the population, and given that men and women are more or less equally inclined towards expressing their views publicly, it should follow that the Guardian's letters pages should reflect that kind of near-equality. But I don't think they do, and now I want to prove it." — is certainly borne out. There remains the question of whether the same divide exists in the pool of letter-writers, or if the proportions more evenly reflect those of the general population. Patroclus explores reasons for the results in an excellent summary posting.

Some of her summary delves into yet more categorizing: she hypothesizes the possibility of women writing only on "traditionally 'female' topics like domestic violence, abortion, anorexia and equal rights in the workplace" (or, perhaps, only being published when they do). It's still interesting to me that traditionally female topics tend to touch either on the physiology of women (and their health, etc.) or on aspects of abuse that may bear relation to the differing average physiology of men and women. And look — here I am trying to place things in a box again.

I'm fascinated by the pervasiveness of our categorizing, of how we have to categorize even to explain our categorizing. I wonder whether or not this tendency can explain part of the way we minimize or sideline women's voices, still. It's something to think on as I'm convalescing (the surgery went well, but it'll be a while before I'm fully recovered). And I urge you all to stay tuned to Guardian/Observer Letters to see what explanation the editors offer (and how it relates to putting things in boxes).

But meanwhile, remember that women can be dangerous things.

Travels.

2008-05-14T20:57:00.001-07:00

I could go on, but I won't do so at the moment. We're off on another trip now — to Los Alamos for a friend's wedding. Back Sunday night, then sinus surgery is Monday morning, so I will probably be gone about a week. You won't even notice. Y'all read good blogs while I'm gone, hey?

You're the one, girl

2008-05-08T19:58:00.000-07:00

For the last two weeks, I haven't been able to listen to much of anything but Cee-Lo Green and Gnarls Barkley. I bought the new Gnarls on the strength of "Crazy" from the first album (which I didn't even own yet), then a coworker lent me Cee-Lo's solo albums. I ripped them, then just bought them (which I always do if I like something), and basically put them all on endless repeat.

Beyond just the sheer bloody genius of his music — which meshes soul, gospel, hip-hop, R&B and even a little disco and electronica a little differently on every song — there are his lyrics*, dashing from bare reality to deep affirmation:

Life is bittersweet, bittersweet indeed
Well I'm so human it is a goddamn shame...
And I make sure that I always keep me some pain
to remind me that I survived somehow
Lord please don't let nothing steal me away right now-
'cause I wanna live!
[from "Living Again"]

or from the celestial to the celebratory:

But the power that you get
from the heart of a human being
Only the mind is mechanic —
the dynamic happens when the divine starts to intervene —
Have mercy — if I seem to be heavy,
I don't mean to be heavy
But just let me say this last thing
There's a beginning and an ending and the misassumption
isn't make the most of it in between

It's like I'm standing on my tippy-toes to touch a star
Trying to catch joy in a glass jar
And yes by far I'm so much further than they are

Turn the radio on, let the music play
If I could I'd dance my life away
And if you can't seem to find any words to say
Make a joyful noise!

[from The Art of Noise]

Then there's "The One" at the other end of the profundity spectrum:

You're the one, girl,
you're the one, girl,
Put your finger in the air if you're the one, girl.
Put your finger in the air if you're the one, girl.

Love it. A joyful noise is exactly what this all is...

Anyway, facing extensive sinus surgery in less than two weeks, with one good friend starting chemo next week, another getting married the next day, and other earth-shaking events around me, I just want to gather them all up in my arms and play music really loud.

Have mercy — if I seem to be heavy, I don't mean to be heavy...

* if I got any lyrics wrong, I'm sorry... he sings FAST.

People get ready...

2008-04-21T19:38:00.001-07:00

The Amtrak is coming for me, this Thursday, when I will be whisked off to lovely Portland and the San Francisco Bay Area for a week and a half of visiting friends. Though I'm not well and won't be for a while (surgery at end of May), this trip seems not too tasking, and I will relax in the parlor car with my knitting and a good book and a pleasant husband, chatting and watching the coast unfold outside my window.

May you all have a nice time while I'm gone. I'm not taking a laptop (shocking. But it's hard to get the Internet on a train)...

Presbyopia

2008-04-15T19:27:00.000-07:00

As of April the 9th I am 43, and beginning to really know what it means to have 'old eyes'. I'm reaching for my cheesy cheetah-print reading glasses more and more often, and finding dim light a real barrier to legibility.

When I was younger, I confess I really hated reading glasses and I felt a little bit irritated when people pulled them out. I knew they weren't an affectation, but still I felt annoyed and impatient with people using them, even more so for people who misplaced them and whined at other people to read things to them. I do realize this is completely silly, and I never expressed it. Nevertheless, I felt these feelings in my secret heart.

And now? Now I take some pleasure in pulling out my garish cheetah-printers and flashing them around, sometimes using them even when I could probably get by without them. Now I misplace the ones I bought for crafting regularly and dump out bags of yarn, searching. I have become the thing that I despised. And, strangely, I don't care.

I'm sure I'm going to irritate everyone who's not here yet. {sigh}

Huh — so it wasn't the flu.

2008-03-29T09:11:00.000-07:00

I just found out, after a series of blood tests, that it most likely wasn't the flu I had in February, and not my ongoing sinus problems that have been tiring me out — it was most likely mononucleosis. Yep, that mono, the one you are supposed to get when you are 14 and kiss a boy. Though I didn't kiss a boy until I was 16, but still... you are not supposed to get it when you are nearly 43. But apparently, that's what I've got. (And I still have to get the sinus CT scan because that problem is unrelated.)

At least it explains my low energy. Things are getting better now, though! In fact...

I did my first mediation yesterday.

My first real one with real people rather than actors in a simulation. It was fascinating. And it didn't proceed through the stages they taught us — so that was good, actually, because it taught me to feel comfortable with the unexpected. I learned a great deal. And now I feel far less intimidated. This one was with a bail bondsman and a person who owed him money. I was a bit nervous ahead of time but it was fine.

Oh, I did cheat and have maté before I went ;-)

Maté. Plus, I may also be a grownup.

2008-03-09T18:50:00.000-07:00

I had a few questions about maté after my last post, and thought I'd share some of my strange passion for the brew here.

I must say that I've never had any of the experiences that Tim describes. I have a feeling those particular side effects may be side effects of the Argentine lad's personality, rather than the evil shrub. In fact, what I like about maté is its gift of clear-headed focus — so different from my scattered coffee self. I don't drink it too often, as I'm afraid to become accustomed to it, but it's wonderful when I need it.

Yerba mate, or maté if you're trying to find or pronounce it in the U.S. or U.K., is a holly bush grown in South America; the leaves are dried, then steeped in hot water, for the beverage. It smells vaguely like tobacco leaves, and it isn't that it's so delicious — it tastes a bit like you might expect stewed grass and weed leaves to taste — but it has a marvellous effect on the body. You can read the Wikipedia entry for more details. If you can lay hands on the toasted version, it's a bit tastier in my opinion.

Up above you'll see my metal bombilla, a straw used for drinking yerba mate from a gourd. I don't use it for that, but if my maté is sufficiently cool, I sometimes drink it this way from a mug. Warning: if your beverage is too hot, the bombilla is great for burning your lips. Not something I enjoy personally. (If I'm going to burn my lips, I'd rather it be from hot kisses or Thai food.)

---

It must be handbag or purse week somewhere, since Patroclus and I seem to have both taken the plunge into true female adulthood: she has a new purse (and very fine it is), I have a new handbag. (Which, having grown up in Michigan, I tend to sloppily call a purse, making Californians look at me funny. It's kind of akin to the pants/trousers thing.) Still, after years of using a stained, battered old Healthy Back Bag, this fancy Maruca number makes me feel strangely grown up and formal. Almost as if I should be, you know, wearing nylon stockings, or something like that. Almost. But not quite.

Finally, if you need a bit of a laugh heading into Monday, check out the Guardian's list of the world's 50 most powerful blogs. It's not that this isn't a worthwhile list — there are some excellent things on here. But powerful?

...Okay, okay, maybe icanhascheezburger DOES have some clout in the world, but I must dispute Drudge Report...

Nom nom nom.

See how I stun.

