Lament to My Beloved

      Jessica, my beautiful Love, why are you afraid to talk to me? I love you so much Jessica. Remember when we first saw each other, and exchanged excited smiles and waves? Remember the first time we talked, for hours, and it was so comfortable? Remember the lack of nervousness and anxiety around each other? The natural intertwining of our lives? My dearest friend, how much I adore you! I would spend my life with you forever! It was only from July until November the year we meet that it took for me to be certain that I wanted you as my wife. And how you loved me! Before I even went to sea again, I had already won the prize that your heart is. Oh, to be loved by you! Never mind the "I love you", but we have the, "you love me!" How wonderful it has been to be with you.

      What is the true desire of your heart, my Love? Tell me, oh please tell me your innermost thoughts. Fear not your father's will. Let him not impose it on you as though it was yours. Live not to fulfill him, but yourself. Honor him, to be sure, that is your duty, but don't live to satisfy the will he sees for you. Don't bend your ear too quickly to my speech, either my Love. I would not hear my own voice coming from the loveliest throat on the earth, but that of your own heart. You are the pivotal element here. Have you still not realized that? Don't you know that as you share your true desires with your father, that he will in fact support you? How quick he is to force you to follow the path that he has set for you when he hears his own will echoed back at him from his daughter. How much you respect him! (I promise, no sarcasm at all, even though it may sound that way.) And how your fear of conflict may suffer you to be crushed! I would that this not be. But it is not I, my Love, who any longer has a choice in the matter; you are the focus, the object of two prizefighters. How can I do anything but love thee? You are the most desirable of all fair maidens. Still. Yes, of course still! My affection for you is stronger than e'er it was!

      Are you afraid, my Love, of what I will think of you now? That when you open to me that I will draw back in revulsion? That I would see the true you and be anything but more compassionate than ever? I have opened parts of my soul to you I never thought I would to anyone. I trust you with my heart, and you keep it safe. I say the hardest things to say to you, and you love me. What a dear treasure you are! Would that you would do so in return! There is nothing you reveal to me of yourself that I will spite. Test me. Test my love for you that I may prove it to thee.

i am happy

crazy, huh?

i've had a dream for the last few years, a dream of someone. an invisible presence. an imaginary ideal. a feeling or something i saw when i was younger. an idealized relationship. an imaginary person.

it's fine to have ideals, right? i mean, as long as you recognize that's what they are. ideals that nothing real can approach. a perfect vision that's impossbile in reality, that comprimise corrupts, right?

thank god for being wrong.

there you were, magically. appearing out of crushes and myth and the mundane drama of day to day life. there you are laughing, there you are kissing me. you're 14 again, and so am i. you're looking at my snarl over your shoulder. you are mine.

it's an incredible revelation. the ideal is real. the myth is true. i am not lying to myself.

i'm a beliver.

i am really drunk.
Today I woke to find the mountains buried. Over a foot of snow. That was my day, really…

Continuing to catch up:
The holiday season saw me attending two holiday parties that were both related to the high school where I teach. The first of which was at the local pub—Darby's—which, in a town that is almost completely made of transplants from Ireland, is a really great bar and the perfect place to get a pint of the black stuff on a Friday afternoon. A loyal band of five of us regularly does just that at the conclusion of each week. The party itself was nice, with good food and karaoke. Yes, I sang. I hadn't planned on it, and only glanced through the book. When asked by a friend, I replied that I would consider doing the Bobby Darin classic "Beyond the Sea," if they karaoke guy had it, but, alas, he didn’t. Apparently he did; a few minutes after I made that comment, I suddenly heard my name called and four of my co-workers grabbed me and shoved me onto the tiny stage. When I had finished, I went back to the group I was with, shooting daggers at some of them. They commented that I actually had a really nice voice. I only responded by noting offhand that I was a Renaissance Man, before taking another sip of my Guinness.

