The Gryphon's Kitten

An Unfortunate Event...

2010-03-25T16:30:00.000-07:00

My old Mac has died. On February 13th (Monday not a Friday) it ceased to do its computery things.

Needless to say, its been rather difficult to post as I no longer have a computer to post from. However, I have been working on some things. Unfortunately it takes awhile as I have to do it "old school" with a paper and a pen.

I am working on getting something new, and in the meantime hopefully I'll get a post or two up, but perhaps not.

It sucks enough to have to write it all down and EDIT on paper. I don't know if I am motivated enough to transcribe it all in the computer.

We'll see...

The Problem with Talking About Yourself

2010-01-23T18:22:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday I started what I hoped would be a fairly simple exercise. I began writing what was supposed to be an entry about my origins to be posted on my birthday. Needless to say it did not get posted. As of this moment it has been edited into two separate pieces, one concerning myself and the other discussing my family, each about 4 pages and still not finished. I have a feeling this project may take more effort and writing stamina then I have interest.
To be honest, my life’s story is really not all that interesting. Sure, it sucks worse then many out there, but at the same time, many have had much, much worse. What’s more those people with the really crappy origins are only truly interesting once they make something of themselves.
I certainly haven’t made anything of myself. Although, truth be told, those rags to riches stories get boring after awhile. It’s the same plot with different details. Person had crappy childhood, person worked hard and didn’t give up, even though someone is usually telling them to and viola, all their dreams come true. Of course, there is another version, which generally revolves around some dingbat that is absurdly beautiful and somehow lands in a pile of cash, but that’s not the one they try to teach you in school.
I am neither a hard worker nor an absurdly beautiful maiden (or whore), which pretty much puts me up shit creek without a paddle.
I think what most people can generally be pegged, not by who they are but by what they want and how close they’ve come to getting it. If their dreams have come true, most likely they cheated to get it. Occasionally they came by it honestly, but half the time they find it may have looked good from a distance, but it’s rotten at the core.
So what’s my dream come true? That’s easy. A husband that adores me, plenty of children, the means to be well supported with some nice perks now and then, and maybe a horse. Actually, I should probably be a little more specific about the guy, in the most honest I can be, he would be that white knight in shining armor that will save me from a life of penury and stress. Of course the likelihood of any of this coming true is slim to nil and at the moment, I’m almost o.k. with that.
Since I am no where close to having my particular dream come true, that tells you one of three possibilities. One is that such a dream is impossible, two is that I don’t know how to go from point a (current situation) to point b (dream) or three, I’m lazy as all get out and haven’t made the effort.
I tend to think, for myself, its either one or three, although sometimes I’ll let myself think its two for a little esteem perk.
As for writing about myself? Well, I suppose I’ll get there in the end. I’m still stressing over it and trying to figure it out. Maybe I’ll actually get annoyed enough with it to do some sort of outline and organize it into some semblance of order. Maybe I’ll get distracted by something shiny and new in the next few days and forget that it’s on my computer.
As for my 26th birthday…
I woke up in Aaron’s arms, I spent the day sleeping and writing the never ending, never published blog and then gathered up all my personal papers and memento’s and went back to Aaron’s. Instead of letting my favorite guy take me to dinner, I sat on his bed and looked at pictures and ate the pizza he ordered in defeat. Poor guy, I stumped him one on that day. I just couldn’t get over the question I think everyone should ask themselves on their birthday, “Where did I come from?” “Where am I going?” and the most important, “Who the hell am I?”
I probably won’t figure it out this year, but maybe one day…

Gun Love

2010-01-19T19:27:00.000-08:00

So I have a thing for guns. If you asked me what I would buy if I won the lotto (which I won't because I don't play the lotto) first you'd get a list of nice things, like a new house, a new computer, a new car and so on, but once I got all the necessaries for improving my life to what I consider livable, then I would start buy all those firearms. I'd start with fleshing out the current collection, another 12 gauge combat style shotgun, a pair of sturdy accurate rifles in .308 and a couple more .45's, .40 S&W and one more 9mm. Then I would move on to complete the Eastern Block Collection (Takarov, Makarov, Mosin- Nagant, and another SKS) and perhaps then go off into a mil-serps tangent from there. After that? Who knows. Give me the money, and we'll find out.

My love affair with firearms started when I was about 7 and 1/2. Any guesses on why? That was right about the time we moved in with Kerry. He finally convinced my mother to allow it and taught me to shoot his AR-7 when I was 8. I've been addicted ever since.

At first it was something different, then it was something to do with my new Dad, and as time passed it became the tangible beginnings of a whole new way to think and do things. I learned self sufficiency, respect for tools and strength of ideals all because my dad had guns and shared his passion with me. This passion is now one of my own.

Collecting and shooting satisfies two of my major quirks. The enjoyment of having a collection and having something that does something all in one package. Added benefits is that its time consuming and you can never run out of things to learn and things to do, yet you can set it down at any point and come back to it later. A hobby that doesn't demand my time, yet can occupy a large portion of it. Perfection.

Yet explaining it completely is impossible. Only another bitten by the same bug can fully appreciate what I get out of the smell of solvent and gun smoke, or the sensation of hefting a rifle to my shoulder. Explaining it to someone with the modern dislike for firearms is even more impossible. Trying to get someone to see firearms in a positive light after a life time of believing the mantra they where taught in our society about guns being bad, is worse then pulling teeth. Sometimes you can break through the barrier, even to the point of conversion, but unfortunately, you usually end up in the never ending debate that never ends because they don't want to hear why the news is wrong and your right, even when you have the stats to back your point up. They just won't believe that those crazy shoot outs featured in the action flicks are actually impossible to do with any firearm. For these people guns obtain abilities that are on par with magical, never mind the fact that its simply mechanics and chemistry ruled by physics. They also want something easy to blame for societies ills. Why acknowledge that our educational, legal and bureaucratic systems are all flawed when you can blame it all on those crazy people that have guns?

So other then beating my head occasionally against that wall, I have taken to hanging out with the people that will, at the least, respect my love of guns. If someone comes to me a wants to learn, I'll gladly teach, but if their not asking, I'm not going to bother to get them interested. My head has just taken to many beatings to often.

Instead I concentrate on my passion and I share it with my friends. They understand when I make a Facebook post about being in a 'Glock mood' and affectionately referring to my 1911A1 as 'chupacabra'. I spend time talking to my Dad about technique, calibers and whats new at the local gun store. I read gun books and research what I want next. When I can afford to waste the ammo, I shoot. I pull out my personal guns periodically for inspections. I engage in my passion, my hobby and my sport.

Reflections on 2009

2010-01-13T21:42:00.000-08:00

Last year I began again. I pulled myself out of the monotony of the past four years and started changing things. Much of my resolve was do to the fact that I had someone whom I thought was a friend. Pure chance gave me the impetus to do some of the things I had half heartedly wanted for the past years. I went on a diet and made the effort of trying to reconnect with the world. The results are not at all what I expected.
In some ways, my life is infinitely better then it was. In other ways, it has not really changed at all. I think that I have not changed, just learned, grown, and shed much of my past. Almost all of my resolutions have not come to pass. I have not gotten a new and better job, I do not look the way I thought I would, I have not gotten my teeth fixed or resolved the issues of my home. I did lose weight and a considerable amount at that, and I figured out how to get health care.
Yet, this New Year is so remarkably different that I cannot completely quantify what it means too me. Some of the differences are obvious and wonderful, some are difficult and painful, and many are still indefinable as good or bad.
The main difference and the best of the differences is Aaron. He wasn’t supposed to be what he has become. At first, he was just Mark’s neighbor, then someone who would be an acquaintance. Then he became, in quick succession, a lover, an annoyance and then an idiot in less then two weeks time.
And once he was done being that, he became one of the most important people in my life.
It is no stretch to say we are a mismatch. The age difference alone is enough for most to dismiss the possibilities, but I keep coming back to the most important thing. He makes me happy and I seem to make him happy. Its funny that something that started as so unimportant and, admittedly sordid, has become such a mellow and easy relationship. We don’t fight, rarely upset each other and, usually, just bop along happily together. I have learned a lot about myself through my interaction with Aaron. I have also confirmed a lot.
I may be a screw up at a lot of things, but, apparently, I make a damn good girlfriend.

The other major change is my estrangement from my mother. I haven’t spoken to her since August. The day after Christmas, she and Eric came to the trailer to drop off Christmas presents from the Gatewood’s and I was surprised to find presents from them to me in the pile. I didn’t see them. I stayed in my room and acted like I was asleep. Dad was able to avoid calling me out by telling the truth, I was sick. In the past I would have gone to investigate my Christmas loot regardless of the fact that I was hacking my lungs up and snotting all over the place, but this year I couldn’t. I couldn’t face her. I can’t stand that she is acting like this is nothing and, at the same time, I won’t lie and give her the easy way out. I can’t ignore the elephant in the room and I’m too stubborn to let her see me cry, and see how much it hurts to not have her, even superficially, in my life.
It’s getting worse as time progresses and the knowledge that I won’t be having dinner at Red Lobster with her and Eric the week of my birthday is killing me. It’s been a tradition for a long time now. For the first time since I was in my early teens there won’t be a bouquet of roses on my Birthday.
It seems that every time Aaron and I go out with Scotty, I end up talking about the nachos at Random Row and the battle over the melted cheese. And I want to tell her that I still haven’t found good nachos since, although the ones at Miller’s are pretty good.
So this year, instead of being a fixture lazing around the little house on Albavanna Spring, I am sitting here, missing my mother and I’m not even sure if she misses me.
So this year, instead of brimming with ideas and plans, I am just trying to figure out what this past year has meant. I told Aaron that I want something to mark my birthday this year, something different and special. I think I do have some things to celebrate as I turn 26. I also have many new things to figure out. Maybe that will be my resolution for 2010.

"He's not your dad, he's your best friend."

