I wonder sometimes about people. Seriously.
In the past month, I have received well over a dozen comments which have absolutely nothing to do with the post to which they are attached. No longer is junk mail relegated to my email in-box... now it is actively pursuing me!
Each contains a link to something entirely unrelated.... links to credit card rate information, appeals directing us to donate your used car to charity (a worthy cause, I'm sure, but just how does this pertain to the contents of my journal?), home improvement...
Each starts with a chatty little bit.. I just ran across your blog and it is great, I enjoyed visiting your blog, Hi there! Tiny icebreakers designed to disarm and put the recipient in a amicable state of mind, develop a positive attitude toward what is to follow: A blatant backlink stuck in the middle of a post and completely foreign to the topic.
I'm all for promotion, self- or otherwise, and I applaud those who gain those links through legitimate means. I use links to my sites in my forum posts; I attach them to the end of emails. But I don't pepper them into conversation where they don't belong ... .. how 'bout them Dodgers? Boy! when the topic is string theory or recipes for caramel fudge.
Blog-parasites: read the post, then comment pertaining to the post. If you have a link you wish to attach as part of a signature, that's great. That's fine. I don't mind at all contributing to your Alexa rating or Google PR. But please PLEASE don't couch the backlink in phony stuff. Don't tell me how great my blog is and that you're trying to get your own going but haven't got a clue how to get it to happen at my credit card info search cars for sale home improvement gaming addiction consumer advocate credit card marbles(!) data online... it looks bad, for everyone involved, and certainly doesn't lead me to want to click on a link to find out what's on the other end. (That link leads to the game website, by the way, not a place to improve your credit rating.)
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Friday, November 04, 2005
The Caretaker - Chapter 1 - Annie M.
Slender limbs lurched suddenly.
They always do, the caretaker thought to herself, as she settled into the comatose form and begin her ministrations. Even those in the deepest of sleep sensed the intrusion at some point and responded. Even those who had made prior arrangements. She busied herself with her checklist. Arms: intact, marginal muscle degradation. Legs: intact, sleep-diminished. Hands: intact, flexible. Feet: intact, weakened. Torso: intact, newly formed scar tissue above right ribcage. Head: intact, stabilized. Spine: intact, minor scoliosis. She completed the quick structural review and, finding nothing untoward, moved on to the integrative.
Physically there was nothing wrong with this form, she noted, except for the natural effects of 27 active years of life. She continued her travels, frowning to herself as she located and evaluated a lymph gland that appeared slightly discolored. Lungs: the alveoli showed marginal hardening in the lower right lobe. The woman had been exposed to second hand smoke. The caretaker sniffed slightly and winced, noting the tarry odor, then moved on to investigate the circulatory system. As she worked, she went over the chart in her mind.
Annie M. Deep coma since 14 July 1993 11:54 AM GMT, general anesthesia, during repairs to lower left leg as a result of auto collision. Runner. No history of drug use. No family history of heart conditions or diabetes. Weight proportional to height: 124, 5'8". No prior surgeries. Dental: full adult set, one emerging wisdom LL. BP: 115/64.
Annie had been riding in the passenger seat of a Toyota Corolla when the Metro bus had t-boned it in the middle of the intersection of Wilshire and Westwood, at 4:32 PM local time, sun boomeranging off the tall glass tower windows and into the windshield of the car. Her fiance' had been momentarily blinded and distracted. The nose of the car was just a bit too far into the intersection and the bus had swatted it like a mosquito on an arm. The car had leaped the curb and been pinned between the bus and a light standard. Annie's leg had bent just wrong, snapping the tibia in two places.
Annie had been a runner, before the accident. She'd prided herself in her early morning sojourns along the broad sandy expanses of beach south of Santa Monica pier, feet digging triangular indents as she sprinted to the wet sand where she would start her normal jog. South a mile then north two then south one and back to the parking lot and back to home. Rain or shine. She was in great shape and knew it, and her wardrobe showed it, a closet packed with the latest fashions and trendiest trends.
The caretaker wondered what had happened to the dark blue sweater and pale gray pleated blouse that Annie had been wearing when the ambulance brought her in. The matching slacks had been too damaged to salvage, cut away to access the injuries. She checked the property list idly and found them, then continued her review. All seemed to be in order. Well, as best order as one might expect for someone who had been comatose for so long.
She stationed herself behind Annie's cerebral cortex and settled in to work. As she flexed and extended each arm, finger, leg, toe, elbow, shoulder, she hummed a small tune to herself. Patients responded well to music, she had found. After ten minutes of limb and joint exercise, she opened Annie's eyes and surveyed the room. Annie's father inhaled sharply. Even though the man knew what to expect, a result of the caretaker's presence, it still seemed to catch him off guard each time.
Frank and Eleanor had arranged for the caretaker's services over a year ago, in an effort to bring their only daughter back to her life, despite the opinion in the general medical community that such services were unproven and at best marginally successful. Annie's primary physician, Dr V Singh, held forth that it could do no harm to try this approach and, with the best mixture of his Eastern upbringing and medical training, and West Los Angeles residency, stated they should 'go for it.'
"But will it break the coma? Will she wake up?" Frank had queried as his wife sat next to him on a narrow plaid-upholstered bench in the doctor's waiting room. She had fidgeted as he spoke, eyes pinned to the floor as she tore tissue after tissue into damp confetti with trembling frail hands.
"We can make no -" Dr Singh paused, searching for a delicate approach. "There are no guarantees, of course, with any approach we can take at this stage. A patient in coma may awaken at any moment or remain comatose indefinitely."
"Will she know what is happening?"
"We have little way of knowing if a patient can sense the presence of a caretaker, sir. We monitor activity through electroencephalography - at every step of the process, naturally, and the caretaker is bound to the same professional oaths as we take as physicians."
"I think we should agree, Frank," Eleanor whispered at the stack of torn tissue in her lap.
"Will our insurance cover this?" Frank scowled as he looked between the doctor in front of him and his wife at his side.
"You should call them before we begin," Singh stated matter-of-factly. "It is classified as an experimental procedure, even after all this time."
Frank sighed and nodded, then looked over at his wife.
"We should do this, Frank."
Frank nodded.
"Call your insurance company, and I'll make the arrangements." Dr Singh looked through the open door at the young woman's still form, then made a few quick notes on the chart propped in the holder next to the door.
The caretaker hummed as she closed Annie's eyes, checked off the minor exercise routine, then let herself out through the shell of Annie's left ear and vanished. Moments later she blinked her own eyes awake and rose from the day bed in her office, crossed to her desk and sat down. She ran her own hands through her own hair, pushing back a few locks of tousled auburn curls behind her own ears, then selected a pen from the cherry wood box before her and began to complete her notes and charts.
They always do, the caretaker thought to herself, as she settled into the comatose form and begin her ministrations. Even those in the deepest of sleep sensed the intrusion at some point and responded. Even those who had made prior arrangements. She busied herself with her checklist. Arms: intact, marginal muscle degradation. Legs: intact, sleep-diminished. Hands: intact, flexible. Feet: intact, weakened. Torso: intact, newly formed scar tissue above right ribcage. Head: intact, stabilized. Spine: intact, minor scoliosis. She completed the quick structural review and, finding nothing untoward, moved on to the integrative.
Physically there was nothing wrong with this form, she noted, except for the natural effects of 27 active years of life. She continued her travels, frowning to herself as she located and evaluated a lymph gland that appeared slightly discolored. Lungs: the alveoli showed marginal hardening in the lower right lobe. The woman had been exposed to second hand smoke. The caretaker sniffed slightly and winced, noting the tarry odor, then moved on to investigate the circulatory system. As she worked, she went over the chart in her mind.
Annie M. Deep coma since 14 July 1993 11:54 AM GMT, general anesthesia, during repairs to lower left leg as a result of auto collision. Runner. No history of drug use. No family history of heart conditions or diabetes. Weight proportional to height: 124, 5'8". No prior surgeries. Dental: full adult set, one emerging wisdom LL. BP: 115/64.
Annie had been riding in the passenger seat of a Toyota Corolla when the Metro bus had t-boned it in the middle of the intersection of Wilshire and Westwood, at 4:32 PM local time, sun boomeranging off the tall glass tower windows and into the windshield of the car. Her fiance' had been momentarily blinded and distracted. The nose of the car was just a bit too far into the intersection and the bus had swatted it like a mosquito on an arm. The car had leaped the curb and been pinned between the bus and a light standard. Annie's leg had bent just wrong, snapping the tibia in two places.
Annie had been a runner, before the accident. She'd prided herself in her early morning sojourns along the broad sandy expanses of beach south of Santa Monica pier, feet digging triangular indents as she sprinted to the wet sand where she would start her normal jog. South a mile then north two then south one and back to the parking lot and back to home. Rain or shine. She was in great shape and knew it, and her wardrobe showed it, a closet packed with the latest fashions and trendiest trends.
The caretaker wondered what had happened to the dark blue sweater and pale gray pleated blouse that Annie had been wearing when the ambulance brought her in. The matching slacks had been too damaged to salvage, cut away to access the injuries. She checked the property list idly and found them, then continued her review. All seemed to be in order. Well, as best order as one might expect for someone who had been comatose for so long.
She stationed herself behind Annie's cerebral cortex and settled in to work. As she flexed and extended each arm, finger, leg, toe, elbow, shoulder, she hummed a small tune to herself. Patients responded well to music, she had found. After ten minutes of limb and joint exercise, she opened Annie's eyes and surveyed the room. Annie's father inhaled sharply. Even though the man knew what to expect, a result of the caretaker's presence, it still seemed to catch him off guard each time.
Frank and Eleanor had arranged for the caretaker's services over a year ago, in an effort to bring their only daughter back to her life, despite the opinion in the general medical community that such services were unproven and at best marginally successful. Annie's primary physician, Dr V Singh, held forth that it could do no harm to try this approach and, with the best mixture of his Eastern upbringing and medical training, and West Los Angeles residency, stated they should 'go for it.'
"But will it break the coma? Will she wake up?" Frank had queried as his wife sat next to him on a narrow plaid-upholstered bench in the doctor's waiting room. She had fidgeted as he spoke, eyes pinned to the floor as she tore tissue after tissue into damp confetti with trembling frail hands.
"We can make no -" Dr Singh paused, searching for a delicate approach. "There are no guarantees, of course, with any approach we can take at this stage. A patient in coma may awaken at any moment or remain comatose indefinitely."
"Will she know what is happening?"
"We have little way of knowing if a patient can sense the presence of a caretaker, sir. We monitor activity through electroencephalography - at every step of the process, naturally, and the caretaker is bound to the same professional oaths as we take as physicians."
"I think we should agree, Frank," Eleanor whispered at the stack of torn tissue in her lap.
"Will our insurance cover this?" Frank scowled as he looked between the doctor in front of him and his wife at his side.
"You should call them before we begin," Singh stated matter-of-factly. "It is classified as an experimental procedure, even after all this time."
Frank sighed and nodded, then looked over at his wife.
"We should do this, Frank."
Frank nodded.
"Call your insurance company, and I'll make the arrangements." Dr Singh looked through the open door at the young woman's still form, then made a few quick notes on the chart propped in the holder next to the door.
The caretaker hummed as she closed Annie's eyes, checked off the minor exercise routine, then let herself out through the shell of Annie's left ear and vanished. Moments later she blinked her own eyes awake and rose from the day bed in her office, crossed to her desk and sat down. She ran her own hands through her own hair, pushing back a few locks of tousled auburn curls behind her own ears, then selected a pen from the cherry wood box before her and began to complete her notes and charts.
The Game, oh yes!
Legends of Karinth takes a few new twists today. Body parts, which have been in play for well over a year, now carry consequences when damaged. We've just started out with two - ambidexterity and eyesight - but that should be enough to definitely provide some testing to a character's response to it.
In a few minutes, we will have character-settable age at creation, advanced within the game only when the character chooses to set it (but never backwards).
In a few minutes more, new characters will automatically be included in a starting kingdom.. a protectorate actually, since Perry Region cannot belong to a kingdom as it is under the protection of Astria.
It feels so good to see progress being made once again, and the players are responding with extremely positive remarks.
-=-
Chapter 1 of The Caretaker should be ready today as well. Like any good story, I am not sure how it ends yet, even though I'm the one writing it. Stay tuned.
In a few minutes, we will have character-settable age at creation, advanced within the game only when the character chooses to set it (but never backwards).
In a few minutes more, new characters will automatically be included in a starting kingdom.. a protectorate actually, since Perry Region cannot belong to a kingdom as it is under the protection of Astria.
It feels so good to see progress being made once again, and the players are responding with extremely positive remarks.
-=-
Chapter 1 of The Caretaker should be ready today as well. Like any good story, I am not sure how it ends yet, even though I'm the one writing it. Stay tuned.
The Caretaker - A Caveat
(Strange but due to the way that blogs post in reverse chronological order, this tale may appear fragmented - I will be posting chapters as they are written, and perhaps someone who is blogfluent can inform me how to make them index into some semblance of order).
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Elegance, Endeavors and Education
A swirl of knots leads the eye from border to center and back several times in this Celtic knotwork design. Can you find the way through? Other decorative pillows are available in the same department, to fit many styles and ambiences.
-=-
A dear friend of mine is wrapped in the shrouds of permanent academia, while he awaits word back from his advisor on the first draft of his doctoral thesis on international economic law or international legal economics or some such. He's been working on this project steadily for several years, placing many other aspects of life on hold to focus his energies, eye on the goal. I'm proud of him, this dear friend of mine, though as I watch him struggle with this, I find my mind returning to a single rude question of "Why?!"
Not why get a doctorate in the field he has chosen. I'm sure it will be of great value to someone, someday for some reason. Not why pick that particular field. I can see international law and international economics remaining vastly important topics in the coming century.
No. My 'Why' is aimed at the method of starving portions of life in order to feed another. Why do people choose to cut themselves off from the vast rich dessert that is living, ignoring the banquet of possibilities, for indeterminate lengths of time. What does this achieve for them, aside from escalating misery?
I'm no hedonist - I do not exist for joy, nor have I studied enough philosophy or Greek masters of thought to have a clue what I'm talking about. I'm just talking from my own point of view (as opposed to someone else's - like his) and stating what seems obvious to me.
What happens if he gets all done with this degree, gets out into the working world and discovers he detests the field he's just spent this many years preparing to work within? What happens to the stacks of sheepskin that never get hung on walls because by the time a degree is completed, the rest of the world has saturated the field or made the need obsolete? What happens if Sue Somebody gets all these degrees finished, then discovers nobody needs a person with a PhD in Buttonhook Construction?
Education is critical. Don't get me wrong. I wish I had a lot more than I have, and I wish I could have afforded to go back several times over the last 35 years and get more! But, face it, folks - the path of education does not branch and break with ease, nor does it necessarily prepare people to walk it. I know I certainly wasn't prepared, when it came my time to move from high school to college. Nothing prepared me for the radical switch in mentalities, schedules, focal points, demands.
Not only was I not prepared to make the change into a self-disciplined educational environment, I wasn't prepared to make the choices which would lead to a successful degree in anything. Liberal Arts would have been the most logical (and to my thinking, least useful) at the time, and eventually I would have graduated with a broad education but an extremely shallow one.
So here's what I think. We should encourage folks to get to the end of high school, or whatever they're calling in these days. Then they should take the summer off, play by the pool, go camping until Labor Day. Then when it comes time to go to college, get a job in the field that interests them, spend some time seeing if it is indeed a field that interests them. Grow within the field for four years. Then go to college, knowing that they have a grounding in the field, a grounding in life, a better grasp of what they want to do.
This four-year period, for many from 18 to 22, is a bridge between the lands of academia and the churning waters of life. Once they have crossed the bridge, they are better prepared to tackle the rigors of a degree, and people who hire them later on will know that they have an applicant who has an awareness of life, not just 16 years of classrooms and homework.
Corporations could support this bridge period, by granting subsidized leave to employees to take a four-year degree. My company paid for me to take an intensely focused program, and for about six months I spent eight hours each Saturday in classes, and came out with an incredibly rich education as a result. They paid the tuition; I kept my full time job and spent my evenings (and some lunch hours) beating my head against a stack of homework that was daunting at times. But we both gained. Seriously, if I had attempted that rigorous of a training period before having ten years in corporate life, I would have failed quickly.
