A little too bright

After a rough night of wailing winds ripping fragile yellowed leaves from their precarious perches, the sun is a bright ball of light hammering down from a achingly blue sky. The folds in the mountain face are deep irregular slashes of darkness besides brightly lit shades of green and highlighted gold through the twiggy fingers of the bald scarecrow trees on this silent Saturday morning. Birds play tug of war with insects diving into the craggy bark of two-fingered tree outside my window and sere brown leaves cling with tenacious skeletal grips to the precarious attachments here and there. Gone are the Farmer's Market crowds cruising the street looking for a parking place close to Bancroft Park and striding purposefully down 24th like early birds soaring and dipping on the winds determined to get to the fattest and juiciest worms first.

Silver smokestacks rise above green and gray and brown shingled roofs flashing fire that sears my sleep addled eyes. There are chores to do: floors to sweep and mop, dishes waiting in the sink, laundry to be sorted and washed, a bathroom to be cleaned, and the urge to crawl back into the warm shadowed sheets and shade my eyes from the argos-eyed sun, read a book, and wake when the day is not so blinding. I am drunk from broken sleep. So much to do and breakfast is waiting to fill the aching void inside.

I could flip a coin, calling best two out of three, playing the waiting game until big white clouds stray across the horizon and hide that furious blazing search light enough so I can face the day, but it is a stop gap, a bargain struck with a wisp of smoke, and I would still need to keep my date with my chores. It is far too easy to give in to this urge to climb back into the cocoon before my wings fill and dry, but I know I would emerge later, wings stunted and wrinkled, unable to fly.

Breakfast is calling and my stomach rumbles in answer. Time to go.

eBay stories

Once upon a time not long ago I bought some things from eBay. Notably some candle making supplies that cost more to send than their selling price and a couple of hand carved wooden combs, one from China and the other from the Ukraine. I have since found out I could get them cheaper and faster through a website that deals in what I was working with -- essential oils.

Anyway, the Evil One sent me a really hilarious link to an eBay seller who put his past romantic life and his goods on display in full color. Don't forget to read all 21 questions & answers.

Make sure you don't have anything in your mouth when you're reading as I will not be responsible for liquids spewed across monitor screens. Got that, Maryann?

The picture and the story"



Q: Are these boot cut pants and if not what is the width measurement of the bottom of the pant leg? Sep-17-05
A: I do not know what a boot cut is, but the pants are 8.25 inches wide at the bottom.

Q: Seen your ad on VBMX.com.....are you gay? LOL Just kidding!! I would claim these on VBMX!! Now all the guys are gonna think of you as a sissy!! LOL!!! Good luck bro!! Sep-18-05
A: Thanks. That's a lot of exclamation points.

Q: Hi, Sorry I don't want the leather pants but just had to write and say I really had a good laugh at your description!! I really hope you sell them .... and not to a guy! Good luck! Jeannette Sep-18-05
A: If you change your mind and want the pants, I'll be waiting patiently by the keyboard.

Q: For Mr. VBMX: If he were gay, he would know what boot cut means. What does VBMX mean? Sep-19-05
A: I'm not sure. It sounds like a missile.

Q: Well, it looks like you're going to sell them. They're too big for me anyway and I'm female. You're a great writer -- so natural, so funny. I think you should be in standup. Thank you so much for making my day. Sep-19-05
A: Thank you for the kind words. In lieu of standup I post things on Banterist.com. The hours are better and there's no drink minimum.

Q: Bsack, I'm an editor for Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) (http:// www.poormojo.org), a weekly online magazine now entering its sixth year of publication. We'd like to run the text of your posting, with the image of the glorious pants, as a rant on our site. May we do so? Our submission guidlines can be found here: http://www.poormojo.org/submission.html (Long story short: we owe you a beer for one piece--provided you came to Ann Arbor or SF, CA to pick it up--or will reward you with a PMjA t-shirt after we've published 5 of your pieces.) Interested? Best, Dave . . . Editor and Technologist PMjA Sep-20-05
A: Sure, if you don't mind that it's already on Banterist.com.

Q: I am in a band, but do not wear leather pants. However, if I DID wear leather pants, your pants are the ones I would buy because your description is...eloquent and touching in a leatherish sort of way. May we post your ad on our site? Sep-20-05
A: I think I answered this already, but eBay is asking it again for some reason. Thank you for being polite and seeking permission. Sure, you can post it. After all, I'm trying to sell pants.

Q: you enjoy stereotyping people that wear leather dont ya, you think owning leather is gay, let me tell you something i am not gay, i am not famous, dont ride a bike, and unlike i aint a coward. i do own 2 pairs of them, to me they are more comfy than blue jeans ever will be, i where them anywhere i want including church, no ones ever said nothing about them. Sep-20-05
A: More important: Do you need a pair of 34x34 leather pants?

Q: You express yourself exactly like my ex-fiancee. I had to check if you lived in Boulder, CO just to see if you were him. I really didn't think anyone else had his matter of fact mixed with twisted humor personality. Ten years ago I was just ending our relationship so I was going thinking that possibly he bought these pants to try and woo a little waitress vixen with an IQ half that of her bust size. By the way, the last person that claimed that you were stereotyping, did you for some reason envision Dueling Banjos playing in the background with a man sporting a greased back mullet and a makeshift spittoon, and, of course, comfy leather pants, or was that just me? Sep-21-05
A: Yes, the grammar and tone said 'Deliverance' but the leather pants in church said 'Wham UK'. So I'm confused.

Q: I don't actually need the pants... and they wouldn't fit my less than womanly curves even if I could pull them off- but I could not resist telling you what a fabulous ad this is. While reason prevailed in the end, I was almost convinced to buy the pants if for no other reason than to see if I could be coy enough to get a man to wear them in hopes of a relationship with me... fabulous ad, just fabulous. Sep-21-05
A: Sadly I lack the ability to sell people things they don't need - unlike Ron Popeil and The Sharper Image.

Q: No question, just wanted to tell you this is the best listing i've ever read. I'm sorry it didn't work out with the short girl, but am so proud of you for never wearing these. :) Good luck with your sale! Sep-21-05
A: Thank you. I'll be free of them in less than two days, and at least $76 closer to owning a yacht.

Q: If they did still fit.. and I wasn't married, would you wear them for me? LOL.. best of luck! Sep-21-05
A: Yes, but only if I was wearing a pink tank top and re-enacting Billy Squier's regrettable 'Rock me tonight' video.

Q: I would like to be tough, gay or a rock star. Do you think purchasing and subsequently donning these trousers will help? Sep-22-05
A: Probably not if you call them 'trousers.' A true rockstar would say 'pants' or 'duds' or something more rock-star-y, like 'ladykillers.'

Q: FUNNY!! I too have a pair of leather pants to sell and for very similar reasons. Mine also have severe case of closet shrinkage. Thanks for the laugh and happy selling. tom Sep-22-05
A: Hmm. Maybe we know the same girl.

Q: Thank you for the inspiration. I am now thinking of ebaying every little thing....and I do mean little thing that I ever wore to be a man pleaser/enticer. That would have to include stiletto heels, leather bustiers, gstrings and the like.....hmmm, wait a minute....now that I think about it....I might have to bid on those pants and create an ensemble....for myself. Did I mention that I am 5'2? Sep-22-05
A: Hello Senator Clinton.

