Month: November 2004

  • First:  some followup

    on this morning’s entry

    Some of you speculated on what my dream might mean and wondered if I had any insight.

    It has been on my mind and I have some clues, I suppose.  In one
    symbol system with which I’m familiar, trees around the house represent
    people around us.  The more there are, the more social we are, the
    closer they are the more close friends we have, etc.  In the
    dream, one tree close to the house fell blocking the road the way I
    usually go in and out.  Someone (in Jung’s system it has to be me)
    ran into it, wrecked his car.  Until that happened, I was
    completely unaware of an even bigger tree that had fallen and blocked
    my exit in the other direction.  Both of those trees were bigger
    than any real trees around here.  The first one, next to our
    house, probably wouldn’t extend across the road if it fell now.

    In the dream I was ready to deal with the first, smaller tree.  I
    talked to Greyfox about getting out the chainsaw to get it out of the
    way.  When I saw the bigger tree down not across the road but
    lying lengthwise along the middle of it blocking it totally, I felt
    alarmed, trapped.  There are only two people really close to
    me.  If one of them “falls”, I can probably deal with it.  If
    the other one goes, I don’t know what I’ll do.  That doesn’t mean
    I can’t deal with it.  It means that first I will have to figure
    out what to do, and then I’ll have to try to do it.

     
    earthlovinglady was wondering also what the percentage of addicts and alcoholics might be who are also pathological narcissists.

    It is high.  The National Clearinghouse for Drug and Alcohol
    Information (or the National Institute of Mental Health, or both)
    estimates that about one-third of all those with NPD are also
    self-medicating with alcohol and/or other drugs.  That is the
    lowest estimate I’ve seen.  In 12-step meetings, we hear people
    expressing narcissistic attitudes all the time, and sometimes our
    meetings deteriorate into dueling NPDs, trying to see who can be more
    outrageous and get more attention. 

    Many addicts had addicted parents and the types of parental abuse and
    neglect that lead to NPD could be expected from addicted parents. 
    People with NPD are less likely to concern themselves with laws and
    mores than a normal person.  The constant threat of having true
    reality impinge on their false persona, and their general tendency
    toward dysphoria, give them perceived reasons to
    self-medicate.    There is some debate on this, but I
    think in most cases it was the NPD that came first and the addiction
    later.


    Religion & Politics

    Forget the U.S. Constitution’s guarantee of separation of church and
    state.  It just isn’t happening.  Every move we’ve made in
    that direction has been countered or outmaneuvered or simply ignored by
    religious fundamentalists who believe that anything that conforms to
    and supports their belief system is RIGHT and everything else is
    WRONG.  When the ACLU and the Supreme Court get together and make
    a move to safeguard or restore the constitutional rights of minority
    believers, the Xian Fundies try to present it as persecution against
    themselves.

    You just can’t reason with fundamentalists of any religion. 
    Trying to tell them that there is more than one right way to think and
    to live is likely to sail right over their heads.  Telling them
    that theirs is fundamentally wrong can get you killed.  That’s
    just the way it is.

    After last Tuesday’s election, I found an op-ed piece by New York Times
    columnist Thomas L. Friedman, entitled Two Nations Under God, copied on
    ogreDAD’s Xanga site.  Mr. Friedman had a lot to say about his
    feelings regarding the outcome of this election.  It was this
    portion of his article that stuck in my mind:

    My problem with the Christian fundamentalists supporting Mr. Bush is
    not their spiritual energy or the fact that I am of a different faith.
    It is the way in which he and they have used that religious energy to
    promote divisions and intolerance at home and abroad. I respect that
    moral energy, but wish that Democrats could find a way to tap it for
    different ends.

    “The Democrats have ceded to Republicans a monopoly on the moral
    and spiritual sources of American politics,” noted the Harvard
    University political theorist Michael J. Sandel. “They will not recover
    as a party until they again have candidates who can speak to those
    moral and spiritual yearnings – but turn them to progressive purposes
    in domestic policy and foreign affairs.”

    What is it with both of these men?  Are they unaware of the
    differences between spirituality and religion, and between morality and
    moralism?

    Religious intolerance is everywhere.  There is no such thing as
    spiritual intolerance.  That’s an oxymoron.  Where true
    spirituality lives, there is love — universal unconditional
    love.  Any religion which teaches hatred and intolerance is
    spiritually bankrupt.

    What are these, “moral and spiritual sources of American
    politics”?  Gay-bashing and Muslim-hating are not moral. 
    They are moralistic.   Fear is not a spiritual value, but it
    is certainly of great value to religious demagogues who play on
    people’s fears to consolidate their own power.

    Oh, what’s the use?  You either understand what I’m saying, or
    you’re too blinded by your beliefs and confounded by the words of the
    fearmongers to grasp that fundamental difference between religion and
    spirituality, and between moralism and morality.   If you
    know, you know you know, and if you don’t know, you don’t know you
    don’t know.  As I said, you just can’t reason with fundamentalists.
     

  • a moment of excitement

    I was on the phone last night when a mild earthquake hit. 

    Greyfox, on the other end of that phone call, fifty miles away at the

    lower end of this valley, could hear things rattling in the background

    here.

    He said, “Wow!”  I asked if he felt it, and he said no, he’d
    just

    heard all the rattling and clanking at this end.  Then he
    said

    “Wow!” again, as the quake reached his location.

    Before I went to bed last night, the alert was in my inbox from the

    BIGQUAKE notification service.  The epicenter was 65 miles NW
    of

    Talkeetna.  We are about 20 miles SW of Talkeetna, I think,

    probably a bit less straight-line distance.


    intriguing dream

    Doug, Greyfox and several other people, strangers to me, were here
    with

    me.  There was heavy new snow on the ground and clinging to
    trees,

    and the wind was blowing.  I was watching the trees sway in
    the

    wind when suddenly the big spruce tree nearest the house cracked near

    its base and fell across the road out front.  I called out to
    the

    others to come look.  Before they got to the window, a
    low-slung

    red car came speeding from the corner just south of here and ran hard

    into the fallen tree.

