gimme some of that big-box religion

the nation of damanhur, part 4

drusilla — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 00:01:13 GMT

After the Temples of the Earth, the ear-ringingly extravagant bang-a-gong echo-concert, and the hyperchromatic and twinkly Atlantis night sky, we shuffle our blue-bootied selves down another catacomb-like corridor to The Hall of Metals. As we walk, I hear the imaginary ghost-rattles of rolling IV drip stands, and give myself a stern talking-to about my bad attitude, which is creating an awful lot of interference with my spiritual receptivity. While not as colorfully dazzling as the Temples of the Earth, The Hall of Metals is also roiling with images of naked humans, serpents, frothing symbology, and other nifty stuff, it's just in color-coordinated earthtones. Out of the relentless froth of visual overload, two things draw my eye. The first is the set of eight stained glass windows in gothic arches, each featuring a face that depicts a stage of human development. Some of them are hyper-real; others look like cartoons. One looks like Brock, the Pokemon trainer. The eight disembodied heads, floating and staring blankly out from the middle of the Tiffany style glass, make me uneasy.... I don't know why. Anaconda Papaya explains some of the symbology used in the design to us: there are features relating to the period of human development, the atomic mass of certain metallic elements, the tarot, astrology, and even some messages in Secret Language. We're also informed that if we'd like, after we die, our ashes can be stored behind the stained glass window of our choosing... for a small endowment, I assume. I blink. Yes, this place is, in fact, a crypt. The second dominant artistic element is the parade of naked superheroes painted in sepia tones across the whitewashed walls. The Damanhurian Action Figures glare in fury at each other, and lunge and leap, fists at the ready. Anaconda explains that they are fighting off negative human traits, like pessimism, falsity, selfishness, egotism, and lack of awareness. I look closely at the grouping in front of me. Three villains are ganging up on a serene central figure. The naked thugs include a scowling, hyper-muscled Brooke Shields lookalike, sans Calvins, with cantaloupey DD breasts and eyebrows like Doctor Evil, a Ming the Merciless archetype sporting the de rigeur fu manchu, and a third dude who looks like a surfer with romance novel hair - let's call him Fabio Ripcurl. My brain jangles with early Batman fight scene music overlaid with Beach Boy harmonies, and I start to hear bits of dialoge from He-Man: (Fade in: Let's go surfin' now, everybody's learnin' how, come on a safari with me!....) Skeletor, Demon of Negativity: People of Damanhuria! I have been chosen by destiny and the Synchronic Powers of Greyskull, I mean Damanhur! Now, I, Skeletor, am Master of the Universe! YES! Yes... I feel it, the power... fills me. The universe is power! Real, unstoppable POWER! and I am that power! KNEEL BEFORE YOUR MASTER! Fool! you are no longer my EQUAL! I am more than man! MORE THAN LIFE! I... am... a... GOD! Now. You... will... KNEEEEEL! KNEEEEL! (Biff! Bam! Zowie! Kapow!) Teela-conda Proto-papaya: Sorry, Skeletor, but I'm a Damanhurian, and therefore wise to your tricks. What's more, I know the Secret Language. Your negativity will not win you Castle Grayskull, I mean Castle Damanhur, this day! Ha ha! (Fade out: I wish they all could be Damanhurian giiiiiiiiirls...) I just keep gawking, alternately awestruck and snickery and utterly unable to focus. My eye falls on a repeating pattern of four beautifully entwined serpents at the outer edge of the ceiling, then moves to the hundreds of rough-hewn and grotesque clay statues that squat along the edge of the floor, then my gaze ricochets back to the ceiling, which is crawling with spirals and primordial symbols and more extremely well-toned people in bas relief with limbs akimbo, then the central column catches my eye and my gaze travels down to the floor, where a mosaic depicting fire spreads out in splinterey orange licks..... l steal a look back at Anaconda Papaya, and she's scowling too, systematically stomping on the mosaic faces of the negative superpeople crafted into the floor, banishing negativity with her blue plastic booties. By now, I'm not really liking myself all that much. I'm feeling sort of disappointed because the art seems immature and amateurish, especially when I compare it to the Renaissance paintings overflowing from the museums. I don't like this judging, snooty art-critic part of myself. I also hate the way I'm way overreacting to the basement smell. I've traveled 5,965 miles to see these temples, and all this nose-wrinkling and mind-shutting and is.... kind of disgusting me, actually. If I was a kid, and if there had been a Damanhurian chair I could drag into a corner without alarming the Code Orange Mime, I would have given myself a time out. The last stop of the morning is in The Labyrinth. It's not really a labyrinth, but a set of corridors laid out in a grid pattern, which, again, I find disappointing. Like all the other temples and rooms we've seen, the walls are covered with paintings, gothic stained glass art, and bas relief sculptures. The paintings depict the history of humankind; the stained glass pieces depict the religions of "man"; and the statues are, once again, gigantic nude UberUrsulas and SuperSvens, who preside over it all with superior and mysteriously amused looks on their faces. The loins of the SuperSvens, which are positioned at about eye level, are girded with great Ionian bull heads, and their heads, which are way above us, are covered with great, scowling eagles. The UberUrsulas have naked, slitless pudendas - none of that messy, unwieldy genitalia for the Supervixens! - but are sporting cute little spidery snow crab ornaments just below their belly buttons, and large housecats are sitting on their foreheads. I think, Freud would have a field day. The back corridors of the labyrinth are covered with more crude, cartoony paintings that Anaconda Papaya said were tests. They're all Priscilla Presleyean big-hair gals in feloniously filmy babydoll negligees. I hold my face in a completely desnarkified and impassive expression as Anaconda quickly explains that they're covering them up as quickly as possible. Fortunately for all concerned, the next thing on our itinerary is A Break. We're dropped off at the Damanhur manufacturing complex, which is built high on a hill, in a previously abandoned and now restored typewriter factory that oozes midcentury-modern internationalism. We're on our own till 2pm, so we head to the cafe for food. Over organic greens and other goodies, we talk about what we've seen so far. Happy, chewing Damanhurians surround us at nearby tables. Vajra still looks exceedingly suspicious and scowly, and talks a lot about cult theory and practices, and I get a warning about the fake-friendliness of Miss Papaya. The word 'cult' is in nearly every sentence, and I wince repeatedly, signaling that we can be overheard. So he starts using the word Nazi instead. Yes, he Godwins our lunch. Repeatedly. After I have received Vajra's warning, and I assure him that I am not making plans to sell my assets and move to Italy, we go up an abstraction level and discuss the purpose of society. And as humans love to do, we broke the purpose down into three sub-categories. We determine that all societies have a stated purpose, an actual purpose which can differ from the stated purpose, and a current reality, which also usually differs from the first two. The work of a society is to bridge the gap between reality and the purpose or intent, and one measure of a society's success is how well they do that. I lay this framework onto the Damanhurian purpose, and I think, Ok, the temples are a gift to humanity, but we're not allowed to walk on the open paths, we can't touch anything, we can't photograph anything, everything is behind locked gates and covered with security cameras and security personnel. I feel the gap between intent and reality with great acuity. Still, it's very early - this is a nascent, new kind of society, and still small enough to turn on a dime if they decide they want to.... I also lay the intention/reality framework on American society. The gross misalignment between our cultural purpose and own causes me great pain. I feel helplessly caught in a rip tide; swept along by the American Purpose of Selling More Stuff; of Getting Away With It, of Culturally Conquering the World. On the one hand, America; on the other, Damanhur. I sigh. Shopping for societies is even harder than shopping for humans, and just as full of illusion.

