izu watanabe, coo, and a length of hemp rope

originally seen on Lolcats

uploaded to YouTube by izu watanabe

© 2015 L. Ryan

maru is maru is maru; there is no other maru before maru

Uploaded to YouTube by mugumugu


Name:Maru
Breed:Scottish Fold
Male

Maru's blog'

Maru's Wikipedia entry:  Maru (まる, Japanese: circle or round; born May 24, 2007)^[1] is a male Scottish Fold (straight variety)^[2] cat in Japan who has become popular on YouTube. As of April 2013, videos with Maru have been viewed over 200 million times.^[3] Videos featuring Maru have an average of 800,000 views each and he is mentioned often in print and televised media discussing Internet celebrities.^[4]

Maru's owner posts videos under the account name 'mugumogu'. Mugumogu is almost never seen in the videos. A rare exception:"Maru's ear cleaning." The videos are edited to include title cards in English and Japanese setting up the events of the video, and often show Maru playing in cardboard boxes, indicated by "I love a box!" in his introduction video.

In August 2013, Maru's owner adopted a two-month old mixed-breed cat named 'Hana' from a veterinarian. During the two-week trial period, Maru and Hana got along very well and Mugumogu decided to make Hana a new member of their family.^[5] 

^[....]

"he was no cream puff..."

good night, sweet readers.  just finished the perpetual recharging, have my enduring mp3 player all queued up for the first 90-minutes of night -- and this is my first "scrambled" song offering.  a favorite for all the dehydrated out there...

Denizens and Mavens: Cultural Equity

A new YouTube channel, as yet having produced two videos, and promising but one new one every other week, called HelloDenizen -- owned by the advertising agency Denizen -- caught my eye. The Mad Men and Women of Denizen declare that:

Denizen develops wide reaching, highly engaging, strategically targeted social media campaigns that generate cultural equity and guarantee high levels of engagement for your brand. 

I cannot quite figure how an ad agency, no matter its dedication to things social, "generate[s] cultural equity." If you can quite figure it, please leave me a clue.

It's been a day of high pain, including a newbie, a pain in my upper left chest that radiates through the back, in the creepy manner of a letter opener turned shiv, and also throbs under my arm pit, making me and my complaint recipients think it's likely the infection trying new tricks.  That's after ruling out a heart attack because I lived through the night.  We a bunch o'Spocks here at Marlinspike Hall.

Hence, the seeking of relief via stupid videos. It hurts to breathe in, but not out.  (I -- lax -- left out a symptom.  What?  What's that?  "Stress?"  Umm, yes, a bit.  The quotidian worry set of a Planetary Citizen, for...  "So it goes.")

Unbeknownst to this ad agency with high production standards for its tiny hamsters and burritos, I have a *thing* about the word "denizen." It pairs, like a crisp, tart apple with the butter of a superb cold chardonnay, with the word "maven."

Never underestimate a maven.

maven (n.) 1965, from Yiddish meyvn, from Hebrew mebhin, literally "one who understands." Plural is mayvinim.

Another "unbeknownst" thing:  all mavens, all mayvinim, are women.

Betcha didn't see that coming.

Just remember, the next time you are tossing the term "denizen" about with an unbecoming nonchalance, that mavens merit a mention, too.  Even just as much.  Generate a little subversive cultural equity.

denizen (n.)early 15c., from Anglo-French deinzein, from deinz "within, inside," from Late Latin deintus, from de- "from" + intus "within" (see ento-). Historically, an alien admitted to certain rights of citizenship; a naturalized citizen.

I just had sex and it felt so good (Felt so good)

I think, now that I am sick of McConnelling, that this is the perfect one.  Of course, what would be perfect, po-li-tic-all-y, involves the Secret Service turning up at my door.  With some sort of award cast in pure gold.  Hefty, really weighty.  Then they could give me a lift to the nearest pawn shop, stand guard while I traded in my voluminous meritorious medal or huge trophy for cold, diminishing cash.  Each Secret Service agent would receive, as is proper, a generous gratuity.  Spread wealth, Friends, spread wealth.

