Life Among the Never-Winged

So. Some good news

2011-03-24T11:05:00.003-06:00

Very good news, actually. JALL is one step closer to possibly getting published. It's in the hands of a fantastic agent and her assistant. I'll know more in a few weeks. Let me say that I am honored and still a little in shock.

I'll leave it at that for now.

Fiction's Up

2010-07-19T21:03:00.005-06:00

and you can find it over at Cezanne's Carrot. I am very pleased with the way they've done the art and layout. Make sure you check out the other contributors as well. Good stuff.

I have another two weeks, then I'm on break. JALL will get one last front-end polish and then it's going out there into the publishing world to find a happy home, let's hope. I'm shooting the moon. We'll see.

I am toying with the idea of starting a new blog featuring all my new adventures in nursing school. Any takers?

Oh! And Big News -- I'll be meeting for the first time a couple of old Blogger friends in August.

A Little Bit of This, A Little Bit of That

2010-06-07T08:27:00.004-06:00

And we have what is sadly becoming a yearly thing; a new post from me.

First off, I have old fiction published in a new place: Everyday Weirdness. It's a wonderful online journal featuring a new story every day. You can find mine on April 29, 2010, here:

http://everydayweirdness.com/e/20100429/

And "Wing" has also found a home and will be featured in an upcoming issue of Cezanne's Carrot:

http://www.cezannescarrot.org/

As soon as I know when, I'll pass that on.

"Just Another Love Letter" is in it's final (I promise!) draft, after undergoing some serious critiquing from all my beloved Beta Readers. I have an entirely new first chapter written for it, and am squishing together the next two, bringing us closer to the Really Good Stuff much faster. I think Sara benefits from having a new mentor right out of the gate, one who does his best to shoo her away from Penemuel. Ah, conflict.

Nursing school is eating me alive. 'Nuff said. I met with my most critical Beta Reader the other day, and he asked me how I had slept the night before, knowing that he was going to Kung Pao critique my book the next day. I told him this was relaxing; what keeps me awake is the thought of accidentally killing someone.

That said, I got straight A's this semester. Well, two A's and two A-s, which actually count against my GPA. Fuckers.

Advice. I need it.

2009-10-15T08:19:00.003-06:00

So I was waiting after school to pick up my boyos the other day, and my friend (let's call her Donna) was fuming because her son had just been labeled with ADD. My jaw hit the pavement -- this kid is quiet, well-behaved, etc. I know because he's one of the boyos' best friends and I've had him in my home half a bazillion times. I've seen him in action.

I told Donna that if her son is ADD, then EVERY boy is ADD.

About that time, another mom came up. "Oh, they labeled my son last week."

What?

Oh yes. He has a physiological condition with his eyes that is being treated, has been addressed with the school, and they still labeled him ADD.

"So have they labeled your sons?" she asked me.

"Not yet," I answered.

Then I came home to an email. They want O and me to meet with the teachers and a special ed psychologist concerning one of the boyos tomorrow. Yeah I know, my stomach dropped through my nethers.

We're not sure what they are going to say yet. We will not stand for an ADD diagnosis. That would make 4 in a class of 24 students, or 4 out of 10 boys. Really?

I'm not saying he's doing well. Because he's not right now. I suspect dyslexia. Anyway, I'm hoping that is the diagnosis. ADD will not stand.

Has anyone else dealt with this? Advice?

So I did it.

2009-10-02T13:09:00.001-06:00

I just wrote a book.

Line of Demarcation

2009-08-31T12:54:00.003-06:00

Summer's ready to leave the party. She's said everything she wants to say, and she's tired of listening to everyone else's stories. Sitting at a little bistro table, she's been cool and distant all season, lovely to look at, just lovely, lovely, like spring. But this coolness didn't suit her age after a while. She never gave off any real warmth. The garden stood still, just watching her.

There's a cool wind that blew in yesterday, right in front of a thunderstorm. Now you can tell summer's preparing to leave. She's clinking the ice in the bottom of her glass, she's looking around to see who might be watching her go. She's dropping solitary yellow leaves from the cherry tree, hints of her intentions. Summer's more aloof, not letting much sun through today, perhaps thinking that no one noticed she was even at the party.

The air couldn't be stiller. Summer's holding her breath, mulling over what sort of exit to make; whether to stand up at once and stride out leaving a frosty room behind her, or to go slowly, laying a hand on a bare shoulder here and there, touching lightly on her way to the door.

The light is staying low today, spread out under bushes, a perpetual morning light from a tired summer. She's lovely and cool but I feel her warming, just a little blush. I think she's spotted Autumn, radiant and young, at the door talking to the maître d', checking her watch, waiting for summer to clear her table. I think summer realizes that whatever exit she chooses, it is time to go now.

PIR

2009-08-09T22:13:00.001-06:00

Isn't that what the cool kids text these days?

Will be updating as soon as I'm alone again.

One Toe at a Time, Casually

2009-07-28T21:09:00.000-06:00

At some ungodly hour: wrong key at first, then correct key missing and scraping the lock at least three times, knob turning, door creaking, tripping over the cat in the dark, stifling a laugh, snorting through fingers, dropping the purse, frantically shushing the dog, a step, another, a shin banged against a table, a sudden lurch into the bathroom (juuuust in time), fumbling down a dark hallway, stepping out of shoes, then panties and skirt, then blouse and bra, sliding back under the covers of blogger again, as if I'd been there all along, snuggled up against you.

Miss me?

Friday Morning

2009-03-15T22:20:00.002-06:00

By Friday morning I was very tired. Thursday, I'd taken a practical in Microbiology, peering through microscopes, determining the differences between gram-positive and gram-negative bacteria, between staphylococcus and streptococcus. A statistics test loomed ahead the following Tuesday. O and I were going out for lunch to toss Big Possibilities back and forth that would involve some considerable lifestyle changes.

Friday morning I was ready to be done with all of it; the classes, the waiting, the uncertainty. To claw my way out of the amber.

When I feel like I want to get out of my own skin, I need to remember that I do actually have a body. When the weather is kind, as it was on Friday morning, I go out to the garden. I need the warm sun shining on my straw hat to pour through me to the the soft dirt between my bare toes. I need to sweat and ache.

So I went out and dug up twelve pounds of volunteer parsnips that had sweetened over the winter. A few were shaped like fine white carrots. The rest were like mandrakes; twisted appendages, swollen tops shaggy with filamentous roots. Products of adverse soil conditions, they warped themselves from pushing through too much resistance. Instead of pouring all their energies into one strong, sure taproot, they had to settle for smaller scattered avenues around harder places.

Nothing is ever simple in a garden. There is the tightrope chemistry of the soil, the balance of composition and decomposition, the miracle of energy converting into matter. It is never a simple thing, but it is good and beautiful, and if tended well it will satisfy your hunger.

I carried the parsnips in and washed them off in the sink. My fingers grew stiff under the cold water. I flexed them dried them off and remembered they were mine.

On my way to lunch, I took the scenic route through our Village neighborhood. To my left was a little pond with an embarrassment of ducks, on the right a horse farm. Just past that was a stubbly field where we had bought our pumpkins the Halloween before. Now it was full of Canadian geese. Over the trees ahead I could make out the tops of mountains I haven't visited in years.

I picked O up for lunch. We headed for the Irish pub in our old neighborhood, but it had been sold to someone with café ideas. We went instead to a breakfast place across the street where O and a friend often go. I'd never been there, so I tested their skills with the basics – coffee, breakfast burrito – and split an order of stuffed French toast with O.

We eavesdropped on the old men talking in a booth behind us about emailing their grandchildren, about their blogs, about Korea. O recognized by his shuffle one of the the homeless men who passed by outside. He misses his open shop where he could watch the street all day and interact face to face with customers.

So we talked about what he wanted to do. The risks involved, steps backward, steps forward. How the boyos would be affected. I urged him to go forward with his plans. I took him by surprise by telling him I knew he wasn't happy where he was at. “As happy,” I amended. He's decided against it for now, this thing he wanted to do. And it seems like the right decision.

We finished lunch. I took him back to his folks' house, visited briefly with his parents. There are troubles there and I will leave it at that.

I picked the boyos up from school. My mom called, so I set up the webcam and she talked with her grandsons online. O came in with the mail.

“There's an envelope here for you,” he said from the other room. I could tell where it was from by his voice.

It was a big envelope.

They don't reject you with big envelopes.

It's not BAD news...

2009-02-28T08:46:00.008-07:00

...but it's not really news at all. Or is it? You decide:

From email:

Subject: Ready for Review

Dear NancyPants,

Thank you for applying to the The Big State College of Nursing.
We have finished processing your application.  It is now complete
and ready for the review process.

In early to mid-March, admission decisions will be mailed for
Summer 2009 and Spring 2010 entry terms.

Pins and needles, people! Pins and needles!

It's time for Rudi's No-Fail Steely Dan Sigil (Thanks, Rudi!)

Update: My hor(ror)oscope. GA! :

The enterprising Aries Moon provokes us to take action, but starting
something new is not so easy today as impulsive Mars forms an annoying
quincunx with restrictive Saturn. We may feel as if every move we
attempt to make is blocked by unchangeable circumstances. Talking
about it won't help, for communicator Mercury semisquares obstinate
Pluto. Fortunately, the Moon's entry into stubborn Taurus at
10:32 pm EST gives us the determination we need.

You may be quite subdued now, even if you are still feeling hopeful
and enthusiastic. It's just that you might learn something that
makes you aware of how much additional time and money may be
required to complete a project. It may be impossible for you to
see an easy way through this reality check, but rest assured that
you are facing a temporary obstacle. Unfortunately, no amount of
hard work will resolve the problem today. The key to success will
be your dogged persistence.

And now we are...38

2009-02-09T11:48:00.006-07:00

I'm back. And I'm older as of today. You know, as opposed to every other consecutive day I spend on the planet. Even Neil Gaiman's celebrating, isn't that sweet?* If you follow the link to his first blogpost, it will give you an idea of the posts I've spared you these past weeks.

But I'm happy with JALL's progress overall. It's almost there, and I lived through a critical scene. Not everyone else did though. 'Nuff said.

I've always felt that 38 would be a special year, the year everything was finally ok, the year that I will have 'arrived' somewhere. I'm not sure where that place is. I'm almost there with the book, I have agent leads, I'm in school taking microbiology and statistics and waiting for nursing school, I have old friends back in my life and the boyos will be receiving awards at school again, on Friday.

And I have a box of this. Oh, sweet heavens!

All the while things look dark and gloomy for the planet otherwise. It makes things...interesting.

Missed 'yall. Oh and if you are interested, I have a..mumblemumbleFacebook page mumblemumble...under my Christian name. Nancy and I don't know each other, got it?

*Disclaimer...oh, just go look, will ya?

Off...*

2009-01-15T12:34:00.006-07:00

...torturing my favorite angels again.

Close. So very close.

Back soon. Maybe. I'm not sure about this anymore.

Art by Somerled.

*...her rocker.

Coyote

2008-12-11T13:52:00.003-07:00

I meant to get back here sooner, but I'm currently in the land of migraine. It hit last Friday morning (and no, it wasn't a hangover – it would take more than a single Guinness to do that). It gathered force through the day, through my oral presentation on communication challenges facing the modern midwife (you didn't miss much), through grocery shopping, until I went to pick up the boyos from school. They came out of school fighting. They might as well have punched me in the forehead. I told them we had to get home, now. They're used to staying after and playing on the monkey bars. More fighting ensued. We got to one of those parking lot meridians that the suburbs are so fond of and I stopped, absolutely floored with pain. I felt utterly bewildered, and probably looked like Clowncar's buck. I couldn't remember where the car was, or which car I'd taken, or even if I'd taken a car. I had the profound urge to just lie down there. My vision clouded over and I couldn't see in front of me.

“Take me to the car, Jack. I can't see.” I held out my hand.

They both stopped fighting. We went quietly to the car. I had to sit in the driver's seat for a few minutes until I could see well enough to drive the half mile home. Why didn't I call someone, ask for help? I wasn't thinking that clearly. I was a horse smelling water and had to get home. Now.

When I did get home and called O, he couldn't understand what I was saying. He got home quick.

After a ménage à trois with Prince Vicodin and his other brother Prince Vicodin, I was able to sleep. Sort of.

I've been treating with ibuprofen since. The rest of the princes keep calling me though.

But what I really want to write about is coyotes.

Before Thanksgiving, O was up in the mountains winning at an overnight high-stakes poker game, and I was relaxing by the fire and working on my previously-mentioned oral presentation when my dog Sam wanted out. As I hooked his leash to his harness, his body tensed and his tail stood straight up. I looked out into the shadows cast by the pines and there he was not ten feet away – a coyote at the edge of the porch. Long-legged, about 45 pounds, stock obviously threaded with dog blood. Silent, stiller than the night. Then gone, Sam barking and snapping after him, my hand freshly rope-burned. One leap over the fence and he was a piece of the night again. Not a leaf crackled under his paw.

I told O about him the next day. Coyotes had already taken down three dogs in the neighborhood, and any number of cats were missing. The foxes are long gone.

