As we say in Korea, "Assa-byeong!!!" Just finished my last day of work at Evan-Moor School, got my final salary and severance pay (total 4.4 million Won - 400 thousand deductions, so about $3500 US) without a hitch, and left on good terms with the director.

I am now financially quite well-off for a 24 year-old who's only been out of university two years, and isn't an engineer or hacker. For those who may be thinking about coming to Korea, if you're wondering how much money one can save here (or how much of one's student loans one can pay off), in two years of solid work, without travelling out of the country, but without actively trying to be particularly frugal (most of my money goes to booze, actually), I have saved... *drumroll* $26,500 Canadian. And that's with the Canadian dollar quite strong these days. If the exchange rate was what it was a year ago, I'd have close to $30,000. This is without any prior teaching qualifications.

I am now in the best mood I have been in for months, and looking forward to a nice vacation of beer, Oh Hell (my favorite card game), Go and writing (will be trying to finish my latest short story, "Balance," and my entry for the 2003 IFComp (interactive fiction competition), "Pestilence") at my parents house in Montreal.

After that, the plan is to go back to school. I'll probably do one of those 5-day TEFOL or TESOL certifications so that I can teach at the ESL schools in Toronto if I want, or get a university job back in Korea if I come back here. Then the plan is to enroll in a special journalism program at Ryerson University in Toronto, meant especially for people like me who already have a different kind of degree (Astrophysics, in my case).

So, everyone raise a glass to me finishing my second contract in Korea. Be happy for me, I'm on top of the world.

Go Suzy Whaley!

I know, you're going "Who the heck is Suzy Whaley?" And that's a shame. Suzy Whaley is currently (as in right now as I write this) on the second round of the Greater Hartford Open. Yes, that's a stop on the PGA Tour, and no, I did not forget the L.

There's another female golfer hitting balls with the men, and we should all be happy. While golf is not a physically demanding sport, like Basketball or American Football, women need to make their inroads somewhere. After the Annika circus expired, I wondered if I had to wait until Michelle Wie grew old enough to drive a car before I saw another woman challenge the men. Using that terminology, I might have to, but this is nothing but good. Sure, Whaley is not the cream of the LPGA tour, she's not even a regular golfer on tour. What she is, however, is happy.

She shot a +5 on the first round of the tour, and currently she's +6. She's out of contention by about 11 strokes, but she's not stopping. Remember, Annika was over-par at The Colonial, and she didn't make the cut either. However, her story was more media oriented, and that's why more of us Americans are familiar with it. One big difference between the two is that Suzy Whaley earned her spot in the tournament. She played through a qualifying round and won a spot. Not saying that Annika couldn't, but she received a sponsor's exemption, basically meaning a spot was bought for her, because Nike knew they'd make a buttload of money. Whaley is the first woman since 1949 to qualify for a men's tournament.

While we can claim we are no longer sexist, or racist, we all know this to not be true for the whole of the nation. Why is women playing sports alongside men so frightening? I admit, as a man, we have a sense of Manly Pride. We all want to be the best and to dominate at what we do, especially physical activity. But we're long past the period of enlightenment, and a generation past the women's movement and the civil rights movement, shouldn't we have advanced further than this? Wouldn't you want to see Serena Williams take on Andy Roddick, or any other of the men on the tour? Or what about Mia Hamm in the MLS? A healthy Lisa Leslie or Nikki Teasley on the Los Angeles Lakers instead of the Los Angeles Sparks?

The influx of African-American and Latino players into Major League Baseball have only made it more exciting to watch. Imagine Baseball without Alfonso Soriano, or Barry Bonds, Willie Mays, Sammy Sosa, Larry Doby, Alex Rodriguez or Hammerin Hank Aaron. Imagine the NBA without Shaq, Robert Parrish, Dr. J Julius Earving, Wilt Chamberlain or Michael Jordan. Even imagine golf without Tiger Woods. They'd be bland compared to the richness that they currently have.

Let women play. Let them know that they can compete and push for them to succeed. I wouldn't mind seeing a woman bat for the Boston Red Sox, as long as she can make contact and get to first before the ball does, what else do you need? Big deals need to be made of this little events so social stigmas can be deterred. Women are, afterall, human too.

Before we begin here is a joke:
A. My wife is going on holiday.
B. Uganda?
A. No, I would never do that.