After that, I sang a couple more times. People kept handing me drinks, and this whole karaoke thing began to make more sense after a while. At work the next Monday, those who hadn’t even been there would come up and comment on my singing ability. I figure that I've done enough in the idiot department to last me a good couple of years, but I'll probably end up doing it all over again next year.

The other party I attended was the next day at a co-workers house: a husband and wife who work at the school regularly host parties, mostly because the husband loves to cook. He has a wood-burning stove the size of a Buick, which I recently learned was stolen, and he makes a mean sauerbraten. In any case, I ate and drank and conversed with people I knew. The party was nice and uneventful, until the hot tub.

There were only two other people who had foresight enough to bring their suits. They hadn't been in long, and I was a little late as I had to search the house for my Martini (if you're going to do something, do it right). I entered and settled in, Martini in hand. I noticed that one of my hot tub companions was a gentleman who we will call Mark. Mark, who was moderately young, handsome, and spoke several languages fluently, had been making flagrant passes at married women all night through use of terribly strained double entendre. My other hot tub buddy was a middle-aged woman whom I didn’t know.

As I enjoyed the tub and my martini, the woman produced a joint, and the two of then proceeded to attempt to smoke it. I say attempt; you try smoking something like that when surrounded by bubbling water. Somehow they managed to finish off most of it, as I watched and sipped. After the joint, things got a little interesting. Now, I was a little tipsy myself, and rather interested in the stars out on this December night, but I gradually became aware that there were things going on under the water that the host and hostess would not approve of. Fondling and the hasty shoving aside of bathing attire. I then noticed that the woman was no longer wearing the top to her suit. Amused and drunk, I just returned to the stars, as they didn’t seem to mind that I was there. In all actuality, I received a vibe or two that my presence was actually desired, and this was confirmed when, a while later as I was counting the stars in Orion's belt, I was groped. Yes, groped: forcibly and painfully. I don't claim to know a lot about the erotic techniques women use to seduce men, but as a man I do know that having one's testicles squeezed firmly and repeatedly is not a way you entice one to join your little party. To be honest, it took me a little while to realize what was happening, and when I did I didn’t know exactly how to react. The woman was getting something underwater, care of our friend Mark, and she was looking at me with come-hither eyes. I do suppose that this is a situation that many a man would enjoy being in, and, being now single as I am, I suppose I could have taken advantage of the situation and added another interesting footnote to my life, but to be honest, I just felt really oogy, and made a move to leave. The woman was still trying to get the tie of my suit to come undone, and ask where I was going. I announced politely that I was leaving, and that I hoped they enjoyed themselves. The woman gave me the look again and said "No you're not." Yes I am.

Aside from this interesting tidbit, the holidays were a great time for me this year. I made it home and was able to see everyone I was missing by being stuck in the damn mountains. Christmas was nice; I received a veggie steamer, a toaster (I needed one), some clothes, a complete ratchet set (needed that, too), and a rather nice set of throw pillows that my mom made for me. Max received a new bed, also made by mom, which she has ignored so far. In all actuality, she is a bit big for it. New Year's Eve was at a good friend's house, where I finally met his new boyfriend. Wonderful guy. I'm a little jealous.

In lieu of Christmas cards, which I love receiving but dislike doing myself, I made a holiday cd. I attempted to put on something that everyone would like:

Get Happy!


I want an Alien for ChristmasFountains of Wayne
Positive FrictionDonna the Buffalo
Daydream BelieverShonen Knife
Tom and MaryBen Folds Five
You Belong to MeElvis Costello
Miss AmericaDavid Byrne
Juxtapozed With USuper Furry Animals
When the Angels Play Their Drum MachinesHefner
Sad Sweetheart of the RodeoHarvey Danger
Oh Well – The Classics
Zavelow HouseOwsley
The Great BeyondREM
Alech TaadiKahled
99 Luft BalloonsNena
Signal in the SkyApples in Stereo
The Suits are Picking Up the BillSquirrel Nut Zippers
Cross the Tracks – Maceo and the Macks
Tropicalia- Beck
Mr. E's Beautiful BluesThe Eels

Happy Holidays, 2002
Love, Pretz

I've said my piece on the upcoming war in Iraq, and I don't want to restate what was put there. Rather I want to use this to record my thoughts on the more recent events related to the topic, because I can't think of a better place.