    Greyfox and I went out there as the driver was climbing out of his

    car.  He pointed to the road past the tree that was fallen
    across

    it and there was another, bigger tree lying along the road with its

    base near our tree and the branches covering the entire width of the

    road to the north.

    Dr. Jung says everyone in the dream is some aspect of the
    dreamer.  Even the trees?


    the blog I meant to post yesterday

    I’ve written about my own perspective on my husband’s NPD. 
    When I

    received Sam Vaknin’s recent newsletter, I found much in it that

    resonated.  The following is just FYI:

    Do Narcissists Have Emotions
    (such as Love)?

    By: Sam Vaknin

    Of course they do. All humans have emotions. It is how we choose to

    relate to our emotions that matters. The narcissist tends to repress

    them so deeply that, for all practical purposes, they play no
    conscious

    role in his life and conduct, though they play an extraordinarily
    large

    unconscious role in determining both.

    The narcissist’s positive emotions come bundled with very negative

    ones. This is the outcome of frustration and the consequent

    transformations of aggression. This frustration is connected to the

    Primary Objects of the narcissist’s childhood (parents and
    caregivers).

    Instead of being provided with the unconditional love that he craved,

    the narcissist was subjected to totally unpredictable and inexplicable

    bouts of temper, rage, searing sentimentality, envy, prodding,
    infusion

    of guilt and other unhealthy parental emotions and behavior
    patterns.

    The narcissist reacted by retreating to his private world, where he is

    omnipotent and omniscient and, therefore, immune to such vicious

    vicissitudes. He stashed his vulnerable True Self in a deep mental

    cellar – and outwardly presented to the world a False Self.

    But bundling is far easier than unbundling. The narcissist is unable
    to

    evoke positive feelings without provoking negative ones. Gradually, he

    becomes phobic: afraid to feel anything, lest it be accompanied by

    fearsome, guilt inducing, anxiety provoking, out of control emotional

    complements.

    He is thus reduced to experiencing dull stirrings in his soul that he

    identifies to himself and to others as emotions. Even these are felt

    only in the presence of someone or something capable of providing the

    narcissist with his badly needed Narcissistic Supply.

    Only when the narcissist is in the overvaluation (idealization) phase

    of his relationships, does he experience the convulsions that he calls

    “feelings”.  These are so transient and fake that they are
    easily

    replaced by rage, envy

    and devaluation. The narcissist really recreates the behavior patterns
    of his less than ideal Primary Objects.

    Deep inside, the narcissist knows that something is amiss. He does not

    empathize with other people’s feelings. Actually, he holds them in

    contempt and ridicule. He cannot understand how people are so

    sentimental, so “irrational” (he identifies being rational with being

    cool headed and cold blooded).

    Often the narcissist believes that other people are “faking it”,
    merely

    aiming to achieve a goal. He is convinced that their “feelings” are

    grounded in ulterior, non-emotional, motives. He becomes suspicious,

    embarrassed, feels compelled to avoid emotion-tinged situations, or,

    worse, experiences surges of almost uncontrollable aggression in the

    presence of genuinely expressed sentiments. They remind him how

    imperfect and poorly equipped he is.

    The weaker variety of narcissist tries to emulate and simulate

    “emotions” – or, at least their expression, the external facet

    (affect). They mimic and replicate the intricate pantomime that they

    learn to associate with the existence of feelings. But there are no

    real emotions there, no emotional correlate.

    This is empty affect, devoid of emotion. This being so, the narcissist

    quickly tires of it, becomes impassive and begins to produce

    inappropriate affect (e.g., he remains indifferent when grief is the

    normal reaction). The narcissist subjects his feigned emotions to his

    cognition. He “decides” that it is appropriate to feel so and so. His

    “emotions” are invariably the result of analysis, goal setting and

    planning.

    He substitutes “remembering” for “sensing”. He relegates his bodily

    sensations, feelings and emotions to a kind of a memory vault. The

    short and medium-term memory is exclusively used to store his
    reactions

    to his (actual and potential) Narcissistic Supply Sources.

    He reacts only to such sources. The narcissist finds it hard to

    remember or recreate what he ostensibly – though ostentatiously -

    “felt” (even a short while back) towards a Narcissistic Supply Source

    once it has ceased to be one. In his attempts to recall his feelings,

    he draws a mental blank.

    It is not that narcissists are incapable of expressing what we would

    tend to classify as “extreme emotional reactions”. They mourn and

    grieve, rage and smile, excessively “love” and “care”. But this is

    precisely what sets them apart: this rapid movement from one emotional

    extreme to another and the fact that they never occupy the emotional

    middle ground.

    The narcissist is especially “emotional” when weaned off his drug of

    Narcissistic Supply. Breaking a habit is always difficult – especially

    one that defines (and generates) oneself. Getting rid of an addiction

    is doubly taxing. The narcissist misidentifies these crises with an

    emotional depth and his self-conviction is so immense, that he mostly

    succeeds to delude his environment, as well. But a narcissistic crisis

    (losing a Source of Narcissistic Supply, obtaining an alternative one,

    moving from one Narcissistic Pathological Space to another) – must

    never be confused with the real thing, which the narcissist never

    experiences: emotions.

    Many narcissists have “emotional resonance tables”. They use words as

    others use algebraic signs: with meticulousness, with caution, with
    the

    precision of the artisan. They sculpt in words the fine tuned

    reverberations of pain and love and fear. It is the mathematics of

    emotional grammar, the geometry of the syntax of passions. Devoid of

    all emotions, narcissists closely monitor people’s reactions and
    adjust

    their verbal choices accordingly, until their vocabulary resembles
    that

    of their listeners. This is as close as narcissists get to
    empathy.

    To summarize, the emotional life of the narcissist is colorless and

    eventless, as rigidly blind as his disorder, as dead as he. He does

    feel rage and hurt and inordinate humiliation, envy and fear. These
    are

    very dominant, prevalent and recurrent hues in the canvass of his

    emotional existence. But there is nothing there except these atavistic

    gut reactions.

