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.