Thank you, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

It is in the thirties that we want friends. In the forties we know they won’t save us any more than love did.

I see angry people

I was just about to write this, but then realized Carrie Arnold had already done it for me. She took the words right out of my mouth, which works well for me because my mouth should be busy eating dinner anyway.

Soon to be on the inside of my right hip

All but Death, can be Adjusted—
Dynasties repaired—
Systems—settled in their Sockets—
Citadels—dissolved—

Wastes of Lives—resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs—
Death—unto itself—Exception—
Is exempt from Change—

Emily Dickinson

Geeking out with excitement

On which I will write more later

“Defining liberty only in terms of freedom from coercive hospitalization fails to take into account that such liberty may be meaningless in the presence of the debilitating effects of untreated disease.” – Dr. John Shemo, writing on behalf of the APA.

(Have I mentioned recently that he’s brilliant, though at times maddeningly insightful and therapeutic?)

Can’t argue with this

Me: “Men are so confusing! They make no sense.”

Male (who shall remain anonymous): “Well, we have penises.”

Me: “And that somehow excuses you from rational thought and behavior?!?!”

Male (who shall remain anonymous): “No. But it explains a lot.”

Current reading list

From the bottom:

Enchanted Looms by Rodney Cotterill and Networks for the Brain by Olaf Sporns, both thanks to the brilliant biochemist whose genes are most likely directly responsible for both the best and worst parts of my brain.

Genome by Matt Ridley and Just Food by James McWilliams, both thanks to John.

Descartes’ Error by Antonio Damasio, thanks to my favorite member of ΦBK.

The Girl Who Played with Fire by Steig Larsson, thanks (indirectly) to the Viking’s Fan.

(So far, the best line by far is the one I opened to in Enchanted Looms: “Thinking is a bodily function.”)

18 months and a lifetime later

Tomorrow marks 18 months since I’ve been in Harrisonburg. Wild how time flies.

A friend is going through a break-up that is very different from the end of my marriage, but is similar in some ways (I’m beginning to think that perhaps the ends of most relationships have many things in common, no matter the circumstances, but that is commentary for another day…). Watching that relationship end from the sidelines is bringing up a lot of, what I at least thought, were old emotions that I had processed and moved on from but that are apparently still much closer to the surface than I realized.

I guess that makes sense. When my husband left (he left first, then I moved) I had the presence of mind to know that I was going to respond to his desertion in one of two ways: I was either going to kill myself or I was going to white knuckle my way through to the other side. There would be no chance at any middle ground. I would either survive or I wouldn’t, and for a reason still unknown to me I chose to live, though there were many nights when the alternative was very very appealing.

I got through it by refusing to look at the past or plan for the future. I concentrated on simply getting through the infinity of present moments in each moment and didn’t let myself stop to reflect on how I had gotten to where I was, or where I wanted to go from here. I just couldn’t. I took everything I had just to get out of bed, shower, and show up each day to do anything else. Now that I’m slowly letting myself be a little more introspective up are popping difficult emotions that I would much rather ignore and pretend don’t exist. I’d really like to run away.

But I’m not going to. I have an amazing job. I have the opportunity of a lifetime to teach my own course at JMU next fall, and perhaps next spring. I live with the most high quality woman I know. I have a contingent of friends who come to my aid when the Swede gets grumpy. I need to stay put.

So. Time to get rid of the key to the house on Galen Hedrick Road. With lots of tears I took it off my key chain last night. At the time I didn’t realize that the last time I was at the house was going to be the last time I was there, so I still had the key. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it – right now it is sitting on my desk as a painful reminder, more of what was, though, and less of what could have been.

And to all the women out there who are facing the reality of starting all over again, without a partner, I don’t really know what to say other than if you hold on long enough there is life on the other side.

When the simplist explanation isn’t (or, Occam vs. Hickman)

After 12 years and 250,000 miles of starting each and every time I put my key in the ignition, Raggedy Ann II failed to start this week, two morning in a row. In other words, assuming I start my car twice every day, this means that after 8,760 successful and drama-free ignitions, there were two failures in a row.

And apparently I’m supposed to accept the idea that each event was independent of the other. William of Ockam and Karl Popper are turning over in their graves.

Ignition Failure 1: easily and accurately diagnosed as dead battery. Probably at least a kilo of PbSO4 all over the positive terminal. Pretty? Yes. Conducive to appropriate functioning? Notsomuch. I got a nice lesson in Volvo battery replacement from a Viking’s Fan and his three-year old hammer-wielding helper, who also enthusiastically attempted to dig up the huge tree in front of Shocking Aqua. (The tree is still standing, minus some bark.)

Problem solved, right? Well. Only kinda.

Next day, Ignition Failure 2: after extensive and complicated diagnostic testing (that consisted of sitting in the driver’s seat and trying to start the car), my Good friend established that Raggedy Ann II’s engine was flooded. He got her started, just barely, and then blew out the accumulated carbon build-up via an Italian tune-up. (He provides this service free of charge. I strongly recommend taking him up on it. Fun enough that I want to do it again. Soon!)

What does this teach us? Well, in addition to the fact that it takes a multicultural contingent to keep my grumpy Swede on the road, it also suggests that, at least occasionally, Hickman was right: the patient can have as many diseases as she damn well pleases.

The difficulty I’m having accepting this idea is reflective of how much I struggle with the multiple dependant variables of life in general. I’m glad that my favorite member of ΦBK will be back in Harrisonburg soon so that we can discuss the philosophical implications of falsifying Occam’s Razor.

Or perhaps I could just have a Stella and try to accept that modern automobiles are complicated machines. Nah. I’d rather over analyze it and revel in the associated angst.

Wave Alchemy 10 (or, an orgasm for my feet)

Today’s present to myself:

Because I’m afraid that some of the males in my life might be about to out-run me. And it’s much more fun when the boys can’t keep up 😉

Besides, if I’m going to spend that much money on myself it is MUCH more practical to do so on an entire pair of running shoes I’ll use almost every day, rather than to buy half of this dress from BR…

I mean, if  I don’t have an event to wear the whole thing to, I’ll probably never find an event appropriate to wear half of it. And which half would I choose?…. The Mizunos were definitely the more practical choice. Hands down.