These are the sides of lobster traps piled against our local lobsterman's house. He picked the best sides, if I do say so myself. I also like where he placed the blue plastic box, and the lawn.
I am fighting the temptation is to clickie gather, and spend another hour compiling, but I have Vowed to be Visual. Just google "lobster" yourself, and go to page 20 where the restaurants ads thin, and you can find out fascinating facts about moulting, and ugly lobster disease yourself. I couldn't resist.
a pretty picture
that, sweet pea.
This little hotel has been through so many iterations, the worst (at least in my book) was as a rock club, featuring heavy metal bands. Now it has renewed gentility and hosts conferences and seminars for famous universities and casually dressed men in Ralph Lauren. It houses a restaurant known as a "grille" - a sure sign that it's on its way to business class. I must check to see if it has a wireless connection. I might be able to post surreptitiously from the parking lot or the Ladies.
This is a Pawley's Island hammock . I was getting Pawley's Island brand mixed up with Twin Oaks hammocks. Twin Oaks is a commune in Virginia with 80 adults and 15 children, still functioning after thirty five years. Their primary sustenance comes from the manufacture of hammocks. One of the flavors of hammock they manufacture is the Pawley's Island. They also make tofu. If you prowl around on their website, you can see everyone's portrait. There are quite a number of kindly white beards; names include Pele, Mele, Juniper, Piper and Rollie. It sounds like a very nice place.
You can tell from their informational materials that Twin Oaks has had a few bad experiences. There are such stipulations as, applicants to the community must take care of their own prexisting medical conditions. Because one is expected to function daily at a high level, those with serious mental illness do not find it a helpful environment.
Before you can apply for membership, you must spend three weeks as a visitor - fee $50. You can visit even if you do not intend to apply. What an interesting place to spend a vacation. The price is right too. After a three week stay, you must leave the community for at least ten days and use that time to make a considered decision about membership. The community cannot be responsible for an applicant's sustanence during the decision period. You probably will not be able to join with your pet. That is a separate application, visitation and screening process. There is a long waiting list for pet visits, so don't get your hopes up.
Photo note: I like all the straight lines criss crossing in shades of gray, and I am especially fond of the shadow of the top of the hammock on the door frame. Three points off for plastic garbage can.
The photo club special
I was just kidding about the tomato
In the foreground
As sculpted vapor
in the light
There is nothing more thrilling
I showed a dear and close personal friend the photos I have taken over the past couple of weeks. She is about the only person who can bear looking at my "contact" sheets which, due to my compensation for lack of technical expertise, consist of more duplicates than the ordinary person can tolerate. She suggested that I publish a bunch of pictures in a blitz, like three a day, until I have relieved my hard drive of some of its electronic burden.
So here goes, this entry is a bridge to a few days of more photo blogging, less "blather dysfunction", hence the illustraton. I may be forced to compose spacer poems for aesthetic reasons.
Photo note: The little photo below is one of a fully outfitted photographer, who, at the same moment in time that I was shooting the bridge with my Phase II Brownie , was shooting the other way, where, as far as I could see, there was little of interest. This bridge, in all its glory, is right behind her. Photographic irony -- okay maybe a little smugness . Forgive me, please, we Brownie fanciers need all the smugness we can get.
I have a little button that I push occasionally called Web Server Statistics . Actually, if I were to be honest, I push it at least once a day. The thought that someone is reading this thing called blog is what keeps me doing it, I think.
Although there are a number of things that my Web Server Statistics let me know, the list of search terms is one of the most interesting. The following are some of the requests people typed into their little google slots that brought them to me .
thumb sucking teeth deformity
blog lightworker ( moi? I loved this one)
"mounted or mount her or my foot" stockings ( a result of my fetish piece, no doubt)
nylon petticoat (the fetishists are persistant)
Lesbian soccer moms
household items I can masterbate with (why would you have to look that up on the internet, isn't it fairly obvious)
thin sari navel photo
creative secretion sneakers
"green goddess" bouquet
blather dysfunction (my all time favorite)
"Scratched cornea" has dropped off considerably, but still appears almost daily
as does "elephant drawing".
The brides have sluggish popularity long after the excitment of their weddings. Of course the triple goddess manifests regularly.
Another popular search term is Gabor Mate , Canadian psychiatrist, visionary, and author of a wonderful book about Attention Deficit Disorder called "Scattered" , (among others). Dr. M. has completely disappeared from my list. He is probably busy writing another book and has stopped authorly elbow rubbing. As a result, the public doesn't google him as much (his energy is of the googleable sort) and find me at the end of the trail. I am waiting for his new publication with baited breath.
Aside: I loaned (I realized, weeks ago, that I did not lose) my copy of "Scattered" to a person who is even more scattered than I, probably due to my energy field, however. I now know that the book is hopelessly buried somewhere under a pile of bacteria producing laundry in territory I no longer have to traverse, so I tried to order another copy this morning. I was foiled by Amazon's new one-step system. When the book was in my possession, I read the etiology section, but never got to the "what to do about your condition" part. I guess I'm not supposed to know quite yet.
Photo note: I love this photo for its faux vanishing point , and the reflections that seem to be guided by it. (Did you know that the ability to render perspective- three dimensions- on a flat surface- two dimensions- changed human thought?)
This visual appeared during a stroll to dinner with my Abraham-Hicks Manifestation and Discussion Group on Sunday. I picked it because it comes as close to the technical as I get, and I consider this a technical entry, in that it involves statistics. The printed word ART was good for another six points.
Have a little thought, take a little picture and the world wide web will provide pages of extraneous information to garnish your idea. The subject of the memorial bench is no exception. There are solicitations from sites that want benches, plans for bench installations, rules for donating benches to various institutions, benches documented photographically by city , and of course there are the manufacturers of these items and their plaques . Who knew?
Above you will find a nifty little memorial bench, as these things go. It's located, as you can see, under a cut in the side of a mountain, overlooking the lake at Mohonk. You must take care to watch your noggin when standing up. The bronze plaque on the rail says "For C.L., she still sings". A look-alike bench, in the garden, reads "...and if God chose, I shall but love thee better after death" Your Sweetheart. Very romantic, for Quakers.
This is the Arthur Jones bench of icy puddle fame. It is contoured to provide comfortable seating. If it weren't polished granite, it might just do the trick. A highly recommended perch for a hot day.
It's fraternal twin, the Peter Gay bench is several hundred yards down the bluff. The Peter Gay bench has "Take time to sit by the sea" carved in stone across the back. The date of his death is 9/11/01. Last fall I took a photo of the Peter Gay with sunflowers and an American flag.
Photo note: What can I say, just like the Swiss Family Robinson , if it crosses my path I shoot it. If another one comes along, I try to tame it.
Never one to follow the crowd , I waited until Saturday evening to see "Fahrenheit 9/11". I arrived an hour early, so seats were available and the early birds chatty.
If are a Bushlette you will probably not enjoy this movie. You will probably not enjoy this blog either. Unless, that is, you are a spiritual Bushlette, having eschewed fundamentalism for the new age, in which case, skip this entry.
Regarding "Fahrenheit 9/11", it could be argued that anyone can be caught in a contemplative moment looking like a shifty eyed, baffled moron who doesn't have a glimmer of an idea what to do in any situation that does not involve a golf club. Anyone could be caught licking his comb and spitting on his hair in an unguarded moment. Anyone could be caught lying, cheating, profittering and altering the constituion slightly, to better serve his corporate interests. Goodness, we're at war. But Michael Moore does have a way of being there with his camera.
