noise and signal

Babies and Kittens Venn Diagram

2012-02-10T16:31:00.000-08:00

I was at brunch the other day with some friends and their cute little baby. We're all cat lovers so the subject of kittens naturally arose and a discussion of similarities and differences. There's a lot to say about this--some of it unpleasant and sticky-- but here's the gist of the conversation.

Babies and Kittens: Differences and Commonalities

Babies & Kittens Venn Diagram

A Fine Time

2012-01-20T18:43:00.000-08:00

Where have I been? What have I been doing? Yes, it has to do with chocolate. You guessed correctly.

I went to SF for the Fine Chocolate Industry Association's semi-annual meeting. I'm going to say more about the content of the event, especially what really got my attention, in the near future, for some magazines and newsletters that have asked me to report. (Notice how important I make myself sound there? It's a knack.) In the meantime, a few impressions about going to an industry-oriented rather than consumer-oriented chocolate show.

I'm learning terms-of-art fast. "Fine chocolate" is not when you say "oh, wow -- this chocolate is fine, man!" Not quite. The FCIA defines fine chocolate as having certain elements including origin, production practices, ingredient quality, and final presentation. In some ways, the only way to be sure what fine chocolate is is to taste it and decide for yourself.

Oh, drat.

You can tell you're on the road to nerd-dom on a subject when you not only realize that there are people who know far more than you do but you can name them. Want to dive into a passionate and convention-challenging view of chocolate? Visit c-spot.com and take a look around. I learned a lot there.

FCIA was held in a downtown San Francisco hotel with big blue windows and no free wifi. (I notice these things). There were at least a dozen tables of chocolate-related displays including equipment, molds and of course chocolate, made by both big suppliers and artisans. I did my best not to get sick from too much of a fine thing, mostly succeeding, but in large part by squirreling samples away for later, which turned out to be a really good idea.

If I've had 10 samples, I'm unlikely to be able to distinguish the same details with the 11th. But if I taste it later, after I've had a chance to recover, I might well detect nuances that I missed before. Takeaway? If you do chocolate tasting, do it again and again (oh, drat) to see if you have the same impressions of those bars later.

I was surprised that only water was offered to cleanse palates between tastings. Chocolate melts at body temperature due to the wonderful properties of cocoa butter, chocolate's fat content. When I'm tasting at home I drink weak green tea because warmth helps clear things up and the tea flavor doesn't seem to me to interfere. Cold water doesn't work for me. Maybe I just need more sophistication.

Speaking of which, I felt very sophisticated when I sampled nibs and the chocolate made from them to see how the tastes connected. I wasn't sure, so I had some more -- a habit I am trying hard to break. Taste, not gobble. Because you can have too much fine chocolate. Yes, you can. Chocolate contains theobromine, phenylethylamine, seritonin and lots of other compounds that interact with the body in ways we don't quite understand. I like my theobromine high as much as the next chocolate-gal but but too much gives me a buzzing feeling that is not exactly pleasant. It's not caffeine, but it's a stimulant, and too much is -- too much.

But I found it delightful to be surrounded by people who know too much about chocolate. I got to ask all the questions I've wanted to ask about genetics and processing and the industry, all while tasting some of the best chocolate around.

It was a fine time.

An Adult Adventure

2012-01-06T17:20:00.000-08:00

Don't look up.

This week I did an unusual thing: I went to a shopping mall.

I had decided that now that I was (okay, arguably) an adult, there were certain garments that I needed to have to seem more like one. The specifics aren't necessary, and you won't be getting them; you just need to know that I don't like shopping and I don't like malls. I had to talk myself into this trip.

Actually, I had to bribe myself. "Come on," I said. "It won't be so bad. Look, get the stuff and I'll buy you a coffee."

Ooooo, coffee. Well, okay.

When dealing with Self, I've discovered, It's important to know what bribes to use.

A cacophony of color hit me. A veritable riot of sounds. Exciting words jiggled everywhere. "Sale!" "Sale!" "Sale!" I found myself pulled to things I didn't realize I needed, fingering items I didn't want, nodding at how good the deals were.

As if I had a clue. It's easy to cut something by 50% if it's already twice what it should be, right? Are these prices good? How much does this cost to make? What's the store's overhead?

Do I even need it?

All these sensible questions fled my mind as the mall's indigenous spell infused my brain. I flitted from storefront to storefront. Look at this! What a deal! I could take these home! We'd be so happy together, my things and me!

Oh. My. God.

I shook my head like a large, wet dog and almost bumped into someone. Navigating in a mall is, I realized, not like walking a sidewalk. You're not going somewhere, you're -- browsing. Consuming. Like a goat. A bit of this, a bit of that. Dreams of satisfaction and delight sparkled everywhere, like neon flowers calling me to feast.

But now I'd seen the game for what it was. The spell was -- mostly -- broken. I kept my gaze resolutely on my destination. Or on the floor, when things got bad.

Ooh, pretty!

Focus! Ignore those things! Deny them!

When I was done at last, I dashed out the nearest mall door and was free! Lost, but free.

Then I went to find (very good) coffee to pay off my bribe. We had a lovely cup of dark brew, myself and me, to celebrate our daring escape. So brave, so free. So adult.

These Things Happen

2011-12-28T18:39:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, I took a cantaloupe-sized green egg away from a father whose kind has been unchanged for some 80 million years. I was nervous, because he weighted nearly as much as I did, and had claws far longer and sharper than mine. And besides which, he was a parent and I was only hoping to be one with his stolen child, which I imagined gave him an advantage.

But he was confused, new to the game, not really that concerned, and I stepped past him easily enough and took the small pipping green egg, this hatchling critter who, when she was finally free of the hard shell, fit easily into the palm of my one hand.

I raised her inside for months until she was big enough, then outside in a greenhouse. She was beautiful, of course, and smelled fabulous to me, with my mother's eyes and nose.

When I left that far-off land, I left her in the care of both new human parents and the parents of her own kind. Knowing she was well was enough.

She died today, at five and a half years old. It happened suddenly, mysteriously, in her sleep. These things happen.

Having recently been through the death of a beloved fur-child that was not sudden, not mysterious, and not fast, I do see the advantages in this quick transition.

And yet, and yet. It is not all that much easier.

But these things happen.

Snot Funny

2011-12-27T18:07:00.000-08:00

I'd like to be able to say that aside from this particular habit, Kitty is a loving, generous and intelligent creature.

Not quite. Kitty is demanding, touchy, and temperamental.

Like most cats, Kitty naps. Unlike most cats, when she wakes she shakes her head vigorously, sliming everything in the surrounding area. We're not talking a little spray here, friends, but amounts of wetness that lead one to first wonder where she keeps it all inside that tiny head, and second where a towel might be. I usually say something loud as well.

So I decide I've had enough. It's time for the vet. As I reach for the phone, I imagine the exam in my mind. I have a very good imagination.

The vet says, "Well, she seems healthy enough. I wonder if it's allergies."

Uh oh. I know more than a little about allergies. I know what comes next.

"Does she do this after anything in particular?" the vet asks. "What do you feed her? You might want to consider trying a new food, see if that helps. Give it a month or so and check back."

"Okay," I say. "We'll give that a try."

And there it is: the vet visit has taken place in my mind. No need to schedule or stuff Kitty in a box for transit. Quite convenient.

So I switch Kitty to some new and expensive cat food. (Not in my head, no, but thanks for checking.) High protein, low carbs, and no grains. As the (yes, imaginary) vet suggests, I give it a few weeks.

A few weeks go by and by golly Kitty is no longer a snot machine. She still shakes her head but nothing goes flying. Now she's merely demanding, touchy, and temperamental.

I'm impressed. Points to my imagination. Well done. Have a kitty treat.

The Main Stream at Last

2011-12-09T18:50:00.000-08:00

I was raised on science fiction and fantasy and when you're raised in a fiction genre you often aspire to stay there. It's what you know, after all. Across the years, my stories have been published only in SF&F--books, anthologies and magazines. Until now.

Yes, friends, I have just sold a story to a mainstream publication, one I have been familiar with for decades, that I would never in my wildest dreams have imagined would one day contain my fiction within its colorful covers.

I've just had a story accepted for Uncle John's Bathroom Reader "Flush Fiction" anthology. (Do note the small pun in the title of this post; I'd be so disappointed if you missed it.)

Uncle John has bought my 1k story "Biggest Fan! Ever!" for this upcoming anthology. I am particularly amused because this is satire taken from my experience with SF&F fans. Which would all be a lot funnier if I could share the story with you, which of course I can't because it's not yet published.

But when it is I will announce it on my publications announcement mailing list. Do join if you'd like to be informed.

Thinking about the SF Ghetto that I have (momentarily) escaped (I know my place) brought me to this intriguing article, which starts with two very nice quotes, one of which has long been a favorite of mine. From Bruce Sterling's preface to Gibson's Burning Chrome:

If poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world, science-fiction writers are its court jesters. We are Wise Fools who can leap, caper, utter prophecies, and scratch ourselves in public. We can play with Big Ideas because the garish motley of our pulp origins makes us seem harmless.

This quote always makes me feel warm and fuzzy about my little ghetto. And a little proud. Big Ideas! Harmless! Hah!

The Prince of Cats

2011-11-10T00:04:00.000-08:00

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

--Kahlil Gibran

Splendid journey, my Beloved. Dance and sing in grace.

Am I famous yet?

2011-10-31T18:51:00.000-07:00

Context is everything. Check out the implications of this quote from the bbc's tech news:

"Intel's Tomorrow Project draws on the work of writers such as Corey Doctorow, Sonia Orin Lyris and Charles Walbridge to create visions for the future that can inspire the public, and act as goals for engineers."

Feelin' smug over here. Just a tad. Yeah.

(Okay, for those of you who have replied to me with "huh?" about this, I'll explain. Doctorow is a big name in SF&F and future tech and the co-editor of Boing Boing. He's famous, he's a fine writer, and to be listed after him in this BBC article says a lot about my name recognition value and makes me feel all yummy. Now, it might be a mistake -- maybe they just like my name (I do) -- but let's assume the best.)

As for the anthology itself, the pdf is still available here, and still free.

The Educated Tongue

2011-10-26T18:23:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I went to the Northwest Chocolate Festival. I figured I'd have some chocolate and maybe even get some entertainment. Instead I was stunned. In a good way.

With table after table of high quality ("fine") dark chocolate, it's hard -- nay, for some of us, impossible -- to pass up the opportunity to educate our tongues. Educate I did. Until I was nearly sick.

Education

Yes, it is possible to consume too much superb chocolate. You just have to work hard at it.

I also learned a tremendous amount about chocolate. I had no idea it was so complicated to make or that the difference between the wealth of the cacao farmers and us consumers was so great that most farmers never even taste the chocolate that results from their work because they can't afford it.

I also understand that making us consumers feel bad for eating chocolate does the farmers no good at all. The key is to gently educate us about what it takes to make really good chocolate, get our tongues involved, and then -- as happened with coffee -- we will gladly pay for the quality we will come to demand. Everyone benefits. Even the farmers.

A little simplistic? Sure. But Big Chocolate (Hershey, Nestle, etc.) are not interested in creating educated consumers. They know how to fill out their few percentages of actual chocolate with sugar and emulsifiers and artificial ingredients to make it taste sort of like chocolate to the uneducated. It's cheaper that way. Never mind the farmers. It's business.

Cacao fruit

And that's pretty simple. Unpleasant, but simple. That's the corporate entity for you.

While I'm at it, don't bother to choose your chocolate based on the "fair trade" certifications. Farmers get maybe a percent at best for your buck-fifty extra. It's the certification company that's raking in the bucks. I know: I wanted it to be that simple, too. It will get simpler, but for now it's just messy.

I predict chocolate will change in the upcoming years and for the better. Remember when you used to drink instant coffee every morning and now you drink fresh-brewed lattes? Keep watching chocolate. Keep educating your tongue.

And if you didn't go to the festival this year, don't miss next year's. It was seriously fun and decadently wonderful. And oh-so educational.

"How are you?"

2011-10-21T14:57:00.000-07:00

"gumballs!" is how I am.

How to answer? It depends. Who is asking? What is the context of that particular relationship? Did we just meet or have we been friends for years? Do we have an audience? It depends on what aspects of my life -- the "you" in the question -- this person is actually asking about.

Aside from the part to do with me, I am faced with the need to quickly build a complex mental model of the asker, who I may have only just met. There's rarely time to do the person or the question justice before they follow up with the inevitable: "something wrong?"

Uhm.

It's hard to explain all this on the fly. I do try sometimes, especially with the cashiers at Trader Joe's, who seem very nice but I don't think quite follow my reasoning.

XKCD to the rescue! Now all I have to do is whip out my phone and point to this page, which explains everything. Surely with this tool at my disposal there will be ~~no more~~ less confusion.

