Workin' it

So, I've been home for about an hour and a half and I just cracked open my third beer. Is that a problem? Damned if I know. I worked a double-ish today. I had one of my most sensible trainers tonight, finally someone who ascribes to the "learn by doing not watching" M.O. Before tonight I had yet to drive one of the company vans (I normally drive a VW Golf) and obviously for the same reason had yet to deliver meds to clients or drop them off at home. We had community dinner tonight at one of the programs I work for, and afterwards had to drop off 5 clients. I had gone on this run earlier in the week, but as a passenger. Tonight the guy who was training me just says "Here's the keys!"

After figuring out how everything in vehicle worked (locks, lights, windows, etc.) I announce to my passengers, "I promise I won't kill anybody, but I've never driven this van before." Once we were on the road the whole thing was like butter. I remembered how to get to where everyone lived, delivered meds to two clients, one was memorably chainsmoking at her ironing board/coffee table, knitting a hat, and giving us the latest on her quest for a small business loan via the help of the city manaager, "Bob" ("I don't know is last name. I don't need to know it. I'm not marrying the guy. If I was marrying the guy then I'd need to know his last name.")

On the way back, the last passenger was upset and complaining that she was hearing voices, and that she needed a Seroquel pronto. She told us this in response to my co-worker complaining about a song being stuck in his head. "I wish all I had was a bad song stuck in my head. The voices are much worse." When he asked what they were saying she responded, "They're angry. I don't know what they're saying. They're just angry." My co-worker (the good trainer) basically just assured her that if she was feeling uncertain or troubled to just call or come over to the office, since she lives nearby. It's not technically our job to solve the problem of hearing voices - in our position we can only offer support and safety.

I'm stuck on the topic of work, I'm sorry. And I need to vent about something. I may get into the background at some point, but suffice to say there's this chick who was hired at the same time as me who I am having some issues with. Without going into some of the broader issues, I will say that I worked first shift with her today, and got to see a lot of her "in action" with some clients at the group home. It's not that she's condescending per se. It's just that there's this weird sort of attitude that seems to be adopted by, to be blunt, the most jaded and lazy of the people I've seen who work with the mentally disabled. It's that sort of smarmy "baby talk", where the "caretaker" treats and regards their "charge" as a final statement, as having evolved to where they will evolve to, as needing encouragement in much the same way as a dog might. Case in point: No less than three times today, she approached one of the clients at the home,(in fairness he is probably one of the worst off, as he had a pre-existing disabilty, trauma, and a brain injury on top of that) and admonished him in this sort of sing-song tone, "S., where's that smile! Come on, show me that smiiiyelll!!!" Whereupon S. flashes a brief smile and reverts to exactly the same state he was in - a little out there, but basically fine. The only thing missing from this whole interaction was this chick pulling a cookie out of her pocket for every time he smiles and saying "Good Boy!" OK. Now, one could make the argument that the clients are damaged, ill, and have relatively simple needs, and this kind of "playful" communication is harmless. BUT...oh, God, is anyone following me here? The thing that bothers me is that it strikes me as sort of putting a giant period, as in "." on a person. My question is what is a given person's highest potential? What are the questions, attitudes, and behaviors directed towards that person to express the assumption or expectation that they can and will evolve, however slow the revolution? I know I am probably being far too idealistic in my thinking on all of this. I just hope I'm not setting myself up for heartache. That's it for tonight.

Forks, Knives, Spoons

I'll start by saying there's a whole story taking place right now, tonight, here, that is pretty much illustrated by a fork in the road.











That's as much of the story as I'm willing to tell here. I only mention it as a sort of backdrop, because I'm about to write about some relatively frivolous crap right now, but behind it all is that picture. It's as stark as it looks.

Tonight I knocked on my landlady's door (she lives right next door) to give her some packages that UPS dropped off while she was gone. She was having dinner with her ex-husband, and they both enthusiastically invited me in, asking if I'd eaten (I had - more about that later) did I want a drink (before realizing I had brought my own) and please, why don't you sit down? I really like both of them, they are in their late sixties, very smart and funny and entertaining.

