There's been yet another school shooting. Seven dead as of this morning.

I think that the most depressing thing might be how little news coverage it's getting. We're getting used to this type of tragedy; immune, somehow. It gets talked about briefly during newscasts, we see film of people on stretchers, loaded into ambulances, huddled together in shock, then go on to something else. Last night, Nightline led with the story, but promptly went on to a fluff piece for Valentine's Day about two married police officers in San Francisco. I seem to recall there was yet something else on after that, but I got irritated and turned it off. The other newscasts I saw last night were the same. Most didn't even lead with the story.

What does this say about us?

I dunno, maybe it's cause I'm so stressed. But this song makes me cry every time. Every single one.

Song of the day: Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark".

Schoolsville - Billy Collins

Glancing over my shoulder at the past,
I realize the number of students I have taught
is enough to populate a small town.

I can see it nestled in a paper landscape,
chalk dust flurrying down in winter,
nights dark as a blackboard.

The population ages but never graduates.
On hot afternoons they sweat the final in the park
and when it's cold they shiver around stoves
reading disorganized essays out loud.
A bell rings on the hour and everybody zigzags
into the streets with their books.

I forgot all their last names first and their
first names last in alphabetical order.
But the boy who always had his hand up
is an alderman and owns the haberdashery.
The girl who signed her papers in lipstick
leans against the drugstore, smoking,
brushing her hair like a machine.

Their grades are sewn into their clothes
like references to Hawthorne.
The A's stroll along with other A's.
The D's honk whenever they pass another D.

All the creative-writing students recline
on the courthouse lawn and play the lute.
Wherever they go, they form a big circle.

Needless to say, I am the mayor.
I live in the white colonial at Maple and Main.
I rarely leave the house. The car deflates
in the driveway. Vines twirl around the porch swing.

Once in a while a student knocks on the door
with a term paper fifteen years late
or a question about Yeats or double-spacing.
And sometimes one will appear in a windowpane
to watch me lecturing the wallpaper,
quizzing the chandelier, reprimanding the air.

Included in the book, Sailing Around the Room: New and Selected Poems.

Included in the book, The Apple That Astonished Paris .

New Year music

Happy last day of 2007.

It's snowing again.

We've had... I dunno... maybe 17 inches so far this December. That's close to normal, but less than the past few years. I somehow think maybe I've forgotten how pretty it is when there's fresh snow, when there's snow all the time. It just keeps coming and coming. Instead of getting all depressed about it, I'm enjoying sitting here, staring out at the big puffy flakes as they drift down to join their mates.

Songs of the day, or rather song versions of the day:
Fields of Gold
Time After Time
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
What a Wonderful World

These are all Eva Cassidy's versions. Just lovely. That woman had some serious pipes. Really serious. Damn.

Here's some stuff from Nightline about her:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

More in the Songs of the Day category - the Minnesota Orchestra's versions of the Beethoven symphonies. I've heard and/or performed these things... I don't even know how many times. But these recordings are different. Non-musicians, and even some musicians, may wonder why on earth we need yet another recording of any of these. Non-musicians don't always get what any good classical musician knows immediately: there ain't ever going to be two interpretations that are exactly the same. I don't even know how many versions I own of the Bach 'Cello Suites, for example. So new versions of old pieces can be great. But just like any remake, you have to ask yourself - is it worth it? Is there anything new being said? I hate note for note, exact interpretation remakes. What's the point then? Studio time is expensive, and for an orchestra, out of this world (see the Mpls St Paul mag article below for deets). So do we really need another recording of the Beethoven symphonies? Oh yes. This one... mmm... I just purchased the 1 and 6 one, which is brand-new; don't yet own the others that have been released (4-5, 3-8, 9).

