I Held Hard

My head is killing me, and I've been feeling nauseous all day. It seems I am imbalanced, which is natural. But, how does responsibility of life and society never seem to move in the same direction as emotional responsibility?

Being in love many times over, if it's the same tune, I still don't know the finale. I never get that part of the song right...

Story of your my life

You may know everything and still not understand anything.

In Waiting

Is it more terrible a thing to feel the eyes of vultures upon you, or that this feeling is merely paranoia unshakable?

But not in the living room.

She found a wall in the way of her path, where smooth paving had given way to loose chunks of gravel and the machinations of weeds.

Strange, she thought, placing her hand against the wall, one cannot end a journey this way.

The wall was warm to the touch, paper-husk rough with more cracks and etchings than baked claybed; it smelled not unpleasantly of pungent earth. With a gentle push it yielded with the faintest wobble, but did not give open. Scraping and kicking were to no avail, and when night came with its dark cloak, the girl curled up against the warmth of the wall and, perplexed, fell to sleep.

It was when the chill of morning crept in that she woke, and feeling the faint heat emanating from the wall, pressed further against it. This time it pressed back.

She sprang to her feet in terror, stumbling back from the fingers of dawn, rubbing her elbows in the cold. And then she began to laugh. For there before her lay the entire majesty of an elephant, whose neck she scratched at gratefully as she circled round it and continued on her way.

To bask in.

If there were any outward sign of committed religious vocation, that flowers—the trees, all plants, yearn for and face the sun, not one another. There is nothing more devoted to receiving grace than petals turned upward toward the light.

And history is love.

The greatest thing about having your heart torn in pieces is the beautiful stitch marks that lace over and accentuate its story, and hold it back together. These flaws, these mistakes, or giving too freely—to remember why, and how or who and when.

Scars are a beautiful thing.

OOPS

I forgot exactly how vulnerable baring your soul can make you.

Tally up another scar.

Get it right.

That's "ritual", assholes, not "routine".

This is a man-made pond, but it's grown out so naturally that the grass blends right back into the mounds of river rock and from there back into the golden folds of hills.

A big fish eye stares at me calmly as I trace my fingers along trout belly. He's removed the hook while I'm doing this. Without coaxing, the trout flips gracefully upright and glides back into the depths of the pond, a pleasant how-do-you-do, a handshake.

Hands on my hips, skin tawny under a noonday baking sun, a squint over the ripples left behind.

"I swear to god, that fish wanted you to pet him," he tells me in the quiet awe that follows.

This sinks in for a moment, as gently as dew to earth, and then to the business of laying the line out again.

Emotional Weather

heavy combed air

and all I am is
cat-stretched lidded-eyed
slab under cloud-sweat slather

The madness of being able to love your life it's that good.

sound for sleeping

so many heartbeats, too many to count

all thumping and thudding away on this earth

To want/to learn list

• Ukulele, and playing it
• cubby hole-type shelving for yarn
• ye olde card catalog to hold supplies
• more juggling
• home soon
• garden: vegetables, fruits, herbs
• jewelery making

Once I know exactly our living situation, it is time to start planning my studio space. Oh boy.

When the world ends

I don't remember where we were heading, except that it was out. The sky was overcast with thick clouds of smoke, an apathetic grey intermingled with factory colored plumes. The sun long hid. Bomb residue.

It's funny, looking back, at how we were going the speed limit. We thought we had time. We thought they were bombing at a distance, and plowed along through the drab landscape.

And that's when the sky suddenly lit up—bright as day, a warning flash, an all encompassing spark that heralded the oncoming nuclear bomb. It hadn't hit yet, and we suddenly slammed on the gas.

But how do you outrun a nuclear bomb heading in your direction?

Every stage flashed before me—but very abbreviated and altered stages of grief, not stages of my life. A brief denial, hoping that we could still somehow evade the oncoming warp. Complete terror at what may happen as the bomb exploded somewhere in the distance in another blinding flash. And then acceptance. Well, shit, if I'm going to die, what can I do and why freak out about it? ...And if I survive, even mutated, well, that's what's going to happen.

Of course, that's when I woke up.

I can't tell if I've been getting restful sleep in all of this. But if I can process the fear out of something like this, even if in my sleep, then maybe it's not such a bad thing, after all.

It's just especially disturbing because I can't recall any dreams I've ever had that hinted at global demise, as opposed to my own. And for some reason, death is rarely the root of my worries in these instances even if I'm dying.

And exhale slowly

Being really busy distracts me from outside thoughts, but I think it's actually a good thing since I tend to organize my free time better if I'm working. At the same time, with this particular job I took on I have so much to think about that it gives me restless sleep, and I tend to forget to eat during the day because so much has to be done. I'm not liking the path that's going down, but on the other hand I've put myself to bed when tired.

The job I took on is at my many-times previous employer, a community and housing nonprofit, of various positions to help internally relocate and renovate the staff on site. It's really been 30+ years since the main office has been updated, and now much of the renovation is urgent. With some major deadlines included. In short, much juggling of information and needs that grow daily, and all the responsibility of organizing it and putting the plan I set in motion forward. This is my second week on the job, and it encompasses nearly all my thoughts. I'm a little tired, and don't remember what I spent my time doing by the end of the day, but have a list to organize for the following days by that point. I am literally kept so busy that I don't have time to think as I go, just think about what I am currently doing.

The graphic design work for this same place is at completion; I just need to confirm and see the printing through, and get my last check.


To take away from all the stress, and to get our laundry done, Jon and I went back to my parents' house this weekend and last week to take Pavlov out. It's not unusual, but we took him down to the cliff beach again to enjoy the weather, where we came across a dead sea lion someone tried to bury, and hung out drawing pictures in the sand.

Split end jabber

shocking how the waves
break and spray

scatter pieces of direction every which way;
a road map torn of determined hands, confetti for confusion

and only freer when the route now taken
is the route made

All I ever hear is Blah, Blah, Blah

This part of town is post-industrial: all the old warehouses that border the residential strip—a main road sets the boundaries parallel some blocks down—are now offices, and the majority of people bustling about are today's up-and-comers. Flowers line the sidewalks, not far away is a community garden, and real estate is turned around, one house into two flats the going rate, while original residents are turned out...yessir, gentrification and progress.

That is the setting, these are the people: a pair, man and woman, returning from or leaving for their lunch break. They walk a brisk, predetermined beat, the no-nonsense pacing of experienced team members in a firm, of young professionals, of executive hopefuls. So quickly they trot past in their "casual" rolled-up collared shirts that they barely leave enough for me to go on, but enough it is, enough for you to understand so much of them with so little:

"This is the boss." It's a question from him, but he states it.

She shakes her mane unnecessarily, for emphasis. "...Yeah, the bitch-boss didn't respond to the email I sent her..."

Trottrottrot.

* * * * *

Later in the day I'm sitting on BART, and the girls behind me are chattering nonstop about Mike, and how she missed him, and she can't believe that she'd even miss him, but she does. It's incredible how she misses him.

And oh, isn't that great?

And oh, not as great as you think (insert this overexuberant laugh).

But that is totally sweet.

Yeah, totally.

Did I mention a Californian accent, that is just a slightly watered down version of the Valley Girl? Don't forget the Californian accent.

Man, it is great. No wait, it's totally sweet. I can't decide which.

A day and a half later:

Ringing ears are no longer appreciated. Whether related or not, I've been feeling strange sensations from between my shoulder blades up to the base of my neck, and this plus the squishing where my head meets my neck gives me unpleasant swells of nausea. Since waking.

Upon visiting a pulmonary specialist a week ago, I have, once again, been diagnosed with being asthmatic. Only. Which increasingly had become less reassuring with previous and consecutive visits to the health clinic, but has finally put me at ease of mind. The downside is that I am pretty much susceptible to (or at least, in the past five months, which seems indicative of years to come) having my asthma triggered by bullshit.

