Month: December 2005

  • I did a number on Xmas.

    Last year, I turned svwX upside down and backwards for twelve days.  That’s the number I did on Xmas:  number 12
    I don’t intend to repost every episode, but for the entertainment of my
    new readers and to keep up the holiday tradition I started last year, I
    intend to do the same number on Xmas again this year.  I will
    probably post teasers each day and links to the originals, except for
    maybe one or two or a few on which I do some substantial rewriting
    and/or add new pictures, which I may repost as I have done for the one
    below.

    I don’t recall who it was, but in the past week or so, I read one
    Xangan’s blog who made some scathing remarks about inflatable lawn
    ornaments.  That reminded me of this, a little pre-Xmas-number
    teaser essay on lawn “art,” that asked the question:

    Vandalism…

    or art criticism?

    It’s
    a holiday tradition at the Loranger house in South Anchorage: A
    handcrafted, winter wonderland scene takes over the yard, snaking
    around the house, the car port and the Quonset hut in the driveway. And
    every year, vandals slink by late at night and trash it.

    Hoodlums struck again late Saturday night, according to Rob and Dawn
    Loranger. They walked on the front lawn and slashed off the heads of
    Santa and Mrs. Claus, dolls that sat inside a miniature RV made to look
    like the family’s real mobile home in the carport.

    The thieves also stole a movie projector that flashes Christmas images
    on the garage door and made off with the key component of the nativity
    scene.

    “They cut the wire on the Baby Jesus,” said Dawn Loranger, whose
    husband, Rob, makes many of the family’s Christmas displays by hand.

    After cutting Baby Jesus out of the manger, the thugs fled down a
    nearby bike path, flinging the kidnapped infant and the headless
    Clauses to the ground, said Dawn, who discovered the destruction when
    she awoke Sunday morning.
    “I cried all the way to church,” she said.

    Anchorage Daily News

    Greyfox phoned this morning, spending a few of his precious daytime
    cell minutes  to alert me to this story in the Alaska section of
    today’s paper.  His diagnosis was NPD, confirmed for him when he
    read the part about the display’s including a model of the family’s
    motorhome. 

    I reserved judgement until I’d read the article. 
    Now that I’ve seen it, I concur:  narcissism run amok, and tacky
    to the max as well.  This guy’s neighbors must hate to see the
    holiday season roll around.

    The bit that worries me most is that someone may end up getting a
    criminal record, paying a fine and maybe even doing jail time for
    showing these tasteless yahoos what they think of their display.

    I’m planning a little Yuletide “display” of my own here on my Xanga
    site:  something for each of the eleven days until Xmas, and the day of Christ’s Mass itself, with perhaps
    somewhere in there a repost of my Saturnalia blog from 2003. 

    Thank God that dear Jesus knows I love him, because during the course
    of the next couple of weeks some of my readers may have their
    doubts. 

    To set the record straight here at the start, I have no respect
    whatsoever for the mythology that has grown up surrounding the
    planetary incarnation of the Christos.  Also, I do not worship
    that man, nor the Roman torture device upon
    which his incarnation ended.  My reverence is reserved for his
    divine
    parent, as the Master taught.

    I have a hard time finding any respect for the intelligence of those
    who swallow the myth without question and ignore the historical record
    that shoots it full of holes.

    Perhaps it is well that the early promoters of the cult (AKA the Church
    Fathers) borrowed elements of many existing religions of the time, to
    make their new cult more attractive and acceptable.  At least they
    sparked up the chill of northern winters and added some color and
    pageantry to what might otherwise have been a lackluster holiday
    falling between the Fourth of July and Labor Day.  Merry
    motherfuckin’ Xmas, y’all!

    Originally posted December 13, 2004.

  • fresh

    PhotoGraphics is host for the FRESH
    new weekly_Photo_Challenge.

    Fresh what?

    fresh pie:

    fresh air:

    fresh water:

    fresh life:

  • Cluster B

    …with some excursions into Clusters A and C, and even possibly a
    little digression off Axis II onto Axis I.  Don’t expect to ever
    be able to pin me down on this topic.

    I have been incubating this essay for days.  I mentioned it to
    Greyfox in our nightly free-cell-minutes conversation last night, and
    got a big laugh out of him after I’d criticized DSM-IV’s classification
    system, when I said, “At least it’s better than what we had in the
    ‘fifties, when you were either psychotic or neurotic.”

    He related an anecdote about an old girlfriend who was in a therapy
    group for neurotics but somehow ended up sitting in with someone else
    from her group, on a group for psychotics.  After listening for a
    while to the sharing in that group, they turned to each other
    goggle-eyed and shared an unspoken exclamation to the effect that,
    “these people are REALLY nuts.”