Q: I just wanted to tell you that you made me laugh aloud! First, when my husband was in high school he apparently bought a white satin Michael Jacksonesque multi-zippered jacket from The Chess King under strikingly similar circumstances. I wonder if it is the same chick . . . Second, my husband and I recently hosted a white trash party, Trailerpalooza. We had been to a 38 Special concert and decided to knock off thier look. So we each bought pleather pants (though these beauties would have been perfect!) and I then sewed flame fabric to the bottoms, as if it was lapping up the legs. We also got leather jackets which we adorned with a bit of flame fabric. Well, somehow, I came out looking like a badass, but my poor husband looked like a homo. In fact someone actually said, -It's amazing how pleather makes Shari look so bad, and Rick so gay.- I wish I had a picture on my computer, because I think it would make you laugh! Anyway, good luck with the sale of your magic pants! Sep-22-05
A: When I was a busboy at El Torito I remember a waiter who saved up hundreds for a replica Michael Jackson 'Beat It' jacket. Zippers everywhere. At the time I thought he was a god. Now I think he's probably buried in someone's tomato garden.

Q: Are these pants worthy of cruising for transvestites while in my Maserati? I just got one and need an outfit that would go with my new car. Sep-22-05
A: I think leather pants would accent that mid-life crisis quite nicely.

Q: Love the pants but . . . I wonder, how many thongs do you think could be made from them? Fruitcreek. Sep-23-05
A: For Americans? 15. French? 45.

Q: LOL. I once knew a guy who actually wore leather pants, loved them, and was very popular with them. That was 15 years ago...he was Italian...and my uncle's boyfriend. Enough said. Sep-23-05
A: Italy shares France's reputation for adultery, leather pants, and aggressiveness to women. Except for your uncle's boyfriend, of course.

Q: I have a friend that emails these types of auctions to me for a good laugh and I must admit, yours is the best I have seen in a long time. Your wording and demeanor are perfect. If I had the cake to spend on something I would never wear right now, I would buy them just for the simple fact you made me laugh that hard. I wish you made commercials on TV so I wouldn't be forced to channel surf when they came on. Kudos to you. Are all your descriptions this funny or is this a fluke? Your replies are excellent and this auction should be on Letterman or something. Good luck and thanks for the laugh. Sep-23-05
A: I used to write commercials, but they're hard to make funny because the people who make the final decisions are idiots. But maybe you'll like Banterist or Sixtysecond.

Q: I'm confused, is Donna Karan a rock star or a transvestite? Sep-23-05
A: It's a very fine line, really.


That is all. Disperse.

Just another day

After working like a dog all day, minus the 90 minutes I took to get a late breakfast, pick up my new contacts (hopefully these will not end up inside someone's cat), go to the grocery co-op to pick up some food, drop off some mail, buy a stamp, pick up a book at the library, and return reluctantly home, I fixed a fresh tuna salad with lots of vegetables, an avocado, a handful of almonds, and ginger-sesame dressing and sat down to watch The Village with William Hurt, Sigourney Weaver, and Joaquin Phoenix, among others.

At first it was difficult becoming engaged in the story. Hard to lose myself in the images because they didn't really make sense. I couldn't understand why two girls would uproot and bury a beautiful red flower. I didn't understand why a young man laughed at the fearsome roaring coming from the surrounding woods or why the people in the little valley existed.

The story unfolded very slowly and was a bit obtuse. It meandered here and there: a girl declaring her love for a young man to her father who suggested she talk to the young man first before telling anyone else. A silent young man who slowly and methodically read his reasons for going to the towns. The heavy religious overtones of the ruling elders and the mixture of laughter, happiness, fear, and silence that dotted their lives like a slow growing mold.

And then it happened.

The story unfolded with a rapid shift of sensibility and consciousness, barreling away at speeds that left me breathless and stunned, coming to a screeching halt as the light dawned slowly and clearly in its most awful colors and configurations. Lies. Deception. Fantasy. Isolation. Loss of innocence. Return to Hope.

The Village is not an easy movie to like or to understand. It's impact is sudden and shocking. The trip through the molasses thick morass of emotions and lives is tedious at times and very deceptive. I will definitely watch it again this weekend because it deserves a second viewing. One thing is certain, M. Night Shyamalan has lost none of his shock value and it is doubtful if he continues to produce movies like The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable, as well as Signs and Wide Awake that he will ever be easy to understand. That is part of the charm and the mystery of his movies.

The Village seems heavy with religious over- and undertones, as are all of Shyamalan's movies, but there is a central truth that makes you stop and take another look, to re-evaluate your perceptions and your beliefs.

And now back to your regularly scheduled lives.

That is all. Disperse.

Surprises and it isn't even my birthday

I trawl over to LJ to post and find that LJ has changed since yesterday. More links, more userpics, and more information than I ever could have wanted. I'll have to check it all out, but not today. Today the sun is a weak ball of fuzzy light peering through the clouds with just enough force to make me squint, but not enough that I can't look directly into it. Then I remember what my optometrist told me about wearing sunglasses whenever the sun is out, even if it's behind the clouds. However, it seems a little strange to go Ray Charles when I'm working inside at my desk. Then again, the sun does shine brightly in here without window coverings and I have to change positions frequently to even be able to read what's on my screen. Good thing I don't watch what I type, huh?

The sun is a watery yellow-white in a grey-white sky from horizon to infinity. The mountains outside my windows are a deep purple smudge and I can see them clearly now that the landlady had vandals come and chainsaw one of the arms off because it was touching the roof. The crotch where the squirrels perform their pornographic shows is still partially there, but their back drop is gone and that severely hampers their Dorothy Lamour long line stretches. Or at least I can't see them since they chose to use the other upright arms and the trunk blocks my view. Now the tree looks like an upraised fist in a two-fingered salute. At least I can see more of the mountains and the gold-studded hills at the base of the midnight folded line of peaks.

The new house across the street has been spray painted a golden tan with white trim and a red door and all the hammering, nailing, and noise is on the inside. They haul in sheet rock and disappear into the depths, coming out again when the sun paints a bloody swath across the horizon and fades into dusk.

Despite all the cars rumbling by, the streets are empty and silent. The street sweepers swish by, lights flashing and rotary brooms bristling away the dirt and rocks and leafy debris. Except for the few cars parked here and there and obscured by trees, the neighborhood is ghostly in its silence and calm, as if waiting for life and sound and activity, a blank sound stage between filmings.

And I have to work. All I want to do is throw on some clothes, don my sunglasses and get lost in the car breathing the smoky autumn air and following the scents of cooking and people and life. I feel as though I've been chained to this desk for ages. I need to get out and breathe and do something other than work for a few hours. I need to brush against humanity and rub shoulders with other seekers before I return to responsibility and schedules and dictations and work.

Word of the day

Every morning as part of my daily ritual, I check my email and then go to Merriam Webster to read the word of the day and to play the daily word game. Today's word struck me as funny.

yahoo • \YAH-hoo\ • noun
: a boorish, crass, or stupid person

Example sentence:
The local teenagers' reputation as a bunch of yahoos was belied by their courteous treatment of the stranded motorists.

