Cats Trump Writer's Block

NOTE: A just discovered gem buried in the Drafts folder, dated 8 August 2012, 10:27 AM, Tête de Hergé Super Standard Time.  The "gem" is not the writing, but the cat photography.  I think this blog has been entirely too grim of late, so a CAT POST is just the thing.  And since I don't feel much like posting today, or perhaps ever again, finding something that claims to have broken through "Writer's Block" is terrifically helpful to the me of today, 21 January 2015.  And it's a darned shame that Tante Louise's video cameo appearance didn't make it to the page -- but she is surely getting all things aligned in Heaven (which is, as Townes Van Zandt reminds us, "where you find it.").  And I do also miss the original Crack Whore Organic Pig Farmer Lady, taken down by the Fugitive Squad/Aunt Louise. An unfortunate, but historic, Community Event. Memories are slippery things!

Enjoy this serendipitous break from an Excessively Somber Period of Blogging!

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Dobby

So,  when I made the masterpiece of a video about flushing PICC lines, the astute observer will have noticed that I dropped the recording device into a sink full of nice, hot soapy water.  Cleanliness, godliness!

I don't have much money.  I'm poor, in fact.  Not entitlement poor, more like, receiving 60% of my 2000 salary with no adjustment for cost-of-living or any inflationary trickeroos poor -- and using that money to support a household, pay a caretaker, fork out over $15,000 on health care (with insurance, even the blessed PCIP), and all the usual -- maintaining the sexiness of Ruby the Honda CRV, and keeping her legal, paying the mortgage, and having every animal in our care up to date in shots and vet exams.  Hell, the year of Little Boy (Uncle Kitty Big Balls), because of Fred's deep love for him, we payed close to $5,000 trying to save the dear soul's life.  I have to say, though, that had the vet involved been a better vet. a more honest vet, we might have stopped torturing him several thousand dollars earlier.

Lest you scoff at my "I'm poor" by pointing your pointy finger at my list of financial accomplishments, I should add that I never eat out, haven't been to a movie theatre, much less La Scala, in over a decade, and some claim that "generic" is my middle name.

Also, I make my money grow by playing the market.

That's right.  The socialist owns GOOG [but the rest of her portfolio is so deep in risk that she ain't revealing anything more, lest your mere scoffery turn to disgust].

Anyway, this is my way of explaining that I bought a new video camera.  It was a deal, a steal, and a good choice according to Fred's Bible, Consumer Reports, Tête de Hergé edition.  There was much ado about how easy it is to use, though I admit there was not a specific warranty of ease of use when the photog has one good hand, and a fumbling one, at that.

So far it is defeating me.  I don't get the zillions of icons offered on the LED screen.  Just tap!  It's easy! Without proof that one of those symbols won't launch an ICBM, I cannot willy-nilly start choosing picto-signifiers.  I have a conscience.

But this morning, which came too early, I thought I would at least try to take some still photos.  And then show them, describe them, say things, any things, to help destroy the iron bars behind which I pretend this writer is penned, blocked.

So... like many of my kind, after I inject myself with a few drugs, take 7 pills, go pee,and climb into the wheelchair, my first act of the day is to make coffee.  As you ought to know, we harbor three cats in our wing of Marlinspike Hall -- Captain Haddock issued orders that they no longer are free-ranging throughout the Manor, what with the claw-sharpening activity in the Tapestry Alcoves and all:  Marmy Fluffy Butt, Dobby (her son, the runt), and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten (no one told us he was a Maine Coon).
These three insert themselves boldly, and sometimes rudely, into the coffee-making plan by performing intricate death-defying patterns around the wheels of this power chair.  "Feed us, feed us, feed us," they chant.

At which point the absurdity begins.  I manage to get three bowls filled with fresh and tasty kibble and on the floor, in the required layout.  Marmy will only eat out of the red plastic bowl;  Dobby and Buddy prefer the metal bowls, but then purposefully set out to eat from each receptacle.  The two water bowls must frame the three food bowls like parentheses.  Change that and one of them will make the subtle point of their dissatisfaction by, for example, eating with one paw in one water bowl, and filling the other water bowl with half-chewed bits of kibble.

But, finally, coffee.

Oh, here is a picture of my new kettle.  I broke my café press a few weeks ago.  Might have been the same day I killed the video camera.  So I dug out one of our many Melitta drip cones and went back to that most honest form of coffee-making.  In the process, I noticed that my Paul Revere kettle was leaking.  As in, the solder was breaking down, the seams were separating.  So I went online to my new favorite pastime -- FAB -- the rule in force being "no purchases allowed, because you are poor, no matter how well GOOG is doing."

But they had this kettle, and it was cute, and it was on sale, and it is now on my stove (in our private kitchenette, as it is hardly appropriate for the more demanding heat requirements of, say, the Medieval Kitchens).

New red kettle from FAB

If confession is truly good for the soul:  I also bought some stationary.  I have a weakness for good stationary, and may be the last person on Earth to continue to send handwritten letters and cards, delivered to brick-and-mortar, or daub-and-wattle, or hand-chinked stone domiciles.

Okay, so... it's heavy, the kettle.  I have already poured boiling water onto my lap, neatly missing the Melitta cone, because I couldn't hold the lovely shiny red thing up high enough to pour the water in over something not made of my flesh, like the counter.  But I will figure it out.  This morning, I put my coffee-making stuff in the sink, reducing the height requirement of the kettle heft.  [You will either understand that last sentence or you won't.  I can't help you.]

The video camera, when plugged into the limping-along computer, has lovely edit functions for my visual artistry.  Unfortunately, the red of the kettle was lost in the necessity to tone down the severely dominating whiteness of the stove top's enamel, even the whitey glare of the pitcher and old cookie jar that hold my cooking utensils.

The red, the red, it is not right.

Okay, so the cats are fed.  The coffee is made and, if necessary, burn balm applied to my upper thighs.
I turn the wheelchair in the direction of early morning television news, the computer, and a bed into which I can dive when pain spikes.

Dobby always disappears about five minutes before I make my slow journey to the bedroom -- slow because I'll be damned if any more coffee is leaving the mug, unless headed for my caffeine-starved self.

The photo at the top of this post?  That's what I find waiting for me on the bed -- without fail, and thankfully so, for it makes me smile like no body's business.  Dobby, laid out, and ready for his requisite ten minutes of loving.

He wants, first, a fierce belly rub, then a sensual ear massage, easy on the right one.  He then finds the comb and brush dedicated to his use, and his use alone, and knocks them on the floor.  Why we have to go through this particular part of the ritual, I dunno, but I don't change things because he's cute when he tries to get tough.

The grooming begins in earnest, and lasts as long as my right arm can wield the brush and comb.

After ten minutes, usually, of attention, Dobby is faced with three options:

• He can play with Buddy, who has taken his place at the foot of the bed, and is vocalizing like a loon.
• He can curl up and take his first nap of the day.
• He can grab the comb, freshly cleaned of his fine gray hairs, growl, shake it, and run off with it looking like a 19th century train robber who scored gold.

Okay, back to my pitiable photography.  Marmy has sworn me off.  She doesn't come to cuddle any more, she runs, in fact, when I draw near.  Oh, she is conflicted, that is for sure.  She talks at me when we're together in the kitchenette, and lets me pat her head.  She relies on me to clean up her hairball offerings, which have become frequent, because she won't let me help her with her decidedly difficult grooming.  (She's a long-haired beauty.)