2009-12-16T20:34:00.001-08:00

Katie said that, and its true. My dad and I do not have a typical relationship that most fathers and daughters have. We have that and then some. Early on, when I was first getting to know Aaron, he was disturbed by how much I told my dad about what went on at the cabins. I told him to try to think of us more as roommates then a father and daughter. I don’t think it really helped Aaron’s peace of mind, but then, he also knew that my dad was into guns and very protective of me.
The protectiveness comes from the fact that I am my daddy’s little girl. This is purely from the fact that he is my dad, and I am his daughter. I think it’s a prerogative of parents to be that protective. It comes from the days when their child was small and helpless, and they were solely responsible for their child’s safety and wellbeing.
I will admit, that at times, that protectiveness comes into odds with Dad’s ability to treat me as an adult, especially when it comes to things we don’t’ see eye to eye on. For the most part, I don’t buck the system, but sometimes I have to, and it’s those times that cause the some of the most strife. Yet, I credit our friendship to the fact that those times are worked through, rather then cause permanent distance. Yes, there are certain things a daughter should not tell her dad, but those rules never really held sway around here.
Maybe part of the reason I didn’t get in much trouble in High School was because it’s really impossible to not get caught by a dad who has been there and done that a thousand times over. Or it could have been that those things were never really a mystery to me. Dad did ten time worse then most of my friends, back in his day, and I heard all the stories. There is some saying about the wise learning from other’s mistakes, and while I will not claim to be wise, I’d like to think I’m at least smart enough not to get into that kind of trouble.
Maybe a part of it was also that there was no point. It has all been done before. To me, it really wasn’t worth doing, if dad had already done it. Unless I could one up him doing something I wanted to do, there was no reason.
The reason I know all these things about my dad, is because he told me. Not in the “back in my day…” stories that bore the crap out of everyone because they are incredible pompous and not even remotely close to the truth, but through conversation. I shit you not, the reason I know that one should shower immediately after using whip cream for certain activities is because of my dad. It came up, don’t ask how, cause I can’t tell you (don’t remember), but it did.
Dad doesn’t always have a filter, plus he’s honest and he just likes to talk a lot, which has resulted in some pretty odd conversations over the years. Add that to the fact that I don’t really have a filter, am incredibly blunt and overly curious and you have the makings of a really bizarre conversation.
The other reason for our closeness is the fact that there have been horrible times when all we had were each other. It started when my mother went off the deep end. At the time, he had no one else to talk to, so he talked to me. Much of these things I shouldn’t have been told and shouldn’t have known about. When mom caught wind, she raised hell. Luckily, she only caught wind of the fact that dad told me about financial matters. If she had known the true depth of information I was privy too, both then and forever after, she would blow a fuse. In those times, I was there for him, and he was there for me. We had a common enemy and we trusted only each other with the true extent of pain she dealt.
Once she moved out, and it was just us, we had ample opportunity to bond in ways beyond what had been. We had a chance to just hang out and talk whenever we wanted too. These were the good times, sitting on the front steps and bitching about the latest movies, going somewhere in the car blasting the radio and talking about the latest rock gods on the scene or comparing one artist with another. We had ongoing battles about one fictional character vs. another. We would pour over the latest gun rag and rail that we couldn’t buy something because of all those damn gun laws. Politics, guns, philosophy, music, movies, books, and dogs were, and still are, only a small fraction of our never-ending conversations.
We get it. We get each other well enough to understand how our minds travel. We both are fine with sidetracks and conversational back roads. We can sense when one topic has been finished and move to the next seamlessly. Plus, we never run out of crap to talk about, since we’ll talk about pretty much anything. There are times, especially now a day, when certain conversations are tricky. There are topics that are taboo unless we are in the mood to tread carefully. Yet, even the taboo topics get discussed and usually without verbal bloodshed.
An oddity that sometimes appears is my protectiveness of him. I don’t think most daughters are as protective of their dads, as their dads are of them. This is my own quirk. In some ways, it is because I don’t think I would know what to do without him. I almost lost him once, and due to the nature of the disease could still lose him. Cancer is a word that in our culture is never viewed lightly, and in this family, is always there. When dad was diagnosed with an inner ocular melanoma, my world fell apart for weeks. I had always been protective of him, but this was the cause of the new emphasis.
He, in many ways, saved my life. I owe him, and it is not a burden. Too almost lose him before I even get a chance to give him the life I want him to have is something I cannot chance again. I want him to see his daughter do well in her life, to give him things like a nice home to grow old in, lots of guns, all the books, movies and music in the world, present him with grandchildren to spoil and love and come up with crazy new ways to entertain. I want him to be able to look back at his life and be proud of what he did for me.
We are an odd family. I have never known anything else, but I often see how odd it is when I talk to others, even more so when an outsider misunderstands the dynamic. I tell my dad most everything, for many reasons, because I value his insight, because I need to talk, because I figure he’ll think its funny or, sometimes, because I know it will get him started on a very funny rant. He does the same to me. We respect each other when it counts and unapologetically swipe each other’s food at the same time (his nighttime scavenging got a large portion of my double stuff Oreos the other day). We have our inside jokes and odd habits in dealing with each other. So, yes, we are best friends, as well as family.
How could I not be best friends with the man who taught me what a friend is?

Christmas Party on Slate Hill

2009-12-16T18:55:00.000-08:00

(Co Written with Dad)

The Old Tradition:
It is said that all domesticated animals can speak on Christmas Eve. This was their gift on the night that Jesus was born. In the legends, the animals celebrate the birth of Christ by speaking of his arrival, for they where there, in the manger. The animals do not fight on this night, for it is a night of peace and wonder.

The History:
It was a couple weeks before Christmas; we’re not sure which year, when we found out about it. The original cast was the three Davis dogs, Beauty, Cha Cha, and Gus, our three dogs Northwest, Bandit and Raisin, as well as Richard the rat. Over the years, the tradition grew as new animals came and others passed on. I will say that these are, as best as we can deduce, the happenings on Christmas Eve, here on Slate Hill.

Every year on Christmas Eve, when all the humans are sleeping, dreaming of sugarplums and other nonsense, the creatures of the neighborhood gather in the buildings behind the Davis’s house for a little party.
Now I am sure that there was always a little neighborhood get-together on that night, yet this was beginning of a real party. The addition of two more dogs, plus a rat made the Slate Hill gang decide to go all out. That first Christmas was one of welcome and good spirit. Well, maybe not all good spirit. The great black German Shepard, Beauty, perhaps put a little too much into her rendition of “Santa, Baby”, but then Northwest was eyeing Bandit a little too closely. The evening of song, dance and food began with a heartfelt and sweetly sung “Feliz Navida” preformed by a festively attired Cha-cha (the Chihuahua) and led into the rocking styling of Northwest, complete in his black leather jacket, with a rather punk version of “Jingle Bell Rock”. The miniature poodle Gus, with his version of “The First Noel”, which was not as well received, as he would have liked, completed the original set. Cha-cha pulled him aside later and told him to lose the fake French accent and try not to get so high pitch.
Soon the Huskies got into the spirit, and blew their host away with a joyful duet of the ever so popular “Let It Snow!” and Richard completed the solo performances with a wonderful “Silent Night”. The rest of the evening was spent in good cheer and happy caroling until dawn.
The Christmas Eve party stayed pretty tame for those first few years. Buster’s arrival added “Little Drummer Boy” to the line up. Yet, in 1996, things started getting a little wilder. This was the first year that Pharaoh, the black cat attended. His sister, Dustball fit right in, singing duets with the others and enjoying the jovial atmosphere, but Pharaoh was a little trouble-maker. His opening salvo was to spike the punch bowl, which got Gus drunk. He also, loudly, told his sister that the rat would make a lovely appetizer.
Pharaoh hasn’t changed much over the years. A little more gray and grizzled, he also knows that now, no one can really reprimand him, as they did in those early years. I foresee this Christmas to be one of his worst ever. He will most likely get drunk, harass the others and be a general pest, but that’s Christmas with family. We all have that obnoxious uncle who we really just wish would skip this year.
Sadie’s first performance was “Jesus, Jesus, Rest Your Head” and brought tears to the eyes of the old dogs with her youthful voice and sweet manner. In later years, she and Buster did hound dog duets of “Deck The Halls” and “A Holly Jolly Christmas”. She still manages to travel over to Slate Hill every year for the party, and always tells the Christmas Story.
The latest crowd grew up with the traditions that are now firmly in place. Performances are still at the heart of the party, with each animal bringing his or her own flare. Pharaoh’s “Mr. Grinch” and “The Twelve Pains Of Christmas “ have become staples, as has the chorus of felines singing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”. Pearl and Diamond, the two redneck girls, blew everyone away with “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer” one year and it is now a standard performance along with Southwest’s “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth”. Despite her snobbish comments towards the others, everyone looks forward to Chestnut’s “The Huron Indian Carol”, since she sings it so well. Graham always sings “Nuttin’ For Christmas” and Shaft always follows with “Hooray For Santa Claus”. Captain Wow will be premiering with Graham in a version of “Santa Claus And His Old Lady” this year, although they may end up giggling to much as they munch through the snacks. Butterfly and Skippy are scheduled to perform a new song this year as well, being last years “O Holy Night” didn’t work out so great. Hopefully, “The Holly and Ivy” will work better.
As the evening winds down, the performances of the past are remembered, with a toast to those who have passed on. They celebrate the dawn of Christmas with a rousing chorus of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” as they pack up and head back to their homes for another year.

This is the Christmas of Slate Hill and the party in the Davis’s garage.

And coming in Easter, the story of how the Easter Bunny rides a moter-mo-mo and Northwest chased him away from Slate Hill.

My Dad

2009-12-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

So he’s not really my dad. Technically, he’s not even a step dad. However, if I say ‘Dad’, this is whom I am talking about. His name is Kerry.
Kerry met my mom when I was just a little squirt. My mother was living in Troy and dating a guy named Jimmy, known to all as ‘Bubba’ and Kerry was his best bud. So one day, when Bubba came over, he brought Kerry with him. I don’t’ remember this first meeting, but Dad does. He says that the first thing I did was insisting on showing him my room, which was carpeted with floor-to-floor toys. The second interaction was later in the evening, when I spilled whatever it was I was eating all down my front. He said “little girl, you have food on your shirt.” and then I ran off screaming and had a nice little hissy fit.
I wouldn’t say it was a very good indicator of the future.
A few years later, he came across my mother again, and asked her out. Or maybe she asked him out, I don’t know. All I know is that I was about 6 years old when Kerry started to occasionally baby-sit me when mom went out to contra dances and jams. He’d come over in his old beater of a car, with his dog and a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and we would hang out on the porch. Northwest befriended the dog across the street, a playful lady White German Shepard named Timber. A few memories from this time jump out at me, like the night I wanted to blast my one cassette of Disney TV show theme songs, specifically the theme song to Rescue Rangers. Or how, whenever Kerry went inside, I would get Northwest all worked up by saying over and over “where’s Kerry?!?!”
After awhile, due to a raise in rent at the house in Batesville, my mother decided to move us in to the small trailer out towards Scottsville that Kerry lived in for free, because it was owned by one of his best buds and business partner. I was in Connecticut for the move, and when I came home to Virginia at the end of summer, it was too a new room and the beginning of a new school year at a new school, but the biggest change was now I lived in a home with an adult male for the first time since I was 3. Best of all, Kerry didn’t drink, and was perfectly willing to play with me. He read me bedtime stories, he listened to my childish blathering, and on rainy days, he would come up with brilliant new ways to dress up the dogs.
Kerry is a creative guy. When he was a preteen, his buds and him actually made a full-length film about Doc Savage, plus short films, everything from horror to Batman spoofs. In his 20’s he was in a punk rock band, in which he wrote much of the lyrics. I think this is where I get my own creative sensibilities. He didn’t just read stories, he would make up funny voices and brought them to life, he made up songs about the dogs and we would sing them, and he always encouraged me to add in.
One of the best nights ever, he had both my mother and me in stitches. It was nearing Christmas and I had a children’s book about how on Christmas Eve all animals could talk and would get together and have a party. Kerry made up our own version. It centers around all of our dogs and the animals from the neighborhood who where given roles in the Slate Hill Christmas party in our neighbors Bill’s shed.
To this day, our odd little family has its own language. I suppose every family has its version, but I like to think ours is a bit crazier and a bit more elaborate then most. This was Kerry’s influence.
He influences much of my life. Most of the things I like or I believe can be traced back to him. I already liked Rock and Roll when I came to the Trailer, but it was Kerry that refined my taste and introduced me to bands like King Crimson, The Ramones, X-Ray Spex, T-Rex and Deep Purple. Kerry was the one that taught me how to defend myself, both with and without firearms. His concern over my safety is still obvious. He still goes and checks my house gun every so often. He likes to know where I am, although, he often try’s to act like that’s not what he’s doing now that I’m in my 20’s. He is the reason I believe so strongly in the Bill of Rights and a limited federal government. With me he shared the stories of his life, the lesson’s he learned.
He told me once that one reason he gravitated to my mother was because he wanted a child. I was perfect, because I needed a father. His first inkling that I would be his child was one night when we went to the Circus. During the performance, I leaned back against his knee. I remember asking my mother if I could call him ‘Dad’, she told me to ask him and he said yes.
Now I don’t really remember not thinking of him as ‘Dad’.

