A Smaller Magic

I took a walk this evening, and on the way back I saw beautiful things.

A rainbow, brilliant, lurid, like a heavy brushstroke across the gray sky, with a secondary bow, fainter outside the arc like an accidental smudge.

Clouds, bulbous and creamy, dipping down from the sky like giant fingers dimpling the air below.

Quieter enchantments after the storm has torn the sky with dazzling forked light.

But that was on my way home, with my heart already thrilled by a beauty closer and smaller. Granted, I do see beauty in the strangest things.

The sun hung low in the sky as I walked along the bayou. A lone sunflower stood beside the path like an unabashed eye staring down passers-by like myself. I stopped to admire it, stooped to put my eyes on its level. The sunlight shone warm and golden on the tall grass, rising off of it in a scent of hay and honey. I shaded my eyes and looked out over the gleam of tall blades and slender stalks gilded by the sun’s midas touch.

And everywhere I caught more brilliant glints, like diamonds stretched to silken strands, woven amongst the grass. And everywhere, suspended in the grass, were small movements, scurryings, dippings and dancings. I stood up and leaned closer, examining the minute perfection of a spider’s web, with the spider still working furiously, rebuilding after the storm. I took a few more steps gazing across the grass into the sunlight, as it sparkled and waved over more webs, and more, and more.

Everywhere, as far as I could see, dime-sized, narrow, pale green spiders were spinning webs no bigger than dessert plates between the grass stalks. Everything glimmered and trembled, shaking in the slightest breeze, and shuddering under the lightest little eight-legged touch. For a quarter of a mile I walked, and never saw an end of those webs and weavers, glistening in the light of the setting sun.

I’ve never seen so many. It reminded me of fireflies in the evenings back home, when they’d light the brush and the trees like strands of sparkling lights. But this was a warmer, homier magic. A labor of survival made beautiful in the minute and fragile symmetry of every close-woven web.

Breath-taking.

And humbling.

Evening

The frogs are clacking
In the bayou
As the light fades.

The sparrows are done
Puffing and scuffling
In the dust by the road,
Shuffling their feathers
Into a deeper gray.

The sun has set,
The air is smooth and warm.

Evening has lain down
Beside the land.
Her head rests on the west,
Drifting softly into night.

Like a Peach, Still

Still bruised. Got the blood work back, and Doc looked at my X-Rays.

X-Rays look good. Blood negative for indications of arthritis.

But my white blood cell count is high.

"Looks like you have an infection. Does your throat hurt again?"

"No. I don't feel bad at all."

"What's that on your face?"

"Um... Acne."

"What do you take for it?"

"Uh... I wash my face."

"Okay, well, I'm going to give you an antibiotic for the infection. It should help clear that up too."

(Yeah, right, for the two weeks I take it, *maybe*. I'll have gray hair before I shake this acne.)

"And we'll see you in two weeks. We'll take some more blood and..."

"Oh NO! Not again!"

"Well sweety I have to check..."

"Look!"

I rolled up my sleeve and showed the fairly entact remains of my 2" across bruise from LAST time.

"Oh, Lord. Well we'll... then... we'll just see how your doing in two weeks."

Sigh. So I have antibiotics and no answers. And an ergonomic keyboard.

And Firefly and Serenity DVDs.

Bob: March 1-July 9, 2007

My cup of Monday is officially full and running over. I got home from work and found out that my last Bob was indeed sick, and didn't make it through the day.

Since neither tank of Bobs lasted the guaranteed two years, I'll be sending away for free replacements. And I'll wait until the weather cools off before I try to hatch new ones.

But the apartment feels a little more lonely tonight.

Good bye, Bob. I'll miss you.

The Dangers of a 20-year-old Sorority Girl's Bathroom

So, my elbows have gotten kinda dry and rough. So I'm visiting my Mom's place this weekend, where my kid sister is living over the summer. Hell, I figure, she must have some moisturizer around here somewhere.

So after my shower I root around under the sink, and pull out a bottle that looks promising. Yay! Moisturizer.

I fail to appreciate the full significance of "Luminous Body Moisturizer" until I squeeze out some innocuous looking, creamy lotion, and start rubbing it into my elbows and forearms.

