There's nothing like a long to-do list for stirring up the ol' busywork. So, I just went through my November 2006 archive and added the "Nablopomo" tag, just in case the cyber archaeologists of the future need help sorting out which months I blogged every day, and why. I don't usually like reading through things I've written here (so self-absorbed! So poorly proofread!), but in this case, it was kinda fun.
One entry was oddly timely, as I've just discovered this video on youtube, answering the age old question, "Is that something I saw as a kid, or did I make it up?"
I also added tags so that you can track entries on the cat or my neck lump surgery. Oh, and here's a bonus, of sorts: I also tracked down this old secret blog that I'd nearly forgotten about, which I started before I told my parents about the mysterious lump in my neck (I didn't want to worry them, see?). You can witness my thinly disguised panic here: NoraBora.vox.com
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Things I'm Not Freaking Out About Today
1. The cat's gone missing again, the first time he's ever pulled off this dissapearing act twice in as many weeks (usually he waits a good year or so between Greta Garbo impersonations). Whatever, kitten, I'm over it.
2. The weird itchy-pully feeling along the edges of my new scar. Whatever. It does this every time.
3. The nagging feeling that I have plans tonight. If I'm supposed to do something with you, please call me?
2. The weird itchy-pully feeling along the edges of my new scar. Whatever. It does this every time.
3. The nagging feeling that I have plans tonight. If I'm supposed to do something with you, please call me?
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Medical Tourism
I got my stitches out today, and made an appointment to get steroid injections which will hopefully minimize my scarring this time around (and maybe improve my baseball game!). The appointment is with a dermatologist, which got me thinking about the wide variety of doctors this lump (and this now post lump collarbone) has seen.
Types of Doctors I Have Seen for One Little Body Part
1. Dr. N: My primary care physician many moons ago, who told me that the chronic pain in my hand and arm was, "probably nothing," and that I was "so young, what could be wrong with you?" Then she advised me to get manicures with hand massages.
2. Dr. B: A Chiropractor, several years later. I got a free consultation with my gym membership, and ended up seeing him for a few months in an attempt to eradicate the arm pain. When it just wouldn't go away, he discovered the lump poking up from beneath my clavicle. He determined that the lump wasn't a swollen muscle, and advised me to get some sort of follow-up. The day he discovered the lump, he let me stay on the water massage table longer than usual, and I was afraid he suspected something terrible was wrong with me. Later I found out he thought it might be the edge of a lung tumor, poking out by my neck. I guess that happens sometimes.
3. Various Residents at the sliding scale clinic at St. Mary's: The one I saw most often was convinced it was nothing but a sprained muscle at first, and got progressively more worried as more and more results came back inconclusive. They knew I had a tumor, but couldn't figure out what it was.
4. The guy down in radiology who did a needle biopsy: The needle was huge, and it hurt more than I could have ever expected (which makes sense when your realize the tumor was made up of nerve cells). He was the first person to tell me, "This thing's going to have to come out, no matter what." I was so scared, I cried the whole walk home.
5. Dr. P: A Vascular Surgeon who reminded me of my cousin Claire. It turned out that she had grown up in Massachusetts (like me!), and had attended Tufts medical school, right by where Brian and I used to live. She went in to take out my tumor, but realized that it was part of the nerve and that I'd need to see a specialist to get it out. She was really nice.
6. Dr B: The Peripheral Neurologist who took out the tumor, finally. He's one of the best in the business for the strange little tumor I had. People come from all over the world to see him, but I only needed to go 3 stops on the N train. His waiting room has the most amazing view of San Francisco I've ever seen. The surgery took nine hours. He's got a great bedside manner.
7. Dr L: An Orthopedic Surgeon who was part of the team doing the 9 hour surgery. She's the one who repaired my collarbone (which had to be broken to get the tumor out), and who put in the plate that held it together when they were done. She's also the one who took the plate out again last week. It seems like she's got a good sense of humor. Or at least she laughs at my dumb jokes, which makes me feel better about things.