A few nights later, I came into the kitchen and heard Sam barking his head off. O had let Sam out and went for a smoke in the garage. I threw open the sliding glass door and ran to where I saw his white body against the dark ground. The coyote was already jumping the fence, about a quarter acre away.

My heart was pounding. Sam was fine, if a little hoarse. I grabbed his leash and gave it a pull. He turned and followed me back into the house. I reached with my right hand for the inside door handle and grabbed air. I stopped and looked. The handle was gone. That's when I realized it was in my left hand. I looked down, thinking I'd pulled it out by the screws.

Here's what I saw:

O came back in from the garage. I held up the door handle for him.

As he installed a new handle the next day (those things are a pain in the ass), he grumbled that at least he knew if he were ever trapped under a car, I'd be able to lift it off of him.

Tuesday, the boyos wanted to go to the park by our house, the one that borders the open space that used to be a bit of a wood before they tore it up for condos that will never be built. There's only a fringe of scraggly willows and cottonwood along a wash at the bottom of the hill now, spared I suppose, for scenery. I sat in the car, not wanting to sit in the cold and snow, and told the boyos to stay on the playground, not to go past the split rail fence into the open space. We noticed the coyote warning signs posted on the lamp post. The boyos went to the edge of the park. Then they turned and ran back to the car.

“Mommy, come quick! Coyotes! We heard them! They're playing!”

And they were, several hundred yards away. I got out of the car and watched them – a mama and her two almost-grown pups crossing the open space. Papa lay on the ground, watching from the trees. Their fur was rough and red in the last light, their tails full and bushy. They were having fun, hunting and running and chasing their tails, yipping in those orange-spiral sounds. Absolutely wonderful to watch. A dog barked, and they disappeared into the scraggly trees along the creek, the sad bit of home they have left now.

What can you do with something so admirable from a distance and so dangerous at close range?

To Battle!

2008-12-04T17:08:00.002-07:00

Travellogue

2008-11-24T12:32:00.002-07:00

We're going home for Thanksgiving. First time in three years. It's funny, when you live far from where you came from you feel like a guest in your own family. There are jokes my cousins tell each other in emails that I don't understand. There was a funeral last week that I could not attend. But we're going home.

Night driving tonight. It'll be a long reach across Nebraska. We each take half the state. I'm loading up my gear for the reach now – I can't make it across without Joni singing about Amelia, I need Nick Cave -- that devilman with his red right hand, Peter Murphy mourning Bela Lugosi, Johnette Napolitano to deal out her 100 games of solitaire. I need to chase cars with Snow Patrol, I need Steely Dan's wheels turnin' round and round. I need 16 Horsepower and Slim Cessna driving north to Cheyenne. It only makes sense that Death Cab for Cutie drives me home from the passenger seat. Elton telling me it's four o'clock in the morning, dammit.

And coffee. Lots of it.

(Oh happy day! O just came home with a baby thermos for me!)

Henderson, Nebraska is a hotel and a truck stop that only exits at night or whenever a bus pulls up. Otherwise it's all wind and dry grass.

The Mississippi divides the world in half.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

What I Did Over My Summer Vacation, Or, Why I Want to Be a Nurse

2008-11-11T13:31:00.004-07:00

Ok Dear Readers, here's my essay. I need to send it in before Friday. I'd greatly appreciate a quick but thorough read-through to catch any typos, grammatical errors, Freudian slips, silk slips, or stoatgobbler mangroves (thanks Stucco).

Thank you, guys.

Discuss your motivation and professional goals for a career in nursing. Include any experience that demonstrates your preparation for, and understanding of, the profession of nursing. Also include experience with diverse groups and/or underserved populations. (Diverse groups can include characteristics of gender, age, ethnicity, race, geographic location, education, etc.)

The simple answer to the question, “Why do you want to be a nurse?” comes from my positive experience with nurses through hospital stays during my pregnancy. I would love to work in labor and delivery and give back to all the scared moms-to-be the reassurance and excellent medical care that was given to me. But I have come to realize that my desire to become a nurse actually arises from three periods in my life.

The first time I cleaned the inner cannula of a tracheostomy tube I was five years old. The 'trache' belonged to my older brother C, who suffered from occipital encephalocele, leaving him brain damaged and completely paralyzed. I helped my parents care for him for the next nine years, until his death at the age of sixteen. I felt that cleaning his trache, feeding him and rubbing his head during one of his frequent seizures made a big difference in his quality of life, and I still believe this. But just before my brother's death, I watched a nurse (a friend of the family who came over late one night after her shift) help with C's new feeding tube. R expertly handled the procedure, as well as reassured my mom and put her at ease. I wanted to emulate her, to be of 'real' use to someone who was suffering. I've never forgotten R, and have tried to take her tone and manner while counseling others through their grief; those who have special-needs children, or who have lost a child or cannot have one of their own. R taught me a very important lesson in patient and family communication that I believe is vital to nursing. And taking care of C from an early age gave me an intimate understanding of the needs of the disabled.

My family is a medical family. My mom was a medical technologist, one cousin is a nurse and another is a pathologist. I've always felt comfortable in hospitals. As a teenager I worked as a hospital 'lab rat' – entering patient data, filing reports and occasionally retrieving errant paperwork from cadavers in the morgue (gotta love hazing!). One thing I loved about my job (besides the weird pathology stories) was talking to the nurses when they'd phone in CBCs and other results. I remember asking about a ridiculously low white count and the nurse told me it was actually up from the day before. Her patient had cancer. I followed his numbers, wishing I could somehow help him more, the way that she did.

When I was pregnant with twins, I was hospitalized twice for premature labor, then suffered gestational diabetes and preeclampsia. The nurses were the ones who kept my spirits up and kept my babies and me alive. After my experiences, I decided that I wanted to be the person who helped other women in my situation. I want to be there when they hear their baby for the first time of course, but I 'really' want to be there in the middle of the night when they are scared or lonely or when I can do something that will help ensure that their pregnancies have happy endings.

My experiences as the sister of a special-needs child, as a lab rat and as a patient have given me the desire and the outlook necessary to become a nurse. I hope you will consider me for a place in the *** College of Nursing. Thank you.

Everything All at Once

2008-11-10T13:53:00.002-07:00

Isn't that how it goes?

I have a chance at getting into nursing school as early as this summer. My next chance is Spring, (actually January) 2010. Here's what I need to do (instead of Blogging) and I have to get it done by Friday:

Have a GPA of 3.0

Got it.

Done: I got into both classes after a couple of phone calls.

Request transcripts from current college and old alma mater: “Ivy League School of the Midwest”

Done.

Write essay on 'Why I wanna be nurse” -- surprisingly difficult. Which is why I'm Blogging.

Fill out on-line admissions form.

Send in $50.00.

There is also a chance that my tuition will be paid for me – if a certain company likes me. I'd have to sign a contract to work for them for two years afterwards. No big deal. It's not labor and delivery, but it is in another area that has my interest. I could possibly get a job with them right now as a tech, but that's a lot to think about. I need to see if I get into school first, and whether I start in Summer '09 or Spring '10.

The odds of getting into nursing school are pretty intimidating: 1000 applicants, 240 positions. Better odds than sonography though.

Oh, and the other thing? I apparently said the right words to the right person and now he wants to see a copy of JALL when I get it all done and polished so he can find me an agent. I've heard it before of course...but this guy could actually do it.

Anyway. Wish me luck?

Halloween

2008-10-31T00:01:00.001-06:00

That's right, I'm back in Mona's Poetry Friday Thang, because I just can't resist her thang, know what I'm sayin'? (Mona, email me about the pennies!)

So here we go. I wrote this while I was supposed to be working out ionic valance numbers. So I got caught and had to go to the board and explain why Rubidium is more reactive than Calcium. The things I do for Art.

At Halloween
we seek to appease you
our beloved dead
(greatly feared)
with black chocolate skulls,
eyes filled with grey salt
that we lick off our fingers.
We even send our children
out into the night.
We hide their faces, tell them
Be good now, ring, beg, run,
And we forget that you
(beloved dead, most feared loves)
may shake the trees over their
laughing heads,
cloud the moon, slick the streets,
because you too are hungry, begging
to be remembered, seen,
touched and comforted.
Who can blame you for your anger then,
shaking the house when the porch lights go dark,
leaving you and the bright empty wrappers
to blow lonely down the cold street?
Beloved dead,
(greatly feared)
tricking us into thinking
you return for a single night
and evaporate with the sunlit frost.

Anyone interested in those dark chocolate skulls can buy one here. Hey, while you're at it, buy me one too! Mmmmm...spicy...

Rough Old October

2008-10-22T11:10:00.003-06:00

I'm making bread right now, for a dinner we're taking over to a family who's suffered a terrible loss. O signed me up for it, from a volunteer list sent around to school parents. That's cool; it's my sort of thing.

This is a bit awkward. I don't know them at all. I just talked to the mom on the phone, to confirm dinnertime. The fact that she can answer the phone at all amazes me.

There was that weird' – Hi there, I'm a perfect stranger but I'm going to come over and feed your family because something so horrible that I can't begin to contemplate it, has befallen you. So do you like cilantro?'* – thing. Hem haw. 'Do you know how to get here or do you need directions?' Hem.

Tomorrow will be easier. I have a dear friend, one of the Sushi Babes, who's just had two very large tumors removed, along with any chance of carrying a baby. I've visited her twice already, once with another Babe and a houseful of visitors, and once last Thursday. I can sit and cry with her. I can joke that together we make one whole woman. I can offer her a womb, if she wants to go that route. I can bring music and recipes and quilt while she crochets. We can bitch about the doctors who wouldn't let us keep the nasties in a glass jar – we made them ourselves after all, dammit! And they are such pretty pearls...

But bread and soup. What words do you serve with that, to a total stranger?

*Not my actual words. I'm not that socially autistic. But I was thinking them.

Nancy Dancehall and the Philosopher's Stone

2008-10-09T22:53:00.002-06:00

So here's my solution to the bailout.

I'm taking chemistry this semester (did I tell you that?) and I needed some extra credit very badly. So tonight in lab I took out some pennies and did this:

I don't know what all those alchemists were crying about. It was pretty easy.

When I 'm not turning pennies to gold and silver, I get to blow shit up.

I LOVE chem lab!

I Swore I'd Never Do This Here, But...

2008-10-06T23:34:00.003-06:00

'Somehow through...I will call it a criminal neglect and incompetence, the people at the top of these firms chose to look away, to take a risk, to enrich themselves and to put the shareholders and indeed the country itself, ultimately the economy, at risk, is truly not only a shame but a crime.'
Jim Grant -- the editor of Grant’s Interest Rate Observer, and the author of “Money of the Mind.”

See it for yourself.

And a question...has anyone seen the protests on Wall Street? You know, the ones where large crowds of demonstrators are holding up signs that say, "Go ahead and jump, motherfuckers?"

No?

Gosh. Whatever has happened to our media? Don't tell me the fourth branch of government is corrupt too!

Questions

2008-09-26T18:50:00.003-06:00

We brought the boyos to school on Wednesday, same as any morning.

Parents were huddled together. Some stood with their arms around their kids, in line outside the doors. Everyone was quiet.

What's going on?

Sunday, she was at church, playing with her friends after services were over. She couldn't catch her breath. Her parents called an ambulance. Two days later, she died of complications. She was six years old.

They called in counselors, and last year's kindergarten teachers. The first graders made paper flowers and cards. Some of the girls cried through the day.

None of them really understand.

We parents stood together after school, not really understanding either. Still letting it sink in. The head of the PTCO approached us. We talked about memorials; a tree, a bench, a flower garden. Something. Nothing like this has ever happened in the history of the school.

She told us she was organizing a fund. She told us that a few days ago she and her husband had decided to move back to Australia to be near her family again. This, she said, this reaffirmed their decision. Family is the most important thing, and she'd been away from hers too long. Eight years.

The bell rang. Kids poured out, some still crying, some smiling. My boyos had questions. When we're in the car, guys, then I'll answer them. In the car.

They had a few I couldn't answer, of course. I grew up Catholic. I went Pagan, then heathen. I've witnessed miracles, magic, a Presence. And I'm a woman of science with a voice in my head as I fall asleep whispering, This is all there is; when you die it all goes black...

What do you say? How do you answer?

Declan was ok with my answers. He's accepting, he rolls with things. Jack was all smiles, the tight variety. I'm ok, Mommy. Later he sat outside by himself. He faced the wind, watched the light. Stayed quiet.

The email asked, in lieu of flowers, could the School Community please help pay for a headstone? Times are tight, and...well...

The funeral is tomorrow. We'll be there, with many, many others from our School Community. We'll all have questions. I guess we'll all do our best to answer them.

That's Odd

2008-09-17T13:17:00.001-06:00

My cell phone is sitting next to my laptop. I look down and see that my cell phone's flashlight is turned on. I scroll through the commands and turn it off. I set it back down.

Now I'm watching it scroll through the commands to turn itself back on. Blink, there it goes.

That's odd. This sort of thing usually doesn't happen until October.

