I'm Asking For Your Prayers

If you are new to my blog, welcome to a crazy place, an ambitious reflection of a complicated life, a crowded intellect, an ardent site of political yearnings, all wrapped up in an anonymizing fiction.  The Blog Back Story has me, the Profderien, and my partner of 23 years, Fred, living as squatters in a perversion of a small bit of Hergé's geography of the great Tintin books.  Captain Haddock's Marlinspike Hall is our home and our work, too.  Together with the inimitable Bianca Castafiore, the Milanese Nightingale, and a horde of genetically indentured Domestic Staff, we maintain the Haddock holdings, buff up the Caravaggio collection, and try to keep The Castafiore from helping too much -- she has been known to lust after the absent Captain, imbibe a tad bit much, and wax the Carrara marble spiral staircases.

Most of the blog is dedicated to my woes.  Truly.  Just hop around the archives, or simply bend close to your screen and cup a hand behind your ear and listen for the self-indulgent moaning.

When I do deign to mention Fred, I hope I do so with love but know that is not always evident.  Writing love is a hard task and my writing talents wane.  But know this:  I love Fred.

There are more things to say in that vein, more crass but equally true.  Things like... I owe Fred, I owe Fred everything.  Things like... Fred is a hero of the kind that are slowly drifting into the ether, fading from this orb.
Things like... there is no face I'd rather see, no voice I more long to hear.

He can piss me off like nobody's business but generally in that age-old way that provokes a roll-of-the-eye and a peeved cry of "Men!"

He does stuff like wash all the dishes but one.  He's cursed to have the most idiotic drivers in our region (west of the Lone Alp) end up in front of him on a two-lane road, and in a country where there are always double yellow lines and people who pass are considered uncouth.  He thrills at finding new and cheaper spray cleaners.  He goes to court to support women friends who are being stalked.  He welcomes people into the sanctuary at his house of worship, and often spends Friday nights killing bottles of communion wine at our next door neighbors rectory -- the Cistercians whose monastery is just past our apple orchard. Without Fred's attentiveness, the moat around Marlinspike Hall would be three feet thick with blooming red algae, blocking the emergence of the Captain's fleet of miniature submarines that travel the inner core's wormholes and the planet's high seas.

Fred paints, plays the piano, the guitar, and the ukulele.  He overcame a childhood of unimaginable abuse and survived his own acting-out.  The brain fascinates him, and he is one of those high end audio types.

It looks as if Fred may have a tumor called an acoustic neuroma.  He's not felt well since... well, I cannot honestly say, because he's studly.  At least since February/March.  He suddenly -- very suddenly -- lost all hearing in his right ear.  No pain.  Lots of fatigue.  Never close to being balletic, if possible he morphed into a dedicated klutz.  Actually, this last symptom is one we have difficulty gauging with any objectivity, as Fred will try to shorten any walking path by grazing door frames and finding ridiculously direct routes which frequently bruise his shins and stub his hairy toes.

If you will put up with some of my well-worn impropriety, the asshat of an internist, and the dipshit of a physician's assistant who saw him with remarkable frequency, considering this is a man of the old school we're discussing, who has to be feeling pretty gosh god-damned awful to set foot in a doctor's office... Ahem.  I lost the tight thread of my post.  The idiots he saw between March and this month, November, said "ear infection," said "antibiotics," said "ear drops," and essentially placed him in the basket of cases that should get better whether they did a damned thing, be that damned thing right or be that damned thing wrong.

He became dizzy.  Two weeks ago, he came home from the grocery store, shaken.  He'd gotten disoriented, shaky, almost blacked out.  Back to the doctor, who must have had his coffee enema that morning, for he finally referred dear Fred to an ENT.

The ENT found no evidence of the famed raging infection and set up some testing.  Acoustic neuromas are rare, and account for something like 1% of cases of unilateral hearing loss.  For reasons that Fred did not investigate ("Men!"), the doctor suspects that Fred is one of the one percent.  The ENT also, and rightly so, soft-pedaled what a "tumor near the cochlea" actually was, what it actually could do, what it could become, and what was entailed in treating it.

Despite our leather bustiers, dirndls, and tie-dyed lederhosen, we are a modern couple.  It took us longer than usual, but we eventually hit the internet for information.  Did I mention that Fred's degree is in neuropsychology and that he knows his way around the brain better than I know my way around Diderot's Salon of 1767?  An acoustic neuroma is essentially a non-cancerous brain tumor, slow-growing, but that grows in a terrible direction -- toward the brainstem.  It almost always impacts facial nerves and hearing loss is almost always permanent.

I'm trying to sublimate my pains and disabilities, trying to be supportive without being Pollyannish.  Truth be told, my sudden transformation into an irrepressible optimist would cause Fred to suffer a heart attack born of pure shock.

But I found myself ending an email to him -- Yes, we email each other within the same domicile.  Marlinspike Hall is a tremendous manor, and he is in the Computer Turret doing Important Computer Work, while I'm pecking away at my dilapidated laptop in our West Wing apartments, a cat on my head, a cat between my feet, a cat on watch at the window, and Castafiore taking up most of the king-sized decadent round bed, hooting and hollering at American college hoops.  I know, who knew?  Lounging on the Kodiac bear rug, toying with a massive paw of claws, not understanding basketball in the least, is Sven Feingold of the Manor Staff, whose family is genetically indentured to the maintenance of our Labyrinth, the highlight of our annual summer ManorFest.  Sven and Bianca are obnoxiously lusty, but on a cold November night, great fun.  The Castafiore is, at this moment, explaining "traveling" to Sven, who cares only for soccer, and I must say, I almost understand what she is saying.  For a few decades now, it looks to me as if everyone travels, usually in that one long stride from half court to the basket.

Right.
Well.
Anyway.

I ended my short email to The Fred this way:

For I am the Lord, your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. (Isaiah 41:13)

I am a huge Isaiah fan, and it's his time of year, and I could babble hundreds of embarrassed denials of my biblical sincerity... but this is Fred, and Fred's beautiful brain and hearing, steadiness and string-strumming, his kindness and abstract fingering of piano keys, his love of the Ethiopian sky, the sounds and smells of the Danakil. This is Fred we're talking about, a leitmotif on my blog, a raison d'être in my life.

We all have something tragic ongoing, already gone and ghostly, or on the way.  But I don't care -- I really don't.  I want this man, who has saved my life many times over and then taught me to be glad of it, to be healed.  Yes, I recognize the narcissism running rampant, but as you know, writ large in attitudinal font throughout elle est belle la seine is the ringing query:  Whose blog is it anyway?

Please pray for Fred.  You're so much more likely to have the words, the mien, the means.
Thank you.

[The relevant testing needed for diagnosis cannot begin until the first few weeks of December. I'll keep you apprised, Dear Reader.]

Bach's Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, in the well-known piano arrangement by Dame Myra Hess (published by Oxford), has single notes (not part of a chord) on the "wrong" side of the stem; this odd bit of notation occurs on the right-hand staff almost from beginning to end. Why? In the words of Sadie (2001), article "Notation", these are "reversed note shapes representing one strand of a complex texture."

© 2013 L. Ryan

The Texas Sentinel's Lonestar Larry 'Splains "Texaz' Otha Death Pinaltee"

From the Texas Sentinel (Readings for Texas Gangstas - thus one from the MORNIN’  EDISHUN)

The Texas Sentinel. (Brenham, Tex.), Vol. 4, No. 34, Ed. 1 Wednesday, November 9, 1881

Texaz’ Otha Death Pinaltee

By Lonestar Larry

I be receive' permissyun ta shaa my patiintz’ ztoriez, an' change' o'omitte' some namez. Dis be a personal essay; da viewz be my own an' do not reflect dose uv St. Vincint’z Crib o'St. Vincint’z Studint-Run Free Clinic.