8. Various medical students who assisted in the de-tumoring. When I woke up after the surgery, all these young medical students kept coming to check on me, each of them saying they'd been there for the surgery. They were all really excited with every little move I made in the recovery room, and twittered appreciatively at my lame jokes. Huh, I thought, my brain still foggy from the drugs, I must have looked really cute in there. Later, I realized that I'd just had a really cool, rare tumor, and that my rock star surgeons had done a great job at not damaging any of the nerves going to my arm. I could've lost the use of my thumb or pinky. As it was, my hand was alternately numb and painful for months, like it was constantly waking up from having been slept on.
9. The Physical Therapists at the Hand Clinic: Dr. B referred me to a hand clinic run by Dr. L at the hospital down the street from us. At the end of each session, I got to stick my hand in a machine full of corn husks with hot air that blew the husks around. The nerves in my hand were still waking up, and the hot air and husks felt indescribably good. The therapist I saw most was named Olga, and told me a funny story about holding a baby crocodile on a trip to Africa. After my last appointment she said, "Go ahead! Just live your life, you'll be fine."
10. A Dermatologist, and maybe a plastic surgeon for the scars: and that should be it. As I said to Brian today, if we could get Proctologist involved somehow, that would be impressive.
Types of Doctors I Have Seen for One Little Body Part
1. Dr. N: My primary care physician many moons ago, who told me that the chronic pain in my hand and arm was, "probably nothing," and that I was "so young, what could be wrong with you?" Then she advised me to get manicures with hand massages.
2. Dr. B: A Chiropractor, several years later. I got a free consultation with my gym membership, and ended up seeing him for a few months in an attempt to eradicate the arm pain. When it just wouldn't go away, he discovered the lump poking up from beneath my clavicle. He determined that the lump wasn't a swollen muscle, and advised me to get some sort of follow-up. The day he discovered the lump, he let me stay on the water massage table longer than usual, and I was afraid he suspected something terrible was wrong with me. Later I found out he thought it might be the edge of a lung tumor, poking out by my neck. I guess that happens sometimes.
3. Various Residents at the sliding scale clinic at St. Mary's: The one I saw most often was convinced it was nothing but a sprained muscle at first, and got progressively more worried as more and more results came back inconclusive. They knew I had a tumor, but couldn't figure out what it was.
4. The guy down in radiology who did a needle biopsy: The needle was huge, and it hurt more than I could have ever expected (which makes sense when your realize the tumor was made up of nerve cells). He was the first person to tell me, "This thing's going to have to come out, no matter what." I was so scared, I cried the whole walk home.
5. Dr. P: A Vascular Surgeon who reminded me of my cousin Claire. It turned out that she had grown up in Massachusetts (like me!), and had attended Tufts medical school, right by where Brian and I used to live. She went in to take out my tumor, but realized that it was part of the nerve and that I'd need to see a specialist to get it out. She was really nice.
6. Dr B: The Peripheral Neurologist who took out the tumor, finally. He's one of the best in the business for the strange little tumor I had. People come from all over the world to see him, but I only needed to go 3 stops on the N train. His waiting room has the most amazing view of San Francisco I've ever seen. The surgery took nine hours. He's got a great bedside manner.
7. Dr L: An Orthopedic Surgeon who was part of the team doing the 9 hour surgery. She's the one who repaired my collarbone (which had to be broken to get the tumor out), and who put in the plate that held it together when they were done. She's also the one who took the plate out again last week. It seems like she's got a good sense of humor. Or at least she laughs at my dumb jokes, which makes me feel better about things.