2008-03-07T11:40:00.000-08:00

I might have called a blog post that before, while listening to the same Interpol song. Fragments of lyrics tend to lodge themselves in my subconscious, surfacing in staccato bursts (and occasionally bursting randomly out of my mouth) over the next twenty years.

I had maté this morning, so I feel ready to take on the world. I'm such a druggie. Well, susceptible, anyway. I had moved into a morning Earl Grey ritual, in lieu of coffee (I just kind of got out of the mood for coffee — I wasn't trying to quit). But today I had to get to work at 7:30 (instead of my usual 9:00), so I needed an extra brain cell boost. And I got one. I feel defiantly intelligent!

One suspects the real effect of maté is on self-confidence* rather than anything actual. As you can tell from my current reading (at right), I'm not exactly taxing my intellect lately.

* — I think the haircut probably helped too. I love haircuts.

Rumors of my demise are exaggerated.

2008-02-28T20:39:00.001-08:00

But not greatly.

Well, it wasn't that bad. But I had flu followed by a bacterial infection, and even though I've been much better for about a week now, it's taken me this long just to catch up with myself enough to get around to blogging. Kind of a weak start to 2008, no? And I just typed 2007 and had to back up three times before I got it right. This decade is just whizzing by. We'll be on Web 4.0 before I know it.

Once I was well, I used up my energy making sushi cupcakes for a friend's baby shower, which another friend and I threw at my place:

The rice is coconut-sour cream frosting; the wasabi is plain frosting with green food coloring; the ginger and some of the fish is shaved or sliced dried papaya. Roe is made from gummi rasberries, and the cucumber is green sour straws. The nori is my great achievement, homemade fruit leather (with green food coloring mixed in, of course).

We were pretty impressed with ourselves. More so than was warranted, I'm sure. We managed to make a couple dozen of these and they were a big hit.

So that's my main achievement for the month, though I did also complete advanced mediation training somewhere in there. Which rocked. I love this field. It's right up my alley, almost disturbingly so — I really love seeing upset people calm down and feel better.

I got to the point at my last job where I kind of liked having the angry customers referred to me. It was such a high to make them happy again that I didn't mind the initial yelling. It's odd, because I never yell myself. I cave in any argument long before I have a chance to get mad.

I'm sure this all says something about my inner self. (I probably don't want to know what, though...)

big baby.

2008-02-11T19:12:00.000-08:00

I've spent the last five days basically lying in bed (or, sometimes, sleeping in a chair, because of the coughing), with a bad — but not complicated — case of influenza. I haven't had the flu in many, many years. The closest memory I have to this is having bronchitis about seven years ago, when Rob kindly brought the armchair from my study into the bedroom and set me up so I could sleep sitting up but he'd still be within hearing (like some other folks with frequent respiratory troubles, I have an only somewhat irrational fear of choking or suffocating to death in my sleep). This time around, I was a little braver, and have been going into my study around 4 a.m. when the coughing starts, and then napping in the chair after that.

It's a really comfy chair, though. Big wing-backed armchair with velveteen cheetah-print upholstery. I realize that sounds pretty goofy, but our house is sort of decorated in ethnic-chic, except it's not very chic and it is very messy. In its defense I will say that it looks lived in and comfortable and our frequent house guests say they are never bored, because there is so much shit to look at. Except they don't say 'shit'. Because we have very polite house guests.

I digress. As sometimes happens when one has a bug that affects the lungs, I haven't been interested in eating much lately except clear liquids, but when a bit of appetite came back the other day, I craved... Botan Rice Candy. Fortunately we had some in the cupboard.

And then it hit me. I've been fascinated by the provenance of the huge baby in the movie Spirited Away. It's a weird, slightly disturbing image of a baby many times the size of its elderly mother. I tried to find a picture to post here, but besides cover art and some unrelated scenes, Google Image Search just gave me one of Borat in a bikini, so you'll have to watch the movie. Anyway, doesn't it seem like the two might come from some common cultural mythology? I don't know enough about Japanese culture to know, and of course it could be coincidence. But I like to think the Spirited Away baby is the Botan baby come to life.

Well, okay, "to animation." (But doesn't "animation" imply life?)

Okay, and I watched some Ghost in the Shell on Saturday night, and honestly I was still kind of feverish but I really thought one of the guys in it was cute. This worries me.

But I digress.

Primarily, I vote for a future.

2008-02-04T17:26:00.000-08:00

I dropped off my ballot for the California Democratic primary election today. I voted for Obama, for whom I've had respect since I first read about him in the run-up to his Senate election several years ago. But it doesn't matter so much for whom I voted, nor who wins this primary election; it matters a great deal to the world who wins in November.

Like it or not — and I don't — the U.S. has been one of the top contributors to global warming. Unless we make some serious changes with incredible speed, the planet is headed for disaster. As a U.S. citizen, I feel the extra weight of decision as I vote, speak to my friends about the enviroment, invest my money, spend my time, make personal choices. And I don't always choose well. Rob and I put solar electric panels on our roof, but we have gas for hot water heating; I take a bath every night, a shower every morning. Sometimes I run the heat. I haven't bought an electric car yet. Nevertheless, if I don't vote well, the world as I know it could, quite seriously, be destroyed.

Meanwhile I am consumed by personal concerns. My Google calendar shows me booked every evening. I am trying to squeeze in time for research, time for my classes in mediation, time to edit Grasslimb, time to keep up my hobbies, time to spend with friends. I'm having trouble balancing my personal desires with the overloaded feelings surrounding this election.

So, ugh. I made my decision as best I could. I'm sure everyone will join me in hoping our planet has a future.

Please peel off politely.

2008-01-13T13:52:00.001-08:00

These were the instructions on a packet of "GELSEALS" (gel cut-outs that you can use to decorate your bathroom walls). These were some ducks I got for my niece. (I think if you click the image you can see it bigger.)

I have them all over my bathroom because although I am not a toddler, I am nevertheless a little silly. No ducks, though.

Please do not use it for the joint.
Please do not use it near the thing of the curtain.

Please use it after cleaning pasted respect.

Don't mess with me.

2008-01-11T14:10:00.000-08:00

15

I got points for having taken martial arts (Gracie Jiu-Jitsu), but lost points for having short, stumpy arms.

So if you're a kindergartener, you've been warned: keep your distance! Rest of you, step right up. I'd love to smear you on the pavement. Er, I mean give you a chance to win.

No idea what that is on his face.

2008-01-05T18:32:00.001-08:00

I don't think it's blood, because he's plastic. Nonetheless, I like to think our devil ducks had as wild and silly a New Year's Eve as I did.

Really this was the right way to ring in the New Year. Though we were missing a few critical locals — the common cold has a lot to answer for — for the most part we felt really warmed by the presence of our friends. The party was small (about 26 people), so we could easily talk to folks, and goofy in spirit, which is always good. Friends had come in from all over California (no out-of-staters or out-of-country-ers this time), and we had a few house guests, which is always nice. We drank champagne punch and blew our little party horns and said damn it, this year is damn well going to get it RIGHT for us. All righty then.

The cat was extremely patient with having a million horns blown at her, being prodded with whistles, having champagne corks thrown at her, etc. In fact she slept through our raucous midnight hollering, which lasted about a half an hour. She was really hung over the next day, though. Could barely move.

Got a great phone call from two beloved folks in the U.K. around ten past twelve — they had set their alarm for 8:10 a.m. in order to call us and wish us happy new year. If that's not love, I don't know what was, because you know damn well they were up late drinking.

I cleaned up around 3:30 a.m., as the last non-house-guests were shuffling out, because most of the house looked like this:

Finally got to bed around 4 (Rob and one of the house guests were up until 5:30, though). Still managed to take a walk in a state park on New Year's day.

It is going to be a good year. In a quiet, possibly understated (well, except for PARTY HORNS. You gotta have party horns), but deeply fulfilling way. That's my vote, anyway.

Put your lights on

2007-12-04T09:38:00.000-08:00

It's the first night of Hanukah tonight, but I don't feel much like celebrating. Hanukah is a strange holiday anyway, basically celebrating some serious housecleaning following a series of battles and some nastiness. In my darker moments, of which this is probably one, I think it's kind of like having a holiday to celebrate cleaning the cat poo off your rug. Which I do about once a week as it is. Clean cat poo, that is, not have a holiday.