Yes.
Well.
Anyway.

Here's #McConnelling to The Lonely Island's super-crafted tune "I Just Had Sex":

Sometimes somethin' beautiful happens

In this world

You don't know how to express yourself

So you just gotta sing

I just had sex and it felt so good

(Felt so good)

A woman let me put my penis inside of her

I just had sex and I'll never go back

(Never go back)

To the not-having-sex ways of the past

Have you ever had sex? I have, it felt great

It felt so good when I did it with my penis

A girl let me do it, it literally just happened

Havin' sex can make a nice man out the meanest

Never guess where I just came from, I had sex

If I had to describe the feeling, it was the best

When I had the sex, man, my penis felt great

And I called my parents right after I was done

Oh, hey, didn't see you there, guess what I just did?

Had sex undressed, saw her boobies and the rest

Was sure nice of her to let you do that thing

Nice of any girl ever, now sing

I just had sex and it felt so good

(Felt so good)

A woman let me put my penis inside of her

I want to tell the world

To be honest, I'm surprised she even wanted me to do it

Doesn't even really make sense, but, man, screw it

I ain't one to argue with a good thing, she could be my wife

That good? The best thirty seconds of my life

I'm so humbled by a girl's ability to let me do her

'Cause honestly, I'd have sex with a pile of manure

With that in mind, a soft, nice-smellin' girl's better

Plus, she let me wear my chain and my turtle-neck sweater

So this one's dedicated to them girls

That let us flop around on top of them

If you're near or far, whether short or tall

We want to thank you all for letting us fuck you

She kept lookin' at her watch

(Doesn't matter, had sex)

But I cried the whole time

(Doesn't matter, had sex)

I think she might've been a racist

(Doesn't matter, had sex)

She put a bag on my head

(Still counts)

I just had sex and my dreams came true

(Dreams came true)

So if you had sex in the last thirty minutes

Then you're qualified to sing with me

I just had sex

(Everybody sing)

And it felt so good

(We all had sex)

(Felt so good)

A woman let me put my penis inside of her

(I want to tell the world)

I just had sex and I'll never go back

(No, no, no)

To the not-having-sex ways of the past

Songwriters

Bettis, Jerrod / Franks, Justin / Schaffer, Akiva / Samberg, Andrew / Taccone, Jorma

REPOST: john trudell, courtesy of the family blog whore

First published on 2/24/2013

Tip of the hat, finger aside the nose, to TW, as I steal from his Valentine's Day post: "They Didn't Listen" -- and thank him for the find, and kiss the very center of his forehead.

Uploaded on Jun 27, 2009 by NancyRedStar·

"These Memories"


In the reality of many realities
how we see what we see
affects the quality 
of our reality 

We are 
children of earth and sky
DNA descendant and ancestor 
human being physical spirit 
bone flesh blood as spirit

We are 
in time and space 
but we're from beyond time and space 
the past is part of the present 
the future is part of the present 
life and being are interwoven

We are 
DNA of Earth, Moon, planets, stars 
we are related to the universal 
Creator created creation 
spirit and intelligence with clarity 
being and human as power

We are 
a part of the memories of evolution
these memories carry knowledge
these memories carry our identity
beneath race, gender, class, age
beneath citizen, business, state, religion

We are human beings
and these memories are trying
to remind us
human beings human beings
it is time to rise up,
remember who we are
~ John Trudell


Lyrics: John Trudell 
Music: Mark Matson & Hayley Hutt 
Vocals:John Trudell & Hayley Hutt 
Additional Vocals and Harmony:Deirdre Radford
Keyboards and Drum: Mark Matson 
Guitars: Byron Roberts
Produced and Engineered by: Mark Matson
Executive Producer: Nancy Red Star 

i don't think he likes it one bit but that's just too doggone bad.  someone in this family must be shameless, and i volunteered long ago ----->> if you love the land, this country, the solid comfort of the amazingly real, the white skull recognition of all that you forgot.... go read, revel,  and rest at TW's american idyll.

"The Beast in Me," sans commentaire

Nick Lowe

Written for, and about, Johnny Cash, his ex-step-father-in-law (for genealogy experts!)