So that's my plan. It's too late to get my friend of the perpetual doctoral thesis shroud to higher ground and prepare him for the time when academia ceases to take up 99% of his life. It's not too late for many others to come.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Dogs, Distance and Despair
Cwn Annwn, the White Dog of the Underworld, stands guard over the gates to the afterlife and hunts the lands for souls in need of guidance, or so the rumor goes. One of the Celtic Animals collection, available on many gift and collectible items.
-=-
So there we were, marching along, down life's strange highway
Mud pack and gravel beneath scarred boot and twisted heel.
Nobody said it would be easy, and they were certainly right.
Biddlesby, complainer on behalf of us all, complained vociferously
At every step along the way - his boots hurt his feet - His feet hurt his legs -
His legs ached - The food was cold - There wasn't enough food on his plate -
Someone at the back shouted forward, "Stuff a sock in it!"
"My socks are wet!" Biddlesby grumbled back,
and on we went, hour in hour out, with Biddlesby chanting out our plight.
"Where are we going?" a young scruffy-haired youth to my left wanted to know.
His companion just shrugged; he had no more clue than the rest of us,
But in rhythm we marched, lockstep lockstep lockstep
Until the sheer cadence drove some mad.
Left right left right yer-left yer-right and full of spite,
and on we went, day in day out, with Biddlesby chanting out our plight.
"What are we doing?" one young lad moaned, as the man behind him pushed him forward.
We turned our collective heads and stared at him in disbelief.
"This is what we do!" a grizzled man near the front barked back.
This is what we do.
We march on, up down uphill downhill, left right left right yer-left yer-right and full of spite
and on we went, year in year out, with Biddlesby chanting out our plight.
A boy joined us one winter, ragtag confused, hardly dressed for the task.
"Who are you people and what are you doing!?" the poor boy whined as on we marched.
We formed ranks around him as we marched along and took a bit of time to get him prepared
Still on we marched, day night dayin dayout uphill downhill, left right yer-left yer-right and full of spite
and on we went, life in life out, with Biddlesby chanting out our plight.
We paused.
All were confused.
The place was gone or was it ever there?
We stopped.
Biddlesby fretted at the top of his lungs
"Aren't we EVER gonna get DONE!? I was supposed to RETIRE at age 62!"
Then back we turned and back we marched
Life death lifetimes deathtimes day night up down uphill downhill left right yer-left yer-right and full of spite
and on we went, life in life out, with Biddlesby chanting out our plight.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Celebrate, Cats and Captives
Traditional and contemporary Celtic crosses mingle in this collection of ovals and circles on gifts for all seasons. We have colors for every decor and theme, and more are added in weekly.
-=-
My cat sings. I swear it.
This evening, as I was in here in the office working on a few little designs for the upcoming weekend's posting, I heard a soft whirring sound from the other room. Not purring, not meowing in the traditional sense. Whirring. I stood up to investigate. When I rounded the corner to where I could see into the living room, I spotted Chatterbox perched up on the dining room table, staring into a shadowy recess.
A rather large miller moth had escaped to the darkness, and Chatterbox was singing up at it as if to entice it from the safety of its perch. The moth danced outward a few times, circling far overhead. Chatterbox watched with the wary eyes of a trained hunter following its prey through the tangles of the jungles, then leaped three feet into the air, swatting at the elusive beast. It escaped, and both resumed their positions of wary observation.
I watched from the doorway, doing my best not to startle either hunter nor prey. From this vantage point, I could see the moth clearly and had a pretty fair view of Chatterbox's back. The whirring commenced yet again. Definitely the cat. She whirred; the moth moved slightly. She stopped and the moth stopped. Remarkable and impressive.
I backed away quietly and returned to my office, ears tuned for the periodic whirring. After about ten minutes I was rewarded with a loud crash and thud as something from the table bit the dust. Chatterbox raced in at just under the speed of light, dashing from the living room, through the office and into 'her' room at the back of the house.
I found no signs of the moth, though careful examination of the dining room table did reveal a rather disturbing evidence of wing dust.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Beliefs, Balance and Bathroom Scales
Give this powerful affirmation to someone special, as a firm yet gentle encouraging statement. Believe in yourself and all shall come to you. Believe in yourself and your ability is endless. Soft woodgrain effect with surrounding engravings.
-=-
Balance and bathroom scales. Sounds like they would go hand in hand, doesn't it? Perhaps with a little helping hand rested on the laundry room counter to keep steady while perching atop the digital telltale heart, minstrel of woe, glaring up from the floor and whispering in accusatory tones.
The scales scry deep within the conscience, keeping silent tallies of muffin misdeeds and privately consumed pizza. The midnight handful of caramel popcorn is reflected from ground level with the quiet smirk that only an electronic device can muster. Chicken nuggets for lunch, you say? Hah! it scoffs. We'll not talk about the filched fork full of lemon-lime cheesecake purloined from your lunch companion's plate while she was in the powder room -- or will we? The scale tells all.
Not only does it tell all, I swear it broadcasts it from the rooftops. Nay, the very Internet itself, as if it has a hidden TCP/IP connection lurking beneath its home decor-friendly beige and wood grain plastic cover and is at this very moment sending my exact weight and BMI to e-diets.com. Fiendish beast.
To make matters worse, it is infuriatingly accurate and without the slightest bit of tact. It doesn't think to itself, 'Oh, she's had a bad day, so I'll soft-pedal the news just a bit.' It never ponders that that celebratory chocolate chip cupcake that I accepted at an afternoon party was only taken to soothe the feelings of the small child who offered it to me, nor does it adjust its feedback accordingly.
I suppose the upside of things is that it doesn't gloat. Much.
The Syndicate Strikes!
I think I have this syndication thing figured out, so I'm adding it with this post. Let me know if this works, someone!
Affirmations, Aspirations and Astringents
Affirmations designed to bring strength to the soul and a firm nod to the ability to do the impossible. Keep your Balance (shown here), Believe in Yourself, Celebrate your Difference, Trust your Instincts - each on a variety of home decor items and gifts, additions to your collection of keepsakes. These are fine presents to have on hand for just the right moment when a statement is needed for a friend: Believe in Yourself.
-=-
A few months ago, a friend of mine declared that he was chucking everything for a few years to write the Great American Novel. I wished him well, but what do you think? Do we have enough Great American Novels, or has that measure gone with the turn of the century or with the death of James Michener? Do you harken back to the Great American Novels we all had to read in high school, then shudder at the thought of someone adding to those musty stacks?
While I find it commendable that someone would take on this task as a personal dream, and get paid for it (grants!), I admit to a modicum of envy. Why can't I get paid to take off work for three years and READ the Great American Novel?
I've been an avid reader since I was a kid. It was not unusual for me to haul home as many library books as I could carry the distance from the library to our house, read them as fast as possible, then return for more within a few days. It served to broaden my education and viewpoint of the world, the outer worlds and inner dreams, trials of mankind. I seem to recall one librarian being seriously concerned about my eclectic selections and visit frequency. If there were no books left between trips, I would reread the ones I had just read. Card carrying readaholic, and there is no 12-step program or cure.
I've tried my hand at writing, even produced a handful of outlines for books that I would love to read if they were written. Invariably I get sidetracked into the minutiae and nothing more comes of it. Poetry is something I can write all day long, and have.
But, truth be told, my writing muse longs to dwell in the long shadows of such giants as Erma Bombeck, Peg Bracken, Andy Rooney, Bennett Cerf, Mark Twain, Dorothy Parker, Mary Roach, Dave Barry. Quick of wit, deft of phrase, sharp of tongue, inept of screwdriver. They revel in the peril of the everyday life. These monumental minds turn an overflowing sewage tank into a rollicking tales, with heroes and villains and missing goldfish. They take the daily misadventures of life and make them into sweet-and-sour treats. I wish I could turn a phrase with such an adept wit. That's what I want to do when I grow up! Heck with the Great American Novel. I'll settle for Great American Hilarity.
I wonder if I should tell my friend that, if he wishes to write the Great American Novel, he'd best pack his bags and move from the UK to the US... he is British, after all.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Alphabets, Epiphanies and Cutting Boards
Celtic alphabets appear to be engraved in stone of several kinds, from granite (shown here) to marbles of various colors. I've used one of my favorite fonts of all time, Patrick, which to me is the most evocative of Celtic tradition and tones. Available on pillows, prints, tiles, boxes and mugs - but if you want it on something else, all you need to do is say the word.
-=-
Once in awhile, I'll have a flash of inspiration that is usually accompanied by that special 'DOH' feeling, as in 'why didn't I think of this years ago!' One of those hit me this morning while I was struggling to wrap my arthritic hands around the lid of a pickle jar. Mind you, this flash had absolutely nothing with opening difficult jars - if I have a tough time with one, I take the logical route and toss it to my dearly beloved, who can open the toughest jar with a flick of his wrist. If he's not around, I take the next logical step and thwap the jar on the floor until the lid loosens or the jar breaks.
No. This was an entirely separate epiphany, and it focused on getting the last holdout coffee grounds out of these newfangled cans with the dopey rims. Twist and turn, stand it on edge, shake it like mad, and at least an eighth of a cup (1/6th of a pot of coffee!) will remain inside. I am the consummate pack rat, and I just know that someday I will need 3517 coffee cans, so I always hesitate to wreck the top by hacksawing it off just to get that last bit of grounds out. Buying whole bean is too logical. So that's out.
A few days ago, I received an order from a catalog company, including four flexible cutting boards. One for meat, one for fish, one for onion, one for something else. I fished them out of the precious storage spot where they'd landed on arrival and been promptly ignored, tore open the package and bent one experimentally. Perfect. I advanced warily on the recalcitrant coffee can, quiet as I could so as not to alert it into further defense mechanisms. Curled up the yellow board into a coffee can opening size tube, and attacked, sticking the curled board down its metallic throat and tapping it gently into place. Upended the whole affair, and out came all the stuck coffee grounds!
Needless to say, the yellow board is now known as the 'one for coffee' and occupies an honored spot in my coffee corner, right next to the stack of empty (!) coffee cans that I know I will need someday.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Pioghaid and Feng Shui
Celtic animals are gathered and painted with brilliant colors, reflecting traditional Celtic symbols and updating into a more contemporary presentation. Pioghaid the Magpie (shown here) is joined by Coileach the Peacock, Cwn Annwyn the Dog of the Underworld, Caoit the Cat, Corr the Crane, Eas-Ganu the Eel, Payshtha the Dragon, and Beli the Eagle upon prints, pillows, mugs, tiles and boxes, and other gift items.
-=-
Several years ago, I bought a curly bamboo plant. Actually it was a stick, green and curved back on itself in two places. It had no leaves, no roots, no particular signs of life, except that it was green. Along with this came Feng Shui instructions which read, roughly, put the uncurly end in water and keep both ends very carefully out of direct sunlight. So I did. For about two years, I kept the uncurly end submersed in fresh water in a sturdy wine carafe on top of the entertainment center, which is about as far from direct sunlight as it could be placed. About two months after it arrived, it sprouted a leaf. A tiny teeny little green leaf. We were thrilled, and figured our Feng Shui operation was well on its way. Like good followers of instruction leaflets, we positioned it appropriately and added water every few days, so that its little feet would never dry out. It spouted thin tendrils of roots which curled up inside the carafe bottom. All was good.
Several months later, it sprouted a second leaf. A few months after that, it sprouted a third. We figured this was the way of Zen life. Slow journey and all. We kept it watered, kept it out of direct sunlight, kept its feet wet, etc etc etc.
I'm no Feng Shui guru, and I'm just as likely to align a stack of outdated People magazines to the east-west as north-south, or northeast-southwest, with no regard whatsoever to the balance of the universe, and my luck and riches are as equally unlikely to change as a result. Feng Shui may work quite well for some folks who are better attuned to the balance of the universe. Personally, even though I try to be sensitive to the balance of the universe, usually our clutter bunker is more attuned to Flung Shui (tentative credit given to a cartoon on my fridge door).
We have no mirrors in the bedroom (apparently a Feng Shui no-no). I wish I could claim this was a purposeful act to keep evil spirits from sliding under the bathroom door. But frankly it's only because the one mirror we did have in the bedroom fell out of its moorings one night and hit the floor, scaring the cat. Our luck and riches did not change as a result, but the cat developed a great fear of falling plates of reflective glass. We did the math: Seven years of bad luck in the face of eight remaining lives, and figured that we wouldn't risk 56 years of terror for the poor thing, and never replaced the bedroom mirror.
The curly bamboo is supposed to bring great luck and riches. Well, that may very well be the case, but from its perch up on top of the entertainment center, I think it was more occupied with listening to Law & Order episodes and waving its few tiny leaves to the tunes of the theme of Gilmore Girls. In any event, not much changed until the day the cat discovered its location.
Even though she'd seen this thing up on top of the entertainment center every day for several years, all of a sudden she felt some catly urge to reach it and chew on its tiny few leaves. She's a clever cat, but the entertainment center stands about five feet high, is covered with stacks of video tapes, cassette tape boxes, miniature cars courtesy of Readers Digest Select Editions, owls holding incense, owls holding keychains, owls holding nothing, and a lava lamp (don't ask). There is just no room for a cat unless something sacrifices its position to four paws and a zooming tail. The owl holding the incense nobly gave up and bit the dust first. Moments later, keychain owl chose to join incense owl in a heroic demise. That was about the time I peeked around the corner from the office to see Chatterbox standing up on the top of a side table and batting things out of her way in order to reach the bamboo.
How'd I know she was aiming at the bamboo? It was cowering from her. Tiny wee leaves atremble, this poor plant was leaning backwards in a futile attempt to avoid impending doom! Well, ok, maybe not. But it was tilted back at an angle that would indicate it was about to follow keychain owl and incense owl into plunging death. I grabbed it from the top of the entertainment center and bad-kittied Chatterbox down from her attack point. After I retrieved the two owls and restored them to their rightful spots, as outlined by the bare spaces in the dust, I grabbed Chatterbox and gently deposited her out of range.
Without thinking about the 'keep out of direct sunlight' edict in the instruction pamphlet, I carried the bamboo to the kitchen and set it in the one place I was relatively sure Chatterbox would not attempt to attack it: near a big threatening white Kitchen Aid mixer. It just so happens that the mixer is right next to the window with its lovely southern exposure and view of the behind-us neighbors and their yard.
About two days later, I noticed that the few tiny leaves had grown to larger leaves, and were being joined by two more small leaves. Within a few more days, the leaf count was up to eight and all were turning beautifully into the sunlight. Within another week, those leaves were doing so wonderfully that even more had started to show up, as did a check for $5000 which I had thought I would never see.
Based on this, I now believe that curly bamboo likes sunlight, the directer the better, and may even contribute to luck and riches. In fact, I get the sneaking suspicion that if I had just moved it there a few years ago, that check might have arrived when it was expected, instead of being nearly three years late...
Chatterbox has since lost interest in plant life for the time being, now that the bamboo is being guarded by the big evil loud threatening Kitchen Aid mixer (which is only evil and loud when it is turned on to make bread, a winter-season event), and has taken up the fine art of de-crochet, best defined as the art of persistently unraveling and eating a handmade green afghan. She's still working on the fringe on one side, but has managed to consume most of that and is now eyeing the other side's loose threads.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Autumn Leaves
The most subtle memories of summer linger in the outlines of autumn leaves, their colors just a simple whisper. These leaves will linger long after the season passes, and there's no need to rake them up or set the kids to shoveling them out from under the hedge.
-=-
A friend of mine likens autumn to a state of incredible transition. Harvests are tended, sometimes for the last time until a field goes fallow. Homesteads are secured, storm windows are hung. Rain gutters are tested for leaks, to stand ready for the winter. With a last sigh, we stow swimsuits and light linen outfits and check our closets for wool and heavy flannel. It is a transitional state of the year, and some find it a comfort. Some find it a pain in the tush.
This same friend hates cold weather. She would like nothing more than to hibernate from Labor Day until Memorial weekend, and would if she could. But since she cannot (they'd probably miss her at work), she busies herself with preparations, as if the shortening of the days spells impending doom. She hauls out quilts and fluffs them as if her life depends on it. She frets that her furnace will fail. She obsesses over fall outfits. She panics if she doesn't have appropriate matching purses to go with this season's warm boots. Her coats will be the latest and greatest available for the utmost warmth possible, the newest materials on the market.