Did you know?
We know exactly how old "yahoo" is because its debut in print also marked its entrance into the English language as a whole. "Yahoo" began life as a made-up word invented by Jonathan Swift in his book Gulliver's Travels, which was published in 1726. The Yahoos were a race of brutes, with the form and vices of humans, encountered by Gulliver in his fourth and final voyage. They represented Swift's view of mankind at its lowest. It is not surprising, then, that "yahoo" came to be applied to any actual human who was particularly unpleasant or unintelligent. Yahoos were controlled by the intelligent and virtuous Houyhnhnms, a word which apparently did not catch people's fancy as "yahoo" did.

Kind of makes you wonder why Yahoo! would choose that particular name. Boorish, crass, stupid -- and in my definition, loud. Maybe that's why people have taken to calling them Yahell.

That is all. Disperse.

Can't sleep now...

I received Tim Lebbon's new book, Berserk. One of the great things about being a book reviewer is that I get to see books before they're even on the shelves.

I usually read books in bed right before I go to sleep. It is my answer to Halcyon and every other kind of drug, chemical, herbal tea or concoction to help you sleep. It didn't work last night. Big mistake reading Lebbon's latest at night in bed and even expecting anything resembling peaceful sleep.

I have not even finished with the first chapter yet and already I know this is going to be a frightening book that will keep me awake for nights to come. I read. I fell asleep. I had nightmares that woke me in a sweaty panic. Best to read this one in the light with candles burning and amulets all around so the ghosties and ghoulies do not get close enough to hear the faltering trembling of my overtaxed heart. Talk about meat for the beast.

That is all. Disperse.

Saturday snows

I left here in plenty of time to get to Woodland Park yesterday -- or so I believed.

When I got outside it was snowing, a light granular sifting of starred crystals that looked dull and gray beneath the dark overcast sky. I couldn't see the mountains for the clouds and even though it was near 8:00 the sun was a weak kitten drunk on whiskey. Once I got to Route 24, the white hammer descended like a wrecking ball.

At first the going was fairly easy because the roads were too warm for the snow to stick, but that didn't last long as uncounted worlds of snow overwhelmed the roads and any remaining sense the drivers might have had. Four wheel drive trucks stuck in two-wheel drive were fishtailing all over the roads, slipping and sliding backwards towards the ditches. I put on the electronic traction control, dropped into third gear and drove past them, hugging the right berm in case they slid into me. Semis labored up the hill, groaning and roaring as dropped into lower gear. Four-wheel drive trucks and jeeps slowed to a crawl like turtles wearing ice skates for the first time. I maneuvered into the passing lane, careful to keep my wheels straight and my moves subtle so as not to hit the building slushy, ice coating the roads the wrong way and send me careening into the ditch or sideways into the traffic. It was like driving on a Dodge-Em car track with everyone intent on playing demolition derby. Even police cars were stuck in places and one police car slid into the side of the mountain and stayed there, steaming and fuming in the near darkness.

After a somewhat harrowing drive and a couple of near misses where I turned too sharply to avoid being hit, feathering my brakes and turning into the slide, I found the Hungry Bear Restaurant where my fellow MARC VEs were still waiting for breakfast. I was 25 minutes late, but I was there.

We talked about how the ARRL were proposing dumbing down the ham radio license requirements and taking out the Morse code requirement, something none of us want to see, and joked and talked and laughed until time to go to the library and set up for the exams. By the time we left the restaurant (the food was very good and I had a veggie omelet, bacon and a cup of fresh fruit) the sun was busy turning the slushy iced roads to wet shining strips of graveled black. My trip back across the highway was a lot less tentative than when I arrived and I made it to my car without even the possibility of a slip and fall.

We had five candidates for exams, two of them twin boys of about 16 or 17, all but one of whom passed their exams and will have licenses by Tuesday afternoon. A father and son came from Leadville in a blizzard to take the exams. (Good thing the VEs betting they wouldn't make it didn't put down cold hard cash or I would have gone home considerably richer.) The father aced his exam and his son failed. There's always next time.

One of the candidates took the code test and passed. The best part of it is that he was one of the candidates who took and passed the Technician exam when I did my very first VE exam at the hamfest in Monument in June. I was tickled to see him again and to know he passed code. I'm sure I'll see him again when he passes General and Extra, too.

As we whispered quietly at the VE table, I found out that Paul had been voted in as president of MARC (he showed me a copy of the minutes) and that the PPRAA held a board meeting where they decided that I would take over as the new Zero-Beat newsletter editor. They still haven't told me about it yet, but at least they talked about it behind my back. (very big grin)

When all the grading, signing and congratulating/commiserating was over, we took down the tables and put up the chairs and Steve and Wes surprised me by telling me that I was required to attend Hamcon in Estes Park because the MARC VE team does all the exams during the eight-day event. I've long been wanting to see Estes Park and take the tour of the Stanley Hotel where Stephen King's The Shining was filmed and on which he based his overlook Hotel and it looks like I'll get my chance. I will also have vacation time since I'll have been working for Silent Type, Inc. for over one year, so I will be there with bells on.

Oh, there is one other thing. I became a member of MARC yesterday and that makes me a MARC VE, although I was told I was already considered one since I have done five VE exams there since I was accredited. I guess now that I'm going to edit their newsletter, I'll have to join PPRAA and take my assigned seat on the board there. You'd think I was actually getting involved in the community here or something. Add all this to my widening base of close friends and chosen family and it looks like I'm putting down roots for the first time in my life.

The ride down the mountain was a wet, sun shining, melting ice glittering breeze. I went to the movies and ended up sitting cheek by jowl with a room of laughing, screaming, giggling, howling kids. Chicken Little was a sweet and funny movie, but what was really funny was the anonymity and cover that a theater filled with delighted children gives usually staid and fussy adults. They can laugh and giggle to their hearts' content and no one needs to know they enjoyed themselves under cover of the children. Camouflage at its best.

After the movie, I went to Home Depot to get a new handle for my toilet -- one that isn't plastic and won't break again quite so easily -- and became very excited when the clerk took me to the tool corral. There is a set of soldering irons I will just have to go back and get when I get paid tomorrow. One is a needle fine soldering iron perfect for home brewing ham radio projects and the other a shiny new regular tipped soldering iron. I have one that the Luddite bought for me, but since they come in a packaged set I don't want to separate them -- and I'll have a backup. Backups are good.

The clerk, after asking me if I knew where the tool corral was located, welcomed me to the store when he found out it was my first time. He smiled at me and knowingly winked, saying he knew I'd certainly be back. He is right. I will be back -- and it won't take decades for it to happen. Got that MacArthur?

I got back into the car, motored over to Sage Woman Herbs to talk to the owner, Valerie, about iridology, got some information, left, avoided the urge to stop in at Arby's and get a huge roast beef sandwich on a sesame seed mountain of a bun and a chocolate-strawberry milkshake, and drove home to install my new toilet handle (which took all of one minute) and ended my day on a very dramatic note.

Le sigh.

Poetry

I wrote this several years ago and just found it. A little poignant for a bright Saturday morning when the clouds are a hazy gray sketch on the horizon and the air smells of wood smoke and warming earth, but it's better than a kick in the head and I need to get going to Woodland Park for ham exams.





