I have been asked, again, to comment on Sarah Palin.  Ten months ago several people asked me what I thought of her running for Vice President of the United States.  After stating [here] some opinions based on observation, I followed up with some references to her record.  One thing that Greyfox had pointed out to me at the time was that not long before her nomination she had been asked by a reporter about rumors that she might be tapped for the ticket.  She had responded that if she was, she would decline because she was committed to Alaska.  Now we are seeing how little she values commitment and how lightly she takes the promises she makes.

Before I go further, let me say, I have no direct access to Sarah Barracuda.  My beloved Old Fart lives in a tiny primitive one-room cabin on the edge of Wasilla, where Sarah and her family have a multi-million-$$ lakeside home.  That's as close as I get, and it would be hazardous to my health to get any closer.  I have it on good authority that the woman is deeply into cosmetics and perfume.  I am allergic to a lot of that stuff.  When women like Mrs. Todd Palin pass near me in the supermarket, my eyes burn, I sneeze, I wheeze, and reach for the rescue inhaler.

Not only am I not into cosmetics, I don't read Vanity Fair.  Thus, I have to trust the NPR commentator who said this morning that in the recent article about Palin, some of her former campaign aides were quoted as questioning her "mental condition."  In other words, she is mentally ill, according to those who are much closer to her than I am.  I would not doubt that assessment, based on statements I have heard her make in radio interviews and on local talk shows.

This I can state without fear of contradiction:  either she knowingly lied about things such as the Gravina Island Bridge to Nowhere, her husband Todd's membership in the secessionist Alaskan Independence Party, and her intention to reject federal stimulus money for the state -- or she is delusional.  If that woman believes everything she says, she is definitely out of touch with reality.

I heard her recorded resignation statement yesterday.  Just as with most of her campaign rhetoric, she said nothing of substance and said it in a tone that suggests she is leaving a lot unsaid.  She did sound sincere about the "lame duck" part, and it surprises me not one bit to see her giving Alaska the kiss-off when the polls are indicating she wouldn't have any chance at a second term.  I don't know what kind of governor Sean Parnell will make, but he would have to posess a high level of incompetence and no scruples at all, to be any worse than our last two Republican governors, Murkowski and Palin.

The kings are in!  It's salmon season in our neighborhood.  The local general store is one of the weigh-in stations for a salmon derby.  We stopped in there today before going to get water, so that we wouldn't be hauling a load of full jugs and buckets all the way down to the store and back.  The odor of less-than-fresh fish hung over the parking lot.  Inside, on the counter, were laid out half a dozen or so photos of proud anglers holding up their fish.

One was beautiful, silvery and not very big, good eating size.  The rest were huge spawned-out red things, hardly fit to eat but impressive trophy fish anyway.  I had the camera with me and thought a picture of the collection of photos would be suitable to illustrate this blog entry.  I was setting up the shot when Dennis, the owner of the store, stopped me.  He said some of those people wouldn't want their pictures on the internet.  He pointed out one photo of just a fish, and said that fisherman wouldn't even allow them to photograph him.  Since the guy's name was in the margin of the photo, Dennis wouldn't even let me take a picture of the fish picture.

Back at the spring, before I started filling jugs, I captured a few images of the surroundings.  The first three are the little stream that runs off from the spring, down into the muskeg, toward Sheep Creek.  (As usual, click to enlarge, especially the ripples in the third one down.)

Next is a patch of clover, and then a fireweed flower spike.  Click the fireweed for an explanatory caption about how we know when summer begins and ends around here.

After we filled our water containers and loaded them in the hatch, I turned the key to start the car and nothing happened.  I popped the hood and tried magic first:  Blur (successor to another old silver Subaru station wagon named Streak) likes having his fluids topped up.  There have been times he wouldn't start and no amount of wire wiggling and other fiddling would do it, until I topped up his oil and coolant.  This time, that didn't do it, nor did the wire wiggling, so I got serious.

