Monogamous writers with eight cats about…who?

Poor Todd. Last night I’d only just started making veggie chili (listening to the CBS tv station that comes in on the radio, it took me five minutes to figure out that there was not a star reporter named “AJ” getting all the stories on a tabloid show, but that the show was called “American Journal” and they were being obnoxiously cute) when I heard the front door open and came out into the living room. Todd was wandering up the stairs to the bathroom, looking like he’d run all the way home, and he said pitifully, “I’m cold. Help.” So I came upstairs with him and helped him change into warm sweats and back downstairs I tucked him in bed while he shivered and sniffled and was just generally sweetly traigic. I finished up the chili and we watched one of the free nature videos from the library, The Secret Life of Plants, which awed both of us despite our preoccupation with chili and warmth and cold medicine.

After waking up feeling like he’d been run over with a steamroller around five, Todd called in sick to work and we had a lovely sleepy day together — well, as lovely as it could be with lots of nose-blowing and coughing going on. A day at home seems to have done the trick, and it looks like he’ll be able to go to work tomorrow.

I’ve recently discovered Laurie King’s novels, and while the books themselves are relatively well written they’re not the reason I’m hooked. It’s the subject matter, and the theory of “write what you know”, which Laurie is most emphatically (to my eyes, anyway) not practicing. Her “about the author” blurb says she lives in California with her husband and children; her mystery series character is a lesbian police inspector. I can’t help but be fascinated. The books I’ve read that focus on lesbian characters have been, without exception, by lesbian women. While I’m sure I’ve read books about straight couples by lesbian women or gay men, it’s not something I know for sure, and I find myself having an attitude about Laurie’s writing — as if I’ll be able to find chinks in her characters that will prove that she doesn’t know enough about her subject to be addressing it. Which, by the way, I haven’t. So do I have segregated rules in my head about writing that I wasn’t aware of? Do I think white people should only write about white people, black people about black people, gay accountants about gay accountants, elderly retired dentists about elderly retired dentists and so on and so forth in a ridiculous extension of political correctness? No. Or — god — if I do, I plan to change!

Dress With a Head, Revisited

Bette Davis has nothing on me. It took her forty years of hard liqueur and cigarettes to get that husky sultry voice, and all I had to do was cough up a lung or two to accomplish the same effect. Well, all right, my version is quite a bit higher than hers, but I’m sure if I’d had bronchitis instead of an old regular cold I’d have the perfect voice. But! Despite spending Thursday through Monday being sick, I had a wonderful vacation. If Todd can’t shake the beginnings of the same cold I had he might end up having an extra week of time at home, and then we’ll both put Bette’s voice to shame.

On Friday night, the beginning of our one-week vacation, we went to our favorite Italian restaurant. No, that’s not quite right. First we went to a restaurant with good veggie burgers, decided the parking lot was too full and started back towards home and the Italian restaurant, remembered that it was Valentine’s Day and that all the restaurants would be packed, turned around and headed back to the veggie burger restaurant, decided the parking lot was still too full, and ended up at the Italian restaurant where the people watching made the wait well worth it. Lots of stern looking women and nervous looking men, all under thirty. The over-thirty crowd was quite jolly and out in groups, double dating and laughing a lot. I felt sorry for the young men, they were all being so careful to do and say the right things, the young women were so expectant at the beginning of the meal and so disappointed at the end — god, what a set-up Valentine’s Day is. My best Valentine’s Day story is from my childhood: being twelve years old and crying when Patricia told me that she and my father were breaking up for good, because even though there was little love lost between us I wanted the status quo instead of some mysteriously murky future that would be completely different, and I remember thinking what a tragedy it was that this Terrible Thing had to happen on a holiday that was all about love (I was twelve, whaddya want) and that I would always remember this moment as the saddest I’d ever experienced, and that The Culture Club’s song “Karma Chameleon” was playing on the radio, which to this day I remember — not for the reasons I thought I would, but because it’s so silly that Boy George of all people is in my mind the symbol of their break-up.

From the silliness file:

(Sage and Todd are on their way home from the Italian restaurant, it’s a little after ten p.m.)

Sage: Do you see that little boy over there? He looks about eight years old. Go home, little boy!
Todd: Or the boogeyman will get you… oh, wait, that’s nothing to be afraid of. These days kids just SHOOT the boogeyman if he comes anywhere near them.

After seeing Monty Python’s The Meaning Of Life Todd started doing a John Cleese-ian French Accent, which is to say a very bad French accent that bears no relation to the real thing, and had us both in hysterics all weekend saying things like, “That Cleen-ton, ‘e is just zee Ay-meri-can pig-dog,” when we were listening to the news on the radio and declaring his intention to buy a beret. It got so that when I was getting my hair cut and the hairdresser asked if she could curl my hair I said yes (I always do; it’s easier than explaining that the only time I’m within ten feet of a curling iron or hairspray is when I’m getting my hair cut) and then realized that it might cost extra and we’d only brought enough to pay for basic haircuts; instead of thinking I might have to ask Todd to run down to the money machine to take out extra I pictured myself saying, “Ay, you, zee Ay-mer-ican pig-dog, you run off and get zee money, yes?” and had to stop myself from giggling out loud. The hairdresser all but refused to cut my hair, which was beyond annoying. I don’t care what my hair looks like, as long as it isn’t in my face and is short enough so that I can wash it in the bathtub without using half a bottle of shampoo, I’m happy. So Todd got his hair cut first, and when the next hairdresser was free she walked up and asked what I wanted her to do with my shoulder-length hair and I pointed to Todd and said, “Just go ahead and give me the same haircut he has.” And she was, like, horrified, so I thought she was under the impression that I wanted a matching haircut in the same way couples/friends wear matching outfits which would horrify me too, and I said, “It doesn’t have to be exactly the same, something similar would be fine, something to keep the hair out of my face.” She spent five minutes trying to talk me out of it. I don’t understand people. After she’d cut it and ooo-ed and ahh-ed and told me she was wrong, that the short hair was much better than the way it’d been, she asked in a hushed voice what “made me decide to get it cut short”, which I decided to do about five minutes before we’d walked in, and I didn’t even know how to answer the question. This is why I gave up on my crew-cut, because I had to go and get it cut so often and it’s such a bizarre experience. I feel like I’m from a different planet when I try to talk to hairdressers. Years ago, when we lived in Massachusetts, we were on Newbury Street and I decided on a whim to get my hair cut. It was down to my waist and starting to get in my eyes, so I sat through a trim and then the dreaded question — “Can I tease/curl/play with this a little?” to which I said yes, and ended up with a hairdo along the lines of Joanna Lumley’s character in Absolutely Fabulous, which the hairdresser was so proud of I couldn’t help but thank her and smile and say how wonderful it was, until we got out the front door at which point Todd turned to me and said, “Er, you…you like that?” in a nervous way and was greatly relieved to find that I was only trying my best to be nice.

Obligatory Film Critique:

If you have a chance to see it on the big screen, go see Microcosmos. It’s brilliant. I know — the prospect of watching a dung beetle roll a ball of dung around doesn’t sound exciting or funny, but the filmmakers managed to accomplish that and more. If nothing else, see it so that you can tell your friends that you know what a love scene consisting of two snails sharing passionate kisses looks like.

