A bit of drabble

I've been sitting at the computer for almost two hours now, wanting very badly to write but finding my creative brain strangely empty. I decided to read through some of my old pieces to see if my Muse might spark, but so far -- nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

I came across this piece I wrote for a fiction writing workshop I took with my brother ages ago. I don't even remember what the actual assignment was, nor do I remember the grade I received (though I do remember it wasn't a bad grade). So, in a fit of insanity, I decided to submit it for perusal. I am not a professional writer because I'm not very good, so please don't judge it from that standpoint. I write for my own enjoyment and -- hopefully -- the enjoyment of my friends. So here you go . . . .



Excrutiating Hour by Dawn
5 March 2003
Summary: A worried sister frets at her brother's bedside. Based on a true story.

I sat near the foot of the hospital bed, listening to the air gurgling in and out of my brother's lungs. He coughed, but it was hardly productive for the effort he put into it. A monotonous tick drew my eyes to the wall clock, its bold black numbers stark against its white face. Two-fifteen a.m. I glanced over at Nicole, folded in on herself in Jacob's wheelchair in the corner. Her breathing was slow, steady, and completely unlabored. She was asleep. I glanced back at Jacob, small and frail underneath the mountain of heated blankets the nurse had brought to keep him warm. His breathing was rapid, shallow, and sounded like he was hiding a locomotive in his chest. He was floating in delirium, one minute seemingly aware of his surroundings, the next mumbling incoherently.

As though sensing my thoughts, Jacob woke with a shake and his fevered eyes met mine. The irises were still his same milk chocolate brown, but red blood vessels stood out alarmingly in the scleras. His increased body temperature had caused more moisture to form, and his glassy eyes were now a perfect mirror that reflected the bars of the bed.

"Michelle." Jacob’s voice was deceptively normal, and if it weren't for the fact that he sounded as though he were drowning in his own sputum, I might have thought he was getting better. His eyes searched the room, but I knew he wasn't seeing the hospital. "Where's the cat, Michelle?"

"He's at home, honey," I replied quietly, but my heartbeat began to pound in my ears. The ice that had been resting around the base of my spine for three days began to creep slowly up into my own chest. I felt my breathing rate increase slightly, but I slowed it again with a little concentration. My fear wasn't going to help Jacob.

The nurse walked in on rubber soles, her footfalls barely making a sound. She carried a urinal in her right hand, and she smiled too cheerfully at my brother. "Do you need to use the bathroom, Jacob?" she asked, and her voice bounced off the walls and seemed to make the Kleenex poking up out of the box flutter.

"No," my brother replied simply and closed his eyes again.

The nurse checked the I.V. bag hanging on its hook, the sides flat against each other after having dumped their contents into Jacob's veins. She gazed down on the sleeping form in front of her, three distinct lines forming vertically between her russet brows. "He's had almost two liters of fluid in an hour," she muttered to herself. "He should have to urinate."

"He's dehydrated," I responded, and the nurse looked at me as the lines on her forehead deepened and her lips thinned. "That's what I've been trying to tell the doctor. That's what our roommate tried to tell the doctor last night when he had Jacob in here." My voice was nearly as flat and monotonous as the ticking of the clock.

Our voices roused Nicole, and she raised her head and rubbed at the creases her coat had made on her cheek while she’d dozed. "Are they admitting him?" she asked around her sleep-thickened tongue.

"I don't know," I responded, never taking my gaze from the nurse's. I raised a brow. "Are they?"

The nurse's eyes softened, and she tried to smile. "The doctor wants to get some x-rays."

My fists clenched, causing my nails to spear into my palms. The muscles of my jaw were knotted and didn't allow the bone to move when my voice came crawling out of my throat. "What about the x-rays from last night?"

"We can't see anything on them." The nurse's pitch had gone up a few notes and she was smiling slightly, and I realized she thought she was being cheerful.

I smiled too, but I had no intention of being cheerful. The nurse knew it, too. "Could it be because he's dehydrated?"

The nurse was saved a response by two radiography technicians and a portable x-ray machine. I hadn't even heard them coming, probably because my blood was roaring as loudly in my ears. One tech, her blond-streaked brown hair cut in a bob under her chin, opened her mouth to ask me to leave, but I was already spinning my own wheelchair away from them and into the hallway. Nicole followed slowly, yawning hugely. She leaned against the wall of small paper flowers, and I felt her eyes on my back as I rolled toward the exit door. I turned sharply and headed back toward her. She was fully awake now, and she said as I approached, "You're pissed."

"You're damn right I'm pissed." My voice hissed through my teeth, and another nurse looked up at me from behind a computer monitor. "Robert had Jake in here last night for four hours, and the moron doctor sent him home. He said it was viral and there was nothing they could do." I stopped pacing and jammed my furiously shaking hands in my armpits. I was suddenly very cold. "I knew I should have come last night. Robert hasn't dealt with this enough to know what to do. He didn't know to force the issue."

"He knew Jake was sick, but he trusted the doctor," Nicole said quietly.

"A doctor who has probably never dealt with a spinal muscular atrophy patient in his entire, short, pathetic career," I snarled, and a nearby intern winced at my comment. "It's pneumonia, I know it is. I had enough when I was younger to know what it sounds like."

"He's been on antibiotics for three days. That's a good thing."

I shook my head, my muscles going suddenly weak. My hands fell out of my armpits and into my lap, and my chin dropped to my chest. "No, it's different this time," I said, and I almost couldn't hear myself. Nicole knelt next to me, leaning in with a hand on my leg rest. I raised my eyes to hers and her image wavered in and out of focus. I realized I was about to cry, and I blinked the tears back into confinement. I inhaled deeply, and ironically enough at that moment the tech in the room with Jacob encouraged him to breathe deeper, c'mon you can do it. I squeezed my eyes closed, hearing the loud gurgle as my brother inhaled for the x-ray, then released his held breath with a weak cough.

I heard the other tech, this one male, mutter, "This is one sick little guy."

"He was in last night," Bobbed Hair responded. "He was bad then, but he's ten times worse tonight."

The door opened and the male tech pushed the machine through. He looked down at me and touched my shoulder lightly as he passed. "Good luck," he said.

I nodded in response, my voice caught in my throat. Nicole patted my leg and inclined her head toward the open door. When I reentered the room, the nurse was still there. Jacob was still awake, and his eyes looked accusingly at Nicole. "You missed the turn for St. Mary's," he stated quite clearly.

The nurse jumped a little, and her eyes went from Jacob to Nicole to me and back to Jacob, fast as a hummingbird on the hunt for nectar. She leaned over my brother's tiny body, still uncovered and starting to shiver, and asked, "Jacob, do you know where you are?"

My brother shook himself and looked at the nurse with a disgusted curl of his lip. "Yes," he responded, just as clearly. "I'm at the emergency room at St. Mary's.” He looked at me with his glassy eyes, seeming to question me as to why he had to deal with this imbecile.

The gravity of the situation finally collapsed onto the nurse’s head. "I'll get the doctor," she mumbled as she practically ran from the room.

Nicole pulled the blankets up over Jacob, and we heard him mutter something about being hot as he drifted back into the haze he'd been visiting off and on for three days. We settled down to wait again, she in my brother's wheelchair, me next to the foot of the bed. Within minutes, Nicole's breathing had slowed and deepened again in slumber. Whenever her body stopped moving, her fatigue won out. At least she was able to rest. At least she was able to block, even for a few minutes at a time, the sound of the train that was slowly destroying my brother's lungs.

I had a flash from years before of my sister Lee, three years old, with her face held closely to one-month-old Jacob's. She was rapidly sucking in air and blowing it out again, and Mom asked her what she was doing. "Breathing for brother," Lee had replied.

Breathing for brother. I watched Jacob's weak rib cage rise and fall ever so slightly and listened to the phlegm rolling over and over inside his lungs. I breathed deeply and held the air in my lungs, waiting until the gas exchange was nearly completed before exhaling again. I repeated the cycle, willing Jacob's respiration to match mine, willing the phlegm to move aside and allow the life-giving oxygen into his bloodstream, but it was no use. Jake's rhythm decided instead to match the ticking of the clock, and the ice finally succeeded in closing its fingers around my heart.

I gots money!

The grant proposal I recently submitted to my university's College of Sciences requesting $2000 was approved for $1500. I'm very happy that I received something, even if it wasn't the entire amount.

Fortunately, I can write another proposal to the graduate school for more (the $2000 I requested from the CoS was for a subset of fish, not the whole lot), so keep your fingers crossed!

Nooooooooooo!!!

I just saw Pauley Perrette in an Expedia commercial.

::bangs head on table::

Three years

Three years. Today, once again, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I sat in my room and cried, hard, for fifteen minutes -- oddly enough at almost exactly the same time that he died. Just when I think the hole in my heart is starting to heal, I find I'm wrong.

I miss you, Pauley. I miss you so much.

Two degrees of separation

One of my bestest friends, L, knows the beautiful woman who played the Israeli Mossad officer protecting Ziva's father on last night's (and next week's) episode of NCIS. It was kind of groovy watching her and feeling a bit of a connection to her through my friend.