This may strictly pertain to having spent time living in the city, but it's not the first city I've lived in full of exhaust fumes. And apparently I am allergic to much more than I have ever possibly imagined. Unsurprisingly. Either way, a good dosage of budesonide corticosteroid has me gag/phlegm/gasp/wheeze free. Since the day I started taking it. Considering that it's been nigh impossible for me to breathe like a normal person the past five months, this means a lot to me. I definitely do not take the act of breathing for granted.

It also means I can run around as much as possible. Being on-and-off, heavily-winded sick for five months can really turn muscle into cushion. I exaggerate, but barely.

Last night was toiling at the stove for a shot at real red beans and rice (+++++). I feel like I should have taken the celery and bell pepper out after frying and returning them closer to the end of the cooking time; they pretty much mushed into the sauce. But the flavor was great, and the texture otherwise excellent.

This morning? "Blueberry Boy Bait"/blueberry coffee cake (+++++). It tastes great, but I am never going to use two sticks of butter again. I light and airy crumb; it was "light" but more like an oily, airy sponge. Blah.

A-and Beginner's Bread, which worked up in a cinch but came out a little dense (+++++). This was entirely my fault, though, because I wasn't checking in on it when it rose. It's a lot warmer in my sister's apartment (especially with the gas stove/oven) than I'm accustomed to for baking yeast-included recipes, so the dough rose at a phenomenal rate. The crumb's stretched to hell and back, but it managed to maintain a healthy crust and decent texture. It's pretty plain bread, though, and you can make at least two loaves out of one packet of yeast, so I don't think I'll be likely to make it again any time soon, not without finagling with the ingredients.

After spending so many hours in the kitchen, I'm about ready to eat leftovers and lie down.

Electric Live

Twenty hours later and I still hear the residual ringing in my ear.

The Japanther show was awesome. Except for the obnoxious violent/superdrunk-moshing assholes of both sexes.

Also, Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson is an excellent book with ripping, violent style. Refreshing, after all this other reading I've been slogging through.

Goddamn the world is scary place

And quietly, almost under the radar due to cost, human hands hungry for godlike powers, tinkered away at pets. Look at the design. It's as slick as a Crate and Barrel catalogue.

Now, now. It is interesting that something like this could have stemmed from the mind of a person allergic to animals who'd longed for a pet as a child, but some of these things...well. I am a firm believer that people should not try to control the workings of nature on a basic level. Killing off something in the name of survival is one thing, be it organism or virus. But, y'know. Trying to control the weather, or messing around with DNA. Bad business. Not our business. It doesn't serve a real purpose, just a selfish one; it doesn't further our survival. As much as I enjoy the documentaries on the Discovery Channel on how scientists have found what bits of genetic information can bring back dinosaur attributes in birds (giving them teeth, scales, etc), it doesn't have any purpose other than to serve our curiosity.

Anyway. Non-allergenic pets. Great idea, as an idea, but expenses aside, c'mon. Don't we have better things to do with our time, more important issues affecting society than the need for a pet? I'm quite allergic to just about everything, but still. I'm not going to bend everyone to my will. Jesus, why do humans want to play god so badly?

They don't go into heavy detail, but it's all genetic modification. I mean, they were listed as one of the Best Inventions of 2006 by TIME magazine.

And you can even order a TITAN Family Protection Dog online! (It's a German Shepherd, by the way.) $85,000, guys. Only! Don't worry, they have finance options.

Don't forget the Ashera GD, which is a cross of domestic and wild cats for that leopard-like 30 lb cat.

They also try to promote their spaying and neutering of their "products" as a hand in preventing overpopulation. A thinly veiled attempt to distract us from the fact that they don't want everyone to really be able to own a pet, just buy one from them for outrageous prices for all the genetic bullshit. Otherwise, why not just let us breed them?

I get the hunch that to also cover their asses from possible and maybe even predicted backfiring in the future, they lack any printed material on their work. Much, much easier to erase a whole website, right?

I'm sure we all know one day that Build-a-Baby's will be the rage, beyond even what Gattaca envisions. I will be able to have blue-eyed, red haired babies with muscles of steel and hypersensitive hearing. Joyous.

Novocaine for the Soul

I found out a friend of mine shot himself in the head a few days ago.

I haven't wrapped my head around it. Mostly I want to know what weighed so heavily on him that he would do it...I can think of a few things leading up to it, but still...not him. It's pretty shocking, disquieting, sad. I haven't found tears. He's on the other side of the continent, it seems so far removed.

I've been to so many family funerals...this is the first time a friend of mine's died. I haven't worked out that he'll never be again. No chance of ever seeing him again, or talking to him, or running around.

That's it. No more Karl.

Some Great Comics (and otherwise)

More comic reading. I blaze through three or four the day I come back from the library with them. So of course I'm going to review them. Starting with the worst.

Heaven, LLC by Wayne Chinsang and Dave Crosland
You could say this is entertaining on a pretty base level. As indicated by the title, Heaven is a company where God is CEO, and a host of religious icons (the holy spirit, Satan, John the Baptist) are its board. God goes missing, "all Hell breaks loose," etc. All the gags are played off of the cynicism of today's society—I mean, the whole comic pretty much rides the wave of ridiculing religion by putting it in our modern environment, so really, I only finished it because I started it. No joke you haven't heard before.

Strangehaven, the trade paperback series (1–3) by Dave Gibbons
I bought the first volume many years back, and after first reading it didn't think much of it. But like most great sci-fi/mystery comics (I'm thinking especially The Silent Invasion, here, by Michael Cherkas and Larry Hancock), I needed to reread it to appreciate all the implications in the story. This is probably just a personal thing, the need to reread it.
Either way, this series pans out remarkably well, neither forcing cliffhangers between every scene, nor dragging out an encounter too long to bore the reader. Just enough time in each scene to get the sense of foreboding, raise questions, keep us interested. The third TP definitely lacked a little in the revelations had, but there are very few writers (and I'm referring to the good writers) that can make the end of a mystery as good as the suspense prior. I'm looking forward to the fourth book.

TEKKONKINKREET: Black & White by Taiyo Matsumoto
I saw the anime before finding this tome in the library, but it is every bit just as good as the movie. The biggest contrast, I think, isn't even in the storytelling—of course the anime had to pare it down to fit into a feature-length film, but kept the flavor—it's the artwork. The style in this book is amazing, thick black lines on white and heavily detailed. I especially love this book (and the movie) because it portrays a full, heavy story of intricate relationships without focusing on the easy fall-back of romance. There is, briefly, one woman in the comic of any consequence, but this is a story about the kind of deep love you have where romance and infatuation have no place. No sissy read, either.

The Left Bank Gang by Jason
I've read Sshhhh! and Hey, Wait..., which were both simple and excellent in evoking a certain mood. My favorite thing about Jason is his ability to easily replace one form with another; in Hey, Wait... stilts take the place of cars (though the character gets his father's permission to "drive" the car into the garage). In The Left Bank Gang, not only is the story centered around Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Zelda, and Ezra Pound...they are comic book artists instead of authors. There's some great commentary they make on other "comic book artists" (Tolstoy is one of them), and the struggle to make money on comics. And then there's the actual plot, which is great...this is a story best read and not gibbered about. By both those who love comics and literature alike.

I'm out of comics. Time to exchange.

Jon Reads

Considering I have been on the rocky road of recovery as far as drawing again is concerned, I have to post what little I've done today. Jon is reading. Shhhhh...

Gag me with a credit card and put me on layaway

A girl on Muni last night sitting behind us with her friend, on her phone:

"Oh wait, that's the party? Do I have to be invited?"

...

"Well, yeah. I know, I know Jaxton's going. ...Can you get me in?"

...

"A birthday party? ...Who is she? ...Well, can I just buy her a present or something?"

The Sweet Scent of Cat Fur

And what could she say she learned at the end of the day?

That there were exceptional creameries in the area that could put the taste of burnt banana on your tongue.

That toymakers were still striving to keep the spirit of imagination alive.

Jewelery could still equate art.

That a Sphynx's coat feels like warm suede, and they leave an affectionate amount of cat oil all over your fingertips.

