friends

friends

cat mornings, friendship, orange

Posted on by littleREDelf

Sometimes, I don’t like getting up in the morning. Correction. I do NOT get up in the morning, I rise in the early afternoon. Morning for me is 10am to 11am. Anything prior to that and I am either sleeping, or some kind soul is cooking up a mean breakfast in the kitchen that has roused me and my hunger. Or—if especially cunning . . . someone has appealed to my joy of cooking nature by conjuring act, seduction, or sweetness and I am making a tall stack of pancakes, towering like fluffy beige clouds.

Pixel and Odin have taken to waking me up the morning now at 8am, like clockwork every day. But let me back up first. When we all go to bed at night, Pixel curled up in between Brooks’ legs and I, resting on the crook of his arm as he reads and i listen to my iPod, Odin curls around the top of my head, his paws kneading my head and ponytail softly, purring, making my pillow a delight to lay on (though he can be a little hog) and all is pleasant and right with the world. We fall asleep like this, the four of us.

Then I wake up to different creatures in the morning.

First with Pixel scratching at the towering pile of books on Brooks’ nitestand, pulling them down with intermittent ruffle-thumps, while Odin dives under the blanket to get a better bite on our toes. Then Pixel takes to my side of the bed, leaps up onto my nightstand and sits directly on my alarm clock, tap-dancing on buttons until the correct one turns on my radio and it blares the morning music, which means I have to re-set my alarm clock. If this proves to be ineffectual, a crashing sound comes when he returns a few minutes later and pushes the alarm clock off the back of the nightstand. Meanwhile Odin is soft-paw scratching at the back of my bare arm which lies exposed outside of the blanket. If this doesn’t rouse me, it’s straight for the aerial tactics – he pounces directly onto my face and lands with both paws onto my closed eyelids, for added effect.

Sometimes I flail and yell a bit. More often than not, Icurse about interrupted sleep and the general nastiness of all things kitty. Occasionally cats fly like Peter Pan out the bedroom door get slammed out. This doesn’t deter them for long . . . the loft space above us is open and so they dangle from our closet and peek around from above and over the bed. Then the howling starts and paper chewing for the silly person who left bills or magazines or instruction manuals or cardboard boxes out—anywhere. Desperate measures call for cat sky-diving which will really scare the shit out of you, four eagle-talon spread claw-foots coming down to knock your wind clear out.

Then, whoever is more or less irritated, you HAVE TO get up and FEED THE CATS. And perhaps, if you are lucky, you can return to a couple more hours of blissful sleep until you have to be where you have to be.

But it was an especially nice night and a particularly eventful morning of cat acrobatics and i woke to some fresh yellow and white in the garden. Snow drops and some yellow crocus things. But they are calling for 5″ of snow late nite through mid-afternoon.

Spring is such a tawdry tease.

Well—that’s ok . . . some very nice things have been happening. Me and an old friend, Anne-Marie have reconnected and I am so glad to have her back.

When I lived in Detroit many years ago, had first met Brooks (online, which is yet another story) I also met Anne-Marie. It was a randomly created room called SSH (Stop Say Hello) on Yahoo! Chat, when that stuff was just getting started. She lived in Canada at the time and she was the first friend i met on the internet who i actually met in person. She drove a long way to see me so we could stomp around at some kitschy cool club in Detroit where the dance floor was like a train wreck—you didn’t necessarily like what you were seeing, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away either. Seems we played pool that nite, but my memory is such a blur from those days. Now that she has children and I am living on the coast, perhaps she can help fill those missing bits/years in.

death, dreams, friends, weather

icyclic

Posted on by littleREDelf

:::

“After all –
What were you really looking for?
and i wonder when will i learn.
Blue isn’t red everybody knows this
and i wonder when will i learn
Guess i was in Deeper than
i thought i was if i have enough love
for the both of us . . . ”

