After reading this article in the NYTimes Online, I am even more grateful for my parents' determination to keep my siblings and me out of an institution. I have a friend who protested a group home in San Francisco a couple of years ago, but even then I guess I never really grasped how many people are forced into "gulags" rather than being allowed to stay in their homes. It always seemed dumb to me that my annual review for self-directed care included a question which asked, "Do you wish to continue self-directed services rather than enter a nursing home?" In my mind (and sometimes out loud) I always answered, "Well, duh," but it appears the painful reality is that a lot of people don't get that choice.

How stupid is it to advocate nursing homes for people with disabilities when it's obvious they cost so much more than in-home care? Even medical in-home care costs less than a facility. State governments want to save money. Wouldn't it make more sense to get people out of the gulags and into their own homes than to cut money to people already living in their own homes? All the latter does is force many of us into homes which are (did I forget to mention?) more expensive.

And what is that protection crap all about? Who's being protected here? Maybe the closed-minded ABs who want to live in a fantasy world that everything is perfect and that there is NO possibility that their child could be born with MD or CP or that they could wind up a quadriplegic after that guy who has six DUIs and has never seen a minute of jail time broadsides their car on a perfectly sunny summer day? Whatever.

I visited a gulag here in Wichita when I was deciding how I was going to live away from home for the first time to attend college. The longer I stayed there, the more and more trapped I felt. When Mom and I tried to leave, our van wouldn't start. I went into the first panic attack of my life -- a full-blown one complete with tears and an attempt at hyperventilation. I was convinced that if I didn't get out of there RIGHT NOW, I never would. It was, quite literally and with no exaggeration whatsoever, the scariest experience of my life.

I had no idea then how lucky I was to have parents that refused to send me to an institution no matter how much the doctors insisted it was the best course of action. I'm starting to realize it now, 30+ years later. I know how much of a hardship it was for them to take care of three of us with only a little help from Medicaid and SSI to pay doctor bills and from MDA to pay for surgeries and wheelchairs. There was no one but them to take us to the bathroom and bathe us and dress us and get us in and out of bed and haul us around to school and doctor's appointments and MD clinic. The only reprieve they had was one week in the summer when we went to MD camp. But they did it, and if they ever discussed among themselves that they'd made the wrong decision years ago, I sure could never tell. Some kids weren't as lucky as us, and that makes me sadder than I could ever express in the written or even spoken word. I got a glimpse of how sad and trapped their lives are when I visited that gulag, and I can easily say I'd rather die than live like that. My heart and soul just couldn't take it, not after my parents raised me to live free.

My mom IS Boudicea! I just found out that the strongest medication she took after getting off the IV is 600 milligram Ibuprofen. She never even filled her script for Loratab. What a stud my mother is!!

OK, it's been awhile since I've made an entry into my blog, but since I doubt that anyone reads it anyway, it's probably no big loss, eh?

Just on the off-chance someone actually DOES read this, here's what's been shakin' the last few weeks:

-- Lots and lots of school work, which is what I spend my days typing rather than entering in my blog

-- My mother (who has lovingly been dubbed Boudicea by my "big sister" Lisa) had a laproscopic hysterectomy and was in her pharmacology class four days later making an A-level presentation on lupus

-- I've been in and out of my doc's office for the last three weeks trying to determine why I've been having heart palpitations and headaches. Preliminary diagnosis is anxiety attacks with a new spin (the headaches), but just to be sure I'm having to wear a "King of Hearts" monitor for a month (starting today) to ensure my rhythm is OK.

-- I'm trying to catch a cold. I'm just thankful it's not strep.

Yeah, I lead a hell of an exciting life. One positive thing I can say is the Columbian hottie who works the info desk in my building noticed this morning that I was under the weather and seemed genuinely concerned. Hey, it's a small pleasure, but I take 'em as I get 'em.