Okay, yes...a champion purebred cat is an extraordinary creature that really does deserve all the talk they give it, and I'm not referring to any physical traits, here.

Sometimes it really is all the little trivial pieces of knowledge and experiences that make a day. Plus it was exceptionally warm and wonderful this weekend.

My eyes also finally arrived in the mail, so finishing the last leg of this crochet set will be a blast.

Specks of existence

If anything, outside their social flaw of destructive behaviour, human beings seem to be the primary operatives on their planet in bringing about the universe's tendency toward equilibrium.

It's a bit disappointing, considering all the struggle every other terran life form makes to break this norm.

I suppose we are merely a universal solution to the so-called obstacle of chaos brought about after the Big Bang (if you go for that sort of theory—bringers of the Apocalypse if seen otherwise). In this instance chaos (life on the planet) is neutralized by more chaos (our habit of destroying everything for the unsuccessful sake of avoiding the struggle of survival, which is the core of our existence in the first place).

Strangely enough, we have a say in the matter, and yet most of us tend to avoid making a decision at all, letting someone else do so for us from the start.

The Neverending Story

Tomorrow, again, I see the doctor.

Perhaps he will replace my entire respiratory system. Hell, I don't care if it's made out of Jell-O® and PVC pipes, so long as I can breathe like a fucking normal (not "average"—normal) human being again.

Farewell to Fatty

Little Fatty Fingers was given up to the San Francisco Animal Care and Control today. It was an extremely tough decision to make, especially when I have failed some previous pets in the past by my own ignorance or horrible circumstance (or both).

The thing is, I couldn't get around her biting. And if I wasn't so horribly allergic (fatally depending) on rodent bites, this wouldn't even be a thing. I'd do it myself and keep her. Bleeding and being bitten or scratched is not a big deal to me. On the other hand, anaphylactic shock is, especially when it pairs up with my asthma to cut off my breathing.

It was so frustrating, having her cheerfully sniff at my face and greet me with chattering, only to try just about every sort of advice given to have her bite my hands and fingers, my clothes (not a big deal), and really bite and tug/wrestle with any gloves I was wearing. At the very least, I gave her a good home where she socialized and learned how to enjoy the company of other rats, and at least came to understand that humans are friendly...the part of their body that breathes and blinks, at any rate. And the joy of good food (she never bit me if she was taking food from my fingers).

If anything, even though she's at the ACC, it is better than being at the pet store I found her in. So things can only look up for her. I am confident they will find her a home, and have time to make her friendly. It may sound like it's coming out of left field considering it's county work, but in California (or at least in San Francisco, and I believe in Lake County, as well), they actually take care of the animals that get brought there and work to get them adopted. My name was still in the database from when I adopted Rory, and they wanted to know Ursa's background history, diet, how she lived at home with me, her free time, and any other information. It's also reassuring to see that on their website they detail the personalities of the rats they already have for adoption, and that they were less tame when they'd first arrived.

Either way, I feel this is better all around, though reluctant to have to "give up" on Ursa. They spend much time with them, and I'm confident they'll help her overcome her biting issue, since I was unable to.

Cows!

These have been finished for a while, but I'm pretty slow at documentation because I don't enjoy it much (the positioning, lighting, photographing, image editing...). The red one is the first one made, which goes to my grandmother since she loves oxen, and I've been meaning to make her something related for years.

...I love the planning and conciseness of knitting, but damn is crochet great for making up 3-d patterns while in the process. I have that squid done, too, and more major plans in this vein of "amigurumi". ...There's also a blue oxen I finished today, available for any interested party.

More angles:






...The end!

Fiction and Open Letters

I skimmed through Padgett Powell's Edisto today, after it having sat on the shelf for a few years following college. Like most books I read for class, it tasted much better through a second reading without having to break down all the subtleties and meanings for the sake of an essay (for my own desire to analyze is an entirely different story).

It's hauntingly nostalgic to me, this boy playing an adult's game far too young to understand the full meaning behind each word he uses. One can't understand their own ignorance or innocence until it is overcome or lost, and then those two words have full meaning. A situation becomes clear.

Part of the reason why I enjoy it has to do with its setting in the Savannah coastside, but mostly somewhere it strikes a note from my own childhood that is so intimate a perspective on my past that I would never want to share it—not in a personal journal, anyway, so much as in another fictional work. I feel a lot of fiction stems from the author's need for honesty, honesty that is not accepted as an autobiography as it is in a story. The dark and the sorrow, and the secret joys we all share in what we know society at large disapproves.

And the boy reminds me of someone, I think it is you, Sean. At least, you at a fully-grown fourteen years old and writing poetry and declaring your wish to become an ex-patriot soon in the face of declining government.

You may pick up the book one day, perhaps sooner now that I have mentioned it, browse through it, and scoff. Roll your eyes, and maybe even go so far as to write me a scathing reply, or call me and hang up (speaking of fiction...speculation). Or maybe, somewhere, my thoughts aren't far off. I wonder how someone who comes across the book and somehow incidentally this entry will think of you, this otherwise perfect stranger in their world to whom I am writing.

No matter. I'm sure I've embarrassed the situation enough. Pavlov bath time.

On Details

I'm at my parents' house, riffling through a literal mountain range of papers in front of my mother's computer in a frantic search for some tax return documents that she hasn't had the time to find yet, but I need soon.

Pausing between stacks, I pull out the keyboard tray, which conveniently holds office supplies and not keyboard, to search for a rubber band to keep all the statements I've found so far together.

There, in the midst of pens and erasers, is an old Russ® Troll pencil-topper, barely taller than an inch, with its hair threaded into seven neat little braids.

Food and Thought

It's as if the past few months were rolling slowly by, frame by frame, tableau after tableau, following the kink in my hand as I rolled my wrist, every beat of the bee's wings.

And in the span of a few days, BLAM, it all catches up, blurring so fast my eyes are tearing as all hopes, plans, thoughts come colliding together, kaleidescope of life. Two jobs given me, delayed and prolonged for months suddenly need resolution, there is closure to questions long pondered and important, and oh yeah, that's where I placed my sex drive.

There is so much going on it is almost an insult not to be caught up in it, or affected by it, or at the very least aware of it. I have been zoned out for far too long, and now any small action seems unbelievably vibrant. There have been a multitude of ridiculous assaults in the area the past few days—five homeless men at church in accidental crossfire (one dead), a boy getting shot in a school bathroom, two men dead from a shooting after having an argument over pizza in the restaurant. And apparently a six year old brought two loaded guns to school today, having forgotten that he placed them in his backpack. Did I mention the apocalypse is occurring tomorrow? But none of this is really surprising in the long run.

And the Board of Supervisors approved a resolution to show their disapproval of China's treatment of Tibet when the Olympic torch gets passed through San Francisco. The Bay Area is pretty out there sometimes; freedom of speech and opinion is taken so seriously, which is at once both great and goofy. (Take a look at the position Berkeley took regarding the US Marines not too long ago, for example.)
Around here, people will respect you if you're a humbum who likes to pee on rocks in public, if that's what you tell them you do and like doing and have a right to do, goddammit. There is no better showcase of the responsiveness of local government versus national, versus globally over a situation (which is more akin to saying "duh" than anything else).

So I'm back in the land of the living, having been gone far too long recently believing that the occurrences around me define who I am and not the other way around, and the weight that I didn't realize I'd placed upon myself has lifted. Can I really be surprised that the majority of my respiratory problems have done away in the past two days? (Excluding the mistake of leaving claritin at the apartment while going to help catsit Boutros again, lovely, dandruffed Boutros.) I couldn't attribute it to spring, not all of it, with these bouts of frigid cold weather in brilliant sunshine that San Francisco is so famous for.

