Old School Dr. Who

Amazon had a BBC video sale on last week, and I splurged. I got two more Dr. Who DVDs for my Tom Baker collection, and I watched one of them tonight. I haven't seen Planet of Evil in years. All I remembered of it was the black pool and the outline of the creature in technicolor. It was good. The jungle scenes were just as impressive as they were reported to be, and as always with these episodes, I'd forgotten so much from when I saw them as a child.

I am such a classic DW fan. The storylines were really creative, and the world the writers created had great richness to it. Even though the special effects were so low-tech and every spaceship was so obviously put together from old vacuums (something I actually love), the stories were mostly solid. Real thought had gone into creating worlds, creatures, problems, and plots. Unity was maintained. Today's writers could take some hints from DW. After all it has been for 45+ years.....

For me, the old school will always be the best. You will never be able to beat the sheer camp of the "plaything of Sutekh" or seeing the same wonderful BBC actors playing minor characters over and over in different episodes. No amount of CGI or big-budget wardrobe will replace the cheesy wonder of "space age" wardrobe choices circa 1975. Nobody else will ever be Tom Baker running around in that scarf with that particular persona. As much as I have adored David Tennant in the role, and as good as I think he's been in the storyline of the Doctor who is living in that part of the character's history, whenever someone says, "Doctor Who" to me, curly hair and unpredictable behavior always come to mind.

I enjoy the new series, too, to be sure. The writing has the same qualities that drew me to the original, especially the thoughtful planning of the four-season arc that ended recently. I don't know what it will be like when the eleventh Doctor takes over the role, but I hope that it will continue to amuse and open those worlds for the imagination to play in and for generations of new writers and thinkers to spread their wings in as well.

As I expand my collection and rediscover the mythology of the series, I am grateful again to have these DVDs. My old cassettes, diligently recorded from our local PBS affiliate so many years ago when they showed the series, have long since deteriorated, so each time I sit down to watch one, it's familiar, yet mostly new again, too. As I wait to see what happens as Tennant steps down, I can enjoy the glory years of the series and dream of looking out my own front door to see a blue police box waiting for me someday.

De Stijl

I haven't blogged this disc before, and I really should have, I guess. It's late, it's "spinning" in iTunes, and I'm blown away by how much I love some of these songs. I've been listening to it all day, driving here and there doing errands, and each time it's rotated through, I find something else to appreciate.

The blues songs such as "Death Letter" make me want to dance and drive too fast (not at the same time), sure indicators of good blues to me. Anything that makes me want to throw my head back in the car, sing at the top of my lungs, and flirt with a traffic ticket is good music.

One of my favorites for the sweetness of the words is "Apple Blossom." The whole song, music and lyrics are perfect to me. They're exactly what I'd like someone to say to me sometime, full of love. I love the slightly out-of-tune piano in the background, too. It reminds me of something old-fashioned for some reason.

In the same way, I love "Truth Doesn't Make a Noise." I could be that girl in that song for so many reasons. I just haven't ever found anybody who felt like the writer of that song about me. Even though the song is short, it's powerful to me. This is the music of true romance, as in warriors taking up arms to defeat insurmountable opposition. (This may be because I am an English teacher and I see archetypes hiding under every shrub and bush.) I appreciate the genuine emotion and, as always, the stripped-down power of the lyrics.

Well, as far as reviews go, this one is by far the least technical and sophisticated ever written, I'm sure. Even by my standards, it's pretty weak. I just didn't want to forget to at least mention how much I'm enjoying this music at this specific moment.

Wasn't That Unexpected?

I got up this morning with a day's worth of little chores on my checklist. I got my hair cut first; I'm back to a shorter, more shaped cut a la Indiana. I scheduled appointments for "back to school," including a manicure my parents are treating me to as an indulgence.

After I left the salon, my next "to do" items were both at the car dealership, scheduling two long-overdue major maintenances and trying to get a burned-out turn signal replaced. Of course, nothing is ever simple, and after a two-hour wait, the turn signal turned out not to be burned out at all. During the time the car was sitting up while I was recovering from my knee surgery, apparently a rat had lunch on the wiring leading up to the turn signal, and now it will have to be rewired.

This wasn't what I wanted to hear, but the news was somewhat softened by the incredibly cute mechanic who came out to deliver it. Despite the fact that it's the place I usually get my oil changed, I've never seen him before, and I would remember. The funny thing is that he wasn't really any of the "types" that usually catch my eye, dark eyed where usually it's the blue ones that snag me, bearded where I usually go for clean-shaven, and a little shorter than me when I usually have a huge issue with that. I don't know what it was. It was unexpected and nice, especially in light of the impending repair bill when the part comes in and I have to go back to get it fixed next week at the regular dealership service center. I guess if the bill is too shocking, I can always walk over to the quick oil change section and see if I don't feel better with some cute-guy-therapy. (I'm also thinking they have lots of luscious Dodge Chargers on this lot, too. If we could just put these two things together somehow....wicked, wicked grin....)

Taking Care of Business

I'm in an Elvis-y mood tonight, as you can probably tell from the title...

Anyway, after sleeping almost all day yesterday and until about 10:30 today because of feeling so horribly yesterday, I got up today with plenty of energy to take care of some long-overdue work. I called BellSouth and DirecTV about service issues I'm having and got those two things lined up for repair, and then I started the monumental effort of cleaning this house. Since perfect strangers will be coming to the house to do things, Southern Guilt dictates that the house must be clean. Never mind that it never looks like this at any other time of the year/week/will not look like this thirty minutes after they leave....

I swear, even though I know it's probably not a needed expense, if I could somehow squeeze it into my meager budget, a cleaning service would be the first luxury I'd spring for. I hate having to do heavy cleaning by myself. The little stuff is bad enough, fixtures, vacuuming, and whatnot, but the big cleaning, steam cleaning, bucket mopping, dusting, furniture polish, etc., is a nightmare. If I had the money, I would gladly, happily, gleefully give it to somebody else for the privilege of getting out of this stuff or even having help. Maybe this is why people have kids? (just kidding...don't throw things...)

I don't do it nearly as often as it probably needs, just to be honest. Once the school year gets rolling, I just try to keep a path through the house so the piles don't fall over and crush me or the animals, and survival becomes the order of the day. During the school year, in fact, I don't even want people to come in the house because it's such a horrid mess.

Right now, it's a little better than half done. I got the heavy vacuuming and steam cleaning done today, and that's one of the worst of the big jobs. Tomorrow, I'll start the day with the mopping and get the worst of what's left done first, and then everything that's left will just be finish work. I'm just grateful I've got enough flexibility back in my leg to allow me to do all this myself now and enough energy to be able to take care of my business myself. When it's all done, I'll be able to sit back and bask in how nice everything looks for the five minutes it lasts until a cat and/or a dog mess it up.

Rain and Tired

I feel ick today. I woke up feeling bad, and I almost didn't go to therapy. Perseverance won out, though, and I dragged myself in. It took longer than usual today because she added new exercises. Since I was feeling so nasty, I don't think I did as well as usual. Everything was so hard today. I could hardly do all my reps. I left feeling drained and weak.

I came home, ate whatever I pulled out of the freezer first, and fell asleep on the couch for a couple of hours by accident. When I woke up, I still felt horrible and was stiff from sleeping on the couch to boot, so I got up and went to the sunroom to sleep more comfortably. Yoda apparently wasn't feeling well herself today because she came and curled up next to me, something the Empress of Cats never deigns to do, and we slept the day away.

Rain fell, I woke up sporadically, and dozed back off, and finally got up in time to feed all the animals and myself again. I've been up a few hours now after watching a movie, and I was hoping that I was cycling out of the nastiness, but now I think I'm going to turn in for the rest of the night. A migraine seems to be brewing, and maybe if I sleep it won't strike. I hate feeling like this. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Changes

Yeah, you're in the right place. I just redecorated a little. Have no fear....

Chesterton Quote

The doctrine of human equality reposes on this: that there is no man really clever who has not found that he is stupid. -- G.K. Chesterton

Philosophy for Living, Rife with Irony

Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die today. ~James Dean

Another quote, and yes, before you ask, I'm on a quotes kick. I was browsing through one of my favorite sites looking for something specific when I stumbled across the Cummings quote in the previous entry and this one. The supreme wisdom and heartbreaking irony of this one deserved a brief comment, though.

What does it really mean to live as if you'll die today? It certainly means to take advantage of all those little opportunities we all too often let go, the chance to do the thing that requires courage, daring, stepping outside our routine or our perception of our regular self. Too often, I think we fail to appreciate the brevity of our time here. This quote puts it into a tidy perspective.

I think it also needs to mean, though, living in a way that recognizes the incredible wonder of life, the preciousness of everyone we're surrounded by, and the relationships that connect us. It should also mean making sure that there is no unfinished business, that peace is made, both with our fellow man and with God so that when it comes time to step away from this place we can dust off our hands, job finished, and move on to what comes next.

I think about the image of James Dean as the eternal Rebel in the leather jacket, and I think about how he died in a twisted mass of metal, and I wonder which definition he embraced and what it ultimately meant to him.

Another Cummings Quote

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. ~e.e. cummings, 1955

This one will be going up in my classroom somewhere this year. The man just said everything well.

The Reunion

It is indeed ironic that we spend our school days yearning to graduate and our remaining days waxing nostalgic about our school days. ~Isabel Waxman

And so I went. Of course it wasn't as simple as all that....

