Toes Deep in Time Machines of Joy.

This is going to be sooooo boring, my apologies. God help me....but there are some things that just freaking need to be said...

I have lived the difference, believe me, in strangers' perceptions, and in my own, about myself. (massive weight loss in my 20s.) What I am experiencing now is something similar, maybe. Or maybe it is all in my freaking head... just sun induced hallucinations.

All I am certain of is that I have finally found the right pair of platform heels and something has changed. Then again, it could just be Spring. What other explanation fits for the way preteen boys were flirting with me in the line at the grocery store yesterday!? Or for that random middle youngish African guy leaning out of his car window asking me where I am going when it is obvious that I am just walking my dog and totally not keen on a chat up?! What is the deal??! Did I make the sweet hotel receptionist blush?? What on Earth is going on??

I have been needing this like intravenous shot of youth-juice. It was an Ebay gamble that they would even fit, bargain or no. But when I saw them I had a flash back.....

...... to that first pair of double-buckle-wide t-stap three and a half inch block stack heels I shelled out for in the boutique on the Drag sometime in the mid nineties, and I really splurged for me and I justified it because I wore them Every Single Day, for work and play, and ended up wearing them to learn to live and go out on my own, and buy my own wine and show me a fun time, and to stomp all over London on my solo birthday vacation, and to end and begin one or two affairs, to dance all over my apartment..... only to witness in horror one day, almost two years later, through the window at dusk, my Mom's big blond boxer puppy tossing one of them, half chewed to bits, in a glorious arch far above her gleeful slobbery head, into the air like a killer whale with a baby seal. I had taken them off in the backyard on the flagstones, at the end of that hot Indian summer day while house-sitting for my parents, to play with her and feel the soft green grass, and then had left them out there!?, to unfortunately be subject to her curious investigation. I could not really blame her. They were brown oily leather and I had relentlessly worn them without socks or hose in the Texas heat and in spite of all remedies attempted they stunk to high heaven, except, of course, when they were on my feet. Still, it was quite a blow. I forgave the pup but I really never fully recovered. They were so much more than shoes.

I am starting to sense a sort of healing. A return of my swagger? A rediscovery of the subtle figure eight in the hips of my stride? A smoking teenage boy hanging out on the sidewalk looked at me AND SMILED before stepping aside for me to pass and even alerting his cronies to do the same, without irony! Okay, sure, teenage boys give way like that all the time around here, but in a way that makes one feel that you are both just two pieces of furniture passing in the afternoon. I am maybe enjoying this too much. I love feeling taller. For that and whatever other reason, I am feeling at least one third less invisible....

The years are flying baby. Look: My temples (why are they called that?) and my part are going grey. Things are sagging and sometimes it seems to make the most sense to just to curate a collection of sweatpants and to succumb and to stop daring at all ever....

But these shoes....I am starting to think I might have a few more turns to go yet!

Bed is...

Bed is womb and cocoon, watery blue and cotton velvet. Bed is nest. Bed is firm, with feathers, like a nineteen seventies hot Barbarella dream. Bed is familiar landscape for changing night visions. Bed is modern and lowdown. Bed is layers of labor intensivity, every morning, without fail, and worth it. Bed is safe and normal and status quo. Bed is shared, ankles entwined every night. Bed good.

Mike Rowe:This Stuff Happened On Earth, and Is Not Fiction.

I really want you to see this Ted talk from Mike Rowe, the host of "Dirty Jobs." It takes about 20 minutes and it is funny.

My guiltiest and most pleasurable guilty pleasure will never be recorded or described here, but I could argue that a close second is developing vague crushes on speakers at the Ted conference. (You have to admit, Mike's cute!) If you scan down through the recent past on this blog you will discover I have already shared the Elizabeth Gilbert Talk. (Was feeling so crushy-gushy that day, I could not even use very many words....just Ole!) I have many favorites. Watching them gives me a buzz and makes me feel smart and famous. :) You should peruse the Ted website and discover your favorite too. There are plenty of these cuties to go around!

(Onionesque:) IPhone Owner's Date Just Asks the Bartender What Song is Playing.

ZURICH-In a sparsly crowded tapas bar this weekend, an IPhone owner's date asked the bartender if he would mind telling her the name of a song playing over the sound system in the establishment. The bartender, Simon Rousseau, of ElSol Restaurant and Bar in Zurich, Enge said that he was approached about the song between orders on Friday after 10 pm.

"She asked if I knew the name of the song playing over our speakers, and I told her I did because it was from a mix CD I made myself." Rousseau stated. "I didn't mind telling her. It was Close Yet So Far by Bullet, with Armando Teixeira as Vladimir Orlov. She was kind of cute, but she isn't my type. That wasn't why I did it. I was just being nice, you know?"

The IPhone owner himself, Heinrik Dansk, expressed surprise and wonderment at the delay of his IPhone's song indentification feature in identifying the song in question. "When she wondered out loud what the song was called, I had the IPhone right there on our table, so I immediately touched the screen, accessing that feature. Before I had the information she was walking away from the table and towards the bar. She talked to that bartender with the tattoos for a (really) long time. It wasn't that loud in the bar so I don't know why it took so long. I would have had it if she had waited like, 10 seconds."

The date herself, identified only as Irma, said she would do it again given similar conditions. "It was just sort of spontaneous and friendly. A lot of what that cute bartender told me flew right over my head, but I got the song title, and that was what I was after. I might talk to him again though and find out what the hell all that other stuff he said was. I am not sure what the big deal is."

It may prove to be a big deal indeed as the public's blatant disregard for the phone's integral features could have an effect on IPhone sells this year, and ultimately on Apple corporation's bottom line in this struggling economy.

Cozy, But Not Ready Yet.

Hi 30daysofwrite-ers. Today's suggestion is an excellent one, but I am not really ready yet. Less than a month ago, on St. Patrick's Day (from now on to be known as St. Moses Day,) our family said adios to a beloved pet. I have written about him in the recent past here, here and here. He was wonderful, he had a long life, we miss him. Given a little more time I will have more to say and write about it.



Today I am under the weather. I thought I would be able to really do something special for this post, but kept getting stuck. So I decided to link to recent writings about Mo, and instead of adding to those writings just now, I thought about him while I made a french press cozy. Out of an old sweater. It keeps the coffee warm and now I reckon it will always remind me of him.

Peace.

Trying Pop Culture Senryu In English

Arms races
cut and colours viewed loved
our Michelle.

***

Bloated frog
in Rushes croaks
his qualm, not sexy.

***

Give funds
buy a nurturer? Life? Heart?
Virgin mom.

Four Minutes To Save The World?

I am unclear on what Justin and Madonna actually saved the world from in that song. Being that the average pop song has four minutes before it maxes out it's listener's attention span, I reckon they did their dead level combined best in the time given to share the truest essence of their entertaining selves to improve the world, or the little world created in the audio visual psychic space between the entertainer and the viewer/listener. I admit, the song makes me groove, I can dance or drive to it, and that marching band thing just works--it's sort of larger than life and quaintly nostalgic all at the same time....