8. Various medical students who assisted in the de-tumoring. When I woke up after the surgery, all these young medical students kept coming to check on me, each of them saying they'd been there for the surgery. They were all really excited with every little move I made in the recovery room, and twittered appreciatively at my lame jokes. Huh, I thought, my brain still foggy from the drugs, I must have looked really cute in there. Later, I realized that I'd just had a really cool, rare tumor, and that my rock star surgeons had done a great job at not damaging any of the nerves going to my arm. I could've lost the use of my thumb or pinky. As it was, my hand was alternately numb and painful for months, like it was constantly waking up from having been slept on.
9. The Physical Therapists at the Hand Clinic: Dr. B referred me to a hand clinic run by Dr. L at the hospital down the street from us. At the end of each session, I got to stick my hand in a machine full of corn husks with hot air that blew the husks around. The nerves in my hand were still waking up, and the hot air and husks felt indescribably good. The therapist I saw most was named Olga, and told me a funny story about holding a baby crocodile on a trip to Africa. After my last appointment she said, "Go ahead! Just live your life, you'll be fine."
10. A Dermatologist, and maybe a plastic surgeon for the scars: and that should be it. As I said to Brian today, if we could get Proctologist involved somehow, that would be impressive.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Signs That I May Have Been Unemployed for Too Long
1. I've find myself thinking that I should embroider me, Hope and Brian's names onto napkins, each in colors appropriate to our personalities.
2. Days of the week have no meaning to me. I find myself wondering, why are people working today?? It's Wednesday, for God's sake.
2a. Oh, wait, it's Monday. My bad.
3. Three bottles of wine seems like a decent amount for four people to drink with their dinner. On Monday.
4. How people have any money whatsoever is an absolute mystery,
5. A stranger starts a conversation on the street, and I am completely unable to string words together into a sentence.
6. Our freezer is full of soups, each recipe having required several hours' preparation. Somehow, the day that we find ourselves in need of a quick, no-prep dinner never comes.
7. Planning a trip to the desert for my birthday, I momentarily have trouble understanding why Wednesday is a difficult day for people to make a ten hour drive.
8. This has nothing to do with the list, but there's a meteor shower the night before my birthday this year. Y'all should totally check it out.
2. Days of the week have no meaning to me. I find myself wondering, why are people working today?? It's Wednesday, for God's sake.
2a. Oh, wait, it's Monday. My bad.
3. Three bottles of wine seems like a decent amount for four people to drink with their dinner. On Monday.
4. How people have any money whatsoever is an absolute mystery,
5. A stranger starts a conversation on the street, and I am completely unable to string words together into a sentence.
6. Our freezer is full of soups, each recipe having required several hours' preparation. Somehow, the day that we find ourselves in need of a quick, no-prep dinner never comes.
7. Planning a trip to the desert for my birthday, I momentarily have trouble understanding why Wednesday is a difficult day for people to make a ten hour drive.
8. This has nothing to do with the list, but there's a meteor shower the night before my birthday this year. Y'all should totally check it out.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Kepler!
Johannes Kepler is one of my favorite scientists. I'm writing a story right now wherein one of the characters is named John Kepler, and even though the character's not entirely based on the original J.K., I've been having fun researching biographical information to work in here and there. So, since it's March, here's a list:
Some Interesting Stuff About Johannes Kepler, Plus Random Facts You May Find Useful
1. He was born on December 27th, the feast day of St. John the Apostle.
1a. In Dante's Paradiso, St. John explains to Dante that he (St. J to the A, that is), like all the saints, ascended into heaven in his spiritual form. The only two to ever ascend corporeally (that is, body and soul together), John reveals, were Jesus and the Virgin Mary.
2. In the early 1600s, Johannes Kepler wrote a manuscript that was later published under the title Somnium, or The Dream. In it, he explored what astronomical observations would be like from another planet, hypothesizing that, from the moon, one could observe the movements of the earth in the same manner as the Earth's inhabitants can track the moon's.
2a. Somnium is sometimes described as the first work of science fiction. It tells the story of a journey to the moon, accomplished after the mother of the narrator consults a demon and learns the secret of space travel. It also incorporates autobiographical elements from Kepler's own life, such as his apprenticeship with Tycho Brahe.