We called Sean and found out what days he had off of work and decided to drive up to Vermont on Monday morning so we could hang out with him on Tuesday when he’d be free. On the way up we listened to one of our secret guilty vices, The Howard Stern Show. Yes, the man’s an Ay-mer-ican pig-dog, but come on, there’s something really fun (in a sick way) about listening to Richard Simmons being cruelly mocked. When that was over we listened to music on the radio.

From the silliness file:

(The song “I Love You Too Much To Ever Stop Liking You” is playing on the car stereo.)

Sage: I miss this kind of music.
Todd: What kind?
Sage: You know, this sort of genre. Heartbroken boys. England Dan and John Ford Coley, Bread, Air Supply…hey, come to think of it, all of those groups did Paul songs. It was a short-lived Paul movement! No wonder I like those groups so much.

When we got to the Vermont Welcome Center I went to the restroom and no sooner had I locked my stall door then a woman and her daughter came in. The mother was saying enthusiastically, “Now we’ll go pee, honey!” and then, “…oh, well, we’ll have to wait. There are people already in there.” The daughter, who sounded about three, said, “How do you know, Mommy?” The mother said in a hushed way that there were feet under the stall doors and that’s how she knew. So the little girl, in that piercing voice that only three year old girls have, said loudly, “Mommy! You looked at their PRIVATES!” which made all of the women in the bathroom stifle giggles while the mother tried to explain that she’d only looked at the feet and nothing else.

Hmmm. I’m realizing that I completely forgot to ask permission to use Todd’s friend’s name here, and while I’m reasonably sure she wouldn’t mind I’m not entirely sure and I suppose I should use a pseudonym until I ask. I sat here and tried to think of something wildly clever and Monty Pythonesque, but no such luck — aha! I just checked, she signed one of her email messages Enid which I bet is a wildly clever Monty Python reference. So. Enid it is. Todd and Enid have known each other since second grade, and I only had a chance to meet her once before we moved to Massachusetts and she got married and moved to Montana, so we haven’t seen her for years. Some of you will recognize her as Dress With A Head’s mother, and this weekend we were able to meet D.W.A.H., no longer a baby but certifiably the most adorable, even tempered, sweet, amazing — did I say adorable? — toddler in the U.S. I beamed like a fool when she came up to me with a book and plopped down in my lap and waited to be read to. And that smile! Todd and Enid and I had so much fun together that by the time we went out to dinner Monday night we were laughing so hard that people were looking strangely over at our table. Me, I was looking strangely at the table next to us — when we walked up and were seated they were all dozing, mother, father, and two sons, really asleep, and at first I thought they were trying to make a point about slow service, but they turned out to be just tired. Enid told me all kinds of stories about Todd’s teenage years and we ate until we could barely move. We stopped by the fast-food place where Sean works on the way home and managed to thoroughly embarrass him in front of his friends by telling him that Enid barely recognized him, since the last time she’d seen him he was knee-high to a grasshopper, we barely restrained ourselves from pinching his cheeks like doting grandparents and it wasn’t until we got back out to the car that we realized how embarrassing that must have been, which made us get the giggles all over again.

Back at Enid’s parents’ house, where she and her daughter are currently living, we looked through her Memory Book from her teenage years which even had some letters Todd had written her. They were traigic — when we came to the one about how the rest of the kids in his math class had walled him off from talking to anyone by piling books on his desk we laughed until there were tears streaming down our faces. It was a great, great night.

All of which made the next day, which we spent with Sean, seem even sadder than it would have otherwise. I really wish I could put my finger on what felt so awful, but I don’t know how — I couldn’t stand to hear him making excuses for his father and said so, which got everything off to a bad start, and after hearing him talk about how his life consists of going to school, working when he’s not at school, doing homework when he’s not at work or school, and sleeping or eating the rest of the time with occasional visits to casual friends — no joy in his life, no intimacy with anyone — I went into the bathroom of the restaurant we were in and cried. We feel responsible for the situation he’s in; we deserted him when he was thirteen in the process of cutting off communication with Todd’s parents, and although we’ve been back in his life for the past few years, doing what we can to support him and be there for him, it’s one of the big regrets of both of our lives, something we’d go back and change if we could. So I sat in the bathroom and cried and thought and came back to the table and said: “I want to tell you a story. When Kitey came to visit me she kept saying how unhappy I must be, and it was so frustrating, I told her again and again that I AM happy, that I feel incredibly lucky to be living the life I’m living. Finally she said, ‘D’you know, I think I have the impression that you’re unhappy because I would be so unhappy living your life, which is full of settled routine. I would hate that, so I assume that you hate it too.’ What I’m trying to say is that you seem miserable to us, terribly unhappy, and to a certain degree we feel responsible for that. We don’t know what we can do to help. But maybe that’s due to us looking at the life you’re living and knowing how unhappy we would be in your situation, and assuming that you’re unhappy too. Does that make any sense?” and Sean sort of nodded, and that was it. I wish I could say that it was a wonderful epiphany and everything got better after that, but it didn’t. We trudged on with our day, struggling to make conversation, and it felt so sad.

Back at Enid’s, we decided to go to a local diner which hadn’t changed a bit since the first time Todd and I ate there just days after we’d met, and played the hokey-ist songs we could find on the juke box, “Trashy Women”, “I’ll Walk The Line (as long as it’s not too straight)”, and another one I can’t remember the name of but Enid said it was the Song Du Jour in Montana and all the rage in the country music bars. The next morning we sat in the kitchen and talked with Enid and her mom, I had a lovely time playing with Enid’s daughter, who had a little cold.

It was hard to leave — we both enjoyed Enid’s company so much that we wished we could stay another three weeks, but eventually we had to, promising we’d visit more than once this year. We met Sean at a restaurant and had another strained non-conversation, then said sad goodbyes and started back home. It was a sad ride; we both felt like there was something more we could have done or said to make things better.

On Thursday morning I woke up with little innocuous sniffles and by noon I was wheezing and my eyes were watering and I was a sorry sight indeed. I managed to take Nyquil (because I like to sleep through any sicknesses I have if at all possible) finding that a nice side effect of having my nose completely stuffed up was not being able to taste anything, and Todd went out to get some free videos from the library because sitting in front of the tv was about all I felt up to.

From the silliness file:

(Sage and Todd are watching All About Eve.)

Bette Davis: Infants behave the way I do, you know. They carry on and misbehave — they’d get drunk if they knew how, when they can’t have what the want, when they feel unwanted or insecure…
Sage: Hell, wait’ll you get to the ’90s. Everyone will be acting that way.

We spent the rest of our vacation hanging out here, playing endless games of Mankala and watching videos while my head cold subsided, turned into a chest cold, and eventually petered out until I was well enough to drive yesterday to the health food store to buy — you guessed it — echinacea tea for Todd, who has the beginnings of my cold, the poor thing. (I only stalled the car twice, and the car didn’t jerk TOO badly when I tried to stop it in third gear…)

Freakier Friday

Today’s entry is not by me, and it’s not about my life. I asked the members of the Tyrtle Mumbles mailing list to write about what’s going on in their lives instead. I’m already looking foward to next month, when I get to post more!