Strange by Tori Amos

:::

the snow is almost completely melted,
but the air conditioner nearly died with
frozen lungs – coils, weeping down the wall.
i woke from nitemares of her, hot tears
on my cheek this morning, icicles dripping
from the rooftops, pattering, the feet of
following cats, behind, in front curling
like those mysterious numbers – unknown
unforeseen consequence, the heat of pain
melts the chill of fear.

an accomplished mathematician and a brilliant
physicist who saw sinister messages in Shakespearian
sonnets, visions of certain hell, doomed patterns and
curves in the language put him into his car, drove him
to a dark bridge where he jumped into the icy bay.
our tormented friend lifted the veil, saw Spring too soon
and wished to be reborn, the water carried him away.

something strange is out there in the frozen grass, the
grass that stands stock still straight up like inverted
exclamation points, silver punctuation – something up
there in the icicles pointing down, witchy accusatory
white-blue fingers, snapping off, truncated memories
touching my skin where it is neither welcome nor warm.

ice is strange – how it preserves what dies for food,
what dies to give new life, meat, red, chilled down to
blue – that something there, imbedded, i cannot dig it out,
not with claws, not until the spring thaws what is still
beneath, what is still inside – then i will be grateful for
the release and as i look outside, as the wooden planks
bloat, thirsty for water, showing their dark skin again,
and i walk safely, and the snowdrops bow their heads
in the garden and the snow is almost completely melted.

~ Andrea E. Janda

friends, weather, writing

let. me. clear. my. throat.

Posted on by littleREDelf

you know – i am not one to meow meow meow
and my even having to preface it now, you can fully
expect a little hissing, but more, i implore you:

tragic darling dears, get out of your beds,
off your couches, your haunches, your
hands and knees and for fuck’s sake PLEASE
point the camera out the bathroom, the window,
outdoors, out of self-respect, his, hers, mine
the worried cat and dog and yours
take into consideration that we’ve no need
to bear witness to your public bleeding
i have seen every configuration of stocking
stunt-cocking, macro of labial fold
(god DAMN that shit gets OLD . . .)
and your face pulled down into mask of despair
mascara, wings, and blood everywhere
and more tits than i could ever use.

Now, mind you, i like my dark days too,
and these things can be done in 32 flavors
and then some, but it won’t make me come
find you in your self-absorbed hip-o-drome
it’s just more i have to scroll past –
to find actual, breathing, human
photographs.

i believe you – you are real and so are
the rest of the enhanced blanched
oversaturated things you possibly feel
but i’d like to see more of your real life
pooled at your feet, than a pair of your
panties, your bathtub, the Xs & Os the
utter lack of prose and pause and thought
given to the extended forearm-as-tripod
still in the shot and those webcam eyes
so tenderly wrought.

i am not asking you to find/define your depths
i am not trying to damage your emotional
intelligence – i see the dress pattern you
are after, but i’m afraid you’ve dropped a stitch.
i will allow you the feline quality of female
i will ask you, however, to remove your ears
and that silly tail. There is NO pair of
breasts or handcuffs or shoes that will fix
what your expression
and vision
and your camera
will never do
in ultra-uncandid
clicks.

friends, pets, photography, writing

Mr. Miles – Eulogy for a Cat

Posted on by littleREDelf

Swing with Miles

November 28th, 2001 – October 29th, 2004

Miles, my beloved cat, was struck and killed by a car on a warm Friday evening. He was a snow-spotted Bengal, a mix of an Asian Leopard and domestic short-haired Egyptian Mau. Miles was an incredibly soft, most beautiful and unusual cat who insisted on going outside – there was no keeping him in . . . or lots of howling would ensue. He was most happy frolicking through the woods and returning home to sleep next to my belly, nap on my desk as i worked in the day time, and generally, bring me great joy and laughter with his wonderful personality and affection. He always came when I called him; he even said his own name. “Miles!” i would call, high-pitched so it sounded like “mile” and he would call back “reee-err ” in a tone that sounded precisely the way i did. He kept calling all the way up as he trotted closer to home.

