Am I awake?
She came at me. That’s it.
We were talking… or, I was talking; I was telling her about my day.
It had been an excedingly strange day to that point; all sorts of improbable things had been happening. My car stopped working in the middle of the freeway at 80 mph. That wasn’t too weird; it’s an old car and the engine just stopped. I put the clutch in and, cursing mildly, coasted; looking for a chance to merge into the right lane. Then this big ole’ Mac truck comes up behind me, and looks to clobber me right there in the middle lane. I mean, it was moving. I was pretty sure I was going to die. And it hit me. But instead of a crunch, I felt a slight jerk and all of a sudden I’m going as fast as the truck, because it's pushing me… and my engine is running again as well as it ever does. The trucker waves at me in my rear-view mirror and slows down, and I drive off.
I know. The details don’t add up. First, when was the last time you saw a semi going 110 mph? How did it hit me without damaging my car or sending me clean off the road? Why did my engine start back up? But what really gets me, is why did I then keep going as if nothing unusual had happened? I didn’t stop to check for damage, I didn’t take the next exit, I didn’t even end up changing lanes. I just waved happily to the trucker, who by all rights should have just killed me, and kept going.
I didn’t even get home late.
Okay, so you don’t know me. To you this probably sounds odd, a bit off, maybe even scary. But not to me; to me this is truly bizarre. There is a reason my car still runs after 340,000 miles. I take meticulous care of it; I would stop if I ran over a medium size rock on the freeway to make sure my tire is okay. I’m downright anal about my car. But not that day: that day, my engine stopped on the freeway, a huge truck slammed into me, and I didn’t stop, I just drove calmly home. I don’t even think I looked at the bumper when I got there. Who was I?
When I did get home, I took a nap. I wasn’t tired; I remember that I wasn’t tired because I said that out loud to her: “Theresa, I’m not at all tired. I’m just going to take a nap.” That’s what I said. I wasn’t upset… in fact, I can’t explain it at all. I just took out the milk and a glass for myself, and then laid down on the kitchen floor and took a nap.
When I woke up it was twilight, and Theresa was still there waiting expectantly. She saw me wake up, and said, “How are you?” She’s cute that way; I taught her to talk while she was just a chickling. So I start to tell her my day; the 15 minute phone call in the morning, where neither of us said a single word the whole time, the fact that I forgot to eat lunch, but still found that I had spilled ketchup on my shirt, and then the freeway incident.
That’s when she came at me. Don’t ask me to explain how; she was in her cage, with the doors latched. Then she was flying at me screeching in a way I’ve never heard before; as if a stranger had her and was pulling out her feathers by the fistful. I can tell you with complete sincerity that I have never been as freaked out in my life as when that little bird came streaking at me with that blood-curdling scream. It was as if Theresa was gone, and a demon from the mythic underworld… no, that’s not right; the reason I still live this moment over and over again, is because Theresa wasn’t gone. I could see it in her eyes; she was there. And it was her, my beloved pet, who was screaming in terrible agony, and hatred, and malice as she came at me. She came at me, and attacked my face… a very personal attack. I still feel like I am shaking all over (though I can’t be) when I remember it. Please don’t ask me about her anymore.
Then everything stopped. Then I was here.
That’s what I remember; here’s what I’ve been told:
I was found in my house, on the kitchen floor. I was paralyzed from a broken neck. They tell me that whatever broke my neck severed the spinal cord immediately, so that I would have felt no pain from my shattered left leg, broken ribs, crushed pelvis and dislocated shoulder. They also tell me that the cuts on my face were not clean cuts, but ragged tears that seemed to have been caused by an exotic bird… but not Theresa, who was found safely locked up in her cage contentedly asking the paramedics, “How are you?”
What they don’t tell me is how I ended up on the floor of my third-floor apartment, with a severely totaled car parked neatly in the garage… except for the rear axle which was blocking the flow of traffic ten miles away on I26. These seem like important details to me, but no one seems to hear when I ask.
It would all make more sense if I were dreaming. But how can I tell? I can’t pinch myself, but I’ve had dreams since where I could pinch myself. Each time I do, I wake up, and each time I wake up, I’m here in this world where nothing makes sense. How can I possibly prove to myself that this is real? How would I know the proof wasn’t a dream? What proof that I am awake could I possibly dream up… that I wouldn’t be able to dream of? Please tell me.
Am I awake?
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
Boston, and Our Vulnerability to Terrorism.
If you’ve looked through my blog history, it is clear that I have neglected my blog for quite some time. My life has changed significantly since last I wrote. I finished grad school, Ann gave birth to our daughter (let’s say her name is pTerry), I have a new job, Ann has a new job, and we’re moving soon. I’ll try to write about all of those things in the future; but for now, please ignore my neglect and read on as if there actually was continuity. Today I want to write about Boston and the politics of terrorism. Hmm, I managed to make that sound dry… oh well.
The past week has been crazy. Put aside (but don’t forget) the deadly explosion in Texas caused or complicated by lax regulation, zoning, and budget cuts. Put a pin in the fact that CISPA is back again despite repeated popular protest, and no popular support. Feel free to ignore (for the moment) North Korea jumping up and down in the corner. Something is disturbing me about the Boston bombing, or to be more specific, the public and political response to the whole ordeal.
First, the bombing was horrible on many levels. People and their lives were damaged and destroyed during a time of rather pure celebration. I empathize, and my heart aches for them and the situation in a way that is recognized by thousands of people who have been feeling the same way and discussing their feelings all week by way of emotional triage. That is my politically-correct statement, but also, I want my readers to understand that this is my emotional background, even if it isn’t the subject of my writing and even if I sound emotionally cold at times.
Very shortly after learning about the bombing, people in my family and other folks prominent and obscure made the point that bombing a marathon in Boston was a stupid and pointless thing to do. It could serve no one. It was clear almost immediately that the response of the people was to come together in massive support, save most of the lives of the victims, and unify in defiance of violence and fear. The kind of fierce New England neighbor-ness that Ann is always pointing out to me was evident in spades. It was as if Boston stood up as one angry body with a giant finger pointed to the sky to defy the terror and proclaim that no one can force them to fear doing whatever they want to do. No jerk with a garage bomb has the power to make them change the way they live their lives. Today, a week later, I think that most of the people of Boston and many others are stronger, and more unified, as a direct result of the bombing.
