all we have to do is keep on walking

Again, I have that feeling of being the Last Known Blogger in the Universe to have seen this YouTube video gone viral.  That incomparable Brother-Unit, Tumbleweed, posted it on another of his blogs -- one that I'll not advertise -- but I like to think I'd have stumbled on it eventually by my own initiative.

He managed, however, to tag the thing with a perfectly apt quotation:

If we are facing in the right direction,

all we have to do is keep on walking.

--Buddhist proverb

Posted on YouTube by derbydanx, with "[t]hanks to Matthew Stevens at Woodbine Racecourse" on November 7, 2010.

on a day we meet to walk the line

Howdy high there, buckaroos!  It's been a hoot of a day.

Without disclosing what exactly made me think of it, I spent a good quarter of an hour this afternoon extolling the merits of Frost's poem Mending Wall.  We were on the way home from my two medical appointments, and stuck in nasty traffic behind tentative drivers, all of whom, according to Fred, represented the fruits of the bastardization of our species.  Or something like that.

I had a captive audience, is what I'm saying.

In a vain effort to keep me from endless nattering, he switched on NPR.  At some point after the story on Clinton's meeting with our "chief Asian allies," shortly after the report on the televised arguments before California Supreme Court on Prop 8, but before the bit on the Random Hacks of Kindness Hackathon, I managed to reproduce the poem in its entirety.  You might call it A Blurt.

Mending Wall

SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing: 
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made, 
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go. 
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them. 
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
He is all pine and I am apple-orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. 
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. 
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down!" I could say "Elves" to him, 
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Personally, I found my outburst not just appealingly literary but also perspicaciously germane. 

Okay, so I didn't reproduce the poem perfectly, all of a piece.  Maybe I paraphrased a little and transformed larger passages into morcels of personal opinion -- but largely?  Largely, it was there.

It was enormously beneficial that Fred was very familiar with Mending Wall, and, of course, fairly familiar with my belief that poetry is as important as politics, and often times is as much -- or more -- of an event.

Did I align myself as pro-community, against isolationism?  Did I declare my make-up to be all pine in a world of hardwood fruit trees?  Do I hate walls but believe in the neighborly act of gathering to repair the divider?  

Maybe the wall has value only as a point of broken-down and crumbling old references, as what is familiar, and therefore dear, no matter whether proven true, disproved, or established as patently irrelevant. 

It's where we gather;  It's where we start.

Why not end with a story, a true one, both germane and tangential?  When I was browsing, reading about walls [[[I am weird that way... a poem about mending walls requires at least some time thinking about actual walls {always remember:  "imaginary gardens with real toads..."}]]] -- Anyway, I came across this at a site called Texas Escapes which sometimes features columns by Mike Cox, and in this instance, one called Rock Fences. He particularlizes one of the German immigrants who authored the many rock fences of Texas Hill Country, the "backyard of Austin and San Antonio," and one is reminded, even more, what a rich expressive vehicle a wall can be:

Louis Grosz, born in Hueffenhardt, Germany in 1853, came to Texas when he was 18. His uncle, Phillipp Eckert of Mason County, had written and told him what tools he needed to bring to make a living in America. Grosz weighed his two trunks down with iron, including a broad axe needed to build a log cabin.


As Estella Hartmann Orrison related in a family history she self-published in 1957, “Eckert Record,” when Grosz finally reached the Hill Country he had to go to work to repay the $50 his uncle had advanced him for his passage to Texas. His first income came from laying rock fences at 50 cents a day in an era when no one had yet considered working only eight hours out of 24.

Likely toiling from “can see to can’t,” Grosz’ rate of compensation amounted to only pennies on the hour. And the work must have been brutally hard. Roy Bedichek, in his 1947 book “Adventures with a Texas Naturalist,” estimated the stone fences on his place in Hays County weighed “not less than a ton per linear yard.” The rule of thumb passed down to the present is that it took one man one day to build three feet of fence three feet high.


That three-feet-a-day pace involved not only the relatively mindless toil of finding, digging up, lifting and hauling suitable rocks but the more cerebral activity of sorting and stacking them just so. Gravity held these fences together, not mortar. The rocks had to fit snugly and be balanced.


Picture working a gigantic puzzle with very heavy pieces in a climate where most of the time it’s too hot and sometimes too wet or cold or both. Throw in a sore back and the occasional displaced scorpion or rattlesnake and you have a pretty tough way to make four bits a day. Oh, and hostile Indians still posed a danger in Mason County when Grosz had to earn money as a rock fence builder.


While rock fences also are known as “German fences,” research by University of Texas graduate Laura Knott, a landscape architect specializing in historic preservation revealed that dry-laid fences did not originate in Germany. Rather, the style used in Texas and elsewhere in the South seems to have been modeled after rock fences common to Great Britain.


Knott theorized that German Texans learned of the style and imitated it. On the other hand, it doesn’t take a rock-it scientist to figure that a potential farm field strewn with plow-breaking stones could be both fenced and cleared by stacking those very stones.

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

THE BIT I WROTE AFTER REACHING THE POINT WHERE ONE IS SUPPOSED TO STOP WRITING AND WHICH MOST PEOPLE MANAGE TO EDIT AWAY also known as my usual after-post detritis:

Of course, the truly infuriating thing is that no matter how outnumbered are the Forces That Would Have A Wall, the mere existence of a single wall proponent is enough to necessitate a building project worthy of the Army Corps of Engineers.  In much the same way that one must opt for the plural masculine form of the third person personal pronouns if a single masculine element is present in the subject pool, one wall-lover casts a broad shadow.

After all these years it still pisses me off -- that when 999 women openly gather, you just have to discover one guy in the coat closet to ruin The Sisterhood.  You must represent the group as masculine plural; You must choose ils as subject pronoun.


And unless you can withstand the onslaught of Shrugs-for-Answers, you don't ask "Why?"


Laws of race, laws of gender, politics of sexual orientation, tax breaks for millionaires, warning shots across the bow, ideas of intellectual ownership, and walls.  Walls.  Yeah, my ride home was deep today!

Jonathan Brookins, TUF

Congratulations to Jonathan Brookins who just took two of three rounds to become this season's TUF winner over Michael Johnson.  Johnson had a great first round and had he been able to connect, could have taken Brookins out at any time.  Jonathan seemed to get the point and was fairly adamant about keeping it on the ground for the last ten minutes!

He's refreshing, is Brookins, and so I make the usual wish that he may stay that way...

