Neil Gaiman - American Gods - Free Full Access

As a way to introduce Mr. Gaiman (I suppose) harpercollins is offering a month of free access to my favorite book (of his).  If anyone wants to read it and is interested in a word document about the gods in the book and various other things I found interesting about it, let me know.

M

http://browseinside.harpercollins.com/index.aspx?isbn13=9780060558123&WT.mc_id=author_AmerGods_FullAccess_022208

16:14 - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Confessions of a Reluctant God

I just found out that I am a God.  I'm not sure if I really want to take all that on right now.  It just seems rather too demanding.  I have trouble being responsible for myself and my cat let alone a population.  But apparently there is no 'Appeals Court for Being a God'.  One has to accept one's deitiness and just get on with things.  Luckily for me I happen to be a god of something so obscure and eccentric that maybe no-one will notice (let alone protest or pray):   I am the God of Water Witching.

For my entire life, I haven't been able to wear watches – at first they speed up and report the time just a little fast. Then they all quit.  It's as if they all so despair being on my wrist that they find a really tall bridge and end it all.  Watch battery suicide.  I can generally do that to any watch battery in about five months.

Give me a cell phone and a few months and I'll have its battery needing to be recharged every two days.

My old mac needed recharging every half hour.  My new computer's battery went dead two days ago after being left unplugged (and off) over night.

About a year ago, I sped up Nena, my car, enough that two dummy lights (that, according to the glossary of terms in the manual, both meant "Take to your Toyota Dealer IMMEDIATELY!") came on.  I was scared for my car and quickly changed directions to head toward the dealership.  After a quick look under the hood, the mechanic said that there was nothing wrong - that these lights come on if you pass the 5,000 mile limit.  But I hadn't passed the 5,000 mile limit.  The computer battery had sped up.

Being both frustrated and interested, I did a bit of internet research.  According to a few websites, the watches of most people who have had near-death experiences speed up and eventually quit running.  Interesting.  Good explanation except that I have never died.  I have never had a near-death experience.  Once I almost died in a Mexican hospital but I clearly didn't (that situation is actually a good story in and of itself but sadly not a near-death experience).

Talking to my mother about this the other day, she told me that the same thing happens to my father!  He can't wear watches either.  She said that they have decided it is because of his ability to find water.  (huh?)   So, despite having lived with my father for 17 years, I didn't realize that he is what is called a 'water-witch.'  Apparently, people used to ask him to find the place where they should dig their wells.  And, being fairly good at it, word got around and - who knew? - my father has placed most of the wells out there in their little community, Elbridge.

Now, my father is a level-headed, straight-forward, no-nonsense sort of fellow.  He doesn't believe in ghosts, new agey stuff, or "The Secret".  But, he (and apparently most of the people from where I grew up) believes that his body electricity is such that it can detect water underground.

It just so happened that my father was searching for a place to plant a Bald Cypress near the Nature Trail of Pumpkin Works, so we all trotted out there to do some water-witching.  My dad dragged out two sorry looking wires.  They were't the same length and were fairly badly bent out of shape.  He had curled the ends around so that he could hold them in his hands and the majority of the two wires would be pointing straight out from his body.  As he walked along the ground, the wires moved and eventually crossed.  That was the point where the tree was going to have its roots in the most water.  My mother tried it next and the wires just did absolutely nothing.  She said that she's tried to do this for years, wants to be a witch pretty badly, and the wires just aren't interested in working for her.  Then it was my turn.  I closed my eyes (I didn't want to be able to see the spot where the wires had crossed for my father).  I held the wires incredibly tight.  I knew that there was a huge possibility that just because I wanted the wires to cross, I could move my hands (without even knowing it) in ways that would make them do so.

Remember that horse that could read his owner's mind?  Come here, Back Up, Neigh?  And how everyone watching thought that it was amazing – no-one, including the owner could figure out how it was done other than telepathy.  And then they blindfolded the owner and tied his hands behind his back and all of a sudden, the horse didn't know what to do.  The owner was subconsciously making minute movements with his eyes and hands that were cues for the horse to behave in a particular way.

So I shut my eyes and held the wires really tight, and pressed close to my chest.  But, even with these (granted, rudimentary) precautions, the wires crossed at the same place where they had crossed for my father.  So I made him try it in another area while I sat in the truck with my eyes shut.  Then it was my turn and the wires crossed at the same place that his did.  WEIRD.  (My friend Rob did it too, but only one of his wires moved.  He's half a witch.  We aren't going to include him in the clique though, because he can wear watches.)

So I had to figure this one out.  I really like the Skeptical Inquirer so I checked there.  They don't have such a great opinion about people who think they can water witch.  One argument was that underground water doesn't really travel in lodes like that.  So in reality, there wouldn't be a spot where it would better to dig a well or plant a tree, because the ground is just saturated in water rather than having a little stream down there.

Whatever.  Sometimes it's just more fun to believe you have supernatural powers.  Who wants to be bogged down in reality these days anyway?

Doing all this thinking about how my body electricity is affected by water, made me remember a few years ago when there was not enough rain for my parents' crops to grow.  It was getting pretty bad so I decided to take matters into my own hands.  On the radar was a blip of rain floating about 70 miles from their farm which I decided would become the absolute focus of my next few minutes.  I concentrated on the clouds and mentally pushed them as far I could; "Go Southeast, Go Southeast."  (I'm totally serious about this.  I'm someone who doesn't believe that there is anything like telepathy or miracles or the supernatural.  But for some reason I went momentarily crazy and actually talked to this radar blip.)

