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?
16 May, 2006
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...
29 April, 2006
OpenOffice Hates Me. Technology Hates Me.
I don't know enough about X11 to know why OpenOffice on Mac OS X doesn't allow me to cut and paste from other apps. I'm sure there's something incredibly simple I have to do to be able to do that- I just don't have the time this weekend to sort it out.
It is indicative of the way this week has been going, so I can't feel altogether surprised that its not working too smoothly. C'est la vie, mais quelle horreur. Off to the Apple Store tomorrow, (wait, today, it's after midnight), to get myself a copy of AppleWorks.
I've kept OpenOffice installed, though, so I can mess about with it when I have more leisure time available. (By the way, thanks for the recommendation/link, Jonathan). I have to write two papers (with research and whatnot), attend a party, and somehow entertain friends (that my husband invited over) tomorrow evening, despite the drifts of paper covering every available surface in the house. I thought we had a rug in the living room, but I can't really be sure right now...
Oh, and I have to decide what to send for Squaw Valley, and read a friend's comments on
one of the potential submissions. Once I actually get the stories to a place where I feel happy, I'm sure I'll send them out and find a slew of things I detest about them. Sa toujours quelque chose.
I could be writing right now, actually, therefore I think it is officially time to finish this entry. It seems to have devolved into a to-do list, for which I apologize. How very type A of me.
It is indicative of the way this week has been going, so I can't feel altogether surprised that its not working too smoothly. C'est la vie, mais quelle horreur. Off to the Apple Store tomorrow, (wait, today, it's after midnight), to get myself a copy of AppleWorks.
I've kept OpenOffice installed, though, so I can mess about with it when I have more leisure time available. (By the way, thanks for the recommendation/link, Jonathan). I have to write two papers (with research and whatnot), attend a party, and somehow entertain friends (that my husband invited over) tomorrow evening, despite the drifts of paper covering every available surface in the house. I thought we had a rug in the living room, but I can't really be sure right now...
Oh, and I have to decide what to send for Squaw Valley, and read a friend's comments on
one of the potential submissions. Once I actually get the stories to a place where I feel happy, I'm sure I'll send them out and find a slew of things I detest about them. Sa toujours quelque chose.
I could be writing right now, actually, therefore I think it is officially time to finish this entry. It seems to have devolved into a to-do list, for which I apologize. How very type A of me.
27 April, 2006
The iBook is dead. Long live the MacBook Pro.
My iBook died an agonizing death this weekend. In the midst of its death throes, I managed to back up almost everything. So not too bad, considering. I'm not even sure what I've lost yet- haven't had time to parse through the backup.
Replacement options. iBook part two? Or a MacBook Pro?
I had to go with the MacBook Pro, so I am now typing on a lovely 15 inch widescreen MacBook Pro. It's very pretty, but incredibly doesn't come with AppleWorks any more. There is no actual word processing app on the silly thing. So now I need to decide whether I should break down and actually pay for AppleWorks (this seems somehow wrong) or I can seek out an acceptable alternative. I'm just a little baffled that Apple wants more money out of me after I just shelled out about $2k for this little beauty. Wouldn't it be nice if they could just give me what I want?
I guess that's life.
School is going famously. I have far too much work to do in far too short of a time. (This resulting from this past weekend's desperate attempts at rescusitation of the now infamous iBook, creating a vacuum in which my scheduled homework time was sucked into, therefore creating a pile to get through this weekend, unfortunately coinciding with the L.A. Times Festival of Books).
Random list time. Three books I read this week:
Bel Canto, by Ann Patchett
Assasination Vacation, by Sarah Vowell
High Fidelity, by Nick Hornby
Thoughts- Nick Hornby seems overrated. Sarah Vowell is very funny- she seems like she'd be fun as a road trip partner. Ann Patchett's Bel Canto was good. I was, however, put off by the description of one of her other novels. Am I the only person who recoils in horror when reading the following words in a book description?
"A journey of self discovery..."
I feel a little sick right now, just thinking about it. I am aware of the strangeness of this. I just can't imagine how this is supposed to make me want to read anything such a hackneyed phrase would describe. But Bel Canto was pretty good...
Replacement options. iBook part two? Or a MacBook Pro?
