Instead, it seems like the place where the surrounding churches might do their ritual sacrifices. Isn't that what churches do? Anja said it smelled like livestock. Obvs. lambs.
Photo by happy-dee-dooo.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
It Could Be a Nice Park
But it's not.
Instead, it seems like the place where the surrounding churches might do their ritual sacrifices. Isn't that what churches do? Anja said it smelled like livestock. Obvs. lambs.
Photo by happy-dee-dooo.
Instead, it seems like the place where the surrounding churches might do their ritual sacrifices. Isn't that what churches do? Anja said it smelled like livestock. Obvs. lambs.
Photo by happy-dee-dooo.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Titles of Books That Should Never Be Written
I am working on a list of titles of books that, if written, would be stinkers. So far I have:
The Abandoned Quonset Hut.
Quonset 2, north of Dickinson Bayou at Hwy 146, Texas 0404091454, by accent on eclectic
I imagine this as a thriller, perhaps in the vein of The Thing. Or it could be a cosy catastrophe, with military survivors or something. I definitely think it should take place above 60 degrees latitude, I don't know why, nor does it matter because it would suck.
The Suicidal Chipmunk
Don't jump pal!, by Cleber Mori
This could be a morality tale à la James Thurber's Fables for Our Times, but not like David Sedaris' more recent animal stories, which I don't like. Though, since this is a book that should never be written, maybe the Sedaris stories are the model. I don't see how this book could be anything but terrible.
Aerial Application
The title refers to the fancy way of saying "crop dusting," a mode of expression with which I became familiar in childhood from driving past a school for it in LaSalle, Colorado. But I think the book would be about a fraught romance between two trapeze artists. And it would be unspeakably foul.
The Abandoned Quonset Hut.
Quonset 2, north of Dickinson Bayou at Hwy 146, Texas 0404091454, by accent on eclectic
I imagine this as a thriller, perhaps in the vein of The Thing. Or it could be a cosy catastrophe, with military survivors or something. I definitely think it should take place above 60 degrees latitude, I don't know why, nor does it matter because it would suck.
The Suicidal Chipmunk
Don't jump pal!, by Cleber Mori
This could be a morality tale à la James Thurber's Fables for Our Times, but not like David Sedaris' more recent animal stories, which I don't like. Though, since this is a book that should never be written, maybe the Sedaris stories are the model. I don't see how this book could be anything but terrible.
Aerial Application
The title refers to the fancy way of saying "crop dusting," a mode of expression with which I became familiar in childhood from driving past a school for it in LaSalle, Colorado. But I think the book would be about a fraught romance between two trapeze artists. And it would be unspeakably foul.
Sunday, July 03, 2011
Travel
What is travel for?
Martha Gellhorn, in "What Bores Whom?", travels to Israel in 1971 when she is in her 60s. This woman traveled all over alone, and reported on wars and conflicts, starting with the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s. She was also, fairly briefly, married to Ernest Hemingway, which must have been a war and conflict in itself.
Gary Cooper, Martha Gellhorn, Sandra Shaw, and Ernest Hemingway
In Israel, she goes to a Red Sea resort town, and ends up surrounded by hash-smoking hippies hanging out in an abandoned water tank. She writes of them: "In their view, the were traveling to find themselves, rather as if oneself were a missing cufflink or earring that had rolled under the bed. They admired those among them who meditated in the lotus position for a fixed period of time each day. Like I mean he's really into meditation. The meditators were closer to finding themselves. I couldn't imagine any of them ten years hence, having never known such shapeless people."
Breathe. Photo by Beny Shlevich
I like her description, because I have always thought that travel is overrated in its ability to be life-changing. Some people are capable of extreme change, but most are not. Their selves are not "lost" so much as eternally absent, and no amount of travel will help them "find" anything. People who can change can generally change without going anywhere.
It reminds me of the constant misinterpretation of Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken." Almost everyone reads this poem as the narrator having done something brave and taken "the road less traveled by," but I would argue that Frost does not mean that at all. Here is the poem:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
and looked down one as far as I could
to where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
and having perhaps the better claim
because it was grassy and wanted wear;
though as for that, the passing there
had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
in leaves no feet had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference.
In describing the two roads, he first says that "the other" had a better claim "because it was grassy and wanted wear." From this description, we get the idea that the second path is less traveled. However, the narrator admits that this perception is not really true: "though as for that, the passing there/ had worn them really about the same." Then, "And both that morning equally lay/ in leaves no feet had trodden black" [emphasis mine]. The paths are identical, they lay "equally," and neither has been "trodden black." There is no difference in the two paths, so the narrator's choice is arbitrary, not brave.
The "turn" of the poem (like a turn in a sonnet) comes in the last stanza, where the narrator envisions a future time when he or she will be telling the story of choosing a path. In this imagined future narration, the narrator will "sigh" and then, in an act of self-aggrandizement, say "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --/ I took the one less traveled by,/ and that has made all the difference." The repetition of "I--I" emphasizes the future narrative egoism that the narrator envisions.
In the moment of choice between two equal paths, the narrator knows that, at some point in the future, he or she will want to tell the story of the choice in such a way so that the listener will be impressed. Saying, "Yeah, I chose one path for no real reason" is less exciting than saying "I took the one less traveled by" and then claiming that this choice has been the turning point for the formation of the narrator's life. The act of retrospective importance is not to be sneezed at, but I would argue that the vital point the poem makes is that we must realize that the importance is retrospective, not actual, not present. Only in the future does the path taken become "different."
Similarly with travel. Outside of the exceptional person capable of profound change, travel is generally not formative. But in our recollection of the past, we often point to important trips as "moments" when everything changed. We want to remember travel for its alleged formative nature; we do not want to acknowledge its lack of actual formative influence.
Our lives change incrementally. Travel is not in and of itself transformative. The road was not less-traveled.
Martha Gellhorn, in "What Bores Whom?", travels to Israel in 1971 when she is in her 60s. This woman traveled all over alone, and reported on wars and conflicts, starting with the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s. She was also, fairly briefly, married to Ernest Hemingway, which must have been a war and conflict in itself.