2b. Some years later, Kepler's mother was put on trial for witchcraft, perhaps in part due to the events described in Somnium. After successfully defending her, Kepler added 223 footnotes to the story (which go on several pages longer than the story itself), which explain the story's allegorical and scientific elements. He also made the trip to the moon take place inside a dream.
Some Interesting Stuff About Johannes Kepler, Plus Random Facts You May Find Useful
1. He was born on December 27th, the feast day of St. John the Apostle.
1a. In Dante's Paradiso, St. John explains to Dante that he (St. J to the A, that is), like all the saints, ascended into heaven in his spiritual form. The only two to ever ascend corporeally (that is, body and soul together), John reveals, were Jesus and the Virgin Mary.
2. In the early 1600s, Johannes Kepler wrote a manuscript that was later published under the title Somnium, or The Dream. In it, he explored what astronomical observations would be like from another planet, hypothesizing that, from the moon, one could observe the movements of the earth in the same manner as the Earth's inhabitants can track the moon's.
2a. Somnium is sometimes described as the first work of science fiction. It tells the story of a journey to the moon, accomplished after the mother of the narrator consults a demon and learns the secret of space travel. It also incorporates autobiographical elements from Kepler's own life, such as his apprenticeship with Tycho Brahe.
2b. Some years later, Kepler's mother was put on trial for witchcraft, perhaps in part due to the events described in Somnium. After successfully defending her, Kepler added 223 footnotes to the story (which go on several pages longer than the story itself), which explain the story's allegorical and scientific elements. He also made the trip to the moon take place inside a dream.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
I just might do this every day
So, in case you haven't heard, every Month is National Blog Posting Month nowadays. I haven't decided if I'm really doing it this month for sure, but until I do, I better pretend I am. If that makes sense.
So anyway, March's theme is lists. Here goes:
Reasons I can't get a job just yet, as there's so much more still need to accomplish during my unemployment. Such as:
1. Joining the Craft Gym and learning a trade (with God as my witness, I'll never manage offices again!).
2. Rediscovering the joy of reading (believe it or not, I developed a certain anxiety around the activity when I was teaching and working full time this past semester. I can't enjoy a book without the nagging feeling that there's some real work I'm neglecting somewhere).
3. Walking more. Particularly in places where there are ruins, views, and/or sea breezes.
4. Catching up on my correspondence.
5. Cleaning the goddamn bedroom already (there's nothing like worrying that your missing cat has been smothered under a pile of dirty laundry).
6. Writing the great American novel, or at least finishing a short story for once, rather than freezing halfway through, unable to edit or move forward.
7. Cleaning the damn dog doo from the back yard so that I can enjoy the afternoon sun.
8. Exploring the still shockingly plentiful San Francisco neighborhoods, museums, and scenic spots that I have yet to visit, plumb for riches, and adore.
So anyway, March's theme is lists. Here goes:
Reasons I can't get a job just yet, as there's so much more still need to accomplish during my unemployment. Such as:
1. Joining the Craft Gym and learning a trade (with God as my witness, I'll never manage offices again!).
2. Rediscovering the joy of reading (believe it or not, I developed a certain anxiety around the activity when I was teaching and working full time this past semester. I can't enjoy a book without the nagging feeling that there's some real work I'm neglecting somewhere).
3. Walking more. Particularly in places where there are ruins, views, and/or sea breezes.
4. Catching up on my correspondence.
5. Cleaning the goddamn bedroom already (there's nothing like worrying that your missing cat has been smothered under a pile of dirty laundry).
6. Writing the great American novel, or at least finishing a short story for once, rather than freezing halfway through, unable to edit or move forward.
7. Cleaning the damn dog doo from the back yard so that I can enjoy the afternoon sun.
8. Exploring the still shockingly plentiful San Francisco neighborhoods, museums, and scenic spots that I have yet to visit, plumb for riches, and adore.