Stolen Moments


The first fire of discovery,
A meeting of electrons pulsing in the dark
Masks cast aside to reveal naked hunger,
A hunger born of need and creative explosions.
Tentative meetings scheduled in the dark,
Joyous discoveries of long buried dreams.
Fantasies wrought and carefully unearthed.
We are born together in a nova burst,
And now we exist turning and burning
on the spit of truth and lies.
We have only the connection of finding,
The truth of knowing,
The delight of recognition,
We are not alone.
Stolen moments out of time,
Minutes pregnant with possibility.
Hours tick by
silence by the joy of touching
voice to voice,
heart to heart.
Passions ignite,
spin out between us
forging a connection,
soul to souls’ desire,
but time is our master;
we can only steal moments,
small ticks of the clock,
infinite beats of the heart.
Stolen moments strung together
by desire,
by creative fire,
Circumstance defeats us,
forces us to be bold.
No subterfuge is complete without the thief.
I am the thief
stealing moments from the future
to hold fast in the now.
Stolen moments,
as precious as they are rare.
Will the end ever come?
Are we doomed to unending thievery,
holding only stolen moments?

That is all. Disperse and have fun.

Sabotage

The word sabotage comes from a time when workers were unhappy with the newfangled machines and threw the wooden shoes they were making -- or sabots -- into the machinery, thus stopping production and making their shoes -- if not their voices -- heard. We call it terrorism nowadays, but sabotage it still is to me -- especially when it comes in the form of friends who are determined to break me down and dangle carrots in my face when I'm doing my best to stick to my plans.

In all honesty, the carrots were really cornbread, dumplings, cakes and pies and the constant reminder by the landlady and B & B that November and December are bad months to begin a 30-day colon cleanse diet that excludes all grains, dairy, flours, etc. They could be right, but November 1st I began the diet and I plan to stick with it no matter what they say. I do know they will all make it very difficult for me and will do all in their power to bend me to their evil wills, but I won't cave in -- even though I will have six days to go on the cleanse. No pain, no gain -- and no pumpkin pie, sweet potato pecan pie with brandied cream (my specialty), rice, dumplings, dressing, gravy... I think I'll shut up now. I am making myself hungry and I just finished my fruit and eggs.

My peace will also be sabotaged on the 18th when a friend from Cleveland flies in to stay the weekend. Since I have a minimum of furnishings right now (bed, desk, office chair, and love seat), the sleeping arrangements will be interesting, but it won't be the first time I've slept on the love seat. And there is always the feather bed in the closet where I slept for the first two months I lived here. I could drag it out and sleep there. Either way, I'm going to be uncomfortable for a while no matter what I do.

Honestly, the whole situation is strange, come to that. I've known Mark for about 5+ years and he almost came to visit in 2003 when I moved to Arvada, but my landlady then was against the idea of me having a guest in my apartment over the weekend. She decided it was inappropriate for a single man and a single woman to share the same space at the same time. What's really interesting about this visit is that even though I've known him for 5+ years, this will be the first time we have met face to face. We've spent hours talking and laughing and swapping information, but never met. I have of course given him the ground rules, but anything is possible.

The guys up at MARC (Mountain Amateur Radio Club) will most likely join in sabotaging my month long colon cleanse diet and have already promised cold gravy and biscuits you can use to patch truck tires, both of which are not on my dietary list. Actually, the only things allowed on this diet are fruits, vegetables, eggs and lean meats. Fats are okay, but grains, dairy, etc. are not allowed. To show how serious I am about this, I even checked out whether or not corn was a vegetable or a grain. I know it's a grain, but where I come from in the corn belt (hold the jokes about my last name) corn is a vegetable and a summer staple on the cob and a year round staple off the cob. To my great sadness, corn is a grain and therefore out of my diet for the next 26 days. No more fresh and hot Parmesan-hot sauce laced popcorn or steaming buttered corn on the cob (if I could still find some).

Okay, so it was a questionable idea to do this the month of Thanksgiving, but I didn't think of that. All I thought of was a nice, clean, well moving colon and eating all the fruit I want for a change, including the dried type. I will have to leave the room when we all get together for Thanksgiving, especially when everyone takes a piece of my sweet potato pecan pie with brandied cream. I don't want them to see me sob uncontrollably. It's just not a good idea when everyone else is celebrating.

Then again, if I didn't start now and get it over with, when would I be able to start? Not December with all the candy canes, chocolates, and holiday parties and dinners. Certainly not in January when everyone else is making the resolutions they will break two weeks later and will do their best to trip me up to join them in failure. Best time is now, just to get it over with once and for all.
The lady who came up to the cabin a year ago August with her three girls emailed me a couple days ago wanting to catch up and say hello -- and ask when she could bring the girls for a visit again. I don't have a big enough place, for one thing, and for another, I don't have much furniture. I'm still debating about answering. I'm not sure I want another visit from them. Nice to know she remembered me, but not for this.

I'll shut up now.

Dia de los muertos

Today is the Mexican Day of the Dead and All Saint's Day for the Christian world, the day after Samhain, when the dead are remembered and celebrated.

Living next door to the home where Lon Chaney once lived I think of many of the thousand faces he projected on the silent screen and wonder if his son, who portrayed the very human and oft times sympathetic werewolf, lived there, too. Witches, werewolves, vampires, oh my.

It's hard to think of vampires in the bright clear light of day, but when the sun bleeds its last dying rays on the gathering clouds, staining the mountains and the light with red, the romance of the night comes close and wraps me with possibility and dreams. It isn't that I wish for a vampire to bite me on the neck and stop time for me, but rather that the spice of the night come closer and remind me of the many who have gone before and still remain like vampires of memory -- ever living, ever young, ever present.

Strangely enough, I have been thinking of my Uncle Homer who, despite his height and comforting strength and muscular presence, was never without a smile, a laugh, and a hug for all his friends and kin. He died when I was 9, just after we came back from Panama and lived in Virginia. He is still fresh in my mind and in my heart -- even when I don't think of him.

I remember all my mother's family and gathering in a state park in southern Ohio every summer for a feast of home cooked food, fattening and delectable desserts, and watermelon that stained my cheeks red because I wasn't quite so sedate and proper back in those days. Watermelon was something to dive into face first, coming up smiling through the sticky red juice and spitting black seeds onto the ground or at the nearest cousin.

The older members of the May clan gathered in the shelter house reminiscing about times gone by, people who had passed on, and exchanging family news and recipes while the kids whooped, hollered, raced, chased, and fell in puppy love. Shy glances and shyer smiles from beneath lowered lashes that pinked cheeks and glittered in the eyes of cousins who didn't know it was not possible to be infatuated or to plan weddings and families in their wildest dreams.

Those family gatherings were also the harbinger of fall and return to school and a celebration of our dead who smiled, frowned, smirked, and glowered back from faded, creased, and folded black and white pictures that looked as though cut out with pinking shears. What we remembered most was the particular special dish that person brought and how good it tasted, better than their heirs could ever make because they didn't have that Old World touch or whatever it was that made their food so special.