The beast in me

Is caged by frail and fragile bonds

Restless by day

And by night, rants and rages at the stars

God help, the beast in me

The beast in me

Has had to learn to live with pain

And how to shelter from the rain

And in the twinkling of an eye

Might have to be restrained

God help the beast in me

Sometimes 

It tries to kid me that it's just a teddy bear

Or even somehow managed 

To vanish in the air

And that is when I must beware 

Of the beast in me

That everybody knows

They've seen him out dressed in my clothes

Patently unclear

If it's New York or New Year

God help the beast in me

The beast in me

Performance from the 1994 Montreux Jazz Festival

American Recordings is the 81st album by the country singer Johnny Cash. It was released in April 1994 (see 1994 in music), the first album issued by American Recordings after its name change from Def American, the album being named after the new label. In 2003, the album was ranked number 364 on Rolling Stone magazine's list of the 500 greatest albums of all time.

Cash was approached by producer Rick Rubin and offered a contract with Rubin's American Recordings label, better known for rap and heavy metalthan for country music. Under Rubin's supervision, he recorded the album in his living room, accompanied only by his guitar. For years Cash was often at odds with his producers after he had discovered with his first producer, Sam Phillips, that his voice was better suited to a stripped-down musical style. Most famously he disagreed with Jack Clement over his sound, Clement having tried to give Cash's songs a "twangy" feel and to add strings and barbershop-quartet-style singers. His successful collaboration with Rick Rubin was in part due to Rubin seeking a minimalist sound for his songs.

The songs "Tennessee Stud" and "The Man Who Couldn't Cry" were recorded live at the Viper Room, a Sunset Strip, Los Angeles nightclub owned at the time by Johnny Depp. "The Beast in Me" was written and originally recorded by Cash's former stepson-in-law Nick Lowe.^[1]

The video for the first single, the traditional song "Delia's Gone" (directed by Anton Corbijn, featuring Kate Moss), was put into rotation on MTV, and even appeared on Beavis and Butt-head, Beavis asking if Cash was Captain Kangaroo. The album was hailed by critics and many declared it to be Cash's finest album since the late 1960s, while his versions of songs by more modern artists such as Tom Waits and Glenn Danzig (who penned a song called "Thirteen" specifically for Cash, in just twenty minutes) helped to bring him a new audience. American Recordings received a Grammy forBest Contemporary Folk Album of the Year at the 1994 Grammy Awards. The album cover was photographed whilst Cash was visiting Australia, at Werribee near Melbourne.^[2]

Wikipedia File Photo -- Album Cover, American Recordings

Simon's Cat: Cat Man Do

Uploaded on Mar 4, 2008
"A hungry cat resorts to increasingly desperate measures to wake its sleeping owner."

Cat Man Do - Simon's Cat **

 Simon's Cat  ·44 videos

After many a morning spent pretending to be asleep.  Well, okay, after many an afternoon spent pretending to be asleep, I can attest to the validity of this cartoon rendering of cat methodologies employed to wake the hooman snoozer -- but contend it does not have to be a cat in need of anything in particular.  In our Manor, it's simple sporting competition, with three cats taking their turn.

Let's review, shall we?

There's the infamous and huge Buddy the Maine Coon, who weighs in as an adult German Shepherd.
There's the divine Miss Marmy Fluffy Butt, who spends 50% of her time fleeing from Buddy, 45% napping (but with pivoting ears) and 5% sharpening her lightening fast claws.
Finally, there is the sweetest angel fart ever, Little Dobby, my dearest love, my companion, the peace-maker.

When they're working as a team, I have no chance.  But then, I have no chance to witness them working as a team if I show myself as awake, so it's something of a [painful] treat.

Actually, they do pull off some moves that would make Olympic synchronized swimming competition fade in fading glory.  As when Fred hauls in those 75-pound bags of premium, break-the-bank, "guaranteed to stop hairballs and all malodorous feline productions" bags of kibble... and, worn out by both the monetary and physical hauling, drops it against the large feed bucket.