    You probably had to be there.  …to get the joke, I mean. 
    But being there, in group therapy, would benefit any normal person in
    our culture.  Norms are a matter of statistical averages, and
    mental health is just not normal around here.   Quirks and
    kinks are the norm.  Virtually everyone exhibits addictive
    behavior in some form, the vast majority abuse at least one
    psychoactive substance, and most of us will, when asked, self-report
    several signs and symptoms of psychiatric disorders from either DSM’s
    Axis I (clinical, physical or biochemical-related disorders) or Axis II
    (behavioral disorders), or both.

    One of the saddest things about our sick culture is the stigma attached
    to getting mental health treatment.  Those boxes on employment
    apps and other forms that ask if you have ever been treated for a
    psychiatric condition, and then discriminate against you if you say
    yes, are like saying that it’s okay to run around with a disease, but
    not okay to go to a doctor to get it cured.

    I have been a patient in more than one psychiatric ward, have spent
    time in group therapy (as a client and as facilitator of groups), in
    one-on-one talk therapy (as client and as therapist), and in 12-Step
    recovery groups including Double Trouble in Recovery, which is for
    those of us with dual diagnoses, both addictions and psychiatric
    disorders.  The people I encounter in those therapeutic
    environments are in the aggregate both saner and happier than the mass
    of the herd running around in ignorance or in denial of their mental
    illnesses.

    When I was in school, as I mentioned, the field was divided into
    neurotics and psychotics.  Basically, psychotics were considered
    to be out of touch with reality, while neurotics were just
    touchy.  My first nursing job was in a small hospital without a
    discrete psychiatric ward, so I cared for people on the general medical
    and surgical ward who were being detoxed from drugs or were in
    restraints screaming out their psychotic lungs.

    One of our restrained and confused patients was a physician who
    practiced in that hospital.  Doctors make the worst patients, I
    learned from the older nurses then.  A gaggle of them giggling in
    the nurses’ station one night mentioned the hope that he would come out
    of that episode a little easier to work with.  He’d been a
    well-known neurotic, always fussing about something.  One of the
    nurses said, “Well, psychosis has always been the best cure for
    neurosis,” and the other nurses nodded sagely.

    My experience indicates that there’s some truth in that.  I’ve
    known a lot of people who went along in fairly bad shape,
    mental-health-wise, for a very long time, until they’d had a complete
    breakdown, gone on a balls-to-the-wall life-threatening drug binge, or
    just flipped out to the point where they were no longer able to feign
    sanity enough to get by in their daily life.  Following those
    breaks, “psychotic breaks,” they then recovered to a state much
    healthier than they’d been in before the break.

    Now that I’ve stated my credentials, my credo, and more than enough
    little anecdotes, let’s look at some specific mental
    disorders.   It doesn’t take much exploration through search
    engines to discover that crossover between Axis I and Axis II, and
    among Clusters A, B, and C on Axis II, is the norm.   It is
    far more likely that any addict will exhibit traits of several
    personality disorders (PD) than that he wont.  The majority of
    persons diagnosed with any PD have diagnoses of more than one. 
    Most people diagnosed with any PD or combination of PDs also have
    substance abuse issues.

    In my opinion, the reason for this lies in deficiencies of the
    classification system and not in any tendency among nutcases to be
    promiscuous in their nuttiness.  Actually, when discussing PD, it
    probably isn’t proper to refer to the people as nutcases.  In
    popular culture and the common lexicon, they are generally known as
    bitches and assholes, especially those in Cluster B.  Those in
    Clusters A and C can be assholes, too, but often are only weirdos.

    Cluster A: Paranoid | Schizoid
    | Schizotypal
    Cluster B: Antisocial | Borderline
    | Histrionic | Narcissistic
    Cluster C: Avoidant | Dependent
    | Obsessive-Compulsive

    My darlin’ spouse, my soulmate and partner in crime, Greyfox,
    takes his quirks primarily from Cluster B.  As for me, it’s one
    from column A and one from column C, if you want to believe the
    bullshit about psychic abilities being a sign of schizotypal PD. 
    Otherwise, I’m just obsessive-compulsive, and often justifiably proud
    of it, because when all else fails OCD gets things done.

    Greyfox is narcissistic and histrionic.  I didn’t know that when I
    met him.  I knew he displayed a lot of psychopathology but, as I
    said, when I was in school we weren’t talking in terms of PD and
    clusters and all that.  My daughter Angie
    first turned my attention toward PD and particularly NPD.  I had
    started getting some familiarity with its signs and symptoms even
    before Greyfox took the 4degreez personality test and diagnosed himself. 

