What other profession, tell me, anticipates being closed by weather and has created a whole mythology surrounding it? Like a Rain Dance, a wish on a star, or as my Mom taught me, lick your thumb and twist it into your opposite palm, making a wish when the first robin is seen. School teachers have rituals to bring on the snow or subzero cold here in Buffalo, New York; this allows a day off, there are 4 built into the school calendar for such emergencies.
But what do you do? Travel bans are usually placed, advisories listed, sections of thruways closed, shops closed, banks, courts, and metro bus service limited. You stay out of the way so the emergency crews can dig out, get folks to hospital, put out fires. This situation does not generally allow errands to be performed, or haircuts, or going to lunch with friends. You are in the house, and are expected to amuse not only yourself, but any family members home with you while making lunch and dinner with whatever you brought into the house before the storm hit.
If you aren't lucky to have stopped at the grocery previously, you get to dig the back caverns of the cupboards, looking for cans of what? Grey green beans? Lychees? Molasses--where the heck did that come from? Check expiration dates so as not to poison anyone. Break down and bake bread, follow a salt-rising recipe if no yeast is growing in regions relegated to the refrigerator. Cookies. Hope to heavens that you have enough pet food, toilet paper, and Get Candles. More on that later, back to the teacher thing.
Yes, we dance when there is a snow day, yes we wear pajamas inside out, put spoons in the freezer, and a toothbrush under our pillows. No, I don't know how that got figured, and there are many I have missed, but these are the mainstays. This all comes down to spending precious time with our families, reading a book not connected to curriculum, maybe getting ahead with lesson plans, building, painting, communicating; things that we don't get to do normally.
A teacher's weekend whips by faster than an express train. Saturday is mostly errands, figure out dinner, get things around the house vacuumed, cleaned, laundered. Maybe you work a second job. Sunday is school work day, the ubiquitous lesson plans, divining homework papers, mayyybe a visit or a movie but probably not, for you are exhausted by the demands of the career, and are pulled like a wishbone with family desires and responsibilities.
I guarantee you, we are not lounging on the chaise eating bonbons while watching the dog show, we are worried about everything. Teachers are worriers. Did this kid get it? How do we know the kid got it? Did I differentiate enough, list objectives, state the instructional shifts, work with the bubble kids, do restorative circles, follow the CHAMPS protocol, is that kid all right, who needs mittens, who needs support, who needs structure, and observations are taking place where administration comes into your room with a checklist to see if you touch all bases and get rated highly efficient, efficient, developing, or, you poor mess with a master's degree, who let you into the building?
No wonder the mythology surrounding blowing snow exists. Truth be told, I don't know a teacher who doesn't wonder if their students are warm, having a meal, or are being taken care of. It's what we do, it's why this country gets away with the unusually low rate of pay; we don't complain. We just do the job, heavens forbid if we react to the fact that we have an average of 8 years of education in order to be certified, we incur incredible loans, and sometimes have desks thrown at us by angry kids. Oh, and now we practice "Shelter in Place" and "Code Lockdown" in case of a shooter. Somewhat different than crouching under your desk to save you from an atomic blast. Just as scary, though.
Snow days relieve a lot of job stress, shoveling off the house roof is actually soothing in comparison. So we dance. Who else does? For 8 years of college, I could be a Physician's Assistant. I could be a dentist, making two to three times what I do. Any number of money making careers take less time, but here we are, short staffed, short on supplies (we buy most of ours), short on salary. Because we love what we do in spite of the rate of burn-out. No lie, when you see a retired teacher, they look five years younger and have a healthy flush to their face. So bring on the blustering winds, the snows that grind the city to a halt. Help out the people that work through a blizzard by shoveling, offering a hot drink, staying off the road.
This is the second subzero freeze in January; the first one, this apartment complex had little heat until two days into it. This second one began well, but since the population is mostly hunkered down and in residence, again the heat and hot water are dwindling in temperature. Sure, put on a sweater, but other remedies include tea lights and cats. Or a big dog.
The cats call a truce, mostly, when the cold slithers into the cracks, and sleep in closer proximity or try to pile onto my lap. The lap business is nice, but getting up for tea, a pencil, or bathroom foments disruption which includes swats and name-calling. Candles are quieter, but you still have to keep an eye on them...an up-ended terra cotta pot over a tea light will hold the heat and radiate it outwards, heating a smallish room. Still, watch the thing, place on a non-flammable surface.
Back in the fifties, no one thought of lighting a candle for decor, except for formal dinner or Catholic bothering some saint; that burning candle business began in the later sixties, perhaps to cover the amount of marijuana being ignited? These days, the candles have come a long way from the 25¢ paraffin emergency pack from the hardware, now they are scented, in jars, and are given foofy-foo names that would have us 50's kids rolling like squirrels in acorns. Harvest Whimsy. Rain Fairy. Sentient Forest. Calm Down. How about Burning Pumpkin, Help My Hair's On Fire From Leaning Over The Cake, or Spill Your Vodka Drink On The Decorative Candle While Wrapping Christmas Presents And Setting the Paper On Fire From The Alcohol Merry Christmas The Building Is Now On Fire, Too. That last one actually happened. Second floor, smoke damage traveled up the stairwells, water damage from the fire hoses demolished the apartment below.
I have a pile of blankets and comforters on the bed layered like a 4-foot tall lasagna. Got rid of the polyester sheets which were horrid to sleep on, and purchased cotton, which is a dream. I am ready for whatever heating emergency occurs, within reason, and am armed with a stock of pillar candles from IKEA and Walmart. And cats. Four. The blizzard blotted out the sun--even though there are now 30 minutes longer of daylight this end of January, you couldn't tell when day became night; the city sounds were quieted by the snow, and one could be lulled to sleep by the rocking of spinning tires down on the street.
Sleep tonight, I will be turning in early, no news if the streets will be clear enough for buses, or if the temp will be considered safe for students to be in. Last night, I dreamt of white envelopes; they were discards, and I retrieved them from recycling. Dreamland is strange, mostly disjointed for me; no predictions or solutions, just moving pictures seemingly not connected. Some are repetitive; the Chinese restaurant while a tornado is flying outside, the Easter candy shop on a path in the woods, taking a 1950 Hudson to the mechanics, replacing wooden floors in my old house. Not one twitchet of sense in that, but never mind. You dream, dream of warmer days and warm hearts. Of summer grass that releases that grassy smell as your feet run, as the sun goes down and twilight begins, when you try to squeeze that last moment to extend into another universe where you know you are wanted. Sleep, dear hearts.