"I'll fill it later."

We've gone over the fact that Fred has ADHD, yes?  Well, let this be a summarizing example.  Where Fred puts something -- meaning, ANYTHING -- is where that item is going to stay.  I've conducted experiments, aiming to prove God-only-knows-what, since this is a well-known symptom of ADHDers.  It's just really hard to believe, is all.

I mean, when you empty your dish drainer, or for you modernized families, the mechanized dish washer, you are likely to place the clean, dry items that you remove in their designated spots, usually agreed upon by years of standard usage, or, in the more dysfunctional Manors, perhaps by half-hour long arguments of the appropriate spot for the plastic container lids.  Someone has gone to great lengths, and by someone, I mean me, to keep the counter tops clean, uncluttered, and disinfected (We do have three cats, after all, and if this post and YouTube cartoon tell you nothing else, it is that cats do many things of which their hooman companions are unaware.).

Fred does stuff like put up every item, perfectly, even re-arranging in some more sensible way the storage of those infernal plastic lids... except for one, maybe two things.  A colander.  A fork.  Those will simply be set on the counter.  There is no impending pasta cook-off, no need to twirl noodles after draining.  He just does not completely finish any task.

If washing the dishes, they're immaculate and arranged in the drainer, not just with artistry, but with geometric precision designed to promote the most rapid and effective drainage possible, given the angles and curves of what he has to work with.  But there will remain, after he's dried his hands and carefully hung the dishrag to dry, one item in the sink still full of soapy water.  If you're curious, just walk on by, that day... and the next... and the next.  Until your head explodes.

Back to the cats, the kibble, Dear Fred and our theme song, Creedence Clearwater Revival's Someday Never Comes.

I know what you are thinking.  "Well, profderien, get Bianca Castafiore or Sven or the Cabana Boy, or a stray Genetically-Indentured Manor Staff underage child to empty that bag of kibble into the feed bucket... Or, jeez, already, if you can vacuum and mop with the best in the Power Wheelchair Senior's Division, do it your damn self, and leave Fred alone."

I usually do.  But not until I've peeped around door edges to watch the amazing, silent Dance of the Kibble Bag, as performed by Buddy and Marmy, with Dobby as pitiful look-out and cheerleader (he has weak nails).  Marmy makes the intial slash with a surgeon's precision.  Hmm.  Given some of the surgeons we've encountered, perhaps she surpasses their acumen.  She prefers the lower right corner.

Then she sits down, looking pretty and perfect, and gives the nod to Buddy.  Dobby gives a sad little leap, doing splits in the air, and vocalizing what must be a fervent "rah!".

Buddy commences to chew.  He's maybe more a goat than a German Shepherd.

At the end of this short show, they've achieved a steady, lava-like flow of kibble.

Which they do not eat.

Because eating it was never the point.

Making fun of the hoomans, peeping around the corners at us as we gesticulate and go into frenzies upon finding kibble strewn all over the laundry room -- that may be the point.  We're not sure.

Now I'm depressed.

To give some sort of dénouement to this non-tale, I'll give away the "Wake up, Hooman" ending.  It's innocuous little Dobby who succeeds in turning me from a faking sleeper to a bona fide cursing cat companion.  He's small but he's... poky.  He pokes and stabs with his sharp-boned little legs, and he knows just where it hurts the worse.  But by the time I heave myself into a position to view the miniature Doberman, he's snug on a soft blanket opposite my corpulence, and staring, transfixed, at the ceiling fan.

His pièce de résistance?

The moment when I, too, fix my eye upon the stationary fan.

CAST:

Dobby, ready for mailing

Marmy Fluffy Butt

Buddy (prior to last growth spurt)

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

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"Cure RSD / CRPS" and Wave the Sage...

This is a low period for me, and for Fred, who is apparently worn out by me and my penchant for self-pity. This I know because last night, after telling him I felt, and please excuse my language, "like a worthless piece of shit," he turned away and said, scoffingly, "pity, pity, pity."

