“Reality is what we take to be true. What we take to be true is what we believe. What we believe is based upon our perceptions. What we perceive depends upon what we look for. What we look for depends upon what we think. What we think depends upon what we perceive. What we perceive determines what we believe. What we believe determines what we take to be true. What we take to be true is our reality.” ~ Gary Zukav

Gate of Wishes, Mrtivica Canyon, Montenegro (Pixdaus)

“The more I see, the less I know for sure.” ~ John Lennon

Saturday afternoon. Temperatures hovering above 100° F. Thunderstorms.

Keyhole Arch in Monument Valley

I awoke with another headache, nothing new. Not too bad, but lots and lots of pressure in my forehead and behind my eyes. Probably due to the barometric pressure and the heat.

Yesterday I did something I haven’t done in years: I went outside during a rain shower and got in the pool. It was so refreshing. The air temperature dropped a bit, and the water cooled. The dogs joined me for a few minutes, but Shakes doesn’t much care for rain. Tillie stayed out with me for the duration. It didn’t rain long, but I enjoyed myself while it did.

I was hoping to do the same again today, but unfortunately the rain is accompanied by thunder and lightning. Even I have enough sense not to get in a metal-clad pool in the middle of a thunderstorm.

I just glanced at my weather icon, and the temperature has dropped 8 degrees in the last fifteen minutes. Now that’s change I can live with . . .

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” ~ Oscar Wilde, “Lady Windermere’s Fan”

Monday afternoon. Not nearly as hot.

Kicking Horse River through Natural Bridge, Canada

So I got distracted . . . where was I? Oh yes, drama.

Woke up this morning to lovely news: we should expect a drop-in visit from Adult Protective Services. Whatever . . .

The ongoing drama at our house had been calm for far too long. I knew to expect something soon, and I wasn’t disappointed. Apparently, the pest (nicest word I can think to use for this person), reported Em’s case worker and our home as being  . . . shall we say, unfit? Charges include holding her against her will, all of us being insane (I told you this person wasn’t wrapped too tight), beating her down continually (not sure if that was meant to be literal or metaphorical), ya da ya da ya da . . .

In the inestimable words of W: Bring. It. On.

I mean, we have absolutely nothing to hide here. We are exactly as we purport ourselves to be: a middle class family in the burbs that is making ends meet. We have a home, food in our pantry, all of the accoutrements, as it were. We do not claim to be wealthy because we are not. We do not claim to have all of the answers because we do not. We do claim to have a healthy living environment for our family because we do. We do claim to know a few things about people who face challenges in life because we do. We do claim to be good parents because we are.

So when I heard that APS was going to come by, my response was what it only could be: Okay. Whatever. Tell them to drop by as they like because we have nothing to hide.

So they did. Today. A very nice woman who sat down with Em and asked her basic (and I mean basic) questions: Are you able to dress yourself? Yes. Do you take care of your own physical hygiene? Yes. Do you know how to do things around the house? Yes (she does now). Can you get your own food or does someone have to do it for you? Get it myself and can cook a little . . . and lots more in that vein, and then . . . Are you happy? I am now.

We left Em alone with the case worker so that the woman wouldn’t think that we were trying to sway her answers or to influence her unduly (because that’s what I do, you know. I beat people down until they are simpering idiots who have no will of their own . . . right.) The case worker asked her more questions that I didn’t hear because I wasn’t listening. Then I invited her to look through our house, as it were.

Dreaded visit over, and everyone survived. And the case worker didn’t even flinch over Em’s shaved head, which she is loving, by the way, especially since no one has asked her to wear a hat to hide her ears. Of course, after the case worker left I took all of the illegal drugs out of the hall closet, and I let the dozen or so illegal aliens out of the bathroom, and I got back to making the homemade meth that I was cooking up in the kitchen along with barbecued ribs.

It’s a joke, people. Of course, I know that sentence will come back in another form somewhere, but at this point, I am so over it.

“There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.” ~ Aldous Huxley

Keyhole Arch, Apostle Islands (National Park Service)

You might think that such a visit and the results would put a normal person’s mind at ease, that the news that a completely unbiased third party witnessed the supposedly downtrodden young woman healthy and happy would be welcome news. You would think, but the key word here is normal. I know that this saga isn’t over. There will be more frantic telephone calls to whoever will listen. There will be more tossing about of the family name in an attempt to curry favor. There will be more stealing of passages of my blog to try to show how insane I am. There will be more disparaging remarks regarding my character, the character of my family.

As I’ve said before, when I need to, I can have the patience of Job. The more chest-banging this other person does, the less I need to justify myself. And dare I say it? I don’t really have anything to justify. I took in a young woman who felt trapped and mentally abused. I offered a safe haven to a person who did not feel safe, for various reasons. She is healthy. She is happy. She is safe.

