Daily Dose of Lithium . . . soon-ish

It's official. For a few weeks now, but I've been trying to get someone to figure out what drugs I need. So far, 300 mgs of lithium. Can't start taking it till my CNP gets the results of my blood test. Till then, I've lorazepem to keep me calm and control the insomnia, but it doesn't help too much. Not since the first night. It knocked me on my ass in an hour. The next night . . . not so much. I knew what to expect, and I fought off the drowsiness and stayed up for another three hours.

Slow at work today, so I left early. Was suddenly just massively tired and depressed. Yesterday I was so energized and up. But today. . . .

I took my lorazepem just before I got home and slept for six hours. Watching Olbermann and Maddow, then popping another and sleeping till morning. I'm just tired and sluggish. Can't seem to get in gear since I got outta bed this morning. From the week before (despite getting suspended from work for four days, for insubordination) I was so UP. Ideas, writing, everything. I didn't need sleep. Sleep was for the weak and insipid. Now, I just wanna close my eyes and never wake up. Just tired.

I keep meaning to blog more, to keep up with blogs I like, but I'm either HIGH! and can't focus, or low, and simply don't care about anything. I think that' where I am right now because even typing is physically exhausting me.

Meh.

In other news, I keep seeing stories about Atheists getting debaptized, or de-whatever bullshit religious ceremony was forced on them at a tender or not-so-tender age.

I guess if that's what some people need to feel like "a member of the godless group" . . . but it's still the same old idiocy. A bullshit ceremony that means nothing, to erase a bullshit ceremony that means nothing. Even where I inclined to think that my baptism meant fuck-all in the For Real, you know, that place where things happen and matter, I would think it meant something because of the capital G, you know? in which case I wouldn't be getting debaptized. Couldn't possibly think a debaptism is valid.

Since I don't think any ceremony has any intrinsic value, only has the value I give it, I think they're all so much horseshit. There's no capital G, the ceremony means nothing. The ceremony to devalue the ceremony means nothing, and just gives the fundies something to bark at. I would no more get debatized, than go to a witch doctor to get de-cursed if some old gypsy gave me the evil eye. I genuinely used to think ceremonies like this confirmed one's adherence to reality, but now, I think it does the opposite, and cedes ground to the poor deluded saps that actually still believe their ceremonies and rituals are blessed by Shiva, or Allah or Jeebus.

I just wanna ask these debaptists: if someone told you a leprechaun bit you and broke the skin, and that you'd have to get a special fairy-tetanus shot to keep you from getting leprechaun rabies . . . would you rush to get that shot?

Not a great analogy, or at least not well-put, but the point is valid. To me, it's a damned good parallel. These debaptists are pushing a cure for a disease that doesn't exist. Anyone who needs that fairy-tetanus shot should reexamine what they believe, or don't believe.

The zeal is appreciated . . . cautiously . . . but aim it in a worthier direction, hey?

Aim some righteous ire at institutionalized wrongdoing that actually means something, like fighting Prop 1 in Maine. Those of us on the side of civil rights lost California. Let's not lose Maine.

A Dose of "Pussy" . . . Rammstein, anyone?

I won't link to it here, since I'll always make a sincere effort not to link to porn in my blog (get your jollies the old-fashioned way, buddy: find it yourself), I'm totally gonna pimp the new Rammstein video as both porn-y and fucking hilarious. So, yeah . . . I like "Pussy" :)

Y'all are enterprising and smart, so go, find, enjoy, if you haven't seen it already. Quick hint: trawl German porn sites. Good luck, have fun.

Everyone--

DON'T PANIC.

A Dose of LMAO!

Dose of No-fucking-help Whatsoever

My GP was next to no help. Recommended a shrink . . . in Poughkeepsie, which is 40 minutes away by car. The car that I don't own and am not licensed to drive. Bus travel up here is complicated and sparse at best--nonexistent after six pm.

So . . . so much for hopes of not having to put up with this anymore. With not having to feel like I'm crumbling all the time. Help may as well be on Pluto, and I'm stuck like this.

I was crying for awhile. On the bus ride home. Not loud or anything, just couldn't make the tears stop. People kept giving me looks. I was angry at first. Now, I'm just extremely tired . . . and crying again. I need to lay down with Morphine blasting to cover up the sound of the idiot roofers, and of my fucking idiot brain doing what it does so very badly.

Maybe in time I'll adapt. Whatever's wrong with me, be it psychological, chemical, or both, I've had it for a really long time. The fact that it's been getting noticeably worse and more intense for the past six months means nothing, really. I'll just deal, like I always have, whether it keeps escalating, or whether I (and this proves hope springs eternally, like a geyser of stupid) finally emotionally burnout and stop feeling at all. If the time comes when I can't deal anymore, then I suppose we'll just have to see what we see.

A Dose of Silphium

Wow. Humans aren't smart. Even when motivated by the prospect of pregnancy-free fucking. Unbelievable.

Why, when we can't even manage our physical world, would we go around inventing a supernatural one? Just to liven up our epic fails? Self-defeating and self-destructing--just one more self- and we'd be a triple threat.

T minus four days till I see my GP and begin the likely long and unfun process of figuring out what--besides a lot--is wrong with me. Still only hearing the one Voice. I was also unbearably High, today, but in a happy-ish way, more so than angry . . . till I just got anxious, irritable and paranoid. Kept thinking everyone around me was talking about me. Not a fun feeling. I don't believe in a god anymore, but it's all too easy to imagine the universe is totally fucking with me. I'd hate to think that what's it's done thus far is borne of total indifference!

Bloodwork, tomorrow, to find out what other nuts I'm deathly allergic to these days, beside almonds.

It'd be best for all concerned if I had a massive stroke in my sleep and was cold by the time my alarm went off in the morning. For the next few days, the world's gonna be too shiny and bright to be dealt with by me someone this brittlely euphoric and itchingly alert. I'll spend all my spare moments weeping and/ or laughing, and unable to stop jittering. Cruushed by the wonder of existence.

I'm crossing my fingers for that stroke.

Daily Dose of the Voice

Hah. Yesterday, I posted here about possibly being bipolar, and--well, I've been rolling the possiblity around in my head for a few days, and my consolation was, well, whatever, at least I'm not hearing voices.

I've been telling myself that a lot lately, and today, at work, on a particularly annoying call (they all are, really, I despise the general public. They're stupid, immature, lazy, and mean) this voice whispers, like it was right next to my ear, really, Rachel, you should just kill yourself. You know that, right?

So, I don't hear voices, just a Voice. Big difference. For awhile, I didn't really notice it, anymore. It's like a white noise, only . . . it's suicide-slanted. And it's like the boy who cried wolf. To the point where, if I have to run to catch the bus, it's there, waiting to tell me what I can do to solve that thorny problem, and in a way that doesn't involve running or sweating.

See? I'm still in good shape. Fighting trim, even. Look out, personal demons.

Dunno if one Voice even counts anyway, especially since I've been hearing it since I was old enough to know what kill and death meant. So from five onward, if not a little earlier. I used to hear it rarely, randomly. Any time--during the Highs or the Lows, more often during the nice, uber-rational, mostly emotion-free Numbs.

I'd hear the Voice, and to shut it up, give it shit-tons of reasons why I should not just kill myself. Not step in front of the D-train, or that speeding minivan. Reasons that always won the day. And did, until recently, I mean--who can kill themselves when the Star Trek franchise's received an infusion of fresh blood? Not me!