Thursday, January 31, 2019
Monday, January 21, 2019
Captain Banana Peel
Fresh sheets and the sandman had first led to quiet dreams, then at morning Kai cat was still on my pillow; oh, precious weekend! But phantom dozing fingers of forgotten thoughts ended when the black planet Roscoe crashed in, nailing poor Kai, followed by his proceeding to chomp her head. I had shook the blankets, which trampolined him towards the end of the annoyed bed, if a bed had opinions. Blankets that had once been layered wool on wool, scratchy grandmother blankets that were meant for cold nights, were now willy-nilly.
He reconnoitered with intent on harrying her tail, but enough was enough in Blanketland, which was fast becoming the Pile of Random Ideas. Sorta covers. A garage sale pile of linens. I grabbed him with two hands to redirect his plan, and Roscoe let loose with the worst cat fart ever. The aroma--a miasma that hung in the air like a viscid Borealis made of Ice Age pony meat--stayed, toadish and doughy, and I thrashed, thrashed blankets, black cat, pillows and remnants of wishes into a mass of agitation. WHAT was that? What on earth did that cat eat? It was time to get up and tend to cat food, which was someone's idea all along.
They all lucked out as there were no more cans of mouse loaf, so chunky tuna was decanned onto the plate, yippee yippee. Happy tails, truces, and promotions for all.
The next day while sitting at the table, I noticed Mr. Business fiddling with something on the floor; let me see what it is. He kept his head down but raised his eyebrows, as if cats have eyebrows, grabbed the thing and ran down the hallway, defiant. He made it to the water dish, dropped the treasure in and sat; I fished the item out in spite of his trying to paw my hand away while watching the water turn blue. It was a roll of small Tibetan flags that I had bought from the incense store; they now hang from the bathroom mirror drip drying, where only if he grows wings will he retrieve it.
He mouths and steals, part crow, part terrier, part trebuchet. I found one of the gongs' hard rubber mallets chewed in half; there was a missing phone cord snickered under a pillow, and lastly, the grocery list left on the counter had been delicately shredded into diminutive bits. He hides my socks, nicks earrings, steals paper money, only sometimes returns it. Twenny bucks, gone but restored 4 days later near the water dish with a stolen fabric rosebud. He has his touches. A cherry cough drop was added to the water dish, turning it vivid pink.
The next day while sitting at the table, I noticed Mr. Business fiddling with something on the floor; let me see what it is. He kept his head down but raised his eyebrows, as if cats have eyebrows, grabbed the thing and ran down the hallway, defiant. He made it to the water dish, dropped the treasure in and sat; I fished the item out in spite of his trying to paw my hand away while watching the water turn blue. It was a roll of small Tibetan flags that I had bought from the incense store; they now hang from the bathroom mirror drip drying, where only if he grows wings will he retrieve it.
He mouths and steals, part crow, part terrier, part trebuchet. I found one of the gongs' hard rubber mallets chewed in half; there was a missing phone cord snickered under a pillow, and lastly, the grocery list left on the counter had been delicately shredded into diminutive bits. He hides my socks, nicks earrings, steals paper money, only sometimes returns it. Twenny bucks, gone but restored 4 days later near the water dish with a stolen fabric rosebud. He has his touches. A cherry cough drop was added to the water dish, turning it vivid pink.
I moved the couch in anticipation of the incoming television; Roscoe was helping, curious, everything he does is a first time for him as he is still a baby at 7 months, 2 weeks old and a solid 12 pounds. The couch is now against a wall, forming a cat conduit behind it.
My friend took off his shoes, putting them in the hall while we visited. When it was time to go, he went to retrieve his footwear; I heard him say, "There's only one shoe." What? "There's only one shoe, it must have been the cat..." Oh good lord. A bit of a scurry happened before he found it behind the couch amid a pile of cat toys, no denying that it was Crazy Guggenheim at work. Roscoe would drag home a two-door car if I let him outside.
It's been awhile since relating this story, for Roscoe is now 15 pounds and living up to his namesake in size, Mr. Roscoe Arbuckle. The feathered thing on the end of a fishing pole contraption stirred sabertooth instincts, causing great leaps and once caught, growls of possession. I couldn't figure what the hissing was about, but finally sensed that he held the line responsible for taking his prey away, and thus hated that string with the intensity of a drunk swinging at the air. He had hissed before, but the snarls set me back a little. Ooo, nize keddy. Mama gunna tell you a story if you it up the tuna fitch and brink her the dollah off the table you stole. Nu?
My friend took off his shoes, putting them in the hall while we visited. When it was time to go, he went to retrieve his footwear; I heard him say, "There's only one shoe." What? "There's only one shoe, it must have been the cat..." Oh good lord. A bit of a scurry happened before he found it behind the couch amid a pile of cat toys, no denying that it was Crazy Guggenheim at work. Roscoe would drag home a two-door car if I let him outside.
It's been awhile since relating this story, for Roscoe is now 15 pounds and living up to his namesake in size, Mr. Roscoe Arbuckle. The feathered thing on the end of a fishing pole contraption stirred sabertooth instincts, causing great leaps and once caught, growls of possession. I couldn't figure what the hissing was about, but finally sensed that he held the line responsible for taking his prey away, and thus hated that string with the intensity of a drunk swinging at the air. He had hissed before, but the snarls set me back a little. Ooo, nize keddy. Mama gunna tell you a story if you it up the tuna fitch and brink her the dollah off the table you stole. Nu?
Outside the snow had started.
I don't think downtown got as much of the storm that inland areas did, the winds from the Lake usually blow falling snow towards the east. Yet it is bitter cold today, with predictions of a low pressure system set up by the Canadian Rockies, an Alberta Clipper, which will create severely frigid air to hang over the city tomorrow morning.
Last night, there was to be a spectacle around midnight, the Super Blood Wolf Moon plus a total lunar eclipse, which is enough to set off a month of New Age hooha. 'Blood' because sunlight still hits the moon a bit, but is bent towards the red spectrum by Earth's atmosphere; each month's full moon usually has a Native name, and January's is Wolf. Super because the perigee is about 16,000 miles closer than usual. Moon is simply moon. Wolf, Snow,Worm, Pink, Flower, Strawberry, Buck, Sturgeon, Harvest, Hunter's, Beaver, and Cold. There you have it, some science, some myth; a balanced almanac.