Miles was named for a character (Miles Naismith Vorkosigan) a character from science-fiction writer, Lois McMaster Bujold. Like the character, my Miles was smallish but hyperactive and brilliant. A funny, feisty, handsome little hellraiser.

Miles was my 2002 New Year’s Day Present to myself. i made a lot of money the night before and it was going towards this new little friend i desperately needed, as i lived mostly alone and missed my other cat, Pixel. I had picked Miles out from a litter of all females who were gold-spotted before he was old enough to be separated from his mother. Miles was the only white kitten in the litter and he seemed shy at first, a little skittish and ghostly. When i brought him home with me on the 20th of January, he hid under the bed for a few days and eventually came around. Once he did, he had a magnificent personality, became very social and very sweet.

Miles traveled extremely well. He was a fantastic co-pilot, sleeping in my lap when we went for car rides or on the passenger seat when he became too large for my lap. People would smile and wave at him when he looked out the window and drive-thru service was always entertained by the calm cat in the seat where a person should be.

When *OmarcyMe and i lived together, her cat Azul and Miles were fast friends. They played together, ate together, slept together and grew very close. Once i took Miles to see Brooks and Pixel for the week and Azul was so distraught and angry he peed all over my mattress. As soon as Miles returned – the urination problem stopped. Miles went through his heat cycle before he got fixed while we lived there and you wouldn’t believe the racket such a small cat could make. He was always incredibly vocal.

Miles always made the funniest noises as a kitten. He had a terrific vocabulary and you often knew what he was doing or what he wanted when he said things. He would eat his food and be so pleased he would talk with his mouth full. Rowr rowr rowr! Mew mew rowr! Once i picked him up when he was eating and he made this growling sound and so I whispered “growl growl growl” in his ear. From then on when anyone picked him up and asked him to growl or if he was actually content, he would make that noise. He meant nothing mean by it at all. Once i accidentally stepped on him, and instead of hissing or yelping, he made this little spitting, explosive sound that sounded part stunted meow, part like someone throwing a water balloon against the wall. SPRAK! Sprak, (pronounced ‘rack’ with an ‘sp’) became the word for Miles’ irritation. As in: “Where’s Miles?” “Oh – he’s out in the living room spraking around.”

Miles was a very tactile kitty and we had many names for all the games we played. He liked to be held like a baby and have the top of his head scratched in such a way that my fingers were like a little rake against his head. We called it “brain tickle.” We played a game where i’d point at him and he’d come up and rub his nose against my finger. This was called “noser noser noser.” When he’d rub against me i’d call him Mr. Nice and say “mmmmmmm.” * OmarcyMe taught him to crawl under the covers and get warm and snuggle in. Miles still nudged me in the morning, even after *OmarcyMe and i no longer lived together. i would lift the blankets up like a tent, tell him to “get into the cave” and he would crawl in and turn around, becoming a “purr-monster.”

Miles went by a few names of endearment: Mile, Mr. Miles, Tiny, Tiny Stench, Mr. Stink, Baby Kitty, Kittyhead, and he answered to all of them. i am deeply saddened that i will not be able to call out any of those names and have my dear cat answer.

When Brooks and i settled in for the night, Pixel always lay at his feet and Miles at mine. i will miss that little bit of habit and synchronicity, as i will miss seeing Miles’ little head show up late at night meowing silently at me from the outside of our front door glass, waiting to be let in. i will miss my little study buddy perched atop my office desk at home on a little grey blanket, covered in shimmery white fur; a place i had to create, moving two printers apart so he had somewhere to sleep and be near me. This was called “the spot,” and when Miles sat directly in front of the monitor, i would tell him, “get in your spot, Miles,” and he would jump up and lay down there, his tail hanging over the side sometimes. He would crawl up the wooden staircase to our loft and sit on the door ledge just over my closet, nearest to my side of the bed, looking over me as i fell asleep or was just waking up, high up surveying the area and me looking at his little silhouette. i will miss that small, pale silhouette.