As for my own attempts given the same amount of time? Well, I am really bad at telling jokes, and I don't have anywhere near the singing-dancing moves of those guys. Most of my tricks only work one person at a time too. Picking people up comes to mind. Yeah, I like to lift people, literally. My most frequent victim is my mother. It's just a spontaneous beyond-hugging type thing to show someone you just love them and want to give them an experience of gravity from like when they were a little kid. Most people protest a bit, so the element of surprise is very important. If you are sneaky enough to get them before they understand what is coming and shy away, there is little they can do to stop you, and in a second it is over anyway. You don't have to lift them super high or carry them off anywhere. For some reason it never fails to make the lift-ee smile or laugh, and once they are smiling that smile tends to last a while. So that might save their world, at least for a little while.

1800s? Maybe It Would Be Okay.

Hopefully there would be some farming. If I had a little platz to grow some veg and herbs I would probably be keen on doing some planting and tending most days now (so we could maybe stop living off of poor wine and old bread and that stinky cheese). Maybe I would be able to make cheese and honey wine and other things to take along with my produce to the markets. My husband would likely be buried in his books of philosophies and science most of the time and might be a teacher of some kind. Me too maybe. It would not be surprising if we were of those trying to find a way to migrate to the Americas, although the creation of a federal state in Switzerland would be starting to improve things generally. If I were not supported by my husband maybe I would be working in a textile factory, or somehow involved in making clocks, and trying to eke it out on my own. I would probably be skinnier and a whole lot less healthy, with little money or spare time. I think I am less afraid of the lack of electricity and flow of general information than I am of the lack of advances in medicine. I am pretty hearty, or have been so far, but please God, don't give me a bladder stone back in those days.

Heavenly Home Day-Dreaming.

My dream home is a warm and spacious cave in the winter and a cool and breezy light box in the summer. Surrounded by vegetation and blending into the landscape, it is hard to find without directions and yet walk-ably right around the corner from the coolest shops and community in the most familiar and friendly neighborhood. It has a quiet, sculpturally beautiful wind turbine, and solar panals. It is paid for, and the taxes are hideously and flukishly low. It has a fireplace and a steam room and a pool, and a human-deep in-ground massage-jets-optional hot/cold soaking tub outside, just off the master bedroom. It's grounds include several private outdoor areas snug near the house. One of the walls of the modern kitchen is all windows, which actually can be raised like a garage door to serve as a clear or privacy-blinded awning, or can be slid into a compartment above the false kithen ceiling. There are several of these walls of windows throughout the multilevel house so that opening them captures a gentle flow of air within the house, and effectively brings the outdoors in, and makes optimal use of the adjoining decks-with-views. The flagstone flooring of the kitchen extends continuously to the flagstone floor of the patio, trailing in paths into the private garden. There are enough natural plants and growth in the garden so that you can follow a path out not so very far from the house and yet not be able to see it, so you feel you are in the woods and could pitch a tent. The house is not overly large, but feels open and huge. All the seals are tight. There are convenient and discreet outlets for electricity everywhere they are needed, and secure wifi covers the house and its furthest grounds. It is wired for sound in a way that can be seperated for different sections of the house or combined throughout. There is radiant heat from beneath the stone and wood floors. You can hear a bubbling stream running nearby from open windows. The lines are clean and smooth and modern. The fixtures are simple and funtional. The materials are earthy and warm. The water from any of the showers, including the open one near the pool, gets warm in about 3 seconds, and the pressure is as great as you like, always.

Feeling the Difference.

I believe I have inherited both my father's innate strength, and my mother's high tolerance for pain. This combination has made me seem something of a bulldozer at times. I mean, it is hard to remain a petite and gentle flower in the eyes of your boyfriend once he has seen you move a full size refridgerator by yourself by wrapping your arms around it. The thing too about tolererence for pain being inherited through families is that sometimes lessons in ways of being gentle can go neglected, because no one complains, if it hurts you just plow through...

My first or second time at the Kerrville Folk Festival I received a lesson in such gentleness. The festival was new to me and I loved it all. The camp, the heat, the dirt, the rain, the mud, the music!...it was all fantastic. I also loved being outdoors. Exploring the camp and the areas around it was a pleasure. We all hiked up and down all the paths and trails.

I had shoe issues. I was wearing some brown leather peep toe slides with a sort of platform rubber sole. They were hippy-in-the-city shoes, and in the city they worked fine. They cut across my high instep slightly, but in the city I had never had them on long enough to care.

It was just one or two little red spots the first day. Okay sure, yes, they began to sting a bit when I put them on. But I guess what would happen as I continued to "plow through" any pain and just walk on is that the red spots would become numb as the leather edge of the slide rubbing up against the bone of my instep continued to chew away at my skin. By the end of the day I had several blisters, which then all broke. Each time I had my shoes off they would start to scab over, only to be torn open again then next time I took a walk, and I was walking everywhere. Blood and puss. Dirt. Blood, puss again; Blood. It was not pretty at all. I am sure I was witnessed wincing when getting my shoes on..did I start going barefooted? Not yet.

So my friend found me at some point and bade me come with her to the backstage campground, where the musicians playing on stage and all of the crew and the people running the show and the general "friends of the festival" types had there camps set up. I hung out with her for a while and met some really sweet people. I cannot ever forget Paul, a friend of hers, a musician, I believe a drummer. He doctored my poor feet. I can see his clear eyes and open face as he gestered for me to "hand him my foot". I did without a second thought. He propped it on his knee. Once he took off my shoe, there was something to clean my wound, maybe something like peroxide or water, so cool to the touch. There was an antibiotic gel, maybe it also had something for pain? I don't know, I only know it felt like heaven. Cotton and gentleness. There was a bandage!! It was amazing. I don't think I realized how much it hurt until I felt how much better it could be.

I have often thought I didn't thank him properly for his knowing humanity. Were he and my friend in cahoots? I don't know. I remember being amazed and grateful, but also feeling a little shy of going overboard or gushing, so I am afraid I may have played it kinda cool. I felt no longer in pain, true, but more than that I felt calm and relaxed, peaceful. I will never forget the delight and relief of being spontaneously, simply and kindly cared for.

30DaysOfWrite: April Beginnings....

So Laurie and that gang and I are going to be at it here again with 30daysofwrite. I will try to go at it every day, which will definitely get interesting toward the end of the month when my folks come for a visit (finally). Giving it my best shot is what I am all about. I would also like to experiment with setting up to write in different spots around the house and even around town. And oh yeah, having fun.

Stay On These Roads....

We put Moses to sleep forever one week ago, almost to the minute, after a difficult weekend, and then two inexplicably beautiful sunny days. He and me and Daniel enjoyed a couple of very low key days in the bright sun on the porch. We knew Monday night it was time. He is at peace now. We are okay, though at times it creeps up on me so strongly and I miss him something fierce, and it stops me in my tracks.

Really Weird Weather. Naturally.