    Whatever it is that the narcissist experiences as emotions – he

    experiences in reaction to slights and injuries, real or imagined. His

    emotions are all reactive, not active. He feels insulted – he sulks.
    He

    feels devalued – he rages. He feels ignored – he pouts. He feels

    humiliated – he lashes out. He feels threatened – he fears. He feels

    adored – he basks in glory. He is virulently envious of one and all.

    The narcissist can appreciate beauty but in a cerebral, cold and

    “mathematical” way. Many have no mature, adult sex drive to speak of.

    Their emotional landscape is dim and gray, as though through a glass

    darkly.

    Many narcissists can intelligently discuss those emotions never

    experienced by them – like empathy, or love – because they make it a

    point to read a lot and to communicate with people who claim to be

    experiencing them. Thus, they gradually construct working hypotheses
    as

    to what people feel. As far as the narcissist is concerned, it is

    pointless to try to really understand emotions – but at least these

    models he does form allow him to better predict people’s behaviors and

    adjust to them.

    Narcissists are not envious of others for having emotions. They
    disdain

    feelings and sentimental people because they find them to be weak and

    vulnerable and they deride human frailties and vulnerabilities. Such

    derision makes the narcissist feel superior and is probably the

    ossified remains of a defense mechanism gone awry.

    Narcissists are afraid of pain. It is the pebble in their Indra’s Net
    -

    lift it and the whole net moves. Their pains do not come isolated -

    they constitute families of anguish, tribes of hurt, whole races of

    agony. The narcissist cannot experience them separately – only

    collectively.  Narcissism is an effort to contain the ominous

    onslaught of stale negative emotions, repressed rage, a child’s

    injuries.  Pathological narcissism is useful – this is why it
    is

    so resilient and resistant to change. When it is “invented” by the

    tormented individual, it enhances his functionality and makes life

    bearable for him. Because it is so successful, it attains religious

    dimensions – it become rigid, doctrinaire, automatic and
    ritualistic.

    In other words, pathological narcissism becomes a PATTERN of behavior.

    This rigidity is like an outer shell, an exoskeleton. It constrains
    the

    narcissist and limits him. It is often prohibitive and inhibitive. As
    a

    result, the narcissist is afraid to do certain things. He is injured
    or

    humiliated when forced to engage in certain activities. He reacts with

    rage when the mental edifice underlying his disorder is subjected to

    scrutiny and criticism – no matter how benign.

    Narcissism is ridiculous. Narcissists are pompous, grandiose,
    repulsive

    and contradictory. There is a serious mismatch between who they really

    are, their true accomplishments, and how they regard themselves. The

    narcissist doesn’t merely THINK that he is far superior to others. The

    perception of his superiority is ingrained in him; it is a part of his

    every mental cell, an all-pervasive sensation, an instinct and a
    drive.

    He feels that he is entitled to special treatment and to outstanding

    consideration because he is such a unique specimen. He knows this to
    be

    true – the same way one knows that one is surrounded by air. It is an

    integral part of his identity. More integral to him than his

    body. 

    This opens a gap – rather, an abyss – between the narcissist and other

    humans. Because he considers himself so special and so superior, he
    has

    no way of knowing how it is to be human, neither the inclination to

    explore it.  In other words, the narcissist cannot and will
    not

    empathize.

    Can you empathize with an ant? Empathy implies identity or equality

    with the empathized, both abhorrent to the narcissist. And being

    perceived by the narcissist to be so inferior, people are reduced to

    cartoonish, two-dimensional representations of functions. They become

    instrumental, or useful, or functional, or entertaining, gratifying or

    infuriating, frustrating or accommodating objects – rather than loving

    or emotionally responsive.

    It leads to ruthlessness and exploitativeness. Narcissists are not

    “evil” – actually, the narcissist considers himself to be a good

    person. Many narcissists help people, professionally, or voluntarily.

    But narcissists are indifferent. They couldn’t care less. They help

    people because it is a way to secure attention, gratitude, adulation

    and admiration. And because it is the fastest and surest way to get
    rid

    of them and their incessant nagging.

    The narcissist may realize these unpleasant truths cognitively – but

    there is no corresponding emotional reaction (emotional correlate) to

    this realization. There is no resonance. It is like reading a boring

    users’ manual pertaining to a computer you do not even own. There is
    no

    insight, no assimilation of these truths.

    Still, to further insulate himself from the improbable possibility of

    confronting the gulf between reality and grandiose fantasy (the

    Grandiosity Gap) – the narcissist comes up with the most elaborate

    mental structure, replete with mechanisms, levers, switches and

    flickering alarm lights.  Narcissism Isolates the narcissist
    from

    the pain of facing reality and allows him to inhabit the fantasyland
    of

    ideal perfection and brilliance.

    Narcissists “love” their spouses or other significant others – as long

    as they continue to reliably provide them with Narcissistic Supply (in

    one word, with attention). Inevitably, they regard others as mere

    “sources”, objects, or functions. Lacking empathy and emotional

    maturity, the narcissist’s love is pathological. But the precise locus

    of the pathology depends on the narcissist’s stability or instability

    in different parts of his life.

    >From “The Unstable Narcissist”:

    (I have omitted below large sections. For a more elaborate treatment,
    please

    Read the FAQ itself.)

    Narcissists belong to two broad categories: the ‘compensatory
    stability’ and the ‘enhancing instability’ types.

    I. Compensatory Stability (‘Classic’) Narcissists

    These narcissists isolate one or more (but never most) aspects of
    their

    lives and ‘make these aspect/s stable’. They do not really invest

    themselves in it. The stability is maintained by artificial means:

    money, celebrity, power, fear. A typical example is a narcissist who

    changes numerous workplaces, a few careers, and a myriad of hobbies,

    value systems or faiths. At the same time, he maintains (preserves) a

    relationship with a single woman (and even remains faithful to her).