Sniff Sniff

2008-08-25T08:18:00.003-06:00

The boyos started first grade today. I just got home from dropping them off. The house is quiet.

Guess I'll be posting more often now. Naked.

Wade into the Water

2008-08-10T09:35:00.004-06:00

So I was going to come back with a Really Good Post about Rockygrass.

But I'm not managing it today. Maybe tomorrow.

I'm hoping this lame post will shame my right brain into working again. It sputtered to life briefly when I was nowhere near a notebook (Note to self: buy waterproof notebook), but sitting in front of a screen seems to make it curl up and hide behind my medulla oblongata.

Ten Things I Did This Summer

Got spanked by a saint.

Defended the heart of a cadaver from someone who didn't seem to give a fuck.
Change my 'major' back and forth three times.
Got another A.
Danced with a chick with dreds down to her calves.
Got my heart broken by a cottontail.
Got my first library card in 30 years (OMG! Did you know they still let you take books home? For free!?).
Toured a tea factory and bought my weight in tea for practically nothing.
Got hit by deja vu when I made fast friends with a couple who have a daughter named Alia and are moving from Colorado to the PNW. GAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!
Create a possibly genetically stable cross between Gray Dwarf Sweet and Green Arrow peas, AND made the cross heat-and-drought-resistant. Next summer will tell.

Ten Things I Did Not Do This Summer

Write a post.
Finish a quilt.
Finish the novel.
Start a new novel (though it's in there! It's in there!).
Learn to draw trees.
Leave the state.
Talk to Tim O'Brien again. (though I did meet Bela Fleck. Woot!).
Successfully give up coffee. I can't. I'll just die younger instead. It's worth the trade-off.
Save a life.
Write a decent poem. (Or an indecent one. Just a so-so one).

Mona's Word – Change

2008-06-13T17:02:00.001-06:00

Sorry, guys. A nasty old cyst knocked me out for a while. Every time I think I've got the thing beat...some things never change.

And other things do, so very quickly. The boyos just graduated from kindergarten. I remember shopping schools when they were two, and tearing up on the way home because they weren't my 'babies' anymore. And then I came to my senses and remembered that this was a good thing, that I never, ever wanted babies forever. I want eventual friends.

They made me proud. And they made me cry. A couple days before graduation, we took them in early for an awards ceremony because they had both won. Teacher's discretion, she picked out five kids from her class who showed the true spirit of their school. Jack won an award for being Respectful to His Teachers and Fellow Students, and Declan won for Making Sure Everyone Was Always Safe, Even on the Playground.

These awards are not what made me proud. They are pieces of paper.

What makes me proud is actually seeing these traits in my boyos, in the classroom if not always at home. Jack says his pleases and thank yous and sits quietly when asked. Declan is the first one to run to a kid who's been hurt, and the first to share the ball or marker.

But that's not what made me cry.

What made me cry was graduation. The kids filed in one by one to “Pomp and Circumstance”, some straggling, some happy for the attention. I waited for my guys to come in. There was a break in the line – a kid and then no one, no one, no one. And then there was James*.

The story I've heard that is that James is a triplet. Mom had a difficult labor, and James didn't get all the oxygen he needed. So he's in a 'wheeling chair' as the boyos call it, possibly blind, or at best sight-impaired. He undergoes periodic operations to help him walk and move better. James does not speak, but he makes wonderful, happy noises when he hears music.

So there was James in his wheeling chair, pushed by one of his therapists. And there were my boyos, Jack just in front, respectfully leading the way for him and stopping and looking back to make sure everything was ok, and Declan at James' side, hand on his arm, making sure he was safe.

Those are my good, good boyos.

Who are currently trying to kill each other. Excuse me please...

*Name changed of course.

Joni Said It

2008-06-02T22:56:00.004-06:00

So I asked my instructor four questions tonight during the lecture and he couldn't answer any of them. Mostly what he said was, 'I don't know,” and “Don't worry about it, it won't be on the test.” If an advisor would ever call me back I'd switch to microbiology. This is going to be a long summer. I miss Nurse Bagel.

But that's all irrelevant. What I really want to talk about are clouds.

I came out of school remembering the last time I flew, and there they were, the biggest thunderheads I've ever seen, coming over the mountains.

One of my dream-team classmates* was talking to me and we both stopped.
“Do you feel that?” she asked.
“Yeah!” I said.
“Humidity.”
“Hee! My t-shirt is clinging to me. I'm actually sweating.** This is freaky!”
“It's like being at sea level. No, it's like walking on the beach!” she said.

Then we saw the clouds.

Driving home, I watched them roll and pulse and move. The sun was going behind the mountains and the clouds were Maxfield Parish pink on the tops, with orange bodies and deep blue and gray backs facing the East. They were so big and heavy that they cast a diagonal shadow across the rest of the Eastern sky all the way to the horizon. Beneath them everything was purple, the land ready to be bruised by these ethereal mountains, this floating ocean.

In my head Joni Mitchell sang, “These are the clouds of Michaelangelo” over and over, while on the radio Seal sang, 'In a sky full of people/only some want to fly...in a hell full of people/only some want to fly/'cause they're not crazy.'

Cars were swerving, drivers pointing out the window.

There is a hill near my home that has the best view of the Front Range. There is a stop light on the hill. On the bike path beside it a couple was standing arm in arm staring at the mountains.

Giddy, I shouted out to them, “No, no, no, don't look at the mountains! Those things will be there forever! Turn around!”

They did, and they smiled up at the sky.

In the neighborhood, a group of teenagers had stopped their basketball game to stare. People were out in every other yard, pointing. Standing on the sidewalk I could hear the 20-something guy one house over say to his buddy, “Look at those colors. Straight out of the Sistine Chapel!”

These are the clouds of Michaelangelo...

I wanted to shout that back, but I had more fun listening to them talk about the shapes the clouds took. The animals, the faces. I watched an old man laugh, and lovers approach, kiss and merge.

I decided then that I'm coming back as a cloud that rises from the Pacific and falls into the Atlantic.

These were the clouds that made men first look into the sky and conceive of the gods of thunder.

I opened the garage door and was disappointed to see our other car – along with O and the boyos – still gone. I ran in and grabbed the camera, snapped some photos that capture nothing of what I saw. Like saying, Here, let me show you a bucket of water and tell you it's the ocean -- isn't the ocean beautiful?

Click on this one up close. Thunder god.

They were beautiful. They were terrible. They'll probably kill someone on the Eastern plains tonight.

I hope to God not.

*Sadly, the only one in my current A&P class. We all went separate ways with no Nurse Bagel to guide us.

**Colorado is so dry that sweat evaporates directly off the skin. Not that that's a bad thing.

Late Bloomer

2008-05-29T15:21:00.002-06:00

Rest Now

2008-05-24T10:36:00.001-06:00

Rest Now

I've been planting

and watering, watering

as the wind blows the water away

fast as it falls.

Just before I go back to study

the endocrine system, I puzzle over

what went wrong with me,

what will go wrong

with my future patients;

women like me.

I watch over seedlings that have

stretched up through the dirt

wondering what went wrong

with the ones that didn't.

Environmental –

Too much water? Too little?

Cellular –

Something left out of that old code?

Never to sprout but still

buzzing on a sub-atomic level;

a shell of relationships

waiting to decay.

Every night I haunt a house in Russia

2008-05-09T00:28:00.008-06:00

Every night I haunt a house in Russia. I haunt the ghosts who live there. It's unintentional.

I didn't know where I was, or that I even was anywhere. To me it was just dream after dream of the same place – the woods, the snow,

the overhanging balcony like iced gingerbread,

and inside, the dark, cramped wooden staircase I found myself climbing over and over against my will always awakening before my feet touched the landing. A blessing.

Years passed in my dreams and in the world where I dreamed.

Paint peeled.

Furniture toppled.

The ghosts got used to me, and eventually took a liking to me. I learned their names but I never remember them. They take no offense.

I'm like a little doggy who comes to visit now and again. They feed me, so to speak, scratch behind my ears. I guess I must entertain them.

I still don't like the stairs. Even now that I've seen what's at the top, and that the room isn't going to hurt me. That no ghosts in this place will hurt me.

'Will' is different from 'can' though. And sometimes things change.

I finally went up the stairs. All the way up. The paint up here is still bright, because it has stayed so dark. At some point, someone blackened the stained glass windows.

There are two chairs facing each other across the room.

Maybe the conversations up here were very nice once, with the light streaming through the windows.

No one's come up to talk to me yet.

And even though I'm alone, I can't make myself go back down the stairs.

There's a table, you see, off to the side. A red one, next to the stairs. On the table is a hook.

I can't get past that table.

No one comes to talk to me. Not even the ghosts.

I've been here a while now. Waiting to wake up.

Come see me?

The photos were taken 550km north-east from Moscow in Kostroma region near Chukhloma town.

Mona's Poetry Friday word is, 'doggy.'

Synaesthesia

2008-05-02T11:45:00.004-06:00

Or schizophrenia. You decide.

This is what happens when Dancehall is in a dreamstate after staying up all night with a sick child, after writing a research paper on Synaesthesia with alphabetized references, after getting all emo over an 80's song she hasn't heard in forever ('Love Over Gold', thanks for asking), after reading an article Stucco sent her about J.K. Rowling's little lawsuit snit, and after taking up Mona's challenge after reading Clowncar's contribution last week.

A found dialogue. (hit the letter "I") I steal like a thief, but I'm always a woman.

After the Commitment

Woman: “I confess...I don't like Mondays.”

Man: Rubbing eyes “I don't wanna know. I drove all night.”

Woman: “I eat cannibals.”

Man: Pained sigh “I feel for you.”

Woman: falling from the chair “I get weak.”

Man: catching her “I got you!”

Woman: “I just died in your arms tonight.”

Man: Concerned expression “I know there's something going on.”

Woman: Devious smile “I know what boys like...”

Man: Embarrassed blush “I melt with you.”

Woman: “I remember you! I...I see...red.”

Man: Looking into her eyes “I still haven't found what I'm looking for.”

Woman: getting agitated “I think I'm a clone now.”

Man: looking around nervously “I think we're alone now...”

Woman: snickering and whispering “I touch myself...I wanna be a cowboy.”

Man: Shouting out the prearranged 'codewords' to the orderlies “I wanna dance with somebody!”

Woman: Shouting to the orderlies “I want a new drug!”

Man: Angrily and desperately to the milling orderlies “I want action!”

Woman: Laughing hysterically “I want candy! I want to break free!”

Man: Closing eyes to hide the tears and the sight of the orderlies drag his darling away “I want to know what love is.”

Woman: shouting as she's dragged down the hall “I want you to want me! I want your sex!”

Man: turning to leave “I won't let the sun go down on me.”

(Actually, this was a lot of fun.)

Liv Started It!

2008-04-30T11:13:00.004-06:00

Click here for Bollywood Goodness

Dangerous Things

2008-04-28T19:01:00.002-06:00

(Now with pictures!)

I've been doing dangerous things lately. I blame Spring.

Yes, you can tell Spring is here. On my way to school I saw things like no snow, tulips, llamas cropping the new green grass, gargoyles that had shed their winter coats for floppy straw hats and bouquets, and two guys in ski masks, one with a chain saw and the other with a flame thrower.

Ah, the signs of Spring!

So I'm doing things. Dangerous things. I've been having high tea and champagne with beautiful women followed by drunken window shopping.

I'm throwing the windows and doors open to let in the smell of cherry blossoms mingle with fresh-ground cardamom for kheer. I'm burying stargazers in the garden. Let them make their own way back up if they ever want to see the sky again!

My kind of snow!

Dangerous things. In other words, I'm not studying.

But if Colorado has taught me one thing it is this: grab happiness when it comes. Don't ask, just close your hands around it.

Thursday it snows again.

Lame-Ass Meme

2008-04-18T23:34:00.004-06:00

The cavalry's here (or 'calvary' as I misspelled in a recent email). My mama's in town watching the boyos whilst I study for all the pretty finals. So I gots nothing left for the blog. But this meme. Enjoy.

Does the last person you shared a bed with mean anything to you?

Yes.

Are you dating the last person you kissed?

That would be my mom. Ew.

Do you think you will be in a relationship 3 months from now?

Yes.

Are you too forgiving?

I'm no Jesus, but yeah.

Olive Garden?

I'd rather eat a bowl of lard with a hair in it, which is what I think they served me the last time.

Would you live with someone before marrying them?

I think it would be wise.

Have your friends ever seen you cry?

Unfortunately.

Who was the last person you cried in front of?

O.

If you're having a bad day, who are you most likely to go to?

The people in my head.

What's irritating you right now?

The idea that one man eared 3.7 billion dollars last year by shorting junk mortgage bonds. That's enough money to keep 666,661 American households afloat for a year.

What did you do yesterday and with who?

Homework, while my mom kept an eye on the boyos.

Who's the last person that you felt stalked by?

A neighbor kid down the street who waits for our garage door to open. Pathetic, I know.

What are you stressed out about?

I think that's obvious.

Last text message you received?

'Neil's wearin' a pocket protector' To which I replied, 'Loser! Bwahahahah!'

What were you doing at midnight last night?