Yesterday Moses had a full day and good appetite but also a fairly constant struggle breathing and walking and an accident or two. Today, Moses has slept, all day so far. He stirred once or twice a few hours apart and each time I lay down beside him and said "hi puppy," and he noticed me and settled back to sleep.

This morning about 11 I decided just not to wake him, and instead Left The House for a few hours. It had been raining and even maybe snowing for a bit, but by the time I left the sun was out. I stopped for some coffee, then groceries. I stopped into one of my favorite little Renweg shops and had the best chat with the girl who works there. I think neither of us can remember the other's name, but it doesn't matter, and we have made friends over the last two years...talking about dogs and boys and mothers-in-law and ex mothers-in-law. She understood just where I was coming from with Moses and the end stages of his days on the planet, and the bond and pain involved. I talked about all the reading and research I had been doing about vets' and pet lovers' and budddhists' views about euthanasia. I told her I just wanted to focus on staying calm and without fear or anger or confusion, and that I knew I really needed to loosen my grip so that maybe he could loosen his. It felt great to talk to someone about it. Then I had some lunch! I wandered aimlessly for almost an hour! Walking around downtown I would round a corner and suddenly be inside a little city-block sized storm, with wind and slushy sleet falling out of the sky...and then walk another little bit and come out of the shadow and into..low and behold!...the sun!

When I got home at 3 he was still out and it was a good time to give our other pup some attention. And then housework. I feel more relaxed and un-foggy than I have felt in weeks.

Roasted Pumpkin Seed Piles with Honey and Fleur de Sel

*raw organic green oily pumpkin seeds (as opposed to dry white type of seeds)
*set organic local honey, 1 tablespoon
*Fleur de Sel (sea salt) in grinder
*organic extra virgin olive oil, about 1/4 to 1/3 cup, enough to just coat seeds. I have found greek olive oil works better than italian for some unknown reason.
*frying or other shallow pan
*plastic cutting board, large, or other flat surface for laying out the piles.

Cooking this recipe is very simple but moves very quickly once it starts. You can make a lot or a little. In all it should take no more than 5-10 minutes to prepare, with a little longer for the piles to cool and set.

Put your pan on the fire at medium high heat. Add olive oil to pan. Allow oil to heat for a few minutes. You may test it by dropping one seed into the oil. When tiny bubbles form around the seed, the oil is hot enough. Do not allow the oil to be hot enough to smoke at any point in the recipe.

Add pumpkin seeds. This will cool oil down slightly. Stir seeds constantly, assuring each seed is coated. Seeds should begin to sizzle and pop, and oil and seed mixture should again be up to medium high heat. Continue stirring. Increase heat only very slightly if needed. Continue stirring.

Add honey. Use as little as possible to be certain every seed can be coated, too much might make it too gooey instead of crisp. Fold and stir the honey into the seeds and oil so that honey melts completely. Adding the honey should cause seeds to cook a bit hotter and sizzle more. Stir stir stir. Seed roasting is complete when they seeds begin to look puffy. Once this begins happening, you may choose to remove from heat immediately, or else try to wait until most of the seeds have puffed. Don't stop stirring or allow the seeds to burn.

Remove the pan from the heat. Lay out your plastic cutting board or other (preferably plastic) flat surface. Grind about 1/4 teaspoon Fleur de Sel per 200 grams of seeds into mixture and stir thoroughly. Take a 30 second breather.

Tilting the pan slightly, use a table spoon to quickly scoop out small measures of seeds, straining oil and honey mixture out of each scoop. Lay each scoop out in a pile on the flat surface. Each pile will settle and spread out a little, and some oil mixture will drain out of it. Stir the remaining seeds again between each scoop. Be careful not to burn your fingers on the hot pan! Space the piles about an inch apart.

It probably will only take 30 to 60 minutes for the seed piles to cool. Once cool, each pile can be removed as a whole from the flat surface. They should have a bold glossy dark green color. The piles are eaten like cookies, and should be satisfyingly sweet and crunchy on the outside, with a touch of salt, and chewy and nutty on the inside.

ps. I'll add a picture real soon now, (they all disappeared before I had the chance!) Until then, imagine peanut patties except instead, pumpkin seeds not peanuts, and no corn syrup.

Yummy Yummy Snack from TED.

I really believe that this is worth twenty minutes of your time. It is my latest favorite Ted talk. Elizabeth Gilbert: A different way to think about creative genius:



Ole! (accent implied)

15 Albums That Made Me Who I Am. Formative.

Think of 15 albums that had such a profound effect on you they changed your life. Dug into your soul. Music that brought you to life when you heard it. Royally affected you, kicked you in the wazoo, literally socked you in the gut, is what I mean. Then when you finish, tag 15 others, including me. Make sure you copy and paste this part so they know the drill. Get the idea now? Good. Tag, you're it!

(Difficult to get it down to a bare essential 15. Many of these albums I don't even own anymore, but they are burned on my soul, baby. These are the formative ones....I think another list will have to take care of the true all time faves. In as close to order of discovery as I can manage....)

********

^1980 Autoamerican - Blondie
This was the first album I owned. It was a requested birthday present and it was mine all mine. I regaled my teammates in line for drills at soccer practice with my Deborah Harry imitation..I knew all the words to Rapture. But this whole albums kills, crossing all the genres and smelling like a rose in every one. Intro to disco, punk, new wave, reggae, rap, and torch, to name only a few, though I think it was all about rock. I saw her with some configuration of the old band a few months ago at the Xtra bar here in Zurich. I am a dork but I do believe we shared a moment.

^1983 Synchronicity - The Police
^1983 War - U2
^1984 Unforgettable Fire- U2
These albums are forever entwined in my memory as my very favorites of an endless stream of all the albums by both of these artists. Although they may have been a couple of years old when I first heard them, these were still what all the cool cute boys were listening to when I was first allowed to ride around with them in their cars in Lubbock, Texas. Later, Unforgettable Fire and Bad were all my longing and discovery when I moved from Lubbock to Del Rio.

^1985 The Head on The Door - The Cure
Thank you KTXT, college radio. Thank you God that my parent's room was on the other side of the house, though Head On The Door the single was so poppy and vague lyrically, who could have known we were heading into artsy darksy emo.

^1985 Big Lizard In My Backyard- The Dead Milkmen
Intro to Absurd. Hilarious, with no rules or reverence. From then on I thought all punk was meant to be funny.

^1985 Hounds of Love-Kate Bush
Again, bless KTXT for playing Running Up That Road. This album told really engaging stories. I was henceforth hooked and have loved everything she has ever done, with special mention to The Red Shoes and Aerial. I have played all three until Daniel my husband would .. er..like me to stop. :)

^1977 Love Songs - The Beatles
What? It is not an album? So what.

^1988 Life's Too Good- The Sugar Cubes
Bizarre and sublime. Lyrics so raw and funny and unselfconscious. Not like me at all but oh so admired.