Da firs' patiint who calle' me “docta” die' a few winterz ago. I met him at da St. Vincint’z Studint-Run Free Clinic on Galveston Island. I wuz a firs'-year medical studint den, an' da disease n' dude body baffle' me. Dude bel wuz swollen, dude eyez wuz yellow an' dude blood teztz wuz all awry. It hurt wen dude swallowe' an' dude urine stank.

I saw him every Thursday afternoon. I would do a physical exam, holla ta him, an' consult wiff da docta. We ran blood countz an' wrote a prescripshun fo'n antacid—not da bes' medicashun, buh one you can get fo'$4 a month. Dude disease seeme' zeriouz, buh we couldn’t diagnose him at da free clinic cuz da teztz nee'e' ta do so—a CT scan, a biopsy uv da liva, a tes' ta look fo'canca cellz n' da fluid n' dude bel—be beyond our financial reach.

Dude starte' calln' me “Dr. Rachel.” Wen dude pain gots so bad dat dude couldn’t eat, we decide' ta send him ta da emerginsee room. It wuz not 'n easy decisyun.

Dere’z a popular myth dat da uninsure'—n' Texaz, dat’z 25 percint uv uz—can alwayz get medical caa thro emerginsee roomz. Te' Cruz haz argue' dat it be “much cheapa ta provide emerginsee caa den it be ta expand Medicaid,” an' Rick Perry haz claime' dat Texanz prefa da ER system. Da myth be base' on a 1986 federal law calle' da Emerginsee Medical Treatmint an' Laba Act (EMTALA), wich ztatez dat hozpitalz wiff emerginsee roomz be ta accept an' stabilize patiintz who be n' laba o'who be 'n acute medical condishun dat threatinz life o'limb. Dat word “stabilize” be key: Hospital ERz don’t be ta treat you. Day jus' be ta patch you up ta da point whea you’a not active dyn'. Also, hozpitalz charge fo'ER caa, an' usual send patiintz ta collecshunz wen day cannot pay.

My patiint wen ta da ER, buh didn’t get treatmint. Altho dude wuz obviouz sick, it wasn’t 'n emerginsee dat threatine' life o'limb. Dude came back ta St. Vincint’z, whea I wen thro my routine: conversashun, vital zignz, physical exam. We laughe' a lot, even tho we both knew it wuz a bad situashun.

One nite, a homie calle' ta say dat my patiint wuz n' da hospital. Dude’d final gotten so anemic dat dude couldn’t catch dude breath, an' da Universitee uv Texaz Medical Branch (UTMB), whea I am a studint, took him n'. My homie emaile' me da rezultz uv dude CT zcanz: Dere wuz canca n' dude kidney, dude liva an' dude lungz. It mus' be do be spreadn' ova da weekz dat dude’d do be comn' inta St. Vincint’z.

I wen ta visit him dat nite. “Dere’z my docta!” dude calle' out wen dude saw me. I sat next ta him, an' dude explaine' dat dude wuz waitn' ta call dude sista until day hollad him whetha o'not da canca wuz “bad.”

“It mite be one uv dose real treatable kindz uv cancerz,” dude say. I nodde' uncomfortab. We talke' fo'a while, an' wen I left dude say, “Well now you know whea I am, so you can come visit me.”

I neva came back. I wuz too ashame', an' too ear n' my trainn' ta even recognize why I felt dat way. Afta all, I had done everythn' I could—what did I be ta feel ashame' uv?

UTMB sent him ta hospice, an' dude die' at crib a few monthz lata. I read dude obituary n' da Galveston Countee Dai Nuze.


Da shame haz stuck wiff me thro my medical trainn'—not on from my firs' patiint, buh from many moe. I am now a directa uv da free clinic. It’z a voluntea posishun. I love my patiintz, an' I love ben' able ta help many who nee' primary caa: blood passua control, pap zmearz, diabetez managemint. We even do some specialtee caa. Buh da free clinic be also whea some peeps learn dat dere be no hope fo'da chemotherapy o'surgery dat day nee' buh can’t afford. Wen UTMB refuzez ta treat them, it fallz ta uz ta tell them dat day will die uv dizeazez dat be, n' fact, treatable.

St. Vincint’z be da primary caa provida fo'moe den 2,000 patiintz acrozz Southeas' Texaz. Our catchmint area be a strip uv coastal plain strung wiff barria izlandz. Drive inland an' you start ta see live oakz; jet toward da coas' an' da oil refineriez loom up ova neighborhoodz. Da mos' pollutn' refinery n' da nashun be huhhh, n' Texaz Citee. Our patiintz be factory workerz, laborerz, laid-off healthcaa workerz, da peeps behind da counterz uv seafood reztaurantz.

Mos' uv our patiintz come from Galveston an' Brazoria countiez, buh some drive two hourz from Port Arthur o'ova from Orange, near da Texaz-Louisiana borda, ta get ta uz. Dat’z how hard it be ta see a docta n' Southeas' Texaz: Peeps take a day off work ta drive two hourz ta a studint-run clinic dat can on provide basic caa.

Da clinic be overseen by facultee phyzicianz—UTMB docz—who see every patiint along wiff uz ztudintz an' prescribe medicashunz. Deez doctorz be volunteerz. We be not a UTMB clinic, buh we depind on UTMB, wich be twintee blockz from St. Vincint’z, fo'trainn' our studint volunteerz, fo'liabilitee insurance an' fo'runnn' our blood teztz an' otha labz. UTMB haz given uz grantz, includn' one dat helpe' uz get our electronic medical recordz system, an' fundz a nurse-manage' day clinic fo'da uninsure' at St. Vincint’z Crib.

Buh UTMB be no longa da state-subsidize' charitee hospital it use' ta be. Da changez began befoa Hurricane Ike n' 2008. Buh afta da storm, UTMB adminiztratorz drastical cut charitee caa an' move' clinicz ta da mainland, whea dere be moe payn' patiintz. Da old motto “Huhhh fo'da Health uv Texaz” wuz replace' by “Workn' togetha ta work wonderz.” Among dose wonderz be a new surgical towa an' a plan ta capitalize on Galveston’z semi-tropical charm by attractn' wealthy healthcaa touriztz from abroad. Medical caa fo'da poa be not, apparint, among da wonderz. Whereaz UTMB accepte' 77 percint uv charitee referralz n' 2005, it wuz on takn' 9 percint n' 2011.

UTMB azcribez deez changez ta financial strain from Hurricane Ike, da countee’z inabilitee ta negotiate a suitable indigint-caa contract an' lozz uv state fundn'. Da state blamez budget zhortfallz. Da Affordable Caa Act, betta known az Obamacaa, could be do be a bigass relief. Howeva, Gov. Rick Perry rejecte' billyunz uv dollarz n' federal fundn' ta expand Medicaid, fundn' dat should be broute ta accezz ta moe den a millyun Texanz, includn' many St. Vincint’z patiintz.

Perry’z refusal be catastrofic health polisee. Fo'patiintz, it meanz dat seekn' medical caa will still aquia riskn' bankruptsee, an' may lead nowhea. Fo'doctorz, da message wuz not on dat our patiintz’ livez don’t matta, buh also dat medicine—our old professyun, so full uv peeps who ginuine want ta help otherz—will continue ta be part uv da economic machine dat entrinchez povertee. Wen da poa seek our help, day often wind up wiff crippln' debt.

Cuz day can no longa count on UTMB ta accept they patiintz, UTMB doctorz now refa many ta St. Vincint’z. Day’ll treat someone fo'a heart attack (cuz dat’z 'n emerginsee covere' by EMTALA), den refa them ta uz fo'follow-up, even tho we don’t be a cardiologis'. Day’ll stabilize a patiint afta da beotch third stroke, put da beotch on blood thinnerz an' send da beotch ta uz. Day once sent uz, from da ER, a cat wiff a broken arm. Day put da arm n' a splint an' referre' him ta uz. What did day expect uz ta do—orthopedic surgery? Put on a cas'? We don’t even be 'n x-ray machine.