i am thankful that Brooks’ brother, Jesse found Miles. He was just up the road from our mailbox, looking like he was heading to run out into the field to play. It would break my heart to NOT know where my cat was; hurt, stolen, suffering, lost, never to be recovered and having to bear that uncertain pain every day. Miles didn’t even look scathed: nothing broken, nothing inside turned outside, just his mouth, a little blood. Smaller, colder, heavier somehow. He must’ve been dashed, almost missed, hit his head and suffered little, which i can also be grateful for.

i spent some time holding Miles, smelling the top of his sweet head, stroking his small, golden nose and pink ears before i chose a place for him. Miles was gently wrapped in silver velveteen, shimmering and soft as he was, and as a final labor of love, we dug a large deep place for him near the house where i can look over the deck and see where he is. i chose a medium size triangular stone – heart-shaped, like his face as a grave marker.

The loss of a pet is so immediate and sharp. i wanted Miles to grow old and silly and crotchety with me some, but it seems our time was deemed so very short, cut off really, nearly three years. Was that time purposeful? Was this some horrible accident that could’ve been avoided? Could i have kept him in and not let him slide out the door past me with my arms full, stop and collect him, put him back inside? Would he have missed that passing car? Would time and fate have allowed him to come home again? This is where we are now in the awful, hurtful, surreal, unfair real, and i cannot torture myself with the what-ifs and could’ve beens and all the alternate endings. He was taken from me by some terrible, stupid accident that i could not have foreseen or prevented. At first i thought the world has something to punish me with, what have i done, what lesson am i supposed to be learning? But i know the world doesn’t quite work that way. i was just as blindsided by his death as i’m certain he was.

Miles followed me, trusted me, loved me, and i would’ve done anything to protect, love and endear myself to that darling animal. He was adored and cared for, more than some other creatures who get destroyed will ever know and i must take those thoughts to my heart as solace. This kind of loss serves to remind us all how important it is to love all the people and creatures close to us. To keep your anger, fear and argument to a minimum so that you can appreciate the joy that is brought by caring for some small thing unconditionally who returns your love in its own measure.

i have been wrecked for days now. My eyes swollen, my body tense and aching. Sleeping in excess and eating in small amounts. Writing this has made me think on things that were/are beautiful about coming to know such a unique creature. i feel the absolute need to reflect, to acknowledge all those memories and to share them in pictures and words so i can remember Miles in the best way i know how. As family, as companion, and as best friend.

i appreciate those of you who take the time to read this, who have pets that are dear to you, who know and understand through my photos how very deeply i feel for all things small and sentient and who take these reflections to your own place and remember above all – it is vitally important to love and be loved in return, at all costs.

For even as i am cleaved open, with this deep wound, i become ready to receive and to love again.

rainy day blues

Goodbye, Mr. Miles

friends

Phoenix Rising

Posted on by littleREDelf

There are few things more precious than handmade cards, more endearing than hearfelt, honest words of encouragement and well-wishing, or more accurate than the thoughtful gift sent by a friend or lover who truly understands your taste & style and shows attentive interest in the things that interest you.

Dominique, sent me a print of my most favorite and famously representative red elfin female – “Ember – The Fire Sprite ” by Ruth Thompson. Matted.

and . . . SIGNED, by the artist, to ME!

She also sent a hilarious card that brought the realm of friendship down to earth (yes, we must go to that place some day, plenty of beers and people for ridicule)

But it was the deeply buried card that i almost overlooked that struck something in me. A handwritten card with red & blue-accented artful text, well-placed stamps and a quote from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman that made me think of the places i’ve been. The strange and personal suffering i’ve felt. The quiet undertow of sadness that at times, burst and burned full to misplaced anger.