Gary Cooper, Martha Gellhorn, Sandra Shaw, and Ernest HemingwayIn Israel, she goes to a Red Sea resort town, and ends up surrounded by hash-smoking hippies hanging out in an abandoned water tank. She writes of them: "In their view, the were traveling to find themselves, rather as if oneself were a missing cufflink or earring that had rolled under the bed. They admired those among them who meditated in the lotus position for a fixed period of time each day. Like I mean he's really into meditation. The meditators were closer to finding themselves. I couldn't imagine any of them ten years hence, having never known such shapeless people."
Breathe. Photo by Beny ShlevichI like her description, because I have always thought that travel is overrated in its ability to be life-changing. Some people are capable of extreme change, but most are not. Their selves are not "lost" so much as eternally absent, and no amount of travel will help them "find" anything. People who can change can generally change without going anywhere.
It reminds me of the constant misinterpretation of Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken." Almost everyone reads this poem as the narrator having done something brave and taken "the road less traveled by," but I would argue that Frost does not mean that at all. Here is the poem:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
and looked down one as far as I could
to where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
and having perhaps the better claim
because it was grassy and wanted wear;
though as for that, the passing there
had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
in leaves no feet had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference.
In describing the two roads, he first says that "the other" had a better claim "because it was grassy and wanted wear." From this description, we get the idea that the second path is less traveled. However, the narrator admits that this perception is not really true: "though as for that, the passing there/ had worn them really about the same." Then, "And both that morning equally lay/ in leaves no feet had trodden black" [emphasis mine]. The paths are identical, they lay "equally," and neither has been "trodden black." There is no difference in the two paths, so the narrator's choice is arbitrary, not brave.
The "turn" of the poem (like a turn in a sonnet) comes in the last stanza, where the narrator envisions a future time when he or she will be telling the story of choosing a path. In this imagined future narration, the narrator will "sigh" and then, in an act of self-aggrandizement, say "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --/ I took the one less traveled by,/ and that has made all the difference." The repetition of "I--I" emphasizes the future narrative egoism that the narrator envisions.
In the moment of choice between two equal paths, the narrator knows that, at some point in the future, he or she will want to tell the story of the choice in such a way so that the listener will be impressed. Saying, "Yeah, I chose one path for no real reason" is less exciting than saying "I took the one less traveled by" and then claiming that this choice has been the turning point for the formation of the narrator's life. The act of retrospective importance is not to be sneezed at, but I would argue that the vital point the poem makes is that we must realize that the importance is retrospective, not actual, not present. Only in the future does the path taken become "different."
Similarly with travel. Outside of the exceptional person capable of profound change, travel is generally not formative. But in our recollection of the past, we often point to important trips as "moments" when everything changed. We want to remember travel for its alleged formative nature; we do not want to acknowledge its lack of actual formative influence. Our lives change incrementally. Travel is not in and of itself transformative. The road was not less-traveled.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Allergy
Me: "Do you really think that asthma is entirely psychosomatic?"
Damian: "Mostly. Everyone knows it. It's really well-documented. When they look at other countries that are less developed, they don't have those problems. So, it's psychosomatic."
*small pause*
"Either that or it's an allergy to money."
Damian: "Mostly. Everyone knows it. It's really well-documented. When they look at other countries that are less developed, they don't have those problems. So, it's psychosomatic."
*small pause*
"Either that or it's an allergy to money."
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Rain Falls
The only good thing to come out of Saturday's shootings in Tucson happened today, when I heard Bill Clinton say that demonizing political language "falls on the unhinged and the hinged alike." I was delighted by the word "hinged." It reminds me of such contructions as "ept" or "gusted" and I must incorporated it into my vocabulary: "Yeah, overall, despite his troubles, I think in this case he's acting pretty hinged."
I would like to collect other adaptations of the "falls on the just and the unjust alike" idiom, but I don't know how to frame a google search for them. Did you hear that? I don't know how to frame a google search.
I did find this: "Prayer is of no avail. The lightning falls on the just and the unjust in accordance with natural laws." —Robert Ingersoll, nineteenth-century orator
In a different vein, in what seems to be a Christmas letter from the pastor of a church in Canada, whilst talking about A Charlie Brown Christmas, the writer says, "In Canada, God also causes it to snow on the just and the unjust alike, and so we can all have a white Christmas, regardless of our morality; for it's not our morality that's the issue—but it’s our holiness that will be called into account!"
I don't understand religion.
Continuing (oddly enough) with the Charlie Brown theme, there's this:
And, finally, Cormac McCarthy's take on it is that:
"The rain falls upon the just
And also on the unjust fellas
But mostly it falls upon the just
Cause the unjust have the just's umbrellas"
I would like to collect other adaptations of the "falls on the just and the unjust alike" idiom, but I don't know how to frame a google search for them. Did you hear that? I don't know how to frame a google search.
I did find this: "Prayer is of no avail. The lightning falls on the just and the unjust in accordance with natural laws." —Robert Ingersoll, nineteenth-century orator
In a different vein, in what seems to be a Christmas letter from the pastor of a church in Canada, whilst talking about A Charlie Brown Christmas, the writer says, "In Canada, God also causes it to snow on the just and the unjust alike, and so we can all have a white Christmas, regardless of our morality; for it's not our morality that's the issue—but it’s our holiness that will be called into account!"
I don't understand religion.
Continuing (oddly enough) with the Charlie Brown theme, there's this:
And, finally, Cormac McCarthy's take on it is that:
"The rain falls upon the just
And also on the unjust fellas
But mostly it falls upon the just
Cause the unjust have the just's umbrellas"
Saturday, January 08, 2011
Cryptic Tonsil
According to the radio, today is National Clean Off Your Desk Day. I, however, am choosing to exercise my god-given American right to celebrate every day as National Don't Tell Me What the Hell to Do Day.
So, I have a sore throat, which almost never happens. In fact, last time I had a cold was over two years ago. I was so appalled by the Terrible Betrayal that I actually took a flashlight this morning and looked at my throat in the mirror, and found one of my tonsils all swole up. Like Doubting Thomas, I had to touch it, and it has the size and approximate consistency of a shooter marble. It almost reaches my uvula (which I have always looked upon as the body part most nearly like those hangy-downy things that for unknown reasons obscenely caress the top of your luggage when it goes into the x-ray machine at the airport).
This just in: don't try to gargle with seasoned rice vinegar in warm water. Its failure as a therapeutic vinegar is second only to that of balsamic.
Added: I kind of suck at gargling.
