My brand new copy of The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri is missing about 30 pages. (There is a duplicate section, instead). Thanks, Houghton Mifflin.
Now I've got to get back to the bookstore and hope they've got a copy with all the pages. Bah.
It's good so far. Up to page 164, that is, where my copy jumps to page 197. Although I think I prefer The Interpreter of Maladies. Of course, it had all of its' pages, so I may be slightly biased.
Lame.
31 May, 2006
Laurie R. King's The Art of Detection
Laurie R. King's book, The Art of Detection came out today and I've just finished it. She's a California author whom I've enjoyed for some time. You can read an excerpt of the first chapter on her website.
How many mysteries have you read that feature a lesbian detective in San Francisco with Sherlock Holmes?
I'm guessing not many. Buy a copy and read it- it's a good read. You can locate a signed copy by e-mailing Crossroads Books, the address is available on her website.
Or, if you prefer to follow clues and feel a little lucky, you can check out her most recent blog entry.
How many mysteries have you read that feature a lesbian detective in San Francisco with Sherlock Holmes?
I'm guessing not many. Buy a copy and read it- it's a good read. You can locate a signed copy by e-mailing Crossroads Books, the address is available on her website.
Or, if you prefer to follow clues and feel a little lucky, you can check out her most recent blog entry.
30 May, 2006
The Case of the Bloody Pawprints...
A couple weeks ago, my husband called me on my lunch hour to tell me that he hadn't gone to work. It seemed odd, as he had been awake when I left for work that morning, and for all that I knew he had absolutely intended to go. The strange thing had detained him was not that he had fallen ill, that our house had burned down, or our car had broken down.
No, what had prevented him from going to work was a trail of bloody paw prints tracking across the white cement of the sidewalk in front of our house. They are still there, in fact, although the blood has since dried.
My husband is a man who has an extreme affinity for animals. He loves animals and takes unfriendly creatures as a personal challenge.
He could not walk away from a hurt animal, evidenced as it was by the wet blood leading down our street.
He followed the paw prints.
He ended up on a strange sort of journey, on that warm May day. He followed the prints and eventually ended up on the front yard of our former neighbor's house, a few miles from our house, that she shares with her girlfriend, who happened to be home. (We've not been there before- nor did we know where they live). He hunted for over an hour and a half, until he lost the trail through an alley. By this time, he was tired and it was hot, so he took a bus back home.
Sitting on our front porch, he spoke to others who added to the story. People walking their dogs, or pushing their strollers shared pieces of the story. One woman said that a dog walker, the dog walker that the swanky people, the rich ones, use had lost a dog. The dog leapt from a window of the dog walker's van, she said. He injured his paws and ran in fear.
Later this theory was called into dispute, as others among our neighbors believe that dog was dragged from the van, and then wrenched free- the blood from his paws seeped for a couple miles. This theory has gained prominence among our neighbors.
We didn't hear anything more until last week. One of our neighbors came with a photo of the dog, recovered by his owner.
An oddly satisfying ending to the story- Richard never found the dog, though we did finally find out the ending to the story when the photo came to us. The dog was hit by a car, whose driver took him to a vet. They called the dog's owner who came to claim him. He is doing well, although all four paws were bandaged in the photo that is being passed around those animal lovers in our neighborhood.
Strange, to see genuine concern in a stranger's face as they tell this story again and again. There is no blame, in most of these faces. Simply concern, for the dog and his owner. Strange to feel part of a community in this rather odd way.
No, what had prevented him from going to work was a trail of bloody paw prints tracking across the white cement of the sidewalk in front of our house. They are still there, in fact, although the blood has since dried.
My husband is a man who has an extreme affinity for animals. He loves animals and takes unfriendly creatures as a personal challenge.
He could not walk away from a hurt animal, evidenced as it was by the wet blood leading down our street.
He followed the paw prints.