    I had taken the test shortly before he did, but there were no surprises
    in it for me.  I diagnosed my own OCD almost 40 years ago, about
    the time I started transcending the “checking behavior” and other more
    pathological manifestations of it.  I had also previously encountered that
    schizotypal BS regarding psychic abilities.  I guess the origin of
    that misconception is connected with the common misconception that
    psychics are omniscient mind-readers.  I suppose that someone who
    imagined himself to be an omniscient mindreader would be
    schizotypal.  It’s semantics, after all.

    Anyway… Cluster B!  That’s where I was headed with this, isn’t
    it?  They are grandiose, have a sense of entitlement, lack
    empathy, tend to exaggerate both their successes and their little
    frustrations and ailments.  Suicide is prevalent in those with
    Cluster B PD, contemplated, attempted and completed.  They tend to
    lie and to con other people, often changing their names frequently or
    using aliases.  They are often impulsive, irritable and
    aggressive.  Reckless, irresponsible, exploitative, remorseless
    for the harm they do, and indifferent to the rights and welfare of
    others, if they don’t have criminal records, it’s usually just because
    they haven’t gotten caught.

    Unstable moods, self-image and relationships, and frequent displays of
    anger and/or fear characterize some of them.  They can be sexually
    seductive in behavior, vague and impressionistic in their style of
    communication, like to exaggerate, dramatize and call attention to
    themselves.  The fields of entertainment and politics are
    attractive to Cluster B personalities.  Being quite shallow and
    engaging in mostly superficial relationships, they tend to think of
    their relationships as more intimate than they are.  They have
    grandiose fantasies of success, wealth and power.   They
    crave admiration, tend to be envious of others and to imagine that
    others are envious of them.

    There are many theories regarding how these disorders begin.  One
    of the more prevalent theories is “nobody knows.”  A more credible
    one, in my opinion, involves abuse and/or neglect of certain essential
    interactions with caregivers in infancy and early childhood. 
    Nobody I have ever known who exhibits strong Cluster B tendencies wasn’t
    abused or neglected.  Nobody I’ve known who was abused and/or
    neglected has not experienced some of these tendencies, even if they
    have managed through treatment to transcend them.

    Leading edge, state-of-the-art research is finding correlations between
    these disorders and certain anomalies in brain chemistry and electrical
    activity.  Other researchers are finding permanent changes in the
    anatomy and electrochemistry of brains of abused or neglected children
    and of adults who have been traumatized through torture or great
    disasters, for example.  New and effective treatment modalities
    are making use
    of those research findings.

    The terms, “psychopath” and “sociopath” were once popular and used to
    refer to people who are now said to have PD.  Nicholas P. Swift,
    M.A., M.B.B.Chir. and Harpal S. Nandhra, M.B.B.S., M.R.C.Psych. have
    suggested the term, “borderpath
    for those with Cluster B PD.  I say that anything that muddies the
    waters and confuses the issues more than they already are is a GOOD
    THING.  The nearer the psych professions come to discrediting DSM
    and its classifications and criteria, the closer we will all come to a
    saner society.

    In the last analysis, the answer is ABC:  it is ALL BRAIN
    CHEMISTRY… well, electro-chemistry really, but AEC isn’t all that
    catchy, is it?

  • another day like the other day

    Again today, as for the last several days, we had sporadic brownouts and
    blackouts.  It’s not surprising, with heavy snow weighing down
    power lines.  Then today the weather warmed up and some parts of the
    valley got freezing rain, which weighs things down even more.

    Again, I was working on a reading and ended up losing bits of my work
    several times when the lights dimmed, flickered, failed and came right
    back on again.  Then, just before sundown (I suppose it was just before
    sundown, hard to tell beneath the heavy overcast), the power went off
    and stayed off.  At the blink just before that, maybe ten to
    twenty minutes before, Doug had given up on the PS2, put Koji on his
    leash and went out for a walk. 

    After a few minutes of waiting in vain for the lights to blink back on,
    I phoned the automatic outage reporting system.  As the electric
    co-op’s computer logged my location, a recorded voice told me they were
    aware of outages in the Trapper Creek area.  That wasn’t
    encouraging.  If crews were in Trapper Creek trying to repair the
    outage there, it could be a while before they’d get to us.  I followed the wise advice of Mr. Rogers:
    Find Something to Do while you’re Waiting

    I grabbed the camera and went for a walk.  I checked the temp
    before I left:  31.3, almost up to freezing.  I didn’t bother
    with mukluks, just slipped into my sno-jogs.  There was an icefall
    going on:  frozen raindrops, making a crust on the snow already
    there.  I left more than footprints on my way out to the end of
    the cul de sac and back.  I left butt prints, knee prints, hand
    prints and one camera print.  The snow was up to knee deep in
    places.  The air felt wonderful, had some moisture in it for a
    change.  The air had been so cold and dry on our water run a
    couple of days ago that my lower lip cracked.  Cold air, too cold,
    takes my breath away.  I did get a little winded from
    high-stepping through the crusty stuff, but it was a pleasant walk.