The conversation revolved around serious health matters and what kind of alcohol we liked to drink. Once that second subject came up, her husband, who looks just like Santa Claus, became very animated - "Do you like Sambuca?" he wanted to know, "What about that Polish vodka? That's the best, you know." "Guinness?" And did I know how to pour one liquor on top of another so that they don't mix? (I did.) And have I ever had bourbon in a shot glass then dropped, glass and all, into a pint of beer? (I hadn't.) "Hennessy is expensive, but good for a winter night...but don't drink moonshine made from corn...although" he said, with a slightly distant look in his eye, "Once I had some and it was terrible at first. Then I had another sip and it wasn't that bad. Then I thought, 'This is pretty good!' but I think there was a terrible earthquake that night, because the floor kept hitting me in the head! Even the walls!" Did I ever drink Dubonnet w/ lemon and ice, his wife wanted to know. What kind of beer do I drink, so they have some next time? And it went on and on.

During the vodka part of the conversation, where I was being queried about what I like to mix it with and what kind I buy (Smirnoff), my landlady suddenly got up from her chair, "Oh, I have something for you!" She went and rustled around in the side room for a minute, returning with this elaborate gift box of Grey Goose vodka, complete with a martini glass. "Here, this is for you for being such a nice girl." (No, she wan't drinking!) I'm sitting there thinking, Huhh? but I said, "Oh my God, are you sure? This is really nice! That's really good vodka!" And she said "It's just for you, don't share it. You have to do nice things for yourself, take care of yourself." I'm not totally sure that drinking a big ol' bottle of Grey Goose by myself is necessarily taking care of myself, nonetheless I thanked her profusely, because that is a fricking kick-ass thing for a landlady to do, isn't it? Lucky me! They're such cool people.

Since I'm on the topic of alcohol, let me give a big warning to anyone that thinks mixing Red Bull, vodka, and orange juice might be a good idea. Unless you really totally LOVE the taste of St. Joseph's Baby Aspirin, I mean the EXACT taste, don't ever mix these things. With Red Bull being as expensive as it is, it's worth knowing.

I said I was going to talk about what I had for dinner, and I will. I decided I wanted something really, really good tonight but I'm still really, really broke, so the following recipe was my compromise. I spent $5 on a half pound of sea scallops. I mashed some potatoes. I cooked some frozen peas, maybe a cup. On the bottom of a small casserole dish I put the uncooked scallops. I put little bits of butter all over them and some salt and pepper. I poured the cooked peas over that. I spread the mashed potatoes over that, maybe an inch and a half thick. Tossed that baby in the oven at 375 for half an hour. Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! Fucking make this if you like scallops. And if you don't like mashed potatoes you're a freak. It's obviously just a variation of Shepherd's Pie, I make no claims of originality. As with all seafood dishes, you don't want to re-heat this, but that's ok 'cause it still rocks when it's cold!

And now it's back to contemplating that fork...

Hunting & Gathering

I've mentioned that I have a new job but have done little in the way of explaining what that job is and what it involves. I'm only beginning to have a clue of what is actually truly involved. But the job itself, the bare bones of it: I work for a mental health support and advocacy agency, one that has evolved over the past thirty years to include numerous specialized programs, multiple group homes, and a million other miscellaneous services geared towards a largely marginalized and underserved population. It was established initially as a sort of soft-landing place for patients who had been released from the former State (Mental) Hospital here in CT.

What isn't known by almost everybody I work with (including those who hired me), save the handful of people that I trained with, is that my father is the one who started this agency. The only reason that handful is aware of this fact is that the current director, who met with us for an informal discussion, was hired by my dad, and once he realized who I was, felt the need to embarrass me with a lengthy oratorial dedication to my father. I felt compelled to explain and make clear that my father had nothing to do with my being hired. I didn't even tell my dad until after the fact.

In truth, I was so young when he started the whole thing that I had actually forgotten the original name of the place. As uncomfortable as I felt being praised by association, it was pretty neat to hear this guy tell some of the early stories of the agency, and my dad's antics, such as "liberating" food and supplies from the State Hospital, where he was employed as a social worker, in order to meet the very real needs of the released and displaced patients from the very same place. He also waxed on about my father's calligraphy skills, how the earliest grant requests were written by him with a fountain pen in his expressive, unmistakable script.

Though he left the agency years ago, my father has been a social worker all his life, and remains one even in semi-retirement. How exactly he managed to support and raise nine children on that salary is a topic for another day, though I do remember some of those same "day-old" cast-offs that had been "liberated" from the hospital ending up in our kitchen on occasion... the peanut butter cookies weren't half bad if you put them in the toaster. I also well remember many of his clients showing up at our house in want of money, cigarettes, coffee. I know that's what they wanted because they were very vocal about it. What they ended up with I'm not entirely sure of. I do remember having to regularly go down to the corner store to pick up Chesterfield Kings (obviously way before they carded for tobacco!) for a neighbor/patient who had schizophrenia and a habit of walking around outdoors in her nightgown while cursing "Italian fascist pigs" among others.