Leslie

Woke up to frightfully cold temperatures. 51 degrees below zero. If you don’t find that scary, check your pulse. Wandered around the house contemplating how horrible it was going to be going outside. Dressed no more warmly than usual, pants and a sweater, but bundled up my 3-1/2 year old in fleece pants, a sweater, hiking boots, polar fleece coat, scarf, hat and…where are those mittens. Can only find one, so my son goes outside with little black socks on his hands which he announces are “sock glubs.” Once outside, it seems much less cold than I feared, but a fifty-foot walk to the car might not be the best measure. ;-)

The day was filled with proposals and insane deadlines, but I finished my last job at two minutes to five. While waiting for my husband and son downstairs, a big man came into the lobby. While wrapping a scarf around his face, he whistled “Beyond the Sea.” I immediately thought of sitting at Beaches and Cream, the little ice cream shop at the Beach Club at Disney World, and listening to Bobby Darin on the jukebox and being so happy and WARM. Got home, made bean soup, sliced up a cucumber, an avocado, threw that on a plate with some sprouts (which my son says tickle when you eat them). Voila. Dinner. Watched “The Parent Trap” on t.v., then some remake of the Parent Trap, except this time with triplets. Not so good. Cleaned the living room (a little, anyway) while all this stuff was on. Came in second place in a trivia game on IRC. Set the VCR to tape John Lennon/Yoko Ono’s “Imagine.” Sad.

Danced with my son to “Imagine,” then “Jealous Guy.” Went to bed before midnight (a miracle!) when my husband came home and said he had two hours before he had to go back to work again, so we all laid down and slept.

Jim

Usual weekday morning, difficult to get up in the dark, slap the snooze alarm a couple times, finally drag myself out of bed by 6:30. Knock on my daughter’s bedroom door on my way down to the kitchen, brew a pot of coffee, mix up a pitcher of orange juice. Bring a cup of coffee up to my wife, wake up my daughter again, give my son a first call. Bring in the newspaper, have breakfast, wake up my son again. Today my wife is dropping Gillian off a the high school on her way to work and it’s my turn to get Jeremy to school. He is dawdling this morning but I am not teaching today and I have no early meetings so I just relax and go with the flow.

I drop him at his school and continue up the road only to find my way is blocked by the highway department removing a large tree. I wait two or three minutes, then u-turn and take another route. Two intersections later I have to stop to wait my turn where traffic is reduced to one lane because of construction. It’s a good thing that I am not in a rush. I have to traverse two large bridges, one to Jamestown island and one from Jamestown to Newport. It is extremely windy and very difficult to hold the car steady crossing the bridges. Narragansett Bay is dotted with whitecaps.

It is a quiet day at work. I was very busy yesterday, teaching a one-day overview course to a group of IBM project managers. Today I am doing a lot of “paperwork” (although it is mostly all electronic) and planning. Meet for a while with a programmer from tech support. Last week I had a software problem that seems to match a problem reported by one of our clients that nobody had been able to reproduce. Unfortunately, we are unable to reproduce it this morning. Besides developing courses and teaching courses, I also train other instructors. Last week I was working with an instructor from IBM E&T who will be teaching one of my courses at various sites around the U.S. Next week the instructor from IBM UK I was working with this past fall will be back here to learn how to teach another course that I do. I am also working with an instructor from IBM Australia (I’ll be going there for a couple of weeks in March & I’m really looking forward to it).

I went down to First Beach at noon to get in a run. The bay was beautiful, surging, pounding surf, but it was so wicked cold, temperature in the teens with high winds putting the wind-chill at zero or below. I got in a mile before deciding that it was just too cold to run and went to the YMCA to use a stair-stepper in the fitness center.

Afternoon at work was a continuation of the morning, plus getting set for the class I will be teaching on Monday and Tuesday of next week. My wife calls to remind me that she and her mother are going to a concert at the university tonight and won’t be home for dinner. I call home and discover that my daughter is having Internet access problems so I place a call to our provider’s help line. They had sent e-mail saying to change DNS addresses yesterday, which we did, but it seems that their request was premature as they are having some kind of problem and suggest that we return to the old DNS settings for now. I relayed this message to her and she reset the DNS, problem solved.

Home about 6:15, early for me. We decide to rent a movie, but the cold weather seems to have inspired a run on the new releases, so we get “Glory.” I’d seen it a few years ago and thought that it would be a good one for the kids. Unfortunately, we can’t get the tracking adjusted. Take it back, seems there was a bad spot. At my daughter’s urging I get a different movie but when we get it home we can’t get a good picture. I think the first movie left some debris on the heads but have no idea what might have happened to our VCR cleaner.

So we munch on popcorn while channel surfing. We actually see parts of “Glory” — it is the Friday night movie on one of the Boston stations. Gillian drifts off to listen to music and read. I pick up a book I’ve been reading (”Vanishing Act” by Thomas Perry, an entertaining suspense novel, the first of a series featuring Jane Whitefield) while Jeremy continues to surf.

Nancy is now home from the chamber music concert. It is 11:30pm. I am going to try to send this e-mail and then I have promised Jeremy I will play a Nintento game with him. And so, my Friday is drawing to a close. How was your Friday?

name withheld

Cameron woke us up at 5:15 instead of his usual 6:15. His sleep patterns are a bit off because he had his 9 months shots the day before, even though Jan 16 is his 9 month b-day. I got up and nursed Cameron, then fed the cats. Scott and I took turns at the various morning stations (eat, shower, dress) and I fed some rice cereal to Cameron while I ate granola. Greeted my mom when she arrived to play Cameron.

Scott and I shared a ride in his car, which we hadn’t used in a couple of weeks. Since the temps have been below zero, he wanted to use his car - stickshift that I can’t drive.

At work, I did a bunch of stuff: wrote some code for an airplane cockpit display, drew some characters to be shown on the cockpit display, checked that corrections were made to software packages we discussed two weeks ago and wrote the report saying that they were. Talked with co-workers, braided Scott’s hair during break, pumped milk for Cameron, walked to the caf with Scott, read PointCast reports, ate delicious apple-cran cobbler brought in by a co-worker.

Scott and I worked really late to make up time from the pediatrician yesterday. I played with Cameron and read e-mail while Scott made Sunburgers. We tag-teamed watching Cameron while the other fixed up the sandwich (Sage, Scott says to tell you that he was fixin’ to go fix up the fixings). We talked, I watched Friends with Cameron playing while Scott read e-mail. Then Scott watched Cameron play in the office while I wrote Cameron’s birthday sign. Every month, we write a sign listing Cameron’s name, age, height, weight, and top few accomplishments then we photograph him with the sign. Instant record - no writing on the backs of photos. Take four shots and now no need for reprints.