Nice stuff. Really nice stuff. Osmo has a tendency with his musical interpretations to stick close to the score. He has a reputation as a perfectionist and taskmaster. He pushes his musicians. Hard. Thing is, they like him, and they work for him, and you can really tell. It's hard to play softly well. It really is; much harder than louds. The piano quality the Minnesota Orchestra is achieving these days... really masterful. Unbelievable. I haven't been fortunate enough to hear a ton of world class orchestras live, but these days I think Minnesota is up there with the best of them. There's a just flat out LIFE to this recording I can't remember hearing from others. These people aren't going through the motions. They're laying it all out on the line with all they've got. I noticed things I never noticed before. Amazing.

Brief historical info
MN Orch Archives and pictures
Mpls St. Paul Magazine article
St. Paul Pioneer Press article
MPR Article - "Does the world really need another Beethoven's Fifth?"

A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens, 1843

I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.

Their faithful Friend and Servant,
C. D.
December, 1843.


Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.

.........

A Cup of Christmas Tea
Tom Hegg, 1981

The log was in the fireplace,
all spiced and set to burn.
At last the yearly Christmas race
was in the clubhouse turn.
The cards were in the mail,
all the gifts beneath the tree.
And 30 days reprieve till VISA
could catch up with me.

Though smug satisfaction
seemed the order of the day,
Something still was nagging me
and would not go away.

A week before, I got a letter
from my old great Aunt.
It read: Of course I'll understand
completely if you can't,
But if you find you have some time
how wonderful if we
Could have a little chat and share
a cup of Christmas tea.

She'd had a mild stroke that year
which crippled her left side.
Though house bound now,
my folks had said
it hadn't hurt her pride.
They said: She'd love to see you.
What a nice thing it would be
For you to go and maybe have
a cup of Christmas tea.

But boy! I didn't want to go.
Oh, what a bitter pill,
To see an old relation and
how far she'd gone downhill.
I remembered her as vigorous,
as funny and as bright.
I remembered Christmas Eves when
she regaled us half the night.

I didn't want to risk all that.
I didn't want the pain.
I didn't need to be depressed.
I didn't need the strain.

And what about my brother?
Why not him? She's his aunt, too!
I thought I had it justified,
but then before I knew,
The reasons not to go I so
painstakingly had built
Were cracking wide and crumbling
in an acid rain of guilt.

I put on boots and gloves and cap,
shame stinging every pore.
And armed with squeegee,
sand and map,
I went out my front door.
I drove in from the suburbs
to the older part of town.
The pastels of the newer homes
gave way to gray and brown.

I had that disembodied feeling
as the car pulled up and stopped
Beside the wooden house
that held the Christmas cup.
How I got up to her door
I really couldn't tell...
I watched my hand rise up and press
the button of the bell.

I waited, aided by my nervous
rocking to and fro.
And just as I was thinking
I should turn around and go,
I heard the rattle of the china
in the hutch against the wall.
The triple beat of two feet
and a crutch came down the hall.

The clicking of the door latch
and the sliding of the bolt,
And a little swollen struggle
popped it open with a jolt.
She stood there pale and tiny,
looking fragile as an egg.
I forced myself from staring
at the brace that held her leg.

And though her thick bifocals
seemed to crack and spread her eyes,
Their milky and refracted depths
lit up with young surprise.
Come in! Come in!
She laughed the words.
She took me by the hand.
And all my fears dissolved away
as if by her command.

We went inside and then before
I knew how to react
Before my eyes and ears and nose
was Christmas past, alive, intact!

The scent of candied oranges,
of cinnamon and pine,
The antique wooden soldiers
in their military line,
The porcelain Nativity
I'd always loved so much,
The Dresden and the crystal
I'd been told I mustn't touch.

My spirit fairly bolted
like a child out of class
And danced among the ornaments
of calico and glass.
Like magic I was six again,
deep in a Christmas spell.
Steeped in the million memories
That the boy inside knew well.

And here among old Christmas cards
so lovingly displayed,
A special place of honor
for the ones we kids had made.
And there, beside her rocking chair,
the center of it all,
My great Aunt stood and said how nice
it was I'd come to call.