The next day I called up my parents to see how much rain they had received.  She told me that they had not received any rain (see how powerful I am with water).  But, listen to this…  Within about 10 minutes of my temporary talking-to-clouds psychosis, Pumpkin Works was hit by a lightening bolt.  My father and the men who were helping him in the field had quit because of the wind and were sitting on 5-gallon buckets watching the sky.  My mom was counting inventory in the gift shop of their business.   Apparently, the bolt streaked across the sky onto its targeted victim, the huge locust tree outside the shop.  There was a loud, fizzing boom and the light bulbs in the shop all shattered simultaneously.  All the men were shot up into the air off of their seats and came crashing down on their backsides.  The poor tree died.

Okay.  Now, what does all this mean to you?  Taken together, who could miss the obvious?  I am a God.  I am the God of Body Electricity.  I am the God of Malfunctioning Batteries.  I am the God of Somewhat Histrionic Dummy Lights.  I am the God of Water Witching.  I am the God of Lightening!

My powers are awesome and unlimited!  Adulate and revere Me!  (Okay, maybe I'm not that reluctant.)

"I did it with my powers." Matilda

19:02 - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

I Have Control Over You, Nah Nah Nah

The hospital unit that I work on has just implemented a new Really-Important-Rule.  This is no ordinary hospital rule that everyone in the entire hospital has to follow (like, don't punch people, don't invite rats into your room by having half-eaten candy laying all over the place, wear gloves if you are playing with blood, don't smoke in the operating room, etc.).  No, this is a type of rule called a 'Just-On-Our-Unit' rule – meaning everyone else, everywhere else in the whole hospital doesn't have to follow this rule.  Just the people on the unit that I work on. 

In addition to the fact that this new rule is a Just-On-Our-Unit-Rule, it is also a Just-Controlling-You-Because-We-Can-Rule.  And an Asinine-and-Arbitrary-Rule.  And, one of only three Oh-My-God-Is-Everyone-Here-Schizophrenic-Rule. 

The memo introducing the new rule states:

"Starting Tuesday February 19^th, we will be implementing a new policy.  There will be no caffeine allowed on the unit." 

"What?  Are you freaking kidding?"  (I actually I only said that in my head.) 

This rule is NOT for any medical reason like too-much-caffeine-kills-you, or caffeine-is-counterindicated-with-the-medication-that-you-are-taking.  It is because there is a potential for Abuse.  Like alcohol Abuse or cocaine Abuse.  Because apparently we might all sit around together getting high off of coffee during the nurse's report. 

Hey, dude, pass the coffee.

I did ask the person handing down this rule, "Why is it that we have decided to have this control battle?"  I also said that, "if the leaders of our unit wanted to come in for a little therapy I could talk with them a bit about how to live among the people on our planet.  They seem to need a refresher on human behavior."

Brendan, a Caseworker on days, suggested that it was Draconian and that by next week we won't be allowed to wear colors. 

A couple of the patients suggested that "you guys are Nazis."  And now that just sucks!  I get thrown in with the Nazis just because I work there and I have to tow the party line.  (Although I did want to tell the patient that regulating coffee had not been issue with the Nazis and in fact, Hitler had encouraged the use of amphetamines, and that probably what he -the patient- really meant to say was 'fascist', even though fascist doesn't REALLY describe the situation either – maybe 'dictatorial' or 'autocratic', or more accurately, 'really really stupid'.)

So – I'm adding this rule into the same category that I made up for the Have-To-Wear-Socks-To-Work Rule, although wearing socks actually makes a bit of sense in terms of hygiene. 

And I've had to ask myself the scary question of, "Why is it that you work there again?"  Which is a yucky question to start contemplating, and not half as interesting as, "Who the hell sits around and makes rules like this up?" or "What the fuck is wrong with people who need that much control?" or even, "Can we have a parade in Texas and hey! You could play JFK! Wouldn't that be fun?"

But those (especially that last one) are in pretty bad taste. 

Unlike my sweet, tasty cherished Mocha… ah, the good ol' days.

13:03 - 7 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Instructions for Miseol’s March 2007- March 2008 (serves 12)

Ingredients: cat, efficiency, family, boyfriend, job, chocolate

1. Take a family vacation on Kentucky Lake in summer 2007.  Stir this well: have brother-in-law, Mike, fall on his water-ski (hits him right between the eyes) and spend the rest of the vacation in the hospital.  If mixed correctly, the brain surgeon will say that said that if the ski had gone two millimeters deeper, he would have died instantaneously; "he's one lucky man."  Contemplate the relativity of 'lucky'.

2. Add sadness.  This can be in the form of a best dog friend, Maya, dying.  He should have come into season a few years back (preferably he is in a neck 'n' neck race with the earth to see who might come out the oldest).  The earth will win.  Optional: to add a little spice, bury Maya deep in the woods in the cemetery that is one of the scarier stops on the Spooky Hayrides of Pumpkin Works.  Cry.

3. In separate bowl, have ex-husband move to Seattle and stop writing horrid emails!  Jump up and down a few times and sprinkle with faerie dust.  Get back in touch with some good friends that the ex had claimed as his and his alone.  Set aside for later.

4. Just because you can, teach a little 16-month-old nephew, Oliver, to say 'duck' when anyone asks him a question.  Watch sister's reaction.

5. Stir again: move into an office on the unit in the hospital.  If you like a tangier flavor, miss your old office suite that you had mostly to yourself.  Miss your OBGYN neighbors.  Begrudge the fact that now you may never have a chance to get that sword from back behind their receptionist.

6. Bring to a boil (actually, skip this step if you can): go terrifyingly crazy worrying about one of your kids and punctuate with an anger outburst that is worse than anything in your entire life (this includes during The Divorce).  Grow horns and beard.

7. Let rise: decide to write a novel.  Become just one more American who thinks she'll be able to sell a bunch of sentences to the world.  You'll have to work hard at this one…

8. Knead.  Use technique developed by best cat friend, Isis.  Notice that she has become overly anxious and is licking off the fur on her belly and inner hind legs.  Use profession to ask her, "yes, but how do you feel?" to no avail.  Consider medication.