^1995 Original Soundtracks 1-Passengers (who are actually U2)
When I heard Luciano Pavarotti's solo on Miss Sarajevo it went to a place inside my brain I didn't previously know existed and sparked an endorphin fire I would relentlessly bore my friends trying to describe. I sought and bought this album and excitedly played it for anyone new (my roommates rolling their eyes) to try to spark their brains too. Had I just been born? I love this whole diverse record. I can loan it to you. Can you give it back now please. :)

^1981 Discipline-King Crimson
^1986 Deep End Live! -Pete Townshend
These two were late discoveries, about 1997ish, and belong together for me. Discipline is surprisingly danceable. I love both Adrian Belew's vocals and guitar style. He is currently touring with Julie and Eric Slick and when I saw them a few months back he did some of this album and it was still amazing. As technically skilled as he is, you can nevertheless see and hear he is just having a blast when he plays. It comes through.
Pete Townshend is a poet and I love his voice and lyrics and everything about this album.

^1968 Astral Weeks- Van Morrison
^1975 Still Crazy After All These Years- Paul Simon
These two go together. I didn't really find them until about 1998? Played them over and over. These are morning-before-work-coffee-and-smokes-with-chats-with -friends-who-stopped-in. These are kitchen table counseling for the lovelorn. These are that hottest summer in Austin. These are the albums I stripped and refinished my wood floors to.

^1988 Sharpeville- The Reggae Philharmonic Orchestra
This album has touched me profoundly first, in that I loved it, and second, because it is mysteriously non-existent. I pulled it from the discount bin in at the mall music shop in Del Rio I think, and almost wore it out. The title song is a haunting bittersweet violin instrumental, it was my favorite. I didn't worry too much about leaving this worn out tape in a box in some closet or God forbid attic at my Mom's house because I knew I needed to replace it with a CD anyway. Well I am here to tell you it is un-findable. Google doesn't know it. Amazon and Wikipedia have never heard of it. My research in trying to find it has lead me to read about the Sharpeville massacre in 1960 in South Africa where a peaceful protest turned violent, which some shed light on the content of this beautiful, soulful album. But all record of its existence seems to have otherwise vanished. ?? anyone??



If you read it and you like it consider yourself tagged. Go forth and tag.

PS. My dear friend has located Sharpeville for me and I will soon be ordering it anew from here! :)

My Husband's First Love Was A Dog.

A boy dog called Moses. Now he is my love too. He is 18.

Today I need to write about my dog. I know that my emotions are close to the surface...last week I saw "..Benjamin Button" and though I think it is overlong and too slowly paced, an interesting movie that somewhat misses the mark, I admit, I cried. The movie raises issues to do with age, every age, but particularly old age. It also says something about souls recognizing each other for what they are within in spite of how they appear.

I have gone round and round about this. Right now I am at that place on the wheel where I am questioning that I(we) are doing the right thing. Moses is 18. He reluctantly takes three pills each day. One is a steroid, prednasolone, for severe arthritis in his spine and back leg joints. One is an antibiotic to prevent the urinary infections which seem to be a side effect of the steroid, and the other is pentoxi mepha, a pill which is meant to be for dogs prone to seizures, but is also said to possibly assist to treat other general nervous system maladies.

So he functions pretty well. The arthritis that we thought would take him down more than a year ago is managed so that it appears as though he is in no pain. Just very very slow, and still sometimes unsteady or falling. He is still interested in his food, which is beefed up with yummy biotin beef tasting B-complex vitamins, he still dives after whatever size Greenie you give him, even the ones larger than his mouth! He still teases our other dog a bit about her bone and they can make a little game of it, very very occasionally, and it is a very slow game, one where it is easy for him to be knocked down. (If he gets knocked down, he is usually stuck, unless I or my husband give him a hand back to his feet.) Our other dog, Girl, a small Chow Chow, still dotes on him and worries if he is out of her sight for long and gives him the once over inspection when he returns....all good.

But lately I am really noticing how very tired and disoriented he is. I question whether he is newly tired or whether I am getting tired and so finally really noticing. It has taken some time (a year) for my husband to grasp or at least admit out loud that the things we are doing for Moses, the meds, the tacky carpeting on every surface of the floor, the little adjustments are all not going to improve his health, but really only make him comfortable as he is not to ever go back to his young self again.

He has frequent accidents in the house. I have tried with all my heart to make a routine, any routine, so that I could have a schedule and some predictability and not feel like every time I leave the house it is a risk to return to stinking difficult-to-clean grossness on him and on the house. I think I may be a little depressed by this imprisoning, though also a bit guilty about my own resentments. This wouldn't be such a drastic change if both our dogs did not used to be able to hold it for 10 hours, and if there was an emergency, 11 or 12. I always tried to make it back to them within 9 hours, but knew I could rely on them both doing all they could to avoid going within our home. It freaks Girl out if Moses does it while we are gone, but Moses seems to have lost the concept. I have made it a point to yell at him every time it happens, and praise him when he goes outside, but again I am not certain that he understands or is concerned about the difference anymore.

Last night, when he was sort of pacing about in uncertain circles, I pulled him up onto the sofa with me and put a movie on to watch. I pulled his old bag of bones on top of me as I stretched out, and he rested his head on my chest so that his long nose was right under my chin. He looked into my eyes and his body relaxed and he began to breath as though sleeping, with a little purring snore. I stroked his soft soft soft head and ears and tried to fathom what life was for him, in this day, in that moment.

My husband is at work all day. I believe he has faced the truth of what may be coming very soon on a mental level, but I fear for him and pray about how it will effect his emotions, and me too. I think of the best outcome for both of us, that we will have our grief in the moment that Moses is gone, and then the joy for knowing he is just resting worry-free forevermore after that. I know I am clinging to him, to his body and cuteness. FOr those moments where holding him seems to be what makes him the happiest, the stillest, the most at peace. There is really nothing else I am able to make my life about at the moment. I pray every day for him to die softly in his sleep.

Promoting the Flow, Paying Attention and Playing Nice.

One thing that works well for collaborative efforts is something called version control. I understood this concept before but only recently learned it had a name and a fairly standard way of working. I think this practice is useful because it fosters trust and stimulates interest in a project.

It is a simple idea. There is an original which is available to all participants. Each time someone has their turn at adding to or editing the original it is "checked out" and cannot be altered by anyone else, although all participants continue to have access to view it as it exists so far.

Creativity does not necessarily follow a linear path, and this allows the creative thought for a project to percolate along for everyone simultaneously, while not holding up the movement of the whole piece when one person has it checked out for editing or additions. I believe this can create synergy which is not necessarily quantifiable, and without which a project can stagnate or otherwise be high-jacked.

In a blog circle situation the simplest way to achieve this is for each participant to publish the story so far once they have done their edit. This creates a record of progress, and if there is interest in the story, a need for readers to progress on to the next writer's blog to get the next bit of the story. Each time a part is published, the original could be considered to be "checked out" by the next writer until they publish their own edit.

Monkey Story

This is group story as it left my hands, having first been to Art Thief, on January 15.

********

"It was a dark and stormy night..."

Candi stared at the monitor for a few seconds and decided to try a different approach. She deleted most of the previous line.

"It was a dark time for the people of the village..."