My true love is very blue this week, a combination of frustration with the work he's doing, missing his home (Australia) and family (mostly dead), and turning 48 this coming weekend. And maybe some base-level depression which he always has. I've been ill and not at my usual level of resiliency. We were up late last night trying to talk, and I don't think he really slept more than a few hours. I don't know how to give him heart. I don't want to move to Australia, and don't think it would really solve things for him, but I don't want to be the person standing in the way of his happiness. At the same time I don't think he really wants to leave his daughter, who is 2 1/2 (my sister's child — he was the donor father). He's just extremely frustrated.

My job is improving — I've been assigned as the project manager on a couple of big networking projects. The mediation credentialing program has started, and I got to observe on a really cool mediation on Friday night, further cementing my interest in that kind of work. My emotions have been running up and down, but when my love's feeling sad, I feel sad too. Our lives are linked, so it's hard not to get pulled into the pit after him.

I'll light my candle tonight, though. Not because I'm religious; I'm distinctly atheist. But because I need some light at this winter hour.

By the seat of my pants...

2007-11-18T18:36:00.000-08:00

I spent my free hour on Thursday emailing everyone I could, and managed to line up the phone interviews I needed for Friday morning, all conducted rather breathlessly. I still can't believe I pulled it off: I turned in the NSF survey document only one day late to my boss — and it turned out to be on time to the person who wanted it from my boss, as she had asked for it a day before she had to turn it in. So although I am pretty embarrassed about the whole thing, I may yet live it down.

Of course now I owe favors to people all over campus.

Despite my enormous to-do list and many new projects, commitments, etc., I spent this weekend basically doing nothing. I cleaned up a little of my study (there is a slim path of carpet now visible through the piles of papers and photos). I went to a salon that some friends organize monthly. We made a strategic strike on the Farmer's Market and got apple cider, kale, apples, and fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice for making sorbet. I looked at my garden, but didn't do any work on it. I knitted things. I read a book.

I should feel happy about this, I guess. When I type it, it sounds pretty blissful! And I guess I would; if only I didn't feel, the whole time, like I should be doing something else...

Hmm.

Le Screwup Grande

2007-11-13T21:36:00.000-08:00

So I'm cheerfully beavering away tonight, putting the finishing touches on a talk I'm giving tomorrow on the university's various IT policy changes, creating a handout for that talk, and then boning up on the research networking plans in preparation for an early-morning meeting, when I suddenly discover a piece of mail from my boss that had been sent on Nov. 1 but which I'd never even noticed, let alone read.

It assigns me the task of completing the computing and networking survey for the National Science Foundation for our institution. With a due date of Nov. 14. Which is tomorrow. It's 9:30 p.m. now.

I don't know the answer to any of the questions on this 25-page, extensive and technically specific survey. I will have to locate and interview at least six people in order to complete it, possibly more.

I have one hour unbooked tomorrow.

I have just mailed the unpleasant letter to my boss which concludes, "I realize how serious it is to miss a deadline, but it seems likely that I will do so."

BAH.

I need to have a virtual booze-up with Patroclus, who is having a similar week. And then I need to cry a lot.

Might as well just tattoo the "L" on my forehead now...

Yummy.

2007-11-04T17:46:00.001-08:00

I took part in a few Hallowe'en celebratory activities this week, but my favorite is the presentation I came up with for this beet risotto. If that isn't totally disgusting I don't know what is.

We are home. And safe.

2007-10-24T21:15:00.000-07:00

We evacuated on Monday night, not because we had to but because, by 1 a.m., the evacuation line on the maps had reached a mile north of us and we didn't want to be awakened at 4 by a pounding on the door by the sheriff. So we packed up and went to a friend's. We were up until 4 anyway, of course, but got more sleep than we'd have had at home. We stayed there for two nights, are back home tonight because the fire turned north. (The Witch fire is the one near us.)

Unfortunately my sister and her partner's houses are in the line of fire, and they are still evacuated. We won't know the fate of their houses for a while. A friend has lost his home. The fires won't be contained for a week or more and won't be out ("controlled") for far longer.

People think of California as earthquake country, but really fire is a worse and more frequent threat, especially in San Diego...

But tonight, I cooked (a rare occurrence) -- red lentil and beet soup, curried cauliflower on rainbow pasta. And celebrated being okay and having a house to return to.

Thanks for thinking of me and the kind postings. My e-mail is broken so I didn't see them until now, but they are very very much appreciated.

Progress, incremental

2007-10-13T17:20:00.000-07:00

So I've managed to make a few steps along the road to my goals recently. Here's what I've been up to in my spare time in the last few weeks:

Joined a couple of research labs at UCSD, and am starting a cell phone use study with Louise Barkhuus.

Sent out two article queries, one short story, and one article to various magazines. Wrote a few articles for Helium.com, one of which has been purchased by Geosign. Okay, so I could really be doing a lot more in this area. Queries don't really take that long. I need to just buckle down and do my market research.

Finished adding a new section to my talk on technical management, and made arrangements to present the talk as part of a "Lunch and Learn" at Qualcomm (probably in December).

Updated my Web site to get it a little closer to professional looking. It still sucks, though, so I'm not linking to it here ;-)

Looked into the steps needed to teach a class at UCSD Extension, and have begun developing a proposal for a four-hour workshop on technical management. I'm also thinking about teaching an online class.

Applied for and was accepted into the mediation credentialing program I mentioned a while ago. I start the night of Oct. 24.

Got Grasslimb out the door, and am trying to get caught up on submissions.

I've also listed a bunch of my still-good-but-no-longer-needed possessions on my local Freecycle. (Though my home office is still a complete mess. It's kind of like removing toothpicks from a barn and saying "Look! I got some of the wood out!") And puttered around in the garden a bit. And shampooed the dratted carpets.

Anyway: it's a start. Of course I am also working full-time as a manager. I do realize I'm insane, but then that's always been true. And it's great to have all these projects to look forward to delving into every night when I get home, though admittedly I am getting tired. Need to figure out how to fit in some sleep in this picture...

Tonight, off to have steak cooked for me by a good friend. Life does not suck.

Sleeping under rock, take two.

2007-10-01T21:46:00.000-07:00

Where the hell have I been for the last 25 years?

In 1983, okay. Black Flag. (And Descendents, Suburban Lawns, Buzzcocks...) I am all up ons! I had a class with a guy who was either their manager, or claimed to be their manager, or just liked to beat people up at Descendents shows... Anyway, so I grooved with the Flag (flew with the Flag?), but then... what happened?

I fell into a post-punk coma. Which lasted until I heard William Shatner's most recent album.

Yep. Cap'n Kirk. That is how I re-found Henry Rollins.

This is deeply sad, except that the Shatner album is really good, really funny, and Rollins turns out to be a thousand times what Black Flag ever was.

I love him. Not, ya know, romantically. Not really my type.

But he is: smart, articulate, politically astute, and funny as hell.

Live at Luna Park last week, Shock and Awe tonight. Have you been sleeping under a rock too? Rent the damn thing. You will be glad.

Shreds.

2007-09-17T18:37:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been feeling shredded in more ways than one (I'm currently lying on a heating pad on the couch, having reaggravated an old injury), when I would rather be shedded. Not shed (v.t.) — I don't want anyone to drop me. But instead of being gradually emotionally and physically shredded by my work environment, I would like to be ensconsed in a nice, roomy outbuilding surrounded by all my projects.

Ah, sheds. We don't have one, but we do have a garage, which is completely filled with crap that I love, and therefore very nearly qualifies.

So I've been trying to think more about sheds than shreds. I've been working on my resume, studying job options, and reading Your Money or Your Life (very interesting book, even if I don't agree 100% with it — it definitely got me thinking in some new directions). I e-mailed my mediation class instructor to ask about applying for certification, and I'm now preparing my application for that.

I also made a list of all the things I would be doing with my time if I could do any darn thing I wanted.

Things that pay or which have some potential of paying:

Writing — freelance articles
Mediation — technical mediation for computing companies
Counseling — clinical work of some sort [note I need to go to school first!]
Speaking on technical management
Writing a book on technical management
Creating books of mazes (I know this sounds odd, but it's a hobby of mine and there is a market for it)
Conducting research as an adjunct faculty member on networked environments and use of social networking tools

Note that even if I did all of these things, I could not match my current salary. I might be able to get about a third of the way there. Maybe half. So my contemplation includes scaling back my lifestyle. I'm starting by keeping track of every penny I spend, to figure out why I'm spending almost all of my entire large salary.