Now, this would make perfect sense if we happened to live in a place like Fairbanks, Alaska or even upstate New York, where the change of seasons is marked with falling leaves, falling snow, icy sidewalks and slush up to our ankles. But she lives in the desert. (So do I - about three blocks away.) She's lived here about 18 years; I've been here about 20. We both know what the desert winter will be like, but some of us panic more than others.
It might have gotten down to 60 degrees Fahrenheit last night. Dreadfully miserable winter is upon us.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Calendars and Long-Ago Children
The Spirit of Shells Calendar for 2006 is now available (shown here), along with the Celtic County, Celtic Animals (both individually and as a collection), and Crosses and Knots. Keeping track of important dates is easy when you have 12 months of your favorite interest to look at. Our high-quality calendar has oversized date boxes providing plenty of room to write in important events. Each features full bleed dynamic color on 100 lb text weight high gloss paper. We're pleased, and are sure you will be as well.
-=-
While I was searching for ideas on the designs for the calendar, I happened to stumble across a collection of clip art I had purchased many years ago. Somehow it had gotten shoved to one side and fallen down between the back of two shelves, where it seems to have hibernated for about a dozen years. I blew off a few years' worth of dust and thumbed through the pages, rekindling old memories as bookmarks fell loose during my travel.
One page in particular caught my eye and brought back a racing tidal wave of memories. The bookmark which I'd pushed in place had St 94 scribbled on its top. I can't remember what that stood for, but I do remember what why I gravitated toward one particular design.
The artwork is that of a small child, looking down with a soft expression on her face. There is just enough of a quirk to the smile to hint of mischief or merriment, but not enough to mistake the look for joy. Her long hair curls over thin shoulders, and she has the most amazing eyelashes. And now I recall why I did not use the design at the time. Cherubic as this tiny creature seemed to be, she bears the most uncanny resemblance to my youngest stepdaughter at about the age of 12.
I could not bring myself to use the spittin' image of my stepdaughter's face in an environment geared toward bringing attention to the plight of missing children. (The project itself went on to gain wide national attention.)
I chose instead a pair of reaching hands, sketched and anonymous, but poignant in their meaning and presentation. But I recall that, at the time, I kept returning to that particular tiny bit of artwork and staring, wondering where my stepdaughter has gone, so many years ago.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Wee Mousie, Wee Mousie
Finally finally finally, things are getting back on track. The Wee Mousie series (Teapot Mouse shown above) is added to Celtic Elegance. Several other Fall season designs are added this week as well, and our contributions toward the disaster recovery continue to grow as well.
-=-
in other news
A tribute to The Way Things Were and Still Should Be: Late in 1978, my husband and I bought a microwave oven. It was huge, came in a box that could house half of Van Nuys, weighed as much as a small Chevy, and came with a instruction manual that was worthy of most supercomputers of the day. We plugged it in, and it worked. It was an incredible device for us at the time, and we created a shrine for it above and to one side of the stove. Neither of us was particular sure what to do with it, as we were both quite comfortable with cooktop and oven food preparation and eating. (Well, not quite true. He cooked, not I - I didn't really learn how to cook for fewer than 11 people until I was well into my 40s.) Eventually we figured it out, and eventually the incredible device became part of our daily routine. As nuke fare got up to speed, the device eventually replaced nearly all cooking on stove, although the oven still remained in use.
Best I can guess, this microwave has been run at least twice a day every day for 27 years, except the very brief times we've been on vacation. It has been spattered, splattered, kicked once, dropped once (onto a soft surface). It has been tinkered with inadvertently. The plug-in thermometer vanished in 1984, thanks to an exploratory grandchild. Its inner surfaces have been subjected to cleaning products both mild and abrasive, despite the cautionary tone of the voluminous manual.
Last night it made a loud growling noise.
My husband and I looked at each other in surprise. It has never made any noise before, except the monotonic whirring that it always makes when the heavy glass turntable is spinning. Well, it did once, when someone whose name shall be left out to protect his privacy, when that someone chose to microwave a bowl of clay "just to see what would happen". It uttered a howl and spat forth a shower of sparks worthy of a blacksmith's anvil in protest of this mistreatment. The clay coated the innards of the cavity, and that someone got to clean it up because his wife (me) refused to do so.
But last night it made a loud growling noise. We silently prepared our requiems to the Ancient Microwave. We glanced at the stack of Consumer Reports, trying to remember which issue had the comparative study and Best Buy flags on microwaves. We mentally counted our nickels and dimes, resigned to replacing the venerable beast.
Then it stopped growling and went back to work, finished cooking the nukeable dinner, and went back to whatever microwave ovens do when they're not microwaving. It worked just fine this morning for breakfast and again just fine for lunch. No growling.
Perhaps it just wanted to remind us that it was there, serving us in relative silence, several times a day for 27 years.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
A Brief Message for Listeners
Prepare for spam and hopefully not too many duplicate alerts in your watcher software, feeds, RSS reader and the like. I have discovered that the way to get prior posts over from my old home is to copy them, change the dates to their original publication date, and paste them over here. This is bound to generate problems for some of you, and for that I apologize in advance. I promise that new posts will resume very shortly.
For those of you who followed my blog while it was at Bravenet, double apologies. These may be things you've read before, and I'm starting from the earliest (Jan 2005) and moving forward. Again, I will be back on track with the Perils of Pauline.. err.. ponderings of the game design as soon as I get these old musings copied over.
Oh, and a bit of new news for everyone - old reader and newcomer alike. We've actually sold our first Katrina disaster relief object! While this may not seem like an earth-shattering event, it is to us, considering we are just one small corner of the universe trying to raise funds to help those displaced by this catastrophe. Our proceeds for this sale will go to Habitat for Humanity.
We now return you to your previously scheduled archival spam.
Fern
For those of you who followed my blog while it was at Bravenet, double apologies. These may be things you've read before, and I'm starting from the earliest (Jan 2005) and moving forward. Again, I will be back on track with the Perils of Pauline.. err.. ponderings of the game design as soon as I get these old musings copied over.
Oh, and a bit of new news for everyone - old reader and newcomer alike. We've actually sold our first Katrina disaster relief object! While this may not seem like an earth-shattering event, it is to us, considering we are just one small corner of the universe trying to raise funds to help those displaced by this catastrophe. Our proceeds for this sale will go to Habitat for Humanity.
We now return you to your previously scheduled archival spam.
Fern
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Giving Guideline - Disaster Recovery Efforts
Someone asked me the other day how much he should send to the disaster recovery organization of his choice. I resisted the urge to be flippant and declare the fair amount to be $4,265,732.48, although wouldn't it be great if we all had that kind of money and -could- send off that sort of funding!
Instead, I asked him to think about what he has in his own life and use that as a guideline. After talking awhile, he agreed. This is how things panned out:
Answer the following questions, and then add up the answers. Use the results as a minimum and grab your checkbook.
Do you have a place to live? Give $10, or 5% of your monthly rent.
Does it have a roof and walls? Add $20, or the price of two burgers and fries.
Do you have electricity? Add $20, or the cost of Starbucks coffee for a week.
Do you have running water? Add $10, or the price of a box of good bath salts.
Do you have a way to heat your house? Add $10, or the cost of wood for a weekend.
Do you have food to eat? Give $10, or the price of a pizza from your favorite parlor.
Do you have clothes to wear? Give $10, or the cost of a shirt at Wal-Mart.
Does your location have police services? Give $10, or the price of a ticket to the county fair.
Does it have fire department services? Give $10, or the price of a two breakfasts.
Do you have a job? Give $20, or the cost of a pack of copier paper
Does it pay more than minimum wage? Give $20, or the cost of a lunch for two.
Do you have a vehicle? Give $10 per vehicle, or the cost of a Saturday car wash.
That's $160 for most folks - more if you have more cars and pick-up trucks. That same $160 will feed a family of four for a week, and if we each give this amount, this will go a long ways toward getting the displaced Gulf Coast residents on a stable road to recovery.
If the idea of skipping a burger and fries lunch is distasteful, kindly think about the five days or so that many folks had to wait for food to arrive.
Can't envision going a week without your morning coffee? - consider how Louisiana fared without drinkable water for a week.
Instead, I asked him to think about what he has in his own life and use that as a guideline. After talking awhile, he agreed. This is how things panned out:
Answer the following questions, and then add up the answers. Use the results as a minimum and grab your checkbook.
Do you have a place to live? Give $10, or 5% of your monthly rent.
Does it have a roof and walls? Add $20, or the price of two burgers and fries.
Do you have electricity? Add $20, or the cost of Starbucks coffee for a week.
Do you have running water? Add $10, or the price of a box of good bath salts.
Do you have a way to heat your house? Add $10, or the cost of wood for a weekend.
Do you have food to eat? Give $10, or the price of a pizza from your favorite parlor.
Do you have clothes to wear? Give $10, or the cost of a shirt at Wal-Mart.
Does your location have police services? Give $10, or the price of a ticket to the county fair.
Does it have fire department services? Give $10, or the price of a two breakfasts.
Do you have a job? Give $20, or the cost of a pack of copier paper
Does it pay more than minimum wage? Give $20, or the cost of a lunch for two.
Do you have a vehicle? Give $10 per vehicle, or the cost of a Saturday car wash.
That's $160 for most folks - more if you have more cars and pick-up trucks. That same $160 will feed a family of four for a week, and if we each give this amount, this will go a long ways toward getting the displaced Gulf Coast residents on a stable road to recovery.
If the idea of skipping a burger and fries lunch is distasteful, kindly think about the five days or so that many folks had to wait for food to arrive.
Can't envision going a week without your morning coffee? - consider how Louisiana fared without drinkable water for a week.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Katrina Relief at DFC and Celtic Elegance
The Katrina Relief department at Celtic Elegance is complete. Celtic Elegance joined with Design For a Cause, providing a set of designs for their focus store, and will continue its affiliation with designs created for the specific cause.
So many fine artists and designers are contributing to the DFC effort, and Jennifer Goode is doing an outstanding job of bringing order to the chaos which is bound to arise during the inception of any project and which multiplies in the inception during a crisis. Hats off to her and her infinite energy, and to each artist who has chosen to participate in this exceptional project. She's now in the ranks of my personal heroes.
Somehow, in this midst of this whirlwind of activity, Jen found time to apply her artistic background and eye for the right look toward Celtic Elegance, providing crucial guidance and suggestions to lead the webstore toward a more pulled-together and professional presence. Hats off to this exceptional lady, who has my full support toward any task she chooses to undertake.
Please contribute to the support of the recovery of the Gulf Coast. The consequences of this disaster continue to grow, as does the time it will take for the region and our national economy to restabilize as a result of Katrina's devastation.
So many fine artists and designers are contributing to the DFC effort, and Jennifer Goode is doing an outstanding job of bringing order to the chaos which is bound to arise during the inception of any project and which multiplies in the inception during a crisis. Hats off to her and her infinite energy, and to each artist who has chosen to participate in this exceptional project. She's now in the ranks of my personal heroes.
Somehow, in this midst of this whirlwind of activity, Jen found time to apply her artistic background and eye for the right look toward Celtic Elegance, providing crucial guidance and suggestions to lead the webstore toward a more pulled-together and professional presence. Hats off to this exceptional lady, who has my full support toward any task she chooses to undertake.
Please contribute to the support of the recovery of the Gulf Coast. The consequences of this disaster continue to grow, as does the time it will take for the region and our national economy to restabilize as a result of Katrina's devastation.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Of Oaken Obstacles and Naugahyde Albatrosses
I spent the better part of the morning going through my closet. Little remains in there now but a few tops and a couple of skirts I hope someday to be able to fit back into. I've had those same hopes for fifteen years, so I doubt they'll come true anytime soon, so those items will join their companions tomorrow in the stack of donations. We shall part ways amicably, me and my size fives. They're resting in a rather goodly stack of boxes, waiting for the truck to come whisk them to wherever they're needed.
As I sorted, I got to thinking about the items I was preparing to donate. Each has its bit of history attached, and as I fingered the lace on the edge of a formerly favorite blouse, I replayed the lunch hour trip to Bullock's to acquire it, back in the early 70s. Terrible to think that I still have such items in my possession. The fashion police would arrest me on sight, I'm sure, if they knew that these wardrobe staples have followed me around the country for almost thirty years. Yet they're still in perfectly serviceable condition, barely worn, old friends.
I stopped and looked around, at my house full of stuff. Stuff. Acquisitions. Possessions. There's the armoire that my late husband and I bought in 1972 and hauled home in the back of the Corvair convertible. It holds down a piece of the floor, and masks a stack of sweaters and a few drawers full of logo t-shirts that used to fit back when I was a tiny thing (which I haven't been for nearly 15 years). Nothing in there has the slightest bit of purpose to it, with the exception of a Icelandic wool sweater that someone brought as a gift when they returned from a long trip in Keflavik. The armoire has been missing the left door pull for about 22 years. You knock it firmly on its face and the door will pop open. I wouldn't miss it nor its contents.
There's that monstrosity of an oak dining room table that he insisted we must have when we moved to this house back in '85. It expands to seat about 300, and as I recall, we had some delivery difficulties when it arrived from the store. Four chairs showed up; the other four were on the bill of lading but did not exist. I remember it took about four months for the other four chairs to materialize from whatever Bermuda Triangle they vanished into from the back of the local delivery truck. Stuff. Possessions. Amiable companions that have slowly gathered into position over the course of many years, but very little is significant.
The table holds up a stack of folded sheets, two boxes of interesting spare parts which have shown up in the carpet over the past 15 years, two or three butter dishes full of orphaned bolts and rubber bands, a pillow that one of the cats adopted as her very own, handy for surveillance of the back yard. The table could go - all except for the cat.
The more I looked around, the more I realized that the value of all the items that clutter the place, hold down the carpet and act as repositories for other stuff, is not in their presence, but in their memories. I'd miss my computer, my recliner, my television - each of those three band together to form the backbone of much of my existence. Those I would miss. I would miss my desk as well, and the hundreds and hundreds of books on the steel shelves that have acted as temporary bookcases for the past 21 years. But I've read most of the books, and the ones I haven't read, I probably won't. They should go to a library anyway, where they can fill a mind instead of acting as efficient dust magnets.
I'd miss my microwave, which has been in the family since 1978 and still works perfectly except when it decides to shoot sparks into the spaghetti sauce. Note: never microwave FIMO modeling clay. Nothing good will come of the results.
I wandered through the house rather aimlessly, envisioning these items missing, utterly destroyed, flooded, entirely gone. Then I destroyed the house around them - mentally.
No matter what mental exercise I performed - no matter how hard I worked to discount the physical presence of these possessions which have accumulated over my lifetime - no matter how hard I tried to envision life without these oaken obstacles and naugahyde albatrosses trailing after me, I could not duplicate one single minute of the sense of loss that must engulf every single family, every single person who has had a home ripped out from beneath their feet. These things - these possessions - this stuff - these form a framework upon which life is woven. To have that demolished, to have that so forcibly removed, is incomprehensible until it happens to you.
Tomorrow when the truck arrives to pick up the boxes, I'll probably have ten times the number of boxes ready to go. It will never ever be enough.
As I sorted, I got to thinking about the items I was preparing to donate. Each has its bit of history attached, and as I fingered the lace on the edge of a formerly favorite blouse, I replayed the lunch hour trip to Bullock's to acquire it, back in the early 70s. Terrible to think that I still have such items in my possession. The fashion police would arrest me on sight, I'm sure, if they knew that these wardrobe staples have followed me around the country for almost thirty years. Yet they're still in perfectly serviceable condition, barely worn, old friends.
I stopped and looked around, at my house full of stuff. Stuff. Acquisitions. Possessions. There's the armoire that my late husband and I bought in 1972 and hauled home in the back of the Corvair convertible. It holds down a piece of the floor, and masks a stack of sweaters and a few drawers full of logo t-shirts that used to fit back when I was a tiny thing (which I haven't been for nearly 15 years). Nothing in there has the slightest bit of purpose to it, with the exception of a Icelandic wool sweater that someone brought as a gift when they returned from a long trip in Keflavik. The armoire has been missing the left door pull for about 22 years. You knock it firmly on its face and the door will pop open. I wouldn't miss it nor its contents.