It still felt wrong. She wanted a strong opening. Something declarative and definitive. Certainly she was no Dickens or Melville, but she still knew she had something more in her. Again, she deleted. This was the third day in a row that she'd attempted to start this story. She still hadn't really fleshed out the middle, and she certainly had no clue how it was going to end, but she felt that if she didn't at least start, the idea would just fester and die in her head. Sure, the fact that the beginning wasn't coming along so well gave her pause, but she was in no mood to quit yet. After all, if a thousand monkeys working on a thousand typewriters for a thousand days have just as much chance of creating a work of genius through sheer coincidence as one writer sitting at one keyboard, then this monkey would just keep pecking away until something clicked.

"The storms of a dark time had come to the village..."

Candi stood up from her chair. She looked for something to either inspire or distract her. Her eyes swept the room and she wandered over to the record player. She turned it on and put the needle down on the Nina Simone album that had already been sitting on the plate. As the lush strings swept out through her living room, she contemplated the smoking habit she had only recently and reluctantly agreed to stop. Pulling a beer from her refrigerator, she dragged a chair over to the front window took a spare pack of Camels from behind a bookend on the shelf nearest the front door. With the window now open, she could hear the drizzle like a steady hiss outside. It would probably come down harder as the night wore on, but right now it cooled the air blowing into her house. She took a drink from her beer and lit a cigarette. It would just be this one, then she would get back to the writing.

"A dark storm of smoke and fire engulfed the village of Simoen..."

She wondered what Jeff was doing tonight. He hadn't called all day and she was almost thinking of worrying about him, but she was still too angry at him. She would give him another day before she called out the FBI. For now, she just wanted to stew a little longer. She just wanted to know that whatever happened from this point out would be up to her. She tired easily of his moods and whims and had almost ended things with him twice before. Not that he knew that. It was just one of those things that floated formlessly in her thoughts, waiting for something to make it solid. but each time, he had taken his head out of the lion’s mouth without ever having realized it had ever been there in the first place. But now, she could feel the lion growing hungry. It would have to be placated one way or another, and a simple apology would probably not be enough this time. After all, she had even gone as far as to quit smoking so as to make him happy.

"As we drove our camels before us, the distant fires of the village of Simoen illuminated the cool, dark night..."

Candi lit another cigarette. This was getting futile. Recently, she'd begun to feel as if she had been getting nowhere with her writing and tonight just served to reinforce that. She regretted leaving school before she got her degree, but her logic was sound at the time and she also suspected that even if she had graduated, she would probably still be here in this very same spot, unable to even start, let alone finish a single thought. Jeff had tried to convince her to move in to his house. No rent meant that she could afford to go back to school, but the strings attached to his offer were too thick for her comfort. And, she was too attached to the house she was renting now. The wood floors and high ceiling reminded her of her grandmother's house in Shreveport.

"Nina thought back to her days in the village, before the storm, before the fires and she was filled with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia..."

Suddenly, Candi felt a bit more certain. This felt, well certainly not right, but at least more right than before. No longer caring about decorum, she lit another cigarette at her desk and opened another beer. The record had stopped playing a while back and all she could hear was the crackle of the needle as it hung on the last groove, endlessly looping around and around. The cool air that wafted in through the open window had turned colder as the rain started to come down in earnest.

There was a knock at the door.

With beer and cigarette in hand, she went towards the door, and paused to take a breath. If Jeff was going to just show up without calling now, especially now, that she felt she might actually be getting somewhere, he was just going to have to accept her and the situation as is.

Through the window on the way to the door, she could see he was folding up a black umbrella, and that it was really pouring now.

Facing Candi eye to eye when she finally opened the door was not Jeff. The individual standing there, strangely soaked in spite of the umbrella, was about her height. He had brown eyes and reddish brown hair, including a sort of wispy beard. He wore a long sleeved grey hooded sweatshirt, jeans, brown leather shoes.

“Yes?”

“Hi. Yes. I am looking for Candace?” His eyes looked at hers expectantly.

She searched her memory for where in the world she might know this slightly familiar seeming guy. “I’m Candace, what’s this in regards to?”

He smiled. “It’s about clearing up a small misunderstanding. By the way, your fag’s turned to ash. God, this rain! May I come in?”

Her cigarette had indeed burned down to the filter. She tossed it out on to the porch floor and stepped out a bit to stamp it with her shoe. She said, “Do I know you?”

He pushed his hair back from his face. “You should really stop smoking. No, Not exactly. We are sort of connected to the same group....My name is Simeon Skyes. Do you have another of those?”

Pushy. But there was definitely something cute about this guy too. “Another cigarette!? Didn’t you just tell me to quit?”

“No thanks,” he smiled. “I mean another beer. I think a brief conversation will clear everything up. I just want to give you some information and then if you like I am off on my way again in this.. hideous weather.”

She sized him up. She liked surprises, and he seemed like he could be one. But she felt cautious too. “What group are you talking about? I am sort of in the middle of something, and anyway.” She paused. It was dark with the storm but it was still pretty early. Her neighbor should be home in a short while. “Look, if you want to have a chat, that’s fine. Have a seat here on the porch couch, and I will in fact go check to see if I can spare a beer. Why not.”

He smiled and turned around to look at the ancient rattan and green sofa that was up against the long wall of her porch. He gingerly sat down, and looked up at her, eyebrows raised, saying nothing.

“Right. Be right back.” She stepped back and shut the door behind her, and locked it. Inside the room her monitor glowed. Sort of in the middle of something. That was a slight exaggeration. Nevertheless, her imagination felt awake. She took the needle off the Nina and flipped through some discs, finally settling on the Mingus. She grabbed two more beers and headed to the front porch. She would find out what this Simeon thing was all about, and then get right back to it.

“Nothing exciting had ever happened in the sleepy village of Jefferson, until that fateful night, when a stranger blew in with the storm.”

He was waiting, shaking rain out of his hair when she opened the door.

********

Art Thief's last sentence in this part of the story is "There was a knock at the door."

The Long Long Lost Story.

I once was helped out by a white haired wild eyed Vietnam vet I met at the Exxon station. My car had exploded on the highway in a town far from home where I knew no one. After knowing him for about twenty minutes, I got into his windowless custom van and we drove away. This is not an action I would recommend to anyone---I was without a doubt, desperate.

It was 2001 I think, and I was having difficulty getting a job. But I had begun to volunteer at the milk bank again. The Mother's Milk Bank of Austin is a beautiful organization that does just what you'd think they'd do by the way their name sounds. They accept donations of breast milk for pasteurization, processing and distribution in the Texas area. I had worked for them in the past, and when I left I stayed on as a volunteer, mainly for pouring milk for pasteurization, which is a lovely process and a story for another day. Anyway...

They had another volunteer position which involved driving to certain large cities in Texas, visiting hospitals and picking up donations of milk from special freezers, then driving back to Austin and putting the milk in the Mothers' Milk Bank of Austin's (MMBA) freezers.