The Cat Came Back, the Very Next Day
Well, the cat came home finally at 6:45 this morning, swaggering casually into the kitchen while Hope was feeding the other animals breakfast.
I tend to read into things too much. I remember when I was eight or so, on a church trip to Cape Cod, asking the minister why God created mosquitoes. He said, in his sonorous preacher voice,"To teach us patience," and all the grown-ups laughed. But I immediately started crafting different, more nuanced answers, whole sermons about how the lowly mosquito should make us examine the nature of our our own relationships, how our desires & appetites affect the world around us and blah blah. We are never so well-assured that we speak the truth of the universe as when we are eight.
Which is basically a longer-winded way of saying what I said before: I overthink things. So when the cat was still missing at bedtime, I wondered: do I take things too much for granted? Should I be happy with what I've got, and not sweat the slings and arrows, just so long as my sweet happy life with Brian and the cat stays intact? Or do cats just sometimes need to take a day, to celebrate leap year and do whatever it is they do when we're not watching?
Anyway. I'm just glad he's home.
I tend to read into things too much. I remember when I was eight or so, on a church trip to Cape Cod, asking the minister why God created mosquitoes. He said, in his sonorous preacher voice,"To teach us patience," and all the grown-ups laughed. But I immediately started crafting different, more nuanced answers, whole sermons about how the lowly mosquito should make us examine the nature of our our own relationships, how our desires & appetites affect the world around us and blah blah. We are never so well-assured that we speak the truth of the universe as when we are eight.
Which is basically a longer-winded way of saying what I said before: I overthink things. So when the cat was still missing at bedtime, I wondered: do I take things too much for granted? Should I be happy with what I've got, and not sweat the slings and arrows, just so long as my sweet happy life with Brian and the cat stays intact? Or do cats just sometimes need to take a day, to celebrate leap year and do whatever it is they do when we're not watching?
Anyway. I'm just glad he's home.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Worry
Once every year or so, the cat goes missing for the better part of a day. Because he does it so rarely, it always throws me; I just expect him to be shadowing my every move, sleeping just near enough but not touching while I read or write, yowling and biting if my arm strays to close.
This morning, Brian washed my hair for me in the sink. I've got stitches on my shoulder that mustn't get wet, so I put on my raincoat and wrapped a dishtowel around my neck. The warm water felt so delightful on my filthy little head, warm and soft and full of memories of how my mom used to wash my hair when I was little, with warm water in a tin pitcher. We had a picture book that showed vikings bathing the same way.
Anyway. I'm sure the cat will be home soon. In fact, I keep expecting him to walk in as I type this, a swaggering, bald-ass* cat conjured by my deliberate busywork.
It's been a long week, kitten. Won't you please come home?
* I'm not sure if I mentioned this, but the cat's butt was half shaved for his surgery last month. It's just starting to grow back, and its all soft and downy like a baby chicken. A baby chicken attached to the posterior of a very crabby cat.
This morning, Brian washed my hair for me in the sink. I've got stitches on my shoulder that mustn't get wet, so I put on my raincoat and wrapped a dishtowel around my neck. The warm water felt so delightful on my filthy little head, warm and soft and full of memories of how my mom used to wash my hair when I was little, with warm water in a tin pitcher. We had a picture book that showed vikings bathing the same way.
Anyway. I'm sure the cat will be home soon. In fact, I keep expecting him to walk in as I type this, a swaggering, bald-ass* cat conjured by my deliberate busywork.
It's been a long week, kitten. Won't you please come home?
* I'm not sure if I mentioned this, but the cat's butt was half shaved for his surgery last month. It's just starting to grow back, and its all soft and downy like a baby chicken. A baby chicken attached to the posterior of a very crabby cat.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
And I'm still on the Vicodin, so this may not be all that cogent
So. This past Tuesday, the Western Association of Schools and Colleges announced that it was terminating New College of California's accreditation. As most (if not all) of you are aware, New College is where I earned both my masters degrees, where I finished my bachelors, and where I taught as an adjunct from the fall trimester 2006 to fall 2007.
