Can there be justice for Boston?

I was going to post about badly behaved people, but then someone decided to blow up what was supposed to be a life-affirming expression of human endurance and accomplishment.

Unfortunately it's very likely that whoever perpetrated this is enjoying the media exposure, indifferent to or excited by the anger and grief, and is perhaps comparing the tally to other monsters who do this sort of thing.

It's become popular over the years to place motivations, histories, abuses and justifications upon individuals and groups who do this sort of thing. They've been downtrodden/poorly socialized/minimized/suffer from mental illness, etc. Some of that is valid, but most of the time the people who are doing the analysis are trying to make sense in terms of what they would do and what would drive them to do something like this.

I find it strange that often the very people who wish to embrace diversity are very resistant to the idea of diversity of emotional capacity, mental makeup, and diversity in not only intelligence in general but types of intelligence. They may be comfortable saying, well, so and so has trouble reading, but they're really good with their hands, but would be uncomfortable with saying this person has no compassion and is really good at torturing people emotionally and physically. The lack of redeeming quality becomes too judgmental, I guess, and makes them feel bad for not seeing the bright or positive side of grim or negative people. Yet we all have met, if not intimately know, people with no regard for anyone except themselves and view the world as either an irritation or a playground in which to do whatever they want without consideration for consequences other than which impede their play.

As much as I appreciate our legal system, often they give what certain sorts of people crave, so if the bomber(s) are ever brought to justice, they will be most pleased, I believe, to receive as much condemnation from the public as possible. After all, the goal is most likely to make as much of a splash as possible in an effort to either outdo or pay homage to similar sorts. And until they get caught, they get to collect magazine and news articles, and watch the drama unfold on television and radio along with the rest of us. Maybe they're gleeful, or maybe they're keeping some sort of tally, attempting to be the best (worst) of their kind.

It may be that whoever did this is what we might politely term deeply disturbed. But regardless of the reasons we may try to place into the background and psyche of a bomber, or rapist, or pedophile, ultimately, it does not change them, or help us. What it often does, unfortunately, is give them legal, moral and ethical weasel room to extend the pleasure that their act gave them.

And Boston suffers like any victim of a crime, wondering how justice can ever be done.

Happy Sad Dreams

I'm at Papa's Ice Cream & Deli, having a yummy sandwich with my DH and the girl, who just passed her final exam at driving school.  Soon now, she'll have enough practice to try for her driver's license.  I'll warn y'all if she gets it.

Still no sign of Carey.  I sometimes (often, actually) dream about our animals after they've gone missing or died.  In the dream she came home in through the dog yard.  For a few minutes I was completely, ecstatically happy.  I wanted to run and tell the girl, but first I had to pet her and pick her up and tell her what a good kitty she was.  Then, of course, I woke up.  The dogs were barking, so I went out in a robe and slippers and looked around just in case.  No cats, no coyotes, no raccoons, no deer.  The dogs calmed down after I went out.  I think the fog, which was pretty thick and smelled like dry dust, kind of freaked them out and my going out and looking around reassured them.  Or maybe they thought they were all in trouble.  Maybe both.

I spent a few hours typing on a book and then went back to bed.  Today is going to be a loooong day, with maybe five non-consecutive hours of sleep.  I feel okay now.  I'm dreading the carb crash later ....

Carey

The beloved Fluff, Carey, is missing.  We're looking but we don't have as much hope as I'd like to have.  Between the weasel and the huge number of coyotes (more than I've ever heard since we've moved here) ... yeah.  She's not on the side of the road.  We called our local veterinarians to see if anyone brought in an injured cat matching her description.  Today we'll go to the shelters with 8 1/2x11 pictures of her.  I miss her very, very much.  While eating fried chicken, her favorite, I wanted nothing more than to see her waiting patiently by my feet, expecting her share.  The other cats don't mooch for food, so it felt like I was eating dinner alone.  I had a terrible, empty feeling that my daughter (Carey is her cat) felt the same emptiness, though we sat in the same room together.

The other kitties are being forced to stay indoors much more.  They were out for only a few short hours yesterday.  The whining and wheedling first thing in the morning was amazing to behold.  They expect to be let out before we do anything else--before going to the bathroom, breakfast, coffee--preferably before we're awake enough to do anything except stumble to the sliding door and open it.  They'll get used to it, eventually, I think.

The other thing I miss is seeing Carey on the driveway, watching Chase race the cars driving by.  If it was a coyote, that's probably where he grabbed her.  She never goes out of sight of the house except to go next door to our down-the-hill neighbors, where I suspect she has a kitty friend.  Our neighbor takes in strays too.  He was the first one we talked to when she went missing, to see if she might not be there.