9. Chill in refrigerator for a good long time: get a private yoga teacher who is fun and wise simultaneously.

10. Keep checking on it periodically: get into a serious relationship with Rob (he understands about the Marriage Curse and won't pressure you).  Peaks should be stiff like a good meringue.  You will be able to tell that it is right if you feel free and in love around him.

11. Allow your old Mac iBook to die and then in a sudden act of betrayal, join the Dark Side.  (It's under $400 – you'd be silly not to buy it.)

12. Add a bit of grandiosity: convince self that in the second and third movies of Pullman's 'Dark Materials' you should play Dr. Mary Malone.  Try out the accent.   Be careful, you may sound more like an effeminate pirate than a scholar.

13. Top it all off with a GRANDSON!  Throw it into the air and catch it a few times.  Spin around and make some googely noises.  Jump in the air like the people in those old Toyota commercials.  Deliver Blessing: May you be peaceful, May you be happy, May you be free from all negativity. May you know health, wisdom, and love.  Om Namah Shivaya. 

My god, that kid (Noah) is a treasure.  Enjoy!

05:17 - 6 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

The Various and Sundry Musings of a Maniac

One of the most frustrating things about living in my efficiency is that no-one around here has a wireless network that I can leach off of.  For the longest time no one around here had wireless.  They were all saving up for the next big 8-ball.  But now my computer picks up a few different signals, all three of which are guarded with super-secret triple passwords consisting of names of pets and children who are not known to me.

As far as I can tell, my crack house next door doesn't have wi-fi.  However, it has turned into a newly remodeled, fancied-up crack house with a mixed set of inhabitants that either ignore me or look at me like I have an alien crawling out of my nose.  The last 58 people who lived in that house were at least friendly.  With me.  They fought each other with knives in my yard which, granted, suggested that they weren't that friendly with each other.  I suppose if I had to choose, I'd like to have neighbors who feel awkward around me but have no knives.  Truth be told, I'm not really that friendly with people anyway.

I met a co-worker/friend, Kelly, at my typical coffeehouse hang-out and she knew everyone there – many, many more people than I did.  She had conversations with some of the workers, someone who bought cheesecake, and then, of course, me.  To try and fit in, I had to pretend that I knew everyone too, which just made the situation uncomfortable and my friend look like she hangs out with idiots.  Maybe she generally does – how do I know that I am the only one?  Perhaps I am the only one with the alien coming out of my nose.

I did talk with one man – I have seen him there at least 15 times and (about 13 years ago) I used to see him weekly at a meeting that I would go to on Thursday nights.  Luckily I remembered his name (Mike) and I made use of the name-dropping tactic and mentioned our mutual friend, Rog (see previous blog in which Roger means "Famous with a Spear").  He indicated that I looked familiar and we had a pleasant conversation that made me wish I kept in better touch with Rog.

I have a hard time keeping in touch with friends, and so I have had to make a little calendar for myself about who to contact when.  I have also made big plans to keep in touch with a guy who asked me to fly with him.  I used to fly a little plane – not that well, though.  I could take off and land pretty well, but I didn't finish up my hours and get my license.  So I'm excited to go again.  However, the situation is a bit clumsy since he asked me in the winter if I would like to "fly when the weather gets better" and now that the weather is better I feel uneasy just giving him my phone number.  That seems rather flirtier than I have any intention of being.

Despite all this, the coffeehouse conversation that Kelly and I had went quite well.  I offered to keep her abreast of the information in 'Bitch' and 'Mental Floss' while she promised to help me discern all the blond bobble-heads whose emaciated bodies all look the same, but whose antics and lives are so different and important that they are reported in 'People'.  Even so, the most important happening of the day waited for us outside.  There, next to her car was a purple and white stick which, we both agreed, clearly indicated that the discarder was pregnant.  We took a picture because, now, what was that doing there?  I can think of several reasons, and most, including the one with the lightning and the buffalo, are pretty funny.  There are some that aren't very funny at all, but I have to spend only a brief period of time on those because bad things never actually happen in my world.  That's because I quit everything before they do.  I quit flying when Kennedy sank his plane into the sea.  Nothing bad like that is gonna happen to me now.  Ha Ha, you mean, bad-thing world.

I also used to own two motorcycles.  Both of them (embarrassingly) were crotch rockets – one was a Ninja 500 and the other was a Katana 750.  I could choose which bike to ride according to whim.  The main problem was that I couldn't ride either one in the wind.  One was too small and the two of us blew all over the road while the other one was too big and threatened to tip me off every time we passed a semi.  I quit riding when a friend of mine was killed while performing the dangerous motorcycle feat of being stopped at a stoplight.  The saying about being 'an organ donor much sooner than I would like' suddenly made sense.  I miss those bikes on days like today, though.  There has been very little else that has made me feel as free or as sexy as slipping on a little tank top, donning some black leather pants, and riding down the road with my hair/dreads flying back.  I felt truly, femininely powerful.

This weekend while staying at a hotel waiting to see my allergy specialist, I wanted to do something decidedly feminine.  I made plans to buff my nails – if you can't ride a bike, what's better than buffing nails?  I've managed to paint my nails sporadically through my life, but never managed to see buffing as that important.  That night, I wanted smooth nails – none of those irritating ridges that made a person look like they might be forgetting to find the fountain of youth.  For some reason I really needed smooth, girly fingernails.  So, after purchasing a nail buffer, I settled in to read and make fun of various tourist pamphlets while achieving the smoothest nails in the universe.

I forget how it finally came to my attention, but at some point I realized that I had managed to buff three of my nails down to practically nothing.  They actually hurt and looked like thin pieces of light pink origami papers.  And just when I was feeling rather superior and elitist by laughing at the misspellings and sad slogans that were trying to encourage me to visit various holes in the walls.   Damn.  That was pretty dumb.

