I thought I was finally escaping next Friday. Friday the 17th was supposed to be my last day, and then I had from then until Tuesday to fuck around in San Jose; looking at future apartments, seeing friends I hadn't seen in a long time, and bask in the glory of not Vacaville.
But no such luck. When he was considering joining Grey Daze, at the beginning of this year, my dad asked me whether I thought he should join. "You're already a member of two other bands, and you have a store that depends on you to work often 50 hours a week. You work Tuesday through Saturday, and sometimes Sunday as well. How are you going to find time to commit to the schedule of a third band?"
He assured me that the band was willing to work around his schedule. He mentioned that they offered to practice Monday evenings, which he would always be able to make. He was sure that double-booking himself wouldn't be the issue, he was unsure for other reasons. So he joined that band and quit one of his others. And has joined two more since.
You don't get to take off time from your regular job in order to work another paying gig. I firmly believe in that. If you're in a band, you have to work around your day job schedule. If you're in four bands and work 50 hours a week...well, you're pretty much fucked. I don't know, I'm just ranting at this point. It makes me really, really upset that I have to come back that Saturday and work at that hell hole. In fact, I'm going back to bed, because I'm depressed about it. Not only do I miss out on the thing I have most looked forward to (ie, being OUT of Vacaville, being on my own and starting my life again), but I have to do the thing I least like to do: work a stressful job that I have never been trained for and don't know how to do.
I've worked there a few times before and I understand that I'm under an obligation to help out my parents since they're putting me up free of rent. But I thought I was free! I tasted freedom!
No, I can't do it. I need to look for a new apartment that weekend. I need to hang out with Dan that weekend. It's my only chance to do either of those things. I'll be leaving for Boston the following weekend, and then Dan's leaving. If I am forced to do this, I might not be able to look at apartments until 1 August at the earliest. That's way too late for an August 20 move-in date. I can't do it. I don't know what they're going to do, but this isn't possible for me.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
What's green is green, and you, Guardian Council, are green
I've been following this Iran story like mad because, like my green arm band will say, I support spontaneous and organic expression of democracy at home and abroad. Also because I think Iran is a really interesting country that few people in the US know much about, and we think of it as a 3rd world country, but I think it's like a wealthy, more ordered version of Mexico. I really don't think Iran is in the 3rd world.
Anyway, a recent development over the last few days is that the Guardian Council has agreed to a partial recount. Which is, like, the stupidest thing I can think of. In order of most to least likely:
1. They say that the vote count was wrong, and Ahmadinejad still won but by a smaller margin (say, 56-39).
2. They say that the vote count was correct and Ahmadinejad's win is valid.
3. They say the vote was wrong and Mousavi won OR both candidates are below 50% so there will be a run-off.
4. They order a new election.
I read 1 as meaning "yes, we agree that someone cheated, but it really doesn't make a difference." I mean, admitting you cheated but making no real concessions is pretty damn inflammatory and I think it'll only get people more stirred up. 2 is a great big fuck you to the people of Iran, and it'll only rile them up more. 3 is a total admission of guilt and, while it might buy them more time, it ultimately tells the reformists that they can have whatever they want if they protest loud enough. It essentially gives the current system an expiration date of 2020, but leaves the current administration's fresh-saving seal open and the whole box out in the sun. And 4 is a total toss-up. I have no idea what will happen and nor does the Guardian Council. If they really didn't fix the election they can have confidence that similar results will turn up in a second vote, but they and I both know that they did fix it. I don't know what I would do if I were them, but I certainly wouldn't have done this. Oh well, I guess it just speeds up the process.
Green arm bands for all! As soon as I make mine!
Anyway, a recent development over the last few days is that the Guardian Council has agreed to a partial recount. Which is, like, the stupidest thing I can think of. In order of most to least likely:
1. They say that the vote count was wrong, and Ahmadinejad still won but by a smaller margin (say, 56-39).
2. They say that the vote count was correct and Ahmadinejad's win is valid.
3. They say the vote was wrong and Mousavi won OR both candidates are below 50% so there will be a run-off.
4. They order a new election.
I read 1 as meaning "yes, we agree that someone cheated, but it really doesn't make a difference." I mean, admitting you cheated but making no real concessions is pretty damn inflammatory and I think it'll only get people more stirred up. 2 is a great big fuck you to the people of Iran, and it'll only rile them up more. 3 is a total admission of guilt and, while it might buy them more time, it ultimately tells the reformists that they can have whatever they want if they protest loud enough. It essentially gives the current system an expiration date of 2020, but leaves the current administration's fresh-saving seal open and the whole box out in the sun. And 4 is a total toss-up. I have no idea what will happen and nor does the Guardian Council. If they really didn't fix the election they can have confidence that similar results will turn up in a second vote, but they and I both know that they did fix it. I don't know what I would do if I were them, but I certainly wouldn't have done this. Oh well, I guess it just speeds up the process.
Green arm bands for all! As soon as I make mine!
Acrola, I have the reason for her name
Where later would be the city of Acrola, before 701 there were a handful of villages around the Eram Branch of the New River. These included the major villages of Socionn and Herrob, but also smaller hamlets, like Bachre in the northeast part of what would later become the Pitt District. Socionn and Herrob were close competitors until a flood destroyed much of the latter, while the more inland former was largely spared. Socionn's ascendency began, and by the end of the seventh century they received tributes from each of the other local villages (the major market in the modern Herrob neighborhood, Herrob Dou, is where the elders of Herrob brought their dous, or tributes, to deliver to Socionn).
Socionn turned toward uniting the villages as one solid entity, and to this end they built a large north-south boulevard between Socionn and Herrob (in modern Union) in order to encourage growth between the two. The boulevard was lined with oak trees, called acrol trees in the Socionn dialect, and therefore in time became littered with acorns. It became known as the Acorol Way, taking its name from these things. Within a few decades, contrary to Socionn's desires, the united city was soon being called Acrola.
Socionn turned toward uniting the villages as one solid entity, and to this end they built a large north-south boulevard between Socionn and Herrob (in modern Union) in order to encourage growth between the two. The boulevard was lined with oak trees, called acrol trees in the Socionn dialect, and therefore in time became littered with acorns. It became known as the Acorol Way, taking its name from these things. Within a few decades, contrary to Socionn's desires, the united city was soon being called Acrola.
Circles, equations
oatmeal + peanut butter + brown sugar = love
Me: Why is there so much Indian stuff in Berkeley? Is there a large Indian community here?
Karen: Yeah, that's why there's so much Indian stuff here.
Bailey + pile of blankets = always
Anna is in Berkeley.
Me: Why is there so much Indian stuff in Berkeley? Is there a large Indian community here?
Karen: Yeah, that's why there's so much Indian stuff here.
Bailey + pile of blankets = always
Anna is in Berkeley.
Monday, June 15, 2009
On Conversion Experiences, part 2 of 2
This elimination of the need for a conversion experience according to those principles became known as the Grontinion Article. It came into force throughout the Hillean Confederation (which included Hihaythea and the Yiffen Republic, as well as Colof and Alisia, where there were sizeable minorities of Beautavs). Surprisingly, however, no other country adopted the article for more than a century.
Acrola, indeed, might have lead the way on such a practice, and had circumstances been slightly different, the Grontinion Article might have come 50 years earlier, and been termed the AnaPaotai Article or similar. In 1423, the Acrolan Regency officially broke from the Orthodox Beautav Church and began preparing reforms. Within five months, however, the Emperor had died, precipitating the anarchy of the Interregnum. The Regency lost all authority and Acrola fell into disarray, leaving no one powerful enough to carry on the reforms that had begun so promisingly. A new Emperor, Rafael, was crowned in 1497 and soon after underwent his own conversion experience, but Rafael carred very little for matters of faith. Although his closest advisor, John Munner, was the very liberal Bishop of Tubraka, this man likewise was focused much more on the state than he was the church. The two of them likely believed in the Grontinion Article, as Archbishop Terrio must have as well, but it did not take priority. They had already alienated conservatives in Heroudland and Lylya with their political reforms, so why bother enacting such a law for which they had very little concern. It would only disrupt the status quo but would not, as far as they were concerned, bring about any real change.
Both Bishop Munner and Archbishop Terrio died in 1510, removing the trace influences of religion entirely. Rafael's position had become secure enough by the 1510's that he might easily have passed the article through a willing convocation, but it is doubtful that the issue even crossed his mind more than a few times in passing. In 1519 Rafael died, and the article's prospects in Acrola immediately took a dive. His son Henry was a devout Beautav, almost to the point of fanaticism, and although he did not go so far as to reinstate Beautav Orthodoxy, he moved the Acrolan Reformed Church in a decidedly orthodox direction. The Article's prospects were revived once again at his death, in 1576, but the new Emperor Leopold was ineffectual. He had far greater issues to worry about besides, such as the threats of three of his sons to declare their independence from his empire.
The Luvian Republic became independent shortly after but it negated the immediate need for the Grontinion Article by extending full citizenship rights to all persons irrespective of faith. The average Luvian citizen did not believe in the need for an orthodox conversion experience, therefore there was no fear among them that the lack of a Grontinion Article prevented a soul from its salvation. A convocation of Luvian bishops would ratify the Article in 1618, but even then it was only so that the bishops would not come home empty handed, as all of their other attempted compromises and new measures had failed.
This would be the trend over the next several years; eliminating the political necessity for the Article, rather than passing it. The Ahou Confederation granted full citizenship to the Ronans, Istis and Espiriters within its jurisdiction in 1599. Upon declaring its independence, in 1642, the Green Republic shepherded several liberal reforms through its Council, and these included the Grontinion Article. From there, however, its liberal policy stagnated, leaving it to be past by the Republic of Acrola (which was based in Frontton, not in Acrola). However, even the conservative Allonian Confederation and Republic of Vallo had passed the Article by 1700, and the Trans-Acrolan Republic followed a decade later.
By 1750, every Acrolan state except the Lylyan Republic, the Heroudland Union and Nistravo Field (to which the Article did not apply) had passed the Grontinion Article into law. This also included the seven Acrolan nations practiced a separation of church and state. In these, each of these, a convocation of the clergy readily accepted the Article.
Sayia, however, was a much different situation. The Kingdom of Hope was a moderate state, but it was dependent of the theocratic Empire of the Beautavus. It seems likely that, had Beautavus not been Hope's only ally in the region, Hope might have found a way to break free from the orthodox control and formed its own church. Even given the circumstances, however, Hope managed some reform. In 1484, Hope granted citizenship to all persons who pledged allegience to the Church of the Beautavus. While this certainly meant nothing to the large minority of Ronans living in Priempor and other parts of Hope, it was a step away from the tight grasp of the Anotus in Beautavus. Priempor would be lost to Hilleana within a decade anyway, making the Ronans much less of a concern.
From 1498 until 1519, Acrola actively pursued a policy of friendship with Hope, desiring to lure that nation into its own political sphere. During those twenty-one years, two successive Bishops of Berram and Haffstroke served as ambassador to Hope, and became among the King's strongest advisors. In 1515, under the Bishop's direction, the King relaxed the harsh laws that forced even Ronans to attend weekly Beautav services. They were now allowed to opt out of that requirement by paying an extra tax, whose revenues were split evenly between the church and the crown.
Acrola under Emperor Henry continued to ally with Hope, but they no longer pressed for such reforms. When the Confederation of Allonia became independent, in 1584, its King Matthew immediately sought strong relations with Hope. For the next century the two nations were closely aligned, and Allonia's influences led to the establishment of a hereditary monarchy in Hope. In 1598, the heresy tax was cut in half. It was lowered again in 1610, 1615 and 1618. Then Hope agreed to recognize the Ronan religion, which meant that the tax would no longer apply to them, although they still lacked certain rights of citizenship. Very few people were now required to pay the heresy tax, and their burden was further relieved when, in 1652, the Church's portion was removed entirely. This was essentially the first step in the separation of the Beautav Church from the Hope State, although like its neighbor in Allonia, Hope never officially ratified such a measure.