I do not think dat deez referralz be 'n official polisee. Ratha, day be da work uv doctorz an' nurzez tryn' ta do somethn' fo'patiintz who be do be refuse' caa thro da financial screinn' procezz at da hospital. Forma St. Vincint’z leada Dr. Merle Linihan haz describe' da clinic az a “moral safetee valve.” It protectz UTMB from confrontn' da conzequincez uv da state’z refusal ta provide caa.

Among dose conzequincez be da deathz uv da poa. Az Howard Brody, directa uv da Institute fo'da Medical Humanitiez, haz shown, 9,000 Texanz pa year will die needlezz az a result uv our failua ta expand Medicaid. Howeva, cuz dyn' patiintz be often too sick, exhauste' an' wracke' wiff pain ta protes', UTMB an' ztatez like Texaz aren’t force' ta reckon wiff da conzequincez uv they polisee decisyunz.


Cuz da very sick an' da dyn' may not be able ta holla about deez izzuez, health-caa providerz—particular da providerz uv da so-calle' “safetee net”—mus' do so. It be n' our clinicz, n' da bodiez uv our patiintz, whea da conzequincez get playe' out.

Danielle haz schizofrinia, an' da beotch’z young, an' da beotch ztrugglez wiff da medicashunz. Wen we holla, dere be long gapz n' da conversashun whea, I think, da beotch hearz otha voicez. N' one uv deez gapz, I notice da sun slantn' n' whea it’z beginnn' ta set beyond da ship channel. Dere’z gospel music streamn' out ova da basketball court from da zpeakerz mounte' on da side uv da communitee cinta. I am reminde' uv what da directa uv da communitee cinta, 'n Epispo-poal minista, believez: Every patiint be a miracle. Da St. Vincint’z Crib motto be “'n oaziz uv hope, expectn' miraclez.”

Danielle lookz up an' ztarez rite at me. “Huhhh’z what I want ta know,” da beotch zayz. “Why be we so poa?”

St. Vincint’z Crib, wich hoztz da free clinic, be a historical African-American communitee cinta n' da lowes'-income hood on our island, next ta whea da housn' projectz wuz befoa day wuz condemne'. Da federal fedz ordere' Galveston ta rebuild da public housn' afta Hurricane Ike, buh da citee refuse'. We electe' a maya who ran on 'n explicit anti-public housn' platform. Jus' like da medical system, da citee knowz whose livez matta.

Now, dandelyunz grow n' da emptee lotz left afta Ike floode' da hood. Peeps sit on da ragge', crackn' curbz, an' run wheelchairz rite down da middle uv da skreet cuz da zidewalkz tend ta end n' grassy fieldz o'lil precipicez.

Da communitee cinta employz a peep ta stand n' da skreet an' walk uz ta our carz afta clinic if we want. Who be dude protectn' uz from, I wonda. Our patiintz?

N' my second year uv medical school, I took a small-group course wiff a famouz terrifyn' surgeon. Dude hollad uz dude moral motto: “A physician neva takez away hope.”

I neva figure' out how dat motto could guide doctorz thro a system whea our patiintz be dyn' from treatable dizeazez. Part uv my job, it zeemz, be precise dat: ta sit down wiff patiintz an', az gent az possible, take away hope.

Consida Vanessa an' Jimmy. Day met n' New Orleanz wen da beotch wuz 18. Da beotch wuz workn' cleann' motelz, an' dude took da beotch on a tour uv da tugboat dude wuz captain uv. Vanessa zayz day came ta St. Vincint’z cuz da shipyard Jimmy worke' fo'opte' out uv providn' insurance even fo'full-time employeez like him. Day looke' fo'insurance on da open market, buh couldn’t afford it.

Da Affordable Caa Act be suppose' ta help familiez like Vanessa an' Jimmy get insurance. Folkz higha on da income scale should now be able ta afford insurance thankz ta fedz zubzidiez. Da poores' uv da (legal documinte') poa should be covere' by Medicaid. An' fo'dose peeps n' between, da federal fedz offere' ta pay fo'almos' all da coztz uv expandn' Medicaid.

Moe den a millyun Texanz—an' mos' St. Vincint’z patiintz—be somewhea n' between. Day be da workn' poa, o'day be adultz without depindent children, who cannot qualify fo'Medicaid n' Texaz, no matta how poa day be.

Wen Jimmy’z labz showe' a dangerouz high crackah blood cell count, we sent him ta da ER. It wuz pneumonia, an' dere wuz a bigass tuma underneath. Currint guidelinez would recommind screinn' Jimmy fo'dis kind uv canca every year, buh we be neitha da equipmint na da fundz ta offa screinn'. So it gots caute late.

Afta Jimmy wuz diagnose', I helpe' Vanessa fill out da paperwork ta reques' financial assistance fo'canca caa. Da beotch wante' ta know how like UTMB wuz ta offa da beotch baby daddy assistance dude nee'e'.

N' addishun ta on acceptn' 9 percint uv applicantz, da charitee caa approval procezz be a dark art, an' we neva know who will be accepte'. Accordn' ta da UTMB Charitee Caa polisee, da institushun may consida not on a peep’z income an' diagnoziz, buh also such vague qualitiez az “da history uv da problem.” Day also consida whetha da treatmint will offa “educational binefit” ta medical ztudintz an' traineez. Phyzicianz n' trainn' be ta see a certain numba uv each type uv case. If da programz be hittn' quotaz wiff funde' patiintz, patiintz like Jimmy be lezz like ta be accepte'.

Da complexitee an' vaguinezz uv deez policiez meant dat it wuz impossible ta tell Vanessa how like UTMB wuz ta take da beotch baby daddy. We can guezz around a 10 percint chance, buh we neva real know.

Fo'patiintz facn' canca, dis be not a hopeful answa.



Vanessa calle' from a hospital n' Houston n' ear Novemba, distraute, ax'n me ta help da beotch decide whetha o'not ta let da doctorz turn Jimmy’z breathn' machine off. Da beotch wuz afraid da beotch wouldn’t be able ta live wiff herself, no matta wich da beotch chose. I gave da beotch da advice I’d give a homie: dat I truste' da beotch love fo'da beotch baby daddy an' da beotch abilitee ta decide from a place uv love. Jimmy die' late dat nite.

Vanessa’z reques' fo'UTMB fundn' wasn’t approve'. Da beotch haz receive' a $17,000 bill from UTMB fo'da visit wen Jimmy wen thro da ER, an' a $327,000 preliminary bill from da Houston hospital.

If da Affordable Caa Act had do be n' effect las' year, day would be do be able ta afford insurance, get treatmint ear an' avoid bankruptsee. I use ztoriez like theirz—canca ztoriez—wen I am encouragn' my patiintz ta check out da insurance exchangez.

Buh wiff Jimmy gone an' Vanessa unemploye', da beotch now fallz inta da Medicaid coverage gap. I don’t know how da beotch will get caa, if da beotch eva needz moe den St. Vincint’z can give.

My firs' patiint, da one who die' n' hospice, mite be live' if dude canca had do be treate' befoa it had spread from da kidney. Buh without da Medicaid expansyun, da Affordable Caa Act wouldn’t help him: Az 'n adult wiff no depindent children, dude wouldn’t qualify fo'Medicaid now.

N' a betta medical system, dude’d be had a chance at a moe dignifie' experiince uv illnezz. Dude wouldn’t be had ta wait fo'hourz n' a crowde' free clinic, an' assume da postua uv gratefulnezz dat charitee zeemz ta aquia. Dude wouldn’t be had ta be treate' n' part by 'n earnes', buh unskille', firs'-year medical studint. Dude, like so many Texanz, deserve' betta.