Now if I could just get L to get her to hook me up with Michael Weatherly. Or get me Pauley Perrette's autograph . . . and Mark Harmon, and Cote de Pablo, and Sean Murray, and David McCallum. ::grin::

Steamed

Somebody in the voter registration office dropped the ball and failed to send out the mail-in ballots for all the voters registered here at DH&R -- so now I am not going to able to voice my opinion about our next governor, attorney general, or congress-people. You can bet that I will voice my opinion about the irresponsibility of the voter registration office.

ROTD -- Return of the Dawn

I'm still at the rehab facility healing my broken bones (work in that area is progressing slowly, but it is progressing), but the corporate office had blocked a lot of networking/blogging sites, thus my absence. However, my laptop crashed Saturday, necessitating the need to purchase a new one. I picked out a sweet little number -- a Sony Vaio with 6 GB of RAM, a 640 GB hard drive, and amazing graphics with which to measure my fish heads -- and I decided to splurge on a mobile broadband device so I can do the Internet my way. I feel like I'm channeling my techno-geek brother.

In other news -- my most recent fishy paper has been accepted for publication! After four and a half years, at least a dozen revisions, and three journals, it's finally in! ::D does the happy dance:: It should be published electronically sometime this week, but I'm not sure when it will be in print.

How are all of you?

Still around

Still at the rehab facility. Still healing, though not nearly as quickly as I'd like.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled day.

Here I am

Last Thursday (19 August), I had my second ortho checkup. My arm and left leg are healing well, but the plate in my right leg has shifted a half an inch because my bones are so weak. The orthopedist ordered a cessation of physical therapy on that leg and is trying to get me a bone stimulator to help with the healing on my legs. I'm also making a point of drinking a packet of Carnation Instant Breakfast every day for the extra vitamins and minerals -- maybe they will help the healing as well. I will remain in rehab until my bones are able to handle me using the two-piece sling I use for transfers at home (minimum another month).

Furthermore, we discovered earlier this week that my left foot has been sweating in its brace, and so I have a couple of spots in the beginning stages of skin breakdown (skin red but not broken open). I will be getting my ankle x-rayed at some point to see if I even need the brace or if the tib-fib fracture is healing as slowly as the breaks.

I actually got girly on Wednesday and bought a couple of skirts. ::shiver:: I don't think I've bought a skirt or a dress in almost 20 years. It's just that even shorts are a pain (literally AND figuratively) to put on over these leg braces.

OK, I think I may get back in bed soon and get to work on my manuscript revisions . . . IF I can keep my eyes open.

Yes, I'm alive

For those who didn't know, I was in a car accident on June 7th in which a 20-year-old failed to pay attention to the large red stop sign in front of him, causing us (my parents, Reba, and myself) to hit him at 50-55 mph. Mom bruised her right hand and knee, Dad had a concussion, Reba's sutures from a surgery that morning tore open, and I broke my right humerus and both femurs and cracked my left tibia and fibula. I underwent a six-hour surgery on June 9th to attach plates and screws to my humerus and right femur and a rod along my left femur. Basically, I now have more hardware in me than a Home Depot.

I was in the hospital for three weeks, then I was transferred to a rehab facility where I still am. I get therapy on my arm five days a week and on my legs six days a week. I'm not healing as quickly as *I* would like, but I am healing. Moby (my van) was totaled, which upset me a lot. She was a good van, and she didn't deserve to go out like that. My folks quickly found me a new ride, though -- a maroon-colored 1993 Ford with a working AC. I have christened her the Red Baron.

Isn't life grand?

Grrrrr!

Once again, I've completely worn out a mouse by typing using the onscreen keyboard. The left button gets all double-clicky, so without going back and editing what I type via the onscreen keyboard, this is what comes out on screen:

Once again, I've complettely worn ouut a mouse by typing using the oonscreeen keyboard. The lleeft button getss all doublee-clicky, so without going back and editing what Ii type via the onscreenn keyboarrd, thiis is what comes outt on screenn:

Sometimes it's worse than that. I'm trying to write a poster proposal for a toxicology meeting in November, so the double-clicky gets really annoying really quickly. So, I've decided to read until my PT appointment this afternoon, then go buy YET ANOTHER mouse so I can get some work done.

Speaking of getting work done, I need about another six hours in the day until further notice.

. . . a homeopathic remedy you could apply when you came down with a bad case of the devil

27. Horns by Joe Hill

What can happen to a man when the woman he loves is brutally raped and murdered and everyone -- including his own parents -- thinks he did it despite there being no evidence to justify the theory? What does happen one year later when that man wakes up after a bender and discovers he has horns growing out of his temples?

These questions are the basis of Joe Hill's (the pseudonym adopted by Stephen King's son) newest novel. When Ignatius Perrish wakes up with a horrendous headache after he gets his drunk on at the one year anniversary of his girlfriend Merrin Williams's murder, he thinks it's a simple hangover until he sees the horns growing from his temples. Just as disturbing is that not only are people not terribly bothered by the horns but that they start confessing their darkest secrets to him. Then he learns his brother's worst secret -- he knows who really killed Merrin -- and sets out for revenge.

The format of the book is a bit disconcerting and almost put me off. It seemed strange for Ig to learn who killed Merrin within the first 50 pages of a 300+ page novel. This is because much of the book is flashback. At first, this format was annoying, but I got used to it. The flashbacks turned out to be illuminating -- about Ig, about the murderer, and about how each of them viewed Merrin and their respective relationships with her. I was all set to give it four stars out of five until I read the climax. My reaction put simply = BOO! My reaction put more intelligently = it was not nearly as climactic as it could have been. The level of betrayal Merrin and Ig experience deserves a much stronger resolution than it got. The denoument, however, was very good.

For his sophomore novel, Hill didn't do too badly, but I was not as impressed with Horns as I was with his debut, Heart-Shaped Box. Still, I won't cut him from my "To Read" list when his next novel comes out.

Received an email this morning

Dear Dawn M. Allenbach,

We have received the reports from our advisors on your manuscript, "Improving Fluctuating Asymmetry Studies Using Recommendations From a Fish Literature Review", which you submitted to Reviews in Fish Biology and Fisheries.

Based on the advice received, I feel that your manuscript could be reconsidered for publication should you be prepared to incorporate major revisions. When preparing your revised manuscript, you are asked to carefully consider the reviewer comments which are attached, and submit a list of responses to the comments.

. . .

Your revision is due on: 29 Jul 2010

We look forward to receiving your revised manuscript within eight weeks.

With kind regards,
J.N.
Editor in Chief


It's gonna be a lot of work, but . . .

::happy Dawn dance::

Mom was right. Third time was the charm!

The cutest thing I've seen all day

An eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind

26. My Brothers' Eyes: How My Blind Brothers Taught Me to See by Daniel R. Brooks

In October 2006, I met Dr. Dan Brooks, a colleague of one of my fellow Ph.D. students and best friends Sarah, who had come to New Orleans to make a presentation in our department's seminar series. I don't remember much about his talk (sorry, Dr. Brooks), but I have great memories of going out to dinner with him one evening at Deanie's. Over drinks and scads of seafood, I got a glimpse into the psyche of a giant in biology. I noted mostly that he didn't act strangely around me like some people do. When Sarah told me a few months ago about his new book, I understood why my disability didn't phase him.

This book isn't your typical memoir or biography. There's no precise chronology. It is a collection of reminiscences of a man's childhood and adolescence told through modern images. But it even goes beyond that. It is a collection of photographs taken from interesting perspectives -- perspectives which tell the stories of Dr. Brooks's relationship to his two blind brothers. Through being his brothers' eyes, he learns that the world around us is more than just visual. When he talks about a place, Dr. Brooks uses terms for ALL the senses. For example, while hiking a towpath in Seneca, Maryland, he writes of the smell of decay, the sliminess of the birches, of being able to feel that he is shaded by leaves from above while warmed by sunshine from the side.

One picture captioned "Morning Light, Cacapon State Park, West Virginia" shows early sun rays filtering through an autumn forest canopy. As I looked at it, I noticed that where the sun hit the ground, it transformed those spots into little campfires. Whether it was the quality of light, the color of the leaves being spotlighted, or some combination of the two, I don't know. What I DO know is that as I studied the photo with my eyes, I could feel a fire's warmth, hear its crackling, and smell that pungent smell of burning leaves. Then I read the text above the photo:

The light seems to ignite little fires where it touches rocks or old fallen trees. I'd have taken Lucien and Duncan to the spots where the sunbeams struck so they could feel the warm spots. In some places, they could have felt the sun on their hands or their faces, and turned towards it, using their bodies as compasses.

People hearing about Dr. Brooks and his three other brothers being Lucien and Duncan's eyes growing up might just stop there and think they were great kids for taking care of their poor, crippled brothers. Reading this book, though, changes your perspective because it is about change in perspective. Because Lucien and Duncan wanted detailed descriptions of everything around them, Dr. Brooks tells us that he learned to look at things and situations more carefully than he might have otherwise.

