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Saturday, October 3rd, 2009
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4:58 pm - For the sake of it.
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Nightfall.
The budding leaves shiver in the cold caress of winter's last winds. Pale, cool moonlight falls full and bright upon a street already glowing with the moistness of spring's gentlest kiss. From the distance, the wind comes again, bearing in that moistness a promised heat and rain soon to come. It also brings another gift, with a the tension in that third promise fit to send the hair lifting on the arms and neck of nearly any who felt it.
Through the veil of oncoming night walks a woman of seemingly delicate beauty, the length of her slender body wrapped in the almost shimmering smoothness of a crimson kid-leather trenchcoat. The wind's gentle touch swirls the coat tightly around her, baring small ankles above high-heeled shoes. The wind seems to growl around her, the seemingly thick shrubs ringing the city park reflect the glint of streetlights like eyes amid their glittering leaves. The leaves shake perhaps more in these groundling plants than in the trees above.
With a hunted look, the woman glances over her shoulder, hunching against the wind, almost running in her haste to be away from it, as it catches and claws at her hair. Through the mist now rising about her, she glimpses a small point of light -- so far! -- and hurries, terror mounting on her face. As she clears the end of the park, she feels the cold of the concrete rising under her, running invisible fingers up leg and thigh, the mist reveals the half-lit sign of a bar.
The name doesn't matter; only the door ahead of her, safety, a place to rest if only for a moment. The wind howls with frustration and rage as she steps through the threshold. The stained glass shivers in the wood as the thick door slams behind her.
Breast heaving, she leans against the inside of that door for a full minute before she opens her eyes, looks around. Shivering, she finds the room nearly as dark as the outside, dim light above a row of booths to one side the only break in the smoky murk besides the shadowy-seeming grey-white stuttering illumination beneath the bar. The bartender, standing tall yet seeming to crouch simultaneously, gazes at her as she approaches, his eyes gleaming red in the refracted and muted white light. Sitting, she seems almost to fall into the chair in her exhaustion, not leaning but curling into herself so much that she nearly topples. Suddenly, the man's right hand flashes out, his kempt but shaggy grey hair flowing about his face as he flows forward. As his face enters full darkness, his eyes seem to glow brightly, golden-green and slightly curved. A predatory look catches his angular face, but the grip is gentle, keeping her from falling.
The exhausted woman, head lolling for a moment, suddenly comes awake, her half-lidded eyes snapping wide in fear again. Looking into that darkling gaze, she lets go a sigh, a slow exhale that seems to start resigned but ends with the relief or release. Looking back into his eyes, she gives him a smoldering stare. A flash of something - rage, lust, need - crosses his face in an instant and is quickly faded but not entirely gone. His grip on that slim arm never slackens a moment. Leaning in even more, not bothering to glance about the empty room, he stops with his lips nearly touching hers, those flashing eyes locked with hers, and asks a strange question. His clear and strangely melodious growl seems to echo even over the music in the background.
"On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?"
The woman trembles in his grip, which hardens, almost shaking her. Her full and red-lipped mouth opens slightly in a gasp, and her pale hand clenches at the wood of the bar. Her face never loses that sensual look, though that trembling fragility never quite leaves her.
That lean and powerful man seems almost larger now, and his look grows ever more intense. His grip never leaves her arm, but his other hand cradles the back of her neck, holding her gaze to his as he repeats, more softly:
"On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?"
Reaching in a slow, sensual movement, she lays her hand along the side of his neck, then brushes his lips with hers, whispering: "Would he offer me his mouth?"
"Yes." He answers quietly.
With a hot breath, she draws a glittering line across his lips with her tongue, sighing: "Will he offer me his teeth?"
"Yes" He answers, almost a growl.
Her nails draw lines along his cheek. "Will he offer me his jaws?"
"Yes" It rumbles deep in his throat.
A kiss, almost a bite, tears at his lips. "Will he offer me his hunger?"
"Yes." His grip does tighten then, and she lets out a small cry.
Breathing harder, another kiss. "Again, will he offer me his hunger?"
"Yes!" The answer is sharp, a mirror of the rage boiling in his eyes, his body seems to like a whip as he snaps around the edge of the bar, grasping her violently.
In answer, she wraps her legs sinuously about him, pulling him close, a look of trembling need upon her face, softly asking: "And will he starve without me?"
"Yes!" His face is locked in a snarl, his voice almost a moan.
In response, she whispers: "And does he love me?"
"Yes." It is a quiet sob.
A tear gleams in the night.
"Yes." She whispers.
Pulling her to him, he wraps those massive arms around her, his shaggy head burying his face in her hair. She embraces him, enfolds him, running long fingers along his back. His voice is almost a murmur as he asks again:
"On a hot summer night would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?"
"Yes." Her head arches back as he kisses her neck. With a wicked and satisfied grin, he lifts his face to look at her. In the flickering light, his long teeth are bared and sharp.
"I bet you say that to all the boys."
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The interesting thing about this piece is that it's something of a farciful homage. The conversation between the two actually came from a Meatloaf album, that section alone played for me by my good friend, once upon a time. It has no real meaning, and nothing to do with the song that followed, as far as I could tell. But it stick with me enough that I had to do something with it. For better or worse, here's the result.
current mood: Literate
current music: Megadeth: Skin o' My Teeth
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| Tuesday, March 3rd, 2009
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2:26 pm - We have all heard, or experienced, the need to write down our dreams...
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In this case, I was actually writing it IN my dream, while visualizing images from it like a children's fairy tale book, like I was illustrating it. When I woke, I found myself startled at the fact that I had not actually been writing, and almost leapt to a computer. Luckily, I was able to finish it just before I was ill today.
Growing
There was a greening tree upon the hill
For many a year undaunted had she stood
Her trunk was thick with bark a glossy brown
Her branches spread a curtain 'cross the wood.
But in her shade, no goodling things e'er grew
For in her many years upon that hill
She'd spied and smelt the awful works of man
And her deep heart saw only pain and ill.
And so, her leaves but magnified the dark
Her roots did twist like some fell creature's claws
So great became her reach through strength of ire
That man nor beast could pass her without pause
Yet one night came a youth into her shade
So beautiful and sweet that one might weep
Yet weep he did; tears felt she on the wind
And settled down in deepest woe to sleep
And resting there, beneath her pinions' reach
He felt naught all the awful tide within
Instead he leaned his cheek upon her bowl
And all her tangled boughs comforted him
And like a predator shrinking from a flame
The tree lay silent, tried to comprehend,
As her darkness drowned ev'n the crickets' song,
Why one like this felt safe at succor's end.
"I saw my mother slain tonight," he cried,
"By wretch more loathsome than some maddened beast!
I should lay down this harp she gave to me,
And take the sword and lay him down, at least.
"But I cannot, for he who brought her low
Was my own father, half my blood's own life!"
O welladay, that he should treat her so!
O welladay, that he should make this strife!
"I cannot slay him, for the love I have,
Yet cannot leave this treachery to lie.
And so I come to strengthen in thy gloom
Or in thy bane wood, gladly shall I die."
And so, he lay down, stricken, on her feet,
And tears of heated bitterness he shed
For all the dreams of childhood laid to rest
For all hope's sweetness now unanswered.
And as his shudders fin'lly came to ease
And as in deep'ning sleep he came to rest
Who should come seeking him, through darkling wood,
But man whose hands all this pain could attest.
And in this foulest form the tree now saw
The evil that in all mankind she'd found
Yet now her ire grew, for at her feet
Seemed all man's sweetness, laid low on the ground.
When morning came, the youth awoke in fright
Rememb'ring where he'd lain his weary head
Rememb'ring where he'd gone in ragged flight
Not knowing why he, himself, was not dead.
Yet in the dust surrounding her dark trunk,
Where almost tenderly he'd lain his cheek,
There lay in that deep shade where no blooms grew
A single rose, mouth wide as if to speak.
Its petals were as dark as flowing blood,
Its stem did twist as if in some great pain
And in that moment, somehow he did know
The beast, his father, would not come again.