    I left my first butt print of the trip at the Amphibian Observation
    Station, the place where I sat last summer and watched the tadpoles
    morph into frogs.

    No frogs around today.  They’re burrowed deep into the frozen mud,
    hibernating.  I didn’t intend to sit down, just hit a slick slope
    under the snow and… whoops.

    I was looking for tracks and for wildlife, all the way out there. 
    I was the only moving creature on the scene, except for the grader that
    went by on the road in the distance, plowing snow.  It was quiet,
    no birds, even.  The only tracks I saw were from a single arctic
    hare, and they weren’t fresh, were partially obscured by snow.  I
    saw one novel, surprising thing: a new house off across the muskeg,
    that hadn’t been there during the summer when I was going out the cul
    de sac almost every day.  It’s between the bushes in the
    foreground, left of center in the shot below.  Clicking for the
    larger image might make it easier to see.

    I knew that the lights would be back on when I got home, because I
    could see the yard lights at the RV park up the road shining through
    the trees before I turned the corner towards home.  Doug and Koji
    were turning the corner at the other end of the block about the same
    time I turned their way from my end.  We met in the middle and
    talked about the berm the grader had left across the mouth of our
    driveway.  Knowing that if the weather cooled overnight it would
    freeze solid and be harder to remove, I urged Doug to shovel it before
    he came in.

    I didn’t realize until I looked at the pictures that the sun had gone
    down while I was out there.  My eyes had adjusted to the dimming
    light.  I headed on into the house, happy that the electricity was
    back on.

     I got busy working on the reading and lost track of time. 
    After it was fully dark, I realized that Doug had been out there a long
    time.  I grabbed a flashlight and went out.  I found him
    splitting firewood in the dark, in the rain.  When I commented on
    that, he said he could see the wood, contrasting with the snow. 
    What had been hard was seeing the snow he was shoveling.  He had
    been shoveling by feel.  My flashlight revealed that he’d done a
    pretty good job.  We looked at the thermometer when we got back in
    here and it was half a degree above freezing.  This is going to be
    a really slick mess when it freezes again.

    Earlier today, I thought I had a blog about Cluster B, but it’s not
    going to get done today.  Wasn’t Thanksgiving a couple of weeks
    ago?  I started to bake a new batch of gluten-free muffins on the
    day before Thanksgiving.  My schedule got thrown off that day, and
    I still don’t have muffins in the freezer for easy breakfasts and
    snacks.  That’s not going to get done today, either.  I’m too
    tired.

    I’m sleep deprived, due to late night kitten activity, which reminds
    me:  Bobo is a verb.  Bobobobo Bobobo, the least bright and
    most cutest of our kittens does this thing to me that no other cat has
    ever done.  After about the third occurrence, I started referring
    to it as “being boboed.”  I sleep with my head under the covers
    with only a little breathing space open.  He comes over, sits down
    on my pillow, cranes his cute little neck, pokes his head into my
    breathing space and sticks his cool, moist nose in my eyes.  If he
    wasn’t so cute, he’d be outta here.

  • What a night I’m having!

    About halfway through my latest reading on KaiOaty, we had a brief
    power outage.  A few hours before that, another little break in
    the electron flow had nudged Doug away from the computer and off to his
    bed.  I welcomed that first blink of the lights, but not the
    second one.  Since I’d gone as far as I had, and had a clear
    picture in my mind before I started of where the reading was going, I
    got back into x-Tools and reconstructed what I’d lost.

    Then, throughout the next four hours, I wrote, rewrote, saved a
    paragraph at a time, and lost count of the flickers and blinks. 
    Pretty soon, I noticed that the big blinks were preceded by little
    flickers, so I’d save what I had whenever there was the merest
    suggestion of a dimming of the lights.  That saved me a lot of
    reworking. 

    Maybe it was persistence, perseverance and a sense of responsibility
    that kept me going.  Maybe it was just OCD.  I wanted to
    finish the job, and now I’m really only about one hour past the time
    I’ve
    been getting to bed recently.  I’ve been letting my diurnal cycle
    go long to stay out of phase with Doug’s during the deep two-week cold
    snap so we could keep the fire going.  I’m not tired so much as
    I’m
    relieved right now.  I got it done.  Now our only backlog at
    KaiOaty’s site is a past-life reading for Greyfox to do.

    Looking back over the night, I don’t think I even felt any
    frustration.  Each time as I waited for the computer to come back
    up, I’d get up and get a warm-up on my coffee.  One of the times,
    I got a bowl of chips and a cup of salsa.  During none of the
    little intervals of darkness was the power off long enough for me to
    feel any anxiety that it would be a lengthy outage.  Being
    forewarned by the blink that kicked Doug offline clued me to the wisdom
    of saving frequently, so I never lost much.  I even think that the
    necessity for rewriting some of my work improved my clarity of
    communication.