These advances, of course, had little to do with the Grontinion Article or conversion experiences, but they demonstrated changing attitudes. By the latter half of the 17th century, the Kingdom of Hope no longer made any distinction between persons who practiced the Beautav faith and persons who had successfully converted. Like in so many nations before, the need for the Article had largely been removed, making it mean very little that, even in 1750, the Article still was not in effect in Hope.
That left only one more country that practiced Beautavism as its state religion: the Holy Empire of the Beautavus itself. There is no such story of progression within those borders, however. The famed Sayn stubbornness and adherence to orthodoxy that had demanded the creation of a Beautav Church in the first place kept the great theocracy decidedly conservative. At least once a century (although often times more) the Church Council would issue a law banishing all Ronans from inside the nations borders. There must certainly have been a few Ronans who returned, or who perhaps never left in the first place, but by 1400 they had little motivation. They were free to live as they pleased just across the border, in Langra, and Sayn Ronans had such disdain for Beautavs that they cannot have liked living under the Anotus. In the later centuries, these laws must merely have been passed in order to whip up religious ferver among the commoners, who had to be constantly reminded of how evil the Ronans were in order to reinforce their Beautav fanaticism.
Because of this, however, the Empire rarely had to deal with persons not born in the Beautav faith. Occasionally they would produce Ronan persons who had converted, but this seems to mostly have been a matter of propoganda. Conversion to Beautavism from Ronanism was extremely rare outside of Acrola and Hillea, and it is doubtful that the insular and autocratic Beautavus would have much appeal to converts in the first place. So, at the given date of 1750, only fully converted Beautavs had any rights or power in either the Empire or in the Church that it officially governed. By that year, however, only four nations recognized the authority of the Orthodox Beautav Church.
Acrola, indeed, might have lead the way on such a practice, and had circumstances been slightly different, the Grontinion Article might have come 50 years earlier, and been termed the AnaPaotai Article or similar. In 1423, the Acrolan Regency officially broke from the Orthodox Beautav Church and began preparing reforms. Within five months, however, the Emperor had died, precipitating the anarchy of the Interregnum. The Regency lost all authority and Acrola fell into disarray, leaving no one powerful enough to carry on the reforms that had begun so promisingly. A new Emperor, Rafael, was crowned in 1497 and soon after underwent his own conversion experience, but Rafael carred very little for matters of faith. Although his closest advisor, John Munner, was the very liberal Bishop of Tubraka, this man likewise was focused much more on the state than he was the church. The two of them likely believed in the Grontinion Article, as Archbishop Terrio must have as well, but it did not take priority. They had already alienated conservatives in Heroudland and Lylya with their political reforms, so why bother enacting such a law for which they had very little concern. It would only disrupt the status quo but would not, as far as they were concerned, bring about any real change.
Both Bishop Munner and Archbishop Terrio died in 1510, removing the trace influences of religion entirely. Rafael's position had become secure enough by the 1510's that he might easily have passed the article through a willing convocation, but it is doubtful that the issue even crossed his mind more than a few times in passing. In 1519 Rafael died, and the article's prospects in Acrola immediately took a dive. His son Henry was a devout Beautav, almost to the point of fanaticism, and although he did not go so far as to reinstate Beautav Orthodoxy, he moved the Acrolan Reformed Church in a decidedly orthodox direction. The Article's prospects were revived once again at his death, in 1576, but the new Emperor Leopold was ineffectual. He had far greater issues to worry about besides, such as the threats of three of his sons to declare their independence from his empire.
The Luvian Republic became independent shortly after but it negated the immediate need for the Grontinion Article by extending full citizenship rights to all persons irrespective of faith. The average Luvian citizen did not believe in the need for an orthodox conversion experience, therefore there was no fear among them that the lack of a Grontinion Article prevented a soul from its salvation. A convocation of Luvian bishops would ratify the Article in 1618, but even then it was only so that the bishops would not come home empty handed, as all of their other attempted compromises and new measures had failed.
This would be the trend over the next several years; eliminating the political necessity for the Article, rather than passing it. The Ahou Confederation granted full citizenship to the Ronans, Istis and Espiriters within its jurisdiction in 1599. Upon declaring its independence, in 1642, the Green Republic shepherded several liberal reforms through its Council, and these included the Grontinion Article. From there, however, its liberal policy stagnated, leaving it to be past by the Republic of Acrola (which was based in Frontton, not in Acrola). However, even the conservative Allonian Confederation and Republic of Vallo had passed the Article by 1700, and the Trans-Acrolan Republic followed a decade later.
By 1750, every Acrolan state except the Lylyan Republic, the Heroudland Union and Nistravo Field (to which the Article did not apply) had passed the Grontinion Article into law. This also included the seven Acrolan nations practiced a separation of church and state. In these, each of these, a convocation of the clergy readily accepted the Article.
Sayia, however, was a much different situation. The Kingdom of Hope was a moderate state, but it was dependent of the theocratic Empire of the Beautavus. It seems likely that, had Beautavus not been Hope's only ally in the region, Hope might have found a way to break free from the orthodox control and formed its own church. Even given the circumstances, however, Hope managed some reform. In 1484, Hope granted citizenship to all persons who pledged allegience to the Church of the Beautavus. While this certainly meant nothing to the large minority of Ronans living in Priempor and other parts of Hope, it was a step away from the tight grasp of the Anotus in Beautavus. Priempor would be lost to Hilleana within a decade anyway, making the Ronans much less of a concern.
From 1498 until 1519, Acrola actively pursued a policy of friendship with Hope, desiring to lure that nation into its own political sphere. During those twenty-one years, two successive Bishops of Berram and Haffstroke served as ambassador to Hope, and became among the King's strongest advisors. In 1515, under the Bishop's direction, the King relaxed the harsh laws that forced even Ronans to attend weekly Beautav services. They were now allowed to opt out of that requirement by paying an extra tax, whose revenues were split evenly between the church and the crown.
Acrola under Emperor Henry continued to ally with Hope, but they no longer pressed for such reforms. When the Confederation of Allonia became independent, in 1584, its King Matthew immediately sought strong relations with Hope. For the next century the two nations were closely aligned, and Allonia's influences led to the establishment of a hereditary monarchy in Hope. In 1598, the heresy tax was cut in half. It was lowered again in 1610, 1615 and 1618. Then Hope agreed to recognize the Ronan religion, which meant that the tax would no longer apply to them, although they still lacked certain rights of citizenship. Very few people were now required to pay the heresy tax, and their burden was further relieved when, in 1652, the Church's portion was removed entirely. This was essentially the first step in the separation of the Beautav Church from the Hope State, although like its neighbor in Allonia, Hope never officially ratified such a measure.
These advances, of course, had little to do with the Grontinion Article or conversion experiences, but they demonstrated changing attitudes. By the latter half of the 17th century, the Kingdom of Hope no longer made any distinction between persons who practiced the Beautav faith and persons who had successfully converted. Like in so many nations before, the need for the Article had largely been removed, making it mean very little that, even in 1750, the Article still was not in effect in Hope.
That left only one more country that practiced Beautavism as its state religion: the Holy Empire of the Beautavus itself. There is no such story of progression within those borders, however. The famed Sayn stubbornness and adherence to orthodoxy that had demanded the creation of a Beautav Church in the first place kept the great theocracy decidedly conservative. At least once a century (although often times more) the Church Council would issue a law banishing all Ronans from inside the nations borders. There must certainly have been a few Ronans who returned, or who perhaps never left in the first place, but by 1400 they had little motivation. They were free to live as they pleased just across the border, in Langra, and Sayn Ronans had such disdain for Beautavs that they cannot have liked living under the Anotus. In the later centuries, these laws must merely have been passed in order to whip up religious ferver among the commoners, who had to be constantly reminded of how evil the Ronans were in order to reinforce their Beautav fanaticism.
Because of this, however, the Empire rarely had to deal with persons not born in the Beautav faith. Occasionally they would produce Ronan persons who had converted, but this seems to mostly have been a matter of propoganda. Conversion to Beautavism from Ronanism was extremely rare outside of Acrola and Hillea, and it is doubtful that the insular and autocratic Beautavus would have much appeal to converts in the first place. So, at the given date of 1750, only fully converted Beautavs had any rights or power in either the Empire or in the Church that it officially governed. By that year, however, only four nations recognized the authority of the Orthodox Beautav Church.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
On Conversion Experiences, probably part 1 of 2
Orthodox Beautavism required that any person of the Beautav faith must experience a conversion experience, in which any manner of miracle occurs to them. This is essentially to prove that God wants them in the faith, and that they do not falsely profess it for whatever purpose. The miracle, however, can be of any sort (generally it is the convert claiming that God has spoken to them and commanded them to convert to Beautavism), and the priest who confirms the conversion cannot reject it unless there is significant and compelling evidence.
Birth in the Beautav faith is considered a miracle in itself, thus ordinary Beautavs do not require an official conversion. In theory, this meant that conversion was a relatively easy process, and virtually any person who wanted to could achieve a full conversion to Beautavism within a year. There are documented complaints, however, of priests demanding bribes in exchange for confirmation even in the late 11th century. Witholding confirmation meant that the person could not achieve various rights according to the country in which he lived. If he lived in one of the River Republics, it might even put his life at risk. He had already turned his back on the prevailing Ronan or Isti faith, which made him an apostate and subject to harsh penalties including execution. His conversion to Beautavism would offer him the limited protections guarenteed to Beautavs in that country, but those protections cannot be extended until the conversion is complete.
A complete conversion is required for citizenship in the pre-modern Beautavan Empire, Kingdom Hope, Union of Hihaythea, Yiffen Republic and Saulite Kingdom. While non-Beautavs in Vend and Great Acrola can achieve citizenship, they only have limited rights, and cannot, for example, vote in local or national elections (although pre-modern Acrola, of course, has no national elections).
Thus in traditional Beautav lexicon, a practicing Beautav is a person who believes in the Beautav religion, attends Moon Rituals and open services, but has not yet had an accepted conversion experience. A Beautav convert, meanwhile, is any person who has successfully converted to Beautavism, including a person born into the religion.
The early extortion of the conversion process festered and thrived for centuries, until the reformations of the 15th century. In 1411, the people of the Yiffen Republic threw off the shackles of Beautav Orthodoxy and forced their President to follow their lead. The commoners then, over the next decade, the people created the Northern Beautav Reformed Church. Hihaythea and Vend followed suit shortly after, and collectively rejected the idea of a church hierarchy. For this reason they refused to accept the idea that a priest needed to receive and confirm the converted. For a few years anyone who claimed to have had a conversion experience was automatically accepted into the Northern Beautav Reformed Church. Later, however, this sect rejected the idea of a conversion experience entirely, ruling at the 1487 Synodat of Grontinion that a person constantly received the word of God, and therefore as soon as they have followed God's order to convert, there is no reason for a miracle to prove that God welcomes the convert.
Birth in the Beautav faith is considered a miracle in itself, thus ordinary Beautavs do not require an official conversion. In theory, this meant that conversion was a relatively easy process, and virtually any person who wanted to could achieve a full conversion to Beautavism within a year. There are documented complaints, however, of priests demanding bribes in exchange for confirmation even in the late 11th century. Witholding confirmation meant that the person could not achieve various rights according to the country in which he lived. If he lived in one of the River Republics, it might even put his life at risk. He had already turned his back on the prevailing Ronan or Isti faith, which made him an apostate and subject to harsh penalties including execution. His conversion to Beautavism would offer him the limited protections guarenteed to Beautavs in that country, but those protections cannot be extended until the conversion is complete.