Last week the White House budget office released its cost estimate ffor the cost in the upcoming war. The estimate was between $50 and $60 billion dollars. A lot of money, to be sure, but far less than the $100 billion cost of the 1991 Gulf War. The US had a lot of support in that war, and a lot more allies than can be expected now. The Gulf War was also one of the biggest blow-outs in the history of war, and overwhelming victories cost a lot less than hard fights. Iraqi soldiers can be expected to fight a lot harder for Iraq than they did for Kuwait. So what gives?

First of all, Iraq is a lot weaker militarily than it was in 1991. They lost a lot in the first war, and despite an active black market haven't been able to replace a lot of what they had. Much other equipment lies idled by lack of spare parts. So it is reasonable to expect less resistance on that score. The continual confrontations with Saddam Hussein and the Gulf War experience has permitted Pentagon planners to turn a lot of attention toward Iraq, much more than they ever would have during the Cold War. Military professionals can do a lot with years to plan. But they had enough time in 1990-1.

Still, I think the real reasons for the low cost are domestic politics and hubris. George W. Bush has reintroduced America to the budget deficit, and in a big way. While some of that can be attributed to the battle against al Quaeda, and a bit more to cyclical cycles, it can also be argued that a lot of blame falls upon the President's tax cuts. He is expected to use the State of the Union Address to introduce even more tax cuts. An expensive war will make it easy for Democrats to attack his fiscal proposals as irresponsible. War on the cheap preserves his domestic agenda.

So most of the press I'm hearing suggests that the US ground force will consist of about three army mechanized divisions, with Marines and the Brits in support. A healthy force, but a fraction of what his father sent. If the President chose to send the force his father used it would cost a LOT more. He'd also have to call up many more reserve units. Reservists have jobs and are thus important for the slowly recovering economy. Plus their families lose income while they serve. Which is not good for his domestic agenda.

So what makes W. think he can get away with this? The answer, I believe is air power. Heavy bombing in the Balkans forced Serbia to make peace in Bosnia and to withdraw from Kosovo. US air power was the hammer that allowed the Northern Alliance to overthrow the Taleban. The President is betting that overwhelming air power will tip the scales, allowing his much smaller force to do what the larger army was not permitted to do in 1991.

I'd like for a moment to look at why air power proved so decisive in those other conflicts, and why it might or might not in Iraq. When the Bosnian Serbs had begun attacking NATO peacekeepers, or ignoring them to commit massacres, very few analysts --including me-- thought bombing alone would would bring the Serbs to heel. The Serbs had along history of ferocity bred from being stuck int he middle of Russia, the Ottoman Empire and Austria/Hungary with a dash of Hitler. Bombing alone certainly did not bring North Vietnam to surrender, though heavy bombing did improve their peace proposals. In fact, up until then bombing hadn't induced anyone to surrender, with the exception of Japan, who got to experience Nuclear War firsthand.

The first and most important difference betweent those wars and today is the widespread use of precision guided munitions, or PGM's. Before they arrived on the scene, there were too ways of being ensuring the destruction of a target: mass bombing, or getting in really, really close. Mass bombing requires lots and lots of aircraft, which is very expensive, and often doesn't do the job. After all, much of the damage done by the 8th Air Force during World War II was put right quickly. Mass bombing works best for mass targets, and is less effective against small things like foxholes or a dug-in tank.

The other solution is to get in really, really close. The problem is that when you do that, you become vulnerable to anti aircraft fire. That kind of bombing is expensive in both men and aircraft. And it is good for the defender's morale. Nothing terrifies a soldier more than to just cower in his hole and take it, hoping he won't be next. When planes get low enough and slow enough it becomes very worthwhile to shoot back. That gives the defenders something to do besides think about how scared they are.

