A Contradiction in Terms

My life at present: A thumbnail sketch - Part one: Love

2011-10-04T17:23:00.001-05:00

Since last I wrote, an enormous number of events have transpired. Most significantly, I fell wholeheartedly, unabashedly, and unexpectedly in love with a fantastic German, enjoyed three spectacular, near-blissful months with him (and his sweetheart of a dog), and then in June he utterly and completely broke my heart in an honorable and well-considered manner. One week before having my heart decimated, I reconnected with a very old and dear friend of mine (moniker: The Beautiful Boy or The BB, to my tweeps), which salved no insignificant portion of my considerable heartbreak. This past Sunday, for the first time since the break-up, I enjoyed the extraordinary company of my heartbreaker; although, it is by no means clear whether he and I will be capable of truly pursuing a friendship at this time or ever. Nevertheless, we shared one more lovely afternoon together and that was most assuredly worth it.

Next, Part two: [as yet to be determined]...

Clear Forward Movement

2011-02-07T19:36:00.001-06:00

After a significant period of living in progressively worse despair and anxiety, I've begun to reacquaint myself with the feeling of absolute joy. The feminist in me is sheepish to admit that what ultimately motivated me to make an appointment with my doctor (and thus receive the much needed prescription for antidepressants and therapy) was my lover's exposure to my mental condition. Essentially, it was tolerable, in my mind, for me to privately endure this shadow life, but to drag this innocent, near stranger into my emotional maelstrom was unacceptable and, frankly, embarrassing. Following a particularly dark and frantic interaction with him, I realized I needed to immediately reorient my capsizing mental space.

The first time I took antidepressants was about ten years ago when I was prescribed Zoloft (a SSRI). The Zoloft (and therapy) eliminated my depression and reconfigured my brain chemistry. This time, my primary care physician prescribed bupropion (an atypical antidepressant), which took effect fairly promptly and also has all of these wonderful peripheral benefits such as a lessening of social anxiety, relief of insomnia, *and* a reduction in the severity of nicotine cravings. Also, unlike Zoloft, it causes no sexual side effects (ie loss of libido). Since last Monday, without fail, every morning when I awake and every evening when I arrive home from work, I take glorious, magical, happy pills and I don't really care who knows it. In fact, I feel truly pained to think of all of the people silently suffering from untreated mental health issues who could find near immediate relief with one trip to their physician. (If any of you reading this now fall into that category, please learn from my example and seek help!)

The change in my mood has been abrupt. I went from endlessly ruminating on the most trivial of perceived slights to spontaneously dancing around my apartment bursting with what could only be described as pure joy. I honestly forgot what joy felt like. To be sure, in the past year or so I've experienced moments of hilarity, moments of ecstasy, and moments of fleeting contentment, but genuine, boundless joy has been absent from my life; it wasn't until this weekend that I fully comprehended what I had lost. It was astounding to discover that my mood, which seemed so hopelessly monolithic, could so drastically change over the course of seven days. And with that change in mood came a change in my overall outlook and my expectations of future success. It is as though I had not only lost my joy, but I had lost a sense of my own strengths and innate capabilities. I had lost sight of my goals and the things that brought me joy.

For instance, if anyone has been following my Twitter feed, you might notice that I have been excitedly tweeting about my considerable weight loss. I am now getting into my former "hot girl" weight range. When I am healthy and active, I have a perfect hour-glass figure (a friend of mine recently described my body as that of the classic pin-up girl). Although over the course of the past year I've lost forty pounds, I took no real joy in regaining my figure. It wasn't until yesterday that the change truly hit me. I was at my folks' place and my whole family was commenting on how becoming my clothes fit. My dad said to me, "You were born to be thin - you have an athlete's genes. You will always be happier when you have a body that allows you to be active." I think he is absolutely correct in this regard. No wonder I, a smoker, could go from not running at all to running five miles in sixty minutes over the course of only a month. I finally realize that this is no chance happening; rather, this is something that I achieved and something that I can maintain. This is who I am.

Moreover, I've regained an interest in all of the things I used to very much enjoy. For instance, blog writing ;) Or reading poetry. Or listening to my favorite musicians. Or yoga. I can conceive of doing well in my job again and of the positive aspects of the work I do. I've taken on new challenges and new responsibilities. I've been thinking about my future and how I want to shape it. I'm actually excited about dating (instead of seeing it as a second job). I haven't had a drop to drink in five days. (Do you know how long it has been since I went that many days without drinking any alcohol?! I couldn't even tell you.)

Over the course of this past week, I have certainly felt regret for not having sought help for the depression and anxiety sooner (especially considering that I subjected this unfortunate boy, who was kind enough to give me the good lovin', to my madness), but more than anything I'm glad that I am better now. I'm also disappointed to have lost that much time to depression, but the poor mood comes on so gradually that you become accustomed to the incremental change and don't fully notice the depression until your mood has been completely eviscerated. Therefore, I make a concerted effort not to blame myself.

The next step will be therapy, which I'm starting Wednesday evening. I'm curious to see if I will develop a good rapport with my therapist and if she will be offering me evidence-based therapy. I know she is somewhat trained in cognitive-behavioral, but she didn't sound all that enthusiastic about the prospect when we initially spoke on the phone. Also, she is a lot older than me, so I hope she is working from a sex positive and feministic paradigm. If not, there are plenty of other therapists in this city. I'm sure I'll find someone who will be a good match for me :)

Om shanti.

Unhesitating Protection

2011-02-05T13:29:00.001-06:00

One evening, some time ago, my lover and I were hotly enjoying ourselves in bed. We were in a modified missionary position and situated haphazardly--nearly diagonally--across the mattress. When he ecstatically pushed himself into me, his whole upper body also moved forward with some force, which led him to repeatedly strike his head against the chiseled corner of my wooden desk.

After I noticed him hit his head for the second time and realized that he was too entranced with our fucking to protect his frontal lobe, I unhesitatingly extended my upper body and placed my forearm between his forehead and the hard-edge of my desk. It took him a moment to notice the change, but when he did, he stopped inside of me, met my gaze, and smiled slowly at my kindness. Then he sweetly kissed my forearm. Exactly in the place where his head had been protected.

On a very elemental level, I feel that this is what relationships should be about. Unhesitating protection.

Mmm Magic

2010-12-29T12:10:00.011-06:00

Wow. It has been an awful long time since I've posted, hasn't it? Well, I apologize. Really, I do. Kiss and make up, my darlings?

In my defense, October wasn't all that interesting of a month for me. In fact, I can hardly think of one notable occurrence therein (outside of some remarkably gruesome ER intakes at Wild Bird Rehab). Mostly, I spent the days working despairingly and the nights smoking copiously. Weekends predominately involved brunching, reading, and working out.

November, on the other hand, was extraordinary. That was the month I joined OkCupid (OkC) and I subsequently spent the following thirty days contentedly binging on the fruits of my OkC endeavors. I am, admittedly, drawn to online social networking in all of its various formats (as witness, my endless twittering), so that was part of the OkC appeal. But an even bigger component was realizing that a veritable cornucopia of dating opportunities awaited me online. At some point in my twenties, I began to presume that meeting a like-minded, atheistic, intellectually vibrant, freaky freak in this outwardly vanilla town was a nearly impossible prospect. Turns out, I was utterly mistaken. Rather, St. Louis is stuffed to the brim with the polyamorous, the unconventional, the kinky, and the unexpected.

In December, I began dating a younger man who could conservatively be characterized most accurately as a fucking sex god. I won't go into too many details here*, but suffice to say, he has superbly met and exceeded all of my expectations, thus far. In him, I've found my ideal GGG** partner. At turns dominant, creative, tender, insatiable, and far more. Not only that, but his intellect truly entices me, too. In sum, I feel incredibly fortunate to have met him.

Outside of the fucking and the dating, I've spent much of this month in the gym and on the yoga mat. I want my body to become the perfect machine. That probably sounds highly crass and self-involved to the uninitiated, but the sex I'm having is absolutely transformative. It is sex magic. It is consecrated. It is worth. the. effort.

More later, my dears. xxx ooo *lewd gesture*

-J.

*(Since he may be none too appreciative of my writing of our exploits so publicly.)

**Good, Giving, Game

TMI Trifecta

2010-10-04T19:18:00.001-05:00

In the past couple of weeks, I've posted on both suicidal ideation and masturbation. I'll round out my TMIfest with a blog in which I graphically describe the loss of my virginity. (I'll never be president at this rate of inappropriate, shameless self-disclosure.)

During my thirteenth year, one early spring evening, I was loitering about in the streets of my west county apartment complex. It was warm enough to be outside without a jacket, but there was a coolness to the air when the breeze picked up that left goose bumps along the skin of my exposed arms. The sun had freshly set and the sky displayed a yawning blue/violet along the horizon. Above my head the cosmos was black enough to see the initial winking stars of the night.

A couple of kids around my age were having a lover’s quarrel (if you could call them lovers—given that their relationship was really quite chaste). They were remarkably gorgeous characters. She was diminutive and curvy with old Hollywood good looks and dark locks of thick hair falling into her concentrated hazel eyes. He was tall and impossibly lean with chin-length, chaotic, blonde hair and titanic, cerulean peepers. Their argument was mostly nonsense, indiscernible to an outsider, but it enveloped them both, warding off the brisk spring air and their maddening young lives.

I remember their fight to this day because it was happening on the roofs of the car ports above me. Their voices were not shrill but contained an intensity those haphazard structures had never seen before and probably never saw again. There must have been tears—most certainly on his part (he was a sensitive, almost effeminate boy)--perhaps on her part, as well. That night was my introduction to the boy to whom I would lose my hetero virginity. If I remember correctly, he ran off in a panic before I had a chance to speak to them.

The next time I encountered this boy was months later. He had broken up with his green-eyed lady and was doing his best to court her best friend, Bella. I recall walking into Bella’s basement and seeing him sprawled out on one of her father’s old, olive green, lazy boy chairs with a gangly leg hanging out over the side of one of the chair arms. He was waxing poetic about The Dead Kennedys--holding court about the lessons he had learned from Jello Biafra regarding the imminent ways of the world. I was struck by his barbed taste in music and his kinetic energy, his mile-long grin and open face. He was beautiful, exuberant, and sweating like a first-time mother having just given birth. I think I loved him from that very moment in my own removed way.

He was somewhat successful with Bella and we became better acquainted as a consequence. He would telephone me to complain about her and to lament about his former rooftop lover. I would do my best to dispense worthwhile advice, given that I knew significantly less about relationships than he did. Soon, we had developed something of a friendship. (Recently, he marveled to me that he had never in his life spoken with anyone so frequently or at such length on the phone.) We both were embroiled in high school drug-taking and we would routinely call each other while tripping or rolling. We would describe the nature of our altered mental states and discuss life in the most intimate of terms. The drugs diminished all of our youthful pretensions. We spoke without ego boundaries. I can hardly remember a word of our conversations now. What stands out, in retrospect, is how exploratory these discussions were. How we learned from each other and how we stanchly supported one another.

This boy had, coincidentally, known my best friend since they were KinderCare goers. One morning, I was in the kitchen of her father’s humongous, affluent home. (We must have been skipping school, as was our wont.) The white-hard, winter sunlight was streaming though the bay windows. My best friend was telling me that it was her understanding that this boy now had a crush on me. I balked. I thought there could be no foreseeable way that he could possibly have an interest in me. As it turned out, it didn’t much matter, because some new girl had pursued him in the interim and they were dating. I felt she wasn’t nearly good enough for him--a warmed-over excuse for a girlfriend, totally unsure of herself with an uninteresting mind. Clearly, he should be with me.

That following New Years Eve the boy and I were planning on attending a party together. He had invited me to meet up with him at his parents' place beforehand. We had smoked some weed and were preparing ourselves for the foray in his over-sized bathroom. I naively asked him if he thought I was pretty. He momentarily considered it, while standing behind me, gazing at my expectant reflection in the mirror. Making a determination, he pretended to spank me and told me he’d love to bend me over his knee and teach me a lesson. I blushed deeply and then hit him with how-dare-you-speak-to-me-that-way-?, faux indignance.

That night, at the party, I tried to put all of the moves on this boy in my amateurish manner, but he was a decent enough sort. He didn’t want to cheat on his girlfriend, but it seems she already knew what was coming. She had duly noted how he doted on me and how he virtually ignored her. Shortly thereafter, they broke up. I remember the boy and I cruising on long car rides during the following time period: how our sweaty fingers laced impeccably together, and how very nice it felt to be physically connected. I recall furtively making out with him while parked a few blocks away from my parents’ home. He was an absurdly talented kisser. Soft lips. Responsive. Susceptible.

He, Bella, and I met at a local, lesbian coffee house (ironic, I know) on the night of interest. Bella and I had hatched a plan. I wanted to lose my hetero virginity and he was available. We essentially dared him to sleep with me and he was, of course, game. Consequently, we returned to Bella’s car--he and I in the backseat, she in her front passenger seat. I was wearing my customary long, black velvet dress and not much else. He was on top and did his best to enter me, but I was so tight and making such pitiful noises that he wasn’t sure that he wanted to continue and possibly hurt me. But Bella mischievously goaded him on. She told him, “If you don’t fuck her, by God, I will come back there and do it myself!” (We both knew that this was not an idle threat – considering that Bella, the green-eyed lady, and I had all been together, sometimes concurrently, in the past.) Thus, he not unhastily proceeded according to her directive.

***

I presently reside in the neighborhood where I lost my hetero virginity. Virtually every time I walk past Cheap Trix (the tattoo parlor/fetish shop that we had parked in front of on that night over a decade before), I warmly remember that youthful fiasco and I smile to myself with inward bemusement.

Om shanti.

In Honor of Masturbation (or Why Christine O’Donnell Should Go Fuck Herself)

2010-09-30T13:52:00.005-05:00

As many of you know, I am a huge proponent of masturbation. [If you are a family member, or Christine O’Donnell, you’ll probably want to stop reading this, now.] My philosophy on self-pleasure is best described by a phrase typically associated with voting: [masturbate] early--and often! This is a vital activity for all of the usually cited reasons: it relieves stress, it is educational*, and of course, it feels fantabulous. Not to mention the fact that manual stimulation can occur with a lover (or to a lover) and no one gets pregnant or sick (protection that doesn’t cost a dime!).

On a semi-related note, this past weekend I attempted to finish Symmetry (again). I’ve been steadily picking my way through this book for weeks and the process is downright atrocious. To explain, the authors rely heavily on equations to explore the subject of symmetry (as it relates to Emmy Noether’s theorem). Their use of equations would not normally be an issue (I’m not one to shy away from a little math) except for the fact that the authors assume that their readers have some familiarity with the basic symbolic notation involved in physics, and since I’ve never taken a formal physics class in my life, this has proven somewhat problematic for me.

When my eyes begin to glaze over from information overload (and absolutely no one can casually overwhelm the average reader like a Nobel Laureate and theoretical astrophysicist can), my hand begins to drift toward my lady bits. I then take a small break from my reading**. You see, I have this unusual fetish (if you want to call it that) involving higher education. My sexualization of academia seems to have taken root as a consequence of my having repeatedly watched the library scene with Lara Flynn Boyle in Threesome (which you can and should watch here) during my formative adolescent years. As a consequence, it seems that I adore big words, too. I also enjoy big concepts. There is something terrifically sexy regarding enormously active brains. Probably the sense of mastery involved (or maybe I am equating intellectual mastery with sexual mastery -- truth be told, these things go hand-in-hand more often than you might presume).

Regardless, I've still got a good one hundred pages remaining to read, so I'll undoubtedly have a colossally stimulating weekend ahead of me.

Om shanti,
la Contra Yogini

*Seriously, if you want to be a fantastic lover, masturbate. A lot. Then masturbate with your partner. You’ll be surprised at how much you can learn from such a seemingly elementary activity.

**Hmm...maybe it isn’t the equations that are the trouble - maybe it is the masturbatory interludes, but I digress.

Boll Weevils

2010-09-29T21:35:00.001-05:00

About a month ago, while I was working the evening shift at WBR, I noticed that there were these curious, exquisitely tiny, black bugs happily crawling about in some of our bird seed. I had never seen these bugs in our seed before, so I brought some to my supervisor for inspection and she reassured me not to worry about them. She gamely explained that these were merely boll weevils and that they couldn't hurt the birds. (To be sure, the birds were eating the weevils right along w/ the seed.)

When I heard the words boll weevils, I immediately recalled the below video and exclaimed, "So THOSE are what boll weevils are!"

And now, you all know, too--

Of course, I hummed this pithy wee tune for the rest of the night, completely unable to erradicate it from my head. You'll probably soon know all about that, as well :)

They're lookin' for a home!

Romancing The Act

2010-09-20T19:55:00.001-05:00

Of late, I've been ruminating on the act of suicide. An Old 97's lyric from Fight Songs astutely describes my mindset: Thought so much about suicide/Parts of me have already died.

I've slid so precipitously far into major depression that I'm actually showing signs of romanticizing the possibility of death. To wit, my sister and I were driving around recently when I pointed out a particular location to her and brightly stated, "That was where I almost killed myself once," as though I was calling her attention to a great vacation spot or a beautiful architectural feature. Naturally, she was disturbed by my casual, quasi-cavalier attitude regarding my near untimely death. So I reassured her [and now, all of you readers] that I wouldn't actually go through with this act--that I hadn't attempted it before, because I ultimately realized that she and our youngest sister could never comprehend why I would do such a horrible thing. And, of course, I'd rather not traumatize people (especially innocent, young ones) who care about me.*

Nevertheless, I think about suicide a lot. I draw this notion close to my chest the way Linus lovingly cuddles his sky-blue blanket. The prospect (again, not the act itself - but simply the fantasy) is coldly comforting. It is as though I am reinforcing my decision to stay on this earth every time I realize what a very real possibility suicide is. I could do it. Any day. Any time. I could drive off a bridge into the Mississippi. I could jump off a bluff at Castlewood. I could hang myself from a tree. So many possibilities. Knowing that I could kill myself makes me feel less suffocatingly trapped in the life that I'm living.

***

I've been trying to pinpoint when precisely my mood grew so very dark. I've concluded that it must have begun with the MVA in January. That was the triggering event. Normal people do not react to a car accident the way that I did. For me, it was the equivalent of emotional terrorism. Immediately following the collision, I was a hyperventilating, mucous-soaked mess. I could barely even speak to the responding officer through my panicky sobs. I was thrown into a tailspin of financial concern and physical insecurity. How will I get to my job? How will I work with this pain? The ER visit isn't covered by my insurance - will I be sent to collections? What will that do to my credit? When will I get a new car? How will I pay for the down payment and the medical co-pays? Etc. etc.

Unlike the majority of my friends and associates, I do not have middle (or upper) class parents. I come from a working class background (to put it mildly). Thus, I have no one who can bail me out of my financial troubles. This is pretty much a sink or swim situation for me and the MVA brought that disquieting reality to the fore.

***

My mood seemed to stabilize around springtime. I continued to be unhappy, but not unhappy enough to actually do anything about it (more likely, I was paralyzed into inaction and apathy by the ongoing depression). Also, there were plenty of intervening events - out-of-town trips, visiting friends, work at WBR - to distract me from my failing mood.