And making and finishing, there are little crocheted cows sitting in the apartment staring at me, possibly begging for documentation. So, no proof of my recent achievements for now, though there is much more on the way (sets and strange creatures and who knows what else); the miniature giant squid I made from some hand-dyed yarn is off in Atlanta with Jon, now that the latter has achieved nationally registered EMT status, leaving me with this giant slab of beef (and is it chuck or round) that I have no experience cooking with. At least, not to its potential.
Aside from the cheesesteak I made the other night, but slicing down any beef thin and keeping it in the pan just long enough to cook is always successful. It doesn't hurt to grill the onions in some bacon grease first, and add a good chunk of Velveeta after.

But much food has been made lately, including what surprisingly turned out to be the best loaf of banana bread I've ever made, which can only be attributed to chance. I have made it the same way nearly every time, so I can only guess it was that I hadn't let the butter sit out long enough to blend well and become gooey, making me add a lot more applesauce than I usually do (I never use eggs) and put the excess batter in the muffin tin. It tastes sinfully of bananas. A successful duplication will yield a recipe yet.

I finally visited my grandmother today after almost a month of not seeing her; I hadn't seen her since she was transferred from the hospital to rehab. She is amazingly well, and that again sealed my return to the human race.

There really has been an overwhelming amount of activity in my brain and my life quite lately, and in it are plans big and little, to do lists both mundane and fun, and thinking again in terms of improving the general quality of life, starting with mine.

And in accordance with that, I make chocolate pudding, browse a comic, then go straight to the third X-Men movie that I checked from the library (just so I can say I saw them all, as I'm pretty sure of what garbage I'm getting into...) while doing a bit of yarnwork.

But more on my desire to dye and spin roving later. And on this crochet project I have in mind. And this shirt I need to paint. And the ethics of "diy" shall we say regardless of its trend factor, and why I am technically an anarchist though I don't believe in its execution as a possibility, and so on...

Libraries and a Bevy of Comics

I didn't realize that my San Francisco library card I acquired and last used ten years ago had expired. I figured it worked under the same laws as a bank account, but considering that a library is a free service, I guess that makes sense.

Besides, now I have a nifty keychain card and a real card with artwork from some local student. Community participation is good.

Celebrating that, I immediately checked out a few comic books (and yarn books) yesterday and have already plowed through them. All of them excellent reads and worth recommending. In no particular order:

Dogs and Water by Anders Nilsen. I read an excerpt of this in some "best of" anthology, and was pretty frustrated when I couldn't find it in any libraries in Savannah (not that I really expected to find it there). This is a beautiful, dreamlike book about a man's wandering and the strange but familiar (realistic?) situations he encounters. It's like finding the end of a string and following its trail through an area you've heard of but never visited. If that makes sense.

Cinema Panopticum by Thomas Ott. Really detailed, creepy imagery of scratchboard style. Wordless, a stark, silent film on paper of a girl who finds herself at a carnival or fair, and watches a few coin-drop films with twisted endings. What really topped the book off was its ending, which makes you go right back and read it all over again to make sure you didn't miss anything.

Y: The Last Man by Brian K. Vaughan. This is an ongoing series, and it's probably one of the best ones I've read, recently and ever. In many ways it reminds me of Preacher, but not for its plot so much as its execution—plenty of danger and action to keep it fast-paced, but with a solid, original story supporting it. It's never boring: how can a story about the one man on earth surviving a world-wide epidemic of male extinction be boring?
There is some sexual commentary (of course), but there's a stronger emphasis on the effects this has on humanity both in the US and globally. Politics are involved. So is science. So is religion. It's the whole package deal. It leaves you wanting more.
Unfortunately I'm only on the 5th trade paperback. I think the 9th tb is already out.

Off Road by Sean Murphy. Basically, a few friends go off roading in a newly acquired jeep. And yes, that means goofy adventures and personalities, and hilarious situations. This is part-autobiography, with a punch of testosterone (and no chauvinism...at least, none in all seriousness). The meaning of friendship, the joy of really getting the most of your SUV, and a good dose of rednecks.
On a really nitpicking note, every one of the panels was carefully composed and executed for a particular effect. I think part of taking this to note is that I went to school with this guy, and it's interesting to have seen his work in class and now in book; the comic short at the end of this definitely struck a chord.

Damn, that's all. Time to get some more books.

The love of words and food

Five years after my ex-boyfriend gave me a slew of Vonnegut books, I finally get around to reading Slaughterhouse Five. I'm not going to go too blindingly into it, as I've found written book reviews increasingly boring and would rather not add to the mix, but it was as good a Vonnegut book as any other. Which is, to say, very entertaining in its candidness and seemingly random plot twists. The exploration of how insane the idea of war is comes across clearly without the preaching.

Moving on.

You know which word I absolutely love? Render. It's pleasing to the eye, rolls richly off the tongue with a slight growling clip. And it's so versatile!

You can render a work of art. You can render someone speechless—or even unconscious. You can render a service. Or a verdict. You can render the succulent fat off a roasting duck.

Speaking of rendering fat, I have decided that to improve the flavor of many a favored dish, one should cook it up in bacon grease. This excludes some items such as milk and cereal, but like the word render, bacon grease is super versatile. Use it to fry your cornbread, popovers, mix with spices and vinegar for dressing on wilted spinach salads, cook your vegetables, fry your eggs in it after you've made the bacon for breakfast.

Growing up in California, this was unheard of. The amounts of unspeakable fat waiting to enter your arteries was reason alone for never touching the stuff. Looking back, this wasn't exactly a hypocritical decision on my parents behalf—Country Crock was the spread of choice, rarely butter. It was substituted most of the time during cooking, too (though not baking).

Now that I've a little more exposure to the world at large—especially the world of cooking—I can make the conscious decision to stuff myself with buttery fats. Besides, fat will always be fat. I'll keep eating hot dogs and balogna down to a minimum, but there was a reason why people saved and cooked with things like bacon grease in the past: flavor, and to not waste a resource already available. They hadn't started squeezing the oils out of soybeans yet. You could be eating a scant head of cabbage for a meal, but doctor it up by softening it in smoky, salty fatback goodness.

Fat content aside, bacon grease is heavenly and is much better recycled into every day cooking than thrown away in a tin can or erroneously poured down the drain (which, by the way, should never be done because it'll clog the bejeezus out of your pipes just like it will your arteries when you eat it). I would say it's best in pan-made breads, vegetables, and vegetables. And almost all southern cooking.

I made a gravy of it last night for vegetables and rice, and it turned out delicious. If you feel the love of nutritional yeast, veggies, and bacon (optional), here's the recipe. (This was an eyeballed recipe, so make adjustments as you see fit):

• Fry three slices of bacon in a small pot or pan (Use more if you want a LOT of gravy). Remove the bacon and cut into small pieces. You can omit this step if you don't want bacon in your meal, but you'll need to have bacon fat already waiting for use.


• You can either pour the rendered fat into a container to cool while you fry, or let it cool after you remove the bacon. I would let it solidify again, to make sure of the temperature.


• Heat up the grease again on low heat. If you want a lot of gravy, make sure you have a lot of fat. You want it to melt and stay liquid, but not sizzle. Once it's melted again, pour in more milk than there is grease, but not so much that you have greasy milk. (You want enough milk so the grease floats on it, but it should not resemble a greasy milk soup.)


• Stir. Stirstirstir. Make sure the two liquids are pretty well combined.


• Start shaking in nutritional yeast when the mixture starts to simmer. Make sure it does not boil. Shake in as much yeast as you'd like the gravy to be thick. I made mine on the thinner side, since I cooked my vegetables in it.


• Stirstirstir. Add seasoning to taste. I gave mine a squirt of Bragg's, a little soy sauce, Tapatio hot sauce, and a dash of Mrs. Dash, salt, and ground pepper.


• If you plan on cooking vegetables in it, throw 'em in now. Cook till it's exactly how you'd like it. I had peas, corn, green beans, and garlic.


• Pour on rice. Or whatever you're eating.

Aa-and speaking of Tapatio, there's a lot to be said about this hot sauce that puts it above other hot sauces, at least in terms of cooking. But that's rambling for another post.

All my Senses Adapt Well Except for Sound...

Wrists? Eyes? WHO NEEDS 'EM?!

