April 7, 2004

• MISHMASH

  The enthusiastically pro comments to my latest blog on self care have
  caused me to wonder how many readers thought to themselves, “She’s just
  nuts,” but declined to comment. That’s another part of the Xanga social
  scene I’ve discovered through familiarity, that seems counterinutitive
  to me.  Why leave only positive comments?  The two who
  commented on the “great links” made me wonder if they had
  followed any of them, since they are all just Xangazon book purchase
  links, nothing informative. 

  I see this as part of the general trend to political correctness and
  hypocrisy that has emerged lately.  Especially egregious is the
  windy flurry of official apologies for various acts of genocide or
  cultural mayhem, most of which were committed by the predecessors of
  those doing the apologizing.  I see those apologies as a weak
  hypocritical attempt to avoid having to make real reparations.

  I have blocked a few Xanga commentors myself, not for honest
  criticisms of my ideas, but for ad hominem insults, threats, lewd ALL
  CAPS bullshit, and off-topic drive-by comments.  I guess we all
  have our likes and dislikes, eh?  Some of us are just apparently
  more free with divulging our dislikes than others are.  I’ve been
  told it takes guts (I think the guy who said it actually said “balls”.)
  to voice dissent.  Ballsy I am, I suppose.  I’m only just now
  learning to pause before I speak whatever’s on my mind–pause, mind
  you, not shut up.  [aside:  didja ever wonder why in some
  contexts "nuts" and "balls" are the same thing, while in another
  context {still slang}, they are quite different?]

  In the “like” category, I found this Amazon list of alternative healing books.  A few of them are in my library, and now others are on my wish list.  Hulda Regehr Clark, whose book The Cure for All Diseases
  is on that list, has made some amazing discoveries about the electronic
  resonances of microorganisms.  She’s one of my favorite
  doctors.  Her doctorate is in electrical engineering or a similar
  field.  Her book, and the Zapper she designed (the one I have was
  modified and manufactured by Robert O. Becker, who designed and built
  the Brain Tuner, another device I’ve gotten some good from.  I
  realized last night after I posted that blog and went to bed that I had
  mentioned only conventional medicine, and that’s only part of my self
  care.

  Pidney
  fell asleep on my clipboard atop the monitor that anchors the end of
  Couch Potato Heaven opposite that occupied by the woodstove.  Her
  head is cradled on the clip, while her butt is crowded by the
  PS2.  Her tail partially obscures a screen shot from the world
  where I spend most of my non-sleep time (in another form of “sleep”),
  Disgaea.

  Doug thinks I should get on and further the plot line, but I’ve been
  hanging out in the Item World, leveling up my massive horde (over 100
  characters), improving the strength of their weapons and armor and
  working toward opening up a new character class, majin, the ultimate
  warrior.  Recently I got  a female archer, knight and cleric
  to level 100 and opened the Angel class, the ultimate mages.  To
  make Majin available, I must get a male warrior, ninja, rogue, brawler
  and scout to level 200.  My scout is at 195, and the other four
  are in the high 150s now.  At the rate I’ve been going, in another
  week or two I can start leveling up my new Majin.   
  I’ll be able to defeat the final boss with one hit, probably, but
  that’s not my objective.  Primary objective:  have fun;
  secondary objective:  set things up for a dynamite NEW GAME PLUS
  and get the best ending (for which in this game I’ve already
  disqualified myself through accidental “friendly fire” casualites).

  Pidney… she’s the cat who pushes the door open to get in, and
  sometimes when it’s not stuck too tight she can snag it with a claw and
  pull it open to go out.  I still haven’t trained the dog to shut
  it after her.  It swings closed by gravity, but leaves a little
  crack open until someone pushes it firmly into the frame.  Then
  poor Pidney has to throw her tiny body against it again when she wants
  in.  I have seen both of the other cats scurry to get in before
  the door shuts when Pidney opens it, but have never seen one of them
  open it for herself. 

  About 3:30 this morning I was awakened by the sound of Pidney twanging
  the door trying to get out.  That door is steel sheathing over a
  wooden frame.  The cat has pulled on it so long and hard trying to
  get out that she has peeled a corner of the steel sheathing loose at
  the bottom.  When I hear that twang, I wait a few twangs to see if
  she’ll be able to open it herself.  If not, I get up and let her
  out.  Sometimes when I hear her throwing her little body at the
  outside of the door trying to get in, I get up and let her in.  It
  all depends on the weather and how firmly the door sticks shut.

  Old-timers in this region pride themselves on never locking their
  doors.  Partly it comes from the same mentality that motivates
  some signs I see in windows.  One pictures a big black handgun
  with the words, “I don’t call 911.”   Another says, “This
  property protected by Smith and Wesson.”  For some, though, not
  locking up, especially when we’re away, goes back to the not-so-distant
  pioneer days when a traveler’s survival could depend on access to a
  warm cabin.  Sourdoughs would leave a fire laid in the woodstove,
  matches prominently placed nearby, and a pot of coffee ready to be
  heated or brewed.  The cache outside, those little log cabins up
  on stilts away from the wolves and bears–bears can climb the legs
  unless they’re sheathed in metal–always contained something to
  eat.  None of that has very much to do with why the cat is able to
  open our door, however.

  Some of you will have already read this story here.  When I first
  visited Mark before he went south and left us here to housesit, I
  noticed the splintered door frame he’d repaired by screwing the
  broken-out piece of wooden door frame back into place.  I thought
  someone had kicked the door in.  I didn’t ask him about it. 
  Our first spring in this place, I learned how the door was busted
  in.  Snow loosened and slid off the roof of the little cabin
  beside the trailer and the avalanche came through the door.  That
  took out more of the frame and left nothing to which to screw the
  missing pieces.  It happened in the night and we shoveled out
  enough snow to close the door, then went back to bed.  Next day I
  looked at the condition of the frame, shut the door a few times and
  determined that it stuck tight when closed firmly, and left it that
  way.  The cat seems to appreciate the freedom to come and go, as
  much as a cat ever shows appreciation.  Let’s just say she takes
  advantage of the freedom.

  • 1:51 pm
  • 10 Comments