So, anyway, I drove Mom and Dad and Anja up to the de Young in San Francisco to see the Impressionist exhibit. It was refreshingly not full of the paintings-I'm-ready-to-set-on-fire-because-I-have-seen-them-on-pretty-much-every-calendar-and-"inspirational"-wall poster-ever category, though, really, dude, I don't think even fat women need to be painted as though their torsos look like the bodies of annular worms.
To wit:
According to an article in Smithsonian Magazine from February, 2010, "As long ago as 1913, the American Impressionist Mary Cassatt wrote a friend that Renoir was painting abominable pictures 'of enormously fat red women with very small heads.'" I'm not sure I would agree with "enormously," though nor would I agree with L.A. County Museum of Art's Claudia Einecke, who claims, “He’s using the body for expressive purposes. Hopefully, nowadays, we understand that beauty or the body comes in many different shapes. People can stop saying, 'Oh yuck, these are ugly, fat women.'" I don't care that the women are fat, but that they LOOK LIKE ANNULAR WORMS. Maybe that was your impression, Renoir, but in this case I will say your impression was dumb.
Oh, and I don't have cryptic tonsils, I just really like the phrase.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
What They'll Do
There were all of these news items on the radio today about the Republicans taking over the House of Representatives, and between bouts of just Turning Off the Radio, I kept yelling answers to the question, "What will the Republicans do now?"
My answers included:
Screw over the poor.
Institute REAL death panels, just like in Arizona!
Deny climate change.
Start tattooing immigrants.
Be totally stupid.
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!
All in all, not the most productive news-listening day for me. Luckily, I wasn't in the car that much, and thus only listened to the radio sporadically.
My answers included:
Screw over the poor.
Institute REAL death panels, just like in Arizona!
Deny climate change.
Start tattooing immigrants.
Be totally stupid.
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!
All in all, not the most productive news-listening day for me. Luckily, I wasn't in the car that much, and thus only listened to the radio sporadically.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
The Cat Is Better Now
I love my kitten—who is not a kitten at all but a three-year-old cat—with a love that is completely out of proportion to the fact that she is a cat. I got her when I was 39, right when it became really really clear that I really really wasn't going to ever have children, and she has an endearing ever-kittenish personality that worked on me to make me love her, as I just said, disproportionately. Last week, she was sick with something that (despite Very Expensive Tests) remains a mystery, but had ratcheted up her temperature to almost 105°. She wouldn't eat or drink or be happy. But, after a course of antibiotics, she is all better, which is so relieving that I feel dizzy. Here is a picture of her:
She's gone back to crying for pets, and running around, and being ridiculous and my life is thus much improved and I'm grateful to my vet, despite the expense, and I'm weirdly grateful to HER for being kind enough to get better.
Oops!
Only the third day in, and I already missed a day. The reason: I was so irritable for the first half of the day that Everything Single Thing felt like sandpaper. Then Anja and I took a 6-mile hike with the intensity and fervor of pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela. Then I was pretty much incoherent for the rest of the evening. Today, I shall do better.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
This Poem Comes to Me This Time of Year
Perhaps it's cheating, but today's post is a poem by Helen Pinkerton, c. 2002
Nature Note: The California Poison Oak
Dry summers flaw the leaf to a rose flame
Where, as a vine, it seems to flicker higher
Than live-oaks it consumes, or where it leaps
As a free-standing shrub or tree—ablaze
In wild-oat hay fields. Yet, with winter come,
The stems shrink back and almost disappear
In sinuous tangles, while a few white drupes
That look like snowberries hang to trick the eyes.
Nothing will warn but old experience
The ignorant damp hand that comes to dig
In winter rain the dormant trillium:
Seeking to bring a wild spring beauty home
It finds, as parasitic as a drug,
Pain stinging flesh that brushed the stems but once.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Fun-a-Day
Last year for Fun-a-Day I did an Explore-a-Day, and then printed out photos of my explores and fastened them to some grape stakes along with some words written onto tea-dyed gift tags. It turned out okay. Mom did Leaf-a-Day, wherein she pressed a leaf or leaves each day, then mounted them on paper and made a mobile. It was cool.
This year, Mom is doing Recipe-a-Day, in which she is rewriting her recipes onto new cards. She's quite exercised by the whole idea, and had it planned months ago. I, on the other hand, just figured out that in the interest of writing, a skill I fear I am losing (if I ever had it, really) I am going to do a Post-a-Day. I don't know if anyone will read them, but that's not the point.
So, random thought for New Year's Day: as I listen to my various public radio podcasts, I keep hearing a sponsorship message about the new Chevrolet Volt, with the tagline, "It's More Car Than Electric." My reaction, every single time is, "No, it's not."
I like this person's take on the slogan: "Maybe 'The electric car you can just put gas in on those days when you’re not giving a crap about the environment' was too long."
Friday, November 20, 2009
Kurgan-Teppa, Part One
Maybe it's strange to have waited so many months to write about my trip, but I was in Tajikistan in May and June, and it was...fairly indescribable. Therefore, describing it? Difficult.
Kurgan-Teppa is also spelled Qurghonteppa or Kurganteppa. Or Қурғонтеппа in Tajik. Formerly known as Курган-Тюбе (Kurgan-Tyube) in Soviet times. Don't ask where my particular hyphenated spelling comes from, because I don't actually know.
We drove through the city, then south, past mixed flocks of sheep and goats being herded along the road, over hills green as Scotland ("Fuck Scotland," I said), where men, women, and children used scythes to cut the grass, laying down another shade of green in squares and rectangles, sometimes on improbable slopes that seemed to threaten to dump the harvesters off into the valleys.
The grass packed on donkeys, or on bicycles, or in the trunks and backseats of cars, or piled onto square two-wheeled metal wagons, pulled by horses, or donkeys, or men, or boys. Mud towns, with corrugated tin roofs, in the distance or, twice or three times, surrounding the two-lane highway. The highway like a road and a farm road and a trail and a sidewalk all at once. The towns all shades of cream and ivory and tan and light brown, with the women's gowns and scarves flashes of color, vivid and strange.
A choikhana with tapchans on both sides of a small steep arroyo, seemingly advertising itself with a few abandoned tent frames over empty tapchans, set a hundred meters before the real teahouse.
