Benefits Supervisor Sleeping

I love art, but I don't understand a lot of it. Especially modern art; I might have a faint glimpse of the meaning, but complete bafflement at the appeal. Lucien Freud... it seems like some kind of joke people play on each other. Like long ago some influential person said his work was brilliant and important, as a leg-pull, and several toadying flunkies took it seriously, and opinion spread like an oil spill upon the water, until everybody was saying his work was brilliant and important, and terrified to admit to their inner beliefs that his paintings made them want to avert their eyes, that they only hung them on their walls to make other people impressed with their superiour taste in art. I'm bold enough to reap the scorn of art snobs. I hate Lucien Freud!

Strange, and somewhat unsettling. On a whim, googled my email name. The videos I posted on YouTube are listed on a whole bunch of other video sites with horses on them. What the heck is that about? Somehow seems nefarious, but also pointless.

Very worried about pandas. In searching for news about Wolong Preserve, found a webcam that usually updates every few seconds. The last image was from may 11. It's horrible and despair-inducing that so many people have perished or lost their homes and belongings. There's some kind of shameful flaw in my nature that makes me even more upset that even one panda might have died. If not more valuable, they are at least as valuable to me as humans are. Oh if wishes had any power!

a breeze of whimsy blew through my brain a few months ago, impelling me to buy a violin on ebay. It was so incredibly cheap it must be a piece of crap, but on arrival discovered that it seemed to be okay. The strings immediately broke, and ironically the replacement strings cost one dollar more than the entire violin. Tuning became a continual process because the pegs slipped like they were made of banana peels. I couldn't get all the way through "three blind mice" without retuning. Bought peg dope, which looked like very dark lipstick made of crayons. This reduced peg slippage from constant to every five seconds, which was an improvement, but not much.
I was thinking of buying new pegs, which would doubtlessly cost more than the violin and the strings. Researching violin maintenance, discovered that most horsehair bows for stringed instruments are made in europe or asia of the tails of slaughtered horses.

Two minutes later I was photographing the whole shooting match, posting an ad on Craigslist, and before you can say "I wash my hands of this" it was sold. I want nothing whatsoever to do with the slaughter of innocents.

I'm nobody. No one cares whether I play the violin with the tail of a murdered horse or not. This doesn't make me hate Itzak Perlman or Joshua Bell. I don't curse the memory of Mstislav Rostropovich. What I think or do will not change anybody's mind or change anything in the world. I just don't want to benefit from the slaughter of horses.

Thank god pianos aren't made of horses.

I was browsing through some of my favorite pictures of things at the NGA. Some of the ones I loved to visit, the paintings I felt closer to than all of my cousins put together, I can't find pictures of... which makes me feel sadder than not having pictures of my cousins. I must go back!


Emmanuel de Witte, The Interior of the Oude Kerk
Some of the things I love about this painting: dog lifting leg against piller at left, woman breastfeeding at right, open grave (putting in or taking out??) wiseguys doing business, misc shady characters lurking around. If things like this happened in church these days, I might be prevailed upon to go. Especially dogs running wild.

Monet: detail of "Interior, After Dinner"

My private name for this painting is "The Levitating Teacups"
I love them so!


Giuliano de Medici

I call this painting "Man With His Clothes on Backwards." Every trip to the NGA I always stopped to visit this painting. It felt like we had a private joke together.

Me and Crazy Carol working together tomorrow. Since I've been back from a few days off, she's been giving me the silent treatment for some unknown reason. It will be intriguing to see if she can stand to refrain from the usual non-stop talking when working in a deserted lab on a Saturday. I'm wagering with myself that she will be unable to resist the freedom to bad-mouth everybody who's not there. Everybody else talks about her too, but with more puzzlement and confusion than angry malice. I think being angry at everyone and every thing gives her great joy. But being joyful makes her sad. So she has to make herself be angry again. Her exercise obsession is similar. She doesn't feel good unless she goes to the gym every day and rows on the rowing machine until she can barely walk. But compulsively exercising every day hurts her already crippled feet, legs, arms and shoulders. So she has to go back to the gym in order to feel good again. And complaining about being in so much pain really really makes her happy. Which makes her feel bad again. Ad infinitum.