I am searching for slippers, perhaps Roscoe's cache should be investigated; right now he is speaking in tongues at the string attached to the feather toy, for tiring him out is a good thing. The day stretches on, we have gained about 25 minutes since winter solstice, and it is well appreciated. The blankets are orderly once again, layers of wool and cotton and pillows are smoothed; this bleak, hibernal night will arrive clear with the vault of heaven cloudless and open, hence providing the day's gathered heat an escape into the sky. Morning could present us with 10 to 20 below zero.
Get ready for sleeping well and warm, count your kids, cats, and dogs; find gloves, find scarves, ready the pot for morning tea, get out the thermos; all before the evening origami of folding yourself under the covers, and thank whomever you like for this blessing of night. Dream, remember; I will not forget you.
I don't think downtown got as much of the storm that inland areas did, the winds from the Lake usually blow falling snow towards the east. Yet it is bitter cold today, with predictions of a low pressure system set up by the Canadian Rockies, an Alberta Clipper, which will create severely frigid air to hang over the city tomorrow morning.
Last night, there was to be a spectacle around midnight, the Super Blood Wolf Moon plus a total lunar eclipse, which is enough to set off a month of New Age hooha. 'Blood' because sunlight still hits the moon a bit, but is bent towards the red spectrum by Earth's atmosphere; each month's full moon usually has a Native name, and January's is Wolf. Super because the perigee is about 16,000 miles closer than usual. Moon is simply moon. Wolf, Snow,Worm, Pink, Flower, Strawberry, Buck, Sturgeon, Harvest, Hunter's, Beaver, and Cold. There you have it, some science, some myth; a balanced almanac.
I am searching for slippers, perhaps Roscoe's cache should be investigated; right now he is speaking in tongues at the string attached to the feather toy, for tiring him out is a good thing. The day stretches on, we have gained about 25 minutes since winter solstice, and it is well appreciated. The blankets are orderly once again, layers of wool and cotton and pillows are smoothed; this bleak, hibernal night will arrive clear with the vault of heaven cloudless and open, hence providing the day's gathered heat an escape into the sky. Morning could present us with 10 to 20 below zero.
Get ready for sleeping well and warm, count your kids, cats, and dogs; find gloves, find scarves, ready the pot for morning tea, get out the thermos; all before the evening origami of folding yourself under the covers, and thank whomever you like for this blessing of night. Dream, remember; I will not forget you.
Thursday, June 28, 2018
Rant
Dear United States and Beyond, to whomever has reason to call me: I am phone illiterate with no concern for achieving proficiency. The phone is usually the last place I put it down; not in a purse, not in a pocket, not on a leash, or attached to a socket. It calls for me to reinstate my landline, with each most visited room provided a base, but then that service gets clogged with people wanting to sell me window replacements or asphalt and they don't get that I live nine floors up in an apartment but fill up the messages nonetheless.
There is a symbol with something that to me looks like a tape recorder on the phone keypad; aha, this must be the messages? After unlocking the phone, scribing the secret code pattern, opening the phone app, bringing up the keypad, there is the symbol under the number one. I press it. Nothing. I press it and hit the "Call" symbol. A flat voice tells me this ain't happening, but takes 8 seconds of my phone time. I look at the phone for some mysterious hieroglyphic releasing the ethereal voices of friends and pharmacy, doctor's offices, and Come To Our Churches.
I go to the laptop and type in "Retrieve Android Messages". Wrong-o again, O ancient fossil. What pops up are directions on getting text messages, because lord knows but apparently I don't, people text more than call. Yes? Adding the word "phone" to the formula gives results which say to hold a finger on the number one key until Voice Mail ka-poofs into reality. 'Kay. I do and it does.
But NOW, you have to listen for the flat voice to tell you of your misinformed life because your mailbox is FULL you eedjit, and things better get straightened out or you won't get more messages. Yes, yes, yes. C'mon, this is taking longer than necessary and the pauses between electronic sentences you could kill and slaughter an ox between pronouncements. But first, type in your secret number password because nothing that has happened prior indicates that you are the one to receive notice that your Prozac is ready. Do I remember my code? Let's try, nope, let's try this one--it's why my personal limit is two passcodes for everything and let the hackers take my identity because then they would have this puddingeffer student loan to deal with.
It's been twelve minutes since the phone call from my doctor's office prompted me to check messages. Twelve minutes of futzing around and if you think I will remember the process next month when the light bulb goes on, har-de-har-har, Alice.
Finally, the mechanical voice coughs out four new messages; one pharmacy, three friends. two of whom are from awhile ago I believe, but cannot confirm as this mobile martinet does not record time or date. More floaty deductions as I place the events they mention into a time frame. "Hope you're feeling better..." When was I sick? A month ago. "Come over for tea, I want to hear about your trip..." That was in mid-May. "I just wanted to thank you..." Um, maybe two weeks? I am bad at mobile phone business. Electronics in general, really.
I thought I heard the phone ringing out dulcet tones or was the apartment below playing music? At the time, I was up to my elbows in giving the cat box a master cleaning and couldn't have answered immediately anyway. The alert tone had just been changed to something not alarming but noticeable, but was this it? Checking the phone screen showed No New Calls until I swiped my finger, did the mystical anagram, then yes, there was a call. More scrolling, taps, and scrolling, and there it was. Jaysus. My doctor.
The receptionist said I was overdue for a bone scan, thyroid scan, mammogram, and blood testing. Well, yeah, but for me to get to the doctor these days, I have to take off from work, and the consequences tend towards crisis intervention level. I haven't been able to find the scripts for the testing if I ever had them, for the receptionist said that I can get them from the web portal and print them off. But I don't have a printer at home. I should go to the library, renew my card and use one of theirs for which there is a minimal charge, not to count the metered parking?
"You don't have a printer??" The incredulousity was tidal. Technically, I do have a printer, a new one since the old, just as good one could no longer communicate with the laptop once the purveyors upgraded their programs which the old laptop could not keep up with so I bought a new printer which ticked me to no end. But, this new printer came with an installment disk which is simple enough but since the new laptop does not have a cd/dvd port, the process has elevated to online communication. So far, nothing I've done has worked to get the new printer talking to the new laptop. Hours, days; I finally said the Friday word and have gone without a printer for months.