Probably the nicest thing the director of the agency had to say about my dad is that "He planted the seeds. (The agency) is what it is today because of the spirit and intent and love your father put into it." The agency currently employs 180 people and serves hundreds of members. At this point I have met many of the employees and members and they are honestly some of the most genuine, kick-ass folks I have ever met. I feel comfortable bragging about my dad because he is, in my opinion, such a pure and quiet servant - and I mean servant in the truest, most spiritual sense. He does his work steadily, with consistency, dedication, and vision. Yet he is practically silent about it. That's the marine in him, maybe. What stuns me is how much you can learn from silent example. Never doubt the small acts of the heart. Intention and attention grows a garden. A truth so simple it hits you like a kiss.

Shoot the Messenger, You Might Feel Better

Alright, here we are in full holiday swing, with all the usual annoyances - Xmas Muzak in every business establishment, extra people bustling about at those same establishments where you are forced to listen to that same Muzak, most of them looking harried and overwhelmed and uncertain. Cheap, bountiful displays of decorations imported from places that probably don't even celebrate Xmas. I find large displays of new merchandise very depressing in general, but when it's large displays of throw-away Xmas crap, it just feels all the more hollow and depressing.

All of the usual stuff is bad enough. And in a way I'd say the worst of it started with those "icicle" style garlands, you know the ones that are supposed to resemble the trim on a gingerbread house or something? But did some idiot have to add one more piece of trash to the already bloated holiday decor milieu by coming up with these godawful inflatable lawn ornaments? Talk about taking the cheapest and easiest way out when it comes to making a "big" statement. The "snow globe" style are the worst of all, an irritation wrapped in an annoyance surrounded by bits of floating plastic. Would anyone hold it against me if I bought a BB gun (maybe a Red Ryder! See, I really do have some Xmas spirit!) and went gangster in my neighborhood?

Before you start thinking I have no appreciation for the little things in life, allow me to correct you: I have a deep appreciation for the package store down the street that not only carries 30 packs of PBR, but charges $11 for them. That about made my week. Welcome to the neighborhood! I guess ya gotta take the good with the bad. Even though the good might influence me to go do something about the bad one of these nights... yeah, I'm talkin' to YOU, Snowman on the Hill! If ya' don't keep an eye on yo' air pump, that carrot nose might be touchin' yo' toes, what? what?

Everything on the Blanket's a Dolla

Today I went to the flea market on a quest for...(drumroll)...a recipe box. Yeah, ya know, a little metal or wooden box, perhaps with images of flowers or chicken legs or cupcakes or sausages or whatever other random images that may or may not belong on a recipe box. I need the box to house this super cool collection of recipe cards given to me by lovely friend down in Brooklyn. Now that my kitchen is worthy of food prep and winter is settling in (not that you'd guess that based on the weather lately), I want to start tackling some of these recipes. And with all that build up you'd think I came home with my quest fulfilled. Nope.

With certainty, there was a recipe box, probably a dozen or twenty or forty recipe boxes somewhere at that flea market. What was striking me today as I ambled distractedly around the dirt lot amidst the boxes and tables was basically something like this: "Holy Crap do people in New England know how to hang onto shit or what?" Fucking seriously. And the vendors are obviously pretty hard-up for some cash, because they will bring anything, and I do mean anything to try and pawn off. The last booth I stopped at seemed to be the entire contents of some dilapidated shed - everything was the same color, a sort of rusty brown, regardless of what material it was made of. Most of it was broken. A youngish couple was overseeing the whole display from the back of their truck.

Just before their booth was a group of twenty-something year old men, selling swords, knives, and various other martial-artsy weapons that looked illegal. I stared at them solemnly through my sunglasses then cracked a slight smile as I walked past.

Military medals. Baseball cards. Piece of shit plastic toys. Worn out sandals. The All in the Family soundtrack. A shoeshine box. A flour sifter. X-box games. Wooden shoe stretchers. More rusty crap. A flocked deer made of some kind of foam. Enough costume jewelry to open a small shop. Harlequin romances. Boxes of greeting cards mailed to Providence, RI, saved for years from the 1920's on. Bike parts. Then a rather odd booth that had several "theater" masks, along with a boxed vinyl record set of Beethoven's "Fidelio". If you've ever seen Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut you'll understand why this was a little odd. As I stood and stared at the Fidelio record, a teenaged boy passed behind me and made an attempt at singing the word, Fidelio.