Pantalaimon was worrying me the past few days: he had a toilet paper tube in there, unchewed, for several days. Stephen Black gave up on gnawing toilet paper tubes a week or so before he died, and they were brothers. I love Pannie so much - I never ever want him to die. I want him to gnaw tubes at the speed of light, and run in his wheel with his exuberant tail arching over his back and tickling himself on the back of his neck for at least several more decades. I want him to beg for sunflower seeds until I am too frail to lift the lid of his tank in order to give one to him. I want him to outlive me. So I was very worried. But I tossed out the old tube and put in a fresh one, which he decimated in about five minutes. The old tube came from a batch that matt's co-workers gave us... and it might have been from some kind of scented TP that he didn't like. Or maybe somebody changed the roll with fingers that had microscopic poop residue on them, and it tainted the tube. Who knows. He's dashing on his wheel and making tubes disappear again, so I can sleep tonight.

Last night, a disturbing dream that I still remember, but that was so unsatisfactory I don't want to write about the vast irritating details. I was travelling with my mom, we had landed on an island off Great Britain, from which we were taking a ferry to Ireland. I think my mom must have spirited me away on this trip without preparation or luggage, because I didn't have any clothes to deal with any variety of chill. I was very quarrelsome and whiny, had many repetitious arguments with my mom aboard the ferry, spent fruitless hours searching the ship for a gift shop that sold Aran sweaters, only to discover that the dollar was so flimsy compared to the Euro that I couldn't afford anything. Our quibbling and sniping attracted a lot of scornful attention from our fellow passengers, and I was very ashamed. Woke up scowling.

I would like to put in a request for a nice happy dream so I can wake up grinning and go work all day with Crazy Carol with a song in my heart. A Jane Austen dream would be nice... Mr Knightly bringing me baskets of baby rabbits, or Colonel Brandon showing me a stable full of sprightly young gerbils.

Speaking of s.y.g., the other day obtained the most lethally adorable baby gerbil as a companion to GhostAngel. So young, she doesn't know to be skittish or afraid, allows me to cradle her in my hands and almost cuddle her. I've named her HoneyHeart, in honor of Honeybee. I already love her so much, my heart feels like it won't fit inside my chest any more. I may have to carry it around in a tote bag.

Today on Writer's Almanac... i loved this poem although listening is possibly better than reading
Poem: "Man Writes Poem" by Jay Leeming, from Dynamite on a China Plate.© The Backwaters Press. Reprinted with without permission.

Man Writes Poem

This just in a man has begun writing a poem
in a small room in Brooklyn. His curtains
are apparently blowing in the breeze. We go now
to our man Harry on the scene, what's

the story down there Harry? "Well Chuck
he has begun the second stanza and seems
to be doing fine, he's using a blue pen, most
poets these days use blue or black ink so blue

is a fine choice. His curtains are indeed blowing
in a breeze of some kind and what's more his radiator
is 'whistling' somewhat. No metaphors have been written yet,
but I'm sure he's rummaging around down there

in the tin cans of his soul and will turn up something
for us soon. Hang on—just breaking news here Chuck,
there are 'birds singing' outside his window, and a car
with a bad muffler has just gone by. Yes ... definitely

a confirmation on the singing birds." Excuse me Harry
but the poem seems to be taking on a very auditory quality
at this point wouldn't you say? "Yes Chuck, you're right,
but after years of experience I would hesitate to predict

exactly where this poem is going to go. Why I remember
being on the scene with Frost in '47, and with Stevens in '53,
and if there's one thing about poems these days it's that
hang on, something's happening here, he's just compared the curtains

to his mother, and he's described the radiator as 'Roaring deep
with the red walrus of History.' Now that's a key line,
especially appearing here, somewhat late in the poem,
when all of the similes are about to go home. In fact he seems

a bit knocked out with the effort of writing that line,
and who wouldn't be? Looks like ... yes, he's put down his pen
and has gone to brush his teeth. Back to you Chuck." Well
thanks Harry. Wow, the life of the artist. That's it for now,