A complete conversion is required for citizenship in the pre-modern Beautavan Empire, Kingdom Hope, Union of Hihaythea, Yiffen Republic and Saulite Kingdom. While non-Beautavs in Vend and Great Acrola can achieve citizenship, they only have limited rights, and cannot, for example, vote in local or national elections (although pre-modern Acrola, of course, has no national elections).
Thus in traditional Beautav lexicon, a practicing Beautav is a person who believes in the Beautav religion, attends Moon Rituals and open services, but has not yet had an accepted conversion experience. A Beautav convert, meanwhile, is any person who has successfully converted to Beautavism, including a person born into the religion.
The early extortion of the conversion process festered and thrived for centuries, until the reformations of the 15th century. In 1411, the people of the Yiffen Republic threw off the shackles of Beautav Orthodoxy and forced their President to follow their lead. The commoners then, over the next decade, the people created the Northern Beautav Reformed Church. Hihaythea and Vend followed suit shortly after, and collectively rejected the idea of a church hierarchy. For this reason they refused to accept the idea that a priest needed to receive and confirm the converted. For a few years anyone who claimed to have had a conversion experience was automatically accepted into the Northern Beautav Reformed Church. Later, however, this sect rejected the idea of a conversion experience entirely, ruling at the 1487 Synodat of Grontinion that a person constantly received the word of God, and therefore as soon as they have followed God's order to convert, there is no reason for a miracle to prove that God welcomes the convert.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Nose goes
I have this idea for a story about a woman who feels really held back by her nose. Like, she's insecure about it and she frequently blames any bad thing that happens to her on her nose. So then she decides to get a nose job and it looks fantastic. Everything turns out great--she gets more attention from men, she feels like people take her more seriously and all her other insecurities are generally resolved. She thinks she's really turned a corner in her life, and everything is going to be okay.
But you can't just get over insecurities by way of a scalpel, and she still has lingering issues with her appearance. She knows she looks fine now, but she has trouble seeing herself as attractive or really worthy of the attention she's receiving. She might get past this in time, but then comes a more troubling development. The new nose thinks life is so easy. The new nose thinks everything is handed to her on a silver platter. The new nose thinks that rewards just throw themselves at her without her even having to try. Yes, new nose, we might be beautiful now, but you don't understand what we've been through. You don't know what it's like to have people stare at you for the wrong reasons. You only know what it's like to receive positive attention; you've never lived on a face for which the best you can hope for is no attention at all. The woman soon turns against the new nose--or sees the new nose as having turned against her.
I'm not sure how it'll end yet. First there's some serious research I have to do. I want to interview people who have had nose jobs to ask them what made them to decide to get them; if there was any singular event; what reaction did they expect from strangers, friends, family, lovers, etc.; how said people actually did react, and what happened that they did not expect. I want to be able to talk to people who are satisfied with the result and people who are dissatisfied. Of course, the hardest part is finding people who will voluntarily respond to such questions, but I've already started thinking of the ad I'll one day put out on craigslist!
But you can't just get over insecurities by way of a scalpel, and she still has lingering issues with her appearance. She knows she looks fine now, but she has trouble seeing herself as attractive or really worthy of the attention she's receiving. She might get past this in time, but then comes a more troubling development. The new nose thinks life is so easy. The new nose thinks everything is handed to her on a silver platter. The new nose thinks that rewards just throw themselves at her without her even having to try. Yes, new nose, we might be beautiful now, but you don't understand what we've been through. You don't know what it's like to have people stare at you for the wrong reasons. You only know what it's like to receive positive attention; you've never lived on a face for which the best you can hope for is no attention at all. The woman soon turns against the new nose--or sees the new nose as having turned against her.
I'm not sure how it'll end yet. First there's some serious research I have to do. I want to interview people who have had nose jobs to ask them what made them to decide to get them; if there was any singular event; what reaction did they expect from strangers, friends, family, lovers, etc.; how said people actually did react, and what happened that they did not expect. I want to be able to talk to people who are satisfied with the result and people who are dissatisfied. Of course, the hardest part is finding people who will voluntarily respond to such questions, but I've already started thinking of the ad I'll one day put out on craigslist!
Monday, May 25, 2009
I love about house parties that people show up looking all nice, like with one of their top five shirts (or equivalent; I think I'm one of the few that actually has ranked his shirts) or a snazzy dress and good shoes, or something. You know, tight jeans and what else. I think to a certain extent it's a gay and girl thing: getting ready with it in your head that, when you show up, everyone else will say "wow, look at you!" They might, but everyone has that in their heads, and not every single person at the party will receive or issue a wow look at you.
Anyway. Also, you've done your hair, and if it's a party with a few strangers or acquaintances you might want to impress, you've done it and redone it until it looks perfect. And you might even show up with a bottle of alcohol, and when you enter you smile and shrug expressively,
Kind of like what Ann Shoket is doing in this screenshot that I took a year ago for totally separate and obsolete purposes. Only instead of the papers she's holding for some reason, you have your bottle of alcohol, and you hold it to show it off but never higher than your face, which is much more important.
The point is, everyone wants to look nice and impress, I just like the thought of comparing people's appearances upon their arrival to those of their departure. Everyone thinks they look better than when they came, but hair is a mess, shirts are weirdly wet, someone is missing a bra for some reason and I don't want to put my shirt back on because someone else spilled beer all over it. Smiles are wild and weighed down by heavy bags under all eyes. I just think it's kind of interesting to think about something that started so composed, with everyone intent on things going exactly according to the plan they've set out in their head, and by the end no one has any control or awareness over anything.
Anyway. Also, you've done your hair, and if it's a party with a few strangers or acquaintances you might want to impress, you've done it and redone it until it looks perfect. And you might even show up with a bottle of alcohol, and when you enter you smile and shrug expressively,
Kind of like what Ann Shoket is doing in this screenshot that I took a year ago for totally separate and obsolete purposes. Only instead of the papers she's holding for some reason, you have your bottle of alcohol, and you hold it to show it off but never higher than your face, which is much more important.The point is, everyone wants to look nice and impress, I just like the thought of comparing people's appearances upon their arrival to those of their departure. Everyone thinks they look better than when they came, but hair is a mess, shirts are weirdly wet, someone is missing a bra for some reason and I don't want to put my shirt back on because someone else spilled beer all over it. Smiles are wild and weighed down by heavy bags under all eyes. I just think it's kind of interesting to think about something that started so composed, with everyone intent on things going exactly according to the plan they've set out in their head, and by the end no one has any control or awareness over anything.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Work on Thursday brought me:
to Fairfield,
to the Summerbreeze neighborhood,
directly by each of the locations of my three accidents,
to a very small town I had never heard of called Rumsey. I kept wanting to call it Guernsey, probably because the next town over was Guinda. I wish it had been Guernsey, then I'd at least have a few serfs to kick around and make do my bidding. "Peasant, go search this square mile block and tell me if 16541 Highway 16 exists."
I had to go back to Guernsey again the next day. Thursday was a nine hour day and 120 miles, which means it's my highest-earning day of this job. I think last week will also have been my highest-earning week of the job, and next week will easily be my lowest. Work is winding down now, which means it's almost time to start going to San Francisco or San Jose to party every other weekend!
to Fairfield,
to the Summerbreeze neighborhood,
directly by each of the locations of my three accidents,
to a very small town I had never heard of called Rumsey. I kept wanting to call it Guernsey, probably because the next town over was Guinda. I wish it had been Guernsey, then I'd at least have a few serfs to kick around and make do my bidding. "Peasant, go search this square mile block and tell me if 16541 Highway 16 exists."
I had to go back to Guernsey again the next day. Thursday was a nine hour day and 120 miles, which means it's my highest-earning day of this job. I think last week will also have been my highest-earning week of the job, and next week will easily be my lowest. Work is winding down now, which means it's almost time to start going to San Francisco or San Jose to party every other weekend!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
They come for you in the night
I had a dream two nights ago that there was going to be a draft. Every young man was going to be drafted and, you know what? We were all excited for it. We were thrilled, we couldn't wait. I went in with about 30 men my age for training, and we spent the first few days just sitting in a classroom. It was agonizing! I wrote home to a friend that everything was going well, morale and spirits were high, we were just so slow going. When was this thing going to get started? We wanted to get the ball rolling, to start really doing the stuff we had all anticipated. I'm not sure if I was eager for the eventual war itself or just the intense training that I know was presently going to happen.
I woke up and immediately thought of ways I'd dodge the draft if it ever came to that. It was like something out of a history textbook; first they have a passage in italic script and with a darker color background, and then at the end it says what are some of things you'd do if there were a draft? Brainstorm. Only history textbooks never ask you to put yourself in the shoes of your predecessors, because then you might think for yourself, as opposed to reciting the jingoistic themes that the books have already shoved down your throat.
I woke up and immediately thought of ways I'd dodge the draft if it ever came to that. It was like something out of a history textbook; first they have a passage in italic script and with a darker color background, and then at the end it says what are some of things you'd do if there were a draft? Brainstorm. Only history textbooks never ask you to put yourself in the shoes of your predecessors, because then you might think for yourself, as opposed to reciting the jingoistic themes that the books have already shoved down your throat.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Radio Albania
Tirana will never quite be Durazzo but, you know what? It'll also never be hell.
This is truly my hell. Not that Vacaville is really that bad (I hate it, but it could be much worse), or that I'm depressed or anything. I am miserable, though. Yeah, lack of local friends and I hate driving and etc., but the real cause of my misery is this heat. I was in bed sweating last night around midnight. I'm not made for this heat and neither is my computer; it keeps over-heating and turning off. I thought my computer was God, but apparently even God is vulnerable in hell.
Weather reports consistently show San Jose to be 5 degrees cooler than Vacaville. Sure, 5 degrees is not that big of a difference, especially as later this week Vacaville and San Francisco will be 20 degrees apart. But that's Durazzo. I have to work my way back there. I have to be grateful with how far I have come. From hell to Tirana will be quite enough for the time being; then from Tirana I can pine and scheme for Durazzo.
This is truly my hell. Not that Vacaville is really that bad (I hate it, but it could be much worse), or that I'm depressed or anything. I am miserable, though. Yeah, lack of local friends and I hate driving and etc., but the real cause of my misery is this heat. I was in bed sweating last night around midnight. I'm not made for this heat and neither is my computer; it keeps over-heating and turning off. I thought my computer was God, but apparently even God is vulnerable in hell.
Weather reports consistently show San Jose to be 5 degrees cooler than Vacaville. Sure, 5 degrees is not that big of a difference, especially as later this week Vacaville and San Francisco will be 20 degrees apart. But that's Durazzo. I have to work my way back there. I have to be grateful with how far I have come. From hell to Tirana will be quite enough for the time being; then from Tirana I can pine and scheme for Durazzo.
Friday, May 15, 2009
huuuuuk!
I've had intermittent hiccups all day today. I've had a few strong ones while walking from house to house. But I'm really, extremely disappointed that I didn't hiccup while actually talking to someone for work. "Hi, my name is Greg, huuuuuk! I'm with the US Census Bureau and I have the hiccups..." Man, they would have been so charmed.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
This house has two excellent examples of disfunctional relationships. In the first room we have my parents, who are the sort of people that should never be together. It's clear to everyone but them. They piss each other off and are unable to spend a moment in the same room without being angry with one another. They are constantly at each other's throats.
For twenty-two years I've proclaimed that their fights are none of my business (except when they're yelling at each other outside my bedroom door at 1 or 6 AM). I remember well that, when we were kids, my siblings used to sob without comfort when ever my parents screamed at one another, but I tuned it out and never gave it much thought.
But now that's over. Now I have to ask why. Not why do they fight and why have they always fought. Not why do they seem to hate each other. Not why have they stayed together for so many miserable years. I know all of those things. What I want to know is why can't they follow my example?