Wen one uv our St. Vincint’z patiintz getz a bad diagnoziz, we start sindn' faxez: ta UTMB, ta MD Anderson, ta anywhea dat mite be fundz ta help them. Sometimez it workz out, buh often it doesn’t. Sometimez I think uv it az “sindn' faxez inta da abyzz.” An' zometimez I think uv it az da slow, diligint, technical way dat I be uv insistn' dat deez livez matta.

From IWDRM

FROM:

IF WE DON'T,
REMEMBER ME.

[i]

IWDRM is a series of animated movie stills started in 2010.
Follow on Tumblr, subscribe via RSS, contact via form or twitter. 

"You know what? If everything’s going bad, we’re going bad as well."

Sedmikrásky (1966)

"Dave!"

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

"Remove TEPCO Before Removing Fuel"

from Fairewinds Energy Education, posted 11/14/2013:

Fairewinds has fielded a number of questions regarding the removal of the fuel rods from the spent fuel pool in Unit 4 at Fukushima Daiichi. Today’s video shows Arnie debunking TEPCO’s animated film point by point, and highlights the issues TEPCO will have removing the fuel rods. TEPCO needs to be removed as the organization overseeing the cleanup of the site prior to the removal of the fuel rods.

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

published by Common Dreams, 10/24/2013:

Fuel Removal From Fukushima's Reactor 4 Threatens 'Apocalyptic' Scenario

In November, TEPCO set to begin to remove fuel rods whose radiation matches the fallout of 14,000 Hiroshima bombs

- Andrea Germanos, staff writer

An operation with potentially "apocalyptic" consequences is expected to begin in a little over two weeks from now - "as early as November 8" - at Fukushima's damaged and sinking Reactor 4, when plant operator TEPCO will attempt to remove over 1300 spent fuel rods holding the radiation equivalent of 14,000 Hiroshima bombs from a spent fuel storage tank perched on the reactor's upper floor.

Fukushima Reactor 4While the Reactor 4 building itself did not suffer a meltdown, it did suffer a hydrogen explosion, is now tipping and sinking and has zero ability to withstand another seismic event.

The Japan Times explained:

To remove the rods, TEPCO has erected a 273-ton mobile crane above the building that will be operated remotely from a separate room.

[...] spent fuel rods will be pulled from the racks they are stored in and inserted one by one into a heavy steel chamber while the assemblies are still under water. Once the chamber is removed from the pool and lowered to the ground, it will be transported to another pool in an undamaged building on the site for storage.

Under normal circumstances, such an operation would take little more than three months, but TEPCO is hoping to complete the complicated task within fiscal 2014.

A chorus of voices has been sounding alarm over the never-been-done-at-this-scale plan to manually remove the 400 tons of spent fuel by TEPCO, who so far has been responsible for mishap after mishap in the ongoing crisis at the crippled nuclear plant.

Arnie Gundersen, a veteran U.S. nuclear engineer and director of Fairewinds Energy Education, warned this summer that "They are going to have difficulty in removing a significant number of the rods," and said that "To jump to the conclusion that it is going to work just fine is quite a leap of logic."  Paul Gunter, MD, Director of the Reactor Oversight Project with Takoma Park, Md.-based Beyond Nuclear, also sounded alarm on Thursday, telling Common Dreams in a statement that "Given the uncertainties of the condition and array of the hundreds of tons of nuclear  fuel assemblies, it will be a risky round of highly radioactive pickup sticks."  Gundersen offered this analogy of the challenging process of removing the spent fuel rods:

If you think of a nuclear fuel rack as a pack of cigarettes, if you pull a cigarette straight up it will come out — but these racks have been distorted. Now when they go to pull the cigarette straight out, it’s going to likely break and release radioactive cesium and other gases, xenon and krypton, into the air. I suspect come November, December, January we’re going to hear that the building’s been evacuated, they’ve broke a fuel rod, the fuel rod is off-gassing. […]

I suspect we’ll have more airborne releases as they try to pull the fuel out. If they pull too hard, they’ll snap the fuel. I think the racks have been distorted, the fuel has overheated — the pool boiled – and the net effect is that it’s likely some of the fuel will be stuck in there for a long, long time.

The Japan Times adds:

Removing the fuel rods is a task usually assisted by computers that know their exact location down to the nearest millimeter. Working virtually blind in a highly radioactive environment, there is a risk the crane could drop or damage one of the rods — an accident that would heap even more misery onto the Tohoku region.

As long-time anti-nuclear activist Harvey Wasserman explained, the

Spent fuel rods must be kept cool at all times. If exposed to air, their zirconium alloy cladding will ignite, the rods will burn and huge quantities of radiation will be emitted. Should the rods touch each other, or should they crumble into a big enough pile, an explosion is possible.

"In the worst-case scenario," RT adds,

the pool could come crashing to the ground, dumping the rods together into a pile that could fission and cause an explosion many times worse than in March 2011.

Wasserman says that the plan is so risky it requires a global take-over, an urging Gunter also shared, stating that the "dangerous task should not be left to TEPCO but quickly involve the oversight and management of independent international experts."

Wasserman told Common Dreams that

The bring-down of the fuel rods from Fukushima Unit 4 may be the most dangerous engineering task ever undertaken.  Every indication is that TEPCO is completely incapable of doing it safely, or of reliably informing the global community as to what's actually happening.  There is no reason to believe the Japanese government could do much better.  This is a job that should only be undertaken by a dedicated team of the world's very best scientists and engineers, with access to all the funding that could be needed.  

The potential radiation releases in this situation can only be described as apocalyptic.  The cesium alone would match the fallout of 14,000 Hiroshima bombs.  If the job is botched, radiation releases could force the evacuation of all humans from the site, and could cause electronic equipment to fail.  Humankind would be forced to stand helplessly by as billions of curies of deadly radiation pour into the air and the ocean.   

As dire as Wasserman's warning sounds, it is echoed by fallout researcher Christina Consolo, who told RT that the worst case scenario could be "a true apocalypse." Gunter's warning was dire as well.

"Time is of the essence as we remain concerned that another earthquake could still topple the damaged reactor building and the nuclear waste storage pond up in its attic," he continued. "This could literally re-ignite the nuclear accident in the open atmosphere and inflame it into hemispheric proportions," said Gunter.

Wasserman says that given the gravity of the situation, the eyes of the world should be upon Fukushima:

This is a question that transcends being anti-nuclear.  The fate of the earth is at stake here and the whole world must be watching every move at that site from now on.  With 11,000 fuel rods scattered around the place, as a ceaseless flow of contaminated water poisoning our oceans, our very survival is on the line.  

____________________

give me enough

give me courage, give me one day of extraordinary.
give me what it takes.

give me enough, but not for long, just for long enough.
long enough to strew the way with rose petals and dollar bills,

and real insouciance.




© 2013 L. Ryan

Remains Found in Washington, Near McCleary (UPDATED)

UPDATE, 11/14/2013:

OLYMPIA, Wash. - Investigators say the human remains found in a remote area on the Nisqually Indian Reservation belonged to an adult woman.

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

It's been a good long while since I've updated information on missing and endangered child Lindsey Baum.
There have been some remains found in the area -- in the Nisqually Reservation in Washington state.  The reports don't indicate the age or sex of the remains found, and clearly, it is terrible news for some poor family, but I pray this is not Lindsey.

[*I'm informed this is about 35 miles from where she was last seen.]

The Olympian reports:

A search for more body parts Sunday afternoon on the Nisqually Indian Reservation -- a search that was triggered Saturday after a dog found the lower portion of a human leg with foot -- turned up a human rib cage, pelvis, parts of a skull, a jawbone with teeth and tissue-type matter, a Thurston County Sheriff’s Sergeant said.  