The introduction of PGM's changed all of that. Suddenly high value targets, like bridges, started falling down in a hurry. In Vietnam bridges and dams that had endured dozens of raids dropped overnight. Since Vietnam the microprocessor has ensured that PGMs are both better and cheaper than ever.

They transformed air power, which is now blessed with the tools do carry out the dreams of Billy Mitchell and Guido Douhet. PGM's allowed aircraft to attack from much father away, out of the range of small arms. Radar homing missiles such as the HARM and Wild Weasel SAM hunters have made flying high safer.

Now the poor guy on the ground can only lie there and cower. No burning planes on the ground to cheer him. No utility in shooting back, in fact, it attracts Death so he can't submerge his fear in activity. And the new PGM's are deadly. Every time the planes come calling a few more buddies are vaporized. The desire to fight vanishes when fighting seems futile.

In many ways this is what accounted for the cheap, relatively bloodless victories of the nineties. Iraqi artillery unites refused to shoot, figuring it would be suicidal. Serbia decided to make peace. The Taleban cracked when the Nothern Alliance attacked.

But there are some important differences that come about when you are talking of invading Iraq. Serbia wasn't fighting for Serbia, they were fighting because Slobodan Milosevic had used racism to gain power, and having let the nationalist genie out the bottle, he had no choice but to ride it to its logical conclusion. War. Which would have gone rather well had NATO not decided to intervene. Serbs found themselves in the dark, and carrying water in buckets , but for Bosnia, not Serbia. The Taleban were true believers, but many of their allies were not. In fine Afghan tradition they swapped sides, or surrendered when the winds of war went against them. The remaining Taleban, outnumbered now and harassed from above, broke.

Iraqis also fled in Kuwait. But they were fighting for Kuwait, not Iraq, and the basic Iraqi soldier never bought into the "19th province" argument. But this time they'll be fighting for home, against an enemy they believe hates all Iraqis, whether it is true or not.

People are generally a lot more serious about fighting for their own country than someone else's. They find backbone when their family and homes lay behind them. And the tactical situation is different as well. The need to defend Kuwait forced Iraqis to move out in the desert, away from home. That made it fairly easy for alliance forces to isolate and cut them off in a mobile battle. The US Army is very, very fast, and with the kind of forces we employed, operating in their rear, cracked what little will remained in the Iraqi Army. They surrendered in droves.

But 2003 is not 1991. The Iraqis don't have the armored forces they once had, but they didn't do them any good in '91 and don't see that a forward battle will help them now. The lack of operational equipment might even prove an advantage, as it might have tempted them to fight the US in the desert, where they would be annihilated. Most analysts expect them to fight in their cities. True, that will lead to massive civilian casualties, but when has Saddam Hussein ever cared about dead civilians?

Fighting in urban areas may allow Iraqi soldiers to adopt the "bearhug tactics" first developed by the North Vietnamese (see the film We Were Soldiers for an illustration). By moving very close to US units they hope to negate American firepower, because of the fear of hitting friendlies. They will kill Americans. It will become the kind of slugging match Ohio State imposed on Miami to win the Fiesta Bowl. America will win, but at what cost? If a quick and easy victory is not forthcoming you can use White House budget estimates to line your litter box because that's what they'll be worth.

Furthermore, said fighting will leave Iraq's cities in ruins. Millions will be homeless, and hungry. Guess who gets to feed them? House them? Find them jobs? Arrange a decent government? Rebuild trashed oil fields?

Even if everything goes exactly right and the war does cost less than $60 bn, the peace will cost a LOT more than that.

Today my Faith in any kind of Religion has been seriously challenged. Why? Because my cat died. Sounds pathetic doesn't it, but that cat was my fucking cat and he was my friend. He was only 5 years old, nearly 6, and he was happy and healthy. He died of some sudden heart or liver thing- the vet wasn't sure.