So another round of logo designs completed today. I won't lie and say I've been trying really hard the past few weeks, but I sure busted ass today, and staring at the monitor so long hurts. I should probably get an ergonomic seat, too, but some secret part in my brain is worried that this means I have officially given in to sitting behind the computer too much.

Perspective is such a funny fluctuating thing. Not so much facts.

Case in point:

My favorite personal pursuits are going to kill my hands, wrists, and eyes. Don't get me wrong, I value them greatly. But between the art and the yarncraft, the writing and the horrible computer-timed designing, the piano...I am on a one-way road to arthritisville. But look at the perks! Making things! Productivity! Aesthetics!

Who needs healthy joints and eyes? On the other hand, my body hurts. I guess most hobbies rely heavily on our eyes and hands, anyway, so I'm no special case. Is there yoga for eyes?

...Too bad I hate sports so much. I should really get into cock fighting and tap dancing instead.

Adventures in Yarn

I've discovered I enjoy giving away my projects as much as I enjoy making them, especially when it comes to yarncraft. For the most part it's an ongoing list of things to complete, whether by request or by the desire to create something which sooner than later is given away.

And besides, though I love the technicalities and work of knitting and crocheting, for the most part I'm fussy about the size of stitchwork (I prefer fabric with finer thread, a la cotton t-shirts). This is definitely an opinion that's changing, though, because it's nice to be able to make what you need, and I especially enjoy making things with yarn because they're useful.

Luckily I've managed to document a few recent things I've been working on/worked on, so without further ado, I give you...

Ground beef.


Actually, that's my first attempt at dyeing some merino wool yarn with generic kool-aid. It ended up much more subtle in shades of pale purple and pink:


I'm thinking of making it into an amigurumi "giant" squid in the coming days.



Also, a crocheted cookie coin purse. I'm thinking about making a few more with sprinkles and selling them. Acrylic yarn.

I also wish I had better photos of these armwarmers I made on commission, since it's hard to make out the cabling in the photos. Or is it? These were a lot of fun, and really comfy. I almost kept them, and when I was pretty sure I had to give them up, Jon almost kept them:



I would recommend Paton's Shetland Chunky yarn for scarves and hats and gloves because they're soft and warm and thick and knit up fast. And come in various colors. Plus, if you're slightly allergic to wool like I am, the low wool content gives it some warmth without being scratchy.

All that aside, my most recently finished project is a cell phone cozy my mom requested. Including a chain to wear it around her neck, and a loop to keep it shut:



Oink oink.

Art Students and General Idiocy

Yes, I was once an art student. I even, in what I sometimes consider general slogging-through-it, and at other times consider an extraordinary feat for myself, managed to graduate with a degree in art.

And I will not lie on this point. Art students suck. On the whole. I'm pretty sure I wasn't exempt from that category, either.

Actually, most people in college suck. Most people in college just graduated from high school, and through no fault of their own, but the fault of the system and generally "growing up", still maintain a high school attitude. This is because they find college a liberating experience, and consider themselves adult when they enter in.

Truth be told, college is just another, larger institution of learning (obviously). It's merely a bigger high school, with generally no curfews, and no parental supervision. You're given choices, and the consequences of your actions. This leads to frat houses and sororities, but really, who's to blame? Gotta shake out all those tail feathers before you bend over and start pulling weight in the name of paying bills and feeding the government swine. Have to get the crazy out of your system at some point, might as well be before you start suiting up for work. You know. Taste freedom so you can give it up.

Oh, but wait, where was I really going with this? Ah yes. Art students.

What really frustrates me about them to the point of no return is that for the most part, these are the sons and daughters of rich assholes who are told that if they want to inherit the family fortune, they have to major in something. And, y'know. Art. Pshaw. How can that possibly be a difficult major? It's a fucking hobby.

I was surrounded by these assholes. Maybe I'm just bitter and old, and give no leeway to people in a stage of development that I'd also undergone. Or maybe I merely have lost tolerance on people who lack exposure, and need to chill out.

On a lighter note, which prompted this train of thought...

My friend Nate came into town the other day, so Jon and I took him walking about downtown late that night and came across a brightly-lit building with large glass windows. We could see a bunch of kids hanging out in the colorful foyer and smoking outside the door in a group. It was bizarre, considering it was outside the ring of bars in the financial district and the Tenderloin.

Nate looked quizzically at us. "What is this place, a hostel?"

We had no idea. "That's what it looks like to me."

Curiosity prompted Nate to approach the group of smokers. "Hey, is this place a hostel?"

The whole hipster ring fell silent with the interruption. They looked at us, unsure what to make of our appearance. They they looked at each other uneasily, trying to designate by eye contact a speaker. Finally, a girl cleared her throat. "No, uh, actually this is a dorm."

Ah, it all made sense then. "Oh...for the Academy of Art college, right?" Of course.

She nodded a fraction, paused, then added awkwardly with the whole group still watching us as One, "Do you guys need to find a hostel?"

Jon laughed at this point, which gave way to embarrassment on her behalf. "No, but any of you guys have a cigarette?"

Spring is Here

And it is! I can tell when the cherry trees blossom, no matter how chilly it may feel the next day. The plants always know. It has rained a bit in the past two weeks, but this time the grass is actually soaking it up and keeping it; there are clumps of fresh greenery growing. In California, this says a lot, as much of the time it is dry, and the still-undeveloped park by my parents' house is more golden brown than anything the majority of the year. (This is a park full of trees, hills, deer, snakes, and mountain lions.)

Not to mention that we saw a great blue heron amidst the greenery on the path back to the car, just watching us out of the corner of its knowing eye. Unusual, being that we were a few miles inland, but not unlikely. I'm looking forward to thriving wildlife—ticks and mosquitoes excluded—and should probably head to Muir Woods in the near future before the rains really set in.

The Bear is settling in well with the other two, and has taken an interest to my presence. She's still a bit skittish, and though she hasn't tried to bite me again I also haven't given her a chance to, but she'll come right up to the door and sniff at me. And also stopped squeaking whenever I pick her up, so at least I don't have to worry about having to give her up to someone who isn't allergic to rat bites for taming her.

Also came across this music video the the artist Mika, which should be enjoyed by all:

Hallelujah, I'm Normal ™

I went to another doctor yesterday, to see what condition my condition was in. After some drawn out discussion about my visit last month, full of steroids and antibiotics, he assured me that I was a pretty ordinary person.

I can't explain exactly how much this means to me. After years of dealing with minor asthma, allergic reactions that I was mostly in control of, two bouts of pneumonia and several other intermittent respiratory illnesses (bronchitis, respiratory infection), it was nice to know that I wasn't in line for Serious Medical Attention. In fact, I was a pretty standard case of chronic asthma. I mean, being able to ride 115 miles on a bike day trip in between all that nonsense still counts for something, right?

It's reassuring to know that I'm not handicapped by this. That I'm not some sickly creature that's going to kick the bucket too soon, which has been a fear I wasn't ready to admit to in the past few years.

The older I get, the more I'm affected, is all. And I seriously suspect that the illegal denture factory below is giving my lungs plenty to react to, but with some Singulair I've managed to avoid needing a shock of albuterol this day so far.

Talk about relief.

I Wanna Go/I Don't Wanna Go

Sick sick sick...ish. My mother told me the other day how sorry she was that we didn't look into my asthma problem earlier in my childhood, and now I'm holding out on either getting health insurance via a new job, or getting a good estimate of how much it'll cost me and in what increments I'll have to pay in order to get a thorough respiratory-related examination.

Jumping from one doctor to another emergency room to another doctor and so forth, I don't have the most accurate records anymore. Not on paper, and much to memory, and it gets hard to breathe right now.

Of Exploding Cages and Rampaging Bears

The word of the moment is Dynamic. Unpredictable, even. Where you're kept on your toes!

It rained for the past two days, which has followed the fluctuations into spring to a "t". Spring starting in February, of course. Sunshine and walks through the Presidio trees and park to beach. The cherry blossoms have unfurled already, and their redolent sweet scent trails after us as we walk past. And then into rain.