Oh. It has...

Glitter.

Tiny flecks of gold glitter.

Not that there's anything wrong with being sparkly and "luminous." It just seems, I dunno, a bit *much* for Smitty's Market, the BBQ shop Mom and I are hitting for lunch. And now hands to elbows I'm covered in a light dusting of... luminous.

Eeeeeenteresting.

But it does seem to have softened my elbows.

And I smell good.

Like a Peach

So, I had blood taken today. They're going to do an arthritis panel. I guess for rheumatoid arthritis.

*is skeered*

I didn't bruise as much as last time. But it's still a bit absurd.

The lab tech stuck the needle in, then snapped the vial into place and...

Nothing happened. There was that moment of, ummmm....

Then there was that moment where I could see her wondering, if she moved the needle around *reeeeeallly* surreptitiously, if *maybe* I wouldn't notice that she was fishing. Um, no. So she just fished. She never really got a good flow. It took forever to fill FOUR FREAKIN' VIALS.

I finally looked up, and said, "Oh yeah, I don't bleed."

She started lauging and said,

"Does this happen a lot?"

Ooooh yeah.

I also got x-rays. My bones are still all there, and that's about all I can tell. My finger bones are really little and narrow and pointy. They looked very sharp and poky.

I go back next Thursday to find out what's up.

Rough Night :-(

So I had a blazing headache this morning around 4:00AM.

So I got up and started drinking water. That usually helps.

This time it didn't.

At 4:45AM I finally went and took some Advil.

Oooooh no. Bad idea.

The doctor told me not to. I forgot. Until around 5:15AM.

When I was awakended by my stomach turning over.

And I bolted to the bathroom.

Well, that didn't last very long, that Advil.

And my stomach has been off and on all day.

It feels pretty bad right now, after being livable all day.

Oooooooooooooogh.

The moral of the story? Well, you can probably glean your own.

God, there's nothing I hate more than throwing up or feeling like I'm going to. :-(

No Bed for You!

I'd have to say that every fortune cookie fortune I've ever seen does indeed get funnier or at least takes on a new meaning when you add "in bed" to the end.

But today I got the one that doesn't. :-P It's a shame, it could *use* the extra meaning. It makes... NO sense. Wow. For your entertained bemusement, here it is:

Consolidate your interest while the lights are active.

No, really, that's *exactly* what it says.

No joke.

So, no, "Consolidate your interests while the lights are active in bed" makes no more sense, and is not really funny.

*shakes head in confusion*

My Dentist Recommends Yoga

Yeah, you read it right. :-P

During my regular cleaning, I told my dentist about the faint and non-localized jaw pain I've been having. After a careful check on the left side for cavities, he told me my hunch that I'd been clamping my jaw at night again was correct. I do that when I'm stressed.

He said there were definite signs. Not chipped teeth or extra bone growth, thankfully, which are two of the things that can happen. And I'm not having joint trouble like the other times this has gotten bad. But the signs are there.

You see, when you clamp your teeth, your tongue tenses up and flattens against the roof of your mouth, pressing against your teeth. If you do this often, the lactic acid can be trapped along the edges, discoloring and reforming the tissue.

"So my tongue is striped?"

"Yes, your tongue is striped. Actually, it's more like... your tongue is... fluted!"

"Scalloped?"

"Yes, scalloped."

"Huh!"

So he asked me if I'd ever done yoga, and thinks learning some physical relaxation techniques would really help the clenching. I'd actually been concidering it, so I think I'll look into getting some at home stuff, since my schedule is so erratic.

Especially because my jaw isn't the only thing I've been clenching.

I've been waking up with my hands balled into tight fists. And it's starting to really affect my typing and manual dexterity. My hands hurt, my wrists hurt, and sometimes my forearms hurt. I'm going to make a doctor's appointment tomorrow, I think. This blog is taking much longer than it should. And sadly, it will be the last one I write for a while.

I have made a resolution. No more blogs until at least Monday. No IMs over the weekend. No responding to e-mail unless it's a must. I'm really going to miss you guys. :-( But typing is how I make a living right now, and I need to save it for work until this gets better.