The tree knew well what had to happen now
The lad must flee in horror from this sight,
Must run until his bones did shake from fear
And curse his foolishness of yesternight.
But the lad did neither run nor howl.
Again he lay, contented, down to rest
And as he lay in slumber she did see
A smile befit a baby at the breast.
His gladness she herself might comprehend
For she a thing of darkest heart was grown
But shock at seeing sweetness come to drink
Of hate's dark nectar caused the tree to mourn
She had now proof within her aged self
That in all man's heart was the chance for ill
That he had come here fearless, in his faith,
Might balance scales but evil needs fulfill.
But still, this lad had shown her all the love
That humankind had given in her sight
And thus the tree shook as within a gale
Trunk moaning with the pain of her great plight.
This lad, a splendid babe might well become
As strong within himself as she yet stood
And through years drinking from her silent hate
He might bring forth the thing she never could.
A thing on two legs, walking out the wood
Could strangle man's rough hold upon the earth
But what if beauty lay beyond her sight?
Would this her seedling twist these, too, at birth?
Would those born in that darkness bring a plague
To salt this world as sure as man had done?
If malice lived in leaf as well as blade,
Would hers be any better than she'd known?
In that moment, her moaning trunk did still
Her branches wavered, then reached gently down
Her roots drew sleeping babe into her trunk
Where to this day a vine of rose grows now.
current mood: Accomplished, if Sick
current music: Audiobook -- Dune: House Harkonnen
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| Tuesday, January 20th, 2009
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1:12 pm - On the Inauguration of Our New President
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I find it disconcerting that so much of the news that revolves around Mr. Obama's inauguration is consumed by concentration on race. Mr. Obama is not yet represented as "the President," nor "the Peoples' President," but instead "the black President," or "the first African American President." Even our local Acadiana newspaper is guilty of this implied racism. Not once, when I have seen front-page news of people celebrating Mr. Obama's rise to the Presidency are mentioned, have I seen any other than African Americans pictured.
Barrack Obama is, if anything, a symbol that races can come together to produce great things. His mother and grandmother who raised him are white, his father is Kenyan, he grew up surrounded by Hawai'ians, he attended Ivy League schools. No matter the color of his wife or children, or his racial identification, he should be treated as an American. That is distinction enough.
The point of this election, ladies and gentlemen, has been the coming together of ALL races: black, white, red, brown, yellow, and perhaps green, blue and purple. WE, together, elected this President based on his qualifications, his ideas, his zeal for change, regardless of skin color. Without votes from all racial sectors of our nation, the man could never have risen to this office. I am not ignorant of the fact that this is an important, an incredible step in our nation's history, should this not make it all the more important to see Barrack Obama as a human being, regarless of skin color?
I have seen the T-shirts, posters and ads that seem to proclaim Obama's leadership as equal to the late, great Dr. King, before he has set foot in the Oval Office. I have heard of incidents, even here in Lafayette, in which the courtesy of a person opening a door for another has been met with: "You should get used to that," even in professional settings, simply because the person opening the door is white, the other, black. Is the election of this President, instead of being the mark of cooperation, to be the inspiration of a new segregation?
Even this morning, when millions of people gathered in person and afar to see and hear the Inauguration of our new President, we were still met with this bias. President Obama gave a powerful speech, emphasizing togetherness, patriotism, rising above our pain and our travails to a better future. His words were full of hope and a determination that seemed to encompass all before him, in the true spirit of the America I was raised to love. I was inspired. And yet, he was followed by a benediction by a supposedly Christian pastor who defiled that inspiration by finishing what had been a wonderful speech, with discrimination. He gave his "hope" that we will enter a time where "black doesn't need to give back, brown can stick around, yellow can be mellow, the red man can get ahead, man, and white can embrace what is right." Before God and all assembled, he began picking apart the strength of the "patchwork fabric" of our nation, whose strength President Obama had praised.
It is thus incumbent upon us, as a nation, to show that we have indeed looked beyond race, and to now judge the man on his accomplishments. Let us proudly follow the Cajun and Zydeco musicians that came together to make some art, a video, about our new President, happily singing: "Oui on peut!"* We need no finer example. For, if we cannot come together, from ALL sides, I fear our new refrain may be: "Oui on a peur."*
To enjoy the song I just mentioned, go to:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FLvgwHGlpdQ
Oui on peut! -- "Yes we can!"
Oui on a peur. -- "Yes, we're scared."
current mood: Determined
current music: Oui On Peut -- Bolfa Toujours, Zydeco Joe Citizen, Corey "L'il Pop" Ledet
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| Wednesday, October 8th, 2008
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12:22 am - Attention: Disabled People Screwed Out of Their Independence in Lafayette, LA
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Individuals with disabilities once had greater options for getting from place to place in Lafayette. Nearly two decades ago, Acadiana Innovative Services one the bid to create a Paratransit service within the city limits. Within the last five years, the newest company to win the bid, Acadiana Transit Service, was able to extend its hours to the evening, thanks to the then newly-established "Night Owl" service.
Together, this gave disabled riders a much greater range of control over their lives -- for 50 cents per ride, this service brought riders from their doors to the doors of their destinations and returned them later in the day, both at scheduled times. Granted, riders who needed a guaranteed ride to school, work, necessary medical appointments, etc, still had to schedule two weeks in advance. Granted, it was also a shared ride, and thus a rider found him or himself on an extended trip if others had destinations before theirs. But, it was a relative godsend of increased independence to this section of people, and additional use of the regular bus system, for short or unscheduled trips, was available and encouraged for those who could. And it was a great relief to disabled citizens, myself included, who were all too often used to feeling as if they were a burden to their families and friends, and even more used to being isolated by their incomes and inability to drive.
Then comes the current incarnations both of the City of Lafayette Transit System and the Lafayette City Council.
First, in the last year, there came this mandatory re-certification that all ATS riders had to fill out or lose their ridership. First, the question that arose in nearly every permanent rider's mind, something like: "What, do you think I was miraculously healed in the last year?" and the like. The second question, however, was: "Are you F*&$ING kidding?!" I fear that I cannot recite most of these questions for you, but some of them included: "Are you capable of standing for more than 15 minutes at a time?" and "are you capable of walking more than two city blocks?" The answers of course are "Yes" for quite a few disabled people, but I know of many who answered falsely or simply gave caveats that negated them. Why? Not because any of these people are dishonest, but because disabled people living in "accessible" parts of town could not afford to suddenly have to try to make a mile or more to the nearest bus stop, or to ride an hour to appear at professional jobs drenched with sweat, or to manage infants on a city bus; and those were the easy explanations. For some, it was simply unreasonable to expect them to try. And yes, the danger of losing ridership if too many of these questions were answered "correctly" was more than an implication. Come now, during mobility training a totally blind person, for instance (much less one who is legally blind), is taught to walk (and obviously stand) alone for much longer than that. What this did was pinion disabled people instead of helping them, and heaven forbid anyone using ATS caught using the city bus -- if one can use the bus at all, then obviously one does not need the paratransit system.
And now, dear friends, the Lafayette City Council, in their generosity, has announced increases in city bus fares. For the city bus, an increase of a quarter. For the paratransit service, there was announced an increase of 300%! A college student on SSI (disability) has just lost 17% of her/his income each month, just to get to and from class five days per week. The same applies for people who are in chronic pain or other medical conditions requiring a daily doctor's visit. $66 may seem a drop in the bucket to a City Council member or our dear City-Parish President, but then they do not need this service at all, do they? For someone on disability, that's a utility or grocery bill. If club fees for the fat cats in Lafayette's "village," River Ranch, suddenly went up 300%, people would be having coronaries. If travel expenses suddenly jumped to 300% of their incomes ($666 per month on a $50,000 income for instance), the city would be in utter chaos.
I was also interested to see that this particular decision was kept very quiet -- no announcements to paratransit riders, no public announcements or news clips. Did I mention that important rides often had to be scheduled two weeks in advance? And better yet, it was held at 7:00 in the evening. Let's see -- a Council decision affecting individuals who were both least able to afford it and the least able to show up to protect themselves wasn't announced until the last minute? TV-10 managed to interview only two individuals able to show up to this meeting tonight. Somehow this simply does not scan very well.