    There’s a nice difference in this computer compared to our old
    one.  Such momentary outages would turn the old one off and when
    it came back up it would be in safe mode or it would give us ominous
    error messages about incomplete shutdowns, and such.  This one, if
    the outage is brief enough, just restarts itself.  Even if it is a
    lengthy outage and we have to push the “on” button to get it back up,
    it comes up looking healthy and normal, none of that alarming stuff we
    got from the old one.  Aaah, the best things in life are free.

    Warmth is one of the best things in my life, and we’ve got some! 
    In the last two days, the temp has come up more than forty degrees,
    into the low twenties.  That’s balmy after a couple of weeks of
    minus-twenties.  Koji has been going out every few hours and
    staying out there for twenty minutes or more.  During these past
    weeks of colder weather, he’d make about two reluctant and hurried
    trips out each day. 

    We have one cat who never wants to go outside (Nemo), and one (Muffin)
    who doesn’t go out at all in cold weather.  After one trip out
    into the snow last month, little Alice has been staying in the
    house.  Likewise with Cecil; he appears to be another winter
    housecat.  Bobo will go out in any weather and doesn’t seem to
    have sense enough to come in when it’s life-threateningly frigid. 
    I’ve had to go out and bring him in a couple of times when he was just
    huddled there shivering.  He and his adopted brother Albion have
    been in and out several times today.  Old Granny Mousebreath likes
    to go out hunting unless it’s ten below or colder.  She has been
    enjoying the relatively mild temps today, too.

    It feels great to me, not having to dress for outdoors to be
    comfortable indoors.  I have even been able to get some pieces of
    my last shower out of the bathtub.  Y’see… the drain was frozen
    before I filled up the camp shower and made myself presentable for the
    health clinic.  Usually in winter I bail the gray water out of the
    tub into a bucket and haul it out as we do dishwater, etc.  That
    time, the usual bucket was in use and by the time I got home from the
    clinic the water in the tub had frozen. 

    The cats had a little ice skating rink for a few days.  It warmed
    up enough today that Doug started breaking the rink into pieces. 
    I finished the job tonight and put the pieces into the bathroom sink
    where they can melt and drain away.  That drain only freezes in
    the coldest weather, and I can thaw it by opening the cabinet under the
    sink and aiming the heater at the u-trap.  The bathtub will need a
    couple of days of above freezing temperatures before it drains on its
    own.

    Subarctic suburban living at its… best?  craziest?  I
    dunno.  I just know I like it here on the edge of the fringe of
    the back of beyond, and there’s enough ironic humor value in some of
    the trade-offs to turn them into assets.

  • winter water run

    We did a water run today.  We had to, or we wouldn’t have bothered. 
    Water is not just necessary for life, hygiene, and food safety.  It
    is an essential ingredient in coffee.  When those jugs and buckets
    go empty, we load them in the back of Streak and go to the spring.

    We had the place to ourselves when we got there, but before we left
    there were two other trucks idling in the turnout waiting their turns
    at the spout.  Doug’s first task (at right) was to scatter kitty
    litter on the
    icy path for traction.  I cropped out most of the glove finger
    that inadvertently got in that shot of Doug, but there’s a fuzzy end of
    it on the left edge of the frame.

    I warned Doug before we left home that I was taking the camera and he
    would have to do some of the filling while I took some pics.

    I
    crossed the road and shot a few pics of the muskeg there.  This is
    the one I just call the “big muskeg” because it’s a lot bigger than the
    one across the street from where we live.

    Next picture, on the right, same scene, different angle and slightly closer POV.

    As far as I know,
    there’s nothing out there on the other end of that snowmachine trail except the Susitna
    River.   Just south of this muskeg, Sheep Creek runs down into the Big Su, about
    a mile away. 

    The Parks Highway was at my back when I captured
    this image.  Beyond those trees, out ahead there to the west, the
    next paved road is somewhere in Siberia.


    Doug
    wasn’t fooling around while I was across the highway.  He had
    unloaded all the empties from the hatch and closed up the car to
    conserve any heat that might have been in there, and had filled the
    first two buckets by the time I got back across the road.

    There
    in the parking area, before I got to work, I noticed a couple of small
    jugs that were deformed because the air inside them had contracted with
    cold.

      Recalling that someone had asked me what my new Canadian
    Army mukluks look like, I got a pic of the jugs, as well as the mukluks
    sticking out of the legs of my “new” down-filled pants, more of the
    fabulous mongo that Greyfox salvaged during the summer at Felony
    Flats.  Jug deformity didn’t show up too well, but the mukluks did.