Stephan Bonnar won his match, handily (29-26, unanimous) but I still was able to complete a crossword, groom two cats, fetch dessert, and fold laundry during the fight -- all without that gnawing sense of deprivation.

No, he did well against Igor Pokrajac -- and the Words of the Day seemed to be momentum and reliability, and the struggle to establish them both.  Bonnar was fit and fairly twinkling on his toes, and when on the ground showed steady aggression.

Pokrajac lost a point for kneeing Bonnar in the head, and Bonnar lost one for blows to the back of the head.  Mazzagatti might even have been about to stop the fight, seconds left in the third, when he censured Bonnar for the illegal blows.  Fortunately, the bell sounded and Mazzagatti wasn't able to act on those fascist urges, born, no doubt, from the silly brown Hitler Youth uniforms that some refs now sport.   Joe Rogan had a few things to say about both point charges and the rules that prompted them.

RetroShivers

Just the thing on a cold winter's day -- Bob Woodward's trilogy.  From the third book in the series, State of Denial, this eerie quote from Daddy Bush, as he maneuvered behind the scenes on behalf of his boys:

On February 28, 1999, the former president was the honored guest at a gathering of some 200 Gulf War veterans at the Fort Myer Army base, just across the Potomac River from Washington.


...It burned him up when people said they hadn't finished the job, he said. "Had we gone into Baghdad -- We could have done it. You guys could have done it. You could have been there in 48 hours. And then what? Which sergeant, which private, whose life would be at stake in perhaps a fruitless hunt in an urban guerrilla war to find the most-secure dictator in the world? Whose life would be on my hands as the commander-in-chief because I, unilaterally, went beyond the international law, went beyond the stated mission, and said we're going to show our macho? We're going into Baghdad. We're going to be an occupying power--America in an Arab land--with no allies at our side. It would have been disastrous."  [p. 11]

Prescient is not my usual adjectival pick for George H. W. Bush...

LINDSEY BAUM: december update

There is no hard news to report on missing child Lindsey Baum, who disappeared June 26, 2009, from her small hometown of McCleary, Washington. She is now twelve years old. 

Local law enforcement, volunteers, the FBI, and Interpol -- all continue to publicize her case, and to search.  There is a $30,000 award being offered to information leading to her recovery.

Shonya Kay (username shonyakay at YouTube) is doing a marvelous job turning out well made videos that both move and keep the various stories alive, without sacrificing the factual evidence that will be what ultimately solves these cases. Drop by her YouTube channel and see the magnificent work she has done.

You can read everything that has appeared on this blog about Lindsey J. Baum, by clicking HERE.

My thoughts and prayers go out to Lindsey's Mom, Dad, and brother -- as well as to all who are searching and working for her return home. 

If you have any information regarding Lindsey Baum, please call the Grays Harbor County Sheriff's Office at 866-915-8299 [Tip Hotline].

NATIONAL CENTER FOR MISSING & EXPLOITED CHILDREN

1-800-843-5678 (1-800-THE-LOST)

McCleary Police Department (Washington) 1-360-533-8765

Family Website: Lindsey Baum

a confusion of appendages

I am having some new difficulties and apologize to my scant readership for not posting much, either in quantity or of quality.

Mostly, these problems are neurological. I find the brain and its doings fascinating, usually, but not so terribly much when the brain in question is stashed in my own skull.

I think I've written before about the "Where is my leg?" phenomenon, wherein locating one's own appendages in space becomes either problematic or hilarious, depending.

My upper body has joined in the fun, my hands being downright wicked.

I caught Fred watching me last night as I was dressing down these things called legs. In transit from the bathroom to the bed, a voyage usually marked by pirouettes and grands jetés, I lost control of my legs -- in the sense that they decided my directions were flawed. All I was asking for was a basic straight line of approximately seven steps, with the assistance of a cane . Ironically, there is one major obstacle in my carefully delineated path, and that is my wheelchair.

It won't fit through the bathroom door, and so is parked alongside the bed, where I try to keep it connected to the charger. You never know when someone's gonna call out, "Road trip!" -- and I wanna be ready.

In addition to the chair itself, then, I have the thick wires of the battery charger that snake across my path.

Lastly, there is one red plastic water bowl, Dobby's Beloved. I keep it neatly tucked in the corner behind the bathroom door. Alas, that is not where Dobby likes to keep it. He nudges and moves it with the encouragement of his nose and a front paw.  (Yes, he still talks to it, even sings in an odd chirpy dirge, followed by head bows and head butts -- and water everywhere, of course!  Silly humans, we love to watch and eavesdrop, and I don't think we would be totally shocked were the bowl to talk back one day.)

He seems to prefer it precisely in the middle of the path between door and wheelchair, approximately one-third of the distance between the bathroom door and the beckoning bed.

There's no need to weave a fun, cute story out of this Journey of Seven Steps.  With my brain set on dementia, apparently, I could not provide my legs with directions that they thought worth following.  

The first thing my right leg decided to do, when realization of its freedom set in, was to kick Dobby's beloved red water bowl -- freshly filled with cold, filtered water, of course.  This is an old picture of my right foot -- from about three years ago.  It's much worse now, after deep ulcers, repeated nail loss, and the general deleterious effects of CRPS. You can see the beginnings, at the top of the foot, below the toes, of typical CRPS lesions. At the moment, the right foot's coloring is a deeper purple, certain areas evocative of, say, *black*, whereas the left is chilling and holding at a kind of grey-blue.





CRPS in right foot, approx 2007.  (I don't recall the reason for the tape)
Since then, the foot has ulcered, fractured, and lost nails.

  
Here is an even earlier photo that shows both feet -- It would be wonderful to return to that state!  It looks so much less painful than what I am now experiencing.  The left leg, at present, rivals the right in terms of pain, but the right will always be worse, I suppose, both in appearance and sensation, as it was the site of the initial "noxious" injury in May 2002.  Somehow, miraculously, the left foot has also escaped most of the little traumas over these past eight years -- no cuts, scrapes, ulcers, bruises. (I did lose the big toenail for some reason)  It is only in the last month that the left leg has joined the right side in the torture of spasms-'n-jerks hi jinks. 





This was very early on, maybe 2003/4.  The level of discoloration extended just above the ankles.  Now it extends above the knee on the right side, and just below the knee on the left.

 




These were my "winter" CRPS feet -- thin, very purple, ice cold, incredibly painful.  In the summer, there was more edema, a redder cast, and they were sometimes radiating heat.   Again, much different, much worse, now.