Thinks something smells a little wrong? Feel free to call the Lafayette City-Parish government offices at 337-291-8200 and ask for either a City Council member, or for Mr. Joey Durell, the City-Parish President. Failing that, contact these newspapers -- The Daily Advertiser, The Advocate (it has an Acadiana section), the Independent Weekly or the Times of Acadiana at the websites listed below. And please, feel most free to re-post or forward this as you like to anyone you know who may be affected.
The Daily Advertiser -- http://www.theadvertiser.com/
The Advocate -- http://www.2theadvocate.com/
The Independent -- www.theind.com/
The Times of Acadiana -- www.timesofacadiana.com/
KLFY TV10: http://www.klfy.com/
KATC TV-3: www.katc.com/
current mood: Infuriated
current music: Theatre of Tragedy: Velvet Darkness They Fear
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| Wednesday, September 17th, 2008
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11:59 am - Dancing in the Dark - One Blind Man's Morning of Nostalgia
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Yes, dancing in the dark. I hope that's what I'm doing, rather than stumbling, or worse yet rambling. This was meant to be a response to Voxette's comment on the "Dialogue in the Dark" post, which I appreciated, but which also got me thinking {too much time on my hands, damn recovery anyhow}. Your patience, dear readers, is equally appreciated. But do read it through... I think you might well be surprised.
As I mentioned to my sister when she first shared this story with me, it is a remarkable experience for a person with any level of sight to carry out her or his day in total darkness. Being legally blind {20/200 vision in the right eye and 20/460 in the left}, I could relate to an extent, but I never realized how much I didn't understand until 1994, when I went to the National Federation of the Blind's Louisiana Training Center in Ruston. I did not need this kind of training, truly, as I will explain; but it was recommended by my caseworker as an advantage for furthering my college education. Being in a situation where I could not truly refuse, off I went for six months.
Had I known then what I know now... Louisiana Center, which espouses some philosophies with which I do not agree, has a rigorous form of program. It requires that all of its students receive the same degree of training, with only certain allowances for "advanced" students, mainly in the realm of computer training. It also requires that, for the length of the student's stay, any student with sight shall wear a blindfold {sleep shades} at all times while in training during the day, save for a six-hour lunch period. That rule is never to be broken, and penalties and criticism are heavy when it happened. The idea, I believe, is to push the student to deal with the possibility of total blindness. And thus, from the first day on, the student begins their walk alone in the dark.
I have always believed that the Center should teach adaptation to one's present degree of sight along with it. Other such installations do, and though I have seen the waste that comes with not enough training and not enough insistence upon independence, a middle ground can be found! Maximize and improve upon what you have! All of us who had sight were at least legally blind {obviously} and often closer to total, but many did not have degenerating conditions. Prepare, sure, but why limit yourself only to what may never be a reality in your life, chaining yourself behind a white cane?
Ah, the canes, though. The cane was not just a tool; it was the beginning of our conditioning in their philosophy. We were not "visually impaired" or "visually precluded" or anything else politically correct. We were Blind, that was it, and we were expected always to push the envelope and never to rely on the "sighted" any more than we had to. Thus, the long, white cane. Mind you, the standard NFB canes with which we were "equipped" are not like the cute, metal, waste-high folding things with which most are familiar. No, they are straight, made of a lighter, Plexiglas material, but also neck-high. The idea is to provide a greater span of available sensing area with the cane while traveling, which is quite good -- if you need a cane. But we were, however, required to carry these canes with us at all times whether in training, no matter what. It was supposed to be your badge -- "I'm blind, and I'm not embarrassed by it!," and you were not only penalized but made to feel as if you were acting "ashamed of your blindness" if you didn't carry the thing. It's like carrying a thing quarterstaff at all times when you're not using the thing to its intended purpose, though, which most of us with decent sigh didn't in the off-hours. Worse, after a while of having to have it with you, the damn' cane became a crutch, even to those of us who didn't need them; a weird security blanket that even I didn't abandon for a year afterward. I think I know to a small degree how Morgan Freeman's character from "The Shawshank Redemption" might have felt, living outside after being "institutionalized”: “…First you hate ‘em, then you get used to ‘em. Sooner or later, you come to depend on ‘em.” Funny, I never quite thought of it that way before now.
This all was made worse for me and several very select others who, due to training that we had received at various stages, already adapt better than most we know who have our vision level or better. I had, for example, already spent a summer at UNO {New Orleans}, learning to work computers, with occasional mobility training on the side. Add to this my special education master-teacher mother who was involved with one of the state's first public school adaptive programs, who thankfully taught me early and brooked no nonsense in such. She and my father had determined early that I would not be confined by my sight; that live as normal of a life as I could, with the ability to take every reasonable opportunity that anyone else enjoyed. Hell, I draw as a hobby, study martial arts; I even learned to ride a bike {albeit at thirteen}, and rode it for years, even when I lived in New Orleans. This is scary to most, mind you, when they understand that I'm not likely to catch that baseball my little brother tossed to me {though I have gotten better}, certainly cannot drive a car, can't read the writing on that street sign we just passed in the car, but it proves how far one can go if one pushes {or is pushed :-) }. Thus, it was even more frustrating.
All of this, the experience of learning how to accomplish everything by senses other than sight was remarkable. My section began the day by cooking blind {of course}, for two hours; chopping, peeling, whatever, and using gas and electric stoves and industry-quality ovens, making everything from scratch, recipes read {or hand-noted} in Braille. Mind you, we also had to get all ingredients not on site from the store down the way ourselves, pull the loaded cart three blocks back to the Center, and return it to the store afterward -- yes, all of this blindfolded and using canes. What that did to the local citizenry's view of the blind I shall hopefully never fully realize. We were also never taught so much as how to make macaroni or Stovetop or cornbread from a box. Both of these are horrendously unrealistic in my opinion, but never mind.
Then two hours was spent on cane travel, in which we were sent out for generally a half-mile-minimum foot trip to a specific address by directions and cane-work alone; each individually accompanied by an instructor, then alone. As I understand it, there often was an individual nearby {nominally an assistant instructor}, to watch over us and make sure that nothing awful happened. Considering the various scratches, scrapes, bruises and occasional contusions from trips, missed footings, spills, and the occasional sign-at-face-level-whose-pole-was-offside-of-the-sidewalk, they must be a heartless bunch. I certainly never had anyone intervene on those occasions that I had a mishap, nor heard I about such from those few who managed to injure themselves.
Then we returned, hot and sweaty, to further Braille skill for two hours and then work on the computer/typewriter for an hour. That was the full day's work. And this, mind you, was without the walk we had to take every day to and from our Center-controlled apartments to the Center, the morning meeting of all instructors every day before class. It also ignores the monthly "seminar" of NFB propaganda, or "special training" trips like the seven-mile walk down the highway to a neighboring town and its university, weekly gym-related exercise. We were mentally screwed but we were physically healthy, by God; or at least had great stamina. I’ve also not mentioned the final tests in each section. For example, the meal for four and meal for forty in cooking {four courses each – the last literally took days to prepare}. The final Travel test was a three-mile trip in which one is dropped off on the outskirts of town and told to find his way back to the Center by asking directions, beginning with only a compass-point direction {“you are facing Ruston -- Ruston is west”}. Other more minor final tests don’t really bear mentioning after that.
