Dang, can't seem to find that Christmas spirit. I know I laid it around here somewhere, but I'd really like to have it now. I just feel blah, tired and worn out with trying to work, shop, decorate, cookie back. I'm on tonight (Friday the 23rd) and Christmas Eve night, and then we will open presents Christmas morning when I get off work before driving all the way to OH to see his family. I plan on champagne and a fire in the stove while we open presents, apporpriate music, then I will nap all the way to Ohio, it's better that way when he is driving like a bat out of hell, and he will, being that it is Christmas and during the day the interstates are usually very clear that day. We've made the trip before. The only thing left to do is to wrap his last few gifts and pack, neither of which I had the heart to do today, though I got the last few dozen gingerbread (made 73 dozen this year)deliveries completed.
But Christmas morning, I'm putting him in charge. I refuse to do any further planning and want to be the child -- he can be in charge of who we visit in Columbus, and I will tag along. I will take along a few books and nibbles, one trashy outfit, one dressy one, some warm gear, and the rest is up to him!
I just want my Christmas spirit back!
Friday, December 23, 2005
Saturday, December 17, 2005
"Wild Side Sex: The book of Kink"
Midori, a well-known writer and teacher within the fetish/BDSM community, has put out a new book about the amalgam we call 'kink.' I'd never thought before of how this lumps together a whole sexual buffet that may, or may not, have much to do with each other. I have, by her lights, determined that I am a poly-fetishist, i.e. a whole lot of what is labelled 'kink' turns me on -- leathersex, bondage, piercing, tight-fitting elbow-length leather gloves, boots of all varieties, corsets, silk and fur and velvet, foot play, etc. There are very few of the kinks that don't hold some attraction (even if not strong) for me.
But, then, I've been an omnivore all my life -- I'll read anything, eat almost anything once, like talking to a variety of people, want to travel everywhere. It makes sense, therefore, that very little in the community shocks, disgust, or upsets me. And, truthfully, maybe a little of the attraction is my own exhibitionism. Since 'normal' society has only rarely ever liked and approved of me (I was raised a liberal in the deep South) it was just as well to hang with the outcasts and laugh back at society. Thank the goddess/god, that my mother was strong and willing to be different and an 'outsider' to remain true to herself. she gave me that as a gift. Peer pressure just never meant much, too much of a sacrifice to gain their apporval.
Her blogsite is here: http://www.livejournal.com/users/fd_midori/
But, then, I've been an omnivore all my life -- I'll read anything, eat almost anything once, like talking to a variety of people, want to travel everywhere. It makes sense, therefore, that very little in the community shocks, disgust, or upsets me. And, truthfully, maybe a little of the attraction is my own exhibitionism. Since 'normal' society has only rarely ever liked and approved of me (I was raised a liberal in the deep South) it was just as well to hang with the outcasts and laugh back at society. Thank the goddess/god, that my mother was strong and willing to be different and an 'outsider' to remain true to herself. she gave me that as a gift. Peer pressure just never meant much, too much of a sacrifice to gain their apporval.
Her blogsite is here: http://www.livejournal.com/users/fd_midori/
Thursday, December 15, 2005
I'm flying, but it's not from the mountain
We've been going through some honeymoon spell the last few days. Don't know exactly what triggered it, but we've been playing like mad. Maybe it's the date I've made with him to meet me at the Read House in Chattanooga in a couple of days and play out a first date. We're pretending it's our first meeting (the one he was two hours late arriving at) all over again. I'm pretending to benew to bondage and he's pretending he's never met me before and we're going for drinks and flirtation before retiring (well, he's supposed to woo me into his love nest) where we will do unspeakable acts. Okay, I'll get tied up at some point and do a whole lot of grovelling and gasping, and breathing. Lots of deep breathing.
But all this is in reference to the fact that for the last two days I have felt as if everything tight and clinched in me had melted away. I've felt all warm and happy, whether being 'chastised' or discussing future genital piercings for Christmas.
But all this is in reference to the fact that for the last two days I have felt as if everything tight and clinched in me had melted away. I've felt all warm and happy, whether being 'chastised' or discussing future genital piercings for Christmas.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Excerpt from the Nanowrimo project
So she read the archetypes and the reasons for her kind of people, the ones who didn’t just want intercourse, but wanted something more who wanted to play ‘adult reindeer games’ and wanted to make up rules for themselves and names for themselves or new personas and who were happy to let others take over sexually, or even their lives, just to achieve this kind of sex. And then there were the spiritual seekers, the ones who wanted to achieve a higher consciousness by both sex and pain. In it all, she began to see herself as a variant of a ‘norm’ that she hadn’t realized existed, of a whole group of human beings, and not just a solitary wanderer, a misfit.
For years she had know about leather sex bars and wondered if she would ever have the courage to go to one, but just couldn’t figure if they or even swingers clubs still existed and how to get into them, or if, even given the opportunity, she world have the courage to go to one of them,. But now with the opportunity looming the only answer was “yes.” She would make the meeting.
She called him once a day that week, per his orders, she liked his voice and the one picture she had of him was quite attractive, but she realized it might be old and that might look nothing like him. She tried to be honest about her own looks but didn’t have anything but vanilla pictures to upload to the site and wasn’t quite ready enough for that to be part of her profile, so she compensated by the bluntness of her description. She wanted no disappointment when he looked at he for the first time. For her own part she figured she would be blindfolded , unable to tell black from white or old from young. Well-hung, yes, because, unlike many of the fraternity she was in no way interested in this without some orgasm occurring and unlike many of them she wasn’t gonna lie about it. The ones who insisted they wanted no sexual contact she viewed as self-delusional at best and outright liars on the other hand.
For years she had know about leather sex bars and wondered if she would ever have the courage to go to one, but just couldn’t figure if they or even swingers clubs still existed and how to get into them, or if, even given the opportunity, she world have the courage to go to one of them,. But now with the opportunity looming the only answer was “yes.” She would make the meeting.
She called him once a day that week, per his orders, she liked his voice and the one picture she had of him was quite attractive, but she realized it might be old and that might look nothing like him. She tried to be honest about her own looks but didn’t have anything but vanilla pictures to upload to the site and wasn’t quite ready enough for that to be part of her profile, so she compensated by the bluntness of her description. She wanted no disappointment when he looked at he for the first time. For her own part she figured she would be blindfolded , unable to tell black from white or old from young. Well-hung, yes, because, unlike many of the fraternity she was in no way interested in this without some orgasm occurring and unlike many of them she wasn’t gonna lie about it. The ones who insisted they wanted no sexual contact she viewed as self-delusional at best and outright liars on the other hand.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
NaNoWriMo Concluded!
I did it, I really, truly did it! I am so proud of myself, even if what I wrote is pure drivel, it's ten whole days and 50,000 words of drivel later and I wrote it all in big chunks without thinking too long and hard. I had an extremely basic idea when I started and just ran with it. It is so rewardijng to have finished a long story even though it may never see the light of day. Viva la creativity! Now off to London for a long weekend and a wedding.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Thanksgiving, NaNoWriMo, work and family
All three currently consuming my time. I am working right now, and when I'm not, I'm doing time pacing to see how many words I can type in a given timespan to get more nanowrimo accomplished. I'm over 25,000 words today and so proud of myself since I started late! After working tonight I'm actually off for Thanksgiving for the first time in over a decade and I'll get to watch the Macy's Day Parade which was one of the high points of my Thanksgiving holiday, that and the little taste of Mogen-David wine (the only kind allowed in Mississippi when I was growing up) Mom always allowed us on Thanksgiving (and since my brother and sisters hated it, I got all their samples, too!) Also, I plan to start decorating the house for Christmas, try and get ahead on my Nanowrimo for the weekend and fly off on Friday to visit my nephew, his wife and their new baby girl, Jade, my foster granddaughter!
Friday, November 18, 2005
NaNoWriMo, part deux
Not NOT writing, just spent 5500 words on nanowrimo (in less than four hours) trying to make up for my lack of an early start. It really is empowering to just get the words on a page, without looking up to see the typos, without worrying that what you are putting down has a plot, without wondering if anyone will read it and nominate you for the Nobel Prize or even whether the damned thing will ever see a printed page. How about just writing? Just writing is good, and this is a journey I've been promising myself this year, and i'm on it. Can't believe that the gods were kind enough last night to leave the ED mostly empty so that I could get that many words on paper. I've had writer's cramp from a pen before, but my fingers and joints are feeling this stient now. Ahh, jubilation -- I'm a quarter of the way through!
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Yesterday's Meltdown
Phewww, had a meltdown yesterday at work. Cried all night. Think my BP's up. need to remember Epictetus, "Of things, some are in our power, and others are not." from "Enchiridium."
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Politicised
I hadn't meant to become so politicised, but having a baby sister who is an activist and whose intelligence challenges your own and who make you think forces you to reexamine old arguments you've made, excuses that you've made to yourself in the past that saved you having to consider that the other person might just be right. At least as right as you are, maybe even, that you are wrong or misinformed or just ignorant. (A hard admission when one believes one-self congenitally honest and open-minded.)
Rwanda is the center of my reading at the moment and what happened there in the 90's. Phillip Gourevitch's book of essays/history was assigned for our reading this month by a woman who always gives the impression of a Gen X slacker with nothing more serious on her attractive mind than what boy she'll take to bed next in our little flying community. The book is called "We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow we will be killed with our Families." It's a mouthful of a title and so full of questions (and not bottled, prepackaged answers) that I'm reading it straight through, but having to stop frequently to breath and think and question myself and consider. I am fascinated (and maybe the sentence only functions within the context of the book) by his statement, "Power consists in the ablity to make others inhabit your story of their reality, even if you have to kill a lot of them to make that happpen."
"Power consists in the ablity to make others inhabit your story of their reality, even if you have to kill a lot of them to make that happpen."
Putting aside the triviality of what I'm about to say, but that's what advertisers (of cigarettes, etc.) do all the time. They retell our stories of ourselves to us so that we feel we will be truer to ourselves if we smoke Malboros or wear Vickie's Secret underwear or wear clothes that look like what Brad Pitt wears.
It's also about the bigger political stories. Male historians would allow for the occassinal exceptional woman -- Queen Elizabeth I -- but those were deemed rare and, in general, we were not expected to be wise or strong or athletic or stubborn or militant, or sexual, briliant, or inventive, or diplomatic, or skilled, or hilarious, or any of the other things we are learning we are and can be. We (the established culture) pretty up what the mostly white population did to the indigenous peoples of the Americas when we invaded their country and we try to tell African Americans that "it" wasn't so bad. Well, the truth is, "it" was so bad. "It" was so bad that people died rather than live like that. But we don't want to feel shame nowadays for something that happened before we were born, never mind the reverberations it carries for them today, so we tell them their story in our way until they believe it, or we kill enough of them off that they can't argue. Especially we kill off the uppity niggers and the Native Americans who try to tell us their version of events, their concept of what really 'went down' at Wounded Knee. They are too dangerous to Our stor; we can't allow them to speak because it puts us and our vision of our noble culture on shakey ground. We pooh-pooh the attempted revision of what we have come to accept as doctrine because it would feel dangerous, uncertain to question the version of events that we've been raised to believe is true, that is the groundwork of our "great" nation. I'm happy to live here, but then, I'm white.
Which brings me back to the book on Rwanda. It has raised questions about what we should and could do in a genocide. And what the president I thought was "okay" didn't do. He helped the Yugoslavians, after a time, but the Africans (and what is it about Africa that always reduces us to paralyzed shame and impotence?) were left to be slaughtered because it was too difficult and too far off for us culturally, and identity wise to bother to sort out who was shooting whom over what. And what about the Sudan? Too black, too mish-mashed politically to know that bad things are happening to a whole mass of people? Is it just because they are people of color, or is it because they seem so far removed from us and because we carry such guilt as to feel bereft of hope to even try to sort out what it means, what we can do. It doesn't help that the passionate advocates are only heard when things deteriorate to the point of needing outside help. We never hear of the Kashmiris until it is time for a war, we choose to hope it will go away.
I'm not done with this topic. Thank you baby sister.
Rwanda is the center of my reading at the moment and what happened there in the 90's. Phillip Gourevitch's book of essays/history was assigned for our reading this month by a woman who always gives the impression of a Gen X slacker with nothing more serious on her attractive mind than what boy she'll take to bed next in our little flying community. The book is called "We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow we will be killed with our Families." It's a mouthful of a title and so full of questions (and not bottled, prepackaged answers) that I'm reading it straight through, but having to stop frequently to breath and think and question myself and consider. I am fascinated (and maybe the sentence only functions within the context of the book) by his statement, "Power consists in the ablity to make others inhabit your story of their reality, even if you have to kill a lot of them to make that happpen."
"Power consists in the ablity to make others inhabit your story of their reality, even if you have to kill a lot of them to make that happpen."
Putting aside the triviality of what I'm about to say, but that's what advertisers (of cigarettes, etc.) do all the time. They retell our stories of ourselves to us so that we feel we will be truer to ourselves if we smoke Malboros or wear Vickie's Secret underwear or wear clothes that look like what Brad Pitt wears.