The love Dr. Brooks has for his brothers, and even his guilt at not being present in the most difficult parts of their lives, is evident with every turn of the page. Thus, his life's work has evolved as a sort of homage to them:

In 1977, I named new species of parasites I'd discovered after Lucien and Duncan. This might seem macabre, even disrespectful. But for a taxonomist, finding a new species is a big deal; putting my brothers' names on species that no one could see with the naked eye, made me feel like I was still my brothers' eyes.

The most interesting lines of the book for me came at the very end in the short epilogue. Dr. Brooks clearly and succinctly states about his brothers what I've been trying to tell people about myself for years:

When you know the right thing to do, you have no options. People looking at you might think you have options, but you don't feel it. It's a psychological constraint. It might seem like Lucien and Duncan had no option but to deal with their lives. But that's not true -- they had the option of being miserable and bitter. They just didn't take that path.

Get this book, but take your time with it. The words and pictures are visual, certainly, but if you go slowly, I think you'll find a treat for your other senses, too.

ADAPT Blogswarm

Check out my contribution to ADAPT's blogswarm about budget cuts and PWDs living in their own homes over at Road Hog. Then follow the blogswarm link at the end of the piece to read other 'swarmers.

Writer's Block: Book based

On another journaling site, they have a daily "Writer's Block" question, and today's was interesting, so I present the questions and my answers.

Is there a book you really loved that was subsequently turned into a movie? Did it live up to your expectations? Why or why not?


For the most part, movie adaptations of my favorite books have been EXTREMELY disappointing, e.g., Misery or Pet Sematary by Stephen King, The Lost World or Congo by Michael Crichton. There are, however, a couple of notable exceptions.

The Stand by Stephen King. First, they didn't try to cram a 1000+ page book into a two hour movie. Second, the actors they picked were amazing as their characters, with the exception of Molly Ringwald as Frannie Goldsmith. ::shiver:: I've never liked MR, and she did not fail to disappoint. However, Gary Sinise (Stu Redman), Rob Lowe (Nick Andros), Corin Nemec (Harold Lauder), Laura San Giacomo (Nadine Cross), Jamey Sheridan (Randall Flagg), Miguel Ferrer (Lloyd Henreid), Ruby Dee (Mother Abigail Freemantle), and of course Bill Fagerbakke as Tom Cullen ("M-O-O-N. That spells Tom Cullen.") were fantastic. I could watch this mini-series over and over.

The Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling. I've heard a lot of people complain about stuff being left out, but I would disagree. I think the screenwriters did a great job of putting all the important bits in. With that said, I do wish the film makers would have gone with their original plan to make Half-Blood Prince in two parts so as to focus a bit more on the topic of the HBP.

The Lord of the Rings series by J.R.R. Tolkien. I don't care what anyone says -- these three movies were BRILLIANT. Enough said.

Some books I have read/plan to read whose movies I also want to check out -- Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Suskind, The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan, The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd, The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.

Thoughts for the day, and a geek girl squee

"We all come from the same root, but the leaves are all different."
--John Fire Lame Deer, LAKOTA



"A happy person is not a person in a certain set of circumstances, but
rather a person with a certain set of attitudes."
--Scottish Proverb



See this groovy necklace?



I now have one like it, except the eyes on mine are little clear crystals, the finish is more like antiqued pewter, and the chain goes through a loop on the back. As soon as I paid for the pendant, its chain, and my other Hobby Lobby purchases, I went out to the van and put him on.

Ford Foundation Dissertation Fellowship

Back in November, you may remember that I applied for a Ford Foundation Dissertation Fellowship. This award is described on their website as follows:

Awards are made to individuals who, in the judgment of the review panels, have demonstrated superior academic achievement, are committed to a career in teaching and research at the college or university level, show promise of future achievement as scholars and teachers, and are well prepared to use diversity as a resource for enriching the education of all students.

Hundreds of Ph.D./Sc.D. students apply every year. Only 20 are awarded. I only just learned how astronomical my chances were.

I GOT ONE!!!

*happy dance*

I was awarded support for one year ($21,000), plus I am expected to attend a Ford Foundation leadership meeting. *falls out of wheelchair* I can't believe I got it.

Am I a troubled kid? Yeah. You could say that.

25. The Lightning Thief (Percy Jackson and the Olympians #1) by Rick Riordan

This was a fun read. A bit simpler in form and plot than HP, but still good. Percy, our narrator, is engrossing because he "talks" like any kid his age -- and he's a funny kid, even if he does have about the worst luck ever for a 12-year-old. I even liked the chapter titles -- funny and descriptive. Like "I accidentally vaporize my pre-algebra teacher," or "I become supreme lord of the bathroom," or my favorite, "I battle my jerk relative" (that would be Ares). It's worth the three or so hours it takes to read it.

Aside: If I had joined that 50 books in a year club, I'd be on the downhill slide now.

Funny thing . . .

. . . how your brain takes things you've seen/heard/read and condenses them down into a wacky dream. The fuel:

1. We watched "Van Helsing" night before last
2. Yesterday evening, I saw a commercial for "NCIS"
3. Before going to bed last night, I read around 50 pages of The Lightning Thief (Percy Jackson and the Olympians book #1)

The dream:

Gibbs and Tony walk into autopsy to get a report from Ducky. Who should be standing behind Ducky but Frankenstein in a suit and tie of Tony's style, threatening them all. Tony goes in for the fight with Gibbs right behind him when there's a noise behind Gibbs. He turns, looks right into the eyes of Medusa, and turns to stone.

I told you it was a wacky dream.

One more time!

I just submitted my manuscript to Reviews in Fish Biology and Fisheries. This is the THIRD journal to whom I've submitted this tome, so here's hoping that "third time's a charm."

When all else fails -- MEME

Inspired by the mighty Nate, a.k.a. Ceiling Cat.

Your result for The Which Lolcat Are You? Test...

Lion Warning Cat

53% Affectionate, 52% Excitable, 44% Hungry

You are the good Samaritan of the lolcat world. Protecting others from danger by shouting observations and guidance in cases of imminent threat, you believe in the well-being of everyone.



To see all possible results, checka dis.

Take The Which Lolcat Are You? Test at OkCupid

::giggle::

He popped the bill in his mouth and ate it

24. The Octopus and the Orangutan: More True Tales of Animal Intrigue, Intelligence, and Ingenuity by Eugene Linden

This was a bit of an older book (published in '02 or '03), so it is very interesting and leaves me wanting to look for studies published in journals. Always careful to point out that most of these accounts are anecdotal (some unverifiable because they are third- or fourth-hand retellings) and not scientifically substantiated, Linden provides examples of seeming intelligence in a variety of species, including octopuses, dolphins, orangutans, chimps, elephants, starlings, and even household cats. A Pacific giant octopus pointedly refuses some spoiled shrimp by catching the eye of her keeper, then shoving the unsavory morsel into her aquarium's drain pipe. There's also the tale of Fu Manchu, an orang who picked the lock on his nighttime cage at least three times and kept his wire pick hidden in his mouth. An elephant, seeing her keeper struggling to push a wheelbarrow up a hill in her enclosure, gives unbidden assistance by pushing the barrow herself. An alpha male chimp comforts his zookeepers after the escape and tragic death of one of his colony's young females. A wild alpha male chimp in Uganda uses a stick to beat one of his females who is protecting her infant from him. All these stories are compelling, yet most would be rejected as intelligence by many reductionist scientists. Linden points out that intelligence is not clearly defined, which leads to the many arguments about whether animals are actually demonstrating the phenomenon. Reading the anecdotes made me feel that there is more going on in some species than just copying what they see humans do and more than just operant conditioning.

I woke up too early = SILLINESS

::Dawn singing along with the CD::

Her hair was green as seaweed
Her skin was blue and pale
Her face it was a work of art
I loved that girl with all my heart
But I only liked the upper part
I did not like the tail

--"The Mermaid Song"


And if the devil would take her
I'd thank him for his pain
I swear to God I'll hang meself
If I get married again

--"The Scolding Wife"


Oh me! Oh my! I heard me ol' wife cry
Oh me! Oh my! I think I'm gonna die!
Oh me! Oh my! I heard me ol' wife say
I wish I'd never taken this excursion around the bay!

--"Excursion Around the Bay"

I break no bones. I am a healer.

23. Break No Bones by Kathy Reichs

I've definitely developed a taste for Kathy Reichs's series, though I never can seem to read them in order. Reichs is a forensic anthropologist who writes novels about a forensic anthropologist. In book #9, our heroine Temperence "Tempe" (as in Arizona) Brennan has been wrangled into teaching a two week field anthropology course at a barrier island off the coast of South Carolina. On their next to last day digging, one of Tempe's students finds skeletal remains that are not like the rest -- not deeply buried, not jumbled, not prehistoric. This single find sends her down a rabbit hole of missing street people with her estranged husband Pete and lover Ryan along for the ride. As usual, Reichs keeps you guessing until the end.