There's that monstrosity of an oak dining room table that he insisted we must have when we moved to this house back in '85. It expands to seat about 300, and as I recall, we had some delivery difficulties when it arrived from the store. Four chairs showed up; the other four were on the bill of lading but did not exist. I remember it took about four months for the other four chairs to materialize from whatever Bermuda Triangle they vanished into from the back of the local delivery truck. Stuff. Possessions. Amiable companions that have slowly gathered into position over the course of many years, but very little is significant.
The table holds up a stack of folded sheets, two boxes of interesting spare parts which have shown up in the carpet over the past 15 years, two or three butter dishes full of orphaned bolts and rubber bands, a pillow that one of the cats adopted as her very own, handy for surveillance of the back yard. The table could go - all except for the cat.
The more I looked around, the more I realized that the value of all the items that clutter the place, hold down the carpet and act as repositories for other stuff, is not in their presence, but in their memories. I'd miss my computer, my recliner, my television - each of those three band together to form the backbone of much of my existence. Those I would miss. I would miss my desk as well, and the hundreds and hundreds of books on the steel shelves that have acted as temporary bookcases for the past 21 years. But I've read most of the books, and the ones I haven't read, I probably won't. They should go to a library anyway, where they can fill a mind instead of acting as efficient dust magnets.
I'd miss my microwave, which has been in the family since 1978 and still works perfectly except when it decides to shoot sparks into the spaghetti sauce. Note: never microwave FIMO modeling clay. Nothing good will come of the results.
I wandered through the house rather aimlessly, envisioning these items missing, utterly destroyed, flooded, entirely gone. Then I destroyed the house around them - mentally.
No matter what mental exercise I performed - no matter how hard I worked to discount the physical presence of these possessions which have accumulated over my lifetime - no matter how hard I tried to envision life without these oaken obstacles and naugahyde albatrosses trailing after me, I could not duplicate one single minute of the sense of loss that must engulf every single family, every single person who has had a home ripped out from beneath their feet. These things - these possessions - this stuff - these form a framework upon which life is woven. To have that demolished, to have that so forcibly removed, is incomprehensible until it happens to you.
Tomorrow when the truck arrives to pick up the boxes, I'll probably have ten times the number of boxes ready to go. It will never ever be enough.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
The Mornigal
The mornigal hesitated as he slogged through the hip-deep slurry, reached beneath the surface and gently clasped the crooked limp arm. He straightened, wing tips fluttering slightly as they flickered over the slowly oozing water, brought the tiny form to his chest and looked upward, chanted softly. A burst of light, pillar to the skies, and the trapped soul vanished. With infinite care he rested the shell of the man's body back down into the mud at his feet, to be cared for on mortal terms. He brushed a small bit of moss from his shoulder and slogged onward. This was part of his job that he hated the most.
He glanced over, shielding his eyes in the pre-dawn light, and spotted an elderly woman, resting just behind the wrought iron railing of an overhanging balcony, fallen, legs twisted painfully beneath her frail form. He reached across with a wing tip, pushed her hair from her face, and noted the parched lips. A breath of air escaped his own, and a small cloud of condensation moved to rest above her, shielding, dampening. She saw nothing, but a twist of a smile crossed her eyes as the precious water dripdripped into her open mouth. As it should be. He moved on, stepping over a submerged pick-up truck.
The mornigal paused when the light became too bright, and sought the inward spaces. Not that he could be seen by mortal eyes - at least most mortal eyes. But crises reveal hidden talents in the infirm and the infant. Twice already this trip alone, he had found himself staring into the eyes of a mortal child who reached for him hungrily, pleading. Twice his heart broke. They cannot must not see me not now not yet, he thought sadly, and surveyed the sodden brick fronts, then decided.
With a wing-flick he sunk to the lower floor of a half-floating house, ducked beneath the lintel and, on hands and knees, continued his retrieval. Family of four, trapped as the water had raced in. Ready to come home. He noted the names on a small linen pad with the stub of a pencil, lifted each to his chest in turn, sent their souls homeward. As he worked, he inhaled tastes of the swirling water, gaining direction, where to seek next. It was livid with soul fire. His head began to throb painfully. So much work so much work so many trapped, as he crawled his great form forward from room to submerged room.
Emptied of souls, he noted, and exited as he had arrived, then stretched to his full height, carefully unfurling his great wings and allowing them to flick above the water once again. He trudged onward, keeping to the shadowed side of the street, making his way slowly from doorway to doorway, tasting the air for his direction.
The mornigal paused then dissolved through a windowpane. Two souls trapped he freed, leaving the bodies as they had rested last. No clue to his presence but that he closed their eyes. He could not help it. A finality, a sign of respect, as he went about his grisly task. As he dematerialized and passed through the window and back out onto the flooded street, his ears perked. Calls for help from a rooftop nigh a mile away. A great sheet flapped in the air as the two men waved it frantically. He paused, flew up slightly and sighted them through the bristle of debris. With a huge hand he swept away a small sheet of overcast, lighting them with a sudden ray of morning sun. Chopper blades whirred in the distance as he turned back toward his task. The two would be rescued within the hour. He would attend to the three souls who rested face-down and sheet-clad next to them on the roof - in a bit. With a quiet sigh he resumed his patrol.
Back in his day, alive days, he thought with a sad smile, he had prowled similar streets. Slept in doorways in alleys just like that one over there, now deeply silted and filled with two stories of shattered pine. He had died, not here, but near, and been transported home from a humid dawn such as this, sweat- and blood-soaked chambray shirt clinging to his cooling form. The mornigal who had honored him was new to the task, less than a hundred souls under her belt, wings still practically bare, not much taller than a mortal man. He'd watched through dead eyes as the ethereal newcomer fumbled around and nearly dropped his corpse, tears coursing down her face, unaware that she was being watched. The first few trips were the hardest, he recalled. The mornigal had wept silently as she reached to touch the knife wounds in his belly, trace the congealed life blood which had crept away through the night. When finally she gathered him up and held him, the warmth of her arms was unbearably comforting, and he found himself yearning for life but denied. The flash of light would have blinded him if he had been alive, as, off key and hesitant, she sang the keening wailing chant which released his soul from his form.
At the corner, he reviewed his small bit of paper. So many since midnight, and so many left. He looked up into the now-blazing sun, flicked his wings and headed skyward.
A small boy waved hesitantly at the mornigal as he clung to a snaking length of rope, floating just out of reach of safety. The mornigal waved back, nudging the choppy water with a wing tip as he swept toward the sky. The rope drifted a moment then caught onto a leaf gutter, found a mooring, and the boy clambered to the waiting rooftop, safe. The mornigal smiled to himself as the last of him disappeared into the heavens. There were times it was acceptable to have been seen.
Perched atop his stone bench, the mornigal watched, waited for the orb below to spiral into darkness so he could get back to work. A soft chime at his shoulder rang softly, repeatedly, and he felt the weight of his wings increase with each additional huge feather. Felt his form stretch and grow in breadth and strength to bear the new burden. He wept, tears of sadness and relief, not for the reward of his tasks, but for the tasks' necessity. He knew with a heavy heart that before this catastrophe was over, his wings would be completely full, he would have earned the title of Angel, at the moment the millionth soul left his embrace and was borne home.
-=-
Of note: Polls taken this year showed that over 78% of US citizens surveyed believe in the existence of angels.
He glanced over, shielding his eyes in the pre-dawn light, and spotted an elderly woman, resting just behind the wrought iron railing of an overhanging balcony, fallen, legs twisted painfully beneath her frail form. He reached across with a wing tip, pushed her hair from her face, and noted the parched lips. A breath of air escaped his own, and a small cloud of condensation moved to rest above her, shielding, dampening. She saw nothing, but a twist of a smile crossed her eyes as the precious water dripdripped into her open mouth. As it should be. He moved on, stepping over a submerged pick-up truck.
The mornigal paused when the light became too bright, and sought the inward spaces. Not that he could be seen by mortal eyes - at least most mortal eyes. But crises reveal hidden talents in the infirm and the infant. Twice already this trip alone, he had found himself staring into the eyes of a mortal child who reached for him hungrily, pleading. Twice his heart broke. They cannot must not see me not now not yet, he thought sadly, and surveyed the sodden brick fronts, then decided.
With a wing-flick he sunk to the lower floor of a half-floating house, ducked beneath the lintel and, on hands and knees, continued his retrieval. Family of four, trapped as the water had raced in. Ready to come home. He noted the names on a small linen pad with the stub of a pencil, lifted each to his chest in turn, sent their souls homeward. As he worked, he inhaled tastes of the swirling water, gaining direction, where to seek next. It was livid with soul fire. His head began to throb painfully. So much work so much work so many trapped, as he crawled his great form forward from room to submerged room.
Emptied of souls, he noted, and exited as he had arrived, then stretched to his full height, carefully unfurling his great wings and allowing them to flick above the water once again. He trudged onward, keeping to the shadowed side of the street, making his way slowly from doorway to doorway, tasting the air for his direction.
The mornigal paused then dissolved through a windowpane. Two souls trapped he freed, leaving the bodies as they had rested last. No clue to his presence but that he closed their eyes. He could not help it. A finality, a sign of respect, as he went about his grisly task. As he dematerialized and passed through the window and back out onto the flooded street, his ears perked. Calls for help from a rooftop nigh a mile away. A great sheet flapped in the air as the two men waved it frantically. He paused, flew up slightly and sighted them through the bristle of debris. With a huge hand he swept away a small sheet of overcast, lighting them with a sudden ray of morning sun. Chopper blades whirred in the distance as he turned back toward his task. The two would be rescued within the hour. He would attend to the three souls who rested face-down and sheet-clad next to them on the roof - in a bit. With a quiet sigh he resumed his patrol.
Back in his day, alive days, he thought with a sad smile, he had prowled similar streets. Slept in doorways in alleys just like that one over there, now deeply silted and filled with two stories of shattered pine. He had died, not here, but near, and been transported home from a humid dawn such as this, sweat- and blood-soaked chambray shirt clinging to his cooling form. The mornigal who had honored him was new to the task, less than a hundred souls under her belt, wings still practically bare, not much taller than a mortal man. He'd watched through dead eyes as the ethereal newcomer fumbled around and nearly dropped his corpse, tears coursing down her face, unaware that she was being watched. The first few trips were the hardest, he recalled. The mornigal had wept silently as she reached to touch the knife wounds in his belly, trace the congealed life blood which had crept away through the night. When finally she gathered him up and held him, the warmth of her arms was unbearably comforting, and he found himself yearning for life but denied. The flash of light would have blinded him if he had been alive, as, off key and hesitant, she sang the keening wailing chant which released his soul from his form.
At the corner, he reviewed his small bit of paper. So many since midnight, and so many left. He looked up into the now-blazing sun, flicked his wings and headed skyward.
A small boy waved hesitantly at the mornigal as he clung to a snaking length of rope, floating just out of reach of safety. The mornigal waved back, nudging the choppy water with a wing tip as he swept toward the sky. The rope drifted a moment then caught onto a leaf gutter, found a mooring, and the boy clambered to the waiting rooftop, safe. The mornigal smiled to himself as the last of him disappeared into the heavens. There were times it was acceptable to have been seen.
Perched atop his stone bench, the mornigal watched, waited for the orb below to spiral into darkness so he could get back to work. A soft chime at his shoulder rang softly, repeatedly, and he felt the weight of his wings increase with each additional huge feather. Felt his form stretch and grow in breadth and strength to bear the new burden. He wept, tears of sadness and relief, not for the reward of his tasks, but for the tasks' necessity. He knew with a heavy heart that before this catastrophe was over, his wings would be completely full, he would have earned the title of Angel, at the moment the millionth soul left his embrace and was borne home.
-=-
Of note: Polls taken this year showed that over 78% of US citizens surveyed believe in the existence of angels.
News from the Front
I spoke to a young man on Monday who spent his Labor Day weekend in disaster relief mode. He said that one of the hardest things he was going to have to do all weekend was to leave and get back home to go to work Tuesday. He talked of cramped conditions, filth and sewage, trash and confusion - and hope and prayer, smiles and supportive hugs, survival through sheer willpower and determination. And yet through all that, he felt the hardest thing for him was going home - because he did not know for sure that there would be someone arriving to continue his efforts. He was in tears as I talked to him.
After looming for centuries over the good folk of New Orleans, the sky has literally fallen, taking with it massive chunks of their lives, beloved ones, possessions. We are nowhere near a tally of victims or cost, and no true cost can be placed upon much of this.
Let me not turn this into a political commentary nor a finger-pointing exercise. There's a surplus of that going on, everywhere you turn, from broadcast news to print. We can point fingers. We can place blame, state, federal and local. But things are never as clear-cut as they appear to be when viewed from a safe distance.
As one reservist put it, on broadcast news tonight (I believe it was on Fox News), when he called home and was asked to describe how things are, he asked them to imagine the worst possible scenario - then multiply that dramatically.
If you are feeling helpless in the face of this, from a safe distance and under a roof that you own or rent, you are in a position to help.
Call the Red Cross (1-800-HELP NOW - 1-800-435-7669) - http://www.redcross.org
Call the Salvation Army (1-800-SAL ARMY - 1-800-725-2769) - http://www.salvationarmy.org
Call America's Second Harvest (1-800-844-8070) - http://www.secondharvest.org
Call Habitat for Humanity (1-800-422-4828) - http://www.habitat.org
Got a spare car? Contact Craig's List - http://neworleans.craigslist.org - link in and see who needs your help in your area
This is not a catastrophe that will resolve in a week, or two weeks or even a month. This is going to take much much longer to recover from. Every single one of us can help and must help. Do it now.
Thank you, and thank you to everyone who is doing their level best to get the Gulf Coast back.
After looming for centuries over the good folk of New Orleans, the sky has literally fallen, taking with it massive chunks of their lives, beloved ones, possessions. We are nowhere near a tally of victims or cost, and no true cost can be placed upon much of this.
Let me not turn this into a political commentary nor a finger-pointing exercise. There's a surplus of that going on, everywhere you turn, from broadcast news to print. We can point fingers. We can place blame, state, federal and local. But things are never as clear-cut as they appear to be when viewed from a safe distance.
As one reservist put it, on broadcast news tonight (I believe it was on Fox News), when he called home and was asked to describe how things are, he asked them to imagine the worst possible scenario - then multiply that dramatically.
If you are feeling helpless in the face of this, from a safe distance and under a roof that you own or rent, you are in a position to help.
Call the Red Cross (1-800-HELP NOW - 1-800-435-7669) - http://www.redcross.org
Call the Salvation Army (1-800-SAL ARMY - 1-800-725-2769) - http://www.salvationarmy.org
Call America's Second Harvest (1-800-844-8070) - http://www.secondharvest.org
Call Habitat for Humanity (1-800-422-4828) - http://www.habitat.org
Got a spare car? Contact Craig's List - http://neworleans.craigslist.org - link in and see who needs your help in your area
This is not a catastrophe that will resolve in a week, or two weeks or even a month. This is going to take much much longer to recover from. Every single one of us can help and must help. Do it now.
Thank you, and thank you to everyone who is doing their level best to get the Gulf Coast back.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Red Cross Family Links
This is a reprint from an email received from the American Red Cross. I have not asked for permission to reprint it, but I'm going to as this information needs to get out:
RED CROSS FAMILY LINKS REGISTRY
Hurricane Katrina Missing Persons Database
A resource for family members to find dislocated persons
(This is not a solicitation).
If you are concerned about the condition and/or whereabouts of someone who was impacted by the recent hurricane, the Family Links registry is a resource available to you from the ICRC and the Red Cross. Current information may be obtained by going to the Red Cross.org site (right side of home page) or calling 1-877-LOVED-1S (1-877-568-3317).
The Red Cross website is managed by the ICRC in close cooperation with the American Red Cross and with other National Societies working in the disaster area.
http://www.redcross.org/
RED CROSS FAMILY LINKS REGISTRY
Hurricane Katrina Missing Persons Database
A resource for family members to find dislocated persons
(This is not a solicitation).
If you are concerned about the condition and/or whereabouts of someone who was impacted by the recent hurricane, the Family Links registry is a resource available to you from the ICRC and the Red Cross. Current information may be obtained by going to the Red Cross.org site (right side of home page) or calling 1-877-LOVED-1S (1-877-568-3317).