I know I'm not God or anything, and I certainly make mistakes and do bad things. But I really think we would all be much better off if they would take notes on the disfuctional relationship between the other two people in the house: me and Patrick. Just like my parents, Patrick and I sleep within feet of one another. However, I can't make him stop waking me up every night when he [*coughs, a lot*], I can't make him do anything about the gigantic mound of dirty clothes that takes up a third of the floor space, and I can't make him sleep in the other room when he's done something especially awful. My living situation is more intolerable than theirs, at least within the bedroom. Sure, my parents sleep in the same bed, but I've slept in the same bed as Michael after we broke up. It's not that hard to share a bed and have nothing to do with one another.
Patrick and I used to be at each others throats pretty often. I find him to be rude, abrasive and unbelievably annoying. Then, a few years ago, I decided I had had enough. I knew it would be hard on everyone, but I realized that I could not have a relationship with him. I am unable to change him, but I can't accept him for who he is. If he were not my brother I would have absolutely nothing to do with him. It sucks, but I have to accept this fact. I do not like him but I can't do anything about it. So my only solution is to ignore him completely. I try to spend all of my time in a different room from him. I often avoid activities that he's part of (although certainly not always). When he tells a story to "the room" I refrain from comment, no matter how stupid or offensive or naive I think he sounds. Because I know it doesn't matter what I say or do. I can't make him change.
My parents are certainly not happy with this, and I think my mom has subtly tried to get us to spend a bit more time together. But why can't they see that this is so much easier on everyone else than what they are doing? They should have realized by now, after 30 years of knowing one another, that neither one of them can make the other one change. They're not receptive to one another. It has absolutely no use to try. So they have two choices from here. The first is to change themselves and, I know my parents. They're two very stubborn people who refuse to ever admit a mistake. So neither one will be willing to change because each of them thinks it's the other one who will change. So why not accept that? Why not realize that they will never be happy together, so there's no point in even trying? I know they can't seperate because of financial issues, so how hard would it be to just ignore one another completely, except when absolutely necessary to make contact? I know that the answer is it would be very hard, but they don't seem to know or care how hard their abysmal failure of a relationship is on those around them. There was a time to make it better, but now I think it's just time to make do.
For twenty-two years I've proclaimed that their fights are none of my business (except when they're yelling at each other outside my bedroom door at 1 or 6 AM). I remember well that, when we were kids, my siblings used to sob without comfort when ever my parents screamed at one another, but I tuned it out and never gave it much thought.
But now that's over. Now I have to ask why. Not why do they fight and why have they always fought. Not why do they seem to hate each other. Not why have they stayed together for so many miserable years. I know all of those things. What I want to know is why can't they follow my example?
I know I'm not God or anything, and I certainly make mistakes and do bad things. But I really think we would all be much better off if they would take notes on the disfuctional relationship between the other two people in the house: me and Patrick. Just like my parents, Patrick and I sleep within feet of one another. However, I can't make him stop waking me up every night when he [*coughs, a lot*], I can't make him do anything about the gigantic mound of dirty clothes that takes up a third of the floor space, and I can't make him sleep in the other room when he's done something especially awful. My living situation is more intolerable than theirs, at least within the bedroom. Sure, my parents sleep in the same bed, but I've slept in the same bed as Michael after we broke up. It's not that hard to share a bed and have nothing to do with one another.
Patrick and I used to be at each others throats pretty often. I find him to be rude, abrasive and unbelievably annoying. Then, a few years ago, I decided I had had enough. I knew it would be hard on everyone, but I realized that I could not have a relationship with him. I am unable to change him, but I can't accept him for who he is. If he were not my brother I would have absolutely nothing to do with him. It sucks, but I have to accept this fact. I do not like him but I can't do anything about it. So my only solution is to ignore him completely. I try to spend all of my time in a different room from him. I often avoid activities that he's part of (although certainly not always). When he tells a story to "the room" I refrain from comment, no matter how stupid or offensive or naive I think he sounds. Because I know it doesn't matter what I say or do. I can't make him change.
My parents are certainly not happy with this, and I think my mom has subtly tried to get us to spend a bit more time together. But why can't they see that this is so much easier on everyone else than what they are doing? They should have realized by now, after 30 years of knowing one another, that neither one of them can make the other one change. They're not receptive to one another. It has absolutely no use to try. So they have two choices from here. The first is to change themselves and, I know my parents. They're two very stubborn people who refuse to ever admit a mistake. So neither one will be willing to change because each of them thinks it's the other one who will change. So why not accept that? Why not realize that they will never be happy together, so there's no point in even trying? I know they can't seperate because of financial issues, so how hard would it be to just ignore one another completely, except when absolutely necessary to make contact? I know that the answer is it would be very hard, but they don't seem to know or care how hard their abysmal failure of a relationship is on those around them. There was a time to make it better, but now I think it's just time to make do.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Also,
I need to not have a Facebook for a few days. Maybe a week. Don't worry about it, it'll be back again!
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Leisure Town...the end.
Leisure Town is a old people part of Vacaville. It's not gated, or anything, but when you first turn onto Yellowstone there's one of those terrible marker stones that has "Leisure Town" written on it. So I was able to drive there for work without hindrance today (ahem, elitist Browns Valley). But I'm fairly certain that they have rules similar to other senior living centers, like everyone has to be an old folk.
Anyway, I had never spent any time in Leisure Town before. I mean, clearly it's going to be a community designed to look like what old people wish the entire world were still like. I was just stunned by how very 1950's it looked. Every house was an unremarkable little one-story flat, but they all had large yards and notable gardens. I'm sure the old people all plant their own gardens, because that's what they're into, but you can't help but notice these big huge fields of green. The streets are all straight circles, which doesn't make any sense, so by which I mean they are "circles", but are actually in the shape of squares.
I don't know, I wish I were bright enough to draw this all together and form an interesting conclusion on what old people want and what their subconcious priorities are. But I can't. So the end.
Anyway, I had never spent any time in Leisure Town before. I mean, clearly it's going to be a community designed to look like what old people wish the entire world were still like. I was just stunned by how very 1950's it looked. Every house was an unremarkable little one-story flat, but they all had large yards and notable gardens. I'm sure the old people all plant their own gardens, because that's what they're into, but you can't help but notice these big huge fields of green. The streets are all straight circles, which doesn't make any sense, so by which I mean they are "circles", but are actually in the shape of squares.
I don't know, I wish I were bright enough to draw this all together and form an interesting conclusion on what old people want and what their subconcious priorities are. But I can't. So the end.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Not nothing
I should hear from City Year in a week, they told me. I feel really good about it. In fact, I came home from work and checked my emails today and saw that I had an email from them. In most circumstances, I would not open this email for several hours--perhaps several days--for fear that it contained a rejection. But I feel so confident that I excitedly opened the email immediately.
Of course, all the thing said was that I was being considered and should hear back from them in a week.
Over the last few days, life has been directing me toward the life of Elizabeth Elmon, a gentlewoman who "married down", as they say. Her husband was a man named John Adriol, and although I haven't yet decided his exact status, I imagine he'll be little more than a groom. I don't know how much of a story is there or where it might go, but my Pocahantas/Grandmother Willow Wind is urging me in that direction with a gentle breeze.
"I don't actively do it anymore, but I certainly do invite encouragement."
Of course, all the thing said was that I was being considered and should hear back from them in a week.
Over the last few days, life has been directing me toward the life of Elizabeth Elmon, a gentlewoman who "married down", as they say. Her husband was a man named John Adriol, and although I haven't yet decided his exact status, I imagine he'll be little more than a groom. I don't know how much of a story is there or where it might go, but my Pocahantas/Grandmother Willow Wind is urging me in that direction with a gentle breeze.
"I don't actively do it anymore, but I certainly do invite encouragement."
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Define it
It's probably natural to associate a single event or theme in your life with a particular year. Or, I mean vice-versa, but I won't fix it because I'm eating an apple with my right hand, and it's too much work to retype the whole sentence with one hand.
So, like I hear or read 2004, I'll always think first of my high school graduation. You mention 1990 and I'll immediately think of Karen. So what was my first thought when someone yesterday said he had graduated in 2006? Midterm elections. It's been a pretty consistent theme for me. I've noticed over the past few years that 2006 is primarily associated with, as I was excitedly calling them at the times, midterms.
2006, the year I moved to San Francisco, the year that contained most of my first relationship and my employment at the library. Yet the midterm elections trump all of that. It really did consume me in those days. I mean, almost as soon as I moved to San Francisco, the tension and excitement of the upcoming election had begun. Midterms defined my first semester at SF State.
I don't know, it's just so odd to me. I'm not ashamed of it, even though it is a little pathetic. I think it's because I was really miserable that first semester, but I wasn't aware of it. It was my first time living away from home and I figured that was just how it was. So I put all of my energy and interests toward politics.
I guess I'm trying to tack a conclusion onto the end of a post that doesn't really have one. It's more just an opportunity to share that strange little quirk.
So, like I hear or read 2004, I'll always think first of my high school graduation. You mention 1990 and I'll immediately think of Karen. So what was my first thought when someone yesterday said he had graduated in 2006? Midterm elections. It's been a pretty consistent theme for me. I've noticed over the past few years that 2006 is primarily associated with, as I was excitedly calling them at the times, midterms.
2006, the year I moved to San Francisco, the year that contained most of my first relationship and my employment at the library. Yet the midterm elections trump all of that. It really did consume me in those days. I mean, almost as soon as I moved to San Francisco, the tension and excitement of the upcoming election had begun. Midterms defined my first semester at SF State.
I don't know, it's just so odd to me. I'm not ashamed of it, even though it is a little pathetic. I think it's because I was really miserable that first semester, but I wasn't aware of it. It was my first time living away from home and I figured that was just how it was. So I put all of my energy and interests toward politics.
I guess I'm trying to tack a conclusion onto the end of a post that doesn't really have one. It's more just an opportunity to share that strange little quirk.
Legblog
I went to the gym for the first time since the accident. It's kind of frustrating. I mean, where before I was doing 220lbs on a machine, now I'm down to 30. Doing lunges--without any weight--is really difficult. But hey, at least I'm doing it. It's the first steps toward a real recovery. And hopefully, once my knee regains its strength, my overall strength will rapidly increase as well.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The week's end///
Last week, I had a phone interview with City Year. Then yesterday, I drove down to their office in San Jose to do an in-person interview. I think they both went pretty well. Veronica on the phone and Jarett in person seemed satisfied with my answers and I'm confident that they know I'd be a valuable asset.
In both interviews, however, they seemed more impressed with the questions I asked, rather than the answers I gave. Not to say that they didn't like my answers, but Jarett said "that's a GREAT question" to two things I said, and "I wish everyone asked that question" to a third. And I know that matters, because as we were wrapping up he said wanted to write down my questions before he forgot them.
I should find out within the next month. This is the last step in the application process for me, which means it's too late to screw it up! Unless, of course, they find my blog and read about how much I hate service, or how, the first time I had chitlins, I was noticeably disappointed with the fact that it wasn't Southern-style calling of cooked childrens. You know, those sorts of slip-ups that might make them think twice. Those are the only ones left for me!
Which is good, because I narrowly avoided comparing City Year to Karl Marx. I meant it in a positive way, but I think in our society that's seen as an automatic negative. But he said that they do something in a certain way, and why do I think they do it like that? I very neary said "well, like Karl Marx said on the assembly line..." but I implied it instead. It wasn't even that I had an alarm saying "don't bring up Marx in an interview!" but more that I wasn't sure if what I remembered was an accurate representation of his complaints about the assembly line.
I had physical therapy today. My left leg is NOTICEABLY, capitally smaller than my right. It really bugs me. But the physical therapist encouraged me to start going to the gym again, so I can right that wrong. My biggest concern right now is how weak my knee is. It hurts to squat.
So hopefully I'll be going to the gym soon, but I'm not sure that I can afford to pay my dues. They charged me the day after I froze my membership, so that should mean I have a full month paid from when I unfreeze it. So by May 10, I should have my first paycheck, but why really knows for sure?
