Month: July 2003


  • NICE DAY


    Nothing spectacular today, no eerie fog patches or extraordinary clouds… no wildlife consenting to pose for my camera; just a nice summer day.



    Clover by the roadside… I wonder where the moth is that was there while I was taking this pic.  It flitted about and was sitting still, wings spread, in plain sight when I pushed the shutter button for this shot.  *sigh*  Like I said, no wildlife posing for me today.  That’s what I like about flowers and trees:  they hold still.



    The first flowers are opening on the fireweed.  Local folklore (accurate and poignantly true) says that when the bottom flowers open, it means summer is truly here, and when the ones at the top of the stalk open, it means summer is over.  They never open all at once, and how many are open at any one time seems to depend on rain and wind as much as any factors.


    By the time the blossoms higher up have opened, these will have been pollenated, the petals will have fallen, and the long red seed capsules will have formed.  I’ll probably show you some of them later on this summer when I can.



    Summer is truly here, but this is also truly the subarctic.  These bronze leaves are the evidence that remains of the frost I saw and felt a few nights ago.  The day preceding that night had been cloudy and rainy, so there wasn’t much heat to be lost to the sky when the clouds cleared out that night.  Never dark does not always translate to never cold.


    Besides the frost-nipped leaves, I saw many frost-burned wild flowers.  Fortunately, it is still too early for the iris to be in bloom and the few new buds I saw looked fine.  The iris leaves (deep indigo-violet wild Siberian Iris) are frost resistant, and the unopened buds can survive a light frost, but the open petals are very tender.  The buds should be opening in the next few days.  Maybe I’ll tramp back out there and get some spectacular pics.



    That’s Pidney, leading the way out through the woods on the moose-and-bear trail.  She’s alert because neighbors not far away are still playing with fireworks.  Most of the time, I tend to stay on or near the roads and out of the trees.  One reason for that is rough going:  trees blow down and in this climate can take centuries to rot away, leaving barricades everywhere; few clearings, narrow paths and branches growing out across the paths make it rough from the ground up, and I don’t like traveling with a machete or a bulldozer.  Cat and camera are more my style.


     Today I took shots from within the woods, looking out…


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    ..and from out on the muskeg, looking into the woods.


    I had walked out there, maybe a quarter of a mile through the woods on the moose-and-bear trail, in the shade where the mosquitoes are thickest and there are all those branches snagging my clothes and scratching my face.  Since there is a four-wheeler track across the muskeg that offers decent footing, I thought I’d go back out to the road across the more open ground.


    I was okay near the woods, on the higher ground, but about halfway back to the road, I hit the low, wet ground.  “Muskeg” is another word for marsh or swamp:  wetland.  In dry weather, there is no standing water out there in ours, but it hasn’t been that dry this week.  I got my feet wet and headed back into the woods for the rest of the tramp back to the road.



    This is the muskeg I was tramping across.  It may look like a lawn from here, but it is rough, full of deep holes, and overgrown with knee-high shrubbery.  It was kinda stupid of me to get out there in the first place, but the flies and skeeters drove me buggy.  In all my ventures into wild Alaska, every time I’ve had any trouble with wildlife out there, it has been the leeetle teeeny things.  The only time I’ve had any trouble with bears or moose, it has been in my yard or on the roads.



    This time when I got back to the road, there was Pidney, waiting in the shade.  Our part of Alaska is the hottest in the state today and was yesterday, too.  The high was around 82°F, which is hothothot here.  Think what 120° feels like in California, and you got it.  In the 50s, it’s t-shirt weather to us, and in low 70s you hear people complaining of the heat while sweating in the shade.



    I hope you have had a nice day, too.

  • Throwing Out the Old Rule Book


    The big turnaround in my life in my late twenties, about half my lifetime ago, to which I have been referring frequently in the past few weeks (mostly in talks and when I share in meetings and groups, etc., but also occasionally in blogs such as KaiOaty’s latest), happened in two parts.  First there was the epiphany, the spiritual “Aha!” experience.  That gave me the inspiration, motivation and drive. 