My crime?  She has a recurrent eye condition -- herpes, actually -- which requires "gooping" with medication.  She managed to go several years without a problem but a few months back, poor thing, it returned with a vengeance in her left eye.  Now... Fred is a loving pet caretaker but he lacks finesse when it comes to administering pet medications.  As in, he scares the crap out of them because he believes they must be captured for the process to have meaning.  My philosophy is more one of waiting for them to come to me, then faking them out, but following my evil up with a good nuggle, a nice treat, something to confuse their nascent desire to hate me.

Marmy, though, has that incredible ability to read a human's mind.  Before you make a move to pick up the eye ointment, before you even allow yourself to entertain the thought of eye ointment, she's on to you, and she is GONE.

So we had to go with the Fred Method.  For some reason (a phrase I'd love to be able to eliminate from my life, or at least reduce its aptitude), he'd trap her, then carry her to me, and I would get to apply the goop to her eye.  

Now, I don't know, but it is my strong suspicion, having gooped other cats with this same medication, that Marmy is a bit, you know, Castafiore-esque.  She yelps, she cries, she squirms, she gives you the Look Of Death.  Every one else shakes their tiny feline heads, maybe gives a brief glare, and then they're over it.

Marmy Fluffy Butt has yet to forgive me.

This is how I get to see her first thing in the morning.  Peering at me, half-hidden behind the doorway, wondering if I am gonna drop the cherry bomb of a new kettle in order to swoop over, grab her by her Fluffy Tail, and stick some acid-like substance in her eyeball.  It's been months now.  I've decided to ignore her, and that is beginning to work, as, again like The Castafiore, she cannot bear the lack of attention.

Marmy Fluffy Butt, giving me the Evil Eye, and badly in need of grooming

It's unfair not to remind you that Marmy has her reasons -- we took her in when she was heavy with kittens, to the point where her belly almost dragged the floor.  She's tiny -- barely 8 pounds, and she had five little ones inside her.  She was only 8 months old at the time, or so figured the vet.  We figure that she started as someone's pet, and then was abandoned, and had been on the streets for a good bit.  

It's unfair not to note that we "took her in" by following one of Fred's Grab Scenarios, using a yummy bowl of kibble as bait.  Marmy will not eat wet food, something we wish someone would explain to us.  She refuses real chicken, etc.  Anyway, we kidnapped the poor, freezing pregnant soul and so began life with Marmy.  She was essentially feral for almost two years.

In the first few months of her stay, Fred had to CARRY my sweet Sam-I-Am (now deceased) past her to the litter box or she would beat him up.  Sammy weighed about 14 pounds.  It was ridiculous.

We don't know, beyond rape, what she endured out on the street, but it wasn't good.  When she decided we were okay, it was wonderful.  She made up for lost love time.  She domesticated as no cat has domesticated before her.

So when she reverts to her fearful state, it hurts my heart.  She and Fred were never nuggle partners, and he doesn't groom unless brushes are actually thrown at him with loud verbal encouragements, so their relationship is still stable.  

I hope my next photo of my girl is a pose of her purring and stretched out on my belly, all sleek and smooth, with fun, and not fear, in her eyes.  And God forbid that her eyes ever need treatment again.

O Lordy, Lordy!  Good grief.  Moving right along.  Those of you who have followed Buddy's growth, here's how big he is now, and still growing.  The vet says he will continue to grow for another two years, one of those weird bits of Maine Coon trivia.

Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten

Note Marmy sneaking in behind him, and actually eating out of a metal bowl and not her beloved red plastic thang.  Buddy has become her pal, for which we're very thankful, as he's the only living organism in Marlinspike Hall who can successfully defend against the swift application of her claws, or achieve the speed of light.  The two of them love to vocalize, and they streak by in blurs that even make Dobby look perplexed.

Well, after I conquer the "photo" mode on this bleeping camera, I will give the video mode another try.  

Fred was sorely disappointed in me a couple of days ago, when the Crack Whore Organic Pig Farmer Lady who lives across our country lane was raided by the Tête de Hergé Lone Alp West Fugitive Squad -- you would have bust a gut at the sight of Tante Louise in SWAT gear.  She had managed to move about a yard by the time her team had rushed the Pig Farm Cottage, captured the ne'er-do-well, thrown her into the back seat of the Fugitive Catcher Car, an orange Vega, dodged a few angry free-ranging hogs, wrapped a few muddy acres in yellow cop crime scene tape, and jumped back into the Fugitive Squad station wagon.

I had the camera out but it was just the second time I'd ever had it strapped to my quivering, spazzing right hand.  So we ended up with a lovely montage of light glinting off the moat, close-ups of hog jowls, and lots of footage of Tante Louise stuck in the mire.

It would have gone viral on YouTube.

© 2015 L. Ryan

Ecclesiastes 1:9

Dr. King's notes on Ecclesiastes 1:9
Courtesy of The King Center

REPOST from August 31, 2009.

January 4, 2015 Introduction:

Many people react as if the "recent" report(s) reclassifying as torture the Bush-era "Enhanced Interrogation Techniques" came out of an unforeseen overhead vista of cerulean blue -- that overlapping and sly sky blue. Perhaps from those interwebs' "cloud" storage devices about which I hear such rumors?

A redacted, unclassified version from the United States Senate Select Committee on Intelligence is available HERE. This short version addresses the years 2001 to 2006, and represents "an executive summary" of the key findings. The complete edition, still classified, was adopted by the SSCI in 2012. The CIA response to the SSCI document, delivered in memorandum form on June 27, 2013, was released in a redacted, unclassified version in early December 2014, and can be found HERE.

Where does the political and media "shock" come from, and the straight faces from which the surprise and awe are delivered?

I don't know.  You've only to have followed the work of the ACLU and the individual FOIA requests of hundreds of reputable organizations and individuals over the years -- and beyond the neatly forgiving endpoint of 2006. The ACLU Torture Database documents their efforts to obtain documentation and is the basis of their document, "U.S. Torture Program: A Blueprint for Accountability," which can be downloaded HERE.

Maybe you recall President Obama's quiet statement from August 2009, summarized this way in the New York Times:

WASHINGTON — The Obama administration will continue the Bush administration’s practice of sending terrorism suspects to third countries for detention and interrogation, but pledges to closely monitor their treatment to ensure that they are not tortured, administration officials said Monday.

Perhaps my skepticism of the tardy, off-Broadway response by the public, the pols, and the Fourth Estate last month can be forgiven if my bouts of hypertension and re-postings of Buckeye Surgeon's blogging on torture and the clear knowledge of it within the Executive Branch of our Esteemed Estate o'er in the United States of America are taken into account. Such interrogation techniques are unheard of in our present home in Tête de Hergé, though I wonder sometimes at the bovine revelations emanating from the Animal Husbandry Division of Marlinspike Hall's Miniature Genetic Project. (Yes, I am something of a Dr. Doolittle.)

I like one of the comments to a related ACLU article on Torture, American Style, left several years ago:

Simple solution.Water board members of the Bush Administration, until they tell us the truth.
"Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally." -- Abraham Lincoln

And, of course, should you, like me, feel that the top of your head may explode any day now (Hey, Congress reconvenes tomorrow!) -- there is always the pointless and yet temporarily invigorating method made popular by the movie Network:

In the oppressive spirit of "[w]hat has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.," then, we republish "Pourri, Pot," and hope you are not terribly jarred by the redundant hodgepodge of cats and Dick Cheney.  Close your eyes and pretend it's August 31, 2009.