Unfortunately, I don't think it will last. Through observation, I have developed the opinion that this country is incredibly vulnerable to terrorist acts such as these. It's not that we are particularly easy to attack in this way, but that we are damaged heavily each time we are attacked. Right now the people of Boston are more tightly knit and strong, and this is a fine demonstration of the goodness of the people, and the strength of their community. However, the governing bodies of these good people are slower to react; we haven't seen the whole response yet, and I'm worried.
Eleven and a half years ago airplanes were flown into the World Trade Center. It was horrifying and destructive, and it will most likely haunt much of our generation throughout our lives. In the aftermath of the attacks, US flags sold out, the red cross had to turn away blood donors, non-profits had to turn away supply and money donations. The entire city and most of the country resolved to emerge stronger and better than they had been. No one could inspire terror in a nation so great: in defiance the country rebelled against the will of destructive agencies. The nation was more unified than any time before or since in my life. The potential of that unity was palpable.
And then, when the slower governing bodies made their response, we spent that potential. We went to war. We enacted the traitorously named patriot act without reading it. We went to war again with little reason or evidence. We renewed and expanded the patriot act; we enacted more laws to restrict our freedoms in the name of safety. We opened and used extra-legal torture/jails all around the world. We invented the TSA, and expanded their powers and budget every year despite any evidence that they have ever stopped anything bad from happening. We continue to erode free-speech and fourth amendment rights under the guise of increased safety. How many times in the last ten years have you heard the unchallengeable argument: "If it will save even one life..." used to justify some new law or regulation?
There are many examples where this phenomenon has reared its head and new restrictive laws have been enacted to prevent something that is already illegal. But I'll stick to 9-11 for now. Two weeks after the attacks, we had culprits. Shortly after that we went to war to bring the culprits to justice and blah, blah, blah (<- anti-war rant here: ask me if you're interested.) So, massive legislative overhauls, restricted freedoms, inconvenient and expensive new travel procedures, reduced privacy, eroded rights, eroded global reputation, two wars, 10 years, 7000 US soldiers, 100,000+ Iraqi and Afghani, and more than a trillion dollars later, we caught and killed Osama bin Laden. And we're not done. The US is still technically in a state of emergency (an absurd literal contradiction), we are still involved in one and a half wars, your rights are not being repaired, people are still held in jails without being charged, the TSA isn't going anywhere, and much of the world still justifiably hates us. We were attacked and we caught the bad guys. Tell me who won. Tell me who is stronger now.
And that is what I worry about with regards to Boston too. The bombing hurt people, and they almost immediately emerged stronger. They caught the suspects (presumed innocent?). There is healing that needs to happen now, but what else will we do? What will we give up to make sure it never happens again? It is good that the people can emerge stronger from an act of terror, but what are we teaching the bad people of the world when we are so willing to harm ourselves in response? So, today, the (still hurting and still healing) people of Boston are stronger and closer; but I don't think we'll know how much the bombers really hurt us until the next Boston marathon.
It took me most of my life to date, but now I think I understand: the only thing we have to fear, is fear itself.
The past week has been crazy. Put aside (but don’t forget) the deadly explosion in Texas caused or complicated by lax regulation, zoning, and budget cuts. Put a pin in the fact that CISPA is back again despite repeated popular protest, and no popular support. Feel free to ignore (for the moment) North Korea jumping up and down in the corner. Something is disturbing me about the Boston bombing, or to be more specific, the public and political response to the whole ordeal.
First, the bombing was horrible on many levels. People and their lives were damaged and destroyed during a time of rather pure celebration. I empathize, and my heart aches for them and the situation in a way that is recognized by thousands of people who have been feeling the same way and discussing their feelings all week by way of emotional triage. That is my politically-correct statement, but also, I want my readers to understand that this is my emotional background, even if it isn’t the subject of my writing and even if I sound emotionally cold at times.
Very shortly after learning about the bombing, people in my family and other folks prominent and obscure made the point that bombing a marathon in Boston was a stupid and pointless thing to do. It could serve no one. It was clear almost immediately that the response of the people was to come together in massive support, save most of the lives of the victims, and unify in defiance of violence and fear. The kind of fierce New England neighbor-ness that Ann is always pointing out to me was evident in spades. It was as if Boston stood up as one angry body with a giant finger pointed to the sky to defy the terror and proclaim that no one can force them to fear doing whatever they want to do. No jerk with a garage bomb has the power to make them change the way they live their lives. Today, a week later, I think that most of the people of Boston and many others are stronger, and more unified, as a direct result of the bombing.
Unfortunately, I don't think it will last. Through observation, I have developed the opinion that this country is incredibly vulnerable to terrorist acts such as these. It's not that we are particularly easy to attack in this way, but that we are damaged heavily each time we are attacked. Right now the people of Boston are more tightly knit and strong, and this is a fine demonstration of the goodness of the people, and the strength of their community. However, the governing bodies of these good people are slower to react; we haven't seen the whole response yet, and I'm worried.
Eleven and a half years ago airplanes were flown into the World Trade Center. It was horrifying and destructive, and it will most likely haunt much of our generation throughout our lives. In the aftermath of the attacks, US flags sold out, the red cross had to turn away blood donors, non-profits had to turn away supply and money donations. The entire city and most of the country resolved to emerge stronger and better than they had been. No one could inspire terror in a nation so great: in defiance the country rebelled against the will of destructive agencies. The nation was more unified than any time before or since in my life. The potential of that unity was palpable.
And then, when the slower governing bodies made their response, we spent that potential. We went to war. We enacted the traitorously named patriot act without reading it. We went to war again with little reason or evidence. We renewed and expanded the patriot act; we enacted more laws to restrict our freedoms in the name of safety. We opened and used extra-legal torture/jails all around the world. We invented the TSA, and expanded their powers and budget every year despite any evidence that they have ever stopped anything bad from happening. We continue to erode free-speech and fourth amendment rights under the guise of increased safety. How many times in the last ten years have you heard the unchallengeable argument: "If it will save even one life..." used to justify some new law or regulation?