    Then came the Family Rap therapy group where I got the practical tools to transcend a lifetime’s accumulation of psychopathology and dysfunctional behavior.  Group is where I learned to see behind my own defense mechanisms, and to accept myself as I am so that I might have a chance to become what I want to be.  It seems the more I use such tools as I have, the more new tools I gain.


    The abstaining reformed heroin addicts who ran the residential treatment program that sponsored the group (as community outreach to social service and public safety workers in Anchorage) had a saying, “But we’ve always done it that way!”  They told us those words were on a poster hung prominently in Family House, their program’s residence, and would be pointed out every time a newcomer was struggling with the changes necessary to transcend his or her addiction. 


    I never saw the poster, but I heard those words spoken in tones of scorn and derision often enough in group that I’m not likely ever to forget them.  The idea was that the way we had always done things was what got us in trouble, and so if we wanted to heal ourselves and transcend the chronic trouble, we had to find new and better ways of doing and being.


    I don’t know if it can ever be easy to throw out the old rules.  Even if one has the personal courage to buck the system and strong convictions that the old ways don’t work, old ways die hard.  What iconoclast has ever NOT encountered resistance? 


    In our recent moves to work more than one 12-step program at a time and to blend twelve-step principles with orthomolecular biochemical protocols for our own recovery from addictions, Greyfox and I have found amazing personal success, and a maze of resistance to our twelfth step efforts.


    The twelfth step states:  “Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”  It caps off a truly marvelous set of broadly (if not absolutely universally) applicable principles that in their original program have become codified along with some invalid assumptions and obsolete conclusions. 


    The founders adopted a moralistic stance about “character defects” that current bioscience has revealed to be symptoms of neurochemically mediated personality disorders.  Substance abuse and the consequent addictive responses of brain chemistry imbalance, are frequent accompaniments of personality disorders caused by trauma in infancy or later life.  Those traumas cause discernible changes in brain physiology and chemistry.


    Post-traumatic stress disorder, passive-aggressive disorder, dissociative identity disorder, narcissistic, histrionic, borderline and other personality disorders are all now known, along with every addiction, both the “ingestion” type (substances) and the “process” type (sex, gambling, shopping, etc.) to have similar biochemical components.  Imbalances in neurotransmitters lead us to engage in certain behaviors to redress the imbalance and relieve the distressing symptoms of the various imbalances. 


    Because the Big Book calls the behaviors defects of character and the reactions to alcohol an allergy, many AAs are not receptive to nutritional help in their recovery.  A striking irony in this is that one of the founders was an MD, and early AAs were some of the first people to use megavitamin therapy.  If Dr.Bob were around today, I think he would be appalled at the way 1930′s-era science has been carved in stone in his program. 


    Fearing to try any “easier, softer way” against which they have been warned, many of the AA adherents white-knuckle their abstinence, relapse frequently, go in and out of the program through an inbuilt revolving door that rewards relapse by making a big deal over the lost sheep who return again and again. 


    Transcendence of addiction is never mentioned, and by implication is decreed to be impossible.  Recovery is the best they are led to hope for.  They are socialized and programmed to think of themselves as “in recovery”, “recovering” for the rest of their lives, never “recovered.”  Since the vast majority of them keep the addictive brain chemistry active through addiction to sugar and caffeine, that prophecy of lifelong addiction fulfills itself.


    The thirteenth or fourteenth tradition, one of the unwritten set, decrees a steady supply of coffee at meetings, and “birthday” cakes to celebrate every anniversary of a member’s sobriety date.  In the old days, all AA meetings were held in smoke-filled rooms.  Now, non-smoking meetings have added a “meeting-outside-the-meeting” to the older traditional meetings before and after the meetings.  Many nicotine-addicted AAs cannot sit through the hour of a meeting without a cigarette.