I had to go with the MacBook Pro, so I am now typing on a lovely 15 inch widescreen MacBook Pro. It's very pretty, but incredibly doesn't come with AppleWorks any more. There is no actual word processing app on the silly thing. So now I need to decide whether I should break down and actually pay for AppleWorks (this seems somehow wrong) or I can seek out an acceptable alternative. I'm just a little baffled that Apple wants more money out of me after I just shelled out about $2k for this little beauty. Wouldn't it be nice if they could just give me what I want?
I guess that's life.
School is going famously. I have far too much work to do in far too short of a time. (This resulting from this past weekend's desperate attempts at rescusitation of the now infamous iBook, creating a vacuum in which my scheduled homework time was sucked into, therefore creating a pile to get through this weekend, unfortunately coinciding with the L.A. Times Festival of Books).
Random list time. Three books I read this week:
Bel Canto, by Ann Patchett
Assasination Vacation, by Sarah Vowell
High Fidelity, by Nick Hornby
Thoughts- Nick Hornby seems overrated. Sarah Vowell is very funny- she seems like she'd be fun as a road trip partner. Ann Patchett's Bel Canto was good. I was, however, put off by the description of one of her other novels. Am I the only person who recoils in horror when reading the following words in a book description?
"A journey of self discovery..."
I feel a little sick right now, just thinking about it. I am aware of the strangeness of this. I just can't imagine how this is supposed to make me want to read anything such a hackneyed phrase would describe. But Bel Canto was pretty good...
21 April, 2006
Why My Name is Lame
My name is so dumb. I hate that this title rhymes. Whatever.
I just searched myself on Blogger.com, thinking it would be interesting if my actual blog came up. The first, I don't know, say, 10 entries were sort of dirty. Why is my name used in porn so much?
Is "Jaimee" such a popular name for ladies involved in such business? If so, thanks, Mom.
I just searched myself on Blogger.com, thinking it would be interesting if my actual blog came up. The first, I don't know, say, 10 entries were sort of dirty. Why is my name used in porn so much?
Is "Jaimee" such a popular name for ladies involved in such business? If so, thanks, Mom.
07 April, 2006
Buddhism and the Cat Named Evil
It's been a strange week. It just keeps getting stranger.
Tuesday morning I was driving down 3rd St., as I almost always do, avoiding the traffic on 7th by the high school. My windows were misty from the morning fog. My windshield was mostly clear, though.
I'm driving along, and suddenly a Buddhist monk, scarlet robe, saffron sash, sport sandals steps out from behind a parked car.
I swerve, missing him, but not by much. The rest of my far too long commute I couldn't think of anything else. What if I had killed a Buddhist? A holy man, no less.
As a side note, I have to say I'm not sure why all the monks I see in my neighborhood wear sport sandals, but there you are.
Now, if you're reading this, you can see from the Einstein quote that I am a gal that believes in no gods at all. However, I really think that even an athiest has to at least respect Buddhism, for the sheer fact that they're just nice. There's never been a bloody Buddhist crusade. The Buddhists have never woken me up to share the good news of a Saturday morning. There are no Buddhist televangelists. All of this adds up to my favorite kind of religion- the be nice to people and don't bother them kind.
As a result, I feel rather kindly towards the residents of our own Belmont Shores monastery, the beautiful building on Ocean and Redondo. I was horrified that I'd almost murdered a representative of the religion I find least obnoxious.
This thought rattled around in my head: if I believed in hell, I would probably be thinking that would be my new final destination. So that night, in a fit of cocoa fueled insomnia, I sat down to write, instead of laying in bed trying to make out the ceiling fan without my glasses in the dark. I was thinking of this week's brief for my writing class. Intertwine two seemingly unrelated stories with similar elements, based on a T.C. Boyle story that ran recently in Harper's.
So I began to write, and what do you know, one of my characters actually hit a monk with her car.
A cat named Evil.
The story of Evil (our name for him- not his real name) begins early last summer, when our neighbor began letting her new young cat out of the house to terrorize the neighborhood's outside cats. We've got probably at least 10 cats that live on our block, including the most filthy but sweet little gal named Ping. Ping greets people walking along our street with a crusty sounding meow and follows jauntily behind, trotting to keep up. Ping likes to visit our house, because we leave out food and water for her and other semi-homeless kitties on our block. She greets me, most days, perched on one of our fence posts by our gate. She's an extremely outgoing little kitty, and she gets along perfectly well with all the other cats.
Evil began systematically chasing Ping. In fact, Evil began fighting all the cats in our neighborhood. The open windowed summer nights began to ring with pained yowls and we began to be unhappy about our neighborhood's new bully.