I hope to get this worked out soon. Until then...

Does anyone have a yoga mat I could borrow?

It Loses Something in Translation

It's an interesting problem for a translator. It's an interesting problem for a journalist.

I was listening to NPR on the way home. They were doing a story on brick kilns in China that kidnapped laborers and worked below the radar as far as government regulations go. One farmer described how the polluted smoke would roll down the hillside from the kiln to his farm. He exclaimed, in the words of the translator:

"These companies, they have money and connections, they can pollute as much as they want. We don't have money or connections, and we get in trouble for polluting if we so much as break wind."

I found myself wondering if the term the farmer had used in Chinese was more equivalent to the very polite and somewhat picturesque "break wind" or if what he actually said was more along the lines of something coarse like "farted."

Now, it *really* doesn't matter. But it got me thinking. If the man had been speaking English, and had said "farted," would they have used the quip? It's not a bad word, but it's somewhat crude. And the tone of journalism on NPR is pretty high-brow (though I'm occasionally irritated by grammatical mistakes in their coverage).

If he's said it in English, and they *couldn't* use it, would they have paraphrased? Voiced over? What? Perhaps the person they were interviewing used a more polite term. Though I thought I heard a guffaw of the"Oh no he didn't" sort in the background. But since they had the opportunity to choose the English they would use, and didn't have to use someone's actual English words...

I'm just curious about how NPR handles/handled that. As a person interested in the problems of translation.

Happy Father's Day

Whew. Going to bed soon, so it's almost over. Most of the day was all right, really. But it had it's moments.

There was a dark-haired man in Berryhill with his little girl. She looked about two or three, adorable little blonde girl. Most people realize that children are precious and should be cherished as they grow. They'll never be so small and innocent again. My thoughts went out to the little girl, though. Make him proud. Be his joy, the delight of his eyes, and learn everything you can from him. Cherish him while you've got him, because no one will ever love you like your Daddy.

Getting ready for the Father's Day concert, the one actual fatherly event I had all day. It was raining and dreary. I felt so lonely. My father told me I was his better self, the person he would be if he could do it all again. But he is also my better self, the person I am so lucky I have the chance to be like. No one will ever love me or be so proud of me as my Father. God I miss him.

The concert went well, and I felt much better as it went. But it just felt strange. Something kept nagging at me. I finally realized what it was in the Red Lion, when Zev said maybe he should call his dad. Lots of people had been talking about calling home, and the thought had been in my mind that I needed to call home...

And talk to Dad.

I just, I wanted to call him, and... and to tell him... God, everything.

The director of the choir I just joined told a beautiful story about how after his father's death, he had a dream of walking through a beautiful wood behind his dad. And then, in this gorgeous clearing his father stopped and turned, and smiled. Later in his life, he was walking in some woods, and came to a clearing, and recognized the clearing from his dream.

I visited Yellowstone shortly after my dad died, and I was pretty numb. But the mountains and the rivers spoke to me, stirred things inside of me, and I knew my father would have loved this place. I dreamed, later, that I was visiting it with him, and he was loving every minute.

And I wanted to enjoy it with him, but I couldn't. All I could think of was, "You're going to die. You have to know, I have to tell you." But I couldn't tell him. He couldn't understand me. And I couldn't just enjoy being with him again in that amazing place. I wanted to so badly, but I couldn't.

What is it about me that has such a hard time treasuring what I have because it's not everything I want? I have to work on that.

My Rice Owls did me proud today. So the day is ending on a high note. And I don't have to deal with this particular holiday for another year. Still, I wish I could have visited his grave.

Sherrie gave me a lovely idea. She said I needed to go out and buy a helium balloon, and release it and watch it float away, and that is how I can call him when I need to.

All of you who have fathers, hug them for the one I can't hug. Hope you and they had a wonderful day.

Game 1. INSANE.

Rice...

Fight...

Never die...

Blue, gray...

In the sky!

Stand! Cheer! Drink more beer!!!

GO! GO! GOOOOOOOOOOOO RICE!!!!!



Oh my gosh. When I joined the game today, we were behind 5-4. Then we went 6-4. Then 10-4. Then 10-5.