Living in a rural area is wonderful, except ...

Of course, in town, there's the traffic issue, and stray dogs, and raccoons, and people using rat poison ...

The world isn't a safe place.  I won't lock up all our animals 24/7 to keep them safer.  Might as well keep our chickens in tiny cages and the goats locked up under artificial lights, etc.  If I could go back and do things over, I wonder if it might not have been better to keep Carey an indoor cat.  She's a long-haired kitty and they do better indoors full time anyway.  But she loved to sit on the driveway, and sleep on the deck, and walk out to the barn and to the veggie garden while we did our chores.  I wonder why she's the one that's missing, when the other kitties go so much farther afield and don't spend as much time close to us when we're out.  Just one of those things, I guess.

Veronica, aka the Poop, sleeps where Carey used to sleep inside the house.  She's been crying by the sliding door most of the night the past few nights.  It's hard to say if she wants us to help her look for Carey, or just wants out.

There's a chance, of course, but hope is fading fast.

Carey with her best friend, Veronica

ElizabethandMark

There used to be a wonderful couple living in Portland within easy driving distance of us. Back then our kids were small, and our German shepherd, Nikita, was still a young lady. I remember the first time I visited their home. So full of character, and so full of art. Like the couple. Elizabeth and I talked about wallpaper. My DH and I mingled with a whole lot of people a lot smarter than us. Fantastic food, warmth, smiles all around. And we had a great time, as we did whenever we got a chance to hang out with them.

I think part of the reason we got along with them so well is because they were a strong couple. Mark and Elizabeth. My DH and me. A lot of people talk about my DH and me the same way so many people talk about Mark and Elizabeth, with the names run together. MarkandElizabeth. ElizabethandMark. They held hands. They stood shoulder to shoulder. When they weren't in the same room, they still seemed to draw from each other. Their wedding was a kick. I cheered.

As the years passed we got fewer and fewer chances to get together, but every time we met we sort of picked up where we left off. A few minutes of catch-up and we were the paired friends that got along for every reason and no reason at all. I admired them so much.

Mark passed away the other day and I felt a shatter-shock as if a world made of a perfect diamond had cracked.

And now it's Elizabeth. Elizabeth and the memory. He's right there but we can't touch him. From here I can see them together, but when I see Elizabeth again he won't be there. How does a person recover when they lose half their body? The answer is, they don't, but they just do ....

She's strong and loved and wonderful and beautiful and there was an Elizabeth before a Mark. Now there will be an Elizabeth after Mark. The diamond cracked and reflects light--blinding rainbows, soft glows. I have so many wishes for her. So many wishes. Blessings upon blessings for Elizabeth.

After

Sometimes I think about lonely things, especially after someone dies. After Lucky died, along with the sadness and loss I also felt relief for his sake, because dying of kidney failure was no fun. Now that the grief has settled I've had lonelier thoughts. If we really have souls, we're separated from the living. Is his soul afraid? Needing contact? Is there danger? Is there anyone or anything that cares for souls like his?

Sometimes it's not the greatest thing to be introspective. I wrote about stuff like this in a book that hasn't seen the light of day. Maybe it's time to start working on it again (in my copious spare time, of course.)

Don't Lose Time

I have a very good friend who sometimes talks about how people wasting his time is a form of murder. Our time is limited. From our perspectives we usually aren't aware of it because we seem to have so much of it.

I didn't always have that feeling of 'almost forever', though. I remember having this fear that the world would end at the end of 1999. That feeling was so strong that even though I doubted anything would happen, I shivered more than once as the year 2000 approached. I had calculated what age I'd be in 2000, and promised myself that I would do everything I wanted to before then so that I'd have no regrets.

I was only 12 years old, but I think I was wiser in that respect than I am now.

Our beloved Lucky, the epileptic black kitty, passed away from kidney failure the day before yesterday. He had about a decade of life. In that time it seemed that he sensed that there simply wasn't enough love in the world, and he craved it more than anything. Epileptics sometimes report a strong sense of impending death just before they black out into their seizure. I think he had that feeling too. He had a seizure just before he died, and I wonder if he thought damn, I've been down this road so many times ....

I had snapped awake about 5:30 am knowing something was wrong. I found him on the floor. Somehow he'd crawled out of the bed we'd made for him. From that point on he got constant love, the thing he wanted, the thing he desired above all other things throughout life. My DH and I took turns holding him in our laps. We gave him what we could, and as he'd always known, it still wouldn't be enough. But it was all the time he had to get attention from us. Death clicked the stopwatch and the race was over.