On the way to work I had cause to contemplate gravestones. In a way they are the ultimate expression of our desire to transform ourselves into machines, because gravestones are machines, they are machines of remembrance. They do not last forever, but they last longer than we do. Eventually the names are erased by the wind and rain but the stone remains, and thus I conclude that eternity comes at the expense of anonymity. The pyramids fascinate people still, but nobody really knows - truly knows - the people who built them, or for whom they were built. There are historical records of the names of pharaohs, and of some of their deeds, but the human beings behind the scattered facts and the jewellery are gone forever. A man is more than the things he owns and accumulates throughout his life; or rather, a man who could be summarised purely by his material wealth is not a man, he is a manifest, three score years and ten reduced to a sheet of papyrus with some goods and quantities written on it.

Children are machines;
they are containers for our genes,
they mark the spot
where we stopped

There are none so blind as those that cannot see, they say, and there are none so blind as the blind because they cannot see, because they are blind, because they sinned in the womb - perhaps they shat, or masturbated, inside their mother - and God is punishing them. You know Stevie Wonder? People are naturally sympathetic towards him because he's blind. It's a +2 modifier on his sympathy scale. But if he had spent his life simply closing his eyes, people would not at all be sympathetic towards him. Therefore it's not his lack of sight that we sympathise with, it's the fact that he can't control this - we are sympathising with his lack of control, his inability to control his own body. This is why we tend to see babies through rose-tinted lenses (and not just because of the potential for ultra-violet damage), it is because they cannot control themselves. Our bodies are the only things we really control in this world, and even then we do not truly control them, in the long run, because they degrade and die no matter how hard we will this not to be so.

It seems to me that we do not sympathise at all with Peter Falk, TV's Colombo, even though he is half-blind (he only has one eye), or Evelyn Glennie, the percussionist, who is deaf (perhaps from playing the drums too loud, I know not), or Mark McManus, TV's Taggart, who is actually dead (he went too far). We sympathise with Wonder because he was once young and blind and talented, but everybody was once young, even Peter Falk, he was once young, and talented, and so was I, and nobody sympathised with me, although admittedly I was not physically abnormal. Indeed I still have my tonsils and appendix and foreskin so I am more normal than most people, although I have had teeth removed and I regularly shave off my facial hair. The hair on my head is going of its own accord but that's natural, like yoghurt.

Stevie Wonder became famous when he was a child, but non-baby-children have no control over anything, yet we are not sympathetic to most children, indeed as far as the press is concerned children are amoral devils who should be beaten and tortured. We hate children, they can get away with crimes and adults are not allowed to hit them back. I do not have control over the area just below my eyes any more, each side twitches uncontrollably, but people do not send me letters of support and Motown have not offered me a record contract, which sickens me. I can control my ears, however, to a surprising degree. But this skill is of no use in the modern world.

I've never really thought long and hard about 'Legally Blonde', because I've never had cause to, because I've not seen the film and do not intend to, like 'The Truth about Cats and Dogs' and 'How to Make an American Quilt' and '10 Things I hate About You', it's one of those films I will never, ever see, ever, across the entire span of my life. Even if I was on an aeroplane, travelling to New Zealand to be with my loved one, and I was sitting in the middle isle next to somebody I did not like, and there was no window and I had run out of books, I would not watch it. I would think about the course of my life and how it brought me to this place, and what I could have done differently to be somewhere else, but I would not watch 'Legally Blonde', even if it was a version of the film in which Reese Witherspoon's clothes fall off because I do not think of her in a sexual sense. Obviously some people do, because she is with child, although it is possible as I have said to have a relationship with a lady and to have children without the sexual monster spoiling everything.

The thrust of my confusion is that I am now unable to ignore the film because there are posters for the sequel, 'Legally Blonde 2: Blonde on Blonde', all over the place. Did you know that 'Romy and Michele's High School Reunion' was called 'Romy and Michele: More Power to the Blonde' in German? Look it up on Everything2, I did a writeup on the film. Lisa Kudrow is another lady I do not think of in a sexual sense, but that does not mean we could not lead a worthwhile and happy married life. We could talk about things and, when a child is required, I could steel myself for the deed, or artificial means could be employed, but what matters is that we love each other and that we are little lights shining in a pitch-black tank of water. One light on its own can be swamped by the darkness but two lights reinforce each other, indestructible, like Ernest Hemingway and Marlene Dietrich.