And that Voice has gotten quieter, over the past couple of months. I thought that might mean, whatever other things were going horribly, off-the-rails-wrong with me, I had that wee, death-hungry Voice beat.

Thing is, I've taken to muttering I should just kill myself aloud in idle moments. Some stressy moments, but mostly non-stressy. I've had to stop myself from doing it on the phone with customers.

("Unfortunately sir I can't look up your iPod warranty with your social security number or your driver's license number oh my god I should just kill myself because this is all this is all this is motherfucking all but may I have your phone number please area code first?")

So, I'm now saying what the Voice used to say sometimes, and sometimes the Voice, playing what I assume is Devil's Advocate, tells me why I shouldn't kill myself. But. Well. It's running out of good reasons and so'm I. The reasons used to be passable but now, they don't hold water.

But mostly, the Voice tries to sway me with logic--or the only kind of logic I'm capable of understanding with regards to my own occasional death-wish: you're tired. Life is tiring. It won't get any less so. Why put yourself through it? If you just kill yourself, you can rest. Forever. No more emotions so big, it feels like you're being ripped apart half the time. No more being afraid of what you might do in the grip of these emotions. Just kill yourself, and you can rest. Don't you want to rest?

I do. I really, really do. I'm tired, and I'm not especially motivated or strong. But for now, I'm also not there yet. Not ready to accept the Voice's logic. Or my own logic. Whomever's. My voice and the Voice are starting to say all the same things, and I really can't tell them apart anymore. Not all the time, anyway. But yeah.

I hear a Voice. It's no one else's but mine, in the end. Some better demon, or worse angel, sitting on my shoulder, dispassionately telling me how to solve every problem I'll ever have, the easy way. And sometimes, telling me why I shouldn't take the easy way out (though suicide takes, I imagine, a brass pair to go through with it). I dunno if anyone else--anyone else sane, that is--has such a Voice. But I do. It's my oldest friend, at this point. I can ignore it, shunt it to the side, but I can't not hear it. Not when it's always made so much sense, and life almost never has.

I can't see my GP for a referral soon enough. T minus five days, and counting. . . .

Guess what, though? The voice telling me to scrag myself and save all this damn effort of living? Ain't god. It ain't his evil brother Lazslo, either, so . . . I may be nuts, but at least, at long last, by logic, I am not a theist.

Aaaaaand I'm back

Hopefully for keeps, this time.

Been a weird, weirdly awful five months, I must say. Don't know how to describe them, doubt it would be interesting to anyone who isn't me. Barely interesting to me, except that the process of straightening out my life has taken a turn.

I now have firsthand understanding of how dangerous a lifetime of "if not here, then in eternity" can be. A slow release revelation, you might say.

For awhile, I thought going cold turkey on all the woo might have made me go crazy, as well. That my fragile little mind might've been warped by subscribing to, you know, reality. Then I realized: I was always like this. I can remember being six and bored on occasional Saturdays but not wanting to play with my friends. So I'd lay in bed for hours, being entertained (after a fashion) by my moods. The happy one was very nice. If I was really still, I could maintain it for hours. It was intense--like a thousand summer days, filled with puppies and candy and rollercoasters--except it was in all my head. Little-kid orgasm.

The corresponding lows weren't very low, but usually followed right on the heels of it. It was more like being numb, but it felt low after the high.

I remember the actual lows, too. They'd hit like random bullets. I'd be standing in the subway with a parent or friends, or waiting to cross the street, and I'd think "I'm tired. I should step in front of that. Then it'd be over and I'd get to sleep forever."

As I got older, it of course got bigger. Worse. The happy times got too happy. Too nervous. Scary. Sometimes painful and angry. Sometimes I'd spend hours laughing and crying all at once, till I was too tired to do anything but sleep . . . not that I could. It was like being alive was too bright and wonderful, and it hurt just to exist in such awesomeness. And at the same time, I knew from experience, in a few hours or a couple days, I'd be numb, if I was lucky. Ready to buy a bottle of drano and find a secluded spot to guzzle it in, if I was wasn't.

Lately the mood-swings happen more frequently. The highs make me nervous, and as inclined to scream, as laugh. And I'm angry all throughout. Like . . . unbelievably, directionlessly angry. To the point where, if I had a knife handy, it'd be my wrists, or someone else's throat. And during the last low, I kept having to talk myself out of wandering off into the woods near my job (miles of it, then the mountains) and find somewhere quiet to lay down and die, just so I could finally be free, and rest.

For the past few days, thankfully, I've just been numb. I still feel things like amused, or annoyed, but it's very distant, like remembering how it feels to laugh at a joke you heard years ago, or remembering how it felt when something someone did six months ago kinda pissed you off. It's all very much elsewhere and elsewhen. I wish the numb time could last for the rest of my life, but I know it won't.

I don't blame any of this on my former adherence to woo, mind. The woo just let me pretend that I would get better on my own, or that I would simply grow out of it. Or that even if I was crazy now, in heaven/the next plane/my next life, I'd be sane. That when I died, Jeebus or whoever would fix me.

But he won't. I would have to say that's the biggest revelation I've had since coming out of the atheism closet--even bigger than the Grandma revelation of a year ago: if not me, then no one. If not in this life, then never. I'm on my own, so to speak, and if I want my life to be better, I have to take responsibility for and steps to make it better.

So, yeah. I probably need psychiatric help. Not in a facetious, narcissistic way, but gecause getting through my day takes more effort than my actual job. But then I have to do my job, too, so it's like working two forty hour weeks at once, only . . . getting through the day doesn't end till I'm dead. It's in my sleep, and when I eat. It's every moment of every day, and I'm too ragged around the edges to do a passable job of maintaining anymore. I keep cutting "extraneous" bits from my life in the hopes that that will stave off whatever collapse or suicide attempt I'm zipping along towards, but it really doesn't. It just isolates me, makes me feel ever more hopeless.

The self-medicating didn't go well at all, either. I've officially sworn off binge-drinking, and--well, pot doesn't really effect my mood anymore, just makes me dizzy, disoriented, nauseas, and sleepy.

But I'm pretty sure I've got some kinda chemical imbalance. Don't know what, yet, but I've got an appointment to see my GP next week, and I'm gonna tell her all my sypmtoms (life-long mood-swings getting more frequent, concentrated, and more intense, i.e., HIGH highs that make me happy, agitated, angry, nervous, and paranoid all at the same time. Lows that leave me lethargic, or leave me so wrecked and depressed, I can barely function. And if I'm lucky, some time and numbness in between these states) and hopefully get a referral to a good shrink. One who'll get me on some kinda meds, if necessary. Not that I can really afford either with my salary or insurance. . . .

I had a melt-down about this in my fiction journal, my friends list there were unbelievably supportive. I was too mortified to read their responses for days, wanting nothing more than to go back in time and delete that post before anyone saw it. But I'm almost kinda glad I don't (yet) have the ability to travel backwards in time. The resounding response, aside from acceptance and support, was: "sounds like you're bipolar. my (aunt, friend, grandmother, sister, parakeet) said she felt exactly like that, and it took awhile, but after they found the right combination of meds, they started getting better."

Maybe I am, and maybe I amn't bipolar. But whatever is going on with me, at least I'll be finally starting to fix it. Me. This life.