None of us have enough time to do everything. For Lucky, he didn't want everything. Just one thing. I think that focus gave him the kind of life he wanted.

Do you have one thing more important than the others? Lucky would, if he could, suggest that you pursue that one thing. And if there isn't one thing for human beings, maybe there's at least a concept like I had when I was a child of living life and accomplishing a certain amount in the time that we have. If you had only a decade from now, what would you want to accomplish before then? Chances are if you're reading this, you've already had more than Lucky. Have you used your time wisely, as he did?

Fire and Gunfire and Smoke

All morning I've heard reports and rumors and everything else about a fire and gunshots just a few blocks from my workplace. It's sobering, standing at my station, watching to see if something drastically changes, listening to gunfire.

And weirdly, I could see getting used to it. Not liking it, but figuring I have to eat, I have to shop, I have to work ... and going to work while blocks away people are shooting at each other, be it armies, religious sects, gangs, whatever. What if there's nowhere you can move to? People are struggling everywhere to make house payments or rent, looking for work--if your neighborhood exploded with violence, could you move? Would you?

Because I won't. Obviously I have the fair assurance that this won't happen again, and that after today it's unlikely that I'll hear gunfire and see plumes of smoke and flames and police, or worry about a crazy man somehow sneaking through a cordon and coming into my workplace. But even if I did think this would happen again, would I move? Would I leave work, with little assurance of finding another job ... and where would I go where this couldn't happen?

Because it could happen anywhere. Today it's happening here.

Weird how normal my day is. Weird how I'm having lunch at my second favorite place to have lunch because the first one is closed for everyone's safety. Or maybe not so weird. It's here today, and it'll be somewhere else in the world, maybe several somewhere else's, tomorrow.

I just hope that the wife and sister are okay. The man ... he's in charge. He'll be okay if he wants to be, and apparently he doesn't want to be. Today he wants fire and gunfire and smoke.

I Stretch My Arms and Reach This Far

My great aunt passed away.

There's so much I want to say, and all of it feels inadequate.  More than most people, my Teta Maria was a complicated woman with a rich history.  I didn't expect to lose her so soon.  She'd had health problems for a while, most recently an amputation, but she seemed to be doing well ....

I have some wonderful pictures of her while she recovered in the hospital from her surgery.  I'd ordered the girl's graduation photos and had planned to send them to her, along with our most recent family photos (and pictures of the animals--she was always a fan, especially of cats.)  For a while I was angry that they hadn't arrived in time for me to send her a photo album (she didn't use computers,) and then I realized it didn't matter.  After we die we miss so much, but what we miss isn't important so much as what we do, and what we experience in our lives.  She didn't miss the birth of my children, and she got to spend time with them.  She didn't miss my childhood or my sister's--in fact she got to experience a lot more of that than most great-aunts do.  She traveled the world.  She did charity work alongside Shirley Temple Black, and went to state functions in Europe.  She survived a war, and married an amazing and complicated man who I adored and who I still miss very much.  And people loved her.

Her life was too short, but longer than many.  We stretch our arms as far as we can, but they only reach so far ....  I'll miss her, and my children won't really know what they're missing without her in their lives, but that's the way time works.  It goes forward with or without us, and we can't go back.  I'm blessed that I got to spend time with her during her span.

I hope you're safe with Strejda and everyone you've loved who has gone on ahead on the Long Road, my Teta.  Your angel baby loves and misses you so much.  She wishes she could hug and kiss you again, and show you how wonderful life is in part because you were in her life.

Blessed be.  May we meet again.

Medicine

A lot has happened in the past week, and some of it has been terrible stuff.

I hate to write about it because I don't want to attract sympathy, and I certainly don't want to cause my family additional pain.  But I think I need to write about one of the things because it might save someone some pain and agony.

A relative of mine passed away suddenly.  She'd written off doctors a long time ago ...  

I'm so sad for her family and closest friends.  And I fear there are thousands of people out there who are going to die from treatable, even preventable illnesses because they have a thing against regular doctors.  There are so many people who have no choice at all, and wish they had access to a medical doctor.  It might seem like madness to them to reject water from a pump when you're dying of thirst because you refuse to drink from anything other than a stream.

I have to be okay with it, though.  People have to make their own choices, and it may be that my aunt was willing to die this way rather than see a doctor.  I have to honor that choice, because it is her choice, and I wouldn't want to take that away from anyone.  In the end it was her body to do with as she wished to do.

Having said that ....