"Well, Just This One Time, we will print it out and mail it to you". Can't you just put it into the system for the providers? "We don't do that." Huh. I felt it important not to mention that I don't have a television. Gongs. I have cats and gongs. Plus, phone conversation goes funny and I find myself explaining things that aren't in regular people's lives; it occasionally scares them. Changing the strata in the millepedes. The lightning rod tipped over. I was talking to my unborn granddaughter. Gluing trilobites back together. See?
So, the point is, if you don't hear back from me, try email or the ubiquitous Facebook, email is best. It's not that I don't like you, it's that you can hear the sound of frustrated finger-tapping/swiping/resetting/brain freeze in the far distance. Say the date, time, and WHO YOU ARE, if you think important. I can't tell voices on the phone, it sounds like you are in the trunk of a car driving in a circle. Louder, softer, louder, softer, garbled, static, martians from space.
Listening closely to context reveals who you might be, and I have found myself talking to a different person other than perceived more than once. Diane? "No, it's Hollie; we've been talking for twenty minutes, and you thought I was Diane?" Verbal mannerisms are great clues and it was unusual that Canadian Diane had not said "Eh?" during the whole conversation.
It's said that living downtown mixes and fuzzes signals amid the tall buildings, spires, antennae, and emergency scanners. A new phone came with hopes of clearer reception. But really, provide the date and time, don't just say 3 o'clock because there are generally 56 three o'clocks in a month. And I'm phone phobic. Don't wanna know who's on the other end, although I am able to pay my bills these days. I am just exasperated at having to buy the latest electronics so that they work with the the downpour of changeling programs designed by people who drink too much coffee.
On the way to lunch today, the brakes started grabbing, it was the weirdest sensation at 50 mph on the expressway. I stepped on the gas to see what would happen; some lights came on the dashboard and the herky-jerky business stopped. Paul followed me to the mechanic's, they declared not to worry, coulda been dust, bring it in Monday, no the car will not freeze up in traffic, it's probably the computer, and we then went to the Thai restaurant in a diverse, lovely neighborhood.
We have passed the solstice, the brilliant greens of plants are punctuated by roses, cherries, dogs, and people who will find things to do up till the last ray of light. Ah, but then. Evening comes; the air fills with nightbirds calling, fluttering moths clustering around street lamps, with social rituals untangling themselves from daylight. Sleep is one such ritual, lending us protection from the strangeness of the dark.
Shake out the blankets, hang them outside if you can for saturation with the fresh air. Put away the bowls and dishes, latch the door, love the cats, love the dogs, all of it disappears at night when we are under the science of Morpheus. Good night.
There is a symbol with something that to me looks like a tape recorder on the phone keypad; aha, this must be the messages? After unlocking the phone, scribing the secret code pattern, opening the phone app, bringing up the keypad, there is the symbol under the number one. I press it. Nothing. I press it and hit the "Call" symbol. A flat voice tells me this ain't happening, but takes 8 seconds of my phone time. I look at the phone for some mysterious hieroglyphic releasing the ethereal voices of friends and pharmacy, doctor's offices, and Come To Our Churches.
I go to the laptop and type in "Retrieve Android Messages". Wrong-o again, O ancient fossil. What pops up are directions on getting text messages, because lord knows but apparently I don't, people text more than call. Yes? Adding the word "phone" to the formula gives results which say to hold a finger on the number one key until Voice Mail ka-poofs into reality. 'Kay. I do and it does.
But NOW, you have to listen for the flat voice to tell you of your misinformed life because your mailbox is FULL you eedjit, and things better get straightened out or you won't get more messages. Yes, yes, yes. C'mon, this is taking longer than necessary and the pauses between electronic sentences you could kill and slaughter an ox between pronouncements. But first, type in your secret number password because nothing that has happened prior indicates that you are the one to receive notice that your Prozac is ready. Do I remember my code? Let's try, nope, let's try this one--it's why my personal limit is two passcodes for everything and let the hackers take my identity because then they would have this puddingeffer student loan to deal with.
It's been twelve minutes since the phone call from my doctor's office prompted me to check messages. Twelve minutes of futzing around and if you think I will remember the process next month when the light bulb goes on, har-de-har-har, Alice.
Finally, the mechanical voice coughs out four new messages; one pharmacy, three friends. two of whom are from awhile ago I believe, but cannot confirm as this mobile martinet does not record time or date. More floaty deductions as I place the events they mention into a time frame. "Hope you're feeling better..." When was I sick? A month ago. "Come over for tea, I want to hear about your trip..." That was in mid-May. "I just wanted to thank you..." Um, maybe two weeks? I am bad at mobile phone business. Electronics in general, really.
I thought I heard the phone ringing out dulcet tones or was the apartment below playing music? At the time, I was up to my elbows in giving the cat box a master cleaning and couldn't have answered immediately anyway. The alert tone had just been changed to something not alarming but noticeable, but was this it? Checking the phone screen showed No New Calls until I swiped my finger, did the mystical anagram, then yes, there was a call. More scrolling, taps, and scrolling, and there it was. Jaysus. My doctor.
The receptionist said I was overdue for a bone scan, thyroid scan, mammogram, and blood testing. Well, yeah, but for me to get to the doctor these days, I have to take off from work, and the consequences tend towards crisis intervention level. I haven't been able to find the scripts for the testing if I ever had them, for the receptionist said that I can get them from the web portal and print them off. But I don't have a printer at home. I should go to the library, renew my card and use one of theirs for which there is a minimal charge, not to count the metered parking?
"You don't have a printer??" The incredulousity was tidal. Technically, I do have a printer, a new one since the old, just as good one could no longer communicate with the laptop once the purveyors upgraded their programs which the old laptop could not keep up with so I bought a new printer which ticked me to no end. But, this new printer came with an installment disk which is simple enough but since the new laptop does not have a cd/dvd port, the process has elevated to online communication. So far, nothing I've done has worked to get the new printer talking to the new laptop. Hours, days; I finally said the Friday word and have gone without a printer for months.
"Well, Just This One Time, we will print it out and mail it to you". Can't you just put it into the system for the providers? "We don't do that." Huh. I felt it important not to mention that I don't have a television. Gongs. I have cats and gongs. Plus, phone conversation goes funny and I find myself explaining things that aren't in regular people's lives; it occasionally scares them. Changing the strata in the millepedes. The lightning rod tipped over. I was talking to my unborn granddaughter. Gluing trilobites back together. See?