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POURRI, POT

Pot pourri (rotten pot). Fitting that the name for a beautifully arranged bowl yielding questionable scents derives from the Spanish designation for olla podrida -- pork&beans. True, the Spanish being Spanish,said pork&beans stew is subject to the rarefying whims of the creative cook, a clay pot, and a long cooking time, and becomes a satisfying culinary hodgepodge.

I learned from reading the entry for potpourri in Wikipedia that,
"(when mixed, you need to enclose the mixture in a bottle or jar,and let it
sit for a few weeks. Towards the middle of the weeks, the soon to be potpourri
may smell rotten. If you wait a little while longer, it will start to smell
better, so don't get discouraged or disappointed." (I particularly relish, and
appreciate, the encouragement to fend off the ravages of clinical depression.)

Yes, indeed. Words to live by, words with which to guide your children: If you wait a little longer, it will start to smell better...

So many unimaginative people of my generation... uh-oh, incoming, incoming! Flying lyrics, flying lyrics!

People try to put us d-down (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Just because we g-g-get around (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Yeah, I hope I die before I get old (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

This is my generation
This is my generation, baby
-- The Who, "My Generation"

As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, the more anemic among us are humming "Teach Your Children," and feeling oh-so-competent. And organic. You know what I mean -- don't you? Look around you -- aren't there a few competent/organic types lurking in your shadows, obnoxiously humming:

You who are on the road
Must have a code that you can live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a good bye.
-- CSNY, "Teach Your Children"

The men ye shall know by their thin ponytails and receding hairlines. (The women ye shall spot by their insistent middle-of-the-hair part -- a style best reserved for those few of perfect face.)

Pot pourri. Potpourri.

Sadly, we have actual odor issues going on this morning. Fred decided to change cat litter brands -- again -- and I believe there is some sort of intestinal rebellion in the works. He wants to "go green," an impulse we all applaud, in public, but occasionally regret, in private.

I want to be as eco-friendly as possible. Really, I do. Thus far in our kitty greening, we've done recycled paper litter, corn litter, and alfalfa litter. At the moment, I believe we're using a combination of compressed sawdust and alfalfa. [One of the eternal questions: Why are simpler, less-processed products more expensive than standard commercial stuff? Shouldn't the cost of production be lower?] And as often as possible in our upkeep of Captain Haddock's ancestral home, we try to use products original to its construction -- the reason we have two-pound cans of clean sheep tallow tucked in various nooks and crannies, plus a stash of sustainably harvested local wood in [our replica of] the Knoppenburg Manor* Stables.

And should the good Captain Haddock ever depart Bongi-country and approve our plans for expansion, we've opted to employ straw bale in our framing and pneumatically impacted stabilized earth (PISE) -- or rammed earth* -- in the construction of our walls.

* Rammed earth, also known as taipa[1], pisé de terre or simply pisé, is a
technique used in the building of walls using the raw materials of mud, chalk,
lime and gravel. It is an ancient building method that has seen a revival in
recent years as people seek more sustainable building materials and natural
building methods. Because of the nature of the materials used it is
incombustible, thermally insulating and very strong and hardwearing. It also has
the added advantage of being a very low cost and simple way to construct
walls.

Ha! Dobby just came by to give the computer a good sniff.

Dobby is sometimes known as The Nose. Small, pink, and often quivering, his nose misses nothing. He insists on sniffing certain things -- and we participate... because we're weird. For instance, my water bottle. One of the ways in which I supported Hillary Clinton during her bid for the presidency came through the purchase of this 32-ounce water bottle, appropriately festooned with her name and a hint of the American flag. I drink probably 100+ ounces of water a day, so this monster bottle is never far away. I also have a Hillary tee that is totally irksome. I cannot prove it, but I believe it is a factory reject. An ounce too heavy, a few stitches awry.

In the beginning, Dobby was just fascinated with the movement of the water inside the dark blue cylinder, and I would turn it sideways to make "waves." He would slap them with his paws. Then he became curious about what was inside, about whatever it was that drew me so often to the bottle. So I would hold the open bottle in front of his small, pink, and quivering nose, and he would begin the serious task of sniffing.

I am a clean person. Good hygiene, and all that. Almost spotless house. I floss. But Dobby? Dobby is absolutely scrupulous about cleanliness. Dobby is Mr. Clean. Mr. CleanCat. When he encounters something off in his environment, the cat stands and delivers -- loud, obnoxious vocalizations.

No one may rest until all is well in DobbyLand.

I offer The Dobster whiffs from the Hillary Bottle about three times a day. He plants his front paws, approaches the opening with The Nose, and takes about three good sniffs. All is well, I drink the water, and we rewind.

Yesterday, at the first Hillary Bottle offering, he blink-blink-blinked and recoiled in obvious horror. As there had been a break in the water main down the road from Marlinspike Hall, I thought: "Aha! I'm like a miner with a canary. Thanks to Dobby, I've been saved from sure poisoning."

I rinsed it out, and added fresh filtered water. A few hours later, now confident in the quality of my water, I offered the little idiot another whiff. He looked at me in abject terror, then turned and ran, vocalizing a banshee's keening wail.

Everyone's a critic.

Even though the human consensus was that the bottle was clean and that Dobby was touched in the head -- after I scrubbed the Hillary Bottle inside and out with an old toothbrush and ick-smelling lemon detergent, Dobby once again was happy to offer his schnoz.

Pot pourri. Potpourri.

"Maybe I could interest you in a hot cup of shut-the-fuck-up..." (Jon Stewart, 3.18.09)

Oops! Sorry! I didn't mean to write that out loud, much less carefully attribute it by author and date of original production.

I was just sitting here, cozy in the chiaroscuro of pre-dawn, waiting for those rosy fingers, Homer's trope, contemplating Dick Cheney's latest pronouncements.

Obama's decision to authorize Attorney General Eric Holder's investigation "serves as a reminder, if any were needed, of why so many Americans have doubts about this Administration's ability to be responsible for our nation's security." He went on to call it an "outrageous political act that will do great damage, long-term."

"I just think it's an outrageous precedent to set, to have this kind of, I think, intensely partisan, politicized look back at the prior administration," Cheney said in an interview aired on "Fox News Sunday," during which he was peppered with pre-determined, softball-type queries, dotingly, lovingly pitched by Chris Wallace.

A politicized Justice Department? An Attorney General, under the thumb? There's a name that keeps nibbling at my crumbling memory... Who was it? Something guttural... G-g-g-g?

Gonzales?

Oh, and I really want to hear how Cheney and Bush kept us "safe" (for eight years, Cheney qualifies, and even that is wrong). There was that tiny glitch on September 11, 2001 -- and then, Cheney likes to pretend, nothing! Absolute safety, brought to us by virtue of EITs, enhanced interrogation techniques -- some of which qualifies as torture.

John McCain, who perhaps has the most informed opinion on the matter, said this of Cheney's remarks during his appearance on Face the Nation:

"I think the interrogations were in violation of the Geneva Conventions and the convention against torture that we ratified under President Reagan," said the Arizona Republican. "I think these interrogations, once publicized, helped al Qaeda recruit. I got that from an al Qaeda operative in a prison camp in Iraq... I think that the ability of us to work with our allies was harmed. And I believe that information, according go the FBI and others, could have been gained through other members."

There ought to be a Hallmark card. I bet that Chris Wallace has that covered, that and the Whitman Sampler. Andrew Sullivan has a slight opinion about his journalist colleague, though he expresses it in tepid, half-hearted fashion. That's what they're known for at The Atlantic:

When future historians ask how the United States came not only to practice torture but to celebrate it and treat torturers as heroes, a special place in hell among the journalists who embraced and justified it should be reserved for Chris Wallace.