It seems that everything started getting particularly bad again in the past thirty or so days. I learned that someone close to me has cancer, a whole host of deeply fucked-up family problems erupted (that I will not address here for legal and privacy reasons), and I experienced even more financial troubles. In addition, I acutely detest my job. Every morning when I arrive at my office, I feel as though I am decimating yet another precious day of my life, but I get the impression that this is common for many Americans.

Oh, and then there is the loneliness. When I am utterly forlorn, I tend to isolate myself even further. I don't want to be accused of being overly pessimistic and I also don't want to pollute anyone else's healthy mindset. So I just stay away from most people. I retreat inward. I ruminate. I fantasize.

In sum, I need to see a doctor. This is a chemical thing that I've successfully dealt with before. I simply need to do something about it, instead of comforting myself with grotesque suicidal ideations.**

Om shanti.

*Moreover, I am now completely atheistic and so I intimately feel that this is my only life to live. I've nothing to look forward to after death. Suicide doesn't make sense to me - not at this time anyway (maybe that would change if I were experiencing intractable pain in old age or something of that nature).

**Please, please don't post comments about how selfish you think suicide is. I find that sort of commentary dismissive and judgmental. Major depression is not an illness I've chosen for myself. When one feels this desolate, thoughts of suicide naturally arise. It does not follow that because I admit to them, I will act on them. Thank you.

My Day In Brief

2010-09-15T22:34:00.000-05:00

"Handsome. Got my leather boots on."

This video saved my day from utter craptitude. Multiple times.

Love live P.J. Harvey.

To Dream Amphibial

2010-09-14T10:27:00.006-05:00

Last night I had the strangest dream [where everything was exactly how it seemed - sorry, Postal Service stream of consciousness interruption]. I dreamt that, when changing the water in one of my water-bound plants (a cutting that I was attempting to root), I had discovered a multitude of exuberant, tiny tadpoles in my water vase.

Initially, I was very glad to see them, thinking a momma frog must have stopped by overnight and specially chosen my window sill to have her babies. This discovery brought to the fore of my (un)consciousness pleasant, childhood memories of my capturing miniature, spring peeper tadpoles from our backyard creek. (I’ve always been very fond of toads and frogs; because I spent so much time as a child in and out of water myself, I relate to their amphibial nature.)

The dream soon took a fantastic turn. Somehow, I abruptly had a mouth full of tadpoles. It is unclear whether I had absentmindedly taken a drink from the vase of tadpoles*, but once I realized what had happened, I quickly and gingerly tried to spit them all back into the water. I then anxiously hovered over the vase to see if they had survived the trip to and from my mouth. The tadpoles seemed to be okay. Most of them floated at the top for a second (most likely stunned) and then kicked back into action and started swimming quite contentedly with their brethren.

Within moments I felt more tadpoles in my mouth – crammed in between my teeth and gums, in the back of my throat, and under my tongue. I automatically presumed that I must not have spit them all out before (although, I remember being certain that I had emptied my mouth of tadpoles in the dream - this is not something one easily mistakes: whether one's mouth contains tadpoles or not). At any rate, I again spit my mouth tadpoles into the vase.

At this point, the dream begins to break down; maybe because I was approaching the end of that particular REM cycle or perhaps because I’d forgotten the ending since I awoke (dreams are fleeting, after all). Regardless, I recalled the dream the moment I walked into my shower this morning and felt the water streaming down my body. I’ve since been pondering what this dream could have meant. If anyone would like to offer up a dream analysis, please feel free to do so.

Om shanti.

*This part of the dream is rather hazy. However, the depth of my inattentiveness is so profound that I feel this could be a feasible theory.

On the Tail of a Raptor

2010-09-12T19:08:00.006-05:00

Not too long ago, trouble swooped into WBR on the tail of a raptor. As I've previously written, our facility deals strictly with Passeriformes meaning "those who perch" a/k/a the beloved, backyard songbirds. To a raptor (colloquially known as a bird of prey), our entire facility appears as fresh lobster in a grocery store tank might appear to you: ripe for the eating. However, the particular raptor in question was hardly in a position to do any songbird hunting. For one thing, he was securely confined to a carrier large enough to house a medium-sized dog. For another, he had suffered some sort of injury - initially suspected to be an issue of toxicity, according to the animal control officer, Newton, who had called ahead to request that we triage the bird.*

Our ER tech, Janey, began her examination by donning thick, leather handling gloves that comically dwarfed her diminutive upper extremities. Frankly, the bird himself, with his powerful talons and ultra sharp sense of his surroundings (even while injured), didn't appear all that intimidated by her medical trappings. Indeed, nothing much seemed to be bothering this raptor at all. For this reason, Newton suspected that the raptor might have eaten or attacked a bird who had been poisoned. Our raptor seemed to be neurologically inhibited (another classic sign of toxicity) and just a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket.

After finding the gloves far too cumbersome to utilize properly, Janey abandoned them for her customary thick towel. She dropped the towel quickly over the raptor's head (thus, preventing him from visually tracking her), wrapped it closely around his body (thus, immobilizing him), and then extracted him expertly from his carrier. Janey proceeded to examine him thoroughly for any visible signs of injury. Other than his docility (healthy, wild raptors are not usually handled by humans with any level of ease), we could find no other signs or symptoms to account for his strange behavior (after animal control received a call reporting that this raptor had spent several hours perched, essentially unmoving, on a residential porch banister, he had been picked up by them just as easily as Janey had handled him).

Hopeful that the effects of the presumed poison might already be lessening, Janey decided to give the raptor some fluids. She slowly and carefully inserted a thin, rubber tube down his throat (he was still wrapped in the towel and did not seem to be under any duress) and injected the tube with fluids. As she was removing the tube, Newton noticed a pink fluid escape from the corner of the bird's beak. We next spotted several small pink dots on the white towel. This was just the information we needed: from there, we were able to conclude that this raptor was experiencing some minor internal bleeding. Given that he had originally been picked up at a busy intersection, we deduced that he must have been struck by a car. Janey then administered to him some anti-inflammatory by injection and turned the bird back over to Newton for safe keeping until the local raptor rehab facility opened in the morning. I later found out that our patient had been successfully admitted to the proper facility with a good prognosis.

***

I was delighted to be able to witness this simple procedure involving the raptor. It felt like a special treat because I far prefer birds of prey to songbirds. I admire their strength, their intellect, their graceful, yet powerful, flight. Honestly, it is all I can do to keep my eyes on the road when I drive through the countryside; I am that raptor-crazed. After we received the call from Newton requesting our services, I was nearly overcome w/ giddy anticipation. However, as exciting as it was to triage the raptor, we had an even more exciting new admit the following week - but in an entirely different regard. This charge was exciting with respect to the severity of his injuries. He was a snow-white, racing pigeon with a pink beak and matching pink feet. He also had a troublesome, rather large, pink splotch covering his upper chest feathers. The elderly couple who had brought him in theorized that he might have been hit w/ a BB gun, but they were hopeful for his recovery because they had observed the pigeon eating voraciously while he was under their care.

I was too chicken shit to examine the bird myself, lest I somehow exacerbate its injuries, so I again summoned the help of Janey. As was her wont, she wrapped the bird in a heavy towel to immobilize him and then began to inspect the area that blood had painted pink. In no time whatsoever Janey discovered why the bird had been eating so much and so often - he had a gaping hole in his crop. To explain, according to Wikipedia, "in a bird's digestive system, the crop is an expanded, muscular pouch near the throat. It is a part of the digestive tract, essentially an enlarged part of the esophagus." As you can imagine, it is quite difficult to gain any substantial nourishment when you have your throat torn open.

Oddly enough, despite the traumatic wound, this bird was stable and attempting to eat. It appeared as though his wound had somehow been cauterized (possibly as a result of fermented bird seed in the wound?), which was beneficial, in that the wound had not been infected, but was problematic, in that we were not sure if necrosis (the premature death of tissue) had set in. If we were dealing w/ necrosis, then the bird did not have a very good chance of surviving - even if we were able to successfully close the wound. Janey dutifully attempted to reach the vets that volunteered for our facility when serious cases were involved, but no one was available this late Friday evening before a holiday weekend.

After briefly conferring with me, Janey made the decision to intervene and attempt to glue the wound shut. She felt that he would not survive the weekend with this open wound and that this was his best chance at viability. First, Janey gave him some medicine for pain and then went to work cleaning the wound and removing the broken feathers surrounding it. At that point, we were able to rule out necrosis because the wound began to bleed. It was viscerally painful for me to watch, but I felt that I owed the bird my full attention. That if he was going to have to endure this procedure, than we would have to be present with his suffering, too. He hardly struggled at all during the cleaning, only closing his eyes when Janey plucked a particularly large feather near the wound. He was utterly silent, too. In sum, this bird was one of the more stoic patients I'd ever met.

Eventually, we were able to clean the wound and prep the bird for the gluing procedure. Unfortunately, the tear was quite jagged (ironically reminiscent of a raptor attack), which would make it all the more difficult to properly close. I applied the glue to the wound myself and then held the bird still as Janey dexterously sealed it. We checked the wound a couple of more times before leaving WBR for the evening and it remained securely closed. We were hopeful that he would enjoy a successful recovery. Sadly, I subsequently learned that the wound had reopened and instead of attempting to reseal it, our director decided to put the bird down. (She is very conservative about these sorts of procedures and not a proponent of gluing, in general, so we were not surprised at her decision.) Nevertheless, Janey and I still believe this pigeon would have survived to race again, had our director simply re-glued the wound.

***

To conclude on a less existential note, typically at this time of year, things begin to slow down at WBR so far as juvenile new intakes are concerned. With one exception: baby American Goldfinches. For some reason, they have a late clutch compared with the rest of the St. Louis area song birds. If you are curious about our little goldies, check out this video of three different goldfinches at three different stages in their development. Note, the beeee boop-boop-boop call of the oldest of the three. Curiously, theirs is a very catchy call and difficult not to imitate. I'm sure I'll be beee booping up a storm at WBR as these guys get older and another busy baby season draws to a close.

Om shanti.

*If there are no other alternatives available, most at WBR will not refuse emergency care to a needy patient - songbird or otherwise.

Sviatoslav Richter

2010-09-04T22:14:00.002-05:00

Richter explained his approach to performance as follows: "The interpreter is really an executant, carrying out the composer's intentions to the letter. He doesn't add anything that isn't already in the work. If he is talented, he allows us to glimpse the truth of the work that is in itself a thing of genius and that is reflected in him. He shouldn't dominate the music, but should dissolve into it." Or, similarly: "I am not a complete idiot but, whether from weakness or laziness, have no talent for thinking. I know only how to reflect: I am a mirror . . . Logic does not exist for me. I float on the waves of art and life and never really know how to distinguish what belongs to the one or the other or what is common to both. Life unfolds for me like a theatre presenting a sequence of somewhat unreal sentiments; while the things of art are real to me and go straight to my heart." Approach to Performance (Wikipedia entry)

I've listened to both of the below Richter pieces approximately ten times each tonight. As a result, I'm sure some (myself, namely) might accuse me of obsessive-compulsive behavior. It is just that the depth of his performance is so astounding. I can't escape his reflection of these "waves of art." They elicit a pleasant, tingling, visceral reaction. Indeed, I seek them with vigor.

No matter! I shall return to my music. *end Norma Desmond impression*

In all seriousness, Richter truly does embody Beethoven. It is almost a spectacle to behold (um, belisten?)--

[Sadly, I couldn't locate the second movement on YouTube, but I did find it on Grooveshark.]

Om shanti.

Summertime Rolls

2010-09-02T19:56:00.001-05:00

Those who own vehicles equipped with all of the amenities--including air conditioning--can easily roll up their car windows, put on their dark sunglasses, and thus effectively blot out of their consciousness the people sharing the world around them. As you know, my new car prohibits my traveling about St. Louis in this insular manner. When homeless and displaced people stand and beg on street corners, I must be fully present with them and their suffering.* Perhaps as a consequence of this, or as a consequence of my having done some begging myself in my own homeless days, I've begun to give rather generously to these folks.

To wit--there is this older gentleman who works the southern corner of the IS 40/64 exit ramp at Grand Avenue during the afternoon rush hour. Not too long ago, St. Louis was under a severe heat wave warning (w/ temperatures exceeding 100 degrees) for the better part of a week. During that time, I took to bringing this unfortunate elderly man cold water bottles from our office fridge, because I could hardly bear to watch him day in and day out sweating profusely in the full sun. I would wait for him to shuffle past my car, then I would leave the water near his army duffel bag when the traffic light turned green. Needless to say, I very much enjoyed being his water fairy for that heat wave.

Last week, on the same corner, I emptied my brimming change purse (theoretically my Clayton parking meter change) into a destitute older woman's grateful hands. I've never seen a bigger grin than the one on her face as her fingers filled and filled with quarters. After heartily blessing me, she walked on. I think my witnessing that ginormous grin whetted my appetite for an even more expansive display of gratitude. (I'm not sure if this makes me a megalomaniac, but it seems quite likely.)

Sunday afternoon, I gave a man who approached me on Ted Drews' parking lot a $10 bill before he could even offer me a complete story of woe. He was so sincerely grateful for the gift that he promptly wrapped me in an all-consuming, bear hug, then pulled quickly away and self-consciously apologized for his sweatiness; I assured him that I was sweaty, too, and that it was no big deal. He then smiled warmly at me and asked that God bless me and my family, before kindly smiling at my sister and walking away.

I seem to be hopelessly enamored with the prospect of earning others' good graces and, consequently, I'll freely give nearly anyone what they ask of me. Over the course of five recent work days, I awakened nearly two hours earlier than I would normally, due to the fact that a friend and co-worker recently totaled her car and desperately needed a ride to work (she opens the office, so we had to arrive promptly). Please understand that I--a tried and true, insomniatic, night owl--volunteered for less sleep exclusively b/c I wanted to be my friend's beloved heroine.

Similarly, this is how I came to volunteer at Wild Bird Rehab. When Diane plaintively asked me (with dark circles underlying her big sympathetic eyes), "Do you have time to volunteer? We really need the help right now," I was veritable putty in her hands. Soon I was faithfully spending my Friday nights (sometimes into the early morning hours) performing hot, filthy, back-breaking work and deriving much pleasure from this humble practice. I felt good about myself and about how I was spending my free time. I couldn't fathom abandoning these wild creatures for a single night out at the bar - to do so would leave me cheating myself out of something far more valuable than simple debauchery.

***

I wish I were a gifted enough writer to adequately express what it feels like to go on an altruistic giving binge. The effect is so powerful, so concrete, so immovable that the experience is downright radical. When I began volunteering at WBR my mood shifted completely. I think the work actually lifted me out of a clinical depression and there is a good deal of evidence to support this contention.

Specifically, the existential psychology (born out of the philosophical and aesthetic movements of the same name) paradigm suggests that people suffer from mental issues as a consequence of the problems that arise out of the realization that humans endure an essentially meaningless existence. Hence, in order to cure people of their ills, one must help them to work through these problems of meaning. For me, volunteering at WBR and doing kind things for the people around me (everyone from strangers to intimates) helps to infuse my life with tangible meaning.

Further, it has been suggested by positive psychologists (although, the concept goes back as far as Greek philosophy) that the highest pleasures in life are those built around giving back to others and one's community. I am a living example of the effectiveness of this approach and I encourage anyone reading this who suffers from depression arising out of such crises of meaning to emulate me. Even if you obtain no benefit for yourself, you will be hugely helping others.

Om shanti,
la Contra Yogini

*Although, lowered windows in summer isn't exclusively negative - I'm also fully present to the joy of school children playing, the musicality of sweet bird songs, and the brightly green scent of cut grass.

L'enfant

2010-08-29T23:23:00.004-05:00

I've never been interested - not even casually - in a boy* who was substantially younger than me. As with most women my age, I've routinely dated older men--not by design, per se, but organically so. My first long-term relationship involved a man who was seven years older than me; my most recent was with a man three years my senior (expectedly, I've noticed that the older I get, the less that an age gap is involved). It seems that this familiar, reliable pattern may soon undergo a profound change prompted by a chance meeting.

A couple of weeks ago, I became acquainted with a boy, nay, an infant (he can't be more than a few years out of high school, at most) who works at a local record store that I've begun to frequent. He is a remarkably young and fresh-faced person with these searchlight blue eyes, which brilliantly shine forth when he smiles at me. He has this unspoiled air about him-- no bullshit, no emotional wreckage, no insurmountable barriers. His youth is nothing short of stupendous to a love-worn woman pushing thirty.**

Baring the occasional one off here and there, I haven't purchased a goodly number of new CDs in quite some time. L'enfant happened to be working on a night that I was floating on a musical high, arising out of the ten or so albums that I had then intended to purchase. On this particular evening, I cheerily gallivanted around his store for the better part of an hour, often summoning him for assistance in finding obscure artists and bantering with him about musical trivialities such as the evils of selecting collections over the original fully cohesive albums. Since that night, I've returned to his store on several more occasions (coincidentally, with him working on staff each time) in order to supplement my newly flourishing collection with CDs I had forgotten to purchase earlier.

L'enfant is so unbelievably young that he utterly fails to intimidate me. I am my true unadulterated, goofball self when around him. I am sarcastic, and generous, and playful all at once. I am a connoisseur of music comfortable with other connoisseurs of music. I. am. a. force. Consequently, I've often wondered what would happen if I did, in fact, decide to date him.*** I have this ongoing fantasy that the interaction would somehow cleanse my love life, as easily as I might reset my laptop after it freezes up. That I'll have some sort of highly beneficial How Stella Got Her Groove Back epiphany about the simplicity of love and romance and, thus, act accordingly.

I am positively sure that my younger self would have wanted to date this boy. He is knowledgeable about music (obviously - he works at a record store); he is unassuming; he is witty; he is respectful. But he is also an awkward mess with bad skin and untamable curly hair that freely undulates atop his head. He reminds me of our fledglings at Wild Bird Rehab - so cocksure, so filled with life, so unable to fly. His flutterings unmoor me. I am cast out to sea. Possibility abounds - even so close to shore. Luckily, I have his searchlight eyes to guide me.

Om shanti,
la Contra Yogini

*Girls, yes; boys, no.

**Albeit, a woman who looks much closer to his age than her own - he flashed me an unfettered expression of astonishment when he inspected my ID and, assumedly, saw my 1981 birth year.

***According to Julia Rose - who is acutely attuned to these happenings, being a boy-crazy, hormone-addled teenager - he is most definitely interested in me. When we last saw him (she was with me when I first met him, too), she exclaimed, "He only has eyeballs for you! And such pretty eyeballs, too. I'd like to scoop them out and put them in a jar, but he never even glances in my direction because he is too busy looking at you."

The Visit

2010-08-15T21:15:00.011-05:00

Have you ever had a dear, old friend propose the possibility of evolving your friendship into an amorous relationship? That very thing happened to me this past spring. I, to a certain extent, initially balked at the prospect for a number of reasons, which I enumerated to my romantically inclined friend (we shall call him Bruce), as follows--

I did not want to damage our longstanding friendship;
I had broken up with my boyfriend of four years only months before and was very much enjoying my new singledom; and
I wasn't sure that the prospect made much sense given that many states separated us from our respective residences.