    Greyfox gave up alcohol, nicotine, marijuana, and all other illicit psychoactive drugs May 23, 2003.  I had already given up all but cannabis and caffeine.  Since my dope-smoking was largely a bonding ritual and social thing for me, and because I wanted to introduce my soulmate to NA and show him that the steps work for other things than just alcohol, I found it easy to quit.  We are both still using caffeine, and my use spiked shortly after I started going to 12-step meetings.  Now we are tapering off.  Abrupt caffeine withdrawal is painful in the head and dangerous because of neuroelectric deficits in the heart, but withdrawal is necessary to our program.


    A few of those in one or the other of our groups are hip to cross-addiction and realize that one thing leads to another.  Greyfox knows that for him, smoking a cigarette can lead to taking a drink.  I know that sugar is my first and last drug of choice, the most dangerous drug for me personally because of the inevitable cascade effect, the slide into other addictive use if I should slip with the sugar abstinence. 


    One thing that made weed easy for me to quit was the knowledge that I’d be averting the munchies and making my sugar abstinence easier.  It works, and I have found my new-found clear-headedness and increased energy levels to be great unanticipated rewards for my abstinence from pot.  I never realized how dopey I had been.  I used to (but no longer) avoid making appointments because keeping them was so hard.  Now I don’t hesitate to schedule my time and commit myself to as much as I can feasibly do.  I function.


    Besides the improved day-to-day personal and social function, I’m functioning also in ways that fly in the face of many other conventions besides those of the 12-step programs.  I am acting as therapist to my husband.  We: Greyfox, Doug and I, are treating Greyfox for his personality disorders. 


    This came about synchronistically along with his addiction recovery program.  He found the online personality disorder test near the beginning of his new commitment to living clean and sober.  Taking it, he found that its conclusions meshed with what I had been telling him about his behavior, and he formed the intention of transcending the personality disorders along with the addictions.


    Viewed one way, this could seem like a tall order, a set-up for failure and disappointment.  From another perspective, one I am sure is a higher perspective, combining those efforts is the only way either of them can succeed.  Likewise, I feel that working within our family this way, in contravention of the conventional wisdom, is the only way this could work for us.


    We have no money for therapists, no health insurance to cover it.  Besides that, the prognosis for recovery in therapy from histrionic, narcissistic and borderline personality disorders is very poor.  Few clients ever stay in therapy long enough to develop the rapport and trust with a therapist that is needed for success.  Few therapists have the ego strength and acceptance to be able to deal with personality disorders.  These people are massive pains in the ass. 


    The thought of a therapy group filled with histrionic narcissists conjures up visions of Hell.  They would be trying to elicit their narcisstic supply from each other, vying for center stage all the time, doing each other narcissistic injury and then reacting with either aggression or depression, like narcissists do.


    In our household, most of those problems are solved.  Narcissists force a choice on everyone with whom they associate:  either supply their sick needs or hurt their feelings and accept the consequences.  Doug and I have the perception to realize what Greyfox is up to and the mutual support between us that keeps us from accepting the blame when he takes a narcissistic injury from our treating him like a human being. (One of the best websites on NPD heads all its pages, “Should we call them human?“)


    Greyfox realizes on an intellectual level that he is sick.  He is committed now to getting well.  In recent weeks we have made a lot of progress in talking about his early experiences and tracing the roots of his early narcissistic injuries.  There is much of it that he doesn’t recall.  Some of the prevailing wisdom on this disorder is that it originates in the first 18 months of life.  We have done a lot of deductive reasoning, from what we know about cultural norms and family dynamics, to determine what the baby Greyfox might have experienced.  What we know about those things goes a long way toward explaining what we now experience with the personality disorders.