The Red Cross website is managed by the ICRC in close cooperation with the American Red Cross and with other National Societies working in the disaster area.
http://www.redcross.org/
Channeling Dr Seuss
I'm here because I am not there
That blog I used to be
For even though that there was fun
And sorta kinda free
The people over there who run
The movies, sound and light
Did not appear to get a clue
Nor wish to set things right.
I do not like the gifs that jump
And leap and bound and spin
I do not like them, here nor there,
Not outside nor within.
I do not like them on a pig
I do not like them fried
I do not like them in my hair
I do not like them tied.
I do not like the dancing ape
Which leaps across my screen
I do not like the big-eyed girls
Who lip-sync words to Queen.
I do not like them when they walk
I do not like them there
I do not like them when they talk
Not here nor anywhere.
And so I asked them over there,
Those folks who make it run,
If I could get a blog that won't
Attack me like a Hun.
They laughed and grinned and nodded twice
As they my ticket read
And said of course we can do that
If you'll just send us bread!
But but I said with words so small
That all can understand
Back when I moved my blog you said
That I could have a hand
In saying if my screen would race
Or leap or crawl or scream,
but now you say I cannot have
this silent peaceful dream?
No no they grinned, of course you can
If you will pay this fee
We'll stop the dancing screaming stuff
And of it you'll be free!
I sighed and packed my little bag
And left that very day,
But as i did, I whispered back,
In hopes they'd hear me say:
I do not like the leaping chimp
I do not like the hare...
I do not like them on my screen
I do not want them there!
I do not do not want my Mac
To babble at me thus,
But I will leave before I feel
That I must make a fuss.
So here I am and here we are
And I don't see a goose
Whose feathers ruffle while he jumps
When I don't cut him loose.
BUT if I see a single ape
Who leaps from screen to me
You bet that I will pack my bags
And find a different tree!
I DO NOT like the flying pig,
I DO NOT LIKE the goat.
I DO NOT LIKE the dancing moose
Nor boats that rock and float.
I DO NOT DO NOT LIKE the noise
Distractions on my screen.
I do not like them in my head
So often I could scream.
-=-
Hopefully soon I shall be able to figure out how to archive all my writings and move them from my old blog.
Time will tell, though. If not, I shall simply write more!
That blog I used to be
For even though that there was fun
And sorta kinda free
The people over there who run
The movies, sound and light
Did not appear to get a clue
Nor wish to set things right.
I do not like the gifs that jump
And leap and bound and spin
I do not like them, here nor there,
Not outside nor within.
I do not like them on a pig
I do not like them fried
I do not like them in my hair
I do not like them tied.
I do not like the dancing ape
Which leaps across my screen
I do not like the big-eyed girls
Who lip-sync words to Queen.
I do not like them when they walk
I do not like them there
I do not like them when they talk
Not here nor anywhere.
And so I asked them over there,
Those folks who make it run,
If I could get a blog that won't
Attack me like a Hun.
They laughed and grinned and nodded twice
As they my ticket read
And said of course we can do that
If you'll just send us bread!
But but I said with words so small
That all can understand
Back when I moved my blog you said
That I could have a hand
In saying if my screen would race
Or leap or crawl or scream,
but now you say I cannot have
this silent peaceful dream?
No no they grinned, of course you can
If you will pay this fee
We'll stop the dancing screaming stuff
And of it you'll be free!
I sighed and packed my little bag
And left that very day,
But as i did, I whispered back,
In hopes they'd hear me say:
I do not like the leaping chimp
I do not like the hare...
I do not like them on my screen
I do not want them there!
I do not do not want my Mac
To babble at me thus,
But I will leave before I feel
That I must make a fuss.
So here I am and here we are
And I don't see a goose
Whose feathers ruffle while he jumps
When I don't cut him loose.
BUT if I see a single ape
Who leaps from screen to me
You bet that I will pack my bags
And find a different tree!
I DO NOT like the flying pig,
I DO NOT LIKE the goat.
I DO NOT LIKE the dancing moose
Nor boats that rock and float.
I DO NOT DO NOT LIKE the noise
Distractions on my screen.
I do not like them in my head
So often I could scream.
-=-
Hopefully soon I shall be able to figure out how to archive all my writings and move them from my old blog.
Time will tell, though. If not, I shall simply write more!
Friday, September 02, 2005
Katrina - Part 2
>>fume<<
Just when I think folks are basically good and helpful, I read something that shakes the unreality right off that pipe dream. Normally I can take a lot of stupid before my cork blows off, but what I just read has me burnin', dear reader.
An unnamed individual, posting on a forum which I also will not name, to quote loosely, has decided that he/she/it is not going to donate to support the Katrina disaster recovery because some of her hard-earned funds might fall into the hands of someone who may have looted something. One of those nefarious beasts who stepped into a grocery store that looks like an aftermath of Nagasaki, seeking a bit of food or some milk for his kids - said eviltry might just get his hands on some of this non-donor's donation. Therefore, he/she/it is not going to send any support.
Of all the immature, narrow-minded, sock-puppet-for-brains things to state...
But wait, it gets "better". Just a paragraph or so above this statement, he/she/it/sock-puppet says that this non-donor would not want his (gender stabilized to reduce confusion) donations to get into the hands of those who did not evacuate during the mandatory evacuation. Those who 'chose to stay' should not be aided.
I kept reading down through the thread. I have no idea why. I could have stopped, and saved myself from choking on my coffee, but I continued, and read that (and I quote): "dying in a hurricane in this day and age is just Darwin Award material."
I'm speechless.
>>/fume<<
Prayers focused on those who wait tonight and those who head in to rescue them.
Just when I think folks are basically good and helpful, I read something that shakes the unreality right off that pipe dream. Normally I can take a lot of stupid before my cork blows off, but what I just read has me burnin', dear reader.
An unnamed individual, posting on a forum which I also will not name, to quote loosely, has decided that he/she/it is not going to donate to support the Katrina disaster recovery because some of her hard-earned funds might fall into the hands of someone who may have looted something. One of those nefarious beasts who stepped into a grocery store that looks like an aftermath of Nagasaki, seeking a bit of food or some milk for his kids - said eviltry might just get his hands on some of this non-donor's donation. Therefore, he/she/it is not going to send any support.
Of all the immature, narrow-minded, sock-puppet-for-brains things to state...
But wait, it gets "better". Just a paragraph or so above this statement, he/she/it/sock-puppet says that this non-donor would not want his (gender stabilized to reduce confusion) donations to get into the hands of those who did not evacuate during the mandatory evacuation. Those who 'chose to stay' should not be aided.
I kept reading down through the thread. I have no idea why. I could have stopped, and saved myself from choking on my coffee, but I continued, and read that (and I quote): "dying in a hurricane in this day and age is just Darwin Award material."
I'm speechless.
>>/fume<<
Prayers focused on those who wait tonight and those who head in to rescue them.
Katrina
It is difficult to find the words to express the tremendous urgency, the need for disaster recovery and support. Do what you can, as best you can, as soon as you can.
Websites abound with lists of charitable operations, contact data, phone numbers, web addresses. At the risk of spamming you with information, here is a list I'm using:
American Red Cross - http://www.redcross.org - 1-800-HELP NOW
Salvation Army - http://www.salvationarmyusa.org/ - 1-800-SAL ARMY (725-2769)
Operation Blessing - http://www.ob.org/ - 1-800-436-6348
America's Second Harvest - http://www.secondharvest.org - 1-800-344-8070
Do whatever you can, as much as you can, but don't wait to be asked. Do it now.
My heart goes out to you who have family and loved ones still in the Gulf Coast area, and to those who are there now, trapped between the catastrophic now and a highly uncertain future. I pray the relief forces, food and water, clothing and stability, begin to arrive quickly and en masse. I pray that those who are waiting for this help to arrive do not give up their hope and faith. For those whose path Katrina has cut short, for those who have not survived, our prayers to guide you safely onward.
Those of you who are safe, warm, fed and sheltered, far away from this madness, send your help - funds, donations, goods - in the most expedient way you can arrange. Do not sit by complacently and wait to be asked nor assume that this disaster has not touched your life. Take action - make a call - do it now.
Websites abound with lists of charitable operations, contact data, phone numbers, web addresses. At the risk of spamming you with information, here is a list I'm using:
American Red Cross - http://www.redcross.org - 1-800-HELP NOW
Salvation Army - http://www.salvationarmyusa.org/ - 1-800-SAL ARMY (725-2769)
Operation Blessing - http://www.ob.org/ - 1-800-436-6348
America's Second Harvest - http://www.secondharvest.org - 1-800-344-8070
Do whatever you can, as much as you can, but don't wait to be asked. Do it now.
My heart goes out to you who have family and loved ones still in the Gulf Coast area, and to those who are there now, trapped between the catastrophic now and a highly uncertain future. I pray the relief forces, food and water, clothing and stability, begin to arrive quickly and en masse. I pray that those who are waiting for this help to arrive do not give up their hope and faith. For those whose path Katrina has cut short, for those who have not survived, our prayers to guide you safely onward.
Those of you who are safe, warm, fed and sheltered, far away from this madness, send your help - funds, donations, goods - in the most expedient way you can arrange. Do not sit by complacently and wait to be asked nor assume that this disaster has not touched your life. Take action - make a call - do it now.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
(untitled - a poem)
Words hang in the crisp air, abandoned by their previous owners,
The skeletons of the wintering trees hang back, leafless limbs held up in silent shock.
The pre-dawn field's snow is unbroken and pristine
Except for the two sets of footprints in
and the one set of footprints out,
And the tentative tracks of a winter-thin deer.
She sat propped against the trunk of an elder birch,
eyes gazing north in apathetic disinterest.
Her left arm crooked around the blanket in her lap,
Her right hand clutching the crumpled page,
sodden from the landing snow.
A Dear Jane letter, we postulate as the paper edge whimpers in a passing breeze.
She is young, was young, and the shivering night has made her
a shade of blue unknown to the palette of mankind's skintone brush.
Mascara has bled into each crease around her eyelids,
Raccoon eyes rimed with frozen tears.
She wept, we can tell, before she died, though
no bruise mars the youthful blue of her neck or bare arms.
A few paces away south, Jackson finds clues -
Her name is Dora, was Dora, per the soggy envelope in the muddy-snowy thistles,
And beneath her thumb, inverted ink spells the sender's name as Robe..
We speculate the RT as Jackson trudges back from the marshy creek edges
Bearing a thin blue jacket and a crumpled pair of sodden gloves.
The gloves would fit the tiny blue hand before us.
A radio squawks from the distant county line roadbed; we turn toward it
As we stare back toward the elder birch in unspeakable sorrow,
and await the ambulance which need not hurry.
The town is small - she is one of our own - one of the children full of promise, as all children are.
Her death, a rift, will be a gaping hole in our smalltown continuity of life.
Her auburn hair riffles in a passing breeze, and -
The blanket gives a kick and an angry squall!
A fire of hope is sparked in each of us, and we stumble over our feet
To make it back to her side through the snow covered tall grasses.
An infant, shivering and irate, inhales shrill chilled breaths and exhales rage,
As we disentangle her tiny limbs from the icy folds.
Bert races to his squad car, barely touching the ground in his haste, and back with his rescue kit.
The ambulance, frantically radioed, now races up the county line road,
Crime scene be damned, a dozen snow boots trample the dead wheat stubble in a mad rush.
We name her Hope, and Becky and Jackson's wife Jan squabble over who houses her first.
Jan wins, but Becky is across the street and at the side of the loaned crib each day for hours.
Neither Dora's folks, long gone from our small town, nor Robe-RT step up.
We bury her out by St. Thomas' and all of us at the firehouse chip in for a small granite stone.
The skeletons of the wintering trees hang back, leafless limbs held up in silent shock.
The pre-dawn field's snow is unbroken and pristine
Except for the two sets of footprints in
and the one set of footprints out,
And the tentative tracks of a winter-thin deer.
She sat propped against the trunk of an elder birch,
eyes gazing north in apathetic disinterest.
Her left arm crooked around the blanket in her lap,
Her right hand clutching the crumpled page,
sodden from the landing snow.
A Dear Jane letter, we postulate as the paper edge whimpers in a passing breeze.
She is young, was young, and the shivering night has made her
a shade of blue unknown to the palette of mankind's skintone brush.
Mascara has bled into each crease around her eyelids,
Raccoon eyes rimed with frozen tears.
She wept, we can tell, before she died, though
no bruise mars the youthful blue of her neck or bare arms.
A few paces away south, Jackson finds clues -
Her name is Dora, was Dora, per the soggy envelope in the muddy-snowy thistles,
And beneath her thumb, inverted ink spells the sender's name as Robe..
We speculate the RT as Jackson trudges back from the marshy creek edges
Bearing a thin blue jacket and a crumpled pair of sodden gloves.
The gloves would fit the tiny blue hand before us.
A radio squawks from the distant county line roadbed; we turn toward it
As we stare back toward the elder birch in unspeakable sorrow,
and await the ambulance which need not hurry.
The town is small - she is one of our own - one of the children full of promise, as all children are.
Her death, a rift, will be a gaping hole in our smalltown continuity of life.
Her auburn hair riffles in a passing breeze, and -
The blanket gives a kick and an angry squall!
A fire of hope is sparked in each of us, and we stumble over our feet
To make it back to her side through the snow covered tall grasses.
An infant, shivering and irate, inhales shrill chilled breaths and exhales rage,
As we disentangle her tiny limbs from the icy folds.
Bert races to his squad car, barely touching the ground in his haste, and back with his rescue kit.
The ambulance, frantically radioed, now races up the county line road,
Crime scene be damned, a dozen snow boots trample the dead wheat stubble in a mad rush.
We name her Hope, and Becky and Jackson's wife Jan squabble over who houses her first.
Jan wins, but Becky is across the street and at the side of the loaned crib each day for hours.
Neither Dora's folks, long gone from our small town, nor Robe-RT step up.
We bury her out by St. Thomas' and all of us at the firehouse chip in for a small granite stone.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Picket Fences!
So.. I get this email the other day, urging us to boycott gas. The writer's idea: boycott specific stations and companies, informing them in advance that we are not buying from them until the prices get back under control. What the writer didn't tell us is what to do if the only gas station in town belongs to the company we're supposed to be boycotting or, worse, if the only gas station in town is the place we work.
The movie started playing in my mind:
Me: *dials the local gas station* **brrriiing brrriiing...** **brrriiing brrriiing...** **brrriiing brrriiing...**
Gas Stop Gas Stop. Mitch.
Me: Mitch? Yah. This is Casey up the road
Gas Stop: Hey Casey, how goes?
Me: Good. You?
Gas Stop: Good ta hear. Don't see you much anymore. How's the back?
Me: Good, good. No change there.
Gas Stop: Good ta hear. Hey, heard you were in the hospital.
Me: Nah. Someone got their wires crossed. How's Nancy?
Gas Stop: Good. She's took the kids up to her mom's for the weekend.
Me: Yah? How long's she up for?
Gas Stop: Week mebbe. Mebbe I'll get some fishin' in.
Me: Good, good. Enjoy.
Gas Stop: Need somethin'?
Me: Yah. Thought you should know I'm joinin' in on that there boycott.
Gas Stop: Yah? Okie.
Gas Stop:*pause* You ever get that Bronco back running?
Me: Nah. I don't drive much anymore, what with the back.
Gas Stop: Yah? Okie. *pause* You thinkin' to sell that yet?
Me: Yah maybe.?
Gas Stop: Bob'll be driving next year.
Me: Good car for a kid.
Gas Stop: '85, yah?
Me: Yah. Needs work. Starter, tranny. Still got that leak.
Gas Stop: Yah? I can fix that. *pause* So you think what you want for it?
Me: Yah. Let me get back to ya.
Gas Stop: Okie. *pause* So you're joinin' that boycott, eh?
Me:: Yah. Just thought you should know.
Gas Stop: Okie. So's Frank up the hill.
Me:: Yah? Thought he moved away.
Gas Stop: Yah. He's back though.
Me: Ah okie.
Gas Stop: Okie. I got someone puliin' up. Let me know on that Bronco, eh?
Me:Yah sure. You bet.
Gas Stop: Later. *hangs up*
And thus the Great Boycott of Chevron stations begins, tempers raging, picket signs waving!
The movie started playing in my mind:
Me: *dials the local gas station* **brrriiing brrriiing...** **brrriiing brrriiing...** **brrriiing brrriiing...**
Gas Stop Gas Stop. Mitch.