Neither by hope nor by fear -- Isabella d'Este (1474-1539), marquessa of Mantua, Italy

These words describe how Isabella d’Este lived her life. She neither hoped that only the best would happen nor lived in fear that the worst would happen. These words struck deeply into my heart when I read them since they seemed to be words of advice ringing down through the ages from Isabella to me. I am standing at a crossroads in my life. I cannot hope that what is best for me will fall into my lap. I must decide what to do and then take steps to ensure that it happens. I cannot live in fear either. In order for my dreams to be fulfilled, I may have to make drastic changes to my life. This is not easy for me since I am most comfortable when my life is a routine. However, the best things in our lives do not happen in the everyday routine, but when we step off the path or turn onto a different road (I’m suddenly thinking of that “left turn at Albuquerque” which always put Bugs Bunny into a unique situation). That change may seem dark and scary at first, but it may just be a smoke screen to try and scare us away. We must not fear. We must not hope for a path clear of stones and thorns either, since that most assuredly means we would encounter boulders and boa-sized vines. We simply must trudge on, knowing our dreams lay just around that frightening bend.

I've become convinced in the last five full weeks of classes that education professors sit around in a smoky back room somewhere and think up all sorts of stupid busy work for their students. I haven't done this many little crap projects in . . . well, frankly, I can't remember EVER doing this many little crap projects. I can't even resort to caffeine to give me a boost through since my new BP medication REALLY doesn't like caffeine. The headaches just aren't worth it.

While I'm ranting and raving, let me just say the US Postal Service can BITE ME! It took me three days last week to receive my new Junoon CD because my mail carrier just couldn't take the time to wait for me to go down to the front desk to sign for it, and she wouldn't let anyone else sign for it either. I'm convinced they saw that the package was from Pakistan, they thought it was an al-Qaida recruitment tape, and they wanted me on video for Homeland Security. Fascists.

On a couple of positive notes, the CD rocks (I love "Pappu Yaar"), and I'm heading out to the Great Plains Renaissance Festival tomorrow.

The literary world is abuzz with the news that Stephen King has been chosen as this year's National Book Award recipient. Lit snobs are offended, but I couldn't be happier. The premise of the award is to honor those authors who have made a contribution to the world of books, and I think it's pretty obvious Mr. King has done just that. Not only is he prolific and has probably induced many to read who otherwise might not have, he has endowed scholarships and libraries as well. He is even returning the $10,000 prize check to the National Book Foundation to use in its literary programs.

So what if he is considered a GENRE writer? I think the snobs are jealous of his popularity and his bank account.

This just in:

Researchers say in NYTimes Online Magazine that Buddhist meditation IS in fact good for your mental and physical health. Whew! I'm sure glad that's finally been decided. Isn't it funny how nothing seems to be accepted as credible until the words "researchers say/state" are placed before or after the declaration? As far as I'm concerned, millions of meditators can't be wrong, whether or not they're validated by researchers at the Universities of Wisconsin-Madison and San Francisco and at Harvard.

With all the current debate about global warming, it was interesting this morning to read this article in the NYTimes Online. Robins 250 miles from the Arctic Circle? Nope, no global warming here, folks.

In other news, Monty Python is hitting Broadway. I was forwarded this article this morning. As a big MP fan, I would love to see what they do with this. I'm not too sure about the name "Spamelot" since Spam never made it into "Holy Grail," but hey, they didn't ask me and Idle's show isn't likely to make to Wichita, KS, for me to tell him.

Well, I sent out my solicitations to professors on Monday after much formatting and printer problems over the weekend. Twenty-three profs at thirteen universisities in nine states should be receiving my pleas for sponsorship at any time. Wish me luck.

In related news, the Fall semester begins tomorrow. I have an Italian Renaissance history class in the morning followed by a pre-birthday "mini-celebration" with my friends Jack and Diana (no, I'm not making that up). I may or may not be going to my book club in the afternoon, but I certainly will be going to my Plant Physiology course in the evening. This last is taught by one of my very favorite profs in the Department of Biological Sciences. Dr. Ray Fox is one of the most difficult instructors from whom I have ever taken a class, but I can honestly say I also have an extremely high retention rate since class is never boring. He's a funny and delightful man who's always ready with a wisecrack or a wise word of advice. He's also the individual responsible for my smooth transition into the bio department at a big university from a rinky-dink community college (he was assistant chair and coordinator of undergrad studies when I came for a campus visit back in late 1990 or early 1991). And if that weren't enough, he hooked me up with my undergrad advisor who later became my thesis advisor who will always be my hero and mentor and good friend -- Dr. Karen Brown Sullivan. Ray still refuses to take responsibility for that last, but I remind him of it every chance I get.