Yesterday my phone rang about 8:00, and Mom and Dad decided that they wanted to go in for an early breakfast in town as family eat-together-thing. I managed to get my sleep-deprived brain together since I'd gone to bed some time after 2:00 am, and got up and dressed. We went in, forded the masses at Cracker Barrel, and had the traditional log-rolling breakfast. All meals at Cracker Barrel will enable you to roll logs, after all.

When I got home, I let Roux and Yelldo out and started working on cleaning out my closet. About 5, when it was time to get ready for the reunion, there was still no sign of Roux. I went out looking for her and thought I heard her yelping in the woods. This prompted a massive 45 minute search in the deep woods, hills, and hollows behind my house. She eventually came up covered in mud but otherwise okay, and I came back to the house with a sore knee and very little time to get ready for the reunion.

I did get ready and go, though. It was really good. Only a small portion of our class was there. We were a really small class to start with, and I know there were a lot of people who had other big obligations this weekend and couldn't make it. There were some people who I was really hoping were going to come but didn't, and there were people there who I haven't seen since graduation. There were a couple of surreal moments, as I suppose is to be expected, but on the whole I think for a class that graduated quite literally in the middle of a thunderstorm, we managed to escape without any damage.

It was wonderful to see everyone and also to meet everyone's spouses. To me, it was as nice to see who everyone finally wound up with as it was to see them personally again. It was sort of like seeing finished paintings, if that makes any sense.

It also astonished me how much we all still looked like us. I don't know why that was a surprise, but it was a bit. I mean, I look in my own mirror at least when it can't be avoided, and I know that face hasn't altered that much over the years, but I guess I thought for some reason 15 years would make us look different. It really didn't. Maybe we were getting a little gray in the hair or a couple of little lines. Maybe we were a little more...um...curvy... than we used to be in some cases (okay, my case), and certainly some of our guys had come into their own since graduation, always to be expected since teenage girls usually have it mostly together while their male counterparts usually still have quite a ways to go yet, but nobody was radically different.

I also enjoyed talking with everyone and finding out what everybody was doing. We have really high number of teachers in our class. I wonder what conjunction of stars reigned over the year of our birth that caused that curse to befall us all.... I was so proud to hear what everybody was doing. We have small business owners, professionals, people who have incredible talents and skills, and all from our one little class.

The whole time I was there, I was viewing the reunion through dual lenses, those of a member of my senior class and those of a senior class teacher. I kept thinking of my seniors, the ones I've taught already and the ones who are upcoming, and seeing bits and pieces of them in the faces and situations that surrounded me. It was an odd sort of duality. I wish for all my darlings the kind of connection we still have after fifteen years.

I don't know if we'll do a reunion at twenty. I hope so, and I hope that even more of our far-flung classmates will come. If I can come to one and survive it, I think anybody could.

So, Anyway, Yeah, I'm Going

I talked, or rather texted, with my best friend last night, and she convinced me that I could handle the reunion. I am still not quite sure about it, but I think that I'm going to try. At least she'll be there for moral support.

I tried to figure out what I'm going to wear, and the whole time I was sorting through clothing, I was more or less hating the cliched nature of that activity. Part of me really just wants to put on old jeans, whatever t-shirt happens to come to hand when I reach into the closet, my Chacos, and go. And yes, I would, of course, have my hair pulled up into the ubiquitous ponytail...

Another silly part of me wants to find the vampiest, trampiest items in my wardrobe and combine them in odd ways. Curl all my hair into ringlets. Wear a lot of blue eyeshadow (I think I'd have to buy some of that...) and Cleopatra eyeliner. Find some fishnet hose. Get out those really, really big silver hoops I have and some of my grandmothers' old costume jewelry. See if I can balance in heels without my knee giving out. You know, that sort of thing. I have a very warped sense of humor these days, and just the thought of going in like that amuses the hell out of me. "Hey, y'all. It's me! Have I changed much?"

In reality, I will undoubtedly look just exactly like what I am, "the schoolmarm." It's okay. I can pull that costume out of the closet with relative ease. It's socially acceptable, it's fairly tidy and modest, and I'm comfortable in it. I wear it about nine months out of the year, anyway....

Pie and Casserole

Sleep 'til you're hungry, eat 'til you're sleepy. ~ Unknown

Today, I went to PT and did a grueling hour and a half of work on my knee. I upped my reps and weights, and by the time I was done, my knee felt like Jell-O. I make more progress every time I go. I stayed on the Rocker board for a full five minutes today and then did twenty squats. I think I'm going to get one of those things just to keep around the house for fun while I'm watching TV. I get a kick out trying to keep it absolutely still, and I have often wondered if I could balance on one foot with it at all.

When I got home, I went and got groceries. I bought stuff to cook with for the first time in a long time. This afternoon, I made easy key lime pie with that Real Simple recipe that I like so much. I always forget how much it makes. It fills two crusts and then there is always a little bit of filling left over. What to do with those leftover spoonsful? Hmm.... Or perhaps the sound to make is, "Yumm..."

The pies are currently firming in the freezer, and for dinner, I made a favorite Mexican casserole. It's an old recipe that's extremely easy, and even though I'll have leftovers for days, it was great actually to stand at my stove and prepare food again rather than microwave something.

In a little while, I'll go and slice one of the pies. I may also break out my cheap copy of the Goonies I picked up from the sale bin at Wal-Mart. It has been a peaceful and good day full of simple little things.

I Knew I Loved E. E. Cummings

"I'm living so far beyond my income that we may almost be said to be living apart."
- e e cummings

Blue

Sadness is almost never anything but a form of fatigue. ~Andre Gide
"Oh, had I wings I would fly away and be at rest..." "Ecstasy" Traditional Spiritual

Blue again. Shimmering in my ears are the notes of Ella and Billie to accompany the rain falling outside. It's not the rain that brought this on. I love the rain.

Maybe it's the upcoming reunion, my 15th. I've almost decided not to go, and since it's Saturday, I think I'm about out of time to change my mind. I can't bear the thought of having to have the same brief conversation about being single with no kids over and over again with all those married and fecund people and seeing that blank, vaguely pitying stare. No matter what I think of the choices I've made in my life, I just know it's not going to quite measure up to four hours of that. I have no pictures of my toddlers to show off. I have no "precious" stories to share about toilet training or pregnancy. I don't even have an engagement ring or a steady boyfriend to take.

I need to get out of here. More and more, I feel the bars of my cage pressing down on me, especially when I hear from friends living in other places. Only my job and my family keep me here. I just keep staring up at the sky, ruffling my feathers in frustration and indecision and pretending that I don't remember what it was like to fly.

Learning Lincoln

Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm. ~Abraham Lincoln

This year marks the bicentennial of Abraham Lincoln's birth. Until I went to Washington at the end of last month, I really didn't pay much attention to Lincoln. He was just another one of those presidents we learned about in school, a carving on a coin or a drawing on a bill, flat, cold, and without much interest. Yes, granted, he was the leader for our country in one of its greatest times of crisis, but for whatever reason, possibly for the very reason of those early school lessons in which we were exposed to him and to Washington as almost cartoon-like, mythic icons instead of real individuals, I've never wanted to know more about the man behind the caricature.

When I went to Washington, I had the chance to visit Ford's Theater. We didn't get to take the guided tour, but while I was there, I sat in the lobby for quite some time waiting for the tour to begin (because I was on crutches and couldn't stand up in the line outside with the rest of my group). In the lobby, one of the artifacts on display is the coat Lincoln wore the night he was assassinated. It was made by Brooks Brothers, and it has an elaborately embroidered inner lining. For some reason, that coat was the beginning of my interest in Lincoln.

I started thinking about him getting it as a gift, and what he thought about that eagle pattern on the interior. I wondered if he'd paused when he was getting dressed and run his fingers over the pattern and thought about the war that was just over. I wondered if he'd been happy to be able to go out to the theater with his wife and just enjoy it without the horrible burden of ongoing battle looming behind him like a blood-soaked spectre. In that moment, the cartoonish image of an overtall man in a stovepipe hat became somehow a real person to me, and I wanted to know more about him.

Since I got home, I've seen two specials on the History Channel about him, and I'm also reading a really wonderful biography about him simply called Lincoln. The more I know about him, the more I admire him. He was an extremely complex man, which, I suppose, is probably something of a "duh" statement, but as I learn, I feel both admiration and sympathy for him at different times in his story. It is compelling.

I look forward to continuing my new line of research. I feel that learning about him is a way of learning more about the country as a whole as well, something I need to do. It's time now as an adult to put away the childish understanding of my nation and its past and try to understand it more fully.

Huxley Always Knows

"Happiness is not achieved by the conscious pursuit of happiness; it is generally the by-product of other activities."
- Aldous Huxley

Windchimes

I love the sound of windchimes. As long as I can remember, they've been a part of the soundscape of my life, a sound I've associated with safety and comfort. We never had them at my parents' house because repetitive noises of that type drive my father crazy. The windchimes of my childhood were always the ones hanging on my Granny's and my Nana's porches.

I remember those endless summer afternoons and evenings sitting in rocking chairs talking and watching the day fade out while whatever slight breezes there were stirred the metal, glass, or ceramic chimes into song. The simple notes mixed with the tree frogs and other country night sounds. Whether I was sitting and talking with family or alone and reading, they made the backdrop for peace and serenity.