The mostly skeletal remains of a rib cage and pelvis were found by a dog team about 1:30 p.m. Sunday, followed by the other human remains later in the day.  

All of it was then turned over to the Thurston County Coroner’s Office, Sgt. Ray Brady said.
The search took place around the 13600 block of Peter Kalama Drive, as well as areas near the Nisqually River, an old fish hatchery and on adjacent roads in the area. The rib cage and pelvis were found near the hatchery, he said. 

Age, race and gender of the human remains still needs to be determined, Brady said, plus the Sheriff’s Office will be matching that information to any missing persons or runaways.
“There’s enough to hopefully identify the person,” he said. 

Brady added that it appeared as though animals had scattered the remains. 

He said Sunday’s search, which began at 8 a.m. and involved about 30 search and rescue volunteers and dog teams, wrapped up about 6 p.m. 

Sunday’s search was the extension of a search that began Saturday afternoon after a dog returned to its owner in the 13600 block of Peter Kalama Drive on the Nisqually Indian Reservation with the lower portion of a leg with foot. 

The lower portion of the human leg that was found on Saturday was partly skeletal, Brady said.
Thurston County Coroner Gary Warnock added that some tissue was attached. 

Warnock said Saturday that the leg would be examined for tool marks, such as those created by a handsaw or something electric. 

Brady said anyone with information is asked to call Thurston County dispatch at 360-704-2740 or Crime Stoppers at 800-222-TIPS.

A few weeks ago, I posted an aged-advanced likeness of her -- and that's how she appears to me now, in my mind, a beautiful, free young teen.

Since I'm writing about her, here is all the known information about her case, and if you click HERE, you can see the various posts about her from this blog, with links to other areas of interest.



Lindsey Jo Baum 

Missing Since: 06/26/09
Missing From: McCleary, WA
Classification: Endangered Missing
Age at Disappearance: 10
Date Of Birth: 07/07/98
Height: 4’10
Weight: 90 lbs
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Brown/Dark Blonde
Colored fillings in her teeth
Clothing: long sleeve hooded shirt (not sweatshirt) light bluish/gray, jeans with knees cut out, black slip on american eagle shoes with white rubber soles, no socks. bathing suit under clothes red/white/blue in color for both pieces but mismatched bottoms a floral print, top stripes and polka dots.

Details of Disappearance:

Lindsey disappeared on June 26,2009 while walking home [from a friend's home] in McCleary, WA at about 9:30 in the evening. This was one of the longest days of the year and didn’t get dark until around 10:30 that night. It was still daylight out as she left for the short 5-10 minute walk home.

She never made it home that night.

Who to Contact with Information:
Grays Harbor County Information Hot-line (Tip line) (866) 915-8299, Email: soadmin@co.grays-harbor.wa.us 
[OR DIAL 911]



© 2013 L. Ryan

Maher's New Rule

TRANSCRIPT

And finally, New Rule: It's OK if you don't want to feed the hungry, or heal the sick, or house the homeless. Just don't say you're doing it for their own good.  Don't say you'd like to help people, but your hands are tied because if you did, it would cause a culture of dependency, or go against the Bible, or worst of all, rob them of their freedom... to be sick and hungry.

Just admit you're selfish, and based on how little your beliefs mirror the actual teachings of Jesus, you might as well claim to worship Despicable Me.

Now I bring this up, because last week new food stamp cuts went into effect, and Congressman Steve Fincher, a Republican from Dogpatch, justified the cuts by quoting the Bible — "The one who does not work shall not eat."  And it reminded me that I keep seeing stories in the news about Christians stiffing servers in restaurants.

Like the Applebee's waitress in Missouri who got this note from a church pastor.
Written on the check, it said, "I give God 10%.  Why do you get 18?"  Prompting the question, who ordered the piping hot asshole?  

This is what Jesus would do?  I doubt it.  I think what Jesus would do is move the hell out of that part of Missouri.  And if you're a waiter or waitress in the Bible Belt, you may very well have seen one of these.

It's a phony $10 dollar bill that Christians sometimes leave on the table in lieu of an actual tip.  It looks like a $10, so you get the benefit of giving poor people hope, and then crushing it, but on the back it says, "Some things are better than money ... like your eternal salvation that was bought and paid for by Jesus going to the cross."

Yeah, well, Jesus didn't have to put gas in the donkey.  

I don't know what the snake-handlers have against the food-handlers, or when restaurant receipts became the new bully pulpit, but there was another story recently, this one from Kansas, where instead of a tip, a Christian family left their server, who they knew was gay, this note:

Thank you for your service, it was excellent.  That being said, we cannot in good conscience tip you, for your homosexual lifestyle is an affront to GOD.  Queers do not share in the wealth of GOD, and you will not share in ours.

Note they repeat the phrase "not share", to really drive home that they've absorbed the message of Jesus. OK, first off, just because you're eating out, doesn't give you the right to tell your server who they should be eating out.  

And beyond that, someone needs to tell these people that not tipping a gay waiter will not make him want to put his penis in a woman.  It'll make him want to put his penis in your pasta primavera.  

Now, I am sure there are millions of Christians who try to actually follow Jesus, but you gotta admit, conservatives always seem to have a reason why they would love to give, but they just can't.  We would love to help the unemployed, but it would discourage working.  I believe in charity, just not for people who need it.  Of course we'd like it if everyone could see a doctor, we're not monsters, but if the government does it, it will destroy our way of life.  Plus, the website is glitchy, which leads to Stalinism.  Oh sure, we'd like to help people who are starving, but what if they use the strength from not starving to take drugs?

Yes, there's always a good moral Christian reason to tell everyone you meet to fuck off and die.  (audience laughter and applause)  Fair enough.  But if you're a waiter, and you ever get one of those fake $10 dollar bills, do me a favor, and next time you're in church, drop it in the collection box. 

fig bars and milk

fig bars and milk
(found under a pile of scrap paper, dated 3.19.2013)`

Última Cena - Juan de Juanes

 i just got an email from my doctor.  he says he is concerned and wants me to "come in."  good thing i didn't check my inbox until after office hours.  oh, and somehow my phone was turned off today.

oh my.

i don't wanna go because i know what that means.

i am quite proper looking today, in blue scrub pants and one of my post-op shoulder shirts, the yellow one that now is spotted due to fred's attraction to cheap-ass laundry detergents like Yowza Powda or some such bleachy blend.  the fashion needs of a shoulderless woman with severe allodynia are complex, so ruining a perfect post-op shoulder shirt is a royal pain. i also had it in the most beautiful of blues but they cut it off me during my last ambulance ride.  i was wide awake, and not coding or anything, they didn't have to grab the shears and destroy my clothes, damn it.  i have one shoulder, just not the other.  and the one i do have is bionic and the titanium again infected with a slimy, scheming network of a bioflim community of bacteria. i imagine it to be like a green, scuzzy, sticky jelly so strong that it's impervious to mean looks, lasers, scalpels, and boiling water.  dip the stuff in acid and it just laughs at you.

you should attempt Bra Wearing with one shoulder gone and the other infected.  go ahead, i'll just hum a few bars while you curse.

doc swore to me that we were just going to aim at "putting out fires." he promised.  he's my i-won't-lie-to-you go-to-guy. but i screwed up, not him. there was a violation of protocol.  i wrote him in the middle of the night, saying i was anxious about some things.  you know, like passing out, not being able to remember sunday, and having my legs covered in bruises despite having declined tante louise's invitation to an alpine ski event.  maybe that's what i did sunday.  and as i was making a downhill run i crashed into a tree, got a concussion, causing me forget the entire outting, bruising my bodacious bod and spawning a spat of g.i. bleeding.  works for me!  it's a plausible plot, even if the Lone  Alp in our region is bald of snow and tante louise just wanted to lounge about the lodge drinking.  hot chocolate. with the little marshmallows.