Our kitties, accustomed to hanging out on hot summer nights in our tiny fenced front yard, began to suffer ninja like attacks from Evil. He would sneak up to the outside of the fence, wait for a kitty to venture near, then he would leap over the fence to scratch at any part of our kitties he could get his claws into. Our kitties became wary, watchful. They got nervous, even in our house, when they would hear Evil yowl out in the dark somewhere.
Then, in August, our girl kitty (we have two Siamese cats) Honey began to avoid having her booty scratched. She's always loved this- she's an addict for rubbing her face on anything, and she'll lay down the front half of her body and push her rear end way up into the air when you scratch the base of her tail, even tipping over sometimes. So when she shied away from this favorite, we decided to capture her and take a closer look.
We found a lump on the left hand side of her hip, up by her tail. We were horrified that we hadn't seen it before. The vet (the awesome guys over at Cats and Dogs on Redondo- weird little shout out, I guess) proclaimed it to be an infection, caused by a scratch that had healed quickly (as cat's skin often does, apparently) and trapped bacteria that had caused an infection. Please note that this is probably an incredibly inadequate description from a total ignoramus on vet stuff.
The vet had to keep her overnight, to make a drainage hole to allow the pus out of the wound. This gets gorier. He had to stitch in a piece of medical tubing in the wound, to keep it open. For a week she walked around our house in her little blue collar, looking for all the world like a cat dressing up as a flower for her school play, merely happening to have a three inch long Frankenstein wound along her shaved bum with a tube hanging out. I should also mention that she was drugged, for the pain of her surgery, to help in preventing her from pulling out her tube after the first time she pulled it out. (Sigh). She would walk around our house running into furniture with her little daisy cone and stopping, because the medicine made her too dumb to back up. I cried so much that first week. She looked so incredibly pathetic. I would sit and pet her and she would sit in my lap, purring this sad drunken little purr.
It was a traumatizing week. But it got worse. On our one week return to the vet, to get the tubing taken out (we were very happy about this development, in vain as it turned out) only to find that now we had to take a plastic syringe and shove it into the wound and pump this disinfectant in the top of the hole. Because it needed to run out the bottom of the wound, washing the pus out.
I don't know if I can write about this part. I'll make it short. Honey crying from pain and what I assumed to be bewilderment. Pus dripping. A multitude of filthy, pus dotted towels. Twice a day. For about three weeks. It was as close to I will ever come to running away from my life. It was hideous, awful, guilt inducing. Crying twice a day over my hurting pet. I don't think I could do it again. It was really, really, really bad.
And it was all because of the neighbor's cat. Evil got his name that August.
We began to chase Evil away from our house and keep the kitties inside all the time. They were sad. What do kitties know? They just knew we were somehow punishing them, not letting them roll on the hot cement and lay in the cool wet grass.
We petitioned the neighbor to keep her cat inside, pointing towards Honey's shaved rear end and her white scar. She said she would try, but she really said no. Evil still roamed our neighborhood. So the kitties stayed inside.
Evil still wanted to murder Honey, though. He took to leaping up to the windows where she slept, soaking in the sun, and scratching through the screen to get at her. R. started squirting Evil with the kitchen sink hose through our kitchen window, trying to keep him away.
I wanted bad things to happen to Evil. I really did. I was angry about the way he constantly made trouble. The way he'd made Honey suffer for the entire month of August. If I saw him outside I would stomp towards him and yell. I would make hissing noises and growl at him. I really began to hate that cat.
Then, a couple months later, after R. got a water gun to squirt Evil with, I just didn't care as much anymore. Our kitties were safe inside and Evil mostly stayed away, although we could occasionally hear him hissing at our cats through our screen door.
Then, last night, R. called after I got out of class to tell me that Evil was run over by a car. His voice was flat and somehow lonely. I asked him if he was ok, and he said, yeah, in a toneless kind of way.
He said that he'd been the one to spot Evil lying in the street, motionless, in a way that R. knew meant he was dead. He said that our other neighbor, M., told Evil's mom. R. and M. ended up cleaning up the spot in the street where Evil had been run over. He said, Do you remember all those times I said I'd never shed a tear for that cat?
Yes, I answered. I do.
I lied, he said.