In a village, a whole empty bazaar, with concrete-and-tin stalls and frames for sun shades, and tables and places for tables. Is it a weekly bazaar? Does it fill up? Or is there nothing to sell; does everything get sent on to the capital?
At a curve in the road, a line of brightly-dressed (always brightly-dressed) women, each sitting at a little table, each displaying the same small selection of sodas and snacks. Why there? And how does one choose which woman, that day, will take one's money?
A mural on the face of the road cutting, with an eagle and a deer and some nature. Very fetching, but what is it meant to tell us?
We get to Kurgan-Teppa, and pass a tractor--old, spare, awesone--on a pedestal, backed by a park with a collection of arching white cement pieces making a vaguely half-egg-shaped dingus. A monument to the greatness of the TRACTOR, a monument to nothing, as I have only seen the fields being worked by hand, groups of men, women, and children using hoes and shovels, stooping or crouching, working acres by hand, all by hand, the stupidest use of human labor imaginable. While at the moment what appears to be the only thing that the Industrial Revolution did to really, materially, improve people's lives is to make a tractor. Then make tractors.
No fuel? No parts? Just no damn tractors? What's the issue? That would be my NGO: Get the People Tractors. Give them a fuel allowance. Train tractor mechanics. Smuggle in the parts or pay the bribes and keep doing it over and over and over because each hour of working the fields by hand is another hour without rest, literacy, or (so I imagine, barreling by in our fancy Lada Niva four-wheel drive) hopefulness.
Dogtiredness.
Never mind. Tractors can't take away dogtiredness and no doubt the hours freed from the fields would be focused anew, to new back-breaking chores.
Neal Stephenson writes that, "In the real world--Planet Earth, Reality--there are somewhere between six and ten billion people. At any given time, most of them are making mud bricks or field-stripping their AK-47s." That's the choice. I have other choices but my place is so privileged that the spot I take up cannot be doubled. The only way to free my spot would be for me to leave that spot, which I cannot do, because even were I to become a Tajik fieldhand, I would still carry my place of privilege with me; I would be choosing to act downtrodden.
Only when I die will my place be empty, but when that happens, that place will not be available to a Tajik fieldhand. No, it'll go to a nice infant, born of Western parents in a clean Western hospital. Maybe being born in a place with modern sanitation is the initiating mark of privilege. Maybe clean water and disinfectants are the baptismal fluids, holy, altering.
Kurgan-Teppa is also spelled Qurghonteppa or Kurganteppa. Or Қурғонтеппа in Tajik. Formerly known as Курган-Тюбе (Kurgan-Tyube) in Soviet times. Don't ask where my particular hyphenated spelling comes from, because I don't actually know.
We drove through the city, then south, past mixed flocks of sheep and goats being herded along the road, over hills green as Scotland ("Fuck Scotland," I said), where men, women, and children used scythes to cut the grass, laying down another shade of green in squares and rectangles, sometimes on improbable slopes that seemed to threaten to dump the harvesters off into the valleys.The grass packed on donkeys, or on bicycles, or in the trunks and backseats of cars, or piled onto square two-wheeled metal wagons, pulled by horses, or donkeys, or men, or boys. Mud towns, with corrugated tin roofs, in the distance or, twice or three times, surrounding the two-lane highway. The highway like a road and a farm road and a trail and a sidewalk all at once. The towns all shades of cream and ivory and tan and light brown, with the women's gowns and scarves flashes of color, vivid and strange.
A choikhana with tapchans on both sides of a small steep arroyo, seemingly advertising itself with a few abandoned tent frames over empty tapchans, set a hundred meters before the real teahouse.
In a village, a whole empty bazaar, with concrete-and-tin stalls and frames for sun shades, and tables and places for tables. Is it a weekly bazaar? Does it fill up? Or is there nothing to sell; does everything get sent on to the capital?
At a curve in the road, a line of brightly-dressed (always brightly-dressed) women, each sitting at a little table, each displaying the same small selection of sodas and snacks. Why there? And how does one choose which woman, that day, will take one's money?
A mural on the face of the road cutting, with an eagle and a deer and some nature. Very fetching, but what is it meant to tell us?
We get to Kurgan-Teppa, and pass a tractor--old, spare, awesone--on a pedestal, backed by a park with a collection of arching white cement pieces making a vaguely half-egg-shaped dingus. A monument to the greatness of the TRACTOR, a monument to nothing, as I have only seen the fields being worked by hand, groups of men, women, and children using hoes and shovels, stooping or crouching, working acres by hand, all by hand, the stupidest use of human labor imaginable. While at the moment what appears to be the only thing that the Industrial Revolution did to really, materially, improve people's lives is to make a tractor. Then make tractors.
No fuel? No parts? Just no damn tractors? What's the issue? That would be my NGO: Get the People Tractors. Give them a fuel allowance. Train tractor mechanics. Smuggle in the parts or pay the bribes and keep doing it over and over and over because each hour of working the fields by hand is another hour without rest, literacy, or (so I imagine, barreling by in our fancy Lada Niva four-wheel drive) hopefulness.
Dogtiredness.
Never mind. Tractors can't take away dogtiredness and no doubt the hours freed from the fields would be focused anew, to new back-breaking chores.
Neal Stephenson writes that, "In the real world--Planet Earth, Reality--there are somewhere between six and ten billion people. At any given time, most of them are making mud bricks or field-stripping their AK-47s." That's the choice. I have other choices but my place is so privileged that the spot I take up cannot be doubled. The only way to free my spot would be for me to leave that spot, which I cannot do, because even were I to become a Tajik fieldhand, I would still carry my place of privilege with me; I would be choosing to act downtrodden.
Only when I die will my place be empty, but when that happens, that place will not be available to a Tajik fieldhand. No, it'll go to a nice infant, born of Western parents in a clean Western hospital. Maybe being born in a place with modern sanitation is the initiating mark of privilege. Maybe clean water and disinfectants are the baptismal fluids, holy, altering.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
I Felt a Feeling, and I Told You with Punctuation Marks
Last week, I got a message on this dating website where I have a profile. I don't know why I keep the profile on there. Maybe because I think I might want to meet someone in the future. I certainly couldn't be bothered now. Anyway, the message was...okay-ish. But then I read the guy's profile and under the "I’m really good at" section, he had included "oral sex."