 
Both feet have been fractured multiple, multiple, MANY times... to the point where we barely react anymore.  We certainly no longer report the fractures as needing immediate care, because the advice is usually inappropriate for the disease.  You do NOT want to immobilize a CRPS limb.  You do NOT want to apply ice to a CRPS limb.  And you really don't need to rush off to get an x-ray after the fifth or sixth break... It's been documented to death. Another confirmation by x-ray and a wasted bone scan just lines someone else's pockets with green.  Generally, I will tell my internist or ortho at a regular appointment, note their sage advice, and then continue doing what I know is best. 

I remember the first bad fractures to the metatarsals of the right foot. It was my introduction to an orthopedic surgeon who specialized in feet.  He seemed to be expecting quite a tale to explain the broken metatarsals, the incredible edema, and the astonishing array of colors.  He was pretty disappointed by my claim that I took a step outside, on concrete, and they just broke.  I had not been diagnosed at that time.  He knew, of course, immediately that this was CRPS, and advanced enough already that I had broken bones by simply stepping onto concrete.  Did he tell me, or even suggest to me that something more ominous than weak bone in a previously badly broken ankle, was going on?  No.  He asked me if I would mind him writing a letter to the orthopedic surgeon who had repaired the ankle (my shoulder doc, the asshole Eric Carson, major player, major cause, of my "sentinel event.")  Anyway, the foot guy knows me well now, and nothing much surprises him anymore. 

We did once furiously clash -- furiously, awfully, saying things that hurt. This time, I had my diagnosis, and I was consumed with anger at every doctor who had contributed either actively, or -- almost worse -- by maintaining a complicit silence, to my loss of quality of life.

It was hellaciously hot, and I was being sent to him on an emergency basis, as my right leg had very suddenly worsened.  It was huge and red and throbbed in cadence with the miles of backed up, churning, honking traffic -- the trip, first to my internist, then across two counties to this OS, was marked by an extremely bad attitude, considerable cursing, and a partner that was ready to kill the next hindrance to appear.

The week prior, I had sent a letter to the billing department of this huge orthopedic practice.  They were blatantly double-billing, determined to get the payment they felt they deserved, no matter the opinion of my insurance company.  Balance billing was the usual method, though sometimes they liked to dick around (à la the Happy Hospitalist!) with coding.  The PA once treated me to a 15-second injection of cortisone that ended up costing my insurance company over $600 -- coded as surgery, etcetera.  They tried several times to charge for splints that I actually had to buy elsewhere (Oh, *that* is quite the racket... they refer you to what amounts to a specialty boutique for splints/braces, saying they will make custom devices and carefully fit them and blah blah blah.  Upon arrival, the fee is immediately addressed, and when paid, you are escorted to a room in the back.  The, uh, specialist comes in, looks at the involved body part, hums a show tune, and grabs a box from the pile of boxes on the shelves.  He handed it to me, said, "This oughta do it..." -- signed the fee sheet -- and advised me that "the girls" would check me out, and to be sure to have a good day.  My insurance paid, without question, $200 for the brace -- almost identical to what you'd find in a drugstore --and over $200 for the "evaluation" and "fitting.").

So I wrote a letter.  I used to do a lot of that.  Now, I don't bother, as it makes no difference.

The congenial billing department wanted the medical crowd to know what an insufferable ingrate I was, especially considering that I had, at that time, great insurance, so they had appended my letter to the front of my chart.

It really was hellaciously hot that day.  I was kind of scared by my internist's reaction to the state of my leg, and I was acutely aware -- newly so, but still acutely -- that no one honestly knew how to deal with CRPS.  It might have been 3 or 4 months since my then new neurologist had made the diagnosis, to the consternation of the hospital and the involved orthopedists.

He lit into me like nobodies business, this doctor.  Yes, he knew it hurt, and badly.  That was what CRPS was about, didn't I understand that?  Didn't I know yet that that was my life now?  What did I expect him to do?  Loud and jeering, he seemed to yell, but probably did not.  Over and over he spoke of the worst pain there is, and explained, angrily, why -- because it never stops, it never relents, it never gets better.  I, the patient, had to change.  I had to adjust.  I was crying and without the benefit of a tissue or handkerchief, I remember smearing snot all over my face, and then being angry and frustrated about THAT. 

I yelled at the x-ray tech who kept grabbing my leg so as to get the right picture.  I did not yet know the secret:  if you tell a medical professional to NOT touch a body part, the first inclination will be to TOUCH that body part.  Often this comes -- or so one of them decided to tell  me -- from a desire to ease pain -- I suppose with some sort of bleeping Healing Touch ("energy medicine") in mind.  Beware the practitioners of Healing Touch, unless you ascribe to its theories, as it is impossible for them to understand that sometimes even the gentle, lavender-scented, sun drenched waves of air created by their sanctimonious undulating hands can cause severe pain to someone with CRPS.  Plus, they annoy me, and I say this despite the convictions of a dear, dear friend that the love in her hands can cure all...

That day?  There was no love in the air!  When he finally examined me, Foot Guy managed to pose a few questions and fairly leapt at one of my responses.  My answer, he crowed, provided the diagnosis -- I had a blood clot, by golly.  (No, I'll not embarrass him by telling you the question, though I will tease you:  It involved a symptom that occurred when I took a deep breath.)  Why, by George, by Golly, by Gee, it *was* an emergency after all.

He was ecstatic.  We had all enjoyed about 20 minutes of air conditioning and declining levels of anger, resentment, and adrenalin.  Plus, now he could save face by sending me for an emergency doppler/ultrasound at one of the area's many hospitals -- two of which were just blocks away. 

Of course, he thought it best to send me back to the very heart of downtown, to the hospital across the street from his practice's main clinic.  That made sense, especially since one of the nearby hospitals had multiple stored copies of several prior doppler studies.  They might have been able to simplify things by comparing those previous studies with a new one!

Having successfully avoided the best quality of care, Fred and I set off, again, now in rush hour traffic.  The highway was like a parking lot.  Fred gets frustrated in this situation, and tends to stop and start with huge jerks, speeding the distance of a few car lengths, then jamming on the brakes.  So, of course, I jammed my right leg against the floor mat in an imaginary effort to apply also-imagined brakes.  We both heard the crunch that issued from my ankle, and I just cried.  Just sat there and cried.