When I went to Japan, I was delighted to find that windchimes were a part of the summer culture there, too, beautiful glass ones painted with scenes, china and porcelain ones shaped like maneki neko, and cast iron ones shaped like temple bells or whimsical animals. I collected enough of those to keep my tiny apaato filled with wind music, and I brought them home. Most of the fragile glass ones are gone now, but I still have enough of them left to stir good memories when the sound in Mississippi breezes.

I now have chimes hanging from three of my four porches. I also have placed one here on this blog, just in case you haven't noticed the gentle chiming. I am keeping the music alive, tranquil and sweet.

Bitstrips: Skully Appears

Bitstrips: Skully Appears

A web 2.0 tool that I'm playing with. Interesting possibilities for school assignments. Not hard to use, and it comes out looking nice, my example aside.

Lunge

And, yes, I know that most people won't care, but it's a big deal to me. If you're looking for earth-shattering philosophy or words of divine inspiration, you've been in the wrong place for quite some time now....

Today, my therapist added yet another new motion to my recovery: the lunge. This was the first time I've made this motion since I did my last yoga class back in February. The lunge is a critical motion for me. It gave me endless problems in fencing, not being able to reach full fluid extension and recovery without having a hitch in my movement. It is also part of several very common and wonderful-feeling yoga poses. I have to admit I was nervous. Those last few yoga classes if I did any sort of lunges, particularly the Warrior poses, my knee would lock or weaken despite all my best efforts to control it. I can still remember the burn and the pain, that disgusting clicking feeling inside. It was one of the main indicators that told me I had some serious problem going this time.

When the PT told me that I was going to be lunging, I was afraid it would fold under me even though I knew it shouldn't. What a wonderful feeling when it bent strong and steady and pushed back firm and trustworthy! Although it is still sore when it's the off-leg, I now have real confidence that I'm going to be able to do yoga again. It's the difference between being told you can do something and then actually having it proven through doing it yourself.

The PT pushed me hard today. More new exercises were added, my weights on all the machines were increased, and I upped my reps on some things. This added to the lunges left my knee tired and tingling when I left the gym. It was all worth it. I left with a smile and private laughter in my heart. I am really, truly, actually going to make it back from this after all.

The Musical Velvet Elvis

Songs to accompany your voyage into kitsch,

Whispering on Twitter

A couple of my very favorite authors and musicians lurk about on Twitter. I both love and hate this. If you follow my Twitter feed at all, you know in addition to the totally useless things I write about (going to vacuum the floors now, oh look! have found apples in fridge, etc.), I also like to tweet about what I'm listening to or reading about at the moment, sort of a review in 140 characters or less. It's awfully hard to do that comfortably when you know the person you're writing about is sort of standing in the corner listening....

I ran into this the other day when I finished Good Omens. My first response was to tweet loudly and long about its merits, but then I remembered that Neil Gaiman is practically the King of Twitter. His followers are legion. I shuffled my feet (metaphorically), made some sort of weak comment about how much I liked it, and saved my commentary for the safer backwaters of blogland, this shallow pool where no one but you and I, gentle reader, ever wades.

I haven't always been this cautious. In fact, when I first joined Twitter and was discovering its vagaries, I was also reading American Gods for the first time, and I was tweeting the lines I liked best. Imagine how stupid I felt when I found out that @neilhimself had several thousand avid followers running around out there.... I shut up pretty fast. I felt like I was caught talking about somebody at a party and was overheard. Not that I was saying anything but good things, but still. It was unnerving.

There are several musicians I love that I had the same experience with. I was tweeting along about how I liked this one or that one, and bam, there they were.... I have gotten almost gunshy about the whole system. In one way it is an amazing chance to interact, even in the shallowest of ways, with creative people whom one admires. And that's something I'd very much like to do.

However, this is where the shy (as in socially inept, not the previously mentioned gunshy) comes in, even over a computer buffer, and especially once I know I've been caught out talking like some starry-eyed worshiper (which, in most cases, unless Elvis shows up, I think I can say I am not), I just don't know what to write. I can't imagine anything I type being useful, interesting, or amusing to those Twitter Titans, and I feel sort of embarrassed about being there. It's exactly the same feeling that drove me out of a concert hall before I could even get my copy of Punch signed by Chris Thile and company, but that was real life. Ah, but talking about the unreasoning weirdness I feel about asking another person to scrawl his or her name across an object may be a subject better left for another blog....

Well, I'm off to take one last tour of the Twitterverse before bed. I will skulk through quietly, wading gently, and making as few waves as possible. I don't think anybody will even know I'm there....probably....surely....right?....

Speaking of Poetry

I've been writing lately. Little trickles in the desert sand, not the torrent of true inspiration I'd love to feel. I've gotten three things down on paper. One and a half of them need to be thrown out. I'll put them in the notebook to chew over. Maybe something good can come of them if I turn them over in my hands long enough and wear away some of the stupidity and rough edges. My notebook as a giant rock tumbler, I guess....

One of them came out pretty well. It still needs considerable revision, but the ideas in it don't make me want to pack in my pens and swear off writing for the rest of my life. I need an editor so badly, somebody who I can share this stuff with who can tell me what's crap and with whom I can bounce ideas back and forth until some of these poor broken-winged birds can heal and fly again. I've got some things that aren't terrible, but again, I really need somebody else's eye, somebody I can trust.

Maybe one day I will make it to that meeting of poets in town. I'm not sure that's what I'm looking for, actually, but maybe it's a place to start.

The Beautiful Poet Boys

God save me from the beautiful poet boys, especially the ones who swing a guitar or other instrument in their hands. I swear, I think they're sent just to distract and destroy me. This fascination is rooted in my love for intelligent men. There is nothing sexier than a smart man. Add to that native attractiveness a gift with words and music, and it's lethal. However, there is always a sadistic twist to these guys that I flee in my saner moments. There is no such thing as a healthy, functional relationship with a beautiful poet boy, especially the musical ones, because, apparently, they have all been screwed up beyond all reclamation by somebody else. They also usually seem to be looking for somebody else to screw them up further, are flinging themselves sacrificially on the altar of some great pyre to some woman who doesn't even notice or who gets a kick out of it. Maybe this is because it makes for good poetry and/or lyrics? I'm not quite sure of the philosophy there.... I'm going to develop my own version of the sign of the cross for this particular brand of temptation, my own lucky charm to ward them off. Since I'm a screwed-up poet girl (who can lay no claim to the title beautiful) myself, I think this is the best scenario all around.

Good Omens by Gaiman and Pratchett

I finished reading Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett today. I've had it on my "to read" shelf for about six months now, I guess, bought sometime after I finished American Gods. With school finally being out, time to read things not related to teaching has returned, and I started it Saturday and finished it today. I loved it. As always, the writing was flawless, but as one might expect with the addition of Pratchett to the mix, the humor was even more present than usual. I frequently found myself laughing out loud, not something one would expect given the subject matter.

I read the articles at the end of the novel about how it was written, and I found myself thinking about how much fun the two of them must have had working together on the book. There are rare pairings in music and literature when really gifted people get together and just play for the love of it, just tinker around to entertain themselves, and sometimes we mere mortals down here on the ground get blessed with the results.

I'm not trying to romanticize authors and musicians; I know they are people who have to get up and deal with all the issues of life, mundane and serious, but they also do things the rest of us don't or can't. They create these wonderful pieces of beautiful stuff that they are then kind enough to share. I think that's a fabulous thing, personally, and I'm really grateful to them for taking the time and effort to do it, especially because I don't believe even for half a minute that creating the things they do, despite the fact that it may look effortless in the finished product, is an easy thing.

Good Omens is one of those lovely things Gaiman and Pratchett were nice enough to share with the rest of us. I know I'm going to reread it repeatedly, and I'm looking into getting it in my traveling library on Kindle. I don't know if I'll ever be able to present my copy to get it signed or if I'll ever have to hold it together with string, duct tape, or place the water-damaged pages in a large ziplock bag, but rest assured, it's loved nonetheless. If you haven't tried it yourself, find out more about it by clicking here.

School Supplies

Often, when I am reading a good book, I stop and thank my teacher. That is, I used to, until she got an unlisted number. ~Author Unknown

I have often thought that one of the key reasons I became a teacher is so I could keep buying notebooks, pens, pencil pouches, and other spiffy school tools every year. The beauty of the first clean page of a new notebook is a lovely sight to me. I have more colorful and decorative ring binders than even the most industrious of filers could fill.

There's just something cheering and somehow hopeful to me about walking down that aisle of unsharpened pencils and unbent folders. Each new eraser and sharp crayon is a wish for a good school year, for a student to find his or her path, for the love of knowledge to be kindled and fanned to flame. I guess that may be an awful lot to expect out of a plastic pencil bag or a package of pens, but from those small tools and symbols of my trade, I think great miracles can happen. Maybe it's a little like a magician and a wand....

Life Is a Highway

The car has become a secular sanctuary for the individual, his shrine to the self, his mobile Walden Pond. ~Edward McDonagh

I did my first driving over the past three days. Today was my first trip to town as I took myself in for therapy, and I felt as proud of that short jaunt as any teenager leaving the house without supervision for the first time. Two days ago, I got out in the late evening and drove around Podunk to test my reflexes and ability. I even drove over to a small town near here to get a fast food burger and enjoy the feel of the vehicle on the road again.