Flow Chart Much?

2011-10-16T09:30:00.001-07:00

Need a laugh? I do. XKCD delivers with this guide to understanding flow charts. So is it just geeky me, or did you laugh, too?

Days Like Years

2011-10-02T16:22:00.000-07:00

Each day, minute and minute, sipping slow to make it last. Days like years, minutes like hours; we sit outside together in bits of sun and breeze, sipping. His eyes close just a bit, soaking up, soaking in, every inch of him solar-powered. His lanky, emaciated form stretches out across cement with startling ease. Finest-kind feline. He looks at me, cat-content, as if to say, "you know, this is not so bad."

Art, Order, Meaning

2011-09-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

There is something so compelling, humorous, and startling about these photos. They make me think about meaning in a new way. Take a looksee.

"Every world spins in pain"

2011-09-29T10:33:00.000-07:00

Today I'm watching my cat die from kidney disease. He's hurting and nauseated. Hiding it admirably well, even by feline standards.

I'm reminded of a quote from Terry Pratchett:

"I have told this to few people, gentlemen, and I suspect never will again, but one day when I was a young boy on holiday in Uberwald I was walking along the bank of a stream when I saw a mother otter with her cubs. A very endearing sight, I'm sure you will agree, and even as I watched, the mother otter dived into the water and came up with a plump salmon, which she subdued and dragged on to a half-submerged log.

"As she ate it, while of course it was still alive, the body split and I remember to this day the sweet pinkness of its roes as they spilled out, much to the delight of the baby otters who scrambled over themselves to feed on the delicacy. One of nature's wonders, gentlemen: mother and children dining upon mother and children.

"And that's when I first learned about evil. It is built into the very nature of the universe. Every world spins in pain. If there is any kind of supreme being, I told myself, it is up to all of us to become his moral superior."

Grab Tight, Learn Lots

2011-09-20T16:12:00.000-07:00

"But, on the other hand, Uncle Abner said that the person that had took a bull by the tail once had learnt sixty or seventy times as much as a person that hadn't, and said a person that started in to carry a cat home by the tail was gitting knowledge that was always going to be useful to him, and warn't ever going to grow dim or doubtful."

-- from Tom Sawyer Abroad by Mark Twain, (aka Samuel Clemens, 1894)

And that, my friends, is what Mr. Twain actually wrote. Not "A man who grabs a cat by the tail learns something he never forgets" which, while more succinct, is not what the man said.

So there.

But does it really matter what he exactly said? I have fallen prey to the idea that an accurate and direct quote means more, but a moment's reflection shows that to be absurd; language is always evolving, so why shouldn't the wisdom built of it likewise evolve?

Hmm.

All right, then. I'll try my hand at this.

"She who grabs a cat's tail tightly learns something she is unlikely to forget."

Or even:

"He who grabs an unwilling cat will remember the lesson."

Not bad. Now I think I'll go try it and see if it's true.

Witnessing Hell

2011-09-10T15:33:00.000-07:00

I just watched a reconstruction and a documentary of 9/11. I didn't expect to spend 3 hours on this, but that's what I did.

I started with 9/11 De-Edited, Reconstructed & Synchronized, an hour and forty-five minutes of various coverage. The documentarists gathered all the news and video sources they could find, from dozens of sources, and synchronized them each passing second, presenting the entity without comment or opinion. Powerful stuff.

For some reason I felt I had to watch this whole thing. Not to try to make sense of it -- that's beyond me. Not to see falling people and wonder what it must be like to jump from a burning building to sure death. As one firefighter asked, "How bad is it up there that the better option is to jump?" Later someone says "it was raining bodies."

I watched because of my own need to have compassion, to witness tragedy so that maybe those who suffered, those who died can, however distantly, have had one more human being in their company.

On one of the top, burning and smoking floors I saw someone waving something white from a window. I can imagine them thinking that maybe somehow someone could still save them. I can imagine them thinking: "please don't let me die alone here, with no one caring."

We all die alone, whether on a bed or a morning jog or when we hit the ground from 70 stories up. Not much anyone can do about that. But just like ten years ago when it happened, I feel like I have to do something.

So I watch. I witness. I care. That much I can do.

Then I watched 9/11 Documentary (The Naudet Brothers), which gives amazing in-building and on-street views of the firefighters inside the building and on the street. This is a documentary, with high-quality filming, so you can see a lot of detail. I felt like I was there. The expressions on the firefighters' faces, the eyes of people on the street. The aftermath.

In retrospect, the firefighter crew's initial confidence is astonishing. But then again, is it? We do what we've always done, day in and day out, because it's what we know. I've seen disasters unfold and they always start just like the non-disaster version of things. You have to deviate from what you expect, and that's hard to do until you're sure. You have to recognize the world has shifted. You have to do something you've never done before, which is hard.

Ten years later, 9/11 is still shocking, outrageous. All the unanswered questions about what really happened and who was really responsible don't change that people's lives turned to dust and ash that day.

What happened? "Hell is what happened," said someone. It's worth remembering that hell happens to someone on this earth every day. And even if we can do nothing else, we can have compassion, we can be witnesses, we can care.

Hugs and Kisses from Death Valley

2011-09-05T21:41:00.000-07:00

A funny thing happened to me when I slept in the high desert of Death Valley last week...

I saw one of these...

...and I heard the song of crickets, as never ever before...

...and a strong, sweetly scented, laughing breeze nuzzled my face and played with my hair...

...and I understood that "Death Valley" is a noun, not a verb; that sometimes it is harder to look at a thing than to be afraid of it; that magic comes in many forms.

xxoo, as they say.

Cell Phones Don't Kill

2011-08-23T19:49:00.000-07:00

It's hard to tell how many auto collisions are caused by drivers who talk -- or, powers forfend, text -- on a cell.

Why? Says WA state patrol: "In a speed or DUI related crash, investigators have physical evidence they can rely on. But a crash caused by cell phone use or texting requires self-reporting by the causing driver. Only in the most serious collisions can troopers get a search warrant to examine someone’s cell phone."

So what do those serious crashes say? The national safety commission says that hospital records indicates that drivers who talk on cell phones -- hand-held or hands-free, folks -- it doesn't matter -- are four times more likely to crash.

And, says the NSC, thousands of deaths annually can be directly linked to cell phone use. That's thousands of people who might be alive otherwise. What if one of them was your mom? Or kid?

I drive a car. I ride a motorbike. A bicycle. I also walk and jog in this fair city. I think I have some perspective.

And I use my cell phone a lot. But not while I'm driving. Lives depend on me knowing exactly where I'm pointing my many tons of deadly steel.

Lives. Depend. On me.

Studies clearly say that driving while using a cell phone is just as unsafe as driving drunk, hands-free or not. You knew that, right?

I'm standing at a city corner, waiting to cross, cars streaming by me ignoring pedestrian right-of-way laws, and as I watch something like one out of every four drivers is on their cell phone.

This is still a $125 ticketable offense.

You probably know that if you're driving drunk and you kill someone, you'll go to jail for many, many years. But did you also know that if you're talking on a cell or texting and you kill someone you'll merely pay a fine for that killing? I think it's about $250.

I'm not sure it ultimately matters what society does to you for killing someone accidentally while driving, because at that point your life is a massive mess -- because you've killed a human being. You've taken a life, without cause, without intent. It changes you. You can never, ever undo it.

So tell me: what is so essential that it needs talking about while in a moving vehicle on city streets? What phone conversation is so critical that it can't wait? Why not pull over?

What could possibly matter more than not accidentally hitting a fellow human?

Cell phones don't kill people. People who are foolishly, stupidly, and lamentably distracted by social media kill people.

If you drive, hear my plea: hang up, pay attention. Lives depend on you.

Playing with the Dark Side

2011-08-04T22:53:00.000-07:00

What the heck, I thought, I'll just start reviewing dark chocolate. I mean, come on, I've been eating it for decades, I'm opinionated and snotty, and I write pretty good.

The Chocolate Atlas has just put up -- may I say "published"? -- the third of my reviews. So if you're in my area and you have opinions (and dark chocolates), send 'em my way.

In my first article, I talked a bit about two Trader Joe's dark offerings. There's more of that, of course. In the second, I zeroed in on something really excellent: Taza Chocolates. Then I visited Chocolopolis and learned about art.

Me and chocolate. We got a thing goin' on.

Ah, Life. Ah, Tango.

2011-08-03T19:02:00.000-07:00

I'm at the dance studio coaching a woman who has only had a couple of classes. She's a bit wide-eyed at the whole Argentine tango, which is something I see fairly often, given how -- well, much of a muchness tango can be. She looks at my feet, notices that I'm wearing jazz slippers -- soft shoes with a very flat, barely there heel on them -- and she says, "oh, those must give you better balance, right?"

I've been dancing this dance for a years and her question catches me in a web of considerations. It's a bit esoteric, how dance shoes work in tango. On top of that it's individual, since those of us who dance in heels (women, yeah, mostly) have very different feet and very different movement patterns.

I asked similar questions early on, about flats, stiletto heels, thick heels, high and low high heels. I'd get a different answer every time, and my experience almost inevitably contradicted them all. Wrong for me maybe or wrong for where I was at then.

What no one told me is that what you need in a dance shoe changes as your skill and balance changes, as your style matures, and as your partners improve. Also, it depends on the condition of your feet. I never knew feet could be buff.

It depends how the particular shoe fits your particular foot (not feet, because each foot is different); the more control you have, the less wiggle room (literally) you want in the fit. But that's calculated after your feet have swollen from dancing, not before.

This is all too much to explain to someone who's had three lessons.

By now my silence has gone on a handful of seconds. She says "well, of course it's easier!" and laughs at herself, as if to admit her question's answer is obvious and simple.

But it isn't. I say so.

I explain that as she gets better, as she wants more smoothness and control in turns on the ball of her foot, thinner heels provide an advantage, because you've got less heel to get off of to make the turn. That for linear movements, the thicker and lower heel might be more stable, but for circular movements, it's the thinner heel that -- ironically -- gives you the better stability in motion.

Kinda like life, you know. We gather things to ourselves -- people, places, beliefs -- that have low, thick heels, to give us stability in our linear movements. And then we realize we want to do turns, we want to try something new, maybe wacky, with a whole different perspective. Suddenly the very things that kept us stable through all those linear years and linear concepts make it hard for us to turn gracefully. Hard to do new things.

Ah, life. Ah, tango.

"Dedicated to the Idea"

2011-07-24T16:00:00.000-07:00

If you listen to public broadcasting long enough you'll hear:

...brought to you by the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, dedicated to the idea that all people deserve the chance to live a healthy and productive life.

I bet Bill and Melinda paid a pretty penny for that phrase. Maybe even two. Did they get good value?

Let's assume that the B&M Foundation is, truly, as claimed, dedicated. Dedicated to an idea that -- well, let's just take as given that this idea is good, and good for people, and set aside the specifics.

Sounds good, right? I mean, they're dedicated.

To?

To an idea about something that's good for people.

So -- dedicated to something that's good for people?

No, not to the something. To the idea about the something.

Not even to the people?

Nope. The dedication is to the idea.

Chew on that for a moment and contrast this tagline with what is probably the most powerful opening to a position statement I've read this lifetime:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that...

Yes, that one.

...that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

A bit stronger, eh?

What if Bill and Melinda had, instead of being all measly mouthed about this idea they're dedicated to, put it as directly and powerfully as that? Let's try it:

We hold as true and self-evident that all people deserve the chance to live healthy and productive lives.

Not bad. Almost sounds like the real thing. We could even weave in "dedicated", which Bill and Melinda seem to like so much, and tighten it up a bit, and get:

Dedicated to giving all people the chance to live healthy and productive lives.

Clean, clear, and direct.

Dedicated to action, not ideas about action. Dedicated to people, not ideas about people.

Doesn't that sound better? Indeed, doesn't that sound like something you could actually support?

For that matter, doesn't it sound like what they probably actually meant?

Your Brain in the Future

2011-07-17T18:56:00.000-07:00

Thoughts inside

One of the cool(est) things about having a brain is being able to think what you like in the privacy of your own head. Whatever you want, any time.

Can you tell what I'm thinking right now? Can you? No! Cool, huh?

But technology and computers are making interesting headway (hee hee) in this arena and -- without jest -- I advise you to enjoy your brain's privacy while you still can.

To illustrate, I (im)modestly recommend my recently accepted story "Mirror Test" for ~~The Tomorrow Project anthology~~, Tomorrow Project: Seattle available later this year, details of which I ~~will~~ have announced on my publications announcement mailing list.