There are many examples where this phenomenon has reared its head and new restrictive laws have been enacted to prevent something that is already illegal. But I'll stick to 9-11 for now. Two weeks after the attacks, we had culprits. Shortly after that we went to war to bring the culprits to justice and blah, blah, blah (<- anti-war rant here: ask me if you're interested.) So, massive legislative overhauls, restricted freedoms, inconvenient and expensive new travel procedures, reduced privacy, eroded rights, eroded global reputation, two wars, 10 years, 7000 US soldiers, 100,000+ Iraqi and Afghani, and more than a trillion dollars later, we caught and killed Osama bin Laden. And we're not done. The US is still technically in a state of emergency (an absurd literal contradiction), we are still involved in one and a half wars, your rights are not being repaired, people are still held in jails without being charged, the TSA isn't going anywhere, and much of the world still justifiably hates us. We were attacked and we caught the bad guys. Tell me who won. Tell me who is stronger now.
And that is what I worry about with regards to Boston too. The bombing hurt people, and they almost immediately emerged stronger. They caught the suspects (presumed innocent?). There is healing that needs to happen now, but what else will we do? What will we give up to make sure it never happens again? It is good that the people can emerge stronger from an act of terror, but what are we teaching the bad people of the world when we are so willing to harm ourselves in response? So, today, the (still hurting and still healing) people of Boston are stronger and closer; but I don't think we'll know how much the bombers really hurt us until the next Boston marathon.
It took me most of my life to date, but now I think I understand: the only thing we have to fear, is fear itself.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Cell phones: a reference for all those concerned.
When I was a little kid, I was walking down the street with my parents and I heard someone talking in Spanish. This set me to empathizing with the speaker. I had been studying French in school, and I knew how hard it was to think about what I wanted to say, then figure out what English words would fit best, then translate those words into another language. It’s tough, and this person was speaking a lot of words. Immediately following those thoughts I had my first revelation; of course she wasn’t translating English thoughts into Spanish. She was thinking in Spanish.
I’ve read that the human brain is wired to be able to speak and understand languages. The fact that we develop many different languages that can’t be perfectly cross-translated, I think, speaks to our collective inability to accurately communicate our ideas into words in a way that can be universally understood. Additionally the affiliation between thoughts and words is not the same from person to person and it is a loose affiliation indeed. I often feel like I have this loose affiliation even worse than the average person. This has lead to a lot of confusion or misunderstanding concerning my personal inhibition to acquiring a cell phone.
Many of those who are close to me know that I am very resistant to having a cell phone, and because they are friends and family, most of them have given me the benefit of the doubt and asked me why. This is a perfectly reasonable question that I have never been able to adequately answer. The kicker is that the conclusion is perfectly clear in my head: I don’t want a cell phone. My clarity and insistence in this matter combined with my inability to communicate the reasoning has had unfortunate consequences. I’ve been referred to as a luddite, a contrarian, and (most unjustly) as stubborn. This has been an on-going conversation for many years; but recently I have gotten a better hold on the reasons I don’t want a cell phone. Perhaps, with a bit of effective communication, I can make it as clear for all the people outside of my head too.
Some of the reasons I don’t want to have a cell phone, I have made clear to some people. These are the usual suspects in ascending importance:
Cell phones record more and more personal information, and I do not trust that it will be handled properly. I try to minimize the cross-section of my personal information that is available to companies that can profit by selling it. (This is a weak objection that I may give up some day.)
Cell phones are expensive; it is really a lot of money one way or the other. (This objection has been negated by generous people offering to buy a plan for me.)
Cell phones provide poor service. Coverage, and provider issues aside, the sound quality from a cell phone is universally poor. Even the best cell phones are only given a small portion of bandwidth for voice, and the result is tinny and abrasive sound quality that makes everyone hard to understand (for me) and afraid to talk over each other. (This unnecessary limitation clearly annoys me more than the average cell phone user.)
Cell phones are not necessary. They are incredibly convenient, and I would never deny that. No matter how ingrained they are in our daily/hourly lives, if the system crashed, we would survive. I can still make plans for the future without being able to talk to someone right now. In fact, I’ve learned this behavior is gratifying because of the extra effort it takes. (*Yes, of course I could make plans that don’t rely on the phone despite having a cell phone; see below.)
I do not want to be available all the time. As convenient as it would be for other people to be able to reach me in a moment’s notice, I don’t want to be reachable all the time. (*Yes, of course I could turn it off; see below.)
Cell phones are unnecessarily and intentionally wasteful. They draw far more energy from the grid than a 5V home phone, but that isn’t the real issue. Cell phones are made to be replaced. They are made to specs that are apparently engineered to fail after 2 years. Partly this is driven by consumer demand to replace old tech with new tech. But there is enough consumer demand for a phone that never breaks under normal use, that there should be at least one model available. There isn’t. Either they physically break after 2 years, or they are rendered useless by software upgrades, or the electronic components burn out. None of this is inevitable. Many houses contain (now defunct) hard-wired or wireless phones that have been operational for decades, mine included.
Cell phones are a distraction from real, present life. I do not want to be connected to people and information at all times. My brain is very active. I jump from thought to thought as I walk down any random street. It is how I live my life and experience the world. I solve my life problems and world problems, I invent cool stuff, I sing songs, I have philosophical debates, I notice other people and try to understand them, I talk to people I am with and try to reason through things I don’t know, I notice animals and sounds, I notice how I feel, and plan things I want to do and say. When I talk to people on the phone, most of that shuts down as I apply my attention to the person. (This isn’t intrinsically bad, but if it happens all the time, it will detract from what I am doing; this is why I am usually staring at the ceiling in a dark room during long phone conversations.) When I am connected to information, every question is followed by an answer from either a solid source of information or some collective of opinions. It is convenient, but intellectually stifling and boring. (If it is important and I am unconnected, I’ll look it up later.) (*Yes of course I could turn it off; see below.)
*People point it out all the time. You can have the convenience of a cell phone without access to the features you’d prefer not to use simply by turning off the features. If you don’t want to be connected, turn off the phone. If you don’t want access to limitless info, don’t use a data plan. If you don’t want to be accessible, buy a phone that is for emergency use only. There is no denying that this is true; but that is not what I would do. If I had the ability to talk to people any time, I would. If I had access to information all the time, I would use it instead of my brain. If I had music and video entertainment available, I would partake. Some of the reasons I don’t have a cell phone are the same reasons I don’t buy skittles and keep them in the house, the same reasons I don’t give myself access to cable or broadcast TV. When you have an issue with overindulgence of whatever, sometimes the best option is to limit your access to whatever in any way you think will work.
It seems that those explanations never suffice. People tend always to return with the same arguments, and it is these return arguments that I have only recently been able to address. They sound something like this:
What happens if you are in an accident?
What happens if you are lost?