Only the Phoenix arises and does not descend,
And everything changes. And nothing is truly lost

Of course, we all know the myth of the Phoenix well . . . it represents eternal life, grace, beauty, good luck, the Empress, female energy, and the southern direction. Dominique, hailing from Georgia and bringing all this goodness and light to me, you are an Empress of the highest order from the southern direction.

And you have reminded me that i am loved, respected, thought of, supported, believed in, and a friend – in all this spirit, despite having never met in the flesh.

“Life’s like an hourglass glued to the table,” says folk singer Anna Nalick and “endurance makes one divine,” says the wisdom of death-metal band Morbid Angel. And i have to deeply agree with both . . .

For as the Phoenix, though we are not immortal, we endure a cycle of self-immolation and resurrection, tiny tragedies, minor catastrophies, and sometimes – major hurt, heartache & loss and the sand keeps slipping. All of it is a burning, and from our own ashes we are able to emerge in a new flame, a new life spread out before us, bearing feathers of red and gold.

dreams, family, friends, gardening, travel

Calendula

Posted on by littleREDelf

Calendula comes from the Latin “calends” meaning “throughout the months” and became the English “calendar.” The calendula is also the word for marigold as it typically blossoms according to the calendar, either once a month or at the new moon. And it has been many months and plenty of moons since i have been back where i came from.

Bittersweet should be a description reserved for terrible confectionaries, and not the visit home. 4 days since i’ve returned from Detroit . . . such a strange thing it is to go back there now. It was once thought that placing garlands of calendula or marigold under a bed would cause the sleeping person to have prophetic dreams, but the dreams refuse to visit me in the old bed now. The house – a museum, a shrine to a deceased mother/grandmother, a storage facility for nest padding. Life in concentric, obligatory circles of work, sleep, shopping, sustenance. My mother is still deeply depressed and heartbroken over the loss of her mother more than a year ago and it really destroys me to see her like that.

My youngest sister is 12 now, 13 in December and is a masterful soccer player, a beautiful girl, and wildly sarcastic. She still thinks that strapping down her developing breasts in a sports bra built like a duct tape prison is a workable solution to putting off womanhood. Good grief – then she’ll menstruate and it will be Judy Blume all over again. She is a thoughtful, occasionally reserved girl, but quick-witted and i think, surely, a survivor type.

They told Jimmy when he was 17 he had third stage Hodgkins Lymphoma and that he would never father children after chemotherapy and radiation. He dated my sister and lived with us for a year while we were all in high school. Had his sperm samples frozen, met some not so nice girl Rhonda and now, he is expecting his second child . . . without the help of his cryogenic progeny. His voice has changed from too much cigarette smoke and his face is as weathered as the carpenter’s belt he wears at his too slender waist. Is he cured? Possibly. Is he happy? You can’t tell from his smartass tales of drinking and sex 12 times a year when he gets horny and his wife will permit. Stories of falling off roofs and friends who drank themselves to death. A kiss on the cheek before and after and he is out the door. The same whirlwind of strange energy as he ever was. Not even cancer slowed him or toned him down any.

Travis dropped by. His wife going back to grad school, possibly here in DC or Maryland. Is she pregnant too did he say? Either way, she called looking for him. He politely ate the baked brie i made even though he already had dinner and beer. He just lost his father a week or so back. Says i haven’t changed a bit, still deeply sarcastic, but in a nice way – just as he remembered.

I learned one of our friends recently drove himself to a funeral home and shot himself. Perhaps out of convenience or practicality. Perhaps he saw that episode of Six Feet Under. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity to see if he could really go through with it and what they would say in the papers. Not that he would know in any event when the light went out. They found him on a Monday morning.

On the way out of town i ran into Katrice’s mother in front of the liquor store. Her husband, the locally celebrated and revered fire chief (and drunk known to grope you at the fireman’s ball) dropped dead of a heart attack while he was quite young. Barb had Katrice’s son in tow who looked up at me and smiled mischievously. i only knew about her first daughter who had multiple surgeries and illnesses in her infancy. Katrice had to leave the father – he was actually what we call, no joke, a crack addict. She finally decided it was time after he sold the vacuum cleaner.