So, the point is, if you don't hear back from me, try email or the ubiquitous Facebook, email is best. It's not that I don't like you, it's that you can hear the sound of frustrated finger-tapping/swiping/resetting/brain freeze in the far distance. Say the date, time, and WHO YOU ARE, if you think important. I can't tell voices on the phone, it sounds like you are in the trunk of a car driving in a circle. Louder, softer, louder, softer, garbled, static, martians from space.
Listening closely to context reveals who you might be, and I have found myself talking to a different person other than perceived more than once. Diane? "No, it's Hollie; we've been talking for twenty minutes, and you thought I was Diane?" Verbal mannerisms are great clues and it was unusual that Canadian Diane had not said "Eh?" during the whole conversation.
It's said that living downtown mixes and fuzzes signals amid the tall buildings, spires, antennae, and emergency scanners. A new phone came with hopes of clearer reception. But really, provide the date and time, don't just say 3 o'clock because there are generally 56 three o'clocks in a month. And I'm phone phobic. Don't wanna know who's on the other end, although I am able to pay my bills these days. I am just exasperated at having to buy the latest electronics so that they work with the the downpour of changeling programs designed by people who drink too much coffee.
On the way to lunch today, the brakes started grabbing, it was the weirdest sensation at 50 mph on the expressway. I stepped on the gas to see what would happen; some lights came on the dashboard and the herky-jerky business stopped. Paul followed me to the mechanic's, they declared not to worry, coulda been dust, bring it in Monday, no the car will not freeze up in traffic, it's probably the computer, and we then went to the Thai restaurant in a diverse, lovely neighborhood.
We have passed the solstice, the brilliant greens of plants are punctuated by roses, cherries, dogs, and people who will find things to do up till the last ray of light. Ah, but then. Evening comes; the air fills with nightbirds calling, fluttering moths clustering around street lamps, with social rituals untangling themselves from daylight. Sleep is one such ritual, lending us protection from the strangeness of the dark.
Shake out the blankets, hang them outside if you can for saturation with the fresh air. Put away the bowls and dishes, latch the door, love the cats, love the dogs, all of it disappears at night when we are under the science of Morpheus. Good night.
Sunday, May 13, 2018
Spring Doings
Yesterday came the first spider, renewing the yearly battle between Homo sapiensis Susan versus the Leggedy Spiders of the Lake. These people are huge, prickly, bitey-looking things so busy making webs inside the bathroom where it is not likely they will catch much more than cat hair. I will fix the screen, which is the reason the hapless find their way in.
A reason it has not been fixed is that I live on the ninth floor, and popping out a screen means a tightrope act of not dropping it onto someone's head. The screens are jumpy, snappy, and slippery and god knows that a cat could somehow maneuver it's way into the equation makes it equally inspiring to take up something safe, like knitting. The cats love when I knit, but then, they like catching spiders and delivering them to me on my pillow at night which has happened. Live from Buffalo.
I have vowed to equip the apartment with a bug catch and release, helped by Lulu, who has uncanny sensibilities when it comes to insects. She is sad when I take over the operation, for I feel the way to end in this world is not as a source of protein that will be yacked up an hour later, and thus will take them down in the elevator to be freed. She is praised for diligence and given a cat treat that isn't trying to wiggle away.
The spider method of retrieval is to threaten the animal with a shower brush so that it drops for escape, while holding a large butcher's tray underneath for catching. The confused immigrant is then slid into a container with a lid, and saved till morning for scooting into a nearby bush. The same with house centipedes, which eat young cockroaches; stink bugs, June bugs, and ants. Out, all of youse.
But that is only a part of the warmer weather; the area has been through snowdrops and squill, crocuses and daffodils, and is now mid-tulip. Lilac buds are swelling, flowering trees are yelling their heads off, and the grass is that first, rare green of return. Here in Buffalo, the denizens wear shorts and tank tops when it's in the low fifties, we are that tough. The final pile of dirty snow-ice has been melted, what a world, what a world, and snow shovels are gladly exchanged for brooms to sweep clear sidewalks and streets.
The thrushes and finches have returned, a phoebe sings in the mornings, the robins chirrup way past dark and lay blue eggs. A friend recounted an incident where her husband dismantled a nest on his outside speakers, but the mama bird insisted and rebuilt, giving the man a direct look that would shame a barrister. The second nest is staying, so I have heard.
Dandelions are exploding through scrap lots and yards, giving the bumble and other bees sweet yellow pollen to gather. The hemisphere has awakened, humming along as it has done so for centuries; one wonders if millions. When did the seasons develop? Was there a dinosaur spring after a cooler period of months? There certainly wasn't snow in the lower elevations; oxygen levels were higher, plants and animals grew to riotous proportion. Did they have to migrate, as do our birds? That's another speculative story on my part.
I lost cat Rodger back in mid-April; what was supposed to be stuffed up plumbing from spring shed turned out to be a grapefruit-sized tumor about half his body weight. He wasn't a big fella, but certainly had the personality of a judicious samurai. Gosh, I miss him; putting him down was unexpected and wrenching, but he had stopped eating, drinking, everything but washing my hand. At the same time, an unknown had left a box of newborn kittens at the vet's doorstep, in the snow at Easter.
One of the vet techs had come in to care for the animals over the weekend, left, then returned when he wondered if he had latched a door securely. There was a box at the door, filled with five black little bits; one wonders what circumstances led someone to abandon them on a freezing day when the veterinary was not open. Nonetheless, a shelter may not have been equipped to provide the care which newborns require; kittens that young are usually put down, yet the guardian angel of Central Park Animal was certainly with them that day. Dr. Persico, no doubt.
Turn the page a few weeks, and the last of the kittens needed a home, a boy who had an infection that prevented him from urinating comfortably. Apparently, motherless kittens are designed to nurse, and will latch onto anything resembling a nipple, including boy bits. They were all separated and the one given antibiotics, but when I saw him, there was pus and raw tissue; he's still swollen a little, but healing. Everything works once again, and he came to his new home yesterday.