A Pictorial Exploration

2009-12-09T18:35:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been one for modern practices of the occult or the trappings of the modern mystic. It perhaps is a view at odds with my love of fairy stories and magical tales. As elements of fiction and fantasy things like rituals, magic and practices of things beyond scientific understanding are engaging and amazing. However when it comes to real life, my life, I have avoided becoming involved with any such thing. What’s more, I tend to look down upon those that do. It has always seemed such people credit cards or stars or whatever with way too much importance. In a way, I have seen it as worse then those who put the same strength of belief is specific books mostly because I have this incredible distaste for the cheese element, and there’s nothing like a ‘whoopee witch’ (thank you Mercedes Lackey for that gem) when it comes to cheese.
Now in the past I have learned a bit about several branches of modern magically inclined mystic. I liked some of the symbols sometimes and occasionally I was attracted to the pretty shiny baubles such groups have, but beyond that, I tended to dismiss the beliefs. The followers themselves that I came across furthered my disdain. Occasionally, they would be nice, considerate folks that I liked. People like the modern pagan I spent a week at shooting camp with or several of the inhabitants of my favored internet forum. These people do not seem to me to be much different then the followers of more common religions. If anything, I get along with these few because they are often more tolerant and understanding then many Christians/Muslims/Jews one comes across.
However, by and large, most of those I come across are just as intolerant as the mainstreams, just with a different slant. What’s worse, they’re almost always out in la-la land too. I’m sorry, but I can’t take you seriously if you never shut up about auras and tell me that the fluorite pendent that my aunt made me is wrong because ‘it needs to be facing upright to direct energy’. These people I have encountered would give anyone with sense the willies. Its like they cannot take anything at face value. If I spend too much time in such company, I get to the point where I want to shake them and tell them “Sometimes a rock is just a rock!”
I have always kind of liked the various schools of Astrology. I read once that most of the data complied about birth signs is actually a pretty accurate collection of common personality types, the ancient versions of Myers-Briggs, if you will. Now to the idea that the positions of the stars cause you to be who you are and telling what your future will hold, that’s where you throw me.
Which is not to say that I won’t say that sometimes it can be a bit on the spooky side. The Aquarius/Capricorn combo actually fits me pretty well. My best friend in High School studied up on it much more closely then I and found a lot of interesting stuff. However, I have always preferred that such things be studied as a lark, as something for fun. I think, if you take it too seriously or give it credit such beliefs begin to control you, and then your lost in la la land. The element of a self-fulfilling prophecy takes over and you can no longer operate without your mystical drug of choice.
Tarot cards fit pretty squarely in the middle of this collection of what I consider modern mystic stuff. I’ve had a set for many, many years. The magpie in me snatched them up and squirreled them away. Yet I never bothered to learn all that much about them. I read the pamphlet, but didn’t really get the how’s and whys of reading the cards, and I never bothered to study further. They came in handy when my favorite author used them in a fantasy story, and looking at some of the cards in reference to the story helped me understand those cards better, as well as brought a unique experience while reading a good book. That was the last time I touched them until the morning after an interesting evening with Aaron.
I was sitting on the bed watching him fiddle with Mafia Wars while we chatted. He was pretty well buzzed. As the conversation dwindled I noticed the set of cards on his desk and decided to inspect them more closely. I had noticed them before, but after seeing the name Crowley on the box, I tended to lose interest. Besides, I had also looked at the books that were the remnants of his past explorations with the occult and had been fairly disgusted at the juvenile writing and very lose understanding of historical witchcraft. At least the Bible (or at least some versions) has artistic merit even if you don’t believe in it.
However that night, the urge to look at pretty pictures outweighed my distaste. However, Aaron saw me make my grab and got them first. He started telling me about them. To be honest, I was more interested in just looking on my own, but he was in a show and tell mood. Between his buzz and my inability to temper myself on a subject I have a certain distain for while explaining my view, we ended up in a bit of a spat. Or rather our version, which has me teary eyed and guilty, and him depressed and defensive. The subject was dropped for the evening.
However, his opinion and my own poorly articulated thoughts made me pull out my own deck the next morning for a little exploration.
That early morning fiddling has become a bit of a new pastime. I have since devoted two notebooks, a cloth bag and time doing research for something I still have little respect for. Yet I can’t seem to stop myself. Perhaps it’s the nature of the cards, the endless interpretations of meaning and the subtle differences and nuances of even the most similar cards. Much of it is that, in all honesty, its fun. An interesting reading can have me bouncing with excitement.
I don’t think the cards show you anything that you don’t already know, and I think that due to all the interpretations, you can see pretty much anything you want. Yet, when I have read them I often seem to come away with more understanding of how I see things. I hesitate to pay too much attention to the result as ‘foreseen’ by the cards and I don’t really go for paying attention to the readings that predict events without having a background to read. For example, a three card draw that tells you what your day will be like is merely a silly exercise, while a spread that concerns a specific issue and involves cards placements that define wants, needs, actions or people can force you to look at those things and explore different avenues of ideas in dealing or understanding it.
Either way, I have found some real merit in continuing with my cards and learning more. As I have always thought, learning more about anything never hurt anyone. I am not a convert, nor, I hope, will I ever be. I sincerely hope that if any of my friends see me traveling down the path to la la land, they pull me aside and help me get my head back on straight.
I also will begin to try being a bit more open, because I find that is, perhaps, an issue. Its one thing to think a person is coo coo for coco puffs, but perhaps not all the coo coo is as crazy as it seems at first glance.
These cards are perhaps a new exploration of my personal views regarding faith, belief and philosophical understanding. It’s a path I have not traveled much since the last time I butted heads with this particular subject, when my Dad became a born again Christian. That tempered some of my issues with organized religion and while I still have not come to total acceptance, I have become distinctly more tolerant. Perhaps this new direction, concerning the more basic primitive underlying tenets of faiths and beliefs, the unorganized aspect of such things, will aid me to make peace with something I have had such issues with for so long.

Defined By Dogs: Sadie

2009-12-01T14:16:00.000-08:00

It was a balmy spring evening and I was 12 years old, when she appeared. We heard something out by the back door, and the first thing my mother thought was that Northwest was terrorizing the kittens that we had gotten the fall before. It was a squeaking, rustling sound. The back door had been left open in deference to the weather, and when we went to go investigating, it wasn’t the kittens.
She came in all on her own, a young and lanky hound dog with a gentle face and huge deep brown eyes. My mother fell in love with her at first sight. I think she was feeling the loss of the two blue-eyed huskies that had passed the year before and reminded of that loss when she saw the bond Kerry shared with Northwest and I had with Buster.
So the lanky hound bitch was immediately adopted into the family and the first quest was to give her a name. Something southern and ladylike was the common consensus. While still young and awkward, you could tell that she would grow into such a name. So she became Sadie, the Lady.
Sadie is not a perfect lady, but she is a southern one, with spunk and attitude to match her elegance and beauty. As with all the dogs, she acquired an array of titles and accolades, including “no, no, bad dog” and “Raisin Incarnate”, and her tales of mischief and mayhem are as notable as those of Northwest, Buster and the Huskies.
She is smart, with an intelligence that is at odds with her obvious hound and pointer heritage. She was always the one to know when her humans were upset, coming to comfort them and quick to learn the routines of the house and her people. Her intelligence is one I think that is often found in dogs that receive lots of human interaction from a young age. Sadie blossomed with love because that’s what we gave her, she grew with challenges that made her think doggy thoughts, and the result was a wondrous and brilliant dog.
Sadie’s main playmate was Buster. For her, he took on the role of a doting and playful uncle, always eager to occupy the young and energetic pup. Later, she often resumed that same role with Pearl and Graham.
Northwest accepted her with much more ease then he did the felines that invaded his home two seasons before. At first he was distant and unsure of Sadie’s presence in his territory, but Sadie had to her advantage the fact that she was young and female, and Northwest was never one to disappoint the ladies. Sadie reveled in the game of flirt and play. It suited her more mischievous side.
When my mother finally moved out, Sadie went with her. However, my mother’s love of travel brought Sadie back to the trailer often, for little visits. Dad and I enjoyed these visits, and still do. Sadie, for all she is my mother’s dog, is one of ours too. Dad once sold a gun to pay the vet bill when Sadie almost died.
In truth, the only thing that makes my mother’s house homelike is Sadie. Her habits and favored haunts are as well known as the dog herself. She occupies the computer room for the most part, that’s where she takes her bones and other ‘treasures’ (usually the booty gleaned from a joyful episode of ‘counter surfing’) and she watches her humans as they pass in the hall and click away on the keyboard. If she is sleepy she travels to the master bedroom. In the absence of her people, the bed is her domain, and she adjusts it to her preferences, despite my mother’s annoyance. One always comes home to the blankets and sheets pulled down into a nest smack dab in the middle of the queen size mattress. If the bed is occupied, she nests in the dirty clothes pile by the door. She will survey the area with disgust and frustration when the clothes have been transferred to the washing machine. Luckily, for her, the pile may be skimpy at times, but it is usually never bare.
As she has aged, the black on her face has faded to almost pure snow. She walks with stiffness and a jolting gait that indicates arthritis has taken hold of her joints. On her chest and shoulder are two fatty tumors that grow more obvious as the years pass. In the past year, it has become unusual for you to be greeted by her at the door. Instead you will come upon her sound asleep and when you touch her, she awakens with a start of surprise.
Yet, her ladylike nature is still dominant. She is happy to be awakened by someone she loves, eager to go on a walk and be petted. She still begs at the table in her subtle and gentle way, the only indication of her presence is the warm weight of her muzzle resting on your knee. She still wants to play in the front yard, wanting to be chased as she dances through the grass.
Sadie will always be a dog of the gracious and elegant south. She is the belle of the town and the good-natured flirt with a lazy drawl and quick wit. She has progressed from the lanky pup with a sweetness of character, to the young and rambunctious young lady, and now is the genteel and loving matriarch. She is the last of the old pack and the elder of the current one. Sadie is the transition from past to future.
I have always hoped that her resting place will be with Buster and Northwest, and her predecessors, Bandit and Raisin. Next to the sweet wild roses that grow tangled with honeysuckle in a profusion of green and pink and white. It is the fitting place for a southern lady, where the past is seen with the tidings of spring and future.