LOVE this series!

It is wakan

22. The Medicine Men: Oglala Sioux Ceremony and Healing by Thomas H. Lewis

I probably should have looked at the publication date of this book before checking it out. I was looking for a more contemporary read in an attempt to learn more about current Oglala ritual and healing, but what I got were field notes of a psychiatrist/anthropologist taken from 1967ish through early 1973. Most of the book was transcribed field notes of a white outsider with a heavy dose of skepticism for some things he supposedly wanted to understand while promoting a white-Sioux synthesis of medicine. About the only thing he gave me a bit of insight into were the heyoka, specifically the complexity of the role they play in Native society. I didn't even read all of the last chapter because his analysis wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know.

Note to self: In the future, check the publication date!

Finding Your Joy

March 15, 2010
Finding Your Joy
Be Happy Every Single Day

Being happy doesn't come naturally to everybody. It is your birthright to be happy, choose happiness everyday.

Our lives are rich with potential sources of happiness, but sometimes we become victims of negative thinking because we believe that focusing on all that has gone wrong will provide us with the motivation we need to face the challenges of survival. When we choose to focus on what makes us happy, however, a shift occurs in the fabric of our existence. Finding something to be happy about every single day can help this shift take place. The vantage points from which we view the world are brought into balance, and we can see that being alive truly is a gift to be savored. There is always something we can be happy about —- it is simply up to us to identify it.

On one day, we may find happiness in a momentous, life-changing event such as a marriage or the birth of a child. On another day, the happiness we experience may be a product of our appreciation of a particularly well-brewed cup of a tea or the way the sun shines on a leaf. If we discover that we literally cannot call to mind a single joyful element of existence, we should examine the cause of the blockage standing between us and experiencing happiness. Keeping a happiness journal is a wonderful way to catalog the happiness unfolding all around us so that joy has myriad opportunities to manifest itself in our lives. Writing about the emotions we experience while contemplating joy may give us insight into the factors compelling us to resist it.

Happiness may not always come easily into your life. You have likely been conditioned to believe that the proper response to unmet expectations is one of sadness, anger, guilt, or fear. To make joy a fixture in your existence, you must first accept that it is within your power to choose happiness over unhappiness every single day. Then, each time you discover some new source of happiness, the notion that the world is a happy place will find its way more deeply into your heart. On this day, find one thing to be happy about and let it fill your heart.


© 2004-08 DailyOM - All Rights Reserved
From dailyom.com

. . . the absence of a skeleton in a marine life form constitutes a form of perfection

21. Octopus and Squid: The Soft Intelligence by Jacques-Yves Cousteau and Philippe Diole

Don't let the wording of this book's title mislead you -- "soft" refers to body makeup, not the animals' intelligence. Published in 1973 as part of Jacques Cousteau's Undersea Discovery series, it is one of the earliest explorations of the four well known cephalopods -- the octopuses (~80% of the book), the squids, the cuttlefish, and the nautiluses. One of my very favorite animals, in fact one of my totems, is the octopus, but I know surprisingly little about this mollusk without a shell beyond that many people find them tasty and I find them mesmerizing. This book, while as old as my sister would be were she still alive, is kind of a "getting to know you" book in which Cousteau describes many of the octopus's abilities that had previously never been known since SCUBA diving was still merely in its toddler-hood. Within the pages are descriptions of the octopus's amazing ability to disappear into a crack, its home-building activities, its mimetic (camoflauge) abilities, its means and manner of movement, its playfulness, its reasoning and problem solving capabilities, and its mating habits. The book is loaded with color photographs at nearly every turn of the page. Here are two photos demonstrating camoflauge, with an octopus being mostly brown with green flecks sitting on an airplane's sunken engine covered with algae, and another gone completely white when placed on a large plastic plate. There is an entire series of photos of an octopus exploring a large glass jar with its arms and then pulling its stopper to retrieve the tasty lobster contained within. The final chapters mention in passing the other three cephalopods, with a clear admiration for the nautilus. This book makes me hungry for more recent discoveries about these beautiful creatures.

Great Big Sea

Over the weekend, my friend Lynlee asked me to go with her to a concert last night in Salina at the Stiefel Theater. The group was called Great Big Sea. I'd never heard of them, despite them even having a Wikipedia page (I bought the CD/DVD combo of Courage & Patience & Grit mentioned in the article). Lynlee has great taste in music, and I like discovering new music, so I said, "Sure! I'm game!"

I'm so glad I did! What a dancing, clapping, sing-along time we had. So, I only knew one song ("Mary Mac"), but I still had a great time. We had an even better time when Lynlee traded in the tickets for disabled seats, which moved us from row 6 aisle seats to in front of the front row. Being in a wheelchair sometimes has its benefits. ::grin::

I have included here a couple of videos of songs performed last night. First is Sean McCann taking the lead on "Mary Mac":





One of my favorite original songs, "Consequence Free," with Alan Doyle doing leads:





Good company, good music, good times.

Quotes

"To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget."
— Arundhati Roy


"The secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don’t surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover’s skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don’t. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won’t. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn’t. And yet you want to know again. THAT is their mystery and magic."
— Arundhati Roy (The God of Small Things)

Today's good news is . . .

My cousin Josh's and my cousin-in-law Kyla's new daughter was born at 11:56 p.m. last night. Makynna (muh-KIN-uh) Lynnlee was 8 pounds 9 ounces and 21 inches long. She is Josh's 4th child and Kyla's 2nd. I'm hoping to go visit mama and baby this afternoon.

Also, today is my parents' 39th wedding aniversary! Dad gave Mom a dozen red roses with a card that asked, "How about 39 more?"


Edit: Here's a picture of Makynna, taken by Grandma Shelly.

. . . the manners of this pretty little fish are amusing and engaging

20. Poseidon's Steed: The Story of Seahorses, From Myth to Reality by Helen Scales

In this post's title, Philip Henry Gosse was discussing a pipefish he had collected at the Devonshire seacoast (western England) sometime between 1852 and 1854, but he could just as easily have been talking about their cousins, the seahorses. Seahorses have fascinated me since I was a child, so I was overjoyed to find this "little book" at my local library. In her opening chapter, Dr. Scales questions about the seahorses, also known as hippocampus, "Should we presume these odd-looking creatures were designed by a mischievous god who had some time on her hands?"

Seahorses have fascinated land-walkers from the earliest times, evidenced by their likenesses being found on Lydian jewelry, in Greek and Roman mythology, and on Pictish stone carvings. Scales's book, while only 193 pages of text, is crammed to the hilt with information about these intriguing little fish, including mythology; taxonomy, evolution, and relatives (pipefishes and pipehorses); traditional medicine (especially Chinese); the aquarium trade, starting with how aquariums came to be in the first place (Roman water gardens stocked with edible fish to assure guests will have a fresh meal); and conservation concerns. This book is easily read by the non-scientist and is thoroughly engaging. Included at the end of the book is a complete bibliography of the author's sources and an appendix with brief descriptions of all the known Hippocampus species. Several plates are found in the middle of the book showing a few remarkable individuals as well as ghost pipefish and leafy and weedy seadragons.

In the epilogue, Scales points out that the oceans and the coral reefs are not dependent on seahorses to be healthy or to continue to function. Hippocampi are not keystone species, but they are an aesthetic wonder and an intrinsic joy for millions of people, regardless if they've been seen in person or not. Their loss would be felt if for no other reason than our grandchildren would listen incredulously as we described them:

Imagine what it would be like if all we had to tell our grandchildren were stories of a time when there used to be wonderful creatures called seahorses living wild in the oceans. They looked like miniature horses with rolling eyes and tiny monkeys' tails. It was the males that had babies -- no animals do that anymore -- and they changed color as if by magic and danced elegant dances every day with their faithful partners. If stories were all that were left of the seahorses, I don't suppose anyone would believe us.

He who ruled scent ruled the hearts of men

19. Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Suskind

I started reading this book some time ago, but I'd only gotten a couple of chapters in before having to give up due to an upswing in my academic schedule. The story takes place in 18th century France and is the odd story of a boy born in a fish stall in Paris who grows into a most unique individual. He is saved from death at his mother's hand (she is beheaded when she confesses to not only wanting to kill this child but had killed her three previous infants as well) and given over to a monastery where he is baptized Jean-Baptiste Grenouille. He is a bizarre child in that he himself has no smell, but his sense of smell is so acute that he learns at a very young age how to distinguish between tree species and can find his way in complete darkness using only his nose. People do not consciously realize he has no odor, but everyone who comes in contact with him is unexplainably unnerved by him. He realizes after being sold to a tanner by his foster mother that he wants to catalog in his memory every possible scent. One night, on the anniversary of the king's coronation, Grenouille catches a scent unlike any he has ever smelled before. He follows the trail, mesmerized, blissed out, by the purity of the scent. It is the scent of a young virgin girl, and that amazing, unadulterated scent becomes the driving force of the rest of his life.