I'm looking forward to being in a science class again. It's my life, folks, and I miss the opportunity to keep up on the latest hypotheses. I'm a geek, what can I say?

I was just reading The New York Times online, and I came across this editorial about the widening gulf between intellectual and religious thought. The author points out that three times more people believe in the virgin birth of Jesus than believe in evolution.

Why do people insist on making belief in Deity and belief in evolution mutually exclusive? Case in point -- a sermon at a local Southern Baptist church a couple of years ago was entitled, "God is right, Darwin is wrong." I know plenty of people who believe in both, that one stems from the other. I just so happen to be one of them. My brother made a very good point a while back in a heated Bible study. A devout church-goer loudly proclaimed, "God created the world in six days!" My brother calmly replied, "Yes, but how long is a day to God?" How long, indeed? And why would we be given lovely and complex brains capable of inductive and deductive reasoning if we weren't meant to use them?

What many people don't realize is that Darwin wasn't some rebel trying to undermine church doctrine. From what I have read and learned, he didn't announce his ideas for quite some time because he knew people in the church wouldn't understand what he was trying to do and attack him as Godless. Evolutionists today are still attacked as Godless heathens who are seeking to undermine the faithful. Yeah, we're a bunch of guerrillas running around with our dinosaur bones and our fossils held out before us like automatic weapons, telling the faithful they can't believe in God AND understand Darwin. The problem is that many people I know who believe in evolution are some of the most faithful people I've ever met. I could ask each one if s/he believes in a higher power, and each one would resoundingly answer, "Yes!" Darwin was a religious man who read the clues God left just lying around for us. New scientific discoveries shouldn't be seen as an attack on religious faith but rather an enrichment of it, because each new discovery is a testament to the beauty and complexity of the Higher. I'd rather embrace the Great Spirit's gifts than argue about them.

I've been so obsessed worrying about grad apps and whether I'm getting financial aid that I've been remiss in posting the pics of my newest niece, Romana Nichole Maynard, daughter of one of my bestest buds in the whole wide world, Zabrina. Be sure to check out Romana's hip, baby tie-dye threads on the "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night" page, lovingly made by Aunt Dawn and pal Maria.

The book I'm currently reading while waiting for advice on my grad school letters has shot me down memory lane at 167 miles per hour, back to the days of middle school and early high school. The Center of Everything is a coming-of-age tale about a girl growing up in small town Kansas. I can imagine Laura Moriarty digging out all her old diaries to write this one, because she mentions things I had forgotten -- I mean, I thought I was the only one who had ever watched Voyager (the time-travelling tale, not an installment in the Star Trek saga). Herione Evelyn mentions nearly everything we went through in the early to mid 1980s, from pictures of C. Thomas Howell and Ralph Macchio in Tiger Beat magazine to the Contras in Nicaragua. Evelyn was forbidden by her mother to watch The Day After, but I was allowed to watch it, and it scared the bejeezus out of me. I remember raising money in my eighth grade history class to send to Ethiopia. But the history takes a back seat to the everyday occurrences in the book, and some of Evelyn's experiences are funny reminders while others are painful. I too was a free lunch kid and didn't realize that that meant my parents were poor. I nearly cried as Evelyn watched her first crush's eyes turn to her best friend. I watched her cope in the same way I always did -- in homework, the only area of my life in which I seemed to have any control.