What if you are running late or need assistance?
What if you are in danger?
What if other people you love are lost, hurt, in danger...?
and, most recently: Oh, you’ll get a cell phone when Ann is pregnant/about to give birth/when you have children.
My only response to date has been to cite the well-known fact that somehow the human race has survived to date, most of the time without cell phones. Unfortunately, this barely scratches the surface of the real reason that I have remained unswayed (and rather annoyed) by these arguments. Keeping to this inadequate answer sounds very much like an exercise in stubbornness because it sounds like I am denying that I would want a cell phone in those situations: an absurd proposition. In all but one and a third of the situations above, I would definitely want a cell phone... badly.
The real reason that I strongly resist those objections is because they are reasons based in and designed around fear. We live in a culture of fear. Our marketing drives consumerism with fear, our wars are driven and funded by fear, our laws are built to dispel fear, our politicians are elected because they claim to take actions to abate our fear. Bad things can happen, and the fact that they might happen should make you want to _______________. Fill in the blank: reduce our civil rights, buy a cell phone, make slingshots and lawn darts illegal, fight the taliban, elect another Bush, stop eating eggs, pass DOMA, refuse vaccinations, outlaw fresh milk, bomb Iran... I’ve seen people fight every single day to live their lives despite all of the bad things that could happen as a consequence, and I have seen people destroyed by fear. I will not decide how to live my life based on what I fear.
I’m not particularly ignorant though. Being prepared for the worst is not the same as being afraid of the worst. I won’t discount the possibility of something bad happening just because I don’t want to live in fear of it. Bad things might happen that would be easier to handle with a cell phone. But when you put aside the fear, those (mostly remote) possibilities become just another factor in the calculus of making the cell phone decision; and in that calculus, I still don’t want a cell phone.
Lastly, I don’t claim this to be irrefutable logic or an undeniable conclusion, but it is my logic and my conclusion. This is my reason; this is why I don’t want a cell phone. It’s not stubborn; I have nothing to prove to the people in my life who think I should have a cell phone. It’s not a decision made out of a dislike of technology or a desire to be contradictory. It is a reasoned decision in defiance of fear but accounting for all possibilities, and (I shudder to share this) it isn’t necessarily final. I am always open to more information, or shifting priorities; but as far as I can tell, this is how I want to live my life... I think.
I’ve read that the human brain is wired to be able to speak and understand languages. The fact that we develop many different languages that can’t be perfectly cross-translated, I think, speaks to our collective inability to accurately communicate our ideas into words in a way that can be universally understood. Additionally the affiliation between thoughts and words is not the same from person to person and it is a loose affiliation indeed. I often feel like I have this loose affiliation even worse than the average person. This has lead to a lot of confusion or misunderstanding concerning my personal inhibition to acquiring a cell phone.
Many of those who are close to me know that I am very resistant to having a cell phone, and because they are friends and family, most of them have given me the benefit of the doubt and asked me why. This is a perfectly reasonable question that I have never been able to adequately answer. The kicker is that the conclusion is perfectly clear in my head: I don’t want a cell phone. My clarity and insistence in this matter combined with my inability to communicate the reasoning has had unfortunate consequences. I’ve been referred to as a luddite, a contrarian, and (most unjustly) as stubborn. This has been an on-going conversation for many years; but recently I have gotten a better hold on the reasons I don’t want a cell phone. Perhaps, with a bit of effective communication, I can make it as clear for all the people outside of my head too.
Some of the reasons I don’t want to have a cell phone, I have made clear to some people. These are the usual suspects in ascending importance:
Cell phones record more and more personal information, and I do not trust that it will be handled properly. I try to minimize the cross-section of my personal information that is available to companies that can profit by selling it. (This is a weak objection that I may give up some day.)
Cell phones are expensive; it is really a lot of money one way or the other. (This objection has been negated by generous people offering to buy a plan for me.)
Cell phones provide poor service. Coverage, and provider issues aside, the sound quality from a cell phone is universally poor. Even the best cell phones are only given a small portion of bandwidth for voice, and the result is tinny and abrasive sound quality that makes everyone hard to understand (for me) and afraid to talk over each other. (This unnecessary limitation clearly annoys me more than the average cell phone user.)
Cell phones are not necessary. They are incredibly convenient, and I would never deny that. No matter how ingrained they are in our daily/hourly lives, if the system crashed, we would survive. I can still make plans for the future without being able to talk to someone right now. In fact, I’ve learned this behavior is gratifying because of the extra effort it takes. (*Yes, of course I could make plans that don’t rely on the phone despite having a cell phone; see below.)
I do not want to be available all the time. As convenient as it would be for other people to be able to reach me in a moment’s notice, I don’t want to be reachable all the time. (*Yes, of course I could turn it off; see below.)
Cell phones are unnecessarily and intentionally wasteful. They draw far more energy from the grid than a 5V home phone, but that isn’t the real issue. Cell phones are made to be replaced. They are made to specs that are apparently engineered to fail after 2 years. Partly this is driven by consumer demand to replace old tech with new tech. But there is enough consumer demand for a phone that never breaks under normal use, that there should be at least one model available. There isn’t. Either they physically break after 2 years, or they are rendered useless by software upgrades, or the electronic components burn out. None of this is inevitable. Many houses contain (now defunct) hard-wired or wireless phones that have been operational for decades, mine included.
Cell phones are a distraction from real, present life. I do not want to be connected to people and information at all times. My brain is very active. I jump from thought to thought as I walk down any random street. It is how I live my life and experience the world. I solve my life problems and world problems, I invent cool stuff, I sing songs, I have philosophical debates, I notice other people and try to understand them, I talk to people I am with and try to reason through things I don’t know, I notice animals and sounds, I notice how I feel, and plan things I want to do and say. When I talk to people on the phone, most of that shuts down as I apply my attention to the person. (This isn’t intrinsically bad, but if it happens all the time, it will detract from what I am doing; this is why I am usually staring at the ceiling in a dark room during long phone conversations.) When I am connected to information, every question is followed by an answer from either a solid source of information or some collective of opinions. It is convenient, but intellectually stifling and boring. (If it is important and I am unconnected, I’ll look it up later.) (*Yes of course I could turn it off; see below.)