He ended up on a strange sort of journey, on that warm May day. He followed the prints and eventually ended up on the front yard of our former neighbor's house, a few miles from our house, that she shares with her girlfriend, who happened to be home. (We've not been there before- nor did we know where they live). He hunted for over an hour and a half, until he lost the trail through an alley. By this time, he was tired and it was hot, so he took a bus back home.
Sitting on our front porch, he spoke to others who added to the story. People walking their dogs, or pushing their strollers shared pieces of the story. One woman said that a dog walker, the dog walker that the swanky people, the rich ones, use had lost a dog. The dog leapt from a window of the dog walker's van, she said. He injured his paws and ran in fear.
Later this theory was called into dispute, as others among our neighbors believe that dog was dragged from the van, and then wrenched free- the blood from his paws seeped for a couple miles. This theory has gained prominence among our neighbors.
We didn't hear anything more until last week. One of our neighbors came with a photo of the dog, recovered by his owner.
An oddly satisfying ending to the story- Richard never found the dog, though we did finally find out the ending to the story when the photo came to us. The dog was hit by a car, whose driver took him to a vet. They called the dog's owner who came to claim him. He is doing well, although all four paws were bandaged in the photo that is being passed around those animal lovers in our neighborhood.
Strange, to see genuine concern in a stranger's face as they tell this story again and again. There is no blame, in most of these faces. Simply concern, for the dog and his owner. Strange to feel part of a community in this rather odd way.
27 May, 2006
Woody Guthrie
There's a good article on Woody Guthrie over at The Nation magazine's website. The good ole U.S. of A. is making me depressed this week, as well as increasingly paranoid.
Why, exactly, is it ok for the government to track everyone I call?
Here's a quote for today:
"If sex and creativity are often seen by dictators as subversive activites, it's because they lead to the knowledge that you own your own body (and with it your own voice), and that's the most revolutionary insight of all."
-Erica Jong
Why, exactly, is it ok for the government to track everyone I call?
Here's a quote for today:
"If sex and creativity are often seen by dictators as subversive activites, it's because they lead to the knowledge that you own your own body (and with it your own voice), and that's the most revolutionary insight of all."
-Erica Jong
21 May, 2006
Punk Rock in the LBC
When I was younger, I loved punk rock. I loved the screaming, the swearing, the freedom. I was raised in a Baptist family with a Catholic dad. My mother listened to classical music and christian music. We didn't watch very much television. I read a lot. I was the oldest kid.
When I discovered punk rock- a friend made me a mix tape of Dead Kennedys, Crass, the Subhumans- I wore out the tape in my 1981 Rabbit's tape deck. I would drive down PCH to go surfing at the cliffs with my sunroof open, the windows down and I would scream along with the music.
Last night, a friend and her husband invited us to see a punk rock show in our own hood, at the Que Sera, famous former lesbian bar (they are very nice- with a charming sign on the desk where you pay your cover that says, "The Que Sera is not a lesbian bar- everyone is welcome" and the girl who says cheerfully, "Give me your little paws" as she stamps my hand).
I haven't seen or heard punk rock recently- my punk rock phase was relatively short and long ago. (Although I did buy a couple Crass CDs a year ago- nostalgia). It was strange; I felt as if I was watching my younger self bounce around screaming along, as I sipped my Guinness and played pool in the back. It was fun, although I felt about a million years old. Everyone was wearing black, so I stood out. Actually, all of my friends stood out- none of us were dressed terribly punk rock. There's something kind of poignant about punk rock to me, something kind of amazing and lost- that ability to stand and scream what you feel to a rocking drum beat and thumping guitar. It's hard to give words to the feeling... But I felt something akin to nostalgia.
So I sit here in my house and my ears are still ringing. It makes me remember myself back when, and I feel a little sad to lose that girl. The girl who wanted to scream along with the punk rock.
When I discovered punk rock- a friend made me a mix tape of Dead Kennedys, Crass, the Subhumans- I wore out the tape in my 1981 Rabbit's tape deck. I would drive down PCH to go surfing at the cliffs with my sunroof open, the windows down and I would scream along with the music.