The sun circled around me. Dust and cars and cigarettes. I'd seen about one twentieth of the entire flea market. I had no recipe box. But I just wanted to drive, the energy of all that stuff with all its stories was hanging on me. Usually that's why I like the flea market. But I just didn't have room today.

Going There

I'm writing mostly so that there will actually be something new to read when people check in (all 7 of you - no really - there's 7 of you - plus the occasional random stranger.) To be perfectly honest I have just been extremely depressed lately (I'll try to not let this turn into a completely boring, predictable, cliched "I'm depressed" blog rant.) And I'll try to stop using parentheses. Ok, something weird is going on right this very second. I smell Vicks VapoRub. I know, I know, shut up already w/ the Vicks, but, um, I haven't been using it all week and right now the scent is permeating my breathing space. I'm also downstairs, and far away from where I use the stuff in the first place. It also feels cold in here. And the cats keep wigging out. I heard a weird *bump* earlier, and both the cats were staring in that direction. Now they keep getting really focused and staring at nothing. Well, nothing that I can see. So am I saying I think there are ghosts here or something? No, not really. But I wouldn't doubt it.

As for the depression... how is it possible to be in your thirties and feel like a fucking 17 year old? What's next, I dig out my old Cure tapes and start smoking cloves, wow, maybe I could even drop a hit and go stalking around in the graveyard! Ok, just making fun of myself for a second but the thing is, depression is not funny, and what's really not great is that somehow I'm sort of kind of good at hiding how severe it really gets (try telling that to the next asshole that asks me to "Smile!", right?) Which reminds me that I had a dream where a complete stranger walked up to me and asked "Why are you always sad?" God that pissed me off in the dream. Cause I'm thinking, "Who the fuck are you, and why are you saying that?"

Depression can make kindness and friendliness hurt. You can't reciprocate, not the way you'd like to. You withdraw, withhold. I withdraw, I withhold. What should feel warm and comfortable, say dinner with family on Thanksgiving, starts to feel hot and claustrophobic, or cold and flat. Flat. Things flatten. Like your lungs, breathing becoming shallow. To finally say your goodbyes, and walk out into the rain and feel grateful. To give thanks. Finally alone.

Tonight I was on the phone with a friend, and though I was quiet, mostly listening, the conversation was not unpleasant. What my friend didn't know was that throughout much of the time we talked I had tears rolling down my face, and I don't even know why. He is someone I don't need to hide from and yet I did just that. The doors to the outside were closing all around me, and topics that should've lured me out instead set off alarm bells, and security gate after security gate came slamming down. As the receiver clicked down the gates flew wide open, the guards at the loony bin off duty, the patient is free to wander the halls and scream at will.

There was no screaming. Just a bunch of used Kleenex. Yes it's true we create our own prisons. In theory the planner should know the best way to go about the deconstruction, the demolition, the rebuilding. The weight bearing walls. A lot of fucking weight. Yeah, a lotta damned weight.

Jesus Christ

Just finished watching the movie "The Deer Hunter". On so many levels, Holy Fucking Christ. Very intense, yet quiet, details subtle yet absolutely key. Made in 1978, set in the Vietnam era. Very much about Vietnam, human relationships, memory. I should also mention that Robert De Niro is hot beyond belief in this movie, seriously. Oh, really seriously. Christopher Walken is not surprisingly haunting beyond belief. Meryl Streep proves why she went on to become such an actor of note.

My internet was fucked up yesterday. So for what it's worth, here is what I would've posted last night, sure it's a little depressing, but I sit where I am. And I'm feeling better today besides. Anyway...

Feeling incredibly sad, closed and distant. Worry is like an encroaching plague of locusts, I hear the echoing hum and see waves of black undulating, pulsing towards their inevitable end. Small. I feel tiny in the face of this. Ineffectual, like my cramping, clawed hands earlier, wrestling with the knitting needles and finally abandoning the dog’s sweater like a sad flag. Not a permanent abandonment, but tonight, the symbolism strikes at me like a hammer and I am flooded with an ocean of thought, feeling, and become lost in a paralyzed thrum.