No-one had any right to take him away from me, and there was no need to. I am, no was, religious, so as soon as he went to the vets I prayed for him, didn't fucking help. It isn't that I don't really believe in a god, I do, but I just believe that he is one stupid motherfucker.

I prayed, I try in life to do my best, and yes I have a nice house, I go to a good school and I'm not some poor starving kid-but when I need some sort of divine inspiration nothing has ever been there for me, even though I believed.

So fuck you god.

I don't give a shit if you downvote this because you believe in a god- so go ahead, but I'm entitled to my own opinion, and I can say what the fuck I want.

I was sitting downstairs, on the computer as usual. I was on Iparty, a fairly awful voice chatting program. It was only around 11:30 pm but my parents were soundly asleep and I was feeling particularily cheerful, planning to stay up till the early morning hours.

That was when I heard the loud crash. It was definetly loud, but somewhat muted, as if it had happened outside. My first thoughts were that it was a burglar or a psychopath bird. I closed my irc window and Iparty. I really, REALLY, didn't want to go upstairs to see what had happened.

But of course I did. I walked up the stairs and walked into the family room. Where I found lying on the ground my 1 week old Christmas tree. Shattered baubles and water seeping into the hardwood floor are the reasons I ran up to my parent's bedroom and shook the shoulder of my mother.

The events that followed were basically re-wrapping gifts that had become waterlogged, and wiping the floor. Upon lifting the tree we found that only three or four ornaments had been smashed. The fragile ornament that my father had bought for my mother on their first Christmas together was still intact though. I don't know if this is symbolic and I don't really care.

All I know is that I never got to stay up late like I had planned.

Why is it that a person can be so comfortable speaking to a stranger about things that they can't even mention to a best friend?

There are zillions of stories, made-up and true, in which people spill their deepest secrets, beliefs, and feelings to a complete stranger or an acquaintance whom they barely know.


Because if one spills one's darkest moments to a stranger, and the stranger denounces them as disgusting/horrible/unworthy/etc, one does not feel so betrayed or rejected as one would if a best friend felt this way.

Being cast out by a total stranger does not hurt as much as being cast out by one you love. The stranger does not know you, the stranger can only judge you from what you tell them, how you act while you are telling them. They will not care if you have some sort of mental illness or incapacity, they may not even know if you do not tell them. They (usually) do not know the people that you know, and cannot judge your story based on the people you have interacted with in the story. If they call you names or simply leave you (if your story was a guilt-ridden one, and you had to tell someone), you do not feel so bad that you will never see that person again, perhaps for the sole reason that you may never have seen them again in the first place. It does not weigh heavily on you. Often it feels much better for having told someone, even if that someone denounced you. You may feel that that someone would have felt differently if they had known you, or if you had told the story differently. It does not matter, usually.

However, there is always a worry at the back of the mind that says that this one particular story may change the way your friends/family see you as a person. Perhaps they'll view you as a disappointment, or a failure, or just a rotten stinking person. To have your best friend hear your tale and declare that they never want to speak to you again, or just have that blank expression on their face that shows that you have changed before their eyes and they're not sure they like it. It's hard to be rejected like that from someone you love.

Sometimes there are other motives, rather than simply telling a tale to get it off your chest, to see a reaction. The stranger is the uninvolved third party, the judge, who must take your situation as you describe it and offer a solution. Often psychiatrists/therapists serve in this role, offering advice as far as they can give it.

Sometimes all a person wants is for someone to listen, someone who won't say, "But that's who you are. I've known you for x years and that's how you've always been.." so on and so forth. A stranger will take your story as you choose to tell it, and judge it as they see fit, with no prior bias (good or bad).

The same happens in a courtroom (usually). A guilty man may walk free because his story was told in such a manner that the jury believes him to be innocent. Yet an innocent man with previous account(s) of misdemeanor may be charged because the jury has a bias: they have known him to be a bad person, so why should this time be different?