Michigan’s death rates continue on a downward trend – more every year than live births from what I’ve learned. Alcohol and drug addiction is high and Governor Jennifer M. Granholm has declared September as Michigan Alcohol and Drug Addiction Recovery Month. Depression and suicide rates are high. There are health advisories against eating some of the wild game and fish in certain areas due to environmental pollutants. Factory wokers fall out from poor work conditions and accidents. And don’t get me started on obesity . . .

i wondered as Zoey and I drove and made pit stops at rest areas for food and fuel – where do these people LIVE that work in these places? I cannot imagine driving from some outlying area to see the daily influx of road stragglers: tired, irritable, hungry, perhaps unshowered. (Pardon the sweeping judgmental stereotypical guess) but if some of them weren’t so simple, they’d probably be amazingly accomplished writers. There must be so much to tell about seeing so many different people and never having to travel far yourself to see them.

It was after midnite on one stretch of the trip. We saw a sign for a rest area that included Starbuck’s, Cinnabon, Sbarro (pizza/pasta) and McDonald’s. Well – all or some of that sounded good to us both – save the golden arches. Of course, we arrive and ALL of it is closed EXCEPT for McDeath.

“Welcome to McDonald’s, can I help you?”

“Do you know of any restaurants in the area that are open?” i politely asked the smiling, rotund creature behind the counter.

“What’s wrong with Mickey D’s?” she asked earnestly, grinning wider.

“Hasn’t she seen the damn movie?” Zoey whispered to me as we walked away.

i was very proud of myself for NOT enumerating precisely all things that are indeed WRONG with Mickey fucking D’s. We grudgingly selected some snacks from the metal coffins that dispense garbage swaddled in plastic and drop them in a dump bin from corkscrewing silver pigtails. We selected Pringles and the ever popular road food – beef jerky, which we found to be tasty but unusually tough. So much that it misaligned our teeth and set our bite out of whack for a few hours. “Tiny sour gummy spider of death?” Zoey jiggled a sugar-coated purple and red sour candy spider at me and we tried to find the best way to eat it: leg by leg and belly treat to finish? Or fat round abdomen and legs last?

On the return trip, we stopped at some place where as always, the music is horrible enough to make you want to hang yourself in the LYSOL doused, Pepto-Bismol colored, “faux-citrus mingled with old urine” scented bathrooms. But what am I talking about – we actually busted out the Macarena on the way there to see if we could stomach it. This and some “Mmmm-Bop” from Hanson sent us into fits of laughter.

This particular rest stop had the oddest open room full of copper-colored mirrors reflecting from all four walls from the floor to the enormously vaulted ceiling. Everything looked rusted and sickly and you couldn’t tell where one room ended and another began. The girl behind the counter here announced everything that each person carried with them to the counter as she rang them up. Or rather – instead of asking if that would be all, she asked if that’s what they had, as if the items might be an optical illusion.

“Is that a cinnabon?”
“Is that a coke and bagel?”
“Is that a bottled water?”

We showed up and were asked, “is that a slice of pizza?” i had the mad urge to pet my pizza lovingly and reply in my best brit accent, “Why no, this is a tiny kitten, do you mind if i eat it here, then?” I told Zoey this and we had a good laugh and remarked how glad we were that we weren’t high and trapped in this room.

i brought her back a small orange and red marigold from a vase in the bathroom and instructed her to let it dry so we could pluck the crumpled blossom, which when pulled from the stem become the seeds themselves. This was something my mother showed me. We saved them at the end of the season – snipped off their crowning heads and put them away in envelopes as seedlings for the next season.