So. Dunno how often I'll be updating this blog. I don't really have the energy for much that isn't sleeping, maintaining, or writing fiction (one good thing about the lows, is that I tend to write prolifically and brainstorm better during those times, and world-building is still the best, safest distraction I've got. The numb times are good for editing. The highs are good for nothing at all, except possibly aquiring a felony rapsheet), but I will be reading and commenting in other blogs again. I missed you guys. I missed reality.

Shit, I better post this before I chickenshit-out and delete it--

A Dose of "Heeeeeeey!" ::Fonzie hands::

Heyya. Not dead. Just a crazy, crappy month filled with the kind of moodiness that makes me generally unbearable to others--hence the avoidance of all things blog-related. Anyone who reads this blog and who I read regularly, it'll take me some time, but I'll get caught up on your stuff.

In my rl? Nothing much of note. Piercing possibly infected. Also had a weird lung infection thing that wasn't bronchitis, but the doc put me on the same fucking antibiotics they use to treat anthrax. I was thrilled.

"No, don't worry, it's not bronchitis or tb--but we'll treat it with anthrax meds!"

Ai, ai, ai.

Nice resurgence of asthma, which doing the tango with a resurgence of my panic attacks. One'll trigger the other, and it's all just peachy keen. No doctor's appointment till the twelfth of June and my inhaler is two months past expiration.

No longer on the cusp of being fired at work. Somehow, I've improved my whatever the fuck I was doing wrong and started pretending I care. It seems to do the trick. Still tired of dealing with dumbasses all day. If I have to explain to one more cust what a model number is, I'm whip out my swiss army knife and kill the person to my immediate left.

Got a book on hypnosis. I don't know why, but if it teaches me how to mindfuck people for fun and/ or profit, then bully for me.

The new Star Trek movie is total candy, but I like it anyway. They did a good job with Bones, and that's all I care about.

Reading "As We Are Now", by May Sarton. Going to Minneapolis for a few days at the end of July. I know, the land of ten bajillion lakes, and I'm going in the middle of summer. Am I insane, you may be asking yourself. And the answer, of course, is yes.

All religiousity grates on me now. I mean waaaaay worse than it used to. I notice more when people talk about respecting religion, like religion's a struggling single mother who puts food on the table yet still makes time for her four kids. But instead of pissing me off, or sending me into a self-righteous rant, it just makes me laugh and poke mildly cutting fun at such a silly opinion.

It's like listening to a ten year old talk about Santa. I just want to (and usually do, I don't really care enough to stop myself) say something along the lines of:

"You don't still believe in Santa, do you? Aren't you a little too old for that? I mean--you're not slow, are you? Are you slow? I mean special. You're very special. And Santa will bring you an extra special present this year for being so good. Now run along and try not to eat any more paint chips, no matter how shiny they are."

Finished the love story about the Antichrist and was well-pleased with it. Started writing a novel about six months ago, and the first chapter (which oddly enough probably isn't chapter one) is done. Starting the next chapter has been like water enchanced interrogation. The whole project doesn't know if it wants to be parody or paragon--but it has a lesbian superhero with borderline personality disorder, among other worthies, so I'll do my best to finish it.

Still haven't done my taxes.

A Dose of Infection!!! Oh, Noes!!! Bring Out Your Dead!!!

Hah, not the piercings, peasants, but my lungs, my good ol' lungs.

Had to leave work early today. I could barely talk, and breathing hurt, and I was alternately sweating like a pig and freezing like a frozen thing. Everyone else in the call center was just freezing.

Practically as soon as I signed in, I begged one of my supervisors--who kept moving away from me, because I was both coughing and sweating copiously--to turn on one of the ceiling fans halfway between his desk and mine. He backed away some more, and he said I could turn it on myself, just go to this pylon in the corner, there's a hi-lo switch. . . .

Ladies and gentlemen, we had fan! And glares, since everyone else was cold.

A little later, as I executed a delirious Mary Tyler Moore-spin under the fan, I told a coworker between wracking coughs: "I wish my desk was right here."

My supervisor: "I don't."

Another coworker kept going "sooey" and telling me to go home 'cause I was probably giving everyone the swine flu. I finally asked the scheduling supe if I could leave early if I brought in a doctor's note. I could, so I did. It's not like they woulda had much choice at that point, anyway. I lost my voice shortly after I left. They'd have been paying me to do bugger-all, since I'd have been unable to answer a phone.

Doc prescribed antibiotics and special cough medicine with codeine in it, so Nyquil can go fuck its mother.

Was gonna see Wolverine tonight with friends, but it means delaying the antibiotics--seriously don't want the side effects starting when I'm in transit or in cinema--so I might not. . . .

But I really wanna. I probably will. It's not like I have to jog in place for the length of the movie. My lungs should be fine for a little while longer. And my friends already know I'm sick, so if they're still badgering me to come along, that means they don't mind the risk of contagion. Love me, love my viruses.

Nevertheless, my piercings are all swollen and crusty. I keep them clean, and choose to see that crusty swollenness as healing. But my face kinda hurts again, so I'm a bit worried.

A Dose of Face-Holes

Sweaty, nasty day. Sunlight like syrup, sticky and running all over everything. Attracting bumblebees, speeding them on their little errands--and I don't fuck around with those things since that one flew up my nose that time and got stuck.

Two massive loads of laundrey--linens, clothes, hats, everything. Got cruised by not one, but two creepy guys at the laundry mat. Only one of them was there for actual laundry. The other just walked around in his shiny, ugly shirt and picked his nose. For, like, an hour. Seriously--what did he have up there? The treasure of Sierra Madre?

Shlepped heavy ass laundry. Dodged bumblebees. And after that, because I hadn't sweated enough, I walked crosstown and got my bridge :)

Not so yay? My fucking skull. Fucking ow. And let's not even get into my sinuses (hah, I said "get into my sinuses." I'm funny). The pressure from this . . . maybe one ounce bar--gevalt! I didn't realize how move-y my face was, and now, something as simple as raising my eyebrows feels like someone hit me in the face with a stick. A pretty-stick, obviously.

My piercer guy is so sweet, and his kids are ridiculously cute.

Thinking of recording myself reading that minor milestone piece on the YouTubes--inspired by the wonderful John Evo.



Argh . . . my fucking face. . . .


"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

A Minor Milestone

Nearly a year, now, since I admitted to myself that yes, Virginia, there is no sky-fairy.

I find that I have milestones, some large, some small. The ones that involved my death and dying--death is the end, no playing harps on clouds or even boiling in a lake of fire . . . no nothing--were surprisingly not the hardest to come to. Maybe because I find that I have to deal with it everyday. Sometimes it hits like a freight train, and I'm left gobsmacked. Other times, I'm damn near zen about it. I understand, not just with my brain, but with my heart and my gut that someday, I will die. That that day will be my last day as a consciousness, no matter what happens to my cells. The consciousness called "Rachel" will simply stop.

Admittedly, this sort of zen wasn't me on most days, at first. And I won't lie and say it's me most days now. But I no longer fear the act of dying. Sometimes I fear the pain that's likely to be attendant. I once feared not going on in an "afterlife", even though "not going on" is something no conscious being will ever experience.

Now I simply feel betrayed, vaguely cheated. Not out of living forever, but out of living for a good thousand years or so. ( Though I imagine that on my eve of my 1000th birthday, I'd be bitching and moaning about, "fucking why do I gotta fucking die fucking now? Motherfucker!")

I imagine, once I get my life on something I consider a "right track", that feeling won't fade, so much as be eclipsed by all the stuff that goes with a life fully inhabited and lived.