Things that don't pay enough to count (e.g. I typically get $20-50 when I publish a crime short story) but which I'm going to do anyway:

Editing and publishing Grasslimb
Mediation — community volunteer work [I need to be certified first]
Writing — crime fiction, poetry, etc
Knitting, jewelry-making, tie-dye, soap making, candle-making and other crafts
Music — composing, recording and performing

This isn't everything I like doing, mind you. I love to garden, I have some DIY household projects up my sleeve, I obviously love to read, and I could go on. In fact, I'm currently trying to teach myself to do Huichol-style beadwork. But these are ways I'd spend the hours I currently spend on my job if I wasn't at my job, that's all.

I'll just keep on squeezing these into my evenings and weekends for the moment. But don't think I'm not plotting and scheming. I'm far too addicted to feeling happy and fulfilled to just give up at age 42.

Hi, holey daze...

2007-09-12T09:45:00.000-07:00

This is always a troubled time of year for me. The Jewish High Holy Days are in full swing, my parents live in town and are pillars of the synagogue community (my dad was president for years), and my younger siblings don't attend at all. Further, I'm apparently the star attraction on Yom Kippur, chanting the morning haftarah in the style of the Jews of the island of Rhodes. I love to sing, and I love my Sephardic heritage. And I can't deny I love the fact that I literally get mobbed by fans after I sing.

So every year, I pull up my socks (metaphorically — it's likely to be the only time all year I'll wear pantyhose) and go to services, usually on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, the eve of Kol Nidre, and the day of Yom Kippur.

I don't know why I should resent this so much. It's true that I haven't believed in a god since I was a child, but it's only a few hours of my life and it makes my parents happy, so I don't understand my resistance. But every year I approach the event with stomach aches, skin rashes and fatigue. I feel guilty about my motivations. Etc.

Fortunately this year I'm somewhat distracted by job stress... ;-)

UPDATED TO ADD:
1. 1 out of 3 services down.. 2 to go. Also I ate too much at lunch. And ran into someone with whom I've an awkward history, for the first time in about 17 years. Ah well, we were perfectly civil and she didn't say anything inappropriate about the past in front of the parental units. Which is good because the parents have no clue about this particular aspect of my self and history.
2. I didn't wear pantyhose. I wore black cotton knee socks. It's really hard to persuade myself to wear pantyhose.
3. My dad does blow a durned awesome shofar, gotta say.

Thinking too much.

2007-08-14T20:08:00.000-07:00

I'm spending too much time thinking lately. Perhaps too little time blogging. But I'm not sufficiently introspective as a rule, which I think makes for poor blogging, unless you have a standing theme.

Moving from an office I've been in for many years means sorting through a lot of papers, though, and I found a lot of interesting bits — documents on Usenet and e-mail written by Gene Spafford in the 1980s. A map of my University's data communications network from 1990. Early academic computing newsletters I created for my University back in the late 1980s, when there were only a couple of thousand network connections on campus. It's meant a lot of thinking back and evaluating, seeing where I've been and why, and where I might be going next. Despite myself. :-)

I worked in the field of providing computer networking and network services to academia for 21 years. That has been recently changed out from under me, as you know, and I'm adjusting, but this week I am getting to do something I've been looking forward to for a year: I'm attending formal mediation training. And so far, I'm absolutely entranced with it.

I've always been annoyingly able to see both (or all) sides of a situation. It has made it challenging for me to have and express opinions, and it often makes people angry that I won't "take their side" in an argument. Sometimes I actually do have a 'side', but I have trouble acting on it because I can still see where the other person is coming from. I have trouble dehumanizing them enough to get angry. I often get asked to mediate problems at work, and I think it's because (usually) both sides feel like I understand their points.

In mediation, my "weakness" is actually a strength, because the mediator must stay neutral. I really enjoyed today's class, and felt like I did reasonably well at the practice mediations, though we're just getting started. But it's hard not to feel slightly excited. I feel like this might be a place where my natural inclination meets useful reality.

And that's just a little bit scary, too.

I wonder if I'll sleep tonight?

Distraction.

2007-07-25T19:36:00.000-07:00

My brother turned 40 this week, and that was an excuse for lots of celebrating, including a V.I.P. tour at the local Wild Animal Park. This was a great distraction from a new job that leaves me increasingly dismayed (yes, I'm looking around for better options, but trying to do a good job meanwhile).

There's nothing like a Tawny Frogmouth to take your mind off your troubles.

Death and languages. Plus, job!

2007-07-13T15:16:00.000-07:00

Ladino is primarily based in 15th-century Spanish (so many of its verbs are still regular, an interesting historical snapshot), with inserted words from Hebrew, French, Turkish and even the occasional Italian or Greek (those being more recently added).

The verb 'to lie' is yacer in modern Spanish. It was possibly llacer originally, but I don't have any references to that, so I've used yacer.

My family is from the island of Rhodes (Rodos) on my grandmother's side (she was conceived there) and from the island of Marmara (which is in the Iliad! which is cooooool) (especially since it's about as big as a minute, and full of sheep) on my grandfather's side (he was born there), but a lot of the family was in Istanbul (we spell it Stamboul). So yes, BiB, you'd have likely heard fragments of Ladino. And it is definitely closer to Spanish than Yiddish is to German. I always thought of it as a dialect, but it's apparently considered a language.

I have a new job. I was upset about it for a while, because it seemed like a huge demotion, but after talking to my new boss it sounds like it will soon grow again. Meantime, I'm Manager of Infrastructure Coordination and Outreach doing — guess what? — public relations and training. Now, I'm a technical manager, me. But not anymore, I guess. I now have two writers/editors, a video producer/director and another former technical manager reporting to me (and none of them are managers themselves — also unlike previously). Bizarre. I feel like I fell into a Twilight Zone episode where the guy shows up to his job as a stock trader and discovers that the business is actually chicken farming, and he's the nutrition expert.

My eyes, like the dust

2007-07-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

Languages are said to be dead when there are no native speakers left. By that measure, Ladino, also known as Judao-Espagnol, is nearly dead; my grandmother, who died last year, was one of the last native speakers, and as she lived to 96, there cannot be too many remaining.

I can speak Ladino, though it is not my native language, and I sing many of the old romanceros, or Ladino folk songs. More than twenty years ago, I decided I should write some new romanceros, else the music itself would die, and that I could not bear. Among the songs I wrote at that time was this one, Rios de Lluvia, Rivers of Rain.

I've updated it a little for the dance-trance age. Turn your volume down before you start, I think; this mp3 appears to have come out rather loud, esp. the vocals.

As usual, I am unsatisfied with many things about this, want to re-record the vocals when I'm not tired and flat, need to get the mix better (I suck at mixing). But I'm happy to finally have this recorded, in an interesting way, so many years after I wrote it.
UPDATE: I think one of the biggest problems with this arrangement is the drum kit, which sounds like someone insistently tapping on a chalkboard with their hand while wearing rings. I need to get a little bulkier about my drums.

In case you are interested, here are the lyrics, in Ladino and English:

Rios de lluvia, fuentes de lágrimas
lloro por ti en le jardin de mi coraçon.

Las flores son dulces, pero el sol se acuesta.
Si tu no vuelves, la lluvia las lavará.

Ventanas de hielo — montañas de fierro —
mis ojos, como el polvo,
yacen en la sombra.

Rivers of rain, fountains of tears
I cry for you in the garden of my heart.

The flowers are sweet, but the sun is setting.
If you do not return, the rain will wash them away.

Windows of ice — mountains of steel —
my eyes, like the dust,
lie in shadow.

Not really all that soft.

2007-07-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

Many of you know the fine comic Cat and Girl, but do you know A Softer World? If not, perhaps it's time you checked it out. Read back through the strips and disturb your day.

I am the reader of the week.

2007-07-03T20:33:00.000-07:00

Doesn't really mean much I guess... but I'll take what fame I can get.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I've learned what my new job is but I'm not allowed to tell anyone. What's bizarre is that it is almost totally unlike the formal description of my current job. Wish me luck!

Crap. I didn't know, guys.

2007-06-29T15:43:00.000-07:00

Hadn't heard the news. :( My Eskimo Joe posting was just an unfortunate coincidence :(

"It's Tori Amos!" "It's Captain Fantastic!" No, it's...