This volunteer position involved a mileage reimbursement, which I was sadly desperate for at the time. A round trip to Dallas or Houston would yield a nice chunk of change. I had a great car, my parents' eight year old silver Chrystler LHS, with grey leather interior, which they had recently sold to me. I actually could fit 3 or 4 large igloo coolers in the trunk, and 3 or 4 more in the back. These plus the fact that I love to drive made the volunteer driver position perfect for me. After a year of volunteering, I would be employed by MMBA to do this job, but this story takes place on one of my early drives.

Now, my mother swears that when they agreed to sell that car to me, they told me that it had overheating issues that they had attempted to repair to no avail. She swears she told me not to run the air conditioner. But in reality she was still riding some of the crazy manic highs and lows of the steroid treatment for a certain blood disorder she'd been diagnosed with, and I believe she intended to tell me, but unfortunately, did not.

Well I had been driving it around town, sweet A/C full blast, for more than a month, and may have even had it on a milk drive before. But now it was the heat of the Texas summer. I had started off about 10 in the morning. About a mile inside Temple city limits, the car virtually exploded. There was smoke and steam pouring from the radiator, which of course had a hole in it, and it would not start and not even the electricity would come on.

So I was stranded on the side of the highway. I had on faded jeans and Birkenstocks and my boyfriend's long sleeve t-shirt. I think my hair was quite red at the time. I locked the car, and started walking through the weeds on the road side toward a gas station I saw in the distance. I think I had about seven bucks on me, probably less, no credit cards. No clue of a plan. When I got to the gas station I bought a cup of coffee and got the change mostly in quarters.

While I was doctoring my coffee and trying to stay composed, this older guy came over with his coffee and sort of smiled at me, sort of gave me a look over. He asked, "Where are you headed?"

Now you know how certain white haired gentlemen you can instantly recognize as the sweet and harmless grandfatherly type? And some others you just do not. With him I did not. But I needed help.

"Well," I said, "Right now I am going to sit right down on that curb outside and drink this coffee."

He paused and looked around us without moving his head. "How about I join you?"

Now I almost always prefer to be alone in times of sheer panic, and given time to get a grip, but I told him, "Sure."

He had trouble sitting down, and told me that actually one of his legs was prosthetic. "But if you think it is okay," he said, "I have a van just over there that we could go sit in an drink our coffees, and you could tell me what the problem is. I was just driving down the highway a while ago, I like to drive, and I saw you walking, and I said to myself, that girl needs help. Maybe I can help her. So I drove over here."

I know he could probably feel me judging him as I examined his face hard for a few seconds. "Okay."

Essentially I told him about my milk drive, and about the car and the coolers. The car was a bust. This trip was a bust. I needed to get myself and those coolers back to Austin. I had no money and no one there could come and get me. I could have called my boyfriend. But he was working and more broke than me anyway, and we did not need him to ask to leave his job to come and get me.

He told me that he could not take me to Austin or give me any money but that he hoped he could help me. He said he knew of a gas station where a bus sometimes went through, and if we were lucky maybe it would go through today. He called it the Indian store. He was friends with the Indian brothers who ran it, and he could drive me there now.

Before we left I tried to call my boyfriend at work but couldn't get through. I called and left a message on our answering machine, including the license plate number of the van. I got in the van again with him and we drove off. While we were on the road I notice there were some modifications to the steering column and pedals of his van. I also noticed there were no seats except the front ones, and there was a mattress in the back. He noticed me notice the mattress and said, "Sometimes I like to drive in the country and pull over and take a nap. Or sometimes me and the missus will sleep back there when we travel." Made perfect sense.

The "Indian store" was one of those super divey non-chain gas stations. There was a booth seat in one section of the store. He gestured for me to have a seat and I did. We sat there for a minute looking out of the glass wall store front, expectantly, for what? He got up and had a chat with the store keeper, to let them know what we were up to: hoping for a bus. (While they were talking I noticed the fully accessible magazine rack to my back was filled with cheesy skin magazines, in a catagory way beyond Playboy, ya'll. This was not the kiddie section.) The bus in question did not have any actual scheduled stop at the Indian store, ever. The driver just had a habit of stopping for gasoline there.

After about twenty minutes of waiting, I was nevertheless sort of amazed when a small commercial silver and blue bus turned up. I saw my white haired friend get a vigilant scout look in his eyes and demeanor. It was uncanny. He had icy blue eyes and was quite tan. We watched some kids file out of the bus and into the store. He pointed at the uniformed guy pumping gas. "That's the driver. When he comes in here, after he pays, I'll see if I can't talk to him."

It turned out that he was headed with this group, a church group, into Dallas, and would be returning with an empty bus on the way back to San Antonio around eight pm. He agreed to take me and all my coolers back to Austin if I was there when he passed through. For nothing. Amazing.

So there was a long time to wait and I still needed to do something about my car. My friend "knew a guy." He talked to the guy and the guy agreed to tow it off the highway to a nearby parking lot and look at it. We all met there. It was obvious the car was not going anywhere with any quick fix. Now, if I had been clever or rich I would have called a dealership and asked them to tow it to their shop. But I was not. This "friend" had his own "shade tree garage" at his house out in the country, and he agreed to take it there and to work with me if I paid him over time for parts to get it fixed. What could I do? I agreed. (In the end, four months later, this arrangement did not work out, and my father had to go out to his place and retrieve the vehicle, which is a whole other story. I refer to this time as my public transportation initiation period.)

So I put the coolers in his van, and we drove around. I told him I wanted to try again to call someone from home and let them know what was going on, that I could call collect, maybe from his house? He explained that his lady was still working her shift at a nursing home, and that I was "so pretty" he'd better wait until she was home to let me use their phone.

We drove around. He said he knew this great Mexican food place, and asked if I would eat lunch with him. Of course I said sure. We ate and talked about not too much. It was quiet but relaxed, and the food was great. At some point he used the phone and called his wife and let her know we would be coming by.

We had some time before his wife would be home from work. He drove us to the hospital. He wove through the sprawling parking lot to one edge overlooking a hill. There was a view of the whole city, and the sky was changing from blue to pink and orange. He talked to me about his wife, who was dealing with an ongoing medical condition. He said he came out here sometimes while he waited for her to have exams a t the hospital. He removed his prosthesis and rubbed his leg. We talked but not too much. I thanked him. I told him I felt so much more hopeful than I had in the morning before I met him, and that under the circumstances things were turning out much better than my worst fears.

We drove to his house. It was small and tidy. His wife was petite and nice. I used the phone and called home, collect. My boyfriend answered. Explaining everything to him was hell. If nothing had gone wrong I would be coming home about then. But the situation as it was was frustrating for him to try to grasp. I think he felt helpless, but he acted angry. He said, "What guy?! You are at some guy's house?! Who is he!!!?" He was off the wall. I said, "For crying out loud, he's your dad!" I meant this metaphorically, and after that he calmed down. After I talked to him, I called my parents and told them what was going on. I felt so contrite when I spoke to them. I had somehow destroyed the car. Only later would I find out that this was a recurring theme, the radiator issue.