So no, the thought of my death wasn't the worst realization, even on my worst day. The worst was realizing there's no Heaven, in which my grandmother watches baseball games at an angelic Shea Stadium, and drinks Miller Lites. That she wasn't smiling down on me, and that I would never, ever see her again.

Eight months since I had that mini-realization, and some days it still hits me hard. Not like a freight train. But like an asteroid, and it fucking obliterates me, almost every time. The only reason I want there to be an afterlife is for my Grandma. So that maybe I could sleaze my way past the bouncers at the gate and get a hug. 'Cause she gave the best hugs. And believe me when I say, I'm not a hugger. I don't like people touching me for pretty much any reason and I do not find touch comforting. I don't even let my mother hug me and she knows not to try, but my Grandma . . . she gave the best hugs.

That's the afterlife that I mourn on good days and rage internally at being cheated of on the bad ones. An eternal hug from my Grandma.

Lately, I've looked at this mourning from the perspective of: when I'm dead, I won't miss my grandmother, or hugs, or anything at all. Death will be the cessation of desire for things I had, for things I never got and never will. Understood only with my heart and gut, it's a wee bit depressing, but with my brain in the mix, eternal rest sounds a lot better than even eternal hugs. I mean, if we had everything we ever wanted, and had it all the time . . . how long would we enjoy it before wanting something else? And something else after that? The wanting would never end, and speaking as someone who's wanted many things and gotten very few of them, desire is, more than anything, tiresome.

So, I want a hug from my grandma. Maybe not an eternal one, not anymore. But a good hundred years worth'd do me fine. I will never get that hug, and that makes me sad. But if that's the price I pay for someday, finally, not having to be, period, well, it's an infinitessimally small price to pay.

I do like being alive, but it take so much energy and effort and care. More than I can imagine expending for eternity.

So, that's my milestone. Not a huge one (or even a coherent one, skimming over this post) but it's mine. One more step of many I'll climb till I can't climb anymore. And at the end of my climb, though nowhere near the "top", I'll look forward to a sleep so complete and permanent, I won't even know that I'm taking it--or know anything else, for that matter. Forever and ever, amen.

I find myself strangely optimistic.

It's not about the fact that I ain't the marrying kind and probably never will be. . . .

It's about civil rights.

It's a Dose of Justice, and I am elated, but. . . .

Let's get on the motherfucking ball, New York state.



"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Dose of the Plaaaaague. . . !

I'm sick.

I mean physically, not just mentally. The horrible stomach-y bits are over, or seem to be. Now I'm just blowing my nose and wheezing.

Don't got much to say, except "howdy, y'all!" And for your viewing enjoyment, I present:





Just because it's so beautifully done. The very height of steampunkery, for my money . . . not that I paid any :D

I'd fit in much better on an airship than I ever will in an office.

Had a godsmack of an idea for a short story on the way to work Thursday morning. Worked on it between calls all day and Friday, late into the night, despite my viral subversion. It's a romantic comedy about the Antichrist. I think it's going well. Should be editing it now, but I'm exhausted. Laundry will have to wait till tomorrow, or possibly next week.

Chores, bleh. Library. Groceries. All obligations out of the way of me and twelve solid hours of sleep . . . typing is hard when I have attention span of--ooh! Shiny--


"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

*A Dose of Jeebus!

It's been this kinda day, lol.

*Major thanks to John Evo for introducing me--indirectly, but I'm nosy, so he may as well have held my hand--to BaratsAndBereta.

A Dose of Matrimony?

Think I should do it?

It'd be a nice fuck you! to The Man, but . . . marriage is as much of a tool of The Man as religion.

Maybe I should do one of those pros/cons tables:

Pro:

--A nice fuck you! to The Man
--Power (of a sort) . . . sweet, sweet power. . . .
--Receptions, free food, free booze
--Three hundred clams just to say some words that don't mean anything
--Don't have license or car, but can probably bum rides to and from with friends
--I can make people call me "Your Ministership" . . . and get out of work for religious reasons?
--Marrying gay atheists.
--Meet interesting people
--Some new clothes that can also double as "job interview" togs, because I am this close at work
--Might help me drag the big stick out of my ass re: marriage.


Con:

--Marriage . . . a tool of The Man?
--Responsibility (not being late to weddings, not flubbing lines, not giggling or being sarcastic)
--Receptions, crappy free food, watered down free booze
--Possible loss of the occasional night or weekend
--My dirtbag friends--not likely to be welcome on a solemn occasion.
--Ministership, meh. I'd prefer to be called Her Awesomeness. Not likely to happen. Plus, time off for religious reasons would still cut into my PTO.
--Putting the shackles of matrimony on (probably) nice people.
--I hate people.
--Will probably have to get something fancy and not riddled with holes to wear, which would cut into my steampunk wardrobe budget.
--Hypocritical of me to usher others into something I couldn't imagine doing (unless I was getting paid to help someone stay in the country)?


Any insight from the public at large would be appreciated.

Freshly back from the dentist, where to my delight, not only was cavity Number Six close to the nerve, but they didn't give me enough novocaine (sp?), and so had to stop halfway through due to me thrashing and mewling like a throat-cut lamb due to the intense fucking waves of pain.

Curse my cavity-prone genes.

Found this, and am instantly in love with it, hope the rest of the blog is as interesting.

PhillyChief mentioned RuPaul's Drag Race in a post or comment somewhere, so I gave it a look-see over the weekend. Watched the marathon. I actually can't wait for season two, if there is one. I still think Nina Flowers should've won.

I love the Man of La Mancha soundtrack. One of the best operas ever.

The reading up on arguments and apologetics slogs on. Not sure how much I've internalized, but, well, I'm soon to find out.

Tempted to start Practical Ethics, but I own that. Once I've made more headway on the skillion library books I've had out since forever, then I'll start on Mr. Singer.

More to say, none of it important. After a restless night and pain-filled morning I'm achy, woozy, and ready to take some acetaminophen and crash till Judge Judy comes on. Or maybe till Olbermann comes on, the way I feel.

Gotta love a day off from work.




"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Ah, me . . . logic. . . ?

Up to my ass and then some in illogical fallacies, arguments, premise, conclusion, deductive and inductive reasoning, and my personal fave, PhillyChief's Better Moments. Trying to teach myself how to argue gooder, and beat back the theistic hordes battering the gates of reason.

I dunno how much of the dry fact-y type stuff is sticking, but I've read and reread it so much that hopefully, as I apply it to more things, it'll become second nature. What I can't understand is why every student, in either junior high or high school, isn't made to take a mandatory class on critical thinking. Well, I have an idea. Let's see if I can turn it into an sound inductive argument:


Premise 1: Since critical thinking is the careful, deliberate determination of whether we should accept, reject, or suspend judgment about a claim and the degree of confidence with which we accept or reject it--

Premise 2: It's implicit that it's more difficult to mislead and/or distract someone who is accustomed to thinking critically, and examining everything. Therefore,

Conclusion: It is my conclusion that those in authority, whether parent, teacher, or government, are unlikely to push for mandatory critical thinking classes in public schools.


Hmm. I think Premise 2 might actually be a conclusion. And the Conclusion's probably an appeal to emotion (cynicism) . . . meh. It's my maiden voyage--sue me.

::sighs::
Back to the mines. . . .

"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Mixed Doses.

Sometimes . . . I come across something that makes me want to vomit 'til I die.

Which I then have to follow up with something a bit lighter.

And then there's a bit of backslide. . . .