Although W. has top billing, I was impressed by the number of Saudis co-starring in this film. Maybe I just noticed them more because of the distinctive disdashas. which seemed omnipresent. Fortunately, the Saudis seem to have a rather large stake in the future of this country, so I am less worried that they plan to blow it to smithereens, given the size of their investments. Unfortunately, the Saudi investors may not have much control of the folks that we have enraged by our recent interventions for democracy. W. does seem right at home with the Saudis though. He socializes alot. I am surprised that he remembers not to offend them by eating his Bar-B-Que with both hands . Maybe his dad helps him remember.
In any case, it seems to be a hit, and not just in the blue states.
The New York Times reports, (quoting one of the producers, I think):
"The biggest news to me this morning is this is a red-state movie," he said, referring to the state whose residents voted for George W. Bush in the 2000 election. "Republican states are embracing the movie, and it's sold out in Republican strongholds all over the country."
Harvey Weinstein said: "It's beyond anybody's expectations. I'd have to say the sky's the limit on this movie. Who knows what territory we're in."
Even rival studio executives recognized that documentary's opening as exceptional. "This picture came from nowhere [WHERE has this man been?]," said Tom Sherak, a principal at Revolution Studios, which made "White Chicks. [Oh]" "It's what movie viewing has become. If you make it feel like it has urgency, people will have to go."
Let's see, I have a little updating to do, for those of you who have been following Herman van Bon's merry correspondence from Klaas Voogds. Herman sent me, via yahoo, a fascinating self portrait of and by Inez Lenders, bedecked in one of her original photomillinery designs. I think Inez may have sent it to him for me, but I can't be sure. You can
view the image right here. Technology isn't my strong suit , but I seem to have been able to post this. Thank you both.
I am refocusing on something other than the wedding pages, in an attempt of become a more serious person. How am I doing so far? Suffice it to say that two professors, of the undottering sort, were featured. They, like so many academic couples , will now have to have a long-distance, commuter marriage because of the scarcity of tenure track positions in universities. In additon, Mike Wallace fixed up his granddaughter, and she married the guy. It's not every woman who would dare to go out with a gentleman of her grandfather's choice. Of course, Mike is a grandfather of distinction.
Last but not least, the Abraham-Hicks Manifestation and Discussion Group had a meeting involving great hilarity and uplifting of mood last evening. We dined at The Little Nest (translated from the Italian), where the chef-owner generously presented us with a complimentary bottle of wine. He did know one of us, but I like to think it is a tribute to the positive energy we exude. He repeated, "Don't marry me, I'm a terrible husband", several times throughout the evening. I don't think he was trying to ply us with liquor for unsavory purposes, but one never knows. We retained our ladylike, dainty manners, in spite of the temptations proffered. I was introduced to Limoncello which you can purchase or make yourself .
Photo note: We also manifested this glorious sunset over the harbor. This was a group effort, no kidding, spotted, pointed out, and directed by everyone. I did the shooting . Someone had to do the dirty work.
Orientation: Dakota writes, unplugged, at the cottage, and later adds and edits:
How do you know when the internet has integrated into your expanded consciousness. When you miss it if it's not there, like now. I want to look at yesterday's baby pictures, read my statistics, comments, make clickie jokes, etc, Most importantly, I can't figure out how to spell chiwawa well enough to look it up in the dictionary. My computer, courteously, would absorb my phoenetic attempt, and ask me if I meant chihuahua ------- the correct spelling.
I am actually quite a competent speller, with a exceptions, like surprise. I can never remember whether there is an "r", and whether the last "s" is a "z" or not. The neurolinguistic programming people say that all good spellers use visualization. Good spellers close their eyes and see the letters of the word that they are trying to spell. I often have to see the word written out. Chiwawa just doesn't look right- there's much missing and the letter "h" is one of those things. But where could one place a letter "h", maybe even a double "h"? (Now I see that, had I studied Spanish, I would have had a clue.)
If you can't visualize well, you are not likely to be a good speller. Although the neurolinguistic programmers claim they can train us to spell, I think there's probably little you can do to correct the situation, other than rote memorization. Thus are some inspired to become engineers. It's a good thing I can spell adequately, since I would be really sunk in the engineering arena.
Get to the point, lady.
On my morning constitutional, I stopped to sit upon the Arthur G. Jones memorial bench overlooking the sea. I also ride my bike frequently over the Arthur Jones memorial plank on the boardwalk at the salt marsh. There could, of course, be two Arthurs, but I prefer to think of them as the same person. I generally don't sit on Arthur's bench because it is made of gravestone polished granite - cold - hard - and it collects puddles in the contour of the seat. The puddles come as an unwelcome surprise at dawn, when they are impossible to see against the glimmering stone.
Anyway, Arthur is no longer on this earthly plane. Since he is memorially named in two of my favorite spots here on earth, I consider Arthur to be a compatriot of sorts. I actually thought of him assisting me this morning from wherever he is. Just a notion that passed by. Then I practicallly jumped out of my skin when the breeze whistled through a tall bush next to me, and I thought someone was standing there. I reminded myself how spooked I am by the unknown, due to projecting danger onto every blank screen that passes my way. As I calmed down, I saw a woman down on the beach, walking her chiwawa .
I then remembered that there was a lot of chiwawa talk at Mohonk. One of the women at the party I attended has a daughter who breeds them. Her daughter, and the daughter's nine chiwawas had recently moved in with the mother. As someone else commented, if you're going to have nine dogs, chiwawas are probably your best bet..
The next day at the flea, I saw two chiwawas both peering out their owners' purses. I was able to get a couple of chiwawa shots. (The first peeree, was removed from his purse before I could capture the moment.) Then there was the chiwawa this morning. He or she was tiny and far away. I had alot of trouble getting a picture of the dog and the owner together, since the dog kept running back and forth -- It occurred to me that I was observing rapprochement.
Then I thought that perhaps there might be a message in all these chihuahua sightings (unless I am merely observing a fashion trend, step aside Golden Retrievers). It is a chihuahua progress report. The photos follow the little one from the purse, to the arms, to the ground without a leash. Chihuahuas have that nervous energy and a cute , but slightly demonic look, that could represent the negative aspects of the part of myself that I wrote about yesterday.
I realized that I spent my entire afternoon looking at unhappy babies . I had a renewed appreciation for the depth of their feeling. Why do we think they are funny when they are suffering? Perhaps because, for the good enough mother , her baby's suffering is so easy to alleviate. She knows it will be momentary.
What about the babies whose mothers, trying to establish a strict schedule, allow them to scream for hours? That may result in the creation of a veritable herd of internal chihuahuas.
As you may have noticed, there are a number of misspelled chihuahuas in this piece. I left them there intentionally, so as to preserve original form.
For some reason, I can't get on the internet again from my office, and, of course, I don't know why. Perhaps this is part of my run of missing links, paragraphs, photos. I will write about my internal process and maybe publish it some other time.
I have been experiencing a major regression ever since I was triggered by Tai Chi/QiGong. I know that it's just the baby of my internal family system , carrying on, crying into the monitor, waiting to be heard. My body is a "seize bucket", (as noted by my polarity therapist), and I am on the verge of rage and tears quite alot. If you were planning to invite me to lunch, you might want to wait a week.
Lately, I am also surrounded by those who have internal conflicts, fighting the good fight within the self, valiantly trying to be curious rather than afraid or ashamed of lost aspects of themselves.