What, you may well ask, is The Tomorrow Project? It is, to quote their web site: "an anthology of science fiction based on science fact, featuring an original story from Cory Doctorow." The antho will include "short fiction, comics and short screenplays based upon current scientific research and technology development... currently being conducted by the University of Washington and Intel in the fields of synthetic biology, computer security, robotics, DNA sequencing and bio/chemical sensing, minute architecture, ray tracing/virtual reality and computer vision."

Fiction sponsored by futurists. Not a half-bad idea, if you ask me.

In my story I postulate that facial recognition technology and machine learning computers will pretty much take away your privacy of thought. Ah, the future! Isn't it just...glorious?

Here's your brain now, mentations all cozy and hidden. And there's your brain in the future, where the rest of us know what you're thinking.

Privacy of thought? Cool. Enjoy it while you can.

A Mountainous Crush

2011-07-11T18:05:00.000-07:00

Since way back when I was a young snap of a critter I would roll my eyes at adults who fell all over themselves admiring flowers and views. Surely, I reasoned, in my very mature child's mind, there must be more important things to do in life than stare at mountain ranges and coo over wildflowers.

Recently had occasion to drop by the Olympic mountain range. Just kind of, you know, in the neighborhood. With much tromping I ended up at an elevation near 6,000 feet and turned my gaze upon the world and there did my eyeballs feast themselves on these stunning rocks of upthrust (yes, that's what they call it).

Oh my.

Suddenly I had a bit of a crush.

Maybe, being used to sea-level air, my good sense was addled by lack of oxygen. Or maybe the mountains aren't really static bits of rock at all, but magic beasties, and they got to into me fair and square.

And so, maybe, this is kind of a love letter. Crush letter.

Hey, ahh, Mountains. Busy? Hope you don't mind -- I looked up your number on the net. Nice having coffee with you the other day. Pretty weather, wasn't it? Enjoyed getting to know you. Uhm. Yeah. Uhm. Busy Friday?

And there were wildflowers. And yeah, I hung out with them, too. Could smell 'em on the clear alpine snow-spiced air.

I got a crush on a mountain range. Cause he's so cute!

My younger self would cringe to hear me say such things. Mountains? Flowers? C'mon! But hey, I also played in the snow, scrabbled up rocky inclines, ran down steep mountain paths, talked to strangers and bothered the rangers. So none of that mature stuff, k?

It was something. I am not going to use that word. But, mountains. Yeah.

A Compass, a Magnifying Glass, and a Lawyer

2011-07-01T18:31:00.000-07:00

Want to park in Seattle? Bring a compass, a magnifying glass for small print, and a lawyer to resolve multiple and often conflicting directives.

I got my first parking ticket in this city shortly after arriving, courtesy of a set of signs very much like this one.

Legal parking in Seattle requires not only exceptional eyesight and an unerring sense of direction (even when the streets aren't on a grid), but also the ability to resolve confusing and unclear language.

Let's think about this for a moment. If the city really cared about making parking effective rather than skimming dollars off people who aren't clever enough or lack sufficient time to decipher these various signage clues, these signs would be clear and unambiguous. It's not that difficult to make clear signs.

I don't have anything against parking limitations. What I object to is revenue enhancement apathetically (and pathetically) disguised as civic infrastructure.

This is just one more way that Seattle shows it doesn't care about its citizens' welfare anywhere near as much as it cares about their dollars.

Humans Shouldn't Drive

2011-06-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

Humans shouldn't drive. We're just no damned good at it.

See this rumpled backside of minivan? I watched this accident happen. The driver correctly and legally stopped for two pedestrians -- myself and a companion -- only to find that the large pickup truck behind her was going too fast and following too close. We winced as the inevitable happened. Loudly.

After everything came to a stop, we directed traffic around the scene and went to see if everyone was all right. We found the minivan's driver, a woman, holding the two girls who had been riding with her.

"I'm just so glad they're all right," she said. "I'm just so glad."

The driver of the pickup truck? A young woman, dressed nicely, looking dazed. Based on her speed, I guessed she was trying to get somewhere. I wanted to say, "What, you were running late?"

Tons of steel. Distracted human minds.

People shouldn't drive. Just no damned good at it.

Dev Women: Request for Opinions, Anecdotes, Etcetera

2011-06-15T17:30:00.000-07:00

I've started a project about women in technology, inspired by the many times I've been asked by those in a managerial or hiring capacity, "how can we get more women?"

More women, meaning engineers and developers. Women, if you're interested, here's the longer description of the Dev.Women.Voices project.

Help me answer companies who want to know how to find, hire, and retain women developers. Submit an article, write me email, or chat with me on IM about your thoughts. You can also help by forwarding or retweeting this call for submissions.

Opine! Rant! Tell me what you think!

Hacker Humor: Programming Languages as Religion

2011-06-12T23:12:00.000-07:00

Yes Devpals, this one has been making the rounds for years, but I hadn't seen it for a while and had forgotten. I think hacker humor tells us a bit about where our geek lies. For me it was the one about LISP that really got to me:

Lisp would be Zen Buddhism - There is no syntax, there is no centralization of dogma, there are no deities to worship. The entire universe is there at your reach - if only you are enlightened enough to grasp it. Some say that it's not a language at all; others say that it's the only language that makes sense.

The Rejection Saga Complete

2011-06-07T12:41:00.000-07:00

The Rejection Saga is finally finished. I have made a collection of the correspondence between myself and Dr. Emmons of the Journal of Universal Rejection for your chronologically ordered reading pleasure.

This is my first published meta fiction of which I am inordinately proud. Enjoy.

Not a Real Pocket

2011-05-28T21:46:00.000-07:00

The other day I bought some capri pants (just below the knee for those of you who don't know that word). They have pockets on the sides, which is cool for those times when you want to carry a little something like a key or some dollars without ruining the lines and bop out onto the fashionable city sidewalks.

Except, of course, that -- well. You know where this is going.

It's a pretend pocket. On the other side, it's a real one. "Real" as in "useful". "Pretend" as in "sewn shut with sufficient artistry that one might be (understandably) deceived about its utility until one actually tried to unbutton it."

Now why go through the trouble to make something that looks so very much like a useful container in which one might carry things of value? Why pretend?

I know, I know, it's women's fashion, and making sense is not its primary purpose.

But still. ARrrrrggggghhhhhhgggghhgghhh. Gggghhh.

There, I feel better. Mostly. I still don't have a pocket where I need one.

Rejection Saga: Satisfaction at Last

2011-05-19T09:47:00.000-07:00

As you may recall, in his last letter Dr. Emmons, Editor-in-Chief of the Journal of Universal Rejection, gave me my first assignment which was to reject a particularly tenacious submission.

I took on that assignment with pleasure. Here is my letter to the author:

Dear Ms. Lyris,

Rarely do we see such talent. Your provocative characters and intense drama kept us deeply engaged until the brilliant ending, after which we felt the need to plant forests and work at soup kitchens.

To be blunt, your stories have brought us the personal transformation and transcendence we might otherwise have spent a lifetime seeking.

On behalf of the Journal we must reject your submission on the grounds that our readership is simply not mature enough for this sort of insight. We're sure you understand.

Should you decide to submit again you might consider something more light-hearted. We understand that Dr. Isaac Asimov wrote limericks in between Nebula and Hugo acceptance speeches. Perhaps you can do likewise.

Sincerely,

Sonia Lyris, Editor

Ahhh, satisfaction! I have my rejection, finally, from this most prestigious publication. I ask you: is there any reason for me to seek further rejections from lesser publications?

For those who want to hear about my non-rejections, please sign up at my publications mailing list.

The Rejection Saga: Dr. Emmons Gives Me My First Assignment

2011-05-15T22:01:00.000-07:00

Dear Editor Lyris:

Welcome to the Showboat, a.k.a. the Editorial Board. I am forwarding you your first assignment (see message below). Please carefully review and reject this submission directly to the submitter. You may cc me on the rejection if you think it is blogworthy.
Best regards,
Caleb

--
Caleb Emmons, PhD
Editor-in-Chief
Journal of Universal Rejection

Dear Dr. Emmons,

After reflecting on both your new and standing requirements and struggling with various revisions, I present to you my -- I cannot help but think of it as "our" -- newest version. I struggled with how to provide the needed verisimilitude without including any description whatsoever, which provided me with a stumbling block until I remembered that the heart and soul of a story resides not in the words but in the reader.

This story, perhaps my greatest effort thus far, is, in typical fashion, below. This letter. Below this letter.

YOS, etc,

Sonia Lyris

P.S. I'm eager to hear back about my start date.

A Woman and a Fish

Fish: Mollie. Fish. Done? Go plop. Repeat Fish. Plop. Big kiss. Whap! Ahhh...! The End.

Yes. Yes, of course. Hmm.

Leaving on Judgement Day? Don't forget your pets!

2011-05-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

I gather when you ascend in the Rapture, you don't get to take your pets with you. From this Gather news article:

"Reverend Camping and Christian Radio are trying to convince Christians to believe in the May 21 Judgment Day. This is the day of the Rapture and they will be leaving the world to go to heaven. Who will take care of their pets that they have left behind? The only option is to make arrangements with the atheists."

Apparently all it takes to be an atheist is to take the Lord's name in vain, so despite what I actually might believe, I'll be here May 22nd.

I'm an animal lover. So listen, if you're planning to leave for Heaven on May 21st, please make arrangements for your animals. I'm good with cats, dogs and birds. I really don't want to see your fur-babies suffer while you're in Heaven. So contact me ASAP.

I mean it.

I see some of you snickering. Cut it out. They could be right and you could be (oh-so) wrong. A little respect, eh?

There's bad news, though: given how stringent the requirements seem to be, we might not see all that much reduction in population on May 22. Might still be pretty hard to find parking in the End Times.

Hey, believers: at least put out some extra kibble on May 21st, okay? In case you're right?

The Rejection Saga: Another Revision for the Esteemed Doctor

2011-05-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

As a followup to my last letter to Dr. Emmons of the Journal of Universal Rejection, I send a letter in which I (naturally) discuss the great challenges I faced in this delicate and tricky rewrite, express my eagerness to start my editorial duties, and present my story offering.

Dear Dr. Emmons,

After reflecting on both your new and standing requirements and struggling with various revisions, I present to you my -- I cannot help but think of it as "our" -- newest version. I struggled with how to provide the needed verisimilitude without including any description whatsoever, which provided me with a stumbling block until I remembered that the heart and soul of a story resides not in the words but in the reader.

This story, perhaps my greatest effort thus far, is, in typical fashion, below. This letter. Below this letter.

YOS, etc,

Sonia Lyris

P.S. I'm eager to hear back about my start date.

A Woman and a Fish

Fish: Mollie. Fish. Done? Go plop. Repeat Fish. Plop. Big kiss. Whap! Ahhh...! The End.

Note that Dr. Emmons has posted much of our correspondence on his own blog in clear(er) chronological order. Stay tuned, in either location, for the next exciting episode of the The Rejection Saga.

The Rejection Saga: Epiphany, Commas, and Anticipation

2011-04-29T09:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Dr. Emmons,

> p.s. We correspond so frequently, perhaps you could address me more informally. (E.g., use a comma.)

Ahha! It's all been about the commas, hasn't it. All that has kept you from issuing, me, a, proper rejection, lo, these many, many months, has been my miserly use of commas. This moment is nothing short of epiphanic! At last I understand!

> Perhaps you would like to join our Editorial Board?

My goodness, yes! Nothing could please me more than the chance to help issue rejections for your esteemed journal. (I suppose I'll have to say "our" esteemed journal, now.) Yes, yes, and more yes! I am ready and eager to serve.

So eager in fact that I beg you to tell me the moment I am installed on the board and am authorized to issue rejections. My fingers are twitching in anticipation.

YOS, TIA, etc.

The Rejection Saga: Dr Emmons Offers Me Another Go And Something Else

2011-04-29T08:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Sonia,

According to my dictionary, "intense" is an adjective. I thought I asked for none of those. Also your story is too short, and not enough happens. I want more details. Put me into Mollie's life. I want to hear the wet slap of fish as Mollie plops it on her display counter. I want to feel the sparge of the fish's last exhalation, as its eyes go glassy. I want to smell--no, to taste!--the delicate parfum of sea salt and kelp gracing Mollie's sun roughened neck. But pretend I am a blind man; I don't want to see anything.

Best regards,
Caleb

p.s. We correspond so frequently, perhaps you could address me more informally. (E.g., use a comma.)

p.p.s. We have received many short stories of late. (I also consider blank documents and research articles short stories.) Perhaps you would like to join our Editorial Board?

Easter Magic: A Bird in the Hand

2011-04-25T10:26:00.000-07:00

Ah, spring! When I was a child, Easter morning meant a basket of fake grass, eggs, and delicious candy, along with adorable little pipe-cleaner men playing on the sides of the basket, courtesy of an impressively creative mother. It was magic.