Then 10-6. Then 10-7. 8.

9.

10. Tie game.

.
.
.
Rice 11-10. 12-10! 13, 14, 15-10!

Rice ahead, 15-10!

Rice...

WINS 15-10.

OH.

MY.

GOD.

Excuse me while I go collapse.

Nawlin's, Sugah :-)

I'm in New Orleans, in the W again. I like this place!

It's been an interesting trip, starting with Hobby security. I wore my green Nerds shirt today, and a TSA agent asked me, "So, are you a nerd?" She seemed quite taken aback when I said, "Yup!"

"Oh, well, that's okay. Nerds are great people." Um, all right.

I've never seen security held up by so many people in a row. First there was the guy in the wheel chair, but that's not at all outlandish, so we'll pass over him. But, then there was the guy who kept setting off the metal detector. He finally figured out it was his "back brace." At least, that's what he called it. Only, well, it looked for all the world like the unfanciest whale-bone corset on earth. Then the girl in front of me had to get wanded. Turns out she had metal in her weave.

o_O

Apparently I'm getting good at this carry-on only travel. The TSA guy at the end of the metal detector was explaining to Miss Metal-Weave that her toiletries were not up to regulations. He was explaining that she couldn't take what she had and could get more at the shops in the terminal, and just as she asked how they needed to be, my bin came sliding out with my neatly packed quart bag of 3 oz bottles lying on top.

"This, here! This is exactly, this is beautiful, perfect, this is exactly, who's is this?"

I think I made his day. :-P People must be getting this wrong. A lot.

Got to New Orleans without incident. We flew along the coast, so I amused myself by staring at the shoreline. The flight attendant taking drink orders had to tap me on the shoulder, and seemed pleasantly amused by my childish wonder with the view.

I decided to practice being friendly and outgoing to strangers. This is hard for me. But I asked the cabby if I could sit up front with him, and chatted about travel in general, foreign travel, the history in New Orleans, and all sorts of stuff. He asked me if I've ever eaten at Mother's, since it was right across the street from the W. He said it was pretty much the best hole in the wall in town.

So after I settled in, I headed over there. They serve breakfast all day. I like places that serve breakfast all day. Their sign says "World's best baked ham." So I got that with my scrambled eggs and grits. It was sooooo good. But I couldn't finish. So much grits. Best grits I'd ever had, but so many of them. I swear I ate half of them, and you couldn't tell I'd touched them. I highly recommend.

After dinner I walked into the French Quarter to catch my tour. I stopped by the Hardrock to see if they had the guitar pick charms. They don't. Again. I swear, I've been to that store so many times, and they only had it once, before I started collecting, when a friend got one. Maybe I'll just see if I can find one on eBay.

The other guy behind the counter said, "Hey, we have actual guitar picks!" I told him that I had guitar picks already, from the Gibson factory in Memphis.

"But these say Hardrock!"

"GIBSON FACTORY."

"Okay, yeah, that's pretty cool."

So, I caught my tour, it was fun, my feet are killing me. But the tour guide was great, and I really enjoy just wandering around the French Quarter.

My room has a DVD player, so I'm watching X-Files now. After this episode, I should get to bed, since I have that early meeting and all. Back in town and back to the usual tomorrow.

It's been a great afternoon.

Hallmark Moment

I made a Walgreen's run for some deoderant (do you know how hard it is to find unscented solid???). Anyways.

Something drove me, compelled me, I don't know what, and I don't know why. I just felt drawn into the greeting card aisle, with a nagging in the back of my mind that there was something I was forgetting.

Oh, right. The hell. That's what I was forgetting. The pain and the loss and the loneliness had slipped my mind.

I stepped into the Hallmark aisle, thinking it would be nice maybe to get something for Mom. A random thinking of you, for no reason at all. I looked up, and was caught full in the face by a wall of Father's Day cards.

Damn it all to hell.

It never is going to be all better. I guess I should be glad it's as good as it is.

Just every so often, I have a moment.

I love you, Daddy. I miss you so much.