I think of how the Grandma from next door lost dexterity in her hands, having to give up her expertly honed crafts. Think too of my own grandmother now many years gone, how her gnarled arthritic hands were forced to stop performing their amazingly natural skills, how frustrating it must’ve been for them both to have the memory exist in the hands, but strangely to have nature deny the memory its satisfaction, completion, fruition. I do not compare myself to them truly, first of all they had both attained mastery of many textile arts. Second it was their age that impaired them, not some obscure disorder.

I am not old, yet, but sometimes I feel so. It’s not just my hands and muscular issues. Sometimes I just feel like I’m suffocating. Sometimes the world just looks and feels like a sad, dark movie, I sit watching, nodding in recognition and disbelief. No, that can’t happen. But of course it does. Fairly often.

Events of this past summer, events of this past weekend come to mind. Fear is the killer. Fear is the great magician. Fear will turn an injury into a blight, and send the unprepared to go wandering off some other cliff somewhere else. Pray that the sea below is kind. Then again, if you’re a zombie, does it matter?

Some Levity

Just watched the movie "Slither". Goofy, gorey, gross, hilarious, disgusting, brilliant fun. Very artful use of soundtrack. Fuckin' rent it!

Quicksand

...with a flash flood approaching. Not good. Posting mostly to say don't hold your breath for the next post. The previous post is proof I'll be OK.

Utterly Gratuitous Cuteness

Yes, my dog. Yes, click on her for full effect.

Black Clouds

I don't why, but they're hovering. It's why I haven't written in some days. Last night my sometimes-significant other descended on my house, young niece and brother in tow. I had just woken up from a nap, was making a drink, and was feeling - well, like I had just woken up from a nap. Between him giving a sort of bossy play-by-play while screwing around w/ my broken toilet (fixed today, yay!) and his brother commenting, "It looks different in here than the last time I saw it. Oh, I know, it's clean" to being noisily harangued about every other thing they could think of (just because they could see I was slightly cranky/out of sorts), I have to admit that I was getting even crankier and more out-of-sorts. Finally they left, with me assuring them I would be over soon.

When they left I sat down on the couch with the drink. Then I started to cry. Ok, sob. Soon enough I stopped. Every part of me was in stop action mode. I sat. And I sat and I sat. Maybe for 1/2 an hour. The phone rings. "What's the matter?" " I don't know" "What do you mean you don't know?" "I mean I don't know. I need to take a shower. I'll be there soon."

I did take a shower. I did get there soon. The details of what happened between me getting there and eventually returning home are boring, private, and somewhat irrelevant. Do you ever feel like you're sitting on a dock looking over the ocean of eternity, watching the line of your fishing reel flail out sloppily, rapidly, in mad spirals towards the horizon?

No, really - don't fuck with me.

However, feel free to click on me, just to see how bad-ass I am!

Some Things That are Nice...

because I don't have the wits about me to write a real post...

Red Bull & Vodka
being able to smell the soap I just used to wash my face (it's been days!)
an orange cat that has forgiven me for accidentally sort of hitting his nose w/ my shoe earlier. the catnip helped.
putting some of my sister's nice, new, pretty perfume on my dog.
my sister mocking the "Dare to Dip" motto on a potato chip bag.
speaking at length w/ one of my best friends earlier about everything from OJ Simpson's new book (ok, seriously WTF?? no really - WTF???!!!) to blogging etiquette.
an orange cat that has come to sit near me and purr politely (and forgivingly - really, kitty, I'm sorry!)
the absolute quiet of this room
Vick's Vapo-rub (the romance lives on!)
ok, this isn't nice per se but I have to interrupt to say it:

At the corner store tonight, both the cashier and her friend were comparing notes about how many months before their respective boyfriends would be let out of prison. Whaaa??? Yes, this is where I live. It may not look 'hood, but...well, anyway,

the cute, helpful girl at Walgreens tonight. I don't think I've ever had a clerk tell me about so many sale items off the top of her head.
being able to wash my clothes here, finally. HEAVEN.
Cranberry & Vodka (can't drink Red Bull all night on a Wednesday!)
gettin' a coupla' paychecks tomorrow.
celery.
all my cool new records.
my cool friend who helped me find some of them (:
finally getting my bikes over here (they came at the same time as the W/D.)
people who understand me.
job prospects.
that white cat I sometimes see hanging around outside.
not coughing! as much!
preparing for sleep...
kissing an orange cat on the nose.
writing at least something tonight...