    She is his ‘island of stability’. To fulfill this role, she just needs

    to be there physically.

    The narcissist is dependent upon ‘his’ woman to maintain the stability

    lacking in all other areas of his life (to compensate for his

    instability).  Yet, emotional closeness is bound to threaten
    the

    narcissist. Thus, he is likely to distance himself from her and to

    remain detached and indifferent to most of her needs. Despite this

    cruel emotional treatment, the narcissist considers her to be a point

    of exit, a form of sustenance, a fountain of empowerment. This
    mismatch

    between what he wishes to receive and what he is able to give, the

    narcissist prefers to deny, repress and bury deep in his unconscious.

    This is why he is always shocked and devastated to learn of his wife’s

    estrangement, infidelity, or divorce intentions. Possessed of
    no

    emotional depth, being completely one track minded – he cannot fathom
    the needs of others. In other words, he cannot empathize.

    II. Enhancing Instability (‘Borderline’) Narcissist

    The other kind of narcissist enhances instability in one aspect or

    dimension of his life – by introducing instability in others. Thus, if

    such a narcissist resigns (or, more likely, is made redundant) – he

    also relocates to another city or country. If he divorces, he is also

    likely to resign his job. This added instability gives these

    narcissists the feeling that all the dimensions of their life are

    changing simultaneously, that they are being ‘unshackled’, that a

    transformation is in progress. This, of course, is an illusion. Those

    who know the narcissist no longer trust his frequent ‘conversions’,

    ‘decisions’, ‘crises’, ‘transformations’,  ‘developments’ and

    ‘periods’. They see through his pretensions and declarations into the

    core of his instability. They know that he is not to be relied upon.

    They know that with narcissists, temporariness is the only
    permanence.”

    We are, therefore, faced with two pathological forms of narcissistic

    “love”.    One type of narcissist “loves”
    others as one

    would attach to objects. He “loves” his spouse, for instance, simply

    because she exists and is available to provide him with Narcissistic

    Supply. He “loves” his children because they are part of his
    self-image

    as a successful husband and father. He “loves” his “friends” because -

    and only as long as – he can exploit them. 

    Such a narcissist reacts with alarm and rage to any sign of

    independence and autonomy in his “charges”. He tries to “freeze”

    everyone around him in his or her “allocated” positions and “assigned

    roles”. His world is rigid and immovable, predictable and static,
    fully

    under his control. He punishes for “transgressions” against this

    ordained order. He thus stifles life as a dynamic process of

    compromising and growing – rendering it instead a mere theatre, a

    tableau vivant.

    The other type of narcissist abhors monotony and constancy, equating

    them, in his mind, with death. He seeks upheaval, drama, and change -

    but only when they conform to his plans, designs, and views of the

    world and of himself. Thus, he does not encourage growth in his
    nearest

    and dearest. By monopolizing their lives, he, like the other kind of

    narcissist, also reduces them to mere objects, props in the exciting

    drama of his life.

    This narcissist likewise rages at any sign of rebellion and

    disagreement. But, as opposed to the first sub-species, he seeks to

    animate others with his demented energy, grandiose plans, and

    megalomaniacal self-perception. An adrenaline junkie, his world is a

    whirlwind of comings and goings, reunions and separations, loves and

    hates, vocations adopted and discarded, schemes erected and
    dismantled,

    enemies turned friends and vice versa. His Universe is equally a

    theatre, but a more ferocious and chaotic one.

    Where is love in all this? Where is the commitment to the loved one’s

    welfare, the discipline, the extension of oneself to incorporate the

    beloved, the mutual growth?  Nowhere to be seen. The
    narcissist’s

    “love” is hate and fear disguised -  fear of losing control
    and

    hatred of the very people his precariously balanced personality so

    depends on. The narcissist is egotistically committed only to his own

    well-being. To him, the objects of his “love” are interchangeable and

    inferior.

    He idealizes his nearest and dearest not because he is smitten by

    emotion – but because he needs to captivate them and to convince

    himself that they are worthy Sources of Supply, despite their flaws
    and

    mediocrity. Once he deems them useless, he discards and devalues them

    similarly cold-bloodedly. A

    predator, always on the lookout, he debases the coin of “love” as he
    corrupts everything else in himself and around him.


    I have not had breakfast yet.  I have a reading to post at
    KaiOaty

    and if I’m not totally weary of keyboarding by then, I’ll come back

    here and post my politics-and-religion rant that was fermenting all
    day

    yesterday.

  • I stand corrected.

    Bear baiting more humane than long shots
    CRAIG MEDRED OUTDOORS
    (Published: November 7, 2004) On Wednesday, I woke up feeling sorry for
    many of the Alaskans who voted in favor of a failed state initiative to
    ban bear baiting.

    Nearly every supporter of the ban I talked
    with before the election thought he or she was voting to do something
    to help black bears. Maybe those voters will feel better today knowing
    that belief was misguided.
     
    It is unlikely a ban on bear
    baiting would have caused the state’s annual black bear kill to drop by
    a single animal. More likely is that a baiting ban would have ensured
    additional bears died unpleasant deaths.

    How can that be?

    The answer rests in the way bears are hunted here. A few are shot over
    bait. Still more are shot along salmon streams, which is basically a
    natural form of baiting.

    And a big number are shot in the
    mountains in the spring, when they are out foraging for the first
    greens of spring, or in the fall, when they are after the last berries
    of the year.

    Hunting bears on the alpine tundra is
    difficult. Bears are usually hard to stalk. As a result, some hunters
    take long shots at these bears. Long shots maximize the chances of a
    wounding an animal.

    The farther you are from your target, the less likely you are to hit it.

    Gravity pulls a bullet down as it flies. Winds deflect a bullet as it
    moves through the air. Distance magnifies any problem with your aim.

    For instance, if you twitch when you pull the trigger and jerk a shot
    to the right, it might be off by an inch at 25 yards. That will grow to
    four inches at 100 yards, eight inches at 200 yards, and so on.