    I
    helped Doug carry some empties down to the waterhole and shot a few
    pics of the little stream running down into Sheep Creek from the
    spring, and some of Doug as he worked.  He grumbled a little
    when I got in his way.   I took the hint and decided to get
    down to work.  When I held the camera out to him and asked him to
    get some pics of me filling buckets, he started taking off his
    glove.  As the cold air hit his hand with only a glove liner over
    it, he involuntarily gasped and whimpered a little.  I told him to
    put the glove back on, and I took the camera up to the car as he
    carried another pair of buckets up the trail.

    As I knelt there filling the next bucket when he came back down, I said
    we needed a pneumatic drill, a jackhammer, to clear that thick layer of
    ice off the pallet where we usually work.  Having to reach down so
    far and lift the buckets a greater distance makes a lot more work.

    Doug responded that a flame thrower would do the job.  I could see
    him enjoying the thought.  Then he said there were a lot of winter
    difficulties that could be eased by a flame thrower.  Have some
    paths to shovel?  Whoosh!  No shoveling.  Car won’t
    start — whoosh, no car.

    Clumsy in my insulated gloves, I dropped first a small jug cap and
    later one of the big bucket lids, into the pool under the
    outflow.  The little cap floated downstream and Doug caught up
    with it.  The big lid went to the bottom and I managed to fish it
    out with another lid without getting my gloves soaked.  They were
    wet enough on the surface, and the air was cold enough, that my glove
    stuck to one of the empty buckets as I went to put it under the
    outflow, and I almost lost the glove.

    Home felt wonderful, warm and welcoming when we got here.  I’m
    going to be in trouble with Doug tomorrow probably, though. 
    Before we did that run, he suggested we put it off another day, and we
    could have made it through a day on the five gallons or so of water we
    had left.  I nixed the procrastination on the grounds that the
    weather could be worse tomorrow.  He responded that it could be
    better, too.  Since he went to bed, the temp has started to
    rise.  It’s above zero already:  1.8° last time I
    looked.  Maybe he won’t notice.

    I’m back to my previous favorite profile pic, for two reasons. 
    One:  my darlin’ likes this one better.  Two:  frankly,
    I would rather see myself in any season but winter right now.  It
    has been two weeks of double-digit subzero temps with only one brief
    “warm” day when it got up to single digits above zero.


    Catbert tagged me for the “five weird things” thing that is going around. 

    Here are five weird facts about me, and don’t think it wasn’t hard
    narrowing it down.  The weirdest thing about me is the fact of my
    existence.

    1)  My ears were pierced in a
    parking lot (in 1967) by a Hells Angels mama using the pin on the back
    of an “End marijuana prohibition!” button.

    2)  I have on my lower back a purple “birthmark” that my mother
    told me was a forceps mark from my breech delivery, but I always
    suspected it to be the scar from when they separated me from my
    deceased / deformed siamese twin.

    3)  I was born in September (9th month), on the 18th day of the month (1+8=9), in 1944 (1+9+4+4=18 and 1+8=9).

    4)  I have this thing about time.  I don’t like to make
    appointments or go to sleep or get up at any set time.  I detest
    alarm clocks.  I do own a wristwatch and acknowledge the cultural
    obsession with punctuality to the extent that I keep it buckled around
    the shoulder strap of my purse.  I will not wear it.  I
    seldom consult it and often show up early for appointments just because
    I know it’s not acceptable to be late.

    5)   I have been told that this is weird:  I’m not
    afraid of death or public speaking.  Reportedly, those are the two
    biggest fears for the majority of people in my culture.  I think
    they’re weird.

    I have not been paying close enough attention to know who among the
    Xangans I know has or has not already done this, so I’m tagging my
    relatives and some sweet girls in the neighborhood who were kind enough
    to join my silly Railbelt Metro:  mystic_22, big_red_2000, ArmsMerchant, siriustrouble, and Deeble_Gurl

  • Place of Rest

    The current weekly_Photo_Challenge is hosted by boydcreek.

    I had no difficulty at all identifying my “place of rest.”  It’s
    “my” muskeg, the acres of protected wetlands that border this
    subdivision where I live.  The only difficulty was deciding which
    of many views to post.  I have chosen just a few representative samples of its infinite variety.

    To get to the muskeg, all I have to do is cross the road and follow a
    little path through the trees, or walk to the end of the block and take
    the road out to a circular turnaround at the end of the cul de
    sac.  I go there for a bit of quiet restful beauty at any time of
    year.


    When the ground is frozen and the snow not too deep, I can follow the
    snowmobile trail up around the bend and see what’s beyond.  What’s
    beyond the bend in the trail is more muskeg, more trees, more snow.