*People point it out all the time. You can have the convenience of a cell phone without access to the features you’d prefer not to use simply by turning off the features. If you don’t want to be connected, turn off the phone. If you don’t want access to limitless info, don’t use a data plan. If you don’t want to be accessible, buy a phone that is for emergency use only. There is no denying that this is true; but that is not what I would do. If I had the ability to talk to people any time, I would. If I had access to information all the time, I would use it instead of my brain. If I had music and video entertainment available, I would partake. Some of the reasons I don’t have a cell phone are the same reasons I don’t buy skittles and keep them in the house, the same reasons I don’t give myself access to cable or broadcast TV. When you have an issue with overindulgence of whatever, sometimes the best option is to limit your access to whatever in any way you think will work.
It seems that those explanations never suffice. People tend always to return with the same arguments, and it is these return arguments that I have only recently been able to address. They sound something like this:
What happens if you are in an accident?
What happens if you are lost?
What if you are running late or need assistance?
What if you are in danger?
What if other people you love are lost, hurt, in danger...?
and, most recently: Oh, you’ll get a cell phone when Ann is pregnant/about to give birth/when you have children.
My only response to date has been to cite the well-known fact that somehow the human race has survived to date, most of the time without cell phones. Unfortunately, this barely scratches the surface of the real reason that I have remained unswayed (and rather annoyed) by these arguments. Keeping to this inadequate answer sounds very much like an exercise in stubbornness because it sounds like I am denying that I would want a cell phone in those situations: an absurd proposition. In all but one and a third of the situations above, I would definitely want a cell phone... badly.
The real reason that I strongly resist those objections is because they are reasons based in and designed around fear. We live in a culture of fear. Our marketing drives consumerism with fear, our wars are driven and funded by fear, our laws are built to dispel fear, our politicians are elected because they claim to take actions to abate our fear. Bad things can happen, and the fact that they might happen should make you want to _______________. Fill in the blank: reduce our civil rights, buy a cell phone, make slingshots and lawn darts illegal, fight the taliban, elect another Bush, stop eating eggs, pass DOMA, refuse vaccinations, outlaw fresh milk, bomb Iran... I’ve seen people fight every single day to live their lives despite all of the bad things that could happen as a consequence, and I have seen people destroyed by fear. I will not decide how to live my life based on what I fear.
I’m not particularly ignorant though. Being prepared for the worst is not the same as being afraid of the worst. I won’t discount the possibility of something bad happening just because I don’t want to live in fear of it. Bad things might happen that would be easier to handle with a cell phone. But when you put aside the fear, those (mostly remote) possibilities become just another factor in the calculus of making the cell phone decision; and in that calculus, I still don’t want a cell phone.
Lastly, I don’t claim this to be irrefutable logic or an undeniable conclusion, but it is my logic and my conclusion. This is my reason; this is why I don’t want a cell phone. It’s not stubborn; I have nothing to prove to the people in my life who think I should have a cell phone. It’s not a decision made out of a dislike of technology or a desire to be contradictory. It is a reasoned decision in defiance of fear but accounting for all possibilities, and (I shudder to share this) it isn’t necessarily final. I am always open to more information, or shifting priorities; but as far as I can tell, this is how I want to live my life... I think.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Transit of the gods.
Generally speaking, in day-to-day life, the sun is a familiar object. Someone might say: “What’s that?” And you’ll reply, “Oh don’t be silly, that’s the sun.” Or: “Where’s the sun; oh, never mind. There it is, behind that tree.”
We are sun-kissed, we are with sunshine on our shoulders, it looks like we got a little sun on our nose. The sun is with us, right there, in the sky, behind that cloud, just like the airplanes. It is immediate.
Conversely, the planets are celestial objects. We know from grade school what they are, but when we see them, we usually see them as stars with less-predictable positions. They are out there, beyond, they are places of imagination and dreams, or science (-fiction) epic travels.
Twice a century or so, we are faced with the peril of paradigm shift. Last night, Venus crossed between us and the sun. If you saw it, and could not avoid falling into contemplation about what was happening, you faced the danger of two possible, dizzying shifts in perspective:
1) The sun, our familiar, was shining brightly as it always does; right there, up in the sky. But, if you looked closely with the right equipment, something dark was on the surface: a blemish. What could it be? It was Venus of course: that celestial harbinger of both night and day. How could this be? How could this remote celestial body come between us and our familiar sun?...
SHIFT
...our familiar sun is celestial too: so very far away. Perspective comes roaring in with mighty vengeance! The solar system is enormous; Venus, nearly the size of Earth, which is itself almost impossible to imagine in its breadth, is a tiny little dot in front of the sun, which is twice as far away from Venus as Venus is to us, so we must be (zipping back, zooming out) impossibly tiny and insignificant; no more to the sun that the smallest virus is to us, except even less than that because we can’t even begin to have any effect on the sun which is impossibly massive and so far........ Breathe. Let it go. Nothing meaningful can ever be done under this paradigm, especially if you then turn to the other stars.
I did not experience that shift. Instead, I experienced:
2) The sun, our familiar, was shining brightly as it always does; right there, up in the sky. But, if you looked closely with the right equipment, something dark was on the surface: a blemish. What could it be? It was Venus of course: that celestial harbinger of both night and day. How could this be? How could this remote celestial body come between us and our familiar sun?...
SHIFT
...Venus, that celestial distant harbinger is familiar too. She’s right there between us and our familiar sun! (Flying out, zooming in) Venus is huge! The sun is even bigger and further, and they are both right here in our own little (solar system-sized) space. Mercury is in there too, riding the inner well of the sun’s gravity like a cosmic daredevil or a coin tossed in the perfect, friction-free donation well, both zipping around like neat little celestial bouncing balls that were thrown by the playful laws of physics, like I would love to throw a ball into a gravity well, and wait, we are flying around on our own enormous planet, and there are more little objects flying around the system with abandon, encountering nothing but the resilient balance between gravity and orbital momentum, and colliding chaotically with gasses and solar winds and sometimes, if you threw the celestial body just right, with another celestial body in a fascinating explosion of energy with pieces and parts rebounding and deforming in ways impossible to predict, but endlessly entertaining to analyze and watch over and over in the vain desire to see, know, and PLAY...
Last night, I became one of the gods!
Conversely, the planets are celestial objects. We know from grade school what they are, but when we see them, we usually see them as stars with less-predictable positions. They are out there, beyond, they are places of imagination and dreams, or science (-fiction) epic travels.