the nation of damanhur, part 3

drusilla — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 04:48:55 GMT

The drive to the temple only takes five minutes. We make the trip wedged in the back of a minivan, a name which actually means something in Europe. We wind up a steep, forested hillside on a one-lane road. The driver honks on the blind switchback turns, of which there are many. Vajra manifests several classic symptoms of acrophobia; I lean out the window for a better view and secretly go wheeee! ...and get a little motion-sick. We stop near the top of the hill but still in the forest, at an imposing twelve foot high iron security gate, festooned with beady-eyed robo-cameras. We also receive close personal inspection by the guard and some construction workers who are summoned from inside the building to verify us - we have to show our badges, repeat our names out loud, and state our reason for wanting to see the temples. I begin to wonder whether Damanhur is at terrorist level red or orange. Then I think about the indoctrination video, which described the temples as a gift to humanity. Remember when you were a kid, and got something expensive for Christmas, like a watch or a piece of jewelry, how your mother would snatch it away for "safekeeping," usually forever? I think, Sure, ok, the temples are a gift to humanity, but we're going to have to grow up before we're allowed to play with them. Eventually we're let into the compound by a thick, aproned woman in scuffy slippers. We walk up to a house that looks like all the houses in this region. But this one's special: the temples were excavated beneath this one, because of the Synchronic Lines. We're handed hideous blue plastic booties. They look like babybluesky diaper covers, or germ barriers like the ones the smiling, knife-happy surgical team wears, or the ones airport security halfheartedly offers but nobody bothers wearing while their shoes are being swabbed for explosives. And we're instructed not to touch anything, lest it interfere with the energetic charges inside the temple. We put the icky blue things on, and lining up like blue-footed-boobietourists, duck and snake single-file into a narrow whitewashed corridor, barely eighteen inches wide in some places. I think, Good Luck fitting through here, supersized humanity of America. We keep walking and turning, heads ducked, and it starts to smell like damp basements; like crawl spaces; like a crypt. With the medical-grade booties and the whitewash and the holy hush, the place is now vibing like a 3/4 scale model hospital corridor to hell with direct access to an adjacent catacomb franchise. I start to get squicked out, and feel too-aware of my body and breathing, just as I did as I was taking my clothes off before I had surgery. I tell myself it's just claustrophobia and not to worry, the corridor will open up soon. After several more turns and steps, the whitewash gives way to some pretty naive Tree of Life images, and after that, it's Ancient Egyptian gods, goddesses, and cartouches all the way to the elevator. We go down. Finally, we're in the first temple, the Hall of the Earth. It's spectacular. Anaconda Papaya tells us about the ideas behind the paintings and symbols, and it's a long, dreamy story about the history of humankind that sounds both strange and completely familiar, full of mother earth, sexual energy, reproduction, smiling people, naked people, primordial language, and the eight primordial laws. She says, breathlessly, "The tree of knowledge has no fruit. The tree of life does have fruit, but we have not picked it yet." The very sentence hangs in the dead air, over-ripe and expectant, like a past-term pregnancy. I adore her and the temple and its orgiastic pantheistic enthusiasm; the flamboyantly over-the-top slathering of color, pattern, and symbols; the incredibly beautiful mosaic floor, all of it. Well, except for the large bald naked guy who has no genitals and shaves his entire body to demonstrate his advanced evolutionary status. I really hate it when the artist goes, "Let's just pretend genitals don't exist, la la la." It's a pretty big decision to make. I always wonder, did the artist exclude the sex parts because they made him or her uncomfortable, or because genitals are even more challenging to paint than faces, or because there isn't a well-documented cultural beauty standard for dangly bits? And I can't help but be a tad concerned for anyone who thinks that omitting sexual organs is de rigeur when depicting advanced humans. If anything, I imagine that sex organs are getting larger and larger, not withering away. But I digress. The sensory overload is so grand! My brain's all aflutter because eyes can't decide where to go next. I think, if it wasn't for the bad air, I'd want to get Outersect, a thousand fluffy, furry, silky, pillows, some refreshments, and all my friends, and have an epic party in here. For a year. My son Ian is casually grooving on it all - he has that, Hmmm, Interesting look on his face that reminds me of a look his father used to get while browsing online porn. The Look is probably caused by all the bare-breasted, pert-nippled Teutonic female figures slathered all over the walls in the very artistically accessible My Little Picture Bible Story book style. Vajra, on the other hand, who listened closely to Miss Papaya's story of humanity, including the creation of the universe, the development of civilization, Time, the battle against inner negativity, and remembering the God within, looks like he encountered some psychic constipation on the inner negativity part and wouldn't mind kicking some new-age ass. As he walks past me, he hisses: "Anaconda Papaya: the sweet strangler." Next, our guide and her silent, omnipresent assistant, who I dub the Code Orange Mime (she's obviously there to ensure that we don't steal or destroy anything, and I wonder idly whether she's wearing a gun) play drums and a gong for us. The upper and lower rooms form a figure eight, so the sound curves and circles back on itself. We start to hear echoes upon echoes, and it's mesmerizing & lovely. They also turn off the lights so we can see the ceiling, which we're told has been wired to display the stars of the night sky as it was 22,000 years ago. So, naturally, I ask, Why 22,000 years? Because that's when the civilization of Atlantis was at its peak, Anaconda Papaya whispers. (the image is of alex grey and his wife in the temple of the earth. yes, that is No Genitals and No Armpit Hair Man in the background)