2007-06-29T11:56:00.000-07:00

Eskimo Joe.

Seriously, the first time I heard London Bombs, on Triple J in Australia in May, after getting over the Tori-style piano riff, I thought for a moment that Sir Elton had returned to the quality of songwriting of his early days. Alas, it was not to be so, but it's a great anthemic song anyway. Although the accent does amuse. These guys are supposedly from Fremantle (in Western Australia), but they sound like Kiwis on drugs. "Bed" morphs into "bud." "New York" into "New Yuck" (well, maybe that's intentional). "Thames," as in, yes, the river, is "Taymes" — oi!

That aside, the album (Black Fingernails Red Wine) is a mixed bag but has some very good stuff, including the title track, the abovementioned London Bombs, New York, and my current fave, Beating Like a Drum (with its eerie lyric, "Do you still remember me alive / beating like a drum?"

There's definitely a piano-with-guitar thing going on here. Lots of good stuff coming out of Oz at the moment. Anyway, you can check out some samples on their website if you are curious.

Pentimento

2007-06-24T20:11:00.000-07:00

I seem to be going through a lot of mood changes about the upcoming job upheaval. I feel as though I'm showing a different face, singing a different tune, about it each week. I've gone from sort of gung-ho we'll-make-this-work gusto to gut-wrenching grief (I almost started crying while talking to my boss about not working for him anymore, which shows you I probably have some overattachment) to cynicism to anger to puzzlement to revolution. Tomorrow's Monday again, and I'll have to see which layer is uppermost once I get to work.

When I'm not there I'm in an odd state of suspended animation. Fortunately I got to spend much of this weekend either socializing or working on Grasslimb. I am getting close to ready with the literary content of this issue, and beginning to fill in the artwork. If things continue apace, I'll have ample time to really proofread the damn thing this time, and I'll feel much better about it (the last issue had a dreadful error — some text hopped over a picture in a mixed-media piece and completely ruined the ending). I have so many excellent submissions this time that I'm beginning to regret some of my early choices (oops), but really it's all good stuff, and it just means I don't need to panic about getting enough in the future; we're a going concern, now. Though the journal isn't hugely known yet, any decent quality literary magazine that sticks around for over five years starts getting more attention. It continues to make me absolutely bounce up and down with happiness to edit this journal, so I guess it's serving its purpose.. for me, at any rate.

I just finished reading Denise Mina's powerful novel Deception. It was so compelling that I read it in three days and never even put it on my list here. It's about repainting the image of what you thought was your life, so it, too, fits the pentimento theme. I like that word. When I was a teenager I thought it meant 'sentimental', except that it always made me think about olives ('pimento' is just too close)... but I digress.

There's a sweet cool wind coming in off the ocean now, cooling down the day, making me feel wistful and relaxed and vaguely melancholy. I can't predict how I'll feel tomorrow, what version of my own personal painting I'll be showing to the world. For now I'm just going to try to hold onto this current sensation as long as I possibly can.

Oh horrors, it's a Blogmeme

2007-06-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

I really do think they're stretching the definition of "meme" quite liberally these days. And normally I find them pretty boring (both to answer and to read). As I'm not particularly funny, I don't have the gift of making them snazzy. But for some reason, this one appealed. Skip it if you are easily bored, though!

1.)Q. Can you cook?
1.)A. Under duress. I am a skilled preparer of Sephardic food from the island of Rhodes, and I make a mean vegetarian Moroccan tagine from my own preserved lemon. I do bake, and enjoy making jams and marmalades as well.

2.)Q. What was your dream growing up?
2.)A. As a child I dreamed a lot of being invisible, and as a teenager I dreamed of a flying car. Or do you mean what did I dream of becoming? A singer, a writer, an English teacher, a drama teacher and a clinical psychologist by turns. The singer and writer ones were as early as elementary school. Words and music were always important.

3.)Q. What talent do you wish you had?
3.)A. I wish I could paint. I try, but the best work I seem to do is monochrome naked girls. From the back. Basically, I can paint green buttocks.

4.)Q. If I bought you a drink what would it be?
4.)A. Gin and tonic. But if I were buying my own drink, I might get a Campari and soda. That just seems a little peculiar to ask anyone else to order. (Except Rob — after 13.5 years, he can cope with a little Campari.)

5.)Q. Favorite vegetable?
5.)A. Artichoke, closely followed by asparagus. It's possible that I just like the letter A.

6.)Q. What was the last book you read?
6.)A. Daisy Miller and other stories, by Henry James. I'm really trying not to want to kick his ass. This one is a bit less kick-inducing than Portrait of a Lady, which made me want to chew my leg off.

7.)Q. What zodiac sign are you ?
7.)A. Aries. Crap, can't you tell?

8.)Q. Any Tattoos and/or Piercings?
8.)A. Three tattoos — collarbone, left anklebone and right ankle. No piercings — not even ears.

9.)Q. Worst Habit?
9.)A. Typing when people are trying to talk to me.

10.)Q. If you saw me walking down the street would you offer me a ride?
10.)A. Evidence is that if you look like an impoverished prostitute, I probably will.

11.)Q. What is your favorite sport?
11.)A. To play? Probably bowling or ice skating, both of which I do with flamboyant lack of skill. I don't watch sports.

12.)Q. Negative or Optimistic attitude?
12.)A. Internally pessimistic, externally irritatingly Pollyannaish.

13.)Q. What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me?
13.)A. Sit down, offer you some chocolate, pull out my knitting and start a conversation.

14.)Q. Worst thing to ever happen to you?
14.)A. I don't know. Possibly friends dying. Possibly the car accident, since I can't play guitar anymore. I've had a pretty lucky life.

15.)Q. Tell me one weird fact about you:
15.)A. I have four nipples. (Though admittedly, two of them I didn't recognize as nipples until my gynecologist explained. They're miniscule.)

16.)Q. Do you have any pets?
16.)A. A cat and a bird.

17.)Q. What if i showed up at your house unexpectedly?
17.)A. Come on in! I'll invite half my friends to come join us and we'll have a party! You're staying for a couple weeks, right?

18.)Q. What was your first impression of me?
18.)A. Uh, was this supposed to be a particular me? Like the one I stole this meme from? Because you don't even know I have a blog here. My first impression of almost everyone is less good than the later impression, though.

19.)Q. Do you think clowns are funny or scary?
19.)A. Ugly.

20.)Q. If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be???
20.)A. I'd lose another 30 pounds. I'm kind of used to my face and structure, and would be confused if I messed with it.

21.)Q. Would you be my crime partner or my conscience?
21.)A. Your crime partner.

22.)Q. What color eyes do you have?
22.)A. Grey with yellow flecks. But I wear green-tinted contact lenses, so folks think they're green. Even without lenses, they do look green from a distance.

23.)Q. Ever been arrested?
23.)A. No.

24.)Q. Bottle or Draft?
24.)A. Draught.

25.)Q. If you won $10,000 dollars today, what would you do with it?
25.)A. Give a third or so to charity, buy lots of prezzies for people, and stick the rest in a CD.

26.)Q. Would you date me?
26.)A. Assuming this is the generic you, probably not. But I'd hang out with you!

27.)Q. What 's your favorite bar to hang at?
27.)A. I liked the High Dive pub in Bay Park that I went to last week. But I haven't found that ultimate pub yet.

28.)Q. Do you believe in ghosts?
28.)A. Not really, no. But I do have proof there is a poltergeist in the woman's bathroom in the Applied Physics and Mathematics building at UCSD.

29.)Q. Favorite thing to do in your spare time?
29.)A. It's probably a tie between singing, knitting, writing and fooling around on the Internet.

30.)Q. Do you swear a lot?
30.)A. No. It's a flaw.

31.)Q. Biggest pet peeve?
31.)A. People who are nasty to other folks.

32.)Q. In one word, how would you describe yourself?
32.)A. Amiable.

33.)Q. Will you repost this so I can fill it out and do the same?
33.)A. I did repost it, but not where you can fill it out and do the same, unless you are not the person I stole this from. Troublesome, ain't I.

Have I been living under a rock?

2007-06-14T09:14:00.000-07:00

Apparently. I heard a song by Interpol in Australia, went gaga for it, bought the album, and then found out it came out in 2002. Where have I been?