I had some magic yesterday, too, holding this dove chick in my hands, feeling its seven-day-old just-fed I'm-a-dove contentment. Nothing says spring like new, happy life.

The Rejection Saga: My Serve

2011-04-20T19:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Dr. Emmons:

It is likewise always a pleasure to nearly hit my target. I dare say I'm getting quite good at it.

Please find (below; really, it's not that hard to find) my rewrite as per your thoughtful and insightful rewrite suggestions. As is so often the case, I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your feedback.

YOS, etc.

The Story: Once upon a time there was a fishmonger named Mollie. Some stuff with fish happened. It was intense. It's over now. The end.

The Rejection Saga: Another Volley

2011-04-18T21:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Sonia,

Thank you for submitting another story. It is always a delight to hear from you, and see the multisplendent amalgams of words you arrange. This submission was no different. But we did find a problem with it. It is too descriptive. Our readership doesn't have time for all the details, and other aids to imagination that you have included. Please do a rewrite that lacks any adjectives and adverbs, and avoids long words. And we'd like to see a fishmonger named Mollie in the story.

Best regards,
Caleb

The Art of Flirting

2011-04-15T17:59:00.000-07:00

I'm facilitating two workshops at NorWesCon, Flirting 101 (Fri 4/22, 7pm) and Advanced Flirting (Sat 4/23 10pm). If you're going to the con, do join us.

For the first time ever, I'll be giving out a Certificate of Flirting Competence to those who attend both workshops and perform competently at the assigned tasks. (Yes, there will assigned tasks: workshop exercises and homework between the sessions. You'll earn your cert.)

If you've never been to one of my flirting workshops, give it a try. My conceptual frame is that flirting is for more than romance, it's an approach to connecting with people around any area of shared interest. It's a way to approach social interaction that is playful, respectful, and lowers the risks to both parties.

We'll discuss flirting theory, practice approaches, examine rebuffs, and explore the frightening world of rejection and acceptance.

I really enjoy these workshops. They can be full of lively banter, playful and (yes) flirtatious exchanges, outrageous humor, and risk-taking made fun.

Join us if you can.

Rejection Saga: Left Wanting, I Take Action

2011-04-13T10:34:00.000-07:00

Dear Dr. Emmons:

I have been so disconsolate since your last letter I have barely known how to reply. We differ, you and I, on the subtlest of tenuous post-modern deconstructionist arguments. Thus I am forced to ask: have I earned this rejection? No, I must answer; I have not!

So hard and long have I worked for this rejection only to find now it tastes no more of success than failure. It is to me as a glass of water that has sat beside a wine bottle for five minutes is to an alcoholic. How can I show my face to my fellow writers who receive handfuls of rejections a month, all pure and unsullied by questions of reality and "quotes"? (I have just now spoken that word, so this is correct usage.)

Simply put: I cannot!

While you may understand your rejection to be true and right, good sir, I am left wanting.

And so, please find attached another story submission which I send in the hopes that this time, perhaps, I will have truly earned the rejection I crave. I trust you will give it all the consideration I have by now surely earned.

YOS, etc.,

Sonia Lyris

P.S. Here is my story. It is called "A Story." I have quoted it because that's what I call it.

Once upon a time there was someone who innocently acted with the best of intentions, or perhaps out of ignorance, we can't be sure, and things went wrong. He or she tried to fix this but it only got worse. With a mighty struggle, help from an unexpected source, and attendant personal growth, he or she finally managed to fix the problem in a delightful way that leaves us feeling good. The end.

Rejection Saga: A Deconstructionist Disagreement

2011-04-11T16:42:00.000-07:00

In this chapter of the The Rejection Saga, Dr. Emmons disagrees with me about the nature of punctuation:

I have faced these fancy deconstructionist (or whatever) arguments from others. If it is in quotes it is dialog. Except in the case of those crazy fishmongers that put "FRESH" on their signs (with the quotation marks!--we don't buy fish there), or similar circumstances of which your talking monkey is not one.

I did not bother to ask my wife about this, but I'm sure she agrees.

Best regards,
Caleb

Stay tuned for my fervent reply.

Jam Tomorrow

2011-04-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

There's this great quote from Terry Pratchett's Hogfather:

Jam, Today

"It's the hope that's important. Big part of belief, hope. Give people jam today and they'll just sit and eat it. Jam tomorrow, now -- that'll keep them going forever."

Like so much Pratchett, this makes me smile, because it's funny and it's funny because it tastes true. The idea of jam (or whatever you crave) in the future has a particular draw that having the jam in hand (or mouth) doesn't. It would seem like having it today would be clearly better, since tomorrow never really arrives, but no.

Somewhere in understanding this twisted truth that going-to-have-it-later is more shiny than having-it-now, is, I suspect, the key to something Very Important.

So what is there about jam tomorrow that makes it a more powerful incentive than jam today?

Rejection Saga: I Must Decline

2011-04-03T09:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I posted Dr. Emmons' most recent letter to me in The Rejection Saga. Here is my reply:

Dear Dr. Emmons:

I have a confession to make. I trust that, given the length and intimacy of our friendship, you'll carefully consider my words before passing judgment.

I knew you would bring up the monkey. Given your extensive education, uncommon insight, and position as the editor of the most prestigious arts and science journal in the world, it was inevitable.

Assuming, that is, that you had read the story. We writers are a delicate and insecure lot, never certain that our darling creations will get the attention they deserve. I am deeply gratified to discover that you have, indeed, read all the way through. Yes, the quotes were a deliberate ploy. I trust you understand.

Now, as to the rejection. Yes, of course you need give no reason, but, alas, you have. As I have sought this rejection most ardently, I am loathe to explain your error, but integrity demands I do so.

The monkey is not in our world, but in a virtual reality, and thus not speaking at all. Indeed, the illusion of monkey-speak in this story is a postmodernist reflection on the collective cultural delineation of "speech" in contrast to the abstract notion of "silence" highlighted by appearing within artificial quotes in a story with no true dialog. It is a literary device representing man's struggle to be heard.

From a scientific viewpoint, the monkey's actions move no air molecules and thus fail to change the physical world in any fashion whatsoever. The monkey is, for all intents and purposes, both literarily and literally, mute.

I trust you see the profound symbolism here.

I must therefore with great disappointment reject your rejection as standing on no solid ground. While I long for the rejection I have worked so hard to obtain, I cannot, alas, accept it under false pretenses.

YOS, etc.,

Sonia Lyris

P.S. Thank you, but Mr. Landis is a better writer than I am, so that's hardly a fair comparison.

P.P.S. Should these subtleties be unclear in any way, you may wish to consult your wife, as she has shown uncommon good judgment on these matters in the past.

Will Dr. Emmons disagree? Issue another coveted rejection? Or...? Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of the The Rejection Saga.

Rejection Saga: Dr. Emmons Finally Delivers

2011-04-02T09:19:00.000-07:00

Dr. Emmons' most recent letter to me would appear to bring The Rejection Saga to a close, but stay tuned for my reply before you consider the matter concluded.

Dear Sonia,

Please excuse my yet again tardy reply. You will surely understand that we are busy here, and these decisions take time.

We have decided to reject your submission. Although we don't need a reason, here is one. Although you claimed your story had no dialog, clearly on page 37 of your ms appears:
"Carry on," the monkey said to Alan, with a smile and a rose.

Frankly you can only give us the run-around on this issue so many times. We have demanded more landscape descriptions, and no dialog, and yet you continue to have your characters jibber-jabber throughout the entire story (or at the very least on the last page.) I hope you in general submit to editors with more patience than I.

Thanks for playing.

Best regards,
Caleb

p.s. You needn't have worried about our fear of rejecting fiction writers. For example, we rejected Geoffrey Landis on the first go.

I'll let him know what I think of this shortly.

Internet Holiday!

2011-04-01T09:58:00.000-07:00

You've heard that the Internet is a of sub culture and if you're one of my many geek friends you're like UHM YEAH but for everyone else who is kind of foggy on the whole culture part of the Internet, may I introduce you to...

April First?

This is the day when we Internet geeks (and other creatives) make up stuff that sounds plausible and see how many non-geeks (definitions of geek are conveniently flexible today) fall for them.

It's kind of an Internet Christmas. A day of prezzies of humor for minds. A day to enjoy the fruits of those who have clearly spent way too much time creating amusing stories for our entertainment.

For example...

Google is usually good for a chuckle, and today is no exception. It's not just a good idea, it's the future, but here the big G plays it out for humor with dry delight.

I like EFF's offering which includes earning a degree in facebook privacy settings (*snicker*) and addressing internet porn, but I'm disappointed that they felt the need to tell me it was all for April Fool's. Come on, guys -- even Google doesn't do that.

If you've got favs today, toss 'em at me.

Can't Get No Rejection

2011-03-20T22:57:00.000-07:00

By now I am beginning to suspect that my sought-after rejection from Journal of Universal Rejection will not be so easy to come by:

We were very pleased to read your updated story. So much so that we shared it with our wife, who was also very approving. The landscape descriptions are fantastic.

That said, however, there is still too much dialog. Our readership doesn't read dialog. Perhaps a story that is solely about the hills around Derbyshire? Or a travelogue (sans dialog) of popular vacation spots for hit men? Ideally it would be a story with 6 characters and no dialog.

Sincerely,
Caleb
--
Caleb Emmons, PhD
Editor-in-Chief
Journal of Universal Rejection

My reply, which follows, attached a story called: "Landscape, No Dialog, Six Characters":

Dear Dr. Emmons:

I lament my inability to express my pleasure at receiving your non-rejection. You are right: there is too much dialog in the story. I see how your audience could not possibly read such a thing.

I wish I could express to you my gratitude for your willingness to work with me on this issue.

Please find attached my complete rewrite with no dialog whatsoever. I hope it will be more to your and (perhaps more importantly) your wife's liking.

P.S. It occurs to me that despite your fearless reputation in academia, you might be withholding a rejection out of misplaced concern for my emotional well-being. Be assured that I have been rejected before many, many times, though rarely with quite this much work.

P.P.S. Grateful regards to your wife. Does she publish a journal, by any chance?

What will Dr. Emmons do next? Dont miss the next exciting installment in the Rejection Saga!

Rejection Fail

2011-03-17T20:13:00.000-07:00

I figured I'd heard the last from the Journal of Universal Rejection when Dr. Caleb Emmons sent me a form letter saying he'd get to my story one of these days. I lamented the lack of a bonafide rejection but in my usual classy way was able to shrug it off and move on with my life.

Then he wrote me again. I've been invited to resubmit my dialog-only story, which he has even, clearly, read:

Thank you for your submission to the Journal of Universal Rejection.

Our readership prefers stories with lots of landscape description.
Clearly as your story stands we cannot accept it for publication.
Should you add something about (e.g.) the hills around Derbyshire into
your story, we would give the story another look. We also accept
bribes, and are almost as trustworthy as the characters in your story;
small bills only please.

Best regards,
Caleb

My letter back to him:

Dear Dr. Emmons:

It is beyond me to put into words how delighted I was to receive your encouraging note vis-à-vis my story "Done" rather than the swift bona-fide rejection promised me in your Instructions for Authors.

As a writer little could please me more than an invitation to rewrite a story with the possibility dangled before me of being corrected again prior to my pending rejection. Despair and glee war within; never has lack of rejection left me feeling so conflicted.

But I am helpless in the face of editorial whim. Thus please find attached a new version of "Done" which includes a good number of what I hope you will find tasteful and appropriate references to landscape.

I look forward to your reply. Thank you for your kind attention.

P.S. I will, of course, blog about this. You'll be famous. Possibly.

P.P.S. Send PayPal link.

Stay tuned.

I Grieve with You

2011-03-10T15:38:00.000-08:00

I bought a lovely card with a photo of flower on the front so I could write something in the way of condolences.

Not those the "Sympathy" cards you see in the store with their canned, insipid sentiments that attempt to save you the trouble of figuring out what to say. Loss of this magnitude is intense, personal, wrenching. Those cards never say the right thing.

But there is no right thing. As I struggle for an hour to find the right words, the ones that say "I'm sorry" and "he was a fine man" but don't tell her how to feel and don't pretend that it's all right, I find myself wishing for the pre-worded card to save me this agony.

Finally I finish. More like I run out of ways to say "condolences". Com -- "with" and "dolere "to grieve." "I grieve with you."

At the post office I hold an envelope containing carefully handwritten and heartfelt words, oh so inadequate. The envelope feels too light and insubstantial to carry this message.

There is no way to carry this message. I could send a ton of flowers, and I could cry for a week, and it would still be just as inadequate.

As I drop the envelope in the box, I am struck by a sense of futility, frustration, and sadness. The life of a man cannot be summed up, not by a book, not by a movie, and certainly not by a sympathy card.