Today, as I was driving to work, I was thinking about Evil, and how much I had wanted harm to come to him. And how that feeling had faded with time, and how I hardly even thought about him anymore. How sad I felt for Evil's mom, because it is a hard thing to lose your pet this way, and it is even harder to tell your four and five year old boys that their kitty has gone away. It's hard to drive past the stain on the white concrete of our street and not feel sad for the cat we didn't like. I told people at work who remembered Honey's ordeal and they said, good, that bad cat deserved what it got. I wondered about what I really felt about Evil now. How I felt like I was glad he was gone. How I was glad the other kitties could return to peacefully wandering about the neighborhood. How Honey could go outside to eat grass again. How the neighbor boys didn't have a kitty anymore.
I came home from work in the newly restored sunlight of seven o'clock. I parked my car, sitting for a moment to listen to the radio, catching the little glimpse of ocean at the end of our street. I opened the car door to see a Buddhist monk walking down the street, smiling. I said Hi.
Tuesday morning I was driving down 3rd St., as I almost always do, avoiding the traffic on 7th by the high school. My windows were misty from the morning fog. My windshield was mostly clear, though.
I'm driving along, and suddenly a Buddhist monk, scarlet robe, saffron sash, sport sandals steps out from behind a parked car.
I swerve, missing him, but not by much. The rest of my far too long commute I couldn't think of anything else. What if I had killed a Buddhist? A holy man, no less.
As a side note, I have to say I'm not sure why all the monks I see in my neighborhood wear sport sandals, but there you are.
Now, if you're reading this, you can see from the Einstein quote that I am a gal that believes in no gods at all. However, I really think that even an athiest has to at least respect Buddhism, for the sheer fact that they're just nice. There's never been a bloody Buddhist crusade. The Buddhists have never woken me up to share the good news of a Saturday morning. There are no Buddhist televangelists. All of this adds up to my favorite kind of religion- the be nice to people and don't bother them kind.
As a result, I feel rather kindly towards the residents of our own Belmont Shores monastery, the beautiful building on Ocean and Redondo. I was horrified that I'd almost murdered a representative of the religion I find least obnoxious.
This thought rattled around in my head: if I believed in hell, I would probably be thinking that would be my new final destination. So that night, in a fit of cocoa fueled insomnia, I sat down to write, instead of laying in bed trying to make out the ceiling fan without my glasses in the dark. I was thinking of this week's brief for my writing class. Intertwine two seemingly unrelated stories with similar elements, based on a T.C. Boyle story that ran recently in Harper's.
So I began to write, and what do you know, one of my characters actually hit a monk with her car.
A cat named Evil.
The story of Evil (our name for him- not his real name) begins early last summer, when our neighbor began letting her new young cat out of the house to terrorize the neighborhood's outside cats. We've got probably at least 10 cats that live on our block, including the most filthy but sweet little gal named Ping. Ping greets people walking along our street with a crusty sounding meow and follows jauntily behind, trotting to keep up. Ping likes to visit our house, because we leave out food and water for her and other semi-homeless kitties on our block. She greets me, most days, perched on one of our fence posts by our gate. She's an extremely outgoing little kitty, and she gets along perfectly well with all the other cats.
Evil began systematically chasing Ping. In fact, Evil began fighting all the cats in our neighborhood. The open windowed summer nights began to ring with pained yowls and we began to be unhappy about our neighborhood's new bully.
Our kitties, accustomed to hanging out on hot summer nights in our tiny fenced front yard, began to suffer ninja like attacks from Evil. He would sneak up to the outside of the fence, wait for a kitty to venture near, then he would leap over the fence to scratch at any part of our kitties he could get his claws into. Our kitties became wary, watchful. They got nervous, even in our house, when they would hear Evil yowl out in the dark somewhere.
Then, in August, our girl kitty (we have two Siamese cats) Honey began to avoid having her booty scratched. She's always loved this- she's an addict for rubbing her face on anything, and she'll lay down the front half of her body and push her rear end way up into the air when you scratch the base of her tail, even tipping over sometimes. So when she shied away from this favorite, we decided to capture her and take a closer look.
We found a lump on the left hand side of her hip, up by her tail. We were horrified that we hadn't seen it before. The vet (the awesome guys over at Cats and Dogs on Redondo- weird little shout out, I guess) proclaimed it to be an infection, caused by a scratch that had healed quickly (as cat's skin often does, apparently) and trapped bacteria that had caused an infection. Please note that this is probably an incredibly inadequate description from a total ignoramus on vet stuff.