It was the second day in a row that I could not walk, not even from bed to bathroom, without several stops along the way (meaning every 3-5 feet) and a couple of "Hail Mary" grabs at furniture to remain upright.  The pain has been indescribable.  The depression -- describable, as mentioned above, but apparently something I'm not allowed to mention.

The only reason I have not committed suicide is my duty to Fred to leave him enough money that he will survive "in the manner to which he has become accustomed" -- almost drowning in poverty, but not quite.
As soon as I hit the mark, I'm gone.

This morning, I woke screaming.  After sublimating the natural reaction to this level of pain, I did the coffee thing, the care-for-the-animals thing, then the special-care-for-the-animals thing -- known as Dobby Time. Then I managed to get my legs back in the bed, struggled to sit upright, grabbed the computer, and checked to see if my new ACA Marketplace Health Insurance company had responded to my frantic emails.  Nope.

But YouTube notified me of a message from someone, so I surfed in that direction.  It involved a pitch for a CRPS cure, about which I could get the bare-boned information if I paid him $349 for his personal years of research into the disease, and the one (I think he says "one," but maybe it was "several.") research article available about the "cure" he found, and that the rest of the world has been ignoring.

People have become angry with me for reacting with skepticism to the cures they offer.  The group of doctors who wanted me to give myself Ketamine intravenously, at home, unmonitored, for $50 a week.  I could pretty much pick the dosage.  The pain management doctor who wanted to have "some ladies from my church" wrap me in herbs and bandages, and prayer.  The player of the singing crystal bowl who induced bronchospasm with all the sage bundles she burned over me.  The many nurse practitioners of Healing Touch.

Also worth mentioning are the times I was angry at being led along, or not meeting the criteria for treatment. Various clinical trials, a couple that I might have tried but was told by one of my doctors that he'd not treat me any longer if I did.  Implantable devices that I cannot try because of my history of chronic bone infection at sites of implanted prostheses. (Thanks very much, St. Joseph's Hospital of Atlanta and Doctors Eric Carson, Steven Sween, Leslie Kelman, and the nurses in the ICU in May of 2002)

So this morning, I just cannot handle another "gimme, gimme, trust me, trust me..." routine.  Here is the video, for those of you willing to (or desperate enough to) pay for information that is apparently readily available, but which we have all managed to overlook.

I managed a short nap after coffee (an idiosyncratic reaction?) and dreamed, once again, of being trapped in the elevator in one of the medical office buildings at SJHA with the aforementioned unethical Doctor Gods, an elevator that left me gasping because it was filled with the smoke of a sage bundle, and rushing to exit the cage of the elevator as soon as that prison slowed to stop at a floor, any floor, be it the entrance to Hell itself.

So, um, clearly I have issues.  Those doctors represent fraudulent medical treatment, more aptly put as "failure to diagnose and failure to treat," threats (very specific threats), improper treatment, bullying, lying, failure to report a Sentinel Event, and the ruination of my life.  I write that confident that the sentence is completely true and actually soft-peddles their roles in the reality of the first few years I had CRPS. The sage, my inability to breathe or speak?  That represents what I know now was my stupidity and extreme gullibility.  It represents the loss of my life's work as an educator, and the steady pay check with benefits that I enjoyed.

Sage smudging, from Estrella Magick

That ought to provide enough grains of salt for you to wade though... You're welcome.  Excuse the self-pity. Excuse the desire to OD on insulin, fentanyl, methadone, percocet, tizanidine.  Also, kindly overlook my catchy theme song of "Shoot me in the head / Shoot me in the head / Shoot me in the head / I'd be better off dead."  As Dylan said, "I'm a poet /  I know it /  Hope I don't blow it." At least, I *think* that's what he said. He's actually declined in my estimation as I've aged -- I tire of guessing who he wants me to guess him to be this year.  After spending so much time figuring out whom I am, I care less and less about his personas.

Love the music, though.

So here is Cure RSD / CRPS and his video, followed by the details he provided on YouTube, both uploaded yesterday.