    That’s why, when shooting at long distances, it is a lot easier to miss
    a bear’s vital area than hit it. If this meant the hunter also missed
    the bear, that would be fine. Usually, it means the bullet hits the
    bear in a nonvital area.

    Given that bullets also lose energy
    as they travel over distance, what you end up with is a bullet more
    likely to tear up a lot of flesh than to kill. The result: a wounded
    bear.

    Some wounded bears are tracked down and killed. Others crawl off into the woods to die.

     No one can say how many bears might have suffered this sort of death if baiting had been banned.

    And no one knows how many of the people who practice bear baiting might
    have shifted to hunting bears other ways. No doubt some would have, and
    all of those ways have their downsides.

    I’m no big fan of bear baiting. I don’t do it. I have no desire to do it. I don’t even think it’s particularly fair.

    But nature isn’t fair, either. Fairness is a human idea, separating the
    civilized world from the natural world. The natural world doesn’t
    operate on fairness, it operates on luck.

    If an animal is lucky, it survives. If not, well …

    Consider the moose calf who’s enjoying its new life until stumbling
    into the path of a hungry grizzly bear and getting killed. That’s
    nature.

    A bait station doesn’t encourage a bear to go to town looking for food;
    it encourages the animal to hang around the bait station in the same
    way garbage encourages a bear to hang around a neighborhood.

    In either case, the problem isn’t what the bear is eating, it’s where the bear is living.

    So if you really want to do something for bears, start at home by
    dealing with your own baiting. Take care of your garbage. Don’t give a
    bear a reason to hang around the city, because that’s the kind of
    conditioning that does get bears into trouble — not bear baiting.

    I cut out the middle.  You can find it here:
    Anchorage Daily News | Bear baiting more humane than long shots

  • This is just for Mitch, on my way to what may become my first ten-blog day.

  • SuSu’s Subarctic Suburban Survival School

    This comment from misunderstood47 motivated this entry, although I know that much of it will be old news to my regular readers.

    How can you survive in that kind of weather?… doesn’t the darkness affect your mood? [edited]

    Some additional elucidation of my lifestyle was suggested by this unrelated comment from one of my new favorite bloggers, skintype,
    about whom I know more than I know about many of my long-time
    subscriptions thanks to a serendipitous first visit to his site when he
    had posted a lot of personal info.

    It’s always a struggle between your ideals and the bread you need to feed yourself. [edited]

    Some of you may struggle thusly.  I gave up the struggle. 
    The ideals won.   Life experience taught me that many things
    are worse than doing without money.  Along the way, I discovered
    that I now have and have always had all that I need.  My continued
    survival is the proof of that.  I choose to believe that this will
    continue to be true.

    The combined household income for the three of us is well below the
    U.S. “poverty” line.  Greyfox’s work is seasonal and irregular,
    dependent on weather and the vagaries of tourism.  My income is
    sporadic and dependent on factors even more unpredictable than
    Greyfox’s.  Doug’s work thus far is all unpaid.  He does the
    physical work that Greyfox and I can’t handle.   I live in a
    beat-up old mobile home that was given to me by the same man who allows
    me to keep it parked on his land rent-free, because he decided that
    life in the subarctic was not for him, and I was the last of the series
    of housesitters he’d left here over the winters that he had spent in
    Florida, Mexico or Hawaii during his Alaskan residency.  The cats
    he left with me are the “landladies” for the rest of their lives, and
    then the place is mine.  In a few years, if I don’t hear from Mark
    in the meantime, the land can be mine too because I’ve been paying the
    taxes on it since he disappeared in 2000.

    We have only two ongoing utility bills:  electricity and the combined
    phone and internet bill from our rural communications
    cooperative.  My whole family dresses well, often in clothes with
    designer labels, which we find in dumpsters and thrift stores. 
    One of those thrift stores gives us generous discounts on what we buy
    there because we frequently contribute to them the things we’ve
    salvaged from dumpsters and can’t use ourselves.  We eat better
    than most people, due to my having studied both nutrition and culinary
    arts.  Most of our food comes from supermarkets, but I’m confident
    that should the shit hit the fan and those barges and airlifts of food
    be stopped, I can forage for adequate rations.  I’ve done that
    before, both here and in more temperate climates.

    Over a quarter century ago, when my chronic illness finally ended my
    employability, the man I was married to then and I lived entirely out
    of dumpsters.  It was in the economic bust that followed the boom
    during construction of the Trans-Alaska pipeline.  Charley and I
    did better than many people who were either too ignorant, too proud or
    too sqeamish to go dumpster-diving.  We also met a bunch of
    wonderful people around those dumpsters and at the flea markets where
    we sold things we scavenged and didn’t need.  Those friendships
    endure.   Another huge benefit of my enforced joblessness was that
    I started doing what my heart, soul and spirit led me to do.  I
    kept a garden to feed us, and sold my surplus.  I used things we
    scrounged from other people’s trash as arts materials, something my son
    is now doing, too.  That provided some cash income as well, and I
    still earn money with my arts and crafts.  Also, I started accepting
    payment for my psychic readings.

    Funny thing about those readings:  back in the late 1980s when
    Charley had moved out and Doug and I had no income at all, I asked my
    spirit guides if I should try to move to the city, where there would be
    more of a clientele for my readings.  My Guides told me no. 
    They said that Spirit would lead the people to me who needed me, and
    that my needs would be met.  They have been — all my needs, body,
    mind and spirit.   That list, by the way, is in inverse order
    of importance.  As long as my spiritual needs are met — the need
    for conscious contact with Spirit — then my mental needs will be
    fillled.  My mind needs peace, self-respect, and a continuing
    source of things to observe and learn.  Communication is nice,
    too.  Communion and communication are two biggies in my life,
    without which the physical life of this body would not be worth
    much.   One of those people Spirit led to me back around that
    time, JadedFey, led me to Xanga, where I’ve found more communication than I’d ever had before.