Here was my (not very nice) reply:
"Dear Gene Simmons,
I was considering your proposal semi-positively, until I read your profile and saw your claim of oral sexual prowess. I see you have removed that reference, but the damage has been done. I no longer, nor have I really ever, spent any time with people who want to talk about sex unless they are actually having it (though wordlessness is often better even then), or who would talk about how good they are at it in a public profile.
Also, just so you know, not all women even enjoy said activity.
Reading your profile unfortunately made me feel a bit soiled, and I will be too busy taking multiple Silkwood showers to ever be able to leave the house again.
Sincerely,
Blaize"
He responded with a combination of passive-aggression and aggression-aggression, and a couple of insults followed by a repeated invitation that we do something together. While strange, this reaction didn't bother me, because I figured I had gotten what I deserved. What DID bother me was his repeated use of ;^D
Putting ;^D after calling someone crazy and a prude; what's that supposed to MEAN? "You're crazy and a prude! Winky nosy big smile!"
My reply to the the message, and his reply to that, all occurred during work, and this is why I love my work: my coworkers decided to enact the winky nosy smile In Real Life, and this is what we got:
Inevitably, this led to the recreation of other emoticons. I hope you enjoy the following.
X-)
o__o
D: (Two versions)
>:)
The ever-popular :(
And finally :-D
Here was my (not very nice) reply:
"Dear Gene Simmons,
I was considering your proposal semi-positively, until I read your profile and saw your claim of oral sexual prowess. I see you have removed that reference, but the damage has been done. I no longer, nor have I really ever, spent any time with people who want to talk about sex unless they are actually having it (though wordlessness is often better even then), or who would talk about how good they are at it in a public profile.
Also, just so you know, not all women even enjoy said activity.
Reading your profile unfortunately made me feel a bit soiled, and I will be too busy taking multiple Silkwood showers to ever be able to leave the house again.
Sincerely,
Blaize"
He responded with a combination of passive-aggression and aggression-aggression, and a couple of insults followed by a repeated invitation that we do something together. While strange, this reaction didn't bother me, because I figured I had gotten what I deserved. What DID bother me was his repeated use of ;^D
Putting ;^D after calling someone crazy and a prude; what's that supposed to MEAN? "You're crazy and a prude! Winky nosy big smile!"
My reply to the the message, and his reply to that, all occurred during work, and this is why I love my work: my coworkers decided to enact the winky nosy smile In Real Life, and this is what we got:
Inevitably, this led to the recreation of other emoticons. I hope you enjoy the following.
X-)
o__o
D: (Two versions)
>:)
The ever-popular :(
And finally :-D
Saturday, July 04, 2009
What to Do in Istanbul
1. Get frustrated by being sent back and forth along the ferry wharf.
2. Find the right ticket booth/dock.
3. Take the Boğazçi Özel Gezi ferry towards Anadolu Kavağı.
4. Sit next to a nice Turkish couple, on the shady side of the lower deck. It'll mean you see the European side only, but you can't have everything.
5. Get off at Sarıyer.
6. Figure out where the staircases go up the hill and follow them until they peter out in people's private yards.
7. Make an error in choosing a restaurant, and possibly drink from the hose.* (Uncertain as of yet.)
8. Fall into conversation with a young German-educated graphic designer with dyed blond hair and excellent English.
9. Stand on the stoop of his house, which 100 years ago went right to the water, whence the residents traveled in boats, though now it is separated from the water by a road.
10. Discuss Venice, protests in Iran, and one's own potential ability to protest even at the risk of one's life. (Positive, on his side, uncertain to negative on mine. Americans are lazy.)
11. Walk back along the waterfront, photographing the abandoned and inhabited Ottoman-era houses.
12. Go to the Sadberk Hanım Museum.
13. Be awestruck and, later, fatigued by the collection.
14. Buy a present in the gift shop of a coffee cup with an Iznik tile design of a felucca.
15. Catch the 25E bus back toward town.
16. Realize one could get off at any stop, walk around two hours, and return a better person for it.
16a. Have a fleeting fantasy of buying an abandoned Ottoman-era house and repairing it.
17. Have a (fairly handsome) Turkish guy stare at you, even when you stare right back at him for half a minute.
18. Feel weirdly flattered, then self-conscious.
19. Feel sardonic when he, his wife, and kid get off the bus, and you realize that--young-looking as he is--he has a pot-belly.
19a. Skip steps 17-19 if you are not available to such flirtation.
20. Get back to Sirkeci.
21. Pet some cats.
22. Drink tea under a grape arbor while watching an ear-splitting game of Turkish backgammon played between an old bald man in a short-sleeved shirt and Windsor-knotted striped ugly tie, and a younger old guy with a beard wearing a technical vest like a photojournalist, watched by a mild fellow in a blue t-shirt, all three bespectacled.
23. Have the tea be free, because Turks are friendly, or at least these Turks, and you are being rewarded for watching the game. "Turkish culture," the bearded man says, "Have a nice life." "Thank you. You, too," you reply, and mean it.
24. Overall believe you have dodged the hose.
25. Get ready to fall asleep at the sunset prayer hour, because sunset is at almost 9 o'clock, and 3 a.m., the shuttle to the airport, and the almost full day of travel home, is far too soon.
*A phrase used by Ray and Anya to indicate iffy dietary behavior in foreign lands.
2. Find the right ticket booth/dock.
3. Take the Boğazçi Özel Gezi ferry towards Anadolu Kavağı.
4. Sit next to a nice Turkish couple, on the shady side of the lower deck. It'll mean you see the European side only, but you can't have everything.
5. Get off at Sarıyer.
6. Figure out where the staircases go up the hill and follow them until they peter out in people's private yards.
7. Make an error in choosing a restaurant, and possibly drink from the hose.* (Uncertain as of yet.)
8. Fall into conversation with a young German-educated graphic designer with dyed blond hair and excellent English.
9. Stand on the stoop of his house, which 100 years ago went right to the water, whence the residents traveled in boats, though now it is separated from the water by a road.
10. Discuss Venice, protests in Iran, and one's own potential ability to protest even at the risk of one's life. (Positive, on his side, uncertain to negative on mine. Americans are lazy.)