But I have done several things that were markedly dumber.

One moment of dumbness that is particularly close to my heart happened during a pre-wedding reception for some friends.  I was feeling uncomfortable not knowing anyone there, but had decided to think positively and make the situation go well.

I found a comfortable spot where the best man and maid of honor had started a conversation about something that I could relate to, and joined in.  Several of their friends also joined the group and after a bit, the topic changed to something I could no longer relate to – the wedding party's attire.  They laughed at the top hats that they would have to wear and joked that they just needed canes to finish off the effect.  Someone said, "We could even do a little dance while we're up there."

Without a preamble to warm up the audience and get them prepared to laugh, I told a little joke.  It was funny.  I thought it was funny.  In fact, I still think it was funny.  But I was the only one in the little group that thought so.

I uncoordinatedly stooped to one side, buffed out my chest, twisted my mouth into a little pretzel, stomped on the floor twice, and forcefully emitted something like, "Puutttin' on duh Wiiiiiitz."  They just stared at me.  My mind was racing around how much of a fool I had just made of myself so it is hard to know for sure, but I think they also glanced at each other while trying to grasp what the hell this weirdo woman was doing.

All I could do was excuse myself.  I couldn't explain the joke.  I couldn't try to compose myself and continue talking about the dress code.  I could only just slink away.  Luckily, I at least had the wherewithal not to lurch away dragging one leg behind me.

It's times like these (the buffed away nails, the insane attempts at humor when surrounded by strangers) when I try to tell myself –
"hey, I'm smart!  No, really, truly – I am."
I console myself with self statements like,
"after all, I know the states and capitals," or,
"I can read."
"I've dissected people for god's sake," (the dead ones were, needless to say, the least resistant) and,
"I do quite well on the Webkinz trivia questions - even in the 13-year-old or older category!"  Sometimes it works.

09:57 - 7 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Rarely Have We Seen A Person Fail...

Once, as a child, I threw a tap shoe at my older sister. She deserved it - whatever it was that she did; it was death-penalty serious. My aim would develop much later in life, so the shoe crashed through my bedroom window. She proceeded to throw me down the stairs, which gave me bumps and bruises and possibly prostate cancer, but when our parents got home, guess who was in trouble? Me. Damn shoe. I never wanted to tap dance again.

I also used to walk down the long lane to the barns where the farm met the one-and-a-half lane road known as Rural Route 2. That was where the bus picked us up and dropped us off and I would meet her there with grapes when she would attend summer school. Our bus rides ranged from 45 to 55 minutes, and after something like that a person needs grapes.

I could complain about everything from her voice to her bossiness ("You're not my mom!" was about my favorite phrase) but if someone else said something even slightly derogatory, my fists would target eyes. And that was my relationship with her: fierce love and loyalty mixed with terrible frustration and tap shoes.

When my younger sister came along five years after I did, my older sister and I were able to band together and torture her. At one point the little one telephoned our grandparents with the news that she was being (sob) killed by her (sniff) vampire sisters. Whatever. Sadly, our 'whatever' logic didn't fly with my grandparents and we were sent to our tombs to wait for darkness and stakes in our hearts when our parents got home.

My younger sister used crying quite a bit more that I did - she was a lot smarter that way. She was able to cry herself out of a multitude of situations, the best one being working in the pig nursery. We would clip tails so that the babies wouldn't tear each other's off when playing (yes, piggies do tear each other's tails off) and cause infections that required antibiotics. We would clip teeth so that they wouldn't puncture mommy's tummy and cause infections that would require antibiotics to be given to a nursing sow. We would remove testicles so that the meat wouldn't be rancid with testosterone when the little boy piggies grew up and became bacon. It was an experience, even an education - but along with the suffering, we did get paid. Yet my little sister didn't have to do it because she had more active tear ducts than I did. Only later did I have the wherewithal to develop a severe allergy to mold, which shut off my lungs and made it impossible for me to work in enclosed barns.

Until that happened, my older sister and I would walk down the long lane together and set out to torment piglets. In order to do this, we would need go into the 'office' of the nursery, take off our shoes (and any winter coverings like coveralls, scarves, etc.), put on some boots, grab the torture kit, head into the nursery, disinfect our boots and hands, and then Hi Ho, Hi Ho, all the live-long day. I made up the fantasy that the pigs didn't feel any pain since they didn't squeal when all this surgery was taking place. It worked at the time. I now question the validity of that belief, but am still grateful for the experience because I can threaten any man that gives me trouble by calmly stating, "I have a straight razor, and I know how to use it."

Once, as we were heading back up the lane after a long morning of education, my older sister started to scream. I was startled by this and quickly became hyper-vigilant, taking inventory of myself and the space around me. She began flapping her arms wildly and running up the lane away from me. I quickly looked behind me to see what was chasing us and although there was nothing behind us, I decided that she might know a bit more than I do about invisible creatures and that picking up the pace wouldn't hurt anything.

At that point I had moved from startled to scared and began screaming and sprinting, knowing that whatever was back there must be a very deadly thing. I started to flap my arms - I didn't know what was going on, but it really looked like she did, and so I just started following her lead on all of this. She unzipped her coveralls while still flapping her arms (quite a feat, but still something that I was also able to do). We screamed and screamed and she tossed off one of her boots. Still wanting to run from the danger, I began hopping on one leg as fast as I could while taking off one of my own boots. I fell flat on my face.

When she flung her other boot onto the ground, a little, bitty mouse ran out. She kept screaming, and I did too until my brain caught up with my scream and I realized that, yes, a little mouse has just run out of my sister's boot. While we were working, the little thing had snuggled up in her winter clothes. When getting ready to head home, my sister had put on the mouse along with her coveralls.