People think like this so frequently and don't even notice. Racist, sexist, stereotypes.. all on this principle. It is a biased world we live in, and will always be this way.

That is not so much a pessimistic remark as a realistic one. True, people are getting better. But no one can ever truly change the entire world's thinking. There are too many of us, too many uncontrollable variables: prejudiced parents raising their children with their beliefs, organizations, at times, teaching these same beliefs (knowingly or not)... It will always go on.

Perhaps I should be worried about that. But so often lately I have been focused on the world as if I were not a part of it, using my own experiences as a sort of test sample, and the experiences of those I know as another part of this, that I am confused when suddenly I am thrust into the world on a personal level, and must deal with those around me. Being detached can make one useless in a crisis. I realized that again yesterday morning when my beloved was sick and I couldn't think of a thing to do other than sit beside him in the bathroom and pet him wordlessly, silently wishing all his pain away. I hate being useless, yet I am unable to push myself into being useful. Why is this? It cannot be due to simple shyness. Yet this question has not been considered enough to have an explanation posted just yet. I am still debating it.

Being detached can be a good thing, for some. Doctors, who can make educated opinions without anxiety for how they will feel about performing a certain procedure on a person -- doctors would not be comfortable performing an operation on someone they were close to.. too many "what ifs". What if she dies? What if I can't cure him? What if I fail? What if? What if? What if?

Because of these worries, a doctor may hesitate in a moment where every second counts. On the other hand, a doctor may refuse to stop and think in a time where they need to, because they feel that every second counts. It is a difficult situation for all involved.

I believe I will end there. I have made explanation to myself, and I hope you as the reader have discovered something new, or thought of things you could debate with my choice of opinion. I live to explain.

I believe that by confiding things online that I would never utter to anyone I knew proves my point (at least for myself) that I would rather be rejected by someone whom I did not know than the person whom I love most in the world.

Okay, a few funny moments (give me a sign...Eye soap) just happened on the Simpsons. Good for a laugh. Thank goodness, because my heart was still in my throat from the NY-SF game. Wow. I was not really rooting for either team (although I don't really like SF all that much). One thing I disagreed with is that Owens should have been kicked out of the game as well as the NY guy. But NY definitely lost that one all on their own. Crazy to blow a huge lead like that. I was at one point getting all excited about football this year again, and decided to check out Super Bowl tickets. Appears like they are $1600 or more apiece. Yikes!

The new year is starting out okay in some respects... systems are more stable, knock on wood), wireless is still working in the house after a false alarm, lots of goodies from new year sale, and a scrabble game on my laptop (endless procrastination)... but still I have not gotten to the gym yet. And next week I'm on call (excuses, excuses). Well, we'll see...

Dogsitting Daylog 1

I don't daylog but I'm daylogging. Because I don't have people around to talk to in person, I'm bored out of my skull and will inflict it on daylog readers instead. 8) Advice on puppy-rearing is welcomed.

My mom has two Australian Shepherd dogs, male Secret Puppy (depite his name, full-grown at five years old) and recently-adopted two-year-old female Jazzie, who Mom neglected to get spayed despite warnings. So a little bit after Thanksgiving we found out that Jazzie was going to have puppies. Mom had already made plans to spend two weeks in North Carolina with her parents and get me to stay with her dogs in St. Petersburg, Florida. So now I've got nine dogs to mind, instead of just two -- luckily Jazzie takes care of feeding the puppies and I've only got to open the cans for the adults for ten days.

The dogs we had when I was little stayed in the backyard. (Mom used to cite her allergies as the reason for that. Apparently she's healed of allergies now.) I'm not used to living with indoor dogs, especially not ones big enough to jump up on me and leave noseprints on my glasses.