The part of me that compensates for the baby, the part that manages, keeps things under control, and knows what's best, doesn't like to feel instability or distress. That part hates the vulnerable , whining, suffering child who feels abandoned, cast out, assaulted, injured and inconsolable. It is often helpful to think of the manager part of me. all dressed up in high heels and gloves that are sizes too big, pointing a finger. In other words, it's the part of me that absorbed my mother, became my inside guidance, so that I wouldn't get in trouble with her. It is also a small child part, not a CEO adult part .
As a a matter of fact, the CEO can't stand the baby part either. I hate feeling such infantile feelings. This baby part of me will not tolerate pain of any kind. It cannot lift a five pound dumbell without seizing and needing comfort. (I have been fortunate to locate a personal trainer [we are trying to think of a better title] with empathy for all of that. Most personal trainers are jocks who just love being in their bodies , and cannot understand the torture some of us feel when we become somatically conscious.)
If the needs of that baby part of me are not gratified immediately , I have few resources with which to comfort it, no internalized objects . The rage that the baby part experiences when this happens is annihilating. It hasn't developed much since infancy. My heart slams shut, hence the inconsolable. I do not want to be comforted on someone else's schedule. If consolation comes too late, it is not accepted. I am out of the open heart business and into retaliation by abandonment. I stand grandiosely by myself, heartbroken , betrayed, too angry and proud to let anything touch me ever again.
You can see why I might want to ignore, or more likely eradicate , that part of myself. Eradication is impossible, what has happened has happened. If I do ignore it, however, the consequences are severe. The minute you don't pay attention to a dissociated part of yourself, that part sneaks into your driver's seat and tries to help you understand what it was like for you in the past, by steering you into emotional phone poles, duplicating past trauma in the present, providing many "discovery" experiences for you, most of which you would rather not have.
This week, in a meeting with the like-minded, my friend talked about the aspects of ourselves we try to avoid. "Too bad, "she said, "When we can't look at those parts, we miss the most interesting things about ourselves."
Photo note: Some parts of us are not as developed as others. Let us have some tolerance for their unique beauty and potential to bloom.
There are folks that are doing wonderful things with photographs. Take a peek at Maggie Taylor , Edland Man and Jerry Uelsmann . Inez Lenders , who, I am told by Herman van Bon, made the cactus "hats" for Soekershof , seems to have stuffed her work. On the other hand, Abbas and Henrik Saxgren found a very interesting situation, and pushed the button.
So far, I seem to be from the pressing-the-button school. As you can see, these folks put in a little more effort. Maybe, when I recapture my attention span through conscious poor hygiene, bacteria cultivation, and nitric oxide production , I will have the wherewithall to do more.
Photo note: Not bad for just pushing the button. Mirrors, greenery, man, architecture, theater seats, fences and frames; no scissors involved.
If you go back a couple of entries to Eventful Return , June 14, and read my whining about the New York City copette who poked me in the stomach with an Evian bottle, and infuriated me, but I was so overburdened that I could not respond, and you were to click on Evian, you will see what I consider to be a message from the universe.
For those of you find scrolling back a strain, I will describe the clickie. It is a stunning, naked, black, angel woman, lolling on a white cloud (on her tummy, since it's hard for angels to loll any other way due to their wings) pouring a bottle of Evian down to earth.
And what is the message? I'm not exactly sure because I am obtuse when it comes to interpreting these things. The cop was an angel delivering a message. Prodding me. Bitch. The message has to do with being too overburdened to act. It has to do with trusting my instincts (she gave me the wrong instructions, that would have taken me seriously out of my way, and I asked someone else), it has to do with anger that I often feel is too dangerous to express. Other ideas are not only welcomed, but solicited.
There is a children's book about all the little angels gathering in heaven and deciding how to manifest their purpose on earth. The little protagonist angel wants to learn a lesson in his next lifetime about something important, and his angelic sidekick volunteers to give him the greatest gift of all -- alot of resistance. He unselfishly offers to do his stint on earth, playing the nemesis for his little buddy, so that the lesson can be learned, and desire and skills of the protagonist, encountering adversity, can be brought to a higher level. (I am told it can be fun to be the villain. George W. seems to be enjoying himself so far -- when you're an addict, power is even more intoxicating than drugs or alcohol, and hardy anyone gets on your case about your addiction. What could be better.)
Hopefully, we can see this happening when it does, and appreciate all those little antichrists for who they really are. Abraham-Hicks would say that they provide contrast that helps us to more fully define what we really, really want. Let us hope that George W. is helping liberal Democrats do just that -- Dennis Kucinich has proferred a most appealing alternative, and he's staying in the race so that he can influence the Democratic platform.
So my angel in cop's clothing gave me a little prod. I shall take it seriously.
Photo note: I've published a version of this before. I think it is my first shot using my newly paved driveway as a background. Pictured is a little plastic ornament that I gave many of my fairy friends for Christmas -Winter Solstice, whatever.
Here is a beautiful self composition, shot between one flea and the next. I was warned by my companions that many people in the city, particularly at the flea market, do not want their pictures taken. They risk discovery by the INS , who are more unmerciful than ever with illegal immigrants .
I forgot to tell you about one of my cabdrivers. When I hopped in (I hardly hopped, since I was carrying a huge suitcase, a laptop, a knapsack and a camera, not to mention my excess body fat), I noticed that my driver's name was Kaji Sherpa. Of course I asked if he was from Tibet, (his grandparents were)-- he is from Nepal - a political refugee. By profession, he is a trekking guide , and was particularly connected to Danish climbers. The Danes established an educational foundation for Nepalese children, of which Kaji Sherpa was the head.
When Maoist guerillas began their insurgency in Nepal, they wanted to enlist Kaji to guide them through the mountains on their missions. He refused, and was able to leave Nepal, with the help of his Danish friends. He spent some time in Denmark, then in Paris, and now is driving a cab in Manhattan. He has, or is seeking political asylum. He is also looking for a job in the mountains again.
I just know that if Kaji had the opportunity, he would have organized my gear differently.
Dialogue at the Flea
Six foot five, African woman, proprietor of the African mask booth: (suspiciously) "May I help you?"
Me: (tiny camera in hand, smiling) "Do you mind if I take a photo?"
She: (curtly)"Are you going to buy anything?"
Me: (sweetly, with regret) "I don't think so."
She: "Then I guess you won't be needing any photographs."
I didn't at the time, but it's now too late to reconsider.
Photo note: This is a case of perfect, though inadvertant, costuming. Needless to say, the image was captured at least forty feet away from the African Mask Booth.
I was simply thrilled yesterday to receive a comment from Herman van Bon, creator of Soekershof , the South African maze , in response to my entry on mazes . Esther Hicks, channeling Abraham, talks alot about the Law of Attraction . A blog is a little laboratory to experiment with that concept. (For example, look at the crowd that has gathered around Atrios ). Herman was alerted by email from one of his fans who had also read my entry, not by googling himself, a small tribute to the aMAZing connections that are made possible by the internet. Herman and his partners describe themselves as "weird, but passionate" - I am most gratified to be attracting those who describe themselves as "weird but passionate". I hope that means I'm wandering somewhere near that territory.
Actually, Africa has been popping into my consciousness quite alot recently, white people in Africa, that is. There is Soekershof. I am currently listening to Alexandra Fuller's excellent memoir "Don't Let's Go To the Dogs Tonight" about her childhood during the Rhodesian , ( now Zimbabwe ) civil war and my dear friend has just arrived home from four months in Uganda , where she has been working in a program that feeds AIDS orphans.