Nevertheless, he wanted to visit me in the summer and he wanted me to suspend any judgment until that time, when we could revisit the subject in person and I agreed. Over the intervening months, we did not communicate much and I assumed that this was because we were both making an effort to avoid further muddying the boundaries of our friendship.*

***

Bruce arrived in St. Louis for his scheduled summer visit this past Friday. I picked him up from the train station late Friday night and treated him to a midnight City Diner dinner. While we were catching up, Bruce revealed that he had been dating someone for the past several months and that he had promised this girlfriend exclusivity just prior to the time of his departure.

I will not lie; my first thought was "Hey man, nice shot! You pierced me straight through my treasured ego." Here I was fretting this entire time--wondering what was going to happen, what his expectations were, and how to best maintain our friendship while attempting to negotiate this unfamiliar situation. Meanwhile, he was busily hooking up with a girl who had played fast and loose with his heart once before and who had subsequently proven to be quite the flake (in my somewhat embittered estimation).

Of course, I was also hurt. When Bruce first made overtures toward me in the springtime (of his voodoo), I had discussed the situation with a mutual friend of ours. She had known Bruce for as long as I had and she was very fond of him. She thought we would make a great couple and she wanted me to pursue the relationship. Moreover, she felt that he was an upstanding guy who would never purposefully treat me poorly. Essentially, she felt that I could trust him, which was of the utmost importance.

Rightly or wrongly, I'm having some difficulty in trusting him at this point. It goes without saying that I did not appreciate his springing this girlfriend news on me unexpectedly. Instead, he should have been forthright with me from the very start of his nascent reattachment to his ex. That is what an upstanding guy would have done not waited to see which relationship would work out in his favor. It seemed to me, on some level, that he was simply keeping me on the back burner as a Plan B in case Girl A didn't pan out. Still, I determined not to let his big reveal ruin our long awaited weekend together; after all, he was still my old, dear friend.

Hence, things proceeded as originally planned. We enjoyed spending time with friends of ours; we went caving on the countryside; we visited the botanical gardens, et cetera. Last night, we had several rounds of beer at a local Vietnamese restaurant and then returned to my place to listen to some music. We shared songs with each other and discussed the merits of select musicians. We drank late into the night (or early into the morning, as the case may be). Eventually, my alcohol soaked brain started to wind down into sleepiness. Bruce was sitting on the couch next to me so I maneuvered my body into a reclined position without laying in his lap (ever mindful of the girlfriend in his home state). In response, he softly chuckled at my posturing and said, "Jen, you're pretty amusing in your attempt not to lay in my lap."

I took his comment as an invitation to his lap and promptly repositioned myself there (keeping a proper distance from his naughty bits). I was convinced that this was okay - it was okay for me to lay in my friend's lap, as long as it went no further than that. Shortly thereafter, Bruce began to yawn and so I asked him if he wanted to lay down with me (and only to sleep -- not to be intimate). Being the intelligent man that he is, he respectfully declined. He felt that it would violate the spirit of his monogamy agreement with his girlfriend (which was probably correct). He couldn't help but regretfully add that things would have progressed much differently between us had he not committed himself to her.

I should say, Bruce reads my blog on occasion (although, I doubt he'll weigh in on the subject here). Maybe his young girlfriend could locate and read my blog, too, if she bothered to investigate the few people he follows on Twitter. If she is reading this, she can rest assured that her boyfriend was on his very best behavior throughout the entirety of his visit.

Oh, and also, don't fuck with his heart this time.

Om shanti.

*He, on the other hand, has since explained that he had wholly accepted my initial protest and had consequently given up the prospect of a romantic encounter with me. I truly do not understand how this miscommunication arose.

Coagulation

2010-08-08T00:16:00.002-05:00

This evening, a couple of friends took me out for some fine dining at my favorite St. Louis trattoria on The Hill. We started with a brisk, Italian, sparkling white wine, and then segued into a sultry, Argentinian red (the equivalent of a California Cabernet but, in my estimation, less rusty tasting). As we were busily scrutinizing the menu for our entree selections, the following short exchange occurred--

Donna: Do you think the [name of some ostentatious meat dish I can't remember] is pork or veal?

Jeff: Well, considering that it is priced at $27.50, I'm guessing it is veal.

Donna: Great! Then I'm ordering it, if it is indeed veal.

Me: You know, Donna, if your daughter [a radical animals' rights activist] finds out about this, you are dead meat (no pun intended).

Donna: I just don't pay attention to that sort of thing [the controversy surrounding veal] and don't you tell my daughter, either!

***

When I was thirteen, I had the youthful insolence to lecture my father about the evils of industrialized farming while he was making himself a cold-cut sandwich. As I was finishing some particularly truculent rant about how outrageously chickens are raised, my father silently turned to me and smacked me in the face with a slice of ham. I still viscerally remember the greasy feeling that the meat juices left on my cheek. That little happening cured me of lecturing meat-eaters about the evils of their diet whilst they were actually consuming it. Thus, I did not have the stomach to criticize Donna's selection outright. I could only look on in helpless dismay and incredulous bemusement as she ordered her veal.

Being a professed vegetarian for the better part of two decades,* I've never actually eaten with someone who had the audacity (or complete indifference, as was the case with Donna) to unabashedly order veal in my presence. In a moment of marked dissolution, I found myself quite curious to see what this much maligned dish looked like in living color. Shortly before our meal was served, our waiter bestowed upon Donna a golden, ritualistic-appearing, dining implement--similar to an elongated, rectangular-shaped spoon--explaining that it allowed easy access to the marrow of the veal. At this point, I began to feel a little queasy in anticipation of what seeming horror was to come next. However, when the dish actually arrived at our table, it appeared as any other meat dish would appear to a non-meat eater - neither delightful nor grotesque.

I attentively monitored my friend as she enjoyed her dish, but she never picked up her "sacrificial marrow spoon" (which is what I had come to call it in my mind). Eventually, she'd had her fill of dinner and pushed the plate away in abject satisfaction. Jeff then asked her, with some confusion, why she hadn't eaten, or even tasted, the marrow. She replied that it held no appeal for her and gamely scootched her dish in front of him so that he could partake in what he considered to be "the best part" of her meal.

Both Donna and I watched Jeff in open fascination as he dug into the bone with that bizarre utensil. He triumphantly extracted a brackish looking, almost black substance and then inserted the heaping spoonful into his mouth. He dug in again and again before finally pronouncing ecstatically that, as soon as it touched his tongue, the marrow seemed to "coagulate" in his mouth**. Apparently, this was a very good thing. We segued into a discussion of fats in foods (as this marrow was obviously pure fat) and how folks like the taste of fat and so it made sense that Jeff would enjoy this aspect of the dish so much (in uncomfortable situations I tend to intellectualize).

We concluded our meal with shared succulent tiramisu, creme brulee, and no further incidents. All in all, it was... educational :)

Om shanti.

*Of late, I've begun eating fish, on occasion, but that isn't entirely relevant to this story.

**I'm guessing the word he was actually looking for was "liquefy" (it's nice to not be the only dyslexic at the table :)

The Illusion of Control

2010-08-07T17:07:00.002-05:00

My father, for all intents and purposes, has always been a troubled sleeper. When I was a very young girl, my circadian rhythm synched up with his oddball internal time-clock and I joined him in nightly wakefulness. In an effort to cope with the tedious sameness of those early morning hours, my dad would habitually listen to talk radio - predominantly that of the AM variety. Most often, he tuned-in to sports talk, although he appreciated other types of late-night shows, as well.

Among those programs we enjoyed in shared wakefulness was //deep breath// Art Bell's Coast to Coast AM, the mother of all conspiracy programs (originating in 1984 and still on the air today). I recall being entertained by all sorts of wild assertions relating to remote viewing, alien abductions, metaphysics, and the like. I accepted much of the material whole cloth, in a way that only a child could. My best friend surely could relate some embarrassing stories from that time regarding my fanciful thought process surrounding remote viewing and the US government's "collusion" in connection with same*.

***

About a year ago, I developed something of a crush on a man with whom I had become acquainted. He had the memory of an elephant, a maddeningly quick wit, and an enchanting love of the natural world. We went through a brief, yet intense, getting-to-know-you phase where we heatedly discussed our respective positions regarding religion, politics, science and other "hot button" topics. I remember friends giving us a wide berth when we became embattled because we were so fervently focused on our debates. Oddly enough, with his views on the far right (read: libertarian) and mine on the far left (read: progressive), we often found common ground--with our respective polarities on the spectrum meeting full circle (rather than, as I see it falsely conceptualized, extending linearly into the furthest outreaches of the political nether).

Unfortunately, the prospect of anything more substantial fizzled (for me, at least) after my crush expressed his belief in Velikovsky's wacky contentions concerning the planet Venus' supposed involvement in the formation of our solar system as we know it. Being a student of astrophysics, my interest was initially peaked (given that I had heard not a whisper of this theory over the course of my extensive home studies), but after some cursory research--which conclusively demonstrated that there was no scientific basis in the theory whatsoever--I determined that Velikovsky was nothing more than a misguided conspiracy theorist.

After my mini-investigation, I sent my crush a Scientific American article I'd happened upon explaining why people find these sorts of conspiracy theories so compelling. I thought it might give him something to consider and that perhaps he would ultimately come around to my more scientifically-minded method of evaluating information. Unfortunately, he completely refused to read the short article. It was around that time that he stated to me something approximate to "I know the truth when I am confronted by it. I feel it in my bones." That sentiment clinched my poor opinion of his intellect and thus distanced me from him -- an otherwise perfectly attractive and kindhearted person.

You see, wary of my own susceptibility to this all-too-human manner of analysis, I'd previously resolved to battle all superstitious, emotional reasoning and other such manifestations of our "demon-haunted" society. For example, as many of you know, I've had a certain propensity toward mysticism at points in my life. Despite my academic and philosophical adherence to atheism and agnosticism, a younger me routinely made statements dangerously similar to what my crush had said about the nature of truth. At this point, I'm not sure if the human perception of truthfulness is born out of energy, per se, or spirit (doubtful), or simply the very human ability to plug into the motivations of the people around us. Regardless, I once believed that the intent to truth was readily discernible to an attentive observer. Today, I recognize that some truths are not at all intuitive.

Frequently, truth is nearly as incredible as untruth. Case in point, wave-particle duality. Originally, light was conceived as particle-based (hence the name photon). Then, Young's double slit experiment suggested that light was in fact wave-like in nature. Scientists ultimately concluded that photons posses both wave and particle characteristics (and they still don't completely understand why). Now, if even in the hardest of sciences (ie physics) truth is not readily discernible, how on earth could an unassisted, untrained person intuit the truth? The prospect strikes me as downright ludicrous. Of course, there is a difference b/t understanding the truth of a physical phenomenon and evaluating truth involved in interpersonal relations. Still, if there was some reliable and valid way to discern if a person was telling the truth, we wouldn't need courts or trials - the prosecutor could simply ask the defendant if he or she was being completely honest and then they could check their gut emotional response--if their "bones" didn't register truth, than the defendant would be found guilty.

***

Jennifer Whitson and her colleague Adam Galinsky, in their 2008 study entitled "Lacking Control Increases Illusory Pattern Perception" (published in Science), defined "illusory pattern perception" as follows:

"the identification of a coherent and meaningful interrelationship among a set of random or unrelated stimuli...(such as the tendency to perceive false correlations, see imaginary figures [ie: in ink-blot tests], form superstitious rituals, and embrace conspiracy beliefs, among others)." The researchers thesis was that "when individuals are unable to gain a sense of control objectively, they will try to gain it perceptually." As Whitson explained the psychology, "Feelings of control are essential for our well-being -- we think clearer and make better decisions when we feel we are in control. Lacking control is highly aversive, so we instinctively seek patterns to regain control -- even if those patterns are illusory." -Michael Shermer, Scientific American (Feb. 2010)

***

I later discovered that my crush was a fan of more troubling, modern conspiracy theorists including Alex Jones, who has been described as "your typical irascible, bombastic radio shock jock" who "replaces the ordinary vulgarities and titillations with preposterous conspiracy theories" - which I would say is a more than fair characterization. As you can see, to the right of this post, I succinctly describe myself as being "open-minded" (among other attributes). I would like to think that the fans of Alex Jones are simply amused by him--that they are similar to the people who read horoscopes for entertainment value alone. It may be that this interpretation is correct, but it seems that it is more likely that followers of conspiracy theorists and astrology are actually seeking control in an otherwise chaotic world.

As excerpted above, it seems that is healthy for individuals to seek control in this manner--in that it mitigates the damage that results from being helpless. In that respect, I am hesitant to disabuse anyone of patently false notions that would otherwise help them to properly function. Nevertheless, I also strongly feel that knowledge is power. That knowledge is a more sustainable base of control than illusory pattern perception. However, I am not so naive that I believe that knowledge is equally available to all. There is a reason that it was forbidden to teach slaves to read. Perhaps (now, I'm going to be the one reminiscent of a conspiracy theorist), those in power would rather that the masses be fed bullshit conspiracy theories (tea party, anyone?) than knowledge that would allow them to rise up against oppression and subjugation in a meaningful manner.

OM shanti.

*Interestingly enough, it turns out the the US government did spend some $20 million dollars researching psychic phenomena in the early 90's, including remote viewing, but the program was axed after it proved to be a complete failure in generating any usable intelligence

Primaries

2010-08-03T19:17:00.001-05:00

I just voted "no" on Prop C (the one that attempts to undermine Obamacare) and "yes" on Prop S (the one that attempts to support the City's public schools) only moments before the polls closed. Having executed my civic duty, on what may be the hottest election day ever in the S-T-L (100+ degrees outside), I am presently luxuriating semi-nude on my sea green, comfy couch, with an "I voted" sticker prominently adhered to the bare skin of my chest. Ain't democracy grand?

OM shanti, fellow citizens :)

PS I now turn my attention to an unpublished blog entry that I've been fiddling with for the past week. Hopefully, I'll be able to make it over into something presentable....

Big Jake

2010-07-25T16:11:00.007-05:00

To the best of my knowledge, I've intimately known only one murderer in my life*. He bore a striking resemblance, both physically and temperamentally, to Yosemite Sam--excruciatingly short, ever-bearded, swollen-nosed (from near-constant drinking), excitable, and, of course, a lifelong gun enthusiast. He thought of himself as "Big Jake," which is what his immediate family called him in times of playful good humor and, alternatively, hateful derision. I, on the other hand, preferred to refer to him as "Jakey" largely because the mischievous feminist in me found much joy in addressing him with, what he considered, a feminized diminutive. (His given name was James - but no one called him that.)

Jake was the first person to successfully teach me how to roll a joint (others had tried and failed). Early in our acquaintance, he presented me with a time-tested methodology that he had employed with others in the past: essentially, he tossed me an ounce of weed and a packet of rolling papers with the assurance that, by the time I finished the bag, I would be expert at the task. (He was also the only established drug dealer I've known who never got caught--not even a scare.)

I met Jake through his daughter, Shelly - a sunny, blond-haired, blue-eyed, girl-next-door type. We had worked retail together during my late teen years and had become fast friends through our shared love of sex, hip-hop and marijuana. One evening, after our store had closed, she invited me to her home to hang out with her parents. They were sitting around their kitchen table drinking cheap beer and smoking expensive weed**. Her mother, Bobbi, was an incredibly charming and insidiously clever woman, obviously the brains of the operation. Her father, I would soon learn, was a racist, sexist, child-abusing, ex-heroin addict and, as indicated above, drug dealer. Truly, I knew that Jake was not a nice man. Hence, it did not come as much of a surprise when I learned this past spring that he had killed Shelly's grandfather (Bobbi's father) and then turned the gun on himself.

Fortunately (for me, at least), I had distanced myself from the family a year before these events had transpired when Shelly's now deceased grandfather had attempted to murder his then girlfriend (which is, perhaps, a story for another blog post). At that time, both Shelly and Bobbi had expressed a want to "finish the job" that Shelly's grandfather had been unwilling and/or unable to accomplish. I then realized that this family was far too dangerous and morally bankrupt for me to continue my association with them. (To this day, I suspect that Shelly would be a decent person, if she could only disentangle herself from her mother's foul influence, but with each death in her family--her brother had overdosed on heroin months before her grandfather attempted to kill his girlfriend--she grew ever closer to Bobbi and ever farther from a normal life.)

When I think back on the time that I spent with Jake, my stomach turns. Years ago, I assumed that his drunken rants and crazed behavior were only the posturings of a person with short man syndrome - an ill-conceived attempt to garner respect and attention. Now, I know better. Had I not determined to avoid contact with him and his family, who knows if I would have survived to write this somewhat convoluted blog post.

Honestly, I had hoped that some form of wisdom would reveal itself to me in the writing of this piece, but I've only come to conclude what an obviously senseless act murder is. If I were granted the opportunity to relive those years, I suspect I would never have become friends with Shelly. I now fully realize that I could not have saved her from her family, that my influence on them was minimal, at best, and that, rather than my pulling them out of the muck, they had succeeded in dragging me further into it. Needless to say, this has been a humbling and disheartening life experience. At this point, I can only wish that Shelly will promptly seek the professional help she so desperately needs and thus thwart the cycle of violence for the next generation.

OM shanti.

*Excluding state-sanctioned killing by soldiers;

**Evidently, Shelly and her parents had smoked together since her middle school days.

Redacted

2010-06-15T13:45:00.003-05:00

Moments ago, I received the following message in my e-mail inbox--

Jen-
I know you want it, I know you want it from me. I have created a fictional person on [Facebook] named Scrable Whoritic. Her email is ********@yahoo.com and her password is wordwhore. I have started a game with her, but sadly she does not exist, so it may be her turn forever! So sad, isn't it Jen?!?
-[Scrabble Pimp/Trick]

Oh, suuuure. Clearly, I am the one who wants it. After all, I did go through all of the trouble of setting up a dummy FB account and a Scrabble game and all. I JUST CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT IT.

***

No, really. I am gonna go play my turn just as soon as I publish this blog post. He is right. I do want it and I do want it from him. Scrabble is a naughty, naughty game, my droogs...
xo

For the Birds!

2010-06-03T19:33:00.004-05:00

The monetary value of a volunteer's time is now estimated at $20.85/hour,* as per The Independent Sector. Accordingly, I'm donating over $250 (12 hours) to Wild Bird Rehab (WBR) over the coming weekend. Normally, during the breeding season I work six hours/week at WBR, but we are going to be short-staffed on Saturdays for the next month and a half, hence my additional time commitment.**

Speaking of WBR, one of our thoughtful volunteers has begun posting videos of the youngins on his YouTube channel, which will give me the opportunity to introduce you to some of them, as follows--

Hatchling Sparrows

My guess is that this video was taken on Monday the 24th. When I attended these guys on the 28th (the following Friday) they had already sprouted feathers! All five of them were alert, feisty, and hopping around like miniature adults. I anticipate that by the time I see them again tomorrow, they'll probably be smoking cigars and chasing after tail (see how I punned there?). No more lousy incubators for them!