I find it outfrigging outrageous that we continually have to deal with this frustrated little man that is Cheney.




*Knoppenburg Manor is, in fact, for sale. Sad that one of its key selling points is that this area of Belgium has "remained free from the threat of terrorist attacks." Our stable replica is a lovely place in which to relax, chat, contemplate -- at least on warm days. Built some time in the 16th century, the Manor Knoppenburg's charm is in its simplicity and functionality. Make a bid!

Sleep, Domesticity, Present Participles 'n Stuff

This is a post found hiding in the Draft Pile... and every crackerjack editor on site is scratching his head, as there's no discernible reason for it to be lurking in the stacks.  It's not great.  It's not terrible. Some of it makes me laugh, but the jokes are for insiders.  Some of you ARE insiders, so there, that's justification enough to let it see the light of day. From textual archaeology, I am dating its origin as May 2011, give or take a decade.

Photo of the Hejrl Hede "Living Museum"

Good morning, and I really mean that!

Okay, so I have a Kotex pad wrapped around my leaking leg, kept in place by a long string of gauze, tied in a cute little bow.  I haven't showered in what I even consider "a while," and no one, not Fred, not La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, and not a single member of the Domestic Staff here at Marlinspike Hall, the ancestral home of the Haddock clan -- NO ONE -- fed the cats.  They are circling my leg, alternately mewling and hissing;  It's making me nervous.  It's also kinda hypnotic.

But hell fire and damnation, I feel so much better than my last effort at consciousness!

Nothing beats, apparently, taking both tizanidine and baclofen at the same time -- when you are totally desperate to stop your leg from spasming, jerking, and flying around the room backward.  I reached that point of desperation at approximately 2 am, and slept until 10 am, without once waking.  I feel so much better... it is beyond description.

So is this how it used to be, at the end of a *good* night's sleep?  I guess so.  I could learn to like this.
Heck... they ought to bottle this. 

Oh, the intricacies of pain, the psychology of it.  I wonder if I could manage my pain, possibly with one hand tied behind my back (with soft organic cotton, please), were I simply able to SLEEP?

The bed is soaked.  From my leg.  Totally gross.  All I can think to do (besides lots of laundry) is to wash the mattress down with soap, water, then alcohol?  Maybe use some Resolve?  (I dunno?!)

Unfortunately, we recently switched to a modern mattress, swapping our old woollen one for The Castafiore's Sleep Number Bed..  In a puzzling move, she, much like the ultra-sensitive Princess in the Hans Christian Andersen Pea Story, sleeps on a pile of the things now -- mostly feather, as was the want of the wealthy in Medieval Times (and ever since).   For historical accuracy's sake, as well as for her famous degenerative discs, the feathered layers are carefully interspersed with fresh straw ticking, and other mattresses of felt, wool, the straw's chaff, even grasses and seaweed.   Thank goodness, she gave up on the rice and oat chaff, which she only managed to crush into oblivion within a minute of her nightly repose.  The Agricultural Minister of Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) has even consulted with us about his plans for the year's cereal crops -- so much depends upon Bianca's bedding choices.

Yes, you suppose rightly -- she is the bane of the Domestic Staff! In fact, we can only get a Mattress Freshening Crew to service Bianca's peculiar tastes thanks to the intervention of her personal... umm, well, thanks to the intervention of The Cabana Boy's biological father, Sven Feingold.  (It's a long story that involves diagramming the genetic aspect of our housekeeping staff's indentured inheritance.)

She even has the ornamented canopy, to top things off just so.  Her bed is so wholeheartedly medieval that the rest of her apartment fairly screams in Renaissance dissonance (remember, she once redid everything in the style of François 1 -- shoot, she *replicated* the man's bedroom and charged admission...).  See Anacoluthe! 

I think it might be that her sleeping chamber now resembles something of a stage.  Yes, that's the unconscious draw for The Milanese Nightingale.  Even going to sleep is theatre in the round around here...

Although there were canopies and curtains, these weren’t the full four poster beds with poles at each corner which started to arrive in the 15th century. In the late Middle Ages the best beds had hangings draped from a frame which was suspended from the ceiling beams (see left), sometimes supported by a tall bedhead too, and often with a canopy called a tester or celure. The actual bedstead was usually an independent structure within all the finery. Beds tended to be quite high and might be raised further by being set on a platform.

Hmmm. It would seem that not even a great night's sleep can cure me of my tendency to... what? Think in a lateral way? That's what I prefer to call what others might mistake for Wandering Dementia.

And, as I so frequently inquire: Whose blog is it, anyway?

So, beds.  A straw mattress is not such an ancient construct, did you know?  Actually, a bit of background reading tells us that the mattress form is probably not ideal for straw -- "loose" straw is preferable, in terms of comfort. 

Like all important domestic matters, our greatest needs require the steady, quiet attention of a string of present participles.  Stocking and cleaning the kitchen.  Milk, eggs, flour, and coffee or tea -- good coffee, good tea, mind.  Making bread (which is why it's not on the list).  Filling the salt cellars (from sea to celery).  Separating the recycling and taking out the trash.  Keeping a handy supply of toilet paper. Cleaning the toilet.  Doing the laundry.  Changing the straw, the various chaffs, the grass, and the seaweed in your mattresses.  Or, perhaps, in simpler places than The Manor I live in, just flipping the mattress and exchanging the Egyptian-cotton-high-thread-count sheets with some regularity.

Feeding all sentient beings, and tending the rest.  (Or:  Feed the cats, damn it, and water the tomato plants!)

Yes, feeding the cats is part of the domestic glue that keeps us going.  Is it really all that hard to remember, given that our Feline Remnant can be disturbingly vocal?  Do we need to relegate feeding our indoor pets to one of the inherited tasks taken on by the genetically-engineered Domestic Staff on site?  I think not.  And harrumph!

Okay, so, yes, I have written this strange little post over the course of several hours, adding a word at 9:30 am and a phrase at noon.  As I've done so -- enjoying my day while accomplishing some of what I've listed in the preceding paragraphs -- the strangest thoughts have presented themselves. 

Like...

Is there anyone else out there who has an extra-coverage, odor-absorbing Feminine Pad strapped to their shin?

Can I find a soul mate who understands how wheelchairs will track dirt all over the damned place, which is why one should sweep up after one's precious self?

Will I ever be able to find a quality elevated toilet seat, cushioned, maybe, with arms?  (And if I find it, will I be able to afford it, or will it join other such items on my Christmas Wish List?)

Can bandages soaked with serosanguinous fluid be safely recycled, and if so, do I put them with the aluminum or with paper and newsprint?

Is it ever acceptable to return a kitten adopted from a no-kill animal shelter (given an unrepentant and undeterrable penchant for chewing wires transmitting important data, such as blog posts)?

Obéissance: Protect the 'nads

The reason for this repost?  Franchement? The cartoon.  Because that's pretty much how I'm feeling these days.  For non-French speakers, it goes something like this:
"You can do anything you like...
So long as it's what I want you to do."

I particularly dislike having to display "obéissance" when it concerns my body, because that means it upsets Fred's status quo and his upset status quo can be Hell to live with.  It takes a lot of his time and most of his dwindling reserves of patience to ferry me back-and-forth to the doctor, sit in ER/ED waiting rooms, field frantic phone calls about forgotten rechargers for phones and other electronic devices.  [Don't tell me to go wifi unless you're willing to finance the endeavor.]  