I'm well aware of a doctor's limitations, and the dangers of going to a hospital.  You can come out more ill than what you came in with.  I don't think going to the doctor should be done frequently, or lightly.  On the other hand I think it's foolish to refuse things like antibiotics or blood pressure medication or insulin when it might save your life, and it seems very strange to me to take these things without a prescription on your own by borrowing someone else's medicine or getting it on the black market or making it from scratch on your own, as if that makes it better.  

I believe that real naturopathic medicine can be extremely effective, but it's not the only way, or even the best way in a given circumstance.  And I believe that there's a lot of misinformation and delusion in regard to naturopathic medicine out there.  There are bad doctors too, I know.  But clearly, avoiding all doctors to avoid the bad ones is not a path toward superior health.

I hope my aunt lived happily and well and fully, and my heart is with her immediate family.  They all did what they thought was best, and I refuse to point fingers and blame and be angry.  This isn't about me anyway.

What I don't want to see are people convinced that their chosen alternative form of medicine is the only and best option, and that things would have come out far worse if they'd seen a doctor.  If they choose to limit themselves, I hope they do so accepting the fact that it is a limitation in some situations.  Limits can be good, and honestly we're all going to die anyway, so I'd just soon people live the way they want--as long as it really is a choice, and not delusion.  Because, we all know deep down, that living naturally doesn't make us immortal, or better, or cleaner.  And a long, healthy life isn't truly natural.  It's a combination of luck, and resources, and wisdom, and genetics, and ... medicine.

I urge everyone to make these choices in an informed way, and to really study all aspects of their health and well-being from a variety of sources.  Health is one of those incredibly valuable things that many people take for granted, and not always in the way that you'd think.  Ill health can be taken for granted just as easily as good health.  Health is not obvious, or automatic ... it's a gift.  May it be yours to hold and keep as long as possible.

Good Friends Gone

These weren't the pics I originally planned on posting.  I've been going through my pics and I found these.  I'd forgotten that I took them.  The top one is of our beloved Nikita and goofball Beast, and the lower one is of our sweet girl Dakota who passed away so recently.

Good days, gone but not forgotten.

The Other Side of the Hill

Just so you all know ...

Dakota, our Irish wolfhound/lab mix (a 'mini' wolfhound at 75 pounds) is very ill.  Mainly, it's old age.  Arthritis is kicking her butt, and her incontinence is getting worse.  Also, something is messing up her digestive system.  She's gotten sick a few times (even before we switched meds to try to help her) and things are not good at the other end either.  

For now we're waiting and hoping that the new medication will help her.  If not ... her quality of life has plummeted.  She can still walk on level surfaces, but she needs big time help on the stairs, often wets herself in bed, and needs a hose-down bath every day, which she hates, because she can't squat even when she makes it outside.  She just sits in the muck and ... yeah.  If that was all, I'd just deal for an indefinite period of time, but she's having more and more trouble getting comfortable.  She gets up and wanders and tries to lay down and gets up again, stress-panting.  Unfortunately it's impossible to ask her what her pain level is like.  Fortunately, once she does settle she seems to sleep very deeply and peacefully, so I'm guessing/hoping that it's low enough still that she can get good rest and isn't in continuous pain.  From what I can gather, it's very bad after she's gone outside, and then eases up enough after about a half hour to an hour that she can settle and relax.  As long as she can get good rest for the majority of the day and isn't actively complaining with whining or crying (though I wonder if she ever will) or reeling with severe pain, I'd rather wait than act too soon.

It's so hard to judge these things.

The girl adopted Dakota when Dakota was already eleven years old.  Adopting a geriatric dog has been a wonderful experience so far, and I would highly recommend it.  From the very beginning, Dakota has been loyal, sweet, obedient, and very well-heeled.  We never had to go through the chewy, messy, rowdy, destructive (although cute and yes, I love puppy breath too) puppy stage with her.  I hope Dakota will be with us a while longer, but at this point it's not looking very good.  We still have some good times of the day, but those are getting shorter.

Your Police Force and You

I had an interesting discussion with a coworker of mine yesterday that got me thinking.

I believe that high school children should be taught:

About arrest and powers of arrest--not just mentioned, but they should be tested on it.

About rights and responsibilities while communicating with police officers--everything from a meeting them on the street to arrest.  Not just Miranda rights stuff, but practical advice and steps they can take to avoid injury and legal issues.

About police work, especially things like duty-to-act, use of force, and securing an area that may not be intuitively obvious, and will affect what will happen to you when police are on the scene.

And especially about personal safety when in a situation where there are police officers called to the scene.