I can do no more than what I have already done and what I continue to do—be myself—be patient, be sympathetic and empathetic, be a sounding board when needed.

Oh, and by the way, the illegal things? Puleez. But the part about Em’s shaved head is true; she just hasn’t died it blue yet . . .

“The most perfidious way of harming a cause consists of defending it deliberately with faulty arguments.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Keyhold Arch, Antelope Canyon

Even though I’m spending a lot of effort here bitching, I’m actually not at all peeved. Instead, what I really feel is a deep sense of pity. You might think that I’m a sap for feeling pity for an individual who is set upon my ruin, for the person who does not hesitate to disparage me to anyone who will listen, but that is indeed what I feel.

I cannot say that I have ever encountered anyone exactly like this particular individual before, but I have encountered people who are filled with such a determined sense of entitlement and righteousness: They are the only ones who are right, and everyone else is wrong. They are entitled to have this or to be given that because of a skewed sense of self-importance.

Unfortunately, my encounters with this personality type most often have occurred when dealing with members of boards of directors, especially in the arts. I cannot tell you how many people, women especially, who banked everything on their last names. They would meet me, hear my unusual, distinctly not patronage-linked last name, and immediately make assumptions about my value to them. If I could, in fact, give them something they needed or desired, then they would deign to be polite to me, but if my existence did not in any way benefit them, then I simply ceased to matter.

The first time that this happened, I was highly affronted, and my alpha side reared its head: You will listen to me because I do know exactly what I am talking about . . . I may as well have been barking at the moon for all of the good that it did me. This personality type is impermeable to reality, well, at least the reality in which so many of us exist. I took a lesson from my director, who was a very soft-spoken, wise man when he told me that I simply could not treat these people using logic because in their worlds, Copernicus was wrong, and the universe did indeed revolve around their spheres.

“No man has the right to dictate what other men should perceive, create or produce, but all should be encouraged to reveal themselves, their perceptions and emotions, and to build confidence in the creative spirit.” ~ Ansel Adams

Keyhole Tree, Broome, Australia

I have written about self-entitlement before, but usually as it pertains to teenagers and how we have an entire generation of people who think that they deserve whatever they want simply because. It’s not often that I encounter someone from my own generation who operates with this same sense of entitlement. People within my age group have usually worked hard to get to the points in our lives at which we find ourselves. Many of us our self-made, and many people I know are second generation to this country.

Being second generation (even on one side) imbues those of us like this with a strong work ethic because the desire not to fail our parents is extremely important. Being second generation also means that few of us have family names on which to fall back. We have made our own names, and we don’t depend upon our ancestors to define us. I cannot imagine being the kind of person to make requests simply because of what my name happens to be, but I have met people like this, and they have no qualms about throwing around that name as if it we still lived in a system with peers and nobles.

I think that part of what makes me strong is the fact that I have worked for everything that I have, that my parents came from humble beginnings and worked and saved for everything that they had. I’m proud to come from working-class stock. I was taught the value of a dollar, and I was taught that respect is something to be earned, not something to be bestowed upon someone simply because of who they are.

So what it boils down to is that in the midst of all of this, I try to retain my patience, and I try to retain my sense of humor, much taxed though they may be. And when in doubt, I remember the rule of three: that what we send out into the world comes back to us threefold.

Karma. It’s a bitch.

More later. Peace.

Music by The Morning After Girls, “Hidden Spaces”


Picture of the Author with Vice President

That’s me on his left. If neither one of us
looks comfortable, it’s because I said
I’m sorry to hear about his heart.
A small machine, he says, sends tiny sparks
in there, to pace the flow of blood.
Some people will dispute this photo; his office
has denied it’s me; but I have to believe
I am in the picture. It’s awkward, yes,
for we don’t know each other;
and if he’s known as a man who keeps
public secrets, I’m not known at all.
Even so, he and I share something
that we cherish, deeply, which is our love

of trout. On his Wyoming ranch, he owns
a trout stream for himself. When I raise
the question—How’s the fishing?—he will rise
to the subject, and we will have grown
a little closer, having now disclosed
a passion no one, having known, lets go.
And he, too, is a man who knows cold blood
of trout cares nothing for who you are.
Nor do they care who owns the land
their water flows within: So long
as land and stream stay clean, they live.
Because I must rely on public lands
to find—weighed out in the flash
of a trout’s brilliant scales—that cleanly order,
I’m concerned about his sympathy
with those who call such places “undeveloped.”

But I know better than to say as much
to a man who’s so well versed
in the rhyming of ecology with economy
abstract nets that hold so many tangibles,
such as meadow grass that filters silt
so cutthroat trout may have clean beds
of gravel for their spawning redds;
or the English teacher whose hopes
for a pay raise float on the promise
of a growing tax base—in other words,
the new sport coat I’m wearing
in the photo, bought for this occasion.
Still, I want to believe in the heart
of a man who would fish a barbless fly
for a trout, and let it go; who would spend
that much time to be where trout live, to step
so softly in their stream, they do not frighten.