What I particularly fancied about the above video is that it demonstrates how easily one of the babies can sleep while nestmates are all going mad for food. I just about lost it with glee when the volunteer in this video finally tapped the unresponsive, sleepy hatchling out of exasperation and, without missing a beat, he promptly lifted his diminutive head out of a sound stupor and gamely gaped for food. Such a charming little moppet-headed fellow.

Notice, too, how the "itty bitties" in this video look like something out of a Sesame Street skit with their over-sized, split-melon shaped heads and lemon-yellow lined, hot pink mouths. This is particularly true of the European Starlings. Those birds are freaking evolutionary power-houses. Not only can you inconceivably visually overlook their gaping mouths, but they also produce deafening tweets comparable in decibel to a car alarm. At the beginning of May we were admitting new nests of twelve or more of these baby starlings each day, so you can only imagine the cacophony in our nursery!

Fledgling Bluebird

This little dude is no longer in the alcove (where we keep our youngest birds). You can easily discern by his noble temperament, that he is growing up. Although, to be sure, Bluebirds (BB) are inherently more dignified than a lot of the other native birds we rescue. You do not hear the fledgling BB begging for food very often, although they will certainly accept it, when offered--provided that the meal is of a variety that they prefer. Notice, at the start of this video, he immediately gaped for blood worms (the bright red food) that were offered to him, but when the volunteer dangled a beige-colored meal worm (MW), he stubbornly refused to open his beak. Older BB love, love LOVE crickets. It is not unusual to see a little post-it on the front of their cages saying, "Please feed me lots of crickets!" We'll keep the MW in their cages for when they start to self-feed (since the MW are alive, they keep better than frozen crickets), but when offered a crickety snack they positively glow with appreciation.

Funny story about BB, last season I had made friends with one (which really isn't a good plan - since they are wild birds and shouldn't at all be domesticated). Whenever I would walk into the nursery, he would joyfully sing his little heart out to me and I would do my best to whistle his call back at him. It got to the point where we would spend the entire evening warmly chirping at each other, as I made my rounds to the other cages. My fellow volunteers would good-naturedly chide me about it, "You stop singing at that BB! He is going to think he has a friend in here!" To which I would hotly reply, "But he DOES have a friend here!" Unlike a lot of our other birds, it is rare to have multiple BB come in together, so they tend to be in private cages - which I think is unfairly lonely for them.

If you are curious to learn more about our birds, you can find them at this YouTube channel. I'll be sure to keep posting blogs about them, as breeding season continues, and should anyone be interested in donating time (or money), you can get in contact with us through WBR's website. Many thanks, in advance, to anyone agreeable to giving to our lovely birds!

Om shanti.

*Which is more than I get paid at my day job!
**Peripherally, Julia Rose took her algebra final yesterday, so I have a bit more free time on my hands until her fall semester begins. We've worked so diligently this past school year on her algebra lessons that I feel as though I'm on summer vacation, too.

Solar, Stand, Solstice

2010-06-01T20:12:00.025-05:00

I've been running a social experiment on myself with relation to my personal tolerance threshold regarding physical discomfort. I'm not precisely certain from where this urge was born. Perhaps it was an effort to assuage my overly-developed liberal guilt regarding creature comforts or a need to prove my own toughness to myself or even to get a sense of my struggle concerning pride and greed over practicality and health. Regardless, as the notoriously steamy and sticky St. Louis summer wears on, I am sure to learn more about my core workings -- one way or the other.

To explain, when I was searching for my latest car, following the totaling of my former vehicle in January of this year, I determined that I wanted to purchase something uber reliable and as new as possible in consideration of my budget. I settled on an '08 Hyundai with 30,000 miles on it and a 100,000 mile, ten-year warranty. Everything on my car is manual -- from the steering to the transmission to the very windows. Experience has taught me that I will ultimately pay more over the life of the car for the replacement of these often fragile and expensive items (ie the motors in automatic windows) than to simply choose hardy manual options. In so doing, I also purchased a vehicle without air conditioning. *cue the ominous, foreboding music*

Now before you go off half-cocked and dismiss me as a raving, potentially dangerous, lunatic to voluntarily invest in a vehicle such as this when I live in a river city known for its unlivable, humid summer (sometimes spring, sometimes fall) climate, I must reassure you that it wasn't that I didn't want air conditioning, it just wasn't available on the base model that I bought. Still, that is hardly a reasonable explanation for most St. Louisans. When I've told people with a wry grin that my very nice looking, newish car indeed does not have air conditioning, they've looked at me with disbelief bordering on pity. "Jen seemed like such a level-headed girl; clearly, we've woefully misjudged her." My own mother finds me suspect. I could hardly get her into my car for a test drive in February, for goodness sake, when she learned of its undesirable state. It was as though she didn't want to get too attached (to me or the car). I believe, on some level, she felt she had failed me as a parent upon learning of this shameful debacle.

Admittedly, since I've owned this car, much deep, penetrating thought has been devoted to the routes that offer the optimum protection from the sun and the least opportunity for extended stops at traffic lights (as these are the times that a lack of breeze most pointedly leads to high internal body temperatures). Today, I was meditating on this issue while stopped at a red signal on tar-black pavement with the unforgiving, afternoon sun beating down upon me. The interior of my car could not convincingly be described as sweltering, nevertheless, I began to wonder if I should be concerned about safety issues such as heat stroke or even fainting spells, given the anticipated rising St. Louis temperatures in coming months.

Interestingly, I've noticed already that my body has grown rather accustomed to the lack of an external coolant. In fact, when my sister was riding with me recently, she felt her own arm and then mine and marveled to herself that my skin was still cool to the touch given the extreme heat in my car. Since that time, I've begun to wonder if I might develop some sort of super-human ability to cool myself. If maybe we're all just a little soft from too many creature comforts like air conditioning. If this experience will somehow tap into a deeper evolutionary imperative by my driving around in my own personal sauna.

In my current situation, I often think seriously of photons. These elementary particles of energy that have traveled immense distances from the sun's core to my vulnerable, yet adaptable skin. That visible light is the primary manifestation of solar fusion on earth. That this is our main source of energy, what leads to photosynthesis, what drives the majority of flora and fauna on our planet, and yet what could very well be the untimely death of me.

When I am stopped in traffic on the aforementioned shadeless blacktop, I begin to slip into another mode of consciousness. My heartbeat seems to slow, my breath becomes shallow, and my mind expands. At these times, I'm reminded of my yoga classes from summers past when our instructor would purposefully conduct class in the heat. She felt that it brought us closer to being. That it moved us into deeper contact with the seasons that we would otherwise not fully experience, given our modern lifestyles. That it taught us where our limits truly extended. It is in this pioneering spirit that I continue with my mad social experiment.

Unwilling to be in shade of any
kind, wild pinks, flowers of everlasting summer
covet even the
sky of the sixth month
-F. Teika

Om shanti.

A Fascinating Dichotomy

2010-05-27T17:42:00.002-05:00

But what if the universe was always there, in a state or condition we have yet to identify--a multiverse, for instance? Or what if the universe, like its particles, just popped into existence from nothing?

Such replies usually satisfy nobody. Nonetheless, they remind us that ignorance is the natural state of mind for a research scientist on the ever-shifting frontier. People who believe they are ignorant of nothing have never looked for, nor stumbled upon, the boundary between what is known and unknown in the cosmos. And therein lies a fascinating dichotomy. "The universe always was" goes unrecognized as a legitimate answer to "What was around before the beginning" But for many religious people, the answer "God always was" is the obvious and pleasing answer to "What was around before God?"

- Neil deGrasse Tyson

Whispering @ 7:25

2010-05-15T02:41:00.012-05:00

Quite possibly the sexiest thing I've ever seen:

@ 8:16: Whispering is cut short. Meg looks up. Glares at cameraman disapprovingly: "George." Pauses. Then winks.

Jack: "Where's George?" [Feints, as if Meg hadn't already warned him.]

Meg: "George is right there." Points at camera. Smiles coquettishly.

Jack: Looks into camera. Discovered. Holds head in his hands despairingly.

Meg: "We're having a secret conference...It's things you don't want to know about, George. Because...they would be too scandalous..."

***

In sum, voyeurism. is. hot.

The S-Word

2010-05-13T22:34:00.004-05:00

Not too long ago, I was having dinner at Harvest with a couple of women whom I had known since grade school. We were discussing wedding planning (yawn) and my acquaintance (I hesitate to even call her my friend), Julie, casually said something to the effect of, "well, she decided against the little black dress because it was too slutty." I just about dropped my wine glass when my friend, Angie, agreed with Julie. I hadn't heard Angie use the word "slut" in years, much less utilize it as a descriptive term. Since that time, I've noticed with dawning horror that this word is used fairly regularly (I even had someone write it in my comment section recently).

You could easily describe me as insulated in this respect. I've challenged my friends and family so often on their use of gender-specific (read: feminized) derogatory language that they rarely, if ever, use words like slut, whore, or cunt in my presence. I have a real problem with the fact that there are twenty words synonymous with slut and no real counterpart to describe men (short of male-modified terms like man-whore, and such). It has been shown in countless studies that slut and words like it structurally maintain sexism in the English language; hence, I do not use them. Similarly, I do not watch TV that glorifies that sort of language (it won't surprise you to learn that I do not own a television), and I've been known to walk out of movies that are thick with that vernacular. It disturbs me. Just as the use of the n-word disturbs me. I feel there is no place for that type of language in a progressive culture.

Outside of my linguistic objections to these sorts of words, I largely object to what they symbolize. The idea that a sex-positive woman must be put down, must be marginalized, must be controlled and thus labeled a slut or a whore. I understand that some people have a less generalized use of the term (ie: a slut is not simply a woman who has frequent sex, but a woman who has sex in a scandalous manner - ie: with men in committed relationships), but I nevertheless believe that its use is inappropriate. It is a far too emotionally-charged word to use lackadaisically. Words of this ilk have historically been utilized to teach hate and oppression. I'd rather not propagate that mentality.

To get back to the "slutty" dress, I don't even know what that characterization is supposed to mean. What exactly is slutty attire, anyway? Is it low-cut? Is it tight-fitting? Is it mid-riff baring? Is it something that highlights the female form? I honestly don't comprehend why we need to be protected from our bodies. I don't understand why feminity must be hidden. I have a friend who routinely gives me disapproving looks for my cleavage shirts. She thinks I am dressing too immodestly. Granted, this is the same woman who had to fight tooth-and-nail in the Middle East to be allowed to appear in public with her head uncovered. These are all social constructs. What does it matter what form they take? At one point in time, a woman who revealed her ankles was being risque. Personally, I believe that a woman (and a man, for that matter) should be allowed to wear whatever she wants, as long as she is covering up her naughty-bits.* If you don't like it, don't look at her. There are bigger things in this world to concern ourselves with than how much skin a woman is revealing.

Om shanti.

*Actually, I think people should be allowed to walk around butt-ass naked, if they so choose, but I know that isn't entirely realistic at this time.

And the Pursuit of Happiness

2010-05-10T20:05:00.003-05:00

A number of female bloggers have recently written about how they predominantly (if not exclusively) use their blogs as vehicles with which to highlight the more positive aspects and happenings in their lives. They've argued that no one wants to read about their misfortunes and so they make a concerted effort to focus their blogging on uplifting and/or comical personal stories.

Frankly, I take issue with the assertion that only the positive is fit for public consumption. I, for one, would much rather read about a person's validly negative life experiences than to solely read insipid, inane flounderings toward a positive spin where one does not rightfully exist. While gratitude journals certainly have their place, I would prefer to not have my online world subsumed by Oprah-esque, happy-happy, joy-joy ramblings.

Reading a piece by Rebecca Traister, Screw Happiness, verified that this phenomenon is hardly limited to online blogging. It seems that omnipresent satisfaction is a regular expectation of women in American society, as follows:

But really, how could [women not get sadder as they get older], given the aggressive messages about happiness and how they must achieve it, and unhappiness and how they must avoid it that are foisted on them from every direction, making them feel like failures if they are not warbling and grinning their way through life?

It appears that we've collectively discounted the virtues of unhappiness. Traister makes the point that dissatisfaction can act as a "propellant" to "show us what we do not want" and to "give shape and specificity to what it is we do want." Further, she acknowledges that sometimes life is not unicorns and rainbows and that is fine, too. It isn't bad, it isn't less than, it simply is. The Buddhists hold that "life is suffering." That suffering instructs. That suffering builds character. I believe that suffering helps us to fully appreciate the good things in life because we have something to measure against, something to provide contrast in what would otherwise be a monotonous, gray landscape.

Kurt Cobain once said, "I miss the comfort in being sad" and I've often empathized with that sentiment. Sorrow can be an enriching experience. Digging deep into the marrow of unhappiness can leave one feeling cleansed and even protectively enveloped in a cocoon of melancholy. I'm not proposing that women should haplessly wallow in self-pity and despair. It just seems that, every so often, taking a dip in the deep end isn't such a negative thing. In fact, it could be a welcome opportunity for self-development and personal growth. At the very least, I reject the expectation that women be ever happy, ever positive, and ever cheerful--like good little 1950's housewives. All of my emotions are worthwhile and worthy of expression. After all, they are reflections of my complete and expansive humanity.

A Word of Explanation

2010-05-07T02:41:00.005-05:00

If you are new to my blog and/or haven't visited in the past twenty-four hours, you might be asking yourself, "What is that gorgeous, cock-and-balls shaped image at the top of Jen's page?" Why, that, dear readers, is LBG-2377, a galaxy proto-cluster some 2.5 billion years older than any other light we've yet detected on this here planet.

More specifically, what you are looking at is light that has tirelessly traveled 11.4 billion light years* to arrive at our cosmologically insignificant watery globe. In other words, you are traveling back in time to see our universe as it existed some eleven-and-a-half billion years ago - tantalizingly close to its nascency**. Further, this is a stupendously colossal, highly energetic object you are viewing -- something exponentially larger and inexpressibly more active than our own Milky Way. Scientist James Bullock, director of the Center for Cosmology at UCI, described it, as follows--

We believe LBG-2377 is a seed that eventually will grow into a massive galaxy cluster. Our finding suggests that this is a monster structure being born in a very bright, catastrophic event with a lot of gas and matter collapsing at once. We are not just seeing one solitary galaxy. We are seeing a bunch of bright galaxies coming together at the dawn of structure formation in the universe.

At the dawn of structure formation in the universe. When everything we see today in our night sky was only a twinkle in the universe's eye (hee!). Attempt to wrap your mind around these concepts: the tremendous size, energy, distance, and time involved therein. This is an infinitely enjoyable pastime worthy of my joyously sharing with all of you.

Om shanti.

*Light travels at a speed of 5,878,630,000,000 miles per year.
**We now estimate the universe's total age at 13.7 billion years.

Runaway

2010-05-06T23:45:00.004-05:00

"What makes you think I'd enjoy being led to the flood?"

An Amicable Exchange

2010-05-06T22:06:00.003-05:00

After some consideration, I've determined that my overly abundant breasts are largely responsible for the continued perpetuation of my weight gain, for the following reasons:

They leave me blissfully unaware of my ever-growing middle-section b/c they obstruct my view of same; I literally have to push them aside in order to properly view my stomach;
They serve as a distraction, in that the people around me tend to not treat me any differently, b/c they only seem to notice my goodly ladies, rather than the other plentiful parts of me; and
They initially absorb much of the additional weight gain and hence distort my own sense of body mass - (ie: "I can't be gaining weight, my pants still fit me fine").

To be fair to the girls, there are other things at issue. For instance, after Mom fractured her hand roller-blading last fall, my workout routine suffered greatly and it became damn near non-existent after my car accident in January. As I'm sure you can imagine, crippling spinal/musculature pain can be quite demotivating. However, my situation has become something of a self-propelling, negative feedback loop because the less I work out, the more I gain weight, the less my body is healthy overall, the less quickly my injuries heal, the less I work out... (you see where this is going). So, I've determined that I need to jump into a new routine already and work through the pain as I go. (It isn't as though anti-inflammatories and other pain meds are absent from the earth. If worse comes to worse, I'll start popping pills.)

What I've learned from leading scientific studies and my own experience is that having a committed exercise partner is the predominant indicator of successful maintenance of a workout program. Essentially, your partner motivates you to keep it up when you are unable and you do the same for them when they are feeling sluggish. For that reason, I sorely miss working out with my parents and sisters. My mom and dad were VERY conscientious about exercise and very persistent about convincing me to join them. The only problem is that Mom can't really roller-blade anymore. Plus, I'm a little hesitant to return to that activity myself knowing that it deformed and crippled my mom's right hand.

I've been wracking my brains for that special someone who has the time and inclination to join me in an exercise program. Of the infinitesimally small number of potential candidates, I've determined that my ex would be ideal. He lives just a few blocks from me and our gym membership is still current*, so convenience wouldn't be at issue. Also, being a farm boy, he has (for all intents and purposes) endless strength and endurance** so I won't have to concern myself with him pooping out on me.

Given the above, I seemingly have everything in place to get back to a healthy body size--everything except motivation and inertia on my ex's part. Prodding and poking him has proven ineffective. I need to offer him something to sweeten the deal. Essentially, to motivate him to motivate me. What I thought I could offer up is casual sex. I figure, why not? We both excel at it. We aren't having it with anyone else and goddamnit, I want a freaking gym buddy. Nothing makes for a more devoted work-out partner than one who is promised free lovin' afterward. If our relationship set any precedent, I think he will remain tireless in his effort to get me to the gym and subsequently into bed.

Who else sees what a genius idea this is? ...Anyone? Anyone?! ...Bueller? ... *sigh*

Om shanti.

*Even though neither of us attends with any frequency--it is frighteningly true what they say about it being damn near super-human to voluntarily quit a gym.

**I once watched him valiantly magic a couch up three flights of stairs with minimal assistance.

Sex, sex, and fucking

2010-05-03T21:40:00.006-05:00

I must be in that delightful aspect of my menstrual cycle where my testosterone level is at its zenith, because I can not seem to refrain from thinking about filthy, hot sexiness. Shoot, I was even flirting with someone over Scrabble chat today! And in a completely nonsensical manner. His comments were perfectly nonsexual and I desultorily took the discussion to a very bad place. [You can't see me, but I'm shaking my head and laughing to myself at the memory of my extreme inappropriateness.]

At present, something incomprehensible is occurring wherein I want nothing to do with men and/or women that I could feasibly date and have sex with. Rather, I'm exponentially more intrigued by people with whom it would be incredibly ill-advised for me to be involved. My theory is that this is some sort of twisted manifestation of a defense mechanism. In order to prevent myself from getting embroiled in another long-term relationship, I pine away for the most unavailable people. Not simply the married, but the married with children. Not simply the married, but the married to whom it would be oh so uncomfortable to discover my interest in their spouse.