She came over and fell on top of me sobbing, but after a bit we couldn't stop laughing. We rolled around, freezing to death in our stocking feet and unzipped coveralls, laughing so hard that we thought we might die. After that, we calmly redressed and started back up to the house to have some grapes. After something like that a person needs grapes.

I don't think I have ever trusted anyone as much as I trusted her and her ability to detect horrible, invisible monsters. I have developed that ability in myself now, so I don't need to blindly follow with faith. But I do still call my sister from time to time, describing the nature of the invisible beasts behind me and, while crying, listen to her tell me that we can outrun it together.

11:17 - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

I Fear Nothing and Nothing Fears Me

Several nights ago I drove home from work through a town that had, over the last few weeks, developed lawns that were whiter and almost two feet taller than before. Streets had been cut through the snow leaving walls on both sides that were taller still. The sidewalks that had been shoveled looked like they were carved out of white rock and the ones that had not were simply nonexistent.

The only clue that someone was walking in the road up ahead was the little red light dancing circles around the darkness. It was a signal that there was a larger being holding onto that little red light and breathing relief from it every now and then. I made certain to drive well into the other lane so as to give him plenty of room to slip and fall without my creating any annoying death for him. Staring out the window at the man, I realized that I hadn't thought about stopping and asking where he was going. I hadn't thought to pick him up and drive him out of the 4F degrees air that was chilling his bones and lessening the heat drawn into his lungs from that little light. When it did occur to me, just then, I didn't do anything but drive past.

As I walked up my own carved sidewalk and up the stairs to my little place, I contemplated how unfortunate it is that because of fear I didn't help a stranger. I thought about how commonplace it is to simply not help people because of fear. I considered whether the blame was personal or with society, and then it all became all too esoteric for me and my little obtuse corner of the world and I let it rest.

Believing in how enormously powerful I must be, I have frequently and strongly noted that no entity, organization or otherwise, can make me believe in something because of fear. For example, if I believe in a deity, it is not because I am afraid of what will happen if I don't. However, I believe that I cannot pick up strangers because I am a woman in a culture where every day newspapers print stories of rapes, dismemberments, and deaths of women at the hands of strangers. I believe that I will not pick up strangers because I am afraid of what will happen if I do. Slightly different, but clearly cousins. Perhaps fear is more of a motivator for me than I want it to be.

I believe in the big bang theory - thinking of that moment and the following second or two as the ultimate higher power; a creative genius that still has the universe spreading out and has made one little pin prick in its fabric in such a way that I exist and the little atmosphere around me actually sustains me while I work with the rest of the humans to destroy our inherited miracle. Is that fear?

Fear is also playing a major role in my decision about how to handle some property. I own a small farm near Terre Haute, Indiana - small being relative. My place is very small when compared to actual sustainable farms in the USA. Sustainable farms are generally larger complexes that genuflect to bigger corporations like Wal*Mart. Family farms are small specks of old dreams and family dust that are slowly being swiped away by the large corporations and their genuflecting complexes. My farm is even smaller than a family farm.

In total, I have 94 acres. Or at least I pretend to have somehow bought the privilege to have 94 acres; that privilege doesn't really exist. Fifty acres make up one large field while the other forty-four (not contiguous to the 50) is a small forest with hills, streams, flowers, wild animals, and beauty. Ninety-four acres to the average city dweller is a big ol' piece of the earth. So, depending on which pier one is standing on, my farm is either very, very tiny or very, very big.

When completing my taxes with my accountant (I like to say 'my accountant' because I think somehow that makes me something special), she told me that I needed to get rid of 50 acres of my farm. "It's eating you alive," is what she said specifically. When I got home I went into the bathroom and slowly undressed in fear of what I might find. Sure enough, I could see the little teeth marks around my ankles and lower calves. They were red and sore and one of them was starting to fester. How could I not have noticed that before?

That night had a dream about an old woman whose husband died. I didn't know her well and the relationship between us was sort of hazy but still, I came to the funeral to support her because I knew that she was devastated. As I wandered around, I realized that the man in the casket was dryly emitting some kind of bizarre, word-like wheezes from his paper voice box. I couldn't understand and went over to try and decipher what he was saying. The words never became clear but I started thinking to myself, "I don't think that man is dead." I seemed puzzled (and clearly lacking in basic biology knowledge) because I wanted to find a death expert who might be able to tell me whether or not this phenomenon was a normal part of death. "Is he maybe still alive?" "Do dead people DO that?"

I am certain that in reality I am both the alive-but-about-to-be-buried husband and the totally oblivious wife. Devastated to let something go and yet somehow believing that my dry wheezes might be signs of recovery. Mostly I just hope that, if at my funeral I start to wheeze in the casket, someone has a bit more sense than I did and calls 911.

The forty-four acre forest is where my gods live. It is a sacred place for me and it brings me peace. I own it completely. The other fifty I am purchasing from a bank by paying them my liver, my blood, and my first-born son. It is a part of the family farm and I will cry when selling it to someone whose heart doesn't react in the same manner to the accompanying, breathing memories that have been given life by the work and sweat of four generations. I am afraid of the stark reality that it will probably be purchased by someone who will develop the land and form a little community of richer people who want to live 'in the country.' But I know that I can never truly own a piece of the earth and that perhaps the memories will just pack up and change residence with me. I suppose I 'hope' that more than I 'know' that.

Needing time to contemplate this energy depleting decision, I made a pilgrimage to Ise. I found no spear, as I half suspected would happen. Luck is a perfidious friend. But I took Koda (the little Kodama that lives in my glasses case and hassles my cat) with me and together we walked through the serenity that comes with the reverence of nature and the understanding that the life around us is as sacred and powerful as we are. Indeed, much more powerful.