Twice a century or so, we are faced with the peril of paradigm shift. Last night, Venus crossed between us and the sun. If you saw it, and could not avoid falling into contemplation about what was happening, you faced the danger of two possible, dizzying shifts in perspective:
1) The sun, our familiar, was shining brightly as it always does; right there, up in the sky. But, if you looked closely with the right equipment, something dark was on the surface: a blemish. What could it be? It was Venus of course: that celestial harbinger of both night and day. How could this be? How could this remote celestial body come between us and our familiar sun?...
SHIFT
...our familiar sun is celestial too: so very far away. Perspective comes roaring in with mighty vengeance! The solar system is enormous; Venus, nearly the size of Earth, which is itself almost impossible to imagine in its breadth, is a tiny little dot in front of the sun, which is twice as far away from Venus as Venus is to us, so we must be (zipping back, zooming out) impossibly tiny and insignificant; no more to the sun that the smallest virus is to us, except even less than that because we can’t even begin to have any effect on the sun which is impossibly massive and so far........ Breathe. Let it go. Nothing meaningful can ever be done under this paradigm, especially if you then turn to the other stars.
I did not experience that shift. Instead, I experienced:
2) The sun, our familiar, was shining brightly as it always does; right there, up in the sky. But, if you looked closely with the right equipment, something dark was on the surface: a blemish. What could it be? It was Venus of course: that celestial harbinger of both night and day. How could this be? How could this remote celestial body come between us and our familiar sun?...
SHIFT
...Venus, that celestial distant harbinger is familiar too. She’s right there between us and our familiar sun! (Flying out, zooming in) Venus is huge! The sun is even bigger and further, and they are both right here in our own little (solar system-sized) space. Mercury is in there too, riding the inner well of the sun’s gravity like a cosmic daredevil or a coin tossed in the perfect, friction-free donation well, both zipping around like neat little celestial bouncing balls that were thrown by the playful laws of physics, like I would love to throw a ball into a gravity well, and wait, we are flying around on our own enormous planet, and there are more little objects flying around the system with abandon, encountering nothing but the resilient balance between gravity and orbital momentum, and colliding chaotically with gasses and solar winds and sometimes, if you threw the celestial body just right, with another celestial body in a fascinating explosion of energy with pieces and parts rebounding and deforming in ways impossible to predict, but endlessly entertaining to analyze and watch over and over in the vain desire to see, know, and PLAY...
Last night, I became one of the gods!
Friday, January 13, 2012
And Life Goes On
I guess I should follow up after my previous post. My anger was not long-lived; especially as it had been catalyzed by people who had decent intentions. Medically, Ann’s situation is currently healthy, and quickly getting back to normal; the potential problems cited by the doctors before my last post were non-existent upon closer consideration and extra procedures were not required. This is my very elliptical way of saying “it’s over now.” Let’s move on... but first:
Over the course of the whole ordeal that was our miscarriage, I learned one astounding fact. The numbers we heard varied from source to source, but miscarriages are surprisingly common. My father passed on information he learned 20 years ago in med-school to the effect that 5% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. That is one in twenty, or, quite a lot; and that information is more than 20 years old. It dates from a time when many people and institutions still didn’t consider you pregnant until sometime after the 12th (or 20th in some cases) week. If you consider a woman to be pregnant after implantation, that number, currently reckoned, is much higher. We were informed by nurses, mid-wives, and doctors, that the number is now known to be one in eight, one in four, or one in every two pregnancies end in miscarriage. In a variety of people we’ve talked to since, we have discovered individuals who have personally experienced: one of four, one of three, two of eight, two of five, four of fifteen, and plenty more people who just aren’t sure. Miscarriages are very common; so common, that I think we would all benefit from calling them (and understanding them to be) natural.
But, miscarriages are sad. If you know you are pregnant, it is nearly impossible not to start building your hopes around a baby who’s only existence so far is little more than genetic potential. I know it is nearly impossible, for I actively and intentionally tried not to build hope. But, as it turned out, those three weeks that we knew Ann was pregnant with living potential, felt much more like three lovely months. Hope we did, expectations we built, and when all was over, sadness we felt.
It is this sadness that keeps people from talking about miscarriages. Protecting other people from this sadness is why people don’t announce pregnancies in the first trimester. I totally understand this. But, with silence comes stigma, with stigma comes guilt or shame, and with guilt and shame comes pain. For some, it is easy to shed this cycle through understanding its origin, for others it is destructive, and for most… we lie somewhere between.
So, I want to go on record (in this protected forum first, and in the larger world when the wound is less raw) as a person who is not silent on the matter of miscarriage. They are common and natural, and it just may be very helpful for people to be able to speak about them openly. So, I declare myself forever open to frank discussion on the topic. Send me an email, write in the comments, anonymously, or not; let us talk.
Sigh, okay… life goes on, and so does this blog. My next post will be a story. Stay tuned…
Over the course of the whole ordeal that was our miscarriage, I learned one astounding fact. The numbers we heard varied from source to source, but miscarriages are surprisingly common. My father passed on information he learned 20 years ago in med-school to the effect that 5% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. That is one in twenty, or, quite a lot; and that information is more than 20 years old. It dates from a time when many people and institutions still didn’t consider you pregnant until sometime after the 12th (or 20th in some cases) week. If you consider a woman to be pregnant after implantation, that number, currently reckoned, is much higher. We were informed by nurses, mid-wives, and doctors, that the number is now known to be one in eight, one in four, or one in every two pregnancies end in miscarriage. In a variety of people we’ve talked to since, we have discovered individuals who have personally experienced: one of four, one of three, two of eight, two of five, four of fifteen, and plenty more people who just aren’t sure. Miscarriages are very common; so common, that I think we would all benefit from calling them (and understanding them to be) natural.
But, miscarriages are sad. If you know you are pregnant, it is nearly impossible not to start building your hopes around a baby who’s only existence so far is little more than genetic potential. I know it is nearly impossible, for I actively and intentionally tried not to build hope. But, as it turned out, those three weeks that we knew Ann was pregnant with living potential, felt much more like three lovely months. Hope we did, expectations we built, and when all was over, sadness we felt.
It is this sadness that keeps people from talking about miscarriages. Protecting other people from this sadness is why people don’t announce pregnancies in the first trimester. I totally understand this. But, with silence comes stigma, with stigma comes guilt or shame, and with guilt and shame comes pain. For some, it is easy to shed this cycle through understanding its origin, for others it is destructive, and for most… we lie somewhere between.