This, of course, doesn't account for the various parts I consider unnecessary even for training, such as our required attendance of the NFB's State and National Conventions. The State required a six-hour bus ride with an overnight hotel stay; the National was thirty-two each way for the week's stay in Detroit, and that's without the various propaganda pumped into the head. It does not include the amount of spying and rumor mills that went on in that place, even involving the former student who was now apartment manager. It certainly does not include the oft-repeated statements one heard: "So and so lost a pretty good chunk of sight while he/she was here." Why? Because my theory that pooling sweat {sleep shades aren't cotton}, involuntary straining at the peripherie of light, and like of use contributed to eye degeneration is unfounded. It most definitely does not include the biased and often awful remarks by instructors, like my Braille instructor who said, and I quote: "Took a 'look' my new grandson this weekend. Kid has great Braille fingers; too bad he's not blind." And it truly could not accurately include the double standards, extreme underestimation, and occasional treatment of as bumbling idiot that one gets when one is carrying a bloody cane. I had not realized how narrow-minded so many people were on the subject, and each... enlightening... was often embarrassing, outright humiliating, even emotionally painful.
To be fair, though, it also does not include the friendships I made, during that period of time. There were many good people there; though nearly all of them were among the students body and not the faculty. I also cannot state the appreciation that it gave me not only for my independence, but for the area in which I live and grew up! North Louisiana, my friends, is a different state than south Louisiana, truly; and Ruston is about the most boring series of cliches you could ask for. Next to Lafayette, 90% of its stores, food and buildings are a black-and-white photo from 1955.
I'm sure that there are other things that I am missing, but I swear by all I hold holy that this is an accurate re-telling. One that, amusingly enough, I haven't given this much thought in probably six years. It's funny how it happened, too -- I only meant to respond briefly, to explain what a strange and occasionally sensation it is to be all alone in the dark -- even in a crowd. But once opened to the light of day again, the flow would not stop, and here we have this blog-novella, and likely a seeming parade of "poor, pitiful me," at that. Perhaps it flowed so forcefully because it was a huge change in my life... and huge change is about to come again.
I cannot say that I have been too hard or untruthful in my description. However, I resented it and everything it did to me for many years. Awful though a lot of it was {mainly those things NOT associated with training}, the result is undeniable. I am a wholly independent person, capable of living in a city without help, and dealing with physical situations that would make the average blind person quail. I have much less fear of moving in the dark alone, either physically or metaphorically. For that, I thank them, even as I damn what they do to the heart and head.
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| Monday, September 15th, 2008
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12:41 pm - Behold, I still exist
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Yes, months here without so much as a peep, and now it's not even my own words, but I found this an intriguing exhibit, and wanted to share it.
Courtesy of The Urbana Daily Citizen
{www.urbanacitizen.com}
8/27/2008 9:42:00 PM
'Dialog in the Dark' Exhibit Simulates Blindness
ATLANTA (AP) _ I don't like the dark, and the closest I've come to being blind is taking off my glasses. But what I'm about to experience goes far beyond my astigmatism, and I expect it will widen my myopic world view.
I'm standing at the threshold of "Dialog in the Dark," a new exhibit making its American debut at the Atlantic Station Exhibition Center in midtown Atlanta. The idea and concept was developed in 1988 by German Andreas Heinecke, who worked for the Foundation for the Blind in Frankfurt and created "Dialog" to increase tolerance, respect and understanding among people with sight and those without.
To date, the show has toured more than 20 countries and has drawn more than 5 million visitors worldwide.
At the end, I'm supposed to be able to "see without sight" and "gain a greater appreciation of the power of communication and the abilities of others," according to the organizers.
Intrigued by the concept, I'm still skeptical. Could an hour of blindness open my eyes?
Four of us begin the exhibit holding our canes and having some reservations about what to expect. We enter a room lined with plastic cubes that serve as both seating and the only light source. The space is meant to immerse us slowly into total darkness.
A voice overhead speaks calmly over soothing music, reminding us of our other four senses, which we will need for the next hour as we navigate the show. As the voice attempts to comfort us, the cubes grow dimmer and dimmer.
Within moments, the room is pitch black and completely transformed. It's much darker than I'm used to 'Äî much scarier than being alone at night in an unfamiliar room or on a dark, empty road. I am immediately aware of how dependent I am on my eyes; though no one has left the room, I feel alone and nervous. I grip my cane and wait for instructions.
We are directed to black boxes to the right of our chairs. Inside are several objects we are to identify using our other senses. It's a relaxing exercise. Right away, I can feel the soft petals of a wildflower, I can smell coffee beans, I can touch a group of fabric swatches. Maybe my eyes don't need to be the crutch I thought they were.
Our guide, Liram Frank, now enters the room and introduces himself. It's hard to tell what his accent is. Eastern Europe? The Middle East? But his voice is friendly, warm, and gives me something on which to focus. It ushers us through the first door and into our journey.
___
The ground is soft, uneven. It's unsettling. Is it grass? Moss? I can't be sure, but the guide was right: My slender, metal cane has quickly become my best friend. Its thin strap hangs loosely from my wrist, an extension of my body. It is how I first experience my new environment.
I can hear the others around me, but no one seems close enough to touch 'Äî that is, until I bump into one of them. Soon, we are no longer Arneisha, Jessica, Allison and Errin, our names are replaced with "Excuse Me," 'I'm So Sorry," 'Is That Your Foot?" and "Where Are You?"
Frank asks us, "What do you hear?"
Birds? Yes.
Crickets? Yes.
Butterflies? Yes. Wait 'Äî butterflies?
We laugh nervously at the trick question. And then, our first test: crossing a bridge. Directed only by the sound of Liram's voice and our canes, we feel our way across the wooden planks. As I put my hand on a rail, I can feel the water I thought I had heard earlier. A waterfall! I smile, recognizing something familiar.
I'm seeing a lot with my hands and feet now. A trash can. A bench. The room is a park! Another smile. Just as I get my bearings, we're off to the next room.
I am feeling my way along the left wall when I think I touch a blanket, then a towel and then an oven mitt. A kitchen? I feel cooking utensils, then I hear a voice overhead: "Price check on aisle three."
A grocery store. I didn't see that one coming.
Suddenly, oranges!
Each sensory victory is making me more confident. I can feel my eyes stop trying to focus.
I get so caught up in feeling my way through the aisles that I don't notice that it's been a while since I bumped into anyone. Someone calls my name, "Where Are You?"
"I'm here," I respond, and then realize that "here" probably doesn't mean much.
I fumble down the aisle, nervous and frustrated that I've lost the group. Out of the darkness, I feel a hand on my arm. I am being grabbed by a stranger and I feel safe.
Another voice pulls us into the next room. It belongs to Georgeo Vickers, and he's singing. Anxiety gives way to anticipation. What new adventure awaits?
I can hear seagulls. Feeling my way, I touch rope. We're on a pier, about to board a boat. One by one, we leave shore and take a seat on deck. I'm not as hesitant now, and I pat the wooden bench to tell "Is That Your Foot?" to sit next to me.
The boat rocks and I instinctively close my eyes. I'm experiencing the ocean in a new way, not transfixed by the sight of crashing waves, but enchanted by the rhythm, the sound of seagulls flying overhead. We merrily sing a few rounds of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" before reaching shore.
My good mood is interrupted at our next stop. I can hear a bus and my cane hits a metal pole. We're on a city street, and if I really were blind, I'm sure this would be one of my fears. Our guide Frank tells us that we'll have to cross on our own, without tripping on the curb or stepping into traffic. I grip my metal sidekick and tap the sidewalk until I hit something. A parked car.
I touch with my toe, feeling for the curb and step down. Atlantans can be hostile to sighted people at rush hour, so I want to get this right. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I move deliberately but try not to be slow. I find the curb on the other side, step back onto the sidewalk and exhale.
We finally reach the last stop 'Äî a bar. I order a Diet Coke, but I forget that I'm blind and need to gesture for the bottle. "I'm here," I say, and tap the ground with my cane. Mission accomplished. I get my drink.
Our group walks over to a booth to sit down with our drinks and discuss the hour that seems to have flown by. I can't see anyone, but I can feel everyone's presence around me. I can hear people smiling. No one feels like a stranger, and I trust them as much as I do my cane.
Our guides are especially interested in what we have to say. For them, this is not just an exhibit; it's their life. They are blind, and among the more than 5,000 people who are blind or visually impaired who have worked with "Dialog" exhibitions around the world.