I don't care about creating obedient little citizens who do everything a police officer says.  I don't think anyone wants that.  But I do care about people understanding enough about what police work is about to handle themselves--not just from the rights/responsibility standpoint, but safety.  I don't expect the classes to teach how to be safe in every situation where a uniform appears, but a few added percentage points on the grand scale of survivability would be nice.  After all, we're not perfectly safe from predatory humans, or car accidents--but self-defense awareness and defensive driving will give you an edge.

This is in response to an article about a man who was shot by police.  Regardless of whether this is deemed a 'good shoot' or not or whether he believed the officer was a bad guy disguised as a policeman or not ... the man is dead.

 I want my kids, and all kids, to have all the information they need to make an informed choice.  Maybe they will make the same choices, and be at risk from the people sworn to protect them, even die because of bad policing or because a bad guy impersonated a police officer.  But I want them to have choices--real choices, options, knowledge, and an understanding of the consequences of the choices they make.  I don't want them to die at the hands of a good police officer simply because they didn't understand how policing works, or chose to believe in a fantasy where all cops are bad ...

Which reminds me of an aside.  There are people who seem to believe that they have unlimited rights on their own property, including using a gun to warn off a police officer who is trespassing on their property.  (I'm not saying that this is what happened, though many commentators seem convinced that the pastor had every right to carry and even draw a gun on a police officer because he was on his property.)  Of course we don't have unlimited rights on our own property.  Child abuse, spousal abuse, kidnapping, rape, torture ...   We don't have the right to do anything we want in our own homes, and police have to be able to deal with investigating disturbances somehow while infringing on as few rights as possible.  That interplay is not as simple as some people would want you to believe.  They may not understand, or not want to understand why situations like this aren't easy to judge, even if we knew exactly what happened.  I don't believe anyone, including the officer involved, knows (and no one may ever know) what went wrong.  

Anyway, it's not too hard to understand why education is so crucial.  When someone collapses in cardiac arrest, are you more likely to be able to perform CPR when you've already learned how to do it, or, not knowing CPR, will you be able to do it while the 911 dispatcher tries to explain it to you on speakerphone?  It's not rocket science, but ...

When you're scared or angry, you usually can't choose, or learn, or even think very well.  You react.  The best thing to do is to have your choices already made--to know in advance what to do.  Hopefully, when the adrenaline is flowing, and all you can hear is the rushing in your ears, you'll remember your class lessons.

When you're pulled over for a traffic stop, do you:

A. Get your driver's license and registration out.

B. Get out of the car and approach the officer.

C. Get out your gun or other weapons so that they're in plain sight.  Be sure to wave them around so the officer sees them, and refuse to cooperate until you see an official badge and picture ID.

D. All of the above ...

Oops

The boy kicked out a line and broke our modem. I won't be posting much until our specially-ordered dial-up modem comes in.

Now why in the world wouldn't stores carry modems anymore? It's not like they were used in the stone ages or something.

Oh wait, yes they were.

I wonder how many people still use them. I'm guessing three, besides us.

Frank Frazetta

I'm one of those people who usually reads about someone famously talented who passed away with a sense of 'that's a shame' or 'what a loss' but who never really could say that the person was a huge influence on my life.

That changed today when I learned that Frank Frazetta passed about a month ago.

The art world has lost a master artist.

Frank Frazetta was a huge influence on my art.

Early on I was impressed by realism (much to my father's dismay.) I tried to make my work look like a photograph. I had some success, and gained a little notoriety in my high school, but except for the satisfaction I got from making something unreal look really really real (like a female body builder who was pale-white on one side and dark-skinned on the other, or the young blue woman with steel gray hair) I felt like something was missing.

I discovered what was missing when I discovered Frank Frazetta's work. Passion. Motion. Fire. Unchained emotion.

He led me away from art-as-photography (I have nothing against it--I'm blown away when I see it and I highly respect people who can work creatively within those styles) and expanded my horizons into the realm of art-as-expression. I stopped feeling closed-in and pressured to work on the details of realism to the exclusion of all else and started feeling alive and creative when I worked. Now I render realistically only when it serves the emotion, rather than losing the emotion as I try to force realism.

For me, realism had become a crutch, a constantly inbreeding goal that served only to reproduce what I could see. I didn't think I could ever render that which I couldn't see. It seemed out of reach, an impossible goal. For me, it would have been, at least by the route I was taking. Frazetta took me by the hand and said stop copying the still life, and the photo, and look inside yourself first. Imagine ... and then paint.

Thank you, Mr. Frazetta, for sharing your gift, for your infamous generosity, and for your artistic vision. You changed my life, and the lives of thousands of other artists around the world without having to say a word.