11. Walk back along the waterfront, photographing the abandoned and inhabited Ottoman-era houses.
12. Go to the Sadberk Hanım Museum.
13. Be awestruck and, later, fatigued by the collection.
14. Buy a present in the gift shop of a coffee cup with an Iznik tile design of a felucca.
15. Catch the 25E bus back toward town.
16. Realize one could get off at any stop, walk around two hours, and return a better person for it.
16a. Have a fleeting fantasy of buying an abandoned Ottoman-era house and repairing it.
17. Have a (fairly handsome) Turkish guy stare at you, even when you stare right back at him for half a minute.
18. Feel weirdly flattered, then self-conscious.
19. Feel sardonic when he, his wife, and kid get off the bus, and you realize that--young-looking as he is--he has a pot-belly.
19a. Skip steps 17-19 if you are not available to such flirtation.
20. Get back to Sirkeci.
21. Pet some cats.
22. Drink tea under a grape arbor while watching an ear-splitting game of Turkish backgammon played between an old bald man in a short-sleeved shirt and Windsor-knotted striped ugly tie, and a younger old guy with a beard wearing a technical vest like a photojournalist, watched by a mild fellow in a blue t-shirt, all three bespectacled.
23. Have the tea be free, because Turks are friendly, or at least these Turks, and you are being rewarded for watching the game. "Turkish culture," the bearded man says, "Have a nice life." "Thank you. You, too," you reply, and mean it.
24. Overall believe you have dodged the hose.
25. Get ready to fall asleep at the sunset prayer hour, because sunset is at almost 9 o'clock, and 3 a.m., the shuttle to the airport, and the almost full day of travel home, is far too soon.
*A phrase used by Ray and Anya to indicate iffy dietary behavior in foreign lands.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
My Salad Days, When I Was Green in Judgement, Cold in Blood
I've been going through boxes of papers, dating back all the way to high school, but mostly consisting of my graduate school work. So, I find notes from classes I took and classes for which I was a teaching assistant. I find the papers from some of my students, which I kept because they were excellent. I find my own papers. And here, on the other side, as a doctoral program drop-out, those papers are an emblem of a life that I can no longer live, a career path I can no longer follow.
I should throw them all away, each and every paper. But instead, I am working to consolidate four boxes into one. And what I am keeping are my students' papers, some notes about topics that still particularly interest me, and my own writing.
In my first year of graduate school, I had a mental breakdown. It was the second quarter, January through March, and my mind was just not quite my own. Yet still, as with my other breakdowns, I managed my schoolwork even as my emotional life flailed.
I was in a very engaging class called "Passing," in which we read and analyzed texts such as The Island of Dr. Moreau, M. Butterfly, and Passing. Animals passing as humans, men passing as women, blacks passing as whites.
I got interested especially in Dr. Moreau, and from that became interested in anti-vivisectionist movements in the nineteenth century. I gave a presentation on my research, and opened by saying "Before I begin, I want you all to know that it is a miracle of modern medicine that I can be with you here today." Then I passed around my bottle of anti-depressants.
It seemed like a good thing to do at the time. And the professors (there were two) liked it, probably because it was less boring than the usual introduction of a graduate student presentation.
Anyway, in going through my papers, I found a paper I wrote for that class, which is titled "sex, lies, and vivisection, or Fuck Black Beauty."
As I said, I was having some "issues."
I also found my handout for my presentation. I reproduce it here for your consideration.
This was during the first Gulf War, and so here are close-ups of some bits:
And here is my "Fun Words" list:
I should throw them all away, each and every paper. But instead, I am working to consolidate four boxes into one. And what I am keeping are my students' papers, some notes about topics that still particularly interest me, and my own writing.
In my first year of graduate school, I had a mental breakdown. It was the second quarter, January through March, and my mind was just not quite my own. Yet still, as with my other breakdowns, I managed my schoolwork even as my emotional life flailed.
I was in a very engaging class called "Passing," in which we read and analyzed texts such as The Island of Dr. Moreau, M. Butterfly, and Passing. Animals passing as humans, men passing as women, blacks passing as whites.
I got interested especially in Dr. Moreau, and from that became interested in anti-vivisectionist movements in the nineteenth century. I gave a presentation on my research, and opened by saying "Before I begin, I want you all to know that it is a miracle of modern medicine that I can be with you here today." Then I passed around my bottle of anti-depressants.
It seemed like a good thing to do at the time. And the professors (there were two) liked it, probably because it was less boring than the usual introduction of a graduate student presentation.
Anyway, in going through my papers, I found a paper I wrote for that class, which is titled "sex, lies, and vivisection, or Fuck Black Beauty."
As I said, I was having some "issues."
I also found my handout for my presentation. I reproduce it here for your consideration.
This was during the first Gulf War, and so here are close-ups of some bits:
And here is my "Fun Words" list:
Thursday, April 09, 2009
The Heat Death of the Universe
Fig. 1: Photo © ewan.osullivan
Today (which will live in infamy blah blah blah) I will call The Great California OMG WTF :( :( 2009. Or, alternately, The Great Pwnage.
Some person or persons as yet unknown cut some fiberoptic cables in two separate locations in Silicon Valley, plunging a bunch of people into cellphone, internet, and credit card swipe machine darkness.
One would have thought it was the end of Time and Life as We Know It.
I got up. My computer wouldn't connect to the web. I listened to the radio briefly and heard there was a general service problem. Then I went to work. My boss is smart, and keeps paper credit card carbons on hand, which is an excellent idea around here. There are an astonishing number of short and long power outages in this two-bit podunk gin-joint, and who can actually afford to lose a day's business just because the power goes out? His mom took the machine that one uses with carbons, but my boss just rubs with the side of a pen, like a rabid genealogist creating a memento mori with charcoal and a tombstone.
People were ASTOUNDED that they could use credit cards in our store, because I guess no one else has carbons. Which I find weird, cf. frequent power outages.
All day the rumors were flying: it was terrorists; it was a disgruntled union member; it was construction. I liked my boss's explanation: Giant Gopher. Or my coworker's: space aliens. Or mine: the enormous radioactive ants from Them! At one point, my boss and I were discussing the whole reductio ad terrorum phenomenon, and I said we should apply Occam's Razor, which would result in us deciding that the problem had been caused by, as my boss put it, "Joe on his tractor." I mean, how many times has terrorism caused something bad to happen in the United States? I count three. And how many times has Joe on his tractor fucked something up? Pretty much constantly.