I love this stuff. It sounds like T.S.O.L., The Sisters of Mercy, Echo and the Bunnymen — even some hints of J. Mascias and Johnny Marr — but nothing so much as my beloved Church, and it's never bad, in my book, to sound like the Church. This is a much angrier, darker sound, though. Beautiful as hell.

As hard as I try to get my talons on new music as fast as I can — and believe me, Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk both love me dearly — I seem to miss the most obvious things, sometime.

Ah well. I have it now. Purr.

(Under a rock, too? Go to the Interpol site, click on Video, then click on Obstacle 1 or PDA to see what I mean. Post-punk urge: satisfied.)

You never know when you're making a memory...

2007-06-10T00:38:00.001-07:00

I was reading something recently that was kind of thumbing the nose at Mark Knopfler, I suppose indicating that he and his music are pretentious, though I admit I was feeling embarrassed and defensive about my musical taste and didn't read it properly.

But it's past midnight right now, my brain is awhirl and I think perhaps it's okay to like the music that I like. Mark Knopfler and Rickie Lee Jones (who is quoted in the blog post title) were the two musicians I listened to in the late '70s/early '80s who made me feel nostalgic about what I was experiencing at the time, rather than when I was looking back on it. They cast a kind of beautiful sepia-toned light across my friends, my dreams, the aching feelings of late adolescence and early 20s. And they helped give those years value.

In particular, I used to listen to Dire Straits' Making Movies and Rickie Lee's Pirates, and hearing a strain from a song off one of those two albums takes me instantly back in time. My friend B was a "roller girl." She had a turned-up nose and freckles and chestnut curls and a big chest and a big smile, and she'd roller-skate through Balboa Park like she owned the place. She was a regular at Alex's Brown Bag, the sandwich shop in Hillcrest just west of the Park, and she had fabulously bright knee-high socks and a ready laugh.

B had basically been abandoned by her mother on her grandparents' doorstep; they brought her up. Her mother dropped by for occasional visits, but it took B's abandonment by her husband after they'd had kids and her near-total disability from a spinal disorder in her late 20s before her mother woke up to responsibility and gave B a place to live and a bit of help.

Back in 1989 or 1990, B and I were both working for a crazy man. Among his many abusive and distasteful behaviors was sexual harrassment, and B was starting to document his use of it on her. She had the notes secreted underneath the files in her file drawer. One day, we had to move offices to another building, and everyone who worked there was asked to help haul boxes, furniture etc downstairs to the moving van. B was asked to move one of the boss's incredibly heavy file drawers.

B objected, explaining that she had degenerative disk disease and that she had already had several disks fused, and that she was unable to lift heavy objects. But B was a strapping young woman. She looked sturdy and strong, and the boss insisted, telling her she could lift the drawer or lose her job. In vain did some of us protest; B lifted the drawer, and immediately collapsed on the floor. She ended up in the hospital with three more disks fused.

She was away from work a long time. When she returned, the boss called her into his office and fired her without notice. (She could have challenged this, but we were all young, and she didn't have the physical or emotional stamina for such legal battle.) When she went to clear out her desk, she found that all the notes she had been keeping on the sexual harrassment behavior had disappeared.

I haven't seen B, who lives 400 miles away, in a while, but she is living in her mother's trailer, trying to raise her kids, and getting by as best she can on disability payments.

In my mind, though, she's still a roller girl, free as a bird, spinning around the center plaza of Balboa Park on her skates, freckled grin as broad as sky, and Dire Straits is still playing the movies all night long.

About when I didn't have sex with Harlan Ellison

2007-06-08T20:16:00.000-07:00

Really the story is no big deal, but I'll spin it out as much as possible ;-)

When I was 13, 14, 15... I was an SF-reading fool, and I was madly in love with Harlan Ellison. I thought his writing was sexy. By the time I was 17, I had decided to write to him and offer him my body. (I know! but I was 17.) (I don't think I actually sent the letter...)

So the years went by, and I started dating a man who lived in Los Angeles. Mike knew lots of SF writers in Los Angeles, and one of his close friends turned out to be a fellow who, in his spare time, was Harlan Ellison's personal librarian.

His friend knew I wanted to meet Harlan, and he chatted to Harlan about it, and somewhere around 1992 or 93 Mike and I ended up invited over to his house for brunch.

Harlan lives in a fabulous house high in the Hollywood Hills, very near my grandparents' house. The house is guarded by gargoyles and, if memory serves, some razor wire — I believe someone had been trying to steal the gargoyles, or something. Inside the house, all the doorways are about 5'6" tall, because Harlan is 5'5". (This was not a problem for me, because I'm 5'5" also.) Harlan gave us a tour, and the walls of pretty much the entire house were densely lined with books. The actual library had, if it can be imagined, even more books. Again, if my recollection is accurate, the rest of the wall space was covered with framed artwork, carefully mounted so that none of the painted wall was blank.

Harlan is a famous host and he put on a lavish brunch, and was, to my starstruck eyes, incredibly hospitable and friendly. He kept up a lively conversation and fed us like a proper Jewish mother :)

It was only on the front stoop that I got myself in trouble. Harlan was bidding us goodbye, and saying something about some television show for which he was serving as a consultant. I didn't quite parse what he was saying, and when I finally understood he was talking about television, I apologized, explaining that I didn't watch T.V. Harlan — despite the fact that he'd written two volumes of fierce criticism of television, The Glass Teat and The Other Glass Teat — turned on me in a bit of sudden fury, wanting to know what the heck was wrong with me that I could be so deliberately ignorant of popular culture. Oh well, I really deserved it, because I think I thought I was bragging ;-)

Anyway, that is the exciting explication of my comment on Tim's blog ;-) And I've been pleased to have been distracted from Re-org Hell for a little while! I thank you.

Things fall apart.

2007-05-31T18:05:00.000-07:00

The centre cannot hold...

I have worked for the same man for 21 years, in the same department. Though our department has moved around to various parts of the University over the years, Jim was always its head. I respect him more than 99% of the people I know (and I'm a relatively respectful person ;-) ), learn from him constantly, and love him like a father. The staff who report to me have for the most part been doing so for 5-10 years and I have both deep respect and strong protective feelings for them, as well. I could not have been in a better working environment for the last 21 years. I have had flexible hours, my choice of computing environment, and full free rein to design and develop a department and services that I felt fit the needs of the campus. I supervised a staff of about 35, I planned staff increases and changes, determined budgets, etc. with a fairly free hand. By the end, I managed and oversaw a $4.5 million annual budget and pretty much figured it out by the seat of my pants.

Yesterday, my first day back after vacation, I found out that while I was gone, it was decided that our department would be broken down into small pieces and integrated into various parts of a totally different department in a different division, with a completely different work environment and style. I don't actually even know what my job will be in the new environment, but signs are that it will be much constrained. I definitely won't report to Jim anymore.

I knew this day would come, in the sense that I knew Jim would retire some day.
I never expected it like this.

I am trying to turn my mind around to see this in positive ways. I'll try to pitch myself as a crack director/manager/planner with lots of broad experience and people skills, to see if I can be placed sensibly in the new department. I'll look around at other jobs. I'll ask a couple people for informational interviews. I'm taking an introductory mediation training class this summer, and it's possible I'll like that enough to change careers (you never know).

But it is very hard to come to terms with every possible aspect of your work environment changing after 21 years. It feels so large that it is as if I am looking at a giant concrete wall, but can only focus on about a 3" circle at any one time.

I suspect that at age 42, I may finally have to become a grownup.
Hmm.

Antipodean.

2007-04-27T12:03:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I am off to Australia for a month. I'll still blog, but more slowly (shared dialup line) and intermittently (road trips).

San Diego and Perth are not quite antipodal. They are at comparable (reversed) latitudes and longitudes, though: ~32S, 116E for Perth, ~33N, 118W for San Diego. The weather is similar, the seasons are reversed, and the downtown skyline is eerily similar.

My friend Roz (who is Aussie, and a physicist, so she knows her mathematics) says that everything has a real part, and an American part. San Diego, she figures, is the American part of Perth.

This implies that my efforts to get to know the "real me" are going to require some travel, since I myself can only be the American part of me. I am already confused.

Anyway, so long! See you on the other side of the globe.

If ya wanna be cool...

2007-04-20T15:19:00.000-07:00

I've been complaining that I can't post a picture of myself reading Tim's book, "Radiohead" - Welcome to the Machine: "Ok Computer" and the Death of the Classic Album, in bed because (A) I don't have it, and (B) I read in the bathtub, not the bed. I have received exactly no sympathy for this predicament.