Grenouille is not a likable character. At times (especially during a seven year period of his life) he reminded me of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings -- a tragic little creature that everyone despises. Only with Grenouille, you get the sense that he was destined to be an evil little gnome from conception, that no amount of love or positive reinforcement could have altered his path. You know his life is going to end in a train wreck, and what a spectacular wreck it is. And all of it is fueled by scent:

The persuasive power of an odor cannot be fended off, it enters into us like breath into our lungs, it fills us up, imbues us totally. There is no remedy for it.

They're complete perverts with bizarre structures

18. The Emperor of Scent: A Story of Perfume, Obsession, and the Last Mystery of the Senses by Chandler Burr

This was an interesting read about a man obsessed with perfume who proposes a completely new mechanism of smell. At times it is difficult to concentrate on because the writing is as frenetic as the man being written about. You really need a scientific background in order not to get lost in whole chunks of the book, at least a basic knowledge of biology, chemistry, and physics (is that all, you ask). The reason Dr. Turin can propose his theory of smell (that the receptors in your nose read a smell molecule's electron bond vibrations to determine smell, not its shape) is because he is interested in EVERYTHING. His degree is in biology, but he has also taught himself quite a bit of advanced chemistry and physics. The bulk of the book concerns his fight to get his theory taken seriously, much less accepted. As of the publishing of the book (2002), neither had happened. As such, the book also emphasizes what science REALLY is and is not. Scientists have their own ideas and agendas and will fight desperately for those ideas and agendas despite mounting evidence to the contrary. Science urges the publication of "new and original" research, but only as long as it doesn't contradict a "long held" idea or rock a major financial boat. Science is not impartial.

This book takes some time to get through, but I found it interesting given my propensity to play with scents. I think this book is really only readable by people interested in either smell or "trouble-making" scientists.

My statement for tomorrow

Read it here.

I was on the news

Check out Road Hog to see why and watch the video.

Squees!

So, for my recent squees, I will start with today and then tell you about yesterday.

Today: We're getting a rottweiler puppy!!! Dad saw some pups advertized in the paper yesterday and called the guy about pricing. The guy (we'll call him N) originally said $500, and Dad understandably balked. BUT, he started chatting up N -- telling him how he was a dog handler in Vietnam, how we've had three rotties in the last 18 years who were oversized teddy bears, how we lost Rebel to cancer in December -- and N admitted that he'd priced the pups high in order to discourage the types who "want a mean dog." He told Dad to come look at the pups and see if he liked any; if he did, they'd "work a deal." Well, today Dad and Mom went to look, and apparently it all worked out, because we're getting their only girl pup in a week! Dad's stuck on the name Bismarck, so that will be her name even though she's a girl (our other girl rottie was named Rocky -- yeah, my dad's odd). I'll post pics when I have some.

Yesterday: I got my prints back from the framer (OK, so he's actually a photographer, whatever). They look awesome! With Marrus's permission, I am happy to show you my two first official adult art purchases that I've gotten in frames. You can find these prints and many other gorgeous ones to purchase for your very own over at Marrus's site.

First, I will show you pics of the prints that Marrus sent me so you can see why I couldn't put these babies in cookie cutter frames (remember, this is grown-up art), then I'll show you how they look all dressed up and hanging on my bedroom wall. First, the limited edition print I have coveted since the day I met Marrus over a year ago, "Churchstream":





Now, here it is in its framed glory:





Next is "Marriage of Heaven & Earth", a vibrant piece that mesmerizes me every time I look at it:





And in its frame:





See why I loved that green frame so much? It was worth every penny of almost $170 (frames, glass, and tax) to get those particular frames. Every time I go in my bedroom, I just SMILE!

Now I just need to get my other three Marrus pieces framed.

What matters is giving over to what you love

17. The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd

I've owned this book for quite some time. It was given to me three and a half years ago by my good friend Diana, a woman I first met in January 2001 in a women writer's lit course. A handful of us who met in that class went on about a year later to form a book club, where one of the books we all read and adored was Sue Monk Kidd's now wildly popular The Secret Life of Bees. Before I returned to New Orleans after Katrina, Diana gave me Kidd's newest book, The Mermaid Chair, as an early birthday gift. It has languished on my bookshelves lo these many, many moons. My mother checked it out from the library three weeks ago, and I figured it was finally time to read it.

Kidd's writing is as lyrical as I remember it being in TSoB, and her exploration of the female psyche is as pointed as I remember it being in her first memoir, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter (you really should read that one, Tracie -- I think you'll get a lot out of it, especially as I know how much you loved TMC). This is the story of Jessie who has ". . . lived molded to the smallest space possible, [her] days the size of little beads that passed without passion through [her] fingers." She gets a call early one morning from one of her mother Nelle's best friends telling her that her mother has deliberately cut off her right index finger with a meat cleaver in the monastery kitchen where she has been a cook for years. Jessie hurriedly returns to Egret Island, a barrier island off the coast of South Carolina, determined to elicit the source of her mother's madness. Coupled with caring for her mother, Jessie searches for an inner independence she realizes she's lacked in her twenty years of marriage. As with most questions like these, everything has to go to hell in a handbasket before minds, hearts, and souls can be mended. I got so wrapped up in the characters that I found myself crying when Nelle's story finally comes to light. This story is a feast for the senses (Kidd's descriptions of Egret Island are beautifully detailed), but it also quietly asks the reader to search herself, to ask if she is living her life for others or for herself?

Thank you, Diana my dear, for giving me another story to treasure.

Happy Mardi Gras!

Happy Mardi Gras, everyone!

*offers King Cake with purple, green, and gold sugar crystals on top*

Is it sad to fancy David Tennant when you're dead?

16. Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger

This was an interesting yet odd book by the author of The Time Traveler's Wife. Julia and Valentina are twins who have never met their mother Edie's twin Elspeth, so they are surprised one day when they are twenty years old to learn that their aunt has died and left her London flat and all her money to them. They will inherit the money when they turn 21, and they must live in the flat for a year before they can sell it (if they choose to sell it). Julia, the more extroverted of the two, is excited to move from Illinois to London, but Valentina agrees simply because she and Julia always do things together.

At Vautravers (the house in which their flat is located), Valentina becomes close with Robert, their downstairs neighbor who was Elspeth's partner. Julia befriends Martin, their upstairs neighbor who suffers from extreme OCD and whose wife has left him after 25 years of dealing with his ever worsening illness (he hasn't left his flat in a year). But their most interesting acquaintance is the one living with them -- Elspeth herself. At first they don't realize she's there, but Valentina can sense her and after a few months can actually see her; Julia can eventually sense her but never sees her. At the heart of the story is Elspeth's and Edie's estrangement as well as Valentina's desire to distance herself from her twin and have a life of her own. This desire for separation leads to a plan that made me go, "Wha-?" Niffenegger deftly blends the everyday with the paranormal, even if the last 50 or so pages take a left turn at Albuquerque.

I get one movie option and you pick, pick, pick at it

15. Heat Wave by Richard Castle

Yes, this book was written by a fictional character (the male lead on ABC's "Castle"). Yes, it's short and super cheesy. I had fun reading it, mainly because I wasn't expecting "The Hound of Baskervilles." The book is very much like the series with the fun banter between characters and a not very complicated case. This book is in the realm of James Patterson (who, incidentally, has had at least one cameo on the show) in that it's not a stay-up-all-night-to-finish-it super thriller, but a fast, fun read when you're stressed out and don't want to process heavy material. It's not meant to be fine literature, and if you keep that in mind as you start it, you might like it. Or not. ::shrugs:: Whatever.

Grooviness

Mom and I took my two bigger Marrus lithos to a framer today. The initial person she took me to see (his business is strictly framing) was out of town today. We did a 180 and were headed back to the van when Mom said, "Let's see about this place." This place was a photography studio next door that also offered framing services. I'm so glad framer #1 was out of town, because Mr. Mann was AWESOME. He really took the time to help me pick good frames for both my pieces, pulling down at least three options for each. For "The Marriage of Heaven & Earth," we decided on a dazzling electric green metal frame about half an inch wide. For "Churchstream," we picked a medium-toned brown wood frame about a quarter of an inch wide with gold undertones. Before I went in there, I would've bet money that I would NOT put "Churchstream" in a brown frame since it is abundantly brown, but the frame he showed me surprised me with how well it shows off the limited edition litho. I also made sure to get conservation glass so light doesn't damage the prints' colors. Altogether I'll spend around $150 plus tax for the framing, but I think it'll be worth it. I should have them back in about a week.

. . . and if that pricked anyone's souls, or balls, they could scratch them with a brick

14. The Angel's Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

This is a crazy good book -- and crazy crazy. Is the narrator truly a victim of a strange puppet master, or is he stark, raving mad? I haven't a friggin' clue. I know I can't intelligently discuss the plot without giving anything away, so I'll settle for this:

Zafon has written a novel that is part penny crime novel, part Grimm's grimmest. If you are into books that keep you guessing, this is the book for you. If you are bothered by a book that comes to a close and still leaves a couple of bits unsolved, this is NOT the book for you. I kind of wish I knew someone who's read it so I'd have someone with whom to discuss it. It's under my skin, niggling at me, and I'm trying to decipher fully what I've read.