Things have been mildly chaotic. The rat cage upended onto its side the other day, onto the floor. Shavings everywhere on the rug. A complete, irritating mess. We weren't in the apartment at the time, so the only explanation we've come up with is that there was a mild earthquake that shook them. Unless the rats were wrestling heavily, or ran so vigorously on the wheel that they shook the cage over the edge. Unlikely. Either way, a mess that really worked up my allergies—yes, I am allergic to the soaking of rat urine and the like, which makes the inhaler handy, and my delight in the rodents probably ridiculous.

And in conjunction with a relapse in breathing difficulties, of which the origin seems to stem from a different part of the respiratory system, I've been having much more fantastical dreams than usual (I often don't recall any at all the older I get).

In one, I was being chased, along with a friend that I can't place, in a green valley by a enormous grizzly bear. We both had packs on us, and were in such a panic trying to run to the trees in hopes of climbing one, that we didn't have time to slough off the extra weight. We made it as far as the younger trees bordering the forest with the bear close behind us before I woke up. If dreams carry meaning, I can only wonder at the point of this one, as I don't find bears creatures to fear, if not respect. Symbolically they're linked to instinct and initial phases of creation, along with medicine and nurturing. This page indicates that:

People with "Brown Bear Medicine" are considered by many as self sufficient, and would rather stand on their own 2 feet than rely on others. They are often considered "dreamers". Many have developed the skill of visualizing new things, but as a result can get caught up in the "dreaming" making little progress in "waking" reality.

...Maybe I am overwhelmed by the dreaming and need to wake up. I know how often I get too caught up in my ideas instead of actually making something out of it.

In other news, my grandmother has adapted to the finality of hospital life by relenting to dementia. It's relieving if only because it means she's no longer dwelling on discomfort and boredom, busying herself with the things that surround her. At points she'll become absorbed in an object, poking at it. Or an idea; she tried drinking both her fan, a closed carton of milk, and the table itself.

But she'll still sit and converse with us, if only in brief phrases. She recognizes us, and is glad to see us, and frankly that's all I care about. I plan on bringing in some big plastic knitting needles and yarn for her to preoccupy herself in our absence, as she's been hungrily eyeing the armwarmers I've been working on, and has taken to "knitting" objects out of instinct.

It is strange and extremely humbling to witness the stages of mortality, and understand them. I have been around my aunt and my grandfather when they were terminally ill, but as a child the impact wasn't as deep. There's the shame that comes from losing the language, too; Cantonese was my first spoken language, fluent. Though over time in all-American schools (starting preschool, where I still remember crying after my mother in bewilderment as people chatted to me in a foreign language—English), along my own stubborn nature, I can only speak minor phrases now.

There's still hope, since I can understand a good portion of Cantonese still, and often have dreams immersed in the language. I've been working on it a little at a time, and hope to have a real conversation with my grandmother soon.

Hopping Off the Train of Thought

It returns as a frustrating point to remind me of exactly what I was looking for in a dog when I got Pavlov, and how he cannot ever be, despite wanting to be, that dog. His condition makes it a commitment—and yes, I would go so far to say a burden—to take him out daily. If it's rainy or cold, he can't physically go for a walk because the elements are too much for him to handle, unless it's just outside to go to the bathroom. He was supposed to accompany me everywhere, barring work, all day everyday. Hiking, swimming, chasing squirrels, what have you. I mostly end up carrying him, unless we're not in a rush. Tonight I'll get to see his cheerful little pupface.

I catsat again for a friend/previous coworker this weekend on short notice. I enjoy petsitting for people, especially since I can't keep Pavlov with me at the moment. It's the aunt/uncle/"god"something syndrome. I get to spend time somewhere not in my temporary home and get to play with someone else's animals and keep them fat and happy for a time. If it weren't for all the money required that I currently lack—mostly regarding the abode itself, I'd like nothing better than to continuously foster animals in a home and find them owners.

This weekend was drawing with crayons and taking care of Boutros, keeping him full of insulin and food. Old cats need a lot of love. Mostly when they're lacking the cat companion they once had. He's become considerably more yowly since Nailah's been gone.

I love older animals because their lives are already shaped and colored by experiences. I suppose that's not as promising when you're trying to adopt and train one, depending on circumstance, but they've distinct personalities. There's some earning of trust and rights involved, and when another species actually chooses you to spend time with, it still doesn't fail to humble me.

Boutros is a cheerful, kneady cat, who likes to sit right beside you if he's not climbing onto your lap (claws out!) and spreading his greasy black fur out for petting. Spending time with him in the morning is best, as he sprawls in the sunbeams on the kitchen table while you make breakfast.

Speaking of breakfast, it horrifies me that few people know the simplest secret to making the perfect pancake. And here it is: do not grease or oil the pan. That's right. Unless, for some reason, you are in love with the oily, often fried-butter texture that comes with greasing the pan, leave it out. Even if it's a cast iron pan.

Why? Because the griddle turns liquid batter into a solid pancake. The part of the batter that touches the griddle loses its moisture first, which solidifies the bottom. I.E., the pancake is dried on the side touching the pan. You don't need grease to separate the cake from the pan, because when it is dry on the bottom (also known as golden-brown, and bubbling a little on the top), you simply scoop and flip it. Grease never comes into play. It will be steamy and soft and golden brown on both sides, moist in the middle and ready to soak up syrup.

I think I want to kill off my internet connection, too. I won't even admit exactly how much time a day I can waste behind it, because I don't want to face that fact. It's disgusting. When Jon and I catsat the internet was down in the house, and we ended up walking all over San Francisco creation. (Not that we don't do a lot of walking around anyway.) I also ended up—gasp—drawing and enjoying it. It's difficult because the internet is so convenient. And that's also a handicap in and of itself.

There's nothing in life I particularly regret, but the internet was a major crutch for me growing up, especially as I didn't relate to most of my peers very well. Or perhaps it was a heavy dosage of introversion. I devoted a lot of my time to online text roleplaying and the all but forgotten ICQ chat, of which friends I made through them helped shape me into the person I am today, and yes of which I love dear if not near, and regardless of how often (or rarely) we interact today.

It's so easy to want to jump back onto the RP wagon for me, though, considering my insatiable desire to write and make stories and weave them. At the same time, I'm not even sure if I'll enjoy it anymore. I've got a girl sitting on GarouMUSH, but now that I have her, I don't even know what to do with her. I'm beginning to think this should be a retired hobby; my introduction to the game was already thirteen years ago. And wow, that makes me feel old. I'm not as interested in lounging around so much as the story, and my lack of desire for conversation hinders progress on that end.

I should probably just turn off the computer for a while, as much as it is a resource for art and reference images and trivial knowledge (and I need it to do some work soon). It seems like all signs point that way.

The Year of the Rat

Chinese New Year, new beginnings, right? I guess there's no better, luckier way than to start it off with a new rat.

Which is funny in hindsight, considering I didn't want another rat, was not even tempted to get another rat. But I'm extremely glad I did pick her up, she who is already dubbed "Little Fatty Fingers", "The Fat One", "The Bear", or just play "Ursa". And why?

Well...

I'd been searching for a new rat cage for my duo for the past few months, but have never found something that was satisfying either in price or in size. I wanted something larger than the Ritz Coast Cage they're in...which is pretty tiny for two adult female rats, even if they're on the small size. And I'd been through various cages in the past to know what I could and couldn't or didn't want to use.

Craigslist is usually pretty helpful, but there seems to be an influx in little critter owners in the Bay Area, and most trying to get rid of gigantic cages that I don't even have the space for. Humor a long-time rodent owner, but finding the perfect rat cage is nigh impossible; really, building one is probably the best choice, especially if you have a lot of requirements. Cages actually made for rats usually don't accommodate more than two at a time if you're being generous. Other cages for chinchillas and ferrets work better, but they're usually much too big for someone who has to take size and space into consideration.