None of that compared with being independent in truth again today, though. I got up on my own schedule (and was, of course, almost late without the goad of making sure I wasn't keeping someone else waiting), and when I was ready, walked out, cranked up my own vehicle, and drove to the hospital. I found a parking place rather than being endlessly dropped off like an invalid, and walked in. I had a set of car keys to keep up with in a meaningful way instead of just to open the door when somebody else dropped me off home. It was good.

I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed cranking up my stereo and turning the Cruiser into a flying karaoke machine. One of the local radio stations had a "Flashback Lunch" full of great old songs, and on the way home, I sang and sang. It's good that nobody could hear me, probably, but it was great fun. Most music is better when it's loud (at least when you're happy, I guess).

While it may seem like a lot to be placing on just being able to drive, it's amazing what just having that one thing back gives to my quality of life as a whole. Now I don't have to be such a burden to everybody else. If I need something, I can go get it. If I have an appointment, I can keep it without having to disrupt my entire family's day. It's nice to feel like a grownup again instead of like that hellish pseudo-preteen state I've been stuck in since I had to stop driving. It's reinvigorating.

Crutch-Free

I'm listening to the re-released Thriller album and getting ready to do some heavy-duty reading. Today is the day of MJ's memorial, which I totally missed seeing because I had PT this morning and spent the day in town. I guess I missed a landmark event for my generation, but I prefer to remember the music.

I am more than willing to have sacrificed my viewing time in any case because this morning my PT cleared me, albeit reluctantly, for walking without a crutch. For the very first time since mid-February, I don't have to have any form of support, no cane, no crutches, just me to walk around. It's intoxicating. I want to jump up and moonwalk around my living room, but that might be pushing it just a little bit right now.

My PT is picking up, too, exponentially. Today, the therapist put me on a rocker board as a new exercise, and I had to laugh a little privately. I think she and everyone else expected the big tall goofy girl to fall down with that, but it wasn't all that hard after doing tree pose on one foot for so long. I miss tree pose, too... Some of the other new exercises kicked my butt, though, and my knee is telling me about it now. I have new things to do at home, and I will keep working through.

Most importantly for me, though, is that I was also cleared to drive. I didn't jump off the table and turn cartwheels, but mentally, I was howling with unholy glee. Freedom, ladies and gentlemen. Sunday night trips to Newton for an unhealthy but delicious treat after playing the organ. Road trips to Jackson to see my best friend. For that matter, grocery runs to Meridian just to walk up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart and stare at plastic bottles of Diet Mountain Dew. Anything, anything, anything but being trapped here on the hill like a burden on others. Bring it. I've been more than ready for awhile now. I'm going to hook up my little iPod shuffle, crank my stereo and fly down the road like a bird rediscovering healed wings....

Well, MJ and I are going to have a night of reading as I await tomorrow to start all my new range of motion. I find myself much more patient now that I know I can do things. Just knowing the cage door is open is keeping me from throwing myself against the bars so much, I guess.

Things Not to Do

Restless, restless.... Midsummer is come and gone. The moon is almost full. I'm trapped again in this house waiting on clearance to be able to drive, and the joke of that, of course, is that even when it comes, there's nowhere to drive to anyway....

Schemes and ideas that certainly fall into the category of "Things I Shouldn't Do" flicker across my bored brain like flashes of heat lightning. I think about writing a letter to somebody I haven't written to in years, breaking that wall of conscious silence. I have an address; I just haven't felt compelled to use it. There hasn't been anything to say. Is there now, or is it just the humidity, the boredom, the almighty press of the living summer stirring the bottom of that settled pool up and muddying the waters? Leave it alone, leave it alone....

But what if I don't want to? What if I wanted to write that letter? What if I wanted to do one of the other things on that list of reckless things, too? Would the world grind to a halt, really? The simple truth of it is that not one other person in the entire universe would care, I might get an interesting story out of it, and at least I would feel like I had done something other than walk to the door looking north and stare, walk to the door looking south and stare, walk to the door looking east and stare.....

Restless, restless.... The moon will be up and full in a couple of hours. My satellite is out; the constant error message says it's looking for a signal. I am tired of reading. I guess I'll have to figure out something to distract myself with, or I really will wind up doing something unwise after all.

Longing

Spending last week in Washington has reawakened those longings I try so hard to keep dormant or dead. I really did like what I saw there, and I didn't expect to. The city felt livable, navigable, and the sheer luxury of being able to get on the Metro and arrive at the ridiculous wealth of one of the many free museums almost made me lightheaded. It was like a feast of fairy-tale proportions, and I've been starving for a long time now.

Just the architecture alone made it worth it. I could have taken my Nikon and spent days walking and shooting the details on common buildings without ever approaching anything like a national monument or historically-significant building. There was such a great blend of styles and a preservation of buildings that pleased me.

From the time I got off the plane, there was the wonderful sound of other languages everywhere. This, of course, is no surprise in the nation's capital, but it was wonderful to me to see other languages written, to hear them spoken, and to see restaurants and services catering to other cultures. I wanted to take time to quietly explore all of them and revel in it.

History, too, was an ever-present friend. It was impossible to turn the eyes or take a step without it tapping me on the shoulder or whispering in my ear. Things and places I'd heard about all my life suddenly were laid out before me like jewels on display. Again, there was far too much there to take in during a casual excursion such as mine. It needed a much deeper exploration.

And what shocked me, ultimately, as I got on the plane to leave, was how much I wanted that deeper exploration. I wanted very much not to be leaving Washington at all. I know that living in a place is never the same as vacationing in one, and I certainly heard enough "natives" complain about it while I was there, but I can't help but thinking that at least for a little while, I would have enough to dazzle me that no matter how bad it was, the positives would outweigh the rest.

A Song for the Fourth

I heard this song today in a mix of songs put together by NPR. It came from a Ken Burns documentary soundtrack, the one for The War. It is melodic and lovely, but the lyrics are what set it apart from the other songs I listened to today in the five-hour playlist. It is a powerfully thought-provoking song about what it means (or perhaps, should mean) to be an American.

It reminds me a little of Kennedy's famous "Ask Not" speech in its focus on giving back and giving of one's best to the nation. It's beautiful in the elevation of its sentiment. We live in times in desperate need of grand sentiment and of the fulfillment of and dedication to those noble ideals. What if we did all give our best to our nation, to our fellow man, to each other? Can you imagine what changes could happen here if we lived this way? It's something to consider as we celebrate the birth of our nation and its future.

Reading Of The Declaration Of Independence : NPR

How long has it been since you've really listened to or read the words of the Declaration of Independence? For me, I have to say that I haven't read it or paid much attention to it since whatever my last history or government class was ended. That's a shame. NPR has an annual tradition of reading it as the Fourth approaches, and I think this is a beautiful thing because it brings our attention back to those reasons why we became a nation, the very serious and dangerous issues the founders of our nation were willing to lay their lives on the line to fight against for us. If you haven't heard or read it lately, I encourage you to click the link below and take a moment on this holiday weekend to refresh your appreciation of our nation. Reading Of The Declaration Of Independence : NPR

National History

Today I saw the National Archives amongst other landmarks here in DC. I didn't expect to be all that impressed to tell you the truth, but I should have. After all, paper and the things that people are moved to put on them, the words that are the living avatars of ideas and emotions, are the foundation of what I am and do.

I wound up there almost accidentally. I got separated from the group I was traveling with early this morning. A communication error led me to believe that I had missed them in the hotel lobby, so I threw my crap in a sack, tucked my ubiquitous crutch under my arm, and hobbled to the Metro station, one of which is mercifully only steps from the hotel in which I'm staying.

The DC Metro is an absolute dream. After navigating the subways in Japan (in Japanese, I might add), these are so simple and easy! The Japanese subways were always convenient, too, but there was always the worry that I was going the wrong way because of my stupidity with the language. It happened on more than one occasion. These trains here, though, have provided me with a freedom I haven't had since before my knee surgery. It's pure heaven to be able to go and come as I please without having to wait for someone to drive me.

Once I got to the National Mall, I decided to go to the Archives instead of trying to meet my friends at the Washington Monument since a) I'd have to hike 100 miles to get there and b) there was already a mile-long line snaking its way around the base. It turned out my friends had the same idea, so we toured through the Archives together, seeing the foundational documents of our nation, bits and pieces of trivia and personal data from people who were never famous but who were important nonetheless, and a great many other interesting things.

The room everyone goes to the Archives for, though, is the room with the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. It's as solemn, dimly lit, cold, quiet, and ornate as any ancient temple. Maybe that's appropriate in its way. The items in their cases are large parchment squares, and most of them are so faded by time and wear that they are mostly illegible save for the flourishes of Hancock's showy J or the beautiful calligraphy of "We the People" atop a page. One can only trace some of the letters, and in places, imagination is called to replace what the naked eye cannot scan at all.

This in no way diminishes one fragment of their power. If anything, it only makes them stronger. Despite the ravages of time, ill care, and the elements, they have survived. They have endured. Now, with the best sciences possible, they are protected as well as or perhaps even better than the Crown Jewels. I think there's a very heavy-handed allegory here, or at least I'd like to think that we're bent on conserving more than just the paper form of those documents. I'd like to think that just as much care and concern was shown by every branch of our government, by every citizen in this land, that just as much pride and respect was given to the nation as to the paper symbol. Otherwise, I think our founding fathers would agree that their purpose has failed.