Dreaming that I was trainspotting with Einstein. I asked him sarcastically what great knowledge he was going to impart to me this time and he laughed and said, “Sometimes a train's just a train, Spooky.”

Last place you went?

A chocolate boutique for a dark chocolate Cayenne-laden bon bon.

Do you talk in your sleep?

Very occasionally.

When was the last time you told someone you loved them?

About an hour ago when I kissed the boyos goodnight.

What are you looking forward to?

Learning how to draw trees.

Ever been a bridesmaid or groomsmen?

Yes, but the best was serving as the minister for Clowncar and Lil Peewee's wedding.

Do you sleep on a certain side of the bed?

The left.

How often do you talk on the phone?

Two or three times a day.

Do you believe in love?

In all its splendid forms.

How much cash do you have on you?

A 10p coin from 1995, which will no longer buy anything, anywhere.

What is your favorite ringtone on your phone?

What's a ringtone?

Can you handle the truth?

Yeah. It's my fantasies that I can't handle.

Best breakup song?

'Nothin' On Me' by Shawn Colvin, from 'A Few Small Repairs.' No, wait, 'Get Out of This House' from the same album.

Have you ever, in any way, been betrayed by someone you trusted?

Of course.

When was the last time you were given roses?

I don't remember.

What do you want this year?

To see the ocean. To finish writing the damn novel. To start a new novel. To keep my 4.1 GPA.

Do you prefer to call or text?

Text.

What month is your birthday in?

February, the month of sacrifice. The Wolf Moon Month. Ooogie boogie toads.

How many cities/towns have you lived in?

Six.

What are you doing for your next birthday?

Nothing. But I want cake this time.

Do you know how to drive a stick shift?

That all depends on your definition of a stick shift.

What jewelry are you wearing?

Nose ring, necklace from Westport, Ireland, 'opal' earrings from Haiti, Land of Zombies.

Who got you the jewelry you are currently wearing?

Me, myself, and my mom, respectively.

How often do you remember your dreams?

Every time.

What is the first thing you do in the morning?

Remember what I dreamed. Wish I was back in it.

How long is your hair?

It tickles me bum.

What were you doing at 8:00 this morning?

Drinking coffee.

What were you doing 30 minutes ago?

Answering this problem: 10. Draw or chart and explain 3 or 4 neural pathways which start with different specific sensory neurons, are integrated in one or more CNS structures, and culminate in an action at one or more effectors. Include all 4 cerebral lobes, the other 3 major brain areas, a spinal reflex action, and at least 2 cranial nerves, and an autonomic response one or more of your 3 pathways. Highlight the areas/structures listed above as you use them.

How do you feel about the person who texted you last?

BFF!

Do you like your life as of now?

*Sigh* No.

Last thing you purchased?

A rather short silk wraparound skirt, that can also be worn as a shirt, or a shrug, or a cape, or an apron, or a sarong. In other words, a thneed, which everyone everyone everyone needs.

Three words to explain why you last threw up?

Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome.
Three words to explain why you almost last threw up?

Cadaver fecal matter.

How's your heart lately?

Arrhythmic and I don't know why.

Where did your last non-family hug take place?

Again, I don't remember. I count close friends as family. I don't get out enough to be hugged by strangers.

Who was the last person to hold your hand?

My eldest son.

Are you a jealous person?

Nope.

Did you have a good birthday this year?

I had a difficult birthday this year. I'm hoping for better next year.

Are you tired right now?

God yes.

Do you chew on your straws?

No. But I tie cherry stems into knots.

Three days from now will you be in a relationship?

Yes.

Have you ever told someone of the opposite sex you loved them?

I have told people of all sexes I love them.

Is there anyone who doesn't like you because of something you didn't even do?

That would be my sister-in-law.

As of today, do you fancy anyone?

Yes.

Have you kissed anyone on the lips today?

No.

Have you ever been awake for 48 hours straight?

That's child's play, baby!

Last person you cried over?

Don't laugh. Ray Bradbury.

Do you cry easily?

No, but I cry over weird things. I think it's called transference.

What should you be doing right now?

Figuring out what I need to study for Monday's test.

Are you a heavy sleeper?

I'll sleep when I'm dead, sir.

You Don't Want to Read This

2008-04-11T09:18:00.003-06:00

Seriously. Go read about Stucco's antics over on Irrelephant's site.

I've gone from Ranty Dancehall to Ragey Dancehall. And you don't wanna read that.

Blame Mona and her Friday word, 'Negative'.

Dear Mr. Department Head,

What a thrill it was for you, wasn't it, to hear us call your name, see us charging towards you, leaving behind trays gleaming with aqueous and vitreous humours, retinas and nerves, a thrill to see the Broncos cheerleader hopeful, the exotic bodybuilder, the housewife in stilettos and the lovely young coed, all wanting your attention as you passed through the lab on your way to the cadaver room. Such a hawt lil fan club! I could tell by the way your face flushed and your eyes widened, the goofy smile, the way you staggered backwards. What a funny little bunny you were! Oh, and how those perky ears drooped when you heard what we had to say, though not so first. Not so. They stood right up at first.

Perhaps you realized who we were. What is it you call our class? The Dream Team? We're the best class this department has ever seen, the best class our instructor has seen in her thirteen years of teaching at all the colleges in Denver. Our class average is 14% higher than the other A&P classes, even though we all take the same tests. You've charted us, discussed us in meetings, grilled Nurse Bagel and Coach about their teaching methods, and you and your colleagues still can't figure out why this small group of twelve people with NO medical or science experience is kicking everybody else's ass. You can't believe that a dancer, a cheerleader, a waiter, a massage therapist, some young little thangs and a couple of housewives are able to do this. (You can't figure it out to the point that you maybe, possibly, think that our class maybe, possibly is cheating.)

Hey, we can't figure it out either! Except that we are simply busting our asses studying, showing up at all the open labs, quizzing and encouraging each other.

And we like this, Mr. Department Head. We like our classmates, and we lurves our instructor, Nurse Bagel. We ask her every class period, “So do you know yet if you're teaching one of the A&P II classes this summer? The schedules are out and it says 'to be announced'...” We want to know because we want to keep the dream alive.

And Nurse Bagel rolls her eyes, tells us that she STILL doesn't know even though she requested it last January, and that she usually teaches the class, but you, Mr. Department Head, have not responded to her emails.

You have a lot of power in your little kingdom here, Mr. Department Head. You decide who teaches and who gets kicked out of the ivory tower every semester. I thought competition was fierce trying to get into nursing school or sonography school or med tech school. It is nothing compared to what the instructors have to go through here to teach a class because the school won't hire anyone onto the staff. Freelance teachers. Keeps 'em cheap, right?

So back to us, your little flash fans, as we converge on you in the lab.

“Have you decided who's teaching A&P II this summer?” asked the cheerleader, practically jumping out of her tennis shoes.

You smiled. OH did you smile at her! Well, yes I have...” Look at those bunny ears stand straight up!

“Is Nurse Bagel teaching?”

That smile froze. Those ears might have drooped ever so slightly. You took a breath. “No,” you said. “But,” and that smile got wider and those little eyes narrowed! “I happen to know that the instructor who's teaching it IS preeeeeetty good—”

“Bagel's not teaching?” we said. No, we lamented.

“Well, I'm...um...” You didn't bother finishing because your fan club turned as one and slumped back to more eyeball dissections.

We didn't even look back as you made you way on to Veronica* and Seven of Nine* waiting in their empty room.

But I think I saw something in your eyes, Mr Department Head. I think you are teaching it because you want a shot at us. What would you do with our Dream Team? I imagine lots and lots of trick questions and lots and lots of monitoring.

But you know what? I think a few of us might wait you out. There are other pre-reqs that need taking in the meantime.

*My names for the cadavers, not theirs. They don't officially name them anymore.

1 + 2 = 7, Or, Don't Get Sick in Colorado

2008-04-03T14:17:00.000-06:00

This email made my day:

Dear Nancy,

Thanks for your email. It made my day. What an interesting question! 
In all my years of teaching Histology, never have I been asked that 
particular question...people often seem more concerned with 
memorizing than wondering!
You are THINKING!!
There are several benefits of branching in cardiac muscle cells. 
First, as you've pointed out, by having each cardiac muscle cell 
(fiber) send out branches, it increases the capacity of each fiber to 
pass electrical stimulatory currents to other fibers. In addition to 
the nerves and Purkinje fibers, electrical communication via 
intercalated disks is a key part of the remarkable system of 
conductivity that spreads contraction through the heart.
Another benefit of branching is this: By having an "irregular" shape, 
the complex squeezing action of the heart muscle is facilitated. As 
you know, the heart squeezes like a fist to act as a pump, and the 
squeezing motion is precise and repetitive. Skeletal muscle fibers 
usually move in one plane, and can accomplish what they need to by 
being unbranched and exerting their force in one direction.
I hope that helps.
Good luck with your studies!
All the best,

Dr. Dave
----------------------------------
David T. Moran, Ph.D.
CEO, VisualHistology.com
PO Box 1142
Niwot, CO 80544 USA

It took the sting out of getting laughed at by one of our fine higher-education institutes, which refused to even send me free information on their nursing program.

We had a substitute teacher yesterday because our regular instructor, a nurse, had to cover a 'critical shortage of nurses' at her hospital.

I wonder how that happens?

Join Me

2008-04-01T09:42:00.009-06:00

It's time. Come with me, and together we will start a colony of Bloggers living in peace and harmony.

It's all right here:

http://www.google.com/virgle/index.html

I've already signed up.

Who's with me?

***************

Update!

I'm on the medical team! I got the job because I'm the only one who knows what an esophagogastroduodenoscopy is and how to spell it correctly! Oh brave new world!

Surprise Surprise

2008-03-28T15:37:00.000-06:00

For Mona, on a Friday.

Ok. Done pouting. Self-pity is a bad color on me.

I'll get my pre-recs out of the way and then sit on my hands until my name comes up on the list to get into nursing or med tech school, whichever comes first. I'll eat the whale one bite at a time. (Thanks, DMG :-) ). Thank you everybody.

I think I was just feeling extra-dejected the other day because I'd gone to give blood and was surprised when they rejected me. I had to do the Walk of Shame past all the other applicants, their eyes on me saying, “What's wrong with her?”

(And there were five bonus points in A&P if I donated blood too. I hate leaving bonus points on the table.)

Anyway, I walked into my A&P class where my instructor, Nurse Bagel, had put up on the board all the topics we needed to know for our up-coming test. I picked a topic and started writing.

She came up behind me and asked, “So how'd the donation go?”

I turned around and said, “I got rejected!”

“Really? I'm surprised.”

“Yup.” I rolled my eyes. “Just because I'm a prostitute they won't take my blood.”

Now THAT surprised her. Doubled her over laughing, actually.

Hee! The best part about being old is that I no longer give a shit about appeaing all prim and proper...

Education in the USSR

2008-03-27T11:03:00.002-06:00

Not feeling so hot. Feeling old, actually.

I put aside the dream of Sonography a while ago. With 170 applicants each semester and only 5 taken, I don't stand a chance. So I decided to be pragmatic. Nursing or Medical Technology? Both appeal greatly. And there is a higher demand for nurses and med techs than for sonographers.

But guess what? All those schools are full too. And the waiting lists, which you can only get on after you've completed all your pre-recs, are one to two years long. By my reckoning, that only puts me in the door at 40. Oh, and two of the schools just added a couple more pre-recs.

So make that 41.

Anyway. I'm trying to muster enthusiasm to study for my tests next week. The thing is, the enthusiasm is there, just because I LOVE THIS. But...I'm tired of banging my head against the wall. What the hell good does 103.5% do when you're in the USSR?

P is for Poem

2008-03-20T13:10:00.003-06:00

Ok, so I'm jumping the gun early on Mona's Friday Thang, but I actually have a free moment right now to post.

The word of the day is the letter 'P'.

This was inspired by this amazing poem (in my top 5 favs) and by this idea.

So enjoy. I don't do this often. Poems are so hard. Like trying to remember a dream.

Lost and Found

Lost:

One shoe,

lonely at the edge

of an empty highway.

Reward offered:

One step closer

to your true home.

Found:

Beach glass;

well-worn

blue, an

old bit of

bottle.

Reach me with details

the foam's edge.

Lost:

My mother's memories

of recent years.

Please return them

even if they are broken

or stained.

I can repair them

with spare parts from

my own.

I've been here with her

every day.

Reward – one of

my memories:

the sheen of rain

on blue hydrangeas

though my mother's

warped glass window

the first time she forgot my name.

Lost:

My way when

the ink dried

and I thought the

shape of a sound

might replace it.

Found:

At the shadow-haunted edge of things

a milk tooth,

rather sharp.

Should it go unclaimed

am willing to trade

for the word that means

'a mother who loses a child'.

Found:

The last ray of sunlight

that shone on a man's face

in the garden before

the clouds came up.

I can be reached under the petals.