And therefore it seems I was spoiled at an early age by love; a pure love that was more than the kind of love fully-grown adults have. Adult love stems from money and security, and if two people can just get on with each other it doesn't matter if there's no real passion, no actual love, they still get married and live lives together. Mild affection and tolerance are the lot of grown-up lovers, but young love is the only love that could fuel a mutual suicide pact, or cause each party to wish that the other could be cojoined like a siamese dream, or just a hot animal machine. Love is blood, it is not magic, it is fear. Sometimes I want to crow like a horse. Christ, I'm burning up. Do suicide bombers love something, that causes them to join the nothing?

But 'Legally Blond', right. The title is obviously a pun, but on what? I initially assumed it was a pun on 'Legally Blind', and gave it no more thought (perhaps the main character is blind to the things about her, or something), but that's complete nonsense. You can't be 'legally blind', you are 'medically blind', although I suppose if you want to claim benefits you'd need to prove that you were blind. So my next thought is that it must be a pun on 'Legally Bound', which must be a marriage thing, although I am unclear on this because I am not married - just like Edward Heath, Prime Minister of the UK from 1970-1974, and indeed I believe that he and I are very similar people, we have many talents, although he is not famed for his sleep-inspired rambling but then again I am not famed at all, so it all balances out in the end...

And in the end the pies you make are equal to the pies you take, that's my motto, or one of them anyway, along with 'go all the way or none of the way' and 'rape the reaper' and 'do not stop'. A British science lady in the Antarctic has been killed by a seal, but you don't see the newspapers saying that we should send a UN force to attack the seals and keep the peace. We have nothing in common with them and they are the enemy we seek, the unthinking, unfeeling aliens against which we could sharpen and hone our swords. Oddly this news - the science woman dying, not the UN anti-seal attack force - is on the front page of today's Sun which must be a smokescreen for something else. The woman looked very nice and I could imagine being her friend or husband, moresoeven than anybody mentioned above. There would be less pressure to perform the sexual act because she is a scientist, a woman of books and the intellect, and she would understand my philosophy on this matter.

Just from looking at her face I could tell that she did not deserve such an end, although on the positive side she's famous for a day and it's fitting for a marine biologist to end this way, to die in the Antarctic, in the water, killed by a seal. It's almost ironic, really. It would be like Stephen King, the author, being pinned underneath a falling typewriter and then dying slowly of starvation or blood loss, or Ron Jeremy, the porn star, accidentally choking to death on a dildo, or drowning in a vat of cow semen such as found in some farms. Or if David Cronenberg was to die of cancer suddenly and fall into a vat of cockroaches.

Damn way to go, though. There was a rumour that Rudolph Valentino met a similar end (i.e. the dildo). (looks at workmates) No, it was Ramon Novarro, who is forgotten now except for that one fact, heck of a thing to be remembered for. His mother was probably none too pleased. Valentino sent him the dildo, though. It was made of lead, which is probably unhealthy, but would have the advantage that, if it was 20mm or 30mm in diameter, you could fire it from an anti-aircraft gun. Although it would not be a 'spitzer' bullet (i.e. pointed-nose) it would nonetheless be instantly fatal against any living creature, and would worry any vehicle up to a main battle tank, especially at close range. The people so killed would a-dildo-die. I reckon, right, that Ann Summers should cash in on the 'Lord of the Rings' craze and release a Tom Bombadildo. It would have voice samples of folk music that could be activated by pressing certain buttons. People would come to the sound of the sackbut.

My dad brought home some cannon shells from RAF Chilmark when he was made redundant - mostly old ones for the Lightning, which was discontinued, and latterly the Tornado and Jaguar - and you couldn't use them as dildos, at least not for insertion purposes (you'd stab your womb or injure your intestines, depending on which orifice you used, and in any case they would be very cold, which might be why so many dildos are made out of wood, because wood is warm). Worst of all, if the house was struck by lightning whilst you were doing this, and you were wearing a wedding or engagement ring, you'd probably blow yourself up. Which would also be an interesting way to die.

Perhaps the lady insulted the seal. Never insult a seal in its native environment, the ocean, because they are masters of that domain. Instead, insult seals in the classroom or the shop, or inside a train; they have no power there, they are weak. Seals would make excellent couches, if we could train them for that; they could move people around the house and theoretically take people to work, if they could drive cars. I'm amazed we haven't tried this already.

There are also lots of other posters around London, some of which I comment upon here:
1. Kew Gardens
This poster is yellow and has a drawing of a badger, but it looks like a demented, evil badger; I don't know what target market the poster is aimed at.