I'm supposed to email by very nice HMO doctor tomorrow to report on the status of my infected foot. [Because no one, apparently, gives a good goddamn about my right hand turning into a swollen claw!] What to say, when facing a 3-day weekend and people more interested in getting to the various Folke Faires around Tête de Hergé than interested in butt-ugly hands and feet?  Truth be told (and that reserved just for you, Dear Readers!), the foot is bright red and the infection returning to its original volcano-like presentation (Is that good? Bad? Will it burst open and solve its own problem?)  Further truthes?  My right hand is swelling, hurting, and fast becoming useless.  Despite the difficulties in assessing temperature in a CRPS patient, to me, the offending middle knuckle, which began this hand boogerishousness is quite warm.

So "obéissance" is again in question.  Could this foot-and-hand disease be put off until next Tuesday, when the Force of the Medicos will again be at full power? Or should I submit to the standing offer to go back in the hearsepital for i.v. vancomycin, and a possible PICC line.  Let me elaborate on what may seem, to you, an easy choice.  Once the definitive switch back to vanco, it means Fred will make at least 4 trips a week to an infusion center, and probably for at least a month.  This at a time when we are sick to death of things dealing with sickness.  

There. That makes my rationale for posting this past pithiness from May 2009 clear as MUD!  You're welcome.  And it's your forebearance, Dearest of Dear Readers, that endears you so to me.  I think there will be another brief hiatus in posting... The Truth will out, after all -- because it is Truth which ought to drive all expressions of Obéissance.

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

A mélange, a mix.

That's all I am good for at the moment. But, as most of us are, I am open to suggestions.

It looks like Uncle Kitty Big Balls is going to be a cool member of The Family. A very poised little dude, ugly as sin with his fur shaved off, he saunters his maigre self around The Manor every few hours, shaking what little butt he has much in the manner of The Marmy Marmot. When the two of them vocalize, it's a hoot. She goes: "Ack-ack-ack!" He mumbles back: "Ark-ark-ark!" You'd think they were inveterate cigar smokers. Which, of coursed, is just impossible.

What's wrong with you?

It's a national day of prayer, privately. Some of my friends think there is an "issue" to visit in this; I do not. Unless it is an extremely slow news day -- something that the U.S. citizenry might well enjoy for a change.

ShoulderMan's PA, Bountiful Bob, was, as always, very kind yesterday. {I, feel, very, attracted, to, the, comma.} One of their techs alternates between freaking me out and being a regular intrigue. So it was highly uncharacteristic for him to greet me by saying, "Are you all right? You gave us quite a scare last week..." He kept saying it, bless his bones, reminding me that being near death is the easy job -- Attending to the situation should not be envied. On the other hand? The x-ray tech was unhappy with me when I refused to assume the position for one of the shoulder views, and therefore created something ex nihilo -- and five shots later, she still had not succeeded in her approximations. I had dollar signs flying by my eyes. Bob stood with furrowed brow and dark, unreadable films tucked in the lightbox. I pondered the probable extra heft of my bill and inwardly rejoiced at having my stitches out, the promise of a shower in my future, as soon as I can manoeuver my dainty dancing feet and sufficiently SaranWrap my PICC line. We've never been able to keep the line dry -- it is put in the non-operated arm, of course, meaning that it is in the only usable arm and is therefore subject to being hit with water.

Fascinating.

Okay, so I was browsing TW's blogs, and over on X, he posted this hilarious and touching family moment:



During the night, I was doing one of my favorite memory exercises: visualizing every house I have ever lived in, every school I ever attended. The various digressions that peel off these onions are wonderful, and exacting. This time, I ended up stuck in an elementary school in California, where I was the Undisputed Tether Ball Champion of the World. Second grade.

I remember the Second Grade primarily for two reasons -- beyond my sporting prowess:
1. I was punished for reading, and,
2. Our teacher kept sending us home with bags of guppies, which eventually pushed my stepmother over the edge of reason.

The reading punishment? We had finished some sort of in-class writing assignment, probably working on our "cursive," as I recall this teacher was a maniac for crap like the loops of one's els. When finished early, we were supposed to put our heads down on the desk on top of our folded arms. Well, yawn, y'know? So I had stashed a book -- and not just *any* book, but Harriet the Spy -- inside my desk. With my head down in obéissance+, I began a new chapter. Next thing I knew, this stellar educator was whacking my palm with a ruler. I don't recall if there ensued any sort of [parental] conference, or sustained punishment -- all I know is that I felt loved by my stepmother, herself a teacher, and that she defended me.

No, not so much like a lioness, more like a proper stepmother. You know? The roles felt well-defined, and that's a pretty rare thing in blended families.

Defended for reading. Punished for reading. Whacky.

A day later, my sentiment, like the worm, turned. At supper -- spaghetti and meatballs -- I swallowed a huge ice cube, and it went down the wrong way. I was choking. Unable to speak. She laughed at me. Then she laughed at my anger at being laughed at. One of those Mother::Daughter special moments. Like the day I first plucked my eyebrows -- at 13, I think -- and she, sipping on her drinkie-poo, reacted by saying, "Oh no! Your one good feature -- gone!"

She had this habit of coyly dipping her pinky-finger into her drinks, and sucking on it, making eyes.

+Obéissance: L'obéissance ou soumission à l'autorité est l'une des formes de l'influence sociale. En psychologie sociale, on parle d'obéissance quand une personne adopte un comportement différent parce qu'un autre individu, perçu comme une source d'autorité, le lui demande. L' individu dominé reconnait à une personne, ou à un gouvernement une valeur certaine. Lorsque cette reconnaissance est faite, l'individu passe alors un accord tacite, un consentement avec le supérieur qu'il a reconnu; Il échange sa liberté contre la volonté générale d'être assuré et sécurisé.

Les recherches les plus connues sur l'obéissance sont dues au psychologue américain Stanley Milgram. Dans son expérience de soumission à l'autorité, il amène des gens normaux à infliger des chocs électriques de plus en plus forts à un autre sujet (en fait un compère, c'est-à-dire un expérimentateur qui prétend être un sujet de l'expérience) qui supplie d'arrêter l'expérience puis crie et se tait, comme s'il était victime d'un malaise. Certains en prennent comptes mais d'autre ne la respecte pas car ce n'est pas une obligation.

A la suite de Milgram, l'expérience de Charles K. Hofling a montré que 21 infirmières expérimentées sur 22 était près à donner une surdose d'un médicament inconnu sur ordre d'un médecin inconnu au téléphone.

This schtuff is fascinating, no? Imagine. In Hofling's experiment, 21 of 22 nurses ready to give an overdose of a med unknown to them --"Astrofen" -- by order of a doctor, who was also unknown to them -- an order taken over the phone, no less! That was in 1966... Rank, in 1976, changed some of the parameters of the study [30 mg of Valium, IM -- and subjects were allowed to interact with colleagues] and stood the results on end: 16 of 18 nurses questioned the orders.

Shocking...









Obedience. Consent. Informed consent. Authority.

Our secret desires.

Obéissance:

A manifestation of obedience; an expression of difference or respect; homage; a bow; a courtesy.

Bathsheba bowed and did obeisance unto the king. --1 Kings i. 16.

I am not able to sleep more than two hours a night from pain that is amazingly straightforward. I have been encouraged to let so-and-so know, as if so-and-so were able to alter reality with a prescription pad.

Anyway, this lack of rest fuels the penchant for mélange.