Communication Breakdown III – Just Another Love Letter

2008-03-13T22:42:00.001-06:00

The house we occupy now used to be a rental. That means we get a lot of junk mail addressed to former tenants. Many of the names have become familiar. A certain woman apparently loved to gamble and gets constant invites from local casinos. Another man receives offers to upgrade his airline account. Familiar names, familiar junk mail.

Until a few days ago.

At first I thought it might be for my own boyos from their grandma. The envelope was covered with stickers and stamps a little boy might like.

But it wasn't for them. The boy's name on the envelope was unfamiliar. The return address bore a man's name and home address. Perhaps it was mis-delivered; it happens. No, the address was ours.

I carried it into the house, examining it the whole time. The envelope bulged from several papers folded inside. This was no junk mail. This was an honest-to-god personal letter.

So I started weaving little stories around this letter:

A father had left his family. Years later he wanted to explain his reasons to his son, but the boy and his mother had since moved on.

A woman fled her abusive husband, taking their only child. Now he is hunting them down, just a step behind, trying to win over his son.

A woman who had become estranged from her daughter discovered years later that she was a grandma. She sent a letter addressed to her grandson to her daughter's last known residence. The grandma is a widow, and is still using her old return address labels with her husband's name. Her daughter doesn't know she's lost her father.

It struck me as terribly sad, this letter.

I couldn't open it; it wasn't mine. I should have just put it right back into the mailbox with 'RETURN TO SENDER' scribbled across it in my nearly-illegible hand.

But this was no alabaster jar. It was paper. And you can sometimes see right through paper...

I could make out just enough words to unravel the mystery.

Some stories are better left unfinished.

Communication Breakdown II – The Right Place at the Right Time

2008-03-11T20:36:00.003-06:00

I was studying when he came into the coffeehouse bakery and took a table three down from mine, one that required bar stools -- a table above the others around it.

When his friends came in a few minutes later, he greeted them loudly with, “So where have you assholes been?” A man-hug* for his buddy, a 'hello' for his buddy's wife, a pulled-out a stool for his own wife.

They were in their late forties, I'd guess, perhaps the first steps into their fifties. Very nice clothes. Full make-up and perfect hair at 9 AM on a Sunday. Typical for this area.

The wife's voice was very animated, out of concordance with her face which did not move much. I could almost make out the injection sites. So we'll call her Ms. Botox, wife of Lord Loudmouth.

Lord Loudmouth told us all about his Saturday:

“We were at one of those Catholic weddings, you know, the whole deal. So it's time to go up for communion or whatever, and I figure that I'll fuck with them! Hee hee, they don't let you go up unless you're a Catholic, but I figured, 'What the hell!' I'll go up and fuck with the priest...”

Now, may I point out that not only does this show terrible disrespect for other people's beliefs, but that it shows TREMENDOUS disrespect for his 'friends' up there getting married.

And then Ms. Botox injects her poison opinion, “The Catholics are such snobs about that. It's just a snobby religion, ha ha ha!”

Ok. Catholicism is like my Alma Mater; I've graduated from it, I'm not there anymore, but I really don't like to hear it get dissed by the other teams.

But I was good. Kept my mouth shut. Live and let live. Free country, you get to talk about whatever you want at whichever decibel you want, and make yourself sound like the biggest ill-informed turd you want, especially in coffee shops. Yay, America works!

So the next time I was packing up my books to study, O said, “Hey, why don't you try the library down the street? It's quiet there and you won't have to listen to Ms. Botox slam Catholicism.”

Great idea! And I won't have to spend $1.75 on lousy coffee either. Cool.

Well, it turns out the library is not so quiet. I'm there at the after-school rush hour. All the teens are meeting with their tutors one-on-one. So I get a little background noise from a girl, maybe 15, who's trying to graph something. That's ok.

About an hour into,'Which is x and which is y again?' the tutor asks when Teenie's mom is coming to pick her up. Teenie answers that mom'll be by in about an hour, and the tutor then asks, “Ok, so we have time if you want to talk about that other thing...”

Pop! Pop! Up go my ears...

“You remind me of myself at your age,” says the tutor. “I went to Catholic school too, I really liked what they had to say about religion and faith, they really stressed learning, and I wanted to become Catholic—”

“Your parents weren't Catholic either?”

“No. And they were against it. But I listened to my faith,and I did become Catholic. But it's your decision. You have to think about it, and pray, and listen to your faith...”

She went on, and it segued into tutoring Teenie's religion homework.

Then mom showed up.

I had my back to them, but my, what a familiar voice...

“Time to go, Teenie. How much do I owe you, Tutor?”

When I got up to make a copy I noticed her face was moving more freely. I guess Botox wears off in a matter of days...

*one arm, three pats on the back standing for 'I'm. Not. Gay.'

Communication Breakdown Part 1* – Does My Brain Look Fat?

2008-03-06T13:09:00.001-07:00

I'm back. You've got me for a week or so. Spring break, and instead of going down to Mexico and slurping pure agave Jell-O body shots off of young, firm collegiate bodies, I've decided to spend my time with you. See how much I love you?

I just finished three exams, two of them mid-terms. They were tough; I was told to give up my idea of maintaining a 4.0 average. But I've aced two of them, and I think I did ok on the third.

I didn't cheat. I didn't guess. I studied to the detriment of my once-clean house and nicely-maintained friendships. So why doesn't it feel real? Why does it feel like I haven't earned these grades? Why do I feel like I faked it?

I have a little previous experience with this. It reminds me of when I was between 14 and 20, and every time I looked in the mirror I saw these huge, fat thighs. So I lost and lost and lost weight, until size zero shorts hung off me. And I still saw those thighs. I still see them when I look back, despite what my clothes and my friends said. I'm over that now.

But it seems to have been replaced by this. I used to have confidence in my grades. They defined me. Now I'm looking into an intellectual mirror and seeing an idiot. I know I'm not. Relatively speaking. But I don't see it, I don't feel it, I'm walking on air and trusting I won't fall.

I'm my own unreliable narrator. But you believe me, don't you?

Who else has areas in their lives like this? Or am I the only one?

*The general theme swirling around my life right now is communication gone haywire (just when I'm leaving the field of communications). So I've got a few posts in mind...

Hey Kids!

2008-02-27T20:33:00.003-07:00

It's better to be full of wine and sushi than formaldehyde!

A real post later. And it's a goodun'! Unlike this mildly inebriated rambling.

The Anti-NaBloPoMo

2008-02-23T11:39:00.002-07:00

Wow. That was like the anti-NaBloPoMo, wasn't it? No posts for full month and then some.

A lot's happened, let me tell you.

And I have a file of unfinished posts. They kept crowding each other out. And studying crowded everything out.

I could tell you about the televised autopsy with the doc who has to be Herr Toht from Raiders of the Lost Ark. He even wears Indy's hat while he's sawing open the body, I swear to the God of the Covenant.

I could tell you about the real autopsy. The 94-year old woman on the table.

I could tell you how it feels to hold a human bone in your hands; a vertebrae, a tiny marvel of architecture, and wonder who it belonged to, where the rest of the bones are, if anywhere anymore, and to feel an overwhelming sadness.

I could tell you about my birthday. Not much there though. I'm older now.

I could tell you my theory on entanglement, how there are people in your life whom you will never shake, who come back through the oddest circumstances. Suddenly I have three of these.

Oh yeah. And I don't think I'm going to become a sonographer at the moment. I have very little chance of getting into the program. So, I'm looking at other things...

What else? What else?

What do you want to know?

Hell, let's open this right up. Ask me anything.

School's In

2008-01-21T14:45:00.000-07:00

Well. No fucking around this semester.

Week one. Seven-page lab report, three pages of homework, and a 'battle plan' flowchart for next week's lab. (I was going to refer to my lab instructor as 'Coach', but after 'battle plan' – her term – I think I'll cut to the chase and call her 'Sarge.') First test in Medical Terminology tomorrow night. Thirteen more after that one.

And in a couple of weeks I'll be up to my butt in cadavers. The first; a 94-year-old woman in perfect condition except, possibly, for the fact that she's dead. (I'm hoping she hasn't had a hysterectomy. I'd like to see a normal set of ovaries for a change.) The second cadaver is another woman, unusual because most donated cadavers are men. Number three is still in transit an we don't know the sex yet. It's like waiting for baby!

Cadaver viewing is optional. There are alternate assignments. But...I think you kind of lose brownie points with Sarge if you wimp out. And really, when you're going into the medical field you should be able to handle seeing a dead body, or maybe you should reconsider your ambitions, perhaps over tea and Victoria Magazine.*

Lecture Prof asked if anyone had ever seen a cadaver. A couple hands went up, mine included. I was ready for her if she asked for stories. I was a lab rat in high school, working summers for the same hospital my mom did. I worked in Pathology – entering data, ferrying the occasional body part, going down to the morgue to retrieve paperwork left with a body. Eeenie meenie minnie moe, pick a drawer and tag a toe.

Every time I went down to the morgue and opened a drawer, I remembered sitting at my friend Gi's kitchen table listening to her mom tell nursing stories. I remembered one in particular. I haven't thought of it in a long time.

Gi and I sat drinking Coke back when it was the real thing made with cane sugar, brown sediment rose petals clinging to the inside of the glass bottles. It was late, humid summer and we kept wiping off the little beads of water from the cold bottles, beads that re-formed right after our hands passed over them.

Gi's mom and aunt were there too. If you didn't know better you might have thought they were twins. They had the same brown eyes, blond hair and open-mouthed laugh. Midwestern women just don't laugh like that. But that table welcomed it. It seemed like Gi's aunt was always siting there with a cup of coffee. She'd married well, and had a house out in the country. I visited it once, and it seemed big and lonely and empty, a far cry from Gi's old house in town.

Gi's mom was telling us a story. She had a theory that zombie stories all started with gas.

One night, she and two other nurses were transporting a body down to the morgue. In the service elevator the draped corpse 'let one fly.' Being seasoned nurses, they did what comes naturally; they all laughed.

Until the corpse suddenly let fly from the other end – causing it to moan and sit up under its sheet.

Three seasoned nurses shat themselves.

And two women and two girls sitting at a kitchen table laughed until they nearly wet themselves. Actually, I did. Thirteen and mortified, I borrowed Gi's clothes until mine were clean and dry. But everyone laughed it off.

It was a comfortable house that way.

We had no way of knowing what the next months would bring. In March I would hold my brother's corpse as it rattled and moaned. And that Easter Gi and her mom would hear a gunshot upstairs, the sound of Gi's dad escaping a diagnosis of terminal cancer.

It was the Midwest, the rust belt, a tough place. We kept things to ourselves back then, back there. Both were messy deaths, way too emotional for public consumption. So during each funeral, our friends stayed in school just across the parking lot. We joined them the next school day. No one said anything about it. To us. And we kept quiet too. We didn't say anything to each other about it, not then, and not later in high school, when Confirmation brought us back to the same little classroom.

These things come back to haunt me around this time of year.

O doesn't understand why really. He says I need to let it go, let it stop eating at me. I tell him that's what I'm doing here.

Anyway. I'm not wimping out in front of Sarge.

*I love both, incidentally.

Cheers

2008-01-08T23:50:00.001-07:00

I had a painful night last night, one that darkened my day.

But tonight a place was set in my honor at a far-away table, complete with a glass of red wine. The place was set among several of my friends, two of whom I've never even met face-to-face.

And that cheered me immensely. I can't tell you how much.

I'm humbled. Thank you. Next time, I'll be there.

Pandora

2008-01-04T00:15:00.000-07:00

I had a dream this morning. I was standing beside the river Styx in the pitch black of that underground place. In front of me was a low wall made entirely of stacked and lidded alabaster urns. A voice said to me, “These hold all the secrets of the dead who have crossed the river. You are charged with guarding them, but you must never, ever, look inside them.”

The dog woke me up before I could decide whether or not I was going to keep my post or tear into those babies.*

I've been thinking about those urns all day.

And I've been thinking about all the secrets that I do know about other people. About all the secrets that I keep for them and from them. All the secrets that they keep for me and from me. And all the secrets that I keep for and from myself.

And I wonder – do we take our secrets with us, or are we unburdened when we die? Is it as easy as opening a jar, whispering into it and then vanishing across a river? No longer burdened with our secrets, do we leave them for some else to guard? Or to find?

How many would leave their secrets and how many would carry them across?

Are there regrets either way once the river is crossed?

I think. A story. Somewhere.

*Frankly, I don't think they stood a chance. Hello...writer here.

Fragile Things

2007-12-30T00:28:00.000-07:00

The parentals made it in safely, obviously. Thank you for your concern.

* * *

Things are going well. Very well. A pleasant change from my visit out there. My dad has settled into retirement now, I think. He's using us as guinea pigs. He'll be cooking a meal for 18 people in Tuscany this spring,so he's trying out recipes. Brioche stuffed with mushrooms, pine nuts and herbs. Roasted Brussels sprouts and artichokes in creme fraishe (I HATE Brussels sprouts but had three helpings of the stuff. Incredible.). Fried Cajun eggplant (old family recipe) with pork tenderloin in a raspberry and wine reduction sauce, which wins my vote. I've been acting as sous chef and taking notes. But the best part is that the boyos have been sous chefs too. They are really getting into cooking. Jack made mashed potatoes last night, and Declan made the fried eggplant tonight. My dad affectionately says to one or the other, “Hey, good job little chef.”