2. 'To Kill a King', British film, probably rubbish - it has Tim Roth, for Christ's sake, say no more
Firstly interesting for an image of the lovely Olivia Williams, and also for the quote 'Rupert Everett is exquisite' from one of the reviewers. Both he and Dougray Scott look right for their parts (King Charles the Headless and some guy called Fairfax), but Tim Roth does not look how I imagine Oliver Cromwell to look. He's too thin, not socialist enough.

3. Sleeptalk ('a new Asian collective')
This appears to be some kind of dating service but it doesn't state this openly on the advert. The picture consists of some men and women, who seem to be tinted greeny-yellow. The women are generally attractive but the men are freaks; the main guy looks like a hamster, there's one who looks like a spastic - it's a cruel thing to say, but you would think *exactly the same thing* if you saw the poster and let's be honest here, 'spastic' is only a word, and a concept, and a prejudice, it's not like menacing and harassing passers-by or burning an entire family to death - and another who I can't remember but was not attractive. They needed to pick some better models, unless - and here Ron Jeremy rears his head again in my writing today - the intended effect is to make male spectators walk tall.

4. Zee TV
Also a subcontinental thing, this has a terrible slogan which doesn't work, to whit:
ENTERTAINMENT WHICH IS
OUT OF THIS...
(Apollo picture of earth from space])

It's supposed to make us think '... which is out of this world', but I mentally parse it as '... which is out of this Earth' or 'globe', or I just don't parse it at all. It looks, in fact, like the slogan is '... which is out of this...' and the Earth is a separate element. This was a bad choice. Is it more socially acceptable to put your fingers in your ears than it is to do so with your nose?

5. Poster for something, naked woman, sign over her breasts saying "If this was Italy this poster would not be censored"
Which got me thinking about nipples; there have been plenty of posters and magazine covers which have displayed every element of lady's breasts, yet as long as the nipple is covered up the breasts are not obscene. And nipples on their own are not obscene either, at least not in a sexual sense (in fact they are extremely unattractive). Yet combine the two and you have something that men will pay good money to look at and/or touch and squeeze and lick and come between, and also something which would not be able to put on a poster on the London Underground.

Triggertrouser. Mon dat.

YAY!!! I passed!! I looked up my (unofficial) NCLEX results today, and I passed! Hooray!

I've been inundated by job offers since I put my resume on monster.com (mostly out of morbid curiosity) - travel nurse agencies have been calling my house constantly, which is a little confusing because most of them claim to require a year's experience, but nevertheless want to hire me right away.

I had an interview at Jennie Stuart Medical Center in Hopkinsville, KY, and I should be getting a call with a job offer for the ER on Monday. While I was at the interview, Owensboro Mercy Health Systems called saying they believe they have a weekend option job for me in their ER...

Decisions, decisions...

happy birthday to me... i'm now twenty three...

this was supposed to be the best birthday yet. all the plans were placed, some reservations made...and now i'm poor and alone, without the money to even drink myself stupid. well, looks like i'll have to either knock myself unconscious with the dictionary, or play some more neverwinter. ::smirk:: at least i haven't entirely lost my sense of humour. the more bitter i get, the funnier everything is.

one of these days, i'm going to laugh myself to death.

I feel oddly detached today. My life, it seems, is composed mostly of pathetic irony. I'm absolutely terrified of change and, given the chance, I'd stop the progress of time without a second thought - yet I find myself constantly in search of things to do. What I wouldn't give for something to kill some time. I guess this, too, can be traced back to her. Change breaks people apart and that's all I'm truly scared of, but at the same time, I tend to live my daily life trying to occupy myself until I can see her again. I know, I'm hopelessly obsessed, but that's just the kind of person I am.

I had a very disturbing dream this morning and spent a good three hours writing up a log of it. I had originally planned to post this in the daily Dream Log, but it's a bit too personal, so for now it will remain on my hard drive, witnessing stray fragments of data drift around as the ages pass. That is, until I rediscover it sometime in the future and read back through it, laughing silently at the horrible quality of my writing.