no one has ever commented on my avatar here [this was composed on a writer's site, not blogger]. anyway, the picture is of two marshmallow trees.  i am THAT gullible. i wondered aloud one day, standing next to my sweet stepmom, drying while she washed, where marshmallows came from.  "the marshmallow tree, of course," she quipped.  i don't get quips, they go zoooom, right over the old profderien's head.  why would anyone lie about the genesis of the marshmallow.

she got a lot of mileage out of product-specific trees with me.  if i weren't rather precocious about human reproduction, she probably could have pulled off having babies arrive via gently rocking tree limbs... or pine cones.

the entire crowd back then enjoyed my many stupidities.  until i was in high school, i thought "mustard" was a dirty word, because that's what i thought they were saying in the good, the bad, and the ugly, every time someone was called a "bastard." i would give someone the hairy eyeball and slur "you mustard" at them, turn on my heels and stalk off, leaving devastation and much confusion in my wake.

there were repeated calls for me to perform the enduring turtles' hit "happy together," especially the stanza that goes "no matter how they toss the tights..."

i was an entertainment package.  of course, the greatest story of the gullibility of the profderien shall remain untold, as it still kind of ticks me off, though it was, i admit, very funny.  i'll tantalize you with the vaguest of hints -- it involves that famous 17th century french naturalist and author, oussama mon chénier.  you probably know the joke.

i know i need to go, go-to-guy is rarely wrong, though it has happened.

i know i need to go, though, not because of his prowess as a physician, but because i am crying.  i only cry when i am very sick.  it has nothing to do with sadness;  it is something that my body does when the level of infection in my bones and the inflammation in my arms and legs from crps get... out of hand.  why would i be telling you about my penchant for cursing people as mustards and singing that old chesnut of tight-tossing and be weeping?  who can tell of marshmallow trees and cry at the same time?

"the candyman can..."



Homer: "Who can take some vodka, sprinkle it with ice, pour it down your gullet 'till the world seems really nice? The brandyman. The brandyman can if you're over 21...
Lisa and Bart: "...or just sixteen in Amsterdam!


i am hot, i am cold, i am sweating, and i am shivering in my softest sweet quilt, all at the same time.  crying, laughing, and reassuring panicky partners that "it's all good!" honey badger don't care!

sweet fred, and la bonne bianca, even sven and his son, cabana boy, hell, why not include the entire cistercian community next door, plus the crack whore sitting on her stoop, taking a sun bath, as serene as i've ever seen her lovely face?  they all, every one of them, know that when i am so rosy-cheeked, laughing, and weeping, we soon will load up ruby, the honda cr-v, tossing in packed bags and wheelchair battery chargers, "just in case." but we are so tired.

i just want to take some ibuprofen.  that's the irony of the whole thing. that's mostly what i wrote to doc about.  mostly.  there was also the anxiety, the insomnia, the pain, the bleeding, the lost day (during which i got lots done, apparently, and was quite the cheerful one, too!). the four fingernails that i've had to pull out, the toes that began bleeding from the pressure of water from the shower.  is it possible the pressure of the water caused all the bruising, too?

a spoonful of sugar and 600 mg of ibuprofen will help the inflammation, which will help the fever, which will stop me from crying and having to ask for help all the damned time.  but no...  even though i am forever stuck on the accursed steroids.

hmmm.

hey... hmmm...

i try to keep the steroid dosage down for so many, many reasons.  but maybe, since i have to take it anyway, i can increase that.  the relief that it provides though is treacherous and false, like the knight in dark armor who will not raise his face plate. face plate?  i dunno.  some of the people around here so lost in fantasy would know.  but i am betting that face plate is close to right.

i will take close to right.

among the many crappy things about the wicked corticosteroid is that while you can leap up in dosage, you must taper down both as fast and as slowly as you can.  good thing that i understand that sentence, 'cause no one else will.  the pain of just suddenly dropping back to your regular dosage, on top of the regular pain?  well, i guess i lied above, because THAT can make me cry, also.  a rapid prednisone taper makes bones hurt like nobody's business. i've never asked or looked into why that is so, but learned it was not folklore the first time they put me on them, 16 years ago.  i think it was only a five day course after which i was to taper down something like 5 mg a day.

"pshaw," i thought.  five days, i'm done, and i felt so much better, too! the next morning found me unable to stand up, calling the doctor (now on the Shit List) who laughed.

anyway, i am pretty much in charge of the dosage and have been for a couple o' years.  one of my dumbest mistakes, and one that i make over and over, is to fail and double the dosage under "stress" conditions.  i am told to double it "when you are sick," and when i stop laughing, i realize they haven't a clue, either.  every day now, i spike to anywhere between 101 and 103, the pain is unmanageable, there's the bleeding, the increasing fatigue, the insomnia -- so when is it, exactly, that i am sick?

staying on an extended elevated dose of steroids is not an option. the people around you would agree, were it put to a vote.  these aren't anabolic or androgenic steroids, no, these are the over-prescribed cheap shortcuts that make you feel better quickly, while ruining your bones, your eyes, your blood sugar control, and your ability to heal or fight off infection.  take them on an extended basis and you've the joy of fat pads and a moon face, ravenous appetites, and blood work anomalies it would take a wizard to decode.

so, clearly, that's the answer.  i'll double up on steroids for a bit and enjoy the fake benefits of a lowered level of inflammation.

or i could just "come on in..." like a spy coming in from the cold.  probably, i am just a quart low, need a top off, some fluids, and my tires rotated.

oops, crying again.  thinking about i.v. access, ports and picc lines that will suck up every liquid within a mile but won't donate a drop of blood, so what is the point?  every stick risks a spread of crps but that sounds like crazy talk to the lab people, who tie tight tourniquets and slap my hands and forearms trying to get thinned out prednisone veins to "stand up." tell them to stop and they threaten you -- "you explain to the doctors why they don't have the labs they ordered." try to explain that it's not a phobia or even the pain, it's the possibility of permanent spread of neurological impairment and they wink at each other.

i don't often remember this and wish it hadn't popped up just now. there is so much ignorance about crps.  i had a bad bout with pneumonia, in 2005, i think, and stopped breathing.  poor fred... he called doc instead of 911, got put on hold, even, before they understood what he was saying and made the emergency call themselves.  all i know is that i got sick on a friday and that sunday night, i said, "i think i'm dying," and the next morning, he thought i was "sleeping in," when in actuality i was taking a dirt nap. i woke up on wednesday in an unfamiliar ICU, on a respirator.

the nurse seemed nice enough, at first, and i was reassured that fred had been there by all the signs posted around the room in his neat handwriting.  "please do not cover legs, please try not to touch legs, please this, please that..." it was sweet and it meant i did not have to try and explain things by pantomime or scribbling on paper i couldn't see with pens i could barely hold.

but then she started playing The Game.  "This here all over your legs?  You ain't been diagnosed right.  I seen this before, up in Podunk County, and it ain't no SRA, CRSPD or whatever you and your husband been told.  This is plain old cellulitis and I'm gonna cure you with some lasix, massage, and epsom salts. First we gotta stop this nonsense of you falling all to pieces just from getting touched.  You almost broke my hand last night kicking at me.  I did not appreciate that, no ma'am."

I thought, okay, this would be a great time for a nursing supervisor, a doctor, a physical therapist, anyone... to come walking in here.  she took fred's signs down, talked about how i had been "psyched out" into believing that something like the fan blowing could cause pain.  apparently, i tried to destroy one of their revolving fans, too, while sweetly unconscious.  i guess they were trying to bring my fever down.  all of which helped explain why my arms were in soft restraints, tied to the bed.