Mayonnaise... check!

I made a "to do" list last week in an attempt to prioritize and organize my thoughts and necessary tasks, 'cause lately, there's a lot of them. I moved into this place a month ago, and because the rent is cheap, there are... things... things that need to be fixed, adjusted, replaced, refurbished, etc. So granted, a lot of the stuff on the list are not things you can exactly snap your fingers and accomplish just like that. I mean, for example:

paint kitchen cabinets
plane bathroom and kitchen doors
replace cords on lamps
wall-mounted shelves for speakers
paint bathroom and install hardware
install shelves on basement landing
etc.(oh yes, there's much more!)

And sure, I started my new job last week, and have been engaged in a battle royale with this head/chest cold for a week, but you'd think maybe I would've found time for at least some of the following:

art therapy books from library
find missing box
haircut?
massage?
Set up Ebay account

And one lousy trip to the hardware store would've X'd off the following:

joint compound/plaster
sealer?
paint for kitchen
shower drain cover
new shower head?

But no, as I reviewed the list the one lowly item I could honestly X out was mayonnaise. I can at least say that I used the mayonnaise on a sandwich.

I didn't intend to talk about all that, but it just struck me funny, and so I did. A bigger thing that's been going on today, well, this afternon and evening, is that for some reason I have been super cranky/angry. I stopped by my mom's earlier, and I was eating some leftovers from dinner in the back room with the dog, she comes in, looks at me and says "Are you alright?" With a mouthful of food I kind of gave her a WTF look, and after swallowing said, "What are you talking about?" to which she replied, "You sounded sad on the phone earlier" and I just snapped back at her "I have a fricking cold and my voice is gone - I sound horrible no matter what." Why did this irritate me so much? She was just concerned about me. But that's the energy - this sort of pushing away, leave me alone, I don't need anybody, take care of yourself-and-don't-worry-about-me energy. I don't know if it's got something to do w/ the fact that I have so much to do this week, critical stuff, livelihood stuff, and having even a remote sense of being coddled makes me slam the gate? Ya know, like don't remind me of my weaknesses when I need to be strong and kicking ass, even though (especially because) I feel like curling up in bed all week and shutting out the world? So much to do, yes, and all on my own, yes, and with the fucking major handicap of being sick as a dog to the point where my thinking and my speaking voice are very impaired. Aggh!!! Crank-fest, I admit it! I'd be looking forward to bed much more if I had the reassurance I was going to be able to breathe freely and also not cough violently all night. This is what I'm talking about. If things were more settled with work and environs, none of this sickness/losing sleep b.s. would matter nearly as much. In the meantime, I'll do my best to soldier on.

Tomorrow's To-do list:

give self break
take small bites
take dog for ride in car
breathe, heal.

I Just Told My Cold to go Screw(driver)

Is a screwdriver not the ultimate upper respiratory infection killing tonic? Logic leans towards that conclusion. First, vodka, being an alcoholic liquid, kills germs. And even though those germ killing powers are not technically entering my lungs or nasal passages, my blood will end up in those places, and I plan on increasing the percentage available via my blood as the evening wears on. Second, rather obviously, orange juice has lots of vitamin C. I have added bonus vitamin C in the form of a big ol' lime wedge. That also makes it taste better. Third, and I suppose this has its good and bad points, alcohol also dehydrates, so in theory it might be decongesting me. And fourth, if I drink enough of these, it will knock me out, thus ensuring I get the desperately needed rest required to recover from this energy-sucking bastard. Boring-ass post, I know, but bottoms up anyway!

Care to be Revived?

Well, today I became Red Cross certified to perform CPR. Sounds fancy, huh? It's something I am required to do for my new job. The training session really wasn't bad, the videos being what you would expect, the trainer herself being pretty cool. She forgot to ask me about my ring, though. After we were practicing on the funny little CPR dummies where she watched me struggle with the proper hand placement (I have a muscular condition that sometimes interferes with shit, so I came up with an alternate position, which incidentally was helpful to another trainee who was having a hard time too), she said "I have to ask you something later." I know she wanted to ask me about my snake ring, only because I noticed that she was wearing at least two snake rings, and you kinda couldn't help but be staring at mine while all that chest compression was going on, and it's a nice fucking ring. She wore rings on all ten fingers. But yeah, I do know that was the question.