Then again, given what I've read, maybe that's the point.

Five bright gold stars.

Quote

"Natural talent is like an athlete's strength. You can be born with more or less ability, but nobody can become an athlete just because he or she was born tall, or strong, or fast. What makes the athlete, or the artist, is the work, the vocation, and the technique. The intelligence you are born with is just ammunition. To achieve something with it you need to transform your mind into a high-precision weapon. . . . Every work of art is aggressive . . . . And every artist's life is a small war or a large one, beginning with oneself and one's limitations. To achieve anything you must first have ambition and then talent, knowledge, and finally the opportunity."

-- The Angel's Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, p. 182


The speaker in this case was talking about becoming a writer, but I think this is true for anything worth doing. A worthy vocation needs to be worked at and pounded on. Sometimes (many times) that working and pounding is hard, or tedious, or even boring, which means we have to work even harder at it. What's the fun in that? you might ask. The end product, that's what. Even if my end product (a scene for a fic, a paper for a class, a poster for a science meeting, a presentation for a symposium) receives a kind word from only one person, that makes all my work worth it.

BOO-YAH, BABY!!!

THE SAINTS WON THE SUPERBOWL!!!

THE SAINTS WON THE SUPERBOWL!!!

THE SAINTS WON THE SUPERBOWL!!!

::D does a crazy happy dance, complete with spinning in circles::

Every girl needs a hobby

13. Flirt (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series #18) by Laurell K. Hamilton

A bonus book for the year from Ms. Hamilton who usually puts out one Anita book (around April/May/June) and one Merry Gentry book (around October/November/December) per year. This one has Anita back at her job at Animators, Inc. Her latest client, stinky rich Mr. Bennington, wants her to bring his wife Ilsa "back to life." He knows Anita is the only animator in the country who can raise his wife as a zombie and have her look alive. What Mr. Bennington is choosing to ignore is that his wife will eventually become a true zombie and begin to rot. He's deluded that she'll stay life-like forever, so Anita refuses to take the job. Problem is, Mr. Bennington won't take no for an answer.

An extra for this book is that after the story, Ms. Hamilton gives us a look into how this surprise book came to be in an effort to address probably her most often asked question, "Where do you get your ideas?" Now we know -- at least for Flirt.

We're all building narratives

12. The Man Who Loved Books Too Much: The True Story of a Thief, a Detective, and a World of Literary Obsession by Allison Hoover Bartlett

I picked up this book in anticipation of reading not a detective story in a book but a detective story about books. The subtitle, at least as I interpretted it, was a bit misleading. I was anticipating that the book thief would have been far more notorious than he is -- in fact, the only truly notable thing about him is that authorities don't know where he's hidden most of his stolen books (my money says in mummy's house in plain sight). What does make this book interesting is the question Hoover Bartlett asks over and over: what drives the obsession to collect rare books, whether legally or illegally? Money does not necessarily equate to legally purchased books, but what stops a person who clearly does not have the money from stealing a coveted book either from a bookseller or a library? It put me in mind of the couple of times I checked out the second edition of Darwin's On the Origin of Species from WSU's library. Both times I found myself seriously wondering what the library's lost book charge was, but both times I turned it back in. I doubt the 1871 edition has any value, but I wanted it not for the money but to have something from close in time to when the foundation of science was being shaken, close in time to the author himself. A treasure for one person might be junk to another. But wherein does true value lie -- in the money, or in the perception of the beholder?

Il faut aller voir (We must go and see for ourselves)

How about a foray into the realm of non-fiction?


11. Jacques Cousteau: The Sea King by Brad Matsen

I remember as a kid, I was fascinated by two things that, looking back, probably started me on the path to become a conservation biologist: "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom," and the documentaries of Jacques Cousteau. I remember being thrilled, learning about wildlife and ecosystems and delicate webs of interdependence. Jacques Cousteau seemed like a kindly grandfather, showing us not only all the wonderful and amazing species that lived in the ocean but also how fragile the mighty oceans are.

This biography was an eye-opening adventure in learning about the real Cousteau. There were the awe-inspiring moments: his daring work with the French resistance in World War II, his input into the development of the Aqua Lung and its subsequent testing, the procurement of a WWII minesweeper turned ferry which would be reincarnated as the infamous and much loved Calypso, and the testing of human limits under the surface. But there were also the darker moments: his lack of financial sense, his lack of tolerance with anything but perfection, his arrogance/self-confidence, and his decades long affair with an Air France flight attendant which remained secret until his wife's death and created a rift between his first and second families that still exists today (thirteen years after his death). Matsen fairly detailed the many sides of the pioneer ocean explorer, which I appreciated. Despite his many faults, the impact Cousteau has had on our understanding of our oceans and their inhabitants is undeniable. A 4/5 star biography (deduction of one star for too few photographs).

Received via email forward from my pal Greg

Dear Miami,

The Saints are coming and so are we; their loyal, long-suffering and slightly discombobulated Super Bowl-bound fans. While there's still time to prepare -- although a few hard-core Who Dats will begin trickling in Monday, most of us won't arrive until Thursday or Friday -- we thought we'd give you a heads-up about what you should expect.

First things first: You need more beer.

Yeah, we know. You ordered extra. You think you have more than any group of humans could possibly consume in one week. Trust us. You don't. New Orleans was a drinking town long before the Saints drove us to drink. But it turns out beer tastes better when you're winning. (Who knew?) So let's just say we're thirsty for more than a championship; adjust your stockpiles accordingly. And look, when we ask you for a "go-cup", be nice to us. We don't even know what "open container law" means. Is that anything like "last call"?

Second: It's Carnival season in New Orleans (that's Mardi Gras to you), and we'll be taking the celebration on the road. So don't be startled if you walk past us and we throw stuff at you; that's just our way of saying hello. Oh, and sorry in advance about those beads we leave dangling from your palm trees. We just can't help ourselves.

February is also crawfish season, and you can be sure that more than one enterprising tailgater will figure out a way to transport a couple sacks of live mudbugs and a boiling pot to Miami. When the dude in the 'Who Dat' T-shirt asks if you want to suck da head and pinch da tail, resist the urge to punch him. He's not propositioning you. He's inviting you to dinner.

If you see a big Cajun guy who looks exactly like an old Saints quarterback walking around town in a dress ... don't ask. It's a long story.

Third: We know that crowd control is a major concern for any Super Bowl host city. Our advice? Put away the riot gear.

Reason No. 1: Indianapolis is going to lose, and their fans are way too dull to start a riot.

Reason No. 2: New Orleans showed the world on Sunday that we know how to throw a victory
party. We don't burn cars. We dance on them.

Reason No. 3: Even if we did lose, which we won't, leaving the stadium would be like leaving a
funeral, and our typical response to that is to have a special parade.

Speaking of which, if you happen to see a brass band roll by, followed by a line of folks waving their handkerchiefs, you're not supposed to just stand there and watch. As our own Irma Thomas would say, get your backfield in motion.

And hey, Mister DJ! Yes, we know you've already played that stupid Ying Yang Twins song 10 times tonight, but indulge us just one more time. To us, "Halftime (Stand Up and Get Crunk)" isn't just a song; it's 576 points of good memories. It's the sound of a Drew Brees touchdown pass to Devery Henderson, a Pierre Thomas dive for first down on 4th-and-1, a Garrett Hartley field goal sailing through the uprights in overtime. It's what a championship sounds like. You may get sick of hearing it. We won't. Encore, dammit.

Fourth: Inside Sun Life Stadium, you may find your ears ringing more than usual. We're louder than other fans. Seven thousand of ours sound like 70,000 of theirs. Don't believe us? Ask the 12th man in the Vikings huddle. Some people think it's just the Dome that heightens our volume. But you're about to discover a little secret: We can scream loud enough to make your head explode, indoors or out. It's not the roof. It's the heart...well, ok, and the beer.

Number 5: Don't be surprised if there are more Saints fans outside the stadium than inside. A lot of us are coming just to say we were part of history, even if we can't witness it up close. The Saints are family to us, and you know how it is with family: We want to be there for them, whether they really need us or not. Because we know our presence will mean something to them, whether they can see us or not. Come to think of it, seeing as how you're taking us in for the week, we pretty much regard you as family, too. So we're warning you now: If you're within hugging distance, you're fair game. Hugging strangers is a proud Who Dat tradition, right up there with crying when we win.

Sixth: We cry when we win! Most sports fans cry when their teams lose. Not us. We've been losing gracefully and with good humor for 43 years. Tragedy and disappointment don't faze us. It's success that makes us go to pieces. Hurricane Katrina? We got that under control. The Saints in the Super Bowl? SOMEBODY CALL A PARAMEDIC!!! So anyway, don't let the tears of joy freak you out. We're just...disoriented.