There is no summation. There is only goodbye.

Goodbye, Dear Sir

2011-02-24T14:07:00.000-08:00

Today a man I admire, respect and care for lies in the hospital dying.

I never heard him complain over the years. Not once. I was always impressed with that. Not when they took out his spinal fluid to irradiate it and put it back, not during chemo, surgery, and not when his heart stopped working, not when his brain stumbled. Each time he'd just - come back, step by step, as if it were something anyone could do. He'd shrug as he described his trials, as if the surgery or chemo were a small thing. An inconvenience. A minor detour.

He was easy to admire, and it was easy to think he'd keeping beating Death.

This time, it seems not.

Across the years, when I'd see him, he would hug me with a sort of fierceness and a smile, as if to say, "Yes, yes, I am a scientist, but also I believe in you."

The tears of grief are for we who remain in life, not for them, the dead. Where do the dead go, that I can wish this man well? That I can send something, some final appreciation, some bit of love?

Goodnight to you, dear sir. I hope there is something on the other side, something good and wonderful, because imaging you gone forever is almost more than I can bear.

Coffee Art

2011-02-21T13:12:00.000-08:00

You know it's art because it moves you, right?

And when the dark, delicious brew was happily ensconced in tummy, we could still see the image. Twisted and distorted, but recognizable.

Mmmm, art.

Reject me, Baby!

2011-02-15T18:48:00.000-08:00

I recently submitted a story to the Journal of Universal Rejection (motto: "reprobatio certa hora incerta" (for which my translator gives "false contest hour uncertain", but that can't be right).

I was expecting a rejection, you know. I mean, their guidelines say they will reject anything you send, and point out the advantages of knowing in advance what the outcome will be: reduced stress, no need to spend hours on your cover letter (which, you know, I do), and not least of all the satisfaction of knowing that you were rejected from one the most exclusive journals in the -- any -- industry.

Wow! With all those advantages, I just had to submit. So I sent in a short I have called "Done" -- something of an experiment because it is comprised entirely of dialog (yes, I am that good) -- and waited (breathlessly) for my rejection letter, which I assumed would be arriving nearly immediately.

For the first time in my life, a rejection to my story was not only assured but eagerly awaited. This time -- for sure -- I'd get exactly what I'd hoped for.

Yes?

No:

Thank you for your interest in the Journal of Universal Rejection.
Due to the high volume of correspondence we have received of late, it
may be some time until yours is properly answered. If you have
included a submission, rest assured that it has been filed and is
under review. We will get back to you as soon as possible.

-- Caleb Emmons, PhD Editor-in-Chief Journal of Universal Rejection

The Moment Between Okay and Not Really

2011-02-09T16:36:00.000-08:00

You know the moment - it's the one between between slicing your hand and the gush of blood, slamming the door and realizing you've left a finger behind, the mis-step and the fall. It's the moment when things are still okay, but not for long.

We were prepping for a short bike ride. I'd hit the garage door button, dashing out from under the closing door, stepping carefully over the beam of light that stops the process when he said "oh, I left my helmet inside."

No problem, I thought, waving my foot across the beam. The door kept closing. No problem, I thought, thinking of the way elevators won't shut on your hand and will bounce back from the least resistance. So I put my shoe under the descending door.

Which descended anyway. Without bounce. Without give. A powered heavy metal door coming down on my shoe, my toes, which was now clearly a really bad idea. I tried to pull my foot out. No way. I realized that not only was I stuck, but my toes were feeling quite a bit of pressure.

It's a special moment. It's when you realize that things might not be okay, and very soon.

I jammed my fingers under the door, pulled up with all my strength. Nothing moved. Then the pain began.

My friend had the presence of mind to run into the house and around to the garage and pull the quick release on the garage door -- a red handle, which makes so much sense now. The door released, came up.

I took another moment to survey the damage. It was my lucky day: the toes were insulted but not broken, annoyed but not crushed. Now, hours later, they are mumbling about my lack of good sense, but are ready to consider forgiving me.

Even so, the moment is limned in my memory, framed with all the intensity that an active, alert, and not-quite-panicking mind can create.

Such moments can change us, if we let them. They remind us that we are one slip, one poor decision, one moment's bad luck away from being mangled or killed. Or, in my case, bruised, embarrassed, and feeling lucky.

And in more practical terms: garage doors are unforgiving masses of driving metal completely unlike sensitive elevator doors. Soft toes will not stop them.

Fractured Vision

2011-02-08T19:17:00.000-08:00

Another hit and run. Yep, someone came too close to my car again and scraped off the side mirror. No note, just a broken, shattered mirror.

Did I mention that my car was parked?

This is my third hit-and-run in the last two years, all of which happened while the car was legally and to all appearances safely parked.

Not to belabor the point, friends, but my car wasn't even moving.

Until I can get it fixed, what's behind me shows in a cracked mirror. I don't worry too much about what's behind me, though. The car only seems to get hit when it's not moving. This has only happened to me in this city. Hmm.

Grapefruit, Granted

2011-02-03T18:10:00.000-08:00

The problem with trying not to take things for granted is it implies taking them for not-granted, and what is that? Imagining not having them? Imagining them being hard to come by? A bathtub of guilt for having them, maybe. So get in and bathe. Make you clean, it will, if you use enough of it.

No. The point isn't to feel guilty about what you have, or what's easy to come by.

I chopped up this grapefruit, and it was Oh So Good. All full of grapefruity yumminess. The essence of grapefruit, for the taking. My taking. Mine to slice, mine to greedily consume, messy and juicy and mine.

To take something for granted is to take it for nothing. To take it for itself, whatever it is, now in this moment -- that's not nothing. That's something. That's the fullness of grapefruit, and it has something to do with living.

Granted.

Punctuation Fail

2011-01-23T18:05:00.000-08:00

I found this sign found at Swedish Hospital, a major medical center with significant funding, in a bathroom that is well-appointed with motion-activated lights and no-touch sanitary fixtures for soap, water and towels.

But apparently the hospital can't afford signs with correct punctuation. Or grammar. Maybe after all the other expenses, they had to cut back. Maybe these were on sale.

A Pink Club, Maybe?

2011-01-19T14:11:00.000-08:00

Is there, do you suppose, a club for people who actually like the taste of pepto bismo?

I wonder if we're also the kids who nibbled on play dough.

But -- be honest -- isn't it pretty?

Write Some Letters

2011-01-14T16:00:00.000-08:00

Winter makes me think about death. Or Death, if you prefer the anthropomorphic personification.

If you will indulge me for a moment, imagine that you are, quite suddenly, quite dead. Consider those people you hang around the most, those who will be most wrenched by the sudden loss of you.

Now, don't you wish you'd written a final letter, or made a video saying goodbye? A final message, saying farewell as only you can?

It's not that hard. Just write down the things you want them to know, the things you wished you would have said (only now you can!) while you were alive. You can give advice. You can tell them to go on without you. You can remind them to floss.

You can say "I love you."

To me this sounded like a New Year's resolution that could actually make a difference. So I did it.

Have you? If not, why not? It doesn't take long. It's easy to do. Yes, it can be a bit emotional, but think about it: do you really want to leave without having the final word? I bet you don't.

Everything Cat

2010-12-31T17:52:00.000-08:00

Felis catus, caught here between light and shadow, posing in the fading sun of this last day of an arbitrary calendar year.

Momentarily content and mindlessly watchful, she is, gorgeously, everything cat.

Rain On!

2010-12-29T19:38:00.000-08:00

I got a *very* cool present this holiday season: an "unbreakable" umbrella.

For those of us with various weapons training, anything we happen to have in hand we think of as a weapon, at least under the right circumstances. Umbrellas -- kind of obvious that way. Except, of course, that most of them are kind flimsy. To quote one reviewer, "Whacking someone with a regular cheap umbrella will leave a welt and a very angry opponent, and the umbrella will be destroyed."

Not so this one. Heck, you can stand on it. In this video a fellow does just that before cutting in half a watermelon.

Because, you know, sometimes you don't have a knife handy. Ha ha.

No, seriously, this is tres cool. A quality umbrella -- that solid *thup* sound it makes when opening -- which, should you need to whack a watermelon (or punching bag) really hard can stand up to the task.

Lifetime warranty, of course.

My lifetime. Natch.

The Christ Story

2010-12-19T23:11:00.000-08:00

I need some help here with the Christ thing. Maybe one of you can explain to me how this works.

I have a casual understanding of the Christ story, an understanding that comes from talking to Christian friends and reading the bible, so there is a lot I don't get.

It being the season I've lately been listening to a lot of Christmas carols, and in the course of paying attention to the lyrics, I keep coming back to a few things that I don't quite understand.

The star thing. Did everyone really know this baby was the special lord guy when he was born? Or did the star-means-Christ-is-born knowledge arrive after the fact in a revisionist sort of way? Because if everyone knew that Christ was this powerful guy in baby form then it would seem to me that not only his birth but his whole upbringing would have been fraught with all kinds of danger and close calls and we'd hear lots of stories about how he barely escaped death some ten or twenty times a day, and I don't hear about that.

Also, I seem to recall from some story somewhere that Jesus' parents had other children. If his parents knew he was this special from the start, wouldn't he know, too? Surely his siblings would have figured it out, too and wouldn't that have put some strain on the family dynamics? "Your brother's special, sweetie, and while we love you all, we love him -- differently. By the way, don't drink that water after he's handled it and for sure no eating those crackers he's touched."

Again, I'm sure there's plenty I don't understand. Anyone want to help me make sense of this?

Kate

2010-12-08T18:27:00.000-08:00

I became a Kate Bornstein fan this week. I didn't mean to. I wasn't planning to. There was just this talk at Babeland, which if you live in Seattle and you're a babe you have to visit, so I was in the neighborhood...

She was fabulous, just fabulous. In the ballgame of public speaking she hit it into the next ballpark. (Sorry. Never was that good at sports metaphors.)

People laughed, cried, and wanted more.

Her basic message: life is worth living, and you can make it better, and here's how. And one more thing to anyone who wants it: a get out of Hell free card. Just don't be mean.

Nicely done, Kate.

Want a taste? Try this.

"Mutt"

2010-12-05T14:21:00.000-08:00

I'm still immature enough that when someone makes my point for me I jump up and down and say hey, cool, I was making that point years ago!

Decades, actually. When I was a snotty young brat, I considered the common demographic question of "race" and thoughtfully and stubbornly started answering "mutt".

Because, like most people, I'm a bit of a mix. Besides what the parents say, there are always the Family Secrets. Statistically speaking, we are unlikely to be strictly the descendants of those who claim us.

Life just ain't as tidy as the forms would have us believe. And it mattered to me, way back when, despite the raised eyebrows, to make that point. Mutt.

Turns out gender isn't always tidy, either. When I read this here discussion of the ambiguities of gender, which also mentions race, I got all happy and started jumping up and down. That's my point! Yeah!

Woof!

Ooo, Snow!

2010-11-22T22:32:00.000-08:00

I love the way my mind works. Put me in a warm, toasty room and show me a snowstorm outside through the window and my puppy-like mind says "Ooo, snow, fun! Walk! Walk!"

Wait, I say. You know it's cold out there? I mean, really really cold?

"Ooo, snow! Walk, walk!" The puppy-mind whines eagerly.

Look, I say, see how the snow's not falling gently, but cutting sideways with the wind?

"Walk-walk-walk!"

I know where this will end. It won't shut up about how much fun it will be outside. Or would be if I would just let us go out-out-out. Out where it's not merely below freezing but the wind is enthusiastically cutting delicate skin with knifetips of ice.

It's snowing, slippery, and the wind is biting. Sensible people are inside, toasting themselves in the bliss of modern heaters.

Those without puppies in their heads, anyway.

I know I'll lose this fight, so I wrap up as best I can, pull on boots and out we go, my puppy-mind and me. Outside, it's dark. The cold quickly sucks away illusions of warm-and-safe. We walk down a quiet, icy cityscape that suddenly seems odd and wild.

"Ooo, snow!" says my puppy-brain.

Then, a few minutes later: "Ooo, cold!"

And then: "Can we go back now?"

Yeah, that's what I thought. But at least the whining will stop for a while.

The Myth of Self-Defense

2010-11-16T20:44:00.000-08:00

I'm pissed again. This is why I don't attend martial arts classes any more, why my answer to "what martial arts have you done?" is "oh, this and that."

Because most martial arts talk is posturing and pretense and ego, not much to do with effective self-defense. Which I do care about.

I'm not going off on a rant how most martial arts practices have little or nothing to do with self-defense, or how most MA teachers haven't a clue how little they know about what they think they're teaching. Heck, I'm barely going to touch on how much worse than useless most "women's self-defense" training is. All that would take a book. This one is a good start.