So, I want to go on record (in this protected forum first, and in the larger world when the wound is less raw) as a person who is not silent on the matter of miscarriage. They are common and natural, and it just may be very helpful for people to be able to speak about them openly. So, I declare myself forever open to frank discussion on the topic. Send me an email, write in the comments, anonymously, or not; let us talk.
Sigh, okay… life goes on, and so does this blog. My next post will be a story. Stay tuned…
Thursday, December 22, 2011
"FUCK YOU!" *
I don't curse. That is to say, I don't use what are commonly referred to as expletives, cusses, or bad words. Ann once told one of my work friends how I had gotten into an argument with someone in the past and had become so angry that I used the phrase "who the hell do you think you are?" My friend responded aptly: "I would have to be standing outside, arms raised, screaming to the raining and thundering night sky, illuminated only by lightning, naked, and covered with blood to reach that level of intensity." Which is, kind of, the point.
I, therefore, found it rather alarming when an innocuous ballad came on the radio last night lamenting the singer's uncertainty about being able to raise his children and I discovered I was so angry that I spat out the title of this post with a vehemence more suited to a torture chamber. I was angry... incensed... livid. I should not have been imposing myself on the public at that time.
There is, of course, back-story. If you've read my profile, you know that Ann and I were expecting a child. We are not anymore. This is sad and upsetting, but it is not so uncommon in the first trimester; there is ultimately nothing to do but accept it. But there is more back-story. Without going into too many details, Ann's pregnancy started out a little bit strangely; enough so that when she spoke to a doctor or nurse about it, they immediately wanted to find out what was going on. Okay, fine. There are a couple things that can go wrong this early in a pregnancy that could cause health threats for Ann. Ectopic pregnancy or psuedocyesis are two remote possibilities that might need to be treated. Might as well be safe about it, right? First thing's first; doctors want to test your blood to see if you are pregnant because four weeks is too early to see anything on an ultrasound.
So they schedule Ann for the blood test; she tests pregnant. The hormone levels are a little low for how far along they guessed that she was. So they schedule another test for two days later. Her hormones are supposed to double in two days; she has the test and the levels almost double. The nurses, or doctors, or the great Oz behind the curtain find the fact that the hormone didn't quite double slightly anomalous, so they schedule another blood draw for another two days later. And another. This is annoying, but not alarming; although it seemed to me that they could have taken only two tests a week and a half apart and achieved the same result. Whatever. Eventually they decided that Ann was pregnant enough to have an ultrasound. Let me stop the narrative here to make a small point that you can keep in the back of your mind; if any of these blood tests had shown anything out of the ordinary, they would still have to wait the same amount of time for the pregnancy to be far enough along to do an ultrasound.
So, Ann has a very early ultrasound. What they can see in such an early ultrasound is an amniotic sac and a yolk sac in the uterus where they belong. They can see that everything else looks normal. They think that they may be able to see a faint heartbeat. This is all good news... but it is not enough for the nurses/doctors/midwives. We are now under their microscope, and they want more information...
This story in all its detail is too long for a blog; to make it shorter:
Every step of the way they wanted more information, and it was never clear what purpose this information served. If something goes wrong with a fetus in the first trimester, there is nothing to be done. It survives or it doesn't. There is, then, no reason check up on what might be a very minor and fairly normal placental hemorrhage, or a possibly slow heartbeat, or an unexpectedly small fetus. Time will make the end result perfectly, patently clear. And now I can tell you from personal experience, that knowing all the things that might be going wrong with the life you hope is healthily forming does nothing good for you (or it) at all. Nothing.
After the third ultrasound in as many weeks, it became clear that the fetus was not viable. Although it is tempting, I am not going to blame that on he stress that was developed through all of these test. First trimesters are tenuous times. But in retrospect, had Ann never spoken to a doctor or nurse about her pregnancy, it would have happened, progressed, and ended just the same. We would have been excited, hopeful, and sad just the same. What we would not have had was the stress, the wasted time, and the massive amounts of worry in between. The only benefit ever possible from any of those tests was to make sure there was no (very unlikely) ectopic pregnancy; and only one test is required for that.
And now, after a fourth ultrasound, with pressure for a fifth possible tomorrow along with other tests, drugs and possibly surgery, I am furious and without a thunderstorm or a blood covered body to vent my ire.
* A few weeks after I wrote this, I wanted to censor the title badly; but I decided not to, for now. It reflects who I was that day, and perhaps will trigger Google and other parental filters to warn off more sensitive readers.
I, therefore, found it rather alarming when an innocuous ballad came on the radio last night lamenting the singer's uncertainty about being able to raise his children and I discovered I was so angry that I spat out the title of this post with a vehemence more suited to a torture chamber. I was angry... incensed... livid. I should not have been imposing myself on the public at that time.
There is, of course, back-story. If you've read my profile, you know that Ann and I were expecting a child. We are not anymore. This is sad and upsetting, but it is not so uncommon in the first trimester; there is ultimately nothing to do but accept it. But there is more back-story. Without going into too many details, Ann's pregnancy started out a little bit strangely; enough so that when she spoke to a doctor or nurse about it, they immediately wanted to find out what was going on. Okay, fine. There are a couple things that can go wrong this early in a pregnancy that could cause health threats for Ann. Ectopic pregnancy or psuedocyesis are two remote possibilities that might need to be treated. Might as well be safe about it, right? First thing's first; doctors want to test your blood to see if you are pregnant because four weeks is too early to see anything on an ultrasound.
So they schedule Ann for the blood test; she tests pregnant. The hormone levels are a little low for how far along they guessed that she was. So they schedule another test for two days later. Her hormones are supposed to double in two days; she has the test and the levels almost double. The nurses, or doctors, or the great Oz behind the curtain find the fact that the hormone didn't quite double slightly anomalous, so they schedule another blood draw for another two days later. And another. This is annoying, but not alarming; although it seemed to me that they could have taken only two tests a week and a half apart and achieved the same result. Whatever. Eventually they decided that Ann was pregnant enough to have an ultrasound. Let me stop the narrative here to make a small point that you can keep in the back of your mind; if any of these blood tests had shown anything out of the ordinary, they would still have to wait the same amount of time for the pregnancy to be far enough along to do an ultrasound.
So, Ann has a very early ultrasound. What they can see in such an early ultrasound is an amniotic sac and a yolk sac in the uterus where they belong. They can see that everything else looks normal. They think that they may be able to see a faint heartbeat. This is all good news... but it is not enough for the nurses/doctors/midwives. We are now under their microscope, and they want more information...