    Ironically, at those times in my life when I had the most money, I was
    also doing the most harm to my body with alcohol and other drugs, with
    other risky behaviors, going without sleep, eating toxic “foods” and so
    forth.  If that proverbial shit does hit the metaphorical fan and
    I’m reduced to snaring hares and picking mushrooms and berries, it will be a tasty and
    nutritious diet.

    I was asked how I survive the cold and dark.  There’s a saying I
    first heard from mountainclimbers here to scale Denali, our mountain
    (AKA Mount McKinley):  “There is no such thing as bad weather;
    only inadequate gear.”  When I was living out of dumpsters
    full-time twenty-some years ago, I wore salvaged moon boots lined with
    plastic bags and
    rags.  My feet stayed warm.  Right now, I’m wearing a pair of
    PolarFleece® booties inside wool socks inside fleecy sheepskin
    slippers, all from thrift shops at a cost of under $10 for the
    lot.  In a back closet I have a pair of five-year-old Sorel®
    pac-boots rated to -80°F, bought new at a time when the family had
    abundant cash and credit.  Even if I have to go to the spring for
    water in the coldest winter weather (and inevitably, I will), my feet
    will be warm.  I also keep my hands warm in reflective glove
    liners inside woolen gloves inside PolarFleece® and leather
    mittens.  Most of the body’s heat is lost through the head, and I
    usually wear a bandana to keep my hair out of my way, even in
    summer.  In winter, I stop to put on a PolarFleece® hat or woolen
    watch cap as I go out the door, even if I’m only going to the
    outhouse.  Longjohns are my friend in winter, and I can layer on
    two or three pairs when needed, but of course in
    summer I enjoy getting back into a smaller size of jeans.

    Any dweller in the far north will tell you that the dark of winter is
    far harder to bear than the cold.  Our populace here is bipolar,
    manic-depressive, manic in summer when it never gets dark and it’s not
    uncommon to see kids out playing past midnight, and depressive in
    winter when the natural urge is to hibernate.  We all tend to
    sleep more in winter.  I was in bed ten hours last night. 
    The fifteen years that I spent off the power grid with only candles,
    flashlights and propane lamps for light, taught me the necessity for
    getting out in the cold when the sun is shining, to get the
    light.  Fortunately, snow is reflective and when we go out in
    winter we get LIGHT in abundance.  Now that I have electric power
    I use high-intensity, low wattage, full-spectrum lights.  Walking
    into my kitchen from the dark outdoors can hurt the eyes until they
    adjust.  But I still bundle up and go out (and sometimes take
    pictures to wow you Xangans) when the sun shines.

    I remembered what my original blog topic for today was: 
    NPD.  I intended to (and still might) copy and paste some of the
    latest email newsletter from Sam Vaknin.  It’s very
    informative.  Then there is the politics-and-religion rant that
    was suggested by one of your comments.  I might get that one done
    today, too, unless I go veg out with the PS2 after I finish my reading
    d’jour over at Old Man Coyote’s Place.  If I don’t restrain myself, this could become a six-blog day, a record for me.

  • breakfast -
    too good not to share

    Last
    time Greyfox came up the valley for a visit, he brought a box of
    satsuma mandarins.  The first of the holiday citrus was in the
    stores and the price was good.  But some of the fruit was
    underripe.  Some looked okay, but on the rind of most of it was a
    distinct greenish cast.  I tried one of the ripe-looking ones
    first, and it was good.  Next I tried one of the greenish ones –
    sour, as expected.

    I fantasized a bit about slicing some in a bowl with sugar.  When
    I was little, all oranges tasted too sour to me and to get me to eat
    them Mama would slice them and sprinkle sugar over the slices. 
    Although I’m abstaining from sugar, I am not denying myself
    sweetness.  I sliced two mandarins this morning, dropped seven or
    eight drops of stevia extract on them and tossed them with a fork to
    spread the sweetness around.  The dish lacks the crunch of
    granulated sugar, and it also lacks the glycemic rush and the
    subsequent sugar cravings I’d have if I indulged in that addictive food.

    The muffin contains sorghum, garbanzo and fava bean flours, yogurt and dried figs.  The tea is ( I should say was,
    because I’ve finished off the meal as I saved and uploaded the pic and
    wrote this) a blend of roasted yerba maté, rare darjoolong, and stevia
    leaves.  I’m on my way back for a second cup of tea now.

  • Blo…aaargh!

    I woke today with an idea for a blog.  I know I did.  Then I
    read my comments and got ideas for two more blogs, one on politics and
    religion (two topics in one, both of which some of the Xangans I’ve
    read say they will not touch in their blogs, so afraid are they of
    offending someone) and another on subarctic winter
    survival.    Now I’ve forgotten what I originally
    intended to blog about.

    I haven’t had breakfast yet, got distracted with more of the
    house-winterization, plugging holes in the floor (furnace grates for
    the unused/unusable furnace), so I’ve got some time yet before I’m
    ready to start blogging.  Maybe it will come back to me.  It
    probably wasn’t as interesting as the offensive one, anyway.

  • Whoof!

    I’ve run hard up against the Catch 23 of the cold snap.  The only
    way to keep it relatively warm in here is to keep feeding wood into the
    stove.  Doing that incessantly builds up a deep bed of embers –
    hot coals — in there.  The deeper the bed of coals the less
    clearance there is to put more wood in through the door and the smaller
    the pieces of wood the stove will accept.  Also, when the level of
    coals is above the bottom of the door, they tend to fall out onto the
    carpet.  This carpet had burn marks when we moved in and we’ve
    added some.  The only way to diminish that bed of coals is to let
    the fire die down, rake down the coals so the ashes sink to the bottom
    and all the charcoal can burn up, then shovel out the ashes.  Of
    course, if I let the fire die down, it gets cold in here.

    If I’m going to do it, now’s the time.  The sun has just risen and
    we’re getting as much greenhouse effect through the front room windows
    as we’ll have all day.  I suppose it really has to be done, so
    I’ll just have to keep a close eye on the thermometer and move an
    electric heater or two into the living room if it looks like my
    houseplants are going to freeze.  Smudge pots — that’s what I
    need.    I remember my Uncle Unkie lighting those greasy
    black smoky things in his orange grove when I was little.