Je Souhaite

I wish my eyes could be
A mirror that you'd look into and see
All the good I see in you
Not without fault
No one can be
But with fault in its place
Not shadowing the shining truth

I see your faults
They stand beside the good
Not behind it, not before
Just as the bad should be
Owned,not gilded over
So should every good
Shine out unblemished
As much a part of us
As all our flaws
And thrown into the balance
Of our souls
To make us human
Precious in ourselves
Whole

My wish is that you always see
All that I see and love in you
Yourself

No Interwebs

My personal on-ramp to the information superhighway is under construction. Or, my modem is hosed. I get no interwebs at home. Sigh.

I post to you now from Mark and Joanna's house. I should probably go soon and be social. If I'm truly motivated, I might go get a new modem tomorrow morning. It's much more likely that I won't get this fixed until Monday at the earliest.

Until then, I likely won't be blogging or IMing. Hope you can survive without me in your cyberlife. :-P

I did, however, pound out a fair chunk of the first chapter of my novel last night. If I took a month off from nightly internet access, I might actually write a book. :-P

Raindance

I went for a walk in the rain today. My apartment was getting… just a little too small and civilized.

I put on old ragged tennis shoes and some grubby work clothes and took nothing but my keys. I walked out of my complex, across a bridge over the White Oak Bayou, and along T C Jester up to 11^th Street. I crossed that and stepped into T C Jester Park.

It took about 90 seconds for the rain to drench my hair and begin rolling down my forehead and dripping off my eyelashes and nose. I can’t really remember the last time I set out walking in the rain without minding if I got wet. I walked straight through ankle-deep puddles because I could. I blinked raindrops out of my eyes to watch the bayou waters flow by, grayish-brown and turbulent. I stretched my hand out to brush heavy crystal drops off of pine sprays and oak leaves.

In spite of the clouds and rain, the air was warm with the scent of uncut grass and wild flowers. I saw Indian blankets and winecups, horsemint and sunflowers, beebalm and evening primrose. I saw flowers I didn’t recognize, small with five petals, a delicate pinkish beige, growing on rose-brown stalks that looked almost like dead twigs. And all through the tall grasses there were deep brown stalks of bluebonnets, some with seedpods still furred and shut, many with them blown open, with tiny rowed cups catching the rain. There were even a few bluebonnets still in bloom, amazing for late May.

I walked under a bridge where West T C Jester crosses the bayou. The path dips down near the water, and the railings were swathed in grasses washed around them in some recent downpour. As the path rose again, there was a sound just ahead and to the right, a sound that has enchanted me in the woods at Glacier, the sound of a waterfall. Here, of course, it’s the sound of a storm drain, but it was magical still to me, to stand there and hear nothing but the sound of water all around, rushing down in the bayou, splashing on the grass and leaves, murmuring in the ditches.

I turned back just short of 18^th Street because my old sneakers were rubbing my feet raw in several places. (I find I have blisters on three toes and my right heel. I think I’ll just throw those shoes away.) As I walked back, I watched cliff swallows, small dark birds with creamy bellies and brown faces, flitting and skimming above the tumbling bayou water. I scanned the path and stooped to help unwary snails cross the concrete sidewalk so they would neither drown in the puddles nor be crushed by pedestrians like me. There were some earthworms too, unfortunately drowned already, so I couldn’t do much for them.

The rain quickened one last time as I passed under the West T C Jester bridge again. I lingered, looking up at the nests, and stared at four baby swallows staring back at me.

I went on, but I stopped just before 11^th Street, crossing halfway over the pedestrian bridge that spans the bayou just before the road crosses it. I stood watching the water come down from upstream, and lifting my eyes to see the banks and bridges above it. I allowed myself to remember. The last time I walked in the rain like this, I wasn’t alone. There was a hand to hold, a smile to catch, warm, rain drenched lips to kiss the drops off of my cheeks. Memories that still hurt, but didn’t draw tears. I turned to the other side of the path and watched the water flow away. I dreamed of things that were, and things that are, and things that will never be. An egret, gleaming white against the gray water, flew out from under the bridge and glided down stream, towards home. I put away my memories and took it for an omen. I walked off the bridge and crossed the street, back into the neighborhoods.