Published on Jan 1, 2014In this video, I discuss a cure for RSD / CRPS (not Ketamine!) and my 13 years of chronic pain with the illness during which I saw over 100 doctors and "experts" who knew next to nothing and tried dozens of medications. I suffered from a case described by doctors as "extreme and severe". Finally, after months of desperate research I found the treatment which helps most of the people treated. It is not a crazy-go-it-alone therapy, but is documented in several studies and is carried out at most rheumatological university clinics in one western industrialized nation to cure this disease which by any standard for CRPS are high success rates -- but very, very few sufferers or doctors know about it. Stop taking pills for the pain. Try to get CURED. Watch this video to find out more and how you can get more information on this and possibly end your suffering and/or the suffering of someone you love. Until I have assembled a full information package and posted it for download, for more information, send an email to exoskeleton@gmx.de and title it, "RSD Cure". Please be prepared to make a $349 donation to my PayPal account to cover 13 years of my research into the problem of CRPS. We can also make arrangements for payment of $699 IF you feel the treatment helps you significantly after the fact. The total cost of the treatments at the university clinic were about $1100 - $2300. The treatments take about a week to carry out. A bed and breakfast in the area can be arranged 800 meters from the hospital for about $50 to $65 per night. If you are new to CRPS, this information will help lead you through the maze of information out there and give you proven good odds of returning to your old life with the most thoroughly studied but least well known treatment out there. This will get you a summary of the treatment options, history of the treatment, the info on the most recent study with the improved treatment method which now shows close to an unbelievable 100% double-blind, placebo controlled success rate, where to get it, even email addresses for doctors who perform the treatment, and two locations in Europe which do it. You will also get a list of links for the studies and information you need. I will be happy to have a short personal discussion with you about the problem and the treatment. One of my very good friends with the same disease has seen my rapid improvement, read the studies I collected, and he has already contacted the university I went to and bed and breakfast I stayed at and will soon be going for his own treatment at the hands of the same highly competent doctors who treated me. I am sure in 2 months he will be much, much better. Note: because of copyright laws, I cannot give you the actual studies, but I can give you their full names and tell you where to find them with links in the internet.

• 
  
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Henri, le chat existentialiste, nous explique tout...

Henri 5, "The Worst Noël" -- uploaded to YouTube by Henri le Chat Noir

Un cadeau du sein des coeurs de nos amis Marmy FluffyButt, Buddy (grand chaton scandaleux), et 

Dobby, celui qui n'est comparable qu'à soi.

*h/t to Fred, upon whom all things darkly existential descend.

daddy, ella, and elvis: "an american trilogy"

This video has been floating around for a long time but I just saw it today (Thank you, Carol!).

uploaded to YouTube by HoundDogBilly on July 7, 2013


Ella's dad, Billy, wrote:

20 months old and she's a big fan of Elvis and her Daddy!

8/5/2013 UPDATE:
Thank you everyone for all the kind words about Ella Mae! We really appreciate all of the likes and shares!!! She really is a lot of fun as you can see.
To answer the big question, Yes Ella does like to sing other songs. Some of her favorites include, of course more Elvis - Suspicious Minds & Lawdy Miss Clawdy; The Beatles - Twist & Shout; Stray Cats - Stray Cat Strut; JD McPherson - Fire Bug; The Beach Boys - Barbra Ann; Bruno Mars - The Lazy Song; Bobby Day - Rockin' Robin and Richard Marx - Right Here Waiting For You (duet with Mom!!!). However she is only 21 months old and easily distracted so it can be quite challenging to get another video like this one. If we can come up with another good one I will definitely post it.
For all of the comments about the straps on the car seat, we adjusted them shortly after posting this video. They now sit below her shoulders. Thanks for the advice!
Thanks again for all of the positive feedback!
-Billy

Pop & Hiss: Isolated Vocals and Instrumentals

The LA Times Music Blog, Pop & Hiss, pointed me to some wonderful minutes of musical happiness this morning.  There's a treasure trove of isolated vocal and instrumental tracks taken (somehow) from Beatles master recordings that have been uploaded to YouTube.  I could go on and on about my favorites but as I haven't yet listened to them all, let me just signal that they were, and now are again, great -- to my mind.