The cultural anthropology of this cat group that teems around my swollen ankles would fascinate anyone. The wonders of family dynamics, the unexpected likenesses, and the quirky divergence --

Marmy is smug and happy to have her brother ark-ark-ing from beneath our bed; Dobby's brain is clearly spinning as he tries to figure the point of origin for his oddly familiar uncle; and Sammy is hissing and tucking his tail to protect the 'nads.

That's probably what I would be doing, too, were I he.

If I have learned nothing else of value in this life, it is that: For God's sake, protect the 'nads.

Marmy Fluffy Butt, Elongated

Those attentive readers who are familiars of Marmy Fluffy Butt will gasp at the virtuosity she allowed the camera to witness, and then, without the usual *ack*::*ack* contrarian fanfare, capture.

Since her feline version of IBS has been brought under control, she's in love bug stage, and can often be found attached to my left hip.  She challenges Buddy the Outrageously Large Maine Coon for Manor leadership about every other day, and has inflicted several warning slashes upon little Dobby's face when he moved in for an innocent traditional DNA check.

She's full of herself, in other words.

We like this version of a long, slinky Marmy Fluffy Butt -- she is not hiding out with abdominal pain, she is, in fact, stretching to new lengths, she winks at me and cracks the worst kind of jokes, then *ack*::*ack*s to her heart's content!

Should Marmy enthrall you, these two old posts describe how she got her and her reign since:
Wednesday's CatCam -- Full of Woe and Wednesday Morning Blahs.






Please allow me to share my etymological discovery of the day!  One cannot observe the magnificence that is Marmy without eventually entertaining the term "hoity-toity."  Most often, her attitudinal fluffiness causes a mental stutter, leaving you psychically mumbling, "hoity, hoity, hoiteeee!"  Ah, but... anyway! The term "hoity-toity" actually made snopes.com!

"Hoity-toity" begs for a hoity-toity origin.  And so was born an etymology with an accent, from an older world with smaller cobbled streets, and where the habit of looking down on people whilst sipping on a thick, caramelly espresso from the comfy vantage point of a limestone or bluestone or concrete tile perch:  "The term "hoity-toity" comes from the French words haut toit, meaning 'high roof.'"

Berlitz called it this way:  "The expression 'hoity-toity,' for ; pretentious,;  comes from the French haut toit — high roof — from which the pretentious looked down on the literally 'lower' classes."

In swoops snope to do what snope does:

Origins:   In common English speech, "hoity-toity" is an adjective used with disdain to refer to the pretentious, those who put on a show of pretending to possess refinement and sophistication (similar to "highfalutin"). So, some people naturally assume that such an unusual expression, referring to the cultured, must itself have a cultured origin — in this case a French-language reference to the (literal) upper class, people who looked down upon others from atop their high roofs (i.e., haut toit). 

"Hoity-toity" has nothing to do with French (or the French), however. The expression comes from our penchant for creating rhyming phrases such as "loosey-goosey" or "helter-skelter," and in this case its base is "hoit," an obsolete 16th century verb whose meaning is "to play the fool" or "to indulge in riotous and noisy mirth." ("Hoity-toity" was more commonly used to describe those who engaged in thoughtlessly silly or frivolous behavior before it became more of a synonym for "pretentious.") Attempts to find the word "haughty" to be an ancestor of "hoity-toity" are equally specious. 

I thought of mourning the loss of a lovely etymology.

Then, thinking of the Queen who prompted the whole half-arsed search, I realized how much closer she is to silliness -- *ack*::*ack* and a wink, followed by a seductive, round-bellied flop and presentation of one white-fuzzed, pink-skinned abdomen in need of rubbing -- than to serious haughtiness.








© 2013 L. Ryan

The Disambiguation of Pain (produced the Pisan Cantos): A working theory

What follows is a live-action demonstration, from July 2009, of how to control pain using the art of distraction.

To employ this method at home, you will need internet access and some sort of writing platform (a blog, spare bits of tissue, rice paper with ink and paintbrush, etc.).  Also, if you have a legal and appropriate pharmaceutical at hand, you may take it, but take the lowest necessary dosage, decreased by half.

[Your first few times employing my proprietary blend of distraction, though, consider not using any medication at all. It may not be necessary to your relief.  Not while you have a brain!]

Tell yourself, aloud:  "I will feel better in 15 minutes. 20 minutes, tops." For a successful outcome, position yourself, your internet-accessed device, and any external writing paraphernalia (beware the literati cops!) within comfortable reach. Place everything with such care of thought that should you drift off in a cloud of painlessness, nothing will be harmed. That means, for instance:  no hot beverages!

There.  You are all set.  Breathe in, breathe out, slowly.  Engage your creativity and release your inhibitions and prohibitions.

You are about to disambiguate your pain.  Bon voyage!

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

Ezra Pound

I had a night full of crazy nearly-nightmarish dreams and woke to the indescribable pain caused by Uncle Kitty Big Balls licking my CRPS-stricken right big toe. [He's obsessed with toes... maybe because we had to have one of his chopped off to save his sorry hide.]

I don't plan to scrape UKBB:-:Pickle Head:-:Little Boy off the wall anytime soon. Yeah, go ahead. Report me! Turn me in! Drag me off to the slammer, the big house, get all touchy-feelly about mistreatment of cross-eyed, streetwise, stinky-pooping cats.

Lately, UKBB:-:Pickle Head:-:Little Boy has accumulated even more monikers, none of which have definitively stuck, alas. Bugsy. Gus. (I was watching, for the umpteenth time, Lonesome Dove. I have an enduring love for Robert Duvall, and had just announced that I really, really wanted a Gus of my very own, when UKBB promptly announced himself with that weird, raspy half-*ack*-*ack*, half-mee-row that also managed to denote a scruffy beard and teeny-tiny cowboy hat.)

Also: Aeolus -- Greek God of the Winds, for reasons that are air-borne and truly, truly unfortunate. Dirty Harry.

Ah, the serendipity of internet searches and plain old, errant, mindless keyboard clicks. As I began to write about UKBB and his assault, it occured to me that I did not know many synonyms for jail, prison.

What?

Is that not normal mental function? Don't you jump from allusion to allusion, gleefully following each verbal twist until your childlike wonder is definitively shown up as your unique form of mental retardation?

The first thing that popped up was "Yahoo! Answers," where someone had posed the same query -- wanting some slang for prison. Pen, pokey, cooler, lockup, clink.

Not terribly familiar with this Yahoo! feature, I decided to look into what pressing questions were on the mind of the world wide web citizenry:

What's wrong with my cat?
In Cats - Asked by Aida-Christine - 11 seconds ago

How is the average speed solved using the ticker tape?
In Physics - Asked by Dulce Amor - 11 seconds ago

What does human context mean in terms of the elements of drama?
In Words & Wordplay - Asked by LittleMiss - 15 seconds ago

HIS and STORY = HISTORY. should it be HER and STORY = HERSTORY?
In Gender & Women's Studies - Asked by Bored Observer - 16 seconds ago

Where can I buy thermal printers for embossed printing on invitation cards?
In Printers - Asked by Mitch - 16 seconds ago

I cant check my email. Some help please?
In Other - Yahoo! Mail - Asked by infantry_wife - 23 seconds ago

Do I need to be in the center of my surround sound?
In Home Theater - Asked by kc17170 - 24 seconds ago

Are muscly calves genetic?
In Diet & Fitness - Asked by єℓιzα©™ - 24 seconds ago

How do you Say this in Japanese?
In Languages - Asked by Areazel - 27 seconds ago

Whats a good acne medication or cream or something !?
In Other - Skin & Body - Asked by Selah - 29 seconds ago