As it turned out, it was a Giant Gopher, or vandals, or--according to some sources--saboteurs, which I disagree with, since there were no wooden shoes involved. As far as I know. These vandals hoisted manhole covers at two different locations, went underground, and cut the cables. Once the online came back online, I read several different accounts, which all seemed to emphasize that the vandals had to use "special tools" both to lift the manhole cover and to cut the cables. You mean "special" like the crowbar from my car trunk and a pair of bolt cutters from the hardware store? (See Fig. 2). It's like rocket surgery!
I think the news should have just alerted us to the fact that the vandals have hands, and are tool-users, and that the public should be on the lookout for a band of rogue bonobos. Possibly unionized. Wearing black. With anarchist patches sewn on.
Fig. 2: Special Tool. Watch out!
My boss started pantomiming the event, first pretending he was using a crowbar to jimmy up the manhole cover and bolt cutters to cut the cables. Next pretending he was just grappling the cover out of the way and then gnawing the cable. Much like a Giant Gopher.
So, what with the customers having various kinds of cows about the whole thing, and us making fun of both the event and the customers' cows, it was a full day. The weirdest (okay, not weirdest; most aggravating) repeated comment ran along the lines of "Oh, I'm kind of enjoying the break of not having my cellphone."
I find this attitude mysterious and idiotic. This is what my mind heard: "Oh, one day a mean mean man came to my house and put a gun to my head and gave me a mobile phone and told me that he would torture and kill me and all my loved ones if I didn't carry the phone with me at all times and always leave it on and answer it even during the quiet parts of classical music concerts and yoga class and even when I should be talking to the Real Live Person who is right in front of me tapping a foot in frustration and today is Such a Relief because I actually can't follow his orders. Free at last! Free at last!"
These people fall in a certain clear camp in the whole free will vs. predestination debate, don't you think?
Jasmine Nguyen, spokesperson for St. Louise hospital in Gilroy, said it most ineptly: "We literally feel like we're on an island right now. It's bringing us back to the Stone Age."
Because literal is the new figurative, and the internet and cellphone communication arose directly after the Pleistocene-Holocene extinction of the North American megafauna. Actually (in case you didn't know) the internet was platformed on some proprietary software trademarked by Giant Sloths Eaten by Sabre-Toothed Tigers, L.L.C. (See Fig 3.)
Fig. 3: 1337 hax0r of yore, pictured with favorite plushie.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Daily Vitriol, or, A Comment I Wrote
I have Netflix. I get one DVD at a time, and watch TV hosted by Netflix on the computer. Recently Netflix changed their online viewer, and made the mistake of asking my opinion about the quality of my most recent viewing. I felt obligated to tell them. I didn't think I was in a particularly splenetic mood, but I guess I was. Or maybe I'm always like this.
Comment:
"Since Netflix 'upgraded' to Silverlight, 'watch instantly' watching has become almost unwatchable: exceedingly choppy and often completely stop-and-go when viewed 'full screen.'
I am sure mine is not the first complaint about this. Nor will it be the last. (A simple Google search for 'silverlight sucks' should give you an idea of the problem).
In this economy, a business model that works to make customer satisfaction WORSE is probably not a very good idea. I would recommend you fix this problem as soon as possible.
In addition, the search engine on your site is really poor. Why don't you use Google search like normal people? You and amazon and your stupid terrible search engines. Amazon must seriously lose $100,000 a day because people simply cannot find stuff on their site.
Finally, I would like to say that only being able to 'watch instantly' using Internet Explorer is exceedingly trying. I don't know if you know this, but Internet Explorer is crappy, and only used by your grandma, who just learned to use the computer last month. And even grandma will have Firefox once one of her loving grandkids (a category that does not include you, obviously) comes over and installs it for her and puts a shortcut for it on her desktop labeled 'google.' I know this, because that's what I did for my grandma-aged parents. And all of a sudden their browser wasn't one invented in the Cretaceous Period by giant land animals who are now extinct. It's amazing. It's called 'evolution'!"
Comment:
"Since Netflix 'upgraded' to Silverlight, 'watch instantly' watching has become almost unwatchable: exceedingly choppy and often completely stop-and-go when viewed 'full screen.'
I am sure mine is not the first complaint about this. Nor will it be the last. (A simple Google search for 'silverlight sucks' should give you an idea of the problem).
In this economy, a business model that works to make customer satisfaction WORSE is probably not a very good idea. I would recommend you fix this problem as soon as possible.
In addition, the search engine on your site is really poor. Why don't you use Google search like normal people? You and amazon and your stupid terrible search engines. Amazon must seriously lose $100,000 a day because people simply cannot find stuff on their site.
Finally, I would like to say that only being able to 'watch instantly' using Internet Explorer is exceedingly trying. I don't know if you know this, but Internet Explorer is crappy, and only used by your grandma, who just learned to use the computer last month. And even grandma will have Firefox once one of her loving grandkids (a category that does not include you, obviously) comes over and installs it for her and puts a shortcut for it on her desktop labeled 'google.' I know this, because that's what I did for my grandma-aged parents. And all of a sudden their browser wasn't one invented in the Cretaceous Period by giant land animals who are now extinct. It's amazing. It's called 'evolution'!"
Monday, February 02, 2009
Not Good
So. Yesterday, I thought the smell might be, say, a mouse--cat slain and festering--under my shed. Today, that seemed impossible. So, I looked around. And then I saw two raccoon tails protruding from under my neighbor's trailer.
Pink rubber gloves, a respirator mask, quadruple garbage bags, and a neighbor to hold open the bags whilst the first one went in, and I had two full-grown dead raccoons ready to be picked up by Animal Services.
Why did they die right next to each other, as if in a suicide pact? Will Animal Services perform a necropsy so I will know whether someone is poisoning wildlife in my trailer park? How soon can I get the cats to the vet for their rabies shots?
And why, oh, why, was that NOT the grossest thing I've ever done?
Pink rubber gloves, a respirator mask, quadruple garbage bags, and a neighbor to hold open the bags whilst the first one went in, and I had two full-grown dead raccoons ready to be picked up by Animal Services.
Why did they die right next to each other, as if in a suicide pact? Will Animal Services perform a necropsy so I will know whether someone is poisoning wildlife in my trailer park? How soon can I get the cats to the vet for their rabies shots?