    I don’t know if the cause is an aging brain that’s calcifying, or if
    it’s because I’ve spent a lot of the last week in an altered state of
    consciousness, or if it’s just that all those people who called me a
    flaky space case all my life were right.  The last couple of days
    have given me several opportunities for refresher courses in the
    realities of an Alaskan winter and the physics of fire.  This is
    stuff I “knew” before but apparently forgot until the facts jumped up
    and bit me:

    • I need to put on the insulated gloves before I open the stove
      door.  It also helps to have the ash bucket there to catch the
      burning embers that fall out when I open the stove.  If the ash
      bucket isn’t there, that means that some burning coals fell into it on
      Doug’s watch and he set it outside to let the fire go out.
    • Burning embers — glowing coals — don’t behave like inanimate
      objects.  They jump and fly around at the slightest touch, and
      skate across each other with a mere breath of a breeze.  It’s fun
      to watch, but then I have to clean up the burning mess off the
      floor.  If an ember falls on a little dust-bunny of shed dog and
      cat hair, it makes an awful stench.
    • Duct tape is sticky.

    This last fact wasn’t part of the woodstove lessons.  It came up
    as I was reattaching the poly sheeting over the unused back door this
    morning.  Greyfox, a few years ago when I was too ill to do the
    job, had reused a sheet that had previously been used on a window, and
    I think he reused the same tape I’d used to cover the window. 
    Anyhow, during the past summer, the tape loosened and the door’s
    covering slipped down behind the cats’ litter box and the vacuum
    cleaner, there in that back corner of the hallway.

    Out of sight, out of mind, until it got really cold this week I kept
    neglecting to stick it back up.  So when I got up today, as Doug
    was going to bed, and I noticed that the temp in here was 47°F, I
    started working on the neglected bits of winterization.  I rolled
    up a tattered old Army surplus scarf (looks like WWII or Korean War
    vintage) and used it as a draft stopper under the door to the back
    “workroom”, which is probably just a store room until the weather warms
    up.  That’s when I noticed the draft coming off the back door.

    I thought about suiting up and bringing in the roll of poly sheeting
    and letting it warm up to flexibility.  Then I decided that the
    old covering would do.  To warm it, and the duct tape, and my
    fingers, up to flexibility, I set up two electric heaters back
    there.  Then I moved the vaccum and the litter box and moved a
    milk crate over to stand on.

    I was up on the crate and had just pulled about three feet of tape off
    the roll and torn it free, when the end of the tape whipped back on
    itself and stuck around my right middle finger.  The left hand was
    holding the other end of the tape so that it wouldn’t stick to itself
    or anything else.  The tape around my finger was stuck to me and
    to itself, firmly.  Working it loose with only a tenuous
    thumb-and-forefinger grip and not much leverage took a while, but I
    succeeded, and finally got the door covered.

    Geez!  It’s cold in here.  I’m glad I’m not outside.  It
    was -17.4°F when I got up in the dark around 6:30 this morning, and it
    has shot up to a whopping -8.9°F in the bright sunshine now.  The
    indoor temp is not rising so fast.  It’s only 52.3°F in here
    now.  Time to go drag out some old drapes and try to insulate this
    window behind the computer desk.

  • Doing pretty well…

    Not that I need logical reasons for my feelings — I understand that
    feelings aren’t rational and any “reasons for feelings” that I come up
    with are purely post hoc.  Despite that bit of logic, this morning
    I have found a few good reasons for feeling good.

    • Our little wood stove is keeping the indoors temp sixty
      degrees
      or so warmer than the outdoor temp.  That’s important when it’s
      sub-zero outside.  It’s about 54°F in here now.  Not exactly
      t-shirt weather, but I can live with it, in a few layers of sweaters,
      long johns, etc.  Could use another layer of socks on my feet,
      though.  I’ll do that after I post this.  Meanwhile my feet
      are tucked up on the base of my chair out of the worst of the
      draft.  Doug is over in Couch Potato Heaven under two layers of
      blankets, playing GTA San Andreas, a privlege he’s earned by keeping
      the dishes washed regularly.
    • After Greyfox related to me some of the news from last
      night’s
      meeting in town, I have a couple more reasons to be glad that Doug is
      Doug.  There are many worse things he could be addicted to than
      video games and online RPGs, and a lot worse behaviors he could engage
      in than taking apart electronic equipment and littering his room with
      the arts materials he salvages from it. 
      So he hasn’t shoveled out my car and the driveway yet… he HAS gotten
      most of the roof cleared of the foot or so of snow that was up
      there, and I’m not planning to go to town again for almost a
      week.  He’d probably have gotten more done, but he’s been sleeping
      through most of the daylight hours and I don’t want him on the roof in
      the dark unless absolutely necessary.  I’m not real keen on having
      him out there with the axe splitting wood in the dark, but that is
      absolutely necessary.  Having him up all night tending the fire
      while I sleep is just great.  His sleep schedule also frees up the
      PS2 for my use during the day.
    • Greyfox has been having random attacks of happiness.  I
      realize that this is sorta secondary to my own warm fuzzies, but I am
      sorta empathetic and it feels good to know that the Old Fart is feeling
      good.
    • I  have been getting work done at KaiOaty
      I’ve done a few readings, some posted there and others mailed by snail
      or e.  I transcribed one past-life reading that Greyfox did, and
      have his assuraces that he will do more soon.  I have even gotten
      some of the indexing done that I had been neglecting before I started
      neglecting the entire site a year or so ago.  If I need to explain
      why it feels good to get work done, I’m afraid it would do no good to
      explain, anyway.  It’s a Virgo thing, maybe.
    • Life is
      good.  Being somewhat debilitated and physically challenged (okay,
      let’s just cut the PC crap!  I’m a gimp.) isn’t exactly reason for
      celebration.  Being over sixty has it’s drawbacks as well. 
      Nobody’s clamoring after me with scholarship money or job offers any
      more, but nevertheless I still contend that getting older is better
      than the alternative.
    • The political news is good, too, even though just as happened
      four years ago we may end up with four more years of daShrub. 
      Always the bastard child of Candide and Pollyanna, I see this crap as a
      hopeful sign that maybe my fellow Amurrikans may someday get a
      bellyfull and rise up in protest.