Koda explained to me that there are three relics in Shintoism - the Sword (or spear as we have now discovered), the Mirror of Truth, and the Jewels. They've been spread out in different temples so that people like me can't just run in, bow and deceive, then run out again with all three treasures. Sadly, I spent days finding only one of the temples and when I entered, it was the one with the mirror! Argh. However, despite the fact that my mission was the spear, the Mirror of Truth was a magnificent and exciting find. I figured that the view shown in the Mirror of Truth would be pretty awesome and bracing myself for the most spiritual experience I have ever had, I looked into the mirror.

It was a regular old mirror. It reflected me. All these people believing that something is sacred when it is just an ordinary, everyday object. Should I tell them?

At some point, the mirror stopped being such an ordinary artifact and actually did something helpful. I caught a glimpse, in the reflection of the mirror, of a fell Ice Dragon creeping up behind me with its monstrous wings outspread and its claws extended, preparing for a strike. I had no time to feel the fear that gave me the adrenaline I needed. Quickly turning and calculating, I prepared to engage in a fight to the death. Teeth were gnashed and flesh was torn. At points it seemed that I was but a jingling cat toy to the dragon, but at other points my sheer determination caught him off guard and I delivered some serious blows. Remembering the major tussles of fairy tales (which is where these fights really belong), I dodged and slashed and eventually slew the dragon.

Exhausted and bloody, holding the beast's severed jaw in my arms, I allowed myself to slump to the ground. Leaning forward, breathing calm back into my body, I noticed that on the ground, directly in front of me, was the Mirror of Truth. Every single, tiny, little piece glimmered with the sunlight that reflected right back into my eyes and blinded me with the truth that I had just done something really, really unfortunate. How many years of bad luck does one have to suffer for breaking a sacred mirror that the Sun Goddess gave to the first emperor of Japan? I don't know.

I just really hope that nobody notices.

**Pictures of my family, Koda, and the Ice Dragon's jaw can now be seen in my picture gallery.

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Kids - the Philosopher's Stone is what it's REALLY called

Conquering the world is, I admit, a bit harder than I had imagined.  However, I refuse to agree with that old badger that told me that I should rather buy a cow.  He smelled funny and what would I do with a cow anyway?  I'm allergic to milk.

I've been slowly gathering minions from the far reaches of the earth.   I've been following the leftist idea about one person changing the world: I'm daily trying to make small [evil] changes in my own community.  I've even been able to undermine some people's ideas about personal autonomy. 

In addition to my clever preparations, I know I have the power to succeed.  Just yesterday as I was meeting with a minion in a coffee house, there was a Michael Jackson song playing over the speakers.  The song was near the end and "you are not alone," over and over was getting a bit absurd.  I made the comment, "this has to stop," and within two seconds, an employee had stopped the CD. 

There are many other examples, but the last I will present happened two years ago at a family gathering.  We were playing a game whose name is currently eluding me.  I needed to guess a word that my mother-in-law was explaining without using that word, gestures, etc.  There was a time limit involved and after each correctly guessed word, the hand-held game was passed to the next team.  The team holding the game when the buzzer went off lost that particular round.  She began talking and I yelled, "Alchemist."  It was correct, but two of the other players were a bit skeptical and suggested that I had seen the word.  I would have been skeptical.  There were no real clues to lead me to that answer.  This is clearly another indication of my great and fear-inducing power.

Slightly tangential, but bear with me: I have just read the first book of Harry Potter, "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone."  I had kept from reading it until now because I like to view myself as on the fringes of things and therefore reading the most-popular-children's-books-ever was not in my self image.  However, while waiting for something, I grabbed the book off of some shelves and began to read.  I liked the story (except for the sticky-sweet ending) so, I bought the book in Spanish, "Harry Potter y la piedra filosofal," which is when I realized, "yeah, why did they call it the 'Sorcerer's Stone' in English?"  A quick internet check later, it became clear to me that it was changed when the book was published in the United States because children here wouldn't find the Philosopher's Stone very exciting.  Now that is a sad, sad story.  Perhaps I'm not tapping into a whole generation of folks that would follow me if I just changed my name.

Then, I realized last night as I was trying to get to sleep that perhaps my big juggernaut is that I have been trying to "Conquer the World."  It came to me that this goal was limited.  After all, if I am only focused on the conquering, what will I do when I get the world conquered?  There will be no more conquering to do.  I will have born out my mission and my life would instantaneously become useless.  Therefore, I have decided to change my goal to "Ruling the World."  Perhaps I will hold a committee meeting on this so that a group of people can feel as though they have wasted their time by helping a ruthless pig change the name of the strategic planning mission statement.  

You are invited.

"We just have to try the key in every single lock we pass," he said, "and when we find the one that this key opens, we'll know that ten thousand years have gone by." Valentine, by Neil

07:54 - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Musings of a Familiar

The wind is blowing crisp, chestnut-colored oak leaves across the cracked and patched road laid out in front of an old house that contains her little space she labeled her own.  Sunlight bends through the tattered, gray fence separating the Victorian for sale across the street and the grass alley that leads to a gigantic mound of dirty snow.  Over the course of two mercurial-weathered weeks, the pile has developed a callused coating of grimy, crusty ice hiding any kindness that might be left inside.  Past the curious mound of snow (which is withering but still surviving in a world that has melted everything else it could relate to) is an Inn –  a rundown, time-torn, roach infested home for people who have lost the ability to find a career beyond addiction and/or self-objectification.  In several places the roof sags dangerously and the only signs of occupancy become visible at night.  A second alley provides a return passage/sale-route back to the street where the leaves scatter with the wind.  The leaves and the wind; they've formed a symbiotic relationship.  The wind has a chance to visibly express its invisible creativity and the leaves taste what it must feel like to dance. 

It must be hard to have to overpower something to be seen.  It must be hard to have to be subservient to power to be able to experience joy.