    I know better than to try and venture out there in spring or during a
    wet summer.  It may look from a distance like a lawn, but it’s a
    bog, a swamp, a mire… a MUSKEG.


    It is especially tranquil by moonlight.


    It’s peaceful at sunset.


    Sunrise can be intensely colorful…


    …or pretty in pink,


    or just hazy-bright.


    When it is like this, I usually don’t linger long.


    On days like this, I sit and watch the tadpoles turn into frogs.

  • Kiss my Axe, part 2

    Some of you have been impressed by my so-called “skill” in affixing a
    new handle to Doug’s axe, even though I told the story straight,
    revealing all my doubts, deficits and deficiencies in that
    department.  Could you have guessed that the story wasn’t over yet?

    That same night, after I’d gone to bed, in the hypnogogic state in
    which many of my greatest inspirations come, I popped up off the pillow
    and said, “I know what I did wrong!  I put the head on upside
    down.”

    Doug picked up the axe, looked at it, and said, “No, the logo (stamped maker’s mark) is right side up.”

    In my exhausted and frustrated condition, not really wanting to tackle
    the job all over again, I accepted his verdict and went to sleep. 
    I didn’t even think about it again until he came in yesterday from
    splitting firewood before I left for the clinic and showed me that only
    one of the three screws was still there that we had driven into the end
    of the handle where the wedge should have gone.

    The screws I had driven at each end of the slot for the wedge had
    worked loose and gone… somewhere.  The third screw, in the
    center of the slot, had been so hard to drive that I’d quit after
    getting it set in position and left the rest to Doug.  He had
    driven it as far as he could, and stripped out the head trying to drive
    it deeper.

    There it stood, mute but eloquent testimony to a job done half-assedly,
    when I got home yesterday afternoon.  Using my Craftsman
    “Professional” titanium phillips screwdriver and a lot of physical
    force, I managed to torque it back out with its spun-out head. 
    Grrrrrr.  My universe sometimes seems filled with cross-threaded
    bolts, spun-out screw heads and stripped gears.  Is it just me, or
    is that just reality?

    When I looked at the maker’s mark, I could see that it read
    right-side-up if you held the head with it’s cutting edge downward,
    which had nothing to do with which way the handle went through the
    head.  Using (“misusing,” my father and my fourth husband Hulk,
    the carpenter, would say) my framing axe, I knocked the axehead off its
    handle yet again for about the sixth or seventh time and started
    shaving away still more excess wood.  This time, I had found my
    wood rasp and the job went a lot more smoothly than had the whittling
    with the fighting knife.

    When I got it pared down to the point where it would slip (with some
    force applied by the blunt end of the framing axe) through the narrow
    end of the axehead’s tapered hole, I put the head on the handle the
    right-way-round this time.  There was plenty of room inside the
    broader end of that tapered channel for me to wedge the handle’s split
    end open, and this I did.  Then I rasped and sanded the end of
    handle and wedge down even and smooth, making it all look, in the end,
    quite professionally done.

    There is, I must admit, some satisfaction to having gotten a job done
    right.  That satisfaction, I confess, wouldn’t have been so laced
    with chagrin if I’d managed to do it right the first time. 
    Hmmmm….  That could be the story of my life.

  • the weather in space, and the culture out here

    This animation shows sunspot 826, which in just one day has grown from
    a barely visible speck to a sprawling trail of spots wider than the
    rings of Saturn.

    spaceweather.com
    recommends that astronomers with safely filtered solar telescopes watch
    this one, as it changes from moment to moment.  It is crackling
    with little C-class flares and has issued one medium-sized
    M-flare.  The email alert to this one described that trail of
    spots as a crack in the solar corona.


    I was horribly remiss this morning, going off up the Talkeetna Road
    without my camera.  I left before sunrise, half asleep and with no
    blood sugar, to get lab work done at the clinic.  Stops at the
    clinic, at the Store (AKA Gee-Haw Supply [gee and haw are directions
    farmers down south give to their mules and mushers up north give to
    their dogs]), and at Sunshine Restaurant, would have provided more views
    of our rustic and not-so-rustic local architecture, and at least three
    roadside stops would have shown peachy-colored sunrise light on trees
    and mountains.  Too bad for you, all the pictures are in my head.

    While waiting to be seen in the lab, I read today’s Anchorage Daily
    News.  There’s a story on the front page of the Alaska section
    about two men found yesterday, in separate incidents, frozen to death
    here in the Mat-Su Valley, both in the Wasilla area near where Greyfox
    lives.  One of them was found in the snow, barefoot, outside his
    apartment just around a curve in the highway from Felony Flats. 
    He had been drinking.  The other one was found in a bus he lived
    in.  The bus lacked insulation and was full of holes.  He had
    run out of fuel for his main heat source and was relying on an electric
    heater.  A friend who had been drinking there with him called
    police when he couldn’t rouse the man.  When Troopers arrived the
    indoor temperature was minus thirteen degrees. (full story here)  There but for the grace of God and his own good sense and vigilance, goes my beloved Old Fart.