    B E L L A C I A O – Kerry Won. Here are the Facts. -

    Kerry
    won. Here’s the facts.
    I know you don’t want to hear it. You can’t face one more hung chad.
    But I don’t have a choice. As a journalist examining that messy sausage
    called American democracy, it’s my job to tell you who got the most
    votes in the deciding states. Tuesday, in Ohio and New Mexico, it was
    John Kerry.

    Most voters in Ohio thought they were voting for Kerry. CNN’s exit poll
    showed Kerry beating Bush among Ohio women by 53 percent to 47 percent.
    Kerry also defeated Bush among Ohio’s male voters 51 percent to 49
    percent. Unless a third gender voted in Ohio, Kerry took the state.

    So what’s going on here? Answer: the exit polls are accurate. Pollsters
    ask, “Who did you vote for?” Unfortunately, they don’t ask the crucial,
    question, “Was your vote counted?” The voters don’t know.

    Here’s why. Although the exit polls show that most voters in Ohio
    punched cards for Kerry-Edwards, thousands of these votes were simply
    not recorded. This was predictable and it was predicted. [See
    TomPaine.com, "An Election Spoiled Rotten," November 1.]  http://www.tompaine.com/articles/an_election_spoiled_rotten.php

    Once again, at the heart of the Ohio uncounted vote game are, I’m sorry
    to report, hanging chads and pregnant chads, plus some other ballot
    tricks old and new.

    The election in Ohio was not decided by the voters but by something
    called “spoilage.” Typically in the United States, about 3 percent of
    the vote is voided, just thrown away, not recorded. When the
    bobble-head boobs on the tube tell you Ohio or any state was won by 51
    percent to 49 percent, don’t you believe it … it has never happened
    in the United States, because the total never reaches a neat 100
    percent. The television totals simply subtract out the spoiled vote.

    Whose Votes Are Discarded?

    And not all votes spoil equally. Most of those votes, say every
    official report, come from African-American and minority precincts. (To
    learn more, click here.)

    We saw this in Florida in 2000. Exit polls showed Gore with a plurality
    of at least 50,000, but it didn’t match the official count. That’s
    because the official, Secretary of State Katherine Harris, excluded
    179,855 spoiled votes. In Florida, as in Ohio, most of these votes lost
    were cast on punch cards where the hole wasn’t punched through
    completely-leaving a ’hanging chad,’-or was punched extra times. Whose
    cards were discarded? Expert statisticians investigating spoilage for
    the government calculated that 54 percent of the ballots thrown in the
    dumpster were cast by black folks.

    (To read the report from the U.S. Civil Rights Commission, click here.) http://www.usccr.gov/pubs/vote2004/ready/ready04.pdf

    And here’s the key: Florida is terribly typical. The majority of
    ballots thrown out (there will be nearly 2 million tossed out from
    Tuesday’s election) will have been cast by African American and other
    minority citizens.

    So here we go again. Or, here we don’t go again. Because unlike last
    time, Democrats aren’t even asking Ohio to count these cards with the
    not-quite-punched holes (called “undervotes” in the voting biz). Nor
    are they demanding we look at the “overvotes” where voter intent may be
    discerned.

    Ohio is one of the last states in America to still use the
    vote-spoiling punch-card machines. And the Secretary of State of Ohio,
    J. Kenneth Blackwell, wrote before the election, “the possibility of a
    close election with punch cards as the state’s primary voting device
    invites a Florida-like calamity.”

    But this week, Blackwell, a rabidly partisan Republican, has warmed up
    to the result of sticking with machines that have a habit of eating
    Democratic votes. When asked if he feared being this year’s Katherine
    Harris, Blackwell noted that Ms. Fix-it’s efforts landed her a seat in
    Congress.

    And some people say that crime does not pay.  But I’ve known better for most of my life.

  • Just a quick note…

    …before I toddle off to bed.

    For BluePaNDoRa,
    in answer to your questions, I can’t suggest any specific
    supplements.  If acidophilus isn’t knocking out the systemic
    yeast, you might try bifidus or one of the combos of friendly
    bacteria. 

    There’s no yeast in my bread recipes.  They’re quick breads made
    with soda and baking powder as leavening.  But you probably know
    that yeast is everywhere, spores floating in the air all the
    time.  Our best defense against them is to be an inhospitable
    environment for it.  Yeast eats sugar and nests in our guts in
    globs of gluten. 

    I starved my parasitic colony out with three weeks of very low-carb
    foods, virtually no sugars, no “root” vegies such as beets, carrots and
    potatoes, no grain, just the complex carbs in green vegies, and lots of
    fresh yogurt for the bacteria.  It wasn’t fun, but it was
    effective.  Now I can get away with eating some grain and fruit,
    but I keep eating the yogurt, too.  Chocolate used to be my
    favorite food.  Now yogurt is.


    We got a lot of new snow here overnight, enough that Doug needed to
    shovel the roof today.  That came with a little warming trend
    after a night when the temp got down around zero Fahrenheit.  My
    feet have been cold all day and I’ve had muscle spasms in legs and
    back.  I  haven’t gotten any physical work done since I got
    my worktable cleared off last week, but I’ve been using the table to
    spread my Tarot cards for readings.  That’s work, of a sort, I
    suppose.  Doesn’t feel like work, though.  With the
    altered-state sounds in my headphones it’s like taking a vacation
    inside my head.  Still, same as when I go on a geographic journey,
    I’m tired when I get back.


    I still don’t know if the bear-baiting law passed or not.  That
    was the only measure on the ballot this time that I had very strong
    feelings about.  I suppose tomorrow I’ll track down some election
    returns.


    Nitey-night.