I sat and rattled on about
the weather and the flu.
She listened very patiently
then smiled and said, "What's new?"
Thoughts and words began to flow.
I started making sense.
I lost the phony breeziness
I use when I get tense.

She was still passionately interested
in everything I did.
She was positive. Encouraging.
Like when I was a kid.
Simple generalities
still sent her into fits.
She demanded the specifics.
The particulars. The bits.

We talked about the limitations
that she'd had to face.
She spoke with utter candor
and with humor and good grace.
Then defying the reality
of crutch and straightened knee,
On wings of hospitality
she flew to brew the tea.

I sat alone with feelings that
I hadn't felt in years.
I looked around at Christmas
through a thick hot blur of tears.
And the candles and the holly
she'd arranged on every shelf,
The impossibly good cookies
she still somehow baked herself.

But these rich and tactile memories
became quite pale and thin,
When measured by the Christmas
my great Aunt kept deep within.
Her body halved and nearly spent,
but my great Aunt was whole.
I saw a Christmas miracle,
the triumph of a soul.

The triple beat of two feet and a
crutch came down the hall,
The rattle of the china
in the hutch against the wall.
She poured two cups. She smiled and then she handed one to me.
And then we settled back and had
a cup of Christmas tea.

A Visit From St. Nicholas
Clement Clarke Moore, 1822


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

Jesu, joy of mans' desiring.

Or, to quote a favorite former physics teacher, I'll be dipped in poop.

I just through one thing and the other managed to run into an ex-boyfriend online. It's a bit of a long story involving idle curiosity combined with reading too many books combined with the wonder that is the Internet.

In other words, I managed to discover today that in the 14-15 years since I finally dumped this particular ex-boyfriend, he's gone from working in a dead-end job in a small grocery store in a college town in the Midwest to being a dive instructor in Grand Cayman.

WTF?

If nothing else, this proves how easy it is to find someone online. It's not like I looked that hard, or have that much knowledge about where to look. Google, combined with hits on a message board he posts on, combined with my memory and brain power put things together. A little scary, thinking about it further, about how a stalker could easily find a person if they knew a little bit about them to begin with. Makes me a bit afraid of message boards. And blogging, for that matter.

*waves at all my exes*

It also proves a bit about how, although my friends were too nice to say it to me at the time, I should have ditched him long before I did. He was a decent person and all, but we were never a good match and I was slow to see it. But really. Talk about divergent life paths. And what can happen in a relatively short period of time.

I'm glad for him, truthfully. He was on a path to nowhere in particular, last I knew. Smart, with a bachelor's degree, but down in the dumps because he couldn't get into grad school and couldn't get a decent job in his field with no grad degree. He had no sense of, to use a music term, directed motion. So he was a stockboy. Whose hobby - and passion - was sailing. Hence the connection. Good for him for finding a direction and reinventing himself. Most of my exes, with an exception or two, headed straight for Loserville.

*evil grin*

In other news, the cat is currently licking my leg to the point that my pants have a spot that's soaked. I'm not entirely certain why, and I'm a little afraid of whatever the answer might be. I need to change their litter box at some point today, which is hopefully unrelated. They've been so much trouble lately that it's like I have 10 cats. Constantly underfoot and in my face. I haven't been home much, which I'm thinking is part of it.

However:

I have a week off. This makes me want to sing, rumba, Charleston, and tango. Today, I did little other than to revel in the fact that I don't have to go to work for another nine days. Ten, including today. Mmmm....

The cats have also provided me with a built in excuse for not exercising - like I actually need one. Dug out the resistance bands today and one was promptly stolen such that it could be dragged around the house, a bit like a kitten; although hopefully a kitten would not be dropped, batted around, chewed, and then picked up again for a repeat performance.

I have to do Christmas Eve dinner, plus am bringing the stuff for our particular branch of the fam to Christmas itself. Am also going to a concert tomorrow night. Somewhere. Am not done with my Christmas shopping, my cards, or anything else, really. Might want to get on that.

