The hard way

I learned last week that I am allergic to tea tree oil. It has been a painful lesson.

It started with a case of athlete's foot. I treated it, early on, with the usual poisonous spray, which gives me a metallic taste in my mouth when I spray it on my feet. That, for me, makes the poison of suspect health value. So, resorting to the hippy methods, I turned to tea tree oil, which is a natural antifungal agent. The Athlete's foot seemed to get worse. More tea tree oil, slathered on the feet after washing with tea tree soap. Itching intensifies. Small blisters appear. More tea tree oil.

After another day, the symptoms start to look more like poison ivy than athlete's foot. A google image search quickly confirms a diagnosis of allergic contact dermatitis. More googling implicates the tea tree oil. My injuries are entirely self inflicted. I considered taking photographs and posting them on Flickr. But it is disgusting ad extremis (kindly pardon the pun).

So now I pad about on a cushion of blisters oosing honey colored pus, rendering the three-day week-end most unsuitable for hiking. On the upside, there are no signs of athlete's foot.

Stop me if you've heard this one

A man asks his rabbi "Is this the Pentateuch?" The rabbi replies "Is there a Berashith in the words?"

Category Mistake

One of the most intelligent things recently said about the so-called debate over the teaching of creationism alongside evolution in schools comes from the Archbishop of Canterbury, who says[1] that to treat creationism as a theory like evolution is to make a category mistake[2].

It's interesting to see how this statement gets interpreted by the various media outlets[3] (who make a living off of category mistakes), with headlines like "Archbishop calls creationism a mistake" to "A Blessing for Evolution".

[1] www.theregister.co.uk/2006/03...olution/
[2] en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category_mistake
[3] news.google.com/news

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Feed Rinse (www.feedrinse.com/) looks like a step in the direction of The Daily Bayes (tinyurl.com/r7nxb) which I wrote about last November.

Already

There is no such thing as Wednesday. There is either Only Wednesday, or Already Wednesday. Today is Already Wednesday for me. A week ago was Only Wednesday, which may, in part, account for why today is Already Wednesday.

Yesterday (only Tuesday) I was approached on the way home by a wiry fellow asking me in broken English (for which he was apologetic, his native tongue being Ukranian) if I was familiar with the area. I said I was, and he then launched into a very detailed story about trying to get to Portland, having his car towed, the towing company advising him to hitchhike, but giving him a jacket out of pity, the church and shelters not being able to help, his being an artist, an abstract artist, and his willingness to bestow upon me--an intelligent looking fellow who, to all appearances will dispel any prejudices about Americans not being trusting and helping--a painting of his entitled "Kiev Empire" (he had to repeat this a couple of times. I initially heard "Key of Empire") if I could only supply him with the money he was short of $50 greyhound.

I allowed him to finish his 5+ minute tale, and gave him my standard, intentionally ambiguous response for all people who ask for money on the street: I cannot help you with money.

The remainder of the walk home was spent in the inevitable state of doubt about the whether I actually passed up an opportunity to help someone. When I related the tale to Patti, she said: "In front of Trader Joe's right? I ran into this same guy last month."

Damn. The poor bastard has been trying to get to Portland for weeks now.

Look & Move On

"As one would have to be, to make a life outside of the larger cities," the letter continues, "the people here are quite keen. They can detect changes in things, and observe conditions which I cannot, and I am often at a loss to try to follow their conversations, though my Darija is by now very good (I am told). It is like engaging in animated teahouse chatter with a group of particle physicists, about things which are invisible to me."

Further down: "I continue to move from village to village every week or so, seeking out the local musicians, as Bowles did, though without the recording equipment or the government grant. I have, however, acquired an "assistant," a boy of 15 who has, with his father's blessing, attached himself to my cause, though I doubt he could articulate just what that is any more than I myself could. I call him "Bob," (or "Bwab") which he responds to because it sounds just like you were saying his name (which you can guess) very fast. Socially, he is brazen, which really does assist in meeting the right people for my enterprise.

"The music has a genius which is very much not apparent upon first entering the North American ear. Think about the first time you heard Thelonius Monk clobber the keyboard, how clumsy and ill-timed it sounded, before the brilliance of it began to take shape in your mind. A group of musicians who have never before played together can just sit down, start playing, and in less than a minute be playing music which sounds as though it were arranged for them. It starts with the drummers, and radiates out to the winds and strings. Some players assume a dominant role, without this being agreed upon beforehand, and will structure a peice via call and response. In the next peice, some other will step up to the leadership role. This egalitarianism certainly is not mirrored in daily life here, which is very hierarchical; it seems to be a musical thing only, and they openheartedly invite my attempts to riff on their ancient grooves."

Climatic Doggerel

This little poem was part of the Pacific Northwest mountain forecast yesterday. We managed to sneak out and go skiing anyway,

WEATHER SYNOPSIS FOR SUNDAY AND MONDAY

Whether you're skiing or shredding, or riding the pow,
There are times to be out, it's just not right now.
The danger's been building for almost a week,
If it's not high to extreme it will be unique.

Winds should increase along with snow density-
And the precip should reach a very high intensity.
Sunday afternoon and night freezing levels will climb-
And recent good skiing will cease being sublime.

We've got plenty of buried weak layers to stress-
And when they release, it'll be a big mess.
Heavy snow or rain will load start zones and track-
Making runouts the place for debris piles to stack.

So hang up your snowshoes and put your skis on the rack-
The back country right now is not a good track.
You don't want to be part of that moving snow,
Because if you're caught it may not let go.

The sea returns upon the men

To survive, I say that you are but a song I sing myself that I have sung since I was young. I don't remember who taught me the tune. Maybe it was you.

Do What You Love

Paul Graham has another article worth reading, on doing work that you like to do.

www.paulgraham.com/love.html

It's mostly on the mark, if not majorly insightful. I do, however, object to the statement in the footnote, which says (and here I am painfully aware of the limitations of tribe's blog formatting) "Parents move to suburbs to raise their kids in a safe environment, but suburbs are so dull and artificial that by the time they're fifteen the kids are convinced the whole world is boring."

Sorry, but only dull children think the suburbs are boring; a smart child takes a universe of imagination every where he or she goes. And the way suburban development goes, there are usually lots of odd nooks and crannies for forts, secret caches, and all sorts of interstitial fun (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more). I should think that a city, which is usually denser and more regular in development plan, with only "official" places to play, like parks, would be the more mind numbing for kids.

Today, we see very few children engaged in unsupervised play around our city neighborhood. Many parents being deathly afraid to let their children out into the dangerous world, which makes me wonder about what sort of world they'll build.

Eyebright

Working at reducing the growing fire hazard in the basement, we have accumulated five boxes of books that could not find a place at either Powell's or Third Place. Half Price will take almost anything and dispose of what they don't buy, and we cruelly talk openly about these books' fate as we box them up. They revenge by leeching all the moisture from my fingers until my cuticles crack and bleed.

I find some old comics in a box. I put some of them, including the first several issues of Groo the Wanderer, into archival quality plastic bags. I don't know if it will help.

There is still much to do in the basement, but we've made some progress; earned a beer.

This morning, as I walk past the Upper Wallingford Word of the Day (which hasn't changed in so long that I've forgotten the definition, having looked it up near the beginning of its tenure) the sky is a smooth, Wintery overcast, a change from the various species of nimbus clouds we've lived under for nearly a month amidst murmurs of broken climatic records. Later it will rain vigorously again, pooling above the saturated ground, and cars will rooster-tail it over cursing pedestrians on the sidewalk and smokers moping around outside the taverns.