In both interviews, however, they seemed more impressed with the questions I asked, rather than the answers I gave. Not to say that they didn't like my answers, but Jarett said "that's a GREAT question" to two things I said, and "I wish everyone asked that question" to a third. And I know that matters, because as we were wrapping up he said wanted to write down my questions before he forgot them.
I should find out within the next month. This is the last step in the application process for me, which means it's too late to screw it up! Unless, of course, they find my blog and read about how much I hate service, or how, the first time I had chitlins, I was noticeably disappointed with the fact that it wasn't Southern-style calling of cooked childrens. You know, those sorts of slip-ups that might make them think twice. Those are the only ones left for me!
Which is good, because I narrowly avoided comparing City Year to Karl Marx. I meant it in a positive way, but I think in our society that's seen as an automatic negative. But he said that they do something in a certain way, and why do I think they do it like that? I very neary said "well, like Karl Marx said on the assembly line..." but I implied it instead. It wasn't even that I had an alarm saying "don't bring up Marx in an interview!" but more that I wasn't sure if what I remembered was an accurate representation of his complaints about the assembly line.
I had physical therapy today. My left leg is NOTICEABLY, capitally smaller than my right. It really bugs me. But the physical therapist encouraged me to start going to the gym again, so I can right that wrong. My biggest concern right now is how weak my knee is. It hurts to squat.
So hopefully I'll be going to the gym soon, but I'm not sure that I can afford to pay my dues. They charged me the day after I froze my membership, so that should mean I have a full month paid from when I unfreeze it. So by May 10, I should have my first paycheck, but why really knows for sure?
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Running
I've been running today. Running everywhere, like when I need to go from one side of the house to the other. It's still a little awkward, but I can run short distances or walk down stairs without any real discomfort, which was not the case yesterday. I could run a few paces, gingerly, on Thursday. Today my dad told me I "almost look normal" when running, so the muscular improvements over the last 48 hours have been stellar.
Of course, I still have a hard time looking at my legs. The left one looks all skinny and untoned next to the right. I can't wait until I'm healed enough to go to the gym, but by that time I'll be working full-time.
Of course, I still have a hard time looking at my legs. The left one looks all skinny and untoned next to the right. I can't wait until I'm healed enough to go to the gym, but by that time I'll be working full-time.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
In lieu of anything important
I find it really satisfying to make a meal like this. I used the last of the turkey I had in that package, the last of the broccoli I had at all, and the last of the rice I had in the tupperware. I think it's because I enjoy the aspect of cleaning where you throw things out and then you never think about them again. And then there's empty places where you can put ALL NEW THINGS!
I almost finished the vegetable broth. I went a little over-zealous, trying unsuccessfully to finish it. Now there's probably not enough to use again, but my dinner was a bit too wet. I do that a lot, though. I also came very very close to finishing off the garlic salt and garlic pepper, which I'm ambivalent about. Normally I use garlic, salt and pepper, but I ran out of garlic a week ago, so I'm currently doing garlic salt and pepper. I can't decide if it's efficient or sloppy to use the latter in lieu of the former. Also, I could never remember which meant what between in lieu of and in light of, but I just realized that I've known for five years that lieu means place in French. So I should be able to keep them straight.
There's still a lot of cheese and olive oil left. Oh well. I was inclined to call this meal very self-sustaining, but that's not what that means at all. What would a self-sustaining meal be? Like, a hummingbird's meal? And what words would describe this one, other than delicious? That's collective your collective assignment for the night.
I almost finished the vegetable broth. I went a little over-zealous, trying unsuccessfully to finish it. Now there's probably not enough to use again, but my dinner was a bit too wet. I do that a lot, though. I also came very very close to finishing off the garlic salt and garlic pepper, which I'm ambivalent about. Normally I use garlic, salt and pepper, but I ran out of garlic a week ago, so I'm currently doing garlic salt and pepper. I can't decide if it's efficient or sloppy to use the latter in lieu of the former. Also, I could never remember which meant what between in lieu of and in light of, but I just realized that I've known for five years that lieu means place in French. So I should be able to keep them straight.
There's still a lot of cheese and olive oil left. Oh well. I was inclined to call this meal very self-sustaining, but that's not what that means at all. What would a self-sustaining meal be? Like, a hummingbird's meal? And what words would describe this one, other than delicious? That's collective your collective assignment for the night.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
It Go's
I'm feeling very uninspired. I'm almost done with the first draft of this little novel, and I'm suddenly ery unsatisfied with it. It will need so much editing! That's okay, but I'm getting the feeling that, once I edit it, the end product still won't be that great. I'm so married to the characters right now, though. And the time period. I don't know what I'll do about it. Like, nothing is exactly coming together like it should. I bet you can take a marionette doll and lay it on the floor, and the strings will look all messy and it'll look broken and stuff. But then you just grab the little stick things and lift them up, and all of a sudden everything rises into place and comes together perfectly. I think there's a better object for that analogy, but I can't think of what it is. A kite? No, but kite strings have only been tangled in my lifetime, and my experiences therewith are few and far between. But that's what I want to happen, I'm just not really feeling like it will. Do I have too many different characters with storylines of their own that just won't come together? Or do I focus too much on a single storyline, such that any time I mention anything else it's a paltry detail, leaving the reader wondering "either this will tie back in to the witch thing, or it's absolutely useless."
I don't have any other ideas right now. Maybe I should take another look through the previous novel. I had a dream a few nights ago that someone told me Two Hours Without Nannette was the worst short story they had EVER read. It wasn't crushing or anything. Just, oh, okay, well thanks for the feedback.
I've had like five dreams about Latin. One time I was translating from Spanish to Latin. Last night a bit of Latin came up in one of the classes that my subconscious is taking, and I interrupted to say that Latin only has hard g's (which makes me laugh, now. All they g's is hard). And then I went into one of those diatribes that all of the smart but quiet kids dream about but also are really annoyed by, where I just took control of the class and started telling everyone about Latin. And they were all fascinated!
I've been sweating a lot lately. It's not winter anymore, but I was sweating yesterday, when it was winter. I'm drenched right now! Maybe I should stop drinking this ginger tea. I've only been drinking tea for a few months; what do tea people do when it's too hot to drink hot tea? Surely they don't switch to iced-tea, which is the most vile and shudder-worthy thing I can think of now, in my uninspired state. My difestion has relied so much on ginger and peppermint teas that I don't know how I'll survive.
I don't have any other ideas right now. Maybe I should take another look through the previous novel. I had a dream a few nights ago that someone told me Two Hours Without Nannette was the worst short story they had EVER read. It wasn't crushing or anything. Just, oh, okay, well thanks for the feedback.
I've had like five dreams about Latin. One time I was translating from Spanish to Latin. Last night a bit of Latin came up in one of the classes that my subconscious is taking, and I interrupted to say that Latin only has hard g's (which makes me laugh, now. All they g's is hard). And then I went into one of those diatribes that all of the smart but quiet kids dream about but also are really annoyed by, where I just took control of the class and started telling everyone about Latin. And they were all fascinated!
I've been sweating a lot lately. It's not winter anymore, but I was sweating yesterday, when it was winter. I'm drenched right now! Maybe I should stop drinking this ginger tea. I've only been drinking tea for a few months; what do tea people do when it's too hot to drink hot tea? Surely they don't switch to iced-tea, which is the most vile and shudder-worthy thing I can think of now, in my uninspired state. My difestion has relied so much on ginger and peppermint teas that I don't know how I'll survive.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Stop that
I'm reading Lies My Teacher taught Me. It's really good, but it's also getting me really worked up. It's about how kids aren't interested in history classes because our textbooks gloss over the interesting parts of history, and instead make it about facts that children have to memorize. They don't want you to analyze history--you're supposed to accept everything that the textbooks tell you.
But history isn't made out of facts at all! Everything is subjective, everything is conjecture based on evidence, everything is controversy. Was the Black Death the Bubonic Plague, or something else (hint: it's not Bubonic Plague)? Was there 10 million people living in what is now the US in 1492, or was there 1 million? None of us was there so it's impossible to know. And what makes it interesting is that it's discussable. You can have different opinions based on different evidence.
Did you know that Helen Keller was a radical communist? But we don't want people to know that because then how can she be an inspiration? Communism is bad, after all. And Woodrow Wilson? Total racist who was largely uninterested in progressive causes. Not only that, but he intervened in Latin America more than any other president. But we want to champion him as the man of self-sovereignty, a man who ushered in a new era of freedom. The point of the book so far is that by diluting and skewing history for our political motives, we take a lot of the point out of it.
If there's anyone who is at all interested in history, I would recommend it highly. And if you're not interested in history, maybe it'll change that.
But history isn't made out of facts at all! Everything is subjective, everything is conjecture based on evidence, everything is controversy. Was the Black Death the Bubonic Plague, or something else (hint: it's not Bubonic Plague)? Was there 10 million people living in what is now the US in 1492, or was there 1 million? None of us was there so it's impossible to know. And what makes it interesting is that it's discussable. You can have different opinions based on different evidence.
Did you know that Helen Keller was a radical communist? But we don't want people to know that because then how can she be an inspiration? Communism is bad, after all. And Woodrow Wilson? Total racist who was largely uninterested in progressive causes. Not only that, but he intervened in Latin America more than any other president. But we want to champion him as the man of self-sovereignty, a man who ushered in a new era of freedom. The point of the book so far is that by diluting and skewing history for our political motives, we take a lot of the point out of it.
If there's anyone who is at all interested in history, I would recommend it highly. And if you're not interested in history, maybe it'll change that.
It might be gross
I sneezed on my arm. Not a snotty one, just the reaction to a little tickle in my nose. So it was just spit that I sprayed everywhere.
I can't stop smelling my arm now. For as long as I can remember, I've loved the smell of my own dry spit. I think it might be my absolute favorite smell. Every time I encounter it, I have to experience it for as long as it is still there. I sucked my thumb well longer than I should have, and I think the smell was part of it. If I sucked my thumb now, think how much I could smell it later!
It's nice to know that I'll be going to sleep to it. Hmmm.
I can't stop smelling my arm now. For as long as I can remember, I've loved the smell of my own dry spit. I think it might be my absolute favorite smell. Every time I encounter it, I have to experience it for as long as it is still there. I sucked my thumb well longer than I should have, and I think the smell was part of it. If I sucked my thumb now, think how much I could smell it later!
It's nice to know that I'll be going to sleep to it. Hmmm.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
It's never as bad as it seems
I've been on the phone a lot over the last couple of days.
I'm going to have a full-time, eight week job, where I'll be making $15/hour. It is entirely fair and reasonable to assume that, by the time this ends, I'll have at least $3000 in my bank account. And with any luck, that places me just a few weeks in front of City Year, which I think will be the opportunity of a lifetime.
I'm now done with the draft of the first 2.5 chapters of The Indomitable Witch of Clives. That doesn't sound very impressive, except I'm also almost done with chapters 4 and 5, and I'm about a third of the way done with 6. Also, more importantly, there will only be six chapters total. Word or page count doesn't make a book, but double-spaced in Word I'm above 64,000 words and 196 pages. I haven't found nary a bite on The Selfsame Chime, but it'll feel good to soon have two entire novels finished.
It sometimes concerns me that I've written these so fast. The Selfsame Chime's first words were put to paper after I moved to Vacaville (in September), and considered done (although still open to editing) by New Years. The Indomitable Witch of Clives is work done almost entirely in 2009, and it seems mighty fast to be weeks away from having a draft done. That'll be almost three months for the former and little more than that for the latter. Something seems really wrong with that, when you consider that many successful novelists only publish a few novels in their entire life. Is it that they take years to complete a project, that they decide against publishing the vast majority of what they write, or that they are occupied with too many other things that distract them from writing? I suppose I have a bit of an advantage, as I'm writing of stories whose basest elements I conceived years ago. But I certainly wouldn't want to become someone who thinks he's writing heavy literature and is really writing throw-away romance.