Production of atp in prokaryotes?
In Botany - Asked by yashwanth - 33 seconds ago

What is the best FREE MUSIC MIXING softwware to download?
In Software - Asked by JasonC. - 37 seconds ago

After a tattoo is pretty much healed is it ok to use cocoa butter without fading?
In Tattoos - Asked by Angie - 37 seconds ago

A quetion about herbal essence shampoo?
In Hair - Asked by BoPeep - 43 seconds ago

How much are Alternators for a 1998 dodge 1500?
In Dodge - Asked by iaskquestions - 43 seconds ago

Is male pregnancy possible?
In Other - Pregnancy & Parenting - Asked by Phylisia Y - 43 seconds ago

What album tracks do you always skip when listening to your favourite bands?
In Rock and Pop - Asked by mark j - 45 seconds ago

What will the human race look like in 1,000,000 years time?
In Other - Social Science - Asked by x-jessicalouise-x - 47 seconds ago

Can you guys use the search feature?
In Yahoo! Search - Asked by Artanis186 - 47 seconds ago

Pls help me with my homework?
In Homework Help - Asked by oyoboy - 49 seconds ago

It's enough to put Darwinian theory in doubt.

So, I am almost in danger of losing the train of my thought, the choo! choo! choo! so dear to coherent conversation and logical composition. Ah, but my darling Reader-Friends, after years of living with an ADHD-driven sweetheart, a cartoon diva, and the neurotic feline Sam-I-Am -- not to mention the impact of inhabiting the Tête de Hergé? I got a mind like a steel trap.

Okay, Beloved Students, let's take a moment to assess things.  
Have you noted The Method in the madness of my various circumlocutions? 
Observe:

Feel pain; Immediately invoke the pain management technique of DISTRACTION.

Not quite there yet, FREE ASSOCIATE; Discover a strong stream of consciousness around the concepts of PRISONS, CATS, and ROBERT DUVALL.

Effective pain management requires a more narrow focus, for which I FISH, using the apparently contrarian method of SEEKING THE SYNONYMOUS.

In so doing, the hard-and-fast rule of "when in doubt, Google," returns the oddly appropriate suggestion of SEEKING THE SYNONYMOUS by visiting Yahoo! Answers.

Having achieved considerable pain relief by such perfect use of DISTRACTION, toss in some deep breathing exercises, maybe a coffee and cannoli.

EXTRAPOLATE WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE SYNONYMOUS.

This almost brought me to the edge of disaster (located near the stream of consciousness), even unto the brink of the aforementioned Darwinism.

Ah! But as Ezra reminds me, daily:

When the mind swings by a grass-blade

an ant's forefoot shall save you

the clover leaf smells and tastes as its flower.

--from LXXXIII

And so it is that I arrive... at pain relief by DISTRACTION, and you, my darling Reader-Friends, once again scratch your heads and roll your eyes, wondering about drug abuse, mental stability, and why I can't just stave off CRPS' impact by sheer force of will.

That's okay, I understand.

But -- the process is not over. There is much more to this pain management technique of DISTRACTION.

My mind now calm, even if my body still occasionally gives in to the odd writhe, and the voice to disembodied moan, I complete things. I "choo" the "choo," as it were! (You are not successfully circumlocuting if the ends never meet.)

Usually? I don't trust you or like you enough to show you the ending, the meeting of the circle ends. You don't know of my love for Euclid, and my secret glee, inasmuch as I am a writer, of the writerly things I find everywhere:

A circle is a special ellipse in which the two foci are coincident. (Wikipedia)

Wikipedia frequently offers its efforts at disambiguation, in which I delight, for I will refuse all efforts at disambiguation of my own text, while hungrily acquiring the nit-and-grit of that dialogue of contrariness. To wit, I usually would not go on to share that an investigation of ellipse necessarily includes a parse of its use as a rhetorical figure:

a rhetorical suppression of words to give an expression more liveliness.

Now, really, friends, isn't that a pure HOOT?! Coming, as it does, from the figurative pen of Retired Prof, Profderien? A freaking SUPPRESSION of words! Mwa-ha-ha-ha!

Okay, to be honest, as this has been composed in actual time during an actual episode of severe pain, I took my breakthrough pain medication (15 mg Endocet) about 40 minutes ago.

DISTRACTION as an effective pain management technique? Maybe for those perfect souls who are into suffering as means of spiritual purification. Maybe for those stellar people whom I truly admire, whose minds' natural ability to focus does indeed allow for it, like Jeisea, down under at her blog crps/rsd: a better life -- though such sites tend to irritate me because of the pride of suffering (no, I won't unpack that -- you know what I mean -- don't be coy). Also, I am jealous.

I used to be one of both of those -- seeing an overarching good in learning to live with severe chronic pain and able to hone my mind's eye to the razor's edge of a laser beam, and so hope to escape that damned pain.

But no more, unless I have to. When did the "I-have-to" Era arrive? I think when the reality of my immunosuppression and the seriousness of this apparently untreatable osteomyelitis finally made me see that the Ketamine Cure (think Keystone Cops) was too dangerous for *me* to try, that I'd never be accepted in a trial, that the SCS and pain pump were no longer available to me as pie-in-the-sky options.

Now? I try to write through it, perform it. But I also take the medication prescribed me, as it is prescribed me. Well, hmmm, that's a lie. I take less pain medication than my doctor knows or suggests. I force myself through monthly "drug holidays." I try to explore adjunct pain medications, so as to narrow the focus and thereby treat the pain more *precisely*. Mostly, that has come to mean use of baclofen to ease spasm and tics, and ibuprofen to attack inflammation.

And so, let's see: through writing this weird blog and the work that goes into it, there is significant distraction from pain, even though it usually means blogging on that very topic. Writing has become a process undertaken while waiting for conventional pain medications to kick in and do their job, or it is a Hail Mary Pass when I have taken all that is allowed. Anger emotionally fuels and informs my pain, once it has started, and so writing, again, is a way to get through that -- a way to bring the circle's ends back in line, and my mind to a measure of quiescence.

Having literally said, and also performed, this real cycle of pain -- allow me to finish. This is usually the secret part.

When last we left our intrepid painkilling thread, we were citing one of the more predictable quotes from Pound, that crazy, dangerous fool. You know, the ant's forefoot, from the last of the Pisan Cantos.

Here is a brief map of Pound's route to Pisa and on to trial and twelve years at St. Elizabeth's:

Pound met the Fascistleader Benito Mussolini, and it was in this man that Pound saw the opportunity for economic and social reform. As a supporter of Fascism, Pound's statements broadcast over radio became infamous, such as his anti-Semitic statements against what he saw was a Jewish control of the economic systems of Europe:

"..if some man had a stroke of genius, and could start a progrom against
Jews... there might be something to say for it."

These World War II broadcasts, made in Rome, were openly Fascist (it was clear that he hated U.S. President Roosevelt and usury banking), so it came as no surprise when EzraPound was arrested in 1945 by U.S. forces on charges of treason - Pound was still a citizen of the United States of America. For twenty-five days, Pound was imprisoned within the 'gorilla cage', an open cage which was situated outdoors, and was moved into a tent at the end of this time for medical reasons. This incarceration at Pisa lasted for six months in total, and during his time here he continued to translate Confucius and work upon his most famous work, the Pisan Cantos, writing it on scraps of papers and typing up his poem in the medical tent, after-hours.