My requirements being that the base was smaller than 30"x18", but bigger than 20"x16", and taller than 24". If you actually look at a lot of rodent cages like me, you'll know that's pretty much impossible. I need something I can put on a small endtable and yet be big enough (I.E., tall enough and have enough shelves) to be roomy for two rats, especially rats that like to run on a wheel that will fit them comfortably while still having floor space. Not to mention collapsible so I can fit the thing into the shower when I need to wash it. And light. And with narrow enough bar spacing so that my girls can't get out unless I let them, which is usually the problem when considering ferret or chinchilla cages that are otherwise well sized.

Lo and behold, I found the perfect cage a few blocks over in what I swore was a run down aquarium type pet shop on the brink of Chinatown. I've passed this place so many times without even glancing in, just on the assumption that all they'd sell was some fish and maybe frogs and turtles.

Boy was I wrong. My cousins came up to see my grandmother, and while they were here we went to dinner next store to the pet store, which piqued one of my cousin's interest. I sort of brushed off her inquiry about it, since there probably wasn't much to see.

They actually carried the perfect cage to match my standards. All standards. And even better, I can't find it in production anymore (I checked online), probably because the construction is too cheap for the ferrets it was actually intended for. The bar spacing is narrow enough to hold even three week old babies, the cage collapses twice both flat and in half—I can turn it into a travel cage if I wanted—and it came with a ceramic dish and hammock and some silly jingle balls and ramps.

I'd visited the store three times to match measurements and such, and each time there I would notice this one hooded rat they had. Like any other pet store, they have many aquarium setups for their smaller rodents, and larger glass enclosures for the guinea pigs/chinchillas. What really got me was that the one rat they had was in a cage barely four times its size within the aquarium setup, of which the actual aquarium itself was full of dwarf hamsters and hamster tubes. A cage within a cage.

That poor girl; every time I came in she was just squished into a corner lying there looking miserable and bored. There was only enough space for her to walk a small circle if she even wanted to. I pointed her out to Jon today when we went to buy the cage, and after a while decided that if she was female—it was a large rat and I couldn't see its butt—, and if the storekeepers would give her to me for free, I would rescue her from her situation.

The nice thing about the internet is that Yelp.com exists, which has been extraordinarily helpful for me and Jon in the past few weeks to find good cheap food in the area, and also for me to look up this pet store the other day. I read some reviews where they'd throw in a rodent pet for free if you were buying a cage, and so I asked the girl who was helping me take the rat out (yes, it turned out to a nice big girl who was friendly if not confused and shy) if she'd ask the manager if I could have her for free.

And thankfully they did. A true rescue situation; I certainly wasn't interested in buying her. I just wanted to get her the hell out of that little cage. The owners seemed pleased that she was getting a real home, too. Whether or not they were just pleased that I threw down money on a new cage and wheel and was taking a little lonely food eater out of their hands was unclear, but everyone got to go home happy.

Little Fatty Fingers is already on good terms with her new roommates. I harbor no regrets now that there's a cage large enough for three, and I feel good that I probably gave that rat a nicer home than what she probably would have gotten into, considering that they obviously didn't get much rat owner traffic.

I feel good indeed.

Spots of Distraction

Finally restarted and finished reading Dune. This is a very complex, heavy book that I severely disliked the first time around; I picked it up on recommendation of just about every sci-fi geek who has an opinion. It is not a personal account story, and therefore requires a broader mindset to enjoy. It is epic, and you have to pay attention to what's going on in the story instead of glossing over the details to get the most out of it. The political, environmental, and personal depths this book explores is pretty amazing. You'd have to like reading about aspects of politics and environment to really enjoy it, from my experience.

Seaweed, by The Fruit Bats. This is a very gentle song that makes me feel comfortable and safe, if not a little melancholy. I would have missed hearing them if I didn't put on my friend Jordan's zombiecandy!radio, which I highly recommend. A great eclectic collection of music that is always welcome when I don't have specific songs I want to listen to.

Futurama, Futurama. I've always liked it better than The Simpsons. I think it's because it doesn't revolve around a family; I enjoy The Simpsons, but I'm not a big fan of cartoon family sitcoms. I find Family Guy more amusing than Simpsons, but only in a very flashy, American instant-gratification light. I think Futurama has better stories without making any always making pop culture references.

Batman, the animated series. The old one, the one that first came out before they made the stupid decision to water down the character designs and plots. When it was still extremely dark and creepy.

Teen Wolf. I can't believe this movie is actually as good as it is. I wanted to watch it for nostalgia purposes the other day, but I had forgotten that along with spots of hokeyness, it's actually a pretty well thought-out story with amusing characters. I miss the eighties.

The Jerk, and My Blue Heaven. I miss old comedies so much. Especially old comedies with Steve Martin in them. Aside from his own hilarious capers, the movies he finds himself in are both childhood favourites and a great blend of humor without dipping lecherously into Laurel-and-Hardy type slapstick. (No, I'm not much of a fan for slapstick, except when it's in cartoons for some reason.) The Three Amigos and Roxanne are two other Steve Martin movies I love.

I've also been reading and am nearly done with In the Land of the Grasshopper Song by Mary Ellicott Arnold and Mabel Reed. It's about the Klamath River Indian Country up in Northern California circa 1908-1909, as experienced by the authors who worked as field matrons. I forget if I acquired this book through a friend a few years back or while digging through the Blue House in Savannah after the co-op-esque house was sold to new owners and had all the tenants kicked out. Either way, it's a refreshing change of book that is a direct documentation of events that occurred through the eyes of the author. True to life, many situations have no closure, but are interesting to follow. Makes me really want to leave the city for a while, though, even though the culture of the land is long gone. I've been by Klamath Falls, and it's not exactly a great place to hang out. At the same time, when I was there I had to get off a train and hitchhike, along with a really horrible thunderstorm that rained down later on while we were stuck at a rest stop. Still...

Crocheting a little turtle for my neck. I have horrible asthma-related issues that crop up especially in cold weather, and sometimes a scarf just isn't effective enough or too fucking cumbersome to deal with.

Going to crochet a little bull cow for my grandma. She likes them oxen.

And another pair of armwarmers for someone...for pay! Again! Word. This will all keep me well distracted from other stress.

Oh yeah. And I should probably get back to my comics. I've been on hiatus way too long.

...And the Silence In Between

The past few weeks, the whole month of January has been a harrowing affair. It's here where the shortcomings of language make themselves obvious to me, to not be able to put into words even a hint of how feel.

And truth be told, I don't even know how I feel. Hollow, perhaps. As if a white-walled maze has suddenly been lowered around me, where the smell of fresh air and endless landscape still surrounds me, sits underfoot, but is unobtainable until I find my way to the exit.

I've truly lost track of time. The days bleed together at the edges almost seamlessly, in part because I'm only working a contract job at the moment on my own time, and simply because they aren't very different. My time has revolved around my grandmother, my own respiratory problems of which I'd been suffering greatly last week till a doctor's visit, and much less so my commission work.

Popo ("my grandmother") had a nasty fall sometime on the 3rd of January—presumably. Presumably, because my parents found her on the 5th when we came up to Chinatown for our at-least weekly visit in the bathroom, on the floor. In her old bedroom was a pool of blood, and on the right side of her head a horrific cut and bruise that in a horrifically comical way resembled the scar of Zuko, from the Avatar series.

My boyfriend and I were about twenty minutes behind my parents, so I only heard that "Popo had a fall," as my mom still feels the need to cover up the extent of emergency to me, and that I needed to come pick up some food to take to my sister's party that evening.

I did not expect to see my grandmother's street blocked by an ambulance. I did not expect to see how bruised and tired my grandma was, as two EMS workers hefted her into the back. A lot of screaming at honking traffic behind us ensued; Chinatown streets are notoriously one way, one lane.