I'm not entirely sure how to feel about this. No, wait, scratch that; I have plenty of feelings on the subject -- they just don't sort out well.
A big part of me is just crushingy embarrassed. In this thoroughly modern age, when we all get our news of the internets and it's just as easy for people to make their opinions known in the comments section of the San Francisco Chronicle as it is on this lovely little blog o' mine, I can't help but be aware of how stupid we all look. And I can see how tempting a target it is: the hubris of it all! The stupid, willfully wide-eyed optimism of running a school as if ideals were all that mattered! As if all you needed were a building and a bunch of good intentions.
But the truth of the matter is, the ideals weren't what did the place in. Neither were the smart, starry-eyed utopians who were fool enough to learn and teach there over the years. It was just poorly run, poorly overseen, and didn't have the time or money to right itself before the end came.
One of the things I keep coming back to, though, is how happy I am with the education I got there. New College was the third school I attended full-time (the fifth I attended for any time at all), and, with its strong social justice angle, was the perfect top-off to my more previously literature-and-tweed-heavy academic career. I really did learn a lot there, as both a student and a teacher. And isn't that the true worth of my degrees? The effect upon my noggin?
Still, though, it's sad, and shaming, and just... yeah. Sad.
In other but not unrelated news, I ran an errand recently for an old poetry prof of mine (also recently cast adrift by New College). He gave me this poem as a thank-you.
Just in case you can't read it:
After Wang Wei
Chilling down by the water
stopped to watch clouds drift
clouds drift clouds drift
bumped into mr. green
talked laughed forgot
it was time to go
I'm not entirely sure how to feel about this. No, wait, scratch that; I have plenty of feelings on the subject -- they just don't sort out well.
A big part of me is just crushingy embarrassed. In this thoroughly modern age, when we all get our news of the internets and it's just as easy for people to make their opinions known in the comments section of the San Francisco Chronicle as it is on this lovely little blog o' mine, I can't help but be aware of how stupid we all look. And I can see how tempting a target it is: the hubris of it all! The stupid, willfully wide-eyed optimism of running a school as if ideals were all that mattered! As if all you needed were a building and a bunch of good intentions.
But the truth of the matter is, the ideals weren't what did the place in. Neither were the smart, starry-eyed utopians who were fool enough to learn and teach there over the years. It was just poorly run, poorly overseen, and didn't have the time or money to right itself before the end came.
One of the things I keep coming back to, though, is how happy I am with the education I got there. New College was the third school I attended full-time (the fifth I attended for any time at all), and, with its strong social justice angle, was the perfect top-off to my more previously literature-and-tweed-heavy academic career. I really did learn a lot there, as both a student and a teacher. And isn't that the true worth of my degrees? The effect upon my noggin?
Still, though, it's sad, and shaming, and just... yeah. Sad.
In other but not unrelated news, I ran an errand recently for an old poetry prof of mine (also recently cast adrift by New College). He gave me this poem as a thank-you.
Just in case you can't read it:
After Wang Wei
Chilling down by the water
stopped to watch clouds drift
clouds drift clouds drift
bumped into mr. green
talked laughed forgot
it was time to go
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
This post brought to you by collarbones, screws, and the letter vicodin
Yesterday, I had this metal plate, which had been holding my collarbone in place since my surgery last May, taken out. This was the best operation I've had yet. First of all, since it was outpatient, I got to keep my underpants on, which adds enormously to one's sense of dignity in those all-but-backless hospital gowns. My cousin, Molly, drove Brian and I to the hospital, and even though my surgery ended up being delayed for something like four hours, the time flew by, the three of us laughing and talking and even playing charades for a while, I in my hospital gown, Molly with her knitting, and Brian critiquing the wan watercolors on my private waiting room's walls.