It's also about the bigger political stories. Male historians would allow for the occassinal exceptional woman -- Queen Elizabeth I -- but those were deemed rare and, in general, we were not expected to be wise or strong or athletic or stubborn or militant, or sexual, briliant, or inventive, or diplomatic, or skilled, or hilarious, or any of the other things we are learning we are and can be. We (the established culture) pretty up what the mostly white population did to the indigenous peoples of the Americas when we invaded their country and we try to tell African Americans that "it" wasn't so bad. Well, the truth is, "it" was so bad. "It" was so bad that people died rather than live like that. But we don't want to feel shame nowadays for something that happened before we were born, never mind the reverberations it carries for them today, so we tell them their story in our way until they believe it, or we kill enough of them off that they can't argue. Especially we kill off the uppity niggers and the Native Americans who try to tell us their version of events, their concept of what really 'went down' at Wounded Knee. They are too dangerous to Our stor; we can't allow them to speak because it puts us and our vision of our noble culture on shakey ground. We pooh-pooh the attempted revision of what we have come to accept as doctrine because it would feel dangerous, uncertain to question the version of events that we've been raised to believe is true, that is the groundwork of our "great" nation. I'm happy to live here, but then, I'm white.
Which brings me back to the book on Rwanda. It has raised questions about what we should and could do in a genocide. And what the president I thought was "okay" didn't do. He helped the Yugoslavians, after a time, but the Africans (and what is it about Africa that always reduces us to paralyzed shame and impotence?) were left to be slaughtered because it was too difficult and too far off for us culturally, and identity wise to bother to sort out who was shooting whom over what. And what about the Sudan? Too black, too mish-mashed politically to know that bad things are happening to a whole mass of people? Is it just because they are people of color, or is it because they seem so far removed from us and because we carry such guilt as to feel bereft of hope to even try to sort out what it means, what we can do. It doesn't help that the passionate advocates are only heard when things deteriorate to the point of needing outside help. We never hear of the Kashmiris until it is time for a war, we choose to hope it will go away.
I'm not done with this topic. Thank you baby sister.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
My sister travels to New Orleans
My sister, a poet and activist, and an all around fine person travelled to New Orleans earlier this month, to see what help she could provide. Like everyone in this family she has opinions, but she backs them up with action. Bless her and her vision and hr strength. She has granted me permission to cite her blog: http://www.livejournal.com/users/badsis/
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Busy and flying
It seems since the beginning of August I've been on the go, and it doesn't look to stop for several months. August in SD, then work, the trip to Biloxi after Katrina, then work, two trips in the last three weeks, one to Philly to visit a sister and attend a flying friend's wedding, then another to Orlando for a conference. In between I work, tomorrow is a class, and that's why when, yesterday, I had a chance to fly, I took it.
It was worth it, thought the air was not smooth and I spent the entire hour scratching on the ridge with a dozen (or two) others, near-missing each other since no one was high, and the conditions were borderline. Finally, when I felt myself break out in a sweat from low blood sugar (forgot to eat before launching) I decided I was a threat to aviation and went out to land about 7p. People flew until sunset, and, I suspect, after -- a full moon rose just as the sun went down behind the neighboring ridge.
It was worth it, thought the air was not smooth and I spent the entire hour scratching on the ridge with a dozen (or two) others, near-missing each other since no one was high, and the conditions were borderline. Finally, when I felt myself break out in a sweat from low blood sugar (forgot to eat before launching) I decided I was a threat to aviation and went out to land about 7p. People flew until sunset, and, I suspect, after -- a full moon rose just as the sun went down behind the neighboring ridge.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Quotes
Everyone is a prisoner of his own experiences. No one can eliminate prejudices - just recognize them. ~Edward Roscoe Murrow, 31 December 1955
If we were to wake up some morning and find that everyone was the same race, creed and color, we would find some other causes for prejudice by noon. ~George Aiken
What is tolerance? It is the consequence of humanity. We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other's folly - that is the first law of nature. ~Voltaire
One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings. ~Franklin Thomas
I am an invisible man.... I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids - and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. ~Ralph Ellison, The Invisible Man, 1952
O Lord, help me not to despise or oppose what I do not understand. ~William Penn
If a white man falls off a chair drunk, it's just a drunk. If a Negro does, it's the whole damn Negro race. ~Bill Cosby
Abolition of a woman's right to abortion, when and if she wants it, amounts to compulsory maternity: a form of rape by the State. ~Edward Abbey
For every minute you are angry, you lose sixty seconds of happiness. ~Author Unknown
In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer. ~Mark Twain
Malice drinks one-half of its own poison. ~Seneca
all of these and more at www.quotegarden.com
If we were to wake up some morning and find that everyone was the same race, creed and color, we would find some other causes for prejudice by noon. ~George Aiken
What is tolerance? It is the consequence of humanity. We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other's folly - that is the first law of nature. ~Voltaire
One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings. ~Franklin Thomas
I am an invisible man.... I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids - and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. ~Ralph Ellison, The Invisible Man, 1952
O Lord, help me not to despise or oppose what I do not understand. ~William Penn
If a white man falls off a chair drunk, it's just a drunk. If a Negro does, it's the whole damn Negro race. ~Bill Cosby
Abolition of a woman's right to abortion, when and if she wants it, amounts to compulsory maternity: a form of rape by the State. ~Edward Abbey
For every minute you are angry, you lose sixty seconds of happiness. ~Author Unknown
In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer. ~Mark Twain
Malice drinks one-half of its own poison. ~Seneca
all of these and more at www.quotegarden.com
Monday, September 19, 2005
Vintage Champagne and making love to the sky
Flying for two hours on Saturday the 17th was like flying in vintage champagne -- smooth, mellow, golden, bubbly. Silent and cool, but not cold. Handfuls of us scattered along the ridge, the sun at a low angle over Sand Mountain, us like dozens of butterflies, dancing and bobbing on the waves of the winds. And there was no need to fight this air. It carried us , gentle, like a well-trained horse who you shifted only by the shift of your weight. If you wanted t go 'there' you had only to think it and with fingertip pressure on the bar you were softly, smoothly 'there.' I felt the air and the glider talking to each other and I listened and we three, we flew.
Like the best days on the sloapes when your body and board and the snow have a conversation with no conscious component and you just are, sailing down the face of a mountain on a bed of white satin that welcomes the little track you leave on her face. Like lovers.
Like the best days on the sloapes when your body and board and the snow have a conversation with no conscious component and you just are, sailing down the face of a mountain on a bed of white satin that welcomes the little track you leave on her face. Like lovers.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Part 4 of Biloxi and Katrina
[This is a continuation of my previous post which I have been editing for the last week. Decided to go ahead and post under a different heading since the other was getting so long. Thus, if you wish to read what preceded this you'll have to go to the prior post. OK, legalese finished...]
The night was stagnant, and we got fewer patients in after midnight. Yes, some of them had the hopeless look, especially the elderly, but most of them were just looking for some help, none of them expected miracles of us. Unlike New Orleans, a large city, this is place was all about neighbors. Yes, southerners carry guns, and one had even posted the local motto on their battered housefront, "You loot, we shoot." But, they weren't really shooting at anybody. The people banded together, naturally, neighbors with an intact roof offered protection. Anyone with a grill cooked out for their friends. They pooled their gasoline to make inland forays for supplies. They bought ice as soon as roads opened, and guarded each others houses. They looked after their elderly neighbors, trying to keep them hydrated and cool in the heat. They fished out what was left of their lives from the wreckage, and they didn't sit around waiting on someone to show up to help. They never had trusted the federal government anyway, something about a war 140 years ago...
The DMAT team was great -- enthusiastic and willing and game. The pharmacy they set up dispensed need drugs, no questions asked. Antibiotics, insulin, BP meds lost in the rising water, needles, syringes, tetanus vaccine, asthma meds -- anything on their rather generous fomulary list was free to the survivors. I don't even think they asked for insurance cards. Wouldn't have done any good, mostly people didn't even have ID. We even gave out Benadryl, ibuprofen, children's Tylenol. All the little things you might pick up for yourself at a pharmacy had ot be provided -- the pharmacy we're in as bad a shape as most other buildings.
The DMAT team also took the load off the ED, seeing the mildly injured, or the worried who just wanted a tetanus booster, or helping those who really didn't know where to go get directions to the nearest shelters. They processed over 400 patients a day, dealing with the needs of two-thirds or more of them, only sending the truly ill in to us in the ED.
And among the ED staff were other types of volunteers. People like Cam and the respiratory tech and myself who had just taken into our heads to drive down after the endless pictures of people struggling with no help from the very ones we paid to provide for this sort of situation. Others, came by way of temp agencies, but came with the full knowledge that they'd have to deal with the heat, lack of facilities, lack of back up or technology to which most of us had grown accustomed. They were no less to be thanked just because they had the foresight to do it with pay. No one could pay them enough to stand about in the miserable heat, listening to the heart-breaking stories, go unwashed for days, leave their much more comfortable jobs, be required to come up with endlessly creative ways around the failed technology. Some physicians had come at the urging of their colleagues who couldn't make it on their own but were willing to cover shifts for them if they would just go and 'help those people.' Their professional colleagues.
The church groups -- The Salvation Army, the Catholic Churches, the Evangelicals, the Baptists and Methodists -- organized themselves to deliver care within hours, and organized their people to help dispense the clothing and food and water sent down from the north. However else lost the people were, they knew if they could make it to one of the local churches they'd get help and shelter and food.
So, let me clear up my motivations. I was not noble; I came down because I was angry with the Federal Government and the News Agencies, and I was curious. I knew these people from childhood and just couldn't imagine my father's family standing about waiting on the Federal tit to come down out of the sky to supply them sustenance. I got tired of the version of events that CNN and Fox and every other network was feeding us, drowning us with nightly, daily, images that seemed to say we were helpless and it was hopeless. I had to go see for myself. Maybe that is the root of all travel writing, all journalism. To go and find your own version of events, your way of seeing them.
So, am I here to contradict those pictures? No, because I wasn't there at the same time or in the same place, but I do want others to know that the story is not over nor as damned fucked up as it looks on the 6pm news. We may not have saved that many starfish, but, at least I can say we tossed a few back in.**
** Refers to a story that circulates periodically through the internet about an adult walking along a beach after a terrible storm has washed up many sea creatures above the high water line. Many of them are clearly dead or dying as he saunters past them. Ahead he sees a small boy bending down every few feet and tossing something with all his strength into the water's edge. The adult walks up, curious, "What are you doing?"
The little boy looks up and says, "Saving the starfish before the sun gets too high."
The adult looks at the climbing sun and says, "It's useless, you can't save them all."
The little boy bends down and flings a starfish into the surf, "Maybe not, but I just saved that one." Then he walked on to the next.
The night was stagnant, and we got fewer patients in after midnight. Yes, some of them had the hopeless look, especially the elderly, but most of them were just looking for some help, none of them expected miracles of us. Unlike New Orleans, a large city, this is place was all about neighbors. Yes, southerners carry guns, and one had even posted the local motto on their battered housefront, "You loot, we shoot." But, they weren't really shooting at anybody. The people banded together, naturally, neighbors with an intact roof offered protection. Anyone with a grill cooked out for their friends. They pooled their gasoline to make inland forays for supplies. They bought ice as soon as roads opened, and guarded each others houses. They looked after their elderly neighbors, trying to keep them hydrated and cool in the heat. They fished out what was left of their lives from the wreckage, and they didn't sit around waiting on someone to show up to help. They never had trusted the federal government anyway, something about a war 140 years ago...
The DMAT team was great -- enthusiastic and willing and game. The pharmacy they set up dispensed need drugs, no questions asked. Antibiotics, insulin, BP meds lost in the rising water, needles, syringes, tetanus vaccine, asthma meds -- anything on their rather generous fomulary list was free to the survivors. I don't even think they asked for insurance cards. Wouldn't have done any good, mostly people didn't even have ID. We even gave out Benadryl, ibuprofen, children's Tylenol. All the little things you might pick up for yourself at a pharmacy had ot be provided -- the pharmacy we're in as bad a shape as most other buildings.
The DMAT team also took the load off the ED, seeing the mildly injured, or the worried who just wanted a tetanus booster, or helping those who really didn't know where to go get directions to the nearest shelters. They processed over 400 patients a day, dealing with the needs of two-thirds or more of them, only sending the truly ill in to us in the ED.
And among the ED staff were other types of volunteers. People like Cam and the respiratory tech and myself who had just taken into our heads to drive down after the endless pictures of people struggling with no help from the very ones we paid to provide for this sort of situation. Others, came by way of temp agencies, but came with the full knowledge that they'd have to deal with the heat, lack of facilities, lack of back up or technology to which most of us had grown accustomed. They were no less to be thanked just because they had the foresight to do it with pay. No one could pay them enough to stand about in the miserable heat, listening to the heart-breaking stories, go unwashed for days, leave their much more comfortable jobs, be required to come up with endlessly creative ways around the failed technology. Some physicians had come at the urging of their colleagues who couldn't make it on their own but were willing to cover shifts for them if they would just go and 'help those people.' Their professional colleagues.
The church groups -- The Salvation Army, the Catholic Churches, the Evangelicals, the Baptists and Methodists -- organized themselves to deliver care within hours, and organized their people to help dispense the clothing and food and water sent down from the north. However else lost the people were, they knew if they could make it to one of the local churches they'd get help and shelter and food.
So, let me clear up my motivations. I was not noble; I came down because I was angry with the Federal Government and the News Agencies, and I was curious. I knew these people from childhood and just couldn't imagine my father's family standing about waiting on the Federal tit to come down out of the sky to supply them sustenance. I got tired of the version of events that CNN and Fox and every other network was feeding us, drowning us with nightly, daily, images that seemed to say we were helpless and it was hopeless. I had to go see for myself. Maybe that is the root of all travel writing, all journalism. To go and find your own version of events, your way of seeing them.
So, am I here to contradict those pictures? No, because I wasn't there at the same time or in the same place, but I do want others to know that the story is not over nor as damned fucked up as it looks on the 6pm news. We may not have saved that many starfish, but, at least I can say we tossed a few back in.**
** Refers to a story that circulates periodically through the internet about an adult walking along a beach after a terrible storm has washed up many sea creatures above the high water line. Many of them are clearly dead or dying as he saunters past them. Ahead he sees a small boy bending down every few feet and tossing something with all his strength into the water's edge. The adult walks up, curious, "What are you doing?"
The little boy looks up and says, "Saving the starfish before the sun gets too high."
The adult looks at the climbing sun and says, "It's useless, you can't save them all."
The little boy bends down and flings a starfish into the surf, "Maybe not, but I just saved that one." Then he walked on to the next.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Driving to Biloxi and Katrina
Okay, I couldn't stand it any more. After working nights the week Katrina hit, coming home and spending four and more hours a morning (when I should have been asleep for the next night shift), watching the latest depressing news from New Orleans, seething in rage at what I viewed as the incompetence of the elected officials, I finally looked at my boyfriend Friday night, as he looked at me, and we said, "Let's go." And it was decided.
Truthfully, we should have said something to our friends, and given them the chance to contribute to the expedition. But we moved so quickly and were feeling a little embarassed in our roles as 'angels of mercy,' that we just decided to collect (and buy) things we thought they could use -- diapers, formula, water, paper towels, toilet paper, and dry goods. (God, would we be sick of 'non-perishable food items' by the end of our little stent!) After waving goodbye to oru enighbors and supoorters, Ann and Barry, we headed south in his un-air-conditioned jeep at 8 pm on Saturday night, not sure what was ahead, but armed for everything from camping in the rough, to armed vigilantes. What we weren't prepared for was basically nothing. It was eerie driving through south Mississippi at 0300, after having heard in Meridian that it was dangerous to stop for anything, that people would rob you or even kill you for your goods and the gasoline in jerry cans we had lashed (under tarps) to the back of our trailer. It was very quiet with only occassional spotting of 18 wheelers barrelling off with goods in the night, and the equally infreqent convoys of trucks and vans, usually laden with supplies like ours, that passed us on Hwy. 59, then 49 out of Hattiesburg.
We saw plenty of destruction along the way, trees that had given up the fight, de-roofed houses, but no gangs or ravening hoards. Truckers in Hattiesburg warned us that we should have guns. We did. They warned us not to stop, and we listened, except for one quick pit-stop and gas tank refill in the Hattiesburg airport. Silent and well-lit. There was no gasoiline available south of Tuscaloosa. And the only place we ever felt threatened was at the last truck-stop west of Meridian where many of the mobile refugees from Louisiana seemed to have washed up. They seemed stuck, hanging about the nearly emptied store with no gas to carry them further. several of the young men seemed to eye our trailer a little too keenly, so he stayed in the jeep while I enquired within about road conditions and what lay ahead. Every time we moved forward it was an act of faith, and every time we saw headlights in the night coming up on us, it was with fear that we watched their approach. There would have been no one to help.
Finally we reached the coast and I-10, at least the portion between Gulfport and Biloxi was open. We had, originally, planned on driving to Baton Rouge to offer my services as a medical person, but after listening to Fox Radio and realizing thery were probably over-supplied there, I decided we might be more useful in the Mississippi Gulf coast. I had grown up in MS, attended professional school there, done my further training and my first job out of school over in nearby Mobile. This was my area of the country and I felt I owed them my first loyalty. We had expected to be stopped and inspected by the National Guard or the MS DOT or the Army, but there was nothing visible watching our approach except a couple of lighted and parked Hum-vees with guns displayed. We headed east on I-10 to Biloxi, having seen no town on the way that looked as if it were so devastated as to need us. We began to laugh that we might need to find some poor person and force him to take our supplies. Never fear, we had yet to reach the beaches. And, truly, we never did.
We didn't have the heart to go and stare at the devastation. It was bad enough a quarter to half mile inland. We drove over the I-110 bridge down into Biloxi and headed back toward Keesler becoming lost amidst the broken houses and finally asking a police officer, parked and watching us on the side of the road. I guess he figured if we were looters, we were going about it in the wrong fashion, importing goods, and he didn't seem particularly disturbed by our sudden appearance at 0400 on a Sunday a.m. He turned out to be one of a contingent of South Carolina police sent to relieve the stressed and over-worked force in Biloxi, many of whom had no homes to go to, had been up and unbathed for 6 days, and had no imminent prospect of a bath or a permanent home. He kindly directed us to Keesler AFB where we had (erroneously) been informed they were doing the medical triage for the region. But the gate sentries sent us on to the local hospital. Paydirt.
A DMAT team from Ohio, sent out by FEMA (yes, the same ones we had labelled 'feeblema') had dispatched them almost as Katrina left the area. They were triaging in the Emergency exit to take the load off the ED. It was the only brightly lit and (as far as we could see) inhabited space in a dead town. But it was the right place.
We drove up to an interested audience, obviously most of their patients were in bed for the night. (We later learned there was an 8pm-6am curfew, though the police would take you to the hospital to and from the shelters.) They watched us in curiosity, most of them in a uniform that identified them as part of a DMAT team out of Dayton. I felt a little shy, and tired, we had been running on adrenaline for almost 24 hours (and the whole week had been draining), but he just jumped right in. Soon we were chatting with the night rep who, while unable to take our supplies, was able to direct us to the police sergeant who could. When she learned I was a doctor, down to offer my services, things looked up. She made us promise to return whenever the police were finished.
While she was calling around, we got into a conversation with the DMAT team members and another self-propelled volunteer (respiratory therapist) from FL. Like myself he had trained in Mobile and felt a certain loyalty to the region, and, we soon realized, he had worked at the same hospital during the same era as I had. In fact, we had even been named in the same lawsuit. [It had been dismissed against me after preliminary depositions (I had only been the physician who showed up to the code) but he had had to go through the whole trial process before the case against him was dropped at the very end.] We both laughed and hoped the next time we saw each other we'd have something else over which to reminisce.
My boyfriend, originally from Ohio, was having his own 'old home week' with the team from Dayton. Soon, however, we were following "Curly with a K" to the disaster building as the sun started to rise. Behind the police department was a Catholic school that served as one of the distribution point for goods/food/water. As we drove through town more of the shattered old trees became visible. The whole town had a feeling of a junkyard. Everything was frayed, rubbed raw by the winds or seawater, refrigerators, stoves, carpeting, panelling, fixures, cabinets, all stripped form their water-damaged homes, sitting in disconsolate heaps before them. Downed power lines, like live oak moss, dripped down from aboveus; we swerved repeatedly to avoid them.
PART TWO
We arrived at the PD/Disaster Management Center to find another couple with a fully loaded truck of supplies. The Biloxi police unloaded us both with alacrity, taking the scarcer (and, therefore, more valuable) baby supplies inside. Large flats of bottled water stood everywhere and people walked around constantly with one in their hands. It reminded me how dehydrated I felt after a night of warm drivng with the air battering me from the open car windows and it was already getting warmer which magnified my sudden exhaustion. What I really needed now was a nap, but the cold beer he had packed seemed equally inviting. But where to consume it in front of folks who were glad for just the water? We asked Kurly and he laughed. "We'd all have one with you if we weren't on duty." We drove over to park under a decapitated ancient live oak at the back of the lot, and quietly sipped on a Heineken as we stared about us in the gathering light.
A man whose still-standing deck abutted the parking lot seemed to be cooking breakfast on his grill outside; there were no lights on in his house. He was in dirty shorts, shirtless in the heat, and wearing slippers that looked suspiciously like hospital issue. He laughed with a friend as they both watched us surreptiously drink our beers. If we'd thought to, we'd have packed more than a six-pack. When the police drove up or passed us various times, they always stopped to say hello, and thanks for coming to help, and not a one of them seemed to care about the beer-sipping occurring on official land, but we kept it to one beer anyway. I was fading fast.
We returned to the hospital as we'd promised V. (the night rep) after Kurly had told us he didn't think there were any safe places to set up a tent in their area. When we mentioned it to V, she also shook her head, but told us we could have an unoccupied room upstairs. Apparently about half the homeless nurses, techs, etc., were residing in the hospital, both because they had no other place to go and for convenience should they be required for some serious emergency. I also introduced myself to the administrators, nursing and otherwise, who looked, in dishevelled shorts and limp tee-shirts as if they, too, had been living at the hospital. My licenses were inspected, and my ID check before they asked me when I could work. I felt pulled to start right then, there were dark circles under many of the eyes around me, but knew I'd be a much better docotor for a few hours nap. I asked for a night shift, which turned out to be just fine with all the permanent ED physicians.
They had been there, more or less without break, for 6 days. All of them had lost their houses and had had to ship their families out of town. None of them had any place to stay, and lived at work. Unfortunately, the hospital cum dormitory had no running water, intermittent electricity, and only port-a-potties for toilets, even for the walking patients. Everyone had done their best, but showers were usually 'in a box' or consisted of baby wipes. No one smelled 'ripe,' but no one smelled daisy fresh either. Hair styles among the nurses were along the creative "Survival" modes -- many braids, kerchiefs, spiked, slicked down really flat. Anything to disguise the fact that the nearest shower and shampoo was several counties away.
We were also hungry about this time, having only had one sandwich en route to the Coast, and that one about 9p the last night. By the time we got settled in the patient room with our inflatable (and never used mattress -- the narrow hospital bed was much more confortable than the cold floor) we were trying to make ramen noodles with an inverter and heating element. Not very sucessfully. Finally, by inquiring (he was good at that) we determined that there was one working microwave and nuked the water for my lunch before tucking me into bed while he went off to satisfy his curiosity. I slept fitfully with constant din of crying babies, overhead announcements and construction noises as the workers continued through the long Sunday afternoon to repair the roof and electrical wiring. The generator they used was effective in keeping a temporary AC going, sometimes a little too well, but no one wanted to complain that it was 'too cold.' After the week before, in stupefying humidity and heat, that would have been sacrilege.
I awakened to a supper of peanut butter crackers, the summer sausage we imported, and bottled water before reporting to the ED in less than professional garb. Unfortunately, in our haste to pack I hadn't thought ahead to what I might wear, figuring wherever we were it would be hot and shorts and tees would be appropriate, that, or rubber waders (which we'd also packed.) I did have my ID badge so that, at least, they knew my name.
PART THREE
The guys, whom I had met about 1400 when they all seemed to gather together to plan out the coming week's renovated schedule, were a young bunch, mostly 30's and early 40's, all with children and wives, none with any home to go home to. One had a loaned RV, from his father-in-law, and was considered to be quite a target as all the nurses circled around him, hoping to be invited to use his shower with a freshly filled water tank that actually contianed usable water! He said he'd been elevated from refugee to trailer park trash.
Another doctor, who labelled himself 'the night shift king,' and lived in New Orleans had only been able to see his house via satellite as it was still underwater near the Garden District. His family had to evacuate to Mississippi and he had been on the last four nights and was trying, desperately, to arrange a ride to Kiln, on the road to Picayune, before his three-year-old (whom he'd not seen in that time) went farther north to her grandparents on Monday evening. He had neither car nor gas, but, being an Emergency Medicine Doctor was entitled to a gas ration card which FEMA was dealing out to those involved in rescue/medical/shelter work. (This explained the cordoned off gas pumps we saw from Meridian south which were labelled 'For use of Authroized Emergency Management Vehicles Only.') We worked a moderately busy Sunday night shift together, with the background his attempts to arrange a ride. It involved working around the curfew (which he was entitled to ignore, but Cam could not), the gas situation, and Cam's exhaustion. We finally sent him to bed at 0300 for a nap so that he could be fresh to drive at 0700 when Dr. J got off. Later, one of the FEMA personnel loaned him his personal vehicle and we allowed Cam to sleep undisturbed.
Meanwhile, back in the ED, we were busy keeping clean as best we could amongst the mayhem and jury-rigging, using only hand-gels. The makeshift AC worked until the switch was flipped reconnecting the hospital with Mississippi Power, shortly afterwards a huge blue arc was seen in the distance along I-10 and, once again, we were dark for 10 seconds or so. Then the hospital generators did their job, but no CT, no regular Xray (only portable films -- not as powerful), the chemistry machines in Lab (complex and finicky devies) went down, and, the AC was off, again. The ED crew shrugged philosophically, they were used to it.
We treated every diarrhea patient who might have drunk the water, as if he/she had cholera or salmonella. We treated every cellulitis (skin infection) as if it might be infected from seawater with v. vulnificans. Unfortunately, we weren't able to treat the elderly and debilitated as they needed. Many of the truly elderly, greater than 85 years old, simply needed a break from the overwhelming humidity and heat. They didn't have the metabolism to deal with >90 degrees F or >90% humidity, but we didn't have the beds, the AC or the nursing to deal with them. It truly was triage medicine, and on one of the ED doctors told me a stark story of having to decide, in the midst of the immediate aftermath, to black-tag a living person.
'Black-tag' means to label someone as 'unsalvageable.' It means they get 'comfort care,' i.e. pain meds, oxygen, hand-holding, but that they are not salvageable under current conditons. He had an elderly man who came in in Monday night, after the storm had ravished them, with upper gastrointestinal bleeding. He was vomitng up great gouts of blood and would have taken up their entire available supply of blood. Ordinarily they would have put out a call for more blood from surrounding hospitals, but the roads were blocked, lines were down, phones were down, they were on generator power, and the means to save him would have sapped their hospital of effectiveness to treat other patients who might be more saveable. This a terrible decision to have to make when you are used to the American way of health care -- everything for everybody-- but is not unfamiliar to those on a battlefield or those in third world countries. It makes us in health care very uncomfortable, to judge someone living as worth saving or not, but he had to make that decision. He'll remember this his whole life.
Truthfully, we should have said something to our friends, and given them the chance to contribute to the expedition. But we moved so quickly and were feeling a little embarassed in our roles as 'angels of mercy,' that we just decided to collect (and buy) things we thought they could use -- diapers, formula, water, paper towels, toilet paper, and dry goods. (God, would we be sick of 'non-perishable food items' by the end of our little stent!) After waving goodbye to oru enighbors and supoorters, Ann and Barry, we headed south in his un-air-conditioned jeep at 8 pm on Saturday night, not sure what was ahead, but armed for everything from camping in the rough, to armed vigilantes. What we weren't prepared for was basically nothing. It was eerie driving through south Mississippi at 0300, after having heard in Meridian that it was dangerous to stop for anything, that people would rob you or even kill you for your goods and the gasoline in jerry cans we had lashed (under tarps) to the back of our trailer. It was very quiet with only occassional spotting of 18 wheelers barrelling off with goods in the night, and the equally infreqent convoys of trucks and vans, usually laden with supplies like ours, that passed us on Hwy. 59, then 49 out of Hattiesburg.
We saw plenty of destruction along the way, trees that had given up the fight, de-roofed houses, but no gangs or ravening hoards. Truckers in Hattiesburg warned us that we should have guns. We did. They warned us not to stop, and we listened, except for one quick pit-stop and gas tank refill in the Hattiesburg airport. Silent and well-lit. There was no gasoiline available south of Tuscaloosa. And the only place we ever felt threatened was at the last truck-stop west of Meridian where many of the mobile refugees from Louisiana seemed to have washed up. They seemed stuck, hanging about the nearly emptied store with no gas to carry them further. several of the young men seemed to eye our trailer a little too keenly, so he stayed in the jeep while I enquired within about road conditions and what lay ahead. Every time we moved forward it was an act of faith, and every time we saw headlights in the night coming up on us, it was with fear that we watched their approach. There would have been no one to help.
Finally we reached the coast and I-10, at least the portion between Gulfport and Biloxi was open. We had, originally, planned on driving to Baton Rouge to offer my services as a medical person, but after listening to Fox Radio and realizing thery were probably over-supplied there, I decided we might be more useful in the Mississippi Gulf coast. I had grown up in MS, attended professional school there, done my further training and my first job out of school over in nearby Mobile. This was my area of the country and I felt I owed them my first loyalty. We had expected to be stopped and inspected by the National Guard or the MS DOT or the Army, but there was nothing visible watching our approach except a couple of lighted and parked Hum-vees with guns displayed. We headed east on I-10 to Biloxi, having seen no town on the way that looked as if it were so devastated as to need us. We began to laugh that we might need to find some poor person and force him to take our supplies. Never fear, we had yet to reach the beaches. And, truly, we never did.
We didn't have the heart to go and stare at the devastation. It was bad enough a quarter to half mile inland. We drove over the I-110 bridge down into Biloxi and headed back toward Keesler becoming lost amidst the broken houses and finally asking a police officer, parked and watching us on the side of the road. I guess he figured if we were looters, we were going about it in the wrong fashion, importing goods, and he didn't seem particularly disturbed by our sudden appearance at 0400 on a Sunday a.m. He turned out to be one of a contingent of South Carolina police sent to relieve the stressed and over-worked force in Biloxi, many of whom had no homes to go to, had been up and unbathed for 6 days, and had no imminent prospect of a bath or a permanent home. He kindly directed us to Keesler AFB where we had (erroneously) been informed they were doing the medical triage for the region. But the gate sentries sent us on to the local hospital. Paydirt.
A DMAT team from Ohio, sent out by FEMA (yes, the same ones we had labelled 'feeblema') had dispatched them almost as Katrina left the area. They were triaging in the Emergency exit to take the load off the ED. It was the only brightly lit and (as far as we could see) inhabited space in a dead town. But it was the right place.
We drove up to an interested audience, obviously most of their patients were in bed for the night. (We later learned there was an 8pm-6am curfew, though the police would take you to the hospital to and from the shelters.) They watched us in curiosity, most of them in a uniform that identified them as part of a DMAT team out of Dayton. I felt a little shy, and tired, we had been running on adrenaline for almost 24 hours (and the whole week had been draining), but he just jumped right in. Soon we were chatting with the night rep who, while unable to take our supplies, was able to direct us to the police sergeant who could. When she learned I was a doctor, down to offer my services, things looked up. She made us promise to return whenever the police were finished.
While she was calling around, we got into a conversation with the DMAT team members and another self-propelled volunteer (respiratory therapist) from FL. Like myself he had trained in Mobile and felt a certain loyalty to the region, and, we soon realized, he had worked at the same hospital during the same era as I had. In fact, we had even been named in the same lawsuit. [It had been dismissed against me after preliminary depositions (I had only been the physician who showed up to the code) but he had had to go through the whole trial process before the case against him was dropped at the very end.] We both laughed and hoped the next time we saw each other we'd have something else over which to reminisce.
My boyfriend, originally from Ohio, was having his own 'old home week' with the team from Dayton. Soon, however, we were following "Curly with a K" to the disaster building as the sun started to rise. Behind the police department was a Catholic school that served as one of the distribution point for goods/food/water. As we drove through town more of the shattered old trees became visible. The whole town had a feeling of a junkyard. Everything was frayed, rubbed raw by the winds or seawater, refrigerators, stoves, carpeting, panelling, fixures, cabinets, all stripped form their water-damaged homes, sitting in disconsolate heaps before them. Downed power lines, like live oak moss, dripped down from aboveus; we swerved repeatedly to avoid them.
PART TWO
We arrived at the PD/Disaster Management Center to find another couple with a fully loaded truck of supplies. The Biloxi police unloaded us both with alacrity, taking the scarcer (and, therefore, more valuable) baby supplies inside. Large flats of bottled water stood everywhere and people walked around constantly with one in their hands. It reminded me how dehydrated I felt after a night of warm drivng with the air battering me from the open car windows and it was already getting warmer which magnified my sudden exhaustion. What I really needed now was a nap, but the cold beer he had packed seemed equally inviting. But where to consume it in front of folks who were glad for just the water? We asked Kurly and he laughed. "We'd all have one with you if we weren't on duty." We drove over to park under a decapitated ancient live oak at the back of the lot, and quietly sipped on a Heineken as we stared about us in the gathering light.
A man whose still-standing deck abutted the parking lot seemed to be cooking breakfast on his grill outside; there were no lights on in his house. He was in dirty shorts, shirtless in the heat, and wearing slippers that looked suspiciously like hospital issue. He laughed with a friend as they both watched us surreptiously drink our beers. If we'd thought to, we'd have packed more than a six-pack. When the police drove up or passed us various times, they always stopped to say hello, and thanks for coming to help, and not a one of them seemed to care about the beer-sipping occurring on official land, but we kept it to one beer anyway. I was fading fast.
We returned to the hospital as we'd promised V. (the night rep) after Kurly had told us he didn't think there were any safe places to set up a tent in their area. When we mentioned it to V, she also shook her head, but told us we could have an unoccupied room upstairs. Apparently about half the homeless nurses, techs, etc., were residing in the hospital, both because they had no other place to go and for convenience should they be required for some serious emergency. I also introduced myself to the administrators, nursing and otherwise, who looked, in dishevelled shorts and limp tee-shirts as if they, too, had been living at the hospital. My licenses were inspected, and my ID check before they asked me when I could work. I felt pulled to start right then, there were dark circles under many of the eyes around me, but knew I'd be a much better docotor for a few hours nap. I asked for a night shift, which turned out to be just fine with all the permanent ED physicians.
They had been there, more or less without break, for 6 days. All of them had lost their houses and had had to ship their families out of town. None of them had any place to stay, and lived at work. Unfortunately, the hospital cum dormitory had no running water, intermittent electricity, and only port-a-potties for toilets, even for the walking patients. Everyone had done their best, but showers were usually 'in a box' or consisted of baby wipes. No one smelled 'ripe,' but no one smelled daisy fresh either. Hair styles among the nurses were along the creative "Survival" modes -- many braids, kerchiefs, spiked, slicked down really flat. Anything to disguise the fact that the nearest shower and shampoo was several counties away.
We were also hungry about this time, having only had one sandwich en route to the Coast, and that one about 9p the last night. By the time we got settled in the patient room with our inflatable (and never used mattress -- the narrow hospital bed was much more confortable than the cold floor) we were trying to make ramen noodles with an inverter and heating element. Not very sucessfully. Finally, by inquiring (he was good at that) we determined that there was one working microwave and nuked the water for my lunch before tucking me into bed while he went off to satisfy his curiosity. I slept fitfully with constant din of crying babies, overhead announcements and construction noises as the workers continued through the long Sunday afternoon to repair the roof and electrical wiring. The generator they used was effective in keeping a temporary AC going, sometimes a little too well, but no one wanted to complain that it was 'too cold.' After the week before, in stupefying humidity and heat, that would have been sacrilege.
I awakened to a supper of peanut butter crackers, the summer sausage we imported, and bottled water before reporting to the ED in less than professional garb. Unfortunately, in our haste to pack I hadn't thought ahead to what I might wear, figuring wherever we were it would be hot and shorts and tees would be appropriate, that, or rubber waders (which we'd also packed.) I did have my ID badge so that, at least, they knew my name.
PART THREE
The guys, whom I had met about 1400 when they all seemed to gather together to plan out the coming week's renovated schedule, were a young bunch, mostly 30's and early 40's, all with children and wives, none with any home to go home to. One had a loaned RV, from his father-in-law, and was considered to be quite a target as all the nurses circled around him, hoping to be invited to use his shower with a freshly filled water tank that actually contianed usable water! He said he'd been elevated from refugee to trailer park trash.
Another doctor, who labelled himself 'the night shift king,' and lived in New Orleans had only been able to see his house via satellite as it was still underwater near the Garden District. His family had to evacuate to Mississippi and he had been on the last four nights and was trying, desperately, to arrange a ride to Kiln, on the road to Picayune, before his three-year-old (whom he'd not seen in that time) went farther north to her grandparents on Monday evening. He had neither car nor gas, but, being an Emergency Medicine Doctor was entitled to a gas ration card which FEMA was dealing out to those involved in rescue/medical/shelter work. (This explained the cordoned off gas pumps we saw from Meridian south which were labelled 'For use of Authroized Emergency Management Vehicles Only.') We worked a moderately busy Sunday night shift together, with the background his attempts to arrange a ride. It involved working around the curfew (which he was entitled to ignore, but Cam could not), the gas situation, and Cam's exhaustion. We finally sent him to bed at 0300 for a nap so that he could be fresh to drive at 0700 when Dr. J got off. Later, one of the FEMA personnel loaned him his personal vehicle and we allowed Cam to sleep undisturbed.
Meanwhile, back in the ED, we were busy keeping clean as best we could amongst the mayhem and jury-rigging, using only hand-gels. The makeshift AC worked until the switch was flipped reconnecting the hospital with Mississippi Power, shortly afterwards a huge blue arc was seen in the distance along I-10 and, once again, we were dark for 10 seconds or so. Then the hospital generators did their job, but no CT, no regular Xray (only portable films -- not as powerful), the chemistry machines in Lab (complex and finicky devies) went down, and, the AC was off, again. The ED crew shrugged philosophically, they were used to it.
We treated every diarrhea patient who might have drunk the water, as if he/she had cholera or salmonella. We treated every cellulitis (skin infection) as if it might be infected from seawater with v. vulnificans. Unfortunately, we weren't able to treat the elderly and debilitated as they needed. Many of the truly elderly, greater than 85 years old, simply needed a break from the overwhelming humidity and heat. They didn't have the metabolism to deal with >90 degrees F or >90% humidity, but we didn't have the beds, the AC or the nursing to deal with them. It truly was triage medicine, and on one of the ED doctors told me a stark story of having to decide, in the midst of the immediate aftermath, to black-tag a living person.
'Black-tag' means to label someone as 'unsalvageable.' It means they get 'comfort care,' i.e. pain meds, oxygen, hand-holding, but that they are not salvageable under current conditons. He had an elderly man who came in in Monday night, after the storm had ravished them, with upper gastrointestinal bleeding. He was vomitng up great gouts of blood and would have taken up their entire available supply of blood. Ordinarily they would have put out a call for more blood from surrounding hospitals, but the roads were blocked, lines were down, phones were down, they were on generator power, and the means to save him would have sapped their hospital of effectiveness to treat other patients who might be more saveable. This a terrible decision to have to make when you are used to the American way of health care -- everything for everybody-- but is not unfamiliar to those on a battlefield or those in third world countries. It makes us in health care very uncomfortable, to judge someone living as worth saving or not, but he had to make that decision. He'll remember this his whole life.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Locum Tenens
"Locum Tenens" means "holding a place" in Latin and is commonly used in the medical professions to refer to a doctor who fills in for another physician while he/she is away on vacation or ill, or, sometimes, not even there. I.e. if a position is left vacant and can't be filled with a permanent physician someone may choose to work a few weeks there at a time. This is very similar to 'temping.'
I have just returned form ten days in S.D. on an IHS hospital site. (There are several, so I'll leave it at that as I'm fairly sure the federal government doesn't want to be associated with this blog. There are several clinics and hospitals on the 'rez.') It was an eye-opening experience and just what I wanted, a chance to stretch my skills, see another way of livng and another part of the country. Though born in Iowa and loving the priaires, I'd never looked at them quite like this.
They stressed me sometime, babies threatening to pop out before I got them to the labor and delivery suite, not cardiologist for three hours by ground, no orthopedist (except me!), a general surgeon only available M-F from 0800 to 1700, but they did have a lot of things -- nurse-midwives, and OB doc, lots of family practice people, a CT scanner (that worked about half the time...) and some really outstanding nurses in the ED. lots of very good people, too. And the patients REALLY were more stoic than the screamers we seem to have in N. Georgia.
I have just returned form ten days in S.D. on an IHS hospital site. (There are several, so I'll leave it at that as I'm fairly sure the federal government doesn't want to be associated with this blog. There are several clinics and hospitals on the 'rez.') It was an eye-opening experience and just what I wanted, a chance to stretch my skills, see another way of livng and another part of the country. Though born in Iowa and loving the priaires, I'd never looked at them quite like this.
They stressed me sometime, babies threatening to pop out before I got them to the labor and delivery suite, not cardiologist for three hours by ground, no orthopedist (except me!), a general surgeon only available M-F from 0800 to 1700, but they did have a lot of things -- nurse-midwives, and OB doc, lots of family practice people, a CT scanner (that worked about half the time...) and some really outstanding nurses in the ED. lots of very good people, too. And the patients REALLY were more stoic than the screamers we seem to have in N. Georgia.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
The Chattanooga Fetish Scene and Loca Luna parties
Okay, I want to make a statement about the fetish community here. People, it's large, but it ain't that large. Complaints pop up that the Loca Luna parties are BDSM lite. Yes, they are. We don't have permanent private space (yet) and must cooperate with the hotel owners or bar owners to even have avenue. Someday, SOMEDAY, maybe we can have those exclusively leather events we all dream of, but, while Chattanooga has many alternative lifestylers in it and surrounding areas, this isn't New York City. We have to be inclusive, and yes, that means that the swingers, and crossdressers and non-BDSM people in general who just may be curious, are invited. And that means we can't all be quite as open as we'd like.
But I like to view it as cross-fertilization in a public place. The vanilla people can bring their curiosity to us and we can show them it's not quite as scary as they think, that it's actually, fun! We get to meet our transsexual or gay neighbors, the goth kids, and yes, the swingers. Cruising doesn't mean dangerous, we just gots to let them know the rules. One way to teach them is to show them!
So, lighten up, Frances, and come out and enjoy the party, not as a full-on, hard-core scene, but as a cocktail party where you can enjoy the eye-candy and might actually meet (surprise) someone that you didn't know was kinky, and who didn't know you were kinky, and, hey, wanna meet up later?
But I like to view it as cross-fertilization in a public place. The vanilla people can bring their curiosity to us and we can show them it's not quite as scary as they think, that it's actually, fun! We get to meet our transsexual or gay neighbors, the goth kids, and yes, the swingers. Cruising doesn't mean dangerous, we just gots to let them know the rules. One way to teach them is to show them!
So, lighten up, Frances, and come out and enjoy the party, not as a full-on, hard-core scene, but as a cocktail party where you can enjoy the eye-candy and might actually meet (surprise) someone that you didn't know was kinky, and who didn't know you were kinky, and, hey, wanna meet up later?
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Loca Luna and the Jungle Party
Come 24th of July (2005) they are having a public party and fetish scene and birthday party all in one! Loca Luna, the exotic clothing store, is organizing it in conjunction with Buck Wild's Bar on Market Street in Chattanooga, TN. I am busy sewing rabbit skins dyed to look like leopard into a skirt to wear with my black corset. Yay! Check out the site www.localuna.net
Also wanted to list my favorite fetish author's blog: http://lantoniou.blogspot.com/ It's not that I agree with all her politics, though I do a good deal, but I highly recommend her books as good for the BDSMer's soul.
Also wanted to list my favorite fetish author's blog: http://lantoniou.blogspot.com/ It's not that I agree with all her politics, though I do a good deal, but I highly recommend her books as good for the BDSMer's soul.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Don' tell HIM
I 'forgot' to mention the copperhead I found under my hot tub cover Friday morning. I flipped it up to get some post-work reading time in and found a young -- about eighteen inch -- snake parked by the controls, in a crevice between them and the tub edge. My hot tub sits out on a cliff edge overlooking the valley and the secondary ridge twenty feet below me is rife with snakes sunning themselves (Hell, the snake-handling sect originated just north of Chattanooga on Sale Creek and continues to this day on this very mountain.) I don't mind them so long as they stay below me.
On average I see one snake a year (although one year a litter hatched in my side yard and I had baby copperheads pop up three times in a month!) I've only ever felt endangered by one -- a three foot rattler parked under a hedge near my sidewalk who was as thick around as my foream.
Mostly I take a live and let live attitude, but this was too close for comfort. I debated telling my man, but knew he'd come out with some gun (He's from Ohio and is afraid of snakes) and blow away both the snake and part of my deck. The snake meanwhile eyed me as I eyed it, debating whether to kill it or do my usual -- scoop it up with a shovel or pole and toss it over the cliff. I figure this way I give them a fighting chance -- if they can fly and land safely, then they're entitled to continue living, otherwise, well, it's in God's hands. But I didn't want to leave him to get a shovel, afraid he'd hide somewhere I couldn't find, so I wouldn't be able to enjoy my soak. I finally leaned down and picked up a metal pole (used for hanging torches) and planned to pick him up with it. As soon as I touched him, he coiled to strike, and I flipped him which got him to moving and he dropped off the deck edge and hurried under the leaves. About that time I heard my neighbor's dogs barking and summoned them over to me and they sniffed around interestedly, but, apparently, he had departed.
Damn it, now I'll have to walk down there a with a shovel and a dog for a while.
On average I see one snake a year (although one year a litter hatched in my side yard and I had baby copperheads pop up three times in a month!) I've only ever felt endangered by one -- a three foot rattler parked under a hedge near my sidewalk who was as thick around as my foream.
Mostly I take a live and let live attitude, but this was too close for comfort. I debated telling my man, but knew he'd come out with some gun (He's from Ohio and is afraid of snakes) and blow away both the snake and part of my deck. The snake meanwhile eyed me as I eyed it, debating whether to kill it or do my usual -- scoop it up with a shovel or pole and toss it over the cliff. I figure this way I give them a fighting chance -- if they can fly and land safely, then they're entitled to continue living, otherwise, well, it's in God's hands. But I didn't want to leave him to get a shovel, afraid he'd hide somewhere I couldn't find, so I wouldn't be able to enjoy my soak. I finally leaned down and picked up a metal pole (used for hanging torches) and planned to pick him up with it. As soon as I touched him, he coiled to strike, and I flipped him which got him to moving and he dropped off the deck edge and hurried under the leaves. About that time I heard my neighbor's dogs barking and summoned them over to me and they sniffed around interestedly, but, apparently, he had departed.
Damn it, now I'll have to walk down there a with a shovel and a dog for a while.
Friday, July 01, 2005
More on NaNoWriMo
I've actually been keeping to my schedule of 500 words per day. It's been fun so far as I let my character guide me as to what comes next (that and the latest news stories about on-line predators using the chat rooms to find their victims.) I am refusing to do any research other than what I hear or already (think) I know, just letting my imagination fill in the gaps for now, knowing that, in the future, if I end up with something that I truly like (when I get to that magical 50,000 words or so) I can do the research then. But, I am turning off my left brain editor that requires me to constantly stop and ponder, then ties my feet up so that I can't proceed because "I haven't resolved a conflict...." I will write my story the way it wishes to be written and worry about the facts later. So far, seems to be working. No hitches. (And I refuse to sit down and try to parse out a plot at this point, let my mind wander ahead to possibilities, but refuse to put anything rigidly in a timeframe on paper.) I'll let my story tell itself.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
I'm gonna get paid
Hey, I'm going to get paid $150 for my story in the USHGAmagazine! This is more exciting than just getting published. My first professional job! you can read the unexpurgated version in the second Dec. post.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
NaNoWriMo early
Decided to get a head start on the NanoWriMo early and started last pm. Thought I'd give myself a running start as that means I don't have to write 1500 words per day, only about 500 to 1000. Of course, if I finish the rough draft before I get to the end of the time, I may start another. I have so many incompleter novels since I can think of a title and an opening scene, and, sometimes even the ending. It's connecting the two that kills me. I have a great little novella, novelette that I finished in the mid-90's (finally) but it's about 80n pages, and ther, therefore, too long or two short for anything commercial. No one (at least not me) reads a short story that is that long (not in one sitting) and anyone who picks up a novel wants a little longer peice for the prices they chanrge for even paperbacks these days. It's left in limbo, though I quite love it. Maybe I should post it here for critiquing. Anybody out there want to post an opinion?
Monday, June 27, 2005
How to Ruin a Bahamas Sailing Trip
Take a 6th (unexpected and strange) person along. Make sure she is a snake. Then mix in thoro in a 42 foot sailboat with five others, no AC, temps above 90 with 100% humidity, one minimally functional head, no shower except a rinse off once a day in the back deck, ice gone by the fifth day, place them in isolated islands with no shade (and no way to find any other than in the depths.) Stir. P.S. Make certain that there is no place for the introverted (me) to escape from the snake (hereafter referred to as B to avoid a libel suit.)
The one place I had to disappear (and get away from her incessant insinuations, was in the water, snorkelling. Loved it and took every opportunity, but being fair-skinned and completely sunburned by the third day (despite repeated applications of 30+ Sunblock throughout the day) I had, frequently, to hide in the interior of the boat to escape further sun exposure. No, I didn't bite this woman in the butt; she is a long-time friend of the captain's (but even she got tired of B by the end) who I didn't want to offend (J being a long-time friend) by being ungenial. By the end of the trip, however, I was tense, tired, irritable and feeling like it was my fault for not being able to get in the "fun" spirit that B kept pretending to jolly me into, all the while slicing me.
I actually blamed myself for my moodiness, but, on the way home, a discussion with the 4th female member of the party (and my neighbor) revealed she had figured this woman out early. I'm just so socially dense that I figure everything that happens in a social situation is due to my inadequacies. It's taken me to 46 to realize that I'm actually an okay person. Not perfect, but not evil. This woman needed to be nipped inthe bud, but I didn't recognize how many of my chains she was yanking until I was on the (multiply) delayed flights home. Eighteen hours to get from Staniel Cay back home, a good eight of them spent in Cincinnati airport.
The one place I had to disappear (and get away from her incessant insinuations, was in the water, snorkelling. Loved it and took every opportunity, but being fair-skinned and completely sunburned by the third day (despite repeated applications of 30+ Sunblock throughout the day) I had, frequently, to hide in the interior of the boat to escape further sun exposure. No, I didn't bite this woman in the butt; she is a long-time friend of the captain's (but even she got tired of B by the end) who I didn't want to offend (J being a long-time friend) by being ungenial. By the end of the trip, however, I was tense, tired, irritable and feeling like it was my fault for not being able to get in the "fun" spirit that B kept pretending to jolly me into, all the while slicing me.
I actually blamed myself for my moodiness, but, on the way home, a discussion with the 4th female member of the party (and my neighbor) revealed she had figured this woman out early. I'm just so socially dense that I figure everything that happens in a social situation is due to my inadequacies. It's taken me to 46 to realize that I'm actually an okay person. Not perfect, but not evil. This woman needed to be nipped inthe bud, but I didn't recognize how many of my chains she was yanking until I was on the (multiply) delayed flights home. Eighteen hours to get from Staniel Cay back home, a good eight of them spent in Cincinnati airport.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Bahamas Sailing
Will be gone on a short (8 day vacation) to the Bahamas with friends (who are not kinky) on the sailboat one of them manages for a man in FL. She is a certified boat and charter captain and I've been with her before. Pretty particular, but we do manage to have a good time. The other couple is composed of a nurse (also very bossy) and an engineer (not bossy at all), all hangglider pilots, myself and my love. He's never been on a cruisnig boat, never been on a sailboat, never been to the Carribeans. I'll think he'll be astounded by the blues down there. I expect lively political arguments on board ship as well since Jude, the captain, is an opinionated liberal and he is an equallly loud conservative. Let the fireworks begin! The only problem is that can't throttle each other (if it comer to that) I need him to run the store and her to get us home. I shall, whatever my personal leaning, remain neutral (she practices biting her tongue, tightly.)
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Blahhh
One of those mornings you wake up and wonder WHY you're getting up. Third day on at work, third day of intermittent (now terminally drizzling) rain, third day of low back pain, body aches, sinus headache (all from the damned storm front). All you really want is to stay home, stare at the drizzle from the safety of the covered porch, book in your lap, cat curled around you feet (after sleeping in) and dose in the hammock. Alternatively, sleeping in next to a snuggly man appeals, being in a cold, windowless, loud environment, does not.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Novel writing -- the national challenge
As the sucessful author of, at least, 6 half-novels (none, alas, completed, some in progress since college) this site appealed to me, as well as the challenge. I think, if I made a job of it and just started writing for specified times, after winnowing it down 90% (adjectives, endless modifiers -- see! -- are my weakness) I might have something worth keeping (or sending out.) Anyway, for those of you who, like me, have reams of besmirched paper hidden away in filing cabinets -- check out the site and the challenge: http://www.nanowrimo.org/ and then some of the results: http://nanoblogmo.blogspot.com/
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Loca Luna Jungle Party
Hey, all you in the Chattanooga and North Georgia area -- Loca Luna will be hosting a party on the 24th of July, place to be determined, with a Jungle theme (a little kink, a little fetish thrown in.) Find your leopard skin jackets and tiger-striped pants, and someone to party with. It will, most likely, be in a local bar, with fire play demos, floggiing, dancing, and a parade of the Loca Luna girls. New DJ (one who shows up on time) and the return of Mike the announcer. You can find out more at www.localuna.net, or check back here. P.S. It's Mr. Cam's birthday.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Infantilism
No, it's not one of my fetishes. I'm definitely not into age-play, at least not younger than potty-trained, but after 4 nights on twelve hour shifts, I want to be a little girl and let Him be in charge and let Him drive and Him make the decisions. I will be 'good' and go to sleep in the back seat and, hopefully, get some sleep, otherwise, I have been known to have quite immature (and un-46 year old like) temper tantrums. (Sleep deprivation, or a low blood sugar are the two quickest ways to turn me into a three year old.)
And, just because I'm not 'into' age play doesn't mean I don't understand the attraction. Who wouldn't want to be a happy, pre-self conscious child again, able to run and laugh without worrying about others' opinons, unconcerned what to wear tomorrow or what to cook tonight or the appointment for the dog at the vet. Yes, He gets to call the shots today (hell, I wish he'd come pick me up right now from work. I'm verwy, verwy tired.)
And, just because I'm not 'into' age play doesn't mean I don't understand the attraction. Who wouldn't want to be a happy, pre-self conscious child again, able to run and laugh without worrying about others' opinons, unconcerned what to wear tomorrow or what to cook tonight or the appointment for the dog at the vet. Yes, He gets to call the shots today (hell, I wish he'd come pick me up right now from work. I'm verwy, verwy tired.)
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Genital Piercings
Never thought, in my more or less vanilla days, that I'd have any kind of piercings. It took me until I was 26 to get my ears pierced. It was another 18 years before my first genital piercing (clitoral hood.) Let me tell you, I vowed I'd never get another one of those. All those people who told me it didn't hurt as bad as they'd anticipated either were drunk or had very high expectations of pain. It hurt worse than I'd imagined, and ached for days. I've had a broken arm with pins and screws, and I'll take that again any day, for level of pain.
BUT, having said that, recently the Man has teased me with discussion of the further piercings with which he plans to decorate my genitals. I am intrigued. The masochistic show-off side of me is fascinated, and the warrior side of me wants me to be stoic, and the very small submissive part of me remembers what pleasure it brought him to take me before his piercer friend and display me for the pirecing. It was long a fantasy of mine, and the idea of further decoration makes me wet. I think, from the hints he's dropped, that I had better prepare myself mentally for the labial piercings we've been discussing this coming weekend. We are going to his old neighborhood in Columbus, and the piercer is part of the gay leather scene there. I am tantalized but frightened, less by the pain, than the fear of loss of control -- afraid I'll embarass him or myself crying out.
BUT, having said that, recently the Man has teased me with discussion of the further piercings with which he plans to decorate my genitals. I am intrigued. The masochistic show-off side of me is fascinated, and the warrior side of me wants me to be stoic, and the very small submissive part of me remembers what pleasure it brought him to take me before his piercer friend and display me for the pirecing. It was long a fantasy of mine, and the idea of further decoration makes me wet. I think, from the hints he's dropped, that I had better prepare myself mentally for the labial piercings we've been discussing this coming weekend. We are going to his old neighborhood in Columbus, and the piercer is part of the gay leather scene there. I am tantalized but frightened, less by the pain, than the fear of loss of control -- afraid I'll embarass him or myself crying out.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
I'm Published
Recieved my copy of The United States Hanggliding and Paragliding Magazine yesterday and I was one of the feature articles. Reading it, I realized that Hemingway was right, leave out all the adjectives! But, you can read the longer version of it here on the blog -- it's the second entry in December. I'm excited since it includes several photos and was originally writtten back in 1993 as a reminiscense. It was never really meant for publication.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Rewatching "The Cat People"
I've decided to start rewatching ancient movies that once captivated me, but that I've not watched in two decades or more (which mainly eliminates many of the well-known ones out on DVD.) Started last year with "The Masque of the Red Death" a long-time favorite from the 60's (my mother was a great lover of sci-fi and horror movies, both of them available in abundance at drive-in theaters where she regularly took her horde for entertainment.)
Yesterday it was the turn of "The Cat People" which I'd bought on video in the 80's but never really watched (had seen it years ago on the usual 0100 a.m. showing to which we were subjected in the 60's in the name of late night programming.) I had thought it was a little tame compared to many of the slash and gore movies out now, but there is something eerily sweet and sad about it. The girl is both the danger and the one standing in front of it -- trying to ward it off.
The plot, for you unfortunates: A young, foreign-born girl, working as a sketch-artist meets a ship engineer accidentally at the zoo where is she is fascinated by a black panther. They hit it off and he invites her to tea 'sometime,' she invites him to tea 'now.' They sit in her dark apartment and listen to the wild cats scream in the twilight. She tells him of her ancient village in Serbia where the people, during the dark ages, had turned to devil worship and the women had the power to turn into cats, when their passions overwhelmed them.
Of course you can see the whole thing coming. He courts her and they end up, reluctantly on her part because she feels her fate approaching her, wed. She refuses to kiss him or even bed him. He is tolerant and loving, but it palls after a while and he mentions it to a gal pal at work. His wife becomes jealous of their easy-going relationship and frightening things begin to happen. Cat-like screams are heard in the shadows, the female friend's robe is torn to ribbons as she swims in a basement pool, the wife disappears at odd moments. The husband tries to get her psychiatric help, but the psychiatrist, at first skeptical, is also very attracted to the danger of the wife and, finally, attempts to seduce her, to prove to her that her superstitions are wrong. You finish it.
The story is simple, but the lighting, the stark black and white imagery, the simplicity of the tale, and the way the legend itself parallels so much of what we feel about the female sexual drive. Sometimes "simple" lets your own imagination fill in the blanks. And, for it's time, it was a very straightforward tale about sex. Not so much a horror movie as an exploration of sexual danger and the unleashing of powerful female libidoes.
Yesterday it was the turn of "The Cat People" which I'd bought on video in the 80's but never really watched (had seen it years ago on the usual 0100 a.m. showing to which we were subjected in the 60's in the name of late night programming.) I had thought it was a little tame compared to many of the slash and gore movies out now, but there is something eerily sweet and sad about it. The girl is both the danger and the one standing in front of it -- trying to ward it off.
The plot, for you unfortunates: A young, foreign-born girl, working as a sketch-artist meets a ship engineer accidentally at the zoo where is she is fascinated by a black panther. They hit it off and he invites her to tea 'sometime,' she invites him to tea 'now.' They sit in her dark apartment and listen to the wild cats scream in the twilight. She tells him of her ancient village in Serbia where the people, during the dark ages, had turned to devil worship and the women had the power to turn into cats, when their passions overwhelmed them.
Of course you can see the whole thing coming. He courts her and they end up, reluctantly on her part because she feels her fate approaching her, wed. She refuses to kiss him or even bed him. He is tolerant and loving, but it palls after a while and he mentions it to a gal pal at work. His wife becomes jealous of their easy-going relationship and frightening things begin to happen. Cat-like screams are heard in the shadows, the female friend's robe is torn to ribbons as she swims in a basement pool, the wife disappears at odd moments. The husband tries to get her psychiatric help, but the psychiatrist, at first skeptical, is also very attracted to the danger of the wife and, finally, attempts to seduce her, to prove to her that her superstitions are wrong. You finish it.
The story is simple, but the lighting, the stark black and white imagery, the simplicity of the tale, and the way the legend itself parallels so much of what we feel about the female sexual drive. Sometimes "simple" lets your own imagination fill in the blanks. And, for it's time, it was a very straightforward tale about sex. Not so much a horror movie as an exploration of sexual danger and the unleashing of powerful female libidoes.
Driving and Clairvoyance -- my vent
Yeah, they don't actually occur together often in nature, which is one of my pet peeves. If I Knew what you were going to do ahead of time, all those turn signal, brake light, etc. thingies would be optional equipment. I would know that the little sign off to your right with "free beer" on it has just gotten your attention and that you're about to cross two lanes of traffic to intercept it. But, I'm not, and that's why you need to use the damned turn signal. It's actually a law. It's also just plain smart to signal the rest of the herd when you suddenly decide to veer, unless you are in a tank. (Breathe deep!) Okay, I'm done now.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Hanging On Gliding
Cool, I've got a link to Red Bull on the bottom of my blog! I love that stuff for it's kick-ass attitude and the fact that, of all the energy drinks, it's the least sweet and really does give me a little boost. My brother, the bull-rider, swears by it for the long hauls between rodeos, and I use it for distance driving and as a late night pick me up in the ED.
But, I really started out to talk about ' hanging on gliding,' when you are just glad to still have the basetube in your hands. It was blowing 15-20 all day, with gusts to 25-30, and I knew it was strong, but I have been so air-horny that it was like being a fresh HangvIII all over again. I waited around all day (instead of doing something useful like housework) and left the Man to lawncare, set up at 5pm anticipating the usual evening glass-off. It never materialized, at least not until after official sunset, when all good hanggliders, who don't want the FAA breathing down their necks, must be safely stowed on the ground. So, at 1715 I decided that I had flown in this shit before and I oculd handle it.
Yes, I had, and, yes, I could, but I couldn't make myself look graceful and I lured very few other pilots off the ramp after the rock 'n roll ride I had a few seconds after launch. Had a great 1 and 1/2 hour flight, but the gusts persisted and the thermals (still there when I came down to land at 1845) were over 800fpm up right off launch. Youch, got to test whether my shoulders are still up to that kind of stress.
P.S. The photo above is, actually, me in Austria.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Divorce Explanations
1) It was all my fault for being unfaithful. I'm a slut. (his)
2) It was his fault for deserting me after he had promised to help me raise my nephew. (not really my explanation, but it starts out this way some days. I try not to use this in front of people; it's too self-serving.)
3) We were tearing each other apart and two good people don't need to do that. (for public consumption)
4) He was destroying me by making me choose between me and 'the kid' as he labelled my nephew. But he knew about my commitment to family and that I had promised R a place to stay as long as he attended school, didn't break any major rules, and passed his classes. He didn't realize that when he said, "him or me," It meant him or my promises, my integrity, my vision of myself. (this is the one I claim most often in my silent arguments with him.)
5) We both got bored. (probably some truth here.)
6) Neither of us was good at discussing or even recognizing and naming our feelings, let alone discussing how two such misfits and independent people ever found anyone to marry them -- a couple of lone eagles better in a thermal than in a nest. (Getting closer to the heart of the problem)
7) Neither of us was willing to give up ourselves or self-image, even for the love of each other. And we did love each other. (Truth)
8) Selfishness. (oh, yes.)
2) It was his fault for deserting me after he had promised to help me raise my nephew. (not really my explanation, but it starts out this way some days. I try not to use this in front of people; it's too self-serving.)
3) We were tearing each other apart and two good people don't need to do that. (for public consumption)
4) He was destroying me by making me choose between me and 'the kid' as he labelled my nephew. But he knew about my commitment to family and that I had promised R a place to stay as long as he attended school, didn't break any major rules, and passed his classes. He didn't realize that when he said, "him or me," It meant him or my promises, my integrity, my vision of myself. (this is the one I claim most often in my silent arguments with him.)
5) We both got bored. (probably some truth here.)
6) Neither of us was good at discussing or even recognizing and naming our feelings, let alone discussing how two such misfits and independent people ever found anyone to marry them -- a couple of lone eagles better in a thermal than in a nest. (Getting closer to the heart of the problem)
7) Neither of us was willing to give up ourselves or self-image, even for the love of each other. And we did love each other. (Truth)
8) Selfishness. (oh, yes.)
Friday, April 29, 2005
Air-horny
I am air-horny. That 9 days in FL has made me hungry for more. Trouble is, the weather's just not cooperating. We're still in the throws of the vernal equinox which means the winds are too strong or (like yesterday) rotating through so rapidly that after a storm front, that the wind direction (crucial in mountain launch area, not so important in the flatlands) switches from SW to NE in a matter of half a day.
It is enchantingly green up here (we are still mid-spring in this part of GA, being on the mountain), from the bright spring greens of my oaks, to the deeper greens of my pines (those that have survived the pine-beetle thus far.) I feel enveloped in the color which I find soothing, but I want, oh-so-much, to be soaring over it, hanging above it. Being air horny is like just being horny -- you feel slightly on edge and wanting, wanting, something, to happen. But hang-waiting is a skill (I keep reminding myself, though self thinks this is nonsense) that I had to develope as a mountian pilot long ago. Provided I keep on living, there will be other days. It's just I want it now!
It is enchantingly green up here (we are still mid-spring in this part of GA, being on the mountain), from the bright spring greens of my oaks, to the deeper greens of my pines (those that have survived the pine-beetle thus far.) I feel enveloped in the color which I find soothing, but I want, oh-so-much, to be soaring over it, hanging above it. Being air horny is like just being horny -- you feel slightly on edge and wanting, wanting, something, to happen. But hang-waiting is a skill (I keep reminding myself, though self thinks this is nonsense) that I had to develope as a mountian pilot long ago. Provided I keep on living, there will be other days. It's just I want it now!
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Flying in Florida
Somehow, flying and BDSM don't mix in my head. One is in the sun and fresh air and, while physical, and sometimes sexual, it is more of a solitary sport, unless you just love chit-chat on the radio. (I don't.)
The comps last week were held in near-perfect weather. Except for the first two days when the winds were too strong, we had 6 days of valid flying. Saturday, the 23rd, we were closed down by rain and the death of a competitor. Chris Muller, a young Canadian aerobatics pilot was going for an object on the ground at finish (a 'goodies' bag put here as a challenge to those pilots who cared to skim that low) and dove right into the dirt at 60 mph. Made it to the hospital by helicopter, but didn't survive.
To someone outside the sport, it might seem stupid. It was, but, my feeling is we all make choices. Chris was an aerobatics pilot, loved taking those risks. I don't agree with his choices, but people think I'm crazy just flying hanggliders (never mind that I consider myself a conservative pilot.) So, I can't condemn him, just hate the waste of talent and a lifetime of flying. He made a mistake which cost him everything worthwhile in this world. But, his choices were what shaped his personality. If he didn't make those choices he wouldn't have been Chris Muller. I don't think that is a circular argument. I am more frightened of driving I-75 going into ATL at dusk, than I am of hanggliding. I've been sidewiped by a semi before, but I've never had anyone hit me in the air. We all take calculated risks, and we'd better be aware of the costs when we lose our gamble. Most people don't expect to die driving to the grocery store, but I'm always very aware of the chance of really hurting myself when I fly.
Aside from that, which didn't happen until the last day of the meet, I had some great flying days. Drove to Wallaby Ranch each day since Quest was so busy (0ver 100 pilots competing). Malcolm and staff did a wonderful job making me feel comfortable back on tow. The first day I went up tandem with Malcolm to see if I stil recalled my skills. He basically let me fly it from start to finish, then told me to stop wasting his time and go tow. Did three more that morning on their loaner Falcon, had great tows, watched hot-air balloons come into his field and land, then packed it up since my arms were tired. Next day I was back under tow on my own 142XC and had three good ones, saving the fourth tow until the afternoon so that I cold judge how i was doing in thermally air. Got up and soared for 35 minutes, felt happy with that and packed up for home ( Questairforce.com )
I stopped on the way when I noticed a cross-country pilot thermalling low about 6 miles from Wallaby. It was a bit out of the way for the comp pilots unless one of them had gotten lost, so I pulled over to watch. S/he didn't seem to be making much up, and, eventually, he landed by some cows. I waved and he came over to the gate where he took down his glider and we packed it on the truck before transporting him back to Wallaby. Turned out to be a visiting pilot from CO, in for a conference who had stolen off from Orlando for a day. We flew together the next day, too, after I had another midday flight that only lasted 40 min (the clouds cut off the thermals about 2p.) Craig and I, after lunch and a breather, towed back up at 1630 and managed to punch through the inversion layer (4500MSL) to 5600MSL for a lovely late afternoon flight with dozens of other pilots up toodling about.
Coming in on the last flight, the sunlight was golden through the inversion layer, scattered, and the thermals were light, the 100fpm stuff I prefer over the midday of >800fpm, the kind where you don't even hold onto the bar, just rest your foreams on the control frame and lazily loop in lift, watching all around you bathed in gold. Below me, over a swamp, a flock of ibises took off, something from an African movie, white against the dark green, far below me. Peaceful, and feeling like dessert to me.
Today it's raining in Georgia and I have to work tomorrow, but it might mellow in the evening Wednesday, and Thursday is looking good (I happen to be off then.) Flying is back on my agenda.
The results of the nationals and the pictures by the meet organizer can be seen at: http://www.flytec.com/flytec_usn_05/scores.html
The comps last week were held in near-perfect weather. Except for the first two days when the winds were too strong, we had 6 days of valid flying. Saturday, the 23rd, we were closed down by rain and the death of a competitor. Chris Muller, a young Canadian aerobatics pilot was going for an object on the ground at finish (a 'goodies' bag put here as a challenge to those pilots who cared to skim that low) and dove right into the dirt at 60 mph. Made it to the hospital by helicopter, but didn't survive.
To someone outside the sport, it might seem stupid. It was, but, my feeling is we all make choices. Chris was an aerobatics pilot, loved taking those risks. I don't agree with his choices, but people think I'm crazy just flying hanggliders (never mind that I consider myself a conservative pilot.) So, I can't condemn him, just hate the waste of talent and a lifetime of flying. He made a mistake which cost him everything worthwhile in this world. But, his choices were what shaped his personality. If he didn't make those choices he wouldn't have been Chris Muller. I don't think that is a circular argument. I am more frightened of driving I-75 going into ATL at dusk, than I am of hanggliding. I've been sidewiped by a semi before, but I've never had anyone hit me in the air. We all take calculated risks, and we'd better be aware of the costs when we lose our gamble. Most people don't expect to die driving to the grocery store, but I'm always very aware of the chance of really hurting myself when I fly.
Aside from that, which didn't happen until the last day of the meet, I had some great flying days. Drove to Wallaby Ranch each day since Quest was so busy (0ver 100 pilots competing). Malcolm and staff did a wonderful job making me feel comfortable back on tow. The first day I went up tandem with Malcolm to see if I stil recalled my skills. He basically let me fly it from start to finish, then told me to stop wasting his time and go tow. Did three more that morning on their loaner Falcon, had great tows, watched hot-air balloons come into his field and land, then packed it up since my arms were tired. Next day I was back under tow on my own 142XC and had three good ones, saving the fourth tow until the afternoon so that I cold judge how i was doing in thermally air. Got up and soared for 35 minutes, felt happy with that and packed up for home ( Questairforce.com )
I stopped on the way when I noticed a cross-country pilot thermalling low about 6 miles from Wallaby. It was a bit out of the way for the comp pilots unless one of them had gotten lost, so I pulled over to watch. S/he didn't seem to be making much up, and, eventually, he landed by some cows. I waved and he came over to the gate where he took down his glider and we packed it on the truck before transporting him back to Wallaby. Turned out to be a visiting pilot from CO, in for a conference who had stolen off from Orlando for a day. We flew together the next day, too, after I had another midday flight that only lasted 40 min (the clouds cut off the thermals about 2p.) Craig and I, after lunch and a breather, towed back up at 1630 and managed to punch through the inversion layer (4500MSL) to 5600MSL for a lovely late afternoon flight with dozens of other pilots up toodling about.
Coming in on the last flight, the sunlight was golden through the inversion layer, scattered, and the thermals were light, the 100fpm stuff I prefer over the midday of >800fpm, the kind where you don't even hold onto the bar, just rest your foreams on the control frame and lazily loop in lift, watching all around you bathed in gold. Below me, over a swamp, a flock of ibises took off, something from an African movie, white against the dark green, far below me. Peaceful, and feeling like dessert to me.
Today it's raining in Georgia and I have to work tomorrow, but it might mellow in the evening Wednesday, and Thursday is looking good (I happen to be off then.) Flying is back on my agenda.
The results of the nationals and the pictures by the meet organizer can be seen at: http://www.flytec.com/flytec_usn_05/scores.html
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Wallaby Ranch and Flying
Off to Wallaby Ranch, near Orlando, next Friday, for towing and flying and camping out and partying. There's a national competition being held at QuestAir, about 30 minutes from Wallaby (both towing hanggliding sites) and I'm going to drive for a friend who's competing for a spot on the Women's World Team. I don't want to compete, just refresh my towing skills and plan for nothing more than enjoying the sport in the sun. Anymore, life gets in the way of my hanggliding. www.wallaby.com
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Gardening and BDSM
What do they have in common? Not much you say (and I agree.) Just wanted to talk about both and it seemed an eye-grabber.
Am looking forward to Fantasm in Atlanta next week and have been busy making plans and sewing a new gown to wear with my purple vinyl corset (my favorite). I used to sew costumes for theatre, though my skills are rusty. Since becoming more openly fetishy, I've started trying to create the very clothes in which I most want to see myself, and they're not all in the Stormy Leather catalog. Some of the personas in my head are more male than female or ambiguous. My love is fine with his boy-girl, calls me "Orlando Bloom with tits," and teases me about "forced feminization of a female."
The garden is budding and the daffodils aren't deterred by our weather forecasts (it was snowing on the mountain as I drove to work this evening.) I go out every afternoon to pick up the mail and check to see the need sprouts on my pruned roses and fruit trees and impatiently await the passing of this string of fronts to plant my strawberries and my grown-from-seed tomatoes. My herbs are also sprouting and I've got a slew (or is that slough) of evergreens to plant to act as a screen from the disapproving eyes of my ex-husband. Two in the ground and ten more to go -- hope they grow as quickly as advertised. ;)
Am looking forward to Fantasm in Atlanta next week and have been busy making plans and sewing a new gown to wear with my purple vinyl corset (my favorite). I used to sew costumes for theatre, though my skills are rusty. Since becoming more openly fetishy, I've started trying to create the very clothes in which I most want to see myself, and they're not all in the Stormy Leather catalog. Some of the personas in my head are more male than female or ambiguous. My love is fine with his boy-girl, calls me "Orlando Bloom with tits," and teases me about "forced feminization of a female."
The garden is budding and the daffodils aren't deterred by our weather forecasts (it was snowing on the mountain as I drove to work this evening.) I go out every afternoon to pick up the mail and check to see the need sprouts on my pruned roses and fruit trees and impatiently await the passing of this string of fronts to plant my strawberries and my grown-from-seed tomatoes. My herbs are also sprouting and I've got a slew (or is that slough) of evergreens to plant to act as a screen from the disapproving eyes of my ex-husband. Two in the ground and ten more to go -- hope they grow as quickly as advertised. ;)
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Fantasm in Atlanta
All you perverts need to migrate to Atlanta the weekend of 17th of March. The last OFFICIAL Fantasm (a sexually oriented sci-fi convention -- bring no children!) ist be held that weekend. It is a four day event of unbridled fetishism and fun. The room parties last year were eye-popping ("oral sex room") and wehope to send off the name with a flourish. They have classes on BDSM techniques (needle zippers, anyone?) and a playroom with suspended rope bondage (yes!)
Other than a participant, I am in no way connected with this endeavor financially, but when you have people chocolate pudding wrestling in the open airway and pony-girls prancing through the lobby while Wiccans gather at a fountain nearby to sanctify the place, and then the drumming group starts up and the Celts in kilts gather to stomp, you know it's gonna be a fun night!
Find more at www.Fantasm.org
Other than a participant, I am in no way connected with this endeavor financially, but when you have people chocolate pudding wrestling in the open airway and pony-girls prancing through the lobby while Wiccans gather at a fountain nearby to sanctify the place, and then the drumming group starts up and the Celts in kilts gather to stomp, you know it's gonna be a fun night!
Find more at www.Fantasm.org
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Influenza and the Emergency Department
Warning, highly individual opinion to follow (typed in at 0400 in the morning after three weeks of this!)
DON'T GO TO THE ER!
Okay, maybe I'm just joking, but only a little. Unless you are truly dying (and not just thinking you are) do not go to the ED (Emergency Department.) Number one, we can't get to you; number two, if you don't have the flu, you will after sitting there for hours waiting to be seen, surrounded by sufferers of the flu. Even face masks provide scant protection in the crowded waiting room.
In the area where I work (seven hospitals around here) most of the ED's are in gridlock. We can't move patients to the floors because they are full or have reduced staffing due to the nationwide nursing shortage; since we can't free up the beds in the ED, we are reduced to seeing a handful of patients at a time on the hall stretchers, in between the usual number of codes (dying or dead people) and car accidents and nursing home transfers, etc. This overloads the already overworked nurses (no, I'm not a nurse) who are dealing with inpatients that shouldn't be there, as well as the acutely ill. I know you feel like a walking corpse -- I've had influenza before myself -- but, unless you have some serious complication or underlying condition, you'll survive. Save yourself hours (around here 8-10 hour waits are routine these last few weeks) of misery and exposure to other contagions and stay home.
Call your boss, tell him the situation. Sending employees to the ED regularly to get work excuses during a flu season is cruel, unnecessary, and expensive (adding to the company cost of healthcare, remind her.) Going to work sick is not loyal, it's stupid. You'll make everyone else ill and the company will lose still more work time. Stay home, drink those fluids, dose yourself with ibuprofen or acetaminophen (if the fever returns before it's time for more acetaminophen, alternate between the two -- ibuprofen's better for the achiness anyway), get some soup into you, wash your hands religiously, and avoid contaminating the other members of your family or tribe. Nyquil really does help (just remember it has acetaminophen in it.) If you have a family doctor, they may be able to call something in for you.
If you develope more serious symtoms -- a cough with yellow or green phlegm production, chest pain, severe shortness of breath, or vomiting and unable to keep down fluids, certainly you may need to brave the crowds. But, bring a novel.
DON'T GO TO THE ER!
Okay, maybe I'm just joking, but only a little. Unless you are truly dying (and not just thinking you are) do not go to the ED (Emergency Department.) Number one, we can't get to you; number two, if you don't have the flu, you will after sitting there for hours waiting to be seen, surrounded by sufferers of the flu. Even face masks provide scant protection in the crowded waiting room.
In the area where I work (seven hospitals around here) most of the ED's are in gridlock. We can't move patients to the floors because they are full or have reduced staffing due to the nationwide nursing shortage; since we can't free up the beds in the ED, we are reduced to seeing a handful of patients at a time on the hall stretchers, in between the usual number of codes (dying or dead people) and car accidents and nursing home transfers, etc. This overloads the already overworked nurses (no, I'm not a nurse) who are dealing with inpatients that shouldn't be there, as well as the acutely ill. I know you feel like a walking corpse -- I've had influenza before myself -- but, unless you have some serious complication or underlying condition, you'll survive. Save yourself hours (around here 8-10 hour waits are routine these last few weeks) of misery and exposure to other contagions and stay home.
Call your boss, tell him the situation. Sending employees to the ED regularly to get work excuses during a flu season is cruel, unnecessary, and expensive (adding to the company cost of healthcare, remind her.) Going to work sick is not loyal, it's stupid. You'll make everyone else ill and the company will lose still more work time. Stay home, drink those fluids, dose yourself with ibuprofen or acetaminophen (if the fever returns before it's time for more acetaminophen, alternate between the two -- ibuprofen's better for the achiness anyway), get some soup into you, wash your hands religiously, and avoid contaminating the other members of your family or tribe. Nyquil really does help (just remember it has acetaminophen in it.) If you have a family doctor, they may be able to call something in for you.
If you develope more serious symtoms -- a cough with yellow or green phlegm production, chest pain, severe shortness of breath, or vomiting and unable to keep down fluids, certainly you may need to brave the crowds. But, bring a novel.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Snowboarding West Virginia
Just back from a snowboarding trip (finally -- was afraid I'd lose the knack) at Snowshoe Mtn, WV. There had just been a big blizzard when we arrived on Sunday the 23 January with wind blowing forty and the temperature about 0 F. It stayed cold the next day, too cold for two exhausted and middle-aged people who hadn't rested well the night before. It wasn't the accomodations (Highland House was great) but rather a combination of my coming off night shifts, the long drive, the bone-aching cold (hey, even kinky people get arthitis) and the fact that the snow plows started moving the accumulated snow about, oh, 0400! We were in one of the primo lodges and couldn't sleep late on any of our vacation due to the overzealous snowplowing.
But, we had a great time on the second day when we actually got out in that snow -- light and fluffy and powdery and soft. He took off on the skis like he'd been skiing all his life instead of last seeing slopes (if they can be called that in OH) back in the early 80's. I was stiff and scared for the first 60 minutes back on the board, then finally stopped trying to "think" my way down the hill and just started letting myself feel it -- letting go. This loss of control has always been my key to enjoying any physical experience. First I fight it, trying to intellectualize the experience, sort it, catalog it, monitor it, but to truly enjoy hanggliding, surfing, skiing, snowboarding, sex, I have had to learn to let go and just ride the sensation. Turn off my left brain.
Letting go is more difficult than many "natural" athletes realize. Those of us engineering types spend all of our life in our left brains, naming and identifying and cataloging, but only rarely allowing the non-verbal side of our brains to take over and just feel. We keep tripping up our feet by thinking too much about the dance steps.
So, after floundering about and getting frustrated with my physical self, I decided to turn off the brain. Worked wonderfully and my lover was even impressed with my grace on the board. As he pointed out, most of the really flying boarders were half my age and male, with a handful of female boarders mixed in (mind you we were only on the green and blue slopes) but none of them were anywhere near my age. It made me feel less judgemental of myself to hear that and to relax and just laugh the few times I plowed down a slope. Laughing reminds me that this is all just a game and the only one I'm really competing with is myself. No one lives or dies (except maybe me) based on my ability or inability to board with the big boys. It's purely recreation, a change from my usual job.
But, we had a great time on the second day when we actually got out in that snow -- light and fluffy and powdery and soft. He took off on the skis like he'd been skiing all his life instead of last seeing slopes (if they can be called that in OH) back in the early 80's. I was stiff and scared for the first 60 minutes back on the board, then finally stopped trying to "think" my way down the hill and just started letting myself feel it -- letting go. This loss of control has always been my key to enjoying any physical experience. First I fight it, trying to intellectualize the experience, sort it, catalog it, monitor it, but to truly enjoy hanggliding, surfing, skiing, snowboarding, sex, I have had to learn to let go and just ride the sensation. Turn off my left brain.
Letting go is more difficult than many "natural" athletes realize. Those of us engineering types spend all of our life in our left brains, naming and identifying and cataloging, but only rarely allowing the non-verbal side of our brains to take over and just feel. We keep tripping up our feet by thinking too much about the dance steps.
So, after floundering about and getting frustrated with my physical self, I decided to turn off the brain. Worked wonderfully and my lover was even impressed with my grace on the board. As he pointed out, most of the really flying boarders were half my age and male, with a handful of female boarders mixed in (mind you we were only on the green and blue slopes) but none of them were anywhere near my age. It made me feel less judgemental of myself to hear that and to relax and just laugh the few times I plowed down a slope. Laughing reminds me that this is all just a game and the only one I'm really competing with is myself. No one lives or dies (except maybe me) based on my ability or inability to board with the big boys. It's purely recreation, a change from my usual job.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Loca Luna
My lover's exotic clothing store in Chattanooga was voted the second best place (behind Victoria's Secret) to go if you are "in the doghouse and need to buy gift." I'd say, considering the disparity in ad budgets, that that's pretty wonderful after only 9 months in business. www.localuna.net
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Hanggliding competition news
Best site I've found for it is http://www.ozreport.com It usually keeps up with all the major comps and is reporting, right now, on the Worlds. I'm hoping, personally, to make it to Quest in April for those preliminaries, not as a competition pilot, but as a volunteer.
Only comp hanggliding I've ever done was local in the 90's, though I did set a personal best cross-country flight of 46 miles over in Sequatchie Valley during one of those (out and back). Flying back and forth along the ridge to the point of Lookout Mountain, while a glorious view, doesn't feel like nearly such an accomplishment (though it is about 22 miles total.) It's awesome to see the mountain fall away from you as you mount the thermal (or ridge lift) that is invariably there at the confluence of three valleys, Chattanooga spreading out below you, the tourists unaware that you are soaring overhead, unless some dog barks at you or a more curious than usual child looks up.
Only comp hanggliding I've ever done was local in the 90's, though I did set a personal best cross-country flight of 46 miles over in Sequatchie Valley during one of those (out and back). Flying back and forth along the ridge to the point of Lookout Mountain, while a glorious view, doesn't feel like nearly such an accomplishment (though it is about 22 miles total.) It's awesome to see the mountain fall away from you as you mount the thermal (or ridge lift) that is invariably there at the confluence of three valleys, Chattanooga spreading out below you, the tourists unaware that you are soaring overhead, unless some dog barks at you or a more curious than usual child looks up.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Simplicity
I get teased a lot by my love that I have a "Little House on the Prairie" attitude -- "We didn't have it when I was growing up, and we don't need it now." (Specifically, he's referring to the fact that I lack a dishwasher at age 45, though I could well afford one, and cable TV.) But, the truth is that I like simplicity and every gadget you add is another gadget to maintain and service. As an old boyfriend (into Zen) once told me, "Ownership of cow means care of cow."
Other than hiding the dirty dishes or storing the freshly cleaned ones, I can't see the advantage in a small household (two people, four animals) of having a machine to do my dishes. I can very well wash all our dishes in 20 minutes every other day. (Yes, she hangs her head in shame, every OTHER day.) I loathe paying the price for cable or satellite television since most of what is on is not worth watching anyway, let alone paying the cost of a decent bottle of wine monthly, and I don't have more than an hour or so a day to waste on it anyway. Likewise, I have yet to purchase an I-Pod, though I am not anti-technology. It's merely that I have so many other music-playing devices in my life and I'm not that intensely needy of a soundtrack to my life.
I think differentiating between what one desires and what one needs is vital. Once you have decided that you want something (rather than need it) you have to decide what price you are willing to pay for it -- not just in money, but in maintainance or space or clutter or aggravation when it breaks. Thus, I have not been willing to pay the price in space for a waffle iron or mutltiple other small, subspecialized equipment for the kitchen. Nor, for a dishwasher.
Other than hiding the dirty dishes or storing the freshly cleaned ones, I can't see the advantage in a small household (two people, four animals) of having a machine to do my dishes. I can very well wash all our dishes in 20 minutes every other day. (Yes, she hangs her head in shame, every OTHER day.) I loathe paying the price for cable or satellite television since most of what is on is not worth watching anyway, let alone paying the cost of a decent bottle of wine monthly, and I don't have more than an hour or so a day to waste on it anyway. Likewise, I have yet to purchase an I-Pod, though I am not anti-technology. It's merely that I have so many other music-playing devices in my life and I'm not that intensely needy of a soundtrack to my life.
I think differentiating between what one desires and what one needs is vital. Once you have decided that you want something (rather than need it) you have to decide what price you are willing to pay for it -- not just in money, but in maintainance or space or clutter or aggravation when it breaks. Thus, I have not been willing to pay the price in space for a waffle iron or mutltiple other small, subspecialized equipment for the kitchen. Nor, for a dishwasher.
When did you know you HAD to fly?
Hanggliding, for me, was an "aha" moment. I had never seen it, but when I first read of it in the early 1970's, it was as if I had been waiting for my wings to appear. I flew in my dreams all the time and used to leap from the top of our house with sheets, umbrellas, my faith alone. The bruises didn't matter (somehow I managed to avoid broken bones or brain damage) but I knew I would have to get into the air. Somehow.
Hanggliding was as if the gods had read my mind -- my own wings, no motor, silent, soaring with the birds. I loved the idea of hanging over the landscape, observing, isolated, contemplative. The lack of motor appealed even more since I loathe unnecessary noise and complications. No motor to maintain meant I was in charge of my dream even more -- no other humans need be involved. And the simplicity of the wing -- the apparent simplicity(nothing more than dacron, wires, and aluminum tubing) -- made the sport perfect in my eyes. Less equipment equalled less aggravation -- fewer things to break.
(Actually, I have found that hanggliding is a solitary sport in the air -- or can be if you resist the need to discuss every turn with your buddies over the radio -- and a group sport on the ground. You need help with windy cliff launches, hangchecks, and wind dummies.)
Hanggliding was as if the gods had read my mind -- my own wings, no motor, silent, soaring with the birds. I loved the idea of hanging over the landscape, observing, isolated, contemplative. The lack of motor appealed even more since I loathe unnecessary noise and complications. No motor to maintain meant I was in charge of my dream even more -- no other humans need be involved. And the simplicity of the wing -- the apparent simplicity(nothing more than dacron, wires, and aluminum tubing) -- made the sport perfect in my eyes. Less equipment equalled less aggravation -- fewer things to break.
(Actually, I have found that hanggliding is a solitary sport in the air -- or can be if you resist the need to discuss every turn with your buddies over the radio -- and a group sport on the ground. You need help with windy cliff launches, hangchecks, and wind dummies.)
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Flying with Hawks
I have flown with a hawk, wingtip to wingtip, and she stared back at me, repeatedly twisting her head to see what it was flying beside and whether I intended to attack. We were a mile over Lookout Valley on a clear cold morning and strong enough that I had the air to myself. We sat over the Cloudland Canyon gap and turned in the strong thermal, each circuit carrying us about to face northwest, the wind direction. I was too cold, but I couldn't leave that much joy. I'm sure I was chuckling, I wanted to laugh in triumph, but didn't want to frighten my flying partner. It was my first time, but it hasn't been my last.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Flew Yesterday despite...
Despite it not being a flyable day (i.e. very few getting up); flew despite my venoumous ex leanig over from the deck glaring at me (he works at the flight park); flew and landed well despite my ex parking himself prominently in the LZ. Thought I saw his truck as I flew past the flagpole checking out the wind direction, but too busy on my approach to dwell on it. Had a no-step landing within a hundred feet of the cone (not bad with only four landings under my belt in the last 15 months.) Realized after touching down that he and his buddy were both waiting down there, leaned against the pole. They drove off after I disappointed them. Felt good; felt right.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Christianity and BDSM
I grew up Southern Baptist in the late 60's which means that I heard about sex more by the lack of coherent comment than by explicit warnings to avoid it. By the time I came of age the sexual revolution was in full-swing -- post Stonewall and the original Women's Lib marches, long after the pill, adecade before AIDS terrorized us into being "good" and "celibate" like Mr. Falwell.
Sex was "bad" in general (except inside of marriage) but they never really specifically said which type -- man on top, anal, oral, fetishy. I assumed that that meant that what happened between the duly married was their business, and, having read the Bible through more than once (okay, maybe I skiped Job the second time and some minor prophets) I found nowhere (except in reference to a woman's "unclean time" in Leviticus -- the same book that talks about eating of clean and unclean animals and forbids spilling your seed on the ground and male to male intercourse) when specific sex acts were excluded. Therefore, except for the fact that I am currently unwed, I don't think that God cares if the woman is on top in a corset and nipple clamps with a reddened ass or if the man's scrotum is pierced multiply. And if they make each other feel good in their souls' houses then they are a little closer to heaven.
Sex was "bad" in general (except inside of marriage) but they never really specifically said which type -- man on top, anal, oral, fetishy. I assumed that that meant that what happened between the duly married was their business, and, having read the Bible through more than once (okay, maybe I skiped Job the second time and some minor prophets) I found nowhere (except in reference to a woman's "unclean time" in Leviticus -- the same book that talks about eating of clean and unclean animals and forbids spilling your seed on the ground and male to male intercourse) when specific sex acts were excluded. Therefore, except for the fact that I am currently unwed, I don't think that God cares if the woman is on top in a corset and nipple clamps with a reddened ass or if the man's scrotum is pierced multiply. And if they make each other feel good in their souls' houses then they are a little closer to heaven.
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