You showed us better ways to dream.

Rest in Peace.

Signing off, sadly

Last post before I head off to Kris and Dean's master's class on the coast.  This is not the departure I thought I'd have.  Brian is still not home.  Going to the shelter and stopping by local vets with fliers hit me again and again with the fact that an animal I love is missing, possibly hurt, possibly worse, maybe hypothermic and lost and scared and there's not a damned thing I can do about it.

The rest of the family will be on the lookout while I'm away.  Who knows?  He might turn up overnight, or tomorrow morning.  Every passing moment is another moment that Brian might find his way back to us.  

Adding to my grim feelings is a dream I had of Brian coming home.  I had similar dreams for every pet that's left this world.

This blog will be silent (or whispery at best) until October 18th.  I should have some interesting writing-related blogs when I get back.

Food for Thought

I don't want to eat.  

I don't want to sound like a whiny baby, but I try to be honest on my blog and this is honest.  I was in a car accident yesterday.  I bumped my head.  I'm fine, and my doc and the EMTs checked me out--my health is okay except a little bruise and low blood pressure that's making me light-headed, medical is all taken care of, insurance guys are on the case with the car.  But the red car is totaled.  And it was a newish car, so we still owe a lot on it and its gone just like that.  

I had my cry.  All done with that.  But now comes the staring part, the unsure what to do part, and nothing in the fridge or freezer looks good.  I feel like I've been on the phone for days.  Weird things make me smile.  The idea of a purple PT Cruiser with paisley decals parked in the driveway and my DH's "you didn't" expression, and then me saying just kidding--waving a wand and it vanishes like smoke.  Walking on the shore of the Columbia River, playing with the dogs, the whole family together, sandy toes, artful smears of river mud on our faces.  Watching swallows from the deck (I actually did that for a while today--there's a couple dozen out there right now.)  Imagining the red car is fine, still in the driveway, and that I can just drive it down into town and pick up a prescription if I want.  A magic cloud with a voice like a violin drifting down and with three words making the repairs on the car of death (called that because a mouse died in the ventilation system and stank there forever) a tenth of the quote I got today.  Thinking about fixing up the No-Go and driving it again.  Starting a new job.  Being at the writer's class on the coast.  Picking up my DH at the airport and everything is done, all good, nothing to see here citizen.

I'm going to make myself eat something.  I don't know what.  Something with protein.  I'm just so tired.  Beaten.  Some things aren't covered by insurance.  We'll be paying for a car that doesn't exist.  I can't fix this.  I just have to do the best I can.  I have all kinds of plans.  Maybe tomorrow I can make some of them into reality, but for now, I think I should have some fish and veggies and drink lots of water and maybe write about someone who has way worse problems than me, and a lot more resilience. 

To Jay with Love

Back to Ireland soon, but first, I would like all the folks out there who know Jay Lake to send healing thoughts his way.  Jay received bad news regarding his cancer.  He faces what many people in America face silently, privately, for many reasons including not wanting their friends to treat them like the walking dead (or to avoid them for fear of being uncomfortable or saying the wrong thing.)  

The very sick are often isolated.  Jay has chosen to be public about his illness, hoping to teach us one aspect of what we as a society once knew when we had our loved ones with us through all stages of life.  I see it with births too, not just serious illness and death where people spend endless hours in hospital beds behind white curtains.  

I'm not any smarter in this regard than anyone else.  I want to learn how to relate to people better.

Jay often posts that if love could heal, he'd be the healthiest SOB in the world.  I hope knowing he's supported and loved will help.  I believe it can, maybe in surprising ways, but certainly in the obvious ones.  Fighting cancer takes willpower, courage, and every last shred of energy a person has (and some they don't.)  Family, friends and community are essential to keep going.  Think of a sporting event you've participated in.  Ever had a teammate urge you on?  Come on, just a little farther, you can do this.  I know you.  You're strong enough.  You're smart enough.  

There's a time when all we have, and all our friends have and family has, isn't enough.  There's no reason to believe that Jay faces one of those times.  It's time to cheer him on, to rally, to lend him strength where and when we can, not because he's dying, but because he's fighting for his life.

If you have an ailing friend or relative, or if someone you know is a new parent, consider calling or writing a letter, right now.  A few minutes of your time may help them through the next stretch.  

Incidentally, I know this would never occur to most of you but I've heard of it happening--people who offer help, but don't follow through.  If you know you have a habit of procrastinating or forgetting, then think twice before making a promise, even if you honestly mean to deliver.   This is a situation where 'it's the thought that counts' gets into iffy territory.  You don't know when your promise might be someone's last lifeline and they might be waiting for you by the door or next to the phone, waiting for you to do what you promised you would, be it making a phone call, a casserole, or arranging for music therapy.  