She is starting a mini FINCA in the Ugandan village where she worked. FINCA is a project that lends money to women to start small businesses in third world countries. The loans are small and there are interesting rules. Five women, each of whom is starting a business iindividually, must work together to support one another, until each of their operations has paid off their loans, thus establishing an automatic old girls' network. It has been noted that, as women become successful, they have more influence in their communities, wife and child abuse diminish, intrastructures are built, and improvements made in living conditions. When loans were given to men, they were found to spend their capital on weapons, alcohol and drugs. Loans were never repaid. FINCA doesn't do that anymore. Although I cannot find the information anywhere on their website, I remember reading that with the loan repayment, comes educational material aimed at empowering women, like birth control information, and the negative consequences of dowries for women. The FINCA experience makes one wonder about our official distribution of foreign aid to third world countries.
Photo note: In my ignorance, I have probably mistaken this this beautiful beaded headdress for African, and it's probably Peruvian. Give me a good enough photo, and I'll use it shamelessly. The headdress was shot on exotic location, at the flea market on the lower east side of Manhattan. It was particularly cute sitting atop a utility box. I couldn't capture the entire thing, and control for beauty, as riff raff kept passing by in aesthetically inadequate costume. We are missing a bird at the top of the hat as well. You will just have to use your imagination, which is a very good thing to do when staring at a screen .
The large photograph of the featured wedding in the New York Times this week is confusing, to say the least. At first glance, I thought it a double gay marriage, two couples, and an official, or perhaps the Beatles with a brunette Marx brother . Since the photo is black and white, we have to read the text in order to discover that the peculiar hairdos on the male quintet shown, are blue wigs, in honor of the bride's mother who dyes her hair blue when she drives her daughter (barebreasted?) in a convertible for the annual Mermaid Parade in Coney Island. Okay.
In the smaller secondary picture, the bride's mother is looking on, and we can see that she has had the good taste to wear fairly normal hair to her daughter's wedding, though it may be blue , but we can't tell because the photo is black and white. The photographer, shooting from under nostrils, has captured some fine intraoral views of both the bride's teeth and those of several of her guests. Captured in this small gem is also a lovely panorama of her armpit, well toned and shapely pecs, and the top half of her becleavaged Vera Wang. She looks like she is screaming with laughter. The groom is more subdued. We are told that he does not drink alcohol.
Jen Cohn, a "live-wire" voice-over actress, married The Onion editor, and Most Eligible Bachelor 2000, Robert Siegel . Because of the groom's position, an extraordinary attempt was made to describe the general hilarity of this couple's wedding and their relationship. It was exhausting. I guess you had to have been there.
If I were Jena and Robert, I might be upset, especially if I were really funny.
Our usual vows reporter was not on the scene, however, which may account for the strain.
The rest of the section was a bit of a disappointment, also. Many weddings in June, keep long descriptions and juicy tidbits few and far between. An old-fashioned mom, named Prudence, bestowed the name Patience on her daughter, who is a partner in a same sex marriage. There's probably no connection.
I'm keeping this short, since I am unclear whether attracting weddings into my energy field is really what I want to do. Quantum physics , Buddist teachings , Noam Chomsky , ethical considerations are quite another story. I just thought I'd mention them.
Photo note: This is a picture of the dingle dangle hung on the back of the hansom cab, in which the bride arrived, at the beach wedding. I took the photograph in anticipation of continuing the bridal series. Now I am in doubt. I wonder where you buy something like that. A hansom cab supply store ?
I can't believe it! Another six paragraphs sucked down the Great Pit of Lost Entries. Hit the control button, instead of the caps lock, and whoosh . I was going on about manifestation at the time (myself manifesting weddings) and I lost the whole kit and caboodle . Infuriating. I wrote the labyrinth article at least five times for similar reasons, different computer. That's not all, most upsetting was the discovery that I lost some photos from my camera yesterday. What is it that I am manifesting here? What is the message? What am I missing?
The photos, which I know were there because I looked at them at lunch, and now feel compelled to describe, were of 1.) two cormorants sitting on the pole with their wings spread, and a seagull coming in for a landing. 2.) a very tiny orange butterfly , caught several times with wings spread on magenta clover blossoms-- a series. Oh well, I shall enjoy them in my memory, which has, no doubt, improved the missing pictures considerably, especially the focus. I am grateful that they will not create more clutter my hard disc.
I began the lost entry with a question my hairdresser asked me Friday, which she says I always ask her, "What are you manifesting lately?" And went on to say that weddings are high on my list. There was one at Mohonk last weekend, of which I surreptitiously took pictures, sneaking up on the bride, as I did on Alan Alda, who was also there. (Because of the Quaker good manners that prevail around the place, we all pretended to ignore him.)
Then I went to the beach yesterday, and bumped smack into a wedding in the surf. The bride and bridegroom were barefoot. He wore a white linen, short-sleeved shirt, white pants and a white fedora ; the voluptious blonde bride, an off one shoulder, slinky, white gown and garden hat. Her two teenage sons, blonde beach boys, in pink oxford shirts and white pants were in attendance. Her roofer, who was watching the ceremony next to me on the bluffs, pointed out the sons out to me. Also overheard on the bluffs, "There are alot of cops and lawyers down there" (the groom is a court officer) "Another Mrs. Jones!" and "I never thought he'd do it!" It made me wonder if Mr. J. was really ready to settle down again.
In addition, I have manifested a terrific stuck chi pain on the inside of my right knee. It is a result of forty miles on the bike and "The Stepford Wives" which I will review briefly here. Don't bother. The first one wasn't all that fascinating either. Actually, the beginning credits are a sight to behold. Real fifties TV with housewives in chiffon cocktail dresses demonstrating sleek model appliances pirouetting . My advise: see any other movie in the complex and sneak into "Stepford Wives" afterwards, catch the first five minutes of the nine o'clock show, and leave. Then you can go to sleep in your own bed, rather than in a theater seat .
Here is the point: I think I need to reconsider what I am manifesting and change my focus a bit. I would prefer to think of myself as a person with lofty concerns , but my recent manifestations, though amusing, do not reflect much higher purpose.
Photo note: These are "proof that it really happened" photos, that have documentation rather than aesthetic value. Can you guess which dress is the Vera Wang ?
Persistantly perambulating pergolas
permits perpheral perspectives
and perusual of personal purpose,
permeating pervasive purdah,
perplexing perverse personalities,
perfect pearls of perception,
for perpetuity, perchance,
And now a little ditty via Atrios to suck up every bit of tranquility you have developed while meditating on this peacefull scene, which is, by the by, the swimming area at Mohonk. It features a large tree trunk floating in the water on which to climb, and the usual sweet little pagoda. The lily pads and the necklace of yellow floats add at least six bonus points in my opinion.
This is the Maze at Mohonk. Of course I took pictures, but did it occur to me that I could walk in it? Of course not. Talk about unconsciousness.
"The difference between labyrinths and mazes is that a labyrinth has only ONE path to the center, thus you are safe, guided by the very structure of the reality you have chosen to immerse yourself in and can only reach the ultimate center destination.
Traditional labyrinths take two forms, one of which has been related to the chakras and opening up the energy centers of the body, the other type which has been accredited by many with balancing the mind. "
The maze is a game, the labyrinth is a spiritual tool. The maze confuses, excites and terrifies, while the labyrinth , with paths that are structured and guided calms, heals soothes comforts and balances. I'm not really sure whether the Mohonk Maze is a labyrinth or not, though it seems unlikely from this view, that one could get lost, let alone excite oneself in the area.