Shiny, Pretty Things...

2009-11-26T16:59:00.000-08:00

Shiny, Pretty Things…

So I will admit it. I am a Magpie. I collect things; usually anything that catches my eye. Sometimes I collect things without really understanding them. I have had a deck of Tarot cards for so long I can’t even remember when I acquired them. I found them among my mother’s old things, and squirreled them away in my room. My only reason was because they were neat. Big thick cards with blue backs and elaborate pictures on the front. My favorite cards where the ones with labels like ‘The Star’ and ‘The Moon’ and ‘The World’. The suits were different, but much more beautiful. So I would take out the odd fancy cards and play solitaire.
When I was younger, I had a ‘shrine to weirdness’. It was all these random, neat objects I had collected. They were set out in an elaborate display atop my wardrobe. I used my mother’s old textbooks to make tiers; each packed with layer upon layer of my treasures. Some of these treasures were little gifts, others small cheap toys from the quarter machine at the grocery store. Others were school art projects. There were spent brass and bullets, little glass animals, and trolls.
My obsession for such objects is multifaceted. On some levels they were purely superficial, on others the objects were memories, past, present and future. This is not to say that I could give you a story for every object on each or a detailed explanation on why it was there. For some of them, I would shrug and go “because I liked it.”
The walls of my room are in a way the original ‘shrine’, and in time became something of an expansion of it and an extension of me. If it can be tacked, nailed or taped to the wall, it was. In times of boredom, I would find one of my Sharpies and write something on a blank surface. Paint, stickers and ink can all be found under a mosaic of posters, flyers, awards, magazine pages, wrapping paper, ribbons, and fake flowers. There is even a pink plastic praying mantas tacked near the window. Over time the walls became so packed that the any flat surface became targeted. Most of the furniture has been, in some way, marked by my multimedia graffiti. Even the TV has little plastic glow stars stuck to the corners (although I think the PS2 has actually remained untouched).
Even the ceiling has its fair share of adornments. Plastic glow stars (which I prefer to hang on plastic cord rather then stick with gum) and curled ribbons barely obscure the huge five-point star drawn in black Sharpie. At one point in time, I printed out a pile of flying pigs, cut them out and hung them. Origami and small glass stars and moons hung from copper wire. At night, when the lights are turned out, the ceilings main attraction is clear. Swirls of glow from a can of glow spray paint, animal footprints and stars all seem to float in the black. Most of the glow and ribbons remain, but the paper was removed as time destroyed it.
Over the years the collection has expanded and, rarely, been thinned out. A few times I have taken a good majority of the things done and rearranged, but usually only a small section would be altered to refit a change in the furniture. It used to be that by moving the wardrobe I would end up with a whole new chunk of wall. By the time that the wardrobe was finally put to rest, there was only one space left. It was filled by a large chunk of a topographical map of the eastern seaboard.
I think my rooms’ golden age was in late high school, when my collection of random still fit within its confines. Anyone who entered would be shocked and amazed, although a few of my taller visitors were annoyed at having to constantly duck. A moment would have to be taken while they tried to take in all the things and explore. I, myself, would be startled at the blandness of some of their bedrooms. White walls, with maybe a poster or two, a bookshelf, a bed, desk were all they had. So impersonal and, it seemed to me, instead of a sanctuary, the only real privet space they had was used only for function.
Much has been removed over the past few years, what was once displayed in the ‘shrine’ is packed in plastic storage bins. Unfortunately I lost some things when my roof decided to protest the heavy fall rains and sprang a leak in my closet. The area around the closet is still slightly bare. I have not been as quick to put up more things as I hope that I will get to take it all down in a few years. That prospect is daunting to me.
One of my main concerns with the idea of moving my home is how to salvage the spirit of my childhood room, while managing to refine it into a form more pleasing to adult eyes. Unfortunately, some of it will have to be lost. I am hoping that with a little creativity and generous use of poster frames, I can rework most of the significant sections into interesting collages. I will, before I touch anything, take pictures of the entire room in its last and final incarnation, from ceiling down.
A magpie’s nest is a wondrous thing, and mine is no different from others in that regard. Some would dislike the clutter and useless objects. Others may call me things like ‘horder’ and say I am way too attached to junk but that is not what I am. I am perfectly happy to throw out something that I have no use for and no attraction to. What they would call junk, I call memories and pretties and the physical, tangible extension of my mind.

Find A Happy Place!

2009-11-18T13:16:00.000-08:00

It’s a TV gimmick. The best one I ever saw was Sally Harper on Coupling. As Susan is describing the process of childbirth, Sally keeps collapsing into a heap, her mind traveling away. First she’s on a lounge chair, relaxing by a beach, with a book, a glass of wine and a string quartet in the background. Then a white room, standing next to a marble fireplace with gauzy white curtains flowing in a breeze, still holding her book and a glass of wine and still listening to that string quartet. A scene in Scrubs has Dr. Cox laid back on a beach too, and House has used the gimmick as well, without the comedic emphasis, once again, lounged on a beach.
My happy place is defiantly not a beach. Not that I have any issues with beaches. Truth be told, the ones I have been to are very nice. Bit heavy on sand, but pretty and they do have a nice relaxing sound. But not as peaceful or as focused as my happy place.
This is my happy place. It’s a place I have been. It’s a place that would shock the liberal masses and no doubt some of my acquaintances would say that this is a sign that I will be a mass murderer one day, but my friends will understand. I bet some have a similar happy place.
Its late summer, and the trees and grass have that rich emerald color without the golden tinge that they will acquire as the seasons progress. The concrete is cool and comfortable beneath the light padding of the canvas olive drab shooting mat. The mat is faded and a little frayed at the corners, having seen years of hard use. I am wearing thick jeans, a tee shirt under a sweatshirt under a thick shooting jacket that matches my shooting mat as I lay, propped up on my elbows, with my legs stretched out behind me, knees slightly bent, holding my position balanced and my ankles crossed, completely relaxed. The jacket is cinched tight, acting almost as a corset around my ribs, pressing my arms up. Around my bicep I can feel the tight band of the thick heavy leather sling, and I feel it pressing into the back of my forearm, wrist and hand were the trailing end wraps like an ivy vine up to the swivel. The rifle is pressed just as tight into my body. The heavy wooden stock is slick against my cheek, the butt held to my shoulder and the groove where the sling swivel attaches cuts into my left hand, my fingers curling around only lightly grasping the wood. My right hand curves around the front of the stock, with my forefinger lightly resting on the slender metal trigger.
I am aware of the shooter to my left and too my right. I can hear the distinctive pops, slightly muffled by the earplugs, coming sporadically from up and down the line. If the pop is close, a moment later I will hear the slide and click of a bolt being pulled back, the faint dig of brass ejecting. Then the heavier slide and deeper click of the bolt being pushed closed on a fresh round. I can sense the almost akward presence of the spotting scope on my left. I know that if I move suddenly and without control I will knock it from its delicately balanced stand. Occasionally I can hear the deep and sonorous voice of Paul, our shooting coach. I can feel his movement behind me, as he travels up and down the line, stopping here to correct a position, there to peep through a spotting scope.
The smells that cushion me are those of old dry canvas, leather, and the sharper tang of gun oils and metal. A light breeze will mix in the smell of summer in the Piedmont. The light perfume of the grass, the deeper woodland sent of mast beneath the heavy dark trees, rich red dirt and the slightly fishy wet smell of Holiday Lake. The hot brass is a sharp smell, the cold brass slightly stale, metallic and bitter and above all wreaths the slightly sulfurous scent of burned powder. To others, perhaps the scent of the guns is dirty or stinky. I know it is not the same as the perfume of rich roses, or the glorious sent of fresh cookies. It is not appetizing like rich red meat grilling over hot coals nor does it have the comfort of soft cotton, washed and pressed. The smell of guns is one of focus, support and peace.
My vision is narrow. I do not see the round plate of the back peep. My eye has focused beyond that, to a solid black dot, 50 yards downrange. I know in my mind that that dot is not solid and my mind adds the detail that would come into sharp relief if I bent my head up, away from the stock, placing eye at the scope. The dot would turn into a black bulls eye printed on thick cream paper. The outer two circles are black on cream, then the thick rings of black, separated by thin rings of cream. The closer to center they become smaller, ending in a dot, smaller then the tip of my pinky finger. That is the ‘x’. That is my focus. The black dot is centered in the black metal ring of the foresight. The ring is a little blurry, but I pay attention to it. Only when my focus has lined up the rings of the sight can I make my move.
It is not a big move. In fact, it barely qualifies as movement. My awareness of the others begins to fade. The only thing that will recall me to the world around me is the loud order to cease-fire. My vision stays with the dot, while I control my body. Breathing becomes slower, deliberate and in my head the sounds of heartbeats is steady and even. A breeze will make me readjust, but on days like today, there is almost no breeze. Finally, I am ready, my finger tenses slightly, wrapping firmly against the trigger. A breath in and I am ready, breathing out as my finger pulls back. Slow and steady, I am not in a rush.
I feel the break first. Then the slight jerk of the rifle, and I can feel this pop, more then I hear it. My eye stays on the target. Even now, after the small chunk of lead has left the barrel I remain. I release the trigger as slowly as I squeezed it back. I take another couple breaths, before I relax my body a bit, raising my head from the now warm stock. My hands stay on the rifle, only my finger has moved, resting flat across the trigger guard. My head comes completely out of my position. Looking through the scope I see where my shot landed. If it is off I will frown slightly, thinking through my shot, asking myself if an adjustment is needed. Sometimes this is the moment when I will raise my right hand to the peep sight. Perhaps it will be one click, sometimes two. Usually down and to the right, adjusting my sight to my normal habit of shooting a bit high and to the left.
Sometimes, what I see makes me smile. It is a satisfied smile, proud and sometimes a bit smug. I know, objectively that the shot is not perfect. An Olympian would perhaps be frowning over these shots. I am happy to be in the nine ring, joyful to be in the ten and ecstatic over a shot that can be scored with that elusive ‘x’. The one bulls eye I have kept over the years scored 50x.
There is no perfect shot. If your shots are all perfect you have nothing left to shoot. There is always an adjustment to be made. Occasionally, you get awfully close though. This is the drive, but it is not the reason.
Adjustments made, I return to my place on the mat. Operating the bolt, one of my favorite things about these old rifles, is the end of the shot. The end of one shot, but the beginning of another is started as you slide a new round into the chamber. My fingers move smoothly as my hand rises from the breech and grasps the round ball of the bolt handle. The movement is swift and firm, slide forward and at the end of the slide is two clicks, first the bolt settles into place, and then the downward rotation as you lock it in. A moment is taken to settle back, relaxing my muscles into the support of the jacket, letting the sling hold my arm in place, resting the weight of myself and the rifle into the concrete as my skeleton provides the structure of my position.
Shooting describes what I am doing, but each shot is its own event. The plural of shooting is at odds with the style. It is the shot, singular, which describes what I have done, and what I will do. Each time I slide that bolt closed, it is akin to a new day. The events of the previous shot are gone. It is only the now.
The reason is the peace of the focus. For those few minutes of each shot, you are only a rifle, a dot 50 yards away, a small bit of lead wrapped in brass, nothing else and everything else. The action is not fast, the movement is not energetic, and the activity is all consuming. This is the joy of the shot. The shot is not just the pulling of the trigger; it is the steady build up to the moment. If you define your shot only by the pull of a trigger and the bang of the gun, you have lost all the focus, all of the balance, all of the peace.
I return in my head to that range in my head often. It will always be one of my favorites. I can go back to one of the most defining moments of my life. It is that place and time in which I learned the meaning of Zen. It would be years later that I learned to use that word to describe what I did in those summer retreats. Yet when I was taught the definition, I knew, immediately, the meaning.
This is my happy place. It is a summer range. It is the existential of shooting. It is memory. It is present.
Above all, it is the peace of focus.