Eras Ending

Today both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died. With them goes a big piece of the 70s and the 80s pop culture. My friends on FB are buzzing about Michael Jackson. We all grew up with his many incarnations, and we're exchanging notes about the first time we saw Thriller or the sparkly glove. His personal life came to overshadow his music, and I think that's a real shame, because that early stuff was really good and continues to be so. I hope that in these days when he will be a media circus for the last time the networks will be respectful. I know that is to much to ask for, but it would be nice to allow some dignity to the dead in honor of that shared spark of humanity we all share regardless of what skeletons might be locked in the closet.

Not Enough

If you're going through hell, keep going. ~Winston Churchill

Since Saturday, things have just been insane. Dad has been in CCU since the heart attack, and we've been shuttling back and forth to visit him there, going to my PT, and trying to take care of the minutia of daily life. Mom and I are both at the breaking point with it all. It's too much.

This is a season of trial, I suppose, but I don't feel like I can do enough to help out with it. I am trying to do what I can, but as I watch the toll it's taking on my mother, it seems woefully inadequate. I can only make calls, act as a communication center, deal with computer-related issues, and try to control my own reactions.

Tomorrow will be another surgery, another stressor, and there are a whole handful of things that need to be scheduled and taken care of by way of repairs, visits, and maintenance. If there were only three of me, and if at least one of them had healthy movement, maybe we could get some of these things taken care of.

Breaking Point

I try to take one day at a time, but sometimes several days attack me at once. ~Jennifer Yane

I'm humming like a high-tension power line, like a rubber band that is being pulled tighter and tighter. When the world starts falling in, it just keeps collapsing it seems.

The past two days have been difficult on so many levels and for so many reasons. The big obvious ones don't need explanation. Watching someone you love go through something like a heart attack is sufficient unto itself. The trivial crises of daily life, too, don't need explanation, the lost items, the broken appliances, the frustrations of injury or inability. All these things are pebbles in the pan of the scale, but not the things that cause it to tip.

Instead, the things that make that balance swing are feather-light, but unbearable all the same. It's watching perfect strangers being told that I'm unable to handle basic situations like I'm some sort of mental and emotional incompetent. It's having to pretend that I'm an absolutely solid rock of Gibraltar or have to be relegated to a corner like a crippled child for daring to show a shred of emotion. It's never being allowed to talk about any experience I've ever had without being told that I don't really know what that experience is because someone else has lived through that experience or something like it before and is therefore the undisputed expert nonpareil. These are the tiny moth-wing brushes that are destroying me.

So I swallow down my every response, something I swore long ago that I would never do again, and I go on. What else is there to do, really? I comfort myself with the knowledge that misconceptions of me don't have to become the realities of who I am. But all the time, I can hear the discordant sound of the strands of my soul tightening, tightening....

Heart Attack

My mother came in while I was participating in my favorite Saturday sport, couching, and said, "Don't go to pieces on me. Get up, get some shoes on, and come with me right now." No conversation that starts out that way can possibly preface anything good. Today was no exception. Today I saw one of the scariest things I've ever experienced in my whole life. I watched my father have a heart attack.

Dad was out in the van. I limped around the house in a moment of complete brain failure after Mom told me that he was having chest pains, but I managed to find my purse, my crutch, and my flip flops, put Roux in her crate, and get to the vehicle, flailing madly all the way. Dad was in such terrible pain. Mom drove like mad to get to the hospital, faster than I have ever seen, but I don't know that I have ever felt that short trip to town to be longer. We ran red lights, stop signs, and wove in and out of traffic like we were in a high-speed chase, and finally we wound up at the ER.

The next hours passed as if we were encased in amber. Time disappeared, but some of the strangest details are stuck with me. I can remember the bizarrely cheerful pattern on the curtain in the cardiac unit of the ER. I can remember the red rhinestone pin the cardiologist wore on her white coat when she came in, and I remember the black leather jacket and motorcycle helmet the CCU nurse had on over his scrubs as the team began to trickle in from wherever they were before they were called in to attend to Dad's emergency. Everything in the ER, of course, was blue. That observation struck me again. Blue gloves, blue gown for Dad, blue scrubs on every nurse and tech except the doctor herself, the CCU folk, and the phlebotomist.

Once they took Dad up for a heart cath, one of my very best friends and her husband along with my pastor came to sit with us. I don't know what I would have done without them there to distract me. In that timeless little waiting room stuck off in a silent back hall, I think Mom and I would have gone crazy without something to do other than stare at the walls and think.

Hours passed, and when the word came that they had restored blood flow to Dad's heart and stopped his pain, relief came for us, too. We got to see him in CCU during visiting hours, and that awful grey pallor had gone. He seemed to be much more comfortable.

We'll go back to see him tomorrow morning for the first visitation. I'm about as tired as I've ever been, but I am so grateful that he's still with us. It's such a blessing.

Learning to Walk

Wash out your ego every once in a while, as cleanliness is next to godliness not just in body but in humility as well. ~Abbe Yeux-verdi

Twice in my life, I've had to learn to walk again. The first time was in 2001 after a serious surgery. That was mostly a matter of abdominal stitches and feeling as though I was going to split in half everytime I stood up or took a step. This time has been a little bit different.

Since having my ACL replaced a month ago, I have literally been relearning how to place my foot and move my leg, consciously having to think about something most people take for granted in the same way as moving air in and out of their lungs. It's been a philosophical journey as well as a physical one.

Each day I go to PT, my therapist has me take a couple of laps around the gym, simply focusing on the mechanics of walking. The good foot takes its step; then my injured leg must strongly snap forward both from the hip and from the knee. The knee itself must go straight, something that has been a long time coming, and when the foot lands, it must roll from the heel to the ball of the foot before the good foot can take its stride. The toes need to be pointed forward, turned neither too far in nor too far out. All these myriad adjustments are things that I never thought of at all prior to the 19th of May, but are now a part of my every step.

It's amazing to me how complex our smallest motions and everyday processes are. It's humbling how hard it is to reteach myself those most basic of things. As I make my trips around the gym concentrating on straightening the knee and planting my heels firmly, I almost feel like it's a meditation like yoga. It's good sometimes to bring intense focus to simple things.

Lost iPod

Music produces a kind of pleasure which human nature cannot do without. ~Confucius

So once I started moving around again and trying to gather things together for short trips around town, I began looking for my iPod. I think I was going to put the Wood Bros. album on it, in fact, when I realized that it wasn't in my purse. I went to my bigger purse and dug in it. No small black case. Unfazed, I turned to the large green L.L. Bean messenger bag that had been my lifeline during the last few weeks of school and started looking through the vast wreckage of paperwork and other debris from my last day moving out of my classroom. Nada. Zip. Zero. The first trickles of alarm started to make themselves felt. I tottered around my house, and with the help of my mother, proceeded to to generally destroy my kitchen, go through every box I brought home, contort into impossible positions to explore the vehicles, look under and behind all the major pieces of furniture, and peer into all the containers or bags that might have possibly held my iPod. It was a completely fruitless search.

I don't know where it is. My parents speculate that we somehow managed to pack and tape it up in one of the 22 boxes currently in storage at school. I am praying that this is the case. That iPod, as silly as this will sound, is special to me.

It's not the thing itself so much as what it represents to me. Dad gave me the money to buy it. I had been wanting one for a long time, but coming up with big chunks of money to blow on electronic gadgets, as much as I do love them, is not something I can do very often. Dad had gotten an annual bonus at work, and he gave me part of it with very specific instructions to spend it on something I wanted, not on a bill, household repairs, or anything like that. I sat and thought about it, probably far longer than the situation warranted, and I decided that an iPod was the thing I most wanted.

I went to the online Apple Store, and I ordered the Product Red edition Nano. I even had it engraved on the back. I loved it from the moment I took it out of the box. It wasn't just the sleekness of the design and the fact that, at last, I had such a huge chunk of my music with me. I could feel that same happy surprise and that same loved feeling I felt when Dad gave me the money for it each time I used it.

Hopefully, when the boxes are all opened and my room is restored to whatever configuration the 2009-2010 school year will have, I'll find that small black case amongst all the binder clips and hanging file folders. It will be a wonderful small miracle with which to start the year. In the meanwhile, I went to amazon and found a 2nd generation refurbished Shuffle for about $20 so I'll have something to take on a trip later this month and to use throughout the months to come. It won't begin to take the place of my beloved Nano, but maybe it can be a substitute for the time being.

Incentive to Learn Another Language

Learn a new language and get a new soul. ~Czech Proverb

Into Which Camp Do I Fall?

"Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools, because they have to say something." -- Plato

Well, the answer to that is all too clear....

Things I Wish I'd Said

My best friend recently did something which still leaves me in awe at her bravery. She, after being put back in touch with a high school romance, asked a question that had bothered her for a long time. She said a thing she needed to say, and while she hadn't been brooding over it for years or anything Lifetime-esque like that, she had the satisfaction of saying that thing. How brave she is!

I never do that. Put me in any situation requiring any sort of expression of emotion, and I will always put on my smoothest mask, a slightly distant smile, and retreat inward. Blame it on my Aquarian nature, blame it on growing up an only child, blame it on whatever you like, but I've never had the satisfaction of saying the things I wanted to say. Only in retrospection do the right things or the true things come to me sometimes. Other times, I know what I want to say, but my reserve keeps the words trapped inside, beating against the walls of my heart like a panicked bird longing for freedom.