The story so far has done a lot to remind me of who I was and how far I have come. I've often said that you couldn't pay me to go back and live over those early days of adolescence, but I'm sort of doing just that by reading this book. I'm reliving the envy of not being able to afford the hip clothes, the pain of unrequited love, the embarrassment of being different. I'm also reliving the satisfaction of occasionally being told that being smart is a good thing, the realization that the pretty girls had their own sets of problems, and the joy of knowing that this too shall pass. Growing pains, they called them. That was an understatement if I ever heard one.

As a budding behavioral ecologist, I've read about eugenics but figured it was all a part of our society's dark past. Not so, dear Reader -- it seems to be alive and well and lurking at Princeton in the form of Peter Singer. I first read about this enlightened individual a few months ago (although I can't remember the original source -- maybe my pal Kim?). He advocates the termination of babies up to twenty-days POST-PARTUM if there is indication that they may be physically or mentally disabled. He claims these are "mercy" killings in that children and adults with disabilities have a lower quality of life compared to individuals without disabilities. Of course I and all of my disabled friends scoff at this, and I thought most of society would as well, so I put Singer out of my mind until last week when I read that this gem of humanity had been awarded the 2003 World Technology Award for Ethics by the World Technology Network. I had to read the article twice to be certain it wasn't some sort of sick hallucination. It's quite difficult for me to believe that this man can advocate animal rights while at the same time advocate the slaughter of babies because he and some others might think their quality of life is lower. Hypocrite? I think so . . . .

I'd like to talk with this schmuck for just a couple of minutes to tell him how horrible my life has been. I'd like to show him my grades and honors I've received in high school and college. I'd like to give him a copy of my study that was published by the scientific journal Environmental Toxicology and Chemistry and then show him a list of eight other scientists who have cited my study in their own works. I'd like to tell him about my teaching career or introduce him to my friends and colleagues who don't see anything different about my life. OK, so I have to rely on others to get in and out of bed and dress and bathe and brush my hair and cook my meals, and I'll admit that that can be stressful at times when an attendant is ill and I have to find a substitute, but who is this asshole to say that my life is shit because I have a muscle disease? I think I've done pretty well the last 32 years, thank you very much!

But my life is a pretty pitiful example. Where would the music world be without Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles? Where would the physics community be without Stephen Hawking? Where would the United States of America be without Franklin Roosevelt?

I think I should apply to Princeton for grad school . . . .

There are some things so beautiful in Nature than man could never recreate them nor have sufficient language to be able to put the experience in to words. I had just such an experience moments ago as I stood outside after a massive thunderstorm complete with wall cloud and stunning rotation (for you non-Midwesterners, that equals possibility of tornado). I could spend hours trying to describe to you the shape of the clouds and the effect of the setting sun upon them, but it would be so weak as to be laughable. It was one of those times where I was sorry we all live in buildings.

Well, another holiday weekend has come and gone. Too much food and too much heat (July has hit full force in Kansas) -- needless to say, it was a blast, no pun intended. I tried to spend some time with my uncle who is beginning his chemotherapy treatments today for colon cancer. He will receive chemo once a week for a full calendar year, plus six weeks of radiation five days a week beginning in September or October. Mom made the comment that he just didn't seem like himself this weekend, but go figure.

In other news, I have my copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix but haven't started it yet. I need to finish The Goblet of Fire first, which should only take me another day or two, provided people leave me the heck alone and let me read.

I just read a posting on an email list to which I belong, and I come away from it a little concerned. The email was sent from an individual to a friend, which was then passed through a couple of other friends until it ended up on my list. This individual, let's call her Barb, was flying to her high school reunion and struck up a conversation with the man next to her. We'll call him Fred. It seems Fred was on his way to present a paper on global warming, but Fred isn't a field scientist -- he's a theoretical mathematician. I want to say right off the bat that I have nothing against theorists in general, but I do have a problem with those who discount observational data without giving any clear reasons WHY the data are incorrect. Fred appears in Barb's personal account to be completely enamored of his computers and his calculations, but his conclusions rang an alarm bell for me. Let me explain.