The tiny street also passes in front of a massive collection of garbage and furniture that has crept, over the last week, onto the sidewalk of the house next door.  Overturned garbage cans and broken liquor bottles now have to compete for space with the newly arrived passel of unwanted material items.  The woman looks at the rectangles of this view that the bay windows of her efficiency allow, and stretches out onto the bed, placing her chin in her hands to continue taking in the scene.  Enveloped in a sullen malaise and possible progression into isolation, she sits and watches, contemplating hopelessness, connections, and the meaning of love lost in a world in which the opening move was made unintentionally years ago and the possible choices on the board are shrinking exponentially.  And yet, how can one with such a shrinking vision and narrowed insight have the chance to see the world in its raw, splendid yet broken totality?

Newly de-draped, the leaded windows in the massive house next-door allow glimpses of original hardwood floors and beautiful built-in cabinetry.  Other signs of humans are missing; the people have left taking their illegal activities with them, and putting their drapes in the heap among the sofas and various other old, urine-stained and battered accessories.  After occupancy was prohibited in the house by the city, a steady yet lethargic parade of (how many could there be?) poverty stricken adults and children, lugging their valuables in trash bags, left the house.  Laying in the bed with a warm, purring cat nesting in the small of her back, the woman struggles with the dissonance created by the absence of late night prowlers, the improved accessibility of the shared driveway, the abrupt lack of knife fights in the yard, and the displaced people who have no place besides the mission to celebrate the holidays.  Perhaps every day was a holiday for them.  Perhaps holidays can be overdrawn in advance.  Perhaps holidays come in different shades of color – like the shifting undertones of dirty snow mountains as shadows file over the crevices creating blues and grays that were browns and tawny whites only hours earlier. 

I stir, lick my paws, stretch my way off her back and across the comforter, then leap to the floor with a little chirp.  Navigating around the piles of books, I wonder if she will convince herself that life is less a manipulated experience and more a being of its own that expects an audience to watch, listen, understand, and then act purposefully.  I stop short in front of a black sock that suddenly appears in front of me.  It won't play with me when I bat at it and so I flop myself down beside it and attempt to rub in life with my face and tongue.  After some effort, it remains limp and lifeless so I pick it up between my teeth, return to the bed and present it to the woman.  I can't really remember why.  Is it an encouragement? Is it an offering?  Can she do something for it despite being utterly unable to use the wind to dance? 

I rub up against her ear where I can hear my own purring echoed back.  The woman thinks that I do this because I believe it is her purring in response to me.  But I'm actually telling her a secret.  And one night, right before she falls asleep, she will remember it, it will become real for her, and she will think that it is her own.  She will see the strengths of her own story and using those, be able to walk through a world that has somehow developed softer edges. 

And perhaps then, she will be able to breathe life into my sock.

20:40 - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Real Curses and Fantasy Adulations

When does one stand up for oneself for monetary gain instead of letting something go for serenity?

Having owned a house for eight-or-so years, I completely forgot what it was like to rent a place.  Last October, my entourage and I moved out of the house and rented a pretty little apartment from Draco, Inc.  Hard wood floors, stained glass, certifiable neighbors above and below me, and a leaky roof made the place the "beautiful, quaint, older building" that was advertised.  Not appreciating the full implications of the agency's name, I fell in love with the expanse of light flooding through the windows, gave them access to my money once a month, and assumed the best.

I moved out this October when I realized that the molds in the apartment were forming strong battalions and arming themselves with deadly allergens.  Knowing that my immune system had decided to fly white flags before, during, and after any mold attacks, I started looking for a new place (well, that, and the fact that I couldn't afford gas because I was paying my rent).  I found my new efficiency and I'm glad I moved.

I like the landlord in my new place, but I've been 3 days late on ALL THREE of my payments so far, so I don't know how much he likes me anymore.  I like to evade responsibility for late payments with my ostensible reasoning that in summary sounds like this: "I'm not used to making monthly payments."  When we owned the house, every year I would write out 12 checks, send them all to our 'bank' in one lump, and they would be cashed, one by one, as the months went by.  While this does sound like a good explanation, it's really cuhdap (crap must always be said with a strong Irish accent).  I make monthly payments for my car, Nena.  I make monthly payments for my phone.  I make monthly payments on my credit card¹.  I know how to make monthly payments.  I'm not as much of an idiot as my explanation would suggest.

Everything in my new apartment has been better – no molds, no neighbors upstairs, a crack house right next door, and a friendly guy who answers the phone if there are problems (my roof leaks!).  This leak is a result of a blizzard that swept in five days ago leaving snowflakes up under the shingles where they subsequently melted and created a steady waterfall in my kitchen.  Perhaps leaking-roofs is one of the problems that my curse creates².  After Isis let me know about the leak, I deserted my quest for the spear in Ise and returned to place bowls under the various streams originating in the ceiling.  While I was home I thought that I would check the mail and found a letter from my previous landlord in my box.

For the privileged use of my last apartment, I gave Draco a $1190 deposit (at the time I had three cats³ so my deposit was doubled).  Included in the envelope from my mailbox were a check for $964 and a letter indicating that I had been a great tenant.  They kept $226 for various specious reasons.  As I read the 'bill', I felt cheated and ready for a fight.  But now I have to wonder, how important is that money, really – in terms of my peace of mind?  I can get all angry, act like a victim, and demand that somebody look after my rights, yet I am pretty sure that afterward I won't like myself any better.  I could maybe get a penny more interest per month if I stuck it in my savings, which could possibly boost my self-esteem.

Spelled out in the bill were their charges, presented here with completely objective annotations:

1. Disposed of cable in bedroom closet.

This was their cable!  I didn't have a TV.  I didn't get Cable Television because I didn't have a TV.  I didn't use that cable.  I should not be charged for not stealing it.  It seems silly that they would charge me for the disposal of their own cable.

2. Removed hooks in windows in living room.

These were from the last tenant.  I am sure that I didn't write their presence down on the inspection sheet when I moved in because I didn't realize that they weren't supposed to be there.  I never used those hooks.  I should not be charged for their removal.  And I am willing to bet the whole $964 that they charged the last tenant for the removal of those same damn hooks.