In fact, he went from a reticent, timid being to Godzilla-mode within the hour in spite of being told off by two of the others, Kai and Snowbelle. The kitten pen is a blessing, as I can zip him in for overnight with plenty of room for food, litter pan, and IKEA sheepskin. You do want to be reincarnated as a Coburn cat, lemme tell you.
Roscoe has eaten like a champ, worried me some when no bathroom emissions emitted, smartly has made up for it today with both in plenty, and happy days for baby wipes. He prowls around the living area, chased Snowbelle with pride for she ran from him (Roger would be thrilled to learn), and has hit the litter box target more often than not; he has skills in spite of being the tiniest cat I have ever acquired. At six weeks old, his plumbing is growing into adjustment as well as his muscles, vision, hearing, and all the things which babies do. He may outlive my lifespan, but already my son has been given notice.
Have I mentioned a human grandbaby is on the way and will arrive this summer? Today I am baking cookies for the shower at the shul with Dorian, Dana's mother; they will be transported to D.C. this Friday as we fly over the Southern Tier, Pennsylvania, and Maryland into Washington. Watching the fields change seasons while above in the clouds is fascinating, and seeing the soil in farmlands blend from dark brown into an iron red gives you an idea how varied the planet is.
Tonight is to be spring chilly, the momma birds will huddle closer over fledglings, leaves will fold, blankets will cover little and big. In the heavens, Jupiter and Saturn will be visible for most of the night, with Venus rising after sunset, Mars appearing in the early morning just past midnight. Sleep while the planets wheel through the dark sky, charming our lives with the measure of time. Perhaps I do understand. Good night, dear hearts.
A reason it has not been fixed is that I live on the ninth floor, and popping out a screen means a tightrope act of not dropping it onto someone's head. The screens are jumpy, snappy, and slippery and god knows that a cat could somehow maneuver it's way into the equation makes it equally inspiring to take up something safe, like knitting. The cats love when I knit, but then, they like catching spiders and delivering them to me on my pillow at night which has happened. Live from Buffalo.
I have vowed to equip the apartment with a bug catch and release, helped by Lulu, who has uncanny sensibilities when it comes to insects. She is sad when I take over the operation, for I feel the way to end in this world is not as a source of protein that will be yacked up an hour later, and thus will take them down in the elevator to be freed. She is praised for diligence and given a cat treat that isn't trying to wiggle away.
The spider method of retrieval is to threaten the animal with a shower brush so that it drops for escape, while holding a large butcher's tray underneath for catching. The confused immigrant is then slid into a container with a lid, and saved till morning for scooting into a nearby bush. The same with house centipedes, which eat young cockroaches; stink bugs, June bugs, and ants. Out, all of youse.
But that is only a part of the warmer weather; the area has been through snowdrops and squill, crocuses and daffodils, and is now mid-tulip. Lilac buds are swelling, flowering trees are yelling their heads off, and the grass is that first, rare green of return. Here in Buffalo, the denizens wear shorts and tank tops when it's in the low fifties, we are that tough. The final pile of dirty snow-ice has been melted, what a world, what a world, and snow shovels are gladly exchanged for brooms to sweep clear sidewalks and streets.
The thrushes and finches have returned, a phoebe sings in the mornings, the robins chirrup way past dark and lay blue eggs. A friend recounted an incident where her husband dismantled a nest on his outside speakers, but the mama bird insisted and rebuilt, giving the man a direct look that would shame a barrister. The second nest is staying, so I have heard.
Dandelions are exploding through scrap lots and yards, giving the bumble and other bees sweet yellow pollen to gather. The hemisphere has awakened, humming along as it has done so for centuries; one wonders if millions. When did the seasons develop? Was there a dinosaur spring after a cooler period of months? There certainly wasn't snow in the lower elevations; oxygen levels were higher, plants and animals grew to riotous proportion. Did they have to migrate, as do our birds? That's another speculative story on my part.
I lost cat Rodger back in mid-April; what was supposed to be stuffed up plumbing from spring shed turned out to be a grapefruit-sized tumor about half his body weight. He wasn't a big fella, but certainly had the personality of a judicious samurai. Gosh, I miss him; putting him down was unexpected and wrenching, but he had stopped eating, drinking, everything but washing my hand. At the same time, an unknown had left a box of newborn kittens at the vet's doorstep, in the snow at Easter.
One of the vet techs had come in to care for the animals over the weekend, left, then returned when he wondered if he had latched a door securely. There was a box at the door, filled with five black little bits; one wonders what circumstances led someone to abandon them on a freezing day when the veterinary was not open. Nonetheless, a shelter may not have been equipped to provide the care which newborns require; kittens that young are usually put down, yet the guardian angel of Central Park Animal was certainly with them that day. Dr. Persico, no doubt.
Turn the page a few weeks, and the last of the kittens needed a home, a boy who had an infection that prevented him from urinating comfortably. Apparently, motherless kittens are designed to nurse, and will latch onto anything resembling a nipple, including boy bits. They were all separated and the one given antibiotics, but when I saw him, there was pus and raw tissue; he's still swollen a little, but healing. Everything works once again, and he came to his new home yesterday.
In fact, he went from a reticent, timid being to Godzilla-mode within the hour in spite of being told off by two of the others, Kai and Snowbelle. The kitten pen is a blessing, as I can zip him in for overnight with plenty of room for food, litter pan, and IKEA sheepskin. You do want to be reincarnated as a Coburn cat, lemme tell you.
Roscoe has eaten like a champ, worried me some when no bathroom emissions emitted, smartly has made up for it today with both in plenty, and happy days for baby wipes. He prowls around the living area, chased Snowbelle with pride for she ran from him (Roger would be thrilled to learn), and has hit the litter box target more often than not; he has skills in spite of being the tiniest cat I have ever acquired. At six weeks old, his plumbing is growing into adjustment as well as his muscles, vision, hearing, and all the things which babies do. He may outlive my lifespan, but already my son has been given notice.
Have I mentioned a human grandbaby is on the way and will arrive this summer? Today I am baking cookies for the shower at the shul with Dorian, Dana's mother; they will be transported to D.C. this Friday as we fly over the Southern Tier, Pennsylvania, and Maryland into Washington. Watching the fields change seasons while above in the clouds is fascinating, and seeing the soil in farmlands blend from dark brown into an iron red gives you an idea how varied the planet is.