Closing the Door

2009-11-17T18:39:00.000-08:00

I have closed the door on my relationship with my mother and Eric. Now our only connection is through his checkbook in regards to my car, my phone and my Internet service. My belongings have been removed from the house at Albevanna Spring, and I returned the key that has been on my keychain since I was 14.
In truth that place has never been home to me. For all I hate the trailer and would like to demolish it in favor of another abode, it is Home. Her house was more of a storage depot, a supply closet and occasionally a place to hang out.
Even when I actually did live there for a couple months, it wasn’t Home.
Home is where my dogs run. Home is where I can hear Kerry talking loudly on the phone. Home is full of my treasures. Home is where I can dismantle a 1911 on the kitchen table; leave my books piled by my ‘throne’, and put whatever catches my eye on the wall.
Many times I tried to make that place home. The room that was originally designated as mine has plenty of marks on the walls from tape and push pins, yet it was never the same as the bizarre and random collection that covers the walls in my room, and in the end, the unrelieved white won out. Instead of books in shelves, and collections of things crammed on every free surface, it was filled with plastic boxes holding the bulk of my odds and ends that no longer had a real place in my Home. My gear from various sports, my piles of clothing that I never threw out shared storage space with the treasures of my childhood that could no longer be displayed in my childhood room, simply because there was no more space.
In truth, I don’t know if my mother even sees that place as Home. Although truth be told, I’m not sure she understands Home in the same way I do. I think I was the only one that made any effort to make that place personal, and I got into trouble when I tried. She wouldn’t let me do anything, but at the same time she made no effort either. It still has the air of a place where someone just moved in with no time to unpack, except with added piles of 10 years worth of stuff that has no where to be put away.
This has always bugged me in ways that I’m not sure I ever really explored. I think my concept of Home has much to do with it, as does my need to have a place for everything. I do not have issues with mess and disorganization as long as I can clean up the mess and organize without too much thought. My habit of periodically rearranging my own Home and my tendency to nest are at odds with her ability to ignore disarray unless she is screaming about it and the fact that I haven’t seen her make a place hers since I was a small child. I wonder now if that was only for others benefit or if at one time, such things where important to her. Perhaps it was a sign of her deteriorating ability to cope with life.
Now that I think of it, if this is part of her deterioration, then it has become a cyclical issue. The more she feels unable to organize her personal surroundings, the more she becomes distressed, and thus she becomes even less able to do something to improve her surroundings, increasing distress and so on and so forth.
Or perhaps I am projecting some of my issues upon her, a crime she has committed against me many times.
No one was there when I went to collect my things and make my final exit from the house that has been my legally defined home for over ten years. It took me two trips with a full car to get my belongings. They are now piled in my room and living room, waiting for me to figure out a system of storage. Some advances have been made, for example the pile of clothing has been cut down to stuff I can and will wear and stuff that holds real sentimental value. The real African dress that a coworker of my father gave me, the dress my grandmother made me when I was a flower girl, the insane pants I reworked into a flamboyant display of teenage outrageousness and a collection of tee shirts from various events that perhaps will find a place on a wall in some future Home. My pack and backpacking gear is hanging on the wall in the living room, an addition that tickles Dad’s fancy as it look like my bug-out pack.
Other things present a dilemma in regards to space. Things that I do not want to lose, yet take up too much space. I have two huge bins full of stuffed animals. Some I could get rid of with little distress, but most are things I would like to keep, things I want to one day see my own children play with. Other things, like my keyboard, are items I value yet don’t have the current desire to use. Some things are merely part of an issue I have with throwing something out that may have value to someone else, yet I am too lazy to find it a new home.
I have no doubt that my hording skills will eventually be able to find a spot for everything. But in the interim the items that I had consigned to be dealt with later surround me.
In truth I was not sorry to leave that place for good. In a way it was liberating to be done with it. Sure, I have good memories, but more often it was a place of loneliness and grasping at something that could never be. A place of mindless escape, without the peace that occupancies a positive place.
I did cry for one thing I left there. I will write about her further, as one of my defining creatures, but here I will say that leaving Sadie behind is more saddening then leaving even my mother.
So that door has closed. Soon that particular bridge will burn. My mother has made no effort to change what has happened and Eric has alienated the one person interested in facilitating reconciliation. Now I am disconnected from both the people responsible for my existence in this world.
Yet my friends have reminded me that the family you choose often has more worth then the one that shares your DNA. The truth of this is born out in the presence of my Dad, never could a daughter love and respect a father more then I do him, and never could a father love and cherish his daughter more then my Dad does me. Our connection is not based on blood, but love. I have the brothers of my soul in Aaron, Mike and David, my sisters in Beanie, Ashley and occasionally Katie and Beth. I even have a mother in Barbara and a crotchety grandmother in Louise. Even when distance and time separates me from these people, I will always be able to look back upon their influence in my life with joy. These are the people for whom I will walk through fire.
This is my family.

Defined by Dogs: Northwest

2009-11-04T12:39:00.000-08:00

There are those dogs that one comes across in their lifetime. A dog that is the stuff of legend, that is all the things that an American dog is supposed to be. These are the dogs that get stories written about them in anthologies of dog stories. You know the kind of stories; the ones that are amazing but always make you bawl by the end because the dog always dies of old age eventually.
Northwest was one of those dogs. Intelligent, loyal, humorous, and feisty all describe his spunky personality.
His beginnings were humble and typical for mutts of character, he was a young dog in a shelter, labeled unsuitable for family life and waiting for the ending shot. The hypothesis is that his first home was one with small children who pulled and hit and generally abused him without understanding the consequences, and when he defended himself against the attacks, he was thrown to the shelter. He was never relaxed around children and was aggressive towards them, but I remember that aggressiveness was accompanied by the subtle expressions of fear.
It was a day before he was scheduled for death when Kerry came to the ASPCA looking for a dog. As a recovered alcoholic, he was ready for the companionship of a dog. Kerry is one of those men who must have his furry sons. His ex wife had taken the Chihuahua they had owned when he entered rehab the first time. The hound he had adopted after was returned to the shelter when he had to go back, something I know still haunts him a bit, even years later. Perhaps it was his bond with Northwest combined with the sting of his failure with that hound that kept him out of rehab a third time.
A single man, recovered alcoholic, living a solitary life in a trailer situated above Charlottesville on the ‘little mountain’ was the perfect match for a feisty terrier with a strong attitude. Northwest rewarded his new master with a devotion seen only in dogs that are truly loved.
And there was no doubt Northwest was loved. Kerry took him everywhere with him. Northwest spent much of his spare time hanging out in his second love, the car, going anywhere he could tag along. He had a place at the kitchen table, his own plate, eating with his master. When Kerry and his best friend, Bubba, where outside shooting, Northwest lay behind the line, relaxed and content.
Nothing could separate him from his master for long. Even water was to be suffered if it meant being with Kerry. Once visiting a lake, Bubba carried Northwest out to a small island, separating him from Kerry (who’s own dislike for water sports may have influenced Northwest). Despite the dog’s absolute hatred for water, whether it be a body of water, a bath or even rain, he swam back to Kerry.
Kerry’s adoption of me was just as perfect, lucky and random as his adoption of his dog. My mother had known him for some time, she had dated Bubba several years before and had fancied Kerry even back then. They started seeing each other when I was about six years old. With Kerry, of course, came his Northwest and I was fascinated by the dog as much as by the man. As my mother and Kerry grew more serious, he would often baby-sit me when she went out to events that he had no interest in attending. We would sit on the front porch of the house in Batesville, eating Kentucky Fried Chicken. The summer I turned seven, my mother moved us into Kerry’s small trailer.
Now, as I mentioned, Northwest was not always agreeable to small children and I was just young enough to be included in his general mistrust. We often were at odds, particularly when food was involved. I was often growled at when I came to close and he would attempt to steal my food, sometimes succeeding because he intimidated me. Yet at the same time I was obsessed with getting that dog to like me, and as time passed, I succeeded. Northwest was never my dog, but I was one of his humans.