Saturday evening:

You wouldn't believe two-week-olds could be so loud. Their eyes are barely open. But right now, only one of them is asleep (it's the biggest one, who managed to wander over to mama dog Jazzie and get a meal while she was lying still for a change) and the other six are yipping, howling, whimpering, and even giving tiny highpitched baby barks at each other or their mother. I keep turning around from the computer and counting them to make sure one of them hasn't managed on his/her wobbly baby legs to make it down the hall to visit their mother as she paces, patrolling the whole house. (Or to visit their father -- Jazzie won't even let him sniff his kids.)

I've tried to prepare for the puppies' growing bigger and stronger -- cardboard/masking tape blocks between pieces of furniture to keep them from getting back where I can't reach them, boxes under the computer desk to keep the spaghetti tangle of cords out of chewing reach. It'll be interesting when they get teeth. It'll be nice when they can follow the grownups outside -- then maybe the odor I periodically notice in the computer room/puppy nursery will lessen. 8) (Actually, as the puppy-raising books informed me was normal but I still find kinda gross, the mother dog licks up all their droppings. But I still notice an odor even when there's nothing visible for me to clean up.)

Sunday afternoon:

Secret Puppy and Jazzie must think I'm the most boring human around. (Well, I don't know -- I doubt Mom does anything more active when she's here, but she's out in the front room watching TV a lot of the time, whereas I'm in the back room on the computer.) I tried taking them out in the fenced back yard, with a book for me to read, but Jazzie gets in the way when Secret Puppy wants to play fetch with me and his favorite ball. Of course, Jazzie won't play with the ball at all if Secret Puppy isn't there. I've been reading books on wild apes lately, and the way they spend their time (searching for food, grooming one another, etc.) A marked contrast to how domestic animals (at least these particular ones) spend their time. I've been around my dad and stepmother's cats and their miniature Schnauzer, who both seem inclined to amuse themselves without human intervention more than Mom's dogs. Though I guess the cats provide something for Pepper the Schnauzer to follow; she doesn't really do too much without some being's company.

Sunday evening:

OK, when they're noisy it drives me nuts. Secret Puppy is quiet. So are most of the puppies -- it's the couple of explorers who wander off by themselves and yip REALLY LOUDLY when they want to go back, and Jazzie, who whines and I can never tell what for.

Well, often it's to go outside. She usually doesn't need to use the backyard as a bathroom, she just wants to be outside. I guess I can understand the desire to escape seven babies who try to nurse every time you sit down (and some manage to keep nursing even when she gets up -- those pups have quite a grip considering that they have no teeth yet). And Secret Puppy wants out when Jazzie goes out. Finally, I sympathize with those T-shirts that say "Agenda for the day: Let dog out. Let dog in. Let dog out. Let dog in. Let dog out. Let dog in. Let dog out. Let dog in." Mostly I'll let them stay outside until they start barking at one of the neighbors' dogs and then I make them shut up and come back in.

But she whines at my mother's bedroom door when it's closed, and just inside the room if it's open, so she may just miss Mom. Both the adults go nuts howling and whining if I go out in the garage to do laundry, since that's how Mom enters and exits the house from/to the car. Oh, well, I guess it's still better for them to be at their home and have someone around who they know instead of being in a kennel with strangers.

Riding home
The eighteenth hour
I watched a house burn to ashes
2 miles from home
Its chimney so full
I watched a house burn to ashes
The porch was open flames
That scorched the dogwoods
They smoked and caught
Then burnt to ashes
A stranger’s home
I don’t know who lived there
They’ve burnt to ashes
Bones at home
Thoughts left alone in empty skulls
Everything is burnt to ashes

Depressing isn’t it?
I actually saw this after 20 hours of consciousness 18 of them behind the wheel. Bad acid couldn’t have done a better job of fucking up the New York high I was still riding. Everything I saw in New York was joy to my senses, intravenous beauty. I walked through snow in Central Park with Bitca on my arm and we lost our breath over roses in Strawberry Fields. Met some brilliant people on the subways and came home with new music and comics.
I love fire and appreciate the {sweet fatalism] of nature destroying something we have built.
But still , I have my abstract appreciation and they lost something there, maybe everything.

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