It's nice, this change from last spring.

* * *

This vile cold continues. Last night I coughed until three, when I finally woke up enough to get up and do something about it. I drifted off then, and sometime after that briefly awoke in that warm, floaty place that only the right type of cold medicine and a shot of whiskey, honey and lemon can take you. The night-fears that normally nibble away at me only got a mouthful of fuzz for their trouble.

* * *

This afternoon I read a few short stories from my battered new copy of Gaiman's 'Fragile Things', then without meaning to, I took a nap. I just couldn't help it. The bed was soft, and warmed by sunlight. The boyos were downstairs and oh so quiet, and there were three other people in the house to watch them.

Napping is so out of character for me that I spent the time dreaming several nap-related dreams. In one, I dreamed that while I was napping my parents were randomly taking food out of the refrigerator and dumping it into a casserole for dinner, and the top ingredient was jam. Then I dreamed that the boyos had gotten into something that they weren't supposed to while I was asleep. Finally, I dreamed that I woke up in October.

So when I did finally wake up, I was quite disoriented, remembering the old Chinese adage about the Buddhist monk dreaming he was a butterfly, then awakening and wondering if he was a butterfly now dreaming about being a monk. It didn't help when I wandered out into the kitchen and saw that the Christmas candy (Frangos!*) on top of the refrigerator had transformed into a bag of Halloween candy.

I stood there blinking up at the purple bag of chocolate Jack-o-lanterns, then back down at the counter. Which had a new jar of raspberry jam sitting on it.

Apparently while I was asleep, my parents had gone to the grocery store to pick up a few things, one of them being raspberry jam for the aforementioned raspberry and wine sauce. And the oh-so-quiet boyos downstairs had been quiet because they ran across the bag of leftover-from-god-knows-which-Halloween candy. My mom found them halfway through it, and confiscated the bag.

Even when I sleep it seems I can't sleep.

* * *

Other than that it's been pretty normal around here.

* * *

The red balloon from the picture of the mantel has become a sort of pet. It's lost most of its helium so it floats midway in the air through the house, following currents of warm air from the fireplace. Turn around, and it's floating right behind you. It's...comforting.

* * *

Alongside 'Fragile Things', I'm reading 'Harpo Speaks!'. I used to love Harpo when I was a girl, because he seemed so sweet and innocent and mischievous, so faun-ish. Now I love him because when he was fourteen he played piano in a whorehouse and thought nothing of it.

I never realized how similar he was to Anton LeVey. He is so going into Salazar's character.

* * *

Ok. Bed.

*The Frangos were actually from my mother-in-law to my parents. Ha ha. Some of you are probably laughing right now.

Maybe She Went Off with Esereth*

2007-12-25T16:25:00.000-07:00

Merry Christmas, all.

I'm back out of my cave for a while.

The darker days, the longer nights. There's a reason mankind has always celebrated the light, or Light, as some would have it, and not wrongly. It's the lead-up that kills, the stress bearing down like an incoming snowstorm over the mountains. What surprises will the family pull this year? What would make everyone happy? What can be done without breaking the bank?

And now that The Day is here, some of the stress has blown off, and I've got a minute to put my thoughts together. Bear with me; I have a hell of a cold, something that tiptoed behind me out from the Heart of Darkness and pounced like a hedge lion** a few days ago.

But there have been a few bright spots too.

We spent a magical couple of days with the Clowncar-Hux fambly, making gingerbread houses and talking into the wee (whee!?) hours after the kiddos finally(!) fell asleep. We are all at crossroads of one sort or another, mostly dealing with career changes/evolutions, and it's good to talk to someone and get a bit of perspective. It's also nice to talk to another adult about things other than children.

Despite this vile illness, which I hope I did not pass along, I managed to keep from being Inert Hostess the next morning. I wish I could have held out 'til that night, when Jo came over. I sat mostly inert in front of Rat.a.too.ee (one of her gifts to the boyos) inertly but happily clutching the gifts she gave me – my first scrubs and a stethoscope. They made me cry, they did. She's the best gift-giver ever.

And I've added seven pages to JALL and I like all seven of them.*** I've added three beyond that, and I don't like those. They will not be staying.

The snow is falling outside. We have a nasty baby blizzard going while I sit in front of the fire and type this.

That alone would constitute contentment, however, my folks are out there somewhere on the road in Nebraska and they are heading this way and I worry, worry, worry. I've talked to them several times today. So far the weather has held, but outside of Kearney the skies were turning dark and dirty. I'm afraid they will try to drive on through. There should be signs posted on the Western edge of Oglalla, Nebraska saying, “Beyond Here There Be Dragons”. The only thing Eastern Colorado has going for it over Mars is slightly more breathable air. If they pass Sterling, my folks will be committed to driving through the Wasteland. There is Nothing Else Out There.

Once they are here, I'll probably be crawling back into the cave. I say this to break it. If I tell you I won't post, then I will. They are staying with us through New Year's. The house gets verrrry small. I hope my dad is in a better mood than this summer. That's an understatement.

It's still snowing. The light is failing for today.

Update: My folks made it to a hotel in North Platte. The storm caught them quickly; everything was fine, then it took them an hour and a half to go nine miles. They passed car after car off in the ditch. Tomorrow they'll cross the Eastern Plains, weather-willing.

*Tempting.

** Reading 'The Shining' for the first time has not colored my mood for the better. Holiday Greetings from the Overlook Hotel!

***All work and no play makes Dancehall a Nancy boy.... All work and no play makes Dancehall a Nancy boy ....

Not Much To Report

2007-12-13T10:58:00.000-07:00

Like this guy, I've fallen off the face of the earth to work on JALL. I like what's hitting the page.

Having been passed over by the Christmas Spirit this year, I had a strong craving to celebrate Hanukkah. My latent Jewish blood is surfacing, I guess. So we lit the Menorah and I made potato latkes and read the boyos a story about the Maccabees. Craving satisfied.

Last night we sold our decrepit but real-slate pool table for $125 and two t-shirts. Mine has an Andy Warhol-style Christopher Walken print and O's features a print of Charles Bukowski with 'Ladies Man' printed under it. Because that's the kind of people we are.

In about 45 minutes I'll be headed into the ~~Heart of Darkness~~ boyos' classroom as a volunteer. I guess this means I have to find matching socks. The stomach flu is in the air. Pray for me.

I still don't know my final grade.

What I Learned in Biology

2007-12-07T00:32:00.000-07:00

Glucose is the driver of life. It's the sweet stuff our bodies consume on a molecular level. Sugar molecules serve as part of the backbone for DNA. On a molecular level glucose is made of a ring of six bonded carbons.

Figure 1 -- Glucose ring of six bonded carbons

Somehow, I got in with the cool kids. There are six of us who sit around a big table and quiz each other before class, and BS between the quizzing. The youngest is twenty, the oldest is in her early forties. There's me, there's my lab partner Lily Page, there's Pre-Physician's Assistant Angela, there's Abby the Artist, there's Nan the Nurse and there's Not My Major. Tonight we BS'ed a lot. Loudly. With much laughter.

Abby: I just want to tell that big idiot to shut up!

Me: I'm going to tell him you said that.

Abby: Somehow, I don't see you doing that.

Me: Yeah? Watch me!

Angela: I bet you floor people outside of class. God you're funny.

Lily Page: Oh, yeah, uh-huh.

This went on for an hour. I don't remember everything that was said, but I remember laughing at every god-damned thing these women said.

DNA molecules are held together by weak hydrogen bonds.

Figure 2 -- Weak hydrogen bonds

And then there was a moment. This is Abby's last class, ever. Not My Major and Lily Page are not science majors, so this is it for them. I'm taking A&P, Angela's taking Bio 2, Nan's still picking out her next classes and they might not be at this college. We all felt that camaraderie slipping away, just as it was really getting fun.

However, the sheer number of hydrogen bonds makes DNA remarkably strong.

Figure 3 -- DNA coiled tightly before undergoing cell division

I'd forgotten about this part of school. This camaraderie. We were all different – at different stages of our lives, with different backgrounds, different goals, different values. But we were at this time and place bonded by the challenge of this class.

Other classmates came around, mostly with questions about the homework. 'What'd you get for number twelve?' We obliged. Then someone was standing behind me.

'You typed up your homework answers, huh?'

It was Mark. Now a while back, Abby told me that she overheard Mark say to our instructor, “Tell me. I've got the highest grade in the class, don't I?”

And she said, “No. Actually, you don't. There are two people ahead of you.”

He wanted to know who they were. Of course she didn't tell him.

But Abby had a pretty good idea of who they were.

Mark also makes a Very Big Show out of finishing his tests quickly. And everybody knew that He Finished His Term Paper REALLY EARLY.

Anyway, I once tried talking to Mark and he looked at me like I was rat sperm smear.* Now he was smiling down at me.

“Um...yeah, I typed it up. To spare Denice from reading my handwriting.”

“Yeah. I typed mine up too. So.” He looked from me to Angela. “I asked Denice if I had the highest grade in the class and she told me there were two people ahead of me.”

Yup, just like that, WHUMP, his dick out on the table.

Figuratively, of course.

Angela and I looked at each other. And smiled.

Angela said, “Really? Hmmm.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Yeah.”

In the following silence, Mark rolled back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again.

“So what's your grade?” he asked Angela.

“Well, now...”

“What's yours?” I asked Mark.

“Oh, um, I don't know, like...101%, something like that.”

“Ah,” I nodded. I looked back at Angela. “You know, I think the point is that you challenge yourself, right?”

“Oh, yes! I mean, what does it really matter, how anybody else does?”

“Like running your own race...”

“Yes. Beating your own score...”

And so we slapped his dick until it wasn't on the table anymore.

Figuratively, of course.

When the cell is ready to divide, DNA helicase breaks the hydrogen bonds between base pairs.

Figure 4 -- In a quick event, helicase severs hydrogen bonds.

Lily Page finished her test. She whispered, 'bye, guys' and left. I waved without looking up. Since shes my lab partner, I had her email address.

The test was tough.

Just the way I like them. I need to get my ass kicked now and then.

I felt like this:

Figure 4 -- Mental Construct of Nancy Dancehall

This test was more like a battle, and less like harvesting wheat, which is how I felt about the lab practical.

I don't know if I beat my last score. I don't care if I beat anyone else's.

In DNA, nitrogenous bases pair up according to structure. Thymine will always pair up with adenine, cytosine with guanine.

Figure 5 -- base pairs align.

Across the room, Angela finished her test. I still had three questions to go. I finished them and hurried out after her. I just caught her in the parking lot.

“Hey! What'd you think of the test?” I shouted.

“Not bad!” she answered.

We talked about the structure of DNA. I asked about her twins, and she asked about mine. Then I asked if she ever wanted to get together sometime. And she said, “Yeah!” and consulted her schedule. We exchanged emails.

This is big. I make a new friend (in person) about once every two or three years.

And now I'm feeling Just. Like. This.**

*It's become like Tourettes for me.

**Bonus points if you can name the literary reference in the song.

One Down

2007-12-04T22:07:00.000-07:00

My lab practical (final) tonight was blindingly easy.

Which was a relief, since my instructor said the Monday/Wednesday class bombed it.

Guess what I got to look at under a microscope. Again.

There were two bonus questions:

Why did the chicken cross the road?
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

One of my classmates didn't get them so she left them blank.

*sigh* Kids these days. This is the future of medicine.

Finished my paper. Finished my lab book. One more final to go. After that I'm finishing the book.

Last One

2007-11-30T23:19:00.000-07:00

For November. For NaBloPoMo. After the week I've had (other issues be a-brewing as well), I'd better win a NaBloPoMo prize.

I promise better posts after next week, when my paper comes to term, my lab book is confiscated and my finals are finaled. I'll even talk back to y'all.

And now for some fun

2007-11-29T09:24:00.001-07:00

Not quite a meme, but requires a bit of reader participation.

Irrelephant sent me a link to this cool site. It's an 'art generator'. You choose a subject and an artist (actually leaving it 'anonymous' offers more possibilities), choose the number of images, and it Googles up a collage for you.

Being the vain person I am, here's my name in collage:

Hee! It Googled my own site. I love the synchronicity of the number '2' appearing in almost the same place in the upper right hand corner.

Anyway, if you chose to do so, go plug in the following, and show me the results on your site:

Your Name (Blogger or otherwise) along with one of your interests (drawing, writing, dancing, whatever)

If you write fiction, try the name of one of your characters with or without one of their defining characteristics. You'll get some interesting results:

Metatron

Azaziel

Sophia

Anah

Books Unlimited

Dear JALL Beta Readers

2007-11-28T23:45:00.000-07:00

While researching my photosynthesis paper (bleh) I came across this bit of wonderfulness:

'To gain qualitative understanding of the role “bio-quantum physics” plays in the excitation
transfer in light-harvesting complexes, it is necessary to understand the role that “photon
entanglement” has in causing a coherent at-distance transfer of simultaneous information energy states. '

Photon entanglement!!! Information energy!! Pen and Sara!