Cameron fought sleep until 8:30 when Scott rocked him to sleep. He woke as soon as he touched the crib, but Scott said good night and closed the door. Cameron fussed for a couple of minutes, then went back to sleep. Mystery! is no longer showing Poirot episodes, so we both read for a while. Boring, domestic, ten o’clock bedtime.

name withheld

Just read today’s journal entry (I think it’s today’s—my connection out is so slow that I could easily be getting http packets from yesterday…:-), and wanted to pass on an anecdote—my experiential reason for thinking that ADD isn’t a completely fictitious disorder (which isn’t to say that everyone diagnosed with it actually has it…)

I have a nasty habit of teaching people to juggle. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched someone learn to juggle three balls, or done it yourself; if you have, you know what it’s like…they master the act of throwing and catching in one motion, tossing two balls back and forth, and then they try to add the third ball. Of course everything goes kablooey; they get about three tosses and a catch to work, and then the balls go flying across the room and they realize they can’t possibly catch them, or they stick out their hand and a ball falls right past it. Stuff like that.

Back around Christmastime, I gave the compulsory juggling introduction to a 14-year-old friend who’s been Officially Diagnosed With ADD (ominous organ music). Basically, everything went as expected; he learned to toss two balls back and forth, doing the little throw-and-catch combo, then tried to add a third ball. As expected, kablooey; three balls up in the air, one or two down in his hand, and then everything goes plummeting. And he bends over to pick up the fallen balls. And, seconds after he stops trying to juggle and bends over, his hands are still throwing balls in the air, obviously without any particular intent on his part, stopping only when there’s nothing left to throw.

It’s hard to express how weird this looks. It’s very vaudevillesque; here’s this guy, bending over to pick something up, paying attention to the thing he’s reaching for, while off to one side one part of his body is off doing something without him.

IOW—and this is more his explanation than mine—his body gets on a roll doing something, and he can’t tell it to stop. When he’s not on Ritalin, his mind does the same thing; his intentions will be calm and well-behaved, but meanwhile his brain goes on metaphorically throwing balls in the air, taking him on a horrible roller-coaster ride where he sees himself doing obnoxious, stupid stuff, and doesn’t have a clue why he’s doing it or how not to.

So, yeah, I think there’s a genuine nervous-system disorder there, and I think it’s a lot more interesting than it’s been given credit for. But I don’t think it’s the universal plague it’s been marketed as, and I certainly agree 100% with the thrust of the journal article. Just wanted to pass along a story.

Michael

My Friday ( and this is typical, not writing it up till Monday) (in fact, it would be more typical to leave it for later, but I’ve started now) Woke up 530 am, turned over & fell back asleep because my personal trainer got a day job & I don’t have an appt at 7 anymore. Sleep till 9, get up & shower eat a bowl of organic blue corn flakes, reading the box out loud: “the Hopi Indians still eat blue corn to increase their power before embarking upon difficult tasks” Drive to work, get in at 2 minutes after 10, walk in in front of a couple of the managers who don’t know that I have traded with Linda & am not actually due in till 11. Nobody has been giving me much trouble about not being in on the dot, (not today in particular, but in general I can be relied on to be 5-15 minutes late) but they do get printouts and now that the review process has to be quantitative, these are easy figures to develop, so hopefully I will get warned and fired and can begin a life of adventure. I work for a major telecommunications company.

Spend the day in a state of Dilbertude. High points: getting up on the conference room table to remove a last Christmas ornament (this was with a bunch of managers around the table), getting okayed for overtime to do the billing audit I have been chipping away at for 2 years (there is a little niche where relatively large adjustments are due, and nobody else wants their name on all the adjustment vouchers, but I am hoping that it will lead to my dismissal and I can go on my life of adventure) in the evening, I go to my friend Glenn’s, his dad is ill, had just been moved from the hospital into a care facility…Glenn was rather depressed … we sang a few songs (we get together & sing big band & swing, some vocal exercises etc) then I took a kava-kava capsule and went to Denny’s for iced tea and sat there reading Anne Rice’s novel Cry to Heaven which is about a eunuch & not my usual fare (science fiction, fantasy, or Linux reference books are more usual) but I picked it up on impulse at Gooding’s Supermarket, a local chain which the unions sometimes picket, but not lately. I still hate to cross picket lines, but things like the story my friend Sandy told me (in a teacher’s union meeting up north, she rose to make a point before a vote, and was told, not gently, “sit down, bitch”) make me in the main less fond of unions than I wish I were. But there were no pickets lately, so maybe Gooding’s has settled. The kava-kava took effect stronger than usual (maybe it was reading about those eunuchs that did it) and I actually had to go into the bathroom after paying my check and put my head on my knees. Haven’t felt this way since my old drinking & toking days. I usually take kava-kava and go straight to bed, and wake up feeling refreshed. So maybe that’s the best way. Then thought about my friend Sandy in Kuwait. Resolved to write her a letter. Went to bed. I sleep like a rock. I envy people who don’t because I am always missing stuff.

Hey, bagel!

more from Michael

This is a Friday report, immensely early rather than a little late. Did not get up early, but made it in to work after having had organic instant oatmeal. Also had last night eaten some organic mustard greens. For years I have admired how pretty they are with the green and yellow and the crenelated leaves. But I never knew how easy it is to chop them up and put them in a big pot with a little water. I hear some people add all kinds of stuff, but they are good just plain. So I was in a good mood all day.

My friend Pat at work brought in a cookie. She breaks away from her desk a lot more than I do, but she makes less money. Sometimes, actually, it seems like she doesn’t take into account the possibility that she might be hindering one’s work-flow. Still, my job is not THAT important, anyway, and as you know, I am looking for ways to tactfully leave it and begin my Life of Adventure. And the cookie was good.

It is 3 weeks now since I promised the owner of the Breakwater Apartments (you gotta wonder about a name like that for a complex on the Gulfcoast where the hurricanes huff & puff) that I would fix his extension billing that very day. However, because I did call him up and explain why it is taking so long, he is okay with that. And three weeks pales in comparison with the 3 months that the top half on the XXX County billing breakdown sat in my files before I found it and sent it on with apologies. Yet that customer (the professional phone bill auditor) was very understanding too. I think people in customer service positions just have to be a little bit polite and the public will be understanding even if service is not perfect. And even 3 months pales in comparison with the 3 years that I have been working on the WATS audit! Yet many of these people get a big credit and never even call in to check.

Then, got a call from another customer who was having trouble with a special circuit. Had to call around until I got a manager who would work with the customer: the technicians had told him there was nothing more we could do. It’s odd being a rep sometimes: I don’t know how these circuits work, yet I call up network people and tell them what the customer wants and listen carefully to what they say so I can repeat sensible stuff to the next person I call.