Once things got moving, it all becomes something of a blur (due, no doubt, to the sudden influx of sedating drugs through my IV). The operating room had, surprisingly, a large window to the outside, and the last thing I remember is a large blue sky with a dollop of slowly rotating cirrus. I asked the nurse in the recovery room if there'd really been a window or if I'd been hallucinating and she said that yes, the window and sky were real. The hospital is built into a hill, so even though the ambulatory surgery ward is downstairs from the entrance hall, it looks out on the sky. It's like being Tycho Brahe, but without the golden nose.
Anyway. Then we all came home and I ate some jello and slept for hours and hours. And then I woke up this morning and ate some jello and slept for hours and hours more. And now I'm going to have more jello.
As an aside, I keep having this sense memory of eating rootbeer-flavored jello, with fossilized bubbles in the gelatin that popped against my tongue. Has any such thing ever existed? Can I have some?
Saturday, February 16, 2008
A good weekend, so far
Friday, Brian and I went for a walk along the beach. The sand was full of ladybugs and washed-up jellyfish, and we had to walk carefully to avoid them.
Then my cousin Molly picked me up and we caught the Marie Antoinette exhibit at the Legion of Honor (just in time, too -- it ends this weekend) and went for a ramble down by the ruins of the Sutro Baths.
(Which are, by the way, one of my favorite places in San Francisco).
Then we went to see one of Hope's friends sing at the Savannah Jazz club down in the mission. I drank French Martinis and ate fried plantains and felt very grown up.
Then today Hope and I went to the farmer's market and then birdwatching, and we ate the yummiest fennel and beet dinner ever, if I do say so myself. And the grass at Heron's Head was just so pretty, I had to take a picture. There were some ducks nearby, but my cellphone just wasn't up to wildlife photography.
Then my cousin Molly picked me up and we caught the Marie Antoinette exhibit at the Legion of Honor (just in time, too -- it ends this weekend) and went for a ramble down by the ruins of the Sutro Baths.
(Which are, by the way, one of my favorite places in San Francisco).
Then we went to see one of Hope's friends sing at the Savannah Jazz club down in the mission. I drank French Martinis and ate fried plantains and felt very grown up.
Then today Hope and I went to the farmer's market and then birdwatching, and we ate the yummiest fennel and beet dinner ever, if I do say so myself. And the grass at Heron's Head was just so pretty, I had to take a picture. There were some ducks nearby, but my cellphone just wasn't up to wildlife photography.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Fort Fun!
It was marvelously sunny today, so we headed out to one of our favorite city parks:
There were four of us: Hope, Brian, the dog, and me. Hope's car is a two-seater by nature, but has this teensey vestigial back seat that I folded myself into for the trip. I had to sit sideways with my seatbelt wrapped awkwardly around me and my feet wedged against the opposite wall, but at least I had a decent view of the dog, who was sitting cozily on Brian's lap in the passenger seat up front.
At Fort Funston, Re Dag (the dog) and I played ball in the surf while Brian and Hope went for a run. The tide was coming in and washing sand and sea water against my bare toes, and I called my parents up to inquire about the weather they were having. I didn't let on that I'd overheard at the farmer's market earlier today that it was snowing in Boston.
Finally, Re Dag and I, both soaked to the skin, met up with Brian and Hope by the stairs leading up to the hang gliders' launch point. We heaved ourselves back up the hill to the car, where Re Dag fell asleep on Brian's lap, and I tracked sand through the nonexistent backseat.
The end.
There were four of us: Hope, Brian, the dog, and me. Hope's car is a two-seater by nature, but has this teensey vestigial back seat that I folded myself into for the trip. I had to sit sideways with my seatbelt wrapped awkwardly around me and my feet wedged against the opposite wall, but at least I had a decent view of the dog, who was sitting cozily on Brian's lap in the passenger seat up front.