but we'll keep you informed of more details as they arise

Yesterday - picked up electric piano from Amy. Nicholas is a little more than two; how can someone so small be so smart? Later, at the farm, took Honeybee and Stephen Black out to Mothers' Grove to bury them. I think I'm over grieving for them, then their absence surprises me, like hitting your head in the dark, or your foot reaching for a step and finding thin air. It was a beautiful day, so I rode Teddy for a while, around the pasture, past the gravesite. It looked very different from up so high. Fixed fence, etc, eventually slogging home at sundown with my hands aching, exhausted and put-upon. I would like a refund on that weekend - it was defective.
Today at work, did all the stuff on my practice amnios. It's been years since I learned anything new at my job. The day flew by and did not suck very much at all. After I had done the shopping to make the dessert for Ruth's bridge party on wednesday, she called and said that it was actually tuesday afternoon. So I made it anyway and I'll take it to the farm tomorrow evening and we'll all have some. This evening, played the piano for a while - I've forgotten a lot, but not everything. It's so late, and I wish I were in bed already. I'm glad I don't live in Saudi Arabia, so I have rights, don't have to wear a burkha, can drive my own car and have my own job... but working certainly does crowd out the really important things, such as reading, playing the piano, making desserts and petting the dog.
Last night, an unsettling semi-nightmare. I was in a big ancient stone church. We were preparing for a church festival. It was chaotic - lots of teenagers, kids, parents, old people, all milling around laughing, playing, glad-handing and arguing. There was a group of people, you could tell they were the stage-crew type. People who work behind the scenes to get things done, serious and efficient. They got mad at me because I accidentally unplugged a big water tank that was in the vestibule, but I re-plugged it before the entire place flooded. Since it was a church you might think it was for baptizing, but no... it was some kind of fishtank that animals drank out of. But it was dirty, and I was trying to clean it up for the animals, when I inadvertantly pulled the plug. Boy was I in the dog house. I started mopping it up immediately, but found the water had disappeared because of the porous stone of the floor - it didn't matter, they all were furious at me still. There had been a church rummage sale earlier, and I had put the treasures I had found aside while I helped with the festival. When I went back I saw that a bunch of the popular kids had found my cache and appropriated my treasures for themselves. They were popular and I was a shy geeky doormat, so I didn't say anything, just vowed to get the hell out of there, dodging thorough the chaos. What was I doing there anyway - I'm an atheist! I think I was just trying to fit in - a complete failure.

Stephen Black died today in my hands. Thursday night, after I got back from the vet with Honeybee, I noticed that he seemed sluggish and ill. I kicked myself for not taking him with me earlier... but who would, on sudden departure to take a dying animal to the vet, would think to examine all the other animals in case they needed to go too? Still, I felt like an evil fool. I started giving him antibiotics that night, because I had them, and if it was mycoplasma as with the Short Tail Girls, then maybe it would help. But he already looked too ill for it to help. I thought yesterday he was looking a little better. But this morning, breathing shallower, and himself very weak. Giving him the liquid medicine, he didn't seem to be swallowing. I tried wiping his nostrils with a damp cloth; they seemed clogged with mucus. He fought to escape my grasp, but he usually does this once or twice while I'm giving him medications... they all do. This time he gave a few little grunts and was still. I think he had a stroke or a heart attack. I think he had heart failure instead of mycoplasma, and that's why his breathing was so labored. Gerbils' circulatory systems are very similar to humans, that's why they have been long used to study strokes. Stephen Black loved sunflower seeds so much... and I loved making him happy... so he was obese for the last year or so. His death makes me very sad, but not as desolate as Honeybee - she was so special. I loved him. Named for the most noble and gracious character in my personal pantheon of fictional characters. The nameless slave shall wear a silver crown; the nameless slave shall be a king in a strange country.
I love you Stephen Black. I'm so sorry I could not make things better for you.

Today, Friends of Library book sale. I didn't do the dawn ritual of waiting in line, had to take Ruby to vet for checkup. Got there around 10. It didn't seem as crowded as previous years. I think I must be a changed person. In years past, I would attempt to bring home my own equivalent weight in books, then go back for more. Either my tastes were more eclectic, or there were more interesting books at the sale back then. I think it's me. Mostly I drifted around, sighing deeply. My main goal was to get the JA's I don't have... but there were only a few sad copies of P&P. Eventually I did dig up an Emma and a S&S. There were a bunch of Galsworthys I'd never read or even heard of, but not surprising since he wrote approx 1 million books. I nabbed two biographies: Emily D. & Edna S.V.M. But mostly I just drifted around not very interested in much. This enormous warehouse sheltering the product of millions of hours of thought, preparation, writing, editing... each book an encapsulation of time, effort and life. But today, it all seemed like so much crap.


Later, to Volta to help prepare for the opening. I got halfway through putting together a big wooden chair when I realized that the factory had put in two left arms. Washing all the new teapots and coffee cups went more successfully.
Later, the farm. Ruth stunned everyone by announcing that she had told Hans and EvilShelly that they had to find another place to live. Groomed Huggie, and his breath was enough to make the flowers wilt. Kris said it's from food getting packed into his sad old broken teeth. So I took the hose and rinsed his mouth out well, and it all looked much better. But in the process I became thoroughly splashed with Huggie Mouth Water, and went home smelling like ancient horse breath. Bathed immediately I got home.