Despite all the deaths, all the emotional hardships, my mother’s garden is still the most impressive one on the block: wild, tall, almost overgrown, but in a beautiful way. Marigolds, petunias, morning glories, double impatients, miniature rose bushes, daisies (her favorite).

Despite its beautiful, sunny appearance, the marigold remains a mythological symbol of pain and sorrow, closing its petals daily when the sun goes down. It can be meant for joy or sadness when given as a gift and is a reminder of the acceptance of both.

It’s still drying on the dashboard of my car . . .

family, friends, holidays, nature

Independence

Posted on by littleREDelf

Independence (Noun): Freedom from control by outside agents or influence, self-reliance, self-governance.

Of course, i’m not a wild patriot, in fact – i’m currently embarrassed by the state of governmental affairs and the current administration is not particularly my favorite. But you see . . . living this close to D.C., i just don’t take a hard-line stance on political life or activism. And i never discuss politics or religion in polite company and certainly, never at the table. Besides – you never know the company you keep when you go running off at the mouth with your opinions.

We renamed sauerkraut “Liberty Cabbage” during WWII, had this spell of boycotting French wines and are so mad at French Fries in the local government cafeterias, i understand they call them “Freedom Fries.” We forget that France and its people were critical in winning our independence. LaFayette and Rochambault fought alongside Washington in the final days of the Revolutionary War, while Admiral DeGrasse’s fleet prevented Cornwallis from escaping from Yorktown. In 1778 France became the first nation to recognize the United States. It supplied us with uniforms, arms, and the credit with which we paid for them. The very symbol of our independence, the Statue of Liberty, was a gift of the French.

Interesting Etymology: “Independent” is composed of in- “un-, not” + dependent. “Dependent” comes from the Latin present participle “depend-ens” from dependere “to hang from, depend.” This verb contains de- “from” and pendere “to hang,” akin to Latin pondo “by weight” from which we borrowed “pound.” Pondere “to weigh, ponder” is the origin of this word. The English word “spin” comes from the same root, *(s)pen-, with an [s] that is sometimes there, sometimes not. The Old English word “spithra” was originally spinthra “spinner.” Today it is “spider.”

Here (and most everywhere) we have something called an American House Spider. A very self-reliant creature. Every nite it builds a large web (an amazing thing to watch) ending at the center where there is extra silk to suspend itself, waiting for its prey to be caught up and entangled. Then it throws some extra silk over the captures and eats the entire web, squirming dinner and all. It repeats this same show every nite. Females can live up to a year which is impressive for such a creature who hangs out under the eaves so close to houses filled with squalling humans.

Tonite Zoey, Brooks, Jesse, Hope, Dan, Dave & Amy and me cooked out. Barbeque chicken, cheeseburgers, baked beans, garden salad and lots of wine. Then set off some slightly illegal fireworks. i highly recommend watching fireworks while wearing holographic 3-D glasses. They make every light into a prism or a halo, even the dimming light of the sunset through the trees.

In my (red)neck of the woods, the reporting sound of gunfire can also be heard, competing with the sound of exploding fireworks. Odd that we should believe the perfect end to fighting a war and winning our freedom is to set more things on fire and fire off more weapons in the name of glory, but that’s us I suppose. Sometimes, i wish I had an eagle eye view of the whole affair. Most other times, i am glad for excellent company, warm nights, good food and glittering lights.

How was your red, white & blue?

friends, technology

30 who?

Posted on by littleREDelf

Today. i am 32. i don’t feel any different, i still think i look young. but this has been an extremely long week . . .