    For the twelve years that the three of us have been living together, Doug’s and my perception and understanding of Greyfox’s psychopathology have been growing.  Greyfox refers to this as our “bullshit detectors.”  Good term.  Another thing that has been growing in that time is Greyfox’s trust.  He knows, now, finally after much experience, that we are not trying to hurt him when we deny him the narcissitic supply he seeks.  Greyfox tells people that I am the only person in the world from whom he would accept a handful of pills without question, and swallow them all.  I suspect that I am also the only person in the world who could function as his therapist for these disorders.


    So, I’m chucking the rule books, and the family is working on healing itself.  It’s not just Greyfox, you see.  Now, after all these years of living with a histrionic / borderline / narcissistic alcoholic addict, Doug and I have some trust issues of our own to deal with.  Greyfox has already begun helping us with them.


    Need I add, “Don’t try this at home kids!” ??  I honestly don’t think this would work in everyone’s families.  We’re weird.  We can live with that.  Fuck the rules.



  • images ©2003 Scott Douglass Studdert


    Philched Fotos


    All these images of this morning’s sunrise were captured by my son Doug as I slept–just one of the advantages, besides more time at the computer for both of us, to our being on different sleep schedules.  It is also nice, his being up in the wee small hours when I get home from my trips to town, since we would see very little of each other if he wasn’t.


    The first image, above, is full-frame, natural light, uncropped and unmodified, not digitally manipulated at all except resized for this page.  Later shots, as light increased, were washed out and so I altered the brightness and contrast, and did some cropping on some.



    I’m reasonably comfortable taking such liberties with my kid’s work.  He has never expressed any objections before, and if he sues me, I can always tell the jury that I took it as implied consent that he was using my camera to capture the images.  I feel safe.


    I also feel gratitude to him and pride in him that he noticed the light, dragged himself away from the keyboard and did such a good job of it.   Never mind that he so offhandedly told me he’d taken them and left it to me to save them to the hard drive.  No prob there.



  • Holiday at home


    I missed my regular Tuesday night meeting in Wasilla, was just too tired to drive in there that day.  There is another one on Thursday nights, and I’m committed to chair one every Friday afternoon.  Thinking I’d catch that Thursday meeting and save myself a drive, I packed extra clothes and some of my gluten-free muffins so I could stay over at Greyfox’s cabin last night.


    I had forgotten that today was a holiday until someone at the 10:00 meeting mentioned the holiday weekend.  Duh!  I knew today was the fourth of the month… July 4th… little lapse there, eh?  So, I drove past the counseling center where my regular Friday meeting is held and sure enough, a sign on the door said they’re closed today.  Greyfox and I talked for a while and then I drove home, on the theory, nearly a certainty, that I’d sleep better in my own bed than in my car or on his floor.



    As I turned off the highway about 2:30 AM, I saw some fog across the cul de sac beyond the turnoff for our street.  Thinking I’d grab the camera after I got my goat milk and stuff put away, I unloaded the car.


    Then, once my stuff was put up, since I was right there near where my nightie was, my long primrose pink t-shirt nightie, I got out of my town clothes and into the night shirt.  Still sorta absent-minded, just as I had been about the 4th of July meeting that wasn’t to be, I’d forgotten all about the fog and the camera until I got back out to the front of the house and saw the dawn light and green trees out the window.


    So, still in moccasins, and fairly decently covered by the long t-shirt, I grabbed the camera and walked out the cul de sac.  By then, the fog was mostly gone, except for a patch of it kinda far off toward the bright horizon where the sun would soon rise, which, when I tried to get a picture of it, turned out sorta like a squashed cotton ball on a pile of spinach below a glaring light source… not so great, in other words.



    The trip wasn’t wasted, however.  I got a few shots in the other direction, away from the rising sun.  In this one, that tall feathery thing on the left is a fireweed inflorescence in bud, no blossoms open yet.  The plant in the foreground at far right is also fireweed, which hasn’t yet sent up the flower stalk.  None of the local fireweed is in bloom, but just a few miles down the valley there are a few flowers showing.  Dandelions here are a mix of yellow flowers and white seed puffs.  Rhubarb over at my old place across the highway sent up tall flower stalks while I wasn’t paying attention, but I took care of that a few days ago.