But I will say this: if someone you care about really needs self-defense, give them a few critical basics:

1. No matter how much experience they say they have, your teacher can be oh-so wrong. They don't know what you know about your body, your mind, or your self defense situation. And gosh, if they aren't listening to you, they know even less.

2. Anyone who won't talk to you about why they teach specific moves, who can't answer "but why not just walk away?", does not know what they are doing.

3. Belts don't matter. Martial arts lineages don't matter. The name of the school doesn't matter. All those weapons on the wall? The big, lovely Japanese kanji? Irrelevant. Absolutely irrelevant.

4. You don't need lots of fancy moves. More techniques isn't the answer. You need one move -- just one -- that works. Okay, maybe two. Listen: if it's hard to do when you're calm, on flat ground, in a well-lit room, how hard will it be to do in the rain, on slippery pavement in the dark? Those moves should be simple.

If you want a good teacher, find someone who doesn't need to convince you that they're a good teacher. Find someone who teaches out of their garage. Find someone who, when you learn a bunch of moves, won't give you a belt.

And to the guy who tried to teach me women's self-defense tonight, who is probably nearly as annoyed as I am by the experience, who thinks pain and damage are the same thing, who told me that if I raise my arm over my head I'll be taller than my attacker:

I hope you find out how how little you know before you teach this stuff to any other woman who might actually need to use it. But I bet you won't.

We don't really live in a very violent place or time. Most of the women who learn these "self-defense" practices will never need them. I console myself with that.

And yet, somehow, I'm still pissed.

Making Relationships Last

2010-11-06T17:02:00.000-07:00

Do everything else first. Just kidding.

I have an answer to the age-old question of making relationships last. It's really quite simple. Two guidelines:

1. Hear what you want to hear.

2. Anything else is small stuff. Ignore it.

You have to get past the idea of right and wrong. Communication in relationships is not about right and wrong and it sure isn't about peace, love and understanding. As Mr. Shaw says, "The problem with communication is the illusion that it has occurred."

We don't communicate. We think we have, and that's all very well and good, but mostly we haven't. Since we're hallucinating about communicating anyway, let's hallucinate in a way that makes things work better. Makes sense, right?

A bit more detail:

Hear what you want to hear. This is easier than it sounds, since most people use lots of words when they talk and. You're smart -- just pick out the words that work best for you. Once you practice this a bit, it becomes surprisingly easy.

Ignore the small stuff. People get into fights because they think something matters a lot, but the fight is almost never about the subject in front of you. No, it's about some deeper principle or universal injustice. Sure, fight for fun if you want to, but don't fight the wrong battle. And when it comes to relationships, it's almost always the wrong battle. The actual thing in front of you? Small. Inconsequential. Ignore it.

There you have it. Go on, try these two guidelines. If in 20 years you're not still together with whoever, well. I'll give you your money back. Heck, I might even admit I was wrong.

Down and Dirty

2010-10-26T16:14:00.000-07:00

Plenty of down, but day one of the Miller's weekend seminar, loosly dubbed "Violence Dynamics", wasn't all that dirty. Day two made up for the clean mats and white walls with ground fighting in a dirty cement warehouse and full-contact conflict scenarios.

The things I do for fun!

No sense in wrestling words around to describe it if I can find someone else to say it better. Brent writes about the workshop here.

My Name in Print! Mmmmm!

2010-10-21T16:30:00.000-07:00

I had another tango article accepted recently for publication in a journal. I got nuthin' but good things to say about being published. It's the cat's whiskers and the cat. Attached to each other!

I don't know why, but it didn't occur to me to mention it here. (In my blog. Didn't occur to me. Talk to myself often? Quiet, you.) As it happens, I recently (and cleverly) put together a mailing list. (Thank you, Yahoo, and while I'm here, why did Google drop the ball on Google groups? Yahoo groups is nothing to brag about, but Google is worse. Color me stunned -- doing groups right is neither hard nor subtle. But I digress.)

If you happen to be among my three regular readers who aren't yet on my publications announcement mailing list and want to be, drop me a note, or post in the comments, and your wish shall be granted.

My name in print. Mmmmm.

Rocks and Soap

2010-10-13T10:20:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. Well, technically, two. And not so much a confession as a discovery.

I collect rocks.

I discovered this while unpacking my things. Things, with a capital "T". Among my various things I found I was unpacking rocks. Small rocks, big rocks. White and black. Pretty and plain. All, apparently, with some fair significance.

I know they have significance because I distinctly remember, two moves ago, giving away a whole bunch of them to friends -- black and white, pretty and plain -- and resolving to keep only those few lovelies had lots of special significance. That were important. That were especially -- well, special.

Despite this, somehow, I have in my possession a bunch of rocks. A nice, healthy collection.

For a moment I consider getting rid of some of them, these special (and perhaps not so special) rocks. A certain reluctance wells up inside me. One might even go so far as to say a "hell, no! These are mine."

I confess: I am helpless in the face of these lovelies. My rocks. My collection.

I don't think I really need to explain about the soap.

Hacker Humor

2010-10-02T09:08:00.000-07:00

As a writer and devoted documenter-of-my-code, I found these laugh-out-loud hilarious. Heck, maybe this even qualifies as a geek test. You read it and tell me, k?

Top funny source code comments

And if you've got more, tell me. (Maybe that's the real test, wanting more.)

Annoyed Much?

2010-09-22T19:19:00.000-07:00

To be an upstanding citizen in Washington state means putting up with the most impressive and costly civic crap I've ever seen. Waiting times, permits, fees, lines and other bureaucratic goo so sticky that it's a caricature of government.

Pretend, for a moment, you are getting your driver's license. In Oregon, you walk in to the DMV and 20 minutes later you've got your card. You walk out, you do something useful.

Here in the good old state of waah, 3 hour waits are not uncommon.

Three HOURS?!

Because, of course, citizen time isn't important.

Not long ago, I took the motorcycle class to get my endorsement. I figured it was the right thing to do. It was inconvenient, expensive, and hard work, but I did it. When it's all over the instructor sez: "Take this card to a Licensing Office and get your endorsement."

That means go to a Licensing Office, and stand in line for your driver's liscense. Last time I did that it was indeed three hours.

Ever wonder why Washington ID photo faces are tense and annoyed?

Fun and a Dome

2010-09-17T19:29:00.000-07:00

I got to do some very cool things last weekend. I got to sit at an outdoor fire under the stars, I got to listen to people speaking their truth through fear, and I got to dance on the knife-edge of my own identity.

And I got to hang out in this exceedingly cool dome.

It was massive amounts of fun.

Sexist Humor — Friendly Fire

2010-09-10T13:25:00.000-07:00

Or... How to ask for a raise if you're just a gyrl. I enjoyed a laugh this morning with this advice from Women's Day on how to ask for a raise: wash it. Wash it good.

A different email approach

2010-09-01T19:49:00.000-07:00

1) I read this article about researcher Donald Redelmeier

2) He uses numbered lists in his email responses

3) He says this is to focus on the message's content rather than be distracted by grammar, punctuation, syntax

4) Despite my affection for the various structures of the written word, I am intrigued by this (2)

5) I notice it also allows me to easily reference previous points

6) He says lots of other interesting things in (1)

7) One of my favorites: “Do not get trapped into prior thoughts. It’s perfectly O.K. to change your mind as you learn more.”

8) I've been emailing for over 30 years. I'm ready to try a different approach.

9) What do you think? Anyone tried this or recieved emails like this?

Getting Better

2010-08-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

A strange thing happens when you study something for years and years, accepting (repeatedly) that you're just not very good at it and allowing (repeatedly) that you may never understand why you keep doing it anyway.

You get better. Maybe not fast, maybe not when you expect to, but in time, eventually.

I've been videoing myself dancing, weekly, with the same partner to the same music for a few months now. I've been studying the videos, and to my surprise the woman I'm watching is looking more and more like a dancer.

I'm guessing you're thinking one of three things: "well, duh", or "how can you be sure?", or even "who cares?" If it's the last, go read my Awesome post. (Right now. You'll love it.)

If it's "how can you be sure?" I answer: it's about smoothness, and musicality. Posture. But it's also something that's hard to define but you know when you see it. Grace. Something I never thought I'd see in myself.

And if it's "well, duh"? To you I made a cute piss-off gesture that you find amusing, feisty and adorable all at once, and you resolve to bring me some fabulously tasty chocolates next time you come to watch me dance.

Hot. Brain. Melt.

2010-08-16T17:36:00.000-07:00

So hot your brain feels like it's melting. So hot that riding from place A to place B I found myself deciding to go buy things near by at an air-conditioned store, rationalizing the need to go there TODAY, NOW to get stuff. As if my brain were a whining child. A scheming, clever, and insidious whining child.

Get us out of the heat and brain forgets. Back in the heat it starts whining again. It's almost funny, which is why I am sitting at a red light, heavy jacket, boots and black helmet, the sun crashing down, heat worming its way into my melting brains, and I'm chuckling. In case you were in a nearby car, wondering.

It'll pass. Of course it will. Then it'll be cool again. And too soon, it'll be too cold again.

But today Hot. Brain. Melt.

Consultants Need Ears

2010-08-11T20:49:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I consulted with the management of a local non-profit about their online communication channels. It was intended to be a presentation about blogs and blogging practices, but when I got there it was clear that they hadn't really looked at their online communications in total - newsletter, events listing, facebook and twitter feeds - with an eye to who they were trying to reach and what they wanted to accomplish.

I changed my presentation on the spot because the client, this organization, needed something other than what I'd come in to talk about. I'm flexible. I give the client what they need.

Apparently not all consultants do this. They don't start by asking questions. I won't speculate on why, but - okay, I will. They can get away with it? They think it makes them look weak to ask questions?

You can manage to give a perfectly useless presentation on any subject if you simply disregard the audience's needs. I know, I've done it. I've seen the glazed look in my listeners' eyes, heard the polite applause. Resolved not to do it again.

You know you've done good when you leave people jazzed and ready to go to work. When I was done the director shook my hand, all grins and eager for the next step. She was glad I hadn't told them they were doing it all wrong.

Which they weren't. A few things maybe, which I told them in a way that played to their strengths, not their weaknesses. After all, the idea is to give the client useful tools, not convince them I know more than they do.

We covered what I came in to talk about, too, but we started somewhere else. And that is, in my mind, what a consultant ought to do: cover the ground that needs covering. This seems obvious, but I know there are plenty of well-paid people who fail to start with the most important step in giving solid value as a consultant: asking the right questions and listening to what the client answers.

Better at Me

2010-08-05T19:00:00.000-07:00

I'm coming off a weekend of a lot of tango dancing with friends and strangers and some things have occurred to me. It's funny how the stuff you hear over the years comes back to you in waves of meaning and applicability. For example, what if I only took steps that were right for me at the moment, rather than pushing myself to take a step because I thought it was expected? What if I took my time with each step, even at the risk of being late? Would this change my dance?

Most certainly it would. I've been doing that, more and more, and it's -- delicious.

And of course tango is a mirror for life.

Someone recently said to me between dances, his eyes wide and his tone full of surprise, "there's something about the way you dance... it feels like-- like you bring something to the conversation."

Well, yes. In tango, the woman's role -- we say "the follow" in this country, but that's sort of a confusing term -- is about listening. As is the man's role. But the woman's role is also about responding, about saying something in return. About making it a conversation. Too many men -- "leads" -- don't get that part. And by "don't get" I don't just mean don't understand. I mean never receive. What a shame.

I realized something recently about why I dance tango, and I've been saying it a lot lately:

I don't dance tango to get better at tango. I dance tango to get better at me.

Lessons Learned between Home and Hospital

2010-07-26T18:51:00.000-07:00

Advice to those who suddenly have a person in the ER

Turns out that the moment you walk into the ER with chest pressure, pain, or discomfort, you are sucked into a vortex that does not, even under the best of circumstances, spit you out for hours and days. I think that's because no one who needs to buy liability insurance wants to let you out the door if there's any chance you'll die because they didn't do some test.

As luck would have it, I wasn't the one being tested. I did all the other things, like medications, clothes, cats, updates, and trying not to panic.

And I learned a few things. Here's my advice to those in the non-professional caretaker position, about what to do when someone you love goes into the ER and you are left holding all the other bags.

Slow down. Yes, I know, it seems urgent, and it might well be, but unless you're training regularly to do this urgent thing and do it fast, whether driving, answering questions, or gathering clothes, you are not good at it, and it will take longer if you rush. And if you make a mistake, the costs are high; your person doesn't need you crashing the car, tripping and breaking something, or leaving the stove on because you're dropping bits. Slow down, even more. If you get there a few minutes later, it won't make as much difference as having fed the poor cat, made sure you've got all your stuff, and not crashing the car. Slow. Down. More.