Me: Mitch? Yah. This is Casey up the road
Gas Stop: Hey Casey, how goes?
Me: Good. You?
Gas Stop: Good ta hear. Don't see you much anymore. How's the back?
Me: Good, good. No change there.
Gas Stop: Good ta hear. Hey, heard you were in the hospital.
Me: Nah. Someone got their wires crossed. How's Nancy?
Gas Stop: Good. She's took the kids up to her mom's for the weekend.
Me: Yah? How long's she up for?
Gas Stop: Week mebbe. Mebbe I'll get some fishin' in.
Me: Good, good. Enjoy.
Gas Stop: Need somethin'?
Me: Yah. Thought you should know I'm joinin' in on that there boycott.
Gas Stop: Yah? Okie.
Gas Stop:*pause* You ever get that Bronco back running?
Me: Nah. I don't drive much anymore, what with the back.
Gas Stop: Yah? Okie. *pause* You thinkin' to sell that yet?
Me: Yah maybe.?
Gas Stop: Bob'll be driving next year.
Me: Good car for a kid.
Gas Stop: '85, yah?
Me: Yah. Needs work. Starter, tranny. Still got that leak.
Gas Stop: Yah? I can fix that. *pause* So you think what you want for it?
Me: Yah. Let me get back to ya.
Gas Stop: Okie. *pause* So you're joinin' that boycott, eh?
Me:: Yah. Just thought you should know.
Gas Stop: Okie. So's Frank up the hill.
Me:: Yah? Thought he moved away.
Gas Stop: Yah. He's back though.
Me: Ah okie.
Gas Stop: Okie. I got someone puliin' up. Let me know on that Bronco, eh?
Me:Yah sure. You bet.
Gas Stop: Later. *hangs up*
And thus the Great Boycott of Chevron stations begins, tempers raging, picket signs waving!
Friday, August 12, 2005
Well-Meaning Friends and Other Household Pests
A dear friend who shall remain utterly nameless called me up in a blithering panic the other day. Word travels fast through our disconnected circle of acquaintances and sometimes words get distorted by line noise - rather like the childhood game of telephone.
"Oh my GOD! Casey!!" She exclaimed in a deluge of frightened concern. "Are you oKAY? Are you all RIGHT? Are you out of the HOSPITAL?? Are you going to.. " she paused here to take a breath, "LIVE?"
I answered affirmative to all of the above and assured her that I had not technically been IN the hospital except as the visit to the emergency room placed me under the same roof, so technically I supposed I was...
She started sobbing hysterically. Hm. Was she hoping to have inherited my priceless collection of antique Corelle dinnerware or something?
Well, turns out that the word on the vine was that I was near death and perhaps already dead. After ALL, she related to me between sobs, DVT kills 2,000,000 people a MONTH!! I calmed her as best I could, pointed out that the figure was more like 200,000 a year, which is bad enough without inflating to proportions which would rival the Black Plague of my youth. I hope she heard me. She raced out of the conversation, intent on calling a few more folks to let them know that I was indeed among the living and actually SPEAKING. (Yes, she tends to talk in capital letters like that).
-=-
EGBOK - spread the word - and let's try not to inflate things and incite panic whilst we do so.
I've no idea what they plan to do except whatever the blood thinner medications do - warfarin, which sounds more like it should be reserved for combat duty.
Guess we'll all find out.
"Oh my GOD! Casey!!" She exclaimed in a deluge of frightened concern. "Are you oKAY? Are you all RIGHT? Are you out of the HOSPITAL?? Are you going to.. " she paused here to take a breath, "LIVE?"
I answered affirmative to all of the above and assured her that I had not technically been IN the hospital except as the visit to the emergency room placed me under the same roof, so technically I supposed I was...
She started sobbing hysterically. Hm. Was she hoping to have inherited my priceless collection of antique Corelle dinnerware or something?
Well, turns out that the word on the vine was that I was near death and perhaps already dead. After ALL, she related to me between sobs, DVT kills 2,000,000 people a MONTH!! I calmed her as best I could, pointed out that the figure was more like 200,000 a year, which is bad enough without inflating to proportions which would rival the Black Plague of my youth. I hope she heard me. She raced out of the conversation, intent on calling a few more folks to let them know that I was indeed among the living and actually SPEAKING. (Yes, she tends to talk in capital letters like that).
-=-
EGBOK - spread the word - and let's try not to inflate things and incite panic whilst we do so.
I've no idea what they plan to do except whatever the blood thinner medications do - warfarin, which sounds more like it should be reserved for combat duty.
Guess we'll all find out.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Bing!
For many years, I have been a member of the teensy market share held by Apple Computer. Some Windows users call us frothing fanatics. Some accuse us of bleeding in six colors. Some dare to call us elitists (just because we insist upon consistent user interfaces no matter what source - payware, shareware, freeware). Some just smile and shake their heads, weary of our complacent computing experiences, relatively untainted by crashes, viral attacks, incompatibilities and spyware.
Few realize just how addicted we Macaholics are, though.
I first met the Apple Macintosh under great duress. I'd seen a Lisa, listened to its owner wax poetic over its grace and beauty (although I never saw it with its power switched on - turns out the owner wasn't much of a computer user). But my first face-to-face encounter with the Mac was memorable mainly for its benign infiltration into my life.
It was a quiet day in November, a Tuesday, as I recall. I'd written a database for a customer, and they liked it - a lot. So much so that they wanted it to run on this new computer they'd acquired, with its itty bitty screen, perched silently like a predatory falcon or an owl waiting for prey.
Customer = always right. So I told Bill sure, I'll port the database over to that.. thing. But I'd need one on my desk to do it. (I was much younger then, and knew everything.)
The next day one of those ... things showed up on my desk, complete with a mouse. My realm of exposure to great computer products didn't at that time include rodents. I was command line or bust - DOS all the way. Windows was still a wild rumor that we laughed about around the water cooler and secretly prayed for once we were back at our command-line oriented desks.
I don't recall now if my IBM AT ever had one attached during its venerable lifetime. We performed very few modifications to that expensive box, although one afternoon in a fit of hubris usually reserved for mainframe board-level diagnostics, we swapped the onboard 512k RAM out and put in an entire MEG. Well, we didn't know about chip-matching; the process had to be repeated several times until we managed to get the entire secondary memory card populated with these chips without bending pins. The sole of my left foot still bears a tiny imprint near the heel where I 'found' one, which had to be discarded as a result. It had dropped into the carpet and turned invisible.
So there was the Mac on my desk, in all its miniature glory. Pretty tame looking when turned off. Safe. Quiet. Harmless.
I stared at this perched owl for about 10 minutes while I waited for the customer to show up. I stared at the mouse. I stared at the lack of manuals. There were none. To a hardcore IBM owner of the time, the lack of manuals was significantly disconcerting. How do you have a computer on your desk without the accompanying encyclopedia of knowledge?
Bill walked in and reached around to one side, and flicked a switch or waved a magic wand. A tiny Bing wafted from the device, followed by a tiny whir, and a tiny happy smiling face on the tiny window. Folks, there was something embedded in those first tiny Bings that was specially engineered to bring grins to faces. I was hooked.. it had me at hello.
Well, Bill started talking about what software was available, and how the database could be ported into this other software, and how he was sure I could figure it out, but frankly I didn't hear much of the discourse. I was driving my first Mac. I did little the rest of the morning except drive that little Mac around my desktop, entranced and enthralled at every turn. It whirred, it purred, it chirped, it hiccuped when it ejected its floppy. And I didn't get a blessed thing done for the entire morning, except get hooked like a wide-mouth bass.
After the first few hours, which ended with a reluctant unhooking, I turned back to the PC on my desk and tried to get the requisite work done. It loomed above the little perched owl of a thing, smirking in thinly disguised disgust. I found myself frustrated by the command line and searching for the mouse.
Bill called shortly after lunch to see how things were going. Did I like the Mac? I tried my best to be nonchalant, but the truth slipped out within a few minutes. I had to have one of these. Oh, Bill grinned through the phone. So how's the database port going? I explained that I had not quite gotten there (without confessing to not having pushed in the floppy containing the necessary items). I would do so tomorrow morning.
I could make this into a very long story, even longer than it's already become. But for those of you who are either yawning from sheer boredom or bristling at the thought of a *gasp* Macintosh doing anything productive - yes, I got the database done. Yes, they came and took my beloved Mac off my desk and back to the customer's site. My relationship with the IBM AT went downhill from that point, and I ended up with the first of a series of Macs on my desk within the following week of its departure. They ranged from the tiny to the huge, from the desktop version to the tower, back to the desktop to a portable, to the eMac I have in front of me now which is within eyesight of my laptop. Times have changed, and the Mac OS has raced forward to Tiger.
And I'm still hooked like a wide-mouth bass.
Few realize just how addicted we Macaholics are, though.
I first met the Apple Macintosh under great duress. I'd seen a Lisa, listened to its owner wax poetic over its grace and beauty (although I never saw it with its power switched on - turns out the owner wasn't much of a computer user). But my first face-to-face encounter with the Mac was memorable mainly for its benign infiltration into my life.
It was a quiet day in November, a Tuesday, as I recall. I'd written a database for a customer, and they liked it - a lot. So much so that they wanted it to run on this new computer they'd acquired, with its itty bitty screen, perched silently like a predatory falcon or an owl waiting for prey.
Customer = always right. So I told Bill sure, I'll port the database over to that.. thing. But I'd need one on my desk to do it. (I was much younger then, and knew everything.)
The next day one of those ... things showed up on my desk, complete with a mouse. My realm of exposure to great computer products didn't at that time include rodents. I was command line or bust - DOS all the way. Windows was still a wild rumor that we laughed about around the water cooler and secretly prayed for once we were back at our command-line oriented desks.
I don't recall now if my IBM AT ever had one attached during its venerable lifetime. We performed very few modifications to that expensive box, although one afternoon in a fit of hubris usually reserved for mainframe board-level diagnostics, we swapped the onboard 512k RAM out and put in an entire MEG. Well, we didn't know about chip-matching; the process had to be repeated several times until we managed to get the entire secondary memory card populated with these chips without bending pins. The sole of my left foot still bears a tiny imprint near the heel where I 'found' one, which had to be discarded as a result. It had dropped into the carpet and turned invisible.
So there was the Mac on my desk, in all its miniature glory. Pretty tame looking when turned off. Safe. Quiet. Harmless.
I stared at this perched owl for about 10 minutes while I waited for the customer to show up. I stared at the mouse. I stared at the lack of manuals. There were none. To a hardcore IBM owner of the time, the lack of manuals was significantly disconcerting. How do you have a computer on your desk without the accompanying encyclopedia of knowledge?
Bill walked in and reached around to one side, and flicked a switch or waved a magic wand. A tiny Bing wafted from the device, followed by a tiny whir, and a tiny happy smiling face on the tiny window. Folks, there was something embedded in those first tiny Bings that was specially engineered to bring grins to faces. I was hooked.. it had me at hello.
Well, Bill started talking about what software was available, and how the database could be ported into this other software, and how he was sure I could figure it out, but frankly I didn't hear much of the discourse. I was driving my first Mac. I did little the rest of the morning except drive that little Mac around my desktop, entranced and enthralled at every turn. It whirred, it purred, it chirped, it hiccuped when it ejected its floppy. And I didn't get a blessed thing done for the entire morning, except get hooked like a wide-mouth bass.
After the first few hours, which ended with a reluctant unhooking, I turned back to the PC on my desk and tried to get the requisite work done. It loomed above the little perched owl of a thing, smirking in thinly disguised disgust. I found myself frustrated by the command line and searching for the mouse.
Bill called shortly after lunch to see how things were going. Did I like the Mac? I tried my best to be nonchalant, but the truth slipped out within a few minutes. I had to have one of these. Oh, Bill grinned through the phone. So how's the database port going? I explained that I had not quite gotten there (without confessing to not having pushed in the floppy containing the necessary items). I would do so tomorrow morning.
I could make this into a very long story, even longer than it's already become. But for those of you who are either yawning from sheer boredom or bristling at the thought of a *gasp* Macintosh doing anything productive - yes, I got the database done. Yes, they came and took my beloved Mac off my desk and back to the customer's site. My relationship with the IBM AT went downhill from that point, and I ended up with the first of a series of Macs on my desk within the following week of its departure. They ranged from the tiny to the huge, from the desktop version to the tower, back to the desktop to a portable, to the eMac I have in front of me now which is within eyesight of my laptop. Times have changed, and the Mac OS has raced forward to Tiger.
And I'm still hooked like a wide-mouth bass.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
A friend of mine...
A friend of mine is being inundated with personal crises. Every time he turns around, yet another person has gotten sick, yet another roadblock has been thrown on his road, yet another layer of stress has been added to his existence. He has never once complained - not to me, at least.
In fact, when we start talking, invariably the first thing from his mouth (or typing fingers) is a cheerful greeting and a 'how are you doing?' Not just the reflex 'how ya doing' and then turn topic to something else.. he genuinely cares.
I'm beginning to think that friendships are in classes like cars...
there's the zippy and dang expensive foreign sports model - moves real fast, zooms up and cheers up with a flashy paint job, then zooms off around the next curve, leaving you scratching your head and grinning - very high maintenance and can frequently break down while idling. Easily stolen, gets lost with amazing regularity, and no, you can't drive it unless you are a recent graduate of a racing school's 4-day intensive course at the Brickyard.
There's the big luxury model - moves at a goodly rate of speed, difficult to park, spends a lot of time in the repair shops consuming friendship flowers and mugs - high maintenance but great if you can afford one. You could sleep four in the back seat and still have room to crowd around the mini-bar.
There's the two-door model - room for you and the friend, a small purse or briefcase - easy to park, easy to shift gears, pretty dang reliable - requires regular maintenance (as all good cars do) but gets surprisingly great mileage. Once in awhile you get to drive while friend naps.
There's the minivan model - seats a dozen!, stops at all major intersections and picks up more friends or drops off a few, parking can be difficult as it tends not to stop moving for long enough to park - maintenance required but can be ride-shared with ease, and nobody's going to notice if you fall asleep in the back seat while the thing rolls along. Usually only one or two 'trusted drivers' get to pilot.
There's its big cousin, the SUV - just like a minivan only lots bigger, can offroad with ease, climbs vertical surfaces like a mountain goat, can hold nine kayaks, five surfboards, and a small cow - breaks down only when it is conveniently positioned 97 miles from civilization but if its Onstar system fails, the 37 cell phones, built-in GPS, two spare ham radio sets, grizzled wilderness tracker and his band of Boy Scouts should be able to get things back on track quickly - requires maintenance in the form of an onboard specialized mechanic/software engineer, but hey, it's FUN!
There's the four-door model - room for a good group but you can still can stretch your legs, makes long runs with ease, with pretty great mileage, carries enough luggage to keep all passengers well clothed and fed over a nice week-long trip - requires maintenance but what doesn't? - runs on regular gas, occasional phone calls, and corn oil in a pinch. Everyone takes turns behind the wheel.
What kind of friendship is yours?
-=-
Blood clot in leg is being aggressively 'managed' - film at 11.
In fact, when we start talking, invariably the first thing from his mouth (or typing fingers) is a cheerful greeting and a 'how are you doing?' Not just the reflex 'how ya doing' and then turn topic to something else.. he genuinely cares.
I'm beginning to think that friendships are in classes like cars...
there's the zippy and dang expensive foreign sports model - moves real fast, zooms up and cheers up with a flashy paint job, then zooms off around the next curve, leaving you scratching your head and grinning - very high maintenance and can frequently break down while idling. Easily stolen, gets lost with amazing regularity, and no, you can't drive it unless you are a recent graduate of a racing school's 4-day intensive course at the Brickyard.
There's the big luxury model - moves at a goodly rate of speed, difficult to park, spends a lot of time in the repair shops consuming friendship flowers and mugs - high maintenance but great if you can afford one. You could sleep four in the back seat and still have room to crowd around the mini-bar.
There's the two-door model - room for you and the friend, a small purse or briefcase - easy to park, easy to shift gears, pretty dang reliable - requires regular maintenance (as all good cars do) but gets surprisingly great mileage. Once in awhile you get to drive while friend naps.
There's the minivan model - seats a dozen!, stops at all major intersections and picks up more friends or drops off a few, parking can be difficult as it tends not to stop moving for long enough to park - maintenance required but can be ride-shared with ease, and nobody's going to notice if you fall asleep in the back seat while the thing rolls along. Usually only one or two 'trusted drivers' get to pilot.