"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

A Dose of Condell. . . .

And what a refreshing elixir, it is:



"Long, old beard-y faces" . . . oh, Pat. I think I love that bit most of all. . . .




"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Book-ramble, and some other stuff

Argh, Kingston's holding its St Pat's Day parade today, and the drumming is really getting on my nerves. St. Pat's is only fun for me when I'm drunk. When I'm not, it's obnoxious and pointless. (See George Carlin's take on Irish/ Whatevs Pride in It's Bad For Ya.)

Recently finished reading Predictably Irrational, by Dan Ariely, and Jeebus, but human beings are predictably irrational. Some of the experiments detailed in the book--why expensive medicine works better than modestly priced or even cheap medicine--come to conclusions I've drawn on my own. But it also made me think about other irrationalities humans are prone to: why people can enjoy a beer with balsamic vinegar in it . . . unless you tell them there's vinegar in it beforehand. Why the word "free" short circuits what passes for rational thought in many people, making us more likely to grab three of something crappy and free, at the expense of one that's better and with a price tag. Going bid-crazy on eBay.

More importantly, it raises serious questions about the use of placebos and the ethics of keeping patients in the dark about their use. About doctors doing things like prescribing anti-biotics for viral infections, or the medical establishment as a whole being unwilling to really find out if so many of the surgeries performed on patients are necessary, when so many show improvement just from thinking they've been operated on.

So, not only are most people susceptible to practical jokes of all sorts, but they're sometimes better for being deceived. (I'd mention how it reminds me exactly of what Ozymandias says near the end of Watchmen, but I think I've established my geek-cred beyond question, as it is.)

I suppose that this power of positive placebo is hardly surprising or mystifying. If psychosomatic symptoms can make people feel pain--if men can experience "sympathetic pregnancies"--then the reverse certainly ought to hold water. Which naturally makes one wonder (and if one doesn't wonder naturally, the book will helpfully prompt you to forward) if human so-called reasoning is even less reasonable than the pessimists among us imagine.

How marvelous and frightening is it that not only is the human brain immensely powerful and subtle, but that at the reins of this complex difference engine is a frightened, stupid, occasionally gibbering madman, prone to mood swings and susceptible to a mish-mash of hormones?

How humbling and steadying it is that we don't yet truly understand the feats our brains are capable of, let alone have the ability to use its resources fully.


Also finished David Sedaris's When You Are Engulfed In Flames. Touching, amusing, and insightful, as always. He makes me think that, if my life was more interesting, I could try my hand at being an essayist. And at learning to speak French and Japanese.

About to start Tom Paine, by John Keane, and I'm sooper siked (also wanna get his Vaclav Havel), and will likely reread The Stranger and The End of Faith.

Got a hair cut. I literally told the barber I wanted an "Obama", something short, neat and presidential. Bye-bye kooky, spiral-curly afro, hello blessed androgyny. The hair cut's caused so many double-takes, it's amazing. This one guy nearly broke his neck doing an unprecedented quadruple-take, trying to figure out if I was a dude or a chick. At least I assume that's what caused the look, as opposed to my ICP t-shirt or the armload of massively overdue library books.

Downside of the hair cut--I re-found that grey hair I first encountered back in August, and it almost totally resisted the clipper. It was still long and now way visible. Except to the barber who missed it. So I cut it myself. I'm now thirty percent more able pretend I'm not one step closer to my own personal underground sabbatical.

My Rorschach collectible figurine? Still in the unopened, original packaging. My will to power is heretofore unparalleled in human history. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.

And now, I present Indian Thriller, and what it sounds like in English . . . just because I feel like it (by now, it hopefully goes without saying that nothing with a youtube logo is 'mine' in any sense of the word):





"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

"Watchmen"

Pretty solid film. Streamlined and unwieldy simultaneously. Delightful and dark, like the devil in a tutu.

Standout player? Jack Haley as Rorschach. Phe-fucking-nomenal.

Jeffrey Morgan was a surprise in the film--a solid actor, but he showed some nice range. Matthew Goode and Billy Crudup acquitted themselves particularly well. I'm gonna have to see it a few more times before I can dissect it with any skill . . . no snickers from the peanut gallery, I can, too, dissect a film. As opposed to squeeing maniacally like a psychotic fangrrl.

A few people walked out--really old and fairly young. The oldsters were, I think offended by some of the, er, grit. Can't remember whenabouts they left, but I doubt they even made it to the mile-high sex scene. The youngsters probably were having trouble following the storyline.

("Who's this . . . Richard Nixon-dude, and what is this Soviet Union you speak of?")

Was it as well put together as V For Vendetta? I don't think so. V For Vendetta was, imho, damn near perfect. But it had similar themes. As to whether or not the ending is happy . . . well, it's debatable. Hope, abounds at the end, in more than one sense, for more than one side. It's water in the desert and a knife in the gut.

Strong deist overtones, with atheist leanings. And even the deist-y bits exuded a healthy and skeptical distrust of anything akin to a god. Especially the ones in human form. One premise I walked away with is: gods don't do anything because it's the right thing to do. Anything they do is right because they're gods. To borrow from a great sage and eminent madman, they're not final because they're right, they're right because they're final.

There's something perfectly terrible and admirable about one person with the power, ambition, willpower and sheer chutzpah to impose his will on the world without regard for consequences beyond his own specific agenda.

I highly recommend this movie. I've been hearing it gets mixed reviews--and I can see that it would if anyone was expecting a brainless summer-style blockbuster. Smart marketing, that, not throwing this in the summer melee. It would've flopped next to something sleeker, prettier and emptier. This movie would've been a painted lead balloon next to glitz, and fluff and stuff. This is not light fare, nor is it kiddie fare. I mean, the movie group agreed that we've all seen more than enough blue cock to last us six lifetimes. But. . . .

I've gotta see it again later today.

UPDATE

Saw it again, still love it. Still can't say anything other than I love you, Rorschach, you psychotic little fuck! I love you!

Ah, and The Comedian. Ably played, and the only character as interestingly drawn as Rorschach.

In other related news . . .

I'd comment on the site, but . . . it hardly seems worth it. I dunno, maybe tomorrow. Now, I'm too fried. Haven't gotten much sleep over the past few days and when I do, I have weird dreams.

Hah, on the way to see Watchmen again--dragged my poor mom to see it, since the movie group was Watchman-ed out--this cute, boyish guy, thirty-eight or forty, on the bus, who I thought was high . . . was actually just high on Jeebus. On some kinda Xtianity-new Age-bullshit mongrel mix of theism.

He was in stealth mode or something, at first. Talking about how awesome the ride to the mall was--that shoulda been my first clue he was a little off--and just chatting with everyone around him. He was clean, laidback, not creepy. Started talking with me, which I should've discouraged, but didn't because he was middling fuckable and said I gave off such "coolness". he could tell I was just a really cool person.

Uh-huh.

Then he asked me if I read the bible. I said no, not really, as alarm bells went off in my head. Tried to deflect the convo to other areas that wouldn't result in me telling him to shut the fuck up.

Then, after I've let him draw me into another half-assed (on my part) convo, he starts talking about faith and how god provides, and how even though it sometimes seems like those without faith get everything, we still have to have faith the big G-D will provide.

"Well, maybe one of the reasons the faithless get more stuff, is because they're willing to work and fight for it," I ventured dryly, thinking: point. Set. Match, bitch. Then I went in for the kill. "They don't, you know, wait for anyone to hand them something, they go after what they want."