Doug moved water jugs out of the way so he could get my tools out so I could remove the battery cables and clean the terminals.  It was after I'd loosened the bolt and asked him to dig my knife out of my purse, so I could scrape the terminal and inside the clamp clean, that we discovered I'd set my purse down during the abortive photography at the store, and left it there.

I improvised with the jaw of an open-end wrench, removed enough corrosion that the electrons were free to flow, and the car started.  Back at the store, Becky, Dennis's wife, had seen my purse on the counter where I left it beside the fish photos, and stuck it behind the counter for me.  Geez-- if I'd not left my keys in the car, I'd not have been able to drive off without the purse.  Must remember that.

Thanks to a double layer of insulated mylar bags inside a cooler, the ice cream we'd bought during our first trip to the store was still frozen when we got home.

I think about fixing things I've messed up.  Being the ultra-Virgoan perfectionist I was born to be, that's natural, I guess.  I have transcended the anxiety and shame that used to go along with being an imperfect perfectionist.  I screw up sometimes.  So what?  That doesn't mean I don't deserve to live.

Still, I think about my mistakes and try to learn from them.  My little material screwups, such as an inedible kitchen experiment or a series of "inspired" photos that just don't sing when I get a look at them, these are easy to do over or to get over.  Human relations is the area where I am more often left wondering whether do-overs are even possible and, if so, how to do one.

There is this guy, an artist whose work I admire.  I hadn't known he existed until the day I was doing a Google image search for something to illustrate one of my mythological blog entries.  The piece of his art that I found wasn't exactly what I was looking for.  It was non-traditional, and I was after traditional images.  It showed me how the old myths live on in modern culture, and my concept for the essay expanded to make room for that picture.

I found a contact link for him and wrote to ask permission to use the image.  I didn't say much in that message, just that I was doing the essay on that myth and thought his painting would illustrate how culture keeps myths alive and evolving.  He gave me permission to use it, and also sent me links to sites with some biographical info, more examples of his art, and a page of his father's art.

My essay on the myth went on the back burner for a day, while I looked at his work and his father's, and followed up on his story.  It's an interesting tale, of an educated high-status family that immigrates to the U.S. from South America and ends up, to some extent, being mistaken for Chicano wetbacks.

When I finished my essay and posted it, I sent him a link to it.  In the email, I mentioned how much I enjoyed seeing his work and his father's, and reading about the family's experiences.  The reply I received from him took me completely by surprise.

He wrote that he was thrilled to have encountered me this way, that he felt we were soulmates, and that he wanted to create a painting especially for me. It set me about half a step backwards before I told myself, "Well, maybe we did know each other in past lives."  I hadn't felt any particular personal connection, but... What do I know?  I have been meeting such "soulmates" all my life.  I suppose he could be another one.

Even so, he was coming on kinda strong.  I chalked up my feeling of hackles rising to the possibility of some complicated karma between us.  The reply I sent him was somewhere between neutral and positive.  I was honest.  I said that if we had known each other before, I had no conscious recall of it.  I think I expressed appreciation that he'd want to paint something for me.  I half believed, but didn't mention, that I thought it might reveal something of our past association.

I never heard from the guy again.  A few months later, I was reminded of him when someone commented on that old post.  I sent him another email, just asking if he had gotten my previous message.  It was a few years later that the penny finally dropped and I realized that the guy probably took me for a leech, and his gushy "soulmate" stuff plus the offer of an original artwork were just bait... and I bit.

I think of him occasionally, and wonder how I might have handled things differently.  I don't know.  I wouldn't want to be as cynical as he apparently is, but a little bit of that might help to temper some of my naive literal-mindedness.  It would be fun to explain the situation to him and laugh with him at the misunderstanding, but I don't suppose that is likely.  He might be one of those, "one strike and you're out," people.  I had my chance and I blew it.  I can live with that.