I was about to leave the house. I made myself stop, take a deep breath, and look around. What did I have with me? What did I need? Everything was suddenly more complicated than I was used to.
Take care of the care-taker. That's you. Sleep, eat, cry, call friends, get hugs. It does your person no good to watch you deteriorate with stress while they're stuck in the hospital. You're ready to fight for your person, right? Fight for yourself first. Notice when you feel guilty for not being the sick one or for enjoying something, and fight that, too. Eating, sleeping, resting, working out, wearing clean clothes -- whatever sustains you -- is essential. It's not about fun, it's about oxygen. Don't drown while trying to rescue someone else.

While my person was taking a test to determine if he would be allowed to leave the hospital, I went swimming at the gym. To do that, I put off friends and was late to the hospital. But the test ended up being late, too, and I was calmer after the workout.
Have a kit. You'll be tossing stuff into bags, like changes of clothes and books and suchlike for your person. But also have a bag just for you, which should contain your book, paper, pens, phone, keys, a thermos of your favorite tea, more snacks than you think you need, and so on. I used a backpack and reserved the front pocket for my keys, phone, the contact info for the nurse, and the address where I was going next, so I always knew where my most critical stuff was located.
Take notes. Write down everything doctors and nurses tell you-- possible causes, room numbers, test names, medications, names and locations. Date the pages. Use lots of paper. Most of it won't be useful, but what is useful is very useful. Also, it gives you something to do when you're in the hospital, which is a strange place where you will often feel out of place. Don't fall for that--you're critically important for your person, and taking notes and asking questions is a big part of your job. Speaking of asking questions, ask questions. Nurses and doctors are trained to get you to comply and to get out of the way. Be cooperative, of course, but (politely) get all questions answered.
Be prepared to wait. One of the most draining parts of this process is waiting when you're revved up for a crisis. You switch into high gear for the initial emergency, and then you sit at the hospital for hours, days, or weeks, waiting. How can you be prepared? Bring a book, a pad and pen, your laptop or phone, but most of all, adjust your expectations: you will not get the stuff done you usually do, even if you bring it with you, because you're hyped and everything is strange. Other good things to do: walk around, stretch, breathe, call a friend. Wait outside, wait inside. Tour the hospital. Move.
Use social media. I chose twitter as my way of keeping friends and family in the loop. Sure, some of them won't follow it and then you'll need to use the phone, but you'll save yourself a lot of repetition and urgent calls from people when you don't have time by pointing everyone at the same twitter feed or facebook page for updates. If you're not sure how to use it, have one of your friends who is offering to help to be your interface. Once people find out, they'll want to know what's up, again and again, and not always when you have time to talk.
Accept help. When a friend or family member offers to accompany you, say yes. Moral support and another set of eyes to help you remember things that you will absolutely forget is a really good idea. But you might not get that help, or might not get it right away. If you don't have that help, it's even more important to take every step slowly, to ask questions as often as you need to, to review your notes, to think about what to bring a third time.
Plan for exhaustion. When the end is in sight, carve out some real time -- hours, days -- to sleep and be useless. When the end hits, even if it's the best possible outcome, you are likely to be far more exhausted than you realize while you're hyped and ready to do whatever it takes to get your person through the crisis. Yes, you might need to call in sick after taking time off for this crisis. It's easy to underestimate how much this can take out of you. Plan for it and you might need less of it. Tough it out and you might need more.

This is hard work, having a person in the hospital. You can tell yourself that others have it far worse, that at least your person is still breathing, that we are all lucky to have medical care-- and all that might be true, but this is still hard work. Just because you're not the one running around in scrubs or the one lying there in the bed doesn't mean you aren't doing real, hard work. You are.

Awesome!

2010-07-19T11:09:00.000-07:00

I remember when "awesome" began standing in for "that's nice" in casual conversation. My friends and I would use it to mock the verbal trends, along with "tubular!" and "gag me with a spoon!"

Awesome!

Dig it, man!

That was some many years ago. Listen, kids, the awesome thing? It's gotten old. Move on. Seriously.

So I'm on a boat (no, really) and I'm talking to this guy named Travis. Travis is in his 30s and of an age to have been exposed to "awesome" as a simple conversational device growing up. He's sharp, well spoken, and generally has an adult demeanor. (Mostly. We're on a boat, after all).

So we're chatting about this and that and the a-word pops out of his mouth. I pause, because (in case you forgot) we're on a boat, and when nothing urgent is happening on a boat, you're busy chatting, pausing, and sucking down beer. I'm in the pausing phase.

I say, "Listen, Travis, what happens if something truly awesome happens to you? What if--" I look around at clear blue sky and squint against brilliant sun, "what if God Itself comes down from the Heavens and says--" Here I drop my voice, to make it sound ponderous and, you know, god-like. "Traaaaviiiissss!"

I have his attention now.

"What," I ask, infusing my voice with as much gravitas as I can summon, "are you going to say?"

I've asked this question before of people Travis' age and younger while trying to keep the peevedness out of my tone, because, I admit, it does peeve me; watering down superlatives is bad for words everywhere. They generally answer, "well, I guess I'd say 'really awesome!' or 'wow!'".

"Double-plus awesome", maybe? Or they look at me uncomprehendingly. Yeah, I get that look a lot. I'm getting used to it.

But Travis is a cut above and clever as well, and we're on a boat, where thoughts sometimes come clear in surprising ways. I'm hoping he'll say something I haven't heard before.

"Nothing," He replies. "There are no more words."

I am delighted. I grin back. He's got that right. Use up all your superlatives, and you're left with nothing. Silence.

Which, now that I think about it, isn't such a bad thing. I'm on a boat, the day is clear and warm, the beer is flowing, the company is good.

Silence. Companionable silence, thoughtful silence, intriguing silence. Given the words that often come out of people's mouths, I find I'm coming to like silence a lot. It's great. It's fine.

It's awesome.

Some thoughts on a horse

2010-07-04T12:52:00.000-07:00

And what is it that makes this commercial so -- tasty? Most assuredly nom nom. I had to watch it twice and then again to try to sort it out in my head. Not my head, you say? Too distracted to argue that. It's not that he's -- well, yes, it is that he's gorgeous and his voice is like unfiltered pheromone-laced honey.

Nice. Real nice. Better watch it again.

This is what happens when commercialism, sex and art collide: a man on a horse who has my attention. So they made another, worth watching if you like the first, here.

So I watch again. How many times do I need to watch this before I'm tired of this guy?

Surreal? You betcha. Gorgeous? Oh yeah.

Eleven million views. Impressive for a commercial.

Think there's room on that horse for me?

Use of Force

2010-06-27T23:27:00.000-07:00

Today was tons of fun. We met in a grimy tavern in a grimy part of town, most of us martial artists for a decade or more, for a self-defense seminar taught by the pretty darned impressive Rory Miller, a man I consider one of my best fighting arts teachers.

We practiced what techniques we knew, and then practiced some things we thought we knew, like power generation, which we now know better. We did scenario fights with weapons and cars and and padded attackers, and after each one discussed how we'd justify use of force. Say you actually do hurt someone in self-defense, how do you explain what you did to a judge or a jury? You have to understand legal issues of force and self-defense. You have to think.

The range of experience in the room was impressive and a delight to work with, but for me the great part was watching myself and those around me think in new ways about self defense.

Too many martial arts schools are clean, well-lit studios that teach that self-defense is about a bad guy attacking and you defending, and it's that simple. But in the real(er) world, there are chairs and tables, stuff on the floor, coolers with handles. There is your kid in the back seat of your car. There are guys with egos who won't back down, and there are innocent bystanders, and in the thick of it, you can't always tell the difference.

And there are many, many times when the best thing to do is to walk away.

What, Miller asks us in each scenario, is your goal? What do you want? As much fun as thumping on each other is to us fighting arts geeks, what most of us want is to go home in one piece, not to engage in violence. To study safety in the midst of danger and go home unharmed, to look at this subject after decades of training and learn new things -- wow.

I had a blast.

"This should not happen!"

2010-06-25T14:44:00.000-07:00

Just today a friend reported this message as output from a large software system. Any code base of sufficient size will include a variation of this statement, often as debugging output. Why? Because the programmer can clearly see that the possible path in question should not happen. Because he or she can look at and see that you just can't get there from here.

But you can. You very much can.

It makes me laugh and it makes me quite nostalgic, because with some minor rewording, this was the very first output message that my first program spat out at me. There I was, running my first ever code (PLM, since you asked) and suddenly I'm trying to hide the whole thing and blushing as well, because, you see, in those days the output went to a printer, not a console, and it was loud. The same message, over and over, saying, in effect, "programmer looses."

Of course, it's not just us programmers who say this sort of thing. All of us have asserted, at one time or another, that something could not possibly be, that an event's occurrence was -- inconceivable.

"That word. I don't think it means what you think it means..."

It doesn't. And it's not. And you can, indeed, get there from here.

And what does this tell us? Perhaps that we don't understand cause and effect anywhere near as well as we think we do, even (and perhaps especially) those of us with more than our share of smarts.

Me? No way!

2010-06-23T19:49:00.000-07:00

I did my first Toastmaster's speech today, and it was recorded, so I watched it. Sure, I've been recorded before. Tons of times.

No, now that I think about it, not really very much. A bit here and there, some of the dancing, but not really much in the way of presentations.

As I watched I realized with growing astonishmen that I'm actually a pretty good speaker. At least this time I was. Funny, clear, charming. Adorable.

Adorable?

I don't think of myself as adorable. Me, adorable?

I watched it again, just to be sure. Yep, that woman there, talking about tango and love, she's - adorable. No two ways about it.

Me, adorable! Who would have thought?

One-one

2010-06-13T19:30:00.000-07:00

So I bought a bike the other day. Test rode it and discovered to my annoyance (but, alas, not my surprise) that my bike-riding condition is not what I imagined it to be. Man, this stuff is hard. I'm assured by men with big smiles that it'll get easier with time.

When I bought my first bike, it had ten speeds on one side, and two on the other, and I was very confused but pretended to know what I was doing. Now I'm mature enough to not need to pretend any more.

"So one is the easiest?"

"Yep."

"And if I'm going up a steep hill and it's too hard for me, one ought to do it?"

"Yep."

"And for the other thingie on the other side, one again?"

"Yep."

"And what if that's still too hard?"

He didn't seem to have an answer for that. Turns out the answer is you walk the bike, and for someone who's walked a 90 pound occasionally resistant dog, walking a thing with wheels and no resistance is no big deal, no matter how steep the hill.

And mostly, I did ride. One-one a lot of the time, but ride I did.

The Magic of the Dance

2010-06-10T15:17:00.000-07:00

The amazing thing about this dance is what's unspoken: you're talking to someone without words. As you become a better speaker, as you find people who you can talk with more easily and often, and now and then profoundly, the conversation gets more intense, more delicate.

Think about this for a moment: what sorts of conversations do you have with people without words?

So when it works, when two people somehow make this dance work, this non-verbal communication of some fair subtlety, well. Those are some fine moments. They can be very affecting. Intimate.

Tonight I met a stranger, and with barely two words spoken between us, we stepped onto the floor and we danced. From the first movement I knew it was something special. Uncommonly smooth, slow. Velvety. As the music gathered itself and leapt, luxuriated, and wound around, I remembered why I do this insanely hard dance, with all its frustrations and agonies. For a few dances, I felt the grace and rightness of the world. It was a bit like being in love.

But this fellow who was a stranger before we danced and was something else after was no more to be held onto than a rainbow. So we exchanged a smile, a thank-you, and we both went on to our next partners. That's how it goes. The moments are what you get.

And for a few glorious moments last night, it all came together. For a few moments last night, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, and I Danced.

That Oil Spill Thing

2010-06-02T19:39:00.000-07:00

How about that Oil Spill, eh? Sure is big.

Wow.

Yeah, I was angry. Outraged. Then I was incredulous. Then I was angry again. Pissed.

And then, somehow, I stopped thinking about it. At least until the news came on again, and then - angry, outraged, incredulous. Then I stopped thinking about it. Why?

It's just too big, and I'm just too small. My fantasies about stuffing BP execs down the hole to see if their big [egos / capatalist short-sighted stupidity / asses - pick your fave] might plug it notwithstanding, there's just nothing I can do.

Nothing I can do about what could be the biggest environmental disaster of our time. If I think about it, I'll feel - sick. Scared. Angry. Outraged.

Impotent.

http://xkcd.com/748/

Optimism

2010-05-21T13:51:00.000-07:00

I was charmed by this talk on optimism and programming languages (written version) by Reg Braithwaite. I also recently read "Learned Optimism" by Dr. Martin Seligman (which I'm not linking to because everyone links to Amazon, and hey, let's buy from our local bookstores instead, what say?) The talk is pretty long, but it's good, and if you're only interested in the optimism angle (and if you think optimism is dumb, as I used to, you should be), just read until he starts talking about code.