Be careful though, you many attract the attention of the CIA as did the "weird but passionate" hosts at Soekershof .
I have now written this entry three times. Huge chunks keep getting suddenly and magically deleted. Is this a message? Probably "You need a new hard disc" rather than "Don't write about this sacred subject". I shall publish, though I probably could go on.
So yesterday I received a call from an old acquaintance. I haven't seen him for nearly a decade. He was married to a colleague, they had two sons together, and, when the kids were tiny, I hung out with them a little. Then he became her "bad object " extraordinaire, they divorced and she spent the years after working on his annihilation. Although I am certain that there are frustrating things about living with him, (like me, he has quite a case of disposaphobia ), he remains a gentle, kind, brilliant, good hearted soul. Being an MIT inventor type (he has invented some rather impressive things that the government of India, for example, scooped right up), he has a diagnosed case of Asperger's Syndrome . Growing up in a family of four or five brothers, all of whom made cannons and weapons of mass destruction in their boyish spare time, he also has quite a case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He is an unusual man. I think he called because he thought I might know some single women to whom I might introduce him. Do I? You may email me privately at firstname.lastname@example.org.
However the crux of his call yesterday had to do with a new project he has been working on for the past few years. He just came back from Japan, where he presented a scientific paper on the subject, which is Nitric Oxide (not laughing gas of dental reknown). Natural nitric oxide. a vasodialator, evidently regulates many body functions. He is convinced that it is the lack of essential bacteria on our skin which produce nitric oxide, that is the cause of many of today's health problems, obesity, autism, diabetes and allergies. The American obsession with hygiene, particularly bathing with antibacterial soaps and detergents has decimated the nitric-oxide-producing bacteria on our skins. Restoring the colonies, by rinsing (he actually discourages that too), and using his "liquid" restores the bacteria, and therefore the natural balance. I asked him if using his invention required abstaining from the bath , and, on the phone he assured me that it didn't. When I went to pick up the samples he offered to me, he disclosed that he had not bathed in over two years. using his invention instead. I am sure that I would not have rushed over if I had known that beforehand. Actually, he looks very healthy, he has no aroma, (we hugged, but, as you may remember, my nose is strictly decoration),and he claims that he has never thought so well.
He began his query because his friend asked him why her horse always rolled in the dirt in March. He felt that the spring rolling was instinctual, and this lead to his investigation of what might be in dirt that horses needed. Evidently increased nitric oxide can account for the perennial popularity of mud baths and saunas.
In the spirit of resisting nothing, this morning, I have used Ivory and sprayed. I have a peculiar taste in my mouth, a little salty metallic. We shall see. It takes ten hours to get a good colony going. I shall check with my shaman to see if it has any adverse effects on any of my bodies.
Photo note: Flowers at Mohonk. These fellas are about eight feet high, the flowers themselves four feet long. Although I have not seen any microscopic views of the nitric oxide producing bacteria, they could look something like this, don't you think?
This is the tower in the gardens from which some of these shots were taken. Like most of the structures on the grounds, it is completely adorable, rustic, vine covered and photogenic. Those Victorians certainly had an eye.
With all the complaining and folderol , regarding transport, weddings and angels, I have, as I often do, left to last, the most breathtaking visual part of my excursion. The setting for this wonderful birthday party was the Mohonk Mountain House , an idyllic, historic retreat, garden and conservation area, built by Quaker conservationist twins, Albert and Alfred Smiley in 1869. The Smiley family has fulfilled the trust of the twins and preserved the building, traditions and grounds beautifully. I had a chat with an employee who had been there for a quarter century, who fears that, with the advent of the new fitness center and indoor pool, a less high-minded crowd will be attracted, and the sacredness of the place will be compromised. But maintainance costs are surely monumental - the greenhouse alone employs twenty - so yuppify it probably must.
Although staying over is quite a luxury, one can obtain a day pass, and enjoy the grounds, the trails, the outdoor picnic lunch, the restaurant, the view and the breezy porches for the day, which is what we did. It's in New Paltz , so if one were gay and wanted to get married, one could have probably done that too, before the mayor was ordered to stop .
Photo note: This is the back side of the place, taken from a cute little tower in the gardens. Photographers have been swarming around this place for more than a century, but this is my version, with a few to follow.
Krista Smith founder of Visible Theater married Michael Quattrone in the New York Times featured wedding this week. The inside story is that she unknowingly struck it rich by loving him for all the right reasons, and he found the girl of his dreams without having to worry that she was only after him for his money. He is a Rockefeller. She is a trooper, a camper, a tequila and tea drinker, a reader and movie fan with a psychic cat and zen tendencies. A girl after our own hearts, in spite of the fact that she is a knockout.
Suggestion to other multimillionaires who are wondering whether a woman is attracted to you or your money; take a poor paying, but artistically gratifying job in a place that is swarming with beautiful women and see who falls in love with the real you. Michael seems like a good guy since his trusted chauffeur, who buckled him into his carseat as a baby, was a groomsman in his wedding. He seems to be a supporter of Web Sites That Suck". as well, though I can't be sure.
Krista's family and friends are entirely missing from the article, though someone gorgeous, who looks like she might be Krista's sister, is seen tossing something large and white, underhand as you would a frisbee, at the bride, who is pictured emerging from a church filled with stained windows by Paul Chagall, donated by the Rockefellers. The absence of the bride's family is probably because Lois Smith Brady was so taken with the spectacular surroundings and lavish wedding gifts from the groom's side, like a carriage house in a great zip code from her mother-in-law.
The bride, if we read carefully, is ten years older than the groom , who didn't think he had a snowball's chance in hell with her, she was so stunning. This is quite an age difference, especially at 27 and 37, but everybody's doing it . If one is cynical, one wonders about the groom's attachment to his mother . Due to the lavish wedding present, the newlyweds will, no doubt, be living in her neighborhood.
In any case Visible Theater, a most worthy project, will have received a big shot in the arm financially.
Elsewhere in the Section: Peter Stamberg and Paul Aferiat of Stamberg Aferiat Architecture are pictured in their fishing hats and country striped/checkered shirts, (you just know that the colors are primary and joyful) a real attention grabber. However, cynicism again, it left me wondering if one or both are bald.
Commentary on the Section that makes me want to stop writing about it; but I can't help myself and besides I have been taking so many "weddingy" photos that I have enough to last until 2008.
I am watching a scene from the soundless movie on the Limoliner on my way home. An attractive young couple are squashed in the bathroom of an airplane where she has her foot stuck in the toilet. He is trying to extract her. The matronly flight attendant is banging angrily on the door. I was attentive to my duties, again, and passed up the earphones, even though any fancy blogging is nearly impossible with the bumping. I just lost two paragraphs because of hitting an important button while jiggling involuntarily.
Adding to my list of dissatisfactions, I could not extract the Wedding of Krista Smith and Michael Quattrone from the New York Times website, even though I "registered". I just wasted an hour trying. Perhaps they knew that someone from my phoney zip could not be a manual laborer.
It was a complete nightmare getting through the Puerto Rican Day Parade on 5th Avenue to the rendevous with the Limoliner on 6th Avenue. My Sikh taxi driver, turban replaced by baseball cap for safety purposes, (he is voting for George W. because he has brought peace to the Punjab -- I tried to point out that W. hasn't done so well elsewhere) (actually it's a comfort to know that W. has brought peace to somewhere), dropped me off with my backpack, huge suitcase , salad, camera and computer in a spot that he thought was two blocks away from my destination. It was two blocks and one Puerto Rican Parade away. I ended up walking twelve blocks, heavily laden, on my planar flexed forefeet , around the mess through a rather rowdy crowd, just making the LL by five minutes.