(A) was remedied last night when Amazon finally came through for me. Only fair, I thought, as I'd pre-ordered the book before I ever saw Tim's blog. I still don't understand the delay, but hey, all's well that ends well.

(B) was remedied by careful book placement, a willingness to take my cell phone into the tub with me (well, not underwater), and a well-timed shaky hand (which creates useful blurriness). I am not responsible for any shock and horror caused by my thick glasses, oh-so-attractive bathing cap or dangerously white skin.

That said, the book is a great read. I love the footnotes, even though it requires the strategic use of two bookmarks. My only quibble is that I happen to love the band Bush, and in other ways Tim's tastes are so admirable. Ah, well.

Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

2007-04-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

Laila is back in Radiation Jail.

Her first radioactive iodine treatment was not successful. Her thyroid (T4) measurement last weekend, 3.5 weeks after treatment, was 9. Normal range is 0.5-5.0, so this was definitely way wrong. It's unusual for a cat to need two treatments, but it does happen, and she did have two tumors, one fairly large. So, sadly, she went in again this morning for another treatment.

I'm sad about this for many reasons. Radiation Jail is no fun for her. It's scary and lonely, the cage is small (she came home rather stiff last time), and she has little human contact. It's no fun for us, either — we miss her awfully. Then, after she comes home, she can't sit in a lap or sleep in a bed with us for two weeks. Which is hard for everyone, but we are leaving for Australia in 1.5 weeks, so I won't get to cuddle her properly for a month and a half.

On the plus side, the second treatment should do it, and it's 2-3 months of misery for better health and improved comfort for the rest of her life (which could be another 7 or so years — she's only 12).

Augh. But I miss her. My heart hurts.

Boys...

2007-04-08T19:20:00.000-07:00

In honor of my birthday (tomorrow) and having just gone a little bonkers on LinkedIn, I got a little punch-drunk on Google Image Search and decided to see if current photos of some old flames I still carry a torch for — or maybe more of a lit match, since I am quite pleased with my partner — still, as it were, stirred the odd ember. People that I mostly never actually slept with, but with whom there was some mutual attraction. And for the most part, they still made my pulse quiver, though not so much because they are or were so incredibly beautiful, I suspect, as because I just like the dudes; because there was chemistry there in the first place, and it was responsible for a lot more than specific forms and features.

(This led to a little too much self-contemplation and looking through old photo albums and some suspicion that they wouldn't return the favor anymore. But hell knows.)

I'm not really going anywhere too much with this, but it's strangely reassuring to discover I still find them attractive, twenty years down the road. I wonder why?

Meanwhile, here I am, slightly cross-eyed as always and sans makeup, fighting a cold, yet inevitably cheerful at the core on the eve of my 42nd birthday.

What the hell — let's party.

A dry and wasted land

2007-03-31T15:48:00.000-07:00

I live in a semi-arid climate. Before the recent extra-dry years, we had 9 or 10 inches (23-25 cm) of rain a year. Now it is less. We have made this near-desert bloom through extraordinary measures; water comes from far away to permit farming, masses of humans. But nothing can change the fact that the Santa Ana winds blow hot and dry off the sand to our east, parching the throat in an instant, killing plants in its path. Should a fire start, it will whip towards the coast; one of my employees lost his house and everything he owned in the Cedar fire a couple of years ago. We are small and the earth is big and we cannot alter her.

Folks have asked if I am not afraid to live in California, because of the earthquakes. But earthquakes are rare and it is possible to prepare in some ways for their impact. Fires are common, fast, and even the little one can do to protect one's own property does not make one safe, when flames can rise 30 feet in the air. It's the dry season that keeps me up late nights, scenting the breeze for a hint of smoke.

A Santa Ana is blowing now. It is absolutely and stunningly beautiful outside. The air feels almost soft — heavenly. One only wants to lie down in the warm grass and sleep. Roses and freesia are blooming. The grass is long and lush, as we have not taken time yet to mow. The cat drowses in the shade of our broken, sideways pine tree. There is no fire. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong.

And the cat said...

2007-03-24T18:39:00.000-07:00

A giant "whew" has been heard from the feline member of the household. She is home and doing fine, but extremely radioactive. She can't figure out why we are so stupid as to not understand her repeated pounding on the bedroom door and whining, either. Ah well, we'll all sleep eventually.

I just got my copy of Shaggy Blog Stories in the mail yesterday. Not only does it benefit Comic Relief, it is also hilarious. As I predicted, it's excellent toilet reading. Bathtub, too, but don't drop it. I recommend you purchase it immediately — ya know, before it gets stale or something. I guess, by definition, print-on-demand can't run out.

"Hi Dad! I'm in jail!"

2007-03-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

(First person to recognize that reference gets a prize!)

My cat in jail:

She comes home Friday; she had benign tumors (yay) in both lobes of the thyroid (boo). We miss her dreadfully because we are wimps.

Open mic night went pretty well! We'll try again next week. It's great to be on stage again, even for ten minutes.

Moving on to whatever's next...

2007-03-16T16:44:00.000-07:00

The next few weeks bring a number of things: radioiodine treatment for my cat, a return to open mic nights for my band, six doctor's appointments long put off, dinners planned with several friends to discuss science and technology proposals, and at the end of April, a return to Australia for a month. It is all slightly overwhelming. I am attempting to remind myself that really, I can only actually do one thing at a time.

We hit Australia for a month about every year or two, because Rob's mother still lives there, and is getting older (86 now), and we also visit his sister-in-law (his brother and father are, unfortunately, dead) and nephew, and some cousins. And a bunch of friends. We'll be in Perth for three weeks, then in Adelaide and then the Blue Mountains. Then home, bringing Rob's mum back to California for a couple of months.

The cat is going to be radioactive for a while.

She has hyperthyroid. This might (we hope) be because of a benign tumor, in which case she'll be in the hospital a week, or cancerous, in which case it will be two, and the prognosis blurrier. She will not be happy. We will miss her while she's in the hospital. But with a helping of luck she might actually be cured. Once she gets home, though, she'll have to be partially isolated from us for two weeks, including no longer sleeping on my head, as is her wont. I don't know how we are going to explain this to her. I do know that she will protest, loudly. She is a very large cat and has a way of throwing herself against a door while piteously meowing that is going to make sleep very interesting.

The band is down to two members. We are going to try open mic anyway. Wish us luck.

More about the science and technology when I have more of a clue ;-)

What we are called upon to do:

2007-03-09T13:12:00.000-08:00

Excuse the morbid theme, lately, but it seems unavoidable.

Someone that I care about is standing beside a loved one at that trembling point on the road where their paths are about to diverge, one into darkness, one into shadow. She doesn't know how long she'll be standing there, whether they'll be permitted to take a few steps back or whether they must plunge forward, separated. It is an exhausting, complicated, and frightening crossroads.

I don't know much about the dark lands. From where I stand, it is only silence we go down to, but hell if I know.

The shadowed path is one trodden by all of us at some point, some more than others. I have walked it, and walked next to those walking it. For every person the path and the destination are different. It's familiar to me now, but no less daunting.

At least six people I care about have lost a parent in the last few months; many have lost friends and other relatives. Is it any wonder I rail against Death, and against that familiar, shadowed path?

But we are called upon, by dint of our mortality and of our ability to love. I am trying to figure out what we are for the dead. What our voice must be. What our selves. And how to quiet the noise, the noise, the screaming inside, for my friend, should she have to go that way, and for all of us.

It was good.

2007-03-06T13:51:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I found my reasons when I was there. In any event, I was glad I went, very glad I talked to people who were so important to Gene. My picture of him is fuller now. I do wish we could get to know people so fully when they are alive, but it seems I always learn something more at a funeral. That may be part and parcel with the process of transforming someone from an independent, breathing soul into the small packets of self stored away in the brains of those who loved that person. We have to grasp as much as possible of the soul's full expansion in order to store enough to matter.

I like to feel that I carry bits of my lost loved ones inside me, and try to give each one a chance to sing. It gets a bit crowded sometimes, but I think that's how it's meant to work.

It's a theory, anyway.