It was horrifying the first few days at the hospital. She looked so small and helpless, especially with blood under her fingernails and eyes so small and questioning without glasses to frame them.
Popo is a stubborn woman, especially so at 92 years old. Stubborn enough to decide at first that she was ready to go. Dispensing bits of wisdom and trying to mentally parcel out her possessions to her grandchildren. Asking us why we wouldn't let them administer the pill or the shot that would end it all.

After a few days of heavy drug dosage and treatment, though, she pulled herself together and started to recuperate in anticipation of returning back to her apartment. And she made so much progress under the following week. Her bruise healed up, she went from IV feeding to nasty puree, to using the bathroom—the actual bathroom—to sitting up and feeding herself, conversing.

On my own end, from stress and weather, I started developing breathing/asthma related problems, which discouraged me from seeing her move from ER to the convalescent home just a block further away.

It may have been the bad turn she took wasn't due strictly to the inadequacy or unwillingness of staff, but they certainly didn't help alleviate or take much notice of the heavy coughing that developed in Popo her first night there, but a few days later she was back in ER because nobody took care of the fluid that built up again in her lungs.

I'd finally gone to the doctor by this point, slathering up my diet with helpful doses of prednisone (steroids, to help my breathing) and amoxicillin, and, well. It's clear the fight has gone out of her. In part, I'm sure, from the drugs, and the treatment they've been administering to help get the fluid out of her lungs.

Since I was sick and unable to visit at the time, my mother told me that my grandmother's recovery would be delayed. She did not tell me about the irregular heart rate that occurred in Popo the other night without warning, the one we recognize so well in movies to mean the end of the line.

But there's not really any conversation anymore. There is helping her use the commode. There is her fidgeting in bed, sleeping. Before she'd gone to the convalescent home, she was entirely coherent; her problems were physical and not mental. Now, I can't tell. I suspect a lot of it is caused by being doped up on medicine, but who knows, because I can't ask Popo point blank why she feels the way she does.

It feels very heavy in my gut. To top it off with a self-absorbed glance, the stress has delayed my cycles and today my period finally came, extremely painful in the abdomen.

The doctor, after finally being pressed by my mother for a realistic assessment told us that she would probably not make it beyond two weeks from now. I am not in denial of this possibility, but it was such a swift and drastic return from the progress I'd seen her make just a week ago. I would almost say that it feels like someone decided to mock my grandmother's attempt at recovery by giving us false hope, but this is not unnatural or unusual, setbacks. It's merely a way of life. All we have to rely on is the charts, as Popo is mostly resting. The charts say she grows weaker.

Perhaps she will get better; we tell her she'll still be going back home. I just wonder which meaning of home our reassurance implies. Now is the desire to remove the suffering, put at peace. Do Not Resuscitate.

The pit of my being aches something awful. I've been to many funerals, but these were either family further removed, or far back enough into my youth that the depths of a bond weren't realized enough. The depths of a bond that hold us together, that go beyond merely blood ties, of being woken up at 12am to be fed slices of bacon on toast, beyond a tight hug, or trips to Portsmouth Square to chase pigeons. The pure bond that makes a mockery of words, as I am doing so in writing.

Having lost the desire to eat, draw, knit, write, interact, smile. The days bleed further together because I can't even think, the past few weeks being more of a big blank, staring at the white walls of my mind if not focusing on my breathing, or mindless watching of Futurama and animated Batman to take my mind off taking my mind off.

Needing a peace of mind.

It's only January and already I feel like a champ

This is no easy task for me, to feel accomplished. For some reason I am maddeningly hard on myself as far as my talents or capabilities are concerned (I can generate dozens of boring theories here), and therefore already set myself up for failure on the branch.

Not so this time. I'm probably breaking cartons of eggs in the process of making an omelet, but who am I to complain? No New Year's resolutions (I'll make those when it's apparent there's no structure to my life), but some things I've concluded the past few months that I need to achieve:

• Learn to juggle: The only reason why I can't so far is I lacked both the confidence that I could master this, and the discipline. Speaking of which:


• Enforce self-discipline: This really only will improve if I work on my other goals


• Find a suitable martial art to practice: That discipline thing. Plus, the whole exercise thing. Along with other benefits, such as peace of mind


• Pursue printmaking: This is probably the most enjoyable medium for me, as I never get sick of actually working on prints (I have issues with all other mediums, it appears), or the results. Find a guild or such, take classes


• Bring closure to my dog situation: Pursue legal action. Thought I was going to just let you get away with it? Thought wrong!

There are other goals from obvious motives like improving my artwork to learning to unicycle, getting an apartment, maybe a steady job or make money off my own work; preferably both as one, et cetera, but these were the main ones I had in mind.

At least I've been making headway with the first. I went to the circus skillshare last night and in two short hours improved my juggling capabilities. This means my primitive knowledge of floating two balls constantly in the air jumped to being able to keep three balls going...kind of. Even if the majority of my time was spent chasing them or starting the sequence again; but still, I managed to keep them in rotation with a little jogging around. Pretty big difference.

And making headway in this design commission I have for a parking program. It's a lot more exciting than it sounds.

And, of course, still knitting and crocheting.

So far, so good.

On The Golden Compass

I remember when I first saw the website for this movie. I was itching for it to come out; I figured it would be at least as promising as Narnia in film (Lord of the Rings would be quite a stretch). Even with the themes thrown out, there were enough plot twists and characters for it to be a challenge to make entertaining, if not make sense.

Not to mention that the books (The Golden Compass being one of three) revolve around global themes. The books were written to explore ideas regarding humanity and religion, human conditions, which the main characer Lyra exists as a window for us to see it through. Not the other way around; it is not a "character" story, though the characters are well-developed and mature along the way. I had trouble understanding this when I first read the trilogy; I still enjoyed the books the first time as I followed the characters around, but I didn't realize what Pullman was trying to get across until the second reading--he made an extremely complex discussion of atheism, religion, and the flaws of mankind easily accessible and entertaining without missing a detail.

So of course, a story with such a broad message doesn't translate well into a movie. No matter how entertaining it was striving to be--the plot itself is so long, cramming it into two hours (less?) made it unappealing to me as someone who simply wants to see something entertaining. I know a lot of people enjoyed watching it, but at the same time everyone who's seen it who hasn't read the book seemed pretty confused about the point of the story. Even if it strayed as far away as possible from the whole religious theme of the book, I feel it could have easily been more focused and understandable.

Even having seen the movie for free, I feel like I wasn't getting my money's worth. Oh well, it's quite the task to do a good book justice as it is.

On Peace of Mind and Mortality

Popo (my grandmother) was found last Saturday in the bathroom on the floor; Saturdays are the days we always visit and have dinner, if not also other days of the week.

According to the medics she was probably lying there for at least a day. There was a pool of blood by the nightstand in the "guest" bedroom, which is really the bedroom that she used to share with my grandfather when he was still alive. There is a horribly huge bruise covering half her head.

We'd just come back from spending a week around Christmas in LA to visit my cousins (and her great-granddaughter, too), which was actually pretty relaxing in all. Or at least, it was relaxing on my end; my sister and I and Stonewall were lucky enough to stay with one cousin, leaving us neatly out of any drama circles that probably ensued in our absence.

I wonder, since Popo had just seen family and is obviously feeling her 91 years of age nowadays, if it was related at all. After seeing family all together and well, and being easily exhausted (we had just procured an assisted wheelchair before we left).

When I first saw her in the hospital she started dispensing the sort of wisdom you get from someone who doesn't expect to see another day. She looked extremely tired, and frail. I'm pretty sure her eyes were never that small before, even when she took her glasses off. Two IVs--one for blood. It was frightening--until my sister reminded me that seven years back when I started college (...Jesus, has it really been that long) she took a tumble down the stairs leading to her apartment, and ran through the same dialogue in the hospital.

That, and the doctors said she'd be back on her feet by sometime next week, latest. She's a pretty tough old lady.

Jon and I are moving in for a few months while he goes through his EMT course in the city, along with the fact that we want to move up there soon...and we'll be able to keep Popo company as well.

I would never bring this up in front of my mom, but I really wonder how much longer she's got. At the same time, I'd rather not think about it.