Last bit (I know my life is pretty boring and the parts that are not boring are reprehensible, and I wish I had a relationship half as nice as Todd & Sage to write about) in the evening I went over to my friend Glenn’s house, his dad is still in the nursing home but in good spirits, I was pretty tired from weightlifting Thurs pm (squats, which are both tiring and invigorating) but we worked on some pieces (he sings & plays piano, I just sing) such as “Laura”, and “This Love of Mine”. Then I went home and couldn’t decide whether to go out to the Sapphire Supper Club or Club Z, so I stayed home and worked on Linux, learning the basics (still) (there are a lot of basics)

name withheld

A Day Like Most Days      Flannel Sheets  9 degrees F, Snow   Bagel    Family     Bus      Dogs       4 Mile Run        Shower         Housework          Sandwich           Fireplace            E-mail             Deliverables              Bus               Family                Wild Rice Soup                 Deliverables                  E-Mail                   Bath                    Book Flannel Sheets

Glenda

Would you like to hear my sob story from yesterday? Sure, you say? Get out and all car doors and locks are frozen. Hating very much to do it, I pour several small buckets of water on door and finally get it thawed.

Decide to give car a chance to warm up for half hour or so and go back in and work on a jigsaw puzzle. Come back out, car is nice and toasty and defrosted. Start backing down to barn lot and find I hadn’t even looked to see how much snow had drifted. Well, yippee, break out the scoop shovel. Manage to back out to the road in a flurry hoping no cars are coming. Luck still holding.

By afternoon all car doors but front passenger side frozen back up. Decide I really need gas but now the flap over the gas tank is also frozen, spend 10 minutes pussy footing with that until I remember I threw a screwdriver in my tote that morning. It works just swell with a few new nicks around flap. At this point, who cares?

Heading on home and brother dear has moved the snow around for a clear path. Thank you! I get back from supper and car starts beeping frantically. Gives me gas until I finally find that the back passenger door has suddenly dislodged from when I had last tried to open it, thus causing my safety-conscious car to beep so that my back seat ghosts will not fall out untended. Heart now back to normal…..

Rachel

As if this day couldn’t possibly be any worse…The weather is still absolutely awful…Nothing but cold, rainy, and absolutely depressing all week long, and it looks like there’s no sign of a break any time soon…I suppose it’s better than snow…Actually made it to my Stats. class this morning…I went to bed around 12 last night, because I was still so upset from dinner, and I got up at 9…Plenty of time for that big pot o’ coffee I need every morning to actually wake myself up and get moving…I’m killing time now until my next class, and then I’m off to pick up my check and go to the bank…It’s so nice to have a bit of money again…Those three days without any cash just about killed me…I have about 3 coffee filters left, which means that until Dad and Kendra come to visit tomorrow, I need to cut way back on my caffeine consumption…But that’s something to worry about later…Right now I’ve still too much on my mind because of last night…That whole table of sorority sisters, talking about me (as if you don’t know when you’re being talked about, especially when it’s blatantly obvious), and what Kris and I did over the weekend…Okay, I had a one-night stand…I’m not the only one who’s ever done it, and yeah, I probably did make a big mistake, but that’s something _I_ have to deal with, and seeing as this particular sorority fits every stereotype that ever existed about sororities in general, I really don’t think they have any reason to say ANYthing about me…But that’s a whole other matter that’s probably best left alone right now…At least until I calm down and start thinking rationally about it!

Mary Ellen

12:10 PM

Whew, only a little after noon and have participated in 10 hours of life thus far today. Awakened by guilt - the dissertation proposal was due two weeks ago and I have successfully ignored it - and set off to the study/lanai/laundry room to work on it. Managed to get a few hours in on it before the latest guest here at “Motel Mary” decided to wake up and cry some more. I suggested a brisk walk in the freezing Florida morning and Cindy agreed. As we walked, I once again listened as she detailed her husband’s infidelity and her plans for her now uncertain future. My heart broke for her, but the pain was lessened as the endorphins from walking 7 miles kicked in. (I continue to be convinced that there is not much that can’t be made at least temporarily better by a good walk and a glass of ginger ale).

Once home, I was drawn to the computer, unfortunately for the dissertation, my destination was e-mail and Coffee Shakes (almost all the way caught up - Yippee). Was humbled by a simple letter received from a friend (scheduled as a long term guest at “Motel Mary” starting in April). Such abject gratitude should be outlawed. Executed my usual compulsive itinerary for my visit from Sam beginning Saturday (this should be interesting - Sam and Cindy in the same condo for a week - YIKES).

Did the whole shower thing (using the new vanilla bean shower cream/body wash/lotion routine - GAWD…I am in love with myself when I have that stuff on). Grabbed some iced tea, made my bed and re-made the bed Cindy slept in in the Tracy/Jeffrey/Lenae/Guest room, even though she had already made it. (OK…I admit I am compulsive).

Am psyching up to get back to the dissertation…. just as soon as I finish all the past entries to Coffee Shakes (eeeegads).

Off ———————

Merry

In the warm darkness, I awaken from the depths of sleep I have not known for a long time. Consciousness weaves it’s way into my mind, brushing away my dreams. I want to reach out and pull the dreams back and play them again in my mind, imprinting the best parts of them - red suns, the orange skies, lavender oceans - all fading in the light of day. Steve lies beside me, his heavy breathing telling me he still sleeps on. He is my comfort, my safe place in this world. I do not want to move from his side, yet it is time to travel into the silver city - who’s promise of paychecks and fulfillment beckon me on. Once again the quiet voice in my mind sings to me, gently reprimanding me for wasting even one more precious day doing something I do not desire to do - for the sake of a paycheck. The voice sings to me daily now, and is becoming louder. How much longer can I push this quiet voice down into the dark empty space of my heart, before it escapes and shouts my desire to the world? Tomorrow - I will worry about it tomorrow.

This week has been a busy one at work. The big cheese from headquarters is here and we are putting together a fancy presentation to show him how bright and clever we are. I am fortunate that my two best friends are also the two that make up my work team, our “Executive Planning Team”. John and Linda are so supportive of me, and I of them. We are family. Unfortunately we seem to go through the same emotional phases at the same time, so this week we are clingy and needy with each other. We go into each other’s office with projects in our hands that don’t quite go together right, and hold them out for inspection, hoping, wishing for some spark of insight that will pull all the pieces together. Most times, we simply end up standing there, having no words to say, no insight, no words of wisdom, just silence. It’s a rare occurrence when we don’t pull things together with our normal “flash and dash” style, so we are at a loss when the answers don’t come to us easily. Suddenly, we realize we are not omnipotent - we are vulnerable. How Traigic. Perhaps the synergy will pull us back on track next week.

My friends Grace and Tracy are in Hawaii this week. Grace is struggling to find herself, although she does not say so. She exists somewhere between the lines, a grey figure hidden in the shadows. Tracy patiently waits for Grace to open her eyes and heart, and embrace Tracy as her partner. I can’t imagine the struggle that wages within them both, and I have no comforting words to offer them. Will she embrace Tracy’s lifestyle? Will she make a choice that will change the way her friends and family react toward her? It’s a lonely choice to make, a path that must be traveled alone - although I am always here to accept them both, no matter what the outcome. Steve and I love them both, and miss them very much. I secretly hope that Grace will acknowledge her feelings for Tracy.