For example, there is this woman, Ryan*, and I have this magnificent crush on her. It is the very definition of hardcore (leather, whips, chains - oh my!). I illicitly think about her far, far too often. However, she is married to a good friend of mine, so there is zero chance of our boning. What is noteworthy is that I've known the girl for years and I'd never thought of her in a romantic sense before. Out of nowhere (out of my inimical psyche), I began entertaining these terribly naughty notions about what I'd like to do to her and what I'd like her to do to me. BUT THE THING IS, when I'm alone with her, I don't want her in my immediate vicinity. If she tries to get too touchy-feely with me (ie during an ostensibly innocent hug goodbye), I will tense up and flee, as quickly as humanly possible.

It is as if I only want fodder for my fantasy life. The moment that something seems to be coming to fruition in reality, I am out the door. This response is so thoroughly ingrained that I feel it to my very core. When Ryan touches me, I become completely disinterested, I turn off inside, I retreat. But then the moment she is not physically present, I'm furiously thinking about her again. WTF, mind?! What is going on in there, head?! (Other than a whole lot of x-rated business with the most unsuitable partners, of course.)

I am taking my fear of commitment to a whole new, bizarre level. Who's coming with me?

*Not really her name

Jolene

2010-04-14T21:58:00.005-05:00

Humor me and watch them both--

The juxtaposition is killing me.

Procrastination

2010-04-06T14:06:00.002-05:00

I thought I was the only one who procrastinated so systematically! Still haven't gotten my stuff done, though. It is beginning to depress me, but what isn't depressing me these days? I'm unhappy about my injuries, unhappy about my lack of exercise due to my injuries, unhappy about my upcoming performance review, unhappy about my fucked up association with a psychopath (enough said on that topic).... Well, it isn't all bad. I'm enjoying the ever loving fuck out of this weather and the brightly popping flowers and the green peppering on the trees.

Also, I'm going to Chicago soon, which is equal parts stressful and exhilarating. Invigorating because traveling by yourself to such a large city is unadulterated wondrousness. One of those grand adventure type deals, the romanticism of which is only magnified by the fact that I'm taking the train up. At the same time, I'm anxious and worry unnecessarily about something going massively wrong - like missing my train or getting mugged while carting around my luggage. Also, I fret about social stuff (seriously, I'm basically a hermit, people, stop dragging me out of my cave).

However, I'll get to spend ginormous amounts of time with one of my favorite ladies on this earth and she lives on the lake, which will be lovely. In addition, I'll see one of my childhood heroes, Mr. Thom Yorke, in concert for the very first time (with that delightful nutball, Flea, no less. Man, how great would it be if Flea could get Thom to play naked on stage? Awesome). Also, I'll get to wander about the museums, which I never get to do b/c no one will play tourist w/ me in Chicago (bastards, all of you).

Oh, and the days are getting longer. That is quite nice. I can't tell you how much I missed our nearest star. I need more solar rays in my life. Better than Zoloft, if you ask me. I'm rather like a cat in that respect.

Finally, there is a boy who sorta likes me. It makes me smile to think about being entangled with him - he is a good man.

Yep. That's about it.

Welcome to my stream of consciousness.

Om shanti.

Mean, Mean, Monkey Man

2010-04-05T19:18:00.001-05:00

On my way home from work this evening, I was stopped at a red traffic signal at the Grand Exit of Highway 40 (yes, I'm still calling it that). Mine is the fifth car in line in the left turn lane. A man is walking along the side of the roadway with a hand-written sign in his hands (most likely asking for money, but he was too far away from me to read what the sign actually said).

After a couple of moments, the light turns green and the first three cars pull into the intersection to make the left onto Grand. The car in front of mine remains stopped. The driver appears to be assiduously fixated on the pedestrian with the sign and is paying little heed to the traffic around him. I lightly tap on my horn to notify him of the signal change and he explodes into wild gesticulation. Instantaneously, both of his hands shoot into the air and he waves them above his head like an out-of-control monkey. Repeatedly he jabs his fingers at the pedestrian, as though to signal to me that the man is holding a gun and he couldn't possibly pull forward for fear of his very life.

In response, the pedestrian calmly steps back onto the curb, well out of the way of traffic (although, to be sure, the driver in front of me could have easily circumvented the pedestrian with room to spare, had he not been so intent on surveying the pedestrian's every move). I, in turn, burst out into laughter at the driver's crazed antics, as he continues to gesture at me - this time in a more menacing manner.

I find little else more amusing than inappropriate road rage. I seriously consider this to be the height of absurd behavior. Now, I understand getting upset at someone abruptly cutting you off or doing something dangerous. I can also comprehend frustration with drivers who are completely inept and slowing the flow of traffic. I've been known to curse under my breath at these sorts of wayward drivers. However, I simply can not fathom why people freak the fuck out at little things like what I've described above, as though they don't have any real problems in life.

Secretly, I suspect that they are too cowardly to deal with their anger in their personal spheres and so they misdirect it at other drivers. Oh, you are so big and bad for threatening me from the safety of your vehicle. I am really, really afraid of you, now, angry little person. Please, please don't stick your middle finger up at me. Stop or I'm going to burst into tears at your frustrated displays of immaturity.

My god, get a therapist. Consider decaff. Shit, consider weed or better yet: public transport.

Springtime Blues

2010-04-04T21:13:00.003-05:00

Recently, I watched the White Stripes documentary, Under Great White Northern Lights. Most fans know that this is a two piece band who infamously represented themselves as siblings, although, they were a married couple at the time of their introduction (they've since been divorced). The film closes with a scene that took place following their band's tenth anniversary celebration. It exquisitely depicts Meg and Jack White sitting together at a private bench while Jack plays the melancholic "White Moon" on a gorgeous grand piano--

As Jack sings, "easy come easy go - be the star of a show - I'm giving up all I know to get more," Meg begins to cry. Tears stream down her face, while Jack serenades her with what seems to be a song about insurmountable loss and his coming to terms with the ending of their relationship.

Good lord, good lord...
the one I adored
and I can not afford, is a ghost
She's a ghost

I felt tears on my own face as I watched this spectacle. The White Stripes are one of the few bands that Kenny and I both thoroughly enjoyed. I remember listening to Elephant and drinking with him on his porch oh so many spring nights ago. The perfectly cool air on our faces, grasping hands, sharing something magniloquently indescribable. It appeared that the White's situation paralleled our own - with regard to feeling tremendously for a person, but knowing that the relationship will never be truly sustainable.

Blink, blink at me Rita
Don't you know I'm a bleeder?
And I promised I wouldn't lead her on

Jack, who is typically so filled with self-assured bravado, seemed overcome with emotion as he stole glimpses at his weeping ex-wife. He stumbled in his playing and the lyrics caught in his throat. Abruptly he stopped short and starred off into space for a moment, as Meg broke down next to him. Ultimately, he put his arm around her and kissed her hair tenderly.

And my nose keeps on bleeding
'Cause it's Rita I'm needing

Unadvisedly, after watching this scene, I called Kenny. I conveyed to him, still tearful, this feeling of our springtimes before. Shortly thereafter, he was knocking at my front door.

It's the truth and it don't make a noise.

Good in the Health Care Bill

2010-03-24T09:48:00.000-05:00

This significant law — for which we all fought so hard — will finally stop insurance companies from treating women like a pre-existing condition. This is a law that will stop them from charging individual women higher premiums than men — simply because they are women. It is a law that ensures that no insurance company can reject a woman for coverage as a survivor of domestic violence or sexual assault, or for ever having had a Cesarean section.

Judy Waxman
Vice President for Health and Reproductive Rights
National Women's Law Center

Carolina Chocolate Drops

2010-03-22T21:33:00.003-05:00

Sexualized, Depraved, Cheese Products

2010-03-18T20:24:00.008-05:00

"A Manhattan chef recently began serving cheese made from his nursing wife's milk."

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD! How could a human being eat cheese made from breast milk??? Don't people know that stuff isn't edible?!! PANIC!! PAAANIIIC!! This is outrageous. This is disgusting. This is unnatural. We should outlaw it.* What else can be done to protect God fearing, righteous folks from having such sexualized, depraved, cheese products inflicted upon them? Obviously, nothing.

Oh, wait. That's right. Human babies drink breast milk - sometimes exclusively. In fact, breast milk is, in all actuality, a nutritious substance produced by humans for perfect human nourishment. Most of us have probably consumed it ourselves, at some point in our lives. I mean, when you take a moment to really consider the issue, isn't it a heck of a lot weirder for us to be consuming milk products that have the makeup and protein content specific to developing baby cows? And we wonder how we got to be so gosh darned obese in this country. Some of us even look like...well...cows. Odd.

Wicked Cheese

Of course, this raises interesting issues, from a feminist perspective, given feminists' valid concerns regarding the animalization of women and the feminization of animals. We can't very well harness women to industrialized milking machines can we? Only lowly animals deserve that sort of treatment. Women are already expected to do more than their fair share of child rearing and domestic chores. Now, we expect them to feed us from their very teets? That simply won't do.

On the other hand (teet?), we are mammals. If a woman is producing extra milk in this terrible economy and she decides to sell the excess, shouldn't that be her prerogative? Who exactly are we to ban women from engaging in a viable financial pursuit? Especially a new mother - I'd expect new mothers need the cash even more than the rest of us do. America is a free country, after all.

If you want to read Iron Chef Daniel Angerer's blog regarding this "daring" take on cheese, you can here.

Om shanti.

*Yes, the New York Health Department did recently take this very action, as apparently "cheese made from breast milk is not for public consumption."

Regarding "First Cause"

2010-03-15T01:14:00.005-05:00

If everything has a first cause, then God does, too, and there is no first cause. . . . If someone asserts that God is the uncaused first cause . . . we should thus inquire, "Why cannot the physical world itself be taken to be the uncaused first cause? After all, the venerable principle of Occam's razor advises us to 'shave off' unnecessary assumptions, and taking the world itself as the uncaused first cause has the great virtue of not introducing the unnecessary hypothesis of God."

John Allen Paulos, Irreligion

120 Days of Deceit

2010-03-14T21:06:00.002-05:00

Question: "Why is it that you so quickly torpedoed me, instead of relying on the truth to shine through?"

Answer: You've been lying to me for the past four months about being clean. One hundred milligrams of methadone a day is hardly free of drugs. In fact, you said yourself that a non-user would be unconscious for three days if they took that dose.

Moral: Don't ask fucking asinine questions.

Sisterly Deals

2010-03-14T17:32:00.009-05:00

1) Neither Cayleen nor I will have second helpings for thirty days. My family will be reporting back to me on her progress and you all will have to report back here, if you see me break my end of the bargain. If either of us fails - no ice cream for thirty days (I know, it is for serious!); and

2) I promised Julia Rose I would be her 200th Facebook friend. So I guess this means I will have to reactivate my Facebook page. The humanity.

Om shanti.

ADDENDUM: Already on Facebook. Apparently that child becomes friends w/ folks much quicker than I first anticipated...

Friday's Random 10

2010-03-13T16:26:00.003-06:00

As per Feministe (and a day late)--

Diego Stocco - Music From a Tree;
Tori Amos - Song for Eric;
Talib Kweli, Hi-Tek, De La Soul - Soul Rebels;
Patti Smith - Land;
Flying Lotus - Camel;
Firewater - Anything at All;
Ween - Roses are Free;
Jane's Addiction - Slow Divers;
kutiman, et al. - Mother of All Funk Chords; and
Tom Waits - All Stripped Down.

Om shanti.

Losing My Christian

2010-03-12T20:12:00.011-06:00

As I've alluded on my Twitter feed, I did not see Alice in Wonderland on the day that it was released b/c the person who was SUPPOSED to have attended with me that night had bailed. What I did not previously mention was that he was with me at a restaurant across the street from the theater and that it was about forty-five minutes prior to the movie commencing when he had summarily abandoned our plans (and my pair of pre-paid, non-refundable tickets). He straight walked out on me w/ nary a word of explanation.

Well, let me back up a bit. We were drinking (enough said). I was on my second jumbo margarita and he was on his first (having already consumed approx. two cans of beers). We were having a lively conversation and the topic was changed (by him, I might add) to the madness of urban riots. Apparently, he had been listening to some morning talk show (The Bob & Tom Show or something equally inane) and he had heard a story about rioters behaving badly. I can't remember the exact details, but he had segued from that situation to the Rodney King riots and he was pontificating on how the LA people who had rioted were portrayed as animals and how idiotic it was of them to have destroyed their own neighborhoods. It was his position that they should have proceeded in a non-violent fashion a la MLK and/or Ghandi.

Now, normally, I would have agreed with him on this. I, too, believe in nonviolence and I deplore warfare and all other forms of violence. I was a vegetarian for over a decade and I've never even held a gun in my life--much less shot one. I've only been in one physical altercation (other than those I've had with my younger brothers when we were kids) and that was because the girl had struck me in the face first and I had to beat her in response (it happened in a public high school and I felt it was incumbent upon me to demonstrate that I wasn't going to allow such nonsense to go down - or else I would have been a walking target; also, I was a stupid, impulsive teenager).

However, I completely disagreed with his assertion of nonviolence, in this instance, for several reasons, as follows:

He was taking this situation out of context. It wasn't as though these people had decided to riot willy-nilly one day w/ no provocation. We were talking about American citizens who had been systematically disenfranchised for generations--centuries, really. They were at their wits' end. Theirs was an emotional reaction to a graphic, racially motivated beating by police officers who had unjustly harmed a member of their community (on video no less) for what, they vowed, would be the last time.

If you aren't familiar with the history that precipitated this event, watch this film (you can find it on Netflix instant play) - Crips and Bloods: Made in America (particularly, the second clip listed)
He had arrived at his conclusion w/ little to no forethought. He told me himself that he had only begun thinking about this topic, as a result of some silly radio show. I, on the other hand, had thought about and studied this issue extensively over the past fifteen years. I've read numerous academic texts and had countless thoughtful discussions regarding racism, classicism, police brutality, and the history of segregation in America. I had arrived at a very nuanced viewpoint and I was trying to get him to THINK about his position rather than casually adopting a rather shallow and overly simplistic argument.
I deeply resented his being judgmental of these people when he had no concept whatsoever of what their situation was like nor what it was like to be abused and disenfranchised. In fact, he had been telling me earlier that night about how he should have rightfully gone to prison on multiple occasions, but that he had gotten out of the sentence b/c he is "too pretty for jail." What I heard was: "I escaped jail time b/c I am a white male with upper-class parents and a good attorney." His judgment was particularly offensive considering that he is a self-professed Christian and it was his God who was supposed to be the one doing the judging - not him.
Finally, I felt he was being HIGHLY hypocritical in his non-violence stance, given that he had only moments before been bragging about how he had been charged with disorderly conduct in the past for getting into an ugly dispute with his neighbor (over the neighbor having hit his escaped dog with a stick - not too big of a deal compared to centuries of oppression, but I digress). In addition, that evening he had told me a story about how he had been followed home in his car one night and how, in retaliation, he had gotten a shovel to hit the driver of the vehicle who had followed him home. So I concluded that he believed it was a-okay for him to be violent. Just not those savages.

To return to the night in question: he is doubling down on his position and telling me how fucked up I am to be arguing for violent uprisings. I am simply staring at him, angrily stirring my drink around and around. At this point, I'm so pissed-off that I mutter something like: "Easy for you to judge these people, since you are a white dude living in West County with your rich parents." His eyes widened. I think he continued to attempt to protest my position, but all I did was shake my head in disagreement and repeatedly state, "You're speaking from a place of privilege and wildly taking this situation out of context." I'm pretty sure I was shooting hate rays out of my eyes at him. He ceased to be my friend at that point and became The Man.

Shortly thereafter, he stood up, threw some money on the table for his unpaid drink and walked out saying, "This has gotten really weird, Jen. I'm leaving." I haven't heard from him since. I've actually tried contacting him five or six times since the argument happened (four times the night of and twice yesterday) to try to soberly explain my position and to apologize for the ad hominem attacks (low blows on my part), but he won't answer my calls.

To be honest, I'm not sure that I really feel that I am the one in the wrong here, but I know him and I have known him for a very long time; I know that he has a good heart and that if he really considered this, he would come around. Also, it seems exceedingly bizarre to end our friendship in this manner. At the very least, I'd like to discuss this one last time to clarify, but I don't know if that is even realistic. Maybe we are far too different to try to continue our friendship. It seems this remains to be seen.

Om shanti.

I'm investigating things that begin with the letter M...

2010-03-11T18:52:00.018-06:00

********Alice in Wonderland Spoiler Review********

Full disclosure - I probably qualify as one of those fervent Alice in Wonderland admirers. As evidenced by the fact that I memorized Carol's lengthy The Walrus and the Carpenter poem and performed it for my storytelling seminar in college.* But I’m not AIW obsessed. My interest is not at all comparable to Erin's, who has an Alice sleeve, or to Jess', who owned a respectable collection of books and images relating to this subject and who produced her own AIW-inspired art. So my qualms with the film were not entirely purist based.

I feel one reviewer put it best when s/he wrote something to the effect of, “I think it is time that Burton and Depp started seeing other people.” Had I never watched one of their joint projects before (much less nearly every single one repeatedly), this movie would probably have been much more satisfying for me. However, each time Depp was filmed with that defeated, hangdog look, I thought “Edward Scissorhands.” So I had no tolerance for more than one sad Hatter scene.

Furthermore, what the fuck is up with a sad hatter anyway? He was a MAD hatter. When he surrendered to the fully nutty in the film on his walk through the woods with Alice and began reciting the Jabberwocky poem - THAT was the stuff that I could appreciate. THAT was the real meat and marrow of the story, for me. Dark, ominous, out-of-control muttering is, in my estimation, the true epitome of the Mad Hatter character.

Similarly, the scenes at the tea party were quite wonderful–the completely nonsensical, surreal, deranged stuff. I mean, if you can’t play, if you can’t be phantasmagorical and harebrained** in Wonderland, where can you be?

Hmm...wait a minute, maybe I am a purist!

In addition, I enjoyed the sly Cheshire Cat vignettes (he got better and better as the movie progressed). Those were some of the most visually spectacular pieces, too. Then again, I haven’t seen Avatar, so maybe I don’t have any real understanding so far as three dimensional cinematography is concerned. But I did see Coraline and I maintain that AIW blew that film out of the water pictorially.

Still, I do so want to like this film. When Burton was at the top of his game and working his strange Gothic magic, I sat rapt before him, literally leaning forward and perched on the edge of my seat. Truth be told, I’ll probably watch AIW another three times in IMAX before it completes it’s run in the theater.

Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

One of them might be that I can somehow cultivate an undying love for this film.

Om shanti.

*Granted, this was from Through the Looking-glass, but Burton freely intermixed the stories/characters so I think it relates.

**All puns intended.

Don't Ask About His Goggles

2010-03-11T00:47:00.004-06:00

Gerald

[Poke to Embiggin]

Adventures in Health Care

2010-03-10T20:37:00.008-06:00

I attended my first physical therapy appointment today, for which I had high hopes. I know I am going to the best possible facility, b/c my boss is also treating there and, given that he has more money than the law should allow (ha-ha; such deep irony in that statement), he is accustomed to receiving the finest health care available. In fact, when I inquired with him as to where he was treating, he replied, "They are pretty expensive; are you sure your insurance will cover it?" Stifling the urge to deck him, I thought to myself, "Well, boss, you are providing me with that coverage. Are you acknowledging that the plan you extend to your employees is shit? ...boy are you a peach."