Within my family it is my grandma's peach cobbler and grandpa's vegetable beef soup that I remember most. That and grandpa's stash of banana flips made of sponge cake and banana flavored sugary icing that bulged out from the half moon smile inside the clear packaging. I come from a family where food was a means of communication, a gift, and a treat. Food is also a remembrance full of memory and romance and happier times when our worst problems were getting tagged playing hide and seek or not picked for Red Rover or statues.

Today may be the Day of the Dead, but for me every day is a day to remember loved ones, friends who have passed, and family. Like the romance of vampires they live forever, immortal and unchanged.

candied apples, malls, and rape

It's my fault and I admit that. But it has been a long time since I have been near a mall and I forgot the rabid look of a crazed queen next to a woman whose face looks clean and unvarnished by paint or tan, a blank canvas begging to be used. It's my fault.

Yesterday a couple of friends (I almost wrote fiends and that would have been right had I known what was going to happen) called and asked me to meet them at Wendy's on 30th and Colorado. I needed a break after 14 hours of nonstop work and even fast food sounded good when I did not have a single piece of organic fruit or a carton of Boulder Mexican Chocolate ice cream in the house. I needed to run errands and go to the co-op to stock up on fruit, vegetables, free range chicken, and 7 grain cereal, so I said yes. As I finished the last job in my queue, they called again. "How about we pick you up?" they asked, innocent voices hiding their nefarious plans.

Against my better judgment (the voice in my head screaming, "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" I said yes and sealed my doom.

"We might be a few minutes late," they said. "We have a stop to make on the way."

"No problem," I responded, thinking I'd have enough time to finish the last dictation, wash up, and change clothes before they arrived. Besides, I owed them one. I had been late two days before when going to meet them at the theater because the landlady took a little longer than usual to candle my ears. "See you there," they chorused and were gone.

I finished work, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and put on some clothes, finishing just in time as they rang the doorbell. Grabbing my bag, swatting away the buzzing NOOOOOOOOOOOOO in my head, I went downstairs and got into the car.

We went inside Wendy's, ordered our food, and both B & B took their food back a couple times because the counter clerk didn't understand "no tomatoes, no mayo, and extra sour cream." The guy even tried to scrape the mayo off the buns and hand them back, but B stuck to his guns and demanded new sandwiches. Obviously something more than a trip to Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory was not going to be enough to soothe their rattled nerves. They needed something more-- a LOT more.

It was as if the god/dess conspired against me yesterday. Mountain Mama's did not have another copy of the magazine with the 30-day colon cleanse diet in it and RMCF did not have candied apples. They had lots of caramel apples in various flavors with a myriad of toppings, designs, and extras, but no candied apples. Oh, well, time to take me home, I thought, but that wasn't in the cards either. B asked if one of their other stores had them and would not be dissuaded because B had never in all his young life ever had a candied apple, one of the symbols of Americana youth.

I still don't know how it is possible to go through childhood and teen years without even a taste of a candied apple at a fair, circus, or carnival or never having the sugar rush of cotton candy melting on your tongue and spangling your face with liquid crystal gems of food coloring-laden sugar. Even kids in poor families have tasted the airy spun sugar confection and felt the gluey sugar cement coating lips, tongue, teeth, fingers, and face from a candied apple, but not B.

The only RMCF that had candied apples -- the only one in the city that was also in the process of making them at that moment-- was the one at Citadel Mall. A mall. A MALL!

I don't like malls. I like to go to a store, get what I want, and get out of there as quickly as possible. The idea of mall crawling is like being caught in a George Romero zombie horror flick and knowing you're the next to die and neither brains nor brawn will keep you safe.

I forced the fear like a molten lump of bile rising into my throat back down into the pit of my stomach, clenched my sphincter muscles tight, and held on to my pentacle for safety, mumbling prayers and promises. B told B, as he broke out into a cold sweat, that the RMCF was right inside the door. We'd go in, get the candied apples, and get right back out before the mall riptide could take hold of us. It was a quick snatch and run -- or so I still naively believed.

The RMCF was right where B said it was. They had candied apples still warm and gooey ready to be sold. We ordered three and I waited impatiently, ready to run at the first sign of weakening and being carried deeper into the bowels of the mall, while the clerk put each candied apple in a separate bag, took the money, and handed us our purchases. Free! I thought as I looked hopefully at the door.

"There's Foley's," B said.

"What's Foley's?" I asked, unaware of the riptide swirling hungrily at my feet.

Too late.

"You don't know what Foley's is?" he asked. He turned to B, "She doesn't know what Foley's is," he gasped in shocked amazement at B.

While they talked over my shocking ignorance, I wandered over to the calendars keeping a sharp eye on any break in the ghostly zombie cordon gathering in the shadows to push me deeper into the mall. But they found me, linked arms with me, and drug me moaning, crying, and begging to be let go toward Foley's. Once inside it was obvious I wouldn't get free without a fight, damaging something I'd be forced to pay for, something really useful like battery operated socks or crystal faceted vials of smell water with fancy French names and even fancier price tags. But I never suspected I would be raped in front of the salespeople and that they would even stop to offer helpful tips and suggestions. Never in my wildest nightmares, but I didn't know the intoxicating, overwhelming, and biologically imperative lure of the makeup counter to queens with a blank canvas of a woman like me.

Yes, it was my fault I was makeup raped. I know that now.

From the Shiseido counter where they attacked me with brushes, sponges, mascara wands, tissues, lipsticks, glosses, and makeup to hide my natural protective coloring amid taunts and criticisms of my minimalist look, I hung onto a high stool while they assaulted me again and again and again until the fresh, clean, naked canvas of my face was obliterated behind a wall of artfully applied color and contrast. Not content with painting me, they bombed me from behind with noxious smell water and yanked, twisted, combed, and pulled my hair into something less simple and more fashionable -- or at least as fashionable as it could get without the tools of their trade and a borrowed hairpin more suitable to picking locks than holding my hair in a twisted but fashionable rope snaking up from the nape of my neck to the crown of my head.

Thinking they were done with me, I wandered dazed and confused toward what I thought was an exit, but they forced me over to the Lancome counter to continue their assault, unhappy with the first five layers of paint and gloss. Dazed and overwhelmed by color, scent, and shock I purchased a tube of lip gloss and a lip pencil, but my feint did not work. B bombed me from behind with more smell water and they drug me past jewelry arguing about class and style versus big, gaudy and glittering (the kind of jewelry my mother loves so very much and keeps in plastic bags she carries in her suitcase of a purse wherever she goes), on through purses (same arguments and offerings), and on into shoes. "What do you prefer?" they asked in chorus. "Beauty and style or comfort?"

Silly me. "Comfort," I said boldly and loudly.

"You are a Lesbian," they said, giggling. "We knew it."

"No," I argued. "I believe that a shoe should fit me not the other way around. I can have both," I said, chin out in defiance.

They tittered and giggled and pointed and laughed as I worked my way slowly and carefully, so as not to arouse their suspicions, towards the exit and closer to the doors that led out of the mall from hell. "I need to get back to work," I explained as I bolted for the door.

They were disappointed, but finally agreed to follow me, fingering the goods and trying to tempt me with shoes, purses, more makeup and whatever else was close to hand. I needed to get outside. The noxious fumes of the commingled smelly over priced waters had given me a headache and my stomach felt like it was swirling between Scylla and Charybdis.