the nation of damanhur, part 2

drusilla — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 01:49:16 GMT

I don't sleep well. I'm too excited about the upcoming visit to the temples. From midnight to three o'clock in the morning, my mind races. I'm megalomaniacally creating new worldwide social structures that aren't based on capitalism. I'm creating new communities, new paradigms, new art forms, languages, and other means of personal expression, and new systems for sharing. I'm even creating new universities with degrees in more-than-slightly amorphous topics such as Overcoming The Human Parasitic Urge, Expanding the Monkeysphere Without The Crutch of Religion, and Responsible Anarchy for All, that provide enlightened antidotes to everything that's wrong with the world today.... And I spend hours designing those communities, down to the oddest details. Groups of about twenty solar-powered straw-bale houses are laid out in the shape of a spoked wheel. At the center of the wheel is a circular communal area with an area for a campfire as well as a large, unusually-shaped swimming pool and hot tubs, a dancing / yoga area, and an area for the display and use of art and inventions. One end of each house terminates at the community hub, and at that end there are a giant roll-up doors so the house can be opened or closed to the central courtyard activities if desired. And behind the roll-up doors are the house's kitchens and living rooms, so that the people can all see and talk to and eat with each other while cooking, again, if desired. Gardens and trees grow in the pie-shaped areas between the houses. There are lots of these communities in my mind's eye, stretching out along rolling Tuscan (or Californian or Oregonian or Washingtonian) hills, separated by fields in which food is grown, and barns in which the food is stored. And every so often, there are schools, and every so other-often there are larger communities, but these are market / gathering places, not inward-turning, concrete cities where people live all the time. My globe-spanning eco-village looks like a twinkly neural network. And I put people in those communities. You're all there, tribe friends... surrounding me, like the most wonderfully scintillating and comforting blanket of humanity anyone has ever put together, and we invent and create and cuddle-pile ourselves into the Best Human Universe Ever. We shall call it: Drumanhur. Seriously, my godpowers rock. In between concocting my own intentional Utopian community without so much as having run the idea by you, I have moments of clarity, and I sneer at my own weak, utterly limited thinking: "If I had millions of dollars, I could make this happen - I could buy the land and build a prototype..." as the night wears on, my inability to think outside the capitalist box makes my skin crawl. I finally fall asleep around four AM. I get up about three hours later, two hours before our tour is slated to begin, because communal bathrooms make me very competitive. Shower is the Portal Between Bed and World. No shower; no world... at least until around 11:00 AM. So I get up early, and win the shower race by miles. Go, me. By 8:15 we're downstairs and waiting for the tour guide. Meadowlarks sing in cool, tall elms as early morning sunlight slants in, waking the bugs up. Well-fed cats wander around, friendly but aloof - used to forming five minute relationships with Zenheaded transients like me. I sit on the stairs, half zoning out, half trying to remember how I believed the world was going to change, way back when the moon was in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligned with Mars.... meanwhile, off to my left, my son plays with some disturbingly large garden slugs while chattering about how adults all have gastropodophobia and singing, "Yummy, yummy, yummy, I've got slugs in my tummy...." Our guide shows up. She's a thirtysomething German woman - a soft-spoken beauty with attractive, post-Fawcettian blonde hair and a golden, slow-glow aura. She's wearing cream-colored large-gauge fishnet stockings. I think to myself, I love Europe. Turns out that my shower competition was unnecessary - no one else is taking the tour. But before we can see the temples, we have to watch the indoctrination I mean information video in the basement. The video teaches us many fascinating things about Damanhur, such as, They are not a cult. And, their purpose is to assist in the awakening of humankind as a divine being. The members choose new names when they join: one animal name and one plant name. The Damanhurians in the video are named Goat Carrot Tree (I know, I know) and Anteater Oak. This explains why our pretty German guide is named Anaconda Papaya. The video informs us that the Dali Lama, Alex Grey, and Good Morning America have all been to the temples before me, which I find annoying. We also learn that the trees that live on the hills above the temples are antennas, focusing the energy from Synchronic Lines. Synchronic Lines, we discover, are like giant worms girdling the earth both horizontally and vertically, and wherever they intersect, creativity abounds. Of course, there are pan flutes, playing in a soft, melancholy way throughout. Oh, and they are not a cult. The film leaves me with an unusual taste in my mouth: The top notes are intensely optimistic, glossy and ethereal, overflowing with the desire to change the world for the better with subtle, fruity hints of paranormal silliness. The finish is dark and oaky, with a persistently aggressive undertone of burning licorice and groupthink. I'm not alone. I observe that Vajra has launched an aggressive scowling program towards Miss Anaconda Papaya. Next, we tour the tiny Damanhur history museum. The most interesting object is a little toy/science project car that looks like it was made out of spare Erector Set parts. It's about a foot long, and there's a houseplant pot on top. We learn that it reads a plant's electromagnetic fluctuations, and translates them into movement instructions, so the plant can drive itself around the room. I suspect that it didn't work - plant communication is probably chemically based and very slow. But I like the image of all the houseplants driving themselves all over the house, making angry little traffic jams in the narrow pools of light coming through the windows. Just don't give them horns or Ben Hur hubcaps. As Doctor Turvy says, and he's right, plants are vicious competitors. Grappling with my own unease with smiling happy unidirectional people with deep-seated convictions, we exit the basement and go back outside to get ready for the visit to the temples.

glovey

drusilla — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 09:15:40 GMT

Luscious frills of buttery leather. They don't come in my size. Even my bones are strange. Worldwide Wrestling Foundation orwhateveritscalled aside, this culture is not kind to the dangerous, big-boned gals. In the Uffizi, there's a room that contains a set of statues depicting Niobe and her fourteen children as Apollo and Artemis killed them with poisoned arrows. She's a strapping woman, and my body double, as far as I can tell. I'm absolutely certain these lovely gloves wouldn't have fit her either. http://bp0.blogger.com/_tAugm-UtTIw/SDPhSIr_6nI/AAAAAAAAA9c/MbyQXI7dK8w/s1600-h/DSC07741.JPG

insurance company rules!

drusilla — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 21:50:18 GMT

This is rather good: http://www.truemajority.org/HealthCareRules/

the nation of damanhur, part 1

drusilla — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 21:21:43 GMT

It took seven hours to drive to Damanhur. This was partly because we dallied along the Italian Riviera: In Rapallo, Santa Margherita, Portofino, and Genoa, and partly because it was just a freaking long way away and we were disinclined to drive fast after The Rearview Mirror Incident. We got to Damanhur at dusk. The place was nudged along a sloping, grassy hillside in the foothills of the Italian Alps. The entrance had a fifteen foot tall hedge surmounted with flags, an electronic gate, and a half dozen security cameras. Fortunately, they were expecting us, and let us in. We check-in, get indoctrinated (no smoking, no wandering around till you've had the tour, were issued badges, etc), and pay. We learn that like all nations, Damanhur has its own currency, which they call Creditos. One Euro equals one Credito. This is probably a good move till it gains broader acceptance. We're shown to our rooms in the guest house, which I'd been led to believe were going to be like staying at a hostel, but they were much nicer than that. In the hall outside our room there is a photo of all the happy little Damanhurians in their outdoor temple. They're all smiling and most of them are wearing long, drape-y white outfits. They look a little like Moonies. I stand there thinking, In the same way that cancer causes rats, new-age religion causes white kurtas. There are informational brochures, and the language in them is nothing new. "intentional community" ... "a new Renaissance of social and spiritual values" ... "we welcome all spiritual pioneers and practical dreamers" ..."truth is liberating"... There is a prana worker whose brochure effuses, "Experience a magical journey into your psyche and your energy with metaphysical readings that bring profound insights and unlock harmful blockages." I worry a little about unlocking harmful blockages and letting them run around unsupervised before they are rehabilitated. There is also a class called Mystery School. For some reason, I think, Colonel Mustard in the Prana Treatment Room with Chakra Stones! Miss Scarlet in the Pyramid Antechamber with the Ankh Amulet! Professor Plum in the Rear Entry Position with the Magic Crystal Wand! We've arrived too late to eat in the Damanhur cafe, so we drive up the hill into town to eat. I apologize to all you vegetarians, but I ordered a salad and the wild boar with bilberries. My excuse is that I am visiting Italy while on a No Carbohydrates diet. Yes, Italy without pasta or bread. Feel me? Did I ever tell you about the wild animal encounter I had on Cozumel, while visiting the nature park? We'd gone out onto the lagoon in a small boat, looking for Caymans, which swim back and forth between the mainland and the island - a trip of about twenty miles - but hadn't seen any, just lots of birds and fish and other neat-o wildlife. Just as I was getting back to my jeep, an American woman in REI regalia ran towards me screaming, "A Wild Boar! There's a Wild Boar!" ...and she fumbled frantically with her keys, just like every woman you've ever seen in a horror movie who thinks she'll be safe if only she can get in her vehicle. The woman leaped in, and slammed the door, and looked back at me, wild-eyed. I was a little spooked, but I was also disappointed because we hadn't seen any of the fifteen-foot-long ocean-going caymans, and besides, if there was a wild boar, I imagined I could sort of vault up onto the hood of the car if necessary... not in a Crouching-tiger-hidden-dragon sort of way, more like a pole-vaulter's body roll over the bar.... Anyway, I stayed put and peered cautiously around the back of the jeep, and there was this adorable Javelina ( http://www.desertusa.com/magnov97/nov_pap/du_collpecc.html ) casually trotting up, whisking its tail, and grunting like crazy. We petted it and fed it some crackers, and it tried to get into our jeep and come home with us. Its hair was like twigs (you could see why fine hair brushes are made from boar bristles) and long, razor sharp teeth which were about twice as scary as the teeth in a big dog's mouth, if you've ever curled Fido's lip back to have a real good look. Being sensible, I didn't try to bring the Javelina back through customs, even though I really wanted to. We left it there in the parking lot, and it looked really, really sad. All of us felt like we'd lost a special, wonderful friend. Then, about five minutes down the road, we started noticing this stench. Imagine that there were lasers which, instead of creating a beam of super-coherent light, delivered super-coherent body odor from several hundred hydrophobic men who had been living in 100-degree heat for several weeks. The smell was like that: B.O. from the biggest, most nefarious Doomsday Nasal-laser ever built. In the two hours it took to drive back to the hotel, I learned everything I needed to know about the large and productive dorsal scent gland of the Javelina. But I digress.... The point is, the Italian wild boar with bilberries tasted exactly like the American Javelina's dorsal scent gland, but it was still very interesting and quite good, and besides, I'm fanatical about berries of any kind - so much so that they will redeem a plate of meat that tastes like swine armpit. For dessert, I had a little bit of luscious panna cotta with... more berries. Yeah, I know there are some carbs in there - I'm only human. And anyway, you can never have too many berries. We drove back to Damanhur, waved our badges, and were let back into the compound. The tour was slated to start at nine, and there was no internet, so we went to bed. I was so excited I couldn't sleep.