The vet had to keep her overnight, to make a drainage hole to allow the pus out of the wound. This gets gorier. He had to stitch in a piece of medical tubing in the wound, to keep it open. For a week she walked around our house in her little blue collar, looking for all the world like a cat dressing up as a flower for her school play, merely happening to have a three inch long Frankenstein wound along her shaved bum with a tube hanging out. I should also mention that she was drugged, for the pain of her surgery, to help in preventing her from pulling out her tube after the first time she pulled it out. (Sigh). She would walk around our house running into furniture with her little daisy cone and stopping, because the medicine made her too dumb to back up. I cried so much that first week. She looked so incredibly pathetic. I would sit and pet her and she would sit in my lap, purring this sad drunken little purr.
It was a traumatizing week. But it got worse. On our one week return to the vet, to get the tubing taken out (we were very happy about this development, in vain as it turned out) only to find that now we had to take a plastic syringe and shove it into the wound and pump this disinfectant in the top of the hole. Because it needed to run out the bottom of the wound, washing the pus out.
I don't know if I can write about this part. I'll make it short. Honey crying from pain and what I assumed to be bewilderment. Pus dripping. A multitude of filthy, pus dotted towels. Twice a day. For about three weeks. It was as close to I will ever come to running away from my life. It was hideous, awful, guilt inducing. Crying twice a day over my hurting pet. I don't think I could do it again. It was really, really, really bad.
And it was all because of the neighbor's cat. Evil got his name that August.
We began to chase Evil away from our house and keep the kitties inside all the time. They were sad. What do kitties know? They just knew we were somehow punishing them, not letting them roll on the hot cement and lay in the cool wet grass.
We petitioned the neighbor to keep her cat inside, pointing towards Honey's shaved rear end and her white scar. She said she would try, but she really said no. Evil still roamed our neighborhood. So the kitties stayed inside.
Evil still wanted to murder Honey, though. He took to leaping up to the windows where she slept, soaking in the sun, and scratching through the screen to get at her. R. started squirting Evil with the kitchen sink hose through our kitchen window, trying to keep him away.
I wanted bad things to happen to Evil. I really did. I was angry about the way he constantly made trouble. The way he'd made Honey suffer for the entire month of August. If I saw him outside I would stomp towards him and yell. I would make hissing noises and growl at him. I really began to hate that cat.
Then, a couple months later, after R. got a water gun to squirt Evil with, I just didn't care as much anymore. Our kitties were safe inside and Evil mostly stayed away, although we could occasionally hear him hissing at our cats through our screen door.
Then, last night, R. called after I got out of class to tell me that Evil was run over by a car. His voice was flat and somehow lonely. I asked him if he was ok, and he said, yeah, in a toneless kind of way.
He said that he'd been the one to spot Evil lying in the street, motionless, in a way that R. knew meant he was dead. He said that our other neighbor, M., told Evil's mom. R. and M. ended up cleaning up the spot in the street where Evil had been run over. He said, Do you remember all those times I said I'd never shed a tear for that cat?
Yes, I answered. I do.
I lied, he said.
Today, as I was driving to work, I was thinking about Evil, and how much I had wanted harm to come to him. And how that feeling had faded with time, and how I hardly even thought about him anymore. How sad I felt for Evil's mom, because it is a hard thing to lose your pet this way, and it is even harder to tell your four and five year old boys that their kitty has gone away. It's hard to drive past the stain on the white concrete of our street and not feel sad for the cat we didn't like. I told people at work who remembered Honey's ordeal and they said, good, that bad cat deserved what it got. I wondered about what I really felt about Evil now. How I felt like I was glad he was gone. How I was glad the other kitties could return to peacefully wandering about the neighborhood. How Honey could go outside to eat grass again. How the neighbor boys didn't have a kitty anymore.
I came home from work in the newly restored sunlight of seven o'clock. I parked my car, sitting for a moment to listen to the radio, catching the little glimpse of ocean at the end of our street. I opened the car door to see a Buddhist monk walking down the street, smiling. I said Hi.
03 April, 2006
Love and Marriage
My sister in law is engaged. And, as of two days ago, she was getting married at some unfixed point next year. Today, she's got wedding rings and the date is set. The big wedding is on hold. The little wedding is in Las Vegas. On April 15.
So fast, but I guess I'm not surprised. She wants to get married. So she's getting married. In 12 days. Instead of 12 months.