There's its big cousin, the SUV - just like a minivan only lots bigger, can offroad with ease, climbs vertical surfaces like a mountain goat, can hold nine kayaks, five surfboards, and a small cow - breaks down only when it is conveniently positioned 97 miles from civilization but if its Onstar system fails, the 37 cell phones, built-in GPS, two spare ham radio sets, grizzled wilderness tracker and his band of Boy Scouts should be able to get things back on track quickly - requires maintenance in the form of an onboard specialized mechanic/software engineer, but hey, it's FUN!
There's the four-door model - room for a good group but you can still can stretch your legs, makes long runs with ease, with pretty great mileage, carries enough luggage to keep all passengers well clothed and fed over a nice week-long trip - requires maintenance but what doesn't? - runs on regular gas, occasional phone calls, and corn oil in a pinch. Everyone takes turns behind the wheel.
What kind of friendship is yours?
-=-
Blood clot in leg is being aggressively 'managed' - film at 11.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
New Storefront
http://www.myferngarden.com
Finally got done painting the storefront and putting up all the aisle signs. Pretty durn nice, if I do say so myself, and visitors seem to be able to find things without the problems they were having before. So I'd say that progress has most definitely been made.
Mom's surgery went very well, she says, though she still sounds pretty out of it, even after five days post-surgery. EGBOK though.
Finally got done painting the storefront and putting up all the aisle signs. Pretty durn nice, if I do say so myself, and visitors seem to be able to find things without the problems they were having before. So I'd say that progress has most definitely been made.
Mom's surgery went very well, she says, though she still sounds pretty out of it, even after five days post-surgery. EGBOK though.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
EGBOK
I think it's time for everyone to calm down, take a deep breath, put the XBox controller down, set aside the tv remote, unwind, smile, and realize that the world is doing pretty durn well overall.
EGBOK
Spread it around.
When someone races past you to cut in line at the bank, and you feel your blood pressure start to crawl upward, give yourself an EGBOK. Give one to the gent in front of you with steam coming out his ears.
EGBOK
When someone blasts past you in the right lane on a crowded road, horns blaring and fists waving, pat the dashboard and give yourself an EGBOK. Give one to the lady on the sidewalk who's freaking out because the nimrod behind the racing wheel almost hit her dog.
EGBOK
Things going too fast for you at work? Treat yourself to an EGBOK. Heck, while you're at it, give one to your boss and his secretary, especially if it's a Tuesday.
Work stress following you home and you're about ready to throttle your 14-year-old for forgetting to take out the trash this morning before going off to the mall? Give him an EGBOK instead. Keep a few in reserve for the times when tense conversation comes up in the future - it's a great way to keep things in perspective.
EGBOK
They've got zero carbs, zero calories, absolutely no cholesterol-boosting fats. They have nothing in their composition that can cause (or cure) cancer, nor do they cause your hair to fall out. EGBOKs have no counterindications with any OTC or prescription drugs, although they can be a bit addictive.
My husband gave me one about 14 years ago, and I cherish it to this day. They have a tremendously long shelf life, but should be taken out and tousled once in a while just to keep the grins going.
EGBOK
EGBOK = Everything's Gonna Be OK
Pass it around - spread a few around today. Heck, buy a couple at the little store to have on hand for special occasions where the words are good but the constant reminder would be better.
And if not.. EGBOK anyway.
EGBOK
Spread it around.
When someone races past you to cut in line at the bank, and you feel your blood pressure start to crawl upward, give yourself an EGBOK. Give one to the gent in front of you with steam coming out his ears.
EGBOK
When someone blasts past you in the right lane on a crowded road, horns blaring and fists waving, pat the dashboard and give yourself an EGBOK. Give one to the lady on the sidewalk who's freaking out because the nimrod behind the racing wheel almost hit her dog.
EGBOK
Things going too fast for you at work? Treat yourself to an EGBOK. Heck, while you're at it, give one to your boss and his secretary, especially if it's a Tuesday.
Work stress following you home and you're about ready to throttle your 14-year-old for forgetting to take out the trash this morning before going off to the mall? Give him an EGBOK instead. Keep a few in reserve for the times when tense conversation comes up in the future - it's a great way to keep things in perspective.
EGBOK
They've got zero carbs, zero calories, absolutely no cholesterol-boosting fats. They have nothing in their composition that can cause (or cure) cancer, nor do they cause your hair to fall out. EGBOKs have no counterindications with any OTC or prescription drugs, although they can be a bit addictive.
My husband gave me one about 14 years ago, and I cherish it to this day. They have a tremendously long shelf life, but should be taken out and tousled once in a while just to keep the grins going.
EGBOK
EGBOK = Everything's Gonna Be OK
Pass it around - spread a few around today. Heck, buy a couple at the little store to have on hand for special occasions where the words are good but the constant reminder would be better.
And if not.. EGBOK anyway.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Strange Days Be Comin'
So.. my mom calls me yesterday to let me know she's going in for a knee replacement Tuesday. She also wanted to let me know in no uncertain terms that she has absolutely no desire to go through life as a vegetable, should something go wrong.
Oh man.. Mom, neither do I. This is one of those times when I am glad to be blessed with a huge family. We talk; we can leave tracks for each other and be the repository of this sort of information for each other.
For some reason, I flashed on the predicament of the solo flyer through life. No family, few friends - who does he tell? With whom does she leave this sort of critical information?
I think this will be a topic in the Quiet Conversation Forums very soon. I'd like to hear opinions.
-=-
Today is turning into a true day of rest - legs staying elevated and mental energies focused on not letting the clot move. I wonder if this works... thinking at a clot and telling it not to move....
Oh man.. Mom, neither do I. This is one of those times when I am glad to be blessed with a huge family. We talk; we can leave tracks for each other and be the repository of this sort of information for each other.
For some reason, I flashed on the predicament of the solo flyer through life. No family, few friends - who does he tell? With whom does she leave this sort of critical information?
I think this will be a topic in the Quiet Conversation Forums very soon. I'd like to hear opinions.
-=-
Today is turning into a true day of rest - legs staying elevated and mental energies focused on not letting the clot move. I wonder if this works... thinking at a clot and telling it not to move....
Wanted: Used Teletransporter. Must Work at Top Speed
-=-
Anyone else find themselves split between righteous indignation and feelings of resignation these days?
I hate this feeling - the lack of a sense of control over the stability of my own boring life. I think a lot of this comes from instant data. Instant news. Instant promises - LOSE 450 LBS OVERNIGHT! Instant feedback. Instant gratification. Instant expectation.
I watched the little beachball circling, waiting for a transfer page to load, twiddling my thumbs and becoming more and more impatient as my 2-meg document crept its way toward San Jose. What da heck was taking this thing so long!?
The net groaned under the weight of thumb-twiddling for a few more seconds - the actual document upload took less than five minutes. I sighed with relief and raced off to do something else, again poised for instant results... only nine more such documents to go before my little project was complete.
Gone, apparently, are the days of being able to relax while UPS at their slow steady brown pace picks up my documents at my door and drives them to their destination, saving me time, gas, money and headaches.
I'd almost rather wait three days for delivery than watch the spinning beach ball as it gulps up my data here and spits it out, Venus born from the shell full-grown at birth and ready to work, on someone's server a few hundred miles away.
-=-
Friday, July 22, 2005
If..
If I stand over there atop Mount Everest and tapdance in place until it snows, would you penguin-waddle along Santa Monica Pier at sunset and sing the Oreo song?
Ah, silly fern, you snicker and elbow each other in the ribs as you grin. You KNOW I'm not about to climb Mount Everest, or Mount McKinley or Mount Whitney, or even Mount Anthill in the front yard. Those of you who know me know I have an irrational thing about heights. (Those of you who REALLY know me know it's not so irrational, is it?)
Ah, gentle reader-grasshopper-friend. Notice I said 'if.'
And what if I said I were a mountain goat in a dirndl? What then?
-=-
Don't mind me. I'm just tired.
So I'll leave you with a couple of ideas for Aunt Ida's birthday. Go visit the store - http://www.myferngarden.com (and click on Shop). Find a tile treasure box from an Irish county you think she might have said she's from. Get that and a matching mug - the coupon sale ends 7/26 (code is SUMSAV into checkout box).
(Goes off to start practicing tapdancing)
Ah, silly fern, you snicker and elbow each other in the ribs as you grin. You KNOW I'm not about to climb Mount Everest, or Mount McKinley or Mount Whitney, or even Mount Anthill in the front yard. Those of you who know me know I have an irrational thing about heights. (Those of you who REALLY know me know it's not so irrational, is it?)
Ah, gentle reader-grasshopper-friend. Notice I said 'if.'
And what if I said I were a mountain goat in a dirndl? What then?
-=-
Don't mind me. I'm just tired.
So I'll leave you with a couple of ideas for Aunt Ida's birthday. Go visit the store - http://www.myferngarden.com (and click on Shop). Find a tile treasure box from an Irish county you think she might have said she's from. Get that and a matching mug - the coupon sale ends 7/26 (code is SUMSAV into checkout box).
(Goes off to start practicing tapdancing)
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Singin' da Bruise
Well. This is an interesting twist of events. This journal was supposed to be about designing an online game, not about griping to the known universe about the vagaries of sudden physical malfunction.
But you're here, and so am I, it seems. So gripe I shall. Just a little bit.
Normally I don't bruise badly, though I've gone through stages in my life where the slightest brush up against something would cause some interesting colors after awhile. I've always been a bit of a klutz and in my early adulthood had a tendency to run iron-poor. Eating disorders have their pitfalls. At the time, however, the terms anorexia and bulimia had not reached designer state - I just ate wrong and lost a ton of weight too fast... got my iron out of kilter and bruised bad as a result.
This is different though. This time I have even more interesting colors spreading merrily and painfully from each injection and blood draw point. I've half a notion to keep my hands in my pockets and arms well covered, in case someone sees me and calls some form of battered women's protective agency. I assure you, I'm in the best of hands, though, and my poor husband is already upset enough as it is.
The blood thinners must be working, for such a technicolor display to ensue. I've had two of the seven injections, and am not sure exactly how I am supposed to get the one today, since the Urgent Care place that gave me yesterday's kept the prescription form and didn't give us any information about what to do next. So I suppose I'll wing it and see if the ER has a record of the scrip, and find out if we're supposed to drive into town to do that there.
Meanwhile I've been doing way too much online research of this DVT stuff (deep venous thrombosis, for those of you just tuning in), and it's sounding like serious stuff. I just hope the Coumadin works while we can afford it - I found out yesterday that our insurance will cover 30 days of a prescription and beyond that, we're on our own.
This from the Canadian Family Physician site (http://www.cpfc.ca/cfp/2004/Jan/vol50-jan-cme-3.asp) :
"A relationship between long-distance air travel and DVT has been previously demonstrated. Passengers tightly squeezed into economy class seats might be at particular risk because of cramped conditions, in addition to decreased barometric pressure and low humidity. This case report suggests that flying might also result in stroke. Given the popularity of long-distance travel among aging baby boomers and the increasing age-related risks of stroke, the relationship between thromboembolic stroke and air travel requires further study."
Tightly squeezed is a misnomer. The recommendation is to 'get up and walk around' - 'drink plenty of fluids' - 'change positions frequently' - HA!
To get up and walk around during those flights would have meant getting the other two jam-packed folks next to me to move, coercing one into getting my cane from the overhead compartment, figuring a way to slide through minimal space without tripping, and then -finding- a place to move around. On one flight, there was less than 1/4" between my knees and the back of the seat in front of me. I'm not tall - 5'4" is not tall. How in the world do these 6-footers do it?
Change positions frequently? Breathing without displacing the person beside me was enough of a challenge.
Drink plenty of fluids? My fault - I should have brought a case of bottled water with me, although I have no clue how I would have reached for a bottle.
As far as 'further study' goes, they need only look around. Just in the past two days, I have heard from well over two dozen folks, all of whom know at least one person who is either suffering from DVT or knew someone who died from it in the past two years. Scary coincidences, and makes me wonder if that 60,000 figure isn't rather low.
So I'll take my shots, and I'll take my meds (at least until I can't afford to), and we'll see what happens. If nothing else, at least I have some spectacular discoloration to watch. I'll keep ya posted.
On a lighter note, since this is also exacerbating my insomnia, I was able to make major headway on the websites and stores, and actually added in a new design, some wallpaper downloads, a new forum, and some really cool automatic linking pages.
The text reads:
"There is but one and only one,
Whose love will fail you never.
One who lives from sun to sun,
With constant fond endeavor.
There is but one and only one
On earth there is no other.
In heaven a noble work was done
When God gave us a Mother."
Peace, folks.
But you're here, and so am I, it seems. So gripe I shall. Just a little bit.
Normally I don't bruise badly, though I've gone through stages in my life where the slightest brush up against something would cause some interesting colors after awhile. I've always been a bit of a klutz and in my early adulthood had a tendency to run iron-poor. Eating disorders have their pitfalls. At the time, however, the terms anorexia and bulimia had not reached designer state - I just ate wrong and lost a ton of weight too fast... got my iron out of kilter and bruised bad as a result.
This is different though. This time I have even more interesting colors spreading merrily and painfully from each injection and blood draw point. I've half a notion to keep my hands in my pockets and arms well covered, in case someone sees me and calls some form of battered women's protective agency. I assure you, I'm in the best of hands, though, and my poor husband is already upset enough as it is.
The blood thinners must be working, for such a technicolor display to ensue. I've had two of the seven injections, and am not sure exactly how I am supposed to get the one today, since the Urgent Care place that gave me yesterday's kept the prescription form and didn't give us any information about what to do next. So I suppose I'll wing it and see if the ER has a record of the scrip, and find out if we're supposed to drive into town to do that there.
Meanwhile I've been doing way too much online research of this DVT stuff (deep venous thrombosis, for those of you just tuning in), and it's sounding like serious stuff. I just hope the Coumadin works while we can afford it - I found out yesterday that our insurance will cover 30 days of a prescription and beyond that, we're on our own.
This from the Canadian Family Physician site (http://www.cpfc.ca/cfp/2004/Jan/vol50-jan-cme-3.asp) :
"A relationship between long-distance air travel and DVT has been previously demonstrated. Passengers tightly squeezed into economy class seats might be at particular risk because of cramped conditions, in addition to decreased barometric pressure and low humidity. This case report suggests that flying might also result in stroke. Given the popularity of long-distance travel among aging baby boomers and the increasing age-related risks of stroke, the relationship between thromboembolic stroke and air travel requires further study."
Tightly squeezed is a misnomer. The recommendation is to 'get up and walk around' - 'drink plenty of fluids' - 'change positions frequently' - HA!
To get up and walk around during those flights would have meant getting the other two jam-packed folks next to me to move, coercing one into getting my cane from the overhead compartment, figuring a way to slide through minimal space without tripping, and then -finding- a place to move around. On one flight, there was less than 1/4" between my knees and the back of the seat in front of me. I'm not tall - 5'4" is not tall. How in the world do these 6-footers do it?
Change positions frequently? Breathing without displacing the person beside me was enough of a challenge.
Drink plenty of fluids? My fault - I should have brought a case of bottled water with me, although I have no clue how I would have reached for a bottle.
As far as 'further study' goes, they need only look around. Just in the past two days, I have heard from well over two dozen folks, all of whom know at least one person who is either suffering from DVT or knew someone who died from it in the past two years. Scary coincidences, and makes me wonder if that 60,000 figure isn't rather low.
So I'll take my shots, and I'll take my meds (at least until I can't afford to), and we'll see what happens. If nothing else, at least I have some spectacular discoloration to watch. I'll keep ya posted.
On a lighter note, since this is also exacerbating my insomnia, I was able to make major headway on the websites and stores, and actually added in a new design, some wallpaper downloads, a new forum, and some really cool automatic linking pages.
The text reads:
"There is but one and only one,
Whose love will fail you never.
One who lives from sun to sun,
With constant fond endeavor.
There is but one and only one
On earth there is no other.
In heaven a noble work was done
When God gave us a Mother."
Peace, folks.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Fern's Top Ten Ways to Get a Job as a Staffer (Mortal) at Karinth
This should really be titled: "Top Ten Ways NOT to Get a Job as a Staffer (Immortal) at Karinth.