Last night, a friend and her husband invited us to see a punk rock show in our own hood, at the Que Sera, famous former lesbian bar (they are very nice- with a charming sign on the desk where you pay your cover that says, "The Que Sera is not a lesbian bar- everyone is welcome" and the girl who says cheerfully, "Give me your little paws" as she stamps my hand).
I haven't seen or heard punk rock recently- my punk rock phase was relatively short and long ago. (Although I did buy a couple Crass CDs a year ago- nostalgia). It was strange; I felt as if I was watching my younger self bounce around screaming along, as I sipped my Guinness and played pool in the back. It was fun, although I felt about a million years old. Everyone was wearing black, so I stood out. Actually, all of my friends stood out- none of us were dressed terribly punk rock. There's something kind of poignant about punk rock to me, something kind of amazing and lost- that ability to stand and scream what you feel to a rocking drum beat and thumping guitar. It's hard to give words to the feeling... But I felt something akin to nostalgia.
So I sit here in my house and my ears are still ringing. It makes me remember myself back when, and I feel a little sad to lose that girl. The girl who wanted to scream along with the punk rock.
20 May, 2006
Interesting Idea....
One of my favorite writers, Laurie R. King, was selected as the Santa Cruz County Artist of the Year. As part of the festivites, she's has elected to write a story live, in front of the world. She was given a prompt this morning, and the results are being published live online at the same time. Her blog has a bigger description of the event.
You can read the results at: www.scparks.com.
This is a little strange to read, as it is really nothing like her normal work. (The prompt was something about a middle schooler...) You can read more about Laurie at her website. I began reading her when a friend's father, who was in the habit of giving her a box of used paperbacks per month that he had read, included "The Beekeeper's Apprentice". Click here to read a portion of the first chapter. I was immediately engrossed; an intelligent female, Jewish, who befriends Sherlock Holmes. It doesn't sound as if it would be a good book, but I've found that books that defy description are the ones I love the most. I'm not a huge mystery novel fan, however, I really have enjoyed LRK's Mary Russell books.
You can read the results at: www.scparks.com.
This is a little strange to read, as it is really nothing like her normal work. (The prompt was something about a middle schooler...) You can read more about Laurie at her website. I began reading her when a friend's father, who was in the habit of giving her a box of used paperbacks per month that he had read, included "The Beekeeper's Apprentice". Click here to read a portion of the first chapter. I was immediately engrossed; an intelligent female, Jewish, who befriends Sherlock Holmes. It doesn't sound as if it would be a good book, but I've found that books that defy description are the ones I love the most. I'm not a huge mystery novel fan, however, I really have enjoyed LRK's Mary Russell books.
16 May, 2006
A Beautiful Obituary
Don't we all have a wish to be be remembered well after we are gone? The people I admire and love the most are the people who ask difficult questions, who struggle with life. A friend of mine asked me recently to write her obituary. (She's not dying, nor is she elderly). She said, "I just want to see what you'll write."
I am honored and yet I feel a sense of trepidation about the entire thing. How can one write an obituary for someone who gets to read it? What should be included in a good obituary? I have a lot of questions about the entire endeavor, honestly.
I was reading CNN.com today, as I often do, and I came across the write up of the death of former U.S. poet laureate, Stanley Kunitz, at the age of 100. You can read it yourself by clicking here.
It is a beautiful summing up of a life well lived. Born in tragedy, (his father's suicide when Kunitz himself was still in his mother's belly), he became a writer who valued community in the arts, won a Pulitzer for his work, shared his love for the arts with others, and was a man who stuck by his principles.
How can you ask for more in an obituary? Or a life?
I am honored and yet I feel a sense of trepidation about the entire thing. How can one write an obituary for someone who gets to read it? What should be included in a good obituary? I have a lot of questions about the entire endeavor, honestly.
I was reading CNN.com today, as I often do, and I came across the write up of the death of former U.S. poet laureate, Stanley Kunitz, at the age of 100. You can read it yourself by clicking here.