I am filled with questions, feeling sheepish and foolish at my curiosity 'Äî or naivete: How do you know when to wake up in the morning without the sun? How do you make phone calls? Can you use the computer?
I can almost feel Vickers looking in my direction as he tells me something someone once told him: "It is not blindness that is the disability. It is fear."
Fear of the unknown, of what we cannot see, is indeed a scary thing, and I recognize for the first time how right he is. We leave the room and enter a corridor that gradually reintroduces us to the light.
I emerge squinting and probably more than a little relieved, but determined to see the world with new eyes.
___
"Dialog in the Dark" opened Aug. 30 and runs through Feb. 15 at the Atlantic Station Exhibition Center in midtown Atlanta.
Copyright 2008 The Associated Press.
current mood: Curious
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| Tuesday, September 25th, 2007
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1:33 pm - A little even-handed news
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| Thursday, August 2nd, 2007
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6:54 pm - Umm, yeah
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Your Score: Cheezburger cat62% Affectionate, 59% Excitable, 51% HungrySure, you deserve one. You helped popularized lolcats from a running gag to an online sensation. Now mainstream media writes asinine columns on this 'phenomenon', students write theses on the topic, programming languages adopt the grammar, and losers write tests about them on dating sites. Now take your cheezburger and never touch the internets again.
To see all possible results, checka dis.
current mood:  amused
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| Wednesday, April 25th, 2007
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1:14 pm - Let's go fly a kite...
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I love Mary Poppins, I truly do, but at the moment I would like to have it here just so tha tI could spit at it and tell the assembled that they are full of crap. Why? Remember that touching scene at the end when everyone is out to fly a kite? Yes, isn't it sweet, a morning out on the green with the family. But, remember when the the Banks' have the kite all prepared, then Mr. Banks simply throws the kite into the air and Michael holds the string tight as the kite soars into the air?
Bullshit.
I walked out a little while ago with the kite given me for my birthday, a lovely monster 52" wide, in the shape of a dragon, showing purples, blues, reds and oranges, like a winged sunset. I hooked up his string, wound it a bit on my fingers, set him into the wind, and began to run.
Utter lack of success.
Sure, I know that one cannot simply toss the kite into the sky, especially with the larger ones, and the wind today was perfectly dodgy, first from one side then another. Probably the relative nearness of large objects didn't help with the wind-weirdness. However I, an adult noted by his friends for intelligence and insight, ended up walking back to the house with a tangle of string, a kite that was flipping over and over without so much as rising, and a bleeding finger.
Again, granted, the finger was an injury from Saturday that the kite string simply managed to worm under and re-open, but still! Sheesh. Courtney says I was attacked by my kite. I maintain that I was attacked by my age. Do we simply become more stupid as we become older? More incapable? I thought leaving my teenage years behind thirteen years ago was the key to getting somewhat smarter. Apparently not.
Now, some friends say that they have never found kite flying to be an easy thing, save on perfect days where the wind is only blowing in one only direction and at the perfect consistency. But, for heavens sake, it can't be that hard! Apparently I, at least, get sillier as I age.
Makes me wonder how in the name of God my parents managed to raise four of us.
current mood: Annoyed
current music: "Regan's Ridin' Dirty Mix"
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| Sunday, April 15th, 2007
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11:57 pm
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 | You scored as Cultural Creative. Cultural Creatives are probably the newest group to enter this realm. You are a modern thinker who tends to shy away from organized religion but still feels as if there is something greater than ourselves. You are very spiritual, even if you are not religious. Life has a meaning outside of the rational.
Cultural Creative | | 81% | Idealist | | 63% | Romanticist | | 63% | Existentialist | | 38% | Modernist | | 38% | Fundamentalist | | 31% | Postmodernist | | 25% | Materialist | | 13% | </td>
What is Your World View?
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current mood: Subtly Amused
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(comment on this)
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| Thursday, March 29th, 2007
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11:01 pm - Eulogies
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Two Eulogies for my dear, fallen fellow, and heaven help me if I ever have to choose which I liked better. But before I give them, I want to thank my friends, and I do mean EVERYONE, for their support. Greg, Jon and Cheramie in particular I must truly thank for dealing with the blood of me, crawling through dirt and grass and spiders to try to find him, wading through the debris when his body was lost, guarding the body when it was found, and holding me while I cried. Even Cheramie acknowledges Greg and Jon as absolute troopers through this whole thing.
~And cry I did, without an inch of, and I triple-dare anyone to call me on that, either.~
But also, my Grandmother, Mandy, Courtney, Heather, Lenix, Crystal, Angie, Bridget, Mariah, Jackie, and so many more out there that I simply am just too damned tired to remember to name them all. If I missed anyone here, I didn't in my thoughts.
The first, from my Mother:
A Friend
Is always glad to see you no matter how long
Since they last saw you
Puts up with your temper, stomps off
But always forgives you
Knows you will put up with their temper
Stomp off, but always forgive them
Takes joy in your affection
And knows without thinking that you return it two-fold
Listens to your laughter
And helps celebrate your accomplishments
Keeps you company at three in the morning
When you can't sleep
Stays in the background of your life
But is always in the foreground when you need them
Hears your worries and tears
And offers what comfort they can
Trusts you implicitly
And loves you unconditionally
A friend is
MOJO
Friendship is not measured by physiology and fur doesn't define friendship
For over a decade he was your constant companion and confidante
Good, bad and ugly, he was there for you and you for him
You mourn Mojo as a friend lost, perhaps even as a child lost,
And I understand your grief
The second, from Courtney:
Hail to the Warrior-Cat
The Legends of the Mojo
Today, we remember Mojo Warrior-Cat, Son of Raksha and the Great Blackness, and commend him to the Heavens where he so rightfully belongs. With his grace, agility, and powerful talons that slowly decimated the great wooden pillars of the Table; defeating again and again its Wood Demons. Defending, he was ever-alert, quiet, a dark sentinel with piercing eyes that no intruder would dare to cross.
A magnificent being, a creature of myth, born the Fourteenth from his mother, this great black cat was so huge that he took up an entire womb all to himself. According to the tellers of tales, so hungry was he that he devoured his litter-mates, accounting for his great size. We will never know for certain.
The Mojo is occasionally linked with Arthurian legend. In the absence of his mother, he was raised by the mysterious Man, often likened to Merlin; perhaps, because of his beard and his tendency to collect mystical artifacts. But some tell another tale, saying though there was no Excalibur, Mojo himself WAS this Man's great Sword. For Mojo was pulled from the red waters when his mother could not bear him up, brought into the world already possessed of his name. The Man poured his strength and will into the Mojo, and the Mojo gave him strength and comfort in return. Some even called him the Man's Grail, for often the Man did say that the Mojo was all in cat-ness that could be desired in a human. Some said that Mojo shared part of the Man's soul.
In some circles, the Mojo is even known as having the power of flight. This belief occurred when his guardian and teacher once found him floating near the ceiling. Some contend that he merely had his paw stuck in a ceiling vent, but even then, we are left with the question, how did he get so high in the first place?
The Mojo is also called the King David of cats. In his youth, he took on a supernaturally large bird, his Goliath, and would not back down though terror struck his heart. The bird returned to the land from whence it came (the Land Beyond the Screen Door), and warned all others of its kind to never enter the land of the Mojo, for as he got larger, he would surely destroy them. And no giant bird was ever seen in Mojo's realm again. (Except for Poe, because well, he's Poe).
Mojo guarded the realm he shared with his adopted father for many years, forgetting that he had known any other, enduring with impatience the various eccentric characters that often visited. (Hey, when your father's a wizard, and a swordsman besides, you expect unusual people to drop by.) All in the realm felt safe, knowing that the Mojo was guarding them.
The end of the Mojo is mysterious and tragic, but brave. One day, there came a threat to the little kingdom. Two evil intruder cats came to the boarders, from the Land Beyond the Screen Door, and began threatening to overtake the land within. Mojo stared them down at the door, saying "You shall not pass, and you shall retreat from my boarders, or I shall force you." But the two cats laughed at him, saying they were younger, and stronger, and what was one cat to two? They remained near, never truly invading, for they were cowardly. Often they hid from site, but the Mojo still watched, for knew they were there. A great cat watches not only with his eyes. He could smell them.