Overtime I grew older and the original mistrust became a thing of the past. I was no longer a small child and not as easily intimidated. Northwest also changed, becoming a bit more mellow and relaxed.
He reached those difficult years of old age as I reached my teens. Medical complaints took him back and forth to the vet. His sensitive skin was prone to Demedex and cancer took his testicles and a toe, and eventually his life. At 16, with a license, I was often the one caring for him, picking him up, giving him his medications and special baths. He rewarded my care with an affection I had never received from him before.
One of my fondest memories of him is a spring Saturday. My best friend and I had spent the night at my house, then gone to my soccer game together. After the game we picked Northwest up from the vet. He had just had his toe removed. We decided to go to the new park that had just been built at the end of 53. Together we slowly walked the path from the parking lot to the small pond and back. Northwest, despite his recent surgery, was happy and cheerful, trotting along with the same vigor he had always displayed. While me and Christine had lunch at Michie’s Tavern he napped peacefully in the car, waking cheerfully to scraps I had smuggled out.
Looking back, that was one of his last really good days, and I will remember it always as one of the most peaceful and enjoyable days of my life. Without Northwest, I think the day would have been nothing special. It was as though he was finally telling me that he did like me, trust me, and I was worthy of being one of his people.
Northwest’s end was as tragically commonplace as so many other dogs. As his control diminished he was confined to the back bedroom and hall. As a dog who had scrupulously attended to his business outside and never had accidents, when I found him worn out, as though he had struggled for hours, laying in a puddle of his own waste with a look of total defeat and misery on his face, I could not ignore the truth any longer. I cried as I called my dad and told him about Northwest’s pain. I cleaned him up the best I could and made him comfortable in a worn blanket as we waited for dad to come home. Dr. Betts had been notified and agreed to stay late to care for one of his favorite patients. We took him to the vet. Even in his old age, the vet’s was still one of his favorite places, and his wagged his feather tail as we carried him in.
I think even Dr. Betts cried that day. Kerry and I stayed with him as he growled for his last shot and then slipped away in sleep.
Northwest was buried next to Bandit. Only a couple years later Buster joined him. With his death, the pack of my childhood was nearing its end. Northwest embodied all of those things I think a perfect dog should be. Smart and troublesome, with flare and attitude, but most importantly love, devotion and loyalty. From Northwest I learned patience. He taught me to earn respect, and that earning respect can also earn love.

Defined by Dogs: Bandit and Raisin

2009-11-03T19:44:00.000-08:00

Like I said, my pedigree was announced in a kennel club newspaper. Specifically, the Hampton Roads Siberian Husky Association’s members newsletter. The announcement was as followed:

"CONGRATULATIONS!!!

CONGRATULATIONS are in order for Jane and Mark, for the arrival of their latest addition.

Jane writes:
'Elizabeth is a lovely, blue-eyes little charmer, with excellent conformation and movement and a perfect disposition- defiantly a BIS.'"

This was followed by my name, date of birth, weight and coloring as well as the traditional pedigree going back to the parents of my sire and dam.
My parent’s membership into that club was inspired by their two huskies. These two dogs define my early childhood and are present in some of my earliest memories. Both were purebred, both obedience trained and both shown.

Bandit, or more formally, Sand Shadow Bandit, was black with white markings and had the beautiful blue eyes that huskies are almost always defined by. Unfortunately, when it came to the possibility of conformation showing, an atypically heavy coat overshadowed her eyes and stunning coloration. Which was why it was just as well that my mother stuck to the obedience ring with her.
Bandit’s personality was also atypical for a Husky. She had a tendency to be reserved and snappish if provoked. Yet, she still had the independence and the ability for trouble that the breed is so well known for. Bandit’s escapades are on par with other horror stories I have heard, and told with the same aggravated humor that all owners of huskies have.
Bandit was followed by my mothers attempt at having a dog capable of conformation showing. Unfortunately, while his personality would have sparkled in the ring, his conformation was not as flashy. Raisin was, in a way so appropriately named. He was not named after the dried snack, but rather an old country saying and country song. Formally, he was known as Rising Sun of Kiska, ‘Kiska’ being the name of a rather famous husky that was present in Raisin’s pedigree. However, my father thought to name him ‘don’t get above your raise’ins’.
He was what he was raised to be, a pet quality animal produced by an incompetent breeder. Not that my mother didn’t try him in the show ring, but he succeeded in Obedience, not conformation. It really was a bit of a shocker that he succeeded in anything, which is not to say that he was stupid or boring, but rather, that he is all those crazy things that is a Siberian Husky. Too smart for his own good, stubborn, easily bored and perfectly capable of making up his own games to amuse his active and alert nature, Raisin was, in no uncertain terms, a charming brat. For that we loved him.
He and Bandit are my early childhood. They combined to form a super Husky team, taking on the roles of nannies, playmates and disciplinarians.
Disciplinarian actually describes Bandit more then Raisin. I still carry the scars on my face from where she had enough of the pesky toddler that followed her under the porch. Mumma said “leave bandit alone when she goes under the porch!” but I, like the huskies themselves, always had a hard time with following the rules. Bandit re-enforced that rule with an iron clad example of what consequences follow the growl of warning. With one fang, she neatly bisected my right eyebrow, the other sliced neatly, a smidge above my cheekbone. My mother was treated to the horrid sight of my screaming at the storm door, blood covering my face and running down the glass. Despite my age and my poor recall of much of my childhood, I do remember the way the blood smeared on the glass. I was rushed to the Martha Jefferson ER and treated to stitches and a latex glove turned into a balloon chicken.
Because I cannot recall that without finishing the story, although the rest has nothing to do with dogs, a day or so after the removal of those stitches, my mother took her car to the neighbor’s farm to have the oil changed. I was running willy-nilly around the front yard at full pelt. My mother repeatedly cautioned me to slow down (I think the warnings started as mild and escalated to frustrated orders to cease and desist, actually) but as normal, I continued with my heathenish ways. The yard was full of tree stumps and it wasn’t long before I found out the reason for my mothers demands. I tripped and smacked my head against a hubcap of one of the neighbor’s cars. Once again my mother made the, no doubt, harrowing drive to Martha Jefferson Hospital with a screaming child in the backseat. I got more stitches and another balloon.
From that day forth, all my mother had to say was “Liz! Do we need another trip to Martha Jefferson?” in that stern frustrated tone that all mother’s can summon at will. I did not return to that ER until I was 16, largely because of that simple sentence.
Bandit and I were not always at odds, and I do remember an occasional cuddle, but Raisin and I had a special attachment. The magnificent red husky whose blue eyes held the twinkle of a born trickster captivated me. My mother remembers, and told me often of the time I gave him what would always be referred to as ‘Raisins pig’ and the only toy the dog had any interest in. It was a small cloth toy, of the type given to infants, shaped like a pig. The only dog fight he ever instigated was over that toy.
My first word was ‘roo’. Specifically, it was Raisin, but it meant ‘dog’. As a small child I would point at a dog and say (rather emphatically) ‘ROO!’. It was one of his nicknames, derived from the noise that he made. We will never know why, although it has been theorized that he was de-barked before being shipped to my mother. Or he could have just never figured out how to bark. Yet he did (often at the top of his lungs) make the haunting howls and songs of the Husky. The most infamous of these noises was his ‘roo’. He had many variations of this noise, some joyful, some sweet (and for a bath they were closer to screams!) but always Raisin, heart and soul. The most special of these was the ‘silent roo’; a breath of air whispered from his muzzle.

Raisin and Bandit are the beginning of my love for the four legged friends I hold so dear. Without them, I think my life would have gone down a drastically different road. Nothing sparks the imagination in a lonely and solitary child like having her own personal wolves. Those magnificent artic dogs will always hold a place in my heart as more then just the beautiful blue eyed jesters that run along the snowy plains, but as the best memories of being small and full of wonder.

A busy weekend, and some thoughts on the future...

2009-10-20T12:40:00.000-07:00

This will be the first night I have spent at home in about two weeks. For the past two weeks, I have pretty much been living with my best friend, helping him out, with the culmination of that help being his move to Charlottesville this weekend.
Today, I also took the first real step to leave Creatures Great and Small. I have worked there for four years now. I had to count back today and found myself a little shocked to find that I have been working for Katie and Louise since August of 2005. I have wanted to leave for awhile now, but between my dislike of change and my guilt for leaving when I feel they need me the most I have postponed my depature till it became finacially impossible for me to stay.
Don't get me wrong, I love my job. I, the girl defined by dogs, should work with them, at least for a while. It's no wonder that I love it there, but, as Katie once told me, I can't stay there forever. Only there is guilt.
Katie is sick. Very sick. She has lupus. For the first time I have seen Louise truely frighten. "I do not want to bury my daughter!" is what she told me and Beth when she was laying out the new rules about how we where to deal with Katie. Becuase of this, I feel that my leaving will make things much worse. I can do things that Beth can't be depended on to do, and I doubt the new women will be able to handle it either. I can handle coustomers, feed and give medications without prompting and tally up the boarding bills. I can run the shop when Katie and Louise can't be there. When Katie left us for a few days over the Thanksgiving holiday last year, I was the one who stepped up into her shoes.
But I can't stay there forever and my life needs to come first sometimes. Creature's has taken so much out of me this past year. The changes I wanted to make with my life this year are at odds with my job. Creatures has always been all consuming. The sceduale alone is enough to break anyone. I have no clue, when I go in in the morning, what time I'll get off. Somedays I can go in and be done in a couple hours, other days I'll be there all day. This makes it almost impossible to make plans outside of work. I used to spend weekends doing stuff. I think part of my estrangement with my mother and step father has been helped by the fact that I have not been able to do things with them on the weekends like I used to. I haven't been canoeing or skiiing since i started working there. I have only gone out of town three times in the past four years. One, an overnight trip to D.C. for which I only took off one day. The second was the only real vacation and the only reason I allowed myself to take it was because it was to go to my cousin's wedding. The third time was just this year and I didn't take off to do it. Not many people go out of town midweek unless its for something like a funeral. Those three trips are the most time I've spent out and about with Mom and Eric for the past four years. A complete change from the time before when I went with them often on their trips out of town. Before I started working at Creatures, summer meant canoe trips and other river trips. Every Christmas was spent with the extended family. I haven't seen Kerrys brothers in a few years either.
In the time before working at Creatures, I would often isolate myself, but those ties that I have let fade since working there where the only ones I kept by choice. This job was the main reason I almost lost one of my best friends from PVCC. It became impossible to hang out with Mike when I couldn't see him on the weekends.
I have grown since the time I first walked into those doors. My life has changed and so have my needs. I no longer need to hide in the back with the dogs. I need to get used to bosses who don't coddle me. I need to be able to function with a normal scedule that can allow for time to spend with people outside of work. I need to be able to take time off for things like vacation and sick days. I need to be able to go to work and have a reasonable idea of what will happen that day.
The finacial aspect is the biggest boot up my ass. Katie and Louise were both saying that they could give me more hours, if I wanted them. They are willing to give me more days on, they just thought I didn't want them. They are right when they thought I didn't want them. The main reason I don't want more hours at Creatures is becuase I like having three days a week when I know I control my day. It would be diffrent if they could tell me that I work 'x' hours a day, everyday. But they can't tell me that. They don't know what they will need from day to day, and I would not ask them to pay me for doing nothing around the shop just to get my hours and they cannot tell me a week in advance that I will deffinatly leave at 'x' time on a certain day.
The worst part of the irregualer hours is it has effected my work ethic. I spend most the morning trying to figure out how early I'll get to leave. Then I get cranky or huffy (although I try not to show it) when Katie appears with something else, something that wasn't obviously sceduled, to do.
In the beggining, my paychecks where enough. I could pay for my gas, my food, give some to dad and still have a little left over for stuff that I wanted. I could go to Best Buy or Plan 9 or the used bookstore after work on payday and buy what i wanted. I had the habit for a couple months of spending about $50 on Amazon about once a month and order DVDs and CDs. When I went to the grocery store I always could buy a toy for Pearl and treats for the dogs. For the past few months I've been barely able to make it through the two weeks with enough food, gas and ciggerettes. The added need of having to pay for the maintance on my car has been destroying the slight padding that I had depended on to make it through the two weeks.
I will admit that much of the problems have come from not budgiting my money better and trying to be out and about more often, but like i said, my job is at odds with the things I want with my life. Its bad enough that I am exhausted by my attempts to have a life outside of work, but the fact that I can barely afford it makes life even more difficult.
The worst part is that I don't feel like I'm asking for much. For me, going out is not about drinking a huge tab or going to expensive events. Its just about hanging out with someone. Yet I can barely afford that. The cost of gas, one or two beers and some food knocks out doing something like my laundry or buying food for a couple days.
Yes, there are things I could do to make life easier in that respect. I could quit smoking which would give me a nice chunk of my paycheck back. It wouldn't even cost anything, since I already have the patches sitting on my desk waiting to be used. I could budget my money better. Spend more time figuringing out my paycheck every week and decideing in advance where to spend the money.
The reasons I don't do these things are partly becuase I am stubborn and partly becuase I am frustrated and tired of seeing goals fly right out the window because I miscalculated. I don't want to quit smoking. It seems to me that thats the only thing that I used to do that I still have. It calms me, it's part of my identity, it's something I enjoy and damn the health problems. The budgiting frustrates me to no end. It never seems to work out right. Something always comes along that messes me up. It seems like everytime I do get it all figured out, dad comes up with something two days later that I need to pay for, or something happens to my car and I have to pay for that, or (and this is the worst) I just mess up the math and forget something and find out that I overreached myself. So instead of getting ahead and having something left over in two weeks, I just have gotten further behind.
I am tired of never having a back up. I'm sick of living paycheck to paycheck with no end in sight. The job I want is going to suck. It's going to be real questionable that I can do it without wanting to kill someone. But it pays and has hours. My goal to start is just to stick with it long enough to catch up and get a bit ahead. Get my car fixed and have something in my savings account. Get caught up on all my bills and maybe buy some things that will make life easier in the future. My main goal is just to have some finacial breathing room.