So I am going to tell him a story
about the Sacramento Mountains of New Mexico,
and a man who lived there. By all accounts,
William Myers knew the land, but owned
none of it. Had no money, so in order to live
in the mountains, he bartered work
for the privilege of staying in
other people’s second homes.
One day, he drove his ATV up a ridge
to scout the most likely route to run a pipe
to his friend’s house. He lit a cigarette,
studied the forest floor, as he’d often done
for fresh deer lies, bear scat, a crop of mast
that might draw wild turkeys in.
Whether it was a spark from the ATV
or the cigarette, he didn’t know; but he was sure,
he told police, that it was he who caused the fire.
That night, a glowing orange blemish on the sky;
by next day, a dry mist with a taste
of wet paper. Nine thousand acres
of forest he had hunted, ponds and creeks
he’d fished—the bell-note of hummingbird wings,
the raccoon crooning to her pups—gone up
in a surf of flame; sap-laden pines burst
like the improvised gas-and-bottle bombs
he’d learned to make in the army. Helicopters
dropped fire-retardant chemicals on a woods
he’d loved but never owned, and never meant

to burn. They fell in scarlet plumes, like blood
that must have sprayed from his skull
when he stood in front of the gun
he held in his own hand, and fired.
—Well, it may have been the words
like blood, and skull, and gun,
that made the men in sunglasses bring
our conversation to a polite, efficient end.
Or it could have been my agitation
over a man who took responsibility—
who, as his scribbled farewell letter read,
could never live with what he had destroyed.

~ William Wenthe (as found in The Paris Review)

“The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts while the stupid ones are full of confidence.” ~ Charles Bukowski

Four Hands, Normandy, by nalo.soul (FCC)


“When your feet will no longer carry you, you have to walk with your head.” ~ René Daumal, Mount Analogue

Friday afternoon. Dangerously hot and humid. Air advisories.

Abbaye de Jumièges, Normandy, by Allie_Caufield (FCC)

Woke up yesterday with massive migraine. I’m attributing it to the horrid heat, but it meant that I couldn’t go with Ann to visit my other m-in-law. Every time I open the sliding door to let the dogs go outside, it feels as if a wall of heat is coming at me full tilt. Even my eyeballs are sweating. Geez.

Woke up with another headache today, but not as bad. In one of my dreams last night, I was in line at a restaurant and suddenly found myself at the front of a cafeteria-style parade of food, only the food was gourmet—grilled shallots, butterfly shrimp tempura, other stuff. I was so confused by the set up that I left the line and sat down in an empty booth. The restaurant was filled with people from my high school class, and I didn’t recognize any of them.

In another part of the dream, I was with Kathleen in this huge office space filled with cubicles, and we were talking about sneaking out of work early so that I could buy a blouse. She said that Smith & Welton was having a sale. Boy, that’s a blast from the past. That store hasn’t been around for years and years.

The night before, I dreamed that Tillie and I were walking home from Old Dominion, which is not a short walk. And the more that we walked, the colder it got until there were massive snow drifts everywhere. Tillie and I were walking atop the drifts, and once in a while, we would have to jump down from heights that were rooftop high, but we landed in the soft snow. I stopped at a house that I thought was empty and opened the garage door. A woman came out the back door and asked me what I was doing in her garage. I told her that I really needed to use the phone to call my dad for a ride home. She was very calm for someone who had a stranger in her house.

Strangeness. Obviously, the heat is working on my brain. With luck, we’ll have storms this weekend.

“Everything has its own voice. Thunder and lightning and stars and planets, flowers, birds, animals, trees—all these have voices, and they constitute a community of existence that is profoundly related.” ~ Thomas Berry

Vue Sur Mer, Normandy, by nalo.soul (FCC)

Corey is working first shift today. He has worked five shifts in four days. As a result, the Rodeo is still parked near the elementary school awaiting the alternator. He goes by to make sure nothing’s happened to it. We’re hoping that he can work on it this evening, that is if it isn’t too blasted hot.

I threw tennis balls for Tillie and Shakes earlier today just so that they could jump in the pool for a quick swim. Quite frankly I couldn’t stand to be outside more than a minute. You know it’s too hot when the dogs won’t stay outside and just spend the afternoon on the couch beneath the air conditioner. Tuesday evening the transformer in our neighborhood blew, which meant that we were without electricity for about 45 minutes. Probably over-usage.

I hate being so dependent upon air conditioning. It’s terrible for the environment and a major contributor to global warming, but the alternative, living in excessive heat, does not appeal to me either. It makes me think back to when my mom and dad first bought their house. It did not have air conditioning for the first year we lived there, and somehow we muddled through. When we were in the Philippines, my grandmother’s house did not have air conditioning, but the apartment that we lived in did have AC. But talk about hot.