This is apropos of absolutely nothing, but I found a website today I must share: the T. Herman Zweibel Memorial Foundation. My favorite part, I think, is from The Life and Timeline of T. Herman Zweibel:

1885: Ulysses S. Grant dies and, after an elaborate funeral procession through the streets of New York, is buried in an unmarked grave; today, the exact location of his remains is unknown.

And that, right there, is why I have always loved The Onion; since college when they were headquartered across the street from my dorm. It always gives me some reason to chuckle evilly.

Last night went out with friends and colleagues. Was mostly very fun as got to hang out with some people I hadn't seen in quite a while. Stayed out longer than I meant to as there ended up being some drama towards the end of the evening and I wanted to make sure everyone made it home OK. I finally couldn't take the drama any more and had to leave. Why, oh why, are men so stupid? Blind, really, especially while having had WAY too much to drink. But then, the corollary to that is why are women so stupid that they actually listen to them. *sigh* T and I commented to each other at one point amongst the awkwardness that we were the only two normal people there. Not coincidentally, we were also the only two who were sober.

*double sigh*

Hopefully all will be well. At least eventually.

OK, this is plenty long for one post, and it's taken me all day, and I'm tired. Off to bed.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.



ETA: This is my 50th post. Huh.

My concerts are done. I could sing.

OK, that's an exaggeration. One more. And then I'm done. I can hardly wait.

Normal people don't get how much December sucks for musicians. We're constantly on the run. I'm just tired in general of being stressed. And tired. And cold, come to that. But it's been that kind of year. I'm in a lull between major projects. Things should get truly hideous right around the first of the year, lull again in early April, then suck through to June. Or something like that. The writers' strike is killing me. It would be nice to be able to watch decent - for lack of a better word - TV to relax. But no. We get such crapola as Gladiator. Who thinks of this junk? And PBS, as much as I love them, is in the middle of a fund drive. So the Roadshow and This Old House get preempted for the likes of stinkin' Andre Rieu, who I hate. *sigh* When you can't count on PBS, you can't count on nobody.

Anyway, concerts are almost done, shopping is almost done, wrapping is almost done, decorating is almost done, baking is almost done... huzzah. Cards need to occur. But it could be a whole lot worse. That aspect of stress at least is under control.

Tomorrow will be a relatively easy day at work. Most of my projects should involve sitting on my derrière and listening to other folks. Little thought or preparation involved for me. Hallelujah. My brain is starting to shut down. OK, wrong tense there. But you know. Going to have a review on Thursday, so need to prepare for that. But shouldn't be too bad.

And then there's today's puzzler: why do the cats, who have a perfectly good water bowl mind you, insist upon drinking from the humidifier basin whenever I take out the tank to refill it? Not to mention the little one, who persists in ripping my Santa window cling down so she can chew on it. Not making me happy. At least they haven't knocked the mini tree over in a few days. And they haven't ripped down any of the Christmas lights. Granted, December is still young.

OK, 9 p.m. and therefore time for bed. I don't get to bed by 9, I regret it the next day. Granted, I've been yawning since 6. Oh adventure, be my wild partner.

Song of the week: Coffee Shop. Yes, I know it's in a commercial. In spite of that, it's lovely. Sorry to not be able to link to the real vid - this was the best I could find on You Tube. I think I like his other stuff too. His music isn't deep, but it's decent. For what I've heard, Coffee Shop is my fave.

In Flanders Fields
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army



In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.


We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.


Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Not much to say; just figured I may as well say something as it's been a while.

Not so pumped about the TV writers' strike. Moonlighting had to deal with the last big one, back in '88. It's not a federal case or anything, and Lord knows there's plenty in this world that's more important, but it's nice to have an escape, once and a while. And Jim and Pam finally got together. Darn it!

Today traded places with one of my co-workers and did his job for the day. What fun. Things are totally different where he works. Everyone was very nice, helpful, welcoming, willing to try anything. Just different. Had a great time.