And why, oh, why, was that NOT the grossest thing I've ever done?
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Best Newly-Learned Word of 2009, Thus Far
I was reading about trying to identify the offending birds responsible for plane crashes and that one emergency water landing a week ago. The New York Times informs me that "a staff of four in the Feather Identification Lab took in samples from 4,600 bird-plane collisions, or bird strikes, last year. Arriving mostly in sealed plastic bags, these included birds’feet, whole feathers or tiny bits of down, and pulverized bird guts, known as snarge."
Snarge.
Although it showed up--correctly defined--in the urban dictionary in 2005, I'm not the only one who seems to have enjoyed its more-recent appearance in The New York Times. And how could I be? IT'S A GREAT WORD.
Snarge.
Although it showed up--correctly defined--in the urban dictionary in 2005, I'm not the only one who seems to have enjoyed its more-recent appearance in The New York Times. And how could I be? IT'S A GREAT WORD.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The Saddest Letter in the World
Found in a book bought at the thrift store more than 20 years ago, although I believe it dates from even earlier than that. Transcribed below.
+of+Top-4.bmp.jpg)
+of+Top-3.bmp.jpg)
TRANSCRIPTION
[I have kept the mistakes and the overuse of commas, as I think they add to the effect of the text.]
Burlington, July 3:
Dear Forrest and Evelyn:
+of+Top-4.bmp.jpg)
+of+Top-3.bmp.jpg)
TRANSCRIPTION
[I have kept the mistakes and the overuse of commas, as I think they add to the effect of the text.]
Burlington, July 3:
Dear Forrest and Evelyn:
This is rather a lonely evening. Janell has been here, but since we were not going to do any special celebrating, she has gone to a friend’s home for the night. Some friends invited us both to their home to watch the fire works across the Lake( and for dinner) but, I hesitate to accept invitations that I know would only obligate me, as I can’t repay them.
I worked this afternoon, and think I am to work tomorrow. Must ask about that again. They have been calling on me pretty often, to work day times. I am glad for this as I know this Pneumonia will have run up a big bill. Beside that, I do enjoy the store work.
Went to the Dr. This A.M., and he checked me again for a 'tender spot' below my ribs. He suggested that I go to the Xray Clinic when I have a free day, and make sure it is alright.
I am really feeling very good again, except that I do tire too easily. But, I think this is a part of Pneumonia.
How are you doing, Forrest? And, did your Dr. call yours Pneumonia, too?It seems there are so many people around here, losing their voice. Janell, was terribly hoarse, for a couple of days. She is much better again, but it is still apparent.
Janell is picking strawberries, and thoroughly disgusted. The berries are so rotten.I am not real sure she will go back. Today, she killed more time, than she spent picking.And the farmers feel rather unkindly to those who ‘goof off!She won’t be here so very long anyhow, and may as well have fun with her old friends, while she is here.
We have been having the most unbelieveable weather!Now, it is 9:30 P.M., and nearly75’. It has been real warm in the days. We need rain again, too.
We went out to pick the gooseberries, and the mosquitoes were so bad that we gave it up. Will have to do that in daytime. I don’t think they will be so bad, then. So, Janell decided to go away for the evening, and night.Some kind of insect gets on the goose berries every year, and strips off all the leaves by the time they are ready to pick, that is bad enough, but, this year, it looks like every berry is damaged. In the morning, I will stem these,and check if they are too bad to use. I cant eat pies made of them, but do surely like jelly and jam. The raspberries are ripening now, too. I don’t have any desire to put up things this year-- not even to freeze berries, but, I am sure I will.
A friend brought us a big supply of fresh potatoes, peas, and carrots, and small beets with the greens still on. I think I will have to eat these alone, as Janell says she does not care for them (The beets, I mean)
I read an article a few days ago, about Salmonella. It said that the symptoms are so like other things, that it is often undetected, without w complete check up, with Salmonella in mind. It is a pretty serious thing, and I did wonder if it was possible that some so- called stomach flu, could be that.
I think you, Forrest, must feel like I did. I thought that if I was in a dryer climate, I would better off. But, now that I feel well again, and the weather is so fine, I can’t quite think of leaving.But no one can deny that the past winter was “LOUSY”.
I did have the nicest Birthday, in spite of myself. An unusual number of nice cards, gifts, phone calls, etc. etc. So, at least, I did not sit alone and mope and feel sorry for myself.
How is the shorthand coming Evelyn? I hope you either have passed or are ready to take your Exams, and pass with high grades. I think this may be like some of us think about College degrees. You are already proficient in Short hand, anent you? But to pas certain requirements you must be TOPS.
Of course, I know that to be a full fledged Court Reporter, a good speed is needed.I don’t see how any one can interpretor translate into short-hand, what is said, so fast.
I am glad that more new students are coming into the school, and hope they continue to come in. Have you gotten any students with Gov’t. Aid, as you had hoped?
Your Plainview house sounds interesting, and I hope it will work out to your advantage- whatever ou do with it. It does sound like it would make a lovely home for you. If you do the necessary work on it, to sell, it should be ready if you want to keep it, too. I have always thought it is nicer to live in a HOUSE than an APARTMENT, but there is a lot of yardwork involved, and in an apartment, the repairs are taken care of, and I am feeling it would be nice to be in one, so, we must each do as we feel is best,for ourselves.
I think I will get this to the P.O.and get ready for bed
As I said, “It is a lonely evening,” may as well sleep it off.
I almost forgot to thank you for your very generous Birthday gift to me. I have not yet used it, but will get something I, especially want, with it. I have put it away with other ‘Gift Moneys’ and am thinking of a real comfortable new chair.But in the meantime, Thank You very much!
Much Love to you both,
[signed]
Mother
P.S. I forgot to tell you that Harold was here Saturday night and Sunday A.M. He had some business at Oak Harbor, and it took more time than he had thought it would. This was all done as a favor for a couple of his friends, and the paid his way up here to work out some Corporation Papers. Sat. eve. We all three, visited athomes of 4 friends. This is doing pretty well in such a short time.His plan was, to start backlast night, or this morning. He thought he had a new job, but he had not been called to it, before he left home.
I can hear fireworks, but cant see anything.I think I have lost my Youth. Even Fireworks , no longer fascinate me.
Love,
[signed]
M
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