First, Fred said that today's predictive models of global warming " . . . are simply not sophisticated enough to take into account all the positive and negative feed-backs that might be important. The computers can only solve simplified versions of the equations that
exclude most of the complexity." OK, I'll grant him that, but that is true of most predictions of natural systems. When Barb asked when we might expect equations that can make accurate predictions, he responded that if computer technology continues to advance as it has in the past (to which I ask in the 1950s or in the 21st century?), we won't see any accurate models for at least one hundred years. Fred continued by saying that he believes that the Earth and her systems have "attractors" that keep everything in balance. After much lengthy discussion, the conclusion Barb makes is this: " . . . the appropriate policy toward climate change is probably not to try to prevent it, because it is so unpredictable, and we simply don't have a good understanding of the laws of cause and effect as they apply here, but rather to prepare for whatever may come, by developing our capacity to respond to crises, building responsive and competent institutions which could handle whatever the future may bring to minimize its impact on human society."

These conclusions, drawn by someone who doesn't know much about global warming or science in general, probably mirror the conclusions any John or Jane Q. Public might make after hearing Fred speak, and THAT, my friends, is what scares me. So many people want to cram their heads in the sand up to their buttholes and pretend that humans are having no negative impact on the Earth, or if we are -- "It won't happen in my lifetime, so why should I worry about it?" There's still oil for our cars right now, so why try to develop electric cars? There's still gas to heat our homes, so why try to efficiently extract energy from wind and solar sources? Global warming may not be really happening, so why try to limit carbon dioxide and particulate matter emissions? Let's just deal with the problem when and if it really happens. Competent institutions? By whose standards?

This kind of attitude really pisses me off. When you build a house, do you wait until after it rains and soaks your bed to put on a roof, or do you put on the roof before the rain to prevent your bed from getting wet to begin with? Most folks see people starving in a third world country and think it's perfectly alright just send them food rather than stop deforestation so their soil won't become infertile. Those few thousand trees are just so friggin' important. Yes, yes, I know -- there have been great strides in the last twenty years or so in sustainable farming and responsible logging and yada yada yada. How many decades of fighting by large-scale environmental groups and grass-roots environmental movements did it take to get people to take those steps? And just how long do you think it would take for companies to revert to those older, "easier" ways if given the excuse? When America starts feeling the "pinch" of less oil coming out of the Middle East, does it band together and say, "Hey, let's think of an alternative so that we're not dependent on foreign oil sources"?? You'd think so, especially considering how xenophobic most Americans have become the last couple of years. I don't think I'll ever be able to figure out why people find it so much easier to react to a problem rather than take a couple of small steps to prevent the problem in the first place. Are lower emission cars more expensive than higher emission cars? No. Is recycled paper more expensive than brand-spanking new paper? No. Is electricity from wind sources less reliable than that from fossil fuels? No. Do vegetables sprayed with pesticides and meat treated with butt-loads of steriods and antibiotics taste better than those that aren't? Quite the contrary. Yes, these last ARE more expensive, but so was recycled paper until it was widely distributed and made available to everyone.

Come on, people -- let's pull our heads out of the sand. We only have one home, so why not take preventative care of it now rather than reactive care of it later? We just might save ourselves a lot of trouble.

Personal tragedies seem to abound in my personal care attendants' lives. Of the four I have, three have experienced deaths in their families in the last week. The latest was just yesterday evening, and this one affected me the most, not because I would have to reschedule my own personal needs still further, but because I knew the lady. I had only met Mrs. Ruth Paxson (Aunt Ruthie to my best friend Anita) twice, but she was a truly beautiful soul that I feel I will miss very much. The first time I met Mrs. Paxson was at the funeral of Anita's uncle Dale (whom I have mentioned in my Musings) last October, and she fell in love with my assistance dog Reba. This love precipitated my second meeting just this last Sunday. Mrs. Paxson had been in the hospital for more than a week, and every day she would ask her granddaughter Marian (my attendant) how Reba was doing. I offered to take Reba to the hospital after she was feeling better from her surgery, but Marian asked if I could take her on Sunday to get her grandmother's mind off her triple bypass/valve replacement surgery the next day. Apparently it worked, because Anita told me that night that Aunt Ruthie had been telling everyone that Reba the sweet dog had come to visit and snuggled with her. Rest in peace, love, and light, Mrs. Paxson.