Sorry to be cryptic. And distant. I think I'm trying to push through the other night. Its bringing up old stuff from the first house and from college, and, well. Yeah.

Back to my humble and boring photosynthesis paper.

Checking in

2007-11-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

Thank you, guys. I'll answer comments tomorrow. Thank you.

I'm fine. Tired. Long lab. Term paper and homework and lab book and two tests, all due next week.

Silent

2007-11-26T13:15:00.000-07:00

Balancing out...

It's a lovely little town. It borders Denver, one of the burbs now really. When you drive into it this time of year the trees are filed with lights and there's a banner saying,'HAPPY HOLIDAYS.'

It's quiet. Charming. Very, 'It's Wonderful Life.'

Jo lives there, in an apartment off Main Street. I went over last night to study. She's taking a cardiac class waaaay over my head. We quizzed each other until midnight. Time to go home.

In the parking lot I saw him across the alley. He saw me.

I lost sight of him completely for a moment, crossing through a parking garage. But I felt him walking towards me. Silent. I listened for him. (“Hey, excuse me, miss...?”)

But he didn't say anything.

I was almost to the car. I knew he was there. I couldn't see him. I felt him. He was silent.

I had my keys. I realized they were the wrong keys. I grabbed the right keys, debated opening the back door along with the front, to throw my heavy laptop and book in. Which would be faster? I opened both, thew them in, threw myself into the front, hit the lock button immediately.

He was two feet away. Dressed in black. Silent.

I turned the key in the ignition. The radio came on, loud. I turned it up.

(Crazy Train. Ha ha, Universe, you so funny!)

I lost sight of him, and then he was behind the car. He stopped. He didn't turn towards the car, but stood there, sideways, as if he were simply walking behind it to his own and had stopped. Perhaps in mid-thought.

These were the things my head was telling me to 'normalize' the situation. It tried to tell me all was well. A misunderstanding. He was was just some guy walking behind my car.

But he wasn't. He was silent. He didn't say anything. He didn't move.

I couldn't pull forward. A concrete barrier blocked me.

I didn't want to hurt him, in case he was just a guy. I thought of backing over him though. What if.

Then he came around to the passenger side. He didn't stand next to the window. He stood diagonally, from the headlight. He stared in at me.

His expression, his LACK of expression. I can't describe it.

I can tell you what it wasn't. It wasn't drug-addled. It wasn't retarded. It wasn't even angry or hateful. No desire, no recognition, no trace of a smile. A bit of uncertainty, perhaps. Perhaps.

As if this were the first time and he wasn't sure how it goes...

I looked him in the eye. Straight in the eye. I held him there for a minute.

I shook my head no. No. You can't have me.

He opened his mouth.

But he didn't speak. Even then. Silent.

He took his hands out of his hoody. Empty. Empty.

I thew the car in reverse and drove away. I called M as soon as I could and told her to stay inside.

Before I'd left, she told me to give her a text when I got home. Just to make sure. She NEVER does that. I don't either. It's not something we think about.

I joked, “I'll text you even if I get into a fiery auto crash. You know I will.”

We laughed.

“Hey I died in a fiery auto crash. See you later.”

No, she hadn't seen anyone suspicious. She hadn't seen anyone, had no reason to worry. But this is how we operate.

I didn't sleep last night, beyond a few minutes. Enough to dream that I watched him take another woman.

Every time I close my eyes I see his face.

I didn't even think to call 911 from the car. I worry for Jo. I worry for every woman in that little town.

I should have backed over him.

Jo's side.

Five Things Meme...

2007-11-25T23:27:00.000-07:00

Found In My Room (I chose the bedroom):

Poppets

an old key in a glass-topped box

rocks and shells from Oregon

metal rabbits

porcelain hands

I've Always Wanted to Do:

Ride a motorcycle through the streets of Paris

Successfully maintain a bonsai (keyword being, 'successfully')

Live by the ocean

Publish a book

Sing well

Found In My Bag:

2008 Spring Semester Schedule

Scooby Doo pen

iriver (like an ipod without the mortgage)

Lab book

rat sperm smear (kidding!)

Found In My Wallet:

St. Christopher medal

Receipt for a magazine from Gatwick airport

Coupon for a free pair of Victoria Secret panties

A ribbon from my maid of honor's hair (hi Jo)

Key card from the Disney World Contemporary Resort (smeared with...oh, I'm not gonna say it.)

I'm Currently Into:

Biology

emusic (If you sign up, tell 'em Nancy_Dancehall at ya hoo sent ya!)

zombies (it's an aversion-therapy thing)

E8 (It's the shape of the universe, kids!)

Harpo Marx

Bee-ing There

2007-11-24T20:21:00.000-07:00

I have a small talent for being at the right place at the right time. This spring it got me free tickets to see The Police. Last night it was an Unnamed Commercial Bakery/Coffeeshop (you take what you can get in the 'burbs) at closing time, when the manager gave me a bag of cookies to take home. Awww.

Problem is, I'm usually alone at these times. And this stuff's much more fun when you can share.

That's why last Monday was so great.

The Clowncar-Hux family (I'd link but Mr. Clowncar refuses to play Blogger) came up from the dusty regions of Southern Colorado to spend the weekend. On Monday I called the boyos' school (family in town, sorry, can't make school today) and we took the boyos and the girlios to the movies.

The box office was dark and empty. We checked the movie times on the marquee above. Yup, the next show was twenty minutes away, the previous one had started half an hour ago. Behind glass doors the lobby was full of stacked white boxes. The concessions were as dark as the box office.

A manager came to the door and opened it. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Um. We'd like to see a movie?”

“What movie would you like to see?”

Glancing at the kids. “Um. B*e Movie?”

“Ok. Well. None of my staff showed up this morning. There was a communication problem—”

So no movie. Sigh

“—so come on in. I can't open the cash registers, so the movie's free.”

We had the muliplex to ourselves. Hux and I could go get popcorn, pop and Skittles (Free free free!) And leave Clowncar alone with the kiddos without apologies to the rest of the patrons. We had to switch theaters, because the automated projectors decided to show the movie in a different one, and the manager cheerfully(!) helped carry our stuff and herd the kiddos into the one next to ours.

It was straight out of 'Night of the Comet' I swear. Only without the radioactive zombies, which made it extra-sweet for me.

Oh, and B*e Movie was hilarious. Go see it, even if you have to pay.

Fugue

2007-11-23T15:54:00.000-07:00

It's peaceful today. The sky is that solid white that darkens down to slate at the horizon. The snow is falling, and when I poke my head out the door I can hear a wren, a finch, some geese, a flicker, and two other birds I can't name. The cold air is still and freezes the inside of my nose as I breathe. The year feels old, but it feels the way it should. Cold. Snow. Peaceful.

Here's hoping

2007-11-22T22:22:00.000-07:00

that everyone is in a nice turkey coma right now.

Here's hoping that the family rockfights didn't happen.

Here's hoping that everyone got enough to eat and drink.

Here's hoping that all the dishes are clean, all the linens are wax-free and all the kiddies are in bed.

Thanks, guys, for reading my stuff, for giving me advice, for making me laugh, cry and feel connected.

Love to all of you.

Pumpkin Pulp Fiction

2007-11-21T11:22:00.000-07:00

4:30 a.m. Boyo D. gets me up because his covers are 'broken'. This is five-year-old speak for, 'not perfectly straight like they were when you put me to bed.'

4:32-6:00 a.m. I lie awake trying to shut my brain off.

6:01 a.m. Two boyos come into the bedroom and discuss the fact that I am in the room and trying to sleep. Nevertheless, they root around the bed looking for a book. I grumble for them to get out and they do.

6:08 a.m. As I am drifting into sleep, back they come a-rooting.

6:12 a.m. Ditto.

6:20 a.m. Third verse, same as the first.

Sometime before 7:00 a.m. I roar out of bed and blunder into the kitchen. My memory's fuzzy but now there's one less child-lock on a cabinet, an empty but buttered casserole dish, another pan full of freshly-baked cornbread, a pot of stuffing with no recipe for it in sight, a pumpkin pie, and an Oreo cheesecake.

O says I looked and sounded like this:

'Any of you fucking pricks come in my kitchen, and I'll execute every motherfucking last one of ya!'

I believe him. I'm running on coffee and Airborne right now.

Storytime will resume after my favorite day of the year.

Little Lambs Eat Ivy 5

2007-11-20T20:31:00.000-07:00

“Wouldn’t you love to see them?” Eve asked Adam one day after his chat with Deen.

“See what?”

“The files! I’d love to know what he knows about everyone. Or rather what he thinks he knows.”

“What do you think he knows about you?”

“Oh! Absolutely nothing. I refuse to open my mouth when I’m in there. I get a lot of work done though.” Eve laughed, held out the sweater she was knitting for Emily. “It really gets his goat. He still scribbles on his note pad. I think he’s actually doodling.” She went back to her knitting. “No, I’m far more interested in what he has to say about everybody else. Aren’t you?”

“I never thought about it. I guess I’m not interested.”

“Oh, come on. You study people; I’ve watched you. You probably have more insight on Rupert or the Spensers than even they do. Or should I say, Frog and the Peacocks?”

Adam laughed. “I shouldn't have told you about my little name game. You make me sound arrogant.”

“Not arrogant. Maybe a little controlling, but not arrogant. Still, you must wonder how accurate you are.”

Now that she mentioned it, Adam did feel curious. With the exception of one person in his life, he had always thought himself a good judge of character. He had insisted on doing all of the hiring at his father’s foundry, right down to the janitors, even after he inherited the whole thing along with more pressing tasks. The thought of reading the files of a trained therapist – heck, a famous therapist – and comparing them to his own observations, began to intrigue him. It nibbled away at the comfort he took in his new routine, made everything seem shallow and dull. Everything, that is, except for Eve.

Little Lambs Eat Ivy 4

2007-11-19T19:35:00.000-07:00

Adam and Eve fell into a comfortable pattern. They met every morning for breakfast in the dining room and sat at their usual table. Then, they walked the gardens until the heat sent them back inside. Afternoons, someone always asked them to a game of bridge or hearts in the atrium at the center of the complex. The atrium was tiled with rubberized, textured flooring to minimize the threat of falling, tropical plants surrounded a central fountain with four spouts facing east, west, north and south. Bistro tables and chairs sat scattered strategically for spontaneous games of checkers or conversations about days gone by. Staff members circulated about, bringing cups of coffee or trays of vegetables to the folks sitting around. The whole thing had the casual look of an outdoor café in Paris, if Paris had traded the Seine for the Amazon; all it lacked was young love and parrots. Eve complained about the chairs.

“I’m too old to care about looking fashionable. Give me something I can actually sit on,” she’d say, until one of the staff brought in an easy chair for her. Soon, other residents demanded softer chairs, until the atrium looked like a living room Henri Rousseau would have loved to paint.

All of this upset Dr. Deen, though he was careful not to show his displeasure to the residents. The bistro chairs and tables had been his stroke of genius, he thought; an attempt to keep the facility looking younger and more trendy, less like an “old folks home”. Dr. Deen was himself of retirement age and didn’t like to be reminded of it. He had been a successful therapist with ten self-help books to his name, a Hollywood practice attended by the stars, frequent television appearances on talk shows in which he would admonish the behaviors and lifestyles of the other guests. He was widely loved and privately feared by his patients. Now, he turned his attention to Deen Gardens, to “his” people who lived within the world he created as, “the antidote to an ignoble existence spent alone and forgotten in a sterile nursing home,” as the brochure put it. And Eve seemed bent on ruining everything.

Adam’s days began and ended with Eve. He couldn’t wait to meet her in the dining room, so he started meeting her at her door. He hated the thought of missing a single word she had to say, even so much as a hello to a friend in the hall. With Eve, hello was never just hello, but became a story. She had a way of drawing out even the most reticent fellow, and making him shine for a while. Adam wanted to be that fellow as often as possible. Her laugh alone sent him into places normally reserved for the younger set. At seventy-five, Adam found himself falling in love with a woman of capacious weight, white hair and wrinkles – a far cry from the osseous socialites who decorated his high-class arm back in the fifties. Let Emily and Dennis laugh and call him “schoolboy” for his crush, he didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, when he thought about the angelically beautiful women who would not smile for fear of wrinkling their perfect faces, Adam was not alone. Eve, ever convivial, provided his link to the rest of the world; the world of Deen Gardens, where now he felt truly at home.

For all of Adam’s settling in, Eve felt ungrounded. She made friends easily enough, but she felt born to the task, as natural as a breath taken in to speak. She delighted in the beauty of the gardens, but longed to get down on her knees and plant something herself. Two things kept her from doing this. One, she didn’t want to show favoritism toward Albert, which adding to his gardens would surly do in the eyes of Ken. Two, planting even so much as a pansy in this place would prove her acceptance of the four walls now surrounding her. One thing that did not stop her was the rule against tampering with the grounds. Eve didn’t give a fig for any of Dr. Deen’s rules, including his weekly mandatory “chats”; private therapy sessions held with all the residents. The brochure called them, “Opportunities for mind care tailored to the needs of each guest on his or her golden age journey.” Eve called them opportunities for invasion of privacy.