It's still hard to get an outside perspective on my writing. Michael has an answer to almost every question you ask him. "Was there any part that dragged?" He'll come up with a part. "How did you feel about the character development?" He'll have someone who was developed very well and another who needed something. My mom can tell you if she liked it or didn't like it (although I doubt she'd tell me if she didn't) and can discuss it a bit, but mostly edits as a spellcheck. My dad doesn't want edit at all; rather, he wants to discuss ideas and concepts introduced by the stories. They're all very helpful and I really appreciate them, but it's like, how do I really know if I suck or not? If agents accept me then I'm good, if they reject me then I suck? But most agents I've sent in to only read the query letters, and they probably skim those at that. Or am I too stubborn to see the message the many rejections are sending me? Am I over-confident in my writing and therefore I can't see any subtle proof that it doesn't have value? I certainly am confident, but it's just very hard to know. Maybe it's really good stuff but no one will publish it in my entire life. Maybe someone will publish it and it'll be considered the worst bunk ever written. I'll probably self-publish if no one else will take me on. But until I have the capital for that, it's more and more writing, more and more witches of Clives.
I'm going to have a full-time, eight week job, where I'll be making $15/hour. It is entirely fair and reasonable to assume that, by the time this ends, I'll have at least $3000 in my bank account. And with any luck, that places me just a few weeks in front of City Year, which I think will be the opportunity of a lifetime.
I'm now done with the draft of the first 2.5 chapters of The Indomitable Witch of Clives. That doesn't sound very impressive, except I'm also almost done with chapters 4 and 5, and I'm about a third of the way done with 6. Also, more importantly, there will only be six chapters total. Word or page count doesn't make a book, but double-spaced in Word I'm above 64,000 words and 196 pages. I haven't found nary a bite on The Selfsame Chime, but it'll feel good to soon have two entire novels finished.
It sometimes concerns me that I've written these so fast. The Selfsame Chime's first words were put to paper after I moved to Vacaville (in September), and considered done (although still open to editing) by New Years. The Indomitable Witch of Clives is work done almost entirely in 2009, and it seems mighty fast to be weeks away from having a draft done. That'll be almost three months for the former and little more than that for the latter. Something seems really wrong with that, when you consider that many successful novelists only publish a few novels in their entire life. Is it that they take years to complete a project, that they decide against publishing the vast majority of what they write, or that they are occupied with too many other things that distract them from writing? I suppose I have a bit of an advantage, as I'm writing of stories whose basest elements I conceived years ago. But I certainly wouldn't want to become someone who thinks he's writing heavy literature and is really writing throw-away romance.
It's still hard to get an outside perspective on my writing. Michael has an answer to almost every question you ask him. "Was there any part that dragged?" He'll come up with a part. "How did you feel about the character development?" He'll have someone who was developed very well and another who needed something. My mom can tell you if she liked it or didn't like it (although I doubt she'd tell me if she didn't) and can discuss it a bit, but mostly edits as a spellcheck. My dad doesn't want edit at all; rather, he wants to discuss ideas and concepts introduced by the stories. They're all very helpful and I really appreciate them, but it's like, how do I really know if I suck or not? If agents accept me then I'm good, if they reject me then I suck? But most agents I've sent in to only read the query letters, and they probably skim those at that. Or am I too stubborn to see the message the many rejections are sending me? Am I over-confident in my writing and therefore I can't see any subtle proof that it doesn't have value? I certainly am confident, but it's just very hard to know. Maybe it's really good stuff but no one will publish it in my entire life. Maybe someone will publish it and it'll be considered the worst bunk ever written. I'll probably self-publish if no one else will take me on. But until I have the capital for that, it's more and more writing, more and more witches of Clives.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Not Today
They took out half of my stitches. Or, rather, they took out half of my stitches in the peripheral areas, and in the red-yellow middle parts they left them all in. I started with 19, they took out 7 and now I have 11. I don't know how that works.
I was waiting in the little chair in a curtained-off area for a long time. The stitches nurse wanted to wait for the wound nurse and my regular doctor to have a look. I love that wound nurse--she's this old filipina lady who is so cute and funny. She told me she didn't want to tape the bandage to my leg because I was very hairy. Also, she said not to get the "steri strips" (which is apparently what they put where stitches used to be) wet. When we asked if that meant no shower, she said "no, just spit baths."
I mentioned to the stitches nurse that I still had some numbness. She said that, because the nerves were cut, it might take a while for that to go away and *whispers ominously* it might never go away. But also to ask my doctor. He happily told me it was just a matter of time, and that the swelling was pushing on my nerves and it wasn't anything to worry about. Take that, stitches nurse! But I really liked her otherwise and didn't hold that against her.
It was the little place where people get vaccinations and TB tests and stuff. Needly things. I couldn't see the people who came in, but one middle-aged sounding lady marched in very loudly, complaining in a slightly jocular manner about how this was the one that hurt a lot and she was terrified. "Can I have like a leather strap or something to bite on while you do it?" She asked. I couldn't tell if she was joking, but I don't know that I'd joke to a complete stranger that when I think pain, I also immediately think of biting and leather. Also, it ended up not hurting at all, by her admission. But she told the nurse to inform the doctor that it was awful, very painful and such, and the needle broke, and a lot of blood, but that she handled it well. I'm sure the nurse really wants the reputation for screwing up routine shingles or something vacs.
I'm sleeping under the quilt that I held to the wound in the car. That quilt was once sort of annoying to me because it was in the car ALWAYS and just took up room. It was covered with little leaves and twigs and branches and stuff, so it was totally unusable, making it completely in the way. So I found a use for it and an excuse to make someone else wash it. Although now I'm starting to wonder if it's not bruising, but leaves and twigs and dirt pressing on my nerves and keeping the area around my knee numb.
I was waiting in the little chair in a curtained-off area for a long time. The stitches nurse wanted to wait for the wound nurse and my regular doctor to have a look. I love that wound nurse--she's this old filipina lady who is so cute and funny. She told me she didn't want to tape the bandage to my leg because I was very hairy. Also, she said not to get the "steri strips" (which is apparently what they put where stitches used to be) wet. When we asked if that meant no shower, she said "no, just spit baths."
I mentioned to the stitches nurse that I still had some numbness. She said that, because the nerves were cut, it might take a while for that to go away and *whispers ominously* it might never go away. But also to ask my doctor. He happily told me it was just a matter of time, and that the swelling was pushing on my nerves and it wasn't anything to worry about. Take that, stitches nurse! But I really liked her otherwise and didn't hold that against her.
It was the little place where people get vaccinations and TB tests and stuff. Needly things. I couldn't see the people who came in, but one middle-aged sounding lady marched in very loudly, complaining in a slightly jocular manner about how this was the one that hurt a lot and she was terrified. "Can I have like a leather strap or something to bite on while you do it?" She asked. I couldn't tell if she was joking, but I don't know that I'd joke to a complete stranger that when I think pain, I also immediately think of biting and leather. Also, it ended up not hurting at all, by her admission. But she told the nurse to inform the doctor that it was awful, very painful and such, and the needle broke, and a lot of blood, but that she handled it well. I'm sure the nurse really wants the reputation for screwing up routine shingles or something vacs.
I'm sleeping under the quilt that I held to the wound in the car. That quilt was once sort of annoying to me because it was in the car ALWAYS and just took up room. It was covered with little leaves and twigs and branches and stuff, so it was totally unusable, making it completely in the way. So I found a use for it and an excuse to make someone else wash it. Although now I'm starting to wonder if it's not bruising, but leaves and twigs and dirt pressing on my nerves and keeping the area around my knee numb.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
12:15
My doctor is so nervous. It's weird going to the doctor and having him be more nervous than you are. Not that I'm regularly nervous about it in the first place, but still. He's nervous. Nervous nervous nervous.
I'm getting my stitches out on Friday. If my leg looks good. But my legs always look good.
The last time I had anyone identify me as his/her "best friend" was Marie, during sophomore year. And even though I liked her and was glad to be there for her, she was much too needy and I never felt like the friendship was reciprocal enough for me to reciprocate with best friend status. I guess that means that my last true best friend was Dale, in fifth grade. But I don't think we ever really used the term, so I don't know if he would have applied it to me (he was very aggressively competitive with me and so maybe he didn't see me as a best friend). So the last person I called my best friend who also called me his best friend was Justin Stanley, for a few months in second grade. We were generally known as best friends throughout school, and you couldn't think of one of us without thinking of the other. But then there was that weird set-up thing, where Sarah claimed that Justin admitted that he was really just using me (I don't know that, as seven year-olds, we really knew what that meant). I wouldn't really put much stock in that, except for the fact that Justin invited me to his going away party at the very last minute, only after someone else canceled. So we might have been best friends, but it really only lasted for a very short time.
That would explain why there's a pain in my heart whenever someone says the words "best friend". I don't really know what that is. I know how it is to be one of someone's best friends, but not the single most important friend in someone's book. That would have been nice to experience. It really hurts when someone who I'm close with says "my best friend Xla," I guess because even though I never thought we were best friends, it still sucks to know they have people they value more than me.
It's probably why I've always been so lonely. I don't really know what it's like to have someone that devoted to me. I know that was an issue in both of my relationships, and I remember telling Jase I always wanted someone to choose me first. And it was a point of insecurity for me, because Jase always chose himself first, second and third. I didn't even figure in the equation. And Michael put himself first, too, and then his friend Jason was second, and then there was a world-wide tie for third.
Michael always tells me nowadays that he's thinking of me. I know it's just a thing someone says, so I never put that much thought into it, but it's kind of satisfying, now, to know that someone thinks of me so often. I've accepted (finally) that people like me, but I'm still not convinced that they are really that interested in me. I don't think anyone thinks of me very often when I'm not around, but I guess Michael does. That's really special.
Alisha's mom called me on Monday. It was really a surprise, and at first I couldn't remember who she was, and then I couldn't think of why she was calling. Oh yeah, my accident. Alisha had told her about it, and then she read my letter in the paper, and she wanted to call to tell me she was praying for me and was glad I was okay. It was kind of uncomfortable for me, because I didn't really know what to say, but once I got off the phone it really meant a lot to me. Come to think about it, she and Karen are the only ones to call me expressly to wish me well following my accident. That's not to say it's the only source of comfort, because I've gotten a few texts and emails, and lots more communications through Facebook. And Ashley came and hung out with me when she heard, and I appreciate all those things. I think you're supposed to be able to tell who your true friends are in a situation like this. I don't know if that's just a cliche or if I'm an exception, but this has only muddied the waters.
It's a vicious cycle, I guess. The more I start being down, the less on my game I am about being in touch with people. And the less I'm in touch with people, the less their in touch with me. And the less people are in touch with me, the more down I get. I'm going to need a big shovel.
I don't know where this came from, really. I was 100% nothing but positive from the time they put me in the ambulance until some time Thursday evening. Everything was grand. I guess it's easy to fall.
Sometimes I think it would be fun to convert to being nocturnal. Just for a few weeks--you know, just right now, while there's nothing but TV for me during the day. It would probably make me much more productive, if I spent my TV hours sleeping, and my sleep hours not being about to watch TV, considering the state of TV at 3 am. I could get some good work done, but maybe I'd just find a new video game.
City Year application is almost done. It's pretty much my one and only ticket out of Tirana.
I'm getting my stitches out on Friday. If my leg looks good. But my legs always look good.