To keep myself from getting too depressed, I've been losing myself in my books. I just finished the fifth installment of Laurell K. Hamilton's "Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter" novels. Full of zombies and vampires and werewolves, oh my, the books are fast and generally entertaining reads. Sometimes Anita (the character, not my best friend, hee hee) is a little too perfect (she is considered a master in the vampire community and an alpha in the werewolf community without becoming either -- come on!), but I can let it go when the action gets moving. Suspension of disbelief truly can be a wonderful thing. I've also started the classic Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley, which puts a new (at least at the time it was written) spin on the Arthurian legend by telling the story from the women's point of view. I've also been told that my book club is reading Alice Hoffman's Seventh Heaven, so that will be three books I'm reading simultaneously after I start it and the next Anita Blake. Busy busy busy.

I've noticed over the last year or so that I have become less patient with books than I used to be. In the not too distant past, I would stick with a book to the very end, struggling through hundreds of pages, not wanting to give up on a tome that critics consider a "masterpiece." I would think I was just missing something and if I just kept dog-paddling, I'd eventually get it. I likened it to a marriage, that I had chosen to commit to this read and would stick it out no matter what. Somewhere along the line (in fact, it was last summer when I tried to read Barbara Taylor Bradford's The Triumph of Katie Byrne) I gave up on that. I give a novel 30-50 pages, and if I'm not hooked or at least still mildly curious by then, the tale goes in the box to be sold at a used bookstore. I've added a couple more "masterpieces of fiction" to that box in the last couple of months. I was feeling especially generous with The Crimson Petal and the White and gave it almost a 100 pages, but it still ended up in the For Sale box. I think I agree with Barbara Kingsolver when she says that she considers those first few pages as dating -- if at the end of 30 pages the book isn't talking "til death so us part," the relationship is over. Time is too precious and there are too many good books out there to waste sticking around with a sleeper.

I finally started on the current selection (Small Wonder by Barbara Kingsolver) for my book club in an attempt to finish it before we get together next week. One of my fellow members finished it weeks ago and has been itching terribly to discuss it, but the rest of us were so busy with the end of the semester we couldn't even THINK about starting it until now (incidentally, I managed by the grace of the gods to pull an A in my history class). I just finished the first essay in the book, but it took me a while because I kept having to stop and just breathe before I could continue. Kingsolver began this collection of essays on 12 September 2001, I imagine as a way to help herself come to terms with the tragedy. The scary part is that she cautioned against so many thought patterns that have come to pass since she published the book in late 2002. I wish I could articulate my feelings about the essay as well as she articulates her feelings in the essay.

One major theme running through the piece is a sense of helpless fury at the way the world is behaving. It seems we can only sit by and watch the world crumble to bits. Sure, we can join a war protest, but does anyone really listen? The news is full of polls, and one of their most popular for a while stated a MAJORITY OF AMERICANS SUPPORT THE WAR IN IRAQ, but they seldom, if ever, mention that it is a small majority. The destruction of lives and environment depresses me so much that I can't even watch TV channels that show news without feeling my heart rate and blood pressure skyrocket. In fact, whenever possible, I don't watch the news just so anxiety doesn't keep me awake at night. I am well aware that these feelings aren't new, that people facing the Vietnam War and the Korean War and World Wars Two and One and even the Civil War and the Revolutionary War experienced a sense of anxiety, but what I have to ask myself is why no one seems to be learning anything. They say that those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it, so what is the point of our elders making us study American and world history, and us making our children study American and world history, if no one is going to pay a damned bit of attention to any of it and try to find a better way? I worry at this conundrum and worry at it to the point that I can empathize with Kingsolver's daughter's reply to learning that the war in Afghanistan was still occurring when she came home from kindergarten one day -- "If people are just going to keep doing that, I wish I'd never been born." I don't agree with her, but I understand that poor little girl's frustration. We're taught from the time we can remember that fighting is no solution to a problem, that we should try to talk about and reason out our troubles, not bully others into doing what we want. I guess those rules fly out the window when we hit adulthood or gain a political office. No wonder our children are confused and don't know how to behave.