The offices for our mutual physical therapy provider are located near the Galleria in a rather costly sky rise. So far, so good. As I walked into the building, I observed that their facility occupied the flagship suite on the floor. Impressive. I completed an online survey of my symptoms. Technology, excellent. However, as I was walking into the treatment area from the lobby, I recognized with dawning horror that those cheesy damned motivational posters were plastered all over their walls. I inwardly cringed, "If the walls are this woefully passe, what must their treatment plans be like?"

I was soon to learn. Jim did my evaluation. Apparently, he is a licensed physical therapist (or at least this title was embroidered on his shirt - so that was...comforting). He took my history, then put me through some range of motion tests, then demonstrated a few home exercises. After that he left the room and a technician arrived who performed some "treatments" on me including ultrasound therapy and electrical stimulation. I've linked to the best research I could find in a cursory search for the reputation of same. As implied by the quotation marks around the word treatment, the results of these efficacy studies seem to be dubious at best - especially with reference to the ultrasound therapy (which sort of feels the way those fuzzy face toys look - in that my musculature felt attracted to the wand like the metal shavings were attracted to the magnet).

Also of note, when Jim was saying goodbye to me, he kept resting his hand on my shoulder, which was an inherently creepy gesture, having just met the man, but progressed to new creepster frontiers when you consider that he was standing behind me, while I was sitting in a chair, wearing one of those open-backed gowns, and receiving my "treatment." What, was he doing there exactly? Attempting to get an extended side-boob glimpse? Or was he just trying to engender a closer rapport with me - you know, on a therapist/patient level?

It was my impression that physical therapy was a much more reputable form of treatment than dealing with a chiropractic "physician," but thus far, I'm not convinced. Maybe they are hoping to appeal to the placebo effect with these treatments? (Which is, to be fair, a powerful thing.) Still, the cynic in me wonders if they are simply padding my bills. I'm paying $50 co-pays + the cost of "supplies" (ie: the pads that are used for the e-stim at $10 a pop). My carrier is probably paying exponentially more.

I just want my freaking injuries to heal so that I can safely do yoga again and be able to go back to my weight lifting program. Instead, it seems that I am getting bilked. I'm also learning from experience that the most costly health care is not necessarily the most effective care (huge surprise, huh?). At least, when I was scheduling my appointments for the next two weeks, I was fortunate enough to get time slots with a different PT named Virginia. Let's hope she is better than ol' Jim.

Om shanti.

I've HEARD great things.

2010-03-08T15:09:00.005-06:00

Brava!

Well, I think The Good Book is missing some pages...

2010-03-06T23:18:00.003-06:00

And when they say, "Take of his body," I think I'll take from mine instead.

Better than Sesame Street!

2010-03-04T15:42:00.010-06:00

Everyone kept saying, "Watch the new OK Go video." But I'm a contrarian, so I felt compelled to ignore the hype. That was until AFP told me to watch it. Since I do everything she says...

This is EVEN BETTER than that one Sesame Street vignette w/ the little red ball and metal track (a/k/a a Rube Goldberg machine). Oh, please watch it and remember, "This too shall pass."

Kisses.
X

PS The glass harp aspect was absolutely perfect.

Confidentially

2010-03-03T21:16:00.009-06:00

I need to be clear. I'm not sure how exactly these misconceptions made it out into the world, but I must unequivocally state that my study of astrophysics and quantum physics does not imply in any way that I am interested in or believe in the following:

1) 2012 conjecture;
2) Astrology; and/or
3) The Secret, et al.

Relating me or my thinking to any and all of the above I find to be deeply, deeply insulting to my ability to reason critically, skeptically, and maturely about the world around me. I won't go into why I find these topics to be absurdly untrue (b/c the more I write, the more I am potentially creating a rift b/t myself and believers in the above - some of whom I otherwise quite respect). I simply want it to be known.

That said. I am wholeheartedly interested in learning more about the following areas of concern*:

1. Prana and practices of the breath
2. Agni Yoga; harnessing the inner fire
3. The Chakras
4. Divine Mother practices, the MahaVidyas, 10 wisdom goddesses, Gates to Enlightenment
5. Chanting: Mantra and japa (using the mala, or "rosary" beads)
6. Meditation and mindfulness practices
7. The Gurus and Masters: Yogic lineages
8. The Yoga Sutras, and other vedic texts
9. Consciousness; developing awareness in the Advaita traditions

I feel that there is considerable value in calming the parasympathetic nervous system, mind, and body. I am interested in mysticism, but not in the traditional mode of relating to any sort of deity, per se. It seems readily apparent that there is an inherent order and connectivity to the universe (from heavenly bodies right down to the smallest atoms). I don't profess to perfectly understand the mysteries of being and so I want to learn more about certain paths to wisdom and evaluate them on my own terms. This doesn't mean that I am willing or able to subscribe to dogmatic thinking--be it Christian, Jewish, Hindu or otherwise.

How do you say these things to seekers without coming off as a self-important ass? Also, is it right to pay to learn about these subjects? It seems to me that if one wanted to share these traditions, that would be akin to holy teaching. Is it right to sell the divine? On the other hand, I was perfectly willing to pay (quite dearly) to learn non-secular things. In this society, if something is valuable (ie another person's time, effort and attention), you must pay for it. Right?

I'm being purposefully vague here, since this is a public venue and I don't want to call anyone out specifically. I just wonder, what is ethically correct? Am I being insincere in participating in a spiritual community when I do not adhere to some of its most basic assumptions? To what extent should I be open about my own beliefs? And what exactly should money buy?

Om shanti.

*Full disclosure: Someone else compiled this list - again, for reasons of confidentiality, I'm not crediting him/her

Thirteen STL Blogs

2010-03-02T19:33:00.008-06:00

Some intriguing blog selections presented by the RFT in their new article, including St. Louis Activist Hub (local, liberal, political news), One Hot Stove (yummy home cooking - particularly Indian), Urban Science Adventures! (local flora and fauna), Subterranean Books (which I actually already follow - I've wholeheartedly supported this shop since I was a fresh, 13-year-old, Loop rat), and Ecology of Absence (endangered STL architecture), among others. Check out the whole list here.

Let me also take a moment to promote my personal STL favorite (egregiously omitted from said list), Erin's Ephemera Etc.

Om shanti.

Ga Ga Ooh La La

2010-03-01T12:20:00.027-06:00

I never thought I would say something like this publicly, in writing, but I LOVE GAGA. I fucking do. I want to have her teacup-headed children. I want to do it to her wearing twelve foot high stilettos and an electric blond wig. Oh, she inspires such passion in me...

As per Feministe today--

Some women choose to follow men, and some women choose to follow their dreams. If you’re wondering which way to go, remember that your career will never wake up and tell you that it doesn’t love you anymore. - Lady GaGa

Fucking A, GaGa. X

Top Reasons Why My New Car is Better Than My Old One

2010-02-27T17:12:00.001-06:00

1) It is three years younger (an '08);
2) The stereo has a remote (!);
3) It has 40K less miles on it (31K);
4) It has a 100K mile bumper-to-bumper warranty;
5) It is in excellent condition (zero body damage);
6) It is a roomy four-door sedan;
7) I got a 2% better deal on the financing;
8) I brought them down 12% on a fair first offer; and
9) Given all of the above, the payments are only $26 more/mo.

I don't think things could have worked out much better for me. What an incredible relief!

Om shanti <3

To the Open-Minded

2010-02-26T12:03:00.004-06:00

Getting more and more excited about the upcoming April show in Chicago! Fingers crossed that my friend can get us tickets!!!

X

Simply Business

2010-02-24T19:27:00.005-06:00

In September 2008 I sat open-mouthed at my office computer and watched the stock market drop by nearly 800 points in a single day. It wasn't a huge surprise for me. I had also followed with considerable interest the Frannie Mae and Freddie Mac implosion, the Bear Stearns debacle, and the AIG bailout. In response, I made absolutely sure to work my prodigious butt off at the firm. I came in on holiday weekends, worked without pay, and sacrificed paid sick leave. I knew how important it was that I shined in the eyes of the partners because the economy doesn't skip sectors - not even the legal field has survived this financial crisis unscathed.

This afternoon, when nearly 25% of our support staff was fired, I was not one of them. Those that thought they would be safe by playing office politics had a rude awakening today. And the funny thing is, they assumed they could all come running into my office with their tails b/t their legs and their arms outstretched. One of them actually said to me, "I'm sorry, Jen; life is too short, you know?" Oh, I know. But what you do not realize is that I'm smart enough to keep an eye on the big picture. It doesn't matter which of the little guys you are buddies with. You can all band together, but it won't make a speck of difference when the partners are looking at their books. What they want to see is money and what I'm most concerned with is bringing that profit to them. Go play your reindeer games elsewhere. I, for one, have a job to do.

Crushing

2010-02-24T18:56:00.007-06:00

Approximately eleven years ago I lost my hetero virginity in the back seat of a car parked on South Grand in front of Cheap Trx to a beautiful, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy (which isn't even the half of that story; it also involves the infamous line by my girlfriend, "If you don't fuck her right this minute, I am going to come back there and fuck her myself!").

Flash forward over a decade. The boy and I start talking again after many years of no contact. He has overcome a terrible addiction, gotten married, gotten divorced, and had a son, who is now almost elementary school aged. In many respects he is the same boy who I've known since junior high school. In other ways, he has changed thoroughly and unexpectedly. Somehow, our friendship has not changed much at all. We still engage in extremely heated debates, we still laugh ourselves gelastic, we still connect on a deeper level than most (and he still consistently beats me in chess - the bastard).

Small wonder that the crush I've had on him since I was thirteen has wholeheartedly reasserted itself. What didn't make a whole lot of sense back then makes even less sense now. What is more, last night he revealed to me something that would make most women run screaming in the opposite direction. But not me. I felt that much closer to him and I also wanted to save him from himself. After I told him so, he somewhat flippantly, somewhat incredulously, responded with, "Why the self-destructive behavior, Jen? What is that all about?"

Indeed.

Sexy Boys

2010-02-17T20:13:00.008-06:00

Jim Carrey and Ewan McGregor

I have a funny feeling that this is going to be my new favorite movie. I guess it goes without saying that this feeling originated in my loins, right? Alas, if only I had a penis, I would joyfully masturbate in the theater at the opening of this film...

Come Hell or High Water

2010-02-17T10:39:00.004-06:00

Judging by the seven story geyser outside of my associate's office window, this is going to be another no water day. My only regret is that I do not have a digital camera with which to post evidentiary photos for you all to see.

And folks think Clayton is oh so high class. I am here to tell you that, although we may be located next door to The Plaza Hotel, we are doing our absolute best to bring down the neighborhood. Ideally, by flood...

Nobody Tosses a Dwarf!

2010-02-15T19:37:00.012-06:00

That is, unless the dwarf invites you to toss him...

This afternoon, my youngest brother, Timmy, was cheerfully telling me about a series of metal shows he had attended over the past weekend. He was especially pleased about the final show, because it was his very first time crowd surfing, which is somewhat strange given that Tim attends some 50+ metal shows a year and never misses a circle pit. That he had yet to experience this has something to do with the dwarf-like shape of his physique, an explanation of which dovetails nicely with a conversation I had moments ago with my father regarding this particular subject.

While carpooling home from our respective offices, my father was holding forth about the history of our family's clan, and in particular, our ancestors who had immigrated to Ireland from Scotland as mercenaries. Dad then segued into talking about how our savage mercenary genes are distinctly prominent in my little brother, Timmy, who, if Dad had his rathers, would have become a renown wrestler in high school. Dad went on to reminisce at some length about the bulk of Timmy's upper leg muscles ("like two logs, is what I'm telling you!" ) and how much larger still he would have grown, if only he had lifted weights with proper aplomb. I interjected that Timmy is actually a pretty tough guy and proceed to tell him the story of his crowd surfing, which I recollect Tim recounting to me, as follows:

Tim: So I make my way over to the biggest guy in the pit, about three times the size of anyone else around, and I say to him, "Hey! Would you lift me up?" and with a grunt in reply, he hefts me over his head and tosses me onto the crowd!

Me: That reminds me of that scene in Lord of the Rings where Gimli [the dwarf] requests that Aragorn toss him into a mass of soldiers during the Battle of Helm's Deep.

Tim {chuckling}: Yeah, but the dude who tossed me was more like one of the trolls than a simple man!

I went on to relay to my father that Tim, in his estimation, "politely" smacked the people in front of him on the back of their heads to notify them that he was coming, because he didn't want anyone to be caught unawares and subsequently be dropped on their heads--

Tim: Because I hate it when people fall on me. It makes me so infuriated that I just want to punch them and I certainly didn't want to get punched.

Me {somewhat incredulously}: So, you mean that you do punch guys when they fall on you?

Tim: Hell, yeah! I just keep punchin' 'em until they move away into the crowd.

Just then my dad interrupted my retelling--

Dad: That is so bizzare! That whole metal culture is just so strange.

Me: No it isn't, Dad. They have their own way of doing things--probably just as our mercenary ancestors did back in Ireland.

Dad only shook his head and laughed in bewildered wonder.

My Kinda Diva

2010-02-14T23:48:00.001-06:00

He gives me a serious lady boner.

To-Do Today

2010-02-14T13:14:00.007-06:00

Because, I'm sure you all really want to know:

1) hygienic rituals (enough said)
2) wash dishes
3) launder clothes
4) clean kittiepoo's "crap shack"
5) sweep floors
6) straighten apartment
7) balance check book
8) pay bills
9) gather and take out trash
10) gym (lower extremities only, per PCP)
11) yoga
     -min. 5 min pranayama
     -min. 15 min. asana
     -min. 10 min. shavasana
12) possibly tutor Julia Rose (awaiting her response)
13) grocery shopping
14) water plants

Notice, indulging in massive amounts of self-pity is not listed above. I more than caught up on that yesterday, thanks.

Addendum: I completed nearly everything on my list (including tutoring Julia in two algebra lessons and doing my parents' dishes, too); the only thing I didn't have enough time for was my yoga, which I will definitely catch up on tomorrow after work (expect a second addendum to this effect).

Om shanti.

Risk-Aversive Me

2010-02-13T21:53:00.009-06:00

I'm sitting in my living room thinking to myself for about the hundredth time, "All of my friends have either left this town or gotten married and/or had children (so they might as well have left for all the good it does me). I have absolutely nothing keeping me here (not even a car) outside of my family and my absentee friends. I need to get the hellfire out of the STL and start a life somewhere that doesn't lead me by the hand into a deep depression...WHY AM I HERE? My associates in Chicago and New York have offered on numerous occasions to sponsor me (let me reside on their couch/in their guest room) until I can locate a decent job/apartment/grad school. What is my problem?" and then I answered myself, "You, dear Jen, are risk-aversive. You can not handle even the most remote possibility of instability. You can't even pay your rent two days late; you're that tightly wound."

I then put down my book (I'd been pretending to read, but had only succeeded in scanning the same paragraph about five times) and started horsing around on the internet. I'm looking at my blog's "Followers" section, and thinking what a casually insulting term that Blogger has chosen for a title, when I decide to click on Little Pete's icon. Just because. Maybe he decided to start up a non-MySpace blog that I could peruse? Who knows? And what do I find listed on LP's member page, but a blog called--Why You Should Get Out of St. Louis fervently devoted to that very topic.

Yeah. I know.

The Noisy Fake Orgasm

2010-02-12T19:46:00.001-06:00

In the wee hours of this past morning, I was awakened by my downstairs neighbors' abominably obstreperous sex noises. Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa-thump sounded their bed frame against our mutually shared wall, as the man spasmodically hammered away; "Aaaaahhhhh," squealed the woman routinely. A pair of thoughts straightaway came to mind in the moments that followed, beginning with: "That woman is faking it." Indubitably.

A woman knows when another woman is dutifully forging an orgasm.* In my experience, women naturally do this whole breathy, groaning, moaning type thing. Maybe they will cry out, if it is remarkably great sex (or they are remarkably sensitive lovers), but rarely do they make a semi-regular, sort of hyper-feminized, high-pitched wail. That noise is reserved for porn stars and emulators of porn stars.

Of course, some of you will argue with me and say, "No. I make the aforementioned wailing noise and I am utterly sincere in my climax." Okay, fine then. But there was something more significant than the characteristics of the noise itself that clued me into the reality of the situation (something that the scientist in me is truly loath to admit) and that, my dears, is intuition. I intuitively know whether a woman is indeed enjoying herself to the hilt and I intuitively know when she is simply putting on a show.

My second thought was: "Hey, this really isn't so bad!" Before, when I came (ha-ha) to the realization that a woman was faking orgasm (yes, I've heard it many a time; having lived in numerous multifamily apartment buildings over the course of my life), I became deeply annoyed. I wouldn't have begrudged a stranger an earnest climax, but to fake it was inexcusable. I mean, what exactly was the point? Assuming they enjoyed orgasming, you'd think they would want to clue their lover into what one really sounded like, and in particular what theirs sounded like, rather than reinforcing a stereotype.

However, this morning I had a change of heart. I thought, "Maybe this lady already had her orgasm and now she is pleasing her guy. Or maybe she will have one after he has his? Or maybe she isn't the quid pro quo type." Regardless, I ultimately realized that what I heard was encouragement in her voice. She was the epitome of GGG** and she was serving as a little cheering section for her man. Perhaps that is why so many women fake it w/ the porn-star-sounding simulated orgasm. They know that is what their partner has grown accustomed to enjoy... Either way, once I had that thought, I was perfectly fine with her little charade. I got up, drew myself a glass of water, turned on the BBC to drown them out (they did deserve some privacy after all), and promptly fell back to sleep.

***

Hmm, as I was writing my introductory paragraph above I realized that I made an assumption this morning, as to where that thumping noise originated. It could very well have been the LADY pegging her man in the bum (wouldn't really account for the lack of rhythm, unless that lady was truly truly terrible in bed, but I digress...). Actually, it would be even better, in my mind, if that were the case.

In conclusion, I'm glad that I can finally embrace my neighbors' sexual enjoyment regardless of the spontaneity of same.

Om shanti.

*To be fair, maybe men know this, too, and maybe they would rather fool themselves. Perhaps some men are of the ignorance is bliss persuasion and can happily bang away with no regard for his partner's experience whatsoever. Hard to say definitively.
**Good, giving, and game (a Dan Savage term)

Miscellany

2010-02-11T19:45:00.006-06:00

About me. I don’t do too much these days, what with my injuries and lack of a car, so I predominantly spend my leisure time reading nonfiction books about astronomy until the muscle relaxers lull me into insatiable drowsiness and I can’t possibly keep my eyes open any longer. Then I fall into my most bizzaro non-waking life. (Did you catch my Tweet yesterday about my recent dream involving feeding cats maggots from rotten vaginas? – yeah, my unconscious is revolting.)