I finally made it to the car, got inside, and stuck my head out the window breathing fresh city air while they drove me home, wondering how fast I could get up the stairs and into my apartment to the bathroom to wash the French whore stench off my neck.

When I got home, washing didn't help. I ended up having to change clothes. I left on the paint because I realize that despite their makeup rape they did do a creditable job of turning me into the BBW version of America's Top Model, even though I could barely keep my eyes open from the weight of the mascara on my lashes. I didn't take it off until just before I went to bed -- and it took two cotton patties and lots of eye makeup remover, washing twice in my homemade natural castile soap and essential oil concoction, 20 minutes behind an egg yolk mask, and another washing and application of moisturizer before I felt back to the glowing naked canvas of my every day face smiling back at me.

But you can be sure that next time I will remember not to be in the vicinity when rabid queens crazed for candied apples see a mall where the cosmetic counters wait like baited traps for clean faced females who just want to be girls in comfortable shoes.

Quick notes

Just something quick for now since there is work coming down the virtual pipeline and I need to make my pages before it all fizzles out.

Anne Rice is at it again. After her public diatribe against an Amazon.com reviewer trashed her latest Vampire Chronicles novel, Blood Canticle. Rice went over the top and down into the land of foaming, word-toting, postal workers. It may have been at this point -- or not so long afterward -- that she decided to change her life and move into the world of "doing violence to [her] career."

Even BookSlut.com noticed. What will they have to say about this latest trend?

Now we come to a new Rice sans vampires, sans guilt, sans "spiritual unease" over her evil-doing vampires to announce and confirm her return to the Catholic fold with Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, the beginning of a four-book series about Christ from the point of Christ. Kirkus Reviews said: CHRIST THE LORD
A riveting, reverent imagining of the hidden years of the child Jesus. Attacked by a vicious bully, seven-year-old Yeshua employs uncanny powers to drop his assailant onto the sand and then to bring him back to life. It's the remarkable beginning of the 26th novel by an author whose pulpy vampire chronicles hardly prepare us for a book so spiritually potent as this. . . . Joins Nikos Kazantzakis's The Last Temptation of Christ and Shusaku Endo's A Life of Jesus as one of the bolder re-tellings.
Oct 15, 2005 - Kirkus Reviews.

At least she has Kirkus, that most notoriously difficult to please of all reviewers, in her back pocket now that she has turned over a new leaf and rededicated her life to the Catholic church. Gone is the gothic black clothing and look and in its place is an earth mother who has put her multimillions, Lestat and his evil vampire friends, New Orleans, and her fans behind her for a much different future.

I wonder if Stan's death affected her at all.

Pre-turkey day cheer

Beanie sent this to me this morning and I think it's hilarious. I know Samhain/Halloween isn't here yet, but if turkeys are going to be this difficult, maybe it's time to start chasing them down NOW!

That is all. Disperse.

Views

This morning, out my window as I worked through another long night into the day, the sky flared with Easter egg streamers of purple, pink, and orange. The craggy face of the mountain looked like molten hammered copper jutting out against the deep purple and black veins of darkness. The deeply fissured bark of the squirrels' favorite tree bled reddish-gold as if on fire, despite the blackened skeletal fingers reaching toward the sky and ground. As the light became brighter, ghostly mists turned to crisped brown leaves shifting and swirling with the rising breezes. Birds darted across the pale blue like cut-out silhouettes racing for worms sluggish with cold and damp. Just another Colorado morning lost to those whose eyes are heavy with sleep and eager to snuggle deeper into the warmth of comforter and covers.

It seems as though mornings like this are my reward for nights of fractured and lost sleep while I continue to scurry for work. I've been told numerous times that it will get better, but the signs are not there. Instead I work in sporadic bursts throughout the days and nights, alienating new friends who do not understand the nature and vagaries of my life right now. At times I seem distant and depressed when in fact I am simply stressed and angling for whatever work is available. I am at the mercy of my task mistresses on the east coast who view the world in time at their disposal and are not flexible to my needs and wants. It is always so.

C'est la vie -- or so they say.

Now it's on to another day of naps and appointments and chasing work until the sky bleeds and darkens towards night before spinning around towards the dawn of another sleepless, work filled day and further alienation of those I care about. Supposedly next week ends this frustrating quest for sufficient work to keep body and soul together and find enough left over for the holidays and time to spend with friends. I guess I'll soon see.

Next week also begins my quest for the elusive novel written in one month's time for National Novel Writing Month

I wonder if my friends can hold out long enough for the road to smooth out.

It's coming...

Every year about this time I start thinking of the holidays. There's Thanksgiving, Xmas, and New Year's. My favorite holiday is Halloween/Samhain. It's that time of the year I think of costumes and masks and dressing up. When my boys were little I made their costumes, painted their faces, and took them out begging. Yes, I'm old fashioned and I still think of the little rhyme my father had us say when I was a child:

Tonight, tonight is beggar's night
Don't be stingy and give me a bite.

That little poem has a few different connotations for me these days and bite means many different things. However, the excitement and dreams of costumes, makeup, masks, and treats remains with me still. At heart I am still a little girl playing dress up and concocting costumes and making plans.

This year I am dragging a few of my friends (or they're dragging me, I'm not certain which) to a costume party on Saturday the 29th. I may have to change my plans if I don't get my new card in the mail soon, but I want to go as the Corpse Bride. A little blue yarn for hair, a lace curtain or two for bride gown and veil, a flower wreath of desiccated flowers, a little paint, some ingenuity and blue makeup and I will be the corpse of the ball. Nelo, my next door neighbor, said Michael, who used to live in her apartment when she lived in mine, wouldn't be interested in a party, but she was wrong. When they hijacked me last week to walk under and celebrate the blood moon Michael said he'd love to go. I wonder if he'll wear his new hooded cape.

Then on Monday, Halloween/Samhain night, my friends, Nelo and Michael are gathering here for a little celebration under the nearly skeletal trees in our yard. The moon will be half gone (or half there) but it will be a special night for new friends, old friends, and a celebration of the thinning of the veils between the living and the dead.

Most of the trees in the neighborhood have shed their gold leaves, turning lime green, gold, red-gold, orange gold, and finally brown and crispy as they are blown down the winds. However, there are still several trees in the tree hating orc wench's yard that are as green as spring. The ground is littered with swishing, crunching leaves that swish, whisper, and crackle when people walk down the street. The squirrels have stopped performing porn and jump, hop, and race here and there storing up food for the winter, rustling the leaves as they plunder the fall mums and asters in the flower beds. The winds are at one moment sharp and biting and other times as warm as a spring caress. The mountains outside my window are midnight blue tinged with purple majesty and the sky is a hazy cloud-filled blue whispering promises of snow that will pass us by for now. In the distance Pike's Peak is crowned with an ermine mantle like a shimmering gift of winter to come.

Speaking of gifts, I am planning a special Xmas gift for someone close to me. I want this year to be as special as he has been to me. I have to work my tail off for a couple weeks (and may continue once I get used to the money), but he will get his gift as December begins.