Am tired but just can't make myself go to bed. Hm.

Spent time cleaning today, some stuff that has been sitting around gathering dust for quite some time. Hung up piles of clean clothes, made the bed, etc.

Got a book the other day - Country Wisdom and Know-How: Everything You Need to Know to Live Off the Land. Stinkin' awesome. Covers everything from how to build a chicken coop to cooking with tofu to chair caning and seat weaving. You can't go wrong with that.

Went out with T yesterday to Penzey's, lunch, and a yarn shop that is unfortunately closing. We had a good time. Got some sock yarn. Think I'm going to try to crochet some socks. Have been crafty lately. This weekend did some canning, crocheting, soap making.

I can't "p" again. Stupid keyboard.

So I walked in the door after work today, Jimmy John's in hand, to find the radio on. Hmm. Could have sworn I'd turned it off. What the heck...

Oh Lord.

Turns out, somebody who shall remain nameless (my money is on the Littler of the two Sh!t Sisters pictured in the heading of this blog.) decided to dig for China in the plant limping along on the buffet next to the radio.

Dirt and plant bits everywhere, the water bowl contents turned to mud. I hope they were thirsty while I was gone, darn it.

And of course by the time I get home the deed is done and it's too late to yell at anyone. You have to strike when the iron is hot, and they'd both long forgotten when I finally saw the evidence. *sigh*


I've just been cranky lately. I swear everything is going to hell. I've sent out enough sympathy cards in the last few weeks that I should have bought stock in Hallmark, work is insane to the point that I'm spending only two extra hours a day there on a good day, and I'm so late doing more work at home I'm not getting any sleep. When I do finally get to bed I'm too wound up to relax. I'm thinking about all I have to do.

And that one letter on my keyboard? It's not working again, at least not consistently. I can no longer say things about Peeves the Poltergeist.

OK, now it's working. WTH?

'Kay, rant done. Time for bed. Shout out to any of you in Cali who may be reading this. Stay safe.




"One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important." ~Bertrand Russell

“Stress is when you wake up screaming and you realize you haven't fallen asleep yet”

“Stress: The confusion created when one's mind overrides the body's basic desire to choke the living daylights out of some jerk who desperately deserves it”

Went to what should have been an excellent concert last night: Strauss Metamorphosen and Beethoven 4. It mostly was an excellent concert, really. Except for That Woman.

In this particular hall there's a tier of seats that goes up and around the main floor, doing a 360 including behind the stage. It lends an interesting perspective for those who want to get up to see the conductor from much the same angle as the orchestra. Problem was, some idiot was up in the area behind the stage and insisted on taking pictures for most of the Beethoven. So the $%^&@! orange blinking light of her camera was flashing out at pretty much the entire audience. I could cheerfully have thrown her off the balcony. As could the rest of the audience. You could hear the undercurrent of grumblings every time she lifted that devil device and at least three people got up to talk to the usher nearest me in an attempt to get someone, anyone, to go find that woman and make her stop.

Unfortunately, no one did.

She would take a picture, turn to the woman next to her to look at the digital display, raise the camera, take another picture, scoot along the bench to find a different angle, raise the camera, take another picture... This has hands-down got to be the rudest behavior I've ever seen exhibited at a concert, and that includes people reading the paper, watch alarms going off, and cell phones bleeping. And I'm way past losing track of the number of concerts I've been to.

I don't know what the heck was in the minds of the usher corps, but I'm thinking not a single person in the audience would have called the cops if we happened to notice That Woman having a quiet accident. We'd have applauded.

Hey lady - if by some strange chance you're reading this, do us all a favor and stay home until you learn how to behave in public.

Soul Renewal and Robert Frost

Soul Renewal

It's the first sunny day in weeks. I've almost forgotten the color of a truly blue sky. I decide to make the 4 mile walk to the lake and back. Who knows when a day this nice will come again.