Last night, a gerbil nightmare so horrible, I can't write about it. It comes back to me in terrible horrible flashes. How can I trust my brain, if it can present me images of the utmost dread? Horrible! I want to find the neurons that created that nightmare and destroy them. I would gladly give up the remembrance of all future dreams if only I could be sure never to dream something so horrible again.

Today received a condolence card from the vet I took Honeybee to on Thurs. He wrote a little message instead of just signing it... no vet has ever done that before. Maybe he's never had a client sob uncontrollably over a gerbil before. She was so so special.

An Engineer's Guide To Cats

How quickly things change.
moments after I finished writing my last diary entry, noticed that honeybee looked... wrong. Huddled. Eyes closed. Moving slowly, and hardly moving at all. The complete antithesis of herself. Touching her, she seemed chilly. Fifteen minutes to 6pm, and I had to act fast. The gerbil vet isn't in on Fridays and the office closes at six. Take her in, or hope for the best? She looked so ill, the decision only took about 1.5 seconds - surely a new record for me, in decision making. Called vet to make sure they didn't leave before I got there, leaped into car, raced north.
It was too late for anything but mercy.
She had pyometritis, common in older female gerbils, nothing I could have done, virtually no signs until it's too late, not contagious.
She came home with us to the sun-colored basement in Capitol Hill, from that petsmart in Potomac Yard. She was supposed to be a companion to Tofu, until we discovered she was a female. Always bright, energetic, lively, smart. In her prime she was a gerbil Thoroughbred, racing on her wheel for hours on end, a honey-colored blur. Lately she had slowed down, more dowager-shaped. Still so lively. I dreaded, dreaded, dreaded her inevitable death. I loved her so much. It's strange now that the thing I dreaded has finally happened, I feel less horrible than I feared. I'm sure that's because she was critically ill for such a short time - this morning she was fine! 5:45 noticed her dire condition, 6:30 she had left all pain behind. I am so incredibly glad she did not have to dwindle like Tofie, like Silky, like SnowAngel.


Honeybee & SnowAngel in their house: HB snoozy head, left. SA sleepy tail, right.


A honey-colored blur

Today, checkup at the psychiatrist. Unlike the shrink I went to in DC, the guy I go to now does not really attempt to conceal that he is a glorified pharmacist. Dr Genova always asked a lot of questions, typing approx 150 words per min all the while. Dr Gossinger only asks one question: how are you. And then in the quiet void that ensues, I babble on, answering all the questions Dr Genova used to ask. Gossinger seems to doodle on a sheet of legal paper stapled to my file. Pharmaceutical fingerprints are everywhere: The kleenex box is from Ambien. The pen holder is from Risperdal. The stapler is from Xanax. I might be inclined to doubt his abilities, but he was the one who diagnosed me - by asking very few questions, almost psychically, as I recall. But he was exactly right. The meds he gave me in July 2002 made everything better almost instantly. Maybe he's some kind of savant. The one thing that makes appointments with Gossinger better than Genova: they're much quicker. 15 minutes, and I don't have to go back for six months. Genova, it was usually half an hour, and about 1.5 hours travelling. Getting there was much more interesting though: Orange or Blue line - get off at Foggy Bottom, or slightly longer walk from Farragut West... the mysterious underground food court. There was a building right across the street that had a very official looking sign that said "World Bank," although maps say it's down the street - maybe it was a branch. I took a picture of it once, but can't find it now. It always made me laugh that the World Bank was the only bank I'd ever seen without an ATM. Once I got lost trying to get back to the metro and ended up by the White House. Good times.... And I if I hadn't gone mad I would not have these lovely memories. Thank you, Voldemort.

In my dream, of which I remember only fragments, I was part of a small group of strangers banding together in some kind of survival situation. Or possibly it was a camping vacation. I was in charge of getting things done: fixing machines, shifting downed tree trunks, etc. I had an argument with one of my fellow survivalists, a guy upon whom I had a crush. I insisted I was actually very girly. He looked dubious, not sure whether it was because I was the fixing person, or because I was grimy and wearing overalls. Possibly both.


In waking life...
I've given up on attempting to make rutabagas and turnips edible. They are just as horrible as their names suggest, and nothing I've done alters that fact. Parsnips are also doubtful. Brussels sprouts are completely rehabilitated, as well as salsify, artichokes and quince; all may be coaxed into deliciousness. I'm disappointed in most of the root vegetables. Potatoes continue to wear the crown.

I think my favorite JA novel is Northanger Abbey: the silliest. Favorite JA hero: a tie between Colonel Brandon & Mr Knightley. JA heroines with whom I most empathise: Marianne Dashwood, Anne Eliot. JA heroine who I most wish I were like: Emma Woodhouse.