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
Thursday, September 15, 2005
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.
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