3. Installed new pull chain in living room.

The chain they have supposedly replaced is the same one that was there when I moved in.  I didn't molest that chain in anyway.  I should not be charged for the fact that my landlord needed to change the pull chain in the living room BEFORE I was even there.

4. Reinstalled smoke detector. I had just purchased a new battery for it – have a heart.

5. Cleaned sink. I did this.

6. Cleaned toilet. I did this.

7. Cleaned tub and faucet. I did this. 

8. Cleaned ceiling fan in master bedroom.

When I moved in I cleaned 1/8 inch of dust from both fans, dust from the tops of the doorways and windows (I didn't measure those dusty places but the dust was very heavy) and an inch of dust and mud from the insides of all the radiators.  I didn't get paid $200 for that!  Argh.

So I wrote a nasty letter and then thought, how much should I care about this?  But not only is there a problem of whether I need to focus my energy on this negative issue rather than return to Ise, but there is also the problem of trying to suck money out of small businesses:  They don't have money in the first place. 

I think about my parents' business.  It is a fabulous place and thousands of people go there to enjoy the autumn season.  However, my parents do not have the money that their business appears to have.  They just have very good creativity, perfectionism problems, and the work ethic of French Huguenot farmers. When customers trip, cut themselves (and sometimes have larger accidents like breaking a leg or needing stitches in the forehead), they send my parents the medical bill or sue.  They believe that Pumpkin Works has the money to pay for these things.  One guy actually ran into the path of a tractor, hopped away before getting hit, then rolled around in 'pain' to try to put together a story giving him the right sue my parents.  (Luckily there were tons of people with good enough vision to see the crazy action, and they told the police all about the real story.)  Even though that particular scam didn't work, people do get money from my parents when in all reality, my parents don't have any money to give.  The large, elaborate, enjoyable, well-liked place teeters on the edge of closing because of people demanding money for accidents and the insurance issues they create.  And yet, would these same people sue their parents if their children fell while running into the house to see Grandma?  Would they say that the steps were not placed properly and Grandma needed to pay for their family's distress?  Well, actually, there could be a possibility.

While this is all quite tangential, the dilemma for me is – maybe Draco needs that money more than I do.  He is after all, a very, very old scribe who I'm sure needs oxygen pumps and vitamin treatments.  AND – without Draco, I would never have met Jerry Farwell, recognized that the spear was stolen, found the magic watch, and begun my journey to Ise.  Perhaps I can just be grateful for the adventure and quiet my entitlement voice for a bit. 

All I really do know is that I need to head back east.  This time I'm taking the cat.  Granted, she can be a little touchy, jealous, and terse, but she's pleasant most of the time and has the ability to catch her own food.  The latter being one of my two only requirements for friends and traveling companions.

Bueno, me piro.

Footnotes:

1. Amazon credit cards are the most wonderful things in the world (save the sun, gravity, and a pyramid or two).  Charge every single thing you can onto them.  Then pay off the balance at the end of the month.  Earn books and books and books and books.  This year I bought myself several books and obtained most of my holiday presents FOR FREE!

2. I played the French horn during my school years.  I felt terribly special because as a senior in high school, I was asked to join the French Horn Choir at a nearby university.  We gave several concerts and I got to pretend it was something of consequence.  I still feel a little proud of it, but it is painful to listen to our recordings these days.  There is someone making a lot of mistakes in every song, and I'm sure it wasn't the more accomplished players.  During my sophomore year of high school a strange senior, I forget his name, was placed in the chair⁴ next to me.  One day he let me know that he was the son of Satan and that he needed to warn me that I should not, for any reason at all, attend a party that was being held by another peer.  If I went, I would live a life of unhappiness with three severely damaged children.  He gave me my children's names – but I forget them, too.  I didn't go to that party (mainly because I wasn't invited) so I haven't had the horrible life that was forecasted to me.  But I do think that I still carry a little bit of a curse that he put on me when I said that I wouldn't date him. 

3. I took all three cats when I left the house.  Only Isis was mine.  The other two, Jack (or '21' since he was black) and Alley, were introduced to Isis and me by my ex-husband.  He was keeping them for his daughter who had various people around her who were allergic to cats.  They weren't my cats to keep, but at the time I didn't realize that he still considered them hers.  I thought that they belonged to us.  Plus I felt like the cats were such a united trio that they needed to stay together.  Strange notion really, now that a year of reflection has passed.  I shouldn't have taken them.  But I finally gave them back (not because I am such a nice person, but because he told me that his daughter didn't want me to have them).  One day I will change that story so that I look like the good guy.  I will also change the story to read that I have become the most prestigious explorer on the planet – venerated by all who understand the importance and power of my spear.

4. My sister likes to tell this story about how I was kicked out of band/orchestra regularly – but then asked to return, usually within two days.  These kickings-out were mostly because the director didn't like me so much, but he gave various other explanations on whim.  Once I was kicked out for pot smoking, once for sleeping during a Brass Band Christmas performance, and who knows how many reasons that were either true or not true depending on whether I was being obnoxious, angelic, or stoned.  One true occurrence was during a practice in the band room.  The room was small and crowded, so it was very difficult to get around once all the members were in their places.  I tumbled in late and forced everyone to wait while I squeezed myself and my French horn through the ranks of students and music stands to my chair.  When I sat down, the chair broke and I fell down onto the floor.  As a result, the band continued to wait on me as my chair was passed over everyone's head to the side of the room and another chair was passed overhead to me.  I set this chair up, sat down into it, and it broke.  Again - passing of chairs - and finally I sat down in the third chair (this is my sister's favorite part).  IT BROKE.  What are the odds of this?  I'm surprised that I wasn't also s