This, then, is a little exercise in fantasy. What would I have said, should I have said, or did I indeed long to say in some of life's small and large moments? Some of these are big deals and some of these are trivialities. These apply to different situations which I may or may not elaborate on.

1) Goodbye. -- to A. leaving Japan since I didn't know I was never going to see her again.

2) What is it, exactly, that you want from me and that you see in me? Why am I not enough for you, but you always seem to wind up on my doorstep when it all falls down? Was there ever anything at all? -- to the one I spent most of my undergrad confused over.

3) Go straight to hell. Don't think you didn't hurt me, but don't think for a minute that I won't rise from these ashes and be stronger for it. You won't win. -- to T. after Indiana.

4) Is there any more room on that trip? I'm changing my flight date by a couple of days, and I'd like to see that World Heritage Site. -- to D. and crew as they headed to Cambodia

5) Tell me more about our family. -- to my Nana before she was gone.

6) God, you're adorable. -- to I. in Ireland.

7) If you can't be a positive, hands-on part of the solution, then please shut up and get out. -- too many times and places to specify.

8) How am I today? Well, actually, I hurt like the hounds of hell are clawing their way out slowly while little men with sledgehammers are smashing my skull into fragments from the inside. I want to curl into the fetal position in a dark, cool, quiet place and whimper, gibber, or scream until merciful Death takes me. That's how I am. How about you? -- again, too many times and places to specify.

9) You know what? I will put in my application for that job. -- to M. in Korea.

10) Yes, yes...you're frightfully clever. Good for you. Yes, I AM from the South. Aren't you a clever linguist to have figured that out and to have "tricked" me into having run through that sentence so I'd pronounce all my diphthong vowels for you. Yankee Schmuck. -- to unknown linguist in Japan.

11) Sure, I'll dance with you. And give me a pina colada, too. -- to G. in Costa Rica.

I think eleven is a good stopping place. There are some trends that are beginning to emerge, I think. Interesting. Well, that's one thing a blog is for, after all, personal reflection.

Bad Dreams

I have been having bad dreams lately. I don't know what's triggered them, but I hope they dissolve soon. They're the kind that hover around even after waking, leaving a trace on the day like the smell of burnt toast.

It may be because I've felt so bad physically the past two days with headaches, etc. That should be done, now, though, and tomorrow should get me back into whatever passes for "healthy" for me. Some of that residue of discomfort may be bleeding into my nighttime world.

Normally the Topamax keeps me from remembering anything whatsoever about my dreams. Before I started taking it, I always had vivid and bizarre dreams fit for sci-fi movie scripts, sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always detailed and rich. This is just another thing along with precision in language that Topamax strips away.

Right now, I don't know whether this dream muting is a blessing or a curse. The pieces I recall include the usual gamut of daily life fragments being filed -- people I know, events and objects of the day -- but also things, people, and places I know nothing of bathed in that golden slant of light that's only seen in dreams. That unknown guy with the intense blue eyes and the long-fingered hands is back lurking in the corners again, not really menacing, but a confusing stock character who shows up like someone I'm supposed to recognize. Sometimes I almost think I do. I am probably a Freudian delight if somebody with some expertise in dream interpretation cared to sit down and analyze this crap.

Of course, all of this unrest (literally) is most probably because I have no schedule and because I feel so useless right now in my activities. I hope soon I'll be able to get out of the house and do more on my own. This constant dependency on others is taking its toll. Not all the happy readings, comedies, or songs in the world can make up for the feeling of independence.

Depressing News

I never read the news or watch it on TV. Maybe that seems like the "ostrich with its head in the sand" approach to life, but every time I do read a newspaper, go online and scan the events of the day, or God forbid, get trapped in a place with either FoxNews or CNN blasting their conflicting breeds of propaganda, I always feel so bad when I'm done that it's an amazing incentive to prolong the time between exposures.

Take today for example. I do have the CNN breaking news email feature activated so if the world ends, I will at least get a message on my BlackBerry, so when the shootings at the Holocaust Museum occurred, I found out about it. That event hit one of the NYT columnists I follow on Twitter about that time, and I followed a link to learn more. What I found there made me want to cry, as such things always do: hate, paranoia, racism bearing their deadly fruit in a place that should stand as a warning of what those worst of human traits can do to humanity.

Another comment later on from someone else directed me to a local paper, and there of course, the news continued to deteriorate. Jackson, our vaunted state capital, is now 4th in the nation as far as the murder rate goes; it's second only to Flint, MI for armed robbery. How does that even happen? If you're not from here, you may never have been to Jackson. When I think about how much smaller it is than cities it's beaten for this most dubious of crowns, it completely boggles the mind....

I'm going back on a news blackout, I think. I can't stand it. It's too depressing. There is never any good mixed in with the bad, and I don't want to have to feel more anxiety about this world that I live in than I already do. Ostriches, prepare your heads....

The Blog Does Its Phoenix Routine

I completely overhauled the old blog today. Part of that was driven by the fact that I feel terrible today in the wake of last night's migraine, so I'm mostly just lying here on the couch today with the netbook in my lap. In an effort to accomplish something like usefulness today, I decided I would take care of that other blog template.

The other thing that led me to this was the absolute non-functionality of that other template. While I loved the colors and the design at the top, the notebook design itself had always bothered me, as had the little tabs down the side that read "Undefined." Too much of my life is actually undefined without every blog entry being labeled as such. It also made all the photos that I import from various sources MUCH too large. Regular Blogger templates are supposed to help put a size limit on them without the author having to download, resize, upload, etc. Then there was the fact that there was no blogger bar at the top for navigation/ease of creation of new entries. That aspect of the old template drove me crazy from the moment I installed it. I've just been too lazy and/or occupied to try to fix it or replace it until today.

This template is a return to something much simpler, I suppose, but with blogs, simple is better. Most of the templates I looked at were so over-designed that one couldn't even read the posts. I want a little pizazz down the sides, but I still want the words to be clear. I think this one might be a good blend of those two things...at least until I get bored again and redecorate.

Anyway, all the traditional accoutrement of bloggage is back, at least as far as I know, anyway. I added a couple of new widgets for you to toy with if you have the time. The Magic 8 Ball is a perennial favorite of mine in all its many forms, so I hope you'll forgive its presence here. Smile indulgently. You might as well....

Geek Flags Flying

I've been tweeting tonight with some of my twitter friends about the joys of "geekery." The prompt for this was the fact that on a Monday night, I was trying to decide between watching Sci-Fi's Star Trek: TNG marathon or the new box set of vintage Dr. Who I just got from amazon. It struck me as funny that all my viewing choices (or the only ones I was interested in, anyway) were those that would settle that Geek Queen crown more firmly on my head.

You know what? The heck with it. I'm a geek. I claim it. I even have little black stud earrings with the word "geek" on them in tiny green letters. I like computers, Twitter, Star Wars and Dr. Who. I know who Elric, Harry Dresden, and Gandalf are. Somewhere, in the back of my house, are a bag of polyhedron dice, a box holding my painted Warhammer 40K army, and several books related to various and sundry RPGs I played "back in the day." I have electronics named after deities from the Norse and Egyptian pantheon, epithets I gave because the gods and the tools matched up. I use words like "epithet" in blogs. I could go on, but I think this is probably enough evidence to convict in a court of law....

The thing about geekery is that it's a whole lot of fun, but it makes you mostly unmarriable. I love the things I'm interested in, the things I read, the friends I have. I enjoy "flying that geek flag." I just know that being this way has ensured that I'm going to live the rest of my days single. It's a real pain.

I have this fantasy guy in mind. He's intelligent, he's tall, he's funny, and most of all, he's as big a geek as me. We go do geek stuff together. He's even willing to load up and go to things like the Elvis Festival for the sheer geeky goodness that can be had. We go to the movies, enjoy the good ones, and MST3K the bad ones together (he knows what that is because he's a geek like me). He has odd collections, and he doesn't mind the fact that I have PEZ all over the walls of my office. He does, in fact, find this charming and not odd. Above all, he's not threatened by the fact that I'm independent and capable since he is, too. In my most secret fantasies, his computer gear is better than mine, and he's willing to share. Mmm.....

Okay, so I'm hamming it up just a bit. It just seems sometimes that the things I like are so different for some reason than the interests of most of the people I know. Maybe they're all secret geeks, too. Wouldn't that be funny? Of course, I guess they might be something worse.... I'm just going to keep on with what works for me, even if that means it's just me. As my friend C always used to say, "I gotta be me." That's all I know how to do.

Wood Brothers

During those last hectic days of school, one of my students was in my classroom working on something, and he happened to recommend a CD to me, Ways Not to Lose by the Wood Brothers. Those last few days, we were all furiously working away on laptops, he on his, another student on hers, I on one loaned to me by Technology since mine had died an inconvenient death, and he played me a brief sample of their music. I liked what I heard well enough to write down the title on one of my ever-present Post-Its and stick it to the back of my Seagate case.

The other day when I was moving files from my resurrected school laptop to my Seagate, I found the Post-It, and I looked up the album on Grooveshark. It's great. I love the stripped down Southern sound of it, but what I like even more is the craft of the lyrics. If you've ever read any of my other blogs about music, you know I'm a sucker for a good songwriter, and whoever is writing these knows what he's about. The songs are original and intelligent without being pretentious.