Tonight is to be spring chilly, the momma birds will huddle closer over fledglings, leaves will fold, blankets will cover little and big. In the heavens, Jupiter and Saturn will be visible for most of the night, with Venus rising after sunset, Mars appearing in the early morning just past midnight. Sleep while the planets wheel through the dark sky, charming our lives with the measure of time. Perhaps I do understand. Good night, dear hearts.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Nature and Buttons
Sitting in the chair, I turned to talk to the cat and thus shifted the car keys in my front jeans pocket, nine stories up from the parking lot. This upset the car, which began honking alarms that no one pays attention to unless it continues for ten minutes past irritation. How? I had to stretch to see if it was indeed the car, parked several spaces past the window, and yes; the box was blinking and yelling about suspect intrusions, about the owner not keeping the keys on a hook by the door.
Fortunately, I did not have to rally into shoes or jacket, but aimed the control tab in the general direction, and it stopped. Learning not to push it frantically by jabjabjabbing the button taught me that it only takes one click or I am only setting it off and on, reigniting the troops. The thing has been turned on from the school cafeteria, which does not have windows to the back lot, but scads of kitchen machines, cement, and brick walls. I don't know how these fobs work, and can only imagine invisible rays arrowing through humans, cafeteria posters on nutrition, and pictures of food only seen in professional shoots. Magic.
Actions needing attention now get by with the push of a button, similar to the revolutionary-but-not-true idea back in the 1940s and 50s, that household conveniences would provide the housewife with the Life of Riley. TV dinners allowed more tv time, TV trays allowed your education to continue; washers, mangles, dryers, electrical steam irons powered by the turn of a dial would hum along with little backbreaking output from said Frau. Laundry became not an all day back-breaker, just sort and haul the pile into the maw of the spinning tub, sudsing onwards with Oxydol, Dreft, Ivory Snow if it were baby clothing. I still have my Polish grandmother's washing board, her name at the top of the new-improved, hygienic, soap-saving corrugated glass. Thirteen kids before permanent press, no wonder she went around the bend.
But did we find ourselves with free time? No more than today's computerized households, just hold your breath that the electricity stays on. I thought that by this time in my life, that I would be having lunch with the girls, hiking the trails, penning thoughtful missives. Nope. I have a difficult time keeping up, and am slowly simplifying sort of no faster than the Grand Canyon was eroded into beauty by rivers. It is a tumble of repair, reply, making appointments, with reading how to declutter, create hygge, and breaking sentiment with your mother's cherished teacups that must find a good home. I think my cousin will take them, they are precious to me.
The majority of our lives exists without the ability to control, as it is based on instinct, emotions, environment, psychological hoo-ha, and fantasy. Bet you can think of other reasons, such as Mother Nature, nature, predators, disease, heartbreak, devotion, natural disasters, or anything that enters from the outside. Maybe an asteroid.
Now that you're substantially on edge with the rare but possible asteroid smash, and that the electrical plant would be all gone, think of your phobias. What are you frightened of that most other people don't even think about? Spiders alternately scare and fascinate me, I have no fear of zebra spiders, and let them live in the sun of my screened windows; the larger brown house spiders that I only see in the morning after the cats have dispatched them give me the willies. If a spider drops from the ceiling (yes it has happened) to land on me, strangled screams and flapping ensue.
I hate heights, and have frozen to the point that a brave, patient soul has had to drag me back to my safe zone. How those models who pose atop canyon pillars via helicopter do it is beyond me, they earn every penny they get. I would be flattened, trying to melt into the ground.
Balloons. Do not bring a balloon near me unless your swear vocabulary needs new words which I will supply, not gladly. Balloons are unjolly time bombs and if the supermarket is giving them away to the children, I will leave the store. I don't see this happening anymore, someone developed sense or a lawsuit was filed. Kids bite on them, wap them about, let them fly up to the ceiling where there are pointy things and hot lightbulbs. Balloon animal formation during assemblies, with the rubber squeaking with every twist causes me to grit my teeth into a frozen smile whilst the classroom students clap with glee. I have to be a good example of maturity, and being scared of balloons is not.
But you, how about you? Are you a part of the population that is frightened of an area of your home, say, the basement or the attic? Why is that so commonplace, is it created by the unfamiliarity? The poor lighting? Steven King? Or is something really there? Why is the basement/attic combo preferred by your very own haunt? Well, it isn't, but for me even as an adult when going down to the basement in my old house, I would take a cat in my arms. C'mon kitty kitty, the laundry needs to go into the dryer.
Most of the time, the cat, bored with dank atmosphere, (or maybe she knew there WAS something there and wanted to get the hell away), would run back up the wooden stairs, the kind of stairs that were open in the back so that your ankles could be grabbed. Thanks, cat. But why a cat served as protection from the unseen makes no sense; my beloved dog said fare-thee-well also, her toenails scrabbling up the wood planks. I would be stuck alone, slam the dry clothing into the basket and run like a rabbit.
Same thing with the attic in that house, come on , dog, cat. My son thought there was a dead man hanging up there; also, alligators under his bed would keep him awake regardless if I checked with a broom to see if any lurking antediluvians were in residence. No. Alligators. Didn't matter, just as when I was younger, there were monsters under my bed, like from The House on Haunted Hill.
or The First Man into Space, both 1959. I still don't like my foot hanging over the bed.
No technology will supersede human instinct, or give control over the bugaboos hiding in the cabinet; who knows where it all comes from? I myself have had a few paranormal experiences, and let me tell you, the more you talk to people, the more will say that they had never told anyone, but there are unexplainable occurrences that happened in their lives. My master's was on the paranormal as a part of creativity, complete with a survey that got many surprising responses. Three had no events, yet many more had seen, heard, or interacted with someone that wasn't their Aunt Mildred. Sane, down to earth people who were quite glad if not relieved to have someone inquire. It's okay, you can talk about it.
I for one am going to stretch this Sunday evening out like a rubber band, since tomorrow is the first day back to school, spring break has ended. All will be sleepy, maybe a bit out of sync with the routine, I am not expecting too much, just get the spelling words down and lets review time and maybe begin the math DBA. Get used to being in a classroom again, and no you cannot go to the bathroom four times in an hour.