friday, saturday, sunday

drusilla — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 11:17:16 GMT

Friday Vajra wanted to go to the Umbrian Jazz Festival in Perugia to see some pianist whose name I can't remember, so we got in the car, found an entry to the autostrade, grabbed a biglietto, and lead-footed it south, just like the locals. It was a four hour trip in each direction, and notable only in its un-notable-ness. Industrial zones, freeways, shiny black BMWs speeding past as if matters of nazionale security depended on it, and traffic jams, plus bonus road work here and there around Firenze. I entertained myself by learning to recognize all the car makes and models I'd never seen before. Did you know that Fiat makes a Panda? ...that Renault makes a Clio? ...that the Mini Clubman is available here? It took longer than expected to get to Perugia, and the simple 54-step Google instructions on how to find the hotel weren't as good as they'd seemed on paper, especially once we were inside the labrynthine medieval city proper and distracted by the window-cleaning gypsies with abundant and poorly-managed breast tissue, and so Vajra missed the first part of his show. I don't care for jazz piano, so my son and I stayed at the hotel. I thought I'd blog and surf and IM, but the wireless wasn't working (surprise), so I then I thought I'd go out for a walk, but it was starting to get dark, and while I'm not exactly jetlagged any more, my body is still easily confused, so I just fell asleep. The next day we walked around the town of Perugia. The Etruscans were First on the Ground in Perugia... well, not the *first ever*, I'm sure, just the first group with enough PR to make the history books.... and they built a pretty serviceable fortress, since Perugia's on top of a nicely defensible hill... then the Romans came, with their superior military discipline and feathery hats and cast-bronze codpieces and took it all away from the poor, can't-we-just-all-get-along Etruscans, and expanded everything to city-size. Then after that, pretty much everybody who was anybody layered more walls and battlements and buttresses and churches and icons all over the place through the Middle Ages and the Renaissance and beyond till there were more frescoes than any one city could possibly hold, so everything exploded, and the shattered religious remnants and rainbow-colored tempera rained down on everything just like the ashes did in Pompeii, and the bits of paint magically caused window boxes with red geraniums to spontaneously erupt from every brickwork balcony, and the university students and tourists showed up and went, How QUAINT! How BEAUTIFUL! ....and all paid big bucks to see the incredibly luminous yet distressingly Christian-people-hurting-other-people art in the museums (what with all the cross-nailings and bleeding into cunning little cups held aloft by cherubim... well, not actually entire cherubim, just hyper-inflated Hitchcockian heads with fatapple cheeks and wings attached where you'd expect the ears to be) but neither the university students nor the respectful, culturally-engaged, educationally-stimulated tourists were allowed to take *Any Photos At All*, not even Without Flash when no one else was around, so they all left rather annoyed. We got home late last night, and got up late again this morning. In the afternoon we visited the Carnavale museum in Viareggio, but they were closed, so all we could do was wander around the back lots looking at Giant Clowns in Decay. Then we headed down to Massaciuccoli to see the remnants of some Roman baths. But we took a one-lane road along the edge of a marsh, and our car was on the cliff / water-side, and an old man in an oncoming car on the hill-side didn't move over far enough, and our side mirrors collided, and his mirror hit his own driver-side window, and smashed it all over him. Fortunately, he only had one small cut on his hand, and I suspect he got that while knocking the glass out of the frame. The old man talked and talked to us. Since I couldn't understand a word he said except something about the road only being big enough for Uno Machinato, I watched his facial musculature and mouth move and nodded a lot, and inspected his remaining dentition at length, of which there was little, and I thought about what it would be like to eat if you only had four randomly placed teeth the color of a late-afternoon Tuscan sun in your entire mouth. Also, for some inexplicable reason, I kept thinking about horses and camels. The polizia were contacted. A couple hours passed. The old man jabbered on and on, and Vajra and I parried about what he was trying to tell us. As it turned out, we were between jurisdictions and there were long arguments about who should come and make the report: The Lucca polizia, the Massaciuccoli polizia, or the Versilia Carabinieri. Finally, some very polite and exceedingly attractive men in uniforms with big black leather boots and the cutest little guns in tiny white holsters on their right hips and shiny metal handcuffs on their left hips came and helped us sort it all out (and yes, I'm terribly embarrassed at my reaction to men in uniforms, but there's no accounting for fetish). I translated their pseudo-English to Vajra while half-hoping one of them would suggest I do something sexually embarrassing with him in the back of the police van in order to avoid spending the night in jail.... But anyway, I'm pretty sure it was the road's fault for being too narrow, not ours, and all we'll have to do is get the mirror replaced. So, we skipped the Roman baths for now. I'm sure there are lots more adventures in my traveling pants, just not the ones I'm wearing today. (the image is the only one I took before being informed that photography wasn't allowed in the Umbria art museum *whine*)

immagine del giorno, july 20, 2008

drusilla — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 19:53:12 GMT

This is a back yard relic from one of the Canivale parades that are held in Viareggio every year. More generalized leaking from the amok time of the subconscious here: http://lh6.ggpht.com/_pxAVzRsROdM/R6ozYy7wNUI/AAAAAAAAA8w/bkSgrMem4O4/IMG_0657.JPG http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/00/2007_Viareggio_Carnival_01.jpg http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2238/2276745765_a46bbcae4f.jpg?v=0 http://www.versiliainfo.com/immagini/articoli/images/carnevale3.jpg http://magazine.voiaganto.it/wp-galleryo/carnevale-viareggio/viareggio_carnevale6.jpg We really ought to go some time.

tangled, and i can't get it out of my head

drusilla — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 11:29:02 GMT

"Early one mornin' the sun was shinin', I was layin' in bed Wond'rin' if she'd changed at all If her hair was still red. Her folks they said our lives together Sure was gonna be rough They never did like Mama's homemade dress Papa's bankbook wasn't big enough. And I was standin' on the side of the road Rain fallin' on my shoes Heading out for the East Coast Lord knows I've paid some dues gettin' through, Tangled up in blue. She was married when we first met Soon to be divorced I helped her out of a jam, I guess, But I used a little too much force. We drove that car as far as we could Abandoned it out West Split up on a dark sad night Both agreeing it was best. She turned around to look at me As I was walkin' away I heard her say over my shoulder, "We'll meet again someday on the avenue," Tangled up in blue. I had a job in the great north woods Working as a cook for a spell But I never did like it all that much And one day the ax just fell. So I drifted down to New Orleans Where I happened to be employed Workin' for a while on a fishin' boat Right outside of Delacroix. But all the while I was alone The past was close behind, I seen a lot of women But she never escaped my mind, and I just grew Tangled up in blue. She was workin' in a topless place And I stopped in for a beer, I just kept lookin' at the side of her face In the spotlight so clear. And later on as the crowd thinned out I's just about to do the same, She was standing there in back of my chair Said to me, "Don't I know your name?" I muttered somethin' underneath my breath, She studied the lines on my face. I must admit I felt a little uneasy When she bent down to tie the laces of my shoe, Tangled up in blue. She lit a burner on the stove and offered me a pipe "I thought you'd never say hello," she said "You look like the silent type." Then she opened up a book of poems And handed it to me Written by an Italian poet From the thirteenth century. And every one of them words rang true And glowed like burnin' coal Pourin' off of every page Like it was written in my soul from me to you, Tangled up in blue. I lived with them on Montague Street In a basement down the stairs, There was music in the cafes at night And revolution in the air. Then he started into dealing with slaves And something inside of him died. She had to sell everything she owned And froze up inside. And when finally the bottom fell out I became withdrawn, The only thing I knew how to do Was to keep on keepin' on like a bird that flew, Tangled up in blue. So now I'm goin' back again, I got to get to her somehow. All the people we used to know They're an illusion to me now. Some are mathematicians Some are carpenter's wives. Don't know how it all got started, I don't know what they're doin' with their lives. But me, I'm still on the road Headin' for another joint We always did feel the same, We just saw it from a different point of view, Tangled up in blue." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvBkbPEoeAI

fun fire

drusilla — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 21:09:54 GMT

Images from the fire arts festival... http://picasaweb.google.com/drusilla.stranger/Firearts_2008/photo?authkey=gy-eTvvrZBM#s5221993484182030082 I didn't have a tripod, so these are kind of a mixed bag. A few are rather nice, though. Don't forget to set the interval to 2 seconds, lest you get bored.

"sorry, no, i can't make it easier, because then it would be something else"

drusilla — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 19:59:00 GMT

"Go ahead and call me a girly-man, but we are not buying that company. They are the Enron of Norway." "We get the first half of that requirement for free. The other half is technically impossible." "The initial implementation will be extremely complex. However, it will result in a ripple of simplicity throughout our systems."

more scraps

drusilla — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 04:50:02 GMT

"I get so messed walking in a straight line" (painting by attila richard lukacs: http://www.dianefarrisgallery.com/artist/lukacs/ex03/index.html http://www.dianefarrisgallery.com/artist/lukacs/love/index.html )

scrawled scraps

drusilla — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 22:46:11 GMT

When I cleaned out my old car, I found scraps and scraps of paper that I'd written sentences, sentence fragments, song lyrics, song names, and ideas all over. Some are things I heard other people say; others are things I misheard other people say and I liked the mishearing better than the original, so I wrote it down "for later". Some are just my own secretions. I'm going to post a few of these here, because I still like them, and I don't want to lose them, and I want to share them. Each one of these is what I think of as a Greatly Telescoping Idea... anyone could write entire blogs, entire short stories, or entire novels around these things, they open up so big and wide. Sorry; I don't know who any of the authors are..... "How many times do you have to walk through a door before it belongs to you?"

patriotic

drusilla — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 16:49:29 GMT

I'm all sorts of patriotic about this planet. This, dear friends, is my gift to you for the holiday: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWKIOBHJ6UM Folkiphobes: despite the title of the video, you will not be hearing Woody.

do you want it today?

drusilla — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 17:18:33 GMT

A month ago, my car started making a noise. It came from the front of the car, perhaps off to the right a little. It sounded like someone was starting up the jet turbines prior to takeoff. I hoped it would go away. It didn't. I took the car to my mechanic. He said, "Transaxle, clutch, catalytic converter. Dump it NOW." I'd like to buy a hybrid, but I'm extremely attached to the idea of having a manual transmission, and there's no such thing as a manual hybrid. Unable to bring myself to spend major bucks on a car I'd hate, I started looking only at cars that get more than 30mpg. I test-drove a Toyota Matrix and a Mini Clubman - the "maxi mini". Heh. The matrix was... ok... except for the $1700 they wanted to charge me for a 'moon roof', a term that almost sends my snickerometer up as high as 'pre-owned' and 'learning center.' The Mini Clubman manual six-speed stole my heart away in a way that no car ever has before... I've never, ever had a car that felt like it was "for me"... cars have always seemed like toasters to me... but not the Mini Clubman. We were meant for each other.... unfortunately, now that I have found my Perfect Car, I can't afford it. I just paid for my daughter's wedding, and I'm going to Italy for three weeks in about a week and the dollar is worth about four cents against the Euro. But I need to replace my car before the trip, because it's a home and car exchange, and the Italian family is expecting a functioning, reliable car. Did I mention that in addition to the 6-speed transmission, the Mini Clubman has two steering modes: regular and sport, and the feeling of the sport setting is to die for? Did I mention that it gets 37mpg highway? I never should have driven it. Did I mention that it has variable-color mood lighting inside? Yes, goddamit, I farking NEED mood lighting with every fiber of my being... and I need it NOWWWWWW. So, at the point when I knew that I could not have the one I loved, and would never ever love another, and because I'm strapped for cash, I went shopping for a used car. This took all of last weekend and a large part of Monday as well. I cannot tell you how anxious I was, circumnavigating the bay area in search of manual-transmission vehicles that get close to 30mpg, seat five people and a 100-lb dog, have less than 35k miles on them, and can haul furniture and dirt around with ease, knowing I needed to get a car in the next two to three days. I slogged, wincing, from one car dealer to another with that jet-engine-turbine whine getting louder and louder by the hour and the slime layer building until I could barely breathe. Did I mention that the Mini Clubman rear doors, of which there are two, have teensy little windshield wipers on them? Yes, I am currently making myself sick with covetousness for something that I cannot (and should not) have. And yes, I'm deeply ashamed. Did I mention that it has a fabulous little *third door* for the back seat? Anyway, here are some conversations I had with the used car dealers: Dealer #1: Me: Hi, I'm here to see your 2005 Forester with a manual transmission.... Salesman 1: Hi! I'm Johnny! Today is the best day of my life! Me: Um, great. Why is today the best day of your life? Salesman 1: I don't KNOW, it just IS! When I got out of bed this morning I felt like it was the BEST DAY EVER! the sun was shining, the birds were singing, life is fantastic! Ha ha ha! Me: (mumbles) You sound like Sponge Bob. Salesman #1: Ha ha ha! Sorry, I didn't catch that. Me: Nevermind. Salesman #1: OKAY! Ha! And your name is....?" Me: I'm Dru, the person who is here to see the 2005 Forester with a manual transmission. Dealer #2: Salesman 2: So, since you like the car, shall we talk through some numbers, Dru? Me: Sure. Salesman 2: Great! Our list price is $24,599. Me: (blinks) You're thinking this 4-year-old car with 17,843 miles on it is worth about the same as a brand new 2009 model? Salesman 2: (frowns) I was just telling you our "starting point", Dru. Me: Your internet ad says this car is $17,999. Salesman 2: Oh - you want the internet price. That was a special, limited time offer. I don't know if that price is still available, Dru. Me: Well, Frank, your internet price was *my* "starting point". And based on that, as well as my research on wholesale and retail blue book values, my first, last, and only offer is $15,000. Salesman 2: We can't sell you that car for that price, Dru. Me: Ok, thank you for your time (stands up, leaves building).... Salesman 2: (running down sidewalk) Dru! Dru! Don't Go! If my manager agrees to $15,000, will you buy it TODAY? Dealer #3: Me: I want $5k trade-in for my car Salesman 3: How many miles are on it? Me: 139,000 Salesman 3: We can't pay you $5,000 - we're going to have to wholesale it out. Me: Well, I checked bluebook, and it said $6k to $9k. Salesman: Wholesale or retail? Me: I'm selling it to you $1k below minimum blue book retail because of the high mileage. Salesman 3: Maybe I can give you $3500. I'll have to talk to the Used Car Manager... Me: No deal. Salesman 3: What is your minimum? Me: $5k. Salesman 3: But that would not be fair. You don't want to be unfair, do you? Me: Fair? Ok, yes, let's talk about fair. I would prefer to pay a flat price for the car, and have you pay a flat price for mine. But you set the rules: you want the prices to all be negotiable. The negotiable price model is, by definition unfair. That is, you will make a lot of money off some sales and little or none off others. If we manage to make a deal, I will be in the latter category. Salesman 3: What are you talking about, a 'ladder'...? Finally, Monday at 8:15pm, I ended up with a 2005 Forester. But my One True Sheetmetal Love is here, waiting for me: http://www.miniusa.com/#/learn/gallery/exterior/|mini_club-m

i've been stifled

drusilla — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 16:35:07 GMT

I have a profile on OKCupid. I like the tests, and I like playing with match and friend percentages there, especially the comparative bell curves - oooh, shiny! - and the WTF reports - mmmm, fascinating! There's an alt on OKC named Coffee Table. He's breaking the rules by being an alt, and not posting a photo of himself, just various photos of living room furniture. This amuses me. Yesterday, Coffee Table posted the following in his journal: "There was a sign on the lawn of a neighborhood church in my youth that said life is short / death is sure sin the cause / christ the cure." It stuck in the middle o' me peabrain, obviously. I finish the phrase thusly: "life is short / death is sure / have some fun / before you go." Thusly! How do YOU finish the phrase?" So, since I was invited, I left the following comment... life is short / death is sure / homilies / are manure ...and Coffee Table deleted it. I never expected a shellacked piece of wood to be so sensitive.