Anyway... we got the ultrasound: no blood clot.  The only medical response was to suggest admission, though, again, there were no clear ideas about what that would entail.   The sun long set, we went home and tried to decompress.  The day was not a waste, in that I had learned -- been taught yet again -- that seeking help with a CRPS-related problem was most likely to be an exercise in futility and frustration.  The next morning, I woke in heart failure.

Which I successfully treated with loads o'lasix, and hours of slug-like rest.

Foot Guy and I get along now.  Of course, I only go to see him when a foot fracture is not improving.  We are very polite to each other, and have never discussed the heated exchanges of that hot summer day.  I have always wanted to know the content of the letter he wrote to Eric Carson, author of my CRPS.  I mean, really, what did he say?  "Ummm, Eric, old pal, are you aware that this woman has developed a whopping case of RSD?" Who knows? 

Yes, right.  I was telling you about the neurological pitfalls that plagued my journey from the bathroom back to bed last night.  Gosh, I wonder why that didn't keep my prose heightened and dedicated solely to the telling of such a fascinating tale!

I got as far as Dobby's red plastic water bowl.  Then came the wire from the wheelchair battery recharger, and the wheelchair itself.  The short version?  I had no directional control -- not for up, not for down, not for left, not for right.  Every directional thought or command was met with the wrong action by my legs/feet.  I managed to end up sitting in the wheelchair, cords wrapped around my right ankle, yelping from the pain of that contact.

I bent down to pick up the recharger and to free my foot.  I could not get my hands to cooperate.  I couldn't grip the cane handle.

This morning, I littered the kitchen with joyously tossed coffee grounds.  Then I thought it would be fun to strew kibble in seemingly random -- but really quite artful -- arcs and other geometrical designs.  Trying to arrange an appointment before the one scheduled for February, I inadvertently hung up on my neurologist's office when I dropped the phone.

My head is throbbing and my temp is over 101.

I have no idea where my legs are.  Fred is in need of my curative chicken soup (Yes, he is sick again, poor fellow) but do I dare pick up a knife or deal with boiling water? 

Thanks again for letting me vent.  Yes, I know it's my blog.  Still, this gets old and I am aware of that...

* PLEASE DON'T REPRODUCE MY PHOTOS.  UNFORTUNATELY, A PHOTO OF MY HANDS IS BEING CIRCULATED AS AN EXAMPLE OF UPPER BODY CRPS.  THERE ARE PLENTY OF PHOTOS AVAILABLE AND PROPERLY DOCUMENTED ON MEDICAL SITES DEDICATED TO CRPS/RSD.

here's a clue...

here's a clue:  no matter how peeved you become at not being able to vacuum the entire expanse of the very tall cat condo, when you are in a wheelchair because of the basic unreliability of your legs, and you have been instructed to lift nothing above 5 pounds?

do not gently guide the condo onto the floor so as to put its many levels within reach of suction. 

more importantly, when time for the condo to rise back skyward, do not stand up, do not attempt to resurrect the 75+ pound monument to silliness, especially in a posture that approximates a lopsided clean and jerk virgil grissom elementary school weightlifting team tryout. 

okay, "approximates," most precisely, in the highly technical sub-specialty of clean-and-jerk screaming.  you betcha, screaming like a freaking bean-sidhe was de rigueur in the virgil grissom elementary school training camp.  probably still is!

(oh yeah!  be sure not to travel four or five steps away from the waiting chair!  it would be much better, even best, to be able to sit down, however abruptly or involuntarily, and land somewhere appropriate.

you know, as opposed to the floor.)

The 800th Win: Praise the Lord

Fervent wee-hour prayer spotted over at GoDuke.com:

Dear God, Please allow the NBA lock-out to occur this coming year and keep Kyrie Irving at Duke for one more year to play with Austin Rivers, Quinn Cook and Marshall Plumlee. Amen.

Best summation, by Matt Wallace, Compleat Heretic:

LET'S GO DEVILS!!!
There is One Coach and his name is Coach K and the Duke Blue Devils are his instrument. Woe to the unbelievers . . . especially Tar Heel fans...


Total domination on a hostile court against an excellent team!!! This Duke team has the potential both to repeat and to do so undefeated; it's that deep and that talented. Mason Plumlee is looking really good in the hybrid F/C position; I love watching him get called for goaltending! On the downside, Kyrie Irving is so scary good that he's clearly one-and-done regardless, but one can dream of a full collegiate career...


. . . and having watched the last two Carolina games, it appears they're going to have another season of five random guys running up and down the court in Tar Heel uniforms . . . Roy Williams is clearly no Mike Krzyzewski...


Blessèd be the Orange Orb.

Photo courtesy of The Sports Union: Cameron Crazies
("I don’t know that there is a tougher place to play...")

Congratulations to Coach K for
 his *800th* win
at The Gothic Wonderland!

Epic FAIL: "It's not him... and we gave him a lot of money"

Attention Bloggers:  Warning!  As you prepare to jot down a cheery Thanksgiving post, full of mostly good cheer, do not stop along the way to peruse the front page of any major newspaper.

Honest to God, can the intelligence community lay claim to a more epic FAIL?  Well, yes, I guess they could, so that opportunity needs to be left open... But, come on, this is so freaking absurd, so indicative of exactly how clueless and inept the United States, NATO, Afghanistan, and the usual cadre of Middle East suspects are.

Once upon a time, this would have been a great story for the cocktail hour. It would have been an embarrassment worth a chuckle and a gosh darn.  Back when the consequences were posited as abstract and when a story's foreign nature meant it could be dismissed by our cultured xenophobia.  {clink:clink go the crystal glasses}

Now, it is the stuff that may launch hostilities; It is definitely the stuff that prolongs a confusing and poorly prosecuted war.  It bleeds the blood of someone's particular son and someone's actual daughter; It disrespects and scoffs at the labor of citizens, disguised as money fleeing on a desert wind. 

The message to the Taliban?  How can it be anything but a confirmation of their most dismissive assumptions?

Taliban Leader in Secret Talks Was an Impostor
By DEXTER FILKINS and CARLOTTA GALL

KABUL, Afghanistan — For months, the secret talks unfolding between Taliban and Afghan leaders to end the war appeared to be showing promise, if only because of the appearance of a certain insurgent leader at one end of the table: Mullah Akhtar Muhammad Mansour, one of the most senior commanders in the Taliban movement.

But now, it turns out, Mr. Mansour was apparently not Mr. Mansour at all. In an episode that could have been lifted from a spy novel, United States and Afghan officials now say the Afghan man was an impostor, and high-level discussions conducted with the assistance of NATO appear to have achieved little.