(Ala Adrian Veidt, aka Ozymandias. Seriously, I've got Watchmen on the brain, and probably will for the next two months.)

"YES!" he says, the first flash of excitement he's dispalyed. Not Zeal, but just happy that we were on the same--he thought--wavelength. Me, well, I just though: I converted one! Score! I should find a way to bring up the ritualistic, celebratory welcome-to-the-dark-side!sex that comes free with every rejection of a belief system.

But then he had to go and ruin it by adding, "only a person with faith could grasp that so perfectly! You may not read the bible but I can tell you have such pure faith! The faithless are very grabby and always trying to take stuff because they just don't get--you know?--that God, you know, will provide."

My gobsmacked response? A very dignified ::headdesk::

They really only hear what they want to hear. In his case, possibly because he's just completely oblivious--he didn't notice I wasn't on the bus alone, that once we got to the mall, I was walking with my mother. Didn't notice iit was time for us to part ways. He got all nervous and cutely flustered. Either in a I'd-like-to-ask-you-to-the-spring-formal way or an I-find-your-ambiguity-regarding-faith-an-interesting-challenge-and-I-aim-to-make-you-a-trophy-for-Jeebus way. Who can tell with people--especially Jeebus-freaks?

He said he didn't wanna horn in on my mom-time any more than he had--and it only took five minutes of my impatient hinting--but that he'd like to hang out with me more.

So we exchanged emails. (I almost gave him my blogger address, but my desire to shock the Jeebus out of him isn't as great as my desire to fuck the Jeebus out of him. God sure wouldn't want him after I was done with him, hah.) I don't normally give out contact info, basically inviting conversation and circular debates with a New-Age Jeebus freak, but he was do-able--it's not what passes for his mind that I'm interested in--and I don't often say that about guys. Especially guys with imaginary friends who grant wishes and live on clouds. . . .

Still, though. He totally twisted what I said to make it fit his world view. I don't know what I wanna do more: fuck him or kidney punch him till he shits blood. How dare he? How dare he alter the meaning behind my words to suit his delusions? Was he even conscious of doing it? If not, how does someone get to the point where they can't see a person for what they are, even when the person flat out says it?

Why are some Jeebus freaks so damn hot? Why do I find insanity so hot?

Why does my "I'm really enjoying this stupid fucking conversation" smile look so much like my "there's a snuff film going on behind my eyes and you're the star" smile.

When can I see Watchmen again?

And why the hell is that thing in there with my beef jerky if it isn't edible? Who puts inedible plastic packets in bags of beef jerky?

Well . . . beef jerky manufacturers, obviously. But why?

I need sleep.



"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Opinions. . . ? Suggestions. . . ?

My friend commissioned a tattoo design from me--I'm not gonna recount the long, philosophical conversation that led to it, but, she wanted some animal, preferably a mammal, humping a penguin.

We both agreed that this would be a fine tattoo for children of all ages, and so I've been trying, for months, to settle on a mammal. I finally decided on an aardvark as the hump-er.

Pictured are the preliminary sketches of both animals, then my two finalist "styles" for tidying up:





The choppier, messier one (pictured directly below the aardvark) has all this cool, implied motion--bow chicka wow wow--and is my favorite. But the neater one (sorta below the penguin) is, well, neater. And looks more like lame modern dance as executed by animals, as opposed to a penguin taking it fast and hard.

That fifth thing, about the lovely bunch of coconuts (deedle-dee-dee) is just me being an ass.

I'll probably wind up showing both to Ari and letting her decide for herself, but still. An objective opinion couldn't hurt. She says it's going low on her calf or high on her arm. I'm thinking I'll go cartoon-ish is the movement-y one. If it's modern dance one . . . stark lines/abstract.

And if I can get the former the way I like it, I'm gonna get it tattooed on my shoulder :D



"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

There's no excuse for my inappropriate sense of humor

However, the fact that it's shared by so many others is comforting. And on occasion entertaining.

I'm about sixteen pages worth of Dear Jesus letters in, but my favorite has to be on page seven:

if there really was a god why does he let children get raped

RESPONSE: Because the sweet, sweet tears only make Him stronger...

What's horrible to me isn't so much that I find that hilarious, but that if the Old Testament god were real? The best we could expect is a gargantuan indifference to the suffering of innocents, and at worst, well. . . .

See above.




"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

No longer shall I be plain Alonso Quijana!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Vindication!

I don't want an iPod. I've never used an iPod. Like electronic organizers and hover-bikes, they're just another doohickey I don't need and have no interest in wasting time learning how to use. I have a music player that's modestly-priced, reliable and only plays music. I like that that's all it does, as opposed to: my taxes, my hair and a great impersonation of Christopher Walken.

So. Just when I'm sick of hearing my coworker gush about her new 8gb iPod Touch, a friend who, apparently, is made entirely of serendipity, sends me this:



Sony Releases New Stupid Piece Of Shit That Doesn't Fucking Work


Eye-dee-eye-tee-why.

I am vindictated. And sleepy. Seacrest out, yo.



"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

What. The fuck?

A friend IM'ed me this story, and. . . .

Seriously. What. The fuck?

What's creepy isn't the age difference, at least not to me, but the fact that Papa-bear looks like he's nine.

I don't approve of adults fucking the underage, no matter how old the kid looks. But if the kid looks like, oh, say, eight or nine, it's a hell of a lot creepier than if the kid looks twenty-five. There's a line between scumbag, and pedophile. And a line, still, between idiot and scumbag.

Now, this chick is only two years older, still a minor herself. However, the boy looks like he could be her son. So even if he was twenty, if he looked like that, it'd still be hella creepy--especially since he seems slightly less mature than the average thirteen year old.

Coincidentally, a coworker of mine has a thirteen year old son, in the seventh grade, with a sixteen year old girlfriend. Doesn't creep me out, and why? Because he looks like he's nineteen. He's six one, on the wrestling team with high schoolers, ripped, and handsome about the face.

::pause to contemplate the nonexistent hell I'll be going to::

He's hot. Like, cute-studly-fratboy hot. He looks like he's nineteen. I both cheer his girlfriend for catching him while he's still young enough to mold into semi-civility, and applaud him for holding the attention of a girl who should be sniffing around college guys. They're both minors, and they both like each other. And neither of them look vastly older than the other. She's not attracted to some tiny, third grade-looking boy, and he's not attracted to a member of the gingersnap brigade.

I'd like to say it's not looks that matter, it's what's on the inside that counts, but the fact is no one can see anyone's insides. I hope. When two people meet in person, they're attracted to physical characteristics first and foremost, not his big heart or her great sense of humor. In the case of my coworker's brat, it's not creepy because he doesn't look like he should still be wearing underroos, forget changing them.

This Sussex case, however . . . it's just icky. Because she wasn't attracted to a thirteen year old boy, but a boy who looks like an undersized nine. And maybe she didn't start looking like a grown woman till after she got knocked up, but even if she looked thirteen herself, loverboy did not:


“I didn’t think about how we would afford it. I don’t really get pocket money. My dad sometimes gives me £10.”


And he's not even thunderingly smart, mature, and responsible (obviously) , to say that despite his tiny, fetus-boy frame, he could woo an older girl who, again, should be sneaking around with seniors or college freshmen:


“We didn’t think we would need help from our parents. You don’t really think about that when you find out you are pregnant. You just think your parents will kill you.”