    What a bunch of undistinguished early-morning pictures.  If it wasn’t for the sheer breathtaking natural beauty, they wouldn’t be worth posting.  Not a bit of fog, darnit… looked so eerie when I first turned off the highway, too.  Good photos are as fleeting as coherent thoughts around here.


    I didn’t sleep much this morning, was wakened at the usual time by Greyfox’s daily check-in call before he sets up his stand and goes to work.  Before leaving for town yesterday, I had caught up all my backlog of client readings, both my card readings and the past-life readings Greyfox had done… except the past-life reading he did for me.  I had planned to post that today, and post the next episode of Melody on Greyfox’s site, but Doug demanded equal computer time, so I didn’t get to sit down here until 2 this afternoon and had email to do, followups on readings already done, etc.  Bottom line:  I posted the past-life reading on KaiOaty, the one he did for me, the life I asked him to track down because I’d developed a mental block.  I knew it was there but was coming up blank every time I tried to get a close look at the details.  And now, without having transcribed the Melody episode, I’m going to put my nightie back on and get between the sheets and read another chapter or two of Harry Potter if I can stay awake that long.


    I gotta start getting more sleep.  Well, it will work out, I know.  The solstice is past, nights are getting longer, and Alaska’s manic summer is on it’s too-rapid slide into depressive winter, when all I’ll be doing is sleeping, hibernating like everyone else. 

  • Stolen Poetry


    Greyfox and I both loved the poem below, the Grand Prize winner in this year’s University of Alaska/Anchorage Daily News Creative Writing Contest, so I filched it to share with you.


    All the winning entries were published last Sunday in Anchorage Daily News | The Winners.  On Friday, July 4, the winners will go up on http://litsite.alaska.edu/akwrites/2003/2003contest.html.  Definitely worth a look, people.


    Last Winter Up Here
    GRAND PRIZE, 1ST PLACE OPEN TO PUBLIC POETRY l Dan Crane, age 61, Fritz Creek





    (Published: June 29, 2003)







    Frost patterns decorate windows in a Kenai Peninsula cabin. (Photo Bob Hallinen/Anchorage Daily News archive 2000)




    Click on photo to enlarge
    I.

    Angry wind

    Screams in our stovepipe

    Like a lunatic’s piccolo.

    Empty oil drums

    Beat the door

    Begging shelter.

    Lights turn orange

    Then silently expire

    Like old drunks in alleys.

    We gather candles

    Force feed the fire

    Stay close.

    Our road glazes and hardens

    Glares at us; we joke

    That just glimpsing it

    Is enough

    To make you fall down

    On the spot.

    In Asia

    Smart bombs

    Probe private places

    So nobody

    Over there

    Jokes about anything.

    In Texas

    Accounts dry up

    Like the plastic bags

    You see beside the roads

    Impaled on barbwire

    Wind-ripped and spent.

    We hear of these things

    On a cheap little radio

    Dug from a closet

    Pregnant with fresh batteries

    Its voice full

    Of self-importance

    II.

    At breakfast

    Our mutt bums a chunk

    Of smoked sockeye

    Glistens at once

    With its oil

    And our love.

    Distant snow banners

    On the Kenai range

    Scour stoic peaks

    Beyond our windows

    Beyond our reach

    Beyond our knowing.

    Trees explode around us

    Grasping at each other

    Clinging to wires

    Bruising the ground:

    Blow-downs made

    For a hungry stove.

    Our bull goose

    Stuffed with bravado

    Struts and flaps

    Across the driveway

    Slips on the ice

    Like a clown on skates

    Skids twenty feet

    In a heap

    Feathers and down

    Hopelessly cross-threading

    His once blaring voice

    Turned into a squeaky fan belt.