“It’s not him,” said a Western diplomat in Kabul intimately involved in the discussions. “And we gave him a lot of money.”

American officials confirmed Monday that they had given up hope that the Afghan was Mr. Mansour, or even a member of the Taliban leadership.

NATO and Afghan officials said they held three meetings with the man, who traveled from in Pakistan, where Taliban leaders have taken refuge.

The fake Taliban leader even met with President Hamid Karzai, having been flown to Kabul on a NATO aircraft and ushered into the presidential palace, officials said.

The episode underscores the uncertain and even bizarre nature of the atmosphere in which Afghan and American leaders search for ways to bring the nine-year-old American-led war to an end. The leaders of the Taliban are believed to be hiding in Pakistan, possibly with the assistance of the Pakistani government, which receives billions of dollars in American aid.

Many in the Taliban leadership, which is largely made up of barely literate clerics from the countryside, had not been seen in person by American, NATO or Afghan officials.

American officials say they were skeptical from the start about the identity of the man who claimed to be Mullah Mansour — who by some accounts is the second-ranking official in the Taliban, behind only the founder, Mullah Mohammed Omar. Serious doubts arose after the third meeting with Afghan officials, held in the southern city of Kandahar. A man who had known Mr. Mansour years ago told Afghan officials that the man at the table did not resemble him. “He said he didn’t recognize him,” said an Afghan leader, who spoke on the condition of anonymity.

The Western diplomat said the Afghan man was initially given a sizable sum of money to take part in the talks — and to help persuade him to return.

While the Afghan official said he still harbored hopes that the man would return for another round of talks, American and other Western officials said they had concluded that the man in question was not Mr. Mansour. Just how the Americans reached such a definitive conclusion — whether, for instance, they were able to positively establish his identity through fingerprints or some other means — is unknown.

As recently as last month, American and Afghan officials held high hopes for the talks. Senior American officials, including Gen. David H. Petraeus, said the talks indicated that Taliban leaders, whose rank-and-file fighters are under extraordinary pressure from the American-led offensive, were at least willing to discuss an end to the war. [read the rest HERE...]

:::Coconut Milk Confessions:::

I confess:  Sunday evening is all about food.

In the best of all possible weeks, the late morning and early afternoon of a Sunday finds me cooking.  Today was to be a fabulous milky Thai concoction, a coconut fish curry that was designed to rid us of the organic turnips taking up half a shelf in the fridge.

I am a rabid Label Reader.  Have you seen the nutrition stats on coconut milk?  The little bit I wanted for the rich, round mouth of fat feel?  That tiny bit, maybe 3/4 of a cup?  Seven freaking hundred calories.  About 250% of the daily recommended amount of saturated fat. 

But hey!  No cholesterol!

The poor boy, deprived of an important rite of passage experience, Fred persists in believing that the dense white stuff he finds in the can, called coconut milk, is what one harvests at the splitting of an actual nut.  I tell him of coconut water, and see the dream die in his eyes.  Until he decides, I guess, that I have... what?  Misremembered?  Or maybe I fell prey to a bizarre local strain of coconut, back in my days near the equator?

Truthfully, we did have some odd specimens in our famed back yard (see the previous post).  Being but a kid, and not yet ascended to my full height, I delighted in our two deformed trees:  both a banana and a coconut tree were greatly bent toward the ground.  We could, literally, walk up our trees and reach the fruit by simply bending over, squating down.

In retrospect, I bet some of the adults looked pretty silly taking that hike.  I think maybe they did it to appease me, as the taller among them could easily reach the goodies without having to walking up any trunk whatsoever.

Mango, papaya, pineapple -- the aforementioned coconut and banana.  What a yard.  The soil was such that the process of "rooting" consisted of a stem cleanly snipped and inserted a few inches into the dirt (carefully prepared by the swift twirl of an index finger) then kissed with a few cups of water.  I was notorious for having planthed a small farm's worth of poinsettia when no one was watching.  Funny how no one was willing to slaughter my leggy poinsettias once they had snaked and spidered out even a nearly microscopic root system, a plant's heartbeat.  I guess it's a good thing we didn't discuss how our horticultural ethic translated into larger concepts and topics, like abortion or choice.

Er, right.  So Fred wants to confound coconut water with coconut milk.

I'm glad we spent a few paragraphs getting that straight.

Ahem.

So there was no representation of the coconut in the fish stew, nor was there a flavor profile reminiscent of a strict curry, though these days I cannot seem to prepare a dish without the use of cumin.  Also, I am hung up on finely ground celery root, and the fresh vegetable itself.  For crunch, for clean. 

I need to make a confession.  The celery made me think of it and feel all chatty, too.  With certain basic ingredients, key tastes like celery and onion, I cook them in batches, in different shapes from different chops,
and marry them to the whole, if a wedding is appropriate, at different times. It makes a difference but not one that should jump out at you.  It is like a poor person's version of the depth that a fantastic additional expensive ingredient might add.  At some point, you might think that the onion seems to be hitting different notes and registers simultaneously, but you will never get stuck on the thought or pause long enough to distinuguish the divergent slices-'n-dices that were set to cooking at different times, possibly in differing ways.
Just think of the various tastes offered by a clove of garlic -- grated, sliced, mashed into a paste, chopped, roasted, added to the first bit of hot oil or infused into cold, boiled -- whole -- in cream...

Ahem, right.  As I was saying, no coconut milk, no curry flavor profile, in my fishy stew tonight, pas ce soir, non.  But by playing with peppers, jalapeño and red bell, julienned as well as roasted, there's a wonderful smell and taste to it.  The organic turnips (that's how we excused the two worms we found in them:  "Well, they're organic!") did not dominate but made out nicely with the potato, and the chickpeas, too. 

The fish was definitely... okay -- a generic, pretty good white flesh.  Pollock.  Could easily have been hoki, but wasn't.  I am not happy about the fish situation in This Manor, and could regale you with well thought out reasons why Pollock and Hoki just aren't gonna cut it... but I don't want to get off topic.  Also, environmentalists would cringe to hear my presentations on sustainability and fisheries.  I am too new to the cause.

Some kickass tomato combinations blessed my fish stew -- particularly a can I found collecting dust behind some recalled cat food (the recall took them only as far as the back of the cabinet).  Fire Roasted Diced Tomatoes, deep and soulful. 