So anyway, if you stopped breathing, maybe I could save you. I could also prevent you from choking to death. Even if you were unconscious. If you were having a heart attack I could defibrillate you, assuming I had an AED around. To be honest, the whole thing with my hands really got me nervous for awhile. I had a few moments where I felt really panicky and incompetent and wanted to crawl under the table in tears and think about some other job I could do. My muscular condition, which is completely unnoticeable under most circumstances, and doesn't interfere most of the time, really is one of my hot button issues. And if I have to address it directly among strangers, especially in a situation where I am actually expected to perform physical acts in front of them (that sounds a little dirty), it really brings up a lot of old emotional stuff. I did seriously think I was going to have to take a bathroom break to go and cry today. Instead I took a lot of deep breaths. During lunch I practiced on the dummies in order to come up with an effective way to do my chest compressions and felt a lot better after that. As I mentioned above, my new method was perfectly acceptable to the instructor.

It sounds like a little thing, but being in an environment where I felt people were taking my condition seriously but not making me feel like a freak about it or making a big deal about it meant a lot. Taking on the problem on my own, as it related to performing CPR and coming up with a safe solution felt really good too. Sometimes I feel like I can't trust my body. It's a feeling that makes me coil in a little, defensive and worried. I once told someone that sometimes it's like my body is made of glass, with all of its contradictory properties - very strong, but very fragile - cold and heat changing it dramatically. Stating it this way really helped them understand what I was talking about, sort of anyway.

But the bottom line is that I feel really good right now! Aside from having this cold, anyway. A little wine oughta' set that straight-ish. That and some... well, see below.

Vick's VapoRub is the Shit

My throat feels like a wrung out towel that's been left out in the sun in its wrung out shape to dry. Hard, tight, dry, cottony, and pulsating with absorbed heat. Very unpleasant. The Vick's is maybe not quite the shit, I guess that was a misleading heading, but it is pleasing in a way that swallowing a pill can't really touch. I know it really has no effect on my glands, which feel swollen, but my fingers rubbing it in there feel like they're accomplishing something nonetheless. My whole neck gets the treatment, as does my chest. Upper chest. It would be a bit much to go any further. But the greasy feeling, the smell and sensation that announces it means business. It can't fix the crappy feeling, but it intends to, and that counts for something, does it not? G'night.

If you build upon the ruins, just be mindful of the ghosts.

Do Unto Others...

...and you know the rest. And so I sit, feeling somewhat morally compromised. I’m not a huge fan of moral relativism. Mostly it’s just an ego-driven, smarty-pants way of justifying actions that at their root are wrong. We’ve all been there. But what really constitutes “right action”? According to Buddhist tradition the following does:

1. To refrain from destroying living beings.
2. To refrain from stealing.
3. To refrain from sexual misconduct (adultery, rape, etc.)
4. To refrain from false speech (lying).
5. To refrain from intoxicants which lead to heedlessness.

Hmm. I’m not a Buddhist, don’t study it, not particularly religious in fact. Yet monkhood has always appealed to me in a basic way. Human beings are complicated, messy creatures to be sure. It seems to me that monks basically try to not make a mess. I admire that quality greatly. The flipside of that precept or argument is that out of chaos is born new life and ideas, sometimes revolutionary in scope. Things change and can never be what they were, new layers of thought and emotion emerge, for better or worse. And the dry response to that is that of course they do. And the almost indifferent response to that is that none of it matters to begin with.

I don’t believe that nothing matters, really. Just that the things that really matter are often the most unglamorous and unrevolutionary. Do I think that reliability and consistency of thought and action matter? Yes I do. More than in anyone else, in myself.

Sometimes it Sucks to be Perceptive

There are times when I like being right. Then there are the times I wish I wasn't always right. Ok, that was a joke - kidding - ok? But seriously - why do I have to be right about the wrong things? Alright, not the wrong things but... just goddamned intuition, I have it for things that I really don't want to have it for. And it's such a solid feeling, almost always, that creeps into my gut. I can try and turn from it, but there's little use in that. I know what I know.

Still, confirmation is not so bad, what I feel I know turning into what I know in fact. It's better. Like an algebra problem vs. a geometry problem. I always preferred geometry, concrete and consisting of concrete forms, at least to me it felt that way. Facts are good. Clean and processable. Is that a word? But give me cold truths anyday over the warm mist of obfuscation. I can deal with the gray stuff as long as the intent to be clear is infusing it.

I might not like knowing what I know, but I wouldn't trade the knowing for anything.