    Having skipped both last night’s late snack and this morning’s
    breakfast, I stopped at Sunshine on the way home for a Spanish
    omelet.  Servings there are the typically-Alaskan double
    portions.  Hash brown potatoes were literally hanging off the
    edges of the platters the waitress served.  One man at a nearby
    table looked at his and said, “Do you think it’s enough?”  The
    waitress understood the irony (or sarcasm) and said they have boxes to
    go.  He said the problem was he’d probably eat it all.  I
    brought half of mine back to eat later.

    I took a seat at a table next to one where a couple appeared to be just
    finishing up their meals, with my back to them and facing the windows
    up front.  As I took off my coat, I overheard the woman say in a
    stressed-out voice, “All I wanted to do was enjoy my breakfast, and now
    there’s all this PRESSURE!”  The
    man murmured something quietly, and the only word I caught was,
    “pressure.”  I ordered my breakfast and sat there drinking coffee
    and unabashedly listening to their conversation, as one can only really
    do when one’s back is to the eavesdroppees.

    My guess is that he is her ex-, either boyfriend or spouse.  There
    was a sense of familiarity without any present intimacy.  I saw no
    physical familial resemblance, and got no real feel of a sibling
    relationship, either.  She was asking him for financial
    help.  He kept trying to finish her sentences when she faltered,
    and getting it wrong so she’d have to correct his assumptions.  It
    turned out she wanted a short-term loan to buy a larger propane heater
    because she is almost out of oil, heating oil prices have risen
    sharply, and to get a good deal she’d need to buy at least a hundred
    gallons, and won’t be able to do that until her next unemployment check
    in two weeks.

    She shot down all his alternative suggestions such as buying a wood
    stove, and gave him more reasons than I would have felt necessary given
    the established fact that he and his current partner, Lucy, had offered
    financial aid to her before.  Finally, in a voice so dripping with
    sarcasm that I could read it without seeing her face, she listed a
    couple of options that would be acceptable to her and then said, “or I
    could move in with you and Lucy for a week.”  He paused, and then
    incredibly started verbally working out just how that might be made to
    work out.  She broke in and said, “I was kidding.”  He, poor
    schnook, groaned and confessed that he never knew when anyone was
    kidding.  “Lucy,” he said, “tells me that she needs a big sign she
    can wave at me, saying, ‘JOKE’.”

    After they left, I turned my attention to the man who had been joshing
    the waitress about the oversize portions, and his morbidly obese
    companion.  The fat guy’s feet got my attention first. 
    Unaccountably, he was wearing city shoes, shined leather-soled
    loafers.  Otherwise he was dressed like any normal
    valley-rat.  I was sorta looking forward to watching him try to
    waddle across the icy parking lot in them, but they were still eating
    and discussing their investment portfolios when I left.  It’s
    probably just as well.  He was so red-faced he could have been
    wearing a flashing neon sign saying, “critical hypertension.”  A
    pratfall in the parking lot might be good for a laugh, but even I don’t
    think a heart attack on ice is funny.

    Before they got into the talk of stocks, bonds and money market funds,
    the other man was talking about his son-in-law.  That guy, by the
    way, was wearing big oversized Sorel pac boots, the kind rated to minus
    eighty degrees.  I have a pair of them I wear only when I’m
    walking somewhere in the coldest of weather.  I can’t drive in
    them because one boot covers both brake and clutch or gas and brake
    pedals.  Maybe this is why the fat guy was wearing loafers. 
    He might have been the designated driver.  Anyway, I was telling
    about the man’s son-in-law – this guy says the man his daughter married
    is “bright, talented…” and I heard the “but” coming.

    The son-in-law, it seems, is an artist with, according to his FIL, “the
    ambition of a board.”  I’m sure he didn’t mean a board of
    directors.  He went on to explain that his daughter had married a
    Native Alaskan.  The kid had been adopted and raised by a white
    family, but he still had that “Indian state of mind.”  His art
    pays him a bit now and then, and he has occasional payouts from his
    regional Native corporation, “fifty thousand one time, twenty-five thou
    another, so the kid thinks he’s got all he needs…” the FIL says,
    shaking his head with a wry smile.  Thinking how fortunate that
    young woman is to be living with a guy who is creative and easy-going,
    not a wannabe anything, I stifled a laugh and hid my grin behind my
    coffee cup, because the speaker that time was facing me and it’s even
    ruder to be seen to be eavesdropping than it is just to eavesdrop.