While Fred goes off with the Militant Feminist Lesbian Existentialists on Sunday mornings, I practice my faith in the kitchen.  I cherish the look on his face when the cooking smells greet him, banishing all thoughts of Dyke Didactics.  I'll say what no one else dares to:  Most self-proclaimed militant lesbian feminist existentialists are just Average Josephines, upset that they've gained nothing tangible for the inhuman effort of wading through every word of Being and Nothingness, that dance of existence before essence.

I think Bobby Flay is sexy. 
Oh, dear.  Did I write that out loud?
Am I asserting my heterosexuality?

L'Etre et le Néant is the original French title, and my version was over 800 pages long.  I thought myself très cool to be carrying it around, my nose in it over coffees, my eyes crossing at the technical language and the density of thought.  I lacked all of the foundation necessary to understand it, yet possessed every attribute necessary to become an object of intellectual ridicule. 

{poseur::poseur::poseur}

It really is best that I stay in the kitchen, out of trouble.

By the way, congratulations to Chef Marc "Forge" Forgione, newly appointed Iron Chef!  I think he takes on his first challenger straight away -- I enjoy these first battles.  Jose Garces was a hoot, but an organized hoot, in his initial appearance, in which he gave proof of a truly anal interpretation of mise en place.

I am going to leave you with a thought piece, evidence that Foodies are deep thinkers, doughy fingers on the pulse of salty societal issues framed by the incisive world of haute cuisine.


Because my Sundays are not spent entirely in physical labor or at table, eatting. I also try to feed the mind.  One good source from the food media?  The blog and website Chow.  So that you can stretch and limber your food-based intelligence, here's an easy Chow piece from a few years ago. 

Primate Stew
November 27th, 2007 by MiriamWolf 

Lately, there have been a lot of “hey, people who live far away are eating crazy foods” articles in the media.

But while these kinds of pieces usually explore the eating of bugs, durian, or extremely smelly cheeses, what about foodstuffs that are really taboo?

A criminal case making its way through the New York City courts explores issues surrounding the consumption of bushmeat, specifically the flesh of monkeys. In 2006, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service agents investigated an NYC woman originally born in Liberia, who was suspected of illegally importing bushmeat. “[A]fter she consented to a search,” the article notes, “the agents came across a tiny, hairy arm hidden in her garage.”

While conservationists and animal-lovers abhor the practice, African nationals who consume bushmeat say they do it for religious reasons and to commemorate certain life events.

The rest of us wonder if primates are just too close to humans to make for comfortable snacking.

Rice Paddies Behind the Perimeter Fence

When I checked in on TW's blog this afternoon, his usually successful tripartite construction failed.  I always appreciate his efforts to make the parts speak to one another, but today they stood alone.

Yes, I know.  I am projecting.

The first two black-and-whites took my breath away, and I still, even now, refuse to accept their provenance.  I could give a royal crap that Tumbleweed is so delusional as to think he knows where they were taken (still, I'd love to have "Poin'dexter's view west" explained!).  Tanner Trail yadda yadda yadda.
Likely story, dude.

I refuse his specificity because I've substituted my own -- and not just my own place names, but time of place, as well:  The view from our back yard, 1968.




TW:  Poin'dexter's view west
Retired Educator:  View from our backyard, 1968



TW: Tanner Trail vista
Retired Educator:  View from our backyard, 1968

No, I'm not gonna tell you where we had our backyard that year (that incredible year for all of us on the planet).

And maybe it wasn't quite as spectacular, and maybe our conscribed point of view made such a view actually impossible, and, okay, there was no river, now that I think about it, but still, I imagined rivers, or maybe more standing water, yes, standing water, for there was water in the heavy air, which makes for incredible greens and blacks, and I remember strange silence, too.

My Brother-Unit named the whole entry: Below Is The Green Water Billowing On -- which comes from the Li Bai poem he featured below the photos (along with a video of David Oistrakh performing Debussy's Clair de Lune in Paris, 1962).

There's a third photo but it doesn't fit the fantasy of my memory, so you will have to just up and take your lazy self on over to American Idyll and see it for yourself.  TW claims it's of Mencius and Confucius Temple from Whites Butte but you cannot always trust him.

I am not such a Debussy fan, either, and Clair de lune is just wrong for these photos of my backyard, back then.  In 1968.

The grasshoppers weave

their autumn song by the

golden railing of the well.

Frost coalesces

on my bamboo mat,

changing its colour with cold.

My lonely lamp is not bright,

I’d like to end these thoughts.

I roll back the hanging,

gaze at the moon,

and sigh long in vain.

The beautiful person

is like a flower beyond

the edge of the clouds.

Above is the black night

of heaven's height.

Below is the green water billowing on.

The sky is long. The road is far. Bitter flies my spirit.

The spirit I dream can't get through.

The mountain pass is hard.

Long yearning breaks my heart.

--Li Bai

Yogurt: A chacun son goût

photo by Erwan Frotin

I had forgotten some of the less desirable gifts of a lengthy course of antibiotic.  Let's just say that Fred is keeping me well supplied with low fat plain yogurt, the only kind I will eat.

That's not true.  I think there is nothing finer than Greek yogurt with pungent little sides -- a coarse chop of cucumber, parsley, green onion, garlic and dill (or a good commercial Tzatziki dip); a dense dark honey; and  cherries or coconut with crystallized ginger.  I have a friend who gets a rabid look, juts out her foreign bony elbows, and carefully sprinkles kosher salt and habanero pepper slivers over a layer of Greek yogurt spread on a plate to a thickness of about 3/4 of an inch.  [You'd best not bother her for a while... and it is not recommended that you flit about crying "caga fuego," either, no matter how funny you think you are.]

I actually prefer a bitter yoghurt, but that fact might only be interesting, or even appropriately mentioned, were this a yogurt blog, which is a thought... Hmmm.  A collection of odes, a serial novel situated in a sunny Mediterranean isle...  Anyway, loving the tang of things, I prefer a Greek yogurt of sheep's milk, which can be hard to locate, believe it or not, here in the deep, deep wilds of Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).  It's a legal thing, having something to do with how sheep cultivation is prohibited west of Our Sole Central Alp, known locally simply as "The Alp."  To complicate matters, there is some daunting algorithm in force that determines yogurt export-import ratios, and expresses the rare availability of this Hellenic dairy treat according to the Chinese lunisolar calendar. 

Sometimes I get a headache and simply cannot cope. 