On the way, I when I tried to clarify directions with one of New York City's < href="http://www.nationalreview.com/comment/comment061600b.html">finest , and she rudely assaulted me in the abdomen with her Evian bottle. Bitch. I wish I had had the presence of mind to get her ID. I do have her location (50th between Madison and Park, in case anyone in authority at the NYPD is reading). I hadn't a free hand to write it down anyway. I might have taken her picture, but it could have served to stimulate further viscious behaviors.
Aside: Yesterday at lunch a business card fell out of the menu. I kept it. It belongs to Officer Bennie Barreiro of the Grand Larceny Unit of the NYPD. On the back are numbers for Sgt. Caggiano and Officer Garbutt. It includes his cellie, too. If you need it, let me know. I thought of flashing it, but I couldn't get close enough to anyone stopping traffic to use it.
When I boarded the bus, and called the Birthday Girl for a little sympathy, the man in front of me turned around and told me to be quiet, because "our captain" was speaking. The fucker is lucky he didn't get my snack banana jammed into his internet connection.
Esther Hicks will be very disappointed with me this evening. It's best to keep in mind that I have just sublimated this experience into a creative endeavor, though not one without obscenity.
Photo note: This isn't a very good technical photo, but too good to pass up. It actually isn't the guy that turned around either, but it gives you a flavor of the interior of the Limoliner, just in case you were wondering. The flower was definitely the best part.
So far, I am not enjoying myself as much as I expected to here on the Limoliner. We are running an hour late after detouring through the City of Hartford to avoid a jam on the highway. I didn't consider the traffic of a Friday afternoon. Given that, the train is a better alternative.
In addition, the first run movie was a Minnie Driver. I did not succumb to the distraction, but the second feature, playing now, has a preponderence of hockey scenes. If I had been depending on the film for entertainment, I would not be entertained. Fortunately, I have recently become adept at entertaining myself.
The refreshments compare positively to airline-snack, but rather poorly to food. They include a challengingly chewy half turkey wrap, chips and a real banana (I'm the only human on earth allergic to bananas). If you are in the mood for cocktails, you will have to bring your own , and spike your soft drink of choice, available in quantity.
The leg room is fine, but the lap room disappeared as soon as my traveling companion in front lowered the back of his seat into my bosom. If I pull my laptop up under my chin, I can have access to the entire keyboard and still see the screen. It is probably not erogonomic .
For the blogger, even though the wireless connection is "excellent" to quote my machine, and there is a handy electrical outlet at every seat, the possibility of using a laptop for anything other than reading is poor. The severity of the bumping makes clicking somewhat like threading a needle while standing naked in the snow . Aiming for something as small as a typo is nearly impossible because of the shiver. Forget a task as delicately complex as posting a photo, or placing a strategic clickie.
Photo note: the flower
We have been having a state funeral all week. You would think this was a surprise; that we hadn't been expecting ithe death of the great communicator for several years. Let it be said that Ronald Reagan has died like a Queen. It's almost as good as a hurricane for the media, who are being played like a fiddles at a square dance, milked like cows (don't you love my benign Midwestern metaphors) by the current administration. The week long bi coastal extravaganza has provided a lavish distraction to the many major messes that Group that runs George W. has made here and abroad. And just as W. hired a lawyer too. Sadly it seems to be working--hordes waiting all night in line to touch the flag on his coffin, without a clue what they are worshipping. The administration is hustling to stand under the big black umbrella.
The group that runs George W has pumped this to the maximum,and the media, as usual goes right along for the hayride.
A letter to the editor of the Boston Globe printed in its entirety so you won't hav to subscribe.
Deeper meaning to our grief
I AM NO psychologist, but I suspect the overwhelming outpouring of grief over the death of Ronald Reagan has little to do with the man's passing. After all, we had to be prepared for this moment, perhaps even hopeful considering his condition. We appear to be in the middle of a week-long tsunami of media coverage and mourning on both coasts that might rival the passing of Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Kennedy combined.
I don't want to open an ideological Pandora's Box, but we may be placing the Gipper in the wrong company here.
I don't question the sincerity of the grief; it is heartfelt and deserving. What I think is that we are, on some deeper level, mourning the loss of the America Reagan lived in his personal mythology and revived and articulated so well for so many.
Reagan glorified an America whose wisdom, courage, and decency could withstand the ravages of the Great Depression and rise up to challenge the barbarity of Nazism, a nation that could call on its young to defend the principles of freedom and justice upon which we were founded, a generation willing to give up their limbs and lives at Omaha Beach and the Bulge and Tarawa.
After spending the last week seeing the images and reading the accounts of now old men who sacrificed their youth at Normandy for an enduring principle, the very essence of Americanism, the sad reality of America's current place in the world is just below the surface of our grieving countrymen. That within a mere 60 years the world has seen the courage and moral leadership of FDR, Eisenhower, Kennedy, and, yes, Reagan, wither to the level of a George W. Bush is a stunning and embarrassing realization.
There is much to mourn in America today, but it has little to do with Ronald Reagan.
THOMAS GOTSILL Yarmouthport
This story ran on page A18 of the Boston Globe on 6/10/2004.
© Copyright 2003 Globe Newspaper Company.
Let us hope that his shining influence will persuade The Group that stem cell research is not the tool of the devil, but the legacy of the Gip.
I'm posting this incompletely, because it will be very stale by the time I get to a computer I can manage.
Photo note: You've seen this before, but I'm a desperate woman
I am taking the Limoliner to the big city to celebrate the 60th birthday of one of my oldest, and dearest friends. We roomed together in college where she sang and danced, while I painted tassels and marble pillars on big canvas drops, and got my fingernails dirty. As you can see, we share a rich intellectual tradition. We have been through summer stock, boyfriends, books, apartments, goldfish, graduate school, elopements, husbands, mothers, fathers, deaths, Alzheimer's (not our own, thank heavens), divorces, labor and delivery, babies, hyperactivity, books, teenagers, body piercings, school refusals, books, mercury poisoning, college applications and spiritual experimentation together, in sickness and in health. It has indeed been a journey to celebrate.
So I won't be around for the weekend, but check in because the Limoliner has an internet connection, so that I can blog to my heart's content, that is if I skip the snack and the first run movie.
Photo note: Notification of a kind.
on the sumac
in the morning
on a day
in the spring
at the beach
I have noticed that one of the big problems with getting old is that favorite consumable items are discontinued. Yesterday I went to a stationary store--one of two left in this world, sadly. I stopped in to buy a load of my favorite felt point pens Espresso Fine Points, which are, of course, not carried by the Giants . The Espresso Company has been purchased by Sanford. I was told that my model had been discontinued because the ink faded in the sun. Okay. The only Espressos left were red and green, which were just not what I had in mind; those colors don't show up on my favorite neon post-its. Anyway, the clerk (there are clerks in independent stores, usually somewhere within twenty feet of where you are formulating your question), commiserated with me-- Espressos were his fave too -- and showed me the replacement model. The pen point was fine, but the body of the pen, oh my. It felt like one of those special handles for people who have arthritis and cannot fully close their fingers. Bulky beyond belief. Who is designing these things? Perhaps they thought we Espresso Afficionatos were aging, and they'd help us out. Did I mention that the dignified, simple black case was replaced by silver and Fonzi pinstripes .
Things I can't get anymore:
. Espresso Fine Point Felt Tip Pens
. Rainbath , Neutrogena dry oil spray (guess what, I found it on the net!)