It is a beautiful summing up of a life well lived. Born in tragedy, (his father's suicide when Kunitz himself was still in his mother's belly), he became a writer who valued community in the arts, won a Pulitzer for his work, shared his love for the arts with others, and was a man who stuck by his principles.
How can you ask for more in an obituary? Or a life?
15 May, 2006
Finis
Je suis finis. I am finished with this semester, for all intents and purposes. Hurrah! Huzzah!
This shan't the longest post in history, simply a jubilant little message to tell the world I've taken my last (real) final for the spring semester.
All I need to do now is crank out a few critiques and find a good first line from a book for workshop. Simple enough, considering the past weekend (le weekend dernier) was spent writing two papers, editing said papers, finishing French homework, and cramming for the French examen finale.
I am just so happy to be done. C'est finis, and I am so excited I might even be able to drum up some enthusiam for the summer semester. Which, thanks to the brilliant minds in charge of scheduling at IVC, begins next Monday. (Lundi prochain). Some break, huh? I have a grand total of three days rest before beginning anew...
My brain is melting a bit, due to an overdose of conjugating. I am glad that the fall semester schedule hasn't been posted yet; the idea of thinking about what to take makes me feel a bit dizzy at the moment.
So, I will take my meager pittance of joy and spread it all the way until Monday night- my first class for the summer semester. (I was fighting the urge to spell that "semestre"- that's when you know you just need to stop for a while).
As Edward R. Murrow used to say, "Bon nuit, et bonne chance."
Salut!
This shan't the longest post in history, simply a jubilant little message to tell the world I've taken my last (real) final for the spring semester.
All I need to do now is crank out a few critiques and find a good first line from a book for workshop. Simple enough, considering the past weekend (le weekend dernier) was spent writing two papers, editing said papers, finishing French homework, and cramming for the French examen finale.
I am just so happy to be done. C'est finis, and I am so excited I might even be able to drum up some enthusiam for the summer semester. Which, thanks to the brilliant minds in charge of scheduling at IVC, begins next Monday. (Lundi prochain). Some break, huh? I have a grand total of three days rest before beginning anew...
My brain is melting a bit, due to an overdose of conjugating. I am glad that the fall semester schedule hasn't been posted yet; the idea of thinking about what to take makes me feel a bit dizzy at the moment.
So, I will take my meager pittance of joy and spread it all the way until Monday night- my first class for the summer semester. (I was fighting the urge to spell that "semestre"- that's when you know you just need to stop for a while).
As Edward R. Murrow used to say, "Bon nuit, et bonne chance."
Salut!
13 May, 2006
Wasting Time...
I'm pretty accomplished at wasting time. I can manage to spend at least a few minutes doing pretty much anything.
Today I wasted three hours and eight minutes. Doing what, you may well ask?
Watching Peter Jackson's "King Kong". A terrifically dull waste of time. I should have mopped or cleaned the bathtub instead. At least those activities could possibly have some sort of payoff at the end.
May I suggest, that the next time Peter Jackson decides he simply must make a movie someone somewhere explain the concept of editing and revision to him?
All I can say: dinosaurs? Really? Since when was the giant ape and creepy island not enough? Jurassic Park meets King Kong wasn't really what I signed up for. At least at my house I can smoke and turn it off. All those poor people who paid to see it in the movie theatre... I feel truly sorry for all of them.
I simply wanted a break from writing papers. I should have just stared at a wall for a few minutes. More entertainment in that than this nonsense. By the way, why did Naomi Watts sign up for this one? She's really not bad enough to be doing this kind of tripe...
Today I wasted three hours and eight minutes. Doing what, you may well ask?
Watching Peter Jackson's "King Kong". A terrifically dull waste of time. I should have mopped or cleaned the bathtub instead. At least those activities could possibly have some sort of payoff at the end.
May I suggest, that the next time Peter Jackson decides he simply must make a movie someone somewhere explain the concept of editing and revision to him?