Last year, Fred spent a few nights sacked out on the horsehair divans in the Haddock Reception Hall.  I know, I know, it hardly seems possible that such a refined clan would invest in antique horsehair furniture, but upon researching the history of the room, the apparent detour from tastefulness was justified as actually being a clever choice. I gave a cursory explanation in a piece called, appropriately, War and Peace: I Have the Power When I'm in the Shower:

Have a seat on the red horsehair loveseat over yonder. It's one of the few Victorian Pieces in The Manor. {guffawandsnicker} Go figure, huh? Captain Haddock's more recent ancestors were a wily people, a sang froid of common sense running in their blue, blue veins.


The space that we are in today served them as Reception Hall during the American Civil War, and for roughly 60 years afterward. Back then, it was worth their Snooty While to allow a more plebeian sort of individual to attend the legendary Marlinspike Hall Afternoon Teas.


But a few changes were necessary, so as to honor their actual intent.


Horsehair furniture. Horsehair as stuffing, horsehair as "fabric." *Small* furniture of unwieldy proportion, shape, and style. American furniture! To provide the necessary Provenance of Snoot, most of it was purchased from a small dealer specializing in the paraphernalia and artifacts of Abraham Lincoln.


We're talking austere. And sturdy.


But mostly? We're talking un-freaking-comfortable! Somehow, some way, the earthier visitors to The Manor found that the rich folks' furniture variously pinched their derrières, squeezed their oversized working class thighs, and often made them break out in an itchy rash. Slowly but surely, word spread, and the afternoon receptions thinned out, freeing up The Haddocks for their beloved Tea Time Mahjong Tournaments.

Oh!  Why was Fred banished to La Recepción and its discomforts?  The man actually brought home -- and I still shudder at the memory -- nonfat Greek yogurt.  That was when we first made the acquaintance of Abbot Truffatore because nothing short of monastic couples' counseling was going to restore our relationship.

Anyway, to preserve the notion of Greek yogurt as an occasional treat, I restrict myself to a generic supermarket version of plain low fat blended yogurt that I usually doctor with vanilla extract and eat as I read the novel du jour at the end of the day.

Which I am off to do, right now.  [God, I love my optimism!]

My Inner Bitch Hosts A Pity Party and The Abbot Runs Away From Home

I've had a really hard day.  To sleep around 2:30 AM, up shortly before 5 AM, I peaked around 5:03 AM.

Rimshot, please.  With a big nod to George Carlin's Hippy Dippy Weatherman:  "The high tomorrow will be whenever I get up."




The thing is, I cannot even enjoy the fruits of my suffering.  You know, complaining about it, putting in for my share of empathy, sympathy.  Revisiting it constantly, in case anyone might forget that I am ill and in awful pain.  Rating my pain on a scale of Mount Rushmoresque dimensions -- dimensions that my pain easily transcends, of course.

Normally, I'd be giving it a good go, working the program, modeling the meaning of real patience in a personal revisionist history of Job.  I might regale the Domestic Staff (indentured-unto-perpetuity!) with Tales of My Inner Strength in the Face of Adversity.  La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore will likely stare dully at photographic evidence of how my toenails have fused with scaly grey foot flesh.  Poor Fred'll offer his
broad shoulders as I despair over every abject cushingoid feature that now defines my fascinating -- and yet, oh-so-alarming -- body habitus.

Are you feeling sorry for me yet?  No?  Harrumph.  What's a person with raging Sick-Role Behaviors gotta do to harness a sustaining Bolus of Sympathy around here? Have you even heard of Talcott Parsons?  I hate to see myself so... oh-what-*is*-the word, oh-what-*is*-the-expression?

So... vacuous?
So... obnoxiously needy? 
So very much a gaping, sucking hole?

A friend of Fred's, one of the Angry Lesbian Existentialist Feminists he hangs with on Wednesday evenings, told him "most of [Retired Educator's] charm is in her brilliant self-referentiality." I think she meant my succulent auto-referentialiciousness but I fear it might actually be the gaping, sucking hole referenced above that she misperceives as one of the shining orbs lighting the gloom of  her glorious dyke-ed-dness.

I'm just sayin'.

Unfortunately, we will have to find another time to fête my Poor Self, as the banging on our Mock Brunelleschi Baptistry Doors turns out to have heralded the unexpected arrival of Abbot Truffatore, the bald, bow-legged little man who lords it over his spiritual inferiors at the Cistercian Monastery-and-Office-Supply-Mail-Order-Depot down the road from Marlinspike Hall.  Yes, he has fled The Brethren again, seeking respite at The Manor.

He has the unfortunate habit of yelling "Strada Puttana" before folding me into his long, hairy -- really rather simian -- arms.  I tend to scream back, the embrace somewhat muffling my vocal puissance:  "Bless me, You Simian Espèce de Nain!" 

Fred thinks he is after The Castafiore, and -- furthermore -- that Bianca is doing her fair share of flirting.  She just happened to pick the exact moment of his arrival to pirouette by the Baptistry Entrance in a flimsy peignoir of virginal white chiffon, hemmed to a length that can only be called High-Thigh.

Thank God for the generous smocking and beading on the bodice, else I fear the Church would have one less lusty abbot to stand as moral example to the Laity of Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).

Just in case you were thinking of doing the same sort of thing -- turn up uninvited on our drawbridge -- let me fill you in on something.  I may very well make nice and tell you to come by for a visit "any time," and promise you, too, that the best suites of The Manor stand pristine, fluffed, and aired, all in anticipation of your arrival.  I might mention that we are keeping a côterie of executive chefs, four sommeliers, and a smorgasbord of sous chefs, pastry chefs, and the best saucier northwest of The Alp -- and while all of that is true, I still expect at least the decency of a week's warning before the three matching suitcases you got for graduation are plopped down on the dazzling white Carrara marble of our doorstep, rumored to be a true scrap from Michelangelo's David.

We believe in the sanctity of Carrara marble, just as Abbot Truffatore believes that The Holy Foreskin,* preserved and displayed in a domed pastry tray (specially designed and electronically monitored by Brinks Home Security), imparts a miraculous fecundity of faith to any of his Monastic Postulants fallen prey to wavering belief.  Ever since the Novice Master, Father Guido,  made it mandatory for all postulants to experience the eternal rhythm of the Night Watch while closeted in the sacristy cupboard where The Holy Foreskin is kept safe from the ill effects of light and humidity, every novice has gone on to profess Final Vows. Coincidence?  You decide.  Ironically, it is that same robust statistic that sometimes drives The Abbot beyond the cloistered walls of the Cistercian Monastery-and-Office-Supply-Mail-Order-Depot -- and right into our arms.