Believe me, I'm as surprised as the next guy at the "pacifist" I seem to have become. I always got angry when growing up when I still heard, even in the mid to late 1980s, Vietnam vets called baby killers. I didn't think twice about America's reasoning when Bush I went to war with Iraq in the early 1990s; I just hoped it didn't last long enough for the draft to be instated because my "brother" was of age to go if that happened. I'm still trying to determine why this war bothers me so much when those others didn't. Maybe it's because I'm older and take more notice of what happens in the world. Maybe at almost 32 years old I don't take everything I see and hear at face value like I did when I was 20 or 21. As an eternal student, I've met a lot of people from many different countries, and I've begun to see more similarities than differrences among us all. I saw the Middle Eastern students on my campus mourning 9/11 next to the American students, holding up Old Glory and trying to make this small part of the world understand that the people who committed that atrocity were no more representative of their religion than the KKK is representative of Christianity.

There are only a handful of people I can discuss this with because my entire family are Bush II supporters. I feel some days as though I am drowning. I feel some days as though I'm floating in a sea of blind hatred, and I just want to scream at the sky, "Why can't we all just get along?"

Like Kingsolver, I find a bit of solace in the nature around me. The male cardinal sitting on top of the wind tunnel building has the ability to make me smile a little with his song. I can actually laugh out loud at the squirrel who cusses me out for walking my dog Reba under his tree, interrupting his evening supper. I couldn't ignore even if I wanted to the positive energy that sang along my every nerve ending this morning as I walked Reba after a rain shower. I breathed deeply the clean, renewed air, and I could almost convince myself that a world that felt that good at 7:45 a.m. couldn't possibly be resounding with hatred and bullets somewhere else. I could feel my tension being taken out of my neck and shoulders by the light breeze, bless her for her gift. With that renewed sense of vision, with some of the anguish taken away, I can read with clearer eyes the words of Kingsolver when she says that sometimes I can only worry about my immediate world. That is often the only place I can truly make a difference, but it can be enough.

Well, it's been three and a half days since I finished the semester, and I'm still not entirely sure what to do with myself. I spent most of yesterday holed up in my room because I had a bad case of crabiness (being a woman is pretty fun most of the time, but I could really do without PMS). I watched a couple of episodes of Roar I had on tape from two and three weeks ago, and I remembered why I was so upset that it only made 13 eps in 1997. This was Heath Ledger before he became HEATH LEDGER. This historical (loosely historical, to be sure) show was the very first thing I ever saw him in, so to me he will always be Conor, the reluctant Celtic prince trying to unite the tribes of Ireland against the Romans to preserve the roar of the land.

After Roar, I started Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I avoided reading the Potter series for a long time because, as a general rule, I avoid anything that is popular or a fad (it's the nonconformist in me). After my favorite aunt told me how fun the books were, I borrowed her daughter's set to read. I made it through two before I caved and bought my own set. I'm even woman enough to admit I reserved my copy of Book Five three weeks ago. Yeah, I'm a convert. I've seen the first movie about a dozen times. I've only seen the second one once or twice, but that'll change now that I have free time.

I also finally had time to sit down and watch the video of VH1's special on the Pakistani group Junoon which I downloaded from myJunoon.com. If you've ever read my musings on my homepage, you'll know I've gone on and on about how great I think this group is musically and socially, and the five minutes I saw of the VH1 documentary back in November or December 2001 was what turned me on to them. I really wish I could get to Dallas the end of next week to see them in concert -- I think it would be an incredible experience. Check out the video (viewed with Windows Media Player) and let me know what you think. Kudos to Pakidude83, the owner of myJunoon.com, for his always awesome site and to the regulars in the forum for accepting the goofy American chick from the Midwest.