I passed under a magnolia tree, blossoms like cups heavy with rain and a scent like nectar and ambrosia. I stopped by a deep puddle at a street corner, looked around quickly, then jumped into it from the sidewalk, splashing myself up to the knees and feeling irrationally pleased with myself about it.

I was almost home, and on top of the world when I heard and felt a sickening little crunch beneath my right foot. I’d stopped paying attention to the sidewalk, and had stepped on one of the little snail people. This is why I keep an eye out and try to move them off the sidewalk. I always feel terrible seeing their beautiful fluted shells shattered, slicing into their vulnerable soft little bodies. I felt chastened, dampened, and continued home more slowly and carefully. I stood on the last bridge over the bayou and looked up into the clearing sky. The rain had stopped and there were liquid blue breaks between the clouds. The sunlight was starting to seep through, pearly gray and white.

Now I’m curled up on my couch under a soft blanket, hair still damp from a warm shower, and feet hurting a little with the blisters. Back to civilization.

Bobs are Doomed

Well, I have two Bobs left. They're healthy enough, don't get me wrong! The littler one is getting close to being an adult.

The problem is, now that the littler one is getting big enough to tell, well, he's definitely a he. My last two Bobs are both male. No baby Bobs.

Bobs are doomed.

Introducing Mr. and Mrs. My Second Cousin

My second cousin Heather got married today. In every aspect I can think of, this wedding was different from any other wedding I've ever been to.

First of all, it was an Orthodox Christian service. It was beautiful. The bride and groom state their intentions and exchange rings right away, near the entry. The priest chants most of the service and the responses are sung. The acoustics of the chapel carried the sound so that there was a nearly continuous hum of sound floating in the air with the incense.

The bride and groom are lead further into the church, are crowned to represent the glory of their new marriage state, but also the martyrdom that marriage is, in that each partner dies to themselves and begins a new life in the other. They drink wine from one cup in remembrance of Christ's first miracle at the wedding at Cana. Then they're lead around the altar three times, the beginning of their walk through life as a married couple, lead by Christ symbolized by the Word. They are blessed and process out of the church. The ceremony is musical, mystical, symbolic, and moving.

The bridesmaids wore red and gold satin mandarin dresses. The reception in the church hall was decorated with lanterns and fans and banners and dragons. We got fans and fortune cookies as favors. (Every one's fortune was the same: "Thank you for being with us on our wedding day.")

The bride and groom's first dance was to a nice song, nothing too sappy. Then the father of the bride danced to a song chosen by the bride. Basically the words were, "I'll be there for you the next time someone breaks your heart." Why was our table the only one laughing? It was hilarious! The groom and his mother danced to Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried." It's good to know they have a sense of humor!

Speaking of humor, it seems like every time my family all gets together, some new childhood memory of my uncles' comes back, some new story is shared. They talked about how they and my father had been so terrible as boys as to pretend to be mentally retarded once when my grandmother took them to a store. Uncle John talked about a vivid dream he used to have that Grandma was out in the yard during a storm hanging up laundry, and when she jerked her hair out of her eyes in the wind, her head fell off, and she put it back on and had to go to Weingarten's for aspirin. Uncle Tom then said he must have dreamed about a hundred times about that he was being chased down the street by zombie toothpicks.

o_O

The food was, of course, Chinese food. There was a keg of Harp and a keg of Guinness. The best man gave hands down the best wedding toast I've ever heard. It was heart felt, funny without being embarrassing, and he admitted to not knowing my cousin well, but called her the the port her groom could come home to, and the star to guide him. And he read a poem by Thomas More that the groom had once shared with him.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose!

All I Want

All I want out of this life is for the world to be better in some way because I lived. I'm not Ghandi. I'm not Einstein I don't know how to change the world except in very little ways. Some people show me that I do make a difference to them. To some people, no matter how much I've given, I seem to mean nothing at all. No matter how many people I touch, I always want to touch more. To touch everyone I can. To mean something. To be something. To do something.

All I want is for the world to be better because I'm in it. Sometimes that seems like a lot to ask of myself. Sometimes that seems like a lot to ask of the world.