Carrara Marble Quarry, details, photo by  Edward Burtynsky

The Abbot travels light, of course, bringing only his jammies and a toothbrush.  Captain Haddock, ever prescient, orders that several outfits of plain but high-quality clothing be kept ready for just such a guest.  It was a bit shocking the first time we saw our local spiritual leader decked out in lederhosen.  Fred has tried to make chinos and a casual broadcloth oxford available once the intense heat of summer is past.

I quartered The Abbot in a never before used collection of rooms, added as much luxe to the mix as I thought he could stand (a sensual blend of satin and flannel bedding -- in colors to make him blush; a series of flat, faceted Cézannes -- to make him, I confess, slightly uneasy).


Anyway -- it's the principle of the thing.  With a week's notice, we wouldn't have to worry about stuff like whether we've a supply of your favorite coffee bean or whether you risk being housed in the same wing as the 40 Chinese tumblers who prefer training in the corridors to working out in the barns.

Then, too, I might manage to be better behaved were I to have some warning about overnight visitors.  My Inner Bitch has been unleashed for several days now, fault of too much pain, too little sleep, full body slam-style spasms, medication side effects, and blood sugars that drop or rise according to Mystical Rules of Diabetic Devastation (from 320 to 41 in an hour and a half!).  She's quite vain, My Inner Bitch, and can be calmed, seduced, and lured back to quiescence when threatened with public exposure.



* This is the best scholarly reference for Christ's Foreskin that I found, and it does little, really, except heighten the mystery of how this holy penis tip came to Tête de Hergé's little known Cistercian monastery:

The Holy Umbilical Cord is a first class Catholic relic (that which is composed of a body part) of Christ. Christian teaching generally states that Christ was assumed into heaven corporeally.


Therefore the only parts of his body available for veneration are parts he had lost prior—hair, blood, fingernails, milk teeth, his prepuce and the umbilicus remaining from his birth.


It was written somewhere that the Virgin kept and coveted her son’s umbilical cord. She possessed it most of her life before handing it off to Saint John who, in turn, passed it along (as the story goes) to the Bishop of Ephesus.


But how versions of the Holy Navel ended up in the French towns of Lucques and Châlons-sur-Marne is a mystery, especially considering Rome had one, too.


The Eternal City’s blessed belly button was kept in the Sancta Sanctorum (the Holy of Holies) along with the heads of Sts. Peter and Paul, a chunk of wood from the Last Supper (which can still be seen tacked to the wall), and, until 1527, the Holy Foreskin.

...but Genghis Khan

2008 Kant Attack Ad


posted to YouTube by KingHotPants, December 7, 2008: "Kant Attack Ad by James DiGiovanna and Carey Burtt"



Also worth noting: Dissenting political voices among the video commentary, often coyly disguised as a non sequitur (and occasionally as an inference that does not follow from the considerable premises):

vegtam1:
Ayn Rand was a hack and amateur in the same way that we say that Michael Jordan was a basketball player.

ShiekYerbooty:
I Like Lao
Lao Tzu 08

Rudyisatrany:
Scleiermacher has my vote. He will defend our right to passively experience the infinite universe. I intuit a victory!

Grasslander:
I doubt that Kant could make congress pass his legislation on universal law, or that he could make the Supreme Court judge aesthetics subjectively, but he is still better than Plato, who keeps hiding people in his cave without a trial. Although some would say that transcendental idealism is extremist.

IClaudiusV:
I am voting for Plato in 2008 because everyone else is just a footnote.

PrinceIsThePope:
If Kant is Romney and Nietzsche is Obama, then who is Heidegger?

dasmysteryman12:
I hate Nietzsche. He's like the Soulja Boy of the philisophical world.

YouKnowWhereThisEnds:
If you mean depressing, then yes.
If, however, you mean that like Soulja Boy Nietzsche was an overcompensating, bling-wearing, shallow, hip-hop gangsta then I'm afraid I must protest the claim.

More Gifts From Tumbleweed

One of my brother's blogs, American Idyll, features his photographs of the Grand Canyon, taken over many years spent as a guide and ardent lover of the place and its rivers, of *the* river, the Colorado.

Tumbleweed -- that'd be what my brother-unit calls himself now -- Tumbleweed and I have given it a good go.  We were lost to one another our entire adult lives until two years ago, when through the stammering confessions of unrelated family, I found him.  He has been nothing less than amazing and my love for him is real and deepened. 

But I made the mistake of becoming self-conscious and in so doing, every impulse to reach out to him was delayed just long enough to be tainted by that hesitation. The past few months, I gave up trying, except for the occasional early morning or late night communication.  They are deep, my emails.  Three days ago, I had the audacity to dazzle TW with pure edginess:

thinking of you!



Thanksgiving.  I am so thankful for Tumbleweed.  Thankful that the opportunity to know him and love him is not entirely diminished, that I get to try again.

In addition to his Boxed Gifts (here, here, and here), TW invited me early on to use American Idyll as a weapon against insomnia, fever, and pain -- and the frustration of a Traveler Unable to Travel.  My time spent sitting in the sun, wind, and snow of his photographs, beside and above rivers, floating in pools, has been a wonderful time apart from my reality, and an introduction to his.

From time to time, I've shared his work here, as well as pictures taken by his friend ruuscal, who now shares blog duty.  I hope that some of you have traipsed over to American Idyll as a result of these features.

Today, when I checked in, some black and white photography caught my eye, and that's what I am teasing you with now.  This is from an entry made a few days back.

He framed the photos with this quote from Geronimo, and with this music video of The Shadows covering Jerry Lordan's instrumental piece Apache. 



We had no churches,
no religious organization,
no sabbath days,
no holidays,
and yet we worshiped.
Sometimes the whole tribe
would assemble
and sing and pray,
sometimes a smaller number,
perhaps only two or three.
The songs had a few words,
but were not formal.
The singer would
occasionally put in
such words as he wished
instead of the
usual tone sound.
Sometimes we prayed in silence.
Sometimes each prayed aloud.
Sometimes an aged person prayed for all of us.
At other times one would rise and speak to us of our duties to each other.
Our services were short.
--Geronimo

TW titled the piece from Geronimo's remnant:  Sometimes We Prayed In Silence.




Vishnu Temple







Kathleen's Nipple from outside Clear Creek Canyon





Cheyava Falls