There are moments when each of the Fab Four emerge as a wondrous vocalist, masterful musician, as a leader of the band -- and the insight into the construction of their music is just plain cool.

The only trouble here is due to a lack of musical knowledge to begin with -- for instance, I read the comments raving about Paul's isolated bass line, and so I listen again, and... am whelmed into boredom.  It goes without saying that I don't play the bass guitar, but it also should be noted that I'm not so dim that I don't recognize a great bass guitar performance.

Okay.  So a great bass guitar performance has to have a single-mindedness midst what seems, by comparison, a babel of catchier noise.

Still.

There is a comfort, though, in not being in agreement with YouTube commentators.  Such a fun crowd of open-minded thinkers, raised, one and all, on the tenets of Emily Post.  I admit that something comes over one... something along the lines of "well, yes, actually -- if Billy decides to jump off the bridge, that may top off my decision to take the leap, too."

Anyway, go to YouTube and search "Beatles isolated tracks." It's one more shot at the Magical Mystery Tour.  Just don't read the comments.

© 2013 L. Ryan

A Wonderful Video of Ashley's Life, and a Final Message From Her

Hi... to no readers!

I've had to turn off access to the blog due to spamming.  While I get that pornographic irritation taken care of (hmm, there has GOT to be a better way to say that!), I get to write midst the sense of being in a silent Marlinspike Hall, where every footstep begins the ring of a circling echo.  It's empty here...

Ashley Riemer was such a vibrant person, so on the cusp of her transition to independent adulthood... remember how hard and how wonderful that time was in our lives?  She deserves so much credit for -- how to say this?  For becoming a beautiful adult all while being exactly where and what she is, damn, where and what she *was*.

My temporal confusion, at least in this matter, comes from this video (and another series of her memorial service -- she donated her body to the Georgetown Med School for research, bless her!).

The videographers  added a short recordingAshley made to be her "final words," and they are moving words that left me feeling Ashley as very much "here and now."

[Points to anyone who knows what song is playing in my head!  Something about a breeze... a donegal breeze.  (Teachers always give big ass hints.)  Of course, these lyrics are the ones that come to my mind, a mind very different from Ashley's, from her parents.  Always, always being and feeling à rebours, I am.]




Ashley Riemer's Video of her life uploaded to YouTube by Tammy Dennison (at whose channel you can also see the three videos of Ashley's Memorial Service)

With your dark hair in the donegal breeze,

Bringing me softly and sweetly to the ground,

But, there's madness in the sycamore trees,

And there's no salvation to be found.

Right now the only thing that my mind ever holds,

Are long dark silences or screaming that explodes,

Burning rocking beds with visions of a land,

Long dark tunnels, questions and calm,

But, with you, you know I have no doubts,

And fear will have no sting,

With your brilliant eyes and your lost and broken wing,

My head upon your shoulder as you take me in your arms,

Continents will crumble, we will find no harm.

With your dark hair in the donegal breeze,

Bringing me softly and sweetly to the ground,

But, there's madness in the sycamore trees,

And there's no salvation to be found.

Well I'll brace myself against the dark, endeavour to go on,

No matter how long it takes, and even though I might be wrong,

And I will ask a little favour of whatever God I find,

And I will come back for you darling, when I find some peace of mind.

Well I don't know about tomorrow, it will be here and gone,

I don't know about tonight, it'll be too long,

Sometimes I think I'm dying, and I don't care how,

All I know is that I want you, and I want you here and now.

With your dark hair in the donegal breeze,

Bringing me softly and sweetly to the ground,

But, there's madness in the sycamore trees,

And there's no salvation to be found.

A Pictorial Review of Saturday Morning

Saturday morning routine.

BEFORE:

 "cats, drugs, msnbc, oy!"

uploaded to YouTube by skilled videographer profderien

"the number of medication bottles is misleading, as there are many duplicates. i kind of wish i could say the same thing about the cats, as they are being annoying and i don't like them around the pharmaceuticals. *my* drugs, *my* drugs!  and sometimes msnbc needs to check itself. good morning!"

AFTER: