Showing posts with label daily journal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daily journal. Show all posts

Saturday, April 12, 2014

APRIL THE TWELFTH


(Family photo 8 December 2012, taken by Win Farrell)

Only one feeder now still with seed on it, and a muscular young skwirl is standing on tippy-toe to rake small amounts out as breakfast. House sparrows queue on the railing with feathery irritation.

Scout insists a glowing screen viewed around an immovable feline silhouette is an enhanced experience, not a problem.

12 hours on Levaquin. Antibiotics have saved my ass more times than I can count.

Today a drunken soil conservationist named Edmund Ruffin was coaxed by his hothead South Carolina secessionist shithead friends to begin firing on Fort Sumter, and thus hostilities were begun which would kill 620,000 people. The good news is that brilliant African-Americans would be able to wrest an end to slavery from the ensuing years.

During the late 1970s, I worked intimately with a woman, in the Pleiades, to stop the legacy of child sexual abuse in this country, an effort which succeeded beyond what is generally credited or understood. We too, those of us in that group, worked in chaos against entrenched "reality". It turns out, she was the direct descendant of Edmund Ruffin. She said he died full of grief and bitterness over what he had done. Not all action is noble; male anger and fear seldom produces a positive result, and that's a fact.

According to the Writer's Almanac, it was also on this day in 1633 that Galileo Galilei was put on trial by the Inquisition, for supporting the theory that the Earth revolves around the sun. Yeah, there was white boy justice in action.

In quite different news: Happy third anniversary to the woman of my dreams, Margot. Still can't quite believe my luck in gaining your love.

Let's get this weekend rolling.

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Tuesday, March 4, 2014

IN-SPIRATION


My doctor’s office sent me the basic results of the nocturnal sleep study I underwent on 17 February. Over a period of five hours, off oxygen and BiPAP, my highest SPO2 was 96% and the lowest was 81%. Anything below 90% requires oxygen, and according to my RN, anything below 92% starts to affect brain function. I had 69 desaturation events of less than 3 minutes in duration and 14 desats of more than 3 minutes in duration. My interpretation of these results, verified today by nurse Jessica, is that I continue to require both oxygen and BiPAP. However, this shows vast improvement over where I was six months ago.

As if to emphasize my dependency, my BiPAP machine has registered a high leak at the gasket where the tubing emerges. I put in a service call to the horrible DME provider, Apria, who are dragging their heels about sending out someone to look at it but promised “a call” within a couple of days. In the meantime I’ll limp along with the leak. I suspect the device was injured by the ham hands of my weekend attendant, who batters all inanimate objects in her path.

I dreamed last night that I was living again with Mama and Bill. Bill and I were both teenagers, and Mama had been left without income by my father. She needed to go to an outpatient hospital for extensive tests in a neighboring town, and after work I picked up her, Bill, and a new orange-and-white kitten I had just acquired. On the drive there, Mama was irritable with worry. She said she needed money to pop into a grocery along the way, and I gave her all my cash. She returned with a single bag and no change. We were checked into a family suite at the hospital which was little more than a set of bunkbeds off a corridor with access to a kitchenette. I unpacked the groceries, to discover it consisted only of breakfast cereal, a quart of milk, and coffee plus cigarettes for Mama. Exasperated but trying to conceal it, I whispered to Bill I’d need to go back out and use the small amount in my bank account to get us something cheap for dinner plus some canned food and litter for the kitten. I was very worried about the kitten escaping from our not-quite-secure residential annex, and didn’t trust either Mama or Bill to keep an eye on the little one. That’s when I woke up.

Not a dream of complex symbolism; instead, it’s all too reminiscent of events that actually took place in my past.

I had another dream from which I was awakened by Scout hurling herself down on my chest and against my mask to sleep. At the time of awakening, I thought the dream had been hilarious and very clever, and I went over in my mind to memorize it before I returned to sleep. This morning, however, it has vanished except for the impression that I found it so entertaining.

Tammi made blackberry pancakes for breakfast the rest of the week. Something nourishing to wake up for each day.

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Wednesday, January 29, 2014

REINTERPRETATION



This morning we made an almost-no-sweetener-added blueberry and cream cheese pie, chilling for later, in addition to a salad and fish for lunch.  Also had bath, shampoo, and linen change.  Met with Elizabeth, the attendant agency supervisor, about adding on 1.5 hours of Tammicare per week as authorized by DADS, and with her came a volunteer coordinator who is going to find someone that will help me sort through boxes and papers, clear out this place.  Have done my budget for next month (squeaking by kindasorta), and can now focus elsewhere for the afternoon.
 
Last night I discovered among new records being made available online is the death certificate of Author Atkins, the man who raised my mother and was her beloved Daddy.  I was startled to discover that although, yes, he died of pulmonary failure, it was not from CHF as I had thought but instead was lung metastases from GI carcinoma.  She often told me about sitting up with him at night, when he could not sleep from gasping and coughing, as he took months to die during her 16th year.  It must have been a worse death than I had imagined.  Marked her for life and perhaps accounts for some of her fatalism toward health issues.
 
Even more shocking, I discovered they (Author, Sook, Mama, and her adoptive brothers) lived not in Stoneburg but in Fort Worth during 1931-32.  When I ran across this city directory, it sparked a vague memory of Mama talking about the Christmas when she was 5 years old and they were in Fort Worth, but I had filed this away as a visit.  Instead, Author found work as a flagman for the Rock Island Railroad and they lived in a small frame house (2 bedrooms and a detached bathroom) a couple of blocks from the rail line.  On further searching, I found the house is still standing, built in 1915, and I snagged a photo of it.
 
I ache to show it to her and ask what memories it evokes.

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Tuesday, January 28, 2014

HOW CAN I KEEP FROM SINGING?


 
Today is frozen and gently grieving.  We have chosen to cook here at Casa de Jochild.  We are trying out the Jamie Oliver method of cooking chicken in milk with modifications suggested here and by a couple of friends who have tried it.  We added a dozen pearl onions to the milk, and deleted the cinnamon stick because we didn't have one.  It has turned out a beautiful result.
 
We used the leftover olive oil/butter from searing the chicken to fry my breakfast home fries, and those were extremely good.  And while the oven was on, we split a head of garlic, soaked it in olive oil and roasted it as well, to be saved in even more olive oil as our basic low-heat cooking oil.This house now smells like a garlic press.
 
Nursing visit postponed until Thursday because of icy roads.  I have more HHS forms to fill out and social service clarification calls to make that I am dragging my heels about because I am so fucking tired of begging and justifying my right to a poverty level of existence.  Think I’ll just eat chicken and listen to  Pete Seeger for a while.
 

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Wednesday, November 27, 2013

METABOLISM

 
My morning routine: At 8 am my fabulous attendant Tammi arrives. I take off my BiPAP mask, read my sugar and down the morning meds as she drains my Foley bag. Neither of us are morning people, so a single "Hello" suffices. Next, of course, comes Feeding The Cats, who are fidgeting impatiently, one of them on my chest. Then Tammi starts breakfast while I take insulin, check for letters from my sweetheart (in England and already at work), turn on the vitamin D light for half an hour, and hit the internet.

I have an A-list of sites that give me pleasure and/or substance to read. They are perused in this order: XKCD; ANIMALS TALKING ALL IN CAPS; BagNewsNotes; Hullaballoo; Brilliant At Breakfast; WTF Evolution; Clients From Hell; and final treat, NN. I get to raptly read Nancy's musings and links while enjoying breakfast, and digest it while reading the always interesting comments. By that time, I feel prepared to face the day, whether it's PT, nursing visits, begging for social services, or actually finding the energy to write.

I try to live in daily gratitude. It's a necessary counterweight against the fury of poverty. I am deeply grateful for all those in my generation who have refused to succumb to cynicism, isolation, and shame, and who still find a life's meaning in Making Things Better For All Of Us, however we can manage it. I am grateful each month for making rent on time, having a phone line and electricity (I have often gone without those three), for enough to eat and it not being entirely processed crap, for the unpredictability of cats and the unbelievable competence of some social workers & caregivers.

I am lucky beyond words for those who love me, who love me over time and across barriers, who accept my not-so-buried damage and make me laugh. I know to the average stranger, I look like a Lifetime movie gone horribly wrong, with the worst of endings, but most days, I am in fact happy. Pain and want can, for long minutes, be ignored. In my life, imagination has metabolized as endurance.

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Saturday, September 11, 2010

DAILY UPDATE 11 SEPTEMBER 2010


Again only seven hours of real sleep and now once again a slight stomach ache after breaking my fast, so I'm waiting it out before taking meds and pushing the body. Slow start. Plus I dreaded about an ex (again). Still I went to sleep considering the excellent late-night sharing with Pamela and thinking about creative options, and I am feeling good about my life.

To answer another friend, I don't know how I stay so sane and clear except that the alternative is a greased chute to death. I know that firsthand. And please don't put yourself even metaphorically in that "I couldn't do what you do" camp. It doesn't make me feel better about what I do, it makes me feel separated from you. Imagine doing what I do and stay here with me.

I don't know which I am more ravenous for, human company or nature.

I'm trying to think and write about atonement today. But I keep being distracted by wondering what will be said about me, honestly and in private, when I die. I have really hurt people I love along the way, I have failed grievously, I have been afraid and stupid and mean. Where I have seen my errors, I have at least taken the repeat journeys to apologize and undertake change. That is all the comfort have when, like last night, I can't find an easy quilt of sleep.

One of the quality-of-life issues I'm dealing with now is that I've had to stop taking the pain medication I've been using since I left the hospital ten months ago. It's only one a day, but my physician doesn't want to renew the prescription without my coming in for a check-up, a physical act I cannot manage right now. Maybe once I get a hospital bed -- which I cannot afford and have no insurance to cover, but I'm on a waiting list for a free one which does show up every few months. A hospital bed will dramatically alter my bed mobility and ability to do exercises semi-weightbearing, which with another long push of work will mean I can transfer and get to a doctor's office, maybe even move around on my waker again. So there is light somewhere down that tunnel.

In the meantime, no more generic Lorcet. (Doctors don't make house calls, especially for uninsured patients.) So two days ago I switched to Tramadol. It has some effect, it's definitely better than nothing. But it's not taking care of all the swelling and stiffness, for sure. And with my current GI issues, Naproxen worries me. I'm back to living with a higher level of chronic pain. I know how to do it, I'm very good at it. But it does dim the spark a tad.

And right now, until my belly settles down, I can't take the Tramadol, even. In an hour I can have some bread and fruit, and get all the meds on board. Maybe I should have postponed writing this until then. The content would be different, definitely. However, today it is as it is.

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Saturday, January 30, 2010

PALIMPSEST


A bit of a hard night going to sleep, physically, but slept long and solid.

I dreamed I was in the second or third story of a huge, beautiful old house, shabby but in good shape, that was mostly an archives. I was working in a room with a massive library table covered with my writing and art projects. Kate Clinton had just arrived. [Note: This is because of something I read about her right before I went to sleep.] She was stuck in our town unexpectedly and a friend of mine had asked me to put her up for the night. It turns out I owned this house.

I gave Kate an upstairs empty bedroom, told her where the kitchen was, and returned to my writing project. I felt shy around her, didn't know much about her. She kept asking me questions about that I was doing that felt interrupting to me. I began to feel defensive about the fact that I wasn't famous yet for what I've done with my life, that my writing isn't very published, I have no academic credentials, my activism isn't credited out there. I wanted to argue the working class viewpoint but she had on expensive clothes and kept making clever jokes, and I didn't know if could translate.

It was dusk, and I stood, preparing to leave the house. She asked me where I was going. I knew I should be a better host, ask her out to dinner, but I was going to eat at my favorite diner and I didn't want to share it with her. Instead I lied and said I was going somewhere else to get materials for my writing project.

My large sketchbook lay open on the table, thick paper filled with handwriting and color pencil drawings. She reached for it, to read it, and I reached to take it away from her. She said "What is this, a palimpsest?" as I woke up.

After I was awake, I coudln't come up with any clue in my head as to the meaning of palimpsest. I turned on netbook and looked it up:

Noun
Etymology: Latin palimpsestus, from Greek palimpsēstos scraped again, from palin + psēn to rub, scrape; akin to Sanskrit psāti, babhasti he chews
(1) : writing material (as a parchment or tablet) used one or more times after earlier writing has been erased
(2) : something having usually diverse layers or aspects apparent beneath the surface

WTF? All yesterday evening I kept thinking about how the one writing goal I most want to accomplish before I die is a complete memoir -- not the pieces I keep writing but an organized, coherent autobiography. I also kept worrying about my disability doctor visit next week, what the exam will show, how I nearly passed out last time, and the fact that I only have enough money from donations to pay basic bills, meds, food and Barbara for 30 more days. After that, it's patchwork again, only with me less mobile and strong than ever before. I don't think I can commit to the writing I want to do while this fear hangs over me. I feel bad about it, like I should have done more before now.


Type rest of the post here

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Tuesday, January 12, 2010

DAILY UPDATE (SORT OF) 12 JANUARY 2010


Random thoughts from my life (copied over from FaceBook):

I hate it whenever one of my axe warriors gets killed. Especially when it's by one of those blue vishnu-esque cat creatures. Also, camel archers are nearly worthless.

I love the portable kitchen they use on the Scandivanian cooking shows. I'm not sure how they work -- what the power sourc...e is -- but they are brilliant about choosing settings in which to cook, and fearless about the weather.

Gold Bond powder really works.

It is far harder to find a woman on TV in a show or ad who has actual short hair than it was 30 years ago. Gender dimorphism is as pronounced as it was in the 50s -- and it's hard to believe in any current "gender theory" that doesn't begin with pointing that out as having entirely cultural rather than biological causes.

I was headed for archeology school the summer my partner of 5 years dumped me for a woman in our CR group. I wonder how happy I would have been as an archeologist, and if I would have gotten a radical political education without that brutal breakup.

Why are goats pupils so different? What's the evolutionary advantage?

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Sunday, September 20, 2009

UPDATE

Scene from The Birds
I'm back. Breathing normally, minimal back pain, everything else regular. Which is to say, crappy but bearable. Thanks for all the GOOD energy, well wishes, and bless you Jain for the donation.

I desperately need to catch up on work, but here's something I want to share. I was watching Gary Muledeer on Letterman, and he talked about how one of his first jobs was managing a movie theater in a small South Dakota town. He lost that job when Hitchcock's The Birds opened and Gary decided it would be fun in the middle of the movie to release six live pigeons from the balcony.

I laughed enough to make my ribs hurt. But good hurt, you know?

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Friday, September 18, 2009

RIDING THE WAVES


I have two or three posts I want to write, and ditto chapters. But I'm up for the past hour, mostly to eat after a 24 hour unwilling fast, and my body is aleady saying I have to go back into absolute stillness.

This past week really sucked. And that's mostly what I want to say. Body-wise, it was no fun. (That's understatement, kids.)

The lingering headache, which did eventually go away, led into left ovarian pain and cramps, plus eye-weeping from allergies and an inflamed taste bud. Too minor to complain about, really, but nagging and irritating. I was juggling the body mechanics requirements of (a) crappy joints everywhere except my elbows, so far knock wood no elbow issues at all, plus (b) that left ovary which gave out a knife-like jab with most kinds of movements, plus (c) the cramps which came and went, plus (d) forgetting to take the weak-acting OTC and sometimes affordable med I can take for the arthritic shit, Alleve -- trying to change position in bed to reach the lamp so I could write a few things in my notebook, and YIKES, zonked my back but good. The thoracic area muscles plus, either then or soon afterward, my rib muscles on the right side.

The kind of pain that left me unable to find a comfortable position at all, and made me never want to take a full breath. Which is really a bad choice for someone with asthma, I pay diligent attention to full, steady breathing.

This was at about 1 a.m. Five hours later I had spiked a fever, emptied my bedside water jug, and was beginning to wonder if it was in fact a weird-ass heart attack. I fished my blood pressure cuff out of the box with my thermometer and other medical necessities, realising I hadn't checked my BP in over a month.

I do have mild hypertension, kicked in when I was 40. Everybody in my family, even extended family, had hypertension from a young age onward. The family ethic was to simply tough it out, which meant early death from strokes and heart attacks, or to diet obsessively while still smoking, drinking, and/or living in a simmering rage. Hostility is as much a risk factor as hypertension, more of one than being fat or having high cholesterol, but since the drug companies can't come up with an anti-hostility pill that folks will actually take, it's the diet industry which gets all the bucks for "preventing heart disease."

Thing is, in those mass studies that prove a correlation between being fat and having increased incidence of heart disease, if you factor out the folks who are chronically dieting (which most studies do not, but a few have) -- if you factor out the extremely abnormal behavior of self-imposed starvation, there's no cardiac difference between fat people and non-fat people who are not dieting.

I once typed medical records for a clinic of doctors who did medically-supervised weight loss. I typed the release forms patients were asked to sign which indicated it was highly likely if you lost weight by their methods, i.e., focused on calories but not kinds of calories, you would develop extremely abnormal cholesterol levels as a result. Also, 30-40% of their patients had to have a cholecystectomy (gall bladder removal) within six months of the diet beginning. They didn't mention the 95% failure rate of all diets, but my guess is, it still wouldn't have stopped people from spending their money on what sounds like medicine but is pure snake oil. (I mean, can you imagine any other recommended treatment with a 95% failure rate being allowed by law?)

Because the real problem folks have with fat is that it looks like fat. Not what it does to your health.

So, anyhow, when my high blood pressure showed up, I had a good feminist doctor who said "I assume if you're this fat already, you've dieted for years in the past" which is exactly right. We went over what I ate, which at that point was extremely healthy, and she couldn't find any suggestions to make. I did as much exercise as my asthma allowed. So she recommended lisinopril, an ACE-inhibitor, and warned me that hypertensive drugs vary widely, not all of their mechanisms of efficacy are completely understood, and I might have to go through a dozen before I found one that worked for me.

I began on the lowest possible dose, and it worked instantly, easily, no side effects, no spikes after exertion or during stress. Just nice steady pressures in the 110/70 range. Been on it ever since, at the same dose. Because there is no honor in dying young.

But a few months ago, I began noticing that, along with some other physiological changes, my daily or every-other-day blood pressure checks were registering some very low readings. Lisinopril is available as a generic for $10 covering three months, it's not a drug I've had to give up, EXCEPT it costs me $25 to have somebody go pick up a prescription. Even every three months, that $12 a month, which is a significant budgetary item. I mean, fresh broccoli or lisinopril? That's a real question in my life.

So I decided to try not taking it for a while, see what happened. For over a month, no change in my readings. And then I forgot to keep checking.

So, in that world of pain, I suddenly thought "Hey, lingering headache, sign of hypertension you dummy" and I took my pressure: 165/100. The highest, by far, I've ever had. I managed, with serious effort, to move enough to find the lisinopril bottle and took one without water. Then I began to worry about fluid imbalance, what with a fever and all, so with what I honestly consider a heroic effort, I got up to refill my jug. Also checked my e-mail, and I replied to Cowboy Diva's comment about my latest chapter, but it's not there now so I must have either hallucinated it or somehow hit the wrong button. I called Jesse to let somebody know what was up, and also to check in on him because he was also in a world of pain. Then went back to bed.

An hour later, my blood pressure was normal. I've checked it eight times since, and it's never above 120/70, so I'm back on the lisinopril, for sure. I finally found one strange position which eased all the various spasms, and I fell out of consciousness right away. Slept half an hour, which is when the need to shift joints kicks in and in the course of moving while asleep, of course my back and ribs screamed. But with half an hour to an hour of sleep at a time, it's gotten slowly better. Fever is gone, taste bud is normal again, and sitting up/walking is possible.

That's my story for now. Back to living on an island far away from the current of the rest of the world. Dinah is keeping me good company, because I have been free-handed with the treats. The night of her birthday, she even watched a few minutes of a PBS special about show cats with me.

And, by the way, Max Baucus, Dianne Feinstein, and all the Republicans who think the public option is anti-American: I hope you have to spend your old age living off inadequate Medicare and the kindness of strangers. Except you wouldn't recognize kindness if it was a Maine Coon show cat who bit you on your gluteally-challenged ass.

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Monday, September 14, 2009

TIDAL MONDAY

Blue Moon
Contending with a headache that keeps coming back. Probably linked to hormonal crap, as there are other signs of that. Behind on work. Not enough money to buy medications. But wanted to say a few things...

Yesterday it never reached 90 degrees as a high. Last night the low was below 70 degrees. This is the first time in months and months that either has occurred. Plus, we got Rain. Even so, with the relief, I kept thinking about it being the anniversary of Hurricane Ike all weekend. Galveston has nowhere near recovered, may never recover. All the lives and livelihoods lost.

During my coverage of the aftermath last year, I looked through hundreds or thousands of photographs online. And there was one -- I'm not even going to tell you what it was about, except it showed what must have been a long, agonizing death. I wish I hadn't seen it. I wish I could wipe it from my mind. It haunts me still.


One of the "hormonal signs" is that my sleep is all awry. I keep dropping off at odd times and not sleeping through a complete cycle. This plays havoc on an already challenged body. The new TV season is not yet arrived, and I'm not sure it will be much good when it does get here. Except for those PBS documentaries and science shows, g*d bless them.

I watched one last night about the history and impact of Helvetica. Yeah, the font. It was utterly fascinating and raised more questions than I know how to answer. It's yet another source of brainwashing and homogeneity. Will we ever throw off corporate control of our lives? Postmodernism can go FUCK itself. Clarity does not equal communication or respect. Reacting against something does not produce new ideas or energy if that's all you're doing. These are a few of my sub rosa reactions.

Cat Dinah as a kitten (Dinah as a kitten in November 2001)

Tomorrow Dinah turns 8 years old. She usually comes and sits by me when I create the LOLCats weekly round-up, which is a little unsettling because I know she's not registering the photos, it must be something I'm generating energetically to attract her. Or the occasional zany laughter. I'd give her a special treat tomorrow except she doesn't like wet food or human food, only kibble and Whisker Lick'n treats, both of which she gets on demand. I guess I can pick up some of the red rings scattered around and throw them all day so she can run around like a maniac, that will make her happier.

("States United" map from Strange Maps

I've noticed that in the blogs I like to read first/most often, there's a serious collective movement underway to unroof the bedrock racism of what's being aimed at Obama in the name of "anti-socialism" or the teabagger reactionaries. A solid group of us are naming names and making a list, and I feel good being part of this effort. A few of them have written me private e-mails or linked to me. More are using ideas I raised without credit, but perhaps it was their idea simultaneously, that happens when an inevitable realization sweeps the minds of thinking folks. There is also a concurrent decision to call out crazy where crazy appears, differentiating delusion from those who foment and prey on delusion. It has libertarians very, very upset out there. My name has been bandied about with extreme negativity. Oops.

It reminds me of how outraged hippie and counterculture boys were when women started demanding equal rights. Like, we were trashing their good times by pointing out what THEY were doing that was sinking the possibility of real, enduring change.

I never enjoyed "Happy Days", just like I find "That 70's Show" unwatchable. You have to ignore huge segments of the population to pretend like the 1950s or the 1970s were lighthearted, with only rock and dope added to what is (in Hollywood-land) still all about white boys looking for sex.

Here's some of those fighting the Very Good Fight: Jill Cozzi at Brilliant at Breakfast; Richard Blair at All Spin Zone; Crooks and Liars in general, but especially Mike Finnegan's daily blog round-up and DO GO READ Nonny Mouse's recent post Stoopid Peepul ; Hullaballoo in general but especially Digby, Tristero and DDay; Batocchio at Vagabond Scholar; Michael's incisive analysis of current images at BAGNewsNotes; Echidne (24/7) for Real Feminism and astute take-downs of pseudoscience; and, while I always read my friend Kat's BitchCraft, her latest post (Challenging Art and Our Educations) promoting her friend -m-'s reaction to seeing Judy Chicago's "Dinner Party" for the first time is extremely good.

The Dinner Party by Judy Chicago (The Dinner Party by Judy Chicago)

Yeah, Kat and -m-, we been robbed. We coulda been a contender. However, unlike Marlon Brando, we are still alive and still able to lace on gloves. Even with this damned headache, I'm not dead yet.

To give thanks in another direction, I'm a big fan of the adventure games produced by Sandlot Games, which assuredly must have some really really smart women designing product. The entire Tradewinds series has been female-friendly and good on a number of oppression issues -- for instance, when you have the option of creating your own character, some of the images you can select from are actually fat. And the people of color are not Cosby-women-light. However, their latest, Tradewinds Odyssey, set in ancient Greece, is outstanding in its non-sexist portrayal of genders, its inside humor, and its clever rethinking of myth and history. For instance, when one dimwitted god or king (can't remember who it was) says he wants something sparkly to get himself a woman because "Girls like shiny things, right?", the hero replies "I think you're confusing girls with crows". Zing!

Even better, during one quest the Minotaur's sister is trying to help her discriminated-against brother (lots of disabled-rights messages in this one), and she turns to the Amazons for assistance. Once she's done with her part of the story, she announces that Hippolyta has created a "women's commune" that she's going to join because she's decided to come out. It's couched in other language, but the message is clear. Right ON!

Tradewinds Odyssey screenshot (Tradewinds Odyssey screenshot)

Okay, back to typing emergency room reports of people who've arrived with far progressed conditions because they don't have insurance and couldn't afford to see a doctor back when a simple prescription or low-cost treatment would have interrupted a downward spiral. We can't afford NOT to have universal health care any more. Do the math, stoopid.

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Monday, July 13, 2009

BRIEF UPDATE: PAIN AND PYA

Map of Saya Island Map of Saya Island and nearby islands, part of Pya cluster; © 2009 Maggie Jochild.

Mostly, I've been dealing with some major health issues involving my GI tract and severe pain. I've have four bed-confining episodes in the past two weeks. Sitting up to write has been extremely limited, and I'm saving that time for my paying job, such as it is.

I've also been working on another enormous blog project, which I'll tell you about soonish. Working as in figuring out details and making notes on paper.

However, when lying in bed wracked with pain, considering politics/real world issues is not a helpful distraction. Nor are my usual narcotic, cooking shows. During the first knock-out, I also discovered I couldn't write Ginny Bates episodes in my head. I need to stop writing there and begin editing, and since I don't have a hook yet to launch that endeavor, my mind is now refusing to create new Ginny stories.

In desperation, I tried to think of another story, something that would take my artistic drive and run with it. What came to me was hopscotching ahead from my previous (Myra-related) novel Skene and beginning the next book in that series -- working title right now is Pya . I have only written a few paragraphs of actual exposition, but in my head I've outlined the book and even begun drawing maps on paper. It's been unlimited comfort.


Skene is a science fiction novel set over 500 years in the future. Plot synopsis is that Earth sends out a group of approximately 100 specialists (all races, genders, nationalities, ages) to an ocean planet in the constellation Alhena with plans to mine the sea and a single cluster of islands found amid all that water. As in most sci fi novels, this is a story of "when it changed" -- but it's not about the original colonization effort. Instead, I begin the narrative 500 years after first landfall. In the interim, three main developments have occurred:

(1) The original plan was for the colonists to make a 4-year commitment, one year each way in travel and two years setting up the planet for mining. At the end of their hitch, a new set of colonists will arrive to take their place. However, for reasons never known or explained, Earth never sends replacements. The original group is left forever on their own.
(2) Something about the water world begins altering human biology, specifically gender and procreative biology. Male fertility takes a hit and continues declining, and increasingly fewer numbers of male children are born. By the time my novel begins, only one in six births is male and of those, only 10% will be fertile enough to create a pregnancy. As a consequence of several factors (including mass insanity when the change is first realized), Skene culture now prohibits any identity based on gender. Your immediate family and lover/partners will know if you are X or Y, as they refer to it, but no one else. All sexual, occupational, community, familial, and even procreative behavior is based on individual traits, not gender categories. Further, with the collapse of the gender binary, along with other causative factors, class and race differentiation has also disappeared. Skene has created a progressive meritocracy combined with other forms of non-traditional repression.
(3) As if they didn't have enough problems, the original colonists discover that one of the indigenous life forms, all of which were presumed to be benign and barely sentient, is not simply a whale-sized fish but in fact a clever carnivorous predator. Humanity on Skene is confined to existence on its 39 small islands, 24 of which are truly tiny land masses. They have futuristic technology but extremely limited natural resources.

N.B. The name Skene is a lesbian inside joke.

Skene covers a period of about 15 years, following the lives of three women who bring profound change to Skene. There's a lot of great sex, political machinations, environmental dilemmas, alternative family life, and extreme adventure. I ended the book with an Epilogue about 20 years in the future, just as Skene is about to make another quantum leap of cultural reformation.

I begin Pya 25 years after Skene's epilogue, focusing on the grandchild of the three main characters in Skene (who was not born by the aforementioned Epilogue). She and her cohort are, again, caught at the moment after one set of "when it changed" has occurred, but another is poised to make demands of them. With Pya, I build on the social structure, language, lineage, geography, and memes established in Skene. However, it has required a whole new set of maps, family additions, and language amplification, all of which is delicious fun to create for me, the anthropology student.

If you want to read Skene, look in the labels in the right-hand column and begin with Chapter One. All the chapters in Skene are in numerical order. There is also a wealth of appendix material: A dictionary, an explanation of the culture, cast of characters, maps of the island, and more, all itemized under Skene in my labels and also accessible through Chapter One.

Once I get the actual writing under way, I may post chapters of Pya here, if there's interest. My web statistics have shown me there's a fair number of Skene readers out there, so let me know if you want access to the new raw material.

More update on other issues later. For now, I have to do some Work.

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Friday, May 8, 2009

FRESH FOOD, OLD MEMORIES

(Savoy cabbage from Boggy Creek Farm.)

Right after I wrote a post six weeks ago about what a great grocery delivery person I had, she let me know she was having to give up her personal assistant business in order to return to full-time (salaried) social work, because of the economy. She recommended a replacement who has turned out to be not nearly as good. I got a second delivery from the new person yesterday, and despite addressing with her the errors she made the first time around, well, she made some of the same mistakes.

Sigh.

So I have to write her another e-mail tonight, or call her tomorrow, and complain again. Point out that when she doesn't bring me a dozen eggs, for instance, it means I go without eggs for a month. My list has no room for deletions, it's as much as I can afford AND it's all the food I'll have for that month, so every item is essential to my meal-planning.


The good news is that I have someone at all (she's young, she's got a kid, I'm pretty sure she's on food stamps herself, I'm hoping she doesn't give up on me). Also good is that in the fridge right now are some fresh veggies, milk, cheese, and other items that do not last a month. The next week will be decent eating.

Also good news is that the act of carrying in and putting away the groceries did not trip any joint or muscular problems. I was extremely cautious, and I'm so proud of myself for having pulled this off that I can't stop grinning. Major victory in the world of criptitude.

Which does not mean that if I was now in my usual post-exertion pain, it would be my FAULT. No, things happen. I will accept credit for whatever role I play in navigating these waters but no blame for when I do my best and it does not work. The last thing disabled people need to hear is that we have brought it on ourselves, have failed. Again.

Last weekend, I had a scare because it felt as if I was going into an ovarian cyst rupture. My right ovary began to smolder (which is a very accurate description of the feeling). I immediately went and lay down in the only position which helps, and then only sometimes. I remained prone, drinking only water, for the next 24 hours. Watched a lot of cooking shows and got fairly hungry before the vigil was over, but again, it worked. After another day, the residual pain disappeared and the rupture never completed itself, nor did I get a fever (although I did have the usual diarrhea, which I think is from the heat in the region.)

Another factor which may be helping is that I began taking Aleve in the last four days. I've been out of Celebrex for months and there's no time visible on the horizon when I'll be able to get in to the doctor and get a new prescription, even if I could pay for the scrip, so I've been without analgesics except an occasional ibuprofen for quite a while. I'm wary about the naproxen, especially with my new GI issues, but so far, so good. My sleep is immensely better, and I'm standing with less effort, which means I'm willing to move around more, which is all positive. I'll take a holiday from the Aleve after seven days, to not overstress my gut, and see what a difference it makes when I don't have it in my system.

Speaking of ovarian cyst rupture: One of the blogs I read daily is a small jewel written by Blue Ox, a friend of mine who used to live here but has now moved to Kentucky. Today's post is gorgeous, about trying to follow up on her last ovarian cyst rupture, dealing with poverty, no insurance, being a dyke, contending with having been crazy, in a world which values none of those states of being. I recommend it highly: On Scary Ovary Monsters, Revolving Pee-Cup Doors and Finally My Own Sweet Rukan

Blue rescuing a turtle
This is photo of Blue not long after I had my knee replaced in 2000. I was off work and would walker, with great difficulty, out to my van every day and drive to Hornsby Bend, a series of treatment ponds which are great for bird-watching. I could drive the deserted road around the ponds, sit in my vehicle and use my binox to see what migratory visitors were on the water that day. Blue went with me this day and on the approach road, we saw a largish snapping turtle sitting dangerously in the middle of the asphalt. Blue took a bucket from the back of my van and scooped up the turtle, depositing her safely in the grass on the other side, while I snapped her picture.

I was at Hornsby Bend on June 19, 2001 at the time my little brother Bill died. On the first pond was a large flock of wading birds I had never seen before (or since). I sat for half an hour with my field glasses and Sibley's, trying to identify them -- not big enough to be wood storks but too large to be curlews. Finally I narrowed it down to white ibis, although we are a little out of their range here. However, Hornsby Bend is on the Colorado River and an ancient flyway. There were a few dozen of them, and their appearance unsettled me in ways I could not understand.

Not long after I got home, my father called me from Bill's house, saying Bill was dead on the couch, already cold.

White ibises are admired and heeded along the Gulf Coast because they are the last sign of wildlife to take shelter before a hurricane hits and the first to reappear once the storm has passed. They were the ancient Egyptian symbol used for Thoth, the god of wisdom, the moon, and the invention of writing. I do believe the ibises I saw that day were an omen, of the storm about to hit but also the aftermath.

Bill's yartzeit is when I began writing my novel Ginny Bates, after a dream in which he crashed the action, demanding I follow him to a trunk behind a chair. Inside the trunk were three massive reams of bound paper. He picked up one and handed it to me wordlessly, his rattlesnake-bite-disfigured hand showing its scar and twisted fingers. When I read the top page, I realized it was a book by me.

The next day, I listened to a Youtube video whose soundtrack was a song from the Solomon Islands. The music haunted me and entered not just every dream but began playing in my head all day long. That night, I had another dream with Bill in it, an outdoor party, and Ginny Bates showed up for the first time as that song was playing. A week later, I gave up trying to fight the haunting and began writing the novel. The day after that, I discovered the song's lyrics (in a language I swear I've never heard) were about an older sister telling her little brother about the nature of death.

I just realized I've never told anyone about the ibises before.

White ibis by Judith Vivell (White ibis, oil on canvas by Judith Vivell.)

[Cross-posted at Group News Blog.]

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Sunday, April 26, 2009

SIFTING THE NEWS

(Liquid Kachina, acrylic on canvas by James Wille Faust)

I was just directed to a news item from Radio Netherlands which states:

"The Czech authorities have ordered the former Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan to leave the country by midnight on Saturday. David Duke, a US national, had been invited to Prague by a number of neo-Nazi groups to celebrate the presentation of a translation of his book.

"The Czech authorities say the book denies the extent of the Holocaust and approves of it and other Nazi crimes. On Friday evening, Czech police detained Mr Duke on suspicion of denying the Holocaust, an offence punishable by up to three years in jail in the Czech Republic."

I find this very heartening, and wish there was some way to similarly deny him re-entry to the U.S.

I also thought of how, when Duke was running for Governor of Louisiana, a member of my family decided to relocate from Texas to Louisiana because they hoped to live in a state under his leadership. Yep, blood kin to me. Hard for me to admit. I believe a lot of people can be reached and given a roadmap to change, probably most people, but I have given up on that relative.


It's been a tough week here in Maggieland, in some respects, and I'm looking for good news wherever I can find it. If there is a global pandemic of the swine flu, I may be one of the survivors because I have no human contact and thus no means of transmission. Of course, without outside help to deliver groceries, I'll also starve to death, that is if the utility infrastructure stays operational, so I'll call that one a draw.

Last week I undertook some physically demanding tasks around my house which I have been literally putting off for months. I pushed myself through the pain and strain to get 'em done, and felt virtuous as I collapsed in bed for the next 36 hours, in severe muscular distress. One of the tasks was to finally get my DTV converter box working, on the third try. (The difficulty lay in accessing all the equipment, plus dead batteries in the new remote control which took me an unconscionably long time to troubleshoot.) So, as I was laid up, I had sudden access to wildly improved reception and a range of channels I hadn't ever gotten before, including a PBS side channel that shows cooking, garden, and home improvement shows around the clock. Or, as Jesse remarked, "crack cocaine" for the likes of me.

I had a second relapse in Saturday, with prolonged bouts of vomiting which is a new development after profound exertion and muscular stress. I'm up at my computer with caution, choosing not to eat or take any risks with my body for the time being.

(Carrots at Boggy Creek Farm: Yellow, Orange, Maroon, White...)
During my down time this week, I was thrilled to find that one of these shows, called "Cultivating Life" with host Sean Conway, featured a tour of our own Boggy Creek Farm, an urban organic intensive farm here in Austin, including a delightful interview with Carol Ann, one of the owners and who I think of as "my farm gal". They re-ran it and I watched it a second time through, nostalgic for the smell and look of the place itself.

(Acarajé frying, photo by Joao Eduardo Penna de Carvalho)
I was also taken back to my past by Daisy Martinez on her excellent cooking show when she made acarajé, a dish we ate from street vendors when I lived for a year as a girl in Brasil. When I was grown, my mother and I back-engineered the recipe and it's been a favorite of mine ever since. I included the dish in my novel, and have written about it as memoir, including the recipe, and in a poem, both located in my post Brasil As A Girl.

I watched the second installment of "We Shall Remain", the PBS documentary series purporting to be a history of Native Americans. I've decided it's deeply flawed, both in approach and some of the content. I didn't realize until this episode that Ric Burns was involved with it, and his weaknesses are definitely evident -- he has a hard time with the macro view, always leaving a glaring gap. And, in particular, he is absorbed with the male gaze: His inclusion of women and girls is too often incidental and distorted. With this series, the speakers and focus has been overwhelmingly male-dominated, which is particularly galling to me given how First Nations culture prior to white overrun had a gender balance that we often fail to comprehend.

For instance, this second episode concerned Tecumseh, a Shawnee military strategist who came close to shutting down U.S. expansion into the Midwest, creating a pan-Indian confederation the likes of which has never been accomplished before or since. Tecumseh worked in collaboration with his brother Lowawluwaysica, a prophet and spiritual leader who emerged from near-death due to alcoholism to re-invent himself (as Tenskwatawa) and inspire all who came into contact with him.

The obvious question is, how did these two men become such brilliant leaders and innovative thinkers, especially at a time when Native culture was under profound assault, having suffered at least two generations of disruption from epidemic and attempted white genocide? At one point, the documentary refers to the fact that because of constant warfare, the male Shawnee population had been dramatically reduced, and in some villages there were four females to every one male. But this is glancingly referred to as a toxic imbalance. At another point, it is mentioned that Tecumseh's father died when he was seven, which is around the time his younger brother was born. This means that these boys were raised with strong female influence and a widowed mother. But no exploration of how this might play a role in their singular development is ever undertaken, and indeed, their mother is never named. Nor is any other female in the entire 90 minutes, despite the fact that someone had to be doing the farming, home construction and maintenance, making clothing, tending the ill and wounded among these warriors, as well as raising the next generation. But Burns doesn't find it worthy of mention.

What a fucking joke. I wish Paula Gunn Allen. were still alive to make her opinion about it known. However, even in death, she has something pertinent to say: "I have noticed that as soon as you have soldiers the story is called history. Before their arrival it is called myth, folktale, legend, fairy tale, oral poetry, ethnography. After the soldiers arrive, it is called history."

(Paula Gunn Allen. Oakland, California, 1988; photo by Robert Giard)

Also this week (Friday) was the 25th yartzeit of Mama's death. How can it be 25 years I've gone without her? You know, even with my imagination, I cannot grasp in my mind the ways in which she would have grown and changed by now, had she lived.

Since Dinah's mysterious illness a couple of months ago and my freak-out about it, she and I are much closer, interacting in a different way. I make sure not to ever take her for granted, and in turn, she's allowing more tactile affection between us. It's quite the blessing.

I feel I should also inform those of you who are readers of my novel, Ginny Bates, that there are six months left of the story as I intended this (initial) book to be -- I designed it to end in June 2020. Further, this does not mean the remaining chapters will extend over the next six months in real time. I think it may be over in six weeks or perhaps two months. Of course, I've created characters who will go on, with a third generation emerging, and I'm definitely planning to continue the joy of writing. But I don't have the draft in hand that I did of this first monster effort, and I'm not sure if I should keep posting much rawer, new material, without the intricate structure and plot development I had devised for what I've done so far. Let me know if you have thoughts on the matter.

I'm now going to lie down, drink some water, and see if Jacques or Julia (or Ming or Daisy) have something diverting to show me. Dinah is sitting on the back of my chair, chirruping about treats and possibly throwing a toy for her to chase. Catch you later.

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Wednesday, April 8, 2009

JUST US CHICKENS...

Lily near Trinidad, California (Lily near Trinidad, California; photo by Easton D. Rankine)

I fully intended to make pasta for dinner, roasted grape tomatoes with caramelized onions, peas and alfredo over the last of my whole-grain penne, but instead I went quick and easy: Reheated burger with a massive plate of carrots. I'll do the pasta tomorrow.

Last night after I posted the Ginny Bates chapter which is the penultimate climax of the book, I realized I had to lie down. Fatigue hit me like a freight train and I crashed into sleep for three hours. When I got up, dreaming about my late beloved main character, I came in to talk with Jesse for a while before doing some paying work. I slept in two chunks today but feel rested.


It's been incredibly hard to write this last month's work of the novel. I had an original draft, which one of you (Kat) read almost two years ago now, but by the time I got back to revising it for posting, I rewrote it almost ten words to one. The characters had grown so much, the story had gotten so rich, it deserved the best I could give it.

The sentence where I ended last night's post was the exact point on October 16, 2006 when I stopped writing to sob uncontrollably about the loss of this main character, whom I allowed to die only because she insisted on it. I cried for 15 minutes, wiped my face and began writing an e-mail to Liza about how I'd spent the weekend writing the death of this character. Before I could finish the note, my phone rang, at 8:30 in the morning. It was my father's caller ID, so I answered. But it wasn't my father, it was my older brother, telling me that my father had died 15 minutes before.

It felt like I'd killed my father. In some aspects, it still feels that way. My grief for the loss of the character overshadowed my grief for my father. I hope you don't think less of me for admitting that.

My friend Martha reminded me this week that we are still, in fact, in the Age of Aquarius, which was/is not just a golden era, it's a time of millennial change. I prefer historiography which studies the lives of "ordinary" people and sees how their connections and growth forces the so-called leaders to make important decisions -- bottom-up power dynamics, in other words. As frighteningly unstable as my day-to-day life is, I'm thrilled to be alive at this point in history.

I just went looking for a quote from Annie Dillard about how and why we love our own generation best. I think it's in An American Childhood, or maybe her essay "The Book of Luke". I couldn't find it, but instead tripped across this:

"There were no formerly heroic times, and there was no formerly pure generation. There is no one here but us chickens, and so it has always been."

I read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek while driving with my best friend Jean and a couple of women we literally picked up along the way (Miri the Israeli hitchhiker who drove like a maniac and Dawna the extraordinary teenage runaway who sang like an angel) from Texas to the second annual Michigan Womyn's Music Festival. The festival alone would have derailed the course of my life, but Annie's writing was a double punch. From that point on, I've wanted to write the way she does. I'm beginning to close in on that goal -- not as well, of course, at least not yet, but definitely on the trail she blazed. How extraordinary to see the unimaginable within my grasp.

And, I'm reminded of another quote from her, this one from her excellent manual The Writing Life: "Many writers do little else but sit in small rooms recalling the real world." Well, that sums me up in a nutshell these days. As I remember it, she wasn't casting aspersions on that lifestyle choice, merely ruefully acknowledging its truth.

Today I'm remembering and grieving a woman I created out of my own imagination, and a father I still don't entirely understand. I am full of carrots, and my right thumb sends a jolt of pain up my wrist every time I use it to push the space bar. My left shoulder burns (the rotator cuff got aggravated by how I slept last night) unless I sit at an angle. Obama is playing politics with our right to privacy and our very soul with regard to torture. There's a meeting in Austin this week of emergency responders from all along the Gulf Coast, trying to get a head start on the hurricane season. But it's good to be out there, to be alive in this world, from what I remember. I'll take my vitamin D and keep writing. See you in the gaps.

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Saturday, April 4, 2009

OUT OF THIN AIR

Photo of scene in snow where an owl hunted a rabbit
I ran across an old packet of incense someone once gave me, and I have lit a stick over my computer workstation here. The smell brings back the 1970s, and the small tendril of smoke has been fascinating to Dinah, who thinks it might be alive. Of course, she has additional reason for that delusion today. More about that in a minute.

I noticed, when I opened the incense box, that it was manufactured by the followers of Sai Baba. I have a long-time friend, older than me, who became a devotee of Sai Baba for a while, although I'm fairly certain it was not her who gave me this incense. She was a deeply pragmatic working-class Texan who had a gift for news photography. She also did reporting and was a DJ, before moving into sales because she was so good at reading people. When she took up Eastern religions, it was a bit unexpected but the humility and thrift actually fit her character. I made myself an interested listener, and loved the stories/slide shows she brought back from her pilgrimages.


Then, one day, my friend brought over a video of Sai Baba performing miracles at a retreat she attended. He wandered around, interacting with some folks but not others, and intermittently he "manifested" a string of beads or a small religious object into his palm, giving it away to the bedazzled person nearest him. The thing was, though, that it was patently obvious he was doing sleight of hand, shaking the things down from his flowing sleeves, and he wasn't even very good at it. My father was an amateur magician and he had more ability than Sai Baba. I looked around at my friend, waiting for the joke, but realized she didn't see the con. What she saw were miracles. I was rattled by her, of all people, being taken in. However, I had the kindness and grace to keep it to myself. If she needed to believe, who was I to demand my version of things?

My sleep these days continues to occur in inadequate chunks, partly for health reasons, partly because of my internal life. Bad dreams abound. Thus, I woke up early today and lay there for a few minutes trying to force myself back into slumber, to no avail. I had turned on the ceiling fan over my bed because it's getting up to around 80 every afternoon now. When Dinah realized I was awake, she appeared for arms'-length petting and a little chat.

So, I was awake when a largish black widow spider began lowering herself down a thread of silk from the central part of my ceiling fan. I spotted her when she was about 2.5 feet above me. I lunged to the side, as best I can with my current physical limitations, and scrambled to my walker beside the bed. Dinah initially froze in consternation -- quick movement is not something she expects from human beings, and she could read my anxiety. She looked around as if trying to decide which direction to run. Then she caught sight of the spider, who had stopped and was swaying gently in the air. Her pupils constricted and she went into a crouch.

I snatched up a spray can of a cleaner nearby, because I didn't have bug spray at hand, and aimed a jet at the spider. Dinah leapt to the top of my dresser, since I'd clearly gone mad, and divided her attention between me and the spider. It took a while for the spider to die. I actually like spiders, and even had a pet black widow in a jar for a while as a child. But I've also been bitten by them, and I now have a real fear of the pain they can cause. Eventually I was able to gather it up in a paper towel and bury it in the trash. Since then, Dinah has taken to watching open air for things which might appear, dangling, for her entertainment. If she could levitate enough to check out the sinuous plume of smoke from the incense, she would go after it.

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Wednesday, April 1, 2009

NOT AN APRIL FOOL'S JOKE

Camptown Ladies by Kara Walker (Camptown Ladies, paper cut by Kara Walker)

Hi, y'all. I've been fasting in terms of news and analysis, not just the dreadful network coverage, but also from even many progressive blogs. It seems like almost everybody is scared and instead of calmly admitting that, letting the fear work its way out, and using humor/kindness/connection to keep our spirits up, folks are trying to think their way out of a grim situation. The problem is, being scared shitless doesn't lend itself to clear thought. I know the Hollywood version is that a hero somehow magically knows what to do under pressure, the exact right button to push, and this is the example we're supposed to emulate. But most Hollywood heroes are morons in every other part of their lives, blocks of wood with two facial expressions in their toolbox, and I simply don't buy the myth that they have intelligence on reserve somewhere.


Further, too many of the people yammering away at us are the very ones whose belief system created the mess we're in, and I'm not going to trust their solutions. They want the system not to fail, but it has already failed. Epic Fail. I wish we'd all just stop tuning in to them. I'm sick to death of reading progressive blogs reporting on the drek coming from the liars and manipulators whom they damned well know are such -- it's not enough to know, you also need to stop giving them any attention whatsoever. No reinforcement at all.

What I already understand is enough to help me chart a new course:


(1) The system of growth at all costs has failed. Sustainability is now upon us.
(2) There was never as much money as they pretended there was in order to keep making profits from manipulating money. It ain't coming back.
(3) If we stop being the world's consumers, we have to come up with another reason why we are valuable. I vote for integrity, pluralism, and human liberation, how's that sound?
(4) If we give up the addictions of consumption and overstimulated attention spans, we have to choose recovery and work it instead of the Dubya method.

Obama is not FDR. He's doing some things well, others less well, and comparing him to Dubya is pointless because I have a used tampon which could do a better job than Dubya did. Obama and the folks he's choosing as administrators of his vision are not going to come up with a new way of doing things. He was crystal clear about that all along. He will find practical ways to keep things as they are, more functional but essentially unrevised. The good part of his methodology is that it will keep folks from starving and dying, a trend the Bush administration absolutely was not going to ever intervene to stop. This will buy some time for real visionaries to create and implement change. That's us, the Peanut Gallery. So don't get caught up in the minutiae of this period -- stoke your coals for the long haul and the big dreams.

Now, of course, it's important I own where I stand personally. I live knee-deep in the floodwaters. I have no more physical slack, most days, than you could find in a Nyquil dispensing cup. My health issues have taken a turn for the worse over the last month, making my daily burden -- oh, hell, I can't even describe it. You don't want to know. Just trust me, it's enough to have shut me up for a while.

I don't write if what I'm producing doesn't raise the energy in some way.

But, like John Lennon, I try to always admit when it's getting better, and I'm getting better. Emotionally and spiritually, at least. So here's my voice again, with a few things to share.

LOLCat Dance like nobody's watching

One of my struggles this past month is that my cat Dinah got suddenly ill, to such an extent that she vanished and would not come when I called her. I had no money or means of getting help for her/us for a few days, and I went a little nuts over it. Finally folks stepped in with funds, and at the same time she recovered from whatever it was. She's completely back to normal. Still, it's altered our relationship, at least my end of it. I now admit to myself how emotionally dependent I am on her companionship. She's the only living thing I see, week in and week out.

Night before last Dinah did her disappearing act again. I was eating my version of lunch, which is around 10 p.m., and I noticed she wasn't showing up to check out my plate. She won't eat human food but she always like to look over my menu and give me a critical glance. I realized I hadn't seen her for an hour. I began calling her, and she didn't respond or come, which she almost always does -- curiosity rules her personality. I tried not to panic, gave it an hour in case she was deep in sleep, and went back to work.

When she hadn't shown up in a hour, I began calling, then searching for her. Unfortunately, there are several places she can hide where I cannot get to her. I guess she was in one of them and in a Greta Garbo mood. She didn't appear again for eight hours, during which time I pretty much melted down, decided she had died of a sudden heart attack or something like that and I wouldn't be able to locate her body until it began deteriorating. No sleep or work was possible. She eventually came, after a long bout of calling on my part, looking like "What is your problem?" I slobbered all over her (metaphorically speaking, of course) and she allowed me to rave on about how much I needed her. Since then, she has adopted a new habit, climbing onto the back of my rolling office chair as I type and sitting in state, looking over my shoulder. I actually love the proximity, although it means I can't shift position in my chair and after 15 minutes or so, that becomes painful. Whatever. Even if she's fucking with me, I'm too attached to her to care.

Postcard from Stella Marrs (Postcard from http://www.stellamarrs.com/'>Stella Marrs)

A year ago, the national transcription company I work for part-time (which is consistently rated the best in the country, with a commitment to never outsource their work overseas), finally gave in to industry pressure and began allowing their hospital clients to use speech recognition software [SRS] as part of the transcription process. The way it works is that some physicians dictate their medical reports into the software, which then "transcribes" it and that version comes to us, the transcriptionist. Theoretically, we listen, correct the errors, and the software "learns" how that particular physician deviates in their speech pattern, making the transcription increasingly more accurate. For this we received a cut in pay on any report sent through that software. We had no choice in the matter.

Interestingly, the folks selling the hospitals this software strongly advised only the clearest dictators be allowed to use it at the beginning. I've been through this before with other companies, and could easily predict how it would go. Electronic medical records, for instance, typically demand 10-15 minutes of entry and review time from a physician for each patient seen. However, dictating that same report will take no more than 3 minutes of her/his time. Even the most tech-crazy young doctor quickly figured out they could not possibly keep up the patient load most of them have (about four patients per hour in a typical day) and also use the EMR system. It's far cheaper to pay a transcriptionist to create the record than use 10 minutes of physician time. But by the point the hospitals figure this out, the software company has cashed their check and moved on to the next sucker I mean customer.

Electronic medical records are far more accessible, which can and does lead to improved patient care -- if the physician uses them competently. But they also remove any hope of patient privacy. Trust me, I know. Don't tell your doctor anything you don't want to be publicly available, not if they're using EMR.

Speech recognition software is also doubly labor-intensive. The physician saves no time, her/his dictation requirement is the same. But the complete and utter garbled crap that arrives over the wire to me as a supposed draft legal medical document is a hazard to good care everywhere. I gave the effort of training the software an honest try, and at the one year mark, when even the slowest and clearest-voiced dictators are still resulting in "review for errors" reports which are virtually unreadable -- I decided it ain't working. In a medical report, the placement of a decimal point on a lab test or medicine dosage, for instance, is critical to well-being. Do doctors dictate "zero point two five micrograms"? No, not even the best of them. They say, in a rush, "two-five mikes". They use CVA for both costovertebral angle and cardiovascular accident. Peroneal means a different part of the body than perineal (VERY different part of the body). And so on. Me, with my human brain and decades of experience, automatically translate this into what they mean to say. I care very much about the absolute accuracy and usefulness of the records I product, because it is human health and well-being on the other end.

Factor into this the reality that a growing percentage of good doctors in this country are not native English speakers, or have regional American accents which the allegedly "smart" software seems utterly unable to comprehend, plus the fact that most physicians dictate on the go in very noisy environments (where background speech is picked up by the software and inserted as random words into the transcribed report), and the number of physicians who will ever be good candidates for SRS plummets.

So, I've stopped even trying to correct the first drafts I get. I start from scratch, transcribing what I hear, and it goes much, much faster than if I hop from word to word cleaning up the mess. The hospital plan, of course, is that eventually they can just use the software and phase out a transcription service. Well, lots of luck with that. As long as patients can sue for malpractice, the accuracy of medical records will be a profitable concern, and there is no machine that can replace what I do. Until that lesson is learned, all these expensive purchases and trials will come out of hospital budgets and get passed on to you.

Two tangents I want to follow from the above: First, last night I typed a medical report on someone famous who is a personal hero of mine. I'll tell you it was a woman, since you'd probably guess that much, but nothing else that might identify her. I wanted to look at the entirety of her medical record, but did not until during the course of typing her report, I could not ascertain the name of a particular physician from her past and had to go dig anyhow. I read her original History and Physical, which was revelatory. She has major health issues that must affect every detail of her personal life, and I had no idea. I view her very differently now, with heightened respect. I'll never meet her personally, but I've still invaded her privacy, don't you think? I console myself with a promise that I'll never, ever tell anyone else what I learned.

This is the second time this has occurred in my career. The other instance, it was a major actress who that year came up for an Academy Award. The movie she was about to begin filming had a health clause which might have kept her from the Oscar-contending role if they had learned of the condition which was being secretly treated (and which was the topic of the report I typed). I kept that secret, too, and I've never read about her health issue out there in the gossip trade.

Another reason why SRS is being tried out by transcription companies, in addition to demand from clients who are determined to learn the hard way, is that it is becoming increasingly difficult for them to find competent people to work as transcriptionists. It's not only that the ability to transcribe is a particular language ability which is akin to simultaneous translation -- you can learn it, but if you don't have some sort of innate ability, you'll never be really proficient. Those of us who have the ability can transcribe, editing as we go, without actually retaining most of what is passing through our brains. We can carry on a conversation, listen to radio or TV, or (in my case) write poetry and fiction in our heads as we transcribe.

But, as I said, it's not just the particular ability of transcription, it's also finding folks who can spell anything that comes along without looking it up or relying on a spellchecker, who know grammar and syntax backwards and forwards, and who have keen listening skills. These are all human abilities which are atrophying in our current culture. I hear that most grade schools are no longer teaching handwriting because kids use keyboards so much, which I think is absolutely ludicrous -- why not stop teaching kids how to walk, I mean, we have Segways, don't we? Or stop teaching basic math because we have calculators. The fact is, not only do these basic skills make us independent of electronics and petroleum-based technology whose days are numbered, they also help develop our brains in ways we can ill afford to lose. As a writer, I use keyboards for certain kinds of composition but not others. No single technique is best for any kind of activity, haven't we learned that by now? It's more of the dumbing down, lowest common denominator culture of conservatism, which understands that stupid, incurious consumers are the ideal citizens under their version of government.

Photo of crescent moon over water

Still, I promised to raise the energy, and fresh examples all around us. Folks are putting in gardens and deciding to eat better rather than "diet". Iceland elected an out lesbian to lead their country. (I wish dykes and blacks didn't always get their first breaks when things have gone to shit and it's questionable whether anyone can fix the mess we're handed, but a first is a first.) New Mexico repealed the death penalty. Religiosity in America is being slowly replaced by generic spirituality. The State of Missouri understands the real threat to our personal security is the right-wing among us, not those brown people from (fill in the blank). The Texas State Board of Education managed to keep some significant Creationist language out of our science education standards. I bet you have examples of how the floodwaters are receding as well, perhaps literally if you live in Fargo. Jump in and dare to believe. See you around.

[Cross-posted at Group News Blog.]

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