He took me and my coolers to the Indian store. He waited inside at the table surrounded by the magazines. We had gotten the coolers out of his van, and they were outside on the curb, so I felt I needed to stay with them. We watched out, with the glass wall between us, for the bus to return. And it did.

The journey home was unremarkable except for a fuel stop on the edge of Austin. The bus driver dropped me off at my door, and said, "Hey no problem," when I thanked him. I still had a ton to deal with: crazed boyfriend, broken car, job not done. But at least I was home. It felt a bit miraculous.

What DO Women Want?

This New York Times article written by Daniel Bergner is how I spent my spare time yesterday. It was interesting to me especially because I participated in one of those University of Texas studies, what, 7 or so years ago. Obviously, as stated in the article, this research is detailed and time intensive. I really appreciate that the differences between men and women are being investigated with such passion and respect.

The Good News: I'm A Heartless Bastard.

First the Bad News: We were not able to see Emir Kusturica and the No Smoking Orchestra on Sunday night. Last year we were able to just walk up and get tickets, and they were fantastic, but this year, even on a Sunday, even though we showed up (uncharacteristically) early, the show was already sold out. Part of me was disappointed, but noticing the blend of Zurich straights and hippy kids in line in front of us, another part was sort of glad that this gypsy Balkan music was so well received. I wonder if this supportive turn-out is related to the February 8 vote about whether to extend EU states' citizens of Bulgaria and Romania their EU status priveliges in Switzerland. Maybe, maybe not. Could just be great live music.



Never mind though...live music plan B was pretty smokin', and had been a tossup for plan A all along, Lo and behold, James McMurtry (and his band, the Heartless Bastards) was in town, along with Jon Dee Graham! Yeah, in Zurich! So we headed over to El Lokal and caught them. El Lokal, the bar itself, is more than a little bit Austin weird and wonderful. It had been years since I had seen James McMurtry in the flesh, and I have to say a decade's worth of miles and years and facial hair really does him justice....the baby face is gone. These guys are so familiar to me from going out and listening to the radio in Austin. I felt like I was touching home, and theirs was a serious Continental Club vibe, except for slightly less tattoos and tank tops, and way less dancing given the caliber of the show. Most Swiss enjoy almost all genres of live music as though they are watching a classical orchestra in theater seating, greatly internalizing their emotion and enjoyment. They did give it up more than normally though. I feel a little self conscious myself in a crowd like that, but there was no way to stop myself from shakin' it. Who hoo. :)

By the way..the song Choctaw Bingo is seriously genius dark poetry truth and so wrong all at the same time. Love it.

Forget Poe: Catching up, Muddling Through the Suggestions, Introducing Characters, Style Experiment.

(Postmodern, bossa nova, middle eastern cuisine, laissez-faire, nubilous. Fighting or conflict.)

Sitting here sweating in robes, drinking mint tea and trying to discuss the nubilous issues surrounding the most recent movie I have seen....I find my self at odds with Cheryl. She is a little Dutch mod girl, with Chinese friends. I am American, child of the seventies, a free-Tibet fair trade fan, a post modern chica.

"How can you say their ways are outdated? Where does your certainty that industrialism is the superior way to live come from anyway?" Did I say this out loud?

I am responding to her statement that the way village people live in Nepal and Tibet, with their dirt floors and religious beliefs, is simply an outdated way of life, and that Tibet is China, absolutely, and that they will simply have to conform to "modern life" in the present day.

Before meeting her here I was in a cinema seeing "10 Questions For the Dali Lama" and was virtually looking into the man's face for almost two hours. I went into it with a Lama-positive outlook, and all those beliefs were confirmed for me in watching the movie. Who am I, who is anyone to say this man is not a god on Earth? I suppress my redneck outrage and remember that this is my friend and that I am civilized. Also that I am far too enlightened to resort to anger, and should instead persuade. I try to contemplate her point of view.....

But let's be honest. Cheryl is a very young, multi-degreed, about-to-be married woman. Her hair is blond and her skin is freckleless and perfect. Her tall, slim frame has never worn the hunched shoulders of a conflicted conscience. Her job is to learn, on behalf of the government, how to overcome the negative stigma associated with something like, say, nuclear power plants, how to make such a thing more appealing to the public.

Where do I start?

Ten years ago I would probably never have a friend like Cheryl. She is dear to me. She asked me to meet her here, I have discovered, so that she can relate to me the almost affair she could have had when a colleague confessed his feelings to her over a very platonic dinner on a business trip in a very exotic city (with her approaching wedding but a month away!), and also to confess that it made her ego feel good. I feel pretty charmed by her in this. So I tread lightly and mentally map out a plan to change her mind over time about what she probably considers a very small thing. No need to throw things. Yet.

Another friend, Tara, a very smart friend, told me she believes there is no reason to make a bed. That it is a waste of time since you are just going to get right back in it. My husband has the very same opinion. I smile at this and wonder how she must regard me, and my ever increasing domesticity, how much of my world revolves around such rituals, and why I do it. I find value in the ritual of it. I do it because it means I have a bed, and time and energy. Why do the dishes? Why make house at all? Why pray? Why wear clothes? Why do anything?

In his fantasy-bachelor-life my husband would find a way to end up working at his company's branch in Brazil. I will see every samba show that comes to town with him, and wiggle my ass off with him, and mean it, but when it comes right down to it, so far, I say no to the idea of anything more involved than a vacation in Brazil. And I know that it will never happen unless I change my mind. He will have to make do with the same old bossa he knows and loves..this may be the reason I make the bed.

My cousin Jenna chats with me long distance about trying to find a gift for her friend's wedding. "I've got the registry list, but tell me, does anyone ever use the crap they are given? And really, for a couple getting married at thirty-five, do they really need a crystal flower vase? Or candy dish? Or any other thing more to dust?!"

I understand what she is saying. But I also recall a different world, a different life, a million years ago, another me. I recall the daily morning sweeping of the previous night's broken glass. I explain to her, "A glass whatever on a shelf in a home tells everyone that fragile things can survive there."

Listen to the Moth.

It is here.

Carol of the Thirty Days.

Carol is not her work. Unfortunately, she spends quite a lot of time and energy in that direction anyway, utilizing her ever present and beloved telephone, networking and communicating and generally running her corner of "the show" (and some other people's corners as well) no doubt for great benefit of her organization. By beloved I mean that the telephone loves her, not necessarily the other way around. When not working, Carol enjoys indulging in her many hobbies, including caffeinated beverages, miniature football, the decorative impaling of radioactive gummi bears, and not to mention, writing. She occasionally brings her "hobbies" to work, to the wonder and enjoyment of her office mates. An excellent gift for Carol might be some state of the art headphones.

In Case of Zombies or Whathaveyou, the Basement.

As long as the emergency horns give us enough lead time to make it down to the basement, I realize we should be fine! The basement is actually a functional nuclear fallout shelter as well, with thick steel doors and industrial bolts and electricity and no windows. Then we just let the Swiss militia get down to business, and wait it out. The zombies have no chance against the soldiers.