So now we are making plans to get to Vegas. Hotel. Carpool buddies. The whole shebang.
R made me cocoa. Mmmm.
So fast, but I guess I'm not surprised. She wants to get married. So she's getting married. In 12 days. Instead of 12 months.
So now we are making plans to get to Vegas. Hotel. Carpool buddies. The whole shebang.
R made me cocoa. Mmmm.
01 April, 2006
Crushes
I develop crushes with a particular rhythm. It has happened again.
I'm married. I should say that. This is not a blog about affairs. This is about ridiculous, hopeless, silly crushes. I had one on Liev Schrieber after he played Orson Welles in "RKO 481". I got one on Vince Vaughn after he was the serial killer in "Clay Pigeons". (I don't know exactly what that says about me). I got one on Neil Gaiman after I read the Sandman graphic novels. I had a crush on Rivers Cuomo after "Pinkerton".
My newest crush is Ira Glass, host of "This American Life" on NPR. I am aware that many women (and probably men) have crushes on Ira Glass. I am just that kind of dork. I like stories. He likes stories. I don't think this is a particularly emotional crush- just a passing one. His voice should be used to read bedtime stories. It's just so calming.
I didn't realize until a few weeks ago that I wait each week for the hour when "This American Life" is on each week. I've been listening for a while, I just didn't get that this was something that I was kind of obsessed with. I usually listen to music when I drive home, but I don't even turn on the iPod on Fridays.
So, I guess this is a thank you to National Public Radio, for bringing me entertainment, news, and Ira Glass.
I'm married. I should say that. This is not a blog about affairs. This is about ridiculous, hopeless, silly crushes. I had one on Liev Schrieber after he played Orson Welles in "RKO 481". I got one on Vince Vaughn after he was the serial killer in "Clay Pigeons". (I don't know exactly what that says about me). I got one on Neil Gaiman after I read the Sandman graphic novels. I had a crush on Rivers Cuomo after "Pinkerton".
My newest crush is Ira Glass, host of "This American Life" on NPR. I am aware that many women (and probably men) have crushes on Ira Glass. I am just that kind of dork. I like stories. He likes stories. I don't think this is a particularly emotional crush- just a passing one. His voice should be used to read bedtime stories. It's just so calming.
I didn't realize until a few weeks ago that I wait each week for the hour when "This American Life" is on each week. I've been listening for a while, I just didn't get that this was something that I was kind of obsessed with. I usually listen to music when I drive home, but I don't even turn on the iPod on Fridays.
So, I guess this is a thank you to National Public Radio, for bringing me entertainment, news, and Ira Glass.
27 March, 2006
The Flu?
I am thinking I may be getting the flu. My glands are sore, I have a weeklong headache, and I feel icky. It's just a crummy day. PA's dog is at the vet after vomitting blood last night. Little miss has the flu. I feel like hell. Overall, pretty lame, even for a Monday.
I have a French test later this week. I need to write something for Thursday. I need to finish a test for music. I need to get really cracking on my Flannery O'Connor research paper. Too much to do and absolutely no energy with which to do it. This is the part of the school year I hate. I am exhausted, sick, and my motivation flees somewhere warmer than here (54 degrees and raining).
It's just so hard to maintain enthusiasm sometimes.
I have a French test later this week. I need to write something for Thursday. I need to finish a test for music. I need to get really cracking on my Flannery O'Connor research paper. Too much to do and absolutely no energy with which to do it. This is the part of the school year I hate. I am exhausted, sick, and my motivation flees somewhere warmer than here (54 degrees and raining).
It's just so hard to maintain enthusiasm sometimes.
26 March, 2006
Bone Tired
I feel my age and some today. My very soul seems tired. I am having trouble even talking with any semblance of actual coherence.
I tried to read the stories for this week's workshop, but I couldn't pay enough attention to get through. I'll have to read them later this week. I need to sit down and try to write again. I am just not feeling it right now. I am just soul tired, I guess.
I have to decide soon if I am going to try and get into the Squaw Valley workshop. I don't know if I am really good enough to get in. And if I do get in, I don't know how I'll be able to deal with the pressure of bringing something actually good to the table. I am not feeling it right now. I am feeling so very like I just have no talent and nothing to say. Bleh.
So tired. I need a new day. This one is just done.