    A morning nip with coffee

    Welcomes in the holiday,

    Then we plow through drifts

    And find our way

    To frosty trash bins

    Dispose of ribbons and bows.

    I rescue an old Coleman

    To mate with one at home

    Before they both die.

    Dumpster diving on Christmas …

    I’m just fine with it,

    It feels religious.

    III.

    Some weeks later

    A woman in a kayak

    On wind-tossed waters

    Suffers choking salt

    Hands the mystery

    Of her dying over

    To tides and newsprint.

    We see waves from here,

    Miles off, and never

    Catch her helpless effort

    Our focus wrong

    Our lens screwed down

    To our tight winter world.

    We mourn a stranger

    The best we can,

    But poorly; we crack

    A book of celluloid sailors

    Our family album

    Our boats and friends

    Our cozy little circle.

    What luck

    To trick these seas

    For thirty years

    And wash up here!

    Out on the spit

    In the pit of night

    Lonely lights still pulse

    As if that stranger’s heartbeat

    Beneath those wrinkled waters

    Echoes in their filaments.

    IV.

    Peace descends

    In middle February.

    Senators and tax collectors

    Rub their soft hands.

    Women here crowd seeds

    Into greenhouse windows.

    Our old dozer on snow duty

    Starts growling for dirt

    On this hillside,

    A surly bachelor bear

    Shaking off the ice

    Of yet another winter.

    Out on the edge

    Fresh fish are stirring

    In the heavy depths

    Moving toward us again

    With sex and hunger

    In their souls.

    We sharpen hooks

    Buy a pail of copper paint

    Drive down to the boat.

    A voice starts

    Its ancient whisper

    In our blood.

    We stir

    As dead men jerk

    When probes touch nerves

    As bulbs break frost

    When lava

    Rumbles way below.

    One morning an egg

    Shows up in the duck house …

    Our cat slips out

    For the first time

    Since equinox

    And leaps at birds.


  • I hurt myself…


    …but I feel it was worth it.  That’s just a feeling, no logic to it.  I can’t logic this out, because there is controversy, conflict between various “expert” sources on just what is best for those of us with chronic fatigue syndrome.


    After dancing Saturday night, my leg muscles loaded up with lactic acid, of course.  Some recent Australian research has shown that CFS patients do themselves harm, worsen the disease, cause deterioration and degeneration, by pushing the envelope with exercise.  I pushed it HARD!


    Consequently, I haven’t slept well, have been stumblin’ and fumblin’ and not getting much done.  That’s not catastrophic, since The Order of the Phoenix came in the mail on Saturday and I’d really rather do nothing but sit and read Harry Potter’s adventures.


    I’ve been a little testy, kinda crabby, and have taken some of it out on the usual band of imbeciles at the Temple of the Screaming Electron.  Does them good… they can take it, I’m sure.  They give each other a hard time all the time.  My acerbity just raises the general tone of the usual bullshit.  Gawd, that place is almost as addictive as Xanga.  Greyfox enjoys having me there.  He has been (possibly) the oldest totsier, and now maybe I am.  There’s always the chance that one of those gross and/or seductive young girls posting there is a truly ancient and mentally filthy old man.


    Anyway, a couple of days’ rest has made some of the sensorimotor dysfunction clear up, and the congestion and drowsiness are gone, from the rebound effect of the ma huang and gotu kola I took to keep going Saturday. 


    Dancing, for me at this time of my life is about equivalent, I think, to most people going out mountain climbing.  Now that I’m nearly recovered from the ascent and the descent, weighing costs and benefits, it was definitely a positive experience.  Even if I knew for a fact that I’d done myself a little permanent physical damage,  I’d do it again for the sheer joy of it and the mental health benefit.  Maybe a leeetle differently next time, with more self-restraint, more prudence and preparation… maybe.  Who knows?  When I’m on the dance floor and the music takes me, I’m gone.