Swiss citizens are asked to keep provisions in their shelters in the case of nuclear disaster, and I have seen that my neighbors do. It seems paranoid, and yet somehow, wise. I intend to do it too, but momentarily all I have is a six pack of liter water bottles. Our section is full of luggage and dog carriers, and about 40 boxes of my husband's research life on paper, waiting for the genius organization and tabulation system I have devised to be applied to it. I have not put any noodles down there yet.

As I see it, as soon as we hear sirens, we grab the dogs, and if there is time, cel phones and chargers, and a laptop and charger too, and go down. I think I could out run one zombie, but I worry about being cornered. Also, Moses the dog cannot run and Girl the dog would try to attack, and the last thing I need would be to get all sentimental over some zombie Chow Chow. No. We stay.

I do need to communicate this plan to all my neighbors ahead of time, and it would be a good idea to get a telephone-tree in place so we can know when we have everyone that is coming down there, before we lock up. We probably need a password or a secret knock.

Maybe if I have a chance to grab some groceries or liquor on the way down I should. And the coffee, kettle and french press. And dogfood. We will be pretty much at the mercy of my neighbors otherwise, and it's always better if you have something to share too, other than dog poo. Poo bags. I should grab those too.

Eh. Zombies. What a hassle.

Flying Fecking Team Colors.

I have read several of the groups' posts about the teams and they are truly awesome. I froze up on this subject. I started pondering all those little connections involved in really being a full on team fan, watching team sports on TV at home, especially at the holidays, team colors and paraphernalia, etc.

I kind of sank into my pondering, and was unable to find the funny or the quirk. It was a relief to read the posts of those who did.

I played team sports for a while, and right up until I stopped, I was pretty good at it and enjoyed it a lot. I have though, never fully gotten into talking about or watching team sports, professional or otherwise. Maybe I dug it a bit, when I was young and it was always football, and always the Dallas cowboys, with my dad and maybe some friends around. But later, as I got older, I found that though I enjoyed watching a game enough, my tendency to root for and pay attention to individual players based upon the number on their jerseys, regardless of which team they played on, this tendency could make real die hard fans on either side who may be watching with me ...pretty pissed off, for some reason. I tended to prefer eights or threes, alone or in whatever combination, and sometimes sevens or fives, and also some other patterns which seemed important but are now hard to either remember or explain.....the point is I have been accused of killing the buzz with my, er, banter, and was perhaps not invited again next time. I don't get why.

Maybe it's that neither side could be sure I was on their "team" even if I might like one or more of their players, and clearly (or clear to most) THAT is NO FUN. Clearly defined boundaries and identity are very important in team sports. The very thing with teams and hardcore fans is all that us-versus-them and mob rule stuff that it taps into in all of us. I know I have that primal thing within me just as much as the next, but I also say it sort freaks me out, and I shy away from it.

Along the lines of us-versus-them, I thought I would share with you all a (hopefully) small part of Zurich and Swiss culture, that we seem to be bombarded with during voting times here:

Hate Mongering Political Billboards from the "Swiss People's Party", the SVP.

Whoo-hoo! It is immigration debate time! Apparently one team wears red and white and has pink skin and probably fair hair, and the other team is pretty much everybody else.

IN the fall of 2007, it was this one:



Notice the evicted sheep. Nice. "Sicherheit Schaffen" translates to "create security".

There was another at the time which showed a red Swiss passport in the center and about seven hands reaching into the frame to clutch at the passport. Most of the hands (except one, so not all) were brown or black.

And now, since one week ago, the latest:



To me, this looks like the kind of thing that should be in some museum somewhere in the Southern United States. Or possibly some sort of WWII relic. I cannot believe that this is a current acceptable political campaign in Switzerland.

So...just in case you thought Zurich was all chocolate and cheese and cows, and precision watches and excellent public transport and generally Brilliant Design, and the "temperance" and "tolerance" of the Swiss temperament...well, no, I am here to tell you, they have some shit slingers here too.

The SVP is not a tiny political party in Switzerland. Also, by sheer numbers of these billboards hitting the streets, the SVP has quite some cash to spend. In the minds these types, I believe, after 911 certainly, and further after 7/7/7 (July 7, 2005) in London, especially in Europe, it became within realm of the acceptable to hate Muslims. This is not news to anyone reading this. I have had discussions, probably you have too, with people who had previously been reasonable, peace-loving, Christian- seeming people who became zealous across-the-board haters in the face of these circumstances. In this political climate, the debate here now is about accepting immigrants seeking asylum, and which countries' citizens qualify. It seems anyone dark skinned and maybe not Christian is targeted here. SVP is using this provocative image to spark the fears which are typical in a debate of this kind, the fears which say, "they are taking our jobs, our resources, diluting our culture, and teaching our children to paint graffiti." Har har. Blah blah. Their rhetoric is to do with "not harboring criminals", etc...but in cases where the foreign governments claiming said asylum-seekers are criminal are themselves criminal, nothing is so black and white.

Well tonight one of these posters just turned up at my home tram stop. There may be a little graffiti in my future as well. Sharpie ready. Arggh.

Subject confounds. Need more time or to write about something else. edit later. JPM

Bananan Nana Fo Fana...

Just keep using a

Pen or a computer to

Make words into sentences.



*****************

AS AN ASIDE, I would like to mention that I am addicted to listening to This American Life online. I especially want to draw attention to last week's episode for the last entry in the hour long show, "A man tries to calculate what love costs. From Lydia Davis's book Break It Down, read by actor Matt Malloy" If you use the link, you can click "full episode" and stream it for free, or otherwise download the mp3 of it, and if you make it through the rest of the episode, the Lydia Davis piece, or possibly the actor's stylistic interpretation, makes a distinctive impression.

Writing Horoscopes From the Hip.

Taurus. In the latter part of last week you have been coming out from under your "brain cloud" Use the weekend for clearing out your closets and giving unused items away. This will make space in your life for better flow of energy and ideas. Though you have some anxiety that a major relationship is changing, you will find clues that assure you that your are loved.

Gemini. You are burning up the pavement, socially speaking. Your world is swirling with new voices and faces, and somewhere in there may be a connection that advances your career prospects. As you are reaching out to your group, relax and be yourself, and remember to listen as much as you speak. Get chores done early so you can go out guilt-free, and sleep in the next day.

Aquarius. Not everyone understands the unconventional way you express your love. But the one that counts will. If you are attached you can trust that your significant other gets you. If you are single, pay attention to the one who can finish your sentences...there may be more there than you realize. Now is a good time to kick a bad habit.

One October, By Moonlight.

A brown bear and a resplendent bird walk into a nightclub. Many of their friends are there too. The drink flows. They dance. He is amazing...finding beats easily in tunes from every era, even the cheesy ones, as he raises his elbowed wings occasionally in exuberance, and to claim space around the two of them as the crowd grows larger. She dances, and heads turn, for you know, it isn't so much how well a bear dances, but rather amazing that it is dancing at all.....

They overhear someone say, "See, I told you we should have worn costumes."