This story in all its detail is too long for a blog; to make it shorter:
Every step of the way they wanted more information, and it was never clear what purpose this information served. If something goes wrong with a fetus in the first trimester, there is nothing to be done. It survives or it doesn't. There is, then, no reason check up on what might be a very minor and fairly normal placental hemorrhage, or a possibly slow heartbeat, or an unexpectedly small fetus. Time will make the end result perfectly, patently clear. And now I can tell you from personal experience, that knowing all the things that might be going wrong with the life you hope is healthily forming does nothing good for you (or it) at all. Nothing.
After the third ultrasound in as many weeks, it became clear that the fetus was not viable. Although it is tempting, I am not going to blame that on he stress that was developed through all of these test. First trimesters are tenuous times. But in retrospect, had Ann never spoken to a doctor or nurse about her pregnancy, it would have happened, progressed, and ended just the same. We would have been excited, hopeful, and sad just the same. What we would not have had was the stress, the wasted time, and the massive amounts of worry in between. The only benefit ever possible from any of those tests was to make sure there was no (very unlikely) ectopic pregnancy; and only one test is required for that.
And now, after a fourth ultrasound, with pressure for a fifth possible tomorrow along with other tests, drugs and possibly surgery, I am furious and without a thunderstorm or a blood covered body to vent my ire.
* A few weeks after I wrote this, I wanted to censor the title badly; but I decided not to, for now. It reflects who I was that day, and perhaps will trigger Google and other parental filters to warn off more sensitive readers.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Gender/Sex/Species Ambiguity and Incarceration.
The backstory:
Somehow I had infuriated people with power. The details of how I had done so were not very clear to me, but there was a lot going on in the country that offered ripe suggestions. Congress was trying to pass a series of terrible laws that had the potential to hurt a lot of innocent people, authorities all over the country were finding legal excuses to obliterate Constitutional rights, and the Senate wanted to contribute. In any case, whatever I had been fighting against had gotten the power brokers mad at me. So now Ann and I were going to jail. It wasn't fair that she was involved; but none of it was fair.
The story:
Ann and I were talking about the fact that we were going to jail. We discovered a number of things that might end up making our sentence bearable. Most importantly, we had been assigned the same cell (room really; it was awfully swanky as far as prisons go) in the women's prison. In fact we talked a whole lot about what prison would be like during our sentence. We were worried about the jailhouse culture of bullying and threats and sexual strong-arming. We had read that this was less of an issue in jails for women, but that it was still an occasional problem. We figured if we could keep to ourselves, we could weather the storm.
So, we were taken to jail and processed. During the processing of my transfer and the confiscation of my belongings, the head warden came by to greet me. Everyone was immediately aware of who he was, of course, because he was the only man in the whole complex. I have probably made his visit seem congenial, but no. It became clear very quickly that he walked the same circles as the people I had so mysteriously offended. He didn't hate me, but he had it in for me, and he made sure I knew it.
When Ann and I were finally deposited in our cell, we spent some time commiserating about our situation and the injustice of it all. I told her about my run in with the warden and how I was worried about what he would do to make my life hell. We talked about it and decided that he was limited in what he could do to me. We were all women being held against our will by this man; so Ann and I figured we could build up enough support amongst all the women, that he couldn't do anything too serious without invoking the ire of the whole jailhouse. Eventually our conversation came to an end. I went over to my cot on the other side of the room to lie down and Ann went to her tree to roost.
Shortly thereafter, an announcement was broadcast that I was to be escorted by the warden to another occupant's cell. This woman was known to us as the buffest of the sexual strong arms. The warden had wasted no time in exercising his power over me; I was to be soiled the very first night. Resigned to my inevitable fate as the only other man in the whole place, I went back across to tell Ann that I would probably be forced into a sexual encounter with the other woman; I was not thrilled. When I got to Ann (who was also my cat Sydney, and a dove) she told me she had come to the same conclusion and was hoping I would be okay.
Then I woke up.
Somehow I had infuriated people with power. The details of how I had done so were not very clear to me, but there was a lot going on in the country that offered ripe suggestions. Congress was trying to pass a series of terrible laws that had the potential to hurt a lot of innocent people, authorities all over the country were finding legal excuses to obliterate Constitutional rights, and the Senate wanted to contribute. In any case, whatever I had been fighting against had gotten the power brokers mad at me. So now Ann and I were going to jail. It wasn't fair that she was involved; but none of it was fair.
The story:
Ann and I were talking about the fact that we were going to jail. We discovered a number of things that might end up making our sentence bearable. Most importantly, we had been assigned the same cell (room really; it was awfully swanky as far as prisons go) in the women's prison. In fact we talked a whole lot about what prison would be like during our sentence. We were worried about the jailhouse culture of bullying and threats and sexual strong-arming. We had read that this was less of an issue in jails for women, but that it was still an occasional problem. We figured if we could keep to ourselves, we could weather the storm.
So, we were taken to jail and processed. During the processing of my transfer and the confiscation of my belongings, the head warden came by to greet me. Everyone was immediately aware of who he was, of course, because he was the only man in the whole complex. I have probably made his visit seem congenial, but no. It became clear very quickly that he walked the same circles as the people I had so mysteriously offended. He didn't hate me, but he had it in for me, and he made sure I knew it.
When Ann and I were finally deposited in our cell, we spent some time commiserating about our situation and the injustice of it all. I told her about my run in with the warden and how I was worried about what he would do to make my life hell. We talked about it and decided that he was limited in what he could do to me. We were all women being held against our will by this man; so Ann and I figured we could build up enough support amongst all the women, that he couldn't do anything too serious without invoking the ire of the whole jailhouse. Eventually our conversation came to an end. I went over to my cot on the other side of the room to lie down and Ann went to her tree to roost.
Shortly thereafter, an announcement was broadcast that I was to be escorted by the warden to another occupant's cell. This woman was known to us as the buffest of the sexual strong arms. The warden had wasted no time in exercising his power over me; I was to be soiled the very first night. Resigned to my inevitable fate as the only other man in the whole place, I went back across to tell Ann that I would probably be forced into a sexual encounter with the other woman; I was not thrilled. When I got to Ann (who was also my cat Sydney, and a dove) she told me she had come to the same conclusion and was hoping I would be okay.
Then I woke up.
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