That's the aspect of e2 that keeps me here, really. Okay, so I like to read other people's stuff too, but the site's agelessness is what keeps me from simply logging out and letting my account rot away unto oblivion. I'm having real trouble finding worthwhile things to write about, which makes me think that perhaps I'll never make it to level 2, and it's bit frustrating. However, because of the huge community that's developed here, I can trust that this site will be around for a long, long time. That's a very seductive prospect to me, because I know that anything I write which actually makes it on to the site will remain there. Who knows? Perhaps hundreds of years after my death, (assuming the human race hasn't wiped itself out by then) people will log onto e2 and be able to laugh at the poor quality of my writing. I guess they could enjoy what I have to say too, or perhaps learn something, but that seems unlikely. Regardless, the idea that something I do could last so long is an infinitely cool idea to me.
Note: I'm actually in Vegas, being a few days behind schedule. A more up-to-date update will follow in a day or two.

Day 19: July 9, Anchorage to Tok, Alaska. We stop at some outfitter place that supposedly has hiking trails with great views of glaciers. When we get there, it turns out that there are no trails, but instead (and to our utmost delight) there's a mischevious black wolf who roams the wilderness, and devours golden retrievers. Justin fears for his life, but we decide to go for a little bushwhack anyway. We stop after a mile or so when we encounter a large stream that neither of us wants to cross. Fortunately, we don't see the wolf. After the hike, we get back on the highway and saw some amazing glaciers and icefields.

Day 20: July 10, Tok to Whitehorse, Yukon. Today we drive along the "Top of the World Highway" to Dawson City, a gold rush town in the north er Yukon. The Top of the World Highway is appropriately named... it winds and twists atop tundra-covered ridges, with breathtaking 360 degree views of subarctic wilderness. Before we get to Dawson city, we have to cross the Yukon river... and there's no bridge. Justin and I decide to take the ferry, in lieu of caulking the Subaru and floating it across the river. We lose 0 oxen in the process. Dawson City is a pretty cool (albeit touristy) town.

Day 21: July 11, Whitehorse to Meziadin Lake, British Columbia. We drive south through British Columbia along the Cassiar Highway. The highway is gorgeous! It snakes through the lush valley floor, with views of glaciers and huge snowy mountains on both sides. For the first time in over a week, the sun sets far enough below the horizon for it to get dark. Thus ends, literally, the "longest day of my life"... about 2000 hours of continuous daylight.

Day 22: July 12, Lake Meziadin to Prince George, British Columbia. We stop at a campsite that is hosting a huge Harley rally. There are approximately 90 bikers congregated under a tent, listening to rock and roll and getting hammered. The woman in the tent site next to us, who is also a biker, comes over to our site to say hello. Her breath reeks of alcohol, she is 53 years old, and she is standing a couple of inches away from my face, being very friendly. She puts her arm around me. Ruh roh. I get a tad weirded out and think she's hitting on me. But I quickly dismiss this hypothesis when she asks me if I'm 15 years old. (FIFTEEN!!). Hah! She guesses Justin to be 18.

Day 23: July 13, Prince George to Vancouver/Abbotsford (props to Error404 for putting us up for the night!). Back in civilization, finally! Vancouver has the cleanest downtown of any large city I've ever been to. And it's got a great nightlife, too. We get there on a Sunday night, and see tons of people out on the streets... hitting up the numerous bars, coffee shops, and cafes. Justin and I buy cuban cigars, and smoke them at a classy bar while sipping scotch and cognac, respectively. This is the high life. We end up discussing Canadian politics (which are absurd) with Error404 and his roommate until the wee hours of the morning.

Day 24: July 14, Vancouver to Seattle. We spend the afternoon checking out Vancouver. We eat salmon sushi. Later in the day we drive to Seattle, and stay at the house of Justin's mother's friend's sister's husband. ::grin:: Beautifully situated on a ridge, with clear views of the Seattle skyline, and a hot tub on the roof.

Day 25: July 15, Seattle to Portland. We spend the afternoon in Seattle and check out the EMP ("Experience Music Project"). If you've ever been to Seattle, you probably know what I'm talking about. Pike Place market is awesome. That evening, we get to a friend's place in Portland. He shows us around town, and takes us to the Portland City Grille, which is an upscale bar on the top floor of a skyscraper.

Day 26: July 16, Portland to Brookings, OR. We drive down the Oregon coast today, and hit 3 wineries along the way. Fortunately, Justin is driving so I can drink with reckless abandon. Along the Oregon coast, we stop at the inappropriately named Cape Foulweather. 75 degrees and sunny. Hmm. There are lots of sand dunes in Oregon.