The new house we are buying enters my thoughts throughout the day. I try not to think about it. The current owners are building a new home for themselves on Westchester Lagoon (sounds interesting, doesn’t it?) and won’t be able to vacate the house for another six more weeks. Six more weeks doesn’t sound long, but I’ve been waiting for years, it seems. The staircase is made of glass and oak. I’ve never seen another like it. The house is filled with light and warmth. I smile when I think of it. I imagine myself lying awake at night in the new house, and listening to all of the house sounds, with my family quietly sleeping in their new rooms. I look forward to planting trees that will sing to the house when the wind blows. So another day goes.

Sabrina

My boyfriend of two years and I are breaking up. We live together, so that means I’ll be moving out soon. It’s a very amicable parting: he’ll be helping me move; we’re going shopping for a new bed for him; we’re planning visitation for him with the cats. I am, however, extremely anxious to move into my very first apartment by myself! Hurrah! I’m excited, impatient, and wish I could go to sleep and wake up in two weeks, all packed and ready to go.

Hmm. Maybe that sounds bad — and actually, the other day I had to explain to my mother (and to Bob, come to think of it) why I seem so, well, fine. I guess it’s because I have this tendency to see every meeting, every relationship, as a gift, and every parting, every farewell, as a wonderful lesson learned. I feel so lucky to have had Bob in my life for two years, but now our roads have diverged and it’s time for us to move on. Nothing personal, Bob! I’m “fine” because I’ve learned everything I was meant to from our relationship. Time to go! Good luck! Follow your bliss! I wish you peace!

I have been blessed to know you.

Description: gray and mushy, last seen crawling down Main Street…

This has been an extremely strange day. Everything seems to be out of kilter — the computer’s acting strangely, the cats are behaving out of character, I’ve felt confused and unsure of what’s going on ever since the clock alarm went off this morning. It’s feeling like this that convinced me after getting drunk a grand total of one time as a teenager to never do so again. I hate not being completely in tune with what’s going on around me, I hate not being in control of the way I react to the simplest situations. A week ago I wouldn’t have paused for a minute over what to make myself for lunch; today I waffled over what to eat for over half an hour. It’s like the part of my brain that does most of the important thinking went off on a vacation and didn’t invite me to come, so I’m left here floundering around trying to get a grip on how to get anything at all done. Soon I’ll be putting a big sign up on the front porch with a photo:

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BRAIN?
PLEASE RETURN TO ITS PROPER OWNER.
NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

I keep thinking I must be coming down with the flu, but aside from some sniffles and sneezing that went away after a couple of hours this morning I don’t have any symptoms. I keep thinking I should get more sleep, but I slept from nine until one today and that hasn’t helped at all. When I woke up I looked out the front window and saw how beautiful it was outside and felt disappointed that I’d missed such a lovely day, then rolled my eyes at myself and thought gad, fool, just go outside. So that was helpful, and I ended up spending half an hour sitting in the backyard smiling up at the cloudless blue sky and listening to the birds talk to each other about, judging from the tone of their chirpings, very important bird business. (Or really great bird gossip.)

When I came back inside I cleaned up the kitchen and decided on a whim to burn some incense, which is something I very rarely do. The smell, the smoke, the way incense itself looks — all of these things instantly bring back sharp memories of my childhood, my father meditating with a candle burning on top of my Tinker Toys canister, parties filled with vegetarian food and men and women talking in low comforting voices as I fell asleep on a pile of pillows, Patricia cooking dinner, eating a bowl of carob ice milk…I wonder if incense brings back the same sort of memories for other people my age?

The other problem with feeling this way is that I tend to constantly take my emotional temperature, thinking, “Do I feel better now? Am I back to me yet? Did the vagueness dissipate? Am I having fun?” and in the process being so preoccupied with whether or not I feel better that I might well have started feeling better three hours before and didn’t notice it at all. My cure for feeling crummy is, and has always been, to go about my day and be productive and work hard, which inevitably cheers me up — even writing this journal entry has me smiling and feeling more connected to reality — but even though I know that it’s easier to be lazy and cop out and lie around doing nothing instead, which is what I’ve basically been doing since Monday.

So! No more! If I did have the flu and I knew I had flu medicine I’d be a fool not to take it, and I’m a fool if I keep sitting around feeling sorry for myself instead of getting work on my site done and cheering UP already.

If I could just look upon doctors as mechanics I’d be all set.

Before Todd left for work yesterday I fell asleep facing the radiator, with the comforter pulled up almost over my head. When he arrived home I was dozing in exactly the same position, which really worried him because he thought I hadn’t moved for twelve hours and was sick. I’d gotten out of bed in the interim, and I suppose I was technically awake, but not very. In viewing my body the way I do — as a car for my brain — I tend to get inordinately frustrated when my body doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to and goes around having headaches, or letting my foot hurt. I’m like a cat in that sense, instead of taking anything for a headache or going to the doctor for anything that hurts I curl up into a ball and wait for whatever it is to be over. It took me years to figure out that Advil works a hundred times better when I take it before my cramps get bad instead of waiting until they’re terrible. Yesterday all I wanted to do was pick up my walkman and put on my coat (well, a sweatshirt — the Napoleon Coat was a victim of drive by cat vomiting and is waiting to be drycleaned) and go for a long walk but I couldn’t because of my foot. I took a bath instead and read Original Color by Hugh Kennedy, which was excellent but so fast paced that by the end of the book I seriously started to wonder if the author was addicted to cocaine. Gad, by the last chapter the main character had been through so much that all I felt up to was taking a nap which is why I was under the covers when Todd got home.

From the silliness file:

(Sage and Todd are talking in the dark before they fall asleep.)

Sage: I’m sorry I’ve been such a drip for the past few days.
Todd: Aw, sweetie, you’re not a drip.
Sage: Really?
Todd: Really.
[…silence as Sage begins to drift off…]
Todd: Only –
Sage: Mmmmm?
Todd: Only I’m not sure what a “drip” is.
Sage: Traigic.
Todd: But I’m sure you’re not one.
Sage: (giggling) Thanks.

calling in sick

I’m calling in sick today.

“Hello, Sage? I have a splitting headache, I can’t think, my foot is killing me and all I want to do is crawl into bed and pull the covers up and sleep for about forty eight hours. Can I have the day off? Thanks.”

So, please, imagine that this entry consists of some very clever, witty, interesting observations on life. Just this once. I’ll be back in the saddle tomorrow, even if I have to drink six pots of coffee to do it.

the co-pa…co - pa - ca - baaaana…

Help! Something must be wrong. I’m listening to Barry Manilow. Not only that, I’m singing along. Bad. Very bad.

I’ve been a zombie all day. Todd and I slept until six a.m., which is amazingly decadent for two people who usually have to be up by four fifteen at the latest. It didn’t help me feel more awake, though. I stumbled through my morning routine, throwing most of it by the wayside until I finally decided to go back to sleep, at which point I realized that I hadn’t cleaned the litterboxes, then the mail came, so I was up for another half hour cleaning litterboxes and pulling a cat hair out of my big toe (some people get splinters, I get cat hair) and then went back to sleep. I had a surreal dream which I’m convinced was brought on by that particularly unpleasant “the middle of the film” scene in Monty Python’s Meaning Of Life, in which I was supervising the UPS delivery of a toilet to the house next door. I woke up to find Shelly sleeping on my head, purring madly, and crawled out of bed only to blearily stumble around the house trying to remember why I’d woken up.