Speaking of revolting, the water in my office building was out for about six hours today. I josh you not, the hallways were scented with the not so lovely odor of el urine de human (as folks continued using the facilities, they just weren’t flushing the toilets – or, washing their hands, evidently). In response, I simply ceased to eat or drink anything following the fateful shut-off.

I have a zero tolerance policy regarding filthy bathrooms. Case in point, when I was dating The Jovial Jew, he used to drag me to hippy music festivals in the middle of East Jesus where unwashed flower children camped for the duration of the gathering. The only facilities available were the nearby rivers (which I can’t vacate in on general principal) and the Porta-Potties. I would TRY to use them, but the second I entered the narrow stall and looked down at that shallow bluish, chemically treated “water” and considered what might be floating therein, my urethra said NO WAY. The prospect of noxious splashback was too terrible to confront. Instead of food and drink, I existed on weed and mushrooms for several days straight. Hoping to gain some sustenance from the hallucinations or something…

To go back to vaginas (healthy, not rotten ones) I’ve put up a new header to my bloggity blog. Anyone notice the description below? --

“see through the nipples and speak from the vulva”

This phrase refers to something I learned in Estes’ book regarding wild femininity. To “see through the nipples” is to trust your basic instincts and to “speak from the vulva” is to communicate only the highest, most fundamental of truths. Words to live by, I think…

I will leave you, dear readers, with a factoid. Were you aware that it is not just sea levels that are affected by the interplay b/t the Earth’s rotation and our moon’s gravity? The very earth below our feet rises and falls in tides of approximately twelve inches every 6.5 hours or so. Also, our bodies are pulled by this tidal force, but not noticeably so (something like .000000000000004 of a centimeter for a tall person). Is fascinating, no?

That's just me...

2010-02-05T21:37:00.001-06:00

Inspired by Miss Erin's post--

My Morning In Brief

2010-02-05T12:53:00.000-06:00

8:00 a.m.: pick up personal effects from totaled vehicle - Check!

9:00 a.m.: pick up accident report from police headquarters - Check!

10:00 a.m.: attend doctor's appointment and develop treatment plan - Check!

12:00 p.m.: lunch break - Check!

Next up--

1:00 p.m.: arrive at office, obtain ER bill, contact health insurance co., fax accident report to insurance adjusters

1:30 p.m.: work

5:00 p.m.: depart from office, pick up scripts & heating pad, return car to Kenny

Om shanti.

In the mornings to come

2010-02-02T09:42:00.003-06:00

I waited all of sixty seconds on the Metro platform this chilly and dark morning before a Shrewbury train arrived. As I was noting my good fortune and boarding the train, the conductor operatically bellowed in hyperbolic tones the direction we were heading (west), the rules of the train (no eating, no drinking, etc), and the next stop (Central West End). He finished his customary greeting with a hearty "and have a blessed day." Initially, I was briefly startled to hear a government employee officially speak in such an overtly religious manner over the loud speaker, but then I (little atheist, agnostic me) got over it. Why? Because he was black.

Well, sort of. More specifically, because of the distinctive quality with which "urban" (impoverished or working class) African Americans say, "Have a blessed day." They say it differently than any white person I've ever known. In a multitude of respects. They are not condescending; as in,"Have a blessed day, [you infernal heathens]" - forced smile in tow. Or holier than thou; the way some white people sanctimoniously state: "May God bless you; [See how kind and close to God I am? I'm even putting a good word in for you]." Or coldly robotic and empty-eyed, "God-bless-you" and they're off to the next thing they have planned to do.

In fact, working class black people are the opposite of divisive in their greeting. A warmth pervades their voices. A sweetness of community and comradery is communicated. When I was younger, I noticed that brown people commonly said this to each other, but rarely to me. As I grew older and had more opportunity to live and work closely with people of African descent, they extended this blessing to me more often. Although I am the most militant of agnostics/atheists, this "Have a blessed day" expression invariably felt like the most positive affirmation of our world and my place in it.

In a peculiar way, I appreciated that proletariat African Americans routinely omitted God from the phrase, "Have a blessed day." I wanted black people to be empowered to bless of their own volition. Especially with reference to the history of Christianity and black worship. It always sickened me to think that Christians had systematically infiltrated black people's heritage (often robbing them of their ancestor's spirituality) and replaced their long worshiped and dearly held God(s) with the Christian God.

So it seemed to me that these people of color were taking something back when they told me, "Have a blessed day." As though, they personally recognized the brilliance of their own being. As if they embraced their own is-ness. Yes, they are in the "lower" class; yes, white people have exploited them for centuries, but regardless, they can bless the hell out of you and they celebrate it. It is a refreshing thing to recognize one's own Godliness. One's own inherent worth. One's own holiness. This morning, that Metro conductor communicated his blessings at countless stops and will hopefully continue to do so in the mornings to come. What a joyful way to begin the day.

Om shanti.

Filter-less

2010-01-28T13:03:00.006-06:00

Last night, I was chatting w/ my best friend on the phone and, at the same time, greeting my kitty cat. This is something Jess and I do a lot. We talk to each other, and our cats, simultaneously. We also mimic our cats' responses to our statements - resulting in a cacophony of words and meows. Sort of like a riotous conference call among species.

As all of this is happening, I'm calling my cat random pet names. Honey, kittiepoo, and the like. Jess casually interrupts my jabbering to say, "I like it that you just called her 'Sweet Pea.' That's a good name." I stop short and outright deny that I said such a thing, "No, Jess-- Sweet Pea isn't in my vocabulary; I couldn't have said that. Anyway, that is too charming of a nickname for me to use. Didn't happen."

"It did!" she shot back indignantly, somewhat miffed. Back and forth we fought good-naturedly until, finally, Jess said something to the effect of, "Look, that is what you said. I'm sure of it." And the tone in her voice strongly suggested not to protest any further, but I silently remained unconvinced.

Moments ago, I received an e-mail from my good friend, April, and the first line she wrote to me therein was:
"How is your day going, Sweet Pea?"

A-ha! I DID say it. I absolutely called my cat Sweet Pea without realizing it on any level. I wonder what other sorts of cutesy phrases I use minus executive processing? The fact that there is but a flimsy divide b/t my brain and my mouth has never escaped me (or anyone else, for that matter). This happening demonstrates that the filter is virtually non-existent. My unconscious/subconscious is so close to the surface that I am not even cognizant of it becoming manifest.

Maybe this is a function of how close of friends Jess and I are--that I don't filter with her at all...

I beguile me.

Agreed!

2010-01-28T10:54:00.002-06:00

but the [State of The Union] speech was not about the indomitable American spirit, it was about how congress needs to stop making him look bad and put a fucking jobs bill on his fucking desk, and fuck you, too, Supreme Court.
- http://gawker.com/5458661/

My sentiments exactly. I, for one, am glad that Obama came out swinging. Obviously, the Republican politicians do not ascribe to our President's lofty ideal of bipartisanship and are eagerly taking every opportunity they can to undercut his agenda and undermine his authority. So, fuck them. And fuck their lackeys, the Supreme Court, too. I'm ready for the new Obama. Make them hurt, Mr. President.

Three-fourths of a Mile

2010-01-26T20:36:00.003-06:00

Three-fourths of a mile might not seem like a very long distance to many of you, I'm sure, but it is most assuredly a significant distance for me and I ran that distance tonight. Upon accomplishing this, I was so elated that blithesome tears--no exaggeration--came to my eyes.

You see, I've had a bad knee (right side) for several years, which has prevented me from doing running of any sort; a very difficult thing for me to cope with b/c I was formerly quite the running enthusiast. Five years ago, I was doing essentially three miles in fifteen minutes (up and down hills). Daily. And I relished it. It was a point of extreme personal pride.

If you know me at all, you know what a very aberrant thing it was that, one, I was able to run for that distance and with that stamina* and, two, that I was gratified to do it**. Regardless, I seriously aggravated my knee running downhill on pavement (don't do that!), shortly after I began dating Kenny. Subsequently, I never found a form of cardio exercise nearly as compelling as running had been for me.

My knee problem got to be so bad that I became completely gun-shy about running. It was too painful (both physically and mentally) to even consider it, so I tried to make do with "low impact" exercise. Finally, last week, I decided to give the ol' treadmill a try and see what would happen. I only ran for a quarter of a mile, but it was a prodigious step for me b/c afterward, I felt no pain. Nothing. No pain in my knee while running or in the days following. So tonight, I tried it again, this time for three-times the original distance and still no pain.

I must be honest, my right knee is feeling a bit loose at the moment (I'm an hour or so out from my run) - not unstable, exactly, but just...sort of...loose. So in light of this, I will take it easy when I attempt it again on Thursday. No more sprints at eight minute mile speeds. More of the easy jogging. But still. I ran today. I fucking ran again. I can hardly believe it.

Om shanti _/||\_

*I've never been considered "the athletic type."
**Who knew that runner's high could be so irresistible?

Happy Making

2010-01-26T13:12:00.007-06:00

When I had the utilities activated at my new place in April of last year, I opted into Ameren's P.U.R.E Power program, which essentially consisted of my paying an extra 1.5 cents/kilowatt-hour in order to raise funds for the development of renewable energy. Although the program has been criticized by the Missouri Public Service Commission (PSC), I'm a satisfied supporter of the initiative--predominantly, because I received an invigorating status update in the mail this month. I learned the following therein:

my participation helped to support the generation of 1,765 killowatt-hours of local renewable energy;
which resulted in the prevention of 2,780 pds of CO2 from entering the atmosphere; and
that is the environmental equivalent of taking a car off the road for approx. four months.

Keep in mind, those numbers are only with relation to a small one bedroom apartment over the course of eight months. (Consider what a larger home could generate toward the cost of renewable energy development in a year by participating in this program!) Ah, being good to our momma earth feels wonderful. Perhaps, I'm not really doing much for the environment in the grand scheme of things, but I sure am helping my own peace of mind. I'd venture to guess that the effect of this knowledge is even better than therapy, so far as contentment of spirit is concerned!

Om shanti _/||\_

Meet The Mad Hatter

2010-01-26T13:00:00.001-06:00

Oh, please - oh, please - ohpleaseohplease(!!) let this be a good movie!!

A Street [Driving] Cheetah With A Heart Full of Napalm

2010-01-25T19:55:00.015-06:00

My mother, kind soul that she is, offered to pick up my car at my office this afternoon and drive it to her mechanic in order to have the headlights replaced and oil changed before the shop closed at six o'clock this evening. She left behind her vehicle for my transportation in the interim.

After work, when I got into my mother's early '90's Pontiac and started her up, she whined and growled something fierce. The faux leather covering on the steering wheel had all but disintegrated under my finger tips, leaving not much more than the sticky brackish cushion below. With a light touch to the gas, the car lurched forward--nothing but "raw power." I giggled to myself, not having driven a genuine hooptie in quite some time. As I gamely pulled the car out onto the roadway, I swear it began to sway in its frame.

Things got progressively worse as I traveled down Forest Park Parkway, picked up speed, and entered onto Highway 170. When I veered onto Interstate 40, I knew things were truly not right with this vehicle--what with the thumping vibrations and low moan it gave upon accelerating to proper highway speed. So I got off at the next exit and coaxed it as gently as possible along the side streets of South St. Louis.

At the intersection of Arsenal and Kingshighway, an economy car bearing a community support bumper sticker attempted to pass me on the right. I slowed to let the car circumvent me and the driver enthusiastically flicked me off repeatedly as she did so. Not very neighborly of her, but this is the way people respond to POS cars of my mother's caliber. Look out honey, 'cause I'm using technology!

Shortly thereafter, I arrived at my parent's where my father greeted me on the porch and asked how I liked driving Mom's car. I replied, "That thing is a death trap." I then warned my mother that she should not take it on the highway ever again, as it sounded like it had lost an engine mount or two. She laughed and confirmed that it had indeed lost an engine mount some time back. I suggested that the next time she drives her car, she might want to wear her seat belt and bring along a bowie knife, so that she will be able to cut herself free from the wreckage. Still she laughed. Unfortunately, I was dead serious. That car of hers is the one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy.

Iggy would be proud.

Beyond the Beyonds

2010-01-15T12:14:00.002-06:00

Let Freedom Ring!

2010-01-15T00:50:00.000-06:00

About Haiti

2010-01-13T13:55:00.004-06:00

A friend of mine relayed some information she'd received through a friend of hers about victims of the Haitian earthquake. Apparently, children are sleeping with volunteers in corn fields b/c it is not safe to sleep out in the open. What follows is some info direct from a volunteer in Haiti--

"...the girls are playing Uno and taking naps...We didn't get more than 45 minutes sleep last night...so we're starting to run a little ragged...just started the clean up process...gathering supplies...Pray that we find water soon...it's running very low...sleeping in the cornfield again tonight... LOVE LOVE LOVE"

If you can afford to, please donate to the relief effort. You can give money to the Red Cross by texting "HAITI" to 90999 ($10 will be charged to your phone bill and up to $30/mo. can be donated this way). I've already donated. The earthquake survivors certainly need the cash more than I do. If you aren't sure if you can afford it, check out these photographs--

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_pictures/8455774.stm

Personally, I find these images highly convincing...

Om shanti.

PS If you have a problem w/ the Red Cross, for whatever reason, here is a list of the web addresses and phone numbers of other charitable organizations involved at this time--
http://imaginepeace.com/news/archives/9431

THANK YOU!!

Feels Like a Reemergence

2010-01-10T22:44:00.005-06:00

It has taken me an awful long time this year to recover from the holidays and to adapt to the dark days and cold weather, but I've finally begun to acclimate myself to the new year. I still don't have much to write about, but I figured I'd at least attempt to provide you all with an update. So, here goes.

In the past week, I've returned to yoga and to the gym--both very positive developments for my mental and physical health. As I'm no longer in dire financial straits, I can comfortably afford to undertake the expenses of both. Also, on the health front, I've been going easy on the drinking and the smoking. Yesterday, I only smoked a couple of cigarettes all day long and I didn't drink a drop for several days in a row. (Granted, one of those days I mostly slept through, but whatever.)

I'm looking forward to an extended visit with an old friend this weekend who I haven't seen since high school. We were friends in first grade, in Girl Scouts together, and, generally, have been bosom buddies for a very long time. She has done really well for herself since I last knew her. She doesn't smoke, drink or do drugs. She is a health nut who goes to the gym regularly and teaches yoga. Also, she is a successful grade school teacher, homeowner, and happy wife. I'm glad to reconnect with her b/c I know she will be a great influence on me and it will be really nice to have such a fine example in my life. However, she is so seemingly flawless that it is sort of intimidating to contemplate spending time with her. I hope that she doesn't find me or my lifestyle disappointing...still, I know she is a kind person and so I don't think she is going to outwardly judge me or anything of that sort. It will simply be good to have a touchstone to who I was and where I came from.

I've also been trying to be more active and engaged with my family. I helped to throw my mom a 50th birthday party in December, which was really satisfying. I've recommitted to helping my little sister with her algebra. I voluntarily called my grandma a couple of days ago just to say hi and I'm looking forward to celebrating her 85th birthday with her this week. I'm realizing, yet again, how important it is to be with my family.

I recognize that this isn't a very exciting or well written blog entry (my apologies). I'm more in a reading place than a writing place at the moment. I'm currently reading Women Who Run With the Wolves, an epic, which at first struck me as being one of those cheesy, hippy dippy, woman's power books, but it turns out that it has a lot more substance than I first assumed. I'm enjoying learning about the various mythologies and long standing "ethnic" teachings. In addition, the book is really well written, so I can't complain about that.

Lastly, I'm trying to fit some professional and mental enrichment into my life. I want to volunteer at St. Louis Co. public library and also to take a physics class. I think both will be helpful when I apply to my master's program in library science. Also, the physics class will aid me in gradually getting back into a structured, academic routine. I'm really excited about diving into a hardcore science program. It will probably consist of eight credit hours over the span of two semesters, so I might just end up working toward a physics certificate in something. I think that will look impressive on my CV and round out my liberal arts and research background.

I hope all is well with each of you :)

Om shanti <3

A belated Christmas story

2010-01-08T17:05:00.008-06:00

My nuclear family, niece, nephew, and I are all lounging in my parents' living room on Christmas evening like a well-fed, lazy pack of dogs. I pluck a small ornament off the tree that my younger brother, Chris, had carefully constructed when he was in first grade. The simple decoration consists of a hard plastic, red, peanut butter jar lid with a school picture of Chris, which he had cut into the shape of an oval and pasted on the interior. Sparkles decorate the outside and a loop of red yarn extends from the top.

I bring the ornament to Chris' son, Tyler, who is about five years old and is reclining on the couch with a video game in his hands. Dangling the ornament near his face, I ask him, "Who is this?"

Tyler pauses a moment, draws the ornament closer for a more thorough inspection, crinkles his brow, hesitates again, then proclaims, "ME!" grinning from ear-to-ear triumphantly.

"Nope," I tell him, "that is your daddy."

"Really?"

"Yes."

I walk into the kitchen and show Tyler's dad, my brother, the same ornament and relay the story. "Really?" says Chris.

"Yes," I say.

Chris smiles thoughtfully to himself and turns back to cleaning his dish in the sink. I return the ornament to its home on the tree and plop down on the couch, with several generations of my family members surrounding me.

Let the new year begin.

Om shanti.

A Single Sentence Animation

2010-01-06T12:49:00.002-06:00

Reminds me of The Maxx somehow...

In a moment of weakness...

2010-01-04T21:54:00.003-06:00

I surreptitiously joined Twitter. Yes. I did. But, not for the social networking aspect, mind you.

Rather, I've joined for the convenience of posting wee pithy blogs. Now, I can vociferate with more regularity and less specificity. An indolent blogger's highest ideal...

If you're curious to read 'em, I posted my tweety-tweets to your left--immediately below my Blogger archive :)

Om shanti <3

They keep coming...

2010-01-04T09:52:00.000-06:00

Arrived at work this morning to find a second bonus awaiting me, this one personally from my boss alone. Good gravy! This is getting serious, Batman...

Om shanti <3

St. Louis City Public Library

2010-01-03T00:40:00.003-06:00

After an exhaustive search of the twelve titles in the "Have Yet to Procure" section of the My Books list (see lower left side of this page), I have happily determined that the St. Louis Public Library (City) possesses seven of the books at my local branch (although, a couple of them are on hold/on loan) and two others are at nearby branches. Only three of the twelve were not available, and of those, two were published in the past three to six months (so, I anticipate they will be available in the near future). Kudos to you, St. Louis Library. You really are pretty special <3 <3 <3

Scientists Say: G-spot is a Myth

2010-01-02T20:31:00.009-06:00

To all those people (mostly men) who disputed my argument that the grand majority of women need sustained and direct clitoral stimulation to climax, I'd like to state, "The evidence does not support your position"--

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/science/article6973971.ece#cid=OTC-RSS&attr=797093

[Edited for reasons of assholery on my part]

Cheerful, Yet, Tremendously Deadly Objects In the Known Universe

2010-01-01T22:20:00.010-06:00

Astrophysics are most enjoyable when you are highly depressed. During those times when you can't gather the energy to be with your friends or family, enjoy the hobbies that normally interest you, and/or otherwise muster up any sort of engagement in life, physical cosmology can provide some relief. Considering things like neutron stars, super massive black holes, and other cataclysmic forces in the heavens make my personal troubles seem quite minuscule (which, in all fairness, they are). If anyone else would like a little lift from the awe-inspiringly ruinous, the hauntingly exotic, and the brilliantly energetic phenomena of the universe, please look upon and ponder the following primers,* as they never fail to uplift--

Pulsars

Quasars

*The videos are gorgeous to view and Alec Baldwin's melodramatic, insipid narration is hilarious, but the science contained therein is intolerably superficial; therefore, I've also included links to Wiki articles that will really challenge you (well, they challenge me,** anyway).