censor bars, la la la!

drusilla — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 18:34:32 GMT

...in case you haven't seen this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4OWEM57E4A And if that one doesn't show up, just search for these three words: censor bar art. Technically, this is work safe, but pragmatically speaking: someone's going to scream harrassment if they see it. Credit: This is a forward from Doctor Turvy :-)

plant identification game

drusilla — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 05:22:21 GMT

I stumbled across this plant at the seaside in Santa Monica. It was growing at the base of a dry, dusty embankment that was just at the edge of the plant-free beach-sand zone - barely above high tide. It's hard to see in the photo, which I took with my phone, but both the berries and the plant stems are covered with what look like crystallized moisture droplets about 1/4 the size of a rice grain, only round. The pink stuff you're looking at isn't berry - it's droplet covered petals; the fruit is wrapped inside, and is dark. But even the outside of the petals was covered with the odd droplets. It was strange to see a plant that appears to be living in a desert environment that looks like it's covered itself with fake moisture. I'm a native Califormian and I've never seen this plant before. Anyone know what it is? Are the berries edible?

says it all

drusilla — Thu, 22 May 2008 18:16:45 GMT

add to cart now

drusilla — Mon, 19 May 2008 04:39:29 GMT

This weekend: Tomales bay, Petaluma, Himalayan fair at Live Oak Park, Berkeley rose garden. Apparently I noticed that the roses are blooming. I'm fascinated by the stamens, anthers, and filaments, and the pistils, stigma, and styles. Why do they call them stigma? In the majority of species, individual flowers have both pistils and stamens - male and female reproductive parts. Botanists describe these flowers as being perfect, bisexual, or hermaphrodite. Some flowers with both pistils and stamens are capable of self-fertilization, while others have ways of preventing self-fertilization, thereby increasing adapability. The latter flower types, which have chemical barriers to their own pollen, are referred to as self-sterile or self-incompatible. Imagine that - carrying both eggs and sperm, and yet being unable to self-fertilize. Borrowing the botanical terminology, that would make us imperfect and self-incompatible. http://picasaweb.google.com/drusilla.stranger/A_weekend_in_may_2008/photo#s5201923215524555394 "Information appears to stew out of me naturally, like the precious ottar of roses out of the otter." --Mark Twain

yak teeth

drusilla — Sun, 18 May 2008 16:15:13 GMT

Heading to the Himalayan fair today. This event benefits humanitarian grassroots projects in the Himalayas, including the following: AFGHAN WOMEN'S COUNSEL PERCEPTION FOUNDATION Work with Afghan refugees. Mother and child Health Care Clinic in Peshewar Pakistan. AFGHAN WOMEN'S MISSION Supports an establishes health care, education, empowerment to Afghan refugees, primarily women and children. Increases public Awareness on human rights. AMA FOUNDATION Orphanage in Kathmandu, Nepal AMAR SINGH SECONDARY HIGH SCHOOL in Pokhara, Nepal, Sponsorship of music program for blind children ASSOCIATION FOR PROTECTION OF AFGHAN ARCHAEOLOGY Kabul orphanage project BIR SAKIYA TIBETAN MONASTERY Support of small monastery near Dharamsala. CHILDRENíS MEDICAL AID FOUNDATION Surgical support for rural Nepali children with congenital defects. CHOKHAM CHUSHI GANGDRUK Kampa Welfare Society: senior housing, adult education, cultural program. FRIENDS OF SHANTA BHAWAN MEDICAL CLINIC Free health care for poor residents in Kathmandu's Bodinath area. GANZI KHAM GIRLS SCHOOL Building of a girl's school in Eastern Tibet. HELP THE AFGHAN CHILDREN Establishes and operates health care clinics, educational and vocational centers, home-based education programs. HIMALAYAN CHILDREN'S FOUNDATION Program for orphaned children, Nepal INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S SEWING GROUP Pajamas for hospitalized children, mattresses and blankets for women's shelter, vocational training program for handicapped children in Nepal, books and blankets for Down Syndrome children in Nepal, mosquito netting for city run senior home. Science equipment for Baluwatar and Bhaktapur students, sewing machine women's job training project building of classroom in Udayapur, Nepal INTERPLAST, INC. Reconstructive surgery for Nepali children born with deformities, e.g., cleft palates, or who were burned or received crippling injuries. NCF FOUNDATION Assistance to build a medical clinic and school for 100 children at the DrogShog School in Tibet's Kham region NYISHANG REGION BOOK PROJECT Project for Nyishang community toilet construction and medical equipment PARSA Income generating projects to widows and orphans in Kabul, Afghanistan: provides education, job training, establishment of wool-spinning cooperatives, Counseling. PRISM, BANGLADESH Village agriculture project which develops algae farms for nutrition and fishfeeding, and builds cyclone shelters. Arsenic mitigation project/deep well building, rural Bangladesh RED PANDA PROJECT Reforestation project in Eastern Nepal for preservation of the red panda. TIBETAN AID FOUNDATION Basic medical equipment for the ChaZhu Valley Clinic in Tibet S.E.E.D.S. FOUNDATION Help building a clean drinking water system in Manaslu area, Nepal. Tibetan medicines for Tibetan doctor in Langtang District, Nepal SEWA KENDRA LEPROSY CLINIC Solar panel, water filter and lines, medical equipment for Pashupati Leprosy Clinic, Dr. Hira Pradhan TAPASTHALI BRIDHHASHRAM FOR THE ELDERLY Refuge for elderly destitute women in Kathmandu, Nepal. TENGBOCHE DEVELOPMENT PROJECT Medicinal plant conservation and cultivation project in Solu Khumbu, Nepal TIBETAN RELIEF FUND - SAKYA CENTER HOSPITAL, Medical equipment (X-ray machine) for Tibetan hospital in Dehradun, India. TREES FOR LIFE Gum-Tree planting environmental/nutrition project in India WOMEN AND CHILDREN WELFARE Dr. Pradhan's Leprosy Clinic in Kathmandu, Nepal. Mattresses, beds, laboratory equipment for leprosy hospital. More here: http://www.himalayanfair.net/recent_projects.htm ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Today's event schedule: 11:30am Nepali dance and music by Gurung community 12 noon Bharatanatyam by students of Aggie Brenneman – aggiebrenneman@sbcglobal.net 12:30pm JAYENDRA KALAKENDRA folk and classical dances – Suganda Iyer sugandaiyer@sbcglobal.net 1p 1pm ANCIENT FUTURE Indian fusion music – Matthew Montfort info@ancient-future.com, ancient-future.com 2pm MIRAGE & ECHO of MONGOLIA music and dance – shbaatar@berkeley.edu 3pm SHUKRIYA music ensemble with Sukhawat Ali Khan- halim@jahnur.com, jahnur.com 4pm - Raffle of Prizes Closing Ceremonies Hope to see you there!