Stuff to think about.  If you want to learn, check out Jay's posts.  Click on the cancer tag if you dare, and follow along.  If you're inspired, offer a helpful comment.  It may make a difference.

non sequitur of the day:  back up your computer!

Air France Flight 447

When 228 people die in an airplane crash, it touches people all over the world.

It's more than a little ironic.  There are so many conflicts all over the world, people suffering torture, deprivation, dying, and few if any of them get any media attention.  When they do, it doesn't seem to cut as deep, even if there are thousands of victims.  That got me to thinking about mortality, and what touches us, and what does not, and why.

I remember when I read Tuesdays With Morrie, how Morrie felt when he read the news about the suffering of others, whether it be from hurricanes, serial killers or disease.  Mortality became real as he faced his own death in so many more ways than a healthy person with a long or at least undetermined lifespan can completely understand.  Including me.  I can't claim to be any wiser or more connected to the pain and deaths of others than anyone else in my privileged circumstances.

My family all recently flew on long international flights, including within sight of a strong storm, and watched the scramble of rerouting as a series of tornadoes swept through the south-eastern United States.  I remember clutching the arm of my seat every time the plane dropped sharply, remembered the flicker and loss and only partial return of functionality to our onboard computer entertainment center.  I remember telling my kids this was normal, and in a lot of ways, it was, and is normal, as we watched our plane circle and navigate around dangerous areas, forming U's and figure eights on our flight map.  Storms and turbulence are part of flying, and pilots deal with those situations very frequently.

That's what's making my stomach clench and what makes my heart ache every time I think about that flight, those passengers and the crew, and what they must have faced.  I know the pilots did everything possible, and I believe they did everything right with the information they had.  It's a dark and bitter truth that doing everything right doesn't always save the day, no matter how experienced the crew, or how long they have to brainstorm for solutions.

Our world is so much bigger and stronger than most people imagine.  We appear to be in total control of our environment, with our houses, our sea walls, our weather reports and air conditioning.  But we're not.  We add percentage points to our survivability in a crisis.  That's all.  

It's safer to fly than to drive.  Absolutely.  But we're monkeys, and for many of us, facing death so far above the ground with nothing to save us but the wits of the crew and a machine, no matter how magnificent and graceful, is something we can both imagine all too easily and which we dare not imagine at all, not in any detail.  I don't think there's anything to be gained from such a thing, unless you're an artist and need to express that terror so that it can be released to the sky like a prayer, or an aircraft designer doing your best to take every circumstance into consideration to give the crew and passengers a few more percentage points to hang their hopes upon.  That's what the investigation will focus on in the next few months.  They'll try to analyze the hell out of this thing in hopes of preventing an accident like this from ever happening again.  But you can't actually remove the hell entirely.  It's always there, waiting.

If we want to lead utterly safe lives, we can try, but that won't prevent us from facing our own deaths someday.  Some might decide that we have no business flying at all, that we don't belong in the sky.  I can't hold to that.  There's no safe place anyway, not even in our own beds when it comes down to it.  That's why I can't decide that I won't ever fly again, no matter how vivid the pictures in my mind are of what those people experienced before the crash.  There are too many places in the world I want to see.  Heck, if I sell a book, I plan on taking a whirlwind tour to promote it, and celebrate life.  I'm a nervous flier, but I'll do it, because I want to live my life, not exist in a dark, padded room eating a sterile, monotonous diet and running on an OSHA approved hamster wheel for fear of death.

It's such a blessing to fly.  It's beautiful to experience places beyond our backyards, where people dress differently, speak differently, think differently than we do.  The other day at a writer's group meeting, we talked about the scent of the air, how it differs from place to place.  This isn't a minor detail someone experiences in his life.  It is life.  It's living fully, and learning to appreciate who we are and what we have as a species, not just as individuals.  If we don't experience or appreciate in some way by reaching out as far as we can, whether the best we can do is try to touch our toes or whether we can aspire to fly among the stars, we may as well be inanimate.  The people on that flight lived, not nearly as long as their loved ones would have wished, but they worked and played hard.  They saw more of the world than some of our ancestors even dreamed.  

I'm so desperately sorry for their loss.  But Air France flight 447 shouldn't be a cautionary tale.  It should be a reminder of our mortality, yes, but also of our achievements, especially our ability to fly.  The people who are locked in tiny cells for the entirety of their brief, painful lives, who live in fear every moment, who perish unknown of hunger or thirst, wish they could, and I suspect that the dread of a death falling out of the sky wouldn't stop them from trying to fly away to the promise of work, or play, or coming home to a safe place.