I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out.

Eventually we’d like to move to a small town, but I’ve read too many Stephen King books to be completely sanguine. I’m not looking forward to being “that new couple” for twenty five years. Todd, who grew up in a tiny town, says that people were usually pretty kind to newcomers unless they misbehaved. Case in point: one man moved to the town and ranted and raved about people driving their snowmobiles near his house because they made too much noise. He ranted and raved so vociferously that lo and behold, the local tax assessor showed up at his house and said, “Gosh, we seem to have mis-valued your house. It’s worth quite a bit more than we originally thought…”

I experienced a little bit of that years ago when I went to visit Kitey and drove into town by myself. Not in a negative way, it was just startling to realize that no only did everyone I came into contact with know that I was a visitor and not a resident, they also knew which car in the parking lot was mine and what university I was attending. There wasn’t any standing on ceremony the way there is in a big city. I’d go to the (two room) library by myself, check out a book, tell the librarian who I was staying with, and take the book home, no problem. People would leave their cars running, doors unlocked, to run in and buy something when the weather was bad. All this trust that I thought had disappeared from this country before I was even born, is embodied in that tiny town. I like it that in any given parking lot you can see two cars sitting side by side, one with wildly liberal bumper stickers and one with wildly conservative bumper stickers, and no one’s fighting about it.

I asked Todd if there were any big scandals he could think of that happened as he was growing up, and he said not many. People abusing their children, people getting divorced, but not one murder. Not one kid bringing drugs to school. What is it that small towns have got that cities can’t seem to make happen?

the real sea of stars (1)

Yesterday a letter from Kitey arrived which absolutely made my day. My week, even. This is my reply, which I began writing last night and finished this afternoon: Hey Kitey,

It’s very quiet here; the sun has just finished setting and there are almost no cars on the road. I’m sitting on the futon near the front door and there’s a slight breeze coming through the mail slot, which his welcome because I just finished taking a long bath and my head is pounding. Classical music is playing on the stereo and there’s a hint of surreality in the air, the feeling that this universe is just slightly different and changed from the one I’m used to. As if I could open the front door and see the fields by Judah’s house on the land where you live, and the huge expanse of sky that’s so overwhelming that once I went out into the middle and lay on my back for an hour, to see if I could soak in the beauty of that many stars at once, of a sky not blocked by any buildings, of stars not blotted out by any city lights. Until I saw the sky there for the first time I think I had a vague idea that stars were disappearing as fast as animals and trees and grass. It was a relief to find them all still intact.

I’m hand writing this letter because my right hand is hurting on account of how much time I spend typing. It’s a different sort of experience, writing a letter by hand. More… thought out and considered, I think. I spent the day unraveling a rug I’d started crocheting months ago because last night when I took the pieces out to see what color yard I’d need to finish it I couldn’t remember what design I’d been creating. Which got me thinking about how much I like keeping a journal, that whole chunks of memories about things that happened last year seem to have disappeared until I go back and read previous journal entries. Anyway, on to your letter.

Sorry I haven’t been clear about your replying to my letters in Coffee Shakes — it is fine and dandy with me.

I’m glad. I like replying to your letters here — there’s often so much I want to say in replying that I also want to say in my journal that it feels overwhelming to do both individually. I was thrilled when your letter arrived, it was helpful and explained a lot. My crabbiness was (what’s new) that obnoxious daughter/mother assumption that you can’t possibly mean what you say, there must be hidden meaning behind everything.

…in other words I love you dearly and am so glad we have happened upon this method of communication.

Hey *watery grin* ditto.

And it was out of that brief candle sentiment that in reading the second time I felt I’d been MISLED or CHEATED by page numbers when I noticed how much space your signoff convention takes, which is why I asked if it would be convenient to delete it…

One of the reasons I was so glad to get your letter today was because I couldn’t type and was feeling unproductive and lazy and I realized that I could print out all of the latest journal entries without typing a word. And you’re right, there’s no way to get it to not print the footer bit, but I just realized today that I don’t have to include the pages that consist of only the footer when I mail everything off. (I often have realizations like this. It makes me think of that infamous “Far Side” comic which shows a doorway with a sign above it reading School For Gifted Children, and, you guessed it, a little boy valiantly pulling on the door itself, which is clearly marked “PUSH”.) So. This latest batch has 60 pages of real content. Honest.

Yes I know what you mean. I very often feel this with you, that there is some desired manner-of-resoponse to what you’re presenting of which my actual response is at best a pale and disappointing shadow.

I think this has been steadily changing throughout the past few years; either you’re getting more effusive or I’m getting more grown up. I hope it’s the latter… If it helps, the response that seemed to be “missing” from your previous letter was all contained in the two pages I didn’t see at first.

I went and found your last letter because there were a couple of things I wanted to reply to — you mentioned Mimi, and that reminded me to say that ever since you told me that she found out that changing keys in the middle of a song riles the audience up and makes them feel excited I’ve been noticing key changes all over the place. Recently Todd and I got a modern classical violinist’s album from the library and one piece was nothing BUT key changes. We ended up feeling highly anxious and nerve-wracked and were glad when the song finally ended.

Well la my dear, in the seasonal spirit of miserliness, how much is it costing you to send your journal entries to me? (If you don’t know, you are a novice-miser.)

Yes well *hanging head* I’m not even a novice miser yet. I’m more like a stand - outside - the - gates - and - gaze - at - the - novice - misers - miser - wanna - be.

Judah returned the part of the journal she read with these comments: “Ya gotta lover her, dontcha? And can’t you just see her reading eight books at once crocheting away reading the fuckin’ computer between words of the book goin’ ninety miles a minute full tilt, jeezus it’s a whole ‘nother universe ain’t it.”

Tee hee. Ever since I read this I’ve been noticing that that’s pretty much the way I do live my life. Tell Jude she should have seen Todd and I playing gin as fast as we could with two separate decks, two games at the same time. We whipped through six games total and then our brains hurt and we had to go lie down.

I am confused again, doesn’t a laptop also require a modem?

Yup, a modem and of course a phone jack (now I have an image of you and a phone cord and a phone jack out in the middle of the woods thinking, “Hmm, I don’t seem to have a connection.”). But if you did get a laptop and either didn’t get a modem or waited awhile before you got one it would still make life easier, because I could send floppy disks with my journal entries on them instead of printing them out on paper.

It was good to get your letter — helpful to remember that if I don’t understand something you say I have to just ASK, instead of getting crabby about it and then grudgingly asking. That’s everything I know.