But then again, she's not exactly Miss Modern Maturity, either. Maybe they're both mentally ten. Or just plain 'tarded.

Chantelle and Maisie were released from hospital yesterday. They are living with Penny, Chantelle’s jobless dad Steve, 43, and her five brothers in a rented council house in Eastbourne. The family live on benefits. Alfie, who lives on an estate across town with mum Nicola, 43, spends most of his time at the Steadmans’ house.

He is allowed to stay overnight and even has a school uniform there so he can go straight to his classes in the morning.

Alfie’s dad, who is separated from Nicola, believes the lad is scared deep down.

He said: “Everyone is telling him things and it’s going round in his head. It hasn’t really dawned on him. He hasn’t got a clue of what the baby means and can’t explain how he feels. All he knows is mum and dad will help.

“When you mention money his eyes look away. And she is reliant on her mum and dad. It’s crazy. They have no idea what lies ahead."

I know what lies ahead: in about twelve and a half years, Alfie and Chantelle are gonna be grandparents. And from a somewhat more reputable source. . . .

Well. At least someone in their families had the good sense to capitalize on this. They're gonna need all the money and help they can get. And luck, since those overnight visits are gonna create another little photo-op in about fourteen months, or so.



"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Dose o' Babble

On richarddawkins.net, I posted about wanting to help get the atheist bus campaign going in NYC. No response. Maybe I should just bug the Poohbah, himself?

:/

Finished Hitchens' book on Thomas Jefferson, just started his book on George Orwell--I can't get enough of the way he writes and talks. I'd read a laundry list if Hitchens wrote it.

Also reading "The Anvil of the World", by Kage Baker. Not as good as her Company novels, but still incredibly engaging. After that, the first three novels of Glen Cook's The Black Company series. An omnibus I'm tempted to steal, I love it so much.

Comfort reads, eh?

Stuck on a loop in my head? "This Is Hallowe'en", the revisited version by Marilyn Manson. Weird thing is, I don't particularly care for "The Nightmare Before Christmas". It's Tim Burton, but . . . meh. It's still my least favorite of his movies.

And just when I managed to get the revisited version of "What's This?" by Flyleaf out of my head. . . .

Also peeked into "Descartes ' Bones", by Russell Shorto. Read about thirty pages to see if I could get into it. I like it, so far.

Finally, finally, after a month and half of waiting, am getting my turn at "Doubt", as well as "Infidel", and "The God Who Wasn't There".

"Religulous" comes out on dvd next week, for which I'll do a dignified squee.

:squee:

I'll have to stop by Best Buy or just Amazon it.

"Friday the 13th" comes out tomorrow. I might see that with the movie group, or just get blisteringly drunk at a friend's Friday 13th party. Or maybe I'll just get blisteringly drunk and see the movie, thus killing the de-soberifying and embarrass-my-friends birds with one mighty, Jack Daniels-flavored stone.

I like to multi-task.

Writercon, in July! I'm such ashameless fangrrrl. To the tune of a grand, even. C'est la vie!

I'm gonna watch RoTK till I fall asleep. All hail Frodo!



"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

WTF?

Well, if I'm not supposed to eat it, then why is it in there with my beef jerky?


"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

A Dose of Wonder

Just finished Atheist Universe, but in the midst of reading it, I ran across this interesting--among many--paragraph:


Cosmologists have described the sudden appearance of matter out of what appears to e completely empty space. Matter may spontaneously appear in one of two ways: (1) from a preexisting energy field, or (2) from quite literally nothing. The reason why this later appearance of matter--i.e., the zero-state theory--does not violate the mass-energy conservation law is that the matter produced in this way is composed equally of positive and negative energy in the generation of accompanying gravitational fields. When combined mathematically, both forms of energy precisely cancel out each other, resulting in a :zero state". It is quite possible that the universe as a while may have a sum total of zero energy. Vacuum fluctuation physics is an esoteric field of study, but the important point to remember here is that, once again, the universe may be understood and explained through natural science, rather than supernatural mysticism.

(My bold.)

There aren't even enough exclamation points to describe my excitement over this branch of Physics--one that I literally can't quite wrap my brain around yet.

There's something thrilling and delicious about a science that just yesterday, I hadn't even suspected existed. I was literally dancing in my chair to finish the book--which only had, like, twenty pages left at that point--so I could wiki these two new-to-me terms. Didn't find zero-state in the Great Repository of all semi-factual knowledge, but I did find vacuum fluctuations. Well, I was redirected from there to "Virtual Particles".

As predicted, my brain is too confoozled to spasm, too dazzled to even say, "WTF?!"

I'm in love with something I don't understand, simply because there's some hope, however slight, that I may someday understand it, and therefore understand something significant about the way our universe works, and how it got this way.

I'm still new to all this anti-woo, to excercising my brain to understand answers, rather than just taking them on faith, however well-placed. It's kinda bracing to be a little less intellectually lazy.

In not-entirely-unrelated news, watching Cosmos, Sagan does this formula for calculating how many planets in the universe might have intelligent life. It was algebra, of course, my arch-nemesis, and bane of my existence. The thing that toppled me from the honor-roll in junior high and kept me off permanently (though, yeah, physical science kinda helped. It was a tag-team beat-down).

Anyway, I could follow the formula.

It made sense, didn't seem to have all the crazy moving parts that algebra used to when I was in school. It was simple (thankfully, he only used round numbers, no decimals), and yes, elegant. Beautiful.

And not because I suddenly love algebra and wanna marry it, though I'm starting to see the use of it--as opposed to merely being told it's useful. Algebra was used to calculate something I actually enjoy comtemplating, rather than the time of the crash of trains rushing, for no reason I could ever see, toward each other at varying rates of speed.

I'm now firmly of the opinion that, if in school, we'd been shown how to calculate the possibility of intelligent life on other planets instead of the precise time of train crashes, maybe I'd have done better at algebra. Not necessarily Will Hunting-better at it, but at least better than my usual hard-won C-.

Which isn't to say the blame isn't mostly mine--if I can't motivate me to learn, no one else will, corporal punishment quite aside. I decided fairly early that algebra was useless to me, and so never took to it. But everything is marketing. English and history were marketed to me in a way that made them attractive. Why so many teachers drop the ball in math and science is beyond me. Just a little razzmatazz with the numbers and voila! You've made a difference in a young student's life . . . or whatever.

Well, my primary and secondary schools were religious in nature, Baptist then Catholic. I suppose algebra taught as a series of fiery, awful deaths would be more in keeping with the overall themes of the religions themselves. . . .



"If wishes was horses, we'd all be eatin' steak."--Jayne Cobb

A dose of grim reality on the eve of post-Bush America

Watching The Countdown tonight, as always, and this is Olberman's most stirring comment since the one he made on Prop 8:



Yes. Exactly.

I' m all for post-partisanism and reaching across the aisle, but Jesus date-raping Christ, there has to be a line in the sand, a line beyond which America does not torture prisoners. If Bill Clinton had sanctioned this kind of evil--I'm not his hugest fan, but he mostly didn't screw up too horribly, especially in light of his successor--I'd have been calling for his head on platter.

Believe me when I say, I would like nothing more than to not see a US president convicted of war crimes. I do believe it'd break my heart--my country's heart--to see even this failure of a president and a human being be convicted of such a crime.

Not this crime, not my president, you know? Even though he's isn't mine and isn't truly president, election-stealing tendencies very much not aside.