OK. Let's review:

Order more beer. Throw me something, mister. Suck da heads. Wear da dress. Stand up. Get crunk. Hug it out. Protect your eardrums. Pass the Kleenex. Hoist the trophy.

See you at the victory party.

Faithfully yours,
The Who Dat Nation

For those who don't understand

I've liked the Saints since I was a kid even though I'm loathe most of the time to actually watch a game, but one of my best-est friends, a.k.a. my evil twin Sarah, sums up pretty well the feelings all New Orleanians (that term includes natives plus those of us who lived through the Big K and thus adopted in as natives) have for our Saints.


As most of you know, I'm not a huge sports fan in general. I did go to a basketball game once when a friend gave me a ticket, but confess, I was more impressed by the t-shirt canon than the game. I have never had a ticket to a football game. It took me a long time to even be able to find the football on the tv screen! That said, you can't live in southern Louisiana, Mississippi, or east Texas and not get infected by Saints football.

Legend has it the Archbishop was asked permission to name the team and his comment was- go ahead, they'll probably need all the help they can get. Americans are always suckers for the underdog. We love a feel-good story where the little kid who has been kicked and spit on finally gets a work-out montage and his revenge. For over 40 years the Saints have been that kid. In fact, they made losing an art form. Even games where the other team was so bad and the Saints score was so high, would end in a creative defeat. Fans would go to the game, they would lose, everyone would put the paper bag they had brought for the anticipated event over their heads, go home, and say, "Maybe next year". For some reason that football team is the outward expression of New Orleans' soul. The soul that was laid bare in Katrina and was exposed to the entire world- the good and the bad.

I've lived in Louisiana since 2000 and have watched a fair share of the games. After going through the storm, for some reason they seemed just a little more important- if only a venue for family, friends, and volunteers to come together for a few hours and not think about hauling debris and sheetrocking. I still have never gone to a game, but I have watched a lot more since Katrina. Greg & I took our friend Dawn to the newly renovated Superdome for the first game after Katrina when the Saints played the Falcons and won a soul-satisfying victory. We went to the Superdome and just reveled in the feeling that the city was still alive and that people would come back after all.

We watched the NFC championship game last week at a friend's house with about 14 other people- new friends and old, people from work, from school, from my camera club, and friends they brought. It was a nail-biting tennis match. When we watch a game we aren't just saying, "Gee, I hope they win." We are saying, "This will mean so much to the city- good publicity, good tourism, good money, good everything! So much more rides on this game than just a sports team winning- the whole city needs this. Please give us a break just this once!"

I have never been so nervous in my life. As the score when toe-to-toe with the Vikings, my stomach was in knots, my fingernails were chewed off. When we went into overtime and I couldn't sit still. We won the coin toss. I thought this is it, this is our one moment to make this happen- but I still couldn't believe it when the Field Goal kick was straight as an arrow. Everyone in our group was jumping up and down, crying, hugging, laughing. Most of us are a bunch of nerdy scientist-types so it was pretty surreal! We heard yelling outside- a group of folks were parading through the street with huge banners and hanging flags on the bridge near the house. Fireworks were going off all over the city. It. Was. Amazing.

I don't think anyone in the city was able to sleep without a liberal dose of alcohol. I had to take half a unisom just to calm down at 1:30am and finally try to go to sleep. I had to teach an 8am lab the next morning. My first comment was, "I'm not going to ask how many of you are still hungover, I just want to know how many of you are still drunk!" There was a whole classroom of exhausted smiles.

Today, banners fly throughout the city and cars are painted with the slogan- "It IS next year." The most common thing I hear people say is- I wish my dad (or mom, or cousin, or brother, or priest) had lived to see this day. So Pigs are Flying, Hell has frozen over, and the Saints are in the Superbowl. Whether they win or lose, they will have the biggest parade New Orleans can throw them (and you know we know how to throw a parade!).

So, even if you're not a sports fan, even if you've never watched a football game, even if you've never been to New Orleans, next week when the Saints play the Colts in Miami whisper a "Who Dat!" for America's team.

Geaux Saints!

-Sarah Brock-Strickland (29 January 2010)

There's always something broken that needs to be fixed

I actually finished reading my latest book yesterday, but instead of posting about it, I braved the 24 degrees to go to the library and get MORE books (and what an exciting collection I got, Faithful Reader!). I then spent all evening cozied up to the fire watching "Ninja Warrior" and "Cops." Forgive me?


10. The Lace Makers of Glenmara by Heather Barbieri

This was a nice little slice-of-life story about Kate Robinson, a Seattle trying-to-be fashion designer who goes on an extended vacation after her mother dies from cancer and her long-time boyfriend dumps her at their friends' wedding. She heads for Ireland to see some of the places where her ancestors lived. The story begins with her walking in the rain near the west coast of Ireland. She's done the obligatory tour of Dublin and had gotten on a bus for the west coast, but said bus broke down, and after waiting four hours and still no one had shown up to look at it let alone fix it, she decides to hoof it. After a few days, she's picked up by William the Traveller, a sweet old man who travels the countryside in his wagon "fixing whatever is broken." Well, he does a good job with Kate by dropping her near Glenmara, a dying fishing village. There, she's taken in by Bernie, a sweet middle-aged woman still mourning the loss of her beloved husband. Bernie senses Kate has troubles and is pretty much unanchored, so she sets about subtly "conniving" ways to get Kate to settle in Glenmara. First, she introduces her to the members of her lace making society, and we get introduced to all their hurts and triumphs. The ladies begin to tutor Kate in making lace, first via crochet, then via the pillow with pins and bobbins. After seeing Bernie hanging out her "granny panties" to dry and hearing ladies don't have a lot of choices in intimate wear in the area, Kate's inner designer comes alive and devises a way to dress up the ladies' boring underwear with the lace in intricate designs specific to each woman. The society begins to scheme a business for this idea, and they decide on an email blast to their friends and family to get it started.

I found this book to be a quick read (I read all but about 40 pages in less than half a day), and I found all the ladies endearing -- except Aileen, who is not meant to be endearing, but I did find sympathy for her in the end, understanding why she's so crabby. I had a problem with Kate's romance with Sullivan Deane, not that she had one per se, but more the way it was written. I adored Denny and Niall (especially Denny, da to one of the lace makers), two old men who sit on a bench outside one of the pubs in the evenings, drinking Guiness and gossiping. This book was just a nice treat -- not something you had to think deeply about, but full of characters who elicit an emotional response from laughter to tears to anger to happiness. Not everything/one broken gets fixed by the end, but at least the mending's started.

Be careful what you ask for -- it might be what you get

9. Gwenhwyfar: The White Spirit (An Arthurian Novel) by Mercedes Lackey


Though a complete work of fantasy concerning the protagonist's life, Lackey drew on an old Welsh poem that says King Arthur was in fact married to three different Guineveres in his time as High King. This story follows Gwen as she longs to become a warrior in her father's army rather than a Lady with the Blessing/Gift/Power as her mother (herself a powerful Lady) wishes. After one of her father's most trusted (female) warriors notices her gift with horses, Gwen gets all she ever hoped for -- training to be a warrior, and freedom to marry only if she wishes to. But through it all, the connivances of Gwen's little sister Gwenhwyfach (Little Gwen), Morgana, and Arthur's bastard son Medraut threathen everything in Arthur's kingdom, even Gwen's happiness as a warrior. Soon she finds herself on her way to Celliwig as Arthur's betrothed third Gwenhwyfar, and the intrigues thicken.

I was surprised to find myself really enjoying this book. When I read the synopsis, it seemed interesting, but I mainly decided to read it because I like Mercedes Lackey and I like the Arthurian legends. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that it was well written, but I am surprised I enjoyed the tale. If you like fantasy and you're not opposed to an old favorite getting a "reboot," give this a try.

Music, music, music

I've been watching videos on YouTube for over an hour (thanks to an unprecedented good satellite Internet connection), mostly by Celtic Woman and Andrea Bocelli. Being the chick I am, I thought I'd share.

First, Signore Bocelli. This is the first song I ever heard him sing, and I've been a little in love with him ever since. Over the years, as well as his amazing solo career, he's had many notable partnerships, from Luciano Pavarotti and Sarah Brightman ("Con Te Partiro") to Celine Dion ("The Prayer") and Christina Aguilera ("Somos Novios"). However, this will always be my favorite. Even Elizabeth Taylor gets a look of pure joy listening to him sing. I always get goosebumps.





And then there's Celtic Woman. This is my absolute favorite song by them, and I always tear up. The second singer with long blonde hair and blue top (Chloe Agnew) was only about 15 at this performance.





And because I can't resist, my mom's favorite song since she got to see these ladies last November. It's even her ring tone.

Who dat (II)?

::D does her happy dance::

Who dat?

Who dat?

Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints???


Quit while you're ahead, Mr. Manning.