After weeks of taunting, the great Mojo had had enough. He surprised the cowards, for they believed he was trapped behind the Screen Door, but he was not. He had been fooling them the whole time, allowing them a false sense of security, so they would be truly surprised at his attack. Terror crept into their hearts as this great black cat leapt forward and began the battle.
Little is known of the rest of the story. We know that the Mojo was victorious, for the two cowardly felines ran away bloody and he chased them to the shadowed lands. But Mojo disappeared after the battle, never to return to alive the little kingdom. But he was carried by the man and by those who loved him, laid to rest in a different land. Some believe the land in which he originated, and his grave is marked by camellias. It is certain though that he died a brave warrior's death, a death to be proud of. Though his father mourned for his passing, he in time came to rejoice in Mojo's life, for he was the most formidable and praise-worthy of cats.
The End.
You might ask yourself, or me if you are crass, why in the name of Names I am making such a fuss over a "cat?" Luckily, no one has yet been fool enough. He was my little boy, friends. I helped him be born, was the first thing he saw, weaned him. He imprinted on me as Daddy. Is the grief worse because of Nana's so recent death? I do not know, cannot know; but this hurts like I cannot describe. So! whether you think it foolish or no, there it is.
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| Wednesday, March 28th, 2007
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2:26 pm - He's gone, my friends
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Mojo Mojosity Mohinjodaro -- October 12th, 1997 - March 28th, 2007
He was my little boy, my friends. Even if you didn't know him, he was the kind of cat that's so unique that he creates legends about himself. "What, Mojo? oh, you mean the can that can jump six feet at a stretch?" "Yeah, Mojo just waits for Regan to leave the house and then he gets out his vest and waistcoat, smokes Regan's pipes and uses his phone." "Mojo? Oh, he's going to whittle that table down to nothing before he's done."
Mojo was born a litter of one in '97. Yes, I said one; he was a lit. :-) He was also my lucky charm; the fourteenth kitten born to his mother, alive and healthy and strong after the litter that bore 11, 12 and 13 had all died. I knew what his name was going to be before I ever saw him, somehow just knew. And he grew into it: A sleek, black velvet shadow of a cat who was long enough to tuck his hindquarters against my hip, and tuck his head under my chin. The picture below shows nothing of his real size. Add a set of fangs and claws like fishhooks... he could be scary if he wanted to. He was also cantakerous to a fault, trusted nobody at all, only a few people would he let pet him. Don't hold it against him, folks; he wasn't nasty or vindictive, he simply had a difficult kittenhood. Thus, why I will no longer have roommates.
But he loved me. Yes, everyone says that; I don't care. He did. I helped him out of the birth canal when he was stuck, I cleaned him off, held him to keep him warm. I was one of the first things he smelled, I was the first things he saw when his eyes opened, and when I lost his mother, Raksha, I weaned him with a bottle. I was Daddy as far as he was concerned, and anyone who knew him could tell you that. And I loved him dearly in return.
But, sometimes we let down the ones we love. I just couldn't help him in the end. He managed to get out the storm door and tore after a pair of tomcats that had been on HIS porch. To his credit, he took them on and whipped up on BOTH of them. Try that on for size. But, he followed one under the house and wouldn't come back. Two hours of trying to get him out from under, and I finally lured him to me... but I couldn't get him far enough, and in his fear and wildness from being outside for the first time, he tore me up rather badly. Again, don't hold it against him -- imagine finding your way into the deep woods with predators around, or how a cat reacts to being up a tree.
And so he stayed out last night.
And the first thing I heard this morning is that he was dead.
And so, we buried him, deep under the camelias, in my parents' back yard, lay bricks to mark him, shards of clay to cover him. Sentimental? Silly? Going too far? This cat was like my child; I double-dare you to say it.
And finally, after all was said and done and I told him good-bye, I'm in the drug store getting antibiotics, or rather waiting dully to just go home... and I hear this:
"Time", by the Alan Parsons Project.
Time
Flowing like a river
Time
Beckoning me
Who knows when we shall meet again
If ever
But time
Keeps flowing like a river
To the sea
Goodbye my love
Maybe for forever
Goodbye my love
The tide waits for me
Who knows when we shall meet again
If ever
But time
Keeps flowing like a river (on and on)
To the sea, to the sea
Till it's gone forever
Gone forever
Gone forevermore
Goodbye my friends (goodbye my love)
Maybe for forever
Goodbye my friends (who knows when we shall meet again)
The stars wait for me
Who knows when we shall meet again
If ever
But time
Keeps flowing like a river (on and on)
To the sea, to the sea
Till it's gone forever
Gone forever
Gone forevermore
Forevermore
Forevermore
I think that's a good place to end.
current mood: I know no way to describe this
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| Tuesday, March 20th, 2007
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12:12 pm - I can't decide whether it's funny as hell, the symptom of a disease, or both, but hey...
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From IMDb News for 19 March, 2007: http://us.imdb.com/news/sb/2007-03-19/
Lost in Translation
 Efforts by overseas film distributors to cut costs by outsourcing subtitle translations to such countries as India and Malaysia have resulted in creating dialog that makes little sense to local audiences, according to today's (Monday) London Times. The newspaper observed that translators with little understanding of the nuances of English are taking the place of British subtitlers, many with long careers in the business. Kenn Nakata Steffenson, who translates English films into Danish and Japanese films into English, cited one film in which the line "Jim is a Vietnam vet" became "Jim is veterinarian from Vietnam" in the farmed-out Danish subtitles. In another film, the words "flying into an asteroid field" became "flying into a steroid field." In yet another, "She died in a freak rugby accident" became "She died in a rugby match for people with deformities." In My Super Ex-Girlfriend, Uma Thurman's line, "We have a zero-tolerance policy for sexual harassment" was translated into Taiwanese as "We hold the highest standards for sexual harassment." The Times said that Mexican director Guillermo Del Toro was so upset with the English subtitles for his 2001 film The Devil's Backbone that he himself worked on the subtitles for last year's award-winning Pan's Labyrinth.
current mood: Wryly Amused
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| Saturday, March 17th, 2007
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2:26 pm - A Mother's Shade
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Thanks to Wen Hsu
Thou desperate shade,
Keep thee at my bedside.
Thou nightmare of pain and grief,
Run not from me in the night.
Rend all of thy blood and thy kin, even me,
To ash and death in thy vengeance.
This too, even, I might now condone
Should your bitter touch not leave me.
Howl forth thine anguish
That I alone might hear it
Shred my heart with pain
For silence would hurt more.
Thou Phoenyx in ashes, fallen, never in grace to arise
Thy fire burnt to naught but hurt and rage
My nightmares of loss finally formed into truth
But the burn of nightmares is better than emptiness.
Form from thy harshest lightning glow
Come before me in our house.
Dress in your finest dress,
Drink your finest wine.
For I love thee, my dearest one
Oh spirit here that painest.
I mourn for thee as for my lost right hand,
Thy anger from beyond death is balm to me.
So hold my hand, burn my hand!
Shred my heart with thy gaze!
Sing with me about the horizons of death,
In my ears, you have NOT lost your voice.
current mood: Drowning in nightmares
current music: Tori Amos: Little Earthquakes -- Blanket Girls
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| Sunday, March 11th, 2007
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10:42 pm - Ah, what the heck...
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 | You scored as Old School Democrat. Old school Democrats emphasize economic justice and opportunity. The Democratic ideal is best summarized by the Four Freedoms: freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from want, and freedom from fear.
New Democrat | | 65% | Old School Democrat | | 65% | Green | | 60% | Libertarian | | 55% | Socially Conservative Republican | | 35% | Foreign Policy Hawk | | 35% | Pro Business Republican | | 35% | </td>
What's Your Political Philosophy?
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| Friday, March 9th, 2007
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3:18 pm - A Busy Day!