Day 27: July 17, Brookings, OR to San Francisco. We pass through the redwood forests of northern California, and see several gimmicky places along the way, such as a "One Log Cabin", and numerous Bigfoot shops. We hit a couple more wineries in Sonoma, and eventually meet a few friends in Berkeley. Contrary to expectations, there are no protests on campus.

Day 28: July 18, Napa Valley. Mmm, wine country. We spend the entire day cruising from place to place, tasting a bunch of wines. (Tasting notes, such as they are, will be forthcoming eventually)

Day 29: July 19, Sonoma Valley. Mmm, wine country. We spend the entire day cruising from place to place, tasting a bunch of wines. In the afternoon we drive down to San Jose for the wedding of Justin's first-cousin-once-removed. (Don't worry, I don't even know what that means).

Day 30: July 20, San Jose (or) San Francisco. This is the first day of the trip that Justin and I spend apart from one another. He went to a post-wedding picnic at a relative's house, while I checked out San Francisco in the company of a lady friend who turned out not to know her way around San Francisco very well (her excuse is that she lives way out in the eastern suburbs). Sadly, I blow an opportunity to meet Ouroboros and other members of NoCal by writing down a cell phone number incorrectly. Bummer. All in all, though, I had a thoroughly pleasant ramble in good company, and that's all I could really ask for.

Day 31: July 21, San Jose to Santa Barbara. We spend the morning and afternoon driving down the central California coast. It turns out that the most beautiful section of the coast (Big Sur), is composed entirely of fog. So much for our timing. We make it to Andy's house, get fed, and get rest.

Other miscellaneous highlights:

* Learning a biker handshake.

* Chicken, Alaska. Year-round population, 17. More "I got laid in Chicken, Alaska" merchandise than you can shake a stick at.

* Vancouver "ghetto slice" pizza. Jumbo slices of pizza, which cost 93 cents, can be purchased just about anywhere.

Other miscellaneous lowlights:

* I pull a Hoffman, leaving Justin's disc (and mynalgene) on the top of the roof of the car right before driving off. Both items are lost.

* Non-alcoholic beer. Says I, "You might think it would be better than water... but this is in fact not the case". Justin mocks me for drinking non-alcoholic beer, but not for being the designated driver.

* A bottle of beer exploded in my suitcase, staining my clothes and covering everything with glass.

* I blow another opportunity to meet a noder (this time it's panamaus whom I fail to contact)

As always, get me your infos and ideas about what to do next! Especially in Vegas and New Orleans!

The sun is warm and the breeze light. I call my sister to wish her happy birthday, and send my regrets at having to work instead of visiting with her. We talk for a few minutes and then she pauses...

"Um...do you check your email regularly?"

"Somewhat, why? Should I? Is it about brunch tomorrow?"

"No, um...maybe-don't check it today, okay? Don't check it until tomorrow." She says finally. As if she could leave it at that. I press her, at leaset tell me everyone is okay-it's nothing bad is it? She tells me she'll call me right back. When she does, she asks me if I'm sitting down. Hateful question. Then she asks me if there is anyone around who I can talk to. Just tell, me, okay? Just tell me

She tells me about the accident, our friend and her daughter, a long aniticipated road trip.

"Linda didn't make it. I'm so sorry to tell you this way. She didn't make it" My sister's voice cracks. I no longer have control of my own.

What makes something a tragedy? Not the event, not really. It's the fact that you expected to see her Saturday, and won't. It's that conversation you never quite finished. It's the last time you were supposed to see her and didn't. Because you were feeling lazy and didn't want to go out. It's the book she will never finish writing. It's her glowing at a love affair, finally going so well after so many dead-end relationships. It's a daughter who will never forget she was at the wheel. It's an end without goodbyes.

Somebody got the stages of grief wrong. It's starts with torrents of tears. They yield to irrational anger, nothing at which to direct it, makes you want to jump out of your skin. Then a helplessness, nothing I can do, nothing I can do.

Nothing left to do but walk, don't think just walk. I climbed a mountain. Well, hill by California standards. At the top, an incredible view. A large dog came running up the trail, it nuzzled me and stopped. Turning around, it stood next to me, facing the direction I faced. Just standing there. I must have come back to myself at this point. Walking to the edge of the hill I did the one thing I could do. I offered her my love, and sent her my prayers.

Om. Purnamadah. Purnamidam
Purnat purnamudacyate
Purnasya purnamaday
purnamevavasisyate.
Om. Shanti shanti shantihi.

Rest in peace, Linda. I love you.

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