The Game consisted of her holding up her hand, roughly 18 inches from my feet and slowly, slowly inching it closer, all the while spinning her pointed index finger and adding a sound track of "watch out... the big bad mean nurse is going to TOUCH you," at which point she would make a stabbing motion with her index finger.  i couldn't accurately gauge time, and The Game probably could be played in 2-3 minutes but it seemed like a half-hour, at least, while i prayed for fred to come, for anyone to pop their head in.

when she finally did jab me with her fingernail, i was so tense, so afraid, so anticipating the pain i knew it would cause, that i ended up learning how to stop her by default.  she jabbed, it hurt, and add that to anxiety and i was fighting the respirator... not normally a good thing, but it does make every alarm to which you are attached issue tornado sirens.  the heart monitor, because your heart rate spikes, and the O2 and pressure sensors on the ventilator scream holy hell.

most ICUs have at least on respiratory therapist on the unit at any given time, and theirs was in my room with a glorious swiftness.  she could see the panic, i think, in my face, and it turned out that my nurse was on loan from a med/surg floor for a few days, covering for someone who had to take a sudden leave.

i couldn't be extubated for several more days but i learned that my only defense to The Game was to fight the respirator and make every alarm available sound.  that nurse did manage to jab me one more time, but that was when she decided to do it in my sleep -- and even then, i set off the alarms and, out of frustration, i did kick her.  that was witnessed by a hospitalist who kept looking at me quizzically as i continued to go nuts every time she approached.  i didn't see her again, and once i was extubated and recovered my voice -- i used it.  it had been an exhausting and terrifying ordeal.

i wish i had not thought of her or The Game.

i confess to kicking one other person -- same hospitalization.  it was a doctor, don't know who he was or what specialty he represented or even why he was there.  when they had done cpr at the house, they had fractured my sternum -- could not be helped.  but that meant that lowering the head of the bed for any reason caused horrible pain right in the center of my chest, along with a feeling of not being able to inhale.  so we tried to do things like baths and dressing changes, bed linens changes, extremely fast.  the nurses and aides worked like a seasoned pit crew.

in the middle of both a sponge bath and a change of linens, along with a respiratory therapist changing the tubing on the blasted vent, along came this unknown doctor man.  he gasped at the sight of my legs, something everyone with crps appreciates, and without speaking to me, introducing himself, nothing, he dons a pair of latex gloves and grabs my legs -- both at once, one per hand, and runs his plastic hands up and down while i engage in silent screams (the alarms are off due to the bath, etc.).

the nurses and the RT try to get dr. idjit's attention but he is heavy into his fascination with these sexy legs of mine and is continuing to pinch, poke, and i don't know what else.

the respiratory therapist must have seen it in my eyes.

"don't do it," she said, "we'll get him to stop..." but she was too late.

i kicked him square in the chest, as he was leaning way over the end of the bed, and sent him flying backward into the wall.

he took it really well, finally heard the magic "crps," and was immediately apologetic.  had i injured him, i  am not sure things would have ended on such a benign note.  as it was, every time such an incident occured, a cascade of burning neuropathic pain would begin that could easily last 8 to 12 hours, while the "trickster" or the ignorant doctor got to waltz out of my cubicle and get on with their lives, not knowing the wreck they've left, their hit-and-run.

the pain in my left arm is changing and deepening, but i am all cried out.

this is all my fault.  i should not have reached out in the night, should not have complained, should have thought about increasing the steroid dose.  in the morning, i will call and schedule a blood draw, to see if i need a transfusion and just to cover all bases, get the white count, sed rate, and crp.

now... there is the reasonable, responsible, non-weepy profderien..

besides, if i had to kick anyone now?  i'd break my ankle again, plus a metatarsal here and there.

i'm gonna snow myself tonight -- again, i have permission to do so as needed.  all it usually takes is the addition of two percocets, two tizanidine, and as much baclofen as required to stop the spasms.

my mp3 player is all charged and ready to go, with lots more nina simone added, and a new old loudon wainwright the third.  we have mary black and a sentimental selection from serge reggiani.

in case of resistant insomnia -- again -- i loaded one of my favorite compline recordings and i can think of sweet brother william, always the one in trouble at the monastery, who intervened when father anthony and i were warring over communion.

sweet william came to me as i sat in contemplation, a glass jar of milk in one hand and a plate of fresh baked fig bars in the other.  in solemnity did we down all the milk, keeping our dairy moustaches, and with joy did we munch on the fig bars.

and all was well. brother william would cheerfully go back to whatever punishing task had been devised for him, scrubbing the flagstones in the cathedral, usually. i could truly contemplate, watching him, or making it down to the pond to feed the ducks fig bar crumbs.

© 2013 L. Ryan

Otter Memories: Ode to Joy

photo credit

Slides, wallows, tracks and scat! Oh, my!

I was lost.  

Sometime after having Thanksgiving dinner by myself in a piano bar in the middle of a completely empty downtown Berkeley, and three Christmas dinners with my boyfriend's feuding family components, he and I just took off and hid for a week.  

I held my nose and talked like an adenoidal head case when I called in sick to work.  

"Yeth, ah tink ah will be owt awl week," I told my Department Chair.  We never said Chairperson, Chairman, Chairwoman.  We just called him "The Chair." 

Jeff was a trust fund baby -- feuding family components make for many guilt-induced cash deposits -- and didn't have to call anyone.  He just made abject excuses to his professors, as he was something of a, well, excuse me for telling the absolute truth -- Jeff was a brown-noser of the first order.

"So where are we going, Bright Eyes?" asked my guy, as he lubed whatever one lubes, and checked tires, and cleaned his beloved rebuilt grey Mustang.

I don't know where it came from, except perhaps for my coffee mug.  I'd never even seen one.  Except on my coffee mug.  It was an off white mug, too small, really, for the amounts of caffeine that I required, and my fingers always felt scrunched and cramped by the handle.  But it had an overlay in dark brown and blues of river otters, two, to be precise, floating on their backs and looking for all the world like God's most contented creatures.  If I could get that much joy from a coffee mug, imagine the possibilities were I to meet the real animals. In my head, I thought "and they, me," but darned if I would have Jeff laughing at me before we even left town.

"We are going to observe otters.  River otters and sea otters." I leaned casually against the tarry telephone pole next to the car, as he slid under the chassis doing whatever it is one does under the chassis.  All I knew was that I had tar on my jeans and a splinter in my behind.  

"Okay," he yelled, though yelling wasn't necessary.

I was shocked but had enough gumption to run with it.  We were renting an apartment in the basement of a lovely old home on a very dangerous street in Oakland -- clued into its existence by Jeff's cousin, who was writing his doctoral thesis on national parks and their various subdivisions and subcultures.  Although he very rarely left his easy chair by which he stockpiled Rainier Ale on ice in a huge red cooler, Brian was a font of information on where to find stuff.  Otters were stuff, I reasoned, jogging to his front door.

"Hi ya, Brian, can I pick your brain?" I greeted him.

Still wearing the green flannel bathrobe he'd sported three days earlier, he repeated the offer of three-days ago, as well:  "Rainier?" 

I ignored him as he popped the tab. "Your cousin and I are playing hooky this week, and going on an Otter Quest -- you know, those joyous little bubbling blobs that float down our riverways..." 

"The coffee mug strikes again," he crowed.  He was observant to an annoyance and had often remarked on my otter romance, as I suckled my morning brews.

"So where do we go?  How do we catch 'em unawares, twirling and dancing and cavorting and such? C'mon, I know you know," I cajoled.  If that didn't work, I was gonna grab the cooler and run.

"Well, first thing, Grasshopper, snatch the pebbles from my hand... Okay, okay, just leave my cooler alone.  You can start right over in Marin.  Not much of a trip, but they've got otters.  I don't know about the twirling, dancing, cavorting, joyous stuff.  They're animals.  They do what they do.  You are the worst anthropomorphist of all anthropomorphists."

"Thank you," I yelled, barreling through the bushes to our place, where Jeff was washing up, and organizing atlases.  