news from the animal shelter

drusilla — Tue, 13 May 2008 20:27:27 GMT

From my daughter: "This is just an email to email you. You seemed interested in shelter work, so here are some more tasty tid-bits for you to chew on. Hopefully you will not gag on them or spit them out. Ok. so. i've had a bad week at work. We just had two 8 month old pit bulls come in with 5 inch long scars accross their heads and the size of 3 month olds because they were kept in crates and were not given the chance to grow - think bonzai tree, but for dogs. They have puncture wounds and scar tissue all over their faces. I started out my morning at the shelter at 10:30am. I helped a few potential adopters with possible adopt holds for the dogs next door at the pound next door for dogs they were interested in in case their owners never came to claim them. How it is possible to just not come and look for your dog at the shelter is beyond me, but it happens often enough. Around 10:45, I was called into the surrender room. This is hell on earth if there is one. That is the room where people often say that they would like to 'donate' their animal, or 'put it up for adoption'. Ha! I wish I could reply, "How very gracious of you! That's what we need - one more cat to add to our already staggering head count of 400 felines," or, "Gee whiz! You shouldn't have! We would love to add another dog to our cells already numbering at close to 200! I'm sure your dog has much more personality than the rest, and I'm sure he will get adopted quite quickly - you just keep telling yourself that to make yourself feel better." In any case, when I came in to the surrender room this morning, I found myself face to face with Skeletor - you know, like the guy from the He Man cartoons. No joke. He was 6'5 and about 120lbs. This man had no bottom teeth and was nervously chewing at his gums, sucking in his cheeks, licking his lips, and dancing around the room. Tweaker. Cool. I'm dying of antici...... pation to hear what he has to donate to me. Oh, and ladies, take note! He has no wedding ring, and I'm sure available. He announces that he has 20 cats. Another man comes in the room. Not a tweaker, not Skeletor, not dancing. Skeletor's landlord. He counters Skeletor's 20 cats with 30+ cats in the truck outside. He tells me to take everything Skeletor tells me with a grain of salt. Apparently Skeletor is not only a druggie, and a hoarder, but he is also a habitual liar. His landlord also informs me that usually, he warns Skeletor when he is coming to do an inspection, but this time he got smart and just dropped in, The past times when he had given some warning, Skeletor would go hide the cats in the abandoned house's garage next door. Awesome times 10. The room is starting to smell like urine, and there aren't even any cats in the room yet. Vanessa and I get as many cat carriers as we can find on carts, under the assumption that the cats are free-roaming in the car. Much to our dismay, all 30 of the cats are shoved into 8 cat carriers. The smell of cat piss fills the air, even with the breeze. The sun is out and it's approaching 80 degrees. Vanessa and I enlist the help of volunteers and eager-to-help passers-by. We load up all of the jam packed, urine soaked, crusted-with-something-horrible cat carriers on carts and push them all in to the surrender room. Vanessa and I are having a conversation through our eyes. We ask each other, 'how did this happen,' and she replies, 'I don't know - but where are they all going to go?' When the cats are all in the surrender room, Vanessa and I don our latex gloves and start pulling lethargic inbred cats out, one after another. Most are cream tabbies, one is a gray and white kitten. The kitten's eye has erupted. Yes, the eye essentially exploded. It will be in nucleated at a later date. All of the cats have ear mites. One by one, we pass 20 cats. We pass 25 cats. We even pass cat number 30. We pass cat number 40. There are in fact 48 cats shoved into these 8 cat carriers. While Vanessa and I are starting to sweat, our eyes begin to water from the smell. The ammonia is unbearable. We are sneezing and coughing. As we gag at the smell, Skeletor is supposed to be filling out papers for each one. He has the attention span of a 3 year old. He is rocking back and forth, humming and muttering, "Shit!..... aw shit. Shitshitshit! Fuck!" He takes one of the cats out of the carriers and tells us its name. "Sir, put the cat back please, and just fill out your paperwork." Silence for a few moments, then, "Shit! Shit!.......shit. AWWW SHIT!" Skeletor wanders out of the room and into the adoptions area, looking at the cats. "Sir! come back right now and finish your paperwork!" We are now not only taking in close to 50 cats, but also baby-sitting an ADHD stricken Skeletor who is high. Cool. Awesome. He rants, he riffs. The word Shit figures prominently. Skeletor tells us that the SPCA has been supplying him with food, and they knew about all of his cats. Liar, I tell Vanessa with my eyes. Never would they supply a hoarder with food without supplying information on re-homing, spay/neuter clinics, hoarding help, etc. He has also told us that he is moving, to which the landlord snarls, "Yeah, into the garage next door." We continue working. We find that there are lactating cats, pregnant cats, all sorts of cats, but no litters of kittens. The one with the eyeball, who's name is now 48, was the only one to come in. Where are the kittens who belong to all of these mother cats? Skeletor does not seem to acknowledge that I know that there are more. He is rocking back and forth and chewing on the insides of his cheeks. "Shit. It just got out of hand," he keeps telling us. I lose my temper for a moment, "No sir, you lost control when you hit 7 cats. That is the legal amount of cats you can have in Washoe County. I don't call this out of hand sir. Your cats are ill, they are being rushed to emergency veterinary help right now, and I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation." To this, Skeletor replies, "What does gravity mean?" Now that the cats are in their own carriers, we start inputing all of the information for each.....and.....every.....cat in our computer. Awesome. Cool. Each cat gets an identification collar, just like the bracelets you get in the hospital, but more like prison IDs because none of them have names yet, just numbers and sexes. Each cat looks at me through the holes in the box. I tell them with my eyes that I know, and that I'm sorry. By the time all of the computer work is done, the 10ft by 10ft surrender room is a steam room with ammonia gas providing the steam. The sweat on my lip tastes like cat piss. Skeletor is still wiggling and taking cats out every now and again. We look back outside and notice that there at still 5 cats that he did not bring into the room, baking out in the sun. Those are the cats that he intends to keep, he says. We bring the cats in and put red collars on them. As much as we hate to see them go back to where they were, he is a hoarder, and will start all over again if we do not give him some cats to take home. We take them in and tell him he can pick them up after they have been altered. He is chewing on his lips again. We inform him that before we return the cats to him, that he has to bring in proof of residency, and we that we will be looking at the assessor's page to see who the owner is of where he is living, and that he had better have the phone number for that person because we will need to speak with them before we give him his cats back. He nods his head enthusiastically; violently even. He reminds me of a child, after being shunned, and agreeing violently that he will be good from now on. I hand the animal release forms to him, hoping to get all of the surrender forms filled out in return. Why did I think that? Three hours later, I come back and find that he has 7 sheets filled out. After 3 hours. 7 sheets. Cool. Awesome. I take a deep breath to calm down and cough it back out, forgetting that the air is poisonous. I stand there, and help. It takes him 30 minutes to sign his name 48 times. When Skeletor is ready to leave, we give him info about the equivalent to Cats Anonymous, as well as several other pet support groups. As he leaves, we all look at each other. I have decided that there are real villains out there. Skeletor is one of them. We understand that hoarding is a real psychological problem that people need help for, but drugs are a personal choice. I go to my car for a moment and close my eyes. I don't start to cry until i realize that my car has now filled with the same urine ammonia smell as the surrender room. I cry for the cats. I cry for the people in this world. I cry just to cry. "