I downloaded the mP3 album from amazon last night, and I already have favorites. I love "Luckiest Man" and "Chocolate on My Tongue," and of course any band than can pull off a respectable version of one of my favorite old hymns, "Angel Band," is going to get my respect. Another that I love the lyrics to is "The Truth Is the Light." The words and imagery in that song resonate with me.

I foresee this one going into heavy rotation with me. I'm glad I followed up on that recommendation. I'm going to link four songs here with Grooveshark. If you haven't heard it yet, you might want to check it out for yourself.

The Moon

I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day. ~Vincent Van Gogh

As usual during the nights of the waxing moon, I haven't been able to sleep very much. The last two nights, though, the moon has been amazing in its beauty. Its color and size have made it look like a luscious piece of fruit laid on a bed of blue velvet as it has risen.

Nights like this make me want to go walking in the pasture and in the woods, trailing my fingers through the long grasses and across the leaves. There are deer in the pasture, and on nights silvered like this, the angle of the light makes me feel as though I could run with them, fleet-footed and graceful.

I wish I were at the Red Field, at our shack in the pasture, tonight, so I could see the sky unobstructed. I think there is no better place to observe than the porch there. It's so peaceful and lovely.

No matter how far we come into this technological age, we cannot escape the old magic of the moon. Maybe something in our blood surges in response to it just as the tides are pulled by it. We're fascinated by it. It shows up in our songs, in our poems, even in advertising and decoration.

Maybe it's just the change in perspective it lends to everyday scenery. Even things that are not at their best (and I guess even we ourselves can fall into that category) are somehow made lovely again. What a wonderful gift to receive every month.

Kicking, Just Not Very High

Today was my first active session of PT, and it really kicked my tail. Most of the activities were fairly easy to do, more about stretching and repetitions than about any real weight-bearing or force, but at the end of the session, the therapist, who reminds me a bit of a pixie for some odd reason, peeled the backing off three adhesive electrodes, and hooked them to the long muscle on the top of my thigh leading down to my knee. That's when all the real fun began.

The electrodes were hooked to a battery pack which released a charge every ten seconds. The charge fired for ten seconds and rested for ten seconds. The therapist adjusted the intensity to something just under pain and told me how to perform a set of exercises using the electric shock as an extra stimulant to pull the leg muscle and therefore the knee tight.

Unlike some of my electrical engineering friends, I have never had a deep personal affection for electrocution. I never stuck a fork in a wall socket (D -- you know you did it, if you're reading), I don't work with electronics and come home with arc burns in my hands (Dad), and I've never felt the need to tinker around inside my home computer or electronics to see what "that wire there does" (that one applies to so many of my friends that I will just let it hit whomever is appropriate). The feeling of electricity coursing through that big muscle in my leg was a brand-new thing for me.

The pixie therapist asked me several times if I was in pain, and I wasn't exactly. Pain wasn't the right word. I don't really have a word for what it was. It didn't hurt, but it wasn't like something you'd want to have going on all the time, either. Maybe it was like a million little things dancing a jig with a million little pointed metal feet inside my skin. My main answer when asked how I was feeling was, "Strange. Bizarre." I think this must not have been the standard answer she was used to receiving for this treatment because she looked at me a little oddly. I'm almost immune to that, though. After all, it's not like that's the first time I've gotten an odd look.

When the session was over, she took measurements again for how far the knee can bend and straighten, and I was thrilled to hear her say that it has come remarkably far since even Monday. I reduced the numbers that needed reducing and increased the ones that needed increasing, and although I'm still not able to do simple things like drive or be crutch-free, I have taken some important steps toward getting there. I left feeling buoyant. I may not be kicking very high, but at least I'm kicking.

Baby Steps

I went to PT for the first time Monday. The therapist did an assessment, took basic measurements, and checked to see how much progress I had made since surgery. The news was mostly good. I still have a lot of work to do, but I felt quietly optimistic when I left. She confirmed several things I had thought might be true about pushing myself further with exercises, weight-bearing, and so forth, and at no point did I want to cry or fall down, so I felt like it was another small victory. Any visit to the hospital where I don't want to do one of those two things is a small victory....

Today, I got my hair cut. It needed doing badly. I hate the cowlick in my bangs that starts to curl like horns whenever it gets the slightest bit too long, and I was already way past that point. After the haircut, Mom, my constant chauffeur, and I went to eat at an Italian restaurant for lunch. It was the first sit-down restaurant meal I've had in a very long time, and one of the first non-microwave meals in a while. It was a delightful eggplant florentine calzone, and along with the tiramisu for dessert (I was NOT missing that), it was a feast.

After lunch, I still felt mostly energetic and Mom needed birdseed, so we decided to go to Big Lots. I haven't been to any kind of store in months. The last time I went was just dreadful. I tried to do some Wal-Mart shopping myself, and the pain in my pre-surgery leg was excruciating. Today, I crutched around the store for about 30 minutes before I started hurting and wore myself completely out.

I only bought one or two small things, a laptop riser and some Pirouline, but just being able to get out and be mildly independent was very nice. Granted, I can't drive myself yet, and I had to ask Mom to bring the cart to the things I wanted, but at least I wasn't sitting in my big chair or lying on the couch. Motion felt liberating, even if the feeling was something of a self-deception. Sometimes the lies we tell ourselves are the most important ones....

Well, I still have to do my last set of exercises for today and crank on the knee one good last time tonight. I also want to read some more of this really good biography of the six wives of Henry VIII I'm working on right now, so I'll draw this to a close. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I'm going to trust that it will be more progress, and not a very, very ANGRY knee.

Summer

Today is the second day of my summer vacation. It's just now starting to register that I don't have to go to school tomorrow, and that giddiness of unexpected freedom is just now starting to flow through my veins.

Tomorrow I have to go to physical therapy for the first time, and I know that's not going to be fun. I am, however, looking forward to starting on the serious road to recovery with my knee. I'm already able to walk/hobble for short distances, and although it's a small thing, I'm proud of it.

I wanted to travel this summer here in Mississippi, to go to Clarksdale and to Natchez and do some simple tourism, but I don't know if I'm going to be able to get back on my feet fast enough. What I will be doing is spending time up at our shack in the woods on the porch with my Kindle reading. Just the thought of being able to do that without a pile of papers waiting on me is a luxury like sliding into a hot bubble bath. I can't wait.

Huginn Arrives

"Every morning the two ravens Huginn and Muninn, are loosed and fly over Midgard; I always fear that Thought may not wing his way home, but my fear for Memory is greater."
-- Odin, From Grímnismál

Earlier this year, I was named STAR teacher by one of my wonderful students, and I was surprised to learn that there was a check that came with that. I pondered for quite some time as to what I should use that money for. I wanted it to be something lasting and something that I could use in relation to school as befitted an award given for teaching. Since my school laptop weighs a ton and has started dying at intervals, I decided to explore netbooks. The result currently perches on my lap, sleek, black, light, and lovely.

In keeping with my tendency to name things either literarily or mythologically, I chose to name it Huginn. Paired with my 500 G Seagate Freeagent Muninn, I now have both Thought and Memory working together, and what a pair they are. The netbook is an MSI Wind, and it's wonderfully fast. I am still in the process of updating everything and getting all my programs loaded on, but so far, I love it. I can't believe how nice it is not to have all that weight sitting on my lap! This is what computing should be, light, portable, and simple. If I need a workhorse, I have a desktop in the back for big stuff.

The keyboard is taking a little getting-used-to, but to be honest, it's not all that much smaller than usual. I had a wireless mouse, and I attached it. It's much better than the touchpad for most things. I ordered a skin from skinit, so when it gets here Huginn will look good, too.

I'm looking forward to a pleasant summer of recovery and convenient computing. It will be a nice change.

Seven Days After

It's the one-week anniversary of the day they re-threaded my knee. Is there a Hallmark card for that? No? Slackers. I can't believe they haven't hit that one yet....

The knee itself is UG-LY. Sometimes it swells, but even when it doesn't, it's kind of a science-fiction-ish thing. The sutures are small, so this set of six scars will not be too bad. My knee is mostly still shaped like a knee, also pretty good. Right now, the worst part of any of it is the bruising. It looks like they hit me with a hammer all the way down my shin. Maybe they did. What do I know about it? The very cute anesthesiologist (a Dr. Luke) and/or his nurse anesthetist gave me some Very Good Drugs indeed, and I was gone long before I knew more than that the tile in this operating room, too, was blue. (Is it blue in all of them?)

I tried to go to school yesterday to take care of finalizing senior grades and closing out other things, but that was a mistake of epic proportions. I was okay for about the first hour, and then I started to have pain and disorientation. I made it through until about 1:30, and then I had to leave.

There were a few good moments, though. I got to see several of my seniors. I already miss that class. They were, for the most part, very sweet. Two of our very best brought me an arrangement of yellow roses. The roses are lovely, and once Mom and I found a spot here in the house where the cats won't snack on them, they brighten up my exercises.

I will try to express my gratitude to everyone for all that they've done in some nice thank you cards here soon because I know I haven't been able to express it verbally in my typical fashion. So many people have done so much, been so kind. I am humbled. There are some that I'm simply never going to be able to repay, like my mom and my friends at school who are picking up all the loose ends and keeping them from unraveling. Those debts go too deep.

I will have to sleep again soon. That's mostly what I do now. I am trying very hard not to get frustrated, but as you know if you read much here, I am not a patient person. My Wonder Woman complex tells me that I should be leaping tall buildings, blah, blah, blah, and my poor human body just laughs and laughs, demands a Vicodin and dozes off. I am trying to look at this philosophically as a patience-building exercise, but really, there is only so much sophistry my mind will let me get away with.