**I've thought about these phenomena countless times and yet they continue to titillate me to no end. But then again, we are constantly gathering new information and refining our understanding of the science, so that is probably part of it. Needless to say, I can't wait until researchers are able to synthesize the newest data, following Hubble's fourth servicing mission this past May, and don't even get me started on how thrilling the launch of the James Webb Space Telescope will be in 2014. EEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!

Bye-Bye Gasometers

2009-12-31T14:23:00.009-06:00

I was exceptionally dismayed to learn that my beloved gasometers (as that is what they are called--yeah, I didn't know either) had been torn down. It occurred to me, as I was driving down Interstate 44 on my way to my aunt's home on Christmas Eve, that something dark and looming to my right was missing, but I figured it must have just been my imagination. Turns out, they truly are gone...

As a child, I remember lying in the back seat of my parent's car and marking our location by seeing those towers upside down, as we sped past. An adult used to tease me by saying that the changing of the height of the storage tanks was evidence that the towers were breathing. I was so young, I think I believed him...in that respect, it really does feel like a death.

R.I.P. - A great, STL, urban decay landmark. You will be missed.

In the black!

2009-12-30T16:23:00.002-06:00

[edited for brevity]

1) Received my bonus check;
2) Paid off the balance due on the $1,500 personal loan; and
3) Committed to saving over and above what my company contributes to my retirement account.

Om shanti.

Our President Delightfully Surprises

2009-12-30T12:51:00.001-06:00

Executive Order - Classified National Security Information

Presidential Memorandum - Implementation of the Executive Order, "Classified National Security Information"

Executive Order Drastically Reduces Total Of Classified Papers

Finally, an executive order that increases government transparency! Such a refreshing change compared to that last US administration in office (you know, They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named).

I'm anxious to learn about all of the piquant little secrets (400 million pages worth!!) our government has assiduously concealed over the decades.

Excellent work, Mr. President! <3 <3 <3

Ommwriter

2009-12-29T14:48:00.002-06:00

http://www.ommwriter.com/

You're welcome, Mac users :)

Tragic and Treacherous

2009-12-28T13:41:00.009-06:00

One of the things that is most painful about being a single adult is learning that there are people in this world who you could partner up with romantically and be very happy with indefinitely, if only you both lived in a vacuum. Ani DiFranco addresses this situation (or at least I interpret her lyrics this way) in her song Shameless--

We're in a room without a door
And I am sure without a doubt
They're gonna wanna know
How we got in here
And they're gonna wanna know
How we plan to get out

I keep “backsliding” (as one of my friends so sensitively puts it) with my ex. I spend entirely too much time with him, I don’t have enough emotional distance, and I go back and forth in my head about our relationship--

I could be with him today.
Probably not tomorrow, though...
[In the grand sense of the word “tomorrow,” that is.]
How would that work? Just being with him today?
I’m sure I don’t really care; I just want him to hold me at this very moment.
Then maybe we could fall into bed together...
Yeah, but that makes me feel grotesque afterward.
So perhaps we should get back together then.
That might be nice...
But then how would we break up? What would that be like?
And what would happen if one of us found someone who suits the other better?
...

What a mess.

Not only that, but I keep mulling over my relationship with another guy from my past. He is utterly not right for me in important respects--not esthetically, not philosophically, not with relation to chosen life paths--and yet, I can’t push the array of thoughts relating to him out of my brain. I only fixate on how intellectually stimulating it is to be around him, how we laugh together, how we intrigue each other, what it was like when we were young and held hands in his car, and what it would be like to be with him in that room without a door for awhile.

Bleh. Sometimes, I really detest adulthood. Really, I do.

Om shanti.

Golluimna

2009-12-27T21:43:00.030-06:00

"I daresay," said Sam. "But where have you been to – sneaking off and sneaking back, you old villain?"

Gollum withdrew himself, and a green glint flickered under his heavy lids. Almost spider-like he looked now, crouched back on his bent limbs, with his protruding eyes. The fleeting moment had passed, beyond recall. "'Sneaking, sneaking!'" he hissed. "Hobbits always so polite, yes. O nice hobbits! Sméagol brings them up secret ways that nobody else could find. Tired he is, thirsty he is, yes thirsty; and he guides them and he searches for paths, and they say, 'sneak, sneak.' Very nice friends, O yes my precious, very nice."

Sam felt a bit remorseful, though not more trustful. "Sorry." he said. "I'm sorry, but you startled me out of my sleep. And I shouldn't have been sleeping, and that made me a bit sharp....Sorry. But where have you been to?"

"Sneaking," said Gollum, and the green glint did not leave his eyes.

***

When my little sister, Julia Rose, first encountered my cat, she looked into her flashing, light green eyes and declared, "Gollum!" I dismissed her characterization and convinced her of what a nice kitty Little Miss Calico was. As I've written before, my cat and Julia became fast friends, shortly thereafter, but I didn't forget what Julia initially said of her.

Over the course of our weeks together, my cat has become more comfortable and no longer remains on her best behavior. Consequently, it is difficult for me to enjoy a decent night's rest because my feline friend often awakens me in the early hours of the morning--gleefully stalking through the ivy tendrils of my plants, busily sharpening her claws on my furniture, and generally creating a ruckus. This behavior has grown so egregious over the past couple of weeks that one morning I meanly swept her up in a huff, tossed her into my bathroom, and pulled the door closed behind me. She quietly awaited her release and I fell off into a light, abashed sleep while my guilty conscious considered her plight.

I subsequently dreamt that I had, in a rage, thrown my pet to the floor with such force that I broke every bone in her body. She must have bled profusely because when I moved to pry the gelatinous blob of her from my hardwood floor, she stuck to it, having congealed to the wood. Undeterred, I ripped her body from the floor boards, tearing off a good deal of her fur, and was left with the mass of her body draped over one arm. Horrified, I quickly drew a hot bath and stepped into it fully clothed with my terribly mutated cat in my arms. I hoped that the warm water would sooth her injured form and wash away the pain. She only mewed pitifully. I remember reflecting in the dream that she looked like a brontosaurus with only her elongated, sinewy, and boneless neck above water. I awoke to her continued meowing--calling for her freedom from behind my bathroom door.

Since that time, when she looks up at me with her mischievously lit green eyes, I've taken to calling her Golluimna. I believe the name suits her and it also helps to diffuse my frustration with her crazed, late-night, kitty shenanigans.

Doing The Math

2009-12-27T20:29:00.005-06:00

one - number of months since I have done any significant cardiovascular exercise
+
two - number of days (minimal) I need to work out per week in order to elevate my mood to a bearable level
+
three - number of times a week I need to practice yoga in order to center my mind
+
six - number of pizzas I have ordered over the previous ten days (keep in mind that two of those days I couldn't order pizza even if I wanted to--darned Christians and their pervasive holiday...)
+
nineteen - number of days since I last practiced yoga
-
thirty-five - number of dollars per month to maintain a YMCA membership
=
unknown - number of pounds I have gained since I fell out of my fitness routine

For the past week, Kenny and I have dutifully been making plans to go to the gym and summarily breaking them. I was listening to a psychologist on the radio this evening and she had said that, with the onset of freezing weather and lack of sunlight, it is our instinct to not do the things we would regularly do in order to keep ourselves fit. Instead, we tend to sleep. Which makes sense, considering the whole winter hibernation thing.

Recently, I read a story Malcolm Gladwell relayed in Outliers about certain European farmers who would, once the frigid weather arrived, literally all crowd into bed together for warmth and simply sleep the winter away. As that isn't realistic in today's modern society, the previously mentioned psychologist advised that we need to force ourselves to do what our biology attempts to circumvent--that is, go to the freaking gym anyway. Just buckle down and move, which is what I plan on doing...tomorrow.

Om shanti.

"your yogini is in consonance," he tells me

2009-12-26T15:16:00.006-06:00

PURUSHA SHADOW BUTOH

The circle ground held the great yogi

Grace astride sat the grand contra yogini

She was holy blue he was bathed

In sun the earth was a perfect

Place to be as mutual to him

Was showing forth whole to her was

Same ark peace oath Purusha Shadow Butoh

-K. Curtis Lyle

Just the Stats Ma'am

2009-12-26T01:27:00.007-06:00

I've learned something somewhat unsettling over the past three weeks: people actually read my blog. A lot. According to Google Analytics, I've received the following traffic in the aforementioned time period--

386 Site Visits
156 Unique Visitors
926 Page Views
00:07:24 Average Time on Site
38.86% New Visits

In addition, I've had folks from ten different countries visit this here blogity blog including: Japan, the UK, Singapore, Pakistan, Egypt, South Korea, Qatar (I don't even know where that is!) and Australia.

What the hell, you guys? Why are you reading this thing? It's freaking me out and turning me into an egomaniac. I've stayed up till midnight on more occasions than I'd like to admit just to see what the traffic was looking like for the previous 24-hours. In the past week, I've gotten so self-conscious that I don't even know what to write anymore.

It seems to be high time for me to disengage with Google Analytics. But if I can't manage to drag myself away from this data source, rest assured that I do not have access to your IP addresses, so I don't know who exactly is following me. Your secrets are (relatively) safe with Google...

Om shanti.

A Hankering

2009-12-26T00:46:00.007-06:00

I can't really explain why, maybe it is all of the latent, post-Christmas consumerism in the air, but I all-of-a-sudden want a homemade broom and I particularly want one constructed by this guy--

After having perused the various products available, it is my feeling that Big Jack makes great brooms. The following old-fashioned round broom, similar to those crafted by Ben Franklin, according to the Hockaday Handmade Brooms website, is pretty cool--

I'm likin' the witchy look to it, with the crooked, irregular shapes and such, but I doubt it will be of much practical use over a large area (I understand these are best for getting into tight corners).

Rather, this broom will probably be a more appropriate choice for my needs and it was exactly what I envisioned--right down to the red threading--when I first began searching for homemade brooms on the web--

I'm pretty sure my mother and my grandmother both had ones just like it when I was a kiddiepoo. Isn't it wonderful? Don't cha just want one for your own hardwood floors? Well, it is merely $30, which is cheap for a handmade broom! (I found folks selling brooms similar to these for around $70 on other sites, the scoundrels.)

Finally, I have no conceivable use for this (not being a baker myself), but I wanted to share it with you guys b/c it is just so CUTE--

It is a teensy cake tester broom to hang on your kitchen wall. Only $5! I want to buy a bunch and give them to all of my domesticated friends and family. <3 <3 <3

Om shanti.

Unreal City

2009-12-24T16:57:00.003-06:00

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
...
"You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!"
-T.S. Eliot

Who reads The Waste Land on Christmas Eve?
Me, I do, not fretfully.

My apologies for my recent multitude of business-related posts.

Om shanti.

Elation!

2009-12-24T13:06:00.003-06:00

I'm so very glad I chose to call into work today. Yes, it is Christmas Eve. Yes, I had the day off paid. But I will be able to take a paid New Years Eve off instead. Plus, I finished all of the preparatory discovery work that I needed to accomplish in order to have myself lined out for an upcoming January 4th deadline in US district court (I don't fuck around with the Feds--they scare me!).

Now, I can enjoy my long weekend without fretting over any work related nonsense and I have the added benefit of pride in a job well done. (My boss told me I'd done an excellent job at least four times this morning.) *contented sigh of relief*

Happy Winter's Solstice everyone! :)

2009-12-23T15:12:00.003-06:00

You know you are totally mad when even your nemesis exclaims that you are putting too much pressure on yourself...

...but then, who can trust their nemesis anyway?

...or can you?

See?! Totally mad.

Valuing Myself Monetarily

2009-12-21T14:57:00.005-06:00

This morning my boss returned from sick leave and thanked me for covering for him while he had been out of the office. I responded that he was certainly welcome, then walked away thinking, "Is that all I get? Sincere thanks?" Shortly thereafter, I returned to my boss' office and stated, "So then, I assume that your gratitude will be reflected on my bonus check this year?" I then chuckled a bit to soften the harshness of those words, but before the laughter had finished escaping from my lips he replied, "Absolutely."

I'm holding him to that absolutely. Oh yes, I am...

Peregrination

2009-12-17T11:37:00.008-06:00

per⋅e⋅gri⋅na⋅tion [per-i-gruh-ney-shuhn]

–noun
1. travel from one place to another, esp. on foot.
2. a course of travel; journey.

Origin:
1425–75; late ME peregrinacioun (< MF peregrinacion) < L peregrīnātiōn- (s. of peregrīnātiō) a traveling abroad. See peregrinate, -ion

Synonyms:
1, 2. trip, excursion, expedition.

One of the peculiarities I appreciate and find particularly appealing in poets of prominence is their propensity toward propagation of praiseworthy words and p-phrases. [Alliteration does not come easily to me, so I switched over to consonance.]

Thanks for the word, sir <3

Runs in the Family

2009-12-16T15:43:00.010-06:00

A snippet of a perfectly ordinary conversation around the dinner table at my folks' home--

Cayleen [my youngest sister]: ...so then Emily [our eight year old niece] and I were jamming out to Michael Jackson so hard that Dad yelled at us to turn it down.

Me: I just don't get why you are still so obsessed with Michael Jackson, Cayleen. [She didn't even know M.J. existed prior to his death and has since developed a single-minded interest in him to which only a tween could so thoroughly devote herself.] Most kids your age would crack under the strain of the people around them's disapproval. But not you! You still think he is the greatest.

Cayleen: Not just me. I've convinced Emily and Esme [our nine year old cousin], too! We are going to bring Michael Jackson back! [Back from the dead, she means.] And then HE is going to bring JESUS back!!

*My other sister, Julia [age 14], and my youngest brother, Timmy [age 23], and I exchange brief scoffing glances*

Timmy: How is Michael Jackson going to bring Jesus back from the dead?

*Julia and I burst out laughing at Tim; Cayleen laughs at her own absurdity, but remains defiant*

*Julia moves from the sink to behind the chair where Cayleen is sitting and rests her hands on the chair back*

Julia [speedily chanting in an unsettling, low voice]: Jesus "ascended-into-Heaven-sits-at-the-right-hand-of-God-the-Father-almighty. From-there-He-shall-come-to-judge-the-living-and-the-dead."

*Julia collapses into giggles at seeing Tim's and my quasi-perplexed faces*

Me: Tim, you were raised Catholic! Why do you find Michael Jackson arising from the dead perfectly plausible, but not Jesus? Julia, how did the Lutherans brainwash you so completely? And Cayleen, when did your fixation on MJ become less scary than Julia's Christian upbringing??

*Everyone laughs and begins talking at once*

Shortly after the above scene, Julia casually attempts to bake Cayleen's purportedly evil doll in the oven, as Cayleen pantomimes the doll singing, "Jesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so."

...weirdos.

Threat of Mental Collapse - Part II of II

2009-12-15T19:48:00.025-06:00

To continue, I discovered, over ten days ago, that I had somehow either lost or had stolen from me both my debit card and my driver’s license. On the following days I had to haul ass on my lunch hours to get those necessary items replaced and, as of today's date, I still haven’t gotten my new debit card up and running, yet (I received the thing in the mail last night, but I’m having a problem activating it). Since the economy is so insanely shitty and I've never had to write checks before (except to pay my monthly bills), no one wants to accept them from me. My checks are more often than not declined b/c I've never previously written a check at these businesses. So I currently have next to zero cash flow (even though I have a sizable sum of money in my checking account right now—which will all be going to bills soon enough, but I digress).

As an aside (this seems somehow related in my mind), I borrowed $1,500 from one of my better off friends this spring in order to fund my moving into my own place and my new-to-me car. Luckily, I've been able to buckle down and pay her back $1,300 of that loan since June, but my goal was to have repaid the entire sum by the end of this year. If I don't receive the aformentioned bonus, I will have to carry the balance into next year, which I do not want to do. It makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it. To be clear, not because she has been pressuring me--Goddess love her, she was willing to wait as long as it took for me to comfortably repay her--but because I don't want to worry about owing my friend money (neither a borrower nor a lender be). I value our friendship much too much to ever let something like an unpaid debt come between us.

Yesterday, a check of mine was declined (the third time in 24 hours) at a local filling station (SUPREMELY frustrating, given that I had so much money in my account and I'd been working so diligently lately--you'd think I'd be able to freaking buy gas). This occurred at a business where I have used my debit card (the same checking account as my checks, mind you) numerous times over the course of many years. In addition to the crippling embarrassment of such an event, it was also the absolute worst time for my check to be declined since my gas light was on and I was still several highway exits away from my home. I had no cash and no other way to purchase the necessary fuel. Rather than fruitlessly arguing with the cashier, I decided to chance it and try driving on fumes the rest of the way back to my apartment.

Luckily, I did make it to my place without further incident and promptly had a mini-breakdown upon arrival. In tears, I called my ex (who lives about ten or so blocks away from me) and recounted my situation. He calmed me down, reminded me that I was just going through some temporary trouble, and offered to come over and help. He then drove with me to the nearest gas station (we made it without hitting empty, no small miracle) where he bought me a full tank of gas and three packs of cigarettes. (If that isn't love, I don't know what is!)

On our way over to the gas station, my ex's old college buddy called him. The same friend who hosted us in the Virgin Islands last year at his little cabin on the hillside. So, when my ex got out of my car to pay for and pump the gas, he handed the phone over to me (as, apparently, he is unable to converse on the phone and pump gas at the same time). Nearly the very first thing that his friend asked me was: "Is it true that you guys broke up?" (Apparently, my ex hasn't told any of his friends that we aren't together anymore--the only reason that this particular friend knew was because our mutual friend, whom I had told, had told him.) I confirmed the news.

He then wanted to know why. Why did we break up when we obviously still like each other?? The only thing I could tell him was that we simply do not have a future together. He wants to be married. I don't. He wants six kids. I don't. He wants to ultimately live on his family's farm. I don't. Thankfully, his friend completely understood. He told me, "Well, you know, he just has so much love in his heart. Enough love for fourteen children." It was the saddest thing anyone has ever said to me because it is bloody true. My ex would be the most devoted of fathers. Not only that, but he was there for me, at my house, within fifteen minutes of my random, panicky phone call. He still loves me. He still wants to be with me. I think on some level that he believes that he will be with me one day in the future--if only he plays his cards right. This isn't for my lack of communication, either. I've been super straight with him and he seems to understand intellectually that we don't make sense together in the long term

It is just...our hearts haven't come to terms with this change. I keep asking myself, "Exactly what happens when soul mates are simply not on the same life path?" No discernible answer is yet forthcoming.