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First, I receive this from my friend Stephanie:
You are not going to believe this.
CBS News: Teacher Turned Witch?
http://us.video.aol.com/video.index.adp?pmmsid=1864456
Then, in a reply from my sisterfriend Courtney:
In similar school board nonsense, my friend Paul posted this on his blog this morning :
Three girls in a town in upstate New York were suspended from school for using the word "vagina" in a school benefit (they were reading from "The Vagina Monologues").
So, to repeat, these three girls were suspended for mentioning a part of THEIR OWN ANATOMY!
We are about two hop steps from veils and burkhas, I swear.
And what the hell, let me similarly add to the asininity:
Yesterday, March 8th: Michael Baisden, a popular African American radio talk show host and commentator, held a show concerning the HPV {human papilloma virus} vaccine, and those states which have mandated it along with other usual boosters. This vaccine is aimed at girls 9-12, recommended also for girls/women 13/26. And, though it has not yet been determined to protect against similar maladies in boys/men, it was rather surprising that Mr. Baisden began disparaging the use of the vaccine. At times, he seemed nearly to be ranting about "educating our young women instead of turning to vaccines to do our parenting for us." This is unfortunate as Baisden, though occasionally over-exuberant, is often intelligent, even oddly insightful, as well as entertaining. Though after this I, though only a listener by proxy if you will, shall likely encourage a boycott.
Baisden's insistence that sexual education as well as medical prevention is necessary for our youth was certainly correct, and normally I would applaud him. HPV is an STD, certain types of which {according to the CDC} "cause 70% of cervical cancers, and 90% of genital warts." However, the thrust of yesterday's show was toward accusations that this vaccine is being used INSTEAD of sexual education, and that its proponents are mainly individuals with connections to the pharmaceutical industry. By this he not-so-subtly implied that the goals those proponents -- medical staff such as doctors as well as business people -- are solely money-oriented. More appalling still was his rather ignorant concentration upon the idea that this might lead to greater instances of promiscuity in young women, disregarding entirely that this vaccine acts to prevent the high risk of cancer perhaps more than the effects of the STD itself. In the same way, Baisden even downplayed a doctor called in to stop the show's “debunking.” The doctor stated he would and has given said vaccine to his own daughter. Why? So that he would never have to treat that daughter for the symptoms {"cervical displasia," though I may be incorrect} which he had seen just the day before in a 16-year-old patient. Mr. Baisden, frankly, sneered at him and subsequently went back to his preaching.
What else I heard of the show before finally turning it off in disgust was a nearly-sickening pastiche of ignorance, generally equally ignorant callers, fear-mongering and anti-industry propaganda. His "righteousness" in the face of "The Man" somehow neglected to mention that many if not all states mandate certain vaccinations, at least upon entering school. Shall we "rise up against the money-makers" for insisting on the Polio or smallpox vaccines? His upholding of the virtues of "our little girls," while somewhat commendable, completely dismissed the benefits of the vaccine and the simple fact that "our little girls" are certainly safer with, than without it. He also overlooked that there is almost no guarantee, no matter how "virtuous" a parent believes his children to be, that children has not experimented, or that their partners are as safe as these "moral models" have supposedly been taught to be.
I'm frankly curious as to whether or not Mr. Baisden has a daughter, himself. Regardless, yesterday's show, which topic was also obviously ill-researched by the way, is guaranteed to cause fear and mistrust in many of his listeners, especially the impoverished and undereducated to whom state mandates could be most helpful.
I also am not at all certain that the debate over this vaccine would exist at all if it did not involve women and sex, as most of the agitators opposing it bring up only moral and not physical issues. Are the morals of women, young and old, so incredibly unsound that giving them, as children, a vaccine that they will likely not even remember will cause them to discount other, more deadly and painful STDs such as AIDS, and go running around with their proverbial tails in the air like un-spayed cats?
I somehow think not, but I certainly welcome your thoughts.
current mood: Vicious
current music: The carnage being wrought by my friend playing GTA III
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| Tuesday, March 6th, 2007
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11:19 pm - Quelle surprise!
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| Monday, March 5th, 2007
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1:44 am - One Ride Along a Shortbread Road
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It started simple, spur of a moment:
Take the pictures of this place
Her home
Her calm fervor, her simple pride
With its invisible lines
Existence in the lives of few
So that others might see it
So children might know
This simple and unadorned uniqueness
So precious and found today so seldom.
Not a quest, a purposeful whim.
I smiled and went, in playful relenting
A pleasant ride, a pretty day,
But something more waited to be noticed.
Stepping out, a simple open door
Watching her step with camera in hand
The road stretching long each way
With almost none to see.
An engine hums into quiet.
And with a suddenness I hear it
No, I feel it in my bones.
Oh, the Silence
Such SILENCE
No chanting in the leaves of the familiar oaks
But yet none of the hateful, awful, whirring roar
However quiet, still deafening
That so oft names the machines of man.
Sky that fluid crystal of Winter blue
Touched with the kiss of Spring
So very, very wide!
Going whitish at its edges like the Bowl
The Old Ones named it.
Sun bright on the verdant fields,
Breathing in the March winds,
Lying like Earth's outstretched palms,
Holding the shimmer of ponds sparkling in that
Delightful near-blinding radiance of reflection.
And it seems as if even one with my poor eyes
Might look for miles unhindered, and see something
That he had never expected
The awful majesty of man-made expanses,
Fields laid in their exacting lines,
Seems instead so natural here.
For within the prairie, whispering naught but breezes
The Mother that bore us still holds sway
In the quiet and undaunting song
Of living things
In the seemingly unending swirl
Of the wind that has no walls,
With no mind no malice to the ravages of man.
"I think my sanity would be greater,"
My love says softly to me,
"I think my mind could be at peace
If I could just sit here, surrounded by that Silence,
Sit here surrounded by That, until I died;
I think that I could die happy like that."
I cannot answer for a moment
Not to sleep, but to grow
Without need to move
The day become again a nourishing thing
Instead of the tired head waking from bed
To the ash-grey beasts of tearing necessity…
I lay a soft kiss on her hand as I hold it
Because even the oaks in me,
Knowing this is not truly our place,
Can do aught but agree.
And as the sun dips in the west,
And that almost fierce blue dims to purple
That unrestrained, untrammeled view
Blazes at the edges with red-oranges and startling burgundies,
Turning the distant line of trees
Into mountains haloed in flame,
Like the lands of some familiar spirit
Forgotten with childhood days
When we could always see forever.
I try to capture it, my own picture, in my wonder
But there is but the dark,
And one fading, brilliant line
For no cold glass eye
Can in honesty present
What even these tired eyes were gifted
Without even a price.
Another night come to this embracing place,
Aloneness never lonely
Silence never dead
In this land I knew
But might never have known
Had she not brought me.
current mood: Uplifted
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, February 26th, 2007
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12:34 am - For good or ill...
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A friend of mine forwarded this to me on my request this evening. She was reading it to me tonight; found it while checking her email. It's supposed to be good advice, taken from the interviews a cross-section of convicted rapists -- things they look for in a victim, etc -- combined with rape-prevention advice. Problem is that while some of it seems like common sense, some of it seems like complete bunk.
Now granted, I'm not a rape-prevention specialist or any such. I have attended classes and read materials with friends over the years, if for no other reason than to be able to make sure my friends were safe. However, this is still just opinion. I honestly want feedback from you folks out there, though, if for no other reason that I don't give bad advice to others. Take a look, tell me what you think.
Subject: Through a Rapist's Eyes! (No Joke.) This is important information.
This is important information for females of ALL ages. Guys, please forward to the female members of your family and all your female friends and associates.
When this was sent to me, I was told to forward it to my lady friends. I forwarded it to most everyone in my address book. My men friends have female friends and this information is too important to miss someone. Please pass it along.
A group of rapists and date rapists in prison were interviewed on what they look for in a potential victim and here are some interesting facts:
1) The first thing men look for in a potential victim is hairstyle. They are most likely to go after a woman with a ponytail, bun, braid or other hairstyle that can easily be grabbed. They are also likely to go after a woman with long hair. Women with short hair are not common targets.