Threes

My mom always says that things come in threes.  Gawd I hope so.  I don't want to take a fourth hit right now.  Three is more than enough.

I can't go into too many details, because they're not mine to give, but I will say that we lost one more goat (Skunk!) and now we know why.  So far the other goats are okay, but we may lose them all.  The really good news is that they're now eating well--extremely well, which tells me that the situation is probably through their systems and they're making up for lost ground.  I think we're out of the woods.  But I'm reeling.  Skunk put me through a virtual veterinary school.  Through her I learned how to deal with neck wounds from a cougar, how to give penicillin shots, how to deal with hypoproteination, worm overload, false pregnancy and hoof wall rot.  We made it through together, and she stuck by me through my ignorance and incompetence.  And now she's gone.  We've lost animals for all kinds of reasons around here.  Some of it was intentional (butchering,) some through accident, illness ... but it never gets any easier.  We'll lose more, because we'll always have animals.  But for the first time in a while, I want a vacation from the responsibility.  I look at Dakota and think man, she's old and having trouble getting around.  Will I lose her soon?  I look at Lucky and try not to think about the fact that his epilepsy seems to be getting worse--longer seizures, closer together.  We knew this would be the progression that might eventually lead to medication.  It just seems like a lot to bear.

Then there's the joy and stress of Ireland.  We've run across a major hitch.  We'll meet in Ireland for sure, and see all kinds of neat and fun places, and it'll be good, but we have to make a decision that's not mine, but the boy's to make.  I hurt every time I think about the situation.  I feel so helpless.  How do you compromise or make adjustments when it's all or nothing either way?

The DH and I argued.  We sorted that out, but believe it or not, this all came to a head on the same day.  Goats, Ireland, argument.  

When the DH and I argue, we either play argue (we did this for entertainment for a long time and used the excuse that it's probably not healthy to have no arguments in a relationship) or we argue about something that isn't easy to resolve.  If it was easy to resolve, there'd be no argument.  So although things are sorted out, the core of the argument remains, and it eats at me.  

I've been moving along, letting the fallout from Seattle's failed Worldcon bid distract me, pampering the kids with restaurant meals and trips to the bookstore, home cooked spaghetti and bakery desserts.  We bond over re-viewing Veronica Mars episodes and the little victories that come from seeing the goats sunning themselves, alive and well, near the barn when we wake up in the morning.  But The Three never went away the whole weekend, even for a second.  These things are haunting us, and bring strange, unsettling dreams and strain to our smiles.  

The boy and I are starting to get the sniffles.  Stress=reduced immune system.  Hopefully we'll sleep good tonight, eased by good conversations with my DH, goats who seem happy and healthy and recovering, and the luxury of time in which to deal with what we need to do.  We need to rest up.  It's going to be a long week.

Shock Waves

I'm still not coming back to my blogs as often as usual, and I'm just going to post a few notes today.

We lost one of our white does, Snowflake, to some sudden onset thing.  It might have been bloat.  I've never had a goat get bloat, and it's really the wrong kind of year.  She didn't look anemic, so I don't think it was worm overload.  The only other things that looked wrong is that she had a bit of a dirty butt, so maybe she had diarrhea at some point, and she seemed a bit on the thin side, so maybe she'd been sick for a while but didn't show it.  Anyway, I'm frustrated by the loss.  I sprinkled poppy seeds on her grave and around the property.  Goodbye, sweetie.  You were a good goat.

I've been writing and editing, and I sent out that agent query I wanted to send out.  Keep your fingers crossed for me.  Much as I believe that the writing has to stand on its own, I'm not opposed to a little spiritual boost, especially during the current economy.

Like many other genre writers, I'm a little shaken by the loss of Realms of Fantasy.  That was one of the magazines I aspired to be published in.  Word has it that although subscriptions remained strong, newsstand sales dropped off dramatically and the publisher dropped Realms in order to funnel needed funds into other projects.  

This reminds me strongly of the markets when I started my first round of heavy submitting and some of the changes that happened surrounding Weird Tales that disturbed me.  The feeling at the time, with magazines like Midnight Zoo appearing and disappearing with unpleasant rapidity, was similar to what it is now, but back then there was far less a sense of desperation.  (I actually had an offer from Midnight Zoo and the same day I got the acceptance letter I got an email letting me know they'd just folded.)  It seems I do better under an ill-fated star.  Maybe this means this year I'll get an agent, despite everything.