The last time I had anyone identify me as his/her "best friend" was Marie, during sophomore year. And even though I liked her and was glad to be there for her, she was much too needy and I never felt like the friendship was reciprocal enough for me to reciprocate with best friend status. I guess that means that my last true best friend was Dale, in fifth grade. But I don't think we ever really used the term, so I don't know if he would have applied it to me (he was very aggressively competitive with me and so maybe he didn't see me as a best friend). So the last person I called my best friend who also called me his best friend was Justin Stanley, for a few months in second grade. We were generally known as best friends throughout school, and you couldn't think of one of us without thinking of the other. But then there was that weird set-up thing, where Sarah claimed that Justin admitted that he was really just using me (I don't know that, as seven year-olds, we really knew what that meant). I wouldn't really put much stock in that, except for the fact that Justin invited me to his going away party at the very last minute, only after someone else canceled. So we might have been best friends, but it really only lasted for a very short time.
That would explain why there's a pain in my heart whenever someone says the words "best friend". I don't really know what that is. I know how it is to be one of someone's best friends, but not the single most important friend in someone's book. That would have been nice to experience. It really hurts when someone who I'm close with says "my best friend Xla," I guess because even though I never thought we were best friends, it still sucks to know they have people they value more than me.
It's probably why I've always been so lonely. I don't really know what it's like to have someone that devoted to me. I know that was an issue in both of my relationships, and I remember telling Jase I always wanted someone to choose me first. And it was a point of insecurity for me, because Jase always chose himself first, second and third. I didn't even figure in the equation. And Michael put himself first, too, and then his friend Jason was second, and then there was a world-wide tie for third.
Michael always tells me nowadays that he's thinking of me. I know it's just a thing someone says, so I never put that much thought into it, but it's kind of satisfying, now, to know that someone thinks of me so often. I've accepted (finally) that people like me, but I'm still not convinced that they are really that interested in me. I don't think anyone thinks of me very often when I'm not around, but I guess Michael does. That's really special.
Alisha's mom called me on Monday. It was really a surprise, and at first I couldn't remember who she was, and then I couldn't think of why she was calling. Oh yeah, my accident. Alisha had told her about it, and then she read my letter in the paper, and she wanted to call to tell me she was praying for me and was glad I was okay. It was kind of uncomfortable for me, because I didn't really know what to say, but once I got off the phone it really meant a lot to me. Come to think about it, she and Karen are the only ones to call me expressly to wish me well following my accident. That's not to say it's the only source of comfort, because I've gotten a few texts and emails, and lots more communications through Facebook. And Ashley came and hung out with me when she heard, and I appreciate all those things. I think you're supposed to be able to tell who your true friends are in a situation like this. I don't know if that's just a cliche or if I'm an exception, but this has only muddied the waters.
It's a vicious cycle, I guess. The more I start being down, the less on my game I am about being in touch with people. And the less I'm in touch with people, the less their in touch with me. And the less people are in touch with me, the more down I get. I'm going to need a big shovel.
I don't know where this came from, really. I was 100% nothing but positive from the time they put me in the ambulance until some time Thursday evening. Everything was grand. I guess it's easy to fall.
Sometimes I think it would be fun to convert to being nocturnal. Just for a few weeks--you know, just right now, while there's nothing but TV for me during the day. It would probably make me much more productive, if I spent my TV hours sleeping, and my sleep hours not being about to watch TV, considering the state of TV at 3 am. I could get some good work done, but maybe I'd just find a new video game.
City Year application is almost done. It's pretty much my one and only ticket out of Tirana.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Scratchy
I used to have a really good power of restraint. I quit drinking soda cold turkey when I was 16, and didn't look back until I needed to mix it with alcohol, four years later. I stopped eating pork the following year and haven't had a taste since, and I've rarely even been tempted. I had the willpower of Catherine of Siena (or probably all of the saints, it's just she's the one I know most about), and I took pride in not doing what most people couldn't resist.
But that has since faded. Numerous attempts to control my eating and diet have lasted less than a week, as once I get the idea in my head that I want ice cream (and it happens several times a day), it is impossible to destroy, but can only occasionally be postponed.
So now I've met a new temptation: moving my leg. The ER nurse told me not to flex a single muscle in my leg. Well I'm very aware of my leg muscles, and I can flex four per/leg independently of all the others, so as soon as I took to my crutches I informed him of where I couldn't help but flex. So he corrected it: don't bend my knee. The muscles in my leg are like sponges, and they can't be sewn back together but instead must be forced near each other so they can re-fuse. Bending my knee too early would rip apart all the new sinews or tissues or whatever that have been built as part of the recovery process.
It was no problem for the first week. I had, for a few activities, needed to bend my leg slightly--it was impossible to avoid. What I found, however, was that I was physically unable to bend my leg beyond 135 degrees. So, fine. No risk there, no problem at all. But then, this weekend, I discovered a new temptation. When sitting or laying idle, I have the habit of flexing my said four isolated muscles. I'll just briefly move through them, the quad, the hamstring, the outer thigh, the glute. These are all above the knee, so most are just fine. But my flexing of my quad muscle happens below my wound, so it's a no-no. But it's in my head! The right side did it! It's a figurative itch that I have to scratch, for balance's sake. So, just a little bit here and there, I've been sneaking a flex. Just a little one, nothing that I feel like is doing any harm to the wound. It's certainly not bending my knee, so it's okay. It's just a puff, and I'm not inhaling. So no biggie; I've found a loophole and it doesn't compromise my healing.
But then, starting Sunday, I have a new, much worse itch. I toss and turn in my sleep and I'm accustomed to bending my knees in almost every position. I'm just used to moving my legs around a lot. Even when I'm seated, I shift frequently so as to give my legs a little movement. So it started to work my neurosis that I haven't bent my knee much at all. Then it hit me: we bend our knees hundreds, perhaps thousands of times a day, and I've only done it about four times a day, to a much lesser degree. It's like being told you can't blink but once every hour. It's impossible!
It's in my head now, and it has not been helped by events: I noticed that now my knee is capable of bending further. I haven't done anything, but I no longer felt resistance when I moved it slightly to sit on the toilet. It's possible now. It's possible and it seems like a necessity. The thoughts are in my head and some part of my brain has decided I need to move my knee. I'm putting it off as well as I can, promising that part that I will be at liberty to move it as much as I want soon, but I know it can only be delayed so long.
I'm seeing my doctor tomorrow morning. I am hoping that he is impressed with the healing process, that because my body is accustomed to building muscle and because I've been such a good and careful boy, he will determine that I can move it a bit more here and there. I don't expect full mobility or full range of motion. I still have 19 stitches in the thing--I know I'm going to be laid up and out of action for a while. But please, PLEASE, Doctor. Satisfy my urge!
But that has since faded. Numerous attempts to control my eating and diet have lasted less than a week, as once I get the idea in my head that I want ice cream (and it happens several times a day), it is impossible to destroy, but can only occasionally be postponed.
So now I've met a new temptation: moving my leg. The ER nurse told me not to flex a single muscle in my leg. Well I'm very aware of my leg muscles, and I can flex four per/leg independently of all the others, so as soon as I took to my crutches I informed him of where I couldn't help but flex. So he corrected it: don't bend my knee. The muscles in my leg are like sponges, and they can't be sewn back together but instead must be forced near each other so they can re-fuse. Bending my knee too early would rip apart all the new sinews or tissues or whatever that have been built as part of the recovery process.
It was no problem for the first week. I had, for a few activities, needed to bend my leg slightly--it was impossible to avoid. What I found, however, was that I was physically unable to bend my leg beyond 135 degrees. So, fine. No risk there, no problem at all. But then, this weekend, I discovered a new temptation. When sitting or laying idle, I have the habit of flexing my said four isolated muscles. I'll just briefly move through them, the quad, the hamstring, the outer thigh, the glute. These are all above the knee, so most are just fine. But my flexing of my quad muscle happens below my wound, so it's a no-no. But it's in my head! The right side did it! It's a figurative itch that I have to scratch, for balance's sake. So, just a little bit here and there, I've been sneaking a flex. Just a little one, nothing that I feel like is doing any harm to the wound. It's certainly not bending my knee, so it's okay. It's just a puff, and I'm not inhaling. So no biggie; I've found a loophole and it doesn't compromise my healing.
But then, starting Sunday, I have a new, much worse itch. I toss and turn in my sleep and I'm accustomed to bending my knees in almost every position. I'm just used to moving my legs around a lot. Even when I'm seated, I shift frequently so as to give my legs a little movement. So it started to work my neurosis that I haven't bent my knee much at all. Then it hit me: we bend our knees hundreds, perhaps thousands of times a day, and I've only done it about four times a day, to a much lesser degree. It's like being told you can't blink but once every hour. It's impossible!
It's in my head now, and it has not been helped by events: I noticed that now my knee is capable of bending further. I haven't done anything, but I no longer felt resistance when I moved it slightly to sit on the toilet. It's possible now. It's possible and it seems like a necessity. The thoughts are in my head and some part of my brain has decided I need to move my knee. I'm putting it off as well as I can, promising that part that I will be at liberty to move it as much as I want soon, but I know it can only be delayed so long.
I'm seeing my doctor tomorrow morning. I am hoping that he is impressed with the healing process, that because my body is accustomed to building muscle and because I've been such a good and careful boy, he will determine that I can move it a bit more here and there. I don't expect full mobility or full range of motion. I still have 19 stitches in the thing--I know I'm going to be laid up and out of action for a while. But please, PLEASE, Doctor. Satisfy my urge!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
You might think it's bragging
My in progress novel, The Indomitable Witch of Clives, just surpassed the completed The Selfsame Chime in length. I believe it will end up being comfortably above 200 pages.
However, I'm not blogging to brag about this. This pass happened earlier this evening. Just now, as I'm nearing 60,000 words, Microsoft Word informed me that there are "too many spelling and grammatical errors" to be displayed within the text, and that I need to do something else (I don't remember what) to view them. Of course, it's because the story takes place in the Acrolan Empire, at either the Appero, Frontton or Clives courts. The main character is Ariane and her siblings include Alix and Davidt, while her husband's name is Ferand. Ferand comes from a place called the Auveyr, meanwhile Davidt is Grand Duke of Allonia, while their other brother and narrator, Andrew, is Count of Iszmon. Of course there are too many spelling errors!
I would be delighted to wear this badge of honor until the end, except that--every once in a blue moon--that squiggly red line catches a real spelling error. I need it back, so Acrola will have to be added to my dictionary. But I'm doing this one word at a time, you word processing nazi!
However, I'm not blogging to brag about this. This pass happened earlier this evening. Just now, as I'm nearing 60,000 words, Microsoft Word informed me that there are "too many spelling and grammatical errors" to be displayed within the text, and that I need to do something else (I don't remember what) to view them. Of course, it's because the story takes place in the Acrolan Empire, at either the Appero, Frontton or Clives courts. The main character is Ariane and her siblings include Alix and Davidt, while her husband's name is Ferand. Ferand comes from a place called the Auveyr, meanwhile Davidt is Grand Duke of Allonia, while their other brother and narrator, Andrew, is Count of Iszmon. Of course there are too many spelling errors!
I would be delighted to wear this badge of honor until the end, except that--every once in a blue moon--that squiggly red line catches a real spelling error. I need it back, so Acrola will have to be added to my dictionary. But I'm doing this one word at a time, you word processing nazi!
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Vicodreams
I've heard tell that some people experience bad dreams while on vicodin. I've been on vicodin once before, when I got my wisdom teeth out, and didn't really notice any affect the drug had on me. But now that I'm on it again, well, I've noticed something different.
It made me really drowsy today (and perhaps I can blame it for my writing "it maid me really drousy toda"), so I decided to take a little nap break. I wouldn't call them bad, per se, or dreams, per se. It was more like strangely unpleasant hallucinations. I'd close my eyes and, within fifteen seconds, I'd be surrounded by a bunch of poeple trying to make me stand up. They demanded it, and the more I resisted the more they pushed me. Then the phone would ring and I'd snap out of it. And then more sleep-like dream-like people trying to make me stand up. Despite already suffering from one of these hallucinations and already being able to dismiss it, it seemed real again.