Any of the following will ensure results, some more rapid than others. These points are based on actual incidents, by the way, and all names have been changed to Bob, to protect the not-so-innocent. Please note: Not one single applicant or candidate was really named Bob. Some of the Bobs have been male; some have been female. We're an equal-opportunity adventure.
10 - 1337speak
Nothing endears a person less to my heart than Bob's inability to use the language of the realm in clear, concise terms. Phrases like 'r u hiring' just tweak my innards. If a person can't spare the digital energy to type out a full word, how will they possibly invest the time and effort required to write a full area of rooms, mobiles, objects, programs, extra descriptions and the like? Did Bob, our eager applicant, show up to the interview via a cellphone with a thumb-typed keyboard? Bob should have scheduled a discussion for a later time, after explaining that he's communications-impaired.
9 - Instant Staffer - Just Add MUD
Even less of a thrill is when Bob applies for a staff position two minutes after creating their first character on the game. Bob sees the first room of the game after the introduction, decides he would like to build at our place, sends a tell-message to every visible staffer that he wants to build. Bob then becomes incensed when he is told, as politely as possible, that he needs exposure to the game itself before applying.
Irate at not being hired instantly, Bob flames the staffers. public channels, and not a few forums and review sites, announcing to all who will listen that 'those a**h*** immortals at Legends of Kirenth don't know what they're missing by not hiring me!' Well... we missed hiring someone who can't spell the name of our game...
8- The Expert Hath Arrived
Bob creates a character for the first time, goes through the introduction, steps out of the first room, and within nanoseconds knows everything there is to know about the game. Bob begins firing off messages to all visible staffers, delineating exactly what the downfalls of the game are and what MUST happen for it to improve.
When Bob's expertise is not adequately acknowledged in private conversation, he takes the conversation to the public ear, usually the OOC (out-of-character) channel, and lets everyone in the game know exactly what the downfalls of the game are and what must happen for it to improve. Laser guns are sometimes involved. (Legends of Karinth figures its timeframe in high medieval Earth years.) Bob also often makes the suggestion that Legends of Karinth needs a big wilderness map. (Legends of Karinth has a 6-million room wilderness map - how big must it be to be big enough?)
The key phrase is: 'What you guys REALLY need to do is ..." Use that within the first few hours of arrival, and marvel at the speed at which the possibility of a staff position vanishes.
7 - The Instant Best Friend
Bob creates a character for the first time, etc etc etc (you know the drill by now). Bob then begins chatting up the implementor like an old pal. (Nine times out of 10,000, perhaps the implementor has seen Bob's name on a game forum someplace; the other 9,991 times, Bob is a total stranger.) Bob then gets offended when a staff position is not offered based on the obvious weight of his friendship, and leaves amidst mutters and a flurry of smiley-face emoticons. "I'll be back later and we'll talk about this when you're not so busy! :) :) :)" Bob vanishes, never to be seen again.
The next time we hear of Bob is when our friendly neighborhood implementor next door is checking out Bob's list of references, upon which he has lovingly tacked my name, as obviously I am such a good friend.
6 - The I'll Do ANYTHING! Over-Promiser
Somehow Bob gets an interview going with a staffer. Let's say Bob has spent the time to learn the game a bit, has achieved about five levels, so he's zooming around the starting house, slaughtering mosquitos with ease. This time Bob is smart enough not to declare himself the best friend, expert, instant staffer - and he's using a real keyboard instead of his Nok-rizo-torola to log in and chat. The interview proceeds; Bob seems like he does have a good deal of potential as a staffer.
But when it comes time to find out just what he wants to do, Bob waffles. He'll do it all. He's willing to build cities and villages and dungeons, mitigate player problems, design and host world quests, proofread documentation, maintain the website, write the Herbals module in C, redesign the information base, market the webstores, promote the game to link sites, fix the problem with the action code, rebuild the engine in my Ford Bronco, and clean out the cat box. And that's just for starters. Oh, and if there's anything else that needs done, Bob's the man. Nailing this guy down to a single department or function is as easy as getting my neighbor's pet goldfish to sing in HMS Pinafore at Carnegie Hall next week.
5 - Plagiarism is the Sincerest Form of Flattery
Bob makes it up a few levels and is in an interview with a staffer. Bob's impressed with things so far, so when he's asked to submit a sample of his own original writing, he rushes to the task. Bob makes a rather silly mistake and copies a room from another game he used to play. What Bob fails to realize is that this room was written by the staffer he's interviewing with. Bob looks like an idiot, and remains a non-staffer. Upstairs, smatterings of laughter float through the office suites.
4 - Plagiarism + Stupidity = ?
Bob's in a real rush to get this staffer position going, and decides to copy something even sillier - a room from Midgaard complete with typos. Bob looks like a complete idiot, and remains a non-staffer. Upstairs, no laughter. The staffers just look on in awe, unable to believe that Bob would think that would fly.
For non-gamers, this is the default starting city provided with the stock package, and is sometimes used without modification. Just about anyone who's ever played a MUD has seen Midgaard at some point in their gaming career.
3 - The Social Flutterby
Bob has made a few levels, gotten an appointment with a staffer, and has his ducks in a row, with a set of rooms he's prepared to show his stuff and a set of world quest ideas fleshed out and put into an email for the staff to read ahead of time. He's really done his homework, and there for awhile it looks like Bob could be a seriously great addition to the staff. Only one small problem: Bob can't shut up long enough to get the good news.
Bob's got a major case of motor-mouth. Even though he managed to contain it during a portion of the interview, he's got the throttle stuck full open. Everything that's crossing his brain is coming out through his fingers, and he's talking like there's no tomorrow. He sidetracks interview topics with a chain of personal anecdotes. He carries on about the similarities of his gaming experience and his school experience. He talks, and talks, and talks. And talks. The staffers look at each other and shrug, then apply the red rejection stamp to his application. Easy enough to know what will happen if he comes on board. He'll talk, and talk, and talk. And talk. The sad thing is that Bob probably thinks he's being quite affiliative. But the truth remains: When Bob's around, work skids to a halt.
2 - Promise Me Anything
... but at least give me your attention. Bob gets onboard as a staffer somehow and starts building the Halls of Holloweigh beneath the Muran Range. (Obviously a different Bob.. the other ones are off trying to pull the wool over someone else's eyes). He claims he's writing it out on paper first (which is a fine idea). His assigned area file sits empty for weeks, which become months, which becomes a year. Bob has spent a lot of time on his project (he says), but in the space of time most builders could produce three or four good-sized areas, he's submitted nothing visible. Bob gets highly incensed when asked when output will be forthcoming. One day, Bob just fades away, off to the next place.
Bob reminds me of another Bob who worked with me some years ago, at a different place. He was a super communicator... great vocabulary, exceptional at producing visualization. Sadly, he never wrote a single room for the game that could have been seen by players. That Bob. as it turned out, had a severe case of being spread too thin. He was producing areas for three other games at the same time. Since ours had no set deadlines, ours was the one that got pushed to the back burner.
And the Number One All-Time Way to not apply for a job as a staffer:
1 - - Fabricate, Prevaricate, Obfuscate... or Just Flat Lie
Bob's game-pertinent curriculum vitae is impressive. He's built at a dozen places (mostly shut down - server costs, poor management, lack of playerbase); he's administered at a half-dozen more (mostly shut down, of course); he's even run several games all on his own (mostly shut down, of course). He's got enough experience that it's a surprise Sony hasn't picked him up for a senior spot in one of their game development operations.
Bob has nineteen years of experience in the online MUD industry, and has worked on DIKU and ROM games since 1987. (DIKU, from which ROM is derived, was released in 1991). The addition of Bob to the staff would be a definite feather in the cap for the game - he brings so much to the team!
There's just a couple of small problems though... Bob told someone on staff (not someone in the interview with him) that he might have to cut the interview short, since he was going for a driver's test. Bob just turned sixteen years old last week, he tells this other staffer.. and obviously staffers never talk to each other... We think maybe Bob flunked his last math exam or has significant short-term memory problems... or some significant short-term truth problems. Bob remains a non-staffer. Upstairs, folks are getting back to work and wondering why Bob wasted their time.
There you have it, folks. That's ten great ways to ensure that a staff position remains firmly out of reach!
Any of the following will ensure results, some more rapid than others. These points are based on actual incidents, by the way, and all names have been changed to Bob, to protect the not-so-innocent. Please note: Not one single applicant or candidate was really named Bob. Some of the Bobs have been male; some have been female. We're an equal-opportunity adventure.
10 - 1337speak
Nothing endears a person less to my heart than Bob's inability to use the language of the realm in clear, concise terms. Phrases like 'r u hiring' just tweak my innards. If a person can't spare the digital energy to type out a full word, how will they possibly invest the time and effort required to write a full area of rooms, mobiles, objects, programs, extra descriptions and the like? Did Bob, our eager applicant, show up to the interview via a cellphone with a thumb-typed keyboard? Bob should have scheduled a discussion for a later time, after explaining that he's communications-impaired.
9 - Instant Staffer - Just Add MUD
Even less of a thrill is when Bob applies for a staff position two minutes after creating their first character on the game. Bob sees the first room of the game after the introduction, decides he would like to build at our place, sends a tell-message to every visible staffer that he wants to build. Bob then becomes incensed when he is told, as politely as possible, that he needs exposure to the game itself before applying.
Irate at not being hired instantly, Bob flames the staffers. public channels, and not a few forums and review sites, announcing to all who will listen that 'those a**h*** immortals at Legends of Kirenth don't know what they're missing by not hiring me!' Well... we missed hiring someone who can't spell the name of our game...
8- The Expert Hath Arrived
Bob creates a character for the first time, goes through the introduction, steps out of the first room, and within nanoseconds knows everything there is to know about the game. Bob begins firing off messages to all visible staffers, delineating exactly what the downfalls of the game are and what MUST happen for it to improve.
When Bob's expertise is not adequately acknowledged in private conversation, he takes the conversation to the public ear, usually the OOC (out-of-character) channel, and lets everyone in the game know exactly what the downfalls of the game are and what must happen for it to improve. Laser guns are sometimes involved. (Legends of Karinth figures its timeframe in high medieval Earth years.) Bob also often makes the suggestion that Legends of Karinth needs a big wilderness map. (Legends of Karinth has a 6-million room wilderness map - how big must it be to be big enough?)
The key phrase is: 'What you guys REALLY need to do is ..." Use that within the first few hours of arrival, and marvel at the speed at which the possibility of a staff position vanishes.
7 - The Instant Best Friend
Bob creates a character for the first time, etc etc etc (you know the drill by now). Bob then begins chatting up the implementor like an old pal. (Nine times out of 10,000, perhaps the implementor has seen Bob's name on a game forum someplace; the other 9,991 times, Bob is a total stranger.) Bob then gets offended when a staff position is not offered based on the obvious weight of his friendship, and leaves amidst mutters and a flurry of smiley-face emoticons. "I'll be back later and we'll talk about this when you're not so busy! :) :) :)" Bob vanishes, never to be seen again.
The next time we hear of Bob is when our friendly neighborhood implementor next door is checking out Bob's list of references, upon which he has lovingly tacked my name, as obviously I am such a good friend.
6 - The I'll Do ANYTHING! Over-Promiser
Somehow Bob gets an interview going with a staffer. Let's say Bob has spent the time to learn the game a bit, has achieved about five levels, so he's zooming around the starting house, slaughtering mosquitos with ease. This time Bob is smart enough not to declare himself the best friend, expert, instant staffer - and he's using a real keyboard instead of his Nok-rizo-torola to log in and chat. The interview proceeds; Bob seems like he does have a good deal of potential as a staffer.
But when it comes time to find out just what he wants to do, Bob waffles. He'll do it all. He's willing to build cities and villages and dungeons, mitigate player problems, design and host world quests, proofread documentation, maintain the website, write the Herbals module in C, redesign the information base, market the webstores, promote the game to link sites, fix the problem with the action code, rebuild the engine in my Ford Bronco, and clean out the cat box. And that's just for starters. Oh, and if there's anything else that needs done, Bob's the man. Nailing this guy down to a single department or function is as easy as getting my neighbor's pet goldfish to sing in HMS Pinafore at Carnegie Hall next week.
5 - Plagiarism is the Sincerest Form of Flattery
Bob makes it up a few levels and is in an interview with a staffer. Bob's impressed with things so far, so when he's asked to submit a sample of his own original writing, he rushes to the task. Bob makes a rather silly mistake and copies a room from another game he used to play. What Bob fails to realize is that this room was written by the staffer he's interviewing with. Bob looks like an idiot, and remains a non-staffer. Upstairs, smatterings of laughter float through the office suites.
4 - Plagiarism + Stupidity = ?
Bob's in a real rush to get this staffer position going, and decides to copy something even sillier - a room from Midgaard complete with typos. Bob looks like a complete idiot, and remains a non-staffer. Upstairs, no laughter. The staffers just look on in awe, unable to believe that Bob would think that would fly.
For non-gamers, this is the default starting city provided with the stock package, and is sometimes used without modification. Just about anyone who's ever played a MUD has seen Midgaard at some point in their gaming career.
3 - The Social Flutterby
Bob has made a few levels, gotten an appointment with a staffer, and has his ducks in a row, with a set of rooms he's prepared to show his stuff and a set of world quest ideas fleshed out and put into an email for the staff to read ahead of time. He's really done his homework, and there for awhile it looks like Bob could be a seriously great addition to the staff. Only one small problem: Bob can't shut up long enough to get the good news.
Bob's got a major case of motor-mouth. Even though he managed to contain it during a portion of the interview, he's got the throttle stuck full open. Everything that's crossing his brain is coming out through his fingers, and he's talking like there's no tomorrow. He sidetracks interview topics with a chain of personal anecdotes. He carries on about the similarities of his gaming experience and his school experience. He talks, and talks, and talks. And talks. The staffers look at each other and shrug, then apply the red rejection stamp to his application. Easy enough to know what will happen if he comes on board. He'll talk, and talk, and talk. And talk. The sad thing is that Bob probably thinks he's being quite affiliative. But the truth remains: When Bob's around, work skids to a halt.
2 - Promise Me Anything
... but at least give me your attention. Bob gets onboard as a staffer somehow and starts building the Halls of Holloweigh beneath the Muran Range. (Obviously a different Bob.. the other ones are off trying to pull the wool over someone else's eyes). He claims he's writing it out on paper first (which is a fine idea). His assigned area file sits empty for weeks, which become months, which becomes a year. Bob has spent a lot of time on his project (he says), but in the space of time most builders could produce three or four good-sized areas, he's submitted nothing visible. Bob gets highly incensed when asked when output will be forthcoming. One day, Bob just fades away, off to the next place.
Bob reminds me of another Bob who worked with me some years ago, at a different place. He was a super communicator... great vocabulary, exceptional at producing visualization. Sadly, he never wrote a single room for the game that could have been seen by players. That Bob. as it turned out, had a severe case of being spread too thin. He was producing areas for three other games at the same time. Since ours had no set deadlines, ours was the one that got pushed to the back burner.
And the Number One All-Time Way to not apply for a job as a staffer:
1 - - Fabricate, Prevaricate, Obfuscate... or Just Flat Lie
Bob's game-pertinent curriculum vitae is impressive. He's built at a dozen places (mostly shut down - server costs, poor management, lack of playerbase); he's administered at a half-dozen more (mostly shut down, of course); he's even run several games all on his own (mostly shut down, of course). He's got enough experience that it's a surprise Sony hasn't picked him up for a senior spot in one of their game development operations.
Bob has nineteen years of experience in the online MUD industry, and has worked on DIKU and ROM games since 1987. (DIKU, from which ROM is derived, was released in 1991). The addition of Bob to the staff would be a definite feather in the cap for the game - he brings so much to the team!
There's just a couple of small problems though... Bob told someone on staff (not someone in the interview with him) that he might have to cut the interview short, since he was going for a driver's test. Bob just turned sixteen years old last week, he tells this other staffer.. and obviously staffers never talk to each other... We think maybe Bob flunked his last math exam or has significant short-term memory problems... or some significant short-term truth problems. Bob remains a non-staffer. Upstairs, folks are getting back to work and wondering why Bob wasted their time.
There you have it, folks. That's ten great ways to ensure that a staff position remains firmly out of reach!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)