The Rosemary

2010-05-10T20:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Mother's Day, so I planted a garden. No, that's not why, but it seemed like a good day for it. And, yes, I did call my mother, thanks for asking! (Hi, Mom!)

You'll want to know what I planted, I suppose. I'm an old fashioned girl, raised on Simon and Garfunkel, so you know what I planted.

Except for the rosemary. No need.

There's a lot of rosemary in Seattle. And some of these bushes are nearly as big as trees. I have this feeling that if you have more than a square foot of dirt under your control and you don't have rosemary, you ought to be looking over your shoulder. Something about the way the rosemary looks at me as I walk by, I guess.

Rosemary doesn't mess around. It makes small, practical flowers. It puts out a powerful scent. It handles drought and water with equal aplomb. It's not invasive like mint or ivy - that would be, well, rude. But it's quite serious.

Actually, I wonder if maybe there's only one rosemary plant in this city. And the roots go way, way down.

Sure, take some sprigs as you walk by. No problem. The rosemary has plenty to spare. It's not afraid of you and your little fingers. It'll just make more.

I see rosemary, I nod respectfully.

Because I like to live indoors

2010-04-20T13:29:00.000-07:00

Bottom line: if you control a person's paycheck you affect their food and shelter, and when they get scared they will lie to you. It's that simple.

Managers in various walks of corporate life like to tell themselves a different story: if we work hard to gain employee trust, if we are good to our word, if we provide well-understood performance expectations, employees will have no reason to deceive us.

But it ain't so. Yes, you should do all that, but it won't fix this. This is not just about being good or not being evil, because when someone is scared, when they think their rent or mortgage or food supply is threatened - even if it's not true - they will do what they think they need to do to survive. These are really primitive fears. If you think you're not like that, imagine having to choose between telling an employer some unpleasant fact you can avoid telling them, and your child going hungry.

When we're afraid, we spin stories. We tint our explanations to what we think our listener wants to hear, so we can make whatever point we're trying to make. It's not a hard line, that line from slant to lie, not when you're using language, which is challenging enough already, and not when you're standing in front of a manager, wondering in one gut-wrenching awful moment if you're about to lose your job.

People are touchy about their paychecks, especially these days. Perfectly understandable. They figure it's maybe not a good time to cause trouble. When they're talking to the guy who controls the money, they consider every word they say.

So managers hear what employees think they want to hear. And when employees get scared, what managers hear can get real confusing.

Is there a way out of this mess? I think there is, but it means, at very least, restructuring corporate control, and that's a sticky wicket because those in corporate power positions are just as afraid as anyone else of losing what they have. Wealthy powerful executives and less wealthy less powerful middle managers get scared about food and shelter, too, even if they don't say it that way. Yeah, it's absurd, but this is about perception, not about facts. For the most part, humans don't act from observation of facts, but from fear. And we do, very much, like to live indoors.

If there's a way out of this mess, I want to find it. Better yet, I want to live it. I want to work in that corporation where people are not afraid of their managers, where when management says their job is about service, they mean it and employees believe it.

Yeah, it takes risk to get there. When I had control of the corporate reigns, I took those risks. I didn't take them all. I tried to straddle the line between what seemed possible and what seemed sensible. That edge is a scary place to play, especially when you've got responsibility for other people's food and shelter - not to mention your own. Because I like to live indoors, too.

Spring Thyme

2010-04-19T17:57:00.001-07:00

It must be the season of Spring

Ze flowers so brightly go zing!

Popping from treeses

Seducing - the teases!

Then it's over, like some kind of fling.

Quoting Me

2010-04-16T23:22:00.000-07:00

So I'm surfing the google sea, there looking for things I've written but forgotten about, and I come across this lovely quote from the webpage of an old acquaintance that I swear I don't remember writing, but does sound surprisingly like me, and what do you know, it's not bad:

Basic Flying Rules: Try to stay in the middle of the air. Do not go near the edges. The edges of the air can be recognized by the appearance of ground, buildings, sea, trees, and interstellar space. It is much more difficult to fly there.

Sounds like me, all right.

And this one, thoughtfully collected for me by someone I simply don't remember:

Dedication is not measured in suffering-units.

Which sounds very much like me. Flying, suffering - am I an expert on these things because I'm quotable? Sure, why not.

Enter Stage Left, Exit Stage Right

2010-04-14T11:32:00.000-07:00

About six years ago I lost someone. It wasn't death that took her, but misunderstanding and fear. I did everything I could to keep her, but I failed. So I cried, I lamented, I agonized. I railed at God. I went on.

That's how it goes: we lose love, someone dies, is destroyed, leaves. We object, agonize, lament, rail at God. Then - somehow - we go on. Sometimes the pain is so wretched, so unbearable, that it seems nearly certain we'll die from it. But mostly we don't. We keep breathing. We keep walking.

Recently I lost someone again. This one is more fresh, so of course it feels more poignant, as such things do. The loss is just as hard, just as wretched, and seems just as permanent.

But you know, nothing is all that permanent. It comes on stage left, exits stage right. Indeed it was this particular friend in whose company I came to a better understanding of this lack of permanence, of stage left and stage right. Nothing was the same for me after that.

Loss of a person has the feel of a freshly dug, freshly inhabited, freshly filled grave. You look at the dirt, you think about your love, and you marvel at - and abhor - the moments between the life and death of that love.

Now it's spring and renewal (and resurrection?) is in the air, so I'll tell you the good news: about four months ago, the first friend contacted me again, and we are gently, kindly, sweetly, talking again. Somehow the dead have risen. To my eyes, it is a miracle.

Enter stage left.

Blogging at The Store

2010-04-12T19:09:00.000-07:00

I was at the store (you know, The Store, that place that's quirky, friendly, and has lots of chocolate, which shall for my amusement remain nameless) and I met a sample server who we shall (again, for my amusement) call Sara. Now, Sara loves her job, loves her employer, and is having a great time chopping up small bits of biscuit and jam for all of us hovering around. Someone is telling her that she should start her own blog about how much she loves her job and how cool it is to serve people samples. So I take a photo for her nascent blog.

It turns out, though, that The Store does not I repeat *not* like their employees blogging about said store or any experience in said store, however love-filled they or it might be.

This got me thinking about companies and social media, as so many things do. There seems to be no middle ground. Either the company says "thou shalt not blog" or they say "go forth and blog!" The Store says don't. But other companies, including (but not limited to) the Nominal Evil Empire (nominal because there are other evil empires, including the one that says don't be, but this one has the cool logo) says "go and blog!" (They do, check it out.)

But hark: their instructions are something like "be careful, because if you mess up we will screw your ass to the floor so hard you won't remember what it ever felt like to stand up." Okay, I made up that last part, but you get the idea.

So what should corporations do about social media?

You know what fabulous cats and great tango dancers have in common? They make a graceful movement out of every misstep. Not the right direction? Got an oops? No problem. That's what I meant to do all along.

What corporations should do about social media: clear and simple guidelines and a really excellent cat. Guarantee employees no retaliation as long as they follow the guidelines, give them a reason to blog, and open the windows and let the light in. If someone stumbles, well, that's what you've got the cat, or spin-Meister for, to clear things up. Any corporation worried about having the windows opened has someone who can write that well on staff already. Just get them watching the social media output. (And imagine what they'll learn about their own company.)

In the end, a corporation's brand is its public image. It's Sara, standing there grinning, offering little samples of biscuits and jam, with people like me mulling around munching and chatting, feeling - for just a moment - like community, right there in the village market.

Hey, The Store: If Sara wants to blog about how cool it is to work for you, you should let her. Think of it as samples of transparency, the sort of thing that makes a company truly beloved.

Besides samples of food. Yum.

My stories, your skill, whataya say?

2010-04-09T16:55:00.000-07:00

So I get this email that begins:

"Your [sic] a published writer, I am not.. I have many Sci-Fi stories (raw) and was wondering if you would ever consider a collaboration of sorts, (ex: my stories-your skill, or any combo)"

I have to re-read it, pause, consider. Isn't this the classic writer joke? I look for signs of humor in the letter, find none.

So easy to answer, but so hard to answer well. If you want to be, say, kind and considerate, what do you say?

My friend Kate says it reads like a Nigerian scam. "Honored Ms. Lyris, I am in possession of some stories and would appreciate your help getting them to see the light of day..." Except, of course, her use of language is better than either the scam artists' (is it really art?) or my correspondent's.

So I answer straight, simple, respectful. Suggest he write his own stories. He writes back, grateful for my reply. Asks me to keep his offer in mind.

All rightie then.

Funny as in both

2010-04-06T20:45:00.000-07:00

I had to tell it aloud to see if it was, and it was. Both.

I get this call on the old area code, which is significant enough to pick up right away.

"Hello?"

A male voice I don't recognize. "This is Joe."

"Hello," I say.

There's a pause. "Is this -- " he rattles off my number, minus area code.

"It sure is," I say brightly.

Another pause.

"Ah, well. Misdialed. Sorry." Click.

It's been like that these days. Funny strange and funny ha-ha too. Like this, not quite believable. Too strange to be fiction. This time, though, worth the words. Even I was amused.

The Unexpected

2010-04-04T23:13:00.000-07:00

Amidst the storm and wind and cold and disintigrations, a minor miracle: she lets me cat-bathe her - appropriate, she being a cat - and doesn't run away. She even seems content. Purrs.

Endings. Beginnings. Surprise.

The Mustard

2010-03-31T19:37:00.000-07:00

So I'm on day three? Four? Of an unholy exhaustion backed by stunning headaches. The world is challenging, and by that I mean just walking from one room to the next, nevermind navigating the challenges of human agendas, re-evaluations, meetings, and word choices.

I drag myself to the store anyway because I need something. I'm not sure what exactly, but it's important so I wander the aisles, sure I'll remember if I see it. So I get some cheese (because, you know, my life is cheese) and some plastic bags (becasue, you know, uhm) and somehow I'm standing there in front of a display of mustards and this one looks pretty good, and I can't remember if we have mustard or not, and it's all sort of hard you know, and there we are, I'm stuck.

Stuck trying to decide if I should buy this mustard. Long moments go by, and yes, I realize I'm stuck, and that it's not a good use of my time and I'm not really having that much fun, but if I walk away without a decision, I'll have really wasted my time, and besides, hell - do we need mustard?

Desperate, I channel the lizard. Says he: "so, is it worth three dollars and sixty nine cents to stop wondering about whether to buy the mustard?" I consider that and then I nod. "Okay," he says. "Then buy the damned mustard." A decision! I take the bottle and slog to the checkout, happy to spend three dollars and sixty nine cents to get free.

And - bonus! - we now have mustard.

It goes like this

2010-03-28T22:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we cleaned the old place. I found old dreams floating in the air by the windows and caught up high against the wall in the corners. I took a beat up sponge and wet it down with some simple green and I wiped them up. I rinsed the sponge under some very hot water, and rung it out. The scalding felt good on my hands. Cleansing. I did it again and again, until the place was cleaner than I found it, all those dreams ago.

Landed

2010-03-26T21:52:00.000-07:00

As my friend Ivy reminds me, every place you live has something to complain about and something to delight in. And here? It feels peaceful, quiet, sufficient. Perhaps that's just the contrast, but who can say, late, late on moving day, with tired and aching head? The cats like it, and they are, after all, my little rulers, my little tyrants. When the cats are happy, so goes the neighborhood. The air is fresh, all my stuff is correctly held to floor with gravity, and for the moment I'm content.

This Too Shall Pass

2010-03-24T11:28:00.000-07:00

I have grown attached to this place. I ache at this leaving. I love waking to see the trees out the great expanse of my windows. I even like being woken up in the middle of the night by the full moon in my face.

Yes, there's the road noise, which I thought would bother me more, but I learned to tune that out while still being in love with the green outside.

But it's not mine. I leave because it's not mine. Even if I owned the house, it wouldn't really truly be mine, it would just be - less someone else's. Maybe I wouldn't have to move if it were mine, but I would also have to take on all the responsibilities of ownership, costly responsibilities that I know too well, that I can't now afford. If I owned it. Which I don't.

It's so easy for me to think of the place I live as somehow defining me. But we own so little, really. Not even our bodies, which maybe we have on indeterminate lease, but surely don't own. And if we don't own those, we sure don't own our houses, no matter what the laws like to say.

And so I pack the last of the boxes in full view of the cats who watch curiously, ignorant of how this will soon ruin their world, their ownership. I can remember them howling in the car during the last move and for hours during the move before that, furious feline outrage at this intolerable upset.

I understand. I want to howl, too.