The weirdest of all came later, when I started shivering like crazy. I mean, the worst shivering I've ever done, ie what I was doing last night when I first arrived in the hospital or when my legs were bare beneath the rain. Only, as time went on, I realized I wasn't shivering at all. I mean, my body wasn't shivering, but I could hear my teeth chattering despite the fact that they weren't, and I could feel the bitter cold and rain that I couldn't feel. It's a really strange circumstance that I don't know how to describe (obviously). But no matter how much it's drowsily forcing me into non-sleep and messing with my idea of consciousness and reality, I'm glad for the vicodin.
It made me really drowsy today (and perhaps I can blame it for my writing "it maid me really drousy toda"), so I decided to take a little nap break. I wouldn't call them bad, per se, or dreams, per se. It was more like strangely unpleasant hallucinations. I'd close my eyes and, within fifteen seconds, I'd be surrounded by a bunch of poeple trying to make me stand up. They demanded it, and the more I resisted the more they pushed me. Then the phone would ring and I'd snap out of it. And then more sleep-like dream-like people trying to make me stand up. Despite already suffering from one of these hallucinations and already being able to dismiss it, it seemed real again.
The weirdest of all came later, when I started shivering like crazy. I mean, the worst shivering I've ever done, ie what I was doing last night when I first arrived in the hospital or when my legs were bare beneath the rain. Only, as time went on, I realized I wasn't shivering at all. I mean, my body wasn't shivering, but I could hear my teeth chattering despite the fact that they weren't, and I could feel the bitter cold and rain that I couldn't feel. It's a really strange circumstance that I don't know how to describe (obviously). But no matter how much it's drowsily forcing me into non-sleep and messing with my idea of consciousness and reality, I'm glad for the vicodin.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Morning things
I've taken to eating turkey bacon and chicken sausage as an easy source of protein and replacement for pork. One time my mom called it chicken bacon, and it has bothered me a lot ever since. I think about chicken bacon all the time and laugh at the silliness of the concept, and then shudder at how awful the words sound when placed together.
Do you ever have dreams in which someone tells a joke, and it's really funny? I've had one each of the last two nights. But I don't remember the one from two nights ago, because the more I thought about it, the less funny it became. Like, sometimes they might be funny in context, but the dream presents such strange context that it will never work out in real life. The one from last night had so many motives for the different actors, and such a congregation of people from the many aspects of my life, that I'm going to have to simplify it thus: a psychic punches his friend. His friend punches him back, saying "what did you do that for?" "I had a psychic vision you were going to punch me so I decided to pre-empt you." Is it strange that the simplification of my dream is also the simplification of pretty much every episode of That's So Raven?
Tylenol and Tile are filed next to one another in my mind. Those chalky tile floors always remind me of the chalky consistency of children's Tylenol.
Do you ever have dreams in which someone tells a joke, and it's really funny? I've had one each of the last two nights. But I don't remember the one from two nights ago, because the more I thought about it, the less funny it became. Like, sometimes they might be funny in context, but the dream presents such strange context that it will never work out in real life. The one from last night had so many motives for the different actors, and such a congregation of people from the many aspects of my life, that I'm going to have to simplify it thus: a psychic punches his friend. His friend punches him back, saying "what did you do that for?" "I had a psychic vision you were going to punch me so I decided to pre-empt you." Is it strange that the simplification of my dream is also the simplification of pretty much every episode of That's So Raven?
Tylenol and Tile are filed next to one another in my mind. Those chalky tile floors always remind me of the chalky consistency of children's Tylenol.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
A bunch of stuff
I'm trying to collect little quirks. I feel like adding quirks into my stories make the characters and plots and relationships come alive and feel real. I probably feel that way because it's absolutely true.
Like, so Ferand is this weird foreigner and everyone in the family thinks he's really weird at the beginning. I'm still developing his potential quirks, but they include growing a full beard and standing up while eating. The beard thing is important, because after a little while he'll shave it all off with no warning. Andrew, the narrator, will ask Ariane, the main charcater and Ferand's wife, about it. "Oh, I always hated that beard," Ariane will say. "So we made a deal: he can grow a beard for the first year and last year of our marriage, but he has to be clean-shaven all of the time in between." I like that because it also gives them a little personality for doing something silly like that. Now, whenever Ferand starts to annoy Ariane, she can tease him by threatening to hide his razor.
I mean, I don't want to toot my own writing, but I'm having a really fantastic time with this. I feel totally confident about everything I'm writing except for that there are a lot of characters, and that worries me. But other than that, it's on course to be among the best things I've ever written.
Meanwhile, I'm resigning myself to the possibility that I might have to self-publish The Selfsame Chime. I think it makes sense as my first novel and so for as much work as I might put into The Indomitable Witch of Clives, they can't be out of order. I still have a few more agents to send The Selfsame Chime to, but I guess I've done an about face on my previous policy of "if you send it to a bunch of agents and they don't want to represent you, that means you suck and you shouldn't try and publish it anyway." The thing is, none of the agents have really read it, so they only think my query letter sucks. I mean, I'm certainly open to it sucking, because there are various biases (both recognized and unrecognized) that most of my readers so far have had, and so even if they all tell me it's good that doesn't mean it is.
But all that to say, I'm devoted to the idea of making that my first novel, and I am prepared to go the self-publishing route if that's what's necessary. I don't totally know how self-publishing works, but I assume this means I'll be the only one working hard on making it work. I have to be its only salesperson, trying to convince family and friends to read it and then constantly pressing them to recommend it. I have to go in to local bookstores with a copy in hand and try to get them to sell it. And I have to be okay with months passing without selling a single copy.
But I have a lot of confidence in it, and you know, it'll be great to see something I've written and put my heart into in published form. So I'll be writing to more agents this week, but I now have a back up if they all say no.
Like, so Ferand is this weird foreigner and everyone in the family thinks he's really weird at the beginning. I'm still developing his potential quirks, but they include growing a full beard and standing up while eating. The beard thing is important, because after a little while he'll shave it all off with no warning. Andrew, the narrator, will ask Ariane, the main charcater and Ferand's wife, about it. "Oh, I always hated that beard," Ariane will say. "So we made a deal: he can grow a beard for the first year and last year of our marriage, but he has to be clean-shaven all of the time in between." I like that because it also gives them a little personality for doing something silly like that. Now, whenever Ferand starts to annoy Ariane, she can tease him by threatening to hide his razor.
I mean, I don't want to toot my own writing, but I'm having a really fantastic time with this. I feel totally confident about everything I'm writing except for that there are a lot of characters, and that worries me. But other than that, it's on course to be among the best things I've ever written.
Meanwhile, I'm resigning myself to the possibility that I might have to self-publish The Selfsame Chime. I think it makes sense as my first novel and so for as much work as I might put into The Indomitable Witch of Clives, they can't be out of order. I still have a few more agents to send The Selfsame Chime to, but I guess I've done an about face on my previous policy of "if you send it to a bunch of agents and they don't want to represent you, that means you suck and you shouldn't try and publish it anyway." The thing is, none of the agents have really read it, so they only think my query letter sucks. I mean, I'm certainly open to it sucking, because there are various biases (both recognized and unrecognized) that most of my readers so far have had, and so even if they all tell me it's good that doesn't mean it is.
But all that to say, I'm devoted to the idea of making that my first novel, and I am prepared to go the self-publishing route if that's what's necessary. I don't totally know how self-publishing works, but I assume this means I'll be the only one working hard on making it work. I have to be its only salesperson, trying to convince family and friends to read it and then constantly pressing them to recommend it. I have to go in to local bookstores with a copy in hand and try to get them to sell it. And I have to be okay with months passing without selling a single copy.
But I have a lot of confidence in it, and you know, it'll be great to see something I've written and put my heart into in published form. So I'll be writing to more agents this week, but I now have a back up if they all say no.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
But hey, I'm writing it too
When Lauretta Errumseld and Meline Witteroud accuse Ariane of witchcraft, who might their accomplices be? Maude Witteroud is a likely one, as is their cousin, Kathryn. Yet it is these very accusations of witchcraft that move Ariane's husband, Ferand, to resign from his position as Grand Chamberlain. And who should replace him but Kathryn's husband, Roebard Honor Delia.
Our narrator, the Count of Iszmon, believes his best method of serving his empire is to fight in military campaigns. So he takes part in the invasion of Luvia, where he distinguishes himself as one of the few peers in the army. The Emperor and Empress go on progress through the newly conquered lands, and the Count is their escort. When the Empress gives birth in Podora, the Count is present. When this Prince Henry is taken to the court at Frontton and then blessed at the Cathedral of the Star in Acrola, the Count is the obvious choice to lead the party bringing him to these places. So, it becomes obvious that the Count should be named a Guardian of the Blood, one of four men charged with the Prince's care.
I certainly do not mean for this to be the Great Big Acrola Blog, but I do intend to write a lot about my experience writing. You know how sometimes people claim that the story/characters just "wrote them/itself/ve"? That's kind of what happened in the above situations. In the former, I accidentally set up a scenario that causes my narrator to question everyone's motives and moves him to the very root of the insecurity of his family's position at court. And the latter moves the story along during some 'down years' (ie a two-year period when the plotline advances only slightly) and forces an interesting new element to the dynamic.
I spent between two and three months writing the draft to The Selfsame Chime, but I always felt like it was less than a month. Except for those last few weeks, when I was just filling in a few paragraphs and pages here and there, I was churning out pages upon pages per day, and I could not wait to clear out all obstacles so that I could write. Meanwhile, I've been working on The Indomitable Witch of Clives for two months but it seems like much longer. It's not that I'm not enjoying the writing, but rather that I am so eager for the finished product and so ignorant of what it will contain that I don't want to be bothered with silly things like writing about important events. But finally, the story has begun to write itself. Finally I am not finding it so grueling and difficult to write the 2000 words a day minimum I set for myself. It's nearing the complete length of The Selfsame Chime, and you know what? I feel like I still have a lot more to write, and finally I am excited about it.
Our narrator, the Count of Iszmon, believes his best method of serving his empire is to fight in military campaigns. So he takes part in the invasion of Luvia, where he distinguishes himself as one of the few peers in the army. The Emperor and Empress go on progress through the newly conquered lands, and the Count is their escort. When the Empress gives birth in Podora, the Count is present. When this Prince Henry is taken to the court at Frontton and then blessed at the Cathedral of the Star in Acrola, the Count is the obvious choice to lead the party bringing him to these places. So, it becomes obvious that the Count should be named a Guardian of the Blood, one of four men charged with the Prince's care.
I certainly do not mean for this to be the Great Big Acrola Blog, but I do intend to write a lot about my experience writing. You know how sometimes people claim that the story/characters just "wrote them/itself/ve"? That's kind of what happened in the above situations. In the former, I accidentally set up a scenario that causes my narrator to question everyone's motives and moves him to the very root of the insecurity of his family's position at court. And the latter moves the story along during some 'down years' (ie a two-year period when the plotline advances only slightly) and forces an interesting new element to the dynamic.
I spent between two and three months writing the draft to The Selfsame Chime, but I always felt like it was less than a month. Except for those last few weeks, when I was just filling in a few paragraphs and pages here and there, I was churning out pages upon pages per day, and I could not wait to clear out all obstacles so that I could write. Meanwhile, I've been working on The Indomitable Witch of Clives for two months but it seems like much longer. It's not that I'm not enjoying the writing, but rather that I am so eager for the finished product and so ignorant of what it will contain that I don't want to be bothered with silly things like writing about important events. But finally, the story has begun to write itself. Finally I am not finding it so grueling and difficult to write the 2000 words a day minimum I set for myself. It's nearing the complete length of The Selfsame Chime, and you know what? I feel like I still have a lot more to write, and finally I am excited about it.
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