bamboo tentacles

drusilla — Mon, 12 May 2008 03:55:35 GMT

Like fruitless mulberry trees, California buckeyes, and sunflowers, bamboo seems to defy the laws of conservation of energy, growing more than seems possible in short periods of time. This particular bamboo shoot popped up in the daylilies exactly nine days ago. It's now almost five feet tall. Do have a look at this web album, which has some better resolution close-ups: http://picasaweb.google.com/drusilla.stranger/Bamboo/photo?authkey=wnfSVlgTVDw#s5199332800489253474 ...and don't worry - I only posted twelve :-) So as not to disappoint the pr0n-seekers, you can see red soldier beetles fornicating here (we like these bugs because they eat sonofawhore aphids off the roses so I don't have to go out there and mash them between my fingers till they turn bright green): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Rote_Weichk%C3%A4fer_%28Rhagonycha_fulva%29.jpg

swing, swing

drusilla — Sun, 11 May 2008 01:58:13 GMT

I bought this house from some surfers. They had 'built,' and I use the term loosely, an outdoor shower in the backyard. They used it for washing their wetsuits and other equipment before hopping in the hot tub. The 'shower,' and I use the term loosely, consisted of a garden hose attached to three cheap diamond-cross wood trellises - like the ones you see around the deck foundation on the right side of the photo, above. The trellises provided all the 'necessary structure,' and I, well, you get the idea, by being attached to each other. The floor was decaying plywood, painted that special color of blue that evokes roofing tarps and those hospital pads they put under people who are likely to leak something truly horrible onto the industrial strength vinyl mattress cover. I wanted to like that shower, because of its scrappy, opportunistic hippie character, but never managed to like anything about it, it except the vine that grew all over it. That vine has the loveliest little white flowers - they smell like honeydew melons and gardenias mixed together. The shower-arbor blew over last winter. If you were here in March, you saw it sitting on its side, with the massive flowering vine all over it, doing as well horizontally as it had vertically, thankyouverymuch. I finally removed the whole thing. If you're interested, I'll tell you about how I put my foot through the rotten blue platform, and it got stuck, and I panicked, because I was sure there were black widows under it... and I screamed and pulled my foot back out so hard that I tore a quarter of my big toenail off, and sure enough, when I flipped it over, there were at least 15 black widows under there, and a dozen of their nasty cottony egg sacs as well.... Anyway, I had a sturdy arbor built for the vine. I had to cut it way back, so it's hard to see in this picture, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be ok. I also made space for my Skychair, a swing I've had for about fifteen years. I love that swing. You can see a better picture of one here: http://www.skychairs.com/ I love swings. And slides. And ferris wheels. But especially swings that you can put your feet up into, and swing and swing in a long, gently decaying arc with your eyes closed... Also, I'm thinking that I could make a sleeping platform and hang it from the arbor, and encase it in mosquito netting, and sleep out there. Something like this: http://www.floatingbed.com/bigger-view/Deck-Use.html ...but home made. Here's a more interesting one with mosquito netting: http://www.floatingbed.com/bigger-view/round-bed-fantastic-decor.html Oh, and if you want to see one of the manroot vines, that's one on the fence to the left of the swing.

a fun connect the dots game! anwr, oil profits, candidates weigh in on an oil tax 'holiday', and a survivor of the last ice age

drusilla — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 19:20:05 GMT

DOT 1: The president's news conference this morning: At a White House news conference this morning, President Bush complained repeatedly that Congress is blocking him. Let’s all thank our lucky stars for that. At the top of the speech, he offered this analysis of gasoline prices and the state of the U.S. economy: "The past 18 months, gas prices have gone up by $1.40 a gallon. Electricity prices for small businesses and families are rising as well. I repeatedly submitted proposals to address these problems, and time after time, Congress chose to block them." An oil man with all the vision of a dead bat in the daytime, he still thinks Americans will fall for the lie that he can fix the oil and energy crisis by drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR). He mentioned ANWR *seven times* during the conference, and included it in his lead-in. "Members of Congress have been vocal about foreign governments increasing their oil production, yet Congress has been just as vocal in opposition to efforts to expand our production here at home. They've repeatedly blocked environmentally safe exploration in ANWR. […] Somehow, if you mention ANWR, you don't care about the environment. Well, I'm hoping now people, when you say ANWR, it means you don't care about the gasoline prices." For the record, the U.S. Geological Service's estimate of the amount of oil that could be profitably extracted and sold from ANWR represents less than a year's U.S. supply. This oil would take 10 years to reach the market, and even when production peaks in 2027, the refuge would produce 1 or 2 percent of Americans' daily consumption. Leaving all environmental concerns aside, unless you’re the company making oily hay while the sun shines and global temperatures rise, this is an economic wankfest. http://www.mcall.com/news/local/all-bushtext0429-cnap,0,1497083.htmlstory http://www.nrdc.org/land/wilderness/arctic.asp ***************************************************************************************** DOT 2: War is Superyummydelicious for oil company revenue: February 1, 2008: HOUSTON - Exxon Mobil Corp. posted the largest annual profit by a U.S. company — $40.6 billion — on Friday as the world’s biggest publicly traded oil company benefited from historic crude prices at the end of the year. Exxon also set a U.S. record for the biggest quarterly profit, posting net income of $11.7 billion for the final three months of 2007, beating its own mark of $10.71 billion in the fourth quarter of 2005. The previous record for annual profit was $39.5 billion, which Exxon Mobil had in 2006. […]Also extraordinary was Exxon Mobil’s revenue, which rose 30 percent in the fourth quarter to $116.6 billion from $90 billion a year ago. For the year, sales rose to $404.5 billion — the most ever for the Irving, Texas-based company — from $377.64 billion in 2006. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22949325/ April 29, 2008: LONDON - BP PLC and Royal Dutch Shell PLC, Europe’s two biggest oil producers, posted forecast-busting first-quarter earnings on Tuesday thanks to record crude oil prices that are expected to bolster profits across the industry. The combined profits of $17 billion reignited calls for a windfall tax on oil profits as consumers struggle to pay for food and fuel. BP posted a 63 percent surge in first-quarter net profit to $7.6 billion (4.9 billion euros), while Shell reported a 25 percent rise, to a record $9.08 billion (5.81 billion euros). Revenue at BP jumped 44 percent to $89.2 billion (57.1 billion euros), while sales at Shell soared 55 percent to $114 billion (72.95 billion euros). Last week ConocoPhillips reported a 16 percent rise in net income to $4.14 billion. Like BP and Shell, the third biggest U.S. producer far outpaced industry expectations. More big profits are expected from the biggest two U.S. companies, Exxon Mobil Corp. and Chevron Corp., when they report first-quarter earnings later this week. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24366609/ ***************************************************************************************** DOT 3: The proposed federal gas tax holiday – whee! Thud. Ah, summer. What a great time to encourage people to put more carbon into the air! McCain and Clinton are proposing a moratorium on the federal gas tax for the summer (McCain calls it a holiday). The tax, 18.4 cent per gallon, is used to maintain infrastructure, such as roads. Obama opposes it, even though he voted for it in Illinois back in 2000. The reason? The moratorium resulted in consumers paying, on average, 3% less for gas during the moratorium, partly because of demand and partly because the oil companies just raised their prices further. Afterwards, 28% of Illinois consumers said that the temporary suspension resulted in them paying less for gas. James Hamilton, professor of Economics at the University of California-San Diego, says that most of the benefits from a temporary tax moratorium would likely go to producers rather than consumers. However, I’ll just bet that this idea develops legs. Which politicians are talking about a windfall tax on the oil companies? http://blog.washingtonpost.com/fact-checker/2008/04/a_holiday_from_gas_prices.html ******************************************************************************* DOT 4: For extra credit: Read about the incredible endangered shaggy musk ox, a mammoth-like survivor of the last Ice Age, then consider how 1.5 million acres of industrial sprawl are likely to affect it and the millions of other inhabitants of ANWR. If you can, give generously to the NDRC. They have a good track record of winning in the courts. http://www.nrdc.org/land/wilderness/arcticmap_2000acres.pdf