. Brown bath mats (I've been waiting for ten years, and I'm desperate)
. Taster's Choice French Roast Instant Coffee - excellent for iced coffee -gone
. Norma Kamali face tint
I just have to have the faith that something better will come along, OR that if I use my virtual resources, I will find it.
. Revlon blush in tawny peach
. Tangee Natural Lipstick (It used to be 50 cents at the dime store , affordable, and our mothers would let us wear it in sixth grade, pre Britney Spears )
. wooden stalked Q tips
. sunny yellow bath mats (thank you Calvin Klein)
Photo note: This is to remind us (me) of what's really important, apologies for an unforgivable fact dump.
The movie "Supersize Me" is about consciousness. In this case, the object of focused attention is fast food. Morgan Spurlock , the protagonist/producer eats exclusively at McDonald's for a month, and maintains his consciousness (and ours) throughout by hiring a cadre of doctors (he thanks his ex wife's health insurance company in the credits for paying all the medical bills - three MDs, 600 tests) and physical fitness experts to measure his slow demise at regular intervals. His girlfriend, a vegan chef (!), reports on his diminished sexual prowess, and he regularly reports on his mood, which doesn't improve. It's hard to keep up your spirits when you are being told that your liver might be cirrhotic before you finish filming your deadly diet.
Meanwhile, in his deteriorating condition, Spurlock travels the US talking to lawyers, lobbiests, fast food afficionatos, school lunch ladies, and first graders (who recognized R. McD.'s photo better than that of George W or Jesus... little comfort), and taking shots of gastric bypass surgery (not for the feint of heart, attached fat is even more unattractive without skin) and big bellies.
There are fabulous animations to illustrate statisitics and nutritional information .
It's hysterically funny, as the truth often is. Just like Michael Moore standing in front of a nuclear missle in a plant in Columbine, interviewing the puzzled CEO about why he thinks there is increased violence in high schools.
Comment by a loved one. "It was the first time I couldn't finish my popcorn at a movie."
Photo note: A housegift, perfectly chosen for yours truly. These little (2" long) piggies are sold by the pound (@$24.95) in Chinatown candy stores. They are filled with candies that have the texture of chewing tobacco and the slight flavor of spruce. Fabulous for dieters.
Oh how I loved this wedding. Linda Tobin, the program director for the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee remarried Stephen V. , Dr. Pepper , a research physicist. (We are told he is not amused by the similarity of his name to the soft drink. Actually, we can surmise that he is not at all a frivolous fellow. While you are exploring this clickie, go to "fun stuff" - "sounds", where you can download a slurp. I would have done so here, but I couldn't figure out how.)
A friend of the bride's for forty years commented, "It's that old male-female thing. She always wants to talk and he doesn't." Although they were "often angry at each other", they were both "committed to family life". But when the children left home things evidently fell apart. She moved to New York to take her current job.
They both dated and found the singles scene "bleak". At a single's workshop, Ms. Tobin (I don't think that Dr. P took any of these, but who knows, he seems to be a changed person) was asked to list the qualities she was seeking in a partner. Her list included honesty, dependability, intelligence and family values. "And then it hit her: that was Stephen"! (I think she omitted communicative and funny, but she may have wanted to stick to what is REALLY important).
In any case, Dr. P saw her when he came to New York to visit their son, who was staying with her and one thing must have lead to another. They started dating, and discovered a renewed appreciation for one another. Here's Dr. P's comment "There was nothing to lose. During marriage there is something to lose, so you tend to be guarded. But when we were dating, we could be fearlessly honest."
Dr. P. sounds like he suffers from "Male Relational Dread". Dr. Stephen Bergman , alias Samuel Shem . gave this example in a gender relations seminar, I once attended. A man and a woman are relaxing on the beach together. He is having a very nice time. She spoils what would have been a wonderful day by saying. "What do you think about our relationship?" He panics. Oh God, he knows has to say something, but he also knows he can get himself into terrible trouble with the woman if he says the wrong thing, so he says as little as possible. This strategy either enrages her, or leads to more dreaded questions. Sound familiar? Hopefully Dr. P has moved past this obstacle. Ms. Tobin moved back to Ohio to be with him. They have both made some sacrifices to reenter the relationship.
Ostensibly they are now hiking, biking, going to jazz concerts and discussing their feelings. The children report feeling "shocked", but nicely so.
They are pictured on a bicycle rickshaw circling Central Park, on their way from the ceremony at Tavern on the Green to their hotel, holding a lapful of flowers.
Elsewhere in the Section : Jennifer Delmhorst and Peter Stoltzfus had a great idea. Instead of hyphenating and adding little Delmhorst-Stoltzfusses to the roster, they both changed their name to Berton, after her paternal grandfather.
Bravo! Little McPherson and Belinda thank you prenatally.
Photo note: I thought the wisteria quite bridal
I know that the owner's sister, Margaret O'Toole, a post doctoral researcher at MIT, was the whistle blower in the "The Outbreak"
"Was the paper indeed bogus? Feder and Stewart looked into it as well as they could with the limited evidence available. (Stewart is the chief detective of the pair, Feder the diplomat.) The original whistleblower was not Maplethorpe but Margot O'Toole, who had worked with Thereza Imanishi-Kari , a co-author of the Weaver et al. paper. O'Toole had been trying to perform an experiment that followed up on the Weaver et al. paper. The experiment refused to work. A falling out ensued, and Imanishi-Kari exiled O'Toole to mouse breeding. Among the mousebreeding records were 17 pages of data, including some on a reagent called BET 1. In Weaver et al. BET 1 distinguished clearly between two particular sorts of antibodies. In the 17 pages it did not.
"If BET 1 behaved as the 17 pages showed, O'Toole realized, the failure of her own experiments was explained -- and the Weaver et al. paper was certainly wrong and possibly a fraud. She took her questions to Henry Wortis, who had supervised her Ph. D. work at Tufts University, where Imanishi-Kari was slated to go, and to the authorities at MIT. At MIT ombudsperson Mary Rowe told O'Toole that if she wrote up her complaints she would receive a written response to them. But then David Baltimore entered the fight in support of Imanishi-Kari and this assurance evaporated.
At both MIT and Tufts investigations found things wrong with the paper but said that no correction need be published.
And there O'Toole, recognizing the power arrayed against her, let the matter rest. When her fellowship at MIT expired she went to work answering the telephone for her brother's moving company."
Terribly sad, and woefully unfair, but it certainly sounds like a more hospitable place to work. A girl could develop some great pecs too.
I have been in the throes of such hissy fits lately. I am trying to update my computer, get my laptop running, and backup my photos. Obstacles arise with every improvement. Opportunities for being triggered abound.
I have received extensive help from many, but I'm still back where I began, practically. I have locked up all of the baseball bats in the house, lest I use them destructively somewhere in my "network".
Last night, the beloved of a dear and close personal friend came far out of his way to assess my current system. He plugged in his own wireless router as an experiment. It allowed me to see that, if it ever came to pass that I owned one personally, I would be able to use my laptop in my house. He hid his shock over the primative condition of my setup, and made recommendations. Poor guy, didn't leave until very late, and his sweet puppy was waiting for him in the car the whole time. If only I had known.
He helped me to restore my ability to download photos from my camera after almost two weeks. I also found out, I think, what I might do, if I could find the right chord in the snake's nest under my desk, to restore my sound. However, after he left, when I went to google something, I couldn't connect to the internet. I slipped into the Black Hole of Calcutta for an hour or so trying to see what was broken. I was too upset to sleep. I finally tried rebooting my computer, which worked, but not before my Emotional Body was all in an uproar.