Zoey arrived here Sunday with her father, a Ryder truck and all of her belongings. she and Brooks and i have spent the week moving into our new house, with her living space in the loft, setting up the areas, drinking quite a good spell, watching movies, trying to adjust and relax which has been nearly impossible what with all the work and storage facilities and pianos to move and well . . . the rest of it as you can only imagine and would be a crashing bore to read.

last weekend i installed the best processor my motherboard would accept and upgraded my memory. i have 2 60GB harddrives: one with the OS on it and the other simply to store a series of drag and drop folders containing things such as documents, email, music, folders, programs, drivers, web site backups, etc. because i refreshed my speed, i decided to install a fresh, reformatted copy of XP. took the time to establish that the back up was done and the folders were intact. unplugged the backup drive so as not acccidentally overwrite it, reformatted, re-installed, plugged the drive back in, the BIOS saw them both but then – the drive wouldn’t access, it made a noise that sounded to me, not as catastrophic as a head crash, but more like a mechanical failure, like the arm couldn’t go across and read even though the disc was spinning, but perhaps not fast enough.

Well – i spent the whole night crying and flipping out, woke up with swollen eyes, skipped work and overnighted the drive to Drive Savers who are the best in the business in Data Recovery. i can only hope it’s all still intact and the estimate ($500-$2700) is based on the completeness and complexity. these guys take the plates apart in an anti-static lab environment and rebuild the data, transfer it to a new disc or burn it to the media of your choice (in my case DVDs.) these guys have dealt with discs that have endured fire damage, been tossed out car windows while encased in a laptop, submerged underwater, even shot. i can only hope mine is straighforward, uncorrupted retrieval.

losing that amount of important data is devastating. i feel like someone has erased 7 years of my life, or gave me a frontal lobotomy, or my house has burned down. the moral of the story is backup. keep a backup of your backup. and bakup your secondary backup to media that is not only different but stored elsewhere.

even so, there is also and exchange when things go wrong, things also go well in transition . . .

while some die, others are born and live . . . the Polyphemus moth’s egss that i wrote about previously have hatched. 20 egss, 18 caterpillars hatched, 5 now have survived to their second instar and are still eating and growing and dropping much frass (poop) i have also successfully mated two other species and contained their eggs and am waiting for them to hatch. soon i’ll have to build them a proper house for rearing as well.

today is my birthday, i have to go to work, my office is a tower of boxes around me, my moths are fluttering in a glass enclosure nearby, and i will let them go today since they have given me their gifts.

more sweetness to come later, but for now, i find myself green again, crawling the length of a leaf and eating slowly all Summer, waiting to spin some silk and to sleep in the Autumn.

friends, photography, travel

Universal Traveler

Posted on by littleREDelf

Zoey has landed in Maryland. On Monday April 26th, she and i plus 4 others take a plane to Puerto Rico, then a small puddle jumper to Beef Island and then a small ferry over to Tortola (a.k.a. Chocolate Island, this is how i sold her on the trip) .
We will be spending 8 glorious punk rock days (26th-4th) in the British Virgin Islands on a 41′ Beneteau, bareboat chartered sailboat we are crewing ourselves.

Seeing as how Zoey and i have Wonder Twin Power cameras, i’m certain we’ll come back with some spectacular images and wonderful memories.

more soon . . .

education, friends, photography, travel

almost done, and then . . .

Posted on by littleREDelf

finals are almost wrapped up
and then, presents receive
the same treatment.

my friend at work completed a real estate course
and wants me to take her picture for her business card.

another co-worker wants a family portrait or 2 done
he has new twin sons, a lovely wife and a charming Irish accent.
plus a filthy sense of humor like mine.
then there’s my girlfriend’s wedding in June . . .

humans – this is a new domain for me.
should be an expanding adventure.

This year has been an exhausting one,
It was time i stopped buying silly and worthless “things”
stopped talking about it and and simply took the time out to travel.

January 7th, i am going to AZ for a week to visit Zoey
and stomp around some deserts
and then in April (26th) through May 4th
she’ll be back this way.

Brooks (my man) and i chartered a boat,
he got his license and it will be me, him,
his brother Jesse, our friends Dave&Amy
and Zoey going to the British Virgin Islands.
Tortola – Chocolate Island.
I cannot WAIT to take pictures.

i am looking forward to quite a bit.
and you will probably see me
in fits and starts
and starbursts.