As a kid, I remember that summer days that I didn’t spend in the library I spent on my bike with my friend Cathy Weaver. We would leave in the morning and stay gone until dinner time. I suppose as a kid you don’t think about the heat, or at least, we didn’t. Perhaps age affects the ability to tolerate extreme temperatures, but my dad never had a problem with heat, only cold. Of course, he was born in the tropics.

Corey and I have talked about how if we ever have enough land, we hope to put up a windmill to generate power, and we want to install solar panels. I think it’s the least that we can do to help preserve this little planet we inhabit.

“She strung the afternoon on the necklace of memorable days, which was not too long for her to be able to recall this one or that one . . . It was something that lasted; something that mattered for ever.” ~ Virginia Woolf, Moments Of Being

Etretat, Normandy, by nalo.soul (FCC)

So we’re hoping to be able to see the second part of Deathly Hallows this weekend. I’m not sure how I’m going to react. Harry Potter has been in my life for more than a decade. The books are remarkable, and the movie adaptations have been excellent. It’s kind of like when the extended DVD version of Lord of the Rings: Return of the Kingcame out—no more new LOTR. I was quite sad.

You might think it silly that I become so invested in books and movies, and I have to say that for the most part, I do not become attached to movies at all. But with these two series, it’s been different. They are both sagas, extremely well-written sagas that have been translated into epic motion pictures. Of course, Peter Jackson’s LOTR series is more epic as far as movie-making, but with the Harry Potter series, it’s been an investment of time and emotions.

Speaking of investments of time—although I should probably not put this into words as I have a way of jinxing myself—I think that I have a real working plot for a novel coming together. I mean, I have lots of threads of plots running through my mind all of the time, but this time, I have the villain; I have his means, and I have his motive. I just haven’t decided on the hero, as it were. I will probably have a woman, but I’m not sure what her job will be. Not a coroner as that’s been overdone. I’m actually thinking that she might be an investigative reporter.

Will have to consider that more. But it’s making me excited to have worked out this much just in my brain. Now comes the next step, the one that I never take: putting it down on paper (or on virtual paper, that is). I’m actually a bit disconcerted that I won’t be typing on a real typewriter as there is just something about creating the pages manually instead of via printer that seems more tangible.

I would love to have an IBM Selectric. It’s the kind of machine that I learned to type on, and my fingers can really fly over the keys. But even more than that, there is the sound of the ball (whatever that thing is called) hitting the page that I remember fondly. Oh well . . .

“And yet I love this quiet clouded day. A bell sounds from afar. The birds sing one after another, as if they called across the tree tops. I love this settled stillness, and this feeling that, at any moment, down may come the rain.” ~ Katherine Mansfield, Notebooks

The River Aure, Bayeux, Normandy, by Jim Linwood (FCC)

Corey has almost finished with his introductory class for TCC. He plans to take biology and English this fall, which will give him seven hours. Eamonn is planning to take two, maybe three classes; he’s thinking about taking a music class. Every night when he gets home from work he sits down at my old piano and just plays, not very melodic, but full of heart.

The piano is out of tune, and the pedals don’t work. My mother tried to convince me to get rid of my piano years ago as she said that it was “just taking up room.” I still like to play occasionally, but the other night when I sat down to play something for Eamonn, I had a harder time reading the music than I ever have before. Part of it is that my glasses are not a current prescription, but truthfully, the other part is that I am sooo out of practice.

I took lessons for 14 years. I used to be able to play Chopin preludes, Bach two- and three-part inventions, and Beethoven sonatas. Not so much now. But hearing Eamonn trying to play so earnestly makes me want to play again. In fact, I just remembered that in part of my dream last night, I was accompanying a reading of The Hobbit by playing the songs in the book. I wasn’t doing a very good job of it, and the professor who was reading was getting very impatient with me.

I need to get back to basics, do some scale and chord work. And I really, really need to get new glasses, but as with so many other things, it will have to wait, at least for a month or two. We’re still catching up from this abysmal July.

Anyway, that’s about all for now. I’m trying to get back into writing at least every other day, working towards every day. Time to go into the hot kitchen and do a bit of cleaning.

More later. Peace.

Music by Beck and Bat for Lashes, “Let’s Get Lost”


Walking Across The Atlantic

I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach
before stepping onto the first wave.

Soon I am walking across the Atlantic
thinking about Spain,
checking for whales, waterspouts.
I feel the water holding up my shifting weight.
Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.

But for now I try to imagine what
this must look like to the fish below,
the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.

~ Billy Collins

“Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies . . . and to the ‘good life,’ whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.” ~ Hunter S. Thompson