Off in distance like a bright mirage is the New Year and the celebration of goals met and tasks completed, some more like Sisyphus pushing his boulder endlessly up the hill than sitting sore and glowing from the exertions of a long day, but a celebration of all things past and the bright hope of a new day, a new year.

Yes, this year has been one full of disappointment and beauty, frustration and lessons mastered, but the best is yet to come.

Friendship

I have been blessed over the years with some very good friends. I won't mention the false friends I have run across because the good ones completely over shadow the false ones.

The past two weeks has been very difficult for me in many ways. Someone hacked my credit card information and luckily I found out before they could do too much damage. I am hot on the trail of a couple of them. It was a friend who told me there are many people who probably have the old information and I have become very security conscious. Strange for someone who wrote for the security industry for so many years, especially when I know that security cannot be bought. It is a state of mind, a feeling, and not a reality. Buy all the high tech equipment you want, surround yourself with bars and bells, whistles and alarms and all you end up with is putting yourself in a cage that anyone determined enough can break through. There is no such thing as security.

And yet I am determined to keep my information to myself so that I don't spent another umpteen weeks waiting for a new credit card so I can access my account. I am open to suggestions, but right now I am doing less buying online and clearing my cache, cookies, history, and form information after every transaction or site I visit. It's nice not to have to input passwords and user names, addresses and credit card information, but being online all the time with DSL makes my computer vulnerable even when I'm not online. Instead, I now disable the network when I'm not actually using it. It makes me feel safer, but I know I'm not any safer. The ones who hacked my information in the first place and sent the virus into my computer can just as easily catch me when I'm online. It's a fact of life that I will now have to live with. I am vulnerable and I know that now.

However, this little journey into the dark side of cyberspace has taught me something very valuable: I have wonderful friends.

I am still without access to the money transferred into my account until my new credit card arrives, but one friend generously made sure I could pay my bills, buy food, and still have a little financial cushion until I am back in business. Two more friends came over and took me out and brought food, movies, and themselves over to cheer me up and get me out of here. Another very good friend has been there for moral support and as a shoulder to lean on. The landlady understands I may be late with the rent due to this situation and she is being very understanding. My next door neighbor and her friend Michael hijacked me a few nights ago and we walked out under the full blood moon and over to his house to share the blessed and peaceful space he has created on the second floor of his house. I am one of three people he has honored by sharing his ritual space and altar.

As I said, I am truly blessed. It is at times like this when I realize that I have never really been alone even when I was sure I was. Friends like these and friends I've known who are no longer on this earth continue to bless me with their generosity, gifts, and wisdom.

To be sure there are times when, out of long decades of habit, I keep to myself, not wishing to burden people with my troubles, and friends like these have stormed through the battlements and dragged me back from the edge of the dark abyss to remind me that I don't have to do it alone. I know I have failed them sometimes by not letting friends get close enough, but I am learning -- I am being taught -- every single day.

I do my best to give as much as I have to give and share myself, my abilities, and my gifts with people, and yet still I don't always realize that there are people out there who wish to do the same for me. Keeps me humble, but mostly it proves that no matter how tough things get friends can be tougher and help soften the blows of outrageous fortune.

Have you actually met me before?

My mother made her weekly Thursday night call to see if I am still alive or have disappeared again. I don't know why she continues to do this, except that six years ago I left town and no one noticed for three months. Then again, it could be because she wants to make sure I don't know what is going on in the rest of my family by asking pointed questions or simply leaving pregnant pauses to see if I fill them indiscriminately in by telling her what I know. I gave that up a long time ago. I have found you learn more by listening than by talking.

Once again she mentioned my journals, writings I have kept in a myriad different plain bound and wire bound books of blank pages where I put down my thoughts, musings and feelings -- feelings no one in my family seemed over worried about or they would have asked. She went on and on about one journal she picked up, thinking that it was some book, only to find that it had no dust jacket, copyright or publishing information, and was liberally studded with earthier language than I usually use. She reiterated that she did not know it was one of my journals, despite the fact that she continues to tell me she is gathering them all together to send to me and she read halfway through the journal written in long hand before she figured out it was not a novel.

She was, she said, appalled by the language. "You are much more intelligent than that," she said. "And you have a much larger vocabulary. Why did you feel the need to write such filth?"

Well, without actually seeing the journal in question -- the one she mistook for a published book -- I can only say that sometimes when I am angry or hurt or writing about earthier subjects I do descend to using street language, the vernacular of the common man. Despite her haranguing me on several occasions about my hoity toity language and usage of foreign words she doesn't understand or know in order to put her down and remind her she is so much less sophisticated and continental than I am, she reminds me I don't have to use such language.

"Why I never used that language and it was around me growing up. I didn't know anything about lesbians or homosexuals, but I knew those words. I have never used them though," she reminds me yet again.

So what was the purpose of this particular Thursday night discussion? To tell me that I should have my journals published -- not the earthier parts of course. She went on and on about the way I see the world, about how I illustrate what I experience, view and know in ways she never knew were possible.

I explained that famous people's journals are worth publishing, but the musings and haunted days and nights I chronicled in those 50+ journals of various sizes, shapes, colors, and decorative bindings are not the words of a famous person. "Well, you might be famous some day," she said.

"Then someone will have them published when that happens," I replied.

Every few months my mother and I go through this dance about my journals. Those who read this journal and my other online blogs have had a taste of what those journals contain -- minus the sexual descriptions and experiences I keep for my paper journals. During these conversations nothing is ever solved. The words are pretty much the same and the outcome predictable.

Last night was different.

"I didn't know you were so unhappy," she said almost in a whisper. "You should have told us. We are your parents."

This from the woman who still gives me clothes and jewelry I wouldn't take to Goodwill or throw out in the trash. This from the woman who when I asked for a simple silver or gold chain sent me Mr. T's chains.

Maybe she couldn't tell how unhappy I was and didn't notice that I asked for pain pills though I won't even take aspirin and refused to take anything stronger than Tylenol #3 after major surgery. She never saw my eyes swollen and red from crying. She didn't notice that I seldom called or came by, and she certainly wouldn't have noticed since she came to my home twice in over 15 years. She never saw the suicide notes or knew how I planned my own death on several occasions. She didn't see me in the midst of the family, silent and fading into the wallpaper while everyone else stood in front of me. She evidently didn't read too far into my journals when she found out they really weren't about her but about the depth and darkness of my failing belief in love and life. She just didn't open her eyes and see me.

To this day, I wonder if she ever actually met me before or if she knows only the idea of me, a thought born when I was a small child or a teenager who kept getting in the way when she was focusing on her other children, the ones that needed all her time and attention when I could obviously take care of myself -- and did.

It is a sad truth that we notice the problem children, the negative press, the people who stretch and/or destroy society's patience and limits. We don't notice the people who pay their bills on time, win awards for spelling, writing, or citizenship, or the people who live, breathe and die in silent obscurity. We're too busy watching the fireworks to see the cinders crushed under our feet -- until bare skin touches their dying heat.

I told Beanie when I entrusted my journals to her that if anything happened to me to burn them. My mother got hold of them first. In a way, she is responsible for me keeping a journal online. Not because I expect people to pay attention or that a publisher will read what I write and decide it is worth publishing, but because I decided not to keep my pain, my joy, my adventures and my life between the mold-speckled pages of fraying journals packed away in forgotten dusty boxes for some stranger or relative yet to be born to find.