But the only thing that'd be worse than a nation's broken heart--and those do heal, if slowly--would be letting this travesty slide, like he's Wynona Rider, and torture's just shoplifting. What's worse than a broken heart is broken honor, and breaking faith with the ideals this country was built on.

Our nation has been damaged enough without this final, realpolitik coup de grace.

I understand wanting to focus on the future, but Olberman's right, hit the nail on the head. As have so many. We can't let the Bush version of history, the revisionist dreck go on record unchallenged, unrighted. I've had very few occasions in my lifetime to be proud of something great my country has done. Something honorable. Something shining. But on the heels of such a milestone election, I can only hope I'll be given another occasion. That Obama has the stones--though I seriously doubt he will; to be fair, I doubt Kennedy or FDR would've, though Lincoln might've and Teddy Roosevelt probably would've--to give his DOJ its head, and the DOJ in turn is as blind as the Justice they supposedly represent. That charges will be brought against the upper echelons of the outgoing administration. It can't be any other way, and America regains some of the honor she's lost. If some other country has to uphold our own laws for us when one of these criminals takes it in their head to go abroad, then . . . whatever rebuilding of our honor and reputation is beginning with this fledgling administration will also die there.

This is not a death history will judge us kindly for. Nor should it.

We're approaching a moment of truth--possibly one of the first for this new administration. Here's hoping that, in their headlong rush to smooth over the rough bits of America, they don't fuck it up and fuck us all over.
::raises a glass::



"If wishes was horses, we'd all be eatin' steak."--Jayne Cobb

A Brief Dose of Hopeful Thinking

I've got to buy my own copy of Cosmos. I love that series more than is strictly healthy, and I totally wish I had a telescope--yeah, and a solid understanding of basic physics with which to appreciate the things I see, even on this Little Blue Rock. But I struggle with the concept of the periodic table of elements, let alone anything harder than that.

Meh, it's mostly mental laziness and lack of application on my part--and possibly lack of imagination on the part of my highschool science teacher.

I'm trying to look at it like this: I can't learn to fly by flapping my arms. I can't learn how to live backwards in time. I can't learn how to transfigure my body into a wooden chair.

I can learn to understand physics. And algebra. And quantum mechanics and String Theory and the plot of Solaris--anything any other person on this planet can learn. It may be a tough pill to swallow, but swallow I will. It may be a long time going down, but go down it will.

(Notice how many dirty jokes I could, but don't make about that last couple of sentences? A sign of how good my veneer of fake maturity is getting.)

I want to understand--not just know, but really understand, gut-deep, how everything works. I wanna read everything Carl Sagan's ever written, because he had the most accessible, cool personal style, and it comes across just as well in print as it does on screen.

I would like to learn to see everything through a scientist's eyes, because everything is science.

And, to quote one of my favorite science guys: "Science rules."



"If wishes was horses, we'd all be eatin' steak."--Jayne Cobb

A Dose of learnin' and stuff . . . now mit pictures!!!!

Because I can, pictures of the plague of snow covering my small mountain town in Upstate NY. Sadly, we're still acres better off than Buffalo or Syracuse.




My most recent batch of library books were picked up from the library:


The Atheist Universe
God: The Failed Hypothesis
John Adams
Walt Whitman's America
Algebra Demystified
The Demon-Haunted World
The Little Book
The Pale Blue Dot
From The Dust Returned
Benjamin Franklin
Mistborn: The Final Empire (I know, shaddup)
Alfred Kinsey
Serenity: Those Left Behind
Firefly: The Official Companion, Vol 1
Fray . . . just to round out the trinity of Whedon--all hail!--who is the closest thing to a creator-god I will accept.

(Also picked up Deliver Us From Evil, The Who's Tommy, and Pink Floyd's The Wall, which I plan to watch entirely sober and entirely alone. No similarly drunk/stonedswhatever friends to hide behind during the scary parts, or sing along with during the sing-y parts. I'll be flying solomente on this mission.)

Only John Adams and Benjamin Franklin were initially on my hit-list. But in the process of getting the former, I ran into a semi-acquaintance that I tried to dodge, and was thence lost in the land of biography . . . which is a much pleasanter land than I once thought it was.

I got jumped by Whitman and Kinsey, and wound up cornered by the acquaintance, anyway. Thankfully, his Seinfeldian stench didn't linger in my coat for too long after.

There's a moratorium on new books for the next month. Till the list is at least halved.

In related news: how long has there been a fat, hot, wet mess o' Ann Coulter books at my library? How have I just noticed this, as often as I'm in that section? I'm not one to advocate the burning of books, but it's a good thing I'm not a smoker, or I'd have started a small pyre with her books alone. Seriously, there were, like, eight of them. It was horrifying, and nauseating seeing all that right-wing, bullshit propaganda and hate-speech in one place, in my beloved library. In the guise of a horse-faced, giraffe-necked, so-called "woman".

And on the heels of it, came the Seinfeldian stench. . . .

Harrowing stuff, these trips to the library.

But on a brighter note, my broken ass isn't quite as broken. Still a bit achy, but nothing I can't ignore.

And on the Rachel Maddow front . . . I need to a) make her mine, b) run away with her to a place where both gay marriage and polygamy are legal, and c) convince her Ana Marie Cox would make a necessary addition to our marriage. Which would all be contingent on getting both their current S.O.s "out of the picture", and preferably in some way that involves neither a woodchipper or jail-time.

Ah, if only I were as diabolical as I am covetous. . . .



"If wishes was horses, we'd all be eatin' steak."--Jayne Cobb

A quick dose of WTF?

So, Monday around dawn there was an icy rain. A couple hours later, I start out on my way to work. The ground is mysteriously dry, but thinking nothing of it, I start down the front porch steps.

Only to find myself suddenly airborne--all too briefly. I hit every step on the way to the sidewalk. Back, hand, head, ass--it was a mischegoss.

I called out of work, due to a broken ass.

No way was I, already in less than stellar shape, gonna brave the freakish, ninja stealth-ice to walk the quarter mile to my bus stop. And it was seriously just--everywhere. Quarter of an inch of invisible ice on the sidewalk and most of the street. Even after I was sprawled out on it, aching and groaning and embarrassed, I had to really look to see it. Though the fact that it took me two minutes to get to my feet, slipping and sliding all the way, was proof enough.

Finally watched "Good Night, And Good Luck" while I was laid up. Not only was Edward R Murrow an amazing man and journalist, but David Strathairn is an amazing actor.

Gonna start watching Carl Sagan's "Cosmos" after I sign out. I'm fairly excited.

Not having so much luck with "Beyond Good and Evil". There are too many metaphors and analogies. It's too . . . lyrical, or something. Maybe I should look for an older, stodgier translation. I don't like philosophy that reads like poetry, or fables. The straight dope, that's what I want. Humor and wit are for after I get the jist of what's being said.

Got my tax-filing booklet thingy today. I'm ecstatic.

Seattle . . . I wanna be there so bad. Everywhere I turn, there're slice-of-life vignettes about it, articles, documentaries--speaking of which, "The US vs John Lennon" was really good. I highly recommend it.

Past couple of weeks, I've been thinking it'd be neat to work in an environment that in some way helped promote secular humanism, or at least helped shore up the crumbling bulwark between church and state. Even if I was just fetching and carrying for the people who made the magic happen, it'd be a step in the right direction.

I so dearly need to feel like I'm stepping in the right direction. . . .

Also: huh. . . .



"If wishes was horses, we'd all be eatin' steak."--Jayne Cobb