At Fort Funston, Re Dag (the dog) and I played ball in the surf while Brian and Hope went for a run. The tide was coming in and washing sand and sea water against my bare toes, and I called my parents up to inquire about the weather they were having. I didn't let on that I'd overheard at the farmer's market earlier today that it was snowing in Boston.
Finally, Re Dag and I, both soaked to the skin, met up with Brian and Hope by the stairs leading up to the hang gliders' launch point. We heaved ourselves back up the hill to the car, where Re Dag fell asleep on Brian's lap, and I tracked sand through the nonexistent backseat.
The end.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Marching with Milk
I'm in the bottom left of this photo, taken during the filming of some protest scenes for the Milk movie last night. If you click on the photo, it takes you to a larger version & you can see my orange poncho.
Friday, February 01, 2008
I Heart Milk
Right now, they're filming Milk, a movie about the life and death of Harvey Milk, on location here in San Francisco. Certain parts of three blocks of Castro street have been made over for the movie, with storefronts returned to their 1970s facades, and era-appropriate cars parked on either side of the street.
It's a funny effect -- fliers and signs from 1974 visible in one store window, while next door Gay Porn DVDs and erotic devices Barbarella herself could have never imagined sit proudly on display. Walking down Castro street the other day with Brian, I was reminded of one of my favorite passages from Civilization and Its Discontents, where Freud describes the mind as being like a city where nothing is ever torn down.
...in Rome the palaces of the Caesars and the Septizonium of Septimus Severus would still be rising to their old height on the Palatine and that the castle of S. Angelo would still be carrying on its battlements the beautiful statues which graced it until the siege by the Goths, and so on. But more than this. In the palace occupied by the Palazzo Caffarelli would once more stand -- without the Palazzo having to be removed -- the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus; and this not only in its latest shape, as the Romans of the Empire waw it, but also in its earliest one, when it still showed Etruscan forms and was ornamented with terra-cotta antefixes. Where the Coliseum now stands we could at the same time admire Nero's vanished Golden House. On the Piazza of the Pantheon we should not only find the Pantheon of today, as it was bequeathed to us by Hadrian, but, on the same site, the original edifice erected by Aggrippa; indeed, the same piece of ground would be supporting the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva and the ancient temple over which it was built. And the observer would perhaps only have to change the direction of his glance or his position in order to call up the one view or the other.
Here in San Francisco, perhaps because it's my adopted home and therefore one I'm less likely to take for granted, I often feel like I'm catching glimpses of other eras, walking on streets downtown where there are shipwrecks in the landfill beneath the cobblestones or passing the spot on Ashbury street where Charles Manson and the Grateful Dead were once neighbors with a convent of French nuns (only the nuns still remain). Seeing the past made real on Castro this week is an odd sort of delight, a sense of a world made new and old again at once, and a reminder that our lives, our pasts, do not perish entirely, so long as time and memory conspire to keep us present in the people and objects that take our place.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Strategy
What do you do when the cat manages to make himself bleed despite an ecollar, narcotics and constant supervision?
You join Catster, of course! And then you sit in the bedroom, frown at the cat, and gloom.
[Edited to add: Don't worry about Herr Katzendumbkopf-- it was just a little blood, and he seems fine now.]
You join Catster, of course! And then you sit in the bedroom, frown at the cat, and gloom.
[Edited to add: Don't worry about Herr Katzendumbkopf-- it was just a little blood, and he seems fine now.]
Some Beans
So much depends on the pretty blue bowl in the avocado sink.
Now that I've quit my job (oh did I tell you? I quit.), I'm determined to spend more time cooking. Not that I haven't been cooking up until now, but have I been making beans and currys and katsups from scratch? I have not.
In other news, why do I feel guilty for leaving a job that has not paid me in over two months, and as far as I can tell can't pay me, ever again? Hm.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
What a difference a beard makes
And here I always thought I was a clone of my mother.
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