My mother doesn't have internet access and she doesn't surf the web. She knows about this blog and the others, but she only reads what I print out and send or what one of my relatives finds, reads and passes on in hopes of causing trouble.

There is only one good thing about her reading my journals. Maybe, finally, she will discover she has not actually met me before.

Cold morning

It's cold this morning after a warm Indian summer day yesterday. The wind is shouting through the trees and shaking the tenuously clinging yellow leaves to the ground, along with branches that do not have a tight enough grip on the parent tree. The sky is frosty white and the mountains a hazy shadow in the distance. There is a winter storm advisory for today with the threat of snow, broken branches and power outages like an inconstant lover shaking an angered fist in a once beloved's face before walking out and raining freezing destruction. This morning, I know how that feels.

With the annular solar eclipse just passed on the 3rd and a lunar eclipse to come on the 17th I wonder if the ancients are not right in believing them to be dire warnings of harm and sadness to come. Should we be ever on the watch for danger and ill wishing from all quarters or should we trust in the seeming benevolence of the world around us? Trusting, like expectations, lead to sadness and pain, and the optimists among us assure us there is indeed a horse beneath the mountain of manure. Is it better to have no expectations and be always surprised when someone does something nice or should we venture onto that shaky fraying rope bridge while someone saws at the anchor ropes positive we can cross the bottomless chasm before the bridge falls when even a chance misstep will mean death and destruction?

Sometimes I remember the silence and solitude of the cabin with fondness when the phone didn't ring off the hook and people didn't stop by. My life was quiet and predictable like a calm lake glowing gold and pink in the rising sun. Life now is fraught with lurking shadows, venomous blowguns at the ready, as I move out of the safety of my windowed aerie to spend time with friends, new and old, ready to hold out my hand to greet strangers and get to know them. Now I wonder if it is worth the effort to reach out when there are those who have already decided my nature before I open my mouth.

C'est la vie.

Social conduct

There are many social conventions I flagrantly flout, but there are some that I was brought up with that still remain. Problem is that I'm not sure if I am alone in believing that certain niceties be preserved or if I have somehow slipped out of the loop into a limbo where social conventions are as difficult to define and maintain as holding sand in your hand.

Case in point: I sent a birthday card to someone I know casually, but someone who is facing a big milestone with a lot of doubt and questions in their mind. Some friends encouraged me to celebrate her birthday with a card and I felt I knew the person well enough to do so. I chose a card, wrote a little something positive and sent it winging out into the virtual world. It was picked up; I got an email informing me it had. There was, however, no email from the recipient to thank me or acknowledge the card.

Maybe I am too old-fashioned in this way. I have been taught that a gift, even a card, is noteworthy enough to be acknowledged with a thank you or a nod or something tangible to let you know your wishes and gift were received and appreciated. This leads me to believe that my card was not appreciated, even though I know it was received.

In the days when snail mail was all the rage, you never knew when or if a gift or card was received. Before phones, the only way to know if your missive had been received was with a return missive of some sort, even if it was a small thank you card. In this age of virtual worlds and speedy communication, as well as return receipts and notifications, we almost always know when something we've sent has reached its destination. There is no reason to send a card or letter to let the giver know. But is there a social reason for letting someone know their gift/card was received and appreciated?

Am I being overly sensitive or am I just that old-fashioned and should wrap myself in a dusty shawl, let the silver grow out and wrap it into a netted bun, and sit in my rocking chair on the old folks' home porch and realize that common courtesy is a thing of the cobwebbed and distant past?

I have gotten used to -- and when I'm angry and frustrated use -- profanity everywhere. I have become inured to displays of disrespect from people who haven't the time or interest in using disrespect instead of diss. I have hardened myself to accept the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune without too much fuss and I rarely take it to heart when people claiming friendship smile in my face and plunge a knife up to the hilt in my back. I have survived much worse. But it is difficult for me to accept the death of the last social convention I have always happily embraced -- common courtesy.

It is said that for evil to flourish it takes nothing more than that a good man remain silent. The loss of common courtesy is not blackest evil, but it is a sign that gracious and polite behavior is as rare as hen's teeth and going the way of the dinosaurs. I wonder if I will be able to go quietly into that good night without losing my last shred of dignity.

I'll shut up now.

Stuff

It's nearly that time again when writers all over the world race to finish a novel during the month of November. I have to decide if I'm going to give it a shot again this year. With work the way it is, maybe not. I don't have the time to do that many things at once. Besides, I'm sure there's someone's work I can steal instead. (just a joke)

I've been working about 20 hours a day and yesterday a male friend came over and kidnapped me. He felt I was working too hard and needed a break. I guess I took a little too long making up my mind about going out with him. Serves me right for making him wait so long.

Anyway, the past few days have been full of work and getting ready for another weekend of fun and frolic -- not to mention a little bit of ham radio action. It's time to VE again. I've gotten rather used to being the only female around and soaking up all the male attention - and they give the nicest hugs. Of course this weekend will be a bit different since I'll spend some time with the president of the local amateur radio club to discuss me taking over editing and producing their newsletter. I fell into that one quickly when I spent a Sunday working on helping to raise an antenna tower for another local ham. The help was paid for in a trip to Denny's and a bit of sun and sweat, but there are lots worse ways to spend a Sunday.

I've also been working on a new ham project: learning about RISC architecture and PIC-ELs. If you're not electronic savvy, I'll be putting together and programming a board to do all kinds of interesting functions. A friend worked on it last year when I was studying for my ham licensing exams but gave it up when I made Extra. He asked if I was still interested and offered to go back to the beginning and see if he could keep up with me. I got my board and some of the parts on Monday and I've been working on the course ever since. I'm still trying to decide whether I want to wait until the end of October to buy a parts kit or bite the bullet and buy the parts (a whole lot of extra parts, too) from electronic suppliers and fill out the rest by a trip to the local OEM. Haven't quite made up my mind and I haven't had a chance to run the numbers yet.

Besides, there is that fella who is taking up some of my time lately -- and he's not the only one. The ladies have been stopping by and going to discussion groups with me then kidnapping me for moonlight drives in the Garden of the Gods and trawling over at Denny's for hot chocolate that turns into grand slam breakfasts and such. Lately I never know what is going to happen from one day to the next, and that is a far cry from the way it has been over the past few weeks. Nothing like spontaneous friends and fellas to take my mind off the mundane and predictable. And I have been working a lot lately. I need more than one break

Around here, I never know what will happen next and I like the surprises -- so far. Some Monday night a group of us are going to play Drag Queen Bingo. I wonder if I can pull off the Victor/Victoria deal for a night or two. Psycho Ken and a couple other friends are hitching a ride and I will be helping with costuming and makeup. My costume and makeup will be in very good hands.

And there are offers to help me put up my antenna and get me on the air to field. Haven't decided yet which gentleman I'll give the nod. Should be interesting.

In the meantime, time to go hit the button a few hundred more times and see if I can catch some work today. I want to get done early so I can take a shower and be fresh and ready for those spontaneous drive-bys.

That is all. Disperse.