And now, to say goodbye:

2007-02-28T20:04:00.000-08:00

I'm not always entirely sure who funerals are for. Not the dead, of course. But am I there for my own closure, or there to support others? What does it mean to say goodbye to someone who's already gone?

Through accident, decisions made by others, and circumstance, I've missed the funerals of many of the closer friends that I've lost. I don't think I miss them less or more for not having had that experience. And I've been to many funerals for folks I cared about, but wasn't quite so close to.

I don't know. I may never be sure. But I'm flying out to Albuquerque tomorrow, to whatever purpose.

Let the lines stand,

2007-02-26T13:14:00.000-08:00

Gene Frumkin died a few days ago. I found out when I got back from skiing (which was wonderful, though I'm not a skilled skier). Gene was my first cousin once removed, and was probably the cousin I was closest to. A poet of some renown, Gene faced a lot of painful experiences in his life, and still managed to bring up two kids single-handedly and to turn his pain into beautiful words. He encouraged me starting Grasslimb, contributed to it, and urged his friends, all fine poets, to submit work. In many ways I credit him for Grasslimb's quality. He was always a role model as a writer and poet.

He died suddenly, of yet-unknown causes, and I'll miss him very much.

I just ran across some of his fairly recent work, written for his longtime love, who is also a poet. This poem really speaks to me, today. Though it's about a relationship, it's about the feeling of impending loss, too:

Let the lines stand / as long as they can. When they fall, / even then, I will hold her, speechless, / the lines still there, still held to their page.

I realize this needs a lot of work.

2007-02-19T17:16:00.000-08:00

But I'm so thrilled to have gotten anything to a 'listening' point that I can't help posting, even though it's generally unwise to show unfinished work. For one thing, the lyrics are not completed — lots of filler lyrics in here. The transitions suck, plus clearly I need some more bass or something to tie it together, and there's problems with pitch and plosives. Yet —

First draft of History.

Struggling with honesty —

2007-02-18T10:27:00.000-08:00

I've long had trouble with honesty. You'll be wondering if you can believe anything you read here, but I don't mean honesty about facts. With facts I can generally be trusted, though my memory is as full of holes as a rusting sieve. I don't mean emotional honesty either exactly — I mean it when I say I love you. It's when we get to things like I like that or I want to do this that I get a little foggy.

Say, for example, you suggest some music to me, and I like it. Or do I? Maybe I just want to like it, because I want you to like me. When I was in high school and trying to attract a handsome blond fellow who liked Led Zeppelin and AC/DC, well, by gum, I listened to Led Zep and AC/DC until I liked them. Or maybe I want to be cool, and you're cool, so I should like the music you like and dislike the stuff you think is tripe, right? Or if we're talking politics or philosophy, I'll tend to be quite convinced that I agree with whomever I'm talking to.

This character flaw has led to rather broad musical tastes, but it also means I'm less than certain about my own views. I have to live with the music for a while, or perhaps forget who suggested it to me, to know if I really like it. Case in point: Patroclus put some Matson Jones on her podcast, and it appealed, so I bought a CD. But it wasn't until a few weeks later, when I realized I'd had the EP on repeat for several days running in my car*, that I felt sure I liked them.

This rather wimpy attitude towards attitude — or, if you will, this inability to detect whether I'm being honest with myself — can only really be avoided by stumbling over some music myself, on a sampler CD, for example, or in concert, or when I bought something because I liked the cover or the name.

Because of this I can be very, very sure that I really do like Midlake's song "Roscoe" (off their CD The Trials of Van Occupanther).

See what you think.

* also a character flaw

one of my weirdest jobs.

2007-02-16T15:51:00.000-08:00

I commented on Tim's blog that I'd once had a job as a contributing editor/layout person at a real estate humor magazine. Back in 1988, I was a fresh young graduate student, fully expecting to continue my part-time job at the University's computer center while pursuing my Ph.D. My graduate department thought otherwise. They had a rule that grad students couldn't work at other jobs, meaning I was going to have to make do on my $6000/year stipend. Even in 1988, that was not going to cut it in San Diego.

The department could block my on-campus employment, but they couldn't stop me from getting a Secret Job. So I went looking and found something that appeared perfect: a job doing copy editing for a small magazine, close to the University, for 10-15 hours/week. I had experience, having done copy editing for a local gay newspaper and having worked as an editor on several school literary journals. It paid acceptably, and I was hired immediately after my interview. What could be better?

Nearly anything, as it turned out.

UpCall was, Wendy informed me on my first day, a humor magazine for Realtors™ She was publishing it out of her home, a luxurious manse on a hillside in Del Mar with a stunning view of the ocean. Three big rooms with plate-glass walls were dedicated to office space. She had retained a graphic design expert from San Diego Magazine, had folks doing writing and layout; I was to type in stories, edit copy, and occasionally write a fill-in paragraph or do cutting if a piece was the wrong length. She showed me to my computer and handed me my first article. As I typed it in, she began to tell me things I did not really want to know.

Wendy worked for herself, she explained, because she had this leetle problem with PMS. She would get, ya know, just a little bit tense during that time of the month. And she had a tendency, to, well, quit her job when she got tense. And even though her bosses really should have known better, sometimes they took her seriously! And then she didn't have a job! But now, she'd put out three issues of her own magazine, ad space was selling like hotcakes, and her real estate business was doing well, so there.

Hm.

In my first week, she explained how she really needed me to work 20-25 hours a week, not 10-15. Well, this was okay, because I had been working that much before and I thought I could manage it. In week two this became 30 hours. In week three she was very, very angry because I wouldn't come in on a Saturday to make my 40.

At some point I was working in the house and Wendy was out. Her daughter, age 17 and a perfect goth, down to the pout, came in, sat down and dispassionately told me how much she hated her mother and wished she were dead. Then she got up, without waiting for an answer, and left the house.

On day two Wendy fired the graphic designer.
In week two she fired the layout person.

I was quickly taught to cut rubylith. Most of her writers didn't come through with their articles, so I wrote them as best I could. I arranged the layout, though graphic design has never been my strong suit. Over the next week, everyone else working for the magazine was fired. It was just me and Wendy.

Me and Wendy and constant screaming. I had to design advertisements — why was I such a poor artist? I cut rubies — how could I mis-slice like that? How could I not have noticed the 1/4" difference between the location of the page number on one page and the next? My goal became to keep my head down. As a generally cheerful soul, I was honestly more bemused than abused, though I could have done without the screeching.

When I'd been there about six weeks, the issue came back from the printers, and it was my turn to be fired. In the end, I had the margins on one page a full 1/2" larger than on every other page in the magazine. I still don't know how I did it. She made me fix it, claiming she was going to run another print job and charge me for it, and did not pay me for the time it took to fix it. I knew enough to know that last was illegal, and tried to tell her so. It was quickly explained to me that I was a nasty, unprincipled thief, trying to steal Wendy's money, who had no morals and whose parents should be ashamed of her.

I had but modest self-esteem, but enough to (1) not cry in front of her and (2) finish the job and get out. And lived to laugh about it later.

(The magazine was not, in fact, funny. Anyone surprised?)

It's not that I don't know how.

2007-02-15T17:09:00.000-08:00

But there's something about a home page that feels fixed, as if you shouldn't have to edit it on a regular basis, though there's little in my life that is both stable and interesting. As a result, home pages have a tendency to end up either out of date or boring.

I'm wondering whether it's the software that makes updating the blog more appealing*, or the fact that you don't have to edit or alter anything you've done before in order to make the new material sensible. I never have liked wiping out the past.

* Certainly Blogger, while better than it used to be, can't be the ultimate interface, but perhaps it's better than vi or Dreamweaver?

And why use Blogger, anyway? Why not use my MySpace page, which has plenty of blogspace on it? (Oh, well, those flashy ads might have something to do with it.)

I can't seem to update my home page, so...

2007-02-15T13:38:00.000-08:00

.. maybe I'll do better with a blog. Difficult to say.

I'm trying to get back into writing (and thinking) after the hell that was 2006, a year which started with the death, on Jan. 1, of my long-time muse. What the hell are you supposed to write when your muse is dead? I did write most of a song for him, but it took most of the year and I did little other writing. I dredged up old poetry:

Loss

At night
I chase my luminous joy
through the dark garden.

Some of the joy is back, but it is not yet luminous, so here I am, ruminating on how to start a fire.

This may be unwise.

2007-02-15T12:43:00.001-08:00

We'll see.