There's a million people out. We know and appreciate the rarity of a nice day, here in October in the Midwest. It's been so rainy lately; the sky lowering all the time. But somehow, no one is talking. It's like we all agree on the value of nothingness, of just being.

It's warm enough for shorts and t-shirts, another rarity in October.

The sound of the bike gears catching as the old man passes me, bright blue bike helmet and backpack on, wearing reflectors on his arms and legs even though it is the middle of a sunny day. He struggles his way up the hill. I am almost pacing him. Then the hill crests and his pace increases. He continues on without me, blazing a trail for me to follow.

Black ducks almost as far as I could see, taking a break for a rest and a drink before continuing their southward journey.

A sailboat catching the stiff breeze passes a fishing boat steaming out hopefully towards a possible walleye feast.

A stream giggling it's way towards the lake.

The woman wearing an iPod on one hip and her cell phone in the opposite ear, chattering away. The only possible conclusion is that she must be clinically insane.

The only sounds the wind as it rustles past my ears, through the leaves still clutching to the tree that is their summer home.

Scuffling through the fallen leaves to hear them crackle and crunch.

I'm almost home when I feel my shoulders drop into the place designed for them; I tend to forget that my habitual clench is not natural.

I wish this would last, but fall is inherently ephemeral. That may be the real reason for it's beauty.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Had some excitement at church this morning. Was out in the gathering space (fancy name for huge foyer area) checking to make sure the volume was up high enough so people out there could hear when I heard this beep...beep...beep...

Hmm.

Grabbed my father. Dragged him out there. Asked him if he heard it too.

He listened for a bit... yes, yes he did.

Uh oh.

So we went trucking towards the source of the sound, which seemed to be coming from the part of the church that opens up into the Hall (area for wedding receptions, chicken dinners, bingo and the like). It kept getting louder. Beep... BEEP... BEEP! We grabbed the music director on the way, as she was walking by and has keys for everything. The sound kept getting louder as we three headed towards the school. Was that the fire alarm? Was the school on fire? Were we going to have to evacuate a good 1500 people in the church?

We got through the last door into the school and found adults leading what looked like 1st graders out the door. Just a drill, they said.

Just a drill? What the heck were they thinking, just a drill? Could it have occurred to them to warn us that they'd be conducting a fire drill during church? Could they maybe have bumped the thing back a lousy 30 minutes to avoid all this in the first place? I could have strangled somebody. Who knows what sort of panic that could have set off. Think, people, think. *sigh*

Although in hindsight, it's a little scary that the gathering space was full of people who didn't want to be in the main sanctuary for some reason (small children and the like) and no one came in to tell any of us about the alarm.

When you usher in a large parish, you get used to things happening. We haven't had somebody go down in a few weeks, but we're always prepared to have to call the local Finest to come out and save the day. We have EMTs come to visit several times a year. Fainting is the most common, but we've also had diabetic reactions and heart issues.

Scariest one ever (that I had anything to do with) was the poor Mexican woman who had come to church in a vain search for comfort... she couldn't reach her sick father in Mexico by telephone and was terrified he had died... she kept banging her head against the wall and asking God to take her instead of her father...

Song of the Day: "Out Of My League" by Stephen Speaks

it's her hair and her eyes today
that just simply take me away
and the feeling that i'm falling further in love
makes me shiver but in a good way
all the times i have sat and stared
as she thoughtfully thumbs through her hair
and she purses her lips, bats her eyes as she plays,
with me sitting there slack-jawed and nothing to say

coz i love her with all that i am
and my voice shakes along with my hands
coz she’s all that I see and she’s all that I need
and i'm out of my league once again

it's a masterful melody when she calls out my name to me
as the world spins around her she laughs, rolls her eyes
and i feel like i'm falling but it's no surprise

coz i love her with all that i am
and my voice shakes along with my hands
cause it's frightening to be swimming in this strange sea
but i'd rather be here than on land
yes she's all that i see and she's all that i need
and i'm out of my league once again

it's her hair and her eyes today
that just simply take me away
and the feeling that i'm falling further in love
makes me shiver but in a good way
all the times i have sat and stared
as she thoughtfully thumbs through her hair
and she purses her lips, bats her eyes as she plays,
with me sitting there slack-jawed and nothing to say

coz i love her with all that i am
and my voice shakes along with my hands
cause it's frightening to be swimming in this strange sea
but i'd rather be here than on land
yes she's all that i see and she's all that i need
and i'm out of my league once again