Photo note: as titled
Since Monday was a holiday, I have not seen my shaman since QiGong class. Today I told her about being triggered, and then she shared her wisdom with me.
She found that "my inner child" (who has been in the process of reentering my body, as I cough up old gunk, "dedensify") left the premises in humiliation and fear. Then my crown chakra, which is ALWAYS open, slammed shut. No wonder the fascial burning is back in spades.
She said that neither running energy, Inderol or clairgustiance would help in this case. Instead, I have to be reassuring to my "inner child", so that she will reenter my body, since she has been plastered on the ceiling ever since my experience in QiGong class.
Aside: In my opinion the "inner child" is a useful metaphor because it evokes compassion for unintegrated parts of the self, that one would rather not have. Visualizing these parts as small and frightened [as they were when they first appeared] helps, because, in the internal experience, they usually feel lean, mean and overwhelming. More like gremlins or ogres.
My shaman has said in the past that connection with my emotional body is not one of my strengths (to say the least). Guess where I was injured in this class? Not in the physical body, but in the emotional body. Daaa.
She made me promise to withdraw from QiGong, because I am not ready for such fancy footwork and it is traumatizing to me. She never makes me promise anything like this, in fact she's usually encouraging me to jump overboard, and damn the consequences. I think I'd better listen.
As I was actually reading a clickie about the Emotional Body, Sri Auribindo's name popped up. Sri Auribindo is one of Elmer Green's teachers. I think that Elmer Green must have been raised as a theosophist of sorts, but he never really says that outright in "The Ozawkie Book of the Dead", the story of his life, as well as his wife's Alzheimer's. Those theosophists keep popping up.
Photo note: No wonder I have been feeling blue and prickley.
Photo note: This is what my chi looks like when it's concretized.
I had a mini meltdown in my QiGong class on Friday. There were only two of us. One of us was absent due to energetic overload, and we seem to have inadvertantly driven away our Belgian documentary filmmaker. It was also cold and rainy, and we practice outdoors. Just as well, as my tears were masked by the drizzle.
Well, I was fine when only one hand was required. It was after the instruction to add the other hand, and move it in conjuction with the first hand, that I noticed that I could not really hear our master's verbal instructions. Then I realized that I couldn't do the coordinated hand movement for more than one round, and I began to feel a bit frantic. I was embarassed by my inability to follow instructions, any way they were given, save having the master actually move my arms for me. However, I dutifully continued - hands flailing, fascia seizing. The burning began across my shoulders and up into my neck. I knew it was here for the weekend. This is an
old feeling , indeed.
I was triggered, my amygdala took over and I couldn't continue to hold back the tears. More enchantingly, my nose began to run and I had to leave the line to get a kleenex. I felt completely hopeless and ashamed. Knowing that it was old stuff, was absolutely useless.
I realize that I usually avoid placing myself in situations where I am required to learn something kinesthetically - actually, not just kinethetically, learn something, in general. I have that same frantic feeling around the computer, when I can't understand a command. Usually I then begin to push buttons rapidly, randomly, which complicates the original situation immeasurably. I am trying to become aware of that impulse, so that I can stop acting on it. It really doesn't do for a blogger.
I read somewhere that people with learning disabilities lose their sense of self when they bump into the learning glitch(es) in their brains, especially if they are ordinarily, perfectly smart. That is why their learning styles tend to be rigid. They develop ways to avoid these unpleasant experiences. Sound like someone you know?
QiGong is much too complicated for my current level of functioning. I need to take baby steps with my movement problem. Think I will try Integrated Awareness" as a more beginning step, before I cripple myself entirely.
The other QiGongette, sweet, advanced soul that she is, knew immediately what was happening and spoke words of soothing and encouragement to me throughout my collapse. After class she "ran a little energy". This is the same energy that allowed me to stop pain medication a day after my appendectomy, mind you - major surgery. The muscles and fascia in my shoulders were impenetrable.
Old stuck energy can really hurt. After three days, TuiNa, much contemplation and sixty miles on my bike, the screaming in my shoulders is a bit better. I haven't practiced though.
Photo note: The Buddha meets the Rock. This is another piece from the rock arranger above Heaven.
Well, finally. You've been very patient - it's actually Wednesday. Featured this week was the renewal-of-vows ceremony between Kirk Douglas and Anne Douglas . They have been married for fifty years, Since they had had a "hurried affair" in Vegas the first time (due to the filming of "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea", not a bun in the oven ), they decided to do it up big for the vow renewal. Three hundred guests. Kirk said that he didn't realize that they had so many friends. I wonder how many were old lovers? Lauren Bacall, impressively in attendence at both ceremonies, fifty years apart, thinks they deserve a medal.
Although it isn't evident from the announcement, the Douglas' seem to have been on a spiritual journey together . Starting with a heart scare, Kirk was brought to attention abruptly by his stroke five years ago, in which he temporarily lost his speech. Guided by the angel, Anne, who has always been involved in charitable activities, he began to examine himself more carefully, face his narcissism, and wonder about his true purpose. When they sold their impressionist art collection several years ago, they were able to become major philanthropists. Among other projects, they have built playgrounds throughout Los Angeles, believing that playgrounds help children develop social skills and allow them to experience the democratic process in action as well as the fresh air. (I guess bullying is often a problem, on every level, in the democratic process)
It seems that Anne was able to use Kirk's multiple infidelities as tools for differentiation . This takes alot of practice.
Evidence from the clickie, in case you missed it.
"Both [Kirk and Anne] survived his infidelities with Joan Crawford, Gene Tierney, Rita Hayworth, Marlene Dietrich and others." [Talk about threatening competition.]
On Infidelities: Anne: "I had no illusions about that. But I told him, 'Look. I'll understand a lot of things if you tell me. But if I hear it from others and it has happened, that would hurt me very badly.'"
Kirk: "I think I was most to blame for our problems, because I hid behind the mind-set of 'I am an artist, an artist!'"
What attracted Kirk to Anne? Kirk: "Her vicious sense of humor. The surprise birthday party she threw for me that year in Paris when she invited every girl I'd gone out with there." What attracted him to other women, according to Douglas in his autobiography, "The Ragman's Son" , an overbite.
Kirk is 87. As part of his awakening, he has reconnected with his Jewish roots. Anne actually converted to Judaism for vow renewal purposes. Kirk, who was unable to crush the traditional wedding glass with his foot, due to physical limitations , "attacked it" with his cane, and accomplished the task quite nicely.
Elsewhere in the Section: Not one same-sex marriage. Guess if you were going to do it, you did it last week, or picked a week in the future when your guests had not been to three weddings the week before. There were more than the usual cross-cultural/transracial matches, but that has been a growing trend .
A clarinetist with the Brooklyn Brooklyn Conservatory CommunityOrchestra married the owner of The Brooklyn Bagel Company (this one is actually in Brooklyn, there seem to be hundreds everywhere else) and the Brooklyn Pie Company, a distributor of Mrs. Smith's pies . He first encountered her at a stoop sale in 2001. He later seduced her, by lavishing attention on her beloved cocker spaniel, Bubba, who was tied outside of a store in their mutual neighborhood. Here's the touchingly romantic part. He kept his allergy to dogs a secret from her for two years, dosing himself with medication , until Bubba went to doggie heaven . It must have been tough to play the clarinet all those years with a dry mouth .
Photo note: Bleeding hearts, a view from above.