At her first chat, Dr. Deen asked how she was adjusting, if she was making friends, enjoying her food, exercising. Eve sat with her hands folded in her lap, sweetly smiling at Dr. Deen, and said nothing. He met her silence with questions about her sons and received no reaction. He asked her if she had a problem with him personally. He talked about projection, about putting a face on him that did not belong. She yawned, stretched, looked at her watch, all the time smiling, smiling. The only time Eve spoke was to say hello to Mr. Keans, the Dean of Admissions, whose office was just off the “Chat Room”. She brought her knitting or quilting projects to subsequent chats, working on them without saying a word. Out of desperation, Dr. Deen nit-picked her stitching. He still made notes on Eve, as he did with all the other guests; meticulous files which he kept locked in a row of shiny black cabinets along the wall of his inner office. The files were written in the Dr.’s perfect longhand. Typed copies were stored in a similar manner in Mr. Keans’ office....

Little Lambs Eat Ivy 3

2007-11-18T16:12:00.000-07:00

She straightened up and said, “I’m sorry Mr. Fletcher, you don’t know the punchline yet. You were the first man on Deen Gardens’ list and I was the first woman. Your name is Adam, and I’m Eve. Isn’t that rich?”

“Well, I’ll be. That is a funny coincidence.”

“Funnier still that Dr. Deen didn’t catch it. Fellow thinks he knows everything, just because he’s a famous therapist.” Eve rolled her eyes skyward. “That speech he gave yesterday. The part about ‘the unique psyche that sets our seniors apart from the rest of society.’ It isn’t right, you know? Folks are folks. It isn’t natural to set us apart just because we’re older and wiser. It’s a whole big world.” She shook her head, eyes down, another bout of laughter threatening the corners of her mouth.

“How I go on, and I haven’t even offered you a seat. Awful hot out here already and I’d hate to see you faint. Won’t you sit and visit?” Eve patted the small portion of bench unoccupied by her ample thighs. Adam tipped his cap before settling down next to her.

“If that’s how you feel,” he said, “then what are you doing here, away from the big world?”

Eve threw her head back, as if imploring the sky. “Oh, this isn’t my choice. I have two sons; twins, actually. Ken and Albert. They wanted me in here. I asked you before if you had kids, but I don’t think you answered.”

Adam swallowed before speaking. “No, I don’t believe I answered that. I don’t have children.”

“That’s a shame. I love children. They tie you to the world, keep you looking at it in new ways. My sons are good boys, but they fight all the time. They own a business together and with them all it is is work, work, work. I tell them they need to start families of their own, stop fighting with each other, stop fussing over me. Anyway, they own a landscaping business and they put in a bid to landscape Deen Gardens. I think they lowballed just so they’d have some leverage to get me in here. Anyway, they won the bid.”

“Really? I’ve been walking around the place all morning and they did a beautiful job.”

Eve shook her head. “Not ‘they’. After they won the bid, good old Dr. Deen wanted them each to submit a design rather than work together. He picked Albert’s and really went out of his way to insult Ken’s work. It was like he was experimenting with them. I don’t know how he could do that to my boys.

“Ken threatened to kill the deal. Albert wasn’t about to let that happen, so he called and warned Deen, who had an ironclad contract anyway. It was ugly.”

“I can imagine.”

Eve sighed, looked down at her hands. “The boys moved me in here without speaking a word to each other until the end, when Ken says to Albert, ‘You’re dead to me.’ Broke my heart to hear it. He’s always been dramatic, but I think he means it this time.”

Adam had the sudden urge to grab Eve’s hand. He wanted to say something funny that would bring back her amazing laugh. Instead he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Eve looked at him and smiled. “Listen to me, telling you all my problems. I’m really not like this. Not sad, I mean. As for talking someone’s leg off, well, that is me.”

Eve spoke the truth, as Adam discovered. They spent another hour on the bench talking about this and that, before they went inside for lunch. Adam couldn’t believe how many people Eve already knew by name. Kitty became Emily, the Peacocks Walter and Annie “Anners” Spencer, Frog and Toad were Rupert and Dennis. Several groups insisted Eve sit with them, but she managed to turn them all down gracefully, without offending anyone. Instead, she led Adam to the little table against the wall where he had sat the previous day. He felt like the new kid in school who had somehow charmed the prom queen. He liked the feeling....

Little Lambs Eat Ivy 2

2007-11-17T23:06:00.000-07:00

The next morning, Adam awoke from a deep sleep. He sat up in bed, disoriented. He looked at the bedside table and recognized his teeth floating in a glass tumbler. His black-rimmed glasses came next, and piece by piece, Adam rebuilt his new world. After a shower and a shave, he was ready to explore it.

Outside Deen Gardens, the Arizona sun was already baking the desert at its feet into a cracked pink brick. Inside, the Buffalo grass beneath citrus trees still miraculously sparkled with dew drops like diamonds from heaven. Limp with moisture, petunias lined pathways winding under shade trees throughout the grounds. Adam walked along one of these paths, nodding to some of the folks he had watched the night before. Mr. and Mrs. Peacock powerwalked past him, classical music playing high and tinny from their earphones loud enough for him to recognize Handel’s Water Music. The two figures walking ahead of him, one tall, one short, told him that Frog and Toad were friends. Everyone seemed to have found a partner except him.

Adam had lived by himself long enough to take his own silences in comfort. But now, in this new place he had chosen to call home to his last day, he felt self-conscious. It reminded him of the first day at school, of how much it mattered to have a friend, even one, or else the days could stretch long indeed. A tune from his school days popped into Adam’s head and he whistled it absentmindedly.

The path rounded a man-made jumble of boulders and entered a clearing with a bench facing a flowerbed. On the bench sat a woman Adam did not recognize. She looked at him, smiled as if he had been expected. Then she put words to his whistling:

“Marsie Dotes and Dosy Dotes

And little lamsey divy.

A kiddle de divy do, wouldn’t you?”

“Those are the words! I’d forgotten them,” Adam said.

“Yes! And remember, when you slow it down it becomes:

“Mares eat oats

And does eat oats

And little lambs eat ivy.

A kid’ll eat ivy too, wouldn’t you?

I haven’t thought of that song in years,” she said.

“It just came to me. I was thinking about school days, and the song just came to me.”

“My girlfriends and I used to sing it all the time, as fast as we could. We thought we had one over on our folks. We thought they couldn’t understand us.”

Adam thought about his father, pictured his portrait still hanging above the old desk in the foundry, now beating its disapproval down onto someone else’s shoulders. “When you’re a kid, you never think your parents understand you,” he said.

“Right. But the joke’s on you. When you grow up and have your own kids, you realize it’s the other way around, or maybe it’s mutual. Do you have kids, Mr…?”

“Oh, pardon me. I should have introduced myself. I’m Adam Fletcher. How do you do, Mrs….?”

Instead of answering, the woman laughed open-mouthed, hands on knees and bosom moving toward the same, generosity of flesh giving them a short trip. Just watching her, the pleasure she took in the act of laughter, made Adam laugh until his teeth came loose...

Little Lambs Eat Ivy

2007-11-16T22:42:00.000-07:00

(Until I find the notebook with more of 'He Came with the House'...)

Little Lambs Eat Ivy

Adam met Eve in the old folk’s home.

It was a brand new place, and not cheap either. With its plush green carpets, fresh-cut flowers and acres of landscaped property protected from the Arizona desert by an obscene number of sprinklers, Deen Gardens filled up immediately. Now there is a seven year waiting list.

Adam had the pleasure of being the first person admitted to the home. The papers took his picture as he cut the Welcome Home cake, doctors and nurses all standing around in white and smiling. Such a big la de dah going on around the old guy. He was interviewed, poked, prodded and escorted to his new rooms where they finally left him alone.

With no children, or any other relatives for that matter, Adam unpacked by himself the things he had packed by himself. He took a short nap and at four o’clock put his teeth back in, changed into a burgundy sweater-vest and matching tie, and found the dining room. By now, other residents had settled in and also found their way to dinner. Adam, though not antisocial, took his plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes to a little table along the wall and watched his fellow diners. He wasn’t yet ready to socialize, still somewhat shell-shocked by all the earlier fuss. It had been years since he’d made the papers, the last time for selling the foundry started by his father in the 1800s. Adam had been twenty years younger, still straight-backed though thinning on top. He was tired of the responsibility and wanted to travel while he still had his health.

Mostly, he was tired of his father’s portrait hanging behind his desk, glaring a hole into the space between his shoulder blades. A man can carry the weight of his father on his shoulders for only so long.

Adam never got around to traveling. The time never seemed right to leave. He loved springs and autumns in his home town and didn’t want to miss them. Humid summers made him too torpid to care. Michigan winters froze him in place, adhered by extreme cold to his comfy chair by the fireplace. The longest trip he’d ever made was to Deen Gardens in Arizona, lured by a brochure sent to him in the middle of a particularly damp and frigid season. He could feel the dry heat of the place coming off the paper. Though still under construction, Adam saw his destiny in Deen Gardens, as if built just for him. He bought an apartment there, sight unseen, and became the much-acclaimed first man on the list. Now he sat with his decision in the dining room of his new home – the only other place he had ever lived – and studied his fellow occupants.

He entertained himself by giving them all nicknames. One little brown wrinkly man he dubbed “Toad”, and was delighted to see him start a conversation with a tall man dressed in green who naturally became “Frog”. “Peacock” and “Peahen” strutted in with matching blue hair and casual yet tasteful warm-up suits of a shiny material. Then came “Hound Dog” with the sagging jowls and “Kitty” of the green eyes and snarling “Old Badger” , sharp-faced “Fox” and bespectacled “Owl”. Adam watched them enter in ones and twos, flock around the buffet, then migrate together to large round tables. Adam sat alone. He finished his dinner alone. He returned to his apartment, undressed and went to bed alone, as he had done for so long. Really, he thought, in the end what has changed but my address?...

Save a Bookstore

2007-11-15T23:05:00.000-07:00

No no, not O's. A different one. Fahrenheit Books is being forced to move into a muuuuch smaller space due to a bastard landlord.

Sign up for their mailing list. Buy something. Come to town. Visit them. Buy something.

Really. They are good people. Like ~~most~~ all booksellers.

This message mostly brought to you by the letter O.

Sail On

2007-11-14T16:28:00.000-07:00

I have a few songs I like to set my star by, if you know what I mean. Songs that pull me through the tough times, songs that remind me I have flesh on my bones and a heart beating inside. This is one of them.

'Sail On', by the very talented and sexy-voiced William Topley.

It goes like this:

Sail On

If I'd have only gone and listened where I'd come from
I might have known where I was going
Crossed the river looking sad with a street song
We thought we knew what we were doing
With baited breath and sly schoolmaster's eyes
He said "We had one like you before, baby"
Said "He died in debt on a foreign shore"
I said "But I bet he had a smile on his face"

As he sailed on
Sailed on
Sailed on
Sailed on

With baited breath and prison warden's eyes
He said "We had one like you before, baby”
Said, "He died in debt on a foreign shore"
I said, "But I bet he had a smile on his face"

As he sailed on
Saints suffering praises yeah
To make sail in this craziness
The sea twists and your ship mates pray
To make land on a holy day

And they could not teach him how to spell shame
The sailors hung the letters round his neck from a gold chain
He dropped the chain at the bottom of a lagoon
On the wrong side of Suez
And made a missionary bad for the full moon, child.

Hold on fire

I’m burning

And they could not teach him how to spell shame
The sailors hung the letters round his neck from a gold chain
I found the chain at the bottom of a lagoon
On the wrong side of Suez
And I made a missionary bad for the full moon, child.

Sail on, Sail on, my baby

Sal on, Sail on, my darling

I always wondered about the line, 'Wrong side of Suez. What is the 'wrong' side of Suez? (And how do I get there?) When I had the chance to ask William, he was already pretty drunk, and I was well on my way to the same condition. So I kept wondering.

Until today, when I came across a story by Rudyard Kipling that begins:

'East of Suez, some hold, the direct control of Providence ceases; Man being there handed over to the power of the Gods and Devil of Asia, and the Church of England Providence only exercising an occasional and modified supervision in the case of Englishmen.'

The story is 'The Mark of the Beast', about an Englishman who runs afoul of the Indian god Hanuman, and becomes a werewolf.

Hee! My skin's still tingling.

Seems I'm Not Alone in Being Alone

2007-11-13T23:44:00.000-07:00

Emily over at Wheels on the Bus is having some fun kid/mom issues as well. Go take a gander. (Scroll down to the link, 'Timmy' first, then 'Tirade' to get to the beginning of the story). She has much more grace than I do.

Anyway, I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

Lab tonight? You know, one never thinks that one will have use for a sentence that contains 'rat sperm smear,' until one does.

Day Thirteen

2007-11-12T23:30:00.000-07:00

This is real tempting right now.

Blogging Without Obligation

And I just really like the bird.

get to the river

2007-11-10T23:07:00.000-07:00

Came to the land, the land was dry