Fall in love whenever you can

8. Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman


You've seen the movie, but the book is much different than the movie. Of course. "Magic" is not as obvious in the book (Sally doesn't stir her coffee by twirling her finger, nor does she blow candles a-light), but there are hints and a couple of overt instances. The law man from Arizona doesn't play as big of a part (sadly), and getting rid of Jimmy once and for all is kind of anti-climatic. It took me a couple dozen pages or so to get used to how different this was than the movie, but I did, and I enjoyed it.

Jesus Saves

7. 8th Confession (Women's Murder Club series #8) by James Patterson with Maxine Paetro


Another fast-paced novel featuring Lindsay, Claire, Cindy, and Yuki taking down bad guys and girls to the best of their abilities. Yuki is trying a young beauty queen for murdering her father and attempting to murder her mother. Cindy discovers the brutal murder of homeless saint Bagman Jesus, then she drags Lindsay in with her. However, Lindsay and Claire are up to their eyeballs with three socialite murders with no evidence and no apparent cause of death. All this intertwines with their romantic personal lives (well, everyone but "old"-married-woman-with-new-baby Claire).

Oh, and did I mention the mobile meth-lab-in-a-school-bus that blows up in an intersection, killing ten people including the bus driver/meth cooker?

These books are great fast reads.

All that mattered was that he couldn't see the baby

6. Strength in What Remains by Tracy Kidder


I adored this book! It is one man's story about living through and escaping the Tutsi-Hutu genocide in Burundi and Rwanda in 1994. The first section chronicles the life of Deogratias (Latin for "thanks be to God") from his boyhood herding cattle in Burundi to his relocation to the US as a third year medical student. This section is not chronological, but it is not confusing thanks to the places and years located subsequent to chapter numbers. Hardest to read is the chapter detailing Deo's six months of running, desperately staying away from both Tutsi armies and Hutu militia. The second part is told by the book's author in first person as he first meets Deo and slowly learns his story then follows Deo back to Rwanda and Burundi as he struggles to build a clinic for the poor of his countrymen. One wonderful observation Deo makes about the genocide to Kidder is this:

He liked to frame his solution jocularly: "I do believe in God. I do believe in God. I think God has given so much power to people, and intelligence, and said, 'Well, you are on your own. Maybe I'm tired, I need a nap. You are mature. Why don't you look after yourselves?'" Deo would pause, then say, "And I think He's been sleeping too much."

I really can't say enough how much I liked this book.

In other news

This article in which the bones of a 10th century English princess may have been found in a Magdeburg (Germany) cathedral. Especially interesting -- "Should the skeleton be positively identified as belonging to Eadgyth, it would be oldest remains of any English royal discovered so far."

Who Dat?

Excerpt from a Wall Street Journal article about the upcoming championship games and Super Bowl. Thanks, Tracie!


May I root against the New Orleans Saints?

No, you may not. Rooting against the Saints is like rooting against Elin Nordegren. They're the Sentimental Team of the Century; if Dick Enberg were calling the NFC championship game, he'd need a trailer truck of Kleenex. Even if you forget everything that New Orleans endured during Hurricane Katrina—and how could you?—they're the Saints, the former Aints, one of the most hard-luck franchises in the history of hard luck. Not long ago, newborns came into the world in New Orleans hospitals with tiny grocery bags on their heads.

If the Saints win this weekend, we expect the Louisiana Superdome to levitate off the ground, stop at Parkway Bakery & Tavern for a roast beef po'boy and fly straight to Miami for the Super Bowl.


My correction: I believe they would prefer to get their roast beef po-boys from Mother's or maybe Zimmer's.

Maybe it all collects in your hair

5. The Appointment by Herta Muller


This was an odd one, and very confusing. Definitely NOT a casual read.

Aaaaaaah, libraries!

Went to ye local library today to get my own card and check out some books. Yes, yes, I have plenty of my own books to read -- I'm just not in a mood right now to dig them out of the boxes, plus it was an excuse to get out of the house.

So, I rolled up to the circulation desk and asked the woman, "My ID does not have my current address on it. Is a bank statement acceptable?" She started laughing and remarked, "I LOVE it when people come prepared!" We gave her back two ILLs I'd gotten on my mom's card and asked for the fourth (I'm still reading the third). I had a list I'd made of nine books I wanted to get.

I got ONE off the list.

To be fair, one other one on my list was checked out earlier today by someone else. I didn't even bother looking for the rest because I got distracted. The other two I got off the displays, and there are three others on the displays that I want to get next time.

All fiction this time. Of course you'll be getting reports.

It was just a story about despair

4. A Reliable Wife by Robert Goolrick

It may even be appropriate to say it is also a story about passions, about needs, about desires -- the emotional as much as the physical. No, the emotional MORE than the physical. This novel spins a tale not unknown, a simply written tale of love desired, love lost, love never truly had, love found in unlikely places. The dialogue is spare, both in quantity and in sentence length, because this is a tale of inner motivations, and we rarely say what we truly mean. The prose is sometimes truncated and to the point, sometimes long and convoluted and bordering on rambling. It's often difficult to bear witness to the heartache, and the heartache at times seems never-ending. Even up to the last page, you wonder if any good comes out of it.

I found this to be a rich and splendid piece.

I came with nothing, I leave with nothing

3. In Other Rooms, Other Wonders by Daniyal Mueenuddin


A collection of short stories examining class in Pakistan, this is not an easy book to read. None of the stories end happily, but it is at its core (to me) a warning to carefully consider the goals you think you want because in short order you may see that they aren't what you really wanted after all. This disparity holds true if you are an old beggar man who manipulates a servant job at the big house or the rich landowner around whose family every story orbits. I'll be thinking about this one for a long while.

Time is a river . . . and books are boats

2. The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown


I had read one reviewer's comment that she did not at all enjoy this book, but I will disagree. As with his two previous blockbuster books, Brown carefully weaves his fiction around that which is well known or at least easily Googled. This story revolves around the Freemasons; symbolism in Washington, DC, monuments and art; Noetic science; and, of course, symbology. While one major plot point is not too difficult to figure out (I literally knew the secret from its introduction), it doesn't detract from the enjoyment of the overall tale. In fact, for me it added to the study of human complexity and the things we think should bear resemblance to each other but in the end are light and dark.

Give it a read. Tell me what you think.

2010 Book List

1. The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective by David Stuart Davies

SPOILER ALERT -- DO NOT GO FURTHER IF YOU EVER INTEND TO TRY THESE BOOKS



An interesting AU-take on the circumstances surrounding the meeting of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson, but I feel that the author took his "new view" a bit too far. I was intrigued at first, but as certain machinations of the author came to light, I felt like he was messing with things just because he could. If Davies had left out a couple of small details, I would've liked the book much more. I mean, Mycroft can be shady, but in cahoots with Professor Moriarty? And Mrs. Hudson on the payroll of the latter? Puh-leez! Word to the wise -- you don't have to alter EVERY character in an AU to this degree, especially when it comes to personalities.

Good thoughts, please

With the final transcript being logged this morning and my third letter of reference being uploaded moments ago, my Ford Foundation Diversity Fellowship application is officially complete. Wish me luck in getting it this time. It's for a stipend of $21,000 for living expenses so I can actually be in NO to complete my final year.

Also, if you have an extra thought/prayer to spare, would you ask that the National Science Foundation have pity on me and resubmit my grant application to the "appropriate program"? We received an email on Christmas Eve morning that my grant proposal had been thrown out because it wasn't appropriate for the Division of Environmental Biology program.

My whole dissertation is about how environmental stressors alter the development and reproduction (both biological processes) of fish. What?

Looking ahead

A lot of people use this time of year to reflect on the year that has passed and try to divine what will come in the year ahead. Unless something truly crappy or truly outstanding happened, I rarely remember too much of what happened the previous year. The minutiae get all balled up until I cannot tease them loose from each other. I do not make up lists of praises and lists of rants and post them on tha Interwebz because they have meaning only to me, and I don't want to get into some heated discussion with someone who takes offense to this like or that dislike. I don't make huge, life-changing resolutions because something always happens to prevent their completion.

Every new year, what I promise to do are "little" things. I hold my head up and smile at strangers as we pass on the sidewalk or in the grocery store, even if they look at me like I sprouted a third eyeball in the middle of my forehead. I say thank you when someone helps me with something, even if s/he does it for me every day and knows I appreciate it, because very few people show gratitude for the little things. I try to do the best research I can. I explore my personal spirituality and endeavor to remain patient with those of a more rigid mindset. I make attempts at creativity in a variety of forms such as writing fiction, making soap, making mosaics, or cross-stitching. Soon I'm going to attempt to make my own portable medicine wheel. I try to read widely. I try to read something or someone previously unknown to me. I try to read as often as I can. Following the example of a friend, I will endeavor to keep a list of everything I read in 2010 -- both books for fun and research materials (the latter for my own edification) -- and I will attempt to write mini-reviews of the books in the interest of those who might want to also read something I've read.

So, in that vein, I am off to drink some tea (green tea with jasmine and passionfruit) in an attempt to soothe my sore throat, then I shall return to the further adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

I hope your year is everything you want it to be.

Thank you for being my friend and helping me grow.