Sleep then, and let the drowsy planets spin away the tired, grey days of lingering winter; I hear that the trees are budding in Ohio, I am a bit north and it has been cold and snowy still. A spring thunderstorm would be nice, a cleaning of remaining ebbs of blackened snow, a coaxing of new shoots and wakening insects for the birds to get fat on, happy enough to make their nests. Sail among clouds heavy with rain, sweep through warming nights under lighter covers; the animals know it, mine have been shedding clods; the birds know it, they are coming back trilling songs; the earth knows it, the tilting sphere brings back sunlight to the north, as winter in Australia abides from June to August. You know it, too. I can tell.
Fortunately, I did not have to rally into shoes or jacket, but aimed the control tab in the general direction, and it stopped. Learning not to push it frantically by jabjabjabbing the button taught me that it only takes one click or I am only setting it off and on, reigniting the troops. The thing has been turned on from the school cafeteria, which does not have windows to the back lot, but scads of kitchen machines, cement, and brick walls. I don't know how these fobs work, and can only imagine invisible rays arrowing through humans, cafeteria posters on nutrition, and pictures of food only seen in professional shoots. Magic.
Actions needing attention now get by with the push of a button, similar to the revolutionary-but-not-true idea back in the 1940s and 50s, that household conveniences would provide the housewife with the Life of Riley. TV dinners allowed more tv time, TV trays allowed your education to continue; washers, mangles, dryers, electrical steam irons powered by the turn of a dial would hum along with little backbreaking output from said Frau. Laundry became not an all day back-breaker, just sort and haul the pile into the maw of the spinning tub, sudsing onwards with Oxydol, Dreft, Ivory Snow if it were baby clothing. I still have my Polish grandmother's washing board, her name at the top of the new-improved, hygienic, soap-saving corrugated glass. Thirteen kids before permanent press, no wonder she went around the bend.
But did we find ourselves with free time? No more than today's computerized households, just hold your breath that the electricity stays on. I thought that by this time in my life, that I would be having lunch with the girls, hiking the trails, penning thoughtful missives. Nope. I have a difficult time keeping up, and am slowly simplifying sort of no faster than the Grand Canyon was eroded into beauty by rivers. It is a tumble of repair, reply, making appointments, with reading how to declutter, create hygge, and breaking sentiment with your mother's cherished teacups that must find a good home. I think my cousin will take them, they are precious to me.
The majority of our lives exists without the ability to control, as it is based on instinct, emotions, environment, psychological hoo-ha, and fantasy. Bet you can think of other reasons, such as Mother Nature, nature, predators, disease, heartbreak, devotion, natural disasters, or anything that enters from the outside. Maybe an asteroid.
Now that you're substantially on edge with the rare but possible asteroid smash, and that the electrical plant would be all gone, think of your phobias. What are you frightened of that most other people don't even think about? Spiders alternately scare and fascinate me, I have no fear of zebra spiders, and let them live in the sun of my screened windows; the larger brown house spiders that I only see in the morning after the cats have dispatched them give me the willies. If a spider drops from the ceiling (yes it has happened) to land on me, strangled screams and flapping ensue.
I hate heights, and have frozen to the point that a brave, patient soul has had to drag me back to my safe zone. How those models who pose atop canyon pillars via helicopter do it is beyond me, they earn every penny they get. I would be flattened, trying to melt into the ground.
Balloons. Do not bring a balloon near me unless your swear vocabulary needs new words which I will supply, not gladly. Balloons are unjolly time bombs and if the supermarket is giving them away to the children, I will leave the store. I don't see this happening anymore, someone developed sense or a lawsuit was filed. Kids bite on them, wap them about, let them fly up to the ceiling where there are pointy things and hot lightbulbs. Balloon animal formation during assemblies, with the rubber squeaking with every twist causes me to grit my teeth into a frozen smile whilst the classroom students clap with glee. I have to be a good example of maturity, and being scared of balloons is not.
But you, how about you? Are you a part of the population that is frightened of an area of your home, say, the basement or the attic? Why is that so commonplace, is it created by the unfamiliarity? The poor lighting? Steven King? Or is something really there? Why is the basement/attic combo preferred by your very own haunt? Well, it isn't, but for me even as an adult when going down to the basement in my old house, I would take a cat in my arms. C'mon kitty kitty, the laundry needs to go into the dryer.
Most of the time, the cat, bored with dank atmosphere, (or maybe she knew there WAS something there and wanted to get the hell away), would run back up the wooden stairs, the kind of stairs that were open in the back so that your ankles could be grabbed. Thanks, cat. But why a cat served as protection from the unseen makes no sense; my beloved dog said fare-thee-well also, her toenails scrabbling up the wood planks. I would be stuck alone, slam the dry clothing into the basket and run like a rabbit.
Same thing with the attic in that house, come on , dog, cat. My son thought there was a dead man hanging up there; also, alligators under his bed would keep him awake regardless if I checked with a broom to see if any lurking antediluvians were in residence. No. Alligators. Didn't matter, just as when I was younger, there were monsters under my bed, like from The House on Haunted Hill.
or The First Man into Space, both 1959. I still don't like my foot hanging over the bed.
No technology will supersede human instinct, or give control over the bugaboos hiding in the cabinet; who knows where it all comes from? I myself have had a few paranormal experiences, and let me tell you, the more you talk to people, the more will say that they had never told anyone, but there are unexplainable occurrences that happened in their lives. My master's was on the paranormal as a part of creativity, complete with a survey that got many surprising responses. Three had no events, yet many more had seen, heard, or interacted with someone that wasn't their Aunt Mildred. Sane, down to earth people who were quite glad if not relieved to have someone inquire. It's okay, you can talk about it.
I for one am going to stretch this Sunday evening out like a rubber band, since tomorrow is the first day back to school, spring break has ended. All will be sleepy, maybe a bit out of sync with the routine, I am not expecting too much, just get the spelling words down and lets review time and maybe begin the math DBA. Get used to being in a classroom again, and no you cannot go to the bathroom four times in an hour.
Sleep then, and let the drowsy planets spin away the tired, grey days of lingering winter; I hear that the trees are budding in Ohio, I am a bit north and it has been cold and snowy still. A spring thunderstorm would be nice, a cleaning of remaining ebbs of blackened snow, a coaxing of new shoots and wakening insects for the birds to get fat on, happy enough to make their nests. Sail among clouds heavy with rain, sweep through warming nights under lighter covers; the animals know it, mine have been shedding clods; the birds know it, they are coming back trilling songs; the earth knows it, the tilting sphere brings back sunlight to the north, as winter in Australia abides from June to August. You know it, too. I can tell.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