Leaving Pisa to stand trial for treason and broadcasting Fascist propoganda in the United States, Pound arrived, and was examined by a panel of four mental illness experts before the trial began. Their conclusion was as follows:

"He is abnormally grandiose, is expansive andexuberant in manner, exhibiting pressure of speech, discursiveness and distractibility... He is, in other words, insane." - The judgement made by the four examiners.

Following this 1946 judgement that he was "insane and too mentally ill to stand trial" (and consequent acquittal of the charges on thesegrounds), Pound was taken to St. Elizabeth's Hospital in Washington, D.C. where he remained for twelve years until the continual appeals made by his writer friends ensured his 1958 release.

The ten cantos comprising the Pisan Cantos were composed in the weeks immediately following Pound's several week stay in one of the camp's death-row wire cages, where he had been exposed to the elements, and where he was deprived of the comfort of the human voice, as he was considered too dangerous to be engaged in conversation. When it was finally decided that he was not a high risk prisoner, after all, his health -- physical and mental -- was already in decline. They moved him to one of the medical tents, and there he composed LXXIV-LXXXIII (84 was added later, as coda).

Indicted for treason, found incompetent for trial, Pound ended up, as most crossword-puzzlers and American Lit 101 (or some other introductory course on modernism) know, at St. Elizabeth's.

Just a few months back, a very sweet woman -- who turns out to be my aunt -- filled me in on some of the more fascinating tidbits of Our Family History. My great-uncle Otis spent the last third of his life as an inmate at St. E's, the unwitting victim of tertiary syphillis.

See? It's not all coincidence and serendipity. Nor is it self-indulgence. Well, nor is it entirely self-indulgence -- this defeat of pain by DISTRACTION.

And haven't you had a wonderful time?

A cat video featuring pastrami trumps the Talmud

I'm suffering and I'm going to tell you about it.  This helps me.

The "you" to whom I speak is an observant Jew in her late 30s.  Your path has been suitably complex, raised in the traditional laxity of Reform, but then your backup arrived -- a black Baptist gospel choir swaying in a background that only dips and shimmies for moments of Orthodoxy. I don't know your name but your idea to plait your beautiful curly long hair into one humongous woolen braid, worn casually tossed over one shoulder, missed the mark, and is a furry distraction.  The  black sweater, lovely in itself, serves mostly as the perfect matte base for your minor dandruff issues, and you get points for playing up that November has arrived, that leaves are falling, that moods have grimmed us with somber trickery, and so on.

So never mind the hours spent suffering today.  You clearly don't care, Ms. Thang.  The Gemara and the Mishnah, are they more important than the purported primary texts?  Therein lies the answer to everything.

Is it not said, "A cat video featuring pastrami trumps the Talmud, the Babylonian as the Jerusalem, the Rashi as the Rambam"?

© 2013 L. Ryan

Dobby and Buddy: A Portrait of Guilt

the one where all the cats fart

i absolutely cannot see to write with this gas mask on, so i'll just copy an email from earlier in the day.  they say nothing is ever really removed from the internet, and for that i feel most appreciative, as this may be my last missive to the world.  sure, it starts off discussing sporting events in a carefree tone, but that's just me, being brave, and setting a strong example for the domestic staff, especially young cabana boy and la bonne et belle bianca castafiore', who refuses to wear the gas mask in preference for a thick hijab, topped by a wet bandana that has also been liberally spritzed with some sort of vanilla after-shower body spray.  fred?  fred is ASLEEP.  i kissed him softly on his broad forehead and promised to meet up in the afterlife.

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andy murray beat my beloved djokovic -- the brits must be going ape shit.  

and i couldn't watch because i cannot see the freaking ball.  sniff.

on paper, this wimbledon looks to be a brave new world, all topsy-turvy.

i really do love novak... he's hilarious.  as for andy, i confess to thinking him permanently jinxed, forever a quarter finalist, or if further advanced, a practitioner of my favorite tennis art form -- the "choke."

did you watch?  and you've said nary a mot about the tour de france.  now, when i see any reference to that little bike race, i automatically yell "eff you, lance!" another weird habit to extinguish.

you'd love this.  you'd love to photograph this!  about two days ago, being as perceptive and sensitive as i am, i noted that both dobby and buddy were farting in my direction with great abandon.  i chose to ignore it -- gag, cough, gag -- and was glad that marmy currently doesn't hang with me.

yesterday morning, the two farters worked in fine-tuned tandem fashion to wake me the hell up.  thinking they were hungry, i rolled toward the kitchen.  marmy joined us.  the three of them normally assume a rotating shark pattern rotation as i fill their food bowls but yesterday, they all went and milled anxiously around the top of the wheelchair ramp, occasionally drifting about halfway down, then hustling back.  clearly perturbed by something in the back -- a sudden washer/dryer paranoia, a lion crouching under hank's work bench?

i ain't afeared of no machinery and the lion reference was pure hyperbole, so i headed back there, noting that the three cats were making the sign of the cross and remaining kitchen-bound.

two giant freaking pit bulls sitting on our screened-in back porch.  you know, the screened-in back porch that used to have a DOOR leading to the backyard?  both had their noses pressed against the glass of the back door to the house, not realizing, I guess, that they could probably break that one down, too.

so, both belong to our mower-obsessed neighbor, richard.  he keeps four pit bulls in separate runs in his pristine backyard, carefully maintained (dogs, runs, and yard).  very detail oriented, it would kill richard to know he had two escapees.  he and his family don't socialize with the dogs -- no play,  no walks, they are there for protection of property purposes alone.  this has bothered us enormously -- but he has provided them with pals, obedience training {rolling of the eyes}, and high end shelter.

well, he has one escapee who is just so darned charismatic and cute that he talked his compatriot into the adventure.  we call this young mr. smooth "scooby-doo" because he does a great impression.  when he barks at us, we feel like we're in a comic strip, and he nearly wags himself to death.  his older friend, however, appears to be feeling poorly, and hank (my eyes) tells me he has flies congregating on a spot on his back -- not a good sign.  he's also itchy -- scratching a lot, and looking punk and miserable.

the two centers of the feline universe are their habitual feeding location (kitchen) and the litter box alley (in the back, with the washer and dryer and fred's tools, etc. -- you know, the area that oversees the back porch, now pit bull territory.

hence all the farting, funny knock-kneed walking about, dilated pupils, and insistence that i get the hell up and DO SOMETHING.  

fred was not feeling great and after going to bed with the sunrise, got up around 3 pm.  while waiting for his input, i at least managed to move one of the litter boxes out of the direct line of sight of the terrifying behemoths and that solved the immediate problem.  in fact, once "relieved," buddy the outrageously large maine coon, went and pressed his nose to the glass on the back door, going eyeball to eyeball with the two huge dogs.  that's buddy for ya!  however, when scooby-doo greeted him with a resounding "uh-woof?" -- buddy flew to the kitchen to give report to the feline cohort huddled beside the refrigerator.

they are still there.  the dogs, i mean.  (richard and family are apparently out of town for the holiday weekend)  i caved and put some water out but they must be going back and forth as they showed no interest, just acknowledging my intrusion onto their doorless screened-in back porch with some soft "uh-woof?"s.  (punctuation rules requested)

will keep you posted.  fred is still sleeping.  am i being punked.  is this groundhog day, the movie, part 46?

i caught sight of a glint in my beloved's eye last night.  he wants 'em.  

he ain't gonna have 'em.  

1.  they "belong" to richard.

2.  constipation sufficient to raise the terror alert status would rapidly ensue, and i would die, not from crps or a bone infection, but from cat fart poisoning.

hope you are well.  i loves ya!  see ya in heaven if ya make the list!