This, too, shall pass, I know. In the meantime, I think a nap on a rainy afternoon sounds about the right speed. I think there's a cryocuff full of ice waiting, too. This, right now, is my definition of bliss.

Dead and Gone (Sookie 9)

Here there be spoilers....

Friday, I ordered the ninth book in the Sookie Stackhouse series on my Kindle, and I finished it about midnight that night. I've been turning it over in my mind for the past two days, and I think now I'm ready to write about it a bit.

I have a mixed reaction to this book. The fact that Sookie is back with Eric in any way, form, or fashion makes me happy. I love the big blond vampire. I think he and Sookie fit each other very nicely. There is more tenderness between them in this book than in any of the previous ones, in fact more just simple contact time, and that was very satisfying. I was getting very tired of everything between them always having to be put off until later. I liked that they talked, that they spent time together not fighting, not being jerked around by higher powers, and that they actually shared some things other than blood or sex with each other.

I like that Eric is being more direct with his feelings. He's still sneaky, though. The bit with the bonding knife was classically him. I wish Harris would write a short story sometime from his POV. It would be nice to know what's going on inside that clever and calculating mind.

I did NOT like what happened at the end. It felt like something I've seen other authors do whenever they suddenly realize they have too many characters on their plates, a "housecleaning" of sorts. Claudine, in particular, bothered me. Maybe more than any other character in the whole thing.

I also have to say that I hate the fact that there is any ambiguity about Bill remaining. I don't think I'm going to be able to keep reading this series if Sookie goes back to Bill, even temporarily. I know there are probably die-hard Bill fans out there who swooned and cheered at the end of this one, but to me, Sookie and Bill were never a good match. He doesn't have the fire to keep up with her.

Also, really, really, really, I don't want Sam to declare how much he loves Sookie. I mean, yeah, we all know that he does, but if he makes that declaration, it's going to stink to high heaven. I like Sam, but I don't think he belongs with Sookie, either.

Ultimately, I did like the book. I love the series as a whole, so I was bound to, I suppose. I hope that someday soon we'll see Sookie be able to be happy with one guy. I don't think the series would have to suffer if that were true. Harris has created such a rich world that there are other plot lines to explore other than the perpetual dance of guys around Sookie's front porch. In fact, I think it might be a lot more interesting if that weren't the only thing or the main thing going on.

Scorpions and Starlings

This past week was filled with lots of animal oddness. It started with Roux injuring herself in a bizarre way last Saturday. She was outside to play for awhile during the afternoon, and when she came back to the house, she had two pencil-sized pieces of cedar impaled through her paw crossways. I still don't know how she managed to get the first one in, much less continue on to get the second one sideways.

I called Dad, he came down and picked us up, and we took her to the vet for emergency surgery. I stayed with her while the vet rendered her unconscious and cut the wood from her poor paw. She has stitches between most of her toes, but she, in her typical pit bull manner, doesn't seem to notice it much. She stayed at the vet for the weekend, and now I'm cleaning the sutures each day with peroxide and shoving an antibiotic down her throat twice a day, but other than that, she's doing okay.

The next fun with nature moment came Tuesday. My TA was building boxes to help pack up my classroom for my big move at the end of the year, and she suddenly stepped away and said, "I think I just saw a scorpion." My TA is an extremely level-headed and reliable individual, and if she says she saw a scorpion, I believe her. I got up and limped around to the pile of flat boxes and began to lift them gingerly to see if I could locate the insect. Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, a brown scorpion about two inches long fell out of the flat box as I tilted it.

My TA, the student taking a makeup test, and I just kind of looked at it for a minute. Scorpions just aren't common here. However, I wasn't awed enough not to know what to do with a crawling nasty. My trusty Crocs flops smashed it flat. I do have to say though, that they're not very easy to kill. I had to step on it several times before it crushed. I am also glad it was a small one. Otherwise, I'm not sure a flip-flop would have been sufficient.

Since then, I've been surreptitiously looking around on the floor for "friends" of his/hers and praying that one was both male and alone. The thought of it having laid eggs in those boxes as little "surprises" for me to find when I open all those boxes in August is just shudder-inducing. I think I'll get some Raid before then. Surely Raid works on scorpions, too?

Anyway, Friday afternoon right before the last bell, I started hearing high-pitched shrieking in the stairwell outside my room. I stepped out to see what merriment prompted this, and I saw a poor little starling just crouched in a puddle of sunlight on the landing. The kids were backing away from it like it was rabid Bengal tiger. I knew with the bell about to ring, the next thing to happen would be that someone would harm it, either accidentally or on purpose, so I grabbed the first thing that came to hand, and empty file folder box, and eased my damaged knee down the stairs.

The little bird is one of the many that nests in the nooks and crannies of our old building. Occasionally, they come inside our building when one of the upstairs doors gets left open. They flutter around in a pitiful fashion, and of course, they are terribly distressed every time the classes change because of the noise and motion of several hundred active teenagers moving around.

As I approached it, it didn't move at all. I just placed half of the empty box over it. A student brought me a file folder and I slid it under the box, and then I slid a ring binder under that allowing me to lift the box with the bird safely contained in it. I got it up the stairs and took it out on the upstairs walkway. I opened the box. I was afraid that it was injured or shocked, but when I removed the lid, it flew away straight and true. My heart lifted with it as it soared away. It was a good ending to a bad animal week.

I hope next week will have less of a menagerie in it. I think I have had enough of bird and beast to last me for awhile. If not, well, I guess I will just have to continue to be creative with my solutions....

Moldova

Why aren't more people paying attention to what's going on in Moldova right now? Except for a random drop here and there, I hear nothing about the situation in our media. Perhaps the general public is unaware of what's going on, that people are being put in jail, being threatened, even being killed there. I think everyone needs to know this. I'm posting a link to a blog that is keeping track of news stories related to the ongoing situation in Moldova. I hope you'll check this situation out and spread the information about the shocking conditions there via Twitter and other social feeds since the major media doesn't seem to be noticing. True Moldova

Scars

My knee is going to require surgery; the depth of cutting is the only mystery left. The nurse practitioner, once I finally hacked my way through the Nurse Nazi front-desk personnel to get to her, was sort of astonished that I had not known how bad it was. Apparently I tore out one of the damaged ligaments a long time ago. "Old damage," she called it. "Are you really athletic? 'Cause we usually see this type of damage in people who are..."

It's amazing how much I had hoped that it was all in my head instead of lurking in my knee. Now I'm facing at least six more weeks of crutches, other people doing even the simplest tasks, ever-multiplying medical bills, and another stupid set of scars. It's impossible for me to tell right now which aspect of it is worst.

I can't begin to express how tired I am of people cutting on me. It seems that every epoch of my life has to be marked by a trip to a cold tile room where people made anonymous and sinister by sterile masks and gloves treat me with a certain condescending kindness, render me unconscious, and then hurt me for my own good. How tired I am of waking up with a drip in my arm in rooms with generic art that doesn't quite make "soothing" or "cheerful" despite a lackluster effort. Tired of presurgery paperwork, tired of mean and indifferent nurses, tired of postsurgery checkups, tired of bloodwork, backless gowns, the little barcode I become once I hit the surgery ward the day I check in at whatever ungodly hour I have to report for my "procedure."

Maybe the scars are the worst. Of all of it, the scars don't go away. I've seen the scars that accompany serious knee surgery, too. I just can't wait to add those to my freakshow collection. The set I have on my knee now is not noticeable at all unless you really look hard for them. They're the small old scars of a scope, and they get lost in the freckles that appear on my fair skin with the lightest touch of the sun. Who knows what I'll have to look forward to after this?

I'm trying to put all this in the proper perspective. After all, at least I will get it fixed. I can still walk. I have both limbs. I am alive and can see the tops of the cherry tree outside my classroom glistening in the sun. Life is not ungood. I am just struggling right now with the knowledge that in my future a scalpel is waiting for me like a thin finger of ice tracing its way down my spine.

Missing Yoga

I haven't been able to do yoga in about a month. It's ridiculous how much I miss it. My gear bag is in the back of my car still, and every time I open the back door of the Cruiser to throw my school bags and crutches in, I see the black canvas with its white moon and bamboo design and I yearn. I want to unroll the pretty striped Tappas mat and go into down dog to feel that incredible stretch rolling up the back of my legs. I want to go through the ritual of the sun salutations and raise my hands to the sky. I want to know the stillness of tree pose, find my balance, feel my breath calm and my mind relax.

I can't do any of it right now. I can't even walk for long enough to push a cart through the grocery store without wanting to grit my teeth. It's beyond frustrating. Just when I found something that I really loved and that I felt good doing, my knee came apart on me.

Wednesday's MRI should give me some answers. I only hope that the answers it brings will be ones that will allow me to get back to yoga someday. I have to believe that I will. Anything else is just unacceptable.

Poetry Contest 09

I won! The poem I submitted, "Teaching the Death of Ophelia," won first prize in our local competition. I am so proud. The poem was written about something personal, and I believed in its strength, so I am more gratified than I can say that others thought it was worthy, too. I really want to start trying to see if any of my work is publishable in larger forums, too, but maybe I can start that process this summer. Even though I don't have a lot of time and energy for writing right now, this is an inspiration to try to find the time.