Dear Totts, Revisited

Today a letter from Kitey arrived:

Jan 31 Friday morning

Dear Totts,

Both Casey and [name] let me know you’d phones to warn of a crabby letterbomb on the way, Casey adding that after Todd came home and pointed out there was writing on both sides of the pages you understood my letter a bit better? So I’ve been dallying and dawdling and kinda expecting to hear from you again, on account of now, you see, I don’t know what parts of your letterbomb remain relevant. So I’ll reply to everything and we’ll see how this works:

Sorry I haven’t been clear about your replying to my letters in Coffee Shakes — it is fine and dandy with me.

boo after page 45 there is nothing was an evidently too-elliptical way of saying I was disappointed to come so quickly to the end of the line. And maybe I was talking to myself too much there, being as how I was the one avidly reading away at the Barn in the middle of the night, there having been no fires at the Barn for weeks and the minus 30 windchill blowing right up my butt due to my having neglected to winterize rug platform window beyond hanging a coat over the screen etcetera and though there were 45 pages they seemed too short even in those somewhat uncomfortable conditions, in other words I love you dearly and am so glad we have happened upon this method of communication.

And it was out of that brief candle sentiment that in reading the second time I felt I’d been MISLED or CHEATED by page numbers when I noticed how much space your signoff convention takes, which is why I asked if it would be convenient to delete it, followed by me second guessing my own ignorance with the thought that perhaps it’s very complicated to tell printer not to print it. And now I will like to remark that yr reply

Okay. I was only including them because I wasn’t sure if you’d know when one entry ended and another one began.

strikes me as somewhat nutso, since of course the date and title preceding entries is kinda unmistakable, nu? So I remind myself that this was a preadvertised crabby letterbomb and let’s not get all bogged down and analytical about it.

I realize it it perfectly possible that you will now receive the mistaken impression that Kitey feels disappointed if she doesn’t find 50 adventure packed pages from Sage every coupla weeks. And since I am the fool who made the Boo After Page 45 There Is Nothing crack, it is my responsibility to clarify this if possible so here goes:

People send me letters. I sign, and I read them, and I answer them as best I can. These are not joyous occasions. Hearing from you is very different, and as I said earlier I was very possibly talking too much to myself in my elation and frostbite when I made that remark. The End Let’s Hope.

I dunno, I feel poopy ’cause I had way fun putting together that whole package complete with crocheted pictures and everything and it seems like you didn’t have fun reading it, I guess. (Yeah yeah why do I care if you have fun reading it blah blah blah)

Yes I know what you mean. I very often feel this with you, that there is some desired manner-of-resoponse to what you’re presenting of which my actual response is at best a pale and disappointing shadow.

Those years in San Antonio, I’d often drive myself very hard typing all the carbons of the Ccosmics (had to do three or four time depending on the quality of bottom carbons) in an overnight blast and walking them to the mailbox on the faraway corner that had the early pickup date… because some series of Ccosmics were so ept and apt, so hilarious-and-surgically-edged and education for me at that time, I felt driven to “share the wealth” as fast as possible; it seemed an act of vicious greedy hoarding to be the only one on the planet enriched by such helpful insights.

So when these particular kinds of series developed, I would be 1) In a state of elation due to the accelerated learning process caused by the Ccosmics themselves, 2) Motivated to transplant the learning to others in order to then discuss further development of the learning, 3) inflated by coffee high due to having drunk even more coffee than usual in order to drive myself to get carbons in the mail as fast as possible, 4) Relieved once that had been accomplished on account of Sending It On To Others was the only thing I knew at that time to do with such materials. Then I’d eagerly await a similarly-inspired-and-accelerated-learning response, even though, in my entire experience of sharing Ccosmics in that way, this never once happened.

Over half of correspondents mentioned Ccosmics thusly: “Received Ccosmics thanks for sending”, if mentioned at all. The rest would occasionally say something like, “We all laughed a lot” or “Ha ha the baby chick”. For years. Perfectly predictably. And yet I continued to expect a quite other response. For years. Also perfectly predictably. In the last year in San Antonio, also during an accelerated learning time, I finally understood that what I was doing was greedily grasping after A Reward. Consider, beyond the gift of the learning itself and the capacity to share the information, I additionally wanted a reward! This was an important understanding for me, recognisably so, for it marked a change in how I offer not just Ccosmics, but everything I learn and do, that persists to the present moment.

Years later, when you came to [the land where I live] and read the Ccosmics and merrily began to do it back, I didn’t feel rewarded anyway (laughter). I felt encouraged and enlarged by the dialogue, oh good now someone else can use this literary form also and so we can address the ineffable together. Something on those lines.

I suspect that, as sociable creatures, we tend to feel uncertain and apologetic about interests and concerned that are too individual; that is, not shared by those in our immediate human group. Something about this situation produces uneasiness, and not just in the One Apart, but also in the Uninterested Group… Obviously, the reality of unity is not lightly regarded.

Intermission to walk up the hill to the [house] to say bye bye to Casey and [names] who are leaving for St. Louis this morning.

Monday morning — hasty regrets, turned into a long intermission didn’t it — will send this off since am going to town today –

Be well my dears

The sardines are in Spain. Spain, Spain, Spain.

My baby brother wrote me email two days ago. I am still beaming. I didn’t think he remembered me at all — he was eight when I moved out and I haven’t seen him since, and if he did remember me I thought he hated me, but he wrote me the sweetest, nicest letter, and gad, he’s so grown up now. I mean, I feel like one of those stereotypical great-grandparents who lean in and pinch the teenage grandchildren’s cheeks and say creakily, “Last time I saw you, you were knee-high to a grasshopper!” (Given the propensity in New England for idioms this is probably something that everyone, not just great-grandparents, says in Vermont, so please adjust the previous sentence accordingly if you’re a Vermonter.) But there’s a big difference between an eight year old and a fourteen year old, and I can hardly believe that the same little boy who I taught to ride a bike is now in high school. Having had the opportunity to be a big sister is a gift that I’ve treasured for many years; I feel immensely grateful that he might be giving me the opportunity to be a big sister again.

Obligatory Film Critique

I’m a bit nervous about getting my driver’s license and driving around on my own. Maybe I can chalk this up to still being in my teens at the time, but I did some astonishingly stupid things while driving around by myself. The one accident I was in can be described in these terms: Sage pulls out into traffic and isn’t paying attention. Big old car hits the side of Sage’s car. Sage and the other driver pull into a nearby church parking lot. (This was Springfield, Missouri. There were gas station parking lots, there were church parking lots, and there were Wal-Mart parking lots, and that about covers it.) The other driver gets out of his car and tells Sage that he really has to go because he’s visiting his sick sister in the hospital. Sage opens her big blue eyes wide and says, “Gosh, really?” Other driver can’t believe his luck and gets back in his car and drives away at ninety miles an hour. Sage drives back to her dorm and as she’s telling her father on the phone what happened she realizes how stupid she’s been.

Then there was the time that I got lost in my own town. Okay, okay, it was more than one time.

All right, all right, it was more than one town.

Fine. Be that way. The truth is that from the time I got my driver’s license to the time it expired, I got lost in whatever town I lived in at the time on a weekly basis. Once when I was supposed to go to a job interview in Missouri I’d actually crossed over the Kansas border before I realized I’d missed my turn.

From the silliness file:

(Sage and Todd are in a parking lot and Sage is learning how to drive a stickshift.)

Todd: You really got lost that many times?
Sage: Yup, I really did.
Todd: So I guess I should plan on not getting panicked if you go to the library and don’t come back for three weeks, huh.