I tried to read the stories for this week's workshop, but I couldn't pay enough attention to get through. I'll have to read them later this week. I need to sit down and try to write again. I am just not feeling it right now. I am just soul tired, I guess.
I have to decide soon if I am going to try and get into the Squaw Valley workshop. I don't know if I am really good enough to get in. And if I do get in, I don't know how I'll be able to deal with the pressure of bringing something actually good to the table. I am not feeling it right now. I am feeling so very like I just have no talent and nothing to say. Bleh.
So tired. I need a new day. This one is just done.
25 March, 2006
An online literary journal...
I am thinking about the idea of creating an online literary journal through a blog, where friends can post things and we can all comment... Maybe for over the summer, or something. Like an online workshop. Somewhere to get some feedback.
I'll have to think about it though, it all gets murky about whether that would be considered published or not... I really don't know if it would qualify or not. I mean, nobody reads my blog, but still, I wouldn't want to jeopardize anyone else's chance of being published.
I am considering sending something out soon. I just don't know if I am ready for a canned rejection of my work. I don't have a fabulous writing self esteem, and I can't imagine how very much I would cry when I get my first rejection slip. Some people in my workshop seem to have such confidence in their work, and I don't seem to have any at all. (I don't really, deep down, think that I am terrible. I just don't think I am particularly good.)
I think that maybe I need to just pretend it isn't my work, but that I am acting as an agent for my second personality, or something. I know it sounds crazy, but perhaps if it isn't me that I wait on pins and needles for, then I'll stay moderately sane about the entire thing. I can't even quite call myself a writer without being vaguely embarrassed, as if I were a child with a nose picking problem, caught with a finger in my nose. I can't quite explain why it makes me embarrassed. It has a lot to do with proof, I believe. I can't really prove it. That I'm a writer. I have no clippings to show, no money made. I think that in my logical, analytical world at work, I always require proof from others. So I feel ashamed that I've none to give, I guess.
So I require proof. What really defines a writer, though? Is it simply being published? Well, that can't really be it, can it? There are loads of writers that have been published posthumously. I suppose I'll just have to think about it. Maybe I just need to reevaluate what I think a writer really constitutes. Maybe I don't really need to send work out. I can just write and wait to die, hoping that someone will send it out after I'm dead. Perhaps that would be ideal, in any case.
I'll have to think about it though, it all gets murky about whether that would be considered published or not... I really don't know if it would qualify or not. I mean, nobody reads my blog, but still, I wouldn't want to jeopardize anyone else's chance of being published.
I am considering sending something out soon. I just don't know if I am ready for a canned rejection of my work. I don't have a fabulous writing self esteem, and I can't imagine how very much I would cry when I get my first rejection slip. Some people in my workshop seem to have such confidence in their work, and I don't seem to have any at all. (I don't really, deep down, think that I am terrible. I just don't think I am particularly good.)
I think that maybe I need to just pretend it isn't my work, but that I am acting as an agent for my second personality, or something. I know it sounds crazy, but perhaps if it isn't me that I wait on pins and needles for, then I'll stay moderately sane about the entire thing. I can't even quite call myself a writer without being vaguely embarrassed, as if I were a child with a nose picking problem, caught with a finger in my nose. I can't quite explain why it makes me embarrassed. It has a lot to do with proof, I believe. I can't really prove it. That I'm a writer. I have no clippings to show, no money made. I think that in my logical, analytical world at work, I always require proof from others. So I feel ashamed that I've none to give, I guess.
So I require proof. What really defines a writer, though? Is it simply being published? Well, that can't really be it, can it? There are loads of writers that have been published posthumously. I suppose I'll just have to think about it. Maybe I just need to reevaluate what I think a writer really constitutes. Maybe I don't really need to send work out. I can just write and wait to die, hoping that someone will send it out after I'm dead. Perhaps that would be ideal, in any case.
24 March, 2006
Ok, it actually works.
I just checked and my previous post went out. How cool is that. This is a really easy way to post. Maybe I'll be doing it a little more often. I think the Dashboard widgets are really fun. I just learned how to play to Soduko and how to make a dirty martini. And I can translate things into Russian. I think I am just about ready to become a spy.
I can even keep track of what time it is in Casablanca. This is so cool.
I can even keep track of what time it is in Casablanca. This is so cool.
OS X Tiger is nifty.
I just got OS X and I am posting this from Dashboard. How cool is this. Google is awesome. So is Apple. Yay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)