All I can say: dinosaurs? Really? Since when was the giant ape and creepy island not enough? Jurassic Park meets King Kong wasn't really what I signed up for. At least at my house I can smoke and turn it off. All those poor people who paid to see it in the movie theatre... I feel truly sorry for all of them.
I simply wanted a break from writing papers. I should have just stared at a wall for a few minutes. More entertainment in that than this nonsense. By the way, why did Naomi Watts sign up for this one? She's really not bad enough to be doing this kind of tripe...
06 May, 2006
The Friends of the Library Bookshop....
I had a lovely drive today, along Pacific Coast Hwy on my way to the Huntington Beach Central Library. The salt in the air, the herons in the Bolsa Chica wetlands to my left, the waves pulsing against the sand to my right.
It ceased being a lovely drive when I turned onto Goldenwest, a street that used to be flanked by grassy hills, yellow with flowers each spring, populated by equestrians with their mounts, navigating the small valleys.
When I was in elementary school I was mad for horses, and in fifth grade I managed to convince my grandparents that I needed riding lessons. My patient grandfather would sit in his car, watching me ride a tired plodding pony around in a circle. This lasted a couple years, until I was thrown from a slightly more feisty retired race horse in my jump class. My grandfather leapt over the railing and I was safe in the front seat of the car before I could even get the breath in my chest to protest. (My grandfather may have been looking for a reason to give up the long drives to the stables; however, I think he was mostly terrified that I could potentially break my neck, as one of my distant cousins had the year before.). The riding lessons stopped, and eventually my mania for horses dissipated.
The residents of Huntington Beach lost their affinity for the scrubby brush and sandy dunes of this area; the hills are covered by the type of housing development popular in South Orange County; the houses all identical, the walls high. The only reminder of what it used to look like is west Central Park; the hills unmanicured, the brush high and bright with spring flowers. It made me a little sad. I'd loved those hills as a child.
In any case, reverie aside, I found some joy in the library bookshop. A 1958 edition of H.W. Fowler's "A Dictionary of Modern English Usage". This is when you know you are truly a geek; I clasped it to my chest as if there were others trying to get to it before me. It's true- I got actually excited about a dictionary.
I also found a little happy surprise in the "literature" section. A copy of the Santa Monica Review, Spring 2003. And whose name should be on the cover? Eugene Ipavec. The SMR joined Fowler in my bag, along with a couple criticism books about Flannery O'Connor, a copy of both of Alice Sebold's books, Amy Tan's "The Bonesetter's Daughter", a couple of Richard Ford books, another by Ann Patchett "The Magician's Assistant", "Veronica" by Mary Gaitskill, and a collection of stories from the Iowa Writers Workshop.
A stack of books to read. What more can one ask?
It ceased being a lovely drive when I turned onto Goldenwest, a street that used to be flanked by grassy hills, yellow with flowers each spring, populated by equestrians with their mounts, navigating the small valleys.
When I was in elementary school I was mad for horses, and in fifth grade I managed to convince my grandparents that I needed riding lessons. My patient grandfather would sit in his car, watching me ride a tired plodding pony around in a circle. This lasted a couple years, until I was thrown from a slightly more feisty retired race horse in my jump class. My grandfather leapt over the railing and I was safe in the front seat of the car before I could even get the breath in my chest to protest. (My grandfather may have been looking for a reason to give up the long drives to the stables; however, I think he was mostly terrified that I could potentially break my neck, as one of my distant cousins had the year before.). The riding lessons stopped, and eventually my mania for horses dissipated.
The residents of Huntington Beach lost their affinity for the scrubby brush and sandy dunes of this area; the hills are covered by the type of housing development popular in South Orange County; the houses all identical, the walls high. The only reminder of what it used to look like is west Central Park; the hills unmanicured, the brush high and bright with spring flowers. It made me a little sad. I'd loved those hills as a child.