All right, I can run with this, despite the fact that it has an edge of paranoia.
2) The second thing men look for is clothing. They will look for women whose clothing is easy to remove quickly. Many of them carry scissors around specifically to cut clothing.
Scissors? Ummm...
3) They also look for women on their cell phone, searching through their purse or doing other activities while walking because they are off guard and can be easily overpowered.
Once again, I can run with this. Common sense, if again a little paranoid.
4) Men are most likely to attack & rape in the early morning, between 5:00a.m. and 8:30a.m.
Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen, but that statement seems a foolishly dangerous statement. In my admittedly untrained experience most criminal types prefer a late night to an early morning. Besides that, why set out to attack people in such a messy way, requiring privacy, when people are waking up and becoming alert? Besides that, late night is the time for bar-hoppers and drunkenness, when chances like rape and date-rape go up. Besides THAT, there is a greater victim pool between 9:00 and midnight, with 2:00am on the outside given that bars and clubs are generally letting out...
5) The number one place women are abducted from/attacked is grocery store parking lots. Number two is office parking lots/garages. Number three is public restrooms.
Sensible. But, 5:00 to 8:30 in the morning? Sorry, sorry. Wrong of me.
6) The thing about these men is that they are looking to grab a woman and quickly move her to another location where they don't have to worry about getting caught.
Again sensible, so long as one bears in mind that “another location” might be just around the corner.
7) Only 2% said they carried weapons because rape carries a 3-5 year sentence but rape with a weapon is 15-20 years.
All right, these non-annotated "statistics" aside, do you think that the average man who decides to rape a woman, even one who sees and stalks a woman for a protracted period for an evening, is really well-researched on the law? Telling women not to expect the average rapist to be armed is stupid and dangerous.
8) If you put up any kind of a fight at all, they get discouraged because it only takes a minute or two for them to realize that going after you isn't worth it because it will be time-consuming.
Folks, rape is often not simply about sex, it's about dominance; proving one's power over another. You can see it in other species; easily researched. Yes, date-rape is different, but the fact remains. The average man is generally built larger and stronger than the average woman; that's simple genetics even in this day and age. Make noise, yell, make a fuss, try to get attention; these things might scare an attacker off, but don't think that he's just going to "give up."
9) These men said they would not pick on women who have umbrellas, or other similar objects that can be used from a distance, in their hands.
I can go with that.
Keys are not a deterrent because you have to get really close to the attacker to use them as a weapon. So, the idea is to convince these guys you're not worth it.
Bullshit. Keys have been taught over and over in rape-prevention. Granted, longer range is better, but use what you can! Regardless, why in the name of names would one send out an email taking away women's confidence in what they have been taught?
10) Several defense mechanisms he taught us are: If someone is following behind you on a street or in a garage or with you in an elevator or stairwell, look them in the face and ask them a question, like what time is it, or make general small talk: "I can't believe it is so cold out here", "We're in for a bad winter." Now you've seen their face and could identify them in a line-up; you lose appeal as a target.
Who is this “he,” suddenly? Never mind. Decent tactic. Don't think that these men are worrying about a "line-up," necessarily, but being able to identify them, showing a lack of fear, can unnerve them.
11) If someone is coming toward you, hold out your hands in front of you and yell STOP or STAY BACK! Most of the rapists this man talked to said they'd leave a woman alone if she yelled or showed that she would not be afraid to fight back. Again, they are looking for an EASY target.
Again, bullshit, at least partially. Yes, a rapist wants an easy target with as little fuss as possible. However, yelling "Stop!" or "Stay back!" will as often cause people, especially in cities, to stay away, fearing that an attacker is armed. Men that have done this more than once DO know this. What is taught in rape prevention classes is: yell "FIRE!!!" as loud and as panicked-sounding as you can manage. By goodness, people will come running. I promise you, it works; check with any program you like.
12) If you carry pepper spray (this instructor was a huge advocate of it and carries it with him wherever he goes,) yell, "I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY! Holding it out will be a deterrent.
And AGAIN, bullshit. If you're carrying something like pepper spray and you believe you're going to be attacked, why the hell would you let the attacker know what to plan for? Sure, yell at him that you have pepper spray, and hold it out at arm's length -- what, so he can come in with his face shielded, grab your arm, twist your wrist, and/or knock it out of your hand?
13) If someone grabs you, you can't beat them with strength but you can by outsmarting them. If you are grabbed around the waist from behind, pinch the attacker either under the arm (between the elbow and armpit) OR in the upper inner thigh VERY, VERY HARD! One woman in a class this guy taught told him she used the underarm pinch on a guy who was trying to date rape her and was so upset she broke through the skin and tore out muscle strands! The guy needed stitches! Try pinching yourself in those places as hard as you can stand it; it hurts.
All right, this is called the brachial plexus, and is a gathering over nerve bundles. It will indeed hurt like hell. Thick clothes like a jacket can step you, however. Eyes, nose, ears, go for those first. They hurt just a bad and rip and break easier. Grabbed from behind? Grab whatever tender part you can.
14) After the initial hit, always GO for the GROIN. I know from a particularly unfortunate experience that if you slap a guy's parts it is extremely painful! You might think that you'll anger the guy and make him want to hurt you more, but the thing these rapists told our instructor is that they want a woman who will not cause a lot of trouble. Start causing trouble, and he's out of there.
Again, some sensible advice; but don't expect that an attacker will simply "give up."
15) When the guy puts his hands up to you, grab his first two fingers and bend them back as far as possible with as much pressure pushing down on them as possible . The instructor did it to me without using much pressure, and I ended up on my knees and both knuckles cracked audibly.
All right, that is total crap. Yes, it works, but it's difficult to pull off without training and a lot of practice; aka: it must be second nature. Otherwise, you get into a strength contest, often with a guy who's likely as not depending on being bigger and stronger to get his way. I'm all for women's lib, folks, but again it's a question of genetics, and most often simply of jobs. Ladies, try that with a guy friend who has a good grip, sometime; a fellow who works offshore or does construction or even rides a motorcycle, then tell me what you thought. Fight smart! Go for tender spots, and if he starts grabbing your wrists, twist toward the thumbs as you twist away; they are the weak link; the place a grip is most easily broken, even in stronger guys.
16) Of course the things we always hear still apply. Always be aware of your surroundings, take someone with you if you can and if you see any odd behavior, don't dismiss it, go with your instincts!
You may feel a little silly at the time, but you'd feel much worse if the guy really was trouble.
PLEASE READ THEN FORWARD THIS TO EVERY WOMAN YOU KNOW. IT'S SIMPLE STUFF, BUT IT COULD SAVE HER LIFE.
All right people, I want feedback on this thing. Agreeing or opposing, point-by-point; I'd rather be right by averages than have someone get hurt, but I don't think I'm too far off-base.
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9:46 am, Monday 2/26/07
And herein lie at least most of the answers I was looking for.
Micka found this entry at Snopes.com this morning:
http://www.snopes.com/inboxer/outrage/rape.htm
Thank you kindly, Micka. I went looking, but couldn't find it myself.
current mood: Skeptical
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| Thursday, February 8th, 2007
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11:16 pm - The wake was survived
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Nine hours of family and friends in and out. Old stories and old jokes and many, many compliments toward Nana. Wonderful, wonderful things said, in fact. We greeted and greeted, we smiled, we teared, we chuckled, we cried, and then we did it all over again. Friends of hers, students older an older and older still. My Nana was a teacher for 47 years; had students ranging from age twenties to sixty-three, paying respects. And the support of friends of mine, my sister's, my brothers'... warmed the heart enough to melt the chill that a pall brings to the bones. And then, the sun is down and the guests are quiet, and I am standing before sixty people leading the Rosary, with my voice breaking and tears in my eyes.
But we did well by here.
And we had the strength to get through the day.
The funeral is tomorrow. Give me strength one more time.
current music: None
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