"There were four million people in the American Colonies and we had Jefferson and Franklin. Now we have over 200 million and the two top guys are Clinton and Dole. What can you draw from this? Darwin was wrong!"
-Mort Sahl

Darn that Ken Burns and curse PBS. I should know better than to watch that station. I get sucked into a program and then before I know it I've lost a week. Happens every time. The music is particularly good; generally Burns sticks with folk and popular music of the time but this time he included some classical stuff including the Faure Elegy and I think I might have heard Beethoven 7 at some point. As usual from Burns, incredible work.

Gotta go now - 3rd installment on any minute now.

"Personally, I feel that some such setback as that -- tragic though it was for many Americans, for whom it would always be too late -- was not entirely a bad thing. It was all right to have a good opinion of ourselves, but we Americans were so smug with our cockiness. We somehow felt that just because we were Americans we could whip our weight in wildcats. And we had got it into our heads that production alone would win the war."
-Ernie Pyle on the disasters in North Africa

Nothing much to say; just wanted to say a few words.

Nitwit. Blubber. Oddment. Tweak.

Thank you.

OH my God.


Oh MY God.



Oh my GOD.





OH. MY. GOD!!!


OK, so I have a really good story.


I got home from work after another long day determined to get some tasks done around here that have been much put off. I got to the grocery store, put dishes in the dishwasher, and prepared to finally do my laundry.

Some context: I'd noticed my bedroom had been... well... a little smelly for the past couple of days. My first thought was the cats had left me a present, as they sometimes do in protest at the state of their litter box. I rooted around a little bit, but nothing was out in the open and I didn't have time to search too hard - haven't been home much this week due to work. Still no sign of why it smelled... hmm... maybe it's the laundry?

So last night, I sniffed the basket.

OK, it's the laundry. Not good.

I figured I must have put a wet washcloth in there or something and it had migrated towards the bottom and started to get a little ripe. Obviously a sign that I need to get moving and get this washing clothes thing taken care of.

So I got home from the grocery store, sorted my piles, and brought them down to the laundry room.


I washed. Hmm... do I still smell something, or am I imagining things?


I dried. I opened the dryer. I smelled...


OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!!!!!

THERE'S A DEAD MOUSE! IN THE DRYER! IN MY LAUNDRY! A MOUSE! DEAD! LAUNDRY! DEAD! MOUSE!

OH MY GOD!


So I went back to my apartment, saying "Oh my God!" the entire way down the hall, in an attempt to find something to pick the mouse up with. The clean mouse, being I'd washed and dried it. Good Lord. I got paper towels first but couldn't figure out how to get the thing in the paper towel without touching it, so I Oh My Godded my way back to my apartment again to root around for another solution. My eyes lit upon my junk mail. I grabbed that and between the paper toweling and the ads I was able to pick the thing up quick and chuck it straight in the laundry room communal garbage can. I should have disposed of it outside, I suppose, but screw that.

So now, imagine this, I'm doing laundry again. Two more washes, each. Ick.

How the thing got in here I don't know. Dad thought it perhaps snuck in through the air conditioner. Entirely possible. But why? It's not cold outside yet, and this house presumably contains enough Eau de Cat to keep out any rodent with half a brain.

I have gotten over the slight low grade panic, but I am still definetly grossed out. It was dead in my clothes...

And I obviously live with two worthless freeloaders. What the hell?