Defined By Dogs

2009-10-01T19:30:00.000-07:00

Despite my kittenish ways, my life has been defined by the canines in it rather then the cats. Of course, the dogs have always been a apart of my life. My pedigree was announced in the newsletter of the Chesapeake Siberian Husky club upon the occasion of my birth. An appropriate beginning for one such as me.
I have both owned and worked with so many dogs that its hard to relate them all. In my original plan, I was only going to have one entry devoted to this title, but I have since given up. Describing one dog alone is plenty for a blog entry. In fact, if I had the time, I could devote book to talking about the dogs in my life.
I sometimes think that I traded my ability to deal with other people for the ability to deal with dogs. Reading canine body language is second nature for me, and at a glance I know how a dog is going to behave. The difference between a dog growling in fear and one growling in anger is as clear to day to me. I do not fear dogs, even ones that can and will hurt me. I do respect them, though.
Its no wonder, when my dad told me to get a job, I choose to work at a kennel. Creatures Great and Small has become a second home to me over the past four years. The things I have learned there, both from the dogs themselves and from my employers about dogs expanded on my natural inclinations.
My life can be very clearly defined by the dogs in it. From the Siberians of my early childhood, to the Anatolian Shepherds I work with as an adult, each has brought something to my life.
When other children had imaginary friends, I had a pack of wolves and dogs. Instead of dressing dolls, I put clothes on the dogs. My mother was amused by my antics as I followed the huskies through the house on all fours, pretending to one of them, and she was infuriated when I would feed them things like pineapple and chocolate syrup. To this day, with little prompting she will tell the stories that end in “BUT MOM! They said they wanted Chocolate!”
Sometimes my habits got me into trouble, and I still bare the scars to prove it. My mother was terrified one day to find me standing at the storm door, screaming bloody murder as blood poured down my face. After a trip to the E.R. and several stitches in my face, I did learn my lesson. Respect the dogs.
I find it hard to understand people who don’t love dogs, especially if they haven’t another preferred animal. What’s life without an animal companion or two (or 6)? I find myself judging people based on how they treat dogs. Good people have dogs or cats that they clearly love, and as an important distinction, love their animals for being animals. Crazy people love their animals beyond love. These people will spoil their animals to death with treats and food, never train them because they cannot see discipline as a form of love, but rather as cruelty. Rotten people either do not like animals or, treat animals as tokens of the American lifestyle. They often have a golden retriever or a dumb lab as part of their 2.3 kids, white house in suburbia with a two car garage housing the SUV and mini van.
If you talk to your dog, give it silly nicknames, and worry about the smallest details of its life, while at the same time, are able to tell it ‘no’, you are my kind of people. If not, well, we’ll have to wait and see if I like you or not.
My own dogs and the dogs of others, have shaped my life in ways I could never untangle in a way I could explain. Lesson’s of life that I have learned from the dogs will stay with me forever.
Despite my love of dogs, I rarely cry when an old dog passes. It was a lesson I learned early and well. While I am saddened by the death of a good friend lost, I rejoice at the memories of a good life well spent. I have seen dogs hold on long past there time to move on and cannot stand to see an old friend brought low by age. To put down a dog, such a struggle for others, is, while never easy, not something I flinch away from.
I would be more upset to see them suffer.
Right now, I can look over and see Pearl curled up on the couch. She is surrounded by the squeezy toys that she loves, and next to her is a recent prize, a practically empty jar of peanut butter left on a low table. Before I go to bed, I will have to throw it away. I know if I peek into my dads room, I will find him asleep and snoring amidst his furry sons, Southwest and Graham. Perhaps a black cat or two will be curled up in there as well.
These three are only the latest in a long line of canines to grace this home. In time, their stories will go down in the legends of those that came before. Bandit, Northwest and Buster lie in graves by the wild roses. Next to their graves is plaque for Raison. One day, when Sadie joins them, I hope my mother will allow her to be buried among her old pack, for she is the last of them. In time, other packs will come and go, and I will remember them all, treasure them while they live and miss them when they’ve gone on.
They forever will define the periods of my life.

Defined By Dogs: Buster

2009-10-01T18:10:00.001-07:00

When I was 10 I was finally allowed to have my own dog. It was not a planned event, although I had been begging for years. In my eyes, the huskies belong to my mother, and Northwest belong to Kerry. I wanted my own dog, to name, to sleep at the foot of my bed.
So when Kerry called from work one day to tell me he had found a stray beagle and would be bringing it home for the night, I danced with glee. From the moment I hung up the phone, I knew that that beagle would be MY dog and I would name him Buster. Kerry knew of my intent and told me that if we kept the dog it would be only if I could gain my mothers permission. I called my mother immediately and blurted out the story of the lost, starving beagle that had eaten Kerry’s lunch and all the snacks in the work truck.
She said no. Actually she said, “NO! We can not have another dog, ESPECIALLY not a beagle!” Her attitude was understandable, as at the time we were living in a small two bedroom trailer with three dogs. I begged, I pleaded but she held firm. When I finally hung up the phone I was determined that she would let me keep him. Not because she had wavered, but because I thought I could convince her. I just had to show her that I would take care of everything. I found a bowl for him, I set out a towel and the dog shampoo for his bath and I rehearsed impassioned speeches explaining how I would be the best owner for a dog.
In the end, it wasn’t me that convinced her. Buster took care of that on his own. It was dark by the time Kerry got home that night. Despite the cold February evening, my mother and I waited on the porch. Kerry walked up the drive from his car and at his heels in the shadows of the weak porch light, walked a skinny tri colored beagle. Buster came up the stairs and headed straight for my mother, as if he knew that she was the only one that stood between him and a home. He sat on her feet and looked up at her.
If you have never spent much time with dogs, you may not understand the skill at which even the most pampered canine can look so pathetically needy. Buster was even more pathetic that most. His large brown eyes and dopy hound face could break even the hardest soul, which my mother was not. It took only a second of his silent pleading for her to break. “Fine! We can keep him.”
I immediately swooped him up and brought him inside for his first bath, his first meal in his new home.
We are convinced that Buster was a hunting dog, most likely separated from his pack by fear. It didn’t take us long to find he was incredibly gun shy, not a positive trait in a hunting dog. He had obviously never been in a house before, much less had so much human contact. He was never completely housebroken but I did manage to teach him how to play and how to behave around people.
He loved the attention. He loved us. Unconditionally.
Buster was my dog from the start. My allowance was spent on a snazzy blue nylon collar and leash. I convinced my parents to let me take him anywhere that Kerry took Northwest. Buster soon feel into the routine of car trips and explorations. He slept at the foot of my bed, a snoring warm reminder of the fact I was not alone.
Throughout the rough years of middle school and high school, made tougher by my inability to make friends, Buster was always there when I came home, letting me cuddle him when I bawled my juvenile frustrations. He also gave solace when my mother’s instability threatened to destroy us all.
I took my senior picture with him, proud of the fact that I did something different, and annoyed as all get out when another senior in my class (a redneck girl I didn’t even know) took hers with her baby. It seemed to me that my ‘baby’ was much better then her brat and much cooler then actually having a human baby when you haven’t even graduated high school yet.
Buster was old when that picture was taken. That was the same year he was put on diuretics for Congestive Heart Failure. He stayed with me as long as he could, a comfort even when my life was horrid. It was February 2003, when he started going downhill bad. His breathing labored and his gums pale, we rushed him to the Emergency Vet in the middle of the night. The vet could do little for him. He was given a breathing tube and placed on an I.V. of god knows what. For days we ferried him back and forth between the Emergency Vet at night and our own vet, Dr. Thorpe during the day. On Friday I gave up. I could no longer afford to see him so weak and helpless, and my step father could no longer keep up with the bill. I asked to stay with him that day, calling my mother and Kerry to come by during the day to say their goodbyes. Dr. Thorpe put us in an exam room, gave me a blanket to wrap him in as I sat on the floor cuddling him. As the day passed he seemed more alert. His blood oxygen levels shot up, and he was eager to go outside for a walk that afternoon. Then Dr. Thorpe came in and told me what was happening. Buster had rebounded in a manner that they hadn’t seen coming. She told me to take him home, although, expecting the worst, she gave me her home number and told me that if he relapsed over the weekend, to call her. She told me that she would come in, no matter the time, should we need her.
Buster did something that day, that I have seen a few more times since. He held on, refusing to go until his mistress was ready. Twas four months later, summertime, when I could see he was struggling again. But once again I felt that he would not die, unless I gave him the permission he needed. I had already asked him to stay once. Though happy in those four months, he was not the dog he once was, and I refused to torture him with days spent with vets poking him, no matter how kind. His devotion to me would not be rewarded with tubes and needles and the unrelieved pain of drowning in his own lungs. I bundled him up and took him to Dr. Thorpe one last time. I took him by myself, without my parents. I didn’t even tell them till after it was done. I held him as he went to sleep, and brought him home to be buried next to Northwest by the rambling wild roses.
Buster was my champion. He was my devoted follower through thick and thin. He taught me so many things about dogs. Even as he died he taught me.
His death was the end of my childhood. Even I could see that I had held on to the past so long that not to change was to die. The week after he died, I enrolled at PVCC, determined to move on, as he had.