"We're not going to the North Pole, Sweet Cheeks. In fact, Brian says we can start in Marin!" 

Did I mention that we could hear Brian from our place?

"River Otter Ecology Project, Tomales Bay,  East Bay Regional Park District, you crazies!" yelled Brian.

We set off.  I was just grateful Jeff hadn't dumped all the maps on me, as my idea of west is left, and north?  Well, north is obviously straight ahead.  On our last jaunt, out to find the former Cat Stevens who was visiting a tiny monastery off the Pacific Coast Highway, I used my unique map-reading skills to take us off road and into a weird realm where llamas ruled...

Jeff coordinates everything.  Looking for Yusuf Islam, we had all his albums, from Catch Bull at Four to Tea for the Tillerman to loud voices-lost-in-the-wind renditions of "Trouble," because I'm a Harold and Maude freak and "Peace Train," because, well, "Peace Train" is just a great song to sing in the car.

I settled into my appointed passenger bucket seat, and inquired about the music.  The CD jewel cases were all a little dusty and none jumped out as familiar to me.  Oh, no, he didn't!

Oh, yes, he did.  He was continuing the fruitless endeavor of training me to be like a seal balancing a ball on its nose, waiting for fish -- he was forcing me to love classical music.  Jeff knew everything about music; all I knew was what I knew, and that was whatever I happened to hear and like.  He said snotty things like, "Actually, that's a perfect foundation!" 

We stopped in North Beach at Sotto Mare, and he had a suggestive number of oyster shooters, and kept winking at me.I munched on olives and cheeses, and aromatic breads, washed down with lemon seltzers.  Anyway, I only got us lost once, when I interpreted a veer eastward as taking a right at the end of the next block...

"The theme of this journey to the otters is joy, as the otter is, for you, at least, the very emblem of joy.  Our music, therefore, is joyful. Please insert, dear navigator, the first CD," said the know-it-all driving the car.

I glanced at the case. I knew this one.  Everyone knows this one.  Vivaldi's Four Seasons, Concerto No. 1 -- "Spring."  I rolled my eyes at Jeff.  He laughed and told me to shut up and listen.  

There was an unusual jam on the Golden Gate and I had to admit, as I watched the ships sailing, felt the wind blowing, then warmed my skin with my eyes closed, that Vivaldi might be onto something.  But the joy was so... light.  So into itself. So tra-la-la and I just knew otters were more than skin deep joshing and trills.  I couldn't say any of that, of course, because I know how dumb it sounds.  I just wanted to see an otter, a free otter, and I fell asleep as fumes built up over the bay, all these cars full of fun-seekers, probably a mess of otter seekers among them, everyone listening to otter joy tunes...

"Psst.  Hey, you... Bright Eyes... We're here," whispered Jeff and I was thankful he knew just how to wake me. "Welcome to Tomales Bay, and to the pretty unimpressive headquarters of the River Otter Ecology Project."  

"How many centuries of old dusty joy music did I miss during my snooze?"  I teased.

"I saved the best for last.  Let me finish this Diet Coke, while you wake up to the lovely strains of... ta da...  Ludwig van Beethoven, Symphony No. 9 in D minor, sometimes just called the Choral, one of the first choral symphonies, where the voice was counted as an instrument. You know it, I know you do.  It's the 'Ode to Joy,' " and he was so joyous in the telling about it that I leaned back in shade of that gravel parking lot, scent of cedar, scent of pine, and let the well-known song bring me to full wakefulness.

"I do know this.  My mom practically strong armed my sister into having it as the processional at her wedding.  I love it...  I do know this!" 

Turns out those were some serious folk at the River Otter Ecology Project, and I had to sort of put a lid on my whatchamacallit anthropomorphism and walk through exhibits about wetlands and learn that my beloved little otters were carnavores and a bit, well, sneaky.  No, "elusive," that was it!  The focused blond people, brown and muscled, all called my balletic water loves "elusive," like they were talking about joyless creatures into hiding and evading, not cavorting and well, you know, all the joyful stuff I was there to witness.

It was hard to pay attention with Jeff humming "Ode to Joy" in my ear.  They'd made a comeback, it turns out, these river otters.  The experts had set up 11 main sites along a huge swath of the coast north of the Golden Gate and used community spotters and trackers, but mostly relied on motion sensitive cameras.  Get this, the community volunteers?  They're called "Otter Spotters." 

"Otter Spotters," I muttered to Jeff. "Where are my otters, cavorting, playing, loving in the sun?"

My darling dear responded as only he could: 

"Smarty pants," but I loved him keeping notes of odes, chorals, bits of Beethoven joy alive even as the khaki ones handed us the tools we needed as we set out to match our joy with the joy of the free river otters -- Scat Bags.  He grinned.  I grit my teeth.

They explained that we'd probably find two different kinds of scat.  Slimy scat and, um, your regular type scat.  This scat was vital, we were told.

We were told about their research and preservation efforts on behalf of my jovial Lontra canadensis, watched videos, and felt ready to take on these fey creatures.  "When do we get to play with the otters?" I whined -- quietly -- as mid-afternoon approached.

And he grinned.

"Okay, you guys are all set to go looking for otters, hopefully to find some family groups, maybe even some pups.  Hang on to your Scat Bags, remember to hang back, be unobtrusive, to never hinder. Key things: Slides, wallows, tracks and scat!  Leave nothing behind!" 

A khaki blond muscled person then gave us a detailed map, with our chosen sector blown up, and asked which we preferred, bicycles, kayak, or canoe? I looked at Jeff and giggled to see that he wasn't emitting musical notation.  "Bicycles, I think," I told her, suddenly feeling like the grown-up in charge.

We really had a nice ride, tiring, and hard, but so cool, so fresh, such smells.  Moss smell, and music in the trees.  Music was beginning to be everywhere.  Voices, and the beginning notes of water, here and there.

Suddenly the path narrowed to brush and grasses, and we were at the water, an inlet, noisy and buzzing, dripping and dipping.  We dropped the bikes and crept forward, both working the mantra:   "Slides, wallows, tracks and scat!  Slides, wallows, tracks and scat! Oh, my!"

And there they were, my water bug love bunnies.  There they were!  Wallowing in their wallow, munching on some unfortunate crustacean, leaning back in water hay, enjoying their day.  Three adults, in otter barcaloungers.  They'd told us back at the Project Center that if we were a bother, the otters would promptly leave.  If we were okay by them, they'd ignore us.

They ignored us!  Well, there was one of the three, the one in the middle, whose butt kept slipping down into water, and was clearly embarrassed about it, that one... I'm pretty sure he flashed me a peace sign and a quick wink.

Done noshing, they slid into the water as if it were part of them, and began to spin, slowly, slowly, faster, slow again, take a quick dip, get that last bit of crustacean crumbs washed away.  The sun was giving out, they were moving on, but making a show of joy for me, for Jeff, for all the Scat Collectors, first.  I heard some squeaks and laughs, saw rotations of delight, and the beginnings of a low-level game of chase.

They circled back around, and my favorite slick guy raised a claw or a paw in gracious good-bye, took a final synchronized dip, and then made their way upstream.

Our legs were rubber by the time we turned in our empty Scat Bags and quietly thanked our hosts for the education, and promised we'd be back.

Jeff was staring at me, lopsided, like I like it. "What?" I asked.

"Your eyes," he said.

Feeling playful, I leaned into him, knowing exactly what I smelled like, for I could smell the river on him, and mud, and sweat. "What, dah-ling, what do you see in mine beautiful eyes?"

"Joy," he said. "Joy."

We headed south to Monterey, stayed in Carmel, saw otters in the ocean, in the aquarium, but headed toward home early to stop again in Marin.  Jeff seemed to think my classical music education was sufficient for the time-being, and we sang a lot of Bonnie Raitt going north, which is, as everyone knows, always straight ahead.