In any case, reverie aside, I found some joy in the library bookshop. A 1958 edition of H.W. Fowler's "A Dictionary of Modern English Usage". This is when you know you are truly a geek; I clasped it to my chest as if there were others trying to get to it before me. It's true- I got actually excited about a dictionary.
I also found a little happy surprise in the "literature" section. A copy of the Santa Monica Review, Spring 2003. And whose name should be on the cover? Eugene Ipavec. The SMR joined Fowler in my bag, along with a couple criticism books about Flannery O'Connor, a copy of both of Alice Sebold's books, Amy Tan's "The Bonesetter's Daughter", a couple of Richard Ford books, another by Ann Patchett "The Magician's Assistant", "Veronica" by Mary Gaitskill, and a collection of stories from the Iowa Writers Workshop.
A stack of books to read. What more can one ask?
05 May, 2006
Delivered
The postal service website says:
Delivered, May 04, 2006, 10:42 am, NEVADA CITY, CA 95959
So they didn't get lost in the mail, which I found myself half hoping today.
Well, not bad delivery time for priority mail, I guess. I posted the envelope on May 2 about 2 PM, so really not bad.
At my job today, I came back from my lunch to find a bunch of co-workers using a piece of pipe to destroy the effigy of a white man, with fake money taped to his hands. Normally, I'd say this was an odd development, but I presume it was meant to be a pinata.
In Orange County, one never knows.
Happy Cinco de Mayo.
***
(As a little side note, I love that Mexico declared their independence on September 15 and this website states that May 5 should be their independence day. That seems like such a very GB thing to say.... Please also savor the line "Americans never forget who their friends are..." towards the bottom of the page. Forgetting, of course, the current situation with our Mexican "friends". -{Do Republicans have friends?}- Obviously written by an astute student of American foreign policy and immigration issues).
Delivered, May 04, 2006, 10:42 am, NEVADA CITY, CA 95959
So they didn't get lost in the mail, which I found myself half hoping today.
Well, not bad delivery time for priority mail, I guess. I posted the envelope on May 2 about 2 PM, so really not bad.
At my job today, I came back from my lunch to find a bunch of co-workers using a piece of pipe to destroy the effigy of a white man, with fake money taped to his hands. Normally, I'd say this was an odd development, but I presume it was meant to be a pinata.
In Orange County, one never knows.
Happy Cinco de Mayo.
***
(As a little side note, I love that Mexico declared their independence on September 15 and this website states that May 5 should be their independence day. That seems like such a very GB thing to say.... Please also savor the line "Americans never forget who their friends are..." towards the bottom of the page. Forgetting, of course, the current situation with our Mexican "friends". -{Do Republicans have friends?}- Obviously written by an astute student of American foreign policy and immigration issues).
04 May, 2006
02 May, 2006
Submitted...
I submitted two stories for consideration for the Squaw Valley Community of Writers workshop. I mailed them. Today.
I'm a bit at a loss- I've been slugging away at editing them for the past week, shifting commas, removing pronouns, adding an "s" to "Thursday". The same old stuff.
Now I can't make any more changes- they've already been sent out. This is kind of a crazy day. I've never done that before, in any way. No submissions to magazines, nothing. Not even to the literary journal of which I know both editors. So this is strange. I'm nervous.
I suppose it doesn't matter, I'll get in or I won't, but still... The US postal service has my stories speeding off to be read by someone.
It's still a bit disconcerting.
I'm a bit at a loss- I've been slugging away at editing them for the past week, shifting commas, removing pronouns, adding an "s" to "Thursday". The same old stuff.
Now I can't make any more changes- they've already been sent out. This is kind of a crazy day. I've never done that before, in any way. No submissions to magazines, nothing. Not even to the literary journal of which I know both editors. So this is strange. I'm nervous.
I suppose it doesn't matter, I'll get in or I won't, but still... The US postal service has my stories speeding off to be read by someone.
It's still a bit disconcerting.
A Belated Happy May Day....
Workers of the world, unite.