"Three Houses By Frank Lloyd Wright"

2009-09-30T12:59:00.000-07:00

La Miniature

A group of concrete boxes tiled with crosses inside squares and overshadowed by tal sparse trees. A birch stands in front, blocking the stairs to the entrance and framed on the ground by a slate walk way and green ivy ground cover. It’s residents should be encased in marble tombs. they live in a mausoleum that inspires solemn faces on black-robed mourners, and guarded for eternity by a lion-shaped Chinese gargoyle lounging on the front step.

Friedman House

Round curving walls of gray odd shaped stone blocks. Suspended over the walls are gray flying saucer roofs. Hadrian’s Wall twisted into a house surrounded by bare limbs on winter trees and covered by the Orson Welles invasion. Blue-faced Celts will stream over the walls to battle the green bug eyed aliens with claymores and stone tipped spears. Green and red blood will mix with a swirl of blue paint, immortalizing the battle of the impossible in the Louvre.

Freeman House

Some squares are chipped and cracked, but others are cut-out designs, a square sided by three smaller squares and a narrow stalk holding up a tulip shield of the knights. Spider grass grows in the corner, stalking down the Aztec temple of sacrifice and, untended, feeds on the gods’ red sticky food; it will cover the evidence of a past life with green blades and fibrous clinging roots. Just walking from the bathroom to the kitchen, your feet will crunch ancient bones to powder in the search for supernatural gold.

Previously published in Transformations: A Journal of Art and Letters, 2005

A catalyst...

2009-09-30T12:34:00.000-07:00

This past year has been very different from the ones that came before. Since my time at PVCC, I have led a very quiet and isolated life, with few interruptions of my solitude. I went to work, spent time with my father and had a few outings with my parents and with my co-workers and employers. I work hard, the one that can be depended on. My free time (of which I had much) was spent reading, watching movies, and talking with strangers in message boards. Ironically, my friends outside of work have mostly been strangers whom I have never met in real life.
The catalyst of change in my life has been Mark.
10 years ago, if you told me that Mark would be a major influence on my life, I would have laughed at you. I have known him since High School. The most of our interaction back then was on the soccer field for one season of co-ed soccer. My memory of that particular team is hazy and vague. I don’t remember cussing out his dad, who happened to be our coach. Obviously, I made more of an impression on Mark then he did on me. In High School we had classes together, in 9th grade, we were both members of the band. I had to be reminded of this, although, I now recollect he was around. We were not friends, and I’m not sure we ever really spoke to one another.
Over 5 years ago, we met again. It was my second semester at PVCC, his first after dropping out of Wake Forest. I was still smarting over the debacle with Jo and eager to find a new conquest. Mark and I spoke many times, and I was surprised at how much I liked him. He was smart, funny, well cultured and gregarious by nature. I didn’t realize that for the most part he was riding a cocaine high the whole time. In a twist, I remember more of him from that time then he of me.
No promises were made, he came over to my house a few times. We watched movies and made out. I was eager for more, a relationship, a boyfriend. He was merely passing time. My innocence and inexperience caused me to think more of him without seeing what he was truly all about.
Yet, in the end, I became the bad guy.
He returned from spring break, telling tales of his new girlfriend, a gorgeous sorority girl from his sister’s college. I had been waiting, impatiently, for his return only to be confronted with his utter and complete lack of caring for me. I reacted poorly to say the least. In an act of true stupidity and juvenile anger, I keyed his car. To this day, I am notorious for that action.
I spent weeks, being the butt of both his jokes and the jokes of my so-called friends at the time. The worst part was that I deserved a good bit of it. I apologized in just a juvenile manner as I had done wrong. I wrote a note and left it on his car. Such made me the butt of even more jokes.
By the end of the semester he had faded away and so had my adoration of him. I returned to mooning over Jo and Mark was only an embarrassing memory.
In the intervening years, we ran into each other once, at a musical. He was with his girlfriend (not the one from before) and I was with my mother and Eric. I remember feeling very awkward as we exchanged social pleasantries.
He surprised when, 5 years later, I contacted him on Facebook. I was hesitant, sending him only a simple message saying ‘hi’. A friend request and a message of exuberant greeting was returned. For several days we chatted through Facebook messages, culminating with an invitation to come out to his cabin, drink beer and see his guns.
I spent that night and several more in his bed. Once again, no promises were made. I didn’t expect any and he was fairly clear that there wouldn’t be any. Yet, I disliked that the friendship was solely on his terms. Once every few weeks he would answer my call and say ‘come on over.’
The funny part, I think, was that when I called him to have a ‘little chat’ and he avoided me, the chat wasn’t about me wanting to be his girlfriend. I was only going to ask for a more regular appearance into his home. I wanted to come over maybe once a week and spend the night with him. My goal was only sex, and a casual friendship. I was desperate for even that small and poor excuse for human contact, companionship.
He avoided me. I once again responded poorly. I sent him a nasty message on Facebook, calling him a pussy. I set my status update with nasty comments aimed at him, although never naming him.
Needless to say, he ignored me and removed me from his contacts.
I was terrified. I had once again behaved in such a stupid and embarrassing manner that it caused me to lose a friend. It didn’t matter that our friendship was a poor excuse for the name. His was the only one I had, and I was desperate to gain it back. I begged for his forgiveness, asking for a second chance.
I was ashamed of myself for doing so. He had treated me with little respect from the beginning, and the one night I spent at his place during the time between my name calling and him giving me a second chance, he treated me like dirt.
Yet, he did seem to forgive me. Its one of his quirks, one I find fascinating. He has bizarre moments of humanity and kindness, in the midst of his drunken selfish cynicism. I don’t know why my standing on his porch, trying to hide the tears, as I apologized the best I could and asked only for his friendship affected him. Less then a week later, he invited me back, of his own volition.
As I reread what I have written I find that I have not explained why I put up with what I did. For all that he is a jackass, he is not stupid, nor is he without positive qualities. His intelligence and quick mind is entertaining in of itself. He has wide and varied interests, and can speak with authority on many things. Quirky and hyper, he combines the best aspects of a nerd, a redneck and cultured man with a flare that’s all his own. Mark’s insights on life are often amusing, occasionally cruel, and mostly correct. He is as quick to laugh at himself as he is to laugh at others, never taking much too seriously.
Moments of memory bombard me now. During a night of nasty drama, his calm influence and quiet authority settled a potentially dangerous situation. The one night he called me for comfort after a bad day, opening up to me in a manner I had never seen before. Times cuddled on his couch watching T.V., he would pause to tell a funny story, beer in one hand with a gamine grin on his face. Moments like these and more are what attracts me to him.
Its those things that force me to hold out some hope that one day, he will stop killing himself with booze and women and do something amazing. Although, recent events make me think I won’t be around to witness it.
I have come to the last straw. He will not admit or even acknowledge a new development in his life and mine. He denies his own culpability and lacks even the smallest amount of sympathy. The distance between us over the past month is perhaps a part of his reaction, although I think much of it is simply the way he is. In some ways he is still a spoiled child. His parents have a tendency to pick up after him when he gets into trouble. As far as Mark is concerned, the bad things that happen to him are never his fault, nor are they his responsibility, and his lack of basic humanity makes him unable to respond in an adult manner.
So I hold out some small hope that his humanity is merely locked away and one day he will find it again, rather then thrown away and lost forever.
I now find solace in the one great thing that Mark did for me, though it was truly by accident. I still spend much of my time down at the former commune of cabins in the woods, but now with Mark’s neighbor. My introduction to Aaron was an odd twist of fate and bizarre circumstance. In the wake of a poor excuse for a friendship, came one of honesty and genuine respect and caring.
For that I must thank Mark, though he would only ridicule me for doing so.

Kitten Love

2009-09-29T17:35:00.000-07:00

Kitten frolics
cream and chocolate
spinning spring giggle
glancing back smiles
“Come on!”

Kitten lounges
the panther inside
dappled starlight
mellow silver purr
“Play with me.”

Kitten dances
pounce and flip
nose wrinkled
fang white smile
“I win!”

Kitten hides
shadow tiger emerge
fade in, fade out
silken whisper
“You haunt me.”

Kitten slashes
needle claws flash
spit and hiss
rumble dark growl
“I hate you!”

Kitten crouches
cream muddy
chocolate dusty
tattered mewls
“I lost.”

The meaning... the purpose...

2009-09-29T13:48:00.000-07:00

As a child I lived for stories of noble knights, amazing adventures, magic and the happily ever after of fantasy. Mercades Lackey once said that fantasy was one of the last bastions of "moral fiction", "good triumphs over evil, the wrongdoers get their just deserts, and all ends, if not always strictly happy, at least well."

I am an idealist, a dreamer and, almost always hold out hope till the end, despite having little to hope for. Yet, at the same time, I am a cynic, practical to a fault, always honest, always trying to see the logic of actions. I see these traits often in the hero's of the stories I love. The romance of Chivalry, with the logic of a Warrior.

In the realm of fantasy created by Tamora Pierce, the griffon is real, a beast of legend returned to the lands of men by evil mages. In the griffon's presence one cannot tell a lie. Feather's shed from one of these beasts gives true flight to arrows and allows whoever holds one to see through illusions.

Its not that I cannot lie. I can, with skill, although not with ease. Half truths and ommisions are not easy for me either. I have little patience for the social niceties of white lies and small talk. To some extent my lack of lies is practicality. It seems to me that a problem cannot be solved when truth is not present. The people I consider a part of my life are those whom I want to trust and be trusted by, and to those people I cannot lie without guilt.

I once wrote a poem. A poem like which I hadn't wrote in years. One that was personal rather then just random thoughts. It has only been seen by one other person. It was about one of my first Loves. A man/boy that kissed me and discarded me. My naivete and my inability to understand what I had done with him, as well as my trusting nature scared me in ways I am still trying to understand. In the poem a kitten's love is explored. That poem is one of the truest discriptions of my nature.

For I am a kitten. Absurdly brave, distracted by a flash of color and light, easy in affection, yet nasty when affection is not on my terms. I am naive and innocent, but moments of the cat I may yet become one day are often visable in a moment of time.

I do not know what I hope to achieve with this blog. I do not know if I will share it beyond one person I know in real life. If it is read, it will most likely be read (and dismissed) by strangers. Yet I feel the need to have it out there in the world. For too long my thoughts and opinions and dreams have been hidden, held tight to my heart. The facade I show the world grows weary. My fear of the masses is made easier by the anonymity of the shadow land that is the internet.