Especially now, in this particular time, this particular place.
I just realized that I went home sick from work on the day one was supposed to stay home; join protests to support our immigrants, our people. Maybe my brain did on purpose. The mind is truly a mysterious organ.
Just a thought.
Especially now, in this particular time, this particular place.
I just realized that I went home sick from work on the day one was supposed to stay home; join protests to support our immigrants, our people. Maybe my brain did on purpose. The mind is truly a mysterious organ.
Just a thought.
Hildegarde of Bingen
Hildegarde of Bingen and I have something in common. You may be curious what a modern day atheist and a Catholic nun famous for her visions (and her infamous description of the female orgasm) might have in common.
We both suffer from migraines. Hildegarde is widely regarded as a migraine sufferer, that her so-called visions were actually the effects of migraine.
I was wondering yesterday, as I sat drugged and stoic, what it would be like to have migraines without modern medication. My migraine medication is expensive (about $30 a pill), but it is so completely necessary to me.
I had two migraines in my life before I discovered what was happening. The first time it happened during a period when I didn't have health insurance, (which I do now), so I didn't go visit a doctor.
I thought I really wanted to die. I felt like someone was beating me, mashing my soft tissue, pummeling the inside of my skull. I took a shower, something that has always lessened the effects of a headache for me. I took ridiculous amounts of painkillers, hoping for the pain to abate. It did, after about twelve hours of agony.
It began at work, with numbness in my fingers, an inability to speak, and spots of light in my vision. Now I can recognize these symptoms and take my medication before the really bad part begins, but back then I had no idea what had happened to me. No one in my family suffers from migraines, so I really didn't even think of it until I had the second one. Now, when I see the little circles of light, I run for the medicine cabinet. I carry one pill with me all the time. I spend about six hours not able to complete a simple sentence- the medication is that powerful. I can only sit, staring at nothing in particular, sensitive still to light and sound.
After experiencing a fair number of these, (I seem to have more than one "trigger"), I wonder about poor Hildegarde, attributing that intense pain to her god. After the medication wore off yesterday, I sat, thinking about what kind of faith she had, what kind of person she was. Who would choose to love a god that could do that to you, then claim that the pain were visions from that same god, a gift?
This is the kind of thing that comes to my mind after the euphoria (from dodging a migraine) begins to ebb...
We both suffer from migraines. Hildegarde is widely regarded as a migraine sufferer, that her so-called visions were actually the effects of migraine.
I was wondering yesterday, as I sat drugged and stoic, what it would be like to have migraines without modern medication. My migraine medication is expensive (about $30 a pill), but it is so completely necessary to me.
I had two migraines in my life before I discovered what was happening. The first time it happened during a period when I didn't have health insurance, (which I do now), so I didn't go visit a doctor.
I thought I really wanted to die. I felt like someone was beating me, mashing my soft tissue, pummeling the inside of my skull. I took a shower, something that has always lessened the effects of a headache for me. I took ridiculous amounts of painkillers, hoping for the pain to abate. It did, after about twelve hours of agony.
It began at work, with numbness in my fingers, an inability to speak, and spots of light in my vision. Now I can recognize these symptoms and take my medication before the really bad part begins, but back then I had no idea what had happened to me. No one in my family suffers from migraines, so I really didn't even think of it until I had the second one. Now, when I see the little circles of light, I run for the medicine cabinet. I carry one pill with me all the time. I spend about six hours not able to complete a simple sentence- the medication is that powerful. I can only sit, staring at nothing in particular, sensitive still to light and sound.
After experiencing a fair number of these, (I seem to have more than one "trigger"), I wonder about poor Hildegarde, attributing that intense pain to her god. After the medication wore off yesterday, I sat, thinking about what kind of faith she had, what kind of person she was. Who would choose to love a god that could do that to you, then claim that the pain were visions from that same god, a gift